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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 4 years

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Hayloft (p.2)

Pairing: Arvin Russell x F!Reader

Summary: Your dad brings home his new coworker, Arvin Russell, telling you that he’ll be living with the two of you for a while. While attempting to keep Arvin from seeing the disfunction of your relationship with your father, the two of you grow closer than you thought. (Inspired by “Hayloft” by Mother Mother, though that’ll really only be one chapter later on so I don’t know if it really counts…)

Warnings: Abuse, drunkenness, misogyny, reader’s mother is dead, decapitating a chicken, reader is kind of emotional in this chapter

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: My first slow(er) burn fic! Let me know what you think!

Part 1

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Work had passed fairly quickly as it always did when you had the opening shift. It sure sucked having to arrive at five o’clock in the morning but at least you got off earlier and you knew that that way you could grab groceries before your father got home and could yell at you about an empty kitchen again. By two o’clock in the afternoon, you were home again, hopping out of your truck and grabbing as many bags as you could in one go.

The loud sound of metal slamming against metal shook you and you flinched, looking between your door and the frame to see Arvin walking out towards you. It hadn’t occurred to you that his car was even in your driveway. After so many years of having busted broken down old cars sitting there that your dad had been swearing he’d fix for almost ten years, cars in the driveway seemed normal. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered as he got closer, lifting the canvas bags from your hands before you could object.

“Oh!” You exclaimed as you felt the weight suddenly taken off your own arms, “Thank you.” You dove back into the truck to grab the last two bags before slamming it shut with your hips. The two of you began your stroll towards the front door, the dirt driveway kicking up around your feet. “You’re back early.” You noted, looking over at Arvin.

He shrugged, “Yeah, uh, Wallace had me on the early shift today.”

You fumbled with the bags as you tried to unlock the door, kicking it open with your toes when it finally gave in. You walked into your home and Arvin followed, closing the door behind him. “Been here long? I didn’t see you in the driveway.”

“Not too long. I just didn’t want to let myself into your home without nobody there.” Arvin set the bags on the counter next to where you set yours.

You began to unpack the bags and put the groceries in the respective places. Arvin watched off to the side, unsure of how your kitchen was organized so he was worried he’d do more than good if he stepped in. “My daddy got the late shift?”

Arvin shook his head, noticing that his beat up old hat was still on his head despite being indoors and took it off immediately, his tousled brown curls parting messily down the middle. “No, we went in at the same time. He ‘n some buddies said they was goin’ to some bar in town.”

He watched your shoulders fall a little and you sighed, “Figures…. You didn’t go?”

Again, Arvin shook his head, “No. No offense to your daddy but I don’t like to drink the way I get the feelin’ he does.”

You snorted, turning to him with a knowing chuckle, “Let’s just say that I’m sorry in advance for whatever he says or does when he gets home, if he gets home. Sheriff Pike might end up callin’ in the mornin’ tellin’ us to pick him up.” Though it was stated as a joke, Arvin could hear the tragic reality behind your words.

Arvin then noticed the pack of beer bottles that you were pulling out of the bag. As if you could feel his eyes looking at you with worried curiosity, you glanced over at him, noticing the way his eyes flicked between you and the beer in your hands. You offered a sad shrug, “I know what you’re thinkin’ but trust me. Sometimes it’s better to have him drunk and possibly content than sober and angry there’s nothing to drink. Besides, the beer is better than the hard stuff with ‘im.”

“‘M sorry. I didn’t mean to be makin’ faces. Your business is your business,” Arvin backpedalled, giving you an apologetic nod.

You shook your head, “Don’t worry. I know how it looks. I’m sorry you gotta see all of it. I been tryin’ to keep to keep him calm but if you end up stayin’ a while, I’m sure you’ll get to see him at his worse times.”

Arvin chewed his lip as he contemplated whether or not to bring up what had been going through his mind but he had to make sure you were alright. “I-I heard you ‘n your dad talkin’ last night… right after you left my room.”

Your face fell as you realized what he was talking about, “You weren’t s’posed to hear that. I’m sorry.” Shit, this was what you were hoping to avoid.

“Are you alright?”

Gentle. Caring. His tone was something that had been long lost to you in this house and it took the words out of your mouth for a moment. It was embarrassing, the way your heart welled up with… well love wasn’t quite the right word but the warmth of being cared about. Not since after your mother had passed had you heard somebody actually care about how you felt.

You just nodded and gave a forced smile that you could tell was easy to see through but it was the best you could muster. For someone who was able to take so much shit from their father and was able to look the man who would throw things at you and grab you by the hair dead in the eye with nothing but contempt, it was compassion that made you crumble. It had been so unexpected, especially from Arvin, the stranger living in your house.

“Shit, ‘m sorry! I didn’t mean to - I didn’t mean to overstep. I only…” He stammered over his words and at first you were confused until you felt the single hot tear tracing its way down your cheek.

You were quick to wipe it away, shocked at your own uncharacteristic show of vulnerability. You hadn’t realized until now that you had zoned out on the ground while Arvin’s words repeated in your head but now a flash of embarrassment ran through you. “No, no, no. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You sniffled once before giving a small laugh of disbelief. “It’s just… It’s been a long time since anybody asked that.”

You straightened up and ran your hands through your hair, eyes closed as you thought of what else you needed to do. Thankfully, if your dad was at the bar, you had at least another four hours to just you and Arvin, all night if you were lucky, though you seldom were. That was when the feeling of dread set in. Your dad had requested chicken roast for dinner tonight and whether he came home early and only a few beers in or you had to drive him home hungover in the morning, the man would be furious if there weren’t at least reheated leftovers for him. You had to kill Patty and prep her for dinner.

“You okay?” Arvin asked again, though this time it was in reference to the way a heavy look fell over your features. It wasn’t a profound deep question like it was earlier.

Your head wavered from side to side and your lips twisted, “My daddy asked for chicken roast tonight. I gotta go out and fix Patty up.” You tried to put it lightly though it felt anything but. “I’ll be out in the coop. You’re more than welcome to clean up in the shower or do whatever you’d like ‘round the house. The radio is in the livin’ room if you wanna tune into somethin’.”

You pushed yourself off the counter and walked to the door in your kitchen that led out to the backyard but Arvin made a few steps to follow, “Is it alright if I keep you company? It don’t feel right bein’ in your house without you or your daddy here.”

You smiled at the thought of him staying with you and you nodded, continuing out the door, “Sure, c’mon.”

The hen house wasn’t very far from the back door. From there, you could see the several acres of land that your father was wasting. Your grandparents had bought this land in the late 1910’s and had started up a little farm of their own to sell locally, though your father had abandoned the farming portion after they died. It was where your daddy had grown up and then where you had as well. God, how you missed your grandparents. Your grandmother’s soft words of love and kindness but sternness and willingness to swat your butt with a wooden spoon if you got an attitude (though she would yell at your father if he ever tried to discipline you - “Now you leave that poor baby alone!”). Your grandfather had looked like a rough and angry old man from years of hard work but he had the softest heart of anyone you’d ever met. How the two of them had raised your father was beyond you.

When you approached the wired fence and jiggled the lock open, the chickens inside stood surprisingly still. They trusted you. You could see it in their little brown eyes. You were safe and warm and didn’t want to harm them. You came in for the unfertilized eggs they laid and left, oftentimes with some seed and a soft pat or two on the head. Patty, a fat white hen with black specks, walked comfortably around your feet, nuzzling her head against your leg. She was the nicest hen you’d ever had. She trusted you.

God, you were about to cry again. You bent down to pick her up and you held her against your chest, trying to look her in the eye, though it was difficult when she kept jerking it in different directions. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” you murmured low. Usually it was your father that would slaughter the hens if he really wanted the meat that badly. You had never done it yourself but he’d made you watch every time so that you knew how if the time ever came. Each time it made you sick to your stomach.

Already, you felt green. The unassuming hen that you had been friendly enough to for her not flip out when you held her was none the wiser that her life was about to end by your hand. You glanced over to the large wood round just ahead and the axe that was leaned up against it.

Your face contorted as you realized how much you disliked the placement. The way your father would slaughter chickens right in front of their friends made your heart break. It was barbaric.

You walked over to Arvin and held Patty out towards him, “Would you mind holdin’ onto her for a second?”

Though visibly confused, he took the chicken from your hands, drawing back when her wings fluttered out at the contact with the new strange man. Arvin watched as you walked towards the large round and tried to push it with all your might. “What’re you doin’?”

“I’m-” you grunted, feeling it slide slowly, inch by inch, “trying to move it where the other chickens can’t see.” You took another moment to use all your force against it before standing up straight and breathing heavily, “I know it sounds dumb cause they’re only chickens but it feels cruel to make ‘em watch, y’know?” You went back to pushing the round and Arvin approached behind you.

From here he could see the blood stains in the wood. It looked as if the blood had been washed off but the wood had been stained crimson regardless. There was also a divot where an axe had clearly been driven down many times over the years, chipping away at the wood.

Arvin’s heart actually warmed a little at your attempt to show mercy and your willingness to go out of your way to spare some chickens’ feelings. It wasn’t something he was sure he’d do himself but when he heard you say it, he realized you had a point. It was cruel to imprison a bunch of animals and then lead them out one by one to be slaughtered in front of everyone, each animal waiting their turn. “Here, take ‘er back. Let me.” Arvin stepped in, handing Patty back over to you and bending down to lift the round onto its side with much effort. The wood had to weigh at least a hundred pounds and had long since settled into the ground where it had been placed when you were a child.

Your eyes widened as you watched his biceps bulge, straining the material of his blue t-shirt. You’d never seen a man with muscles like that before and you found your eyes trailing along his arms, following every popping vein from the tops of his hands, up his forearms, and onto his biceps until they disappeared beneath his shirt. It was something you hadn’t expected to see in him. Arvin looked like a quiet, polite, hardworking young man but you never would have imagined the immaculate muscles he possessed. You found your mind wandering to what other surprises laid in store beneath all those layers he wo-

You needed to calm yourself down. If only he could hear your thoughts, he surely would be furious and disgusted with you. You hadn’t had such impure thoughts since that one time you had been messing around with Jimmy Bates in the backseat of his old car back in your senior year of high school. The two of you didn’t even go all the way but you went far enough and the guilt ate you alive since the two of you were never officially together anyways. He was just the cute boy from high school that you had pined over years that had finally given you the chance right before he shipped off to join the war.

“This alright?” Arvin asked, shaking you from your fantasy, and you snapped back into reality to realize he had rolled the wood round around the side of the coop behind the wooden wall, outside of the other chickens’ views.

You nodded and walked over to him, “That’s perfect. Thank you so much for doin’ that. I know it’s sorta stupid.”

Arvin shook his head, putting his hands on his hips, “If it means somethin’ to you, it ain’t stupid at all. Besides, now that you pointed it out, it was a little barbaric.”

You smiled up at him, one which he returned. How was this boy so damn nice? Was this some cosmic way of the universe finally giving you something good in your life? You’d become so calloused to your father’s harsh words and barked commands that you had forgotten how nice it was to feel cared about and validated. And you barely knew him.

“‘M glad you think so.” You looked down at Patty in your arms and any good feelings you’d had melted to sadness and fear. “You been a good girl, Patty. I know you struggled with layin’ eggs for a while but you were always a good girl. Never bit me once unlike some of them other hens.” You weren’t often very soft and vulnerable but you were about to take something’s life for the first time and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of that on your heart. If this were a life or death situation, you would feel better about it, but it wasn’t. The only reason Patty had to die was because your father would throw a fit if she didn’t.

You carried her to the log and gave her a little kiss on the top of the head, “Please don’t hate me but I understand if you do. Say hi to my momma for me, will you? Tell her I love and miss her.” You set her down and got her in the position you always saw your dad put the other chickens in before he chopped their heads off. Arvin handed you the axe with uncertainty but watched on as you struggled to bring yourself to finish the deed.

You held her down and you could tell by the way she was flailing that she was panicking now. Patty was well aware of what was happening. “I’m sorry!” You choked, tears welling up in your eyes as her panic began to turn into your own panic. How did people do this? Why was this so freaking difficult?

Tossing the axe slightly in your hand, you readjusted the handle and just as you went to swing, Arvin piped up, “I can do it.”

You looked over at him, the afternoon sun reflecting the tears in your eyes and making the color of your irises stand out in tragic beauty. “I-I- Would you really not mind?” You breathed out in relief.

Arvin stepped forward and you handed the axe out to him, “I don’t mind.” You held onto Patty until Arvin could position her just right as well. He had no idea what he was doing - he’d never had to slaughter a chicken before. He had heard that all you had to do was cut their head off though and then he’d heard the rumors of them running around like crazy even after their head hit the ground. How hard could it be?

Once he had the hen pinned down where he wanted her, he looked up to see you chewing on your thumb, brows knitted in discomfort. It wasn’t the first chicken you’d watched get slaughtered but it was far from something you enjoyed observing. Arvin signaled to you with a nod before raising the axe above his head and you shut your eyes tight, flinching at the sound of the old metal head thudding into the old wood.

You had the carcass sitting in the sink while you pulled off the blood soaked feathers, depositing them into the trash bin by the handful. This part was easier for you, something you’d done many times in the past. “Thank you for doin’ that. I’m sorry I’m such a baby.”

Arvin sat at the kitchen table behind you, “You ain’t a baby just cause you don’t like to kill things. I’d say it’s probably rather normal.”

The time was inching closer to four o’clock now and the sun was beginning to hang ever so slightly lower in the sky, the precursor to sunset. It was warm outside and a cool spring breeze blew in through the open window above the sink. You snickered as you pulled another handful of feathers out, “Yeah? That mean you ain’t normal?” You looked over at him with a playful glint in your eye but your smile fell when you saw an uncomfortable look cross his face, almost like he’d seen a ghost.

“I ain’t never said I liked killin’ either.” Arvin attempted to match your joking tone but it was pretty evident there was a weight behind his words.

“Hey, I‘m sorry. I was only jokin’.” A pang of guilt washed over you but it was only that. A joke. You hadn’t imagined teasing him over something like killing a chicken would set him off, especially since he volunteered to do it for you, but apparently you were wrong.

Arvin sniffed and scratched his nose, “I know.” After a moment of awkward silence, he stood, “Let me give you a hand. What do you need done?”

You scanned his face once more to make sure he was really okay but you decided to drop it when you saw his insistent look. You shook your head, “I got it. It ain’t much after I get this all gutted and cleaned.” You picked up the mostly featherless carcass by the wings and plopped it back down into the sink.

“Well ‘m sure there’s vegetables or somethin’ else that goes with it, right? Let me start cuttin’ those up.” His persistence was adorable, making your heart flutter in the most wonderful way. The idea of a man actually being helpful was unknown to you before Arvin. Your life had been filled with your dad’s drunken bossings since you were twelve years old. You couldn’t remember the last time a genuinely kind voice offered you anything more than a smile on the street, not that you took that for granted. Arvin was just different though. Noble and helpful and kind.

“You really don’t have to-”

“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that but I really do want to help. So what can I do to make things easier on you?” He took a few steps closer to you until you felt the beginning of what could have been sparks if he stepped any nearer, like when you hold two magnets a few inches apart and you can feel the energy between them, that hint of attraction, but it’s not quite close enough to pull them together.

The blush in your cheeks at his simple gesture made you break the eye contact with a nervous laugh of retreat, “Okay, fine. If you’re gonna be so insistent,” you drew out with a teasing drawl, “you can cut up veggies. There’s potatoes over there and carrots and zucchini in the fridge.”

Arvin’s lips turned up in a small smile when you finally resigned your stubborn ways and he went off to find the vegetables where you had directed him.

Needless to say, when your father came home from the bar to find you and Arvin talking over a song by the Platters playing on the radio with Arvin cleaning up the dishes while you tossed together the vegetables and the seasoning, he was less than pleased.

“What the hell is going on here?” His slurred speech made your eyes widen in fear. He was supposed to get home later like he always did. But then you found yourself chiding your irresponsibility. Why the hell would you take that chance? You knew better than to let Arvin help out and now you were gonna pay.

Arvin sensed the way you tensed up beside him and watched as you spun around to face your father with haste, “Just finishin’ up dinner now. Should be ready by six so you got more than enough time to take a sho-”

“Why the fuck is he doin’ the dishes?” You father was leaning against the wall, clearly relying on the structure for support. This wasn’t the time to test him, not with Arvin here. It was times like this when he’d start throwing stuff at you.

Before you could say anything, Arvin piped up firmly but respectfully, “I offered, sir. It’s no problem at all.”

Your dad pointed at Arvin, “A man ain’t got no place with his hands in a sink of dishes. You leave that shit to her and she’ll just grab you a beer.” He stumbled over his own feet before catching himself ungracefully.

Arvin’s jaw set tightly and you gripped the countertop with white knuckles behind you. Times like this, you weren’t even sure what to say anymore. No amount of standing up for yourself got you anywhere with him. You never made any headway with your dad’s sexist views on gender roles. It was pointless. The only thing to do was try and work your way to supporting yourself so you could get the hell out of dodge and never look back.

Arvin’s voice surprised you, “A man’s place is helpin’ out the women in his life when they need, not leavin’ ‘em to do all the housework themselves.” You nearly choked on your own tongue at his words. It was a bold statement for a man to make, especially to the head of the house that was being so gracious as to host him free of charge, but he didn’t back down. It appeared like the jab was lost on your drunken father but Arvin continued with a slightly less accusatory comment to diffuse the situation regardless, “I grew up helpin’ my grandma with all the house chores so I really don’t mind at all.”

You watched the way your dad eyed Arvin and then you before scoffing and grumbling incoherently as he shuffled his way into the living room. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “I don’t want you gettin’ kicked out ‘cause of me. You didn’t have to say nothin’.”

Arvin glared at where your father had disappeared and nodded, “Yeah, I did. You don’t deserve all the shit he gives you.”

You suddenly found yourself avoiding his eyes and twisting your lips. He was right and you were well aware of that fact. The abuse your dad put you through was uncalled for at best. The fact that Arvin had actually taken the time to not only notice the same fact but acknowledge it and stand up for you was something you never thought you’d hear someone do. It made you uncomfortable. You’d been fighting this battle by yourself for so long that letting somebody even know it was being waged was enough to make you want to sink away. Even so, a part of you wanted to let Arvin keep standing up for you. It made you feel weak after having to stand up for yourself for so long but also validated.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for only a moment before turning back towards dinner that sat in a roasting pan on the stove, “Thank you.”

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Taglist:

@thisisparadisemylove

@justapurrcat

#arvin russel imagine #arvin russell x you #Arvin Russell #arvin rus #arvin russell x reader #arvin russel #arvin russel x reader #arvin russel x y/n #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #The Devil All The Time #tdatt #tdatt imagine #tdatt fics #Hayloft

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ohheyitsokay · 3 years

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foul

part 5 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: anyway I’m going to say this is where things start to get 18+ strong language, implications or mentions of party drugs, sex, alcohol, addiction, angst uhh I think that’s it.

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier Baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

In this chapter, and always, truly good things require work, and while that’s scary, Frankie (and the others, in their own way) realize that it’s worth it.

They didn’t get very far away from the little home before Frankie had to pull over, wanting to bang his forehead against the steering wheel and let the honk drown out his agony. And Santi, who was laughing at him.

He felt like he was reliving the memory again and again, his mind’s eye more vivid than anything else.

The skin of your wrist, even burned, was delicate, softer than reasonable against his lips. Your face was confused, and then he could’ve sworn your pupils dilated as you regarded him. It was a blissful moment, sitting on the kitchen floor, closer to you than he’d ever been, kissing your pain away like his abuela, like the two of you were comfortable together.

Then he realized what he’d done and all but ran away, cursing himself and terrified of your beautiful, questioning eyes.

Before they’d pulled over, Santi was telling him he wasted his shot. He knew.

“What the hell? Fish?” his tone was quieter. Gone was the disappointed, but good natured teasing from before, Santi’s dark eyes widening as he realized there was something undeniably more real than he had been expecting.

“You…” he stared at Frankie, who was glaring out the window, knuckles almost white on the steering wheel. “You’re serious, about her.”

It wasn’t really a question. His friend’s hands loosened, then reasserted themselves, like he was wishing he could strangle something, and then they dropped, defeated. It was answer enough.

“Then why…” he licked his lips, Frankie’s stress rolling over him as he considered his next question. Why did you run from her? Why hadn’t you got her number? “Why cant you…”

“I have a fucking baby, man.”

His broad shoulders deflated, for all their tension, his body filling with unshed tears for the life he was certain he could not have.

“She’s not yours.” A quiet, well-practiced reminder.

“She might as well be.”

Santiago’s hand slipped onto his friends shoulder, rubbing slow circles like his own abuela, willing him to understand his support.

“She’ll understand.”

He could have meant Frankie’s broke, broken, single sister, or his unborn niece, just two months due, or his intensely expectant mother, but he knew better.

There was no good reason Santi’s gut should know what a person was thinking about Francisco, what they would think, but he was seldom wrong about these things. And he was surer than he’d ever been, about you.

Hanging over the balcony of the second tier, you laughed as Will slid into home.

All around you the cheers erupted, deafening and joyous. The team might’ve picked him up to carry him around for a victory lap, you couldn’t be sure because you couldn’t see, being jostled left and right on your way back to James.

The two of you had been late to the game today, caught up in traffic, and Benny had texted you to hurry up. It made no sense that he knew you weren’t there, and even less sense that he was able to text you from the dugout, but he had. They were losing bad, when you finally filed through security and found your seats, but thankfully began to claw their way back. It had been one of the closest games you’d seen in this stadium, and you were mildly worried Jimbo would be hoarse by the end of the night.

Knowing them made watching the game far more interesting than it had ever been for you. It was only the shallow end of friendship but it was more than enough. As the closer and closer the scores got to each other, the more you’d let yourself be drawn to towards the field like a lovesick fan. You held your breath as Santi threw one, two, three strikes the top of the ninth, and almost squeezed Jimbo too hard when Francisco caught an unexpectedly vertical foul ball. He had humored you, walking close to the edge at first, but at some point James let go of your arm and told you to stay and tell him what happened.

Beaming, you found him talking to another elderly couple, decked out in Miller boy jerseys and paraphernalia. Your grandfather introduced you, but before you could get their names, a large security person tugged you away, murmuring in your ear.

Trying to decline, and explain they probably had the wrong person, you were utterly confused. They were hearing none of it, and were to escort you to the locker room, and you were bullied into going along, telling James as quickly as you could that you would meet him in a bit.

When you were gently shoved into a large waiting area next to a door that reeked of sweaty men, you were annoyed. Then Ben Miller was coming out, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet before crushing you in a hug. His hair was wet, dripping on you, and his shirt was sticking to his body, and his eager eyes made you forgive him, for the most part. Thankfully, he smelled like cheap soap.

“Benjamin Miller, do you understand that that was not okay?” you tried to be stern.

“He doesn’t,” Will said dryly, emerging from behind his brother with a smile. He gave you a hug too, which surprised you more than anything, and whispered something to the security guards before leading them out. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, but,” you felt flustered, wondering about Francisco as much as the ridiculousness of being near them, again. “Does someone mind explaining what’s going on? Why am I here?”

“Don’t explain,” Santi's voice, and his hand ruffling your hair. “It’ll jinx it.” You couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“Let’s just say, from us to you - thank you,” Ben was grinning winningly, almost making their suspicious behavior acceptable. “And we owe you one,” he added.

Handing finding your hips, you wondered if you had it in you to really glare at the tall, handsome athletes in front of you. You didn’t get the chance, however, as other players began pouring out around you and friends and family were being shown in. Apparently, meeting after the game was more common than you thought, and you felt defeated as you tried to back against a wall. The three of them got caught up momentarily as their friends triumphant voices and energetic movements filled the space.

You bumped into Francisco and nearly melted into the floor.

His deep brown eyes, the ones you hadn’t seen since he kissed your wrist, met yours, and for a split second he looked like a deer in the headlights. Then they softened again, just like they had before, and he moved his body between yours and the crowd. Only when he glared and jerked his head did you notice one of the players you didn’t recognize had been looking you over, a little too interested.

His broad shoulders were raised, slightly, the only indication that he wasn’t in complete control of the situation.

“Thank you,” you murmured, under the noise, a mirror of that quiet moment in James’ kitchen. He didn’t move away this time, just stood over you as he checked to make sure the other player had gone on his way.

He was so tall. Of course you knew this but he was towering over you now, you could see the rise and fall of his chest, and the swell of the muscles in his arm as he pressed it against the wall by your head. Maybe you should’ve felt boxed in, but it was strangely comforting, the shape of the catcher blocking out the chaos.

The appearance of Ben, yet again, popped the tension and Francisco moved back, his arm falling to his side.

You breathed again as the rest of the group found you, and you could feel his eyes watch you as they joked about your disappearance.

Tom was looking at you too, a strange expression on his face. Of all of them, he seemed the most disheveled, like he’d only just got to the locker area.

“There’s an after party tonight,” he said, haltingly. You blinked.

The other boys were staring at him, and Santi’s head tilted, just a hair to the left, his eyes narrowing even less discernably as he said, “You should come.”

You laughed a little, and saw respect in Will’s eyes as you declined, thanking them for the invite. Did Frankie’s shoulder’s drop with disappointment or relief?

Ben was disappointed, for sure. It was hard to discern all their reactions when there was only one of you.

It was harder still, when James appeared, gently guarded by security, with the elderly couple in tow. Then there was reprieve from the attention on you as they accepted bear hugs from Will and Ben, and slightly more reasonable ones from the others. James received the same love, and winning the game because the second best thing of the day. Or maybe third, you thought, glancing again at the catcher who had returned to your side.

James ducked around them to tuck himself at your other side, and you didn’t need either of them to explain that these were the Miller grandparents.

The three of you melted into the background after you were reintroduced. When they invited you again to the party, the sweetness of the moment and Grandma Miller clouded your judgement, and you told them you would think about it.

You ended up going, an hour in, because Will had called you. He hadn’t explained, only half growling the instructions through the noise, before he changed his mind and hung up. Never mind, I’m sorry to bother you, he had said, and you thought that he actually meant it. It left a twisting feeling in your gut, and your instincts kicked in, and you pulled on whatever before driving over.

As per his instructions, you parked far away, slipping past the distracted security, into the luxurious rental. There half naked tipsy women and flashing lights, and things James would lecture them on littered around, and you felt slightly nauseous .

This wasn’t a setting you wanted to see any of them in, but you clenched your jaw, and looked for familiar faces.

First, you saw Tom near you, his hand sliding appreciatively over the ass of a girl who looked like she would frame her dress after he was done. Across the room, you saw a women watching them, standing a little to straight, hands clenched before she pushed her way out of the space. He must have seen it, too - he was frozen, and you snapped to make him look at you.

You didn’t say a word, just pointed with your thumb, eyes telling him what he needed to hear. He did apologize to the fans around him as he chased after her, and you rolled your eyes. It occurred to you that maybe… maybe that was why he mentioned the party. A strange way of asking someone, anyone who would hold him accountable to be nearby.

That seemed far fetched.

The air smelled like sweat and alcohol and smoke, and you tried not to think about your shoes, sticking ever-so-slightly to the floor, and tried not to wonder how often they did things like this. You were careful of explicit noises before you opened doors and your eyes moved quickly so you wouldn’t and draw attention to yourself.

Next, you found what you were sure your instincts had called you there for. He was in a mercifully quiet room, a little drunk, and a lot broken hearted.

Will was there too and when he saw you he stood, leaving his brother on the ground with his head between his knees.

“You didn’t have to come,” his voice was quiet as his eyes looked you over, trying to understand your intentions. You were sure he’d seen people time and time before try to get close for all the wrong reasons, and actually… thinking of it, you were sure that’s what had happened.

Will didn’t see any of that in you when you shrugged, eyes leveling with his despite the height difference, and he let you come further in.

“You guys have always been more than kind to me,” you said. It’s not that you owed them, it just made it easier to be kind in return.

Pushing aside a couple of cans, you settled next to Ben and held out the water bottle you’d brought. His face was stormy his eyes held hurt through the cloud of alcohol, and he took it.

“’m fine,” he said. Will waited for you to respond, to spout cliches and empty praise or lies and terrible advice. He had seen it all before, too many times.

That didn’t come, either, and when you didn’t say anything and rubbed your hand over his brothers shoulder, he was so grateful it hurt.

Frankie walked into the room, mouth open to check in, to find you running your fingers through Benny’s hair, his head in your lap. You were elbowing Will, laughing about something as his brother sleepily tried to participate.

His heart aching, Frankie left, closing the door hard behind him. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.

Legs carrying him nowhere in particular, he wasn’t sure who he was frustrated at. Benny or Tom for charming you, dragging you into their lives, bright and shiny and innocent? Santi or Will for being able to talk with you like you had known them forever, to become your best friends like it was effortless?

You, with your open touches and knowing eyes and stupid big fucking heart?

He hated it all so much. Frankie hated it because it felt so good. Watching you act like a sister to his brothers, feeling your eyes on him as he did the one thing he knew how to do, hearing you say honest words for his ears alone - it all felt good, and it was awful. It made him forget who he’d been when he was a rookie, the mistakes he had made, the people they’d hurt while they’d been drunk on petty fame. It made him scared he would forget the lessons he had learned, if he let himself get lost in the good.

The person he was frustrated with was himself. He eyed his teammate doing a line of snow, the music pulsing in his ears, guilt and anxiety chasing him like wolves after prey. The caught him and he inched involuntarily forward, gnawing on the muscle memories of his tongue and heart and thighs.

Then all of a sudden, they were pulled back. Not gone – you were holding them at bay, as your hand touched his arm. Had you... chased him?

God did he want to be the man you though he was.

You didn’t seem interested in that, because you were quiet, telling him that it was good to see him, and to come to Benny, like he was needed. He wanted that – he turned away, back to his friends.

As your hand left his arm, the tips of your fingers trailed and he shuddered, realizing something.

The difference between the good of things that made him a monster, and the good of you was that it was handed to him, easy, full of promises that couldn’t be kept. Creating something good with you was going to be work.

Santi’s words rang in his mind, louder than the terrible music: she'll understand.

Determination flooded him, and he wondered if the wolves, never killed, could be harnessed. Frankie took your hand, relishing how after your initial shock, you laced your fingers with his.

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name @daffodin

#francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie x you #frankie x reader #triple frontier #baseball au #triple frontier baseball au #hey batter batter #maybe i don't know people

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softieteez · 3 years

Text

backstory

warning: death, cancer, drinking, mental abuse, some physical abuse, cussing, crying, anxiety attacks, suicidal thoughts, child neglect

genre: angst

summary: before ivy even got to her teen years, things were more difficult than most adults lives. from losing her dad, to experiencing neglect.

a/n: ivy’s story is pretty deep. feel free to skip this post if you are triggered by anything listed. also i’ll be using her birth name a lot throughout this story.

languages: normal = english. italic = korean

olivia min was born june 4, 2001 in michigan. she is the youngest of three siblings. miya, the oldest, was born february 20, 1997. and austin, the middle child, was born august 4, 1999.

growing up, olivia had an amazing relationship with her family members. her parents were always really supportive of anything she wanted to do. and her siblings, were annoying, but they all love each other so much. the family was pretty middle class, maybe more upper middle class. they had enough money to buy nice things and go on trips, which was nice and it gave the kids experiences they’d always remember.

when she was a baby, the families friend jax, had given her the nickname ‘ivy.’ the name stuck with him and eventually spread to friends at school. but her family members always called her olivia or jisoo, her korean name.

in school she was a social butterfly, running around recess practically collecting friends like they were collectors items. and because of her loving nature, no one could say no. she’s also very smart, she’s always had straight a’s and was usually willing to participate in class. teacher would say she was a sweet and smart little girl, and of course she could make the class burst into giggles at any second.

olivia started dancing at the young age of 4 when her parents enrolled her into dance classes. there, she met new friends and became one of the best youth dancers in their town.

her grandparents lived in ohio, which meant a lot of the times they would travel there for the holidays. olivia had a friend named aggy that lived there.

aggy lived next door to ivy’s grandparents. she was diagnosed with leukemia only five months before meeting the family, this was when ivy was maybe 7 years old.

through the years, ivy excelled in everything from piano lessons that she started when she was 5, to even cooking. she was a cheerful and happy little girl. until she reached age 9 when her dad was diagnosed with lung cancer.

this was a huge reality hit. she didn’t really understand it though, her dad was healthy. until he wasn’t. she remembers that day so clearly

“where’s mom and dad?” olivia asked walking into the kitchen and seeing her sister sitting next to their sleeping brother on the couch

“hospital, grandma and grandpa will be here in a few hours. for now our neighbors are gonna look after us”

“hospital? but why?” the little girl tilted her head

“i don’t know olivia. go back to sleep it’s early” miya did know, she saw her dad getting worse and worse as the months went on. but the last thing anyone wanted to do was worry anymore people. especially austin and olivia.

“okay…” she responded and went back toward her bedroom.

a few hours later she woke up to her grandma shaking her awake “wake up olivia. grandpa and i brought lunch.” the elderly woman spoke

olivia smiled at her grandmother as she sat up and stretched. the girl walked to the kitchen.

she still remembers all the yummy food her grandparents made, now knowing it was out of grief. later that night was when her parents revealed the truth to the kids.

and suddenly her whole world collapsed.

she would miss dance class and sometimes even school because her father would be in the hospital. because her mom and dad were always gone, she and her other siblings were expected to help around the house. occasionally with their grandparent by their side.

when she turned 10, she didn’t have much of a birthday blow out. and her present was some nail polish because that was all her family could afford at the time. when she turned 11, they spent her birthday in the hospital. her dads condition became so much worse that he wasn’t able to leave the hospital.

“i’m sorry you have to spend your birthday like this livvy” her dad held her had. his skin was paler than usual. colder too.

“it’s okay dad, i’m just happy we’re all here” she smiled as she held back tears. but her dad knew she wanted to cry.

“me and your mom got you something” he smiled and looked at his wife. the woman smiled sadly and reach in her purse to pull out a small purple box.

olivia grabbed the box from her mothers hand and opened it slowly. a beautiful butterfly necklace was revealed.

“it took a little while for us to find the perfect one” her moms sniffled. “we wanted you to love it”

thinking back on that moment. ivy now understood they wanted it to be special because it would be the last gift she would ever receive from her father.

“thank you mommy. thank you daddy” she whispered and pecked her dads forehead.

sadly, on june 29, her father passed away in the middle of the night. for some reason, her brain blocks this moment out. it’s all a blur.

her and her sister were sleeping on the little couch the nurses had set up and her brother was laying on the sleeping bag he had brought on the floor. it happened so suddenly. she woke up to her mom hysterically crying and weeping.

her brother and sister were frantic as nurses guided them three of them out of the room. but she does remember the last look she had at her dad.

he didn’t look real, more like a painting. or a sculpture maybe. his skin was practically white and his body was lifeless.

her whole family was in a depression, especially her mom. after losing her husband, she started drinking to numb the pain.

her grandparents left ohio and went back to korea completely unannounced. it was up to miya and austin to take care of themselves, each other, and of course olivia.

after a month of her fathers passing. the family had got a call from aggy’s mom informing them that aggy passed away july 25. so now she lost her dad and her best friend. along with that her mom isn’t stable enough to take care of her and her siblings, and her grandparents were m.i.a.

when she turned 12, that’s when her moms drinking got worse. she was living off of beer and tv dinners. she was also now mentally abusive toward her children.

austin became the child that started work. he would work late at night and then go to school all day. he was responsible for the families income at age 14.

miya was rarely ever home as well, but she was gone to escape their mom. she would rebel, hang out with her boyfriend, who ivy later found out was physically abusive.

then ivy was the kid that did the chores. she would also clean the neighbors houses to help pay her dance fees. the neighbors would always feel bad so they’d usually give her $30 for each chore she did. that was barely enough though.

and somehow, none of their friends ever noticed anything. except for austin’s, he’s always shut down plans to work and was overly tired all the time. but the friends did start noticing behavior changes

ivy became really depressed and spent most of her days just waiting for them to end.

the family got some income from the bank after the fathers passing. the kids were all in his will, earning $114k each. but they wouldn’t receive that until age 18.

around this time, ivy got into contact with her grandparent. begging day after day to move their and live out her dream of being an idol. her siblings would even call and beg the grandparents to let her, not wanting her to experience this life anymore.

after months of begging, her grandparents finally agreed to move her out to korea. she had already submitted audition videos to big companies like sm, jyp, yg, bighit etc.

she was 13 when she was officially moved into korea. she lived with her grandma and grandpa for a month before moving into the jyp dorms. she trained there for a year before being sent off to audition for produce 101.

during this time, she experienced great stress. her anxiety and depression led to suicidal thoughts and almost had to leave the show because of it. many fans who were supporting her throughout the show noticed her getting skinnier and skinnier by the episode.

somi, who became her best friend instantly, was also worried for her. ivy felt bad that she was worrying people. but she couldn’t help it, her mind controlled her. her thoughts were always telling her to do something. she would practice all the time and forget to eat.

somi would often watch after her to make sure she would at least eat a bagel and drink water everyday.

it wasn’t long before ivy would share her story, only parts of it publicly. her story reached american headlines, meaning her family and friends had seen it.

she was struggling for years. and it was only recently when she found inner happiness. she worked hard during produce, and didn’t win. and of course, she left jyp and moved to kq where she met her life long friends.

her boys have helped her so much, they were there to listen to her story, to hug her when she cried.

those are her boys, her family. her home.

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dickwheelie · 4 years

Text

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

#tma #the magnus archives #AspecArchives #aspecarchivesweek #gwyneth writes #it's ok jon i'm allergic to clothing stores too

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wallwriterstuff · 4 years

Text

Baby’s First Christmas ||Demetri Volturi x Female Reader||

Part 1: Found Family

Warnings: Mentions of death very briefly but the majority of this is tooth rotting christmas fluff.

Words: 3707

Summary: A request for @raindancer2004

A Christmas one-shot for Found Family. It’s Lyra’s first Christmas with Demetri in the home he has brought for himself and his new family, and he goes overboard ensuring his little girl is spoiled rotten.

There are had been many horrible days in the past year. Your boyfriend of the time had packed up and left in April, your daughter born to you in the January where your only support in the room was a midwife who had been called in last minute to replace the one suddenly taken ill. Your best friend leaving to a new city in March, never to be heard of again despite leaving you the gift of a lovely holiday – where you almost died. Meeting Demetri was one of the few highlights of your year if you were honest, and life had gradually improved since with his video calls, once weekly and suddenly every other day when you both realised you physically couldn’t cope with the silence for more than 24 hours at a time.

Then your parents died.

Demetri had flown straight out, taking some extended leave to ensure you had someone to lean on in your grief. Lyra had needed someone to care for her properly on the days your tired body couldn’t cope. It wasn’t until you had came crawling pitifully down the stairs for some sleeping tablets at 3AM once that you understood how difficult it had been for him, catching him hunched over a baby book as he absorbed every word in an effort to be the perfect caregiver for your daughter. When he’d asked you to let him look after you in a more permanent fashion, you’d agreed without hesitation. He had taken you back to Volterra the following week, helping you pack your possessions, sell what you didn’t want, and send things off to await your arrival. You’d ignored the looks of your neighbours, the old kooks peering through the curtains to eye you with disdain. What kind of woman moved to a new country with her boyfriend of four months after all? Obviously, you had to be knocked up again.

They had no understanding of just how deep the bond between you and Demetri was, not a single idea of how all-consuming, soul warming and fulfilling your love for each other had grown to be. Your new home was ready and waiting and it was beautiful, a little Tuscan cottage all of your own on the outskirts of town, far from the danger of the Volturi’s castle and away from prying eyes where you could raise your daughter in peace. He had spared no expense at all, letting you decorate to your hearts content in an effort to move on with your life, away from the grief and the pain the world had tried to beat you down with before he lifted you above it. Now…now you were feeling that familiar, frazzled feeling. You had gone to Florence for the day, leaving Demetri alone for a full day with lyra for the first time since…ever. It was as much a test for him as it was for you. You found yourself missing Lyra not ten minutes into the drive towards the city, having spent most of your time with her for the past 11 months since she’d been born.

What had followed had been one stressful problem after the next as you tried to complete your Christmas shopping for your found family. You had been forced to visit the castle once or twice to declare yourself to the Masters’ as Demetri’s mate, but a few of his friends had also come to visit you. Felix was a family favourite, though his size unnerved your daughter when Lyra first met him, and the twins had been curious about the baby Demetri had been telling them about. In your mind, they were still children and very much deserving of Christmas presents. The twins didn’t give much away, so you’d guessed at a lot of the things they might like but were fairly happy with you haul. Felix had been the only one that was easy to buy for to but Demetri…what did you get for the man that had everything and wanted nothing? He had given you the world and a pair of socks didn’t seem to be the best kind of repayment.

You had agonised for hours, walking around in a bustling shopping mall where the fluorescent lights made your eyes hurt and the constant chatter in rapid Italian made your head spin. Demetri had been teaching you but you were by no means fluent, and the people in the city spoke much faster than the local market stall owners you had gotten to know – you were starting to suspect they slowed down for you on purpose. Your day had been long and your stress levels high. You just wanted to settle down with your mate and your daughter, cosy up for the night perhaps, but you still had gifts to wrap. Maybe it could wait. Christmas day was still a few weeks away yet, you hadn’t even put up a tree to put your presents under.

Eyes trailing to the bags in the back of your car, you bit your lip softly and felt your heart skitter in your chest. You hoped they would like their presents but you weren’t holding out much hope of a thank you, especially not from the twins. Demetri had heard of the Christmas holidays but the traditions surrounding it were new news to him, and it had taken a lot of explaining before he finally seemed to understand how important this was for you to celebrate.

Lyra’s first Christmas.

When she had been born and you’d started thinking of these things you would never in your wildest dreams have imagined she would be spending it in her new home in Italy, nowhere near her biological father and without her doting grandparents, yet here you were. With a quiet sigh, you steeled yourself to put on a happy face and gathered your things to enter your home. Immediately, you were hit by the smell of spring flowers, a sure sign Demetri had been cleaning today. How he had found time to do that while caring for Lyra you didn’t know but you put it down to his vampirism. If it wasn’t so important for Lyra to grow up with you around in her formative years you might have considered turning sooner purely for the perks of moving fast and not needing sleep anymore, though she was starting to sleep better now and was on her way to her first full night of rest.

Upon opening your door your world became bright and colourful, not the neutral tones of your hallway you were used to. Bright red tinsel was wrapped around your stair railing, twisting upward to the second floor of the cottage, and it framed the photographs adoring the walls in a dazzling array of red, green and blue. A few snowflakes had been tied to the poles of the stair railing by some white ribbon. Slowly, you placed your bags by the door and closed it behind you, locking it for added safety before venturing carefully into your home. You hadn’t remembered asking Demetri to put up any decorations, hell you didn’t even think you owned any, so where had all this come from? The glass in the door leading from the hallway to the living room was frosted, but you were able to see a dark shape moving back and forth, the vague outline of a Christmas tree.

Your kitchen had a tiny tree on the breakfast bar, a Christmas themed tablecloth lying over your dining room table and, much to your amusement, little festive gel stickers on the window looking out over the garden. The legs of Lyra’s high-chair was also wrapped in tinsel. You couldn’t help but smile as you turned towards the living room, listening to the conversation inside.

“Not here either? You are fussy today your highness.” Demetri’s voice was light, teasing, completely at ease. Lyra had grown to be quite the babbler and he was more than happy to engage in conversation with the eleven-month-old girl, even if she couldn’t form proper words just yet. More garbled noises escaped your daughter and when you peeped around the doorframe, your heart melted. Demetri’s Christmas tree had been trimmed to be a little lopsided, not quite to your tastes, but he had tried. Lyra was on her blanket, surrounded by her toys, but none of them seemed to be taking her interest as she sat and watched Demetri put the last few ornaments on a frankly overcrowded tree. There were glistening lights and tinsel and beads and tinsel and baubles and…and…

“Is that…Demetri is that my parents?” you asked, having to swallow around the lump that had formed in your throat. He turned to look at you, still holding the last bauble of a big box of them in his hands. For a moment he said nothing, simply watched you take in all the lights and ornaments he’d put up about the place, the stockings by the fireplace personalised for you and Lyra. How much had he spent? How hard had he worked?

“Yes. I understood Christmas celebrations as something you did with family from how you explained them to me, so I thought they should be here in some way,” He said softly. Tears welled in your eyes and he frowned, “Is it not what you wanted? I can always redecorate?” he looked a little lost as you wiped your eyes and hurried into the room to scoop up Lyra, smiling through your tears as your overwhelmed heart skittered in your chest. This man was just too much for you. Bouncing her on your hip you pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Have you seen this? Look what Da – Demetri’s done for us!” you quickly caught yourself, your voice shaking with the intensity of your emotion. It was too much but in all the best ways. Lyra was absorbed immediately by the twinkling lights on the tree as you brought her closer, showing her the glass bauble with your parents photograph in. She looked back at you, head turning so fast it almost fell off her little shoulders.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, looking back between you and the bauble. Head nodding you tenderly brushed your hand over her hair. It had started to grow a bit more recently and you were able now to twist small pieces at the front around your fingertip. Demetri kissed your temple, winding an arm around your waist.

“Welcome home.” He murmured, lips trailing along your shoulder, up your throat. Your head tilted automatically and you could feel him smiling at your obvious submission.

“This is perfect.” You whispered. He chuckled.

“I tried my best.” He assured you.

“Our house is clean.” You noted.

“Hmmm, hardly any evidence of disaster.” He agreed with a cheeky grin as you turned to face him. Lyra wriggled, wanting to be put down. She had started crawling just last week and after a bit of rocking, managed to haphazardly crawl back towards her toys. You watched her go with adoring eyes.

“She seems happy.” You said. Demetri chuckled, cupping your cheek tenderly.

“I told you I could do it,” He turned you to face him, embracing you properly this time. You melted into his arms, kissing him sweetly before resting your head against his shoulder. “You seem very tense.” He murmured, fingertips skating up and down your spine. Your nose scrunched.

“Christmas shopping is a tense activity.” You retorted wryly.

“Ah, I have yet to experience the joys. Is there anything you want?” he wondered. You smiled, curling closer to him.

“I have everything I need right here.” You sighed contentedly, basking in the warm glow of fairy lights. Demetri didn’t reply, simply held you close and kissed your forehead. You were rather excited the next day, to wrap and put his presents under your newly decorated tree. Lyra took to helping you with the bows and after a constant battle of wrestling the one she chose from her tiny hands you had some fully wrapped presents…which you then had to keep your child away from. What you didn’t understand was how the present pile just kept growing…and growing…and growing…

Finally, four days before Christmas Day, you caught Demetri in the act. With a cough and some raised eyebrows, you had the suave tracker smiling sheepishly.

“Yes, my love?” he asked, feigning innocence terribly.

“Just how many presents have you brought Demetri? You do know Lyra is only turning one in January, right? She won’t remember half of these things. Christmas is what you do, not what you buy.” You reminded him. His sheepish smile turned cheeky as he moved at lightning speed to place the last of the presents in his bag around the tree, since there hadn’t been room under it for weeks now, and raced over to pull you against him. He stole your breath and anymore scolding words you’d prepared with a single, heated kiss. If he was trying to distract you, it worked wonders.

“Not all are for my princess,” he assured you, his hand slipping to your rear end to pull your hips flush against his, “Some are for my queen.” Cheeks heating in a blush, you swatted his chest and turned your face back to the ginormous pile of presents in the corner of your living room. There were quite a few big boxes and something that reminded you suspiciously of a rocking horse.

“Demetri. You know we don’t need all of this right?” you turned back to look at him, hands sliding up his chest to his neck. His hair was always so soft and you loved nothing more than to play with it on the evenings. He purred softly, leaning into your touch with a hum of approval.

“Is it so bad I wish to spoil you both?” he murmured, eyes closed as you twisted the hair at the nape of his neck around your fingers. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you pressed your mouth to the corner of his in a teasing kiss. Demetri immediately turned, trying to seek more from you, but you pushed him back with a soft sigh.

“You’re too much you know that? If you really want to spoil me, a nice cup of tea for when I come down to snuggle with you will be enough.” You smiled. Demetri’s eyes rolled but he nodded.

“Of course. This is the first of many Christmases like this you know, I have every intention of spoiling you both for the rest of eternity…that and, well…nothing I bought seemed good enough.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. You tilted your head.

“Demetri you know us better than anyone, I’m sure whatever you’ve bought is going to be perfect.” You promised, taking one last look at the giant present pile with a fond shake of your head before going in hunt of your cosy pyjamas. You really regretted saying that to him come Christmas day however, when you had wrapping paper littering your floor and a pile of presents you had no clue how to find homes for. The best perfumes and the clothing brands’ you would never have asked for all needed a place in your walk-in wardrobe for example, but he had already filled it with brand new designer tags when you first moved in. Lyra was surrounded by toys, looking mildly overwhelmed by the choice but utterly thrilled with all the bright colours and sounds coming from them, though her favourite so far seemed to be the simple teddy bear, one she hadn’t let go of since she had unwrapped it. Demetri was currently sat with her on the floor, Lyra resting between his legs as he helped her unwrap a present from Felix.

“Can you guess what it might be?” he asked her. Lyra was frowning, the deep concentration it took to tear at the paper with her fists evident on her face. Demetri stepped in to unstick a bit of sellotape that was making it tricky for her, his free hand gently smoothing over her hair as they worked on the present together. It was a heart-warming sight, one that only made you more confident in your gift to him.

“Dabaga.” She sounded so cross with the resistant bit of paper you both laughed, unable to help yourselves.

“I know princess, how mean of Uncle Felix to wrap it so tightly. Shall I help you do the rest?” he questioned. Lyra made another angry, garbled noise, smacking her fists on the paper in frustration. Demetri chuckled. “Alright alright, here.” He soothed, deftly unwrapping the bright pink paper from around the box Felix had put his present in. Lyra was able to lift the lid herself, looking pleased with her small victory before she tipped the box onto its side, its contents spilling into her lap. Her head snapped up to Demetri, eyes wide as she pointed at it.

“Gar!”

His face feigned shock as he nodded along, watching her pick up and inspect the small toy. There were no tags of any description or branding on the side, and you had a feeling that the pull along ducks had been made by the giant man by hand.

“They are ducks, princess,” Demetri pointed them out one by one, “A little family just like ours, a Mommy duck and a baby duck.” You noticed he pointedly left out a label for the larger duck and decided that was the perfect moment to interrupt the dynamic duo. You searched through the torn-up paper to find the small bag you had prepped for Demetri, crawling over to hand it to him as you welcomed Lyra into your lap when she crawled for you. She held her teddy bear up to you and you subconsciously leaned down to kiss it, holding her close. Demetri read the tag, glancing up at you both with a smile.

“Merry Christmas.” You said softly. His eyebrows rose slightly, the trepidation on your face confusing him almost and making him slightly more wary to open the bag you had taped shut. You stopped Lyra wriggling, hushing her slightly as you watched him. It was impossible to deny you felt nervous, unsure how he would react to the presents inside, cheap and corny but…heart-felt. Stomach churning, you were hyper-focused on his face as he opened up the bag. Nothing inside it was wrapped but there was a layer of tissue paper to move aside. Demetri paused, carefully setting the gold, shimmering paper to his left as he examined the contents of the bag. For a moment, he looked up at you in bewilderment, as if to see if you really meant it, then his breath-hitched and he reached in to reverently take out the things inside. His socks, mug and t-shirt were all inscribed with a simple but meaningful slogan, one you hoped he would understand.

“Do you mean it my love? Truly?” he asked, voice wavering. His eyes appeared to glisten, like he wanted to cry even though he wasn’t capable of it. You on the other hand could, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“Yes. Please? Be our Daddy duck?” your heart clenched and you almost stopped breathing as you watched his composure completely break. Demetri huffed a laugh you were sure was supposed to really be a sob, but he carefully placed his presents down into his bag and crawled across the paper to hold you both. He bent at the waist to press a kiss to Lyra’s cheek first, then shifted upward to give you a kiss that was far hungrier, far more passionate. He captured your lips over and over until you were breathless, dizzy with desire. Pressing his forehead to yours, he squeezed your hip lightly.

“Always. I will be yours as long as you will have you me. I never thought I could have a family, that things could be like this, but this is…this is perfect.” He whispered. Through your watery eyes you could still the socks peeking over the edge of his bag, World’s Best Dad emblazoned on the sides. Lyra seemed to sense this was an emotional moment to, putting her toys down in favour of taking Demetri’s large hand and tugging for his attention. He pulled back with a slow exhale, smiling down at her.

“What is it princess? You want to open more presents?” he asked. Lyra tugged at his hand again, trying to pull it past her little body it seemed. Demetri looked confused a little bit, neither of you really understanding what you wanted till he pulled her into his lap to see. She settled into his abdomen, leaning back against him quite happily. Lyra’s eyes met your own and you could have sworn if a baby could look smug, that was how you would best describe her expression.

“Are you jealous of Daddy giving Mommy kisses? Is that it? Huh?” you asked her. Demetri grinned, red eyes sparkling. They matched the Christmas lights perfectly. He easily lifted her up in the air, nuzzling her tummy with his nose before peppering soft kisses all over her cheeks to make her giggle. You began to collect the paper up as they played together.

“I can get that done in half the time, let me.” Demetri offered. You shook your head.

“It’s alright, I don’t want to interrupt Daddy-Daughter time.” You teased. Demetri just grinned brightly, looking happier than he had been since you met him. He was watching you like you had given him the world and more, and maybe you had in some respects, since Lyra was the world to you. His new title far outweighed any ranking he had gotten in the Guard and somehow, you had managed to ensure Lyra spent her first Christmas with her Daddy after all. He settled back against the edge of the sofa, Lyra straddling his lap as they both explored her teddy bear once more, her babbling filling your ears as she showed him all the buttons and patches on it that made for interesting new textures for her to feel. Demetri nodded along, the perfect little play partner for her on the most wonderful Christmas day.

#twilight #twilight fanfiction #volturi #demetri volturi #demetri volturi x female reader #christmas oneshot #felix volturi #he does woodwork #i will die on this hill #tell me the twins wouldn't get stockings from reader

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oldsmobile-hotdogs · 3 years

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Questions for crossover jatp ghosts crossover fic: I hope Julian and the sunset curve boys talk about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Yugoslav wars that happened when they were alive + Bill Cilnton. I wonder what pat and the band would talk about considering that they would of been kids when pat died? Do you think Julie would think of Les Mis and Hamilton cos Thomas and Kitty are from about the same time period as those musicals? I hope Julie calls Fanny Mary poppins.

Anon, or "Mimi", or "Lulu", or, heck, maybe even "Carl Birtles": Update: Not Carl Birtles. Carl Birtles sent me an ask and is cool, actually.

Stop. Right now. I'd say stop while you're ahead, but you are so far away from ahead at this point it's laughable.

For everyone confused, this is that "commenter from AO3" I joked about making a 2017-esque story time video about.

A couple days ago I uploaded the first chapter of a Julie and the Phantoms/BBC Ghosts crossover fic.

You know what? I’m gonna promo it here bc it’s my callout post and I can shill if I want to: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30681704/chapters/76661471

It was generally very well received and I've had a blast interacting with readers.

Except for this.

Honestly, there's so much to get into, so I’m putting it under a cut:

This was their first correspondence (email notif bc I deleted the comment, the deletion to be explained later):

(Funnily enough, the links very much do not work on AO3, making the comment only more jarring)

I gave you *so much* benefit of the doubt when I saw this comment, and assumed that maybe you're an ESL user, just very enthusiastic to share ideas, and I pretty much said so in my reply, but know that at that point I'd already had friends- who fucking know about this, don't you dare think you're getting me alone- tell me that you were being very demanding.

Below was my reply (another email notif):

I'm gonna be honest, I think I responded really well to what I was given, and now that I'd replied, I was pretty certain the situation was dealt with. You, evidently, didn't agree, as shown by your reply to my reply:

A word of advice: when replying to someone, at least pretend like you read what they wrote.

At this point I'm left wondering two things:

What do they expect from me, if a general reply is not it?

How much more shit do they have waiting to tell me to put in my- reminder, JATP/BBC Ghosts crossover, rated T, comedic- fic?

In order to avoid finding out either, I freeze the thread on AO3. I'm liveblogging all of this on Discord.

It's then that I notice that the username on AO3 isn't clickable, so even if I wanted to block or report them I couldn't. I assume, therefore, that they've deactivated, and since them seeing their comments gone and getting angry was the only thing stopping me deleting the comments, I delete the comments.

It's also at this point I see "Mimi" never left kudos. I guess I don't deserve praise until I mention "Bill Cilnton".

There's relative calm for a short amount of time, until I get another comment:

This one is much kinder than the others and doesn't mention any specific, weird, historical events, so the extent to which I think this is "Mimi" is debatable, but bestie I'm weirded out enough that anything that even uses the enter bar unnecessarily and misses out conjunctive words like "because" and "and" is going to activate fight or flight. Update: Carl Birtles is not Mimi or Lulu. Carl was just being genuinely kind and I misinterpreted it and that's on me.

However, "Carl"'s case is not helped by the fact I can't click his account either, that AO3 offers me the ability to report it as spam, and that guess who replies to "Carl"'s comment: Update: Carl, having done nothing wrong as he has, is therefore also a victim in the situation that is being replied to by Lulu. It would seem Lulu is trying to correct??? some of Carl's commentary.

You must think I didn't get a 7 on my English Literature GCSE because you seem to underestimate my ability to compare two texts.

So clearly this is "Mimi", who has also just replied to "Carl". "Lulu" is also deactivated, and I've fallen off the end of my tether, let alone reached it, at this point so I mark it as spam. "Carl" gets to stay bc he said the idea for the crossover was good. Update: Carl also gets to continue to stay because I have it on good faith that he's a stand-up dude.

So at this point you've readily admitted through your inability to shake up your writing style to using at least one sockpuppet to convince me to talk about the "Yugoslav wars".

If "Carl Birtles" is the real(-est) of them, and "Mimi" and "Lulu" are the sockpuppets, by the way, I have questions and ideas about what you do on your free evenings and I want them neither confirmed nor answered. Update: This is slanderous and I want to apologise wholeheartedly to Carl for making assumptions about him and judging his character. Once again, he is not Mimi or Lulu. He's just a normal, cool guy.

And now you come to me, on the day of my daughter's wedding on a different platform, leave me an anon ask in the exact same format as you're so fond of, and expect any different ??

Well, yeah, then I guess I'll give you special treatment this time.

Here's exactly why I will never include anything you have told me to include:

Julian and the Phantoms discussing the Berlin Wall would be highly inappropriate for the largely fluffy, cracky tone of my fanfiction, especially given how recently the event occurred, how many Eastern Germans still experience prejudice to this day because they were born within the old borders of the DDR, and because of how nuanced this, essentially proxy war, was and how ill-informed a huge amount of the world is on the actual factors in play during this time and the Cold War in general.

Julian and the Phantoms will not discuss Yugoslavia dissolving, nor the fallout and conflict that resulted, because it was genocidal. There is nowhere I can fit Julian, pantsted, casually asking Luke “hey do you remember when the Herzegovinas were killed en masse by the Serbs?” Not gonna happen.

They won’t discuss Bill Clinton because all of them know who the current world leaders are: they don’t have amnesia, they’re ghosts. The fic is also rated T, so it would be inappropriate to make any explicit reference to “sexual relations”. None of them play saxophone.

Julie wouldn’t think of Les Mis or Hamilton because Thomas is Regency, not French Revolution, and Kitty is Georgian, not Colonial.

Julie won’t be calling Fanny Mary Poppins because she is perpetually stuck in a white dress, doesn’t wear a hat, doesn’t own an umbrella or a purse and was not the nanny or housekeeper of Button House.

The ghosts will not discuss the marvels of modern transportation or how long it would’ve taken to cross the Atlantic on dinghy because the ghosts have seen Friends. The house irl is on a flight path. They know airplanes exist. Alison and Mike pulled up in a car.

I will probably have the phantoms and Willie talk to Pat and Julian about being from the ‘80s and ‘90s. That I will actually probably do.

The Captain will not mention FD Roosevelt because, again, they all know who the current world leaders are, and I doubt he expects a ‘90s pop punk band to have any insider knowledge on the man.

It was interesting to think of the phantoms’ grandparents having been alive during WW2. I wasn’t lying. But there is nearly nothing I can do with this information.

But above all: both sets of ghosts have already adapted to modern life. Because the shows are shorter, and meant to actually be able to fit jokes in them.

If you want to see any of this, write your own damn fic. I don’t own the concept of a JATP/BBC Ghosts crossover.

What you will not do, “consonant-vowel-consonant-vowel”-nim, is hound me on multiple accounts and then change platform to hound me again. I’m absolutely not having it.

I have never received an interaction quite like this before, and I cannot help but wonder if this is because this is my first work in the Ghosts/HH/Them There/Six Idiots/Yonderland/Bill fandom: that this is where you primarily camp out.

So it’s at this point I ask the Them There/Six Idiots fandom if they have/if they know anyone who has had a run-in with this person or thinks they may have, or if anyone perhaps even knows who this is? Maybe I’m just one of many. Maybe this is a necessary fandom evil I was unaware of.

This experience has left me royally freaked out, as one might imagine, especially since my anxiety in general has been acting up due to it being exam season. I want to thank everyone who’s read my rambles on Discord and on here and even listened to them irl and offered support from the bottom of my heart.

I’ve enabled comment moderation on the fic. I will continue to write it, and I will put exactly what I, and only what I, want in it.

Believe it or not, I wanted to do literally anything else today.

Anon: Fucking Leave Me Alone.

Update: Just reiterating: Carl is not Mimi or Lulu. Carl is a cool dude and I want to sincerely apologise for having brought him into this mess, passing judgment on his character, and making him feel like he should stop practicing English online.

#ask #anon #callout post #ig #rant #parish notice #jatp #julie and the phantoms #bbc ghosts #ghosts #fic #fanfic #ao3 #literally any information about this would be helpful #six idiots #them there #horrible histories #yonderland #bill

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

Text

Okay, here we go! Imma do my liveblog of The Hunger Games, Chapter One, for #THGagain :

I’ll put my thoughts underneath the cut so I don’t clog up the dash 🥳

Okay but right off the bat, Katniss says her mattress cover is rough 🥺. I don’t know, this just made me sad all of a sudden.

So okay, but the fact that Prim had a bad dream and climbed in with their mother? I don’t know if that indicates that Prim still sees their mother as a source of comfort whereas Katniss can’t let herself feel the same way or if it’s just because she didn’t want to wake Katniss.

Maybe it’s supposed to be that Prim is too naive to understand that their mother is mentally fragile? Since in Mockingjay, she says “I know there’s only so much mother can hear,” or something like that, as a way to prove she’s not a little kid anymore sooo. I don’t know. Just some thoughts.

Katniss is shady towards mama right off the bat 🤣. Katniss is shady no matter what though. It’s what makes her narration sound like a teenage girl.

If Katniss is so anti-social though, who’s telling her her mother was once beautiful?

As a cat lover, I take offense to Katniss’ insults to the poor one eyed furball 😭.

So coal miners are also women? I suspected as much but I didn’t realize it was explicitly stated? So if Katniss’ life had gone differently, would she have become a coal miner?

So none of the houses in Twelve get electricity outside of a couple hours a night? Or just in the Seam?

I always forget that Katniss had nightmares even before the games 😔😔😔. Nightmares of her father “being blown to bits.” She has a vivid way with words.

Her father made her bow 🥺🥺. I knew that. I just thought I should mention it again. She uses the bow her father handmade throughout the series 🥺.

Also she says Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to “the few of them who hunt”. A few is more than two. Who else besides Katniss and Gale go hunting?

I like that she randomly starts mumbling to herself 🤣🤣🤣

Once upon a time, Katniss was outspoken apparently. But she mentions that she has to hold her tongue even at home because Prim may repeat her words. I don’t know why, but Prim seems immature for twelve years old. At twelve, in today’s society, you’re going into sixth grade. A sixth grader should know how to keep a secret or hold her tongue.

Gale says she never smiles but in the woods but isn’t that the only place they really spend time together? 🤣

“I kind of liked that lynx but I liked the money I got for it’s pelt more” 😂😂😂

An arrow inside bread. How fortuitous 😭😭😭

I do love that Katniss’ first introduction of Gale is “he could be my brother”

“But we’re at least not that closely related” 🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

“Katniss, get off your cousin”

Even though the merchant class is smaller

Meaning they’re even more inbred

And Katniss is half merch-

Okay I’m done with this line of thinking 🤭😅

So backwoods 🤣

So did Mrs. Everdeen’s parents disown her? Or what? Do they still own that apothecary shop? Does Katniss occasionally walk by her grandparents in the town square? Like I’d like more context here, Suz 🙃

Aww, I always feel so bad for Katniss when she talks about her mother abandoning her 😭😩🥺

“But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type” me either. Me either 🤧.

This may be why I so closely relate to her when she’s angry.

And why when people in the book say she needs to be more forgiving (ala Haymitch) I’m like “no”

I’m sorry but on second glance (more like 8th glance because I’ve read this chapter since I was 16) it’s so obvious Gale was hitting on her here 😅.

She’s oblivious 🤣🤣🤣

As she should be 😆

So later on, in the second book at least, Katniss definitely has some high respect for Hazelle Hawthorne. But here it seems to be like she’s implying Hazelle and her own mother are useless without her and Gale, and like they wouldn’t be able to provide for themselves. Maybe Hazelle just wasn’t fleshed out to Suzanne when she wrote the first book, the same way the love triangle you can tell if you look is sort of just tossed in there in the first book too? Anyways, just a thought.

That line about Prim being the only person Katniss is certain that she loves is sweet (it’s actually one of my favorite lines in the series) but it’s also so shady at the same time 😅😅😅. Like girl, you’re not sure if you love your mother or even your best friend (in a platonic way)?

Katniss makes a point in mentioning it took a long time for her and Gale to become friends. And I feel like that has been simplified a lot along the way, but it never really sounded to me like Katniss and Gale were besties for as long as most people think. The movies are a lot to blame for this, I know.

I don’t actually think Katniss is truly jealous here of the other girls wanting Gale? I feel like if she were she would have unconsciously insulted the school girls who were into him instead of just outright saying she was jealous, just not for romantic reasons. But who knows 🤷🏼‍♀️.

It was already mentioned earlier but I think Suzanne made a continuity error here, when Gale and Katniss mentioned fishing at the lake. The lake is a place Katniss explicitly mentioned in Catching Fire, to be private between her and her father. She even specially said she never took Gale there. I feel much better about my own writing continuity errors now.

Okay, both Katniss and Gale are so dumb. I would never prepare a feast for after the reaping. They’re just jinxing themselves. I have OCD really bad no one come for me.

I like how The Hob is a black market that’s literally just sitting in broad daylight 🤣🤣🤣.

Katniss just referenced being attacked by dogs... um I’m sorry, do we have no fear of rabies in this universe? 😭😭🙃🙃😐😐😅😅

Katniss : “me and the mayor’s daughter aren’t friends, we just hang out all the time at school, eat lunch together, sit by each other and are always partners. But weren’t not friends.” 🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I like the mention of hair ribbons for the rich girl. This is just the fic writer in me seeping into my reading.

Gale and Madge’s little dispute ...

I see why they get shipped together 😅. They’re both just taking swipes at each other here.

Awww, Katniss sticking up for Madge, even though Madge is the privileged one 😭. Katniss has such a pure heart.

The entire point of the Madge/Gale interaction though was just to set up the class divide explanation in Katniss’ head to the reader.

But my Peeta centric heart also picks up on the comments in Katniss’ head of how unlikely it is to be chosen at the reaping when you’re a town kid.

In other words, Peeta had a slim to none chance of being chosen and still was.

Now I think of it, so was Prim...

That was just an unlucky reaping for the kids without tesserae 🙃

Also it reminds me of every fic I ever read that mentioned a conspiracy in the reapings and how the kids aren’t actually chosen at random but anyways I digress

I feel Gale though, with the whole idea of knowing something isn’t this person’s fault and there’s nothing they could do but still being so angry at them because it isn’t fair that you have to suffer and they don’t.

My anger issues are really showing 😅😅😅.

Honestly though, if Katniss is saying Gale on a normal day is rational about the class divide not being merchants faults, then clearly his issues with Peeta later on really were just of jealousy and not because he was a merchant vs Seam.

I just feel like I’ve seen that around and I’m not really convinced

In my interpretation of the character, Katniss’ reasons for not sharing in Gale’s rage comes from exhaustion after a lifetime of powerlessness. Some people (re: females more often) just get worn out about the things they cannot change and can’t even let it get inside their brain because there’s nothing they could do about it.

I mean, she is a more understanding person than Gale but I feel like so much of her character is already so tired right from chapter one.

Okay, just a pointless rambling thought

“Where something pretty” these children are so shady 🤣🤣🤣 that’s a line I would say though

The fact that her like 42 year old mother still fits in a dress she wore at like 20 is really a testament to how hungry they are 🤧🤧🤧

Okay but I’m not trying to pick on her mother, but when they were starving, why did either she or Katniss sell the fancy clothes from her apothecary days? I’m nitpicking I know. I’m a nitpicker.

Also good for Katniss trying to forgive her mother.

God knows how hard it is for me to try and forgive people.

Literally, God knows.

I like that Katniss didn’t disagree with Prim saying she’s beautiful, just that she doesn’t usually look this way 😂😂😂.

I just know my sister wouldn’t let me not take tesserae if this was us. She’d be like “you’ll be fine, four entries? Please. We can have more food for an entire year, don’t be selfish.” 😅😅😅

I feel like noting that Katniss and Prim’s age gap isn’t that significant? Four years? That’s not that large. Not even at 12 and 16.

They herd these children off like they’re .... pigs going to a slaughter... 🤭🤭🤭

Katniss casually stating “I could be shot on a daily basis” 😐😐😐

Katniss and Gale agreeing they’d rather be shot than starve is honestly so sad but lowkey sounds like something two teenagers would say. They should have put dialogue like this in the movies.

I didn’t even remember District 12 has 8,000 people.... why’d I think they only had 3,000????

I need to update some of my fics with this information

Katniss just said “televised by the state”. I’ve never heard her call any region a state before?

I like that Katniss calls Effie’s grin scary and white, because tons of people (i.e me) whiten our teeth in today’s society. And to Katniss and probably all of Twelve that’s creepy. I think it’s weird to Europeans too but l digress.

Also do the people in this district brush and floss, they never seem to mention it in the books, ya know?

Honestly the idea of the hunger games sounded cooler without Songbirds and Snakes telling us it was just some dumb guy’s idea that no one ever thought would come true.

Aww, sugar is a delicacy 🤧🤧🤧

I knew already that but lemme fully feel that sentiment for a moment okey

Umm I’m sorry, did Mayor Undersee just casually state Lucy Gray Baird’s name every year and we never knew it? Did Snow just allow this? Seems suspish

Also the idea of Katniss being her distant relative and hearing the name and not knowing the connection... and yeah, anyways. I got wayyyy ahead of myself and off track sorry

Why would Haymitch hug Effie? I’m sorry, but Hayffie having a secret affair at some point in all the years they worked together seems more likely than I thought.

I mean, Katniss never mentions Haymitch hugging anyone besides her and Peeta when they just almost died, are about to die or that one time Katniss was sobbing because she thought Peeta was gonna die.

You know what though? I like that at this moment, when the name is about to be announced, Katniss worried about herself. She spends so much time worrying for her sister, babying her sister, mothering her sister, she deserves ten seconds of worrying for her own safety.

Of course, said sister is the one chosen. Ironic considering the whole encounter with Madge.

Okay, I think that concludes my thoughts for chapter one of The Hunger Games!

#thgagain #I’m not tagging anything else because this is so long I’m so sorry if anyone tries to read this mess 😅😅😅😅😅🤧🤧🤧🤧

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sincerelyasomebody · 4 years

Text

Pinky Promise || Oscar "Spooky" Diaz

(GIF Credit: @merakiaes)

A/N: I've had this idea in my head for a while. It will be a two-part imagine/story. Apologises for any grammatical errors found. Once again, don't hesitate to correct me on the Spanish translations.

Pairing(s): Spooky x Reader

Summary: Life can change in an instant.

Warnings: allusions to absent parents; death; options within pregnancy, angsty, fluff, language, unplanned pregnancy

Word Count: 1282

- ♤ - ♡ - ◇ - ♧ -

Becoming the accountant for a few businesses in Brentwood allowed (Y/N) to live above her means. A complete change from the two years out of (college/university) where she barely scraped by, even moving back in with her parents when she was unable to keep up with the rent at her apartment. Thankfully, she was able to bring herself out of that predicament. Those two years were stepping stones into the success she's experiencing now.

She eventually branched out and took on being the accountant for Joe's Diner in Freeridge. Despite hearing negative things about the area, she couldn't help but admire the community. Their friendly faces, charismatic personalities and willingness to help one another without expecting anything in return reminded her of the small town her grandparents lived in.

When (Y/N) got the opportunity, she'd go back for a visit. Only with her family though. Going back by herself would be a bit too painful.

Not only did she admire the community she fell in love with it… and with somebody.

Oscar 'Spooky' Diaz.

The pair met while (Y/N) was double checking the hours each employee wrote down on their timesheet. He sat in her booth and started up a conversation. Love at first sight wasn't something (Y/N) believed in, but she couldn't deny that they had instant chemistry. All it took was a date for the pair to become an official couple.

(Y/N) couldn't have been happier.

She was making good money, she had met somebody who "got" her and for all intents and purposes she was content. Completely satisfied with the way her life was going.

And then a curveball was thrown.

"... measuring about six weeks… discuss your options… a follow up..."

(Y/N) remembered bits and pieces of her doctor's appointment. Going in for a simple check up resulted with the black and white picture in her hands. She was going to be a mother. Shaking her head she quickly tucked it into the pocket of her jacket and walked up the pathway of the Diaz household. She was surprised to see none of the usual Santos members hanging around outside, but figured they had more important matters.

She was thankful though, as much as she liked the group she felt a sense of relief that they wouldn't be around to hear the news.

"Está roto tu celular?" Oscar asked, as she walked through the door, when he received a head shake he continued, "then why haven't you been answering your phone?"

(Y/N) took a seat opposite him at the table, instead of answering his question she had one of her own. "Do you know what a wombat is?"

"Why?"

"Come on, just answer."

He scoffed, redirecting the conversation, "where were you?"

"I was busy." Was her response.

"Busy? That's all I get?" He glared, "for three days? No contact. Nothing. For three days!? I know you like your space (Y/N), but fuck! At least give me a heads up or something. Give me something. I'm dealing with shit from Cuchillos and 19th Street and all you can tell me is that you've been busy? To answer my calls?" He stood up, "fuck that!"

She watched as he began to pace between the kitchen and living room, "I'm sorry… but, uh – a wombat? Do you know –"

"I don't give a fuck about a wombat, (Y/N)!" He yelled, walking back towards her, "after the second day of you not answering my calls and finding out that you used up a week of your sick leave I sent Sad Eyes and Oso by your place to check if anything had happened," he took a deep breath, "your car was parked in front and you weren't there. Only reason I stayed behind was in case you'd come here. You're here now and you can't even give me a straight answer."

"A wombat is native to Australia and their poops are cubed," she blurted and giggled, "isn't that funny?"

"(Y/N)."

"Cubed poops, Osc. And, they –"

"(Y/N)."

"– use it to mark their territory," she whipped out her phone and searched up an image of a wombat to show him, "see? Aren't they cute? Oh and let's look at the –"

"(Y/N)!"

She looked up at him, "yes?"

Oscar huffed and moved towards the door, "you know what? Fuck it, get out. Spend another three days by yourself or whatever. I don't give a fuck anymore," he opened it up, "porque tenía mejores cosas que hacer con mi tiempo."

(Y/N) knew she messed up.

She didn't mean to downplay his feelings or dismiss his concerns. She just needed to build her way up to reveal the news. Now, she realised that it would've been easier to come out and say it. Rather than talk about one of the multitude of facts she had read recently.

"I–I'm sorry, Oscar," she blinked back tears and reached into her jacket pocket, "whenever you called, I wanted to pick up. I really did, but I held back 'cause saying it over the phone wouldn't have been the right thing to do, you deserved to be told upfront."

His eyebrows furrowed, "(Y/N)? What are you going on about?"

She stood up, "I've been feeling unwell for a while. At first I thought it was nothing, especially since I decided to indulge in a (burger)."

"You've told me that your body –"

"I know… but, I just couldn't help myself, okay?" Pulling out the paper she held it in her hands, "anyway, I went and saw the doctors. I was given some news… and, I distanced myself 'cause I just needed time to think. I'm sorry that I never contacted you, I just needed to get myself together," she held it out to him, "I've gone over my options and… you can be there for them, we don't need to be together."

He walked towards her and took the paper out of her hands, unfolding the paper his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and then a look of realisation came upon him. (Y/N) took a step back as he stepped forward, she looked down at her feet until she felt his hands lift her chin. Her eyes connected with his.

"You're pregnant."

"I'm sorry."

"No, (Y/N), don't ever apologise for this, okay? This is as much as me as it is you." He pecked her forehead,

She took his hands away from her face, "like I said you don't need to be -"

"Why wouldn't I want to be a part of this? Be a part of this family. My family."

"You… still want me? No, wait – us?"

Oscar wrapped his arms around her, "absolutely bonita!" he held her at arm's length, looking into her eyes, "we're in this together."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm not going anywhere, baby." He replied, easing her worries, "I'm gonna do better than what was done for me. This baby is gonna know who their dad is. And that no matter what, their dad's gonna be there for them."

Not to be the bearer of bad news, she knew it had to be said, "what about Cuchillos and 19th Street?'

"They'll be handled. You and our little blessing come first."

(Y/N) gave a watery smile and placed his hands on her stomach. There wasn't a bump yet, it would probably pop out in a few months. Oscar bent down and placed his forehead against hers. The couple continued to embrace each other, enjoying the sense of peace that surrounded them.

When they broke apart, he held her face in his hands again, "we're gonna be dope parents."

- ♤ - ♡ - ◇ - ♧ -

Spanish Translation(s):

Está roto tu celular? - is your phone broken?

Porque tenía mejores cosas que hacer con mi tiempo - because I've got better things to do with my time.

Bonita - beautiful

#oscar diaz #oscar spooky diaz #spooky diaz #oscar diaz x reader #x reader #reader insert #onmyblock #onmyblockfanfiction #los santos #freeridge #sincerelyasomebody

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headcans-oneshots-and-stuff · 4 years

Text

How time flies by when you're in love

Warnings: None, only hell of a lot of fluffffff Word count: ~2024 Summary: A timeline of your time with Damian and how you became a couple...

This was requested by an immensly amazing Anon: Hiya! I was wondering if you could make a one shot of Damian Wayne x reader? Just some fluff involving him and like a time line of his and the reader's relationship?? (like friends then so on??) although I'm fine with just some fluff. Thanks! Best wishes!!! A/N: I kinda left out the friends part, but I still hope you like it 🥰

How you met: Your family has been close to the Wayne family for longer than anyone remembers. Your Grandmother and Martha Wayne had been best friends since they were born and Bruce and your Father played with each other on the playground. But when the Wayne's died that friendship was tested. Your grandparents tried to take care of Bruce but after a tragedy in your own lines, they abandoned their estate in Gotham for a later time and moved to England with their son. They never moved back to Gotham. Your father took over their business, making it even more successful and having it take new roots in Britain so that he could stay there. And then Bruce came back from his time "off" and in a weird turn of events he and your father reconnected and their childhood friendship blossomed again. It wasn't like his friendship with Clark or Diana or any other members of the league (he considered friends), but Bruce just enjoyed having a friend who wasn't involved in all the Superhero business. Someone from his "normal" life that wasn't friends with him because they want something. Even though they didn't see each other in person very often, with your dad living in England and Bruce in Gotham, they stayed in close contact. Because of that, you knew about him and his life, even though you've only seen him a few times when your dad visited him on vacation or Bruce visited your family. So, to set the scene, you knew about his family, but you didn't know his family. Then your dad decided that it was time to go back to his root and move back to Gotham. So, after you had settled into the newly renovated family Estate not far from Wayne Manor, your father took you and your mother to Wayne manor for dinner and catch-up with Bruce. Then you actually met Damian. And boy... It was the start of a wild ride. During the whole dinner, he seemed physically in pain by how much he didn't want to be there, but you being raised to be polite and follow all rules of manners there are, didn't speak of it...or at all. You answered when you were asked, laughed when something funny was said and displayed an interest in the topics, even though it was mostly faked. You knew the drill from years upon years of playing the perfect little princess that you were and making your dad happy. Other than the Wayne's who had the dark secret that connected them, your family was just as business-directed as you usually think the Wayne family is. So you played your part like you always did. But you couldn't help but sometimes gaze at Damian who sat there and, even though he was somewhat polite and followed manors, showed his rebellion against the situation and his un-comfort. The boy had something about him that made your stomach turn in confusion and excitement. You didn't notice that his behaviour mirrored yours to some parts.

He asks you out: Your interest in Damian didn't last very long, since the moment your parents and Bruce left to talk about something in his office, he turned into the entitled little brat he was for the public. It took you aback and you stayed quiet for the rest of the night, keeping your facade up and having a forced, but extremely polite conversation with Tim. When you left with your parents a sigh of relief left you. Your hope that you could forget about the boy until you were forced to go with your parents to a shared Gala or another Dinner quickly vanished when you entered your first class in Gotham academy. There he sat in the back, looking as bored as ever and staring out of the window. When your teacher introduced you to the glass you could feel his gaze on you, but tried your best to ignore it. You didn't want any trouble with him, especially with the small butterflies that still fluttered in your stomach while seeing him. You really could do without them. It took months for something between you two to actually happen. Not soon after you enrolled in the school you became quite popular thanks to your skill to fit in. Something you had also learned very early. But, even though you enjoyed hanging out with them and didn't have anything against them, none of the girls and boys you spend your lunch-breaks and free-time together were the type of people you actually wanted to be friends with. So when you had a free period you often sneaked away into the library to spend some time alone. Did was exactly what you did the day it happened, just that on that day, the corner you had made yours was occupied. And when you got close enough, you saw that it was occupied by no other than Damian Wayne himself. You stopped in your tracks, hoping he wouldn't notice you, and turned around to silently leave and search another place to be on your own. "Y/L/N!" You stopped yet again, but couldn't turn around. You had no idea what would happen now. You haven't talked to him in months for god's sake. "I wanted to talk to you," he said, quieter now, and you felt his presence behind you. Did he wait for you? Did he know about 'your place'? Slowly you turned around and caught sight of him standing only a few feet away from you, his hand buried in his pant's pockets. You forced yourself to smile at him neutrally and asked: "How can I help you?" "What is your plan here?" "Excuse me?" "Why are you acting?" The question confused you and caused you to quirk your eyebrow at him. What was he going at? "I- I don't quite think I'm catching on...What are you talking about exactly?" "Ttt," he scoffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, "You know what I mean. You're not letting anyone know you. You're acting like a chameleon." Your breathing hitched. He had noticed. Of course he had, he did the same after all. "Who're you to talk about that?" you asked slightly defensive. "It's not like you're exactly open about you either. As far as I noticed no-one in the school knows anything real about you." "And about you they do or what?" "N-No...but that's not really any of your business is it now?" Damian opened his mouth as to answer, but couldn't. You didn't know that he had started to stay close to you, hidden in the shadow, after the first few weeks off you being in the school. You didn't know that he felt a pang off jealousy in his gut every time you talked to one of the other boys who he heard talking about you like you were a price to be claimed whenever they were out of your hearing range. You didn't know that something deep inside him wanted to get to know you, to be able to protect you. "So? What exactly do you want now?" you asked, ripping him out of his thoughts about you. What was he supposed to answer now? How had he forgotten about all the things he had planned to say, to tell you? An uncomfortable silence filled the room between you and you sigh, shaking your head, before you turned around, ready to leave yet again. Then his hand grabbed your wrist. "I want to get to know the real you," Damian said the thing he had thought this whole time but swore to himself to not let you know about.

Your first date: The next week flew by like it was only a few seconds. In the heat of him asking, you had actually managed to say yes and somehow the two of you managed to passively-aggressively organize a meet-up. Deep inside you, you had hoped it was a date, but you were too afraid to ask. The question sticking in your mind like gum, never leaving your mind. The answer came when you heard a ring of the door-bell on Saturday after. You quickly got up, sorting through your outfit for the last time, and practically ran over to open the door. There he stood in all his glory. He wore a pair of plain black pants and a white shirt with cuffed sleeves. God, they don't lie when they say boys get more attractive with cuffed sleeves... He looked at you and you could have sworn that a small blush made its way onto his cheeks, making you blush as well. Should you tell him that he looked good? Wouldn't that be to Date-y? You were questioning the sense of this meet-up again when he took something out from behind his back. You hadn't even noticed that he had hidden something. In his hands was a bundle of your favorite flowers. "They're gorgeous," you breathed out and took them, breathing in their sweet scent. If you had looked at Damian you would've literally seen the gears turn in his head. "They're not as gorgeous as you," he said before he could stop himself. The blush on your cheeks got even bigger and you really wanted to return the compliment, but you were quite literally speechless. After you had put the flowers in a vase, you rejoined Damian and almost turned into a tomato when he took your hand and lead you to the car that waited for the two of you. The way your hand was lying in his felt so extremely natural that you didn't even notice that he kept on holding it the whole way to the cafe the two of you had agreed to go to. After a while of embarrassed silence, the two of you somehow actually managed to start a conversation and not long after the two of you talked like you knew each other for ages. It was nothing like the way he acted around others (even his family) and he also noticed how you seemed to be way more natural than you acted with others. It felt like it was really meant to be.

A short summary of what followed: After the date and Damian bringing you home you couldn't stop yourself from asking him to be your boyfriend, even though you slightly feared the answer. Luckily for you, he immediately said yes. In fact, so fast that he almost stumbled over his words. For a while, you two agreed to keep it under the covers, which worked more or less good after Tim caught you making out in Damian's room under the cover of 'doing a school project together' and not very long after, all his siblings knew and teased him about. But other than you might think, he wasn't really annoyed by it, but rather shined with proudness of calling you his girlfriend and being able to show you and your relationship off. You had been dating for quite a while when Bruce and your parents found out about the two of you. The two of you were attending a Wayne/Y/L/N-Gala, both almost visible being in pain by not being able to openly being with each other when some guy started obviously flirting with you, only a few feet away from your parent's and Bruse. Damian felt his blood boiling but was able to keep his posture until the guy dared to touch your arms with his filthy hands. In seconds Damian stood between the two of you, raised fist ready to turn the guy into a pulk if you weren't clutching onto him, hugging him from behind. He managed to calm down and turned around, embracing you and giving you a small peck onto your forehead. Let's just say you had to explain your parent's quite a lot (even though they low-key shipped you). All in all, your relationship is truly something else. It was like you knew the other one better than yourselves and felt what they felt. No matter what obstacles you met, if it was you finding out about his secret identity and what followed or simple, even though seldom, fights, you got through them together.

#Damian WAyne #Damian wayne x reader #Damian x reader #robin #robin x reader #batfam x reader #dc x reader #x reader #Oneshot #love #Y/N Y/L/N #x y/N

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phantom-does-a-thing · 4 years

Text

The villagers speak in hushed warbled tones, speaking in a language you cannot understand, you speak back unknowingly. Some of the older ones know your language, it’s ancient and lost but they can remember, they tell you their names and you try to put it to memory. They ask where you came from but you don’t know the answer, you came from somewhere. Right? Somewhere far away? Or somewhere nowhere at all?

You don’t learn their language but you learn their habits. You can read the symbols they show and follow their rules. They tolerate you while you are in their village walls.

The villagers give you supplies and you thank them for their hospitality but they only stare at you with blank expressions, nodding mutely as you leave.

You notice you look strange in comparison, taller and slender, fingers long and sly as you flip through the pages of a book the symbols spelling words and phrases that you can recognize and speak aloud. You don’t know what your face looks like, you’ve never seen a clear image, only through the ripples in the pond as fish tug at the worthless bait, unknowing of their soon demise. The villagers pull their children away when you pass, everyone stares but they do not yell or force you to leave.

In the morning after you’ve risen from a sleep that never feels long enough, you follow the same routine. You feed your animals, milk your cow whose name you’ve forgotten long ago, you harvest sugar cane near the ponds and split planks into sticks to trade for currency. The villagers watch you work with side glances from their workshop windows. You call out with kindness in your tone, they look away.

You speak with the oldest villagers often as they can speak back to you in a tone you understand, they do not tell you why the language is so different, they do not tell you why you do not look the same as everyone else. They tell you none of the answers to the millions of questions because they themselves do not know, for that was before their time. Their parents and grandparents might have known, they might’ve been able to tell you, but there is no one In the village that has the answers.

You continue reading the old musty books that you’re able to buy. Trying to search through the familiar language for clues or answers. You come up only with spells that you know not how to use. No one is there to teach you.

You find comfort with the animals for you will never know their language and they will never speak yours. You feed them and provide care, you’ve earned their trust.

One of the villagers shows you how to create tools, how to mold and press the metal and stone until it’s something that you can use. You thank them and find more work to keep you busy through the days. Between the nights that you lay awake, unable to sleep as creatures of the dark growl and hiss from outside. You’re too busy thinking.

Questions are always there. Where did you come from? Why are you different? Why do only the oldest speak your language? Surely you’re not that old, are you?

Why are you here?

A villager gives you a book for free, possibly out of pity when you show up the next day dragging your feet, exhaustion dripping from your posture. They give you useless instructions that fall onto deaf ears. You do not trade anything else that day, returning to the rickety home you’ve built, words from the book dripping from your tongue.

The words tell of different worlds. Places that seem fabled but could only be true. A voice whispers in your ear, you have to go.

So you leave the next day, you do not tell anyone and you do not know how they’ve reacted. Only carrying what you need on your back as you search through caverns and trees. The oldest villagers have given you instructions, the knowledge needed to survive on your own.

You find a portal hidden behind dusted cobwebs and cracked stones. Lava bubbles and the remains of what must have been a guardian at one point lay in the corner.

You step through the portal.

For a moment there’s nothing at all, then you feel cold. All around you Is a white stone, radiating a chill that settles a pit of dread in your stomach.

Waiting on the surface is a beast of which you’ve never seen, and ones you have seen before. Shrieking in a tone that sounds so familiar yet already too lost to time to make out. Something has urged you, pushed you forward, sword gripped tightly in your hands, to kill it.

So you do.

The mother of an unborn child slain, not so much a beast in its chilling death. Body fading and fizzling into nothing, leaving the egg it had been protecting. You leave it be, it would only escape your grasp if you tried to take it with you.

There’s a hum now, a familiar light drone that eases the tension out of your shoulders. You step through the final portal.

Voices whisper loudly in your head, speaking in a language you finally understand. They tell you a story. They tell you everything. The questions that you’ve had since the beginning answered finally. They tell you who you are and give you a name, how you came to be but not where you came from. They tell you of the universe. They give you the knowledge that you set out to find, yet you can only sob, more questions brimming, yet you have no voice to ask.

They tell you that they love you. That you are love. They tell you things that would make no difference to know or not.

They tell you to wake up.

#I’ve been playing too much Minecraft #it’s midnight and I just #like #went with this #I don’t know if it’s good I’m too tired #writing #my writing #Minecraft #does this count as fanfiction?#I don’t know #rambling #this is completely unedited #screw editing #I wrote this in like 30 minutes #before I forgot about it #in the morning I will see if this is complete crap or now #not*#this is based off of Minecraft #and like the end script thing

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steves-on-a-plane · 4 years

Text

Better Together

Words: 2042 Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Request: “Hello, favorite blog writer! :) I may also request a Bucky Imagine where maybe he's your Ex (breaking up cause of he doesnt want to get you in danger cause of the avengers) but he is lost without you and totally changed in the bad way, but you feel the same.. then one night he wants to leave the Avengers behind but Steves get you there and you convince him to stay while hes already on his bike.. then you talk, decide to give your love another chance annnd end up in bed :) hehe. THAAANK YOU DOLL” - Anon Summary: Steve Rogers comes knocking on Reader’s door in the middle of the night. He shows her a note from her Ex Bucky who plans on leaving the Avengers and starting a new life. Steve thinks Reader is the only one who can convince Bucky he’s already where he belongs.

You woke up in the middle of the night. You’d been tossing and turning most of it but that was nothing new. You’d been having trouble sleeping ever since he broke up with you. He said he was doing it to protects you. A part of you knew that his concerns were genuine. He always said he loved you and you could tell when you looked into his eyes that he meant it. Being the significant other of an Avenger had its risks. That was why Clint had kept his entire family secret, even from the rest of the team. There was plenty of news footage to act as proof of the dangers Tony had put Pepper in.

The only difference between you and Laura Barton or Pepper Potts, was that you knew what you’d signed up for. You didn’t know Bucky before the Winter Soldier. You’d only been a part of his journey after he tried to separate himself from that persona. It wasn’t as if you’d lived a normal life together for some time and then he happened to get invited to join at team that put the world at danger just as often as it saved it. But, just like the first time he’d told you he loved you, once Bucky decided to leave, there was no changing his mind.

It had been roughly three months since he’d left. He’d asked the others to stay away to help keep you safe, so when Bucky left most of your friends did too. They all had loved ones of their own and they knew they’d do anything to protect them. The team didn’t agree with Bucky’s decision, but they at least tried to respect it. You wished they had respected you enough to ask for your opinion instead of treating you like a child too fragile to handle yourself.

Your throat felt scratchy and dry. You decided to get up and get a drink of water. It wasn’t like you were going to be going back to sleep any time soon. You ambled into the kitchen letting loose a loud yawn. You rubbed your eyes and made your way over to the sink. You’d just been about to fill a glass with tap water when you heard a knock on your apartment door. Your eyes glanced over at the microwave. It was four in the morning.

“Who in the world…?” You abandoned your task at hand to peek through the peephole. Steve Rogers was standing in the hall. He and Sam were the only ones who didn’t abide by Bucky’s no contact rule. They both told you many times and on separate occasions that they were sure Bucky would come to his sense soon. You opened the door and motioned for Steve to step inside.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.” He confessed as you closed the door behind him.

“Couldn’t sleep.” You shrugged. You folded your arms over your chest. “Shouldn’t you be at the compound pretending I don’t exist?”

“Probably.” Steve shrugged. “You know he’s just doing what he thinks is best.”

“Yeah, but you know that just because he thinks it’s best that doesn’t make it the only option, right?” You sighed.

“Believe me, I do. That’s why I’m here actually.” Steve confessed. “He’s leaving, [Y/N]. He packed all his things at the compound. He left me a note.” Steve handed over a piece of paper that looked like it had in fact been scratch across in Bucky’s impatient font. You looked down at the note and began to scan it quickly.

“Rogers, By the time you’re reading this, I’ll already be gone. Don’t bother trying to follow me. I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do for me over the years, but I need a fresh start, a real fresh start. You’ve been the best friend I could have ever asked for but this is the end of the line Pal. -Buck.”

“You have any idea where he may be going?” Steve questioned. You looked up at Captain America. His brows were knit together with worry. His lips were turned down into a frown that didn’t seem appropriate on the face on the Star-Spangled Man.

“Actually, yeah. Are you sure we should go after him, Steve? He seems pretty sure that this is what he wants.” You hesitated.

“Well, he seemed pretty sure that calling things off with you was what he wanted too.” Steve told you. “He’s been a mess without you, [Y/N]. He’s been second guessing every decision he’s made. He’s been short tempered. He doesn’t sleep well. He won’t talk with anyone unless it’s about work. I Think you’re the only one who can convince him to stay.”

“I couldn’t even convince him to stay with me, Steve.” You disagreed. “But maybe together we can prove to him that he’s better off with the team than he would be alone. I’ll get my coat.”

Steve programed the address you gave him into his car’s GPS. The directions led to a log cabin in Virginia that Bucky had purchased a few years ago. Steve parked his car in the driveway. It didn’t look like Bucky had arrived yet.

“I didn’t even know he had this place.” Steve gaped. “You’re sure this is where he’ll come?”

“This would be my best guess. It was supposed to be a secret. He got the idea from Clint.” You told him. “He wanted a place to hide in case he ever lost control again.”

“Why did he tell you about it?” Steve asked. He was clearly a little hurt that his lifelong best friend had trusted you with such a big secret.

“At the time, he told me that if he ever lost control again, I’d be the only one who would be able to pull him out of it. You think you can handle this?” You questioned.

“He’d do the same for me.” Steve said before getting out of the car. You followed after him, the two of you began to walk the perimeter of the house, looking for any indication that Bucky may have already been there and left. After only a few minutes you heard the familiar purr of a motorcycle. You turned a corner as Bucky cut the engine. Because it was still dark out, he didn’t see you or Steve at first. However, he certainly recognized his best friend’s vehicle.

“How the hell did you find me, Rogers?” Bucky mumble to himself.

“A little bird told me.” Steve confessed, He stepped closer to Bucky, which activated a motion sensor light above Bucky’s garage.

“That makes sense.” Bucky sighed when he saw you standing next to Steve.

“Can we talk?” You wondered, stepping closer to him.

“We have talked, [Y/N].” He answered. “I don’t have anything else to say. To you or him.” He nodded at Steve. He tried to walk past both of you towards his front door. You reached out for his wrist to stop him but you fingers only brushed against cool vibranium. He continued walking.

“Well, I do.” You called after him. That seemed to catch his attention briefly. He looked back at you over his shoulder.

“Do you remember what you said, when you took me here?” You called out to him.

“That was years ago. It was a different time, [Y/N].” He shook his head.

“It wasn’t so long ago, Buck.” You insisted, stepping closer. “You said you always wanted a place like this, away from the city. A quiet place to raise a family. You said you liked this house because it had potential, it gave you hope. Hope that we could have a brighter future together than your dark past.” You took another step closer to him and pointed to a large oak tree in the backyard. “You said that tree would be perfect for a tree house, handmade like your grandparents had at their house. The kind with a tire swing hung from a lower branch.”

“That was a pipe dream, [Y/N].” Bucky argued.

“It was more than that.” You insisted. “It was a future we can still have, together. We can be together, James. We can make this work. We can have the two point five kids with a tree house, a dog and a white picket fence, and in another thirty years we can have three rocking chairs out on the back deck enjoying the life we build. It won’t be easy, we’ll have to fight like hell, but you’ve given up too much to not get a happy ending.”

“Three chairs?” Bucky repeated.

“Yeah, when I picture us way older, Steve’s always there. I just want to be prepared in case he never marries and ends up living with us when he’s retired.” You explained. “You know I’ll age faster than you two, so I like to think that instead of remarrying the two of you grow old together. It sounds weird when I say it out loud.” You rolled your eyes. You could just make out the slightest hint of a smirk on Bucky’s face in the moonlight.

“So, in your fantasy reality where we end up together and you are presumably my wife, you envision my best friend living with us?” He chuckled.

“He’s family.” You shrugged. “What else would we do? Put him in a nursing home? Family takes care of each other, especially when they don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

“Alright, alright. Point taken.” You watched Bucky’s shoulders slump and he heaved a great sigh. “I’ll admit, I may have been acting a bit…irrational, the past few months. The truth is, none of this is how I pictured my life turning out. Sometimes I get into my own head and, it’s hard to love myself, so I can’t understand how anyone else would. I truly don’t deserve the two of you.”

“Nonsense,” Steve came to stand beside you. “There’s no one else on earth stubborn enough to track you down.”

“You know something, Rogers, I think you might be right.” Bucky smiled.

“[Y/N]’s right too, Buck. We’re family. We stand by each other. We fight together. Especially if that fight is against our own instincts.” Steve said.

“It’s pretty cold out here.” Bucky observed. “You guys want to come inside?”

“I think maybe the two of you need time to talk. Can you make sure she get’s home alright?” Steve questioned.

“She already is home. We’ve got it from here, Rogers.” Bucky assured him. “Thank you.”

“Till the end of the line.” Steve told him before walking back to his car.

“You have time to talk?” He asked you. Bucky started walking towards his front door.

“Yeah,” you nodded, following after him. “But truthfully Buck, I’m exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping great and Steve got me all full of adrenaline on the way over. Now that I know you’re okay, my body is finally starting to register that it’s five in the morning and I should be sleeping. Could I maybe crash on your couch and we can talk in the morning?”

You looked around realizing the house had hardly any furniture. The front door opened to an empty entry way. Bucky kicked his shoes off and left them in the middle of the floor. To your left was a living room with just an old big box TV & a couch. To the right, was a dining room, which was filled with bins and boxes, probably everything he’d moved from the Compound.

“I have a bed you know.” He offered as you took off your boots. “For you.” He added, I can sleep on the couch.

“Steve said you haven’t been sleeping well, you should take the bed. You need the rest.” You insisted.

“You said yourself that you’re having trouble sleeping.” Bucky reminded you.

“Yeah, didn’t realize how much I hated sleeping alone until you left.” You confessed.

“I know the feeling.” He chuckled. “Nearly called you that first night and begged you to take me back. Plenty of room for the two of us. We could both get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in months and we can figure out everything else in the morning.”

“Count me in.” You yawned.

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Reader Insert #Bucky Barnes Fan Fiction #Bucky Barnes FF #Bucky Barnes Fan Fic #request

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alarawriting · 4 years

Text

52 Project #30 (Writeober #15: Mortality): Everybody’s Happy As The Dead Come Home

Ever since my mother died of breast cancer a few years ago, I’ve been making time to go visit my elderly father about once a month. That may be conjuring up the wrong image in your head, so let me clarify. My father’s over 70, but he still has a lot of the energy he had as a younger man. He works as a consultant for the big corporation he spent his entire adult pre-retirement life working for, for about three or four times as much money, and he enjoys it. He’s got an active social life, spending time with friends he had shared with Mom as a couple, and new friends he’s made from his bereavement group or his consulting work. And my sister, the baby of the family, lives with him, and my two younger brothers come to visit him a lot more often, since they live a lot closer than I do. So if you’re imagining a lonely, stooped old man pining away in a house that smells like stale cat food – that’s not my dad, and I can’t imagine it would ever be.

I arrived late on a Friday night, as usual. My sister met me at the door, and actually looked me directly in the eye. Stephanie’s autistic; she never looks anyone in the eye. “Eleanor,” she said, and that was another strange thing, because she almost never calls anyone by name… unless she’s doing it for emphasis. “When you find out, don’t say anything about it,” she said.

“About what?” Most of the time Stephanie makes sense, but every so often she says something that sounds like her mind has jumped ahead in the conversation without realizing all the missing pieces she never bothered to say.

“You’ll know,” she said. “And you’ll want to ask ‘why’ and ‘how’, and I’m telling you that you can’t do that. Don’t ask any questions. Just come talk to me after you’re done.”

“Done with what?” I asked.

And then a voice called me from the TV room. “Lennie? Lennie, is that you?”

Only my mom and dad are allowed to call me Lennie. And that was a woman’s voice. I froze in place.

“Go see her,” Stephanie said, and headed off to her room.

I turned toward the TV room, slowly. “Lennie! Come out and see me!” my mom’s voice called.

I didn’t know whether to be terrified, or to start crying and fling myself into her arms. I walked very slowly, very cautiously, to the edge of the kitchen, where I could see my parents in the TV room. Both of my parents. My dad was smiling.

“Lennie!” my mom said, standing up. She hadn’t been able to stand up without help for months before she died, but here she was, standing up easily. She didn’t look any younger than she had when she died, but she looked healthier. The extreme thinness she’d suffered from at the end after it had metastasized and she’d barely been able to eat was gone; her flesh was filled out, her skin as taut as you could expect from a woman her age, and healthy-looking. Pale, but her natural paleness, not the weird, sallow, almost yellow color it had been at the very end.

“Mom?” I whispered.

“Come here. I need a hug,” Mom said, sounding exactly like she always had – joking, but there was always that note of truth under it. She didn’t wait for me to make my way to her – she never had, not until she was too ill to get up – but came straight for me and gave me a hug, and she smelled like herself. Not like a rotting corpse, not like ozone or nothing or whatever a ghost is supposed to smell like.

When I was a kid, my brother Jeff and I watched the miniseries version of “The Martian Chronicles”. In particular, he was always impressed (and terrified) by the part where the astronauts meet their long-lost loved ones, who turn out to be Martian shapechangers luring them to their deaths. I always wondered, if the people they saw on Mars were dead, how did they fall for it? How did they not know that dead people could not somehow be on Mars?

As I held my mom, who’d been dead a few years now, I understood. They’d wanted to believe. I wanted to believe. Stephanie had warned me not to ask anything – no “how are you not dead”, “how can you be here”, “why are you alive,” nothing like that. I assumed that was what she’d meant, anyway.

“Mom, I’ve been trying to trace some of my past that I’ve forgotten. Do you remember the name of my third grade teacher?”

“Huh.” My mom seemed to be thinking about it. “I think it was Mrs. Wilder, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. Second grade was Ms. Jenner, right? And fourth was Mrs. White?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t, in fact, remember my third grade teacher’s name, and neither did my dad. The Martians in the story had been telepaths; they’d been able to perfectly impersonate the astronauts’ loved ones because they could read the astronauts’ minds. Now I had a piece of information whose answer I didn’t know, and no way to easily confirm it unless Jeff remembered; he was only two years younger than me and had had some of the same teachers. But some of the people I had friended on Facebook were high school classmates, and a tiny number of my high school classmates had also been with me in elementary school, and might remember my third grade teacher’s name.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” my mom said. “What’s going on in your life?”

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Things are going okay. Mom, if I’d known you were here I’d have brought the kids.”

“You can bring them up next time,” Mom said.

This was so weird. My mom was definitely dead. I had seen her body in the coffin, lying in state, looking nothing like she had in life. But here she was, impossibly, and I was holding an almost normal conversation with her. “Have Jeff or Aaron come over since you’ve… been here?”

“Jeff was here last weekend,” Dad said. “And Aaron lives next door, so he’s been over nearly every day.”

My grandparents used to live next door. When they died, my mom and my uncle inherited the house. My uncle bought out my mom’s share and rented the house out, and my youngest brother ended up renting it. My other brother lives in an apartment down in the city; I’m the odd one out, living in a completely different state, with a husband and kids.

So all of them had known, and none of them had told me. I expected Stephanie and Aaron to never tell me anything, but I was more than a little irritated with Jeff.

“Let me go drop off my stuff,” I said, since I was still carrying my bag.

I went back to Stephanie’s room, which used to be my room, a long time ago. The boys used to room together, but my room was too small for Stephanie to share with me, and she had needed a lot of space of her own… so they’d converted the loft in the garage into a bedroom. It had never been warm in the winter, though, so as soon as I moved out, Stephanie had moved in.

Stephanie was, as usual, on her computer. I shut the door behind me. “Okay. What the hell is going on?”

“She’s not the only one,” Stephanie said, without looking away from her computer. “I’ve been doing research. They’re all over the place. There’s no explanation yet, and apparently none of them will talk about it. I asked Mom and she said I was really rude, and sulked and was really passive-aggressive.”

“So we’re not worried about Mom turning into a Martian shapechanger or vanishing, we’re just worried that she’ll get mad?” To be fair, making Mom mad had always been a thing worth avoiding at all costs. “When did she come back?”

“I don’t know exactly, but presuming that she came to see me right after she came back, it would have been Monday around 3 pm.”

“And no one told me? You have my email address!”

“…It just didn’t feel right, telling you something like this in email. I felt like I should wait for you to be here.”

“And Jeff didn’t? And Aaron didn’t?”

Stephanie shrugged. She still didn’t look away from her computer. “They probably felt the same way.”

“Does Dad… know? Like, does he even remember that Mom is dead, or does he think this is normal?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

I sat down on her bed. “Steph, I’m asking you to make an informed guess. Has he said anything to you that would either suggest that he’s aware this is abnormal, or that he isn’t?”

“I don’t read minds, but I haven’t heard anything from him one way or the other. He’s very happy, though.”

“I got that impression,” I told her. I went to the guest room, which used to belong to the boys, opened up my laptop, and sent Jeff a question on Facebook about my third grade teacher.

Mom appeared while I was debating whether or not to also ask him why the hell he hadn’t told me about her. “Lennie, don’t hide in your room. Come out and talk to me and your dad. You need to catch me up on your life!”

Part of me wanted to break down crying. Part of me wanted to run to the car. Part of me was annoyed the way I always used to be annoyed when my mom wanted to spend time with me and I had stuff to do. And part of me hated myself for being annoyed by my mom for any reason at all. She was back from the dead and I wanted to hide in my room? But I wanted to hide in my room because I wanted to do research to figure out if this was really my mom or not. And what had Stephanie meant by “all over the place”? People all over the place had returned from the dead? Why wasn’t this all over the news?

What I said was, “Okay, mom,” and I went out to the TV room to talk to her.

***

Here I was, having a completely mundane conversation with a dead woman.

Yes, my husband was doing well at his consulting business. Yes, my oldest daughter was doing well in college. My youngest daughter had a rough spot a few years ago but was doing better. The daughter in the middle was putting a lot of time into her music, and was getting really good. I didn’t mention that my oldest daughter had gotten a diagnosis of autism like her aunt, or that my middle daughter was failing all her subjects because all she cared about was music, or that my youngest daughter was openly bisexual and dating a nonbinary teen in her class, because those would be fraught topics around here. My mother would be openly disapproving of the failing in school – as was I, but I wasn’t here to listen to a lecture about what I should be doing differently to make sure Rhiannon passed her classes – and she’d be what she thought counted as supportive about the other things. Are you sure it’s a good idea for Janie to have an autism diagnosis on her medical record? Lots of people will discriminate against her, just ask Stephanie, it’s not a good thing to admit to the world. And if Lori wanted to date a person who claimed to have no gender, good for her, but was she sure it was a good idea to admit to the world that she was bi when the world is so prejudiced? Blah blah blah. No. I wasn’t going there, not with my mother back from the dead.

All the questions I wanted to ask. How? How was she back? Why? Was there an afterlife after all? What was it like? Are you absolutely sure you’re not a telepathic shapechanger who wants to eat us? Is anyone else coming back or is it just you? But I couldn’t do it. My mouth wouldn’t make the words, and I felt like Mom being alive was a soap bubble that might burst any moment. If I said she was dead, would she disappear? I couldn’t take the risk.

Now I knew why Jeff and Aaron hadn’t told me. The compulsion not to talk about it, the fear that talking about the circumstances of her death and her apparently-no-longer-deadness would cause her to stop being no-longer-dead. I wouldn’t be able to tell my husband about this, or my kids, not unless they came here. Not without feeling like Mom might disappear if I did.

Which was probably how Stephanie had gotten away with it, in the beginning. If this was some kind of emotional pressure, something emanating from the presence of a dead woman... Stephanie was typically immune to emotional pressure. Or pretended she was, anyway. She hid behind her monotone and her face that barely expressed anything until she couldn’t, and then she’d go and have a meltdown in the bathroom. But she wanted to please Mom. We all wanted to please Mom. So if Mom had told her she was rude for mentioning the death thing, Stephanie would be unable to mention it again. Because she wouldn’t want Mom to think she was rude.

This felt very much like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Dead mother back to life, check. Weird inexplicable pressure not to talk about it, check. But Mom clearly remembered things that had happened shortly before her death, and showed no evidence of knowing about anything that had happened since, unless it was public knowledge. She talked about interests the girls had had three years ago, interests they’d all outgrown since. She talked about my plan to remodel my own garage – I had completely forgotten that was even a thing we’d planned at one point, because I’d lost my job shortly after Mom died and then the money wasn’t there for the remodel. She didn’t know I was working with my husband in the consulting business now, which a telepath would obviously know because it dominates my life nowadays. Obviously a Martian telepathic shapechanger would have to pretend not to know things that supposedly happened while they were dead, but if I’d forgotten about the garage, what were the odds a telepath could pull it out of my head? There had to be more accessible thoughts in there, after all.

I didn’t know what to ask Mom. How do you feel? That was always a good one, back in the day, because Mom’s chronic illnesses meant there was always something she could complain about, but she wouldn’t do it until she was asked… she’d just quietly resent the fact that no one had asked her. But did dead people still feel things? Would that intrude on the topic I wasn’t supposed to talk about? What’s going on in your life? Oh, nothing much, Lennie, I’m back from the dead, how about you?

So I talked about myself. I was learning to work leather and I’d made myself a wallet, but I left it at home, I could bring it to show her next time. I was also learning to repair dolls. The girls had all abandoned theirs and I felt bad about it, so I was cleaning them up and repairing them and putting them in dioramas. Mom was very interested in both topics, and asked if I could repair some old dolls she had up in the attic. I was pretty sure I’d already done it – if it was the dolls I was thinking of, Dad had given them to me right after Mom died, and they were the ones I’d learned on. But was it safe to talk about? Dad wasn’t saying anything; had he forgotten he gave me the dolls, which was entirely possible, or did he think it wasn’t safe to talk about either?

I’d wanted for three years to be able to tell my mom that she was wrong about all the weight loss advice she’d given me because now it had come out that scientists had never proven that fat made you fat and the low-carb diets were probably better for you than the low-fat ones, but I didn’t know if she could still eat. Also, my mom was back from the dead and I wanted to start an argument with her about a topic I’d always hated when she talked about? Didn’t I have anything better to do? That really kind of made me a shitty person, didn’t it?

When Mom had been dying, I couldn’t talk to her about the future. I didn’t know how to bring myself to talk about things she’d never see. I’d never known how much my conversations with her consisted of me talking about future plans until I couldn’t any more. Now I couldn’t talk about the future or the past, at least not the past three years, and large parts of the present had to be left out too, because I didn’t know what would remind her that she was dead and make her go back to her grave. Even though, logically, I knew that was unlikely to happen because Stephanie had done it and had just gotten a rebuke that that was rude.

At the same time… I knew I had to say something that Mom could talk about, because if I just talked about myself all night, later on she’d probably make some passive-aggressive remarks about how everything always had to be about me. In desperation, I asked her if she’d seen anything good on television lately.

“Oh, I haven’t been watching anything in a while,” Mom said. “It’s been so long since I felt well enough to go anywhere, so I’ve been going for walks, and your father and I have been taking trips to museums and historic sites. We’re going to be going up to Boston next week.”

“I have a client up there,” Dad said, “and they want me to do a training thing. And I was telling them, no, no, Boston’s too far, but I remembered how much your mom loved Boston, so I asked her if she wanted to go and she said yes, so now we’re going. We’re going to fly, though. The days I was willing to drive that kind of distance are long over.”

“You could take the Amtrak.”

Dad made a dismissive gesture. “It’s gotten so expensive. Flying’s actually cheaper.”

“When are you going?”

“Next Wednesday we’re going to fly up there,” Mom said, which said something about her opinion of the future, at least. “Your dad’s got his presentations to do on Thursday and Friday, and I’ll wander around the city, and then we’ll spend Saturday seeing the sights together.”

“There’s this fantastic restaurant I went to last time I was up there on business,” Dad said, “and I checked their web page, and they’re still open. So we’re going to go there.”

So Mom could eat. Or Dad wasn’t afraid of talking about eating with her, anyway. Maybe ruled out vampire, but Martian shapechanger was still on the table.

I didn’t literally believe my mom – or the entity that appeared to be my mom – was a telepathic shapechanger from Mars like in The Martian Chronicles. But it was obvious that something so far outside the norm that it was only imaginable by making references to fantasy and science fiction was happening.

I tried, very carefully, “How have you been feeling, Mom?”

“I’m great!” She laughed. “I haven’t felt this good in ages. Sugar’s under control, I can see pretty well, none of the usual aches and pains… I’m doing pretty good!”

Did she remember she had died of cancer? Did she even remember that she’d died?

It was 2 am before I got to go to bed.

***

6 am and I was up and out the door before there was any chance of my mother or father being awake, assuming my mom even slept anymore. But at the very least, she was in her bedroom with the door closed and no view of the driveway I’d parked my car in.

Do I sound like a terrible daughter when I tell you I’ve never visited my mom’s grave? I haven’t been back there since the funeral. I always knew my mother wasn’t really there – that if any part of her had still existed in any form, it wasn’t trapped in a coffin under six feet of dirt. It made it somewhat difficult to find the graveyard, though, because I couldn’t remember where it was, or its name, or which church it was associated with, and it wasn’t exactly like I could ask my mom. When I finally found the place– it wasn’t that hard in the end, my parents live in a small town and there aren’t many graveyards – it took me half an hour to find her grave.

It seemed undisturbed. But if Mom had been back from the dead since Monday, that would have been time to fill in a grave. I went looking for the caretaker.

They get to work early in the graveyard caretaking business, I guess; I found him pushing a lawnmower over on the other side of the graveyard.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“This is going to sound stupid,” I said. “But I got an email from a jerk I used to know in high school claiming he was going to dig up my mother’s grave, and I just wanted to make sure nobody’s touched it.”

“Nobody’s touched any of the graves, ma’am,” he assured me. “Aside from a couple of funerals we’ve had this week, no one’s done anything to disturb the ground here at all.”

“Thanks,” I said, “that’s reassuring. He was talking like he was actually going to do it, but I guess he was all talk.”

“Well, if anyone comes by and disturbs any of the graves, we’ll have them arrested,” he said.

I had my answer. My mother had not climbed out of her grave. Which seemed impossible anyway, now that I knew enough about the funeral industry to know exactly how hard it would be to smash a coffin open, let alone dig through six feet of dirt. I couldn’t rule out her turning immaterial and floating out of her grave, but my mom had seemed very material and biological when she’d hugged me. I’d always thought of ghosts as something that were almost never solid enough to interact with the world, if they even existed.

***

If I was going to get up this early, I was going to get a pancake breakfast at the diner. My parents still think sugarless cold cereal is a reasonable thing to eat for breakfast. They were always night owls; I made myself breakfast and school lunch every morning but the first day of school, every year after about third grade. I was also a night owl, once I didn’t have to get up for school anymore, but I used to make my girls a lunch every night and store it in the fridge for them. Now they’re too old and too cool for Mom lunches. They’re eating something, but it might be cafeteria food, lunch they pack for themselves, or for all I know sandwiches from 7-11 or Starbucks with their allowance.

The point is, I hardly ever get a nice breakfast, because I am hardly ever willing to wake up early enough to cook myself one, and my parents certainly weren’t going to. So I went to the diner.

Normally I don’t talk to anyone at a diner, beyond smiling at them and telling them my order in an upbeat, cheerful voice because waitresses get too much shit from too many people for me to add to it inadvertently. Also because I don’t want them to think I’m eating alone because I’m a sad, lonely bitch no one would love; I want them to know I’m doing this because I really, really enjoy not having to socialize. But today I had something I needed to know.

“I’m a writer,” I told the waitress, “and I’m doing research on ghost stories in the area. Have you heard anything, you know, Halloweeny or spooky? Ghosts appearing, dead people walking around, poltergeists, that kind of thing?”

“Can’t say I have, but I’ll ask around, see if any of the girls know any good stories,” the waitress told me.

And then she took my order back to the kitchen, and I surfed the net on my phone while I waited, and then I got my pancakes, and I ate them. I was chasing the last blueberry around on the plate when another waitress approached me. “Stacy told me you were collecting creepy stories for a book?”

“From the local area, yeah.”

“I don’t know if this is the kind of thing you’re looking for, but… my cousin says that a lady on her street, her husband died a few years ago? But she just saw the guy walking with the lady down the street, having a conversation like the guy never died.”

“Do you think you’d be able to give my email to your cousin and have her reach out to me? That sounds like exactly the kind of story I’m looking for.”

“Uh, sure.”

I gave the waitress my email address. This was probably going to come to nothing; I doubted the waitress would even remember to give it to her cousin. But it’d be really good if I could get the details from someone who knew more about it.

***

Jeff’s more of a morning person than I am. I got a response on Facebook, but I had to wait to get back to my parents’ house, where my laptop was, to read it. On mobile, Facebook will only let you read messages if you have the app, which tells Mark Zuckerberg exactly where you are and what you’re doing with your phone, all the time. I don’t have the app. Sometimes this means I can’t read messages on mobile, but I prefer that to having an evil data empire know everything about my movements.

My parents weren’t awake when I got home. Or they were still in their bedroom. They used to do that a lot. Mom’s desk was in there, and Dad had a laptop… which he usually used on Mom’s desk, since she died. I wondered where her machine was, and if she had made a thing about it once she came back.

“I’m not sure I remember what your third grade teacher’s name was… I can barely remember my own third grade teacher. Were they the same? I can’t remember. I think my own teacher’s name was… Wil-something? Wilber? Wilkins? You’d be better off… well, you’re at the house now, or are you back at your home? Kind of important to know, because I could give you some advice about who to ask, but it’d be a different thing if you were at Dad’s house.”

He meant, “You’d be better off asking Mom, but I don’t know if you know Mom is back from the dead or not.” I was pretty sure, anyway.

I responded. “I’m at Dad’s house. Wondering how I’d be able to tell the difference between someone who’s real and a Martian shapechanger. Could the name have been Wilder?”

Five minutes later I got my answer. “Mom isn’t a Martian shapechanger. It was the first thing I thought of, so I checked.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

That answer I didn’t get until half an hour later. “I… just didn’t feel right, talking about it in an impersonal medium like the internet. I know you have a cell phone and I probably even have your number somewhere, but I remember you’re not the biggest fan of actual phone calls, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I replied with my phone number and the message “Call me.”

And then I had to sit by my phone, doing nothing important, nothing that would engage my attention in any serious way, waiting for him to call. Which took twenty minutes, despite the fact that I could see that he was online.

Finally the phone rang. “You raaaaang?” I answered in my best parody of The Addams Family.

“I’m pretty sure I must have, or you wouldn’t have known to pick up,” Jeff said. “Of course, I might have buzzed. You could have your phone on vibrate. Or maybe I sang, depending on what you have for a ringtone.”

“’You saaaaang?’ doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi to it.”

“Wow, how long has it been since I heard someone put je ne sais quoi in a sentence? I think we’re old. I think that’s an old person expression now.”

“What’s going on with Mom?” I asked, quietly, in case anyone might be in the hallway to hear me.

Jeff sighed. “I don’t know what is, but I can tell you what isn’t,” he said. “Stephanie confirmed that she eats, sleeps and goes to the bathroom normally, and I confirmed all of that for myself. The toilet in their bedroom is still broken enough that they don’t flush it unless they have to.”

I winced. That was a level of detail I could have done without. “So, not vampire or undead. How did you solve the Martian thing?”

“On Monday, Dad woke up and she was laying next to him in bed. If the goal was to kill him, it would have made more sense to do it then, before he woke up, than to put on this whole elaborate performance.”

“You’re taking me too literally. I’m not worried about aliens trying to take our family off guard so they can kill us. There’s any number of things they could be up to, and they don’t have to be aliens. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The Stepford Wives. My Little Pony.”

“…My Little Pony?”

“There’s creatures called Changelings that feed on love. They impersonate ponies and take the love that other ponies feel for the ones they’re impersonating, as food.”

“Kind of psychic vampires mashed up with Martian shapechangers.”

“Yeah, but without the telepathy, so they’re not as good at it as you’d think. It’s a children’s show; they have to telegraph to the kids that these aren’t the real ponies. In real life, anyone who did something like that would be more competent.”

“How much verisimilitude do we need, though? She’s got moles in the same places Mom had moles. She’s missing a toenail just like Mom. Things I didn’t consciously think about, things I might not have remembered if you asked me to describe Mom.”

“That just means that if it’s not Mom, it has the ability to rummage deeper into our memories than we’re consciously aware of. That’s why I asked you my third grade teacher’s name. I genuinely don’t remember. Mom would, I’m pretty sure. Dad wouldn’t and Stephanie and Aaron were both too young.”

“I’m not sure I remember, but when you said Wilder, that sounded like it could be right. Do you know anyone from elementary school? Some of them went to high school with us.”

“I have some Facebook friends from high school, and maybe one or two went to the same elementary we did, but I haven’t been able to locate any actual people that I remember from elementary school. They don’t have a Classmates.com thing that works for elementary—”

“It says it does.”

“It lies, there’s nowhere to enter your elementary in your profile. All it lets you put in is high school, and it’s from a drop-down, not even freeform.”

“Huh. Guess I never tried it. I’m still in touch with anyone I cared about from back then.”

“I literally don’t care about anyone from back then, but that makes it hard when you’re trying to figure out your third grade teacher’s name.”

“If she can probe our memories,” Jeff said, “then nothing you or I know, or ever knew, would be safe. You’d have to come up with something to ask her that Dad wouldn’t know, or me, or Aaron, or Steph, or yourself, but that you know Mom would know and that you know someone else who would know it too.”

“I could ask Mariana for something.” My mom’s close friend and high school classmate was one of my Facebook friends. We don’t generally communicate directly with each other, but I follow her posts.

“That’s a good idea.” I heard the sound of a whistling teapot in the background. “That’d be my hot water for my oatmeal. If you get anything from Mariana, can you tell me about it?”

“Yeah.” I’d wanted to tell him about the story I’d heard in the diner, but no one got between Jeff and his oatmeal. “I’ll talk to you later. Probably online. Voice is making me paranoid.”

“I know what you mean. Do you need me to come up this weekend? I could make a day trip tomorrow.”

“That might be a good idea. I want to talk to Aaron, do you know what schedule he’s on?”

“He works nights now, so you’ll want to get him around 2 pm or so.”

“All right. Enjoy your oatmeal.”

“I will!” he said, putting a ridiculous amount of emphasis into it as a joke.

***

Before I could finish writing a message to Mariana – before I could really start, honestly, because how could I explain why I needed what I needed without admitting Mom was back from the dead? – someone knocked on my door. It was Mom. She was wearing one of her usual kind of shapeless but colorful nightgowns, and her hair was not brushed, so it was kind of a wreck. I noticed for the first time that it was grey. Mom had always dyed her hair since she started going grey, and it had still been auburn when she’d died. I’d never seen it fully grey. “Your dad and I are going to the arboretum,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

“Since when have you been into trees, Mom?” My mother had always been fascinated by history, and to some extent natural history like dinosaurs, but I’d never seen her express an interest in nature per se.

“I never was, much,” she admitted, “but the world is so beautiful. I was always more interested in the way humans shape the world than the way it came out of the box, but things like arboretums, Japanese gardens, zoos and aquariums… they’re made of nature, but they’re made by humans, and they say something about the people who chose to make them the way they are. And you know that your dad has always enjoyed nature.” My dad was interested in science, in general, and considered the natural world part of that. He was not exactly the kind of guy who would go camping.

In the past, I would have said “no, thanks.” I was never all that interested in nature myself, certainly not trees – maybe beautiful rocks or interesting landscapes, but looking at trees wouldn’t have seemed interesting to me. I still didn’t care much about trees… but my mom was back from the dead. I’ve gone much stupider and more boring places than an arboretum with her in the past, and now… if this was really her, if she was really alive again, I was going to spend all the time with her that I reasonably could.

“Sure, I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll take my own car, though. Just give me the address.” I always took my own car if I possibly could, because I’d get carsick if I wasn’t the one driving. “Should I ask Stephanie if she wants to come?”

“Sure, you can ask. I doubt she will, though.”

Stephanie, however, surprised me. “Yeah, I’ll go with you. We’ll meet Mom and Dad there?”

“Yeah.” Dad had texted me the address, so I pulled it up in my GPS. “About half an hour from here.”

In the car, she asked me, “Have you found anything out? I know you were looking into the whole Mom thing.”

“Jeff thinks she’s really Mom. We have a plan to get Mariana to give us a question that we don’t know the answer to, but that Mom and Mariana both would, so we can confirm she really knows things and isn’t just reading our minds. And a waitress at the diner said her cousin has seen what looks like someone else coming back from the dead.”

“It’s all over the place, actually,” Stephanie said. “I’m finding reports from everywhere.”

I glanced at her. “Why wouldn’t this be making the news, then? People coming back from the dead!”

“I feel like maybe no one wants to go on the record.” Stephanie looked out the window. “Nothing on Twitter or Facebook. No pictures of dead people on Instagram. I’m seeing things on Reddit and Tumblr – places where people use a consistent pseudonym, not like 4chan, but where that pseudonym can’t be tied to their actual identity. I’ve posted about it in both places, but I can’t make myself tweet about it.”

“Any idea why not?”

“It—” She shrugged, hands exaggeratedly widespread and head canted forward slightly. “It just feels wrong,” she said. “Like… we’re getting away with something. There’s a natural law we’re breaking here. I can post as toomanymushrooms or u/catonahottinroofsundae and no one knows who I am, but if I post as Stephanie Robbins and I tell everyone that my mom Suky Robbins is back from the dead…”

“What if that brought it to the attention of, what, some kind of authorities?”

“Yeah, pretty much. And even if I was just posting under my own name… I don’t have to say Mom’s name. I don’t have to put a mention to her Facebook in a post. But everyone knows my mother’s name, or they could find out from my name if they wanted to.”

“And you think maybe there are a lot of people with these weird feelings?”

“I don’t think so, I know so. A lot of posts explicitly talk about the fact that they can’t bring themselves to say anything in public, or talk about it with their real names on it.”

“Are they all parents?”

“No. It’s all kinds of people. Best friends, siblings, spouses, children… the only pattern I see is that nobody died a long time ago. It’s all, ‘my brother who died last year’ or ‘my aunt who died two years ago’ or something. Longest I’ve seen anyone talk about was a son who died five years ago.”

A thought occurs to me. “I can add something to your pattern, though.”

“Yeah?”

“You’d expect that, even if everyone with a resurrected relative feels this sense of dread about telling anyone about it with their name attached, because they feel it will, I don’t know, maybe cause the dead person to disappear back into their grave… you’d think somebody would do it anyway because they don’t care. Someone whose alcoholic abusive father came back and they wish he’d go away again, someone’s asshole brother, someone’s former best friend who betrayed them. But so far, no one has. How many people have you seen talking about this?”

“It’s hard to say because no one’s using their real names. Someone might post from their main blog and their side blog, or maybe they have a different name on tumblr vs reddit but they posted to both. But I’ve tracked thirteen separate names, and of those, I can tell for a fact there are at least nine unique ones because they talk about different people.”

“Thirteen isn’t ‘all over the place’.”

“I didn’t mean all over the Internet, I meant people coming from all over. I’ve tracked the UK, California, North Dakota, Ontario, France, India and New Zealand. Nobody’s tagging their posts and no one is willing to contribute to a master list, so it’s hard to find anyone outside of the people I follow or the subreddits I’m in, and I don’t know where everyone comes from. But it’s geographically widespread. I suspect it may also be happening in other places where people don’t generally speak English or maybe don’t have Internet access.”

“And what’s their sentiment? Like, are people frightened? Upset? Excited? Weirded out?”

She took a moment to think about it. “They’re happy. People are happy it happened. Weirded out, yes. But happy.”

“No whacked-out conspiracy theories about how it’s the contrails raining down adenochrome or something?”

“Not from the people it’s happened to. There was one flame war I saw where a religious person was saying that the person whose sister was back from the dead had to repudiate her. She’s not really your sister, she’s a demon from Hell sent to trick you, et cetera. And the person whose sister was back turned out to be just as religious, and they threw a holy fit. Literally. A holy fit.” She giggled. “A whole lot of stuff about how the righteous were coming back and Jesus had granted some people eternal life and this was that, and how dare you call these beings demons when they’re obviously blessed by Jesus himself and you’re the kind of person who would have called for Jesus’s crucifixion if you’d been alive then, and all that kind of thing.”

“Did anyone else who’d had returned people say anything?”

“This was Tumblr. None of the people who have had returns are communicating with each other in any way I can see. I reached out to a few on Tumblr private messaging but no one has answered. The only places I’m seeing conversations about it between people with returns have been on Reddit, because it has a forum structure. Tumblr is more like a whole hanging web of disconnected strings.”

“Still, you’d think that someone would be publishing a news article about it. Even if no one is willing to go on the record with their real name…”

“Maybe it’s not enough people. Nine unique instances, maybe up to thirteen, maybe more in places I haven’t surveyed. It’s not like I have access to literally all of Tumblr, after all. But that’s all I can confirm, and what if there isn’t any more?”

“If anyone came back from the dead I would expect the news to take notice.” I turned onto the final road; the arboretum was at the end of this stretch. “I went to the graveyard today. Mom’s grave hasn’t been disturbed. I checked with the groundskeeper. So either Mom’s body floated ethereally through the grave dirt, and her coffin, or her original body is still in there and whatever she is now, it’s not the same as what she was then.”

“It’s too bad we can’t have her exhumed,” Stephanie said.

“It probably wouldn’t tell us much anyway.”

“She’s younger-looking than she was before. Not by much, and the grey hair hides it, but she’s healthier-looking and less wrinkly. And I don’t see any evidence that she still has diabetes, or that she’s taking any pills at all. I haven’t seen her take any insulin shots, or anything.”

“Huh.” She wasn’t restored to her youth, or her hair wouldn’t be grey and there would be no wrinkles at all. She wasn’t restored to what she was at the moment of death, obviously. She wasn’t restored to what she’d have been at the moment of death without the cancer that killed her, if she didn’t have diabetes anymore. I felt like there had to be a pattern here I wasn’t seeing. I really wanted to talk to some of these other people having this experience.

I pulled in to the arboretum’s parking lot. Mom and Dad weren’t there yet; Dad doesn’t drive like an old man, but he doesn’t drive as fast as he used to, either. “Do they do this kind of thing a lot? Arboretums, parks, et cetera?”

“They don’t usually invite me, and I wouldn’t usually come if they did, so I don’t know. They do leave the house a lot.”

Dad’s car pulled in, and he and Mom got out. For the first time I could remember, Mom was actually moving a bit faster than him. Both Mom and Dad were the kind of people who walked quickly everywhere they went, but for a long time, Mom was slowed down by her various illnesses. Dad was still healthy for his age, but he’d slowed down a good bit since Mom’s death – grief was hard on his health, it seemed – and now Mom seemed healthier than he was.

“Did you know there are people who come here from all over just to see our leaves in the autumn?” Mom said.

I did know that; it was typically a factor in making it hard for me to come visit during the autumn. “I think it’s the mountainsides. There’s leaves turning colors all over the country, but not on mountainsides.”

“In California they don’t even consider these mountains,” Mom said. “They call them hills when they come visit.”

“No respect for the elderly,” Dad said.

“Yeah, these young mountains think they’re all that, but wait 100,000 years and see how tall they are then,” Stephanie said.

We strolled around, looking at the trees, reading what it said on the plaques in front of them. American Elm. Yellow Birch. Eastern White Pine. I’d seen trees just like these my whole life, and a good number of them, I’d never known the names.

“You never think about how beautiful the world is,” Mom said. “We’re all rushing through it, trying to accomplish the next thing. Or entertain ourselves. Read a book, watch TV. So few of us really want to interact with nature.”

“Careful, mom, your hippie roots are showing,” I said, teasing.

“I think if my generation had remembered what we were back when we were the hippies, the world would be better off.”

“We didn’t forget, Suky. The hippies were always big news, but you know as well as I do how many people our age just wanted to go punch a clock, buy a house, vote for Ronald Fucking Reagan… We thought we were the generation that would change the world, but it wasn’t our generation, it was us. People like us, who wanted to see a better world and weren’t content to just live like the sheep our parents were… but there’s people like that in every generation. And they’re always outnumbered by the assholes.”

“Actually, they’ve done a study,” Stephanie said. “The reason generations get more conservative as they get older is that at every point, the poor are more likely to die than the rich, and the rich are more conservative than the poor. So by the time you get to middle age, a lot of the people looking for social justice and diversity are dead. And there’s a lot more dead by the time they’re elderly.”

“I don’t buy it,” my dad said. “There’s entirely too many stupid poor people in this country who are brainwashed into supporting causes that help out the rich people and screw themselves over. They’re not living longer than anyone else in this country. The math doesn’t work.”

“Let’s not talk about politics,” Mom said. “I think we all know there’s something more important we ought to be discussing.”

“Mom?” Stephanie said, and looked at her, which is not a thing Stephanie does very often.

“Suky?” Dad said.

I didn’t say anything. I watched as Mom looked up at a tree and said, “It’s time we dealt with the elephant in the room, don’t you think?”

“Are you going to tell us about—” I couldn’t say anything more. I couldn’t bring myself to make the words.

“About the fact that I was dead, and now I’m not?” She looked at all of us. “I think we should talk about it, yes.”

It felt like there were eyes, watching us. I wanted to yell to my mother, to tell her not to talk about it, that someone might hear… but who? And why would it matter?

“Is that something you’re okay with, Suky?” Dad asked.

“I’m fine, but I’m getting the impression the rest of you aren’t,” she said. “Why haven’t any of you brought it up, except Stephanie, the once?”

“Well, you told me it was rude,” Stephanie said.

Mom sighed. “I guess I did. I’m sorry. This isn’t really easy for me either.”

She sat down on a bench, and Dad sat with her. Stephanie and I sat on a short stone wall around a tree. “I suppose I should start by saying, I don’t really know much more than you do. I don’t have any memories of being dead. I woke up in bed, next to your dad, on Monday morning, and for a while I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there… I assumed I went to bed the previous night, but I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. I couldn’t pin down anything I remembered as to exactly when it happened, not in the recent past. And when your father woke up, the shock on his face and the fact that he kept asking me if I was really here made me think, wait, the last thing I remember was that I was in a hospital dying of cancer, so why am I here now?”

“So you don’t remember any kind of afterlife?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I believe I had some sort of existence, but I don’t remember anything about it. When I wake up, I have flashes, feelings that I dreamed something about it, but I can’t hold it in my head long enough to write it down or even talk about it. It just… disappears, leaving behind only the memory that something was there a few minutes ago.”

“You know how unlikely the idea that an afterlife exists is, scientifically, though. Right?” Dad said. “Consciousness is an emergent property of a trillion neurons working together. Imagining that there could be some sort of construct that exists outside the brain and body is like imagining that a video game character could be waltzing around in front of us.”

“And yet I’m here,” Mom said.

“Time travel or a Star Trek transporter with some modifications would make more sense than something supernatural, like an afterlife,” Dad said stubbornly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stephanie said. “If Mom doesn’t remember…”

“Have you had a medical exam?” I asked.

Mom laughed. “I don’t have health insurance anymore. I’m dead, remember? I can’t even begin to figure out how we’re going to address getting me a legal identity again, and to be honest… I can’t know I’ll be around long enough for it to matter.”

“None of us know that,” I said, “about ourselves or anyone else.”

“True, and it’s going to be hard to travel if I don’t have a legal identity. So I suppose I’ll have to address it eventually, if I last that long.”

“Thank God your state ID hasn’t actually expired yet, or there’d be no way we could fly to Boston. The passport’s expired,” Dad said. Mom had been legally blind when she died, so she’d had a state ID rather than a driver’s license.

“Is there any reason you might not? Aside from the things that could kill anyone?” I asked.

Dad said, “Your mother and I discussed… when she first appeared, I found it nearly impossible to talk about the fact that she’d been dead. When she broached the topic, I could talk about it to her, but I couldn’t tell you kids.” He shrugged. “My working theory is that there’s some kind of alien experiment going on or that time travel is somehow involved, but the fact that none of you kids were able to tell each other about it until you knew the other one knew suggests to me that someone with the ability to directly affect human emotions or thought is, for some reason, making it hard to talk about this. Maybe that means it’s a short-lived experiment.”

“Maybe I escaped from hell and no one wants to talk about it for fear the devil will take me back,” Mom said, but she was laughing. Mom had never believed in hell. Dad was an atheist; Mom definitely had strong spiritual beliefs, but they were kind of a package of woo that included reincarnation and ghosts, even though she’d been raised Catholic.

“There are others like you,” Stephanie said. “None of them have talked about it themselves, but family members or friends have talked about it online, under pseudonyms. I haven’t found any evidence that anyone has mentioned anything under their real names.”

“A lot?” Mom was surprised.

“So far I count between nine and thirteen unique individuals, plus Eleanor heard a rumor that someone who might live in town might have come back. We don’t know any details, though.”

“We need to find them,” Mom said. “I need to find them. I have a second chance at life, and I’m not ashamed of it. I won’t be silenced about the fact that I exist.”

“It might not be the best idea, Suky,” Dad said. “There are a lot more crazies out there than there were when you died—”

“—there were plenty of crazies then, Dee—”

“—right, and even then it wouldn’t have been a good idea. There might be some religious nut job who thinks that if you were dead you should stay that way. Or someone else thinks that you know how you came back, and wants to force you to tell them.”

“Those are valid points,” Mom said, nodding. “And to all of those people who might want to harm me because they think I shouldn’t be alive or they think I know how I came back, I say a hearty ‘fuck you.’ I won’t be silent because there are crazy people in the world. I’m not afraid of death, not anymore.”

“You’re going to risk Eleanor’s kids?” Dad asked sharply.

“I agree with Mom,” I said, standing up. “Nobody should have to keep quiet about the fact that they exist. But I have to tell Will.”

Stephanie made a face. My family doesn’t like my husband. They have justifications, but in the past few years, since Mom died, Will’s gone to therapy and has done a lot of work on himself. Mom was the only one in the family ever willing to forgive anything, though, so I’ve never tried to get them to change their minds.

Mom said, “Well, is he still a total asshole?”

“He’s… been trying not to be. He’s in therapy, and we’re doing couples counseling, and he’s working through a lot of baggage from his upbringing.”

“Why not tell him to bring the kids up and join you here, then. Coming back to life, might as well start a clean slate and see where things go from there. And you’re right, he needs to be involved in the discussion. Your girls, too. They all are old enough to understand what’s going on here, and what could happen.”

“You know I will never stand in the way of anything you want,” Dad said, which is the kind of thing Dad says rather than “I love you”. Things like, “If they ever fail to respect you, I will smite them” – talking about us and our treatment of Mom – or “You have always been my worthy opponent.” Yes. Sometimes my father talks like a comic book character.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Stephanie said, “but I know you taught me to be who I am to the world and fuck anyone who gives me shit about it, so… same principle. I don’t think you could be you and lie about who you are.”

“And we need to involve Jeff and Aaron,” Mom said. “I’ll call them and get them to come here.”

“We turned off your cell phone ages ago,” Dad objected.

“Dee, we still have a land line. I know we do because I hear it ring, and sometimes you even answer it.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s right, we do.” Dad shook his head. “This world where everyone carries around their phone in their pocket all the time… it’s strange how you get so used to a technological or societal change that you forget that you did it a different way for 67 years.”

Nothing ever stopped my mother when she wanted something strongly enough, if she believed it was right. I hadn’t even thought of the considerations my father brought up before he talked about them, but I’ve never believed it’s okay to hide in conformity and live in fear. I didn’t think Will had ever believed in doing that, either, and my daughters had grown up going to political protests.

“We need to find out more about these other people,” I said to Stephanie on the way home. “See if we can contact them directly, find out if any of the actual returned people are planning on going public like Mom. We could coordinate if they are. Strength in numbers.”

“The religious right are going to crap their pants,” Stephanie said, laughing. “A Deist who believes in reincarnation, is married to an atheist, and has a gay son, came back to life. Jesus Christ hasn’t got a monopoly anymore.”

“That is probably going to be the most fun part of this going public thing,” I said.

***

So now I don’t know what will happen. My husband’s driving up from home with our girls, my oldest younger brother’s on a train, and Mom’s been looking up contact information for journalist friends she had once, checking which ones are still alive, using Facebook – we never deactivated her account – and my dad’s LinkedIn. Stephanie’s found two other people who have family members who came back from the dead, and one of them’s been willing to talk to her in private messaging on Tumblr.

I still have a hard time telling anyone who doesn’t already know, but it turns out, I can write about it without feeling the pressure, the fear. Don’t know if I can post it, yet. I guess we’ll see. I’m hoping that if I can get more information from more people who’ve been through something similar, maybe we’ll find a pattern, a point of commonality… maybe even an explanation for why we all feel this pressure not to talk about it.

Tomorrow we’re all going to talk about whether we’re going to do this or not, but I know my family. What my mom wants, she gets, if it’s possible and if it’s ethical. My husband and my kids are going to be in favor of her going public, and my brothers won’t stand in her way any more than my dad would. So we’re going to do this. The thing we’re really going to talk about is how to keep ourselves safe when we do.

Everything in the world is going to change. I just don’t know exactly how yet.

***

Obligatory notes because I’m so fucking late with this piece:

I have fucked up royally. I went into this without an outline and about 6,000 words in I realized I had attempted to consume a ball of energy larger than my head. This is going to end up being novel length, most likely. I struggled really hard to find a place I could reasonably end it as a short story, and yeah, it is absolutely not an ending. No followup on the Martian shapechanger thing, new idea is brought in and then treated like it’s the climax, protagonist is almost entirely reactive and passive. As a short story, it’s shit.

Unfortunately I found this out after I was already late. Not going to bore everyone with why this was a week late except that it’s allergy season and I’ve been exhausted lately. So there was no time to try to write something else. I hope you found it entertaining, if somewhat frustrating; it’s shit as a short story because it’s plainly a piece of a novel. Which I’m not going to write real soon because I have like 3 novels ahead of this one in the queue, but if I live long enough it will get done.

It’s kinda cute that story #30 falls on the 30th now because I’m late and story #31 is the last of my Spooky 5 Halloween-appropriate stories. But not cute enough to justify how late this is.

BTW, while this is not as autobiographical as “Radio” from Inktober, it is heavily drawn from real life. I altered some things because this is fiction, but the mother and the father in this story are pretty close to real life. Except that my mother hasn’t come back.

#52 project #writeober 2020 #alara's october 2020 prompt fics #spooky5 #late!

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