#i mean its good for my wallet but i need more merch of my girls

[dadrielle]

Man I dig the new Ashton leggings but the lack of Imogen merch is starting to drive me a lil nuts

[maximumjinx]

Steven Universe Gravity Falls AU

~Yknow what they say, if you run out of content, ya gotta make it yourself. This is a ? shot (I might continue or not who knows not me) please don’t ask for more I have 18 unfinished fanfics on this site.~

California was nice, Steven had to admit. The people were nice, the food was fantastic, and the weather was splendid. It reminded him a lot of Beach City. Though there were just so many people, and traveling north, Steven was beginning to long for something small and simple again.

Oregon was the perfect place for that, right?

“Ronaldo wants pictures of Bigfoot, and if anyone can find him, its you Steven.” Petey’s voice was faint on Steven’s phone speaker, tossed into the passenger seat as Steven blindly picked a highway exit.

“Sure Petey, but couldn’t Ronaldo just go to a circus?”

“Not big feet Steven,” Petey emphasized, “Bigfoot.”

“Saying it twice isn’t helping buddy.” Steven was half paying attention. He was focusing on the winding roads and the looming trees surrounding him. Deep, in the pit of Steven’s stomach, he felt something start to tug him toward one direction farther away from the highway. He wasn’t quite sure if it was a good or bad feeling yet.

“Forget it, I’m going to take a blurry photo of that mean Gem in the woods and say its Bigfoot.”

“Just don’t let Jasper catch you, she’s no joke when she’s angry.”

“I saw her ripping grass out of the ground I think I’ll be fine. Later dude.”

Steven heard a small click and smiled to himself. He’s happy to see how far the people of Beach City have come and how they’ve taken to the gems. He remembers when the Crystal Gems were once the outcasts of town that locals warned you to stay away from.

He looked up to see a welcome sign.

“Gravity falls. Well, that’s a funny name.”

—

Steven wanted small and simple but he feels he may have overshot it.

This small town had exactly three attractions. A town museum that mentioned marrying woodpeckers (Steven couldn’t figure out if that was a normal human thing, like taxes and velcro), a small diner, and as one local described it ‘some tourist trap’ deep in the woods. It was a sticky summer day and the former two attractions didn’t have airconditioning. Steven gambled on the last stop in hopes of stretching his legs and maybe finding a source to the strange feeling in his gut. It had become much stronger since he entered this small town. Alluring, but nothing related to Gems as far as Steven could tell.

He parked in the nearly empty lot and stepped out. Jacket wrapped loosely around his hips, Steven made his way inside.

A girl that looked about 13 was petting a pig on the front porch. She was incredibly reflective, and depsite the heat wore a knitted bedazzled sweater that made her glow like a disco ball in the sun.

She looked Steven up and down as he approached, a wide smile taking up her face and Steven saw bright braces with colored bands.

“Hi!” She launched upwards, startling the pig away, “I’m Mabel, but you can call me anytime.” The girl winked and stuck out her hand, palm facing the floor.

Steven blinked.

“Mabel, stop scaring away the customers!” A gruff voice yelled through the screen door, and soon an older man stepped out in a suit, wearing a fez and eyepatch.

Immediately the old man squinted at Steven, sizing him up.

Stanley Pines knew this teen wasn’t local, but he wasn’t sure if he had any money. For all he knew he was another boy trying to hit on his giftshop cashier, Wendy.

Oh well, a customer is a customer.

“Come in, come in, and see our mystical and magical wonders!”

“Magical?” This could be it, Steven could figure out why this town has felt off. Maybe it was gem related after all.

Quickly this older man who had introduced himself as Mr. Mystery gave Steven a tour of what looked like failed taxidermy projects. Now Steven may have a lived a sheltered childhood, but he felt pretty confident there was no such thing as a Sashcrotch. And so far, nothing had felt magical or mysterious.

“That concludes our tour! Here is our mistifying giftshop and it’s purchasable wonders!”

“Right...” Well, at the very least he was able to spend some time in airconditioning.

There was a girl behind the desk in plaid that looked about Steven’s age, and just a half inch shorter than him. She looked bored, flipping through a magazine as a young boy that looked a lot like Mabel made googly eyes as he swept by the door.

Steven guessed there was no harm in asking around.

“Hi, I’m Steven.” He smiled easily, walking up to the register.

“No refunds, even if an exhibit bit you.” She sighed, peeking up before turning back to her magazine.

“Oh no, nothing bit me, I just wanted to know something.”

She looked up to get a better look at Steven and gave a small smirk.

“Sure, but only because I like your shirt. Mr. Universe merch, now that’s a deep cut.”

Unbeknownst to Steven, Dipper Pines would had been watching the exchange felt a twinge of uneasiness as this out of towner talked with Wendy.

“Have you ever seen anything strange or weird actually happen in this town?”

Wendy’s smile dropped.

“Why do you ask?” Her eyes flickered to Dipper, just for a moment, and that was all he needed to rush over.

“Excuse me sir, please buy something or exit the store.” Dipper spoke in the deepest voice he could muster.

Steven looked over with a questioning expression.

“Oh sure uh-“ He blindly reached for the wad of bills that his dad had given to him before he left. Steven pulled out a hundred dollar bill and put it on the counter. Wendy looked up baffled as Steven stuffed the other cash back in his wallet.

“Boy was I wrong about you kid!” Mr. Mystery, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, now bounded over. He had loosened his tie and lost the eyepatch which turned out he never needed.

“Whaddya wanna know? I’ll tell you everything. There’s gnomes in the woods you know-“

“Grunkle Stan!” Dipper protested loudly, dragging his Stan away and harshly whispering at him.

“Did you steal that money?” Wendy asked as Steven watched the pair whisper fight in the corner. He turned back to the girl and gave a sheepish smile.

“Uh no, my dad gave it to me before this roadtrip. He’s actually Mr. Universe.”

Wendy lit up.

“No freaking way! Your dad is Mr. Universe? I only got into him since he managed Sadie Killer and the Suspects and they always perform covers of his songs on tour, I can’t believe he’s your dad!” She rambled, stars in her eyes. Steven beamed, he loved when people praised his dad’s music. Greg really deserved it.

Steven learned Wendy’s name and they swapped stories back and forth, only interrupted as the girl from outside slowly rose from the behind the counter beaming.

“A cute musician that loves weird stuff, take me now.” She swooned. Steven blushed profusely, not used to the attention.

“Sorry, my girlfriend Connie probably wouldn’t like that very much.” He said gently. Mabel looked him up and down and pouted.

“I can wait, but not forever.” She warned, and winked, bounding to break apart her grunkle and Dipper, who are now whisper screaming with arms flailing.

“I wasn’t going to mention that Dorito shaped jerk! Just the normal stuff!”

“It’s dangerous! He could be a spy, or government, or another stack of gnomes!”

Steven raised an eyebrow and looked at Wendy. She chuckled and shrugged. Steven carefully approached them.

“He can hear everything you’re saying anyways so might as well tell him!” Mabel interrupted, nodding towards Steven as he came up.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m definitely not government.” Steven technically didn’t exist at all. He never had a social security card and didn’t have a birth certificate.

Dipper only glared. Rich strangers with an interest in the paranormal didn’t come through gravity falls without some kind of agenda.

Steven hated the conflict he was starting. No information was worth this family fighting.

“Okay,” he surrendered, hands up, “I’ll just go. I’ll stick around town until tomorrow if you change your minds”

“Wait Steven-”

“Let him go Wendy,” Dipper glared as the boy in pink walked out, “We can’t trust him.”

“But I was going to ask for Sadie tickets...” Wendy groaned, defeated.

“There’s something weird about him.”

“Great!” Mabel beamed, “He’ll fit right in.”

~.~

Steven wasn’t crazy about sleeping in his car, but was seriously considering it after seeing the state of his motel room. It looked like it hadn’t been used in decades, a thin line of dust covering every surface. He was also pretty sure they didn’t even have free ice. 

“Wish Pearl were here..” He mumbled, exhausted. He curled up on top of the covers, fully clothed, and let sleep take him.

Being Steven Universe however, meant rest was sure to allude the half alien. 

Steven found himself in a dark space, fog all around him. Before a word could come out of his mouth he heard a fast, repetitive muttering. 

“Stranger...Wendy looked pretty today..Can’t trust...Tell no one...Ford isn’t here..”

“What, the-” Steven quietly walked toward the source of dialogue, and saw the faded silhouette of the boy from the Mystery Shack. His back was turned to him, but Steven recognized the blue vest and mosquito bitten legs. 

“I thought I was over the dream hopping.” Steven spoke a tad too loudly, starting the young boy - Dipper.

“What-” Dipper’s eyes grew wide in panic, and the boy fell back harshly.

“No, no, you can’t be in my head!” 

“Wait, I’m not-” Steven tried to reassure him, stepping carefully towards the boy but Dipper let out a screech of terror, sweat gathering around his temples.

“Bill sent you didn’t he?! He’s not really gone- he’s going to hurt Mable again-” Dipper began to hyperventilate. 

“Dipper please,” Steven took a step back, arms in the air in surrender. 

“I-”

“I’m not going to hurt you I swear on the gems.” He placed a hand over his heart. “This is a total invasion of privacy but it’s something that happens when someone’s emotions are out of control-”

“How are you here?” Dipper demanded, scrambling to his feet. “Tell me what you are and what you want.”

“I’m just passing through!” Steven insisted, then lowered his tone to calm the younger boy. “I’m kinda of magnet for weird stuff. I just wanted to help in case anything was going on.”

“We deal with things just fine around here.” Dipper spat, then watched as Steven deflated. He seemed tired, like he hasn't slept well in a while. 

“So what are you anyways? How can you be here?”

Steven winced, and laughed nervously. “It’s kind of a long story..”

Dipper raised and eyebrow and swept his arm around the void dramatically. 

“You have until dawn.”

~

“I thought that was a conspiracy theory, it wasn’t even covered by major news outlets.” Dipper look exhausted, cross legged on the unseen floor as he ran his hands through his hair. 

“I think Garnet is pretty persuasive when it comes to government and reporters. They all kinda fall in love with her.”

“She’s the one that’s really two aliens?” 

Steven shook his head with a small smile. “It’s hard to explain but yes, I guess that comes close.”

“That’s actually insane. I’m insane, aren’t I?” Dipper stood up, leaving Steven on sitting next to an empty space. “It’s been too quiet around here and now I’m so desperate for weird, that I’m making it all up in my head.”

“I get that feeling.” Steven smiled without humor, “but no, this is real. I’ll prove it when you wake up.” Steven felt a shift, the fog in the void getting denser. 

“Sooner than I thought, you’re an early riser huh?”

Dipper looked back at Steven, panicked. “You’ll come to the Shack again right? In just a bit?”

Steven smiled. “Promise.”

~

Dipper woke up to his sister braiding his hair. Mabel still had her pjs on, and a make up kit next to the bed. Dipper frowned, tasting strawberry shortcake. 

“Stop testing party looks on me, Mabel.”

“Stop having my face structure and maybe I will.” She grinned, covered in blue glitter. 

Dipper quickly washed up and got dressed for the day, feeling like he was anxiously waiting for something but not quite remembering what. 

He felt like he had a strange dream last night...

He quickly remembered, choking on cereal as Steven walked into the shack right as it opened. Hair slightly frizzy from the heat and eyes strangely tired. Maybe dream hopping took energy that he anticipated. 

“Steven!”

“Meal ticket!” 

“Grunkle Stan.” Mabel chastised as Dipper rushed over to the older boy. 

“Good morning everyone.” 

Dipper stopped short, slightly hoping that everything he experienced wasn’t just his imagination. That everything exciting and weird and interesting wasn’t always trying to kill him, ruin his life, or steal his candy. 

Steven looked tired, like he had been doing this much longer than Dipper, but he had still come out with enough energy to smile. 

“Not insane?” Dipper asked hopefully, quietly. Steven snapped his attention from his Grunkle and Mable bickering down to the Dipper. He gave a reassuring smile, eyes quite serious. 

“Not insane.”

[cheelduh]

How to bet your way into someone’s heart. (Highschool AU)

Pairing: Childe x fem!reader

Warnings: Fake weed. Poor Signora smh. Oh yes, lots of swearing. UNEDITED ASF IM LAZY BYE.

Synopsis: Childe is being an infatuated idiot, Lisa has eyes for vending machine chocolate, and Kaeya is desperately in need of a pencil. With all these distractions, there’s no way in hell you’ll be able focus on the task at hand.

This is crack.

I don’t have time.

You think as you race down the hallway, shoes slapping against the floor as you expertly dodge multiple students in your way.

Bullet. You're as fast as a bullet, because everyone around you is a blur and you don't stop, can't stop, not until you meet your target.

It's funny how one can accomplish many challenges and feats they were unable to, merely due to pressure. Pressure is a twisted ugly thing that can gnaw its way into the pit of your stomach and grow like a parasite. Pressure is a parasite that can either bring the best in you, or the worst, but at the cost of one's peace of mind.

"Move it Signora!" You shouted a warning at the senior blocking your way. There wasn't any time for you slow down at that point, and you'd risk bumping into the breakfast club's stall if you swerved to the side, sending juice flying everywhere.

Signora's eyes widened momentarily, getting the gist albeit her anger, and choosing to back up flatly against the locker.

Her lipstick nearly slips from her fingers as you swerve past, a thick gust of wind in your wake.

It messes with the hair she woke up two hours early for.

Signora plots her revenge. You still don't have time.

You nearly kick the door to your home room down, but you can't risk the perfect image your teachers have of you. So you pat down your t-shirt, take five tempting deep breaths, and tentatively knock the door.

The door opens and you're met with a young man, familiar amber pupils welcoming you.

You try not to huff and puff at the cost of your stamina. Thinking back, there's no way in hell you could have physically been that fast.

"Good morning Y/N," Your homeroom teacher gives you a small smile, moving aside to let you in. "Class is just about to start."

You check your watch, then turn to him with an apologetic tone, trying not to crack under the eyes of your classmates. "I'm so sorry Mr.Zhongli, I slept through my alarm."

Your idiot ass forgot to set one because you studied till four in the morning.

"You're like thirty seconds late, cut the shit." Beidou boos from the back, causing your stance to stiffen.

"I don't wanna hear it Beidou. If anything, you're two periods earlier than usual." Ningguang calls her out for you, but you have a feeling it's more so on behalf of a personal vendetta.

Ignoring the two bickering, Mr.Zhongli gives you the handout. "Take a seat. Do not fret over such minuscule things dear."

Relief washes over you. Your impeccable attendance is not on the line.

Childe tries to flag you down next to him but you send him a pointed glare and sit next to Lisa instead.

"You should give him a chance you know." Lisa doesn't even have to open her eyes to know what's going on.

"Please," You scoff, digging through your bags to collect your notes. "As if I have the time to fool around with a shady kid like him."

Your friend sighs in disapproval, and makes no move to take out her own notes as Mr.Zhongli begins the lecture on the Archon war.

"You should really pay attention." It bothers you that she doesn't, but then again it's not your place to tell her what to do or not to do.

"I don't need to." She yawns, blinking an eye open towards you. "I have you after all."

"I'm tired of saving your ass." You groan and pull a pen out of your pocket to get started on the exercises as Mr.Zhongli talks in the background.

The course outline contained all the topic, and you made sure to teach yourself as much as you could before class to stay ahead.

Immersed in the worksheet, you blinked away your sleep and tried to answer as many questions as you could at the moment. You didn't hear the slight shift next to you, and the change of breathing, or the rate of which time went by.

A familiar scent makes its way into your nostrils.

"Lisa. Why do you smell like mango juul juice." You know the scent from when Signora blew a mango flavoured fog in your face yesterday at lunch when you said you were hungry.

A chuckle erupts and you freeze in place. "That's because I'm not Lisa."

You blink. Once, twice, and then crane your head to the side to meet a pair of teasing cerulean eyes.

Fingers loosening in shock, the pen drops on the desk with a short thud.

You whisk your head towards the front of the classroom, and Mr.Zhongli is nowhere to be seen.

"There's no saving you now." Childe's smirk widens, and he scoots closer to you. "Mr.Zhongli had to get something from the staff room. The staff room is near the cafeteria."

"Which is also near the merch stall." You grumbled, bringing both hands to massage your temples as a headache is beginning it's reign.

"Tsk tsk. Smart girl. I'd like to add that he's forgotten his wallet in his office as well, which is in the south wing."

"Son of a..." You mutter underneath your breath, and opt to scoot further back, but your efforts are futile because your desk is in a corner.

Your next beacon of hope is Lisa, so you scan the room full of chattering students, only to find her pestering her crush, Jean.

Shit...there's nothing getting you out of this one.

"What did it take?" Is your only question, the despair starting to brew. How much did it take for your best friend to betray you?

"A dollar and fifty for vending machine chocolate."

You take a moment to breathe, calming your nerves and burying down the urge to screech. "What will it take?"

"For what?" Childe replies back innocently, and you can't believe how fast he can change masks. You almost give in.

"For you to leave me alone."

"Aww come on girlie," He whines, closing in the distance. "Don't be so cold."

What did your mom tell you that one time? Oh yes. That if you were ever backed against a wall, then just break the damn thing down.

Too bad it's figurative. You're just about ready to sock him in the face if you didn't know he was into that sort of thing.

"I'm serious about you," He says, and it sounds so real, so genuine, nearly makes you sputter. "See? I've even bought school supplies.

He unzips his light backback and spills the contents on the table.

A lone piece of paper flies out, a lighter, and a mechanical pencil with no lead that follows straight after. There's also a pocket knife that you choose to ignore.

You're not the least bit surprised.

"First of all, how the fuck are you passing this class. Second, do you really think I'm into nerds?"

"Well, considering that you are a nerd—"

"You're making things worse."

"My bad, my bad." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "But on a serious note. I'll do anything."

You cross your arms. "I'm not just another one of your conquests Childe. It's not like I have the time. There are better things to do."

"You need to relax." He says so simply, with complete disregard as to what you are trying to say.

"I am relaxed." You reply, picking up your pen to continue your work. If he's going to annoy you, then you might as well get shit done while he's at it.

You're not wasting any more time.

"When was the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?" His voice is soft, too soft, and it's not at all like the Childe you know.

Your pen stops momentarily, but you will yourself to continue writing. The words look fumbled, but you don't care. The best thing to do is get your work done and ignore the idiot next to you.

"C'mon, Zhongli won't be back for another half an hour at least. Let's go." He kicks the bottom of your chair to urge you.

The pen shakes in your hand, and you narrow your eyes at the paper, digging holes into poor question eight. "I'm trying to work here. Let me work." You'll say anything to get him off your back.

"Fine fine fine..." He raises both hands in mock surrender. "I'll stop bothering you."

Your ears perk up at that, and you turn to him so fast he has to hold in his laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah," Childe nods along, bringing your hopes up. "If you win a bet, that is." And they're back to ocean level.

You roll your eyes. There's always a catch. That doesn't mean you're any less interested.

"What's the bet?" You ask curiously, all your focus now on him. Just as he longed for from the very start.

He flicks a thumb towards the door, leaning closer to whisper next to your ear. "We bet when Zhongli comes back."

"Are you kidding me?" You aren't bothered at all at the close proximity, mainly because you're too tired and only care about the freedom that will come with your win.

Childe, however, is a completely different story. His heart is beating a thousand times a second, but his face doesn't show it. Not one bit.

Kaeya leans in from the seat behind you two, interested in what's going on. "Ooooh secrets."

"Shut up Kaeya." Childe and you monotonously drone in sync, still having your little staring contest.

The captain of the skating team smiles, about to ask—

"No. We don't have an extra pencil. Even if we did we wouldn't give it to you." Childe finally breaks his gaze to scare off Kaeya.

Kaeya raises a smug brow, and leans back in his chair like the jerkwad he is. "Then don't let me keep you two love birds."

That's all it takes for him to earn Childe's unwavering respect and loyalty for as long as he lives.

After the two are done creating an elaborate handshake as a mark of their newfound friendship, you decide to just forget about the handout. It's not like you're getting anything done anyways.

"Anyways, back to the bet." Childe says, resting his cheek on his fist as he stares at you dreamily. You try not to break under his gaze.

"If I win, you have to go on a date with me."

"No way in hell—"

"Then I'll bother you for the rest of highschool."

Highschool is eternity. You don't want to live through an eternity of this.

"Fine." You answer, and for the first time he sees genuine fear in your face, it makes him waver slightly. Not enough for him to pity you.

"If I win..." You trail, thinking loud and clear as you ignore the excited chatter of your classmates. "I want you to pay attention to class."

"What?" He exclaims incredulously, blinking in disbelief. "I thought you'd get me to stop talking to you altogether."

"If you're paying attention in class, you don't bother me as much and your grades go up." You grin smartly, and oh archons it livens his entire day up, and it's only nine in the morning.

"You care about my grades?" Childe bites back a smile.

"Not at all." You lie, and quickly look away. Woah the floor tile looking trippy.

He decides it's better to get on with the bet without causing you any more distress. After all, you've given him such cute facial expressions today. He's feeling quite generous.

Pulling out his cracked-as-shit latest model phone, he unlocks it and tinkers with it a bit before turning the screen towards you.

"We'll be using this to time both of our predictions at the same time. Whoever has the closer time to when he finally swings by is the winner." The rules are simply put, no room for error.

You tilt your head in confusion. "Why am I seeing a slime review?"

"SHIT!" Childe fumbles with his phone, aggressively tapping on the screen. He lowers his head and voice as if he's been through fifty consecutive hits in the face. "It's uh, Teucer's account."

"Yeah...okay." Is all you can say.

"Ok what do you bet?" He changes the topic to unfuck the situation.

Putting a finger in your chin, you think for a minute, calculating the average of all the times Mr.Zhongli has left the classroom for a considerable amount of time.

"Fifteen minutes." You're sure of it. It's like clockwork every day.

"Hmm..." Childe crosses his arms, seemingly in deep thought. "Five minutes." He places his bet, and both timers start simultaneously.

Five minutes?! Is he serious?

You laugh inwardly. This challenge is in the bag.

The sense of victory you feel dulls when your ears pick up the echo of footsteps nearing the classroom.. Both your heads snap up to the doors.

There's something scary about Childe once his competitive side comes out. "Looks like I've won." He turns to you, eyes darkening evilly.

"What? There's no way in hell a ginger is right." Your palms are clammed up, eyebrows furrowed in panic. You calculated every single variable, how could this be?

You race to the front, Childe right on your tail as the entire class clamps up. The footsteps get louder, causing even whispers to become total silence.

Then it hits you. The shitty music about getting bitches and bars playing on the other side.

The door is swung open by Childe, and you're face to face with an idiot sophomore with a speaker in his pocket.

Childe’s grin is long gone, and you sigh in relief.

The false alarm encourages the class to return back to their idle chatter.

"Scaramouche?" Childe spits, narrowing his eyes at the unamused boy. "I thought it was Signora's shift today."

By "shift" he means being a complete dickwad and scamming fake weed to students in return for their souls. It only really works on the freshmen.

The only reason the club still runs is because Signora threatened the principal with some sus pictures she snapped of him and his assistant.

"Apparently she had an emergency." Scaramouche explains, lowering the volume on his outdated beats pill. "Something about a hair appointment because she got ran into by a, and I quote "lecherous imbecile.""

You steer clear of the conversation, finding the whiteboard far more fascinating and worth your while.

A loud cough is heard from behind the kid, and you're met with a crestfallen look on your beloved teacher's face.

You go through a whiplash of emotions, becoming completely numb towards your loss.

"They were out of slow cooked bamboo shoot soup." He sighs, handing a stack of papers to Childe, who is wearing the fattest smirk on his face at his victory. "Please hand these out to your classmates Childe, and we will begin shortly."

You check down at the timer despite knowing who’s won. Five minutes and twenty five seconds. Somehow, you don't feel as dejected as you thought you'd feel.

Maybe the date will be fun. Maybe Childe isn't so bad. Maybe...you do have time to indulge in these sort of things. If he’s so hell bent on getting your attention, perhaps it’s possible that you can make some room in your heart for him.

However, all those thoughts fly out the window when Childe hands you the new worksheet.

“I hope you're ready for our date tomorrow. We'll be sparring till sundown, and after you’ll be feeding me with chopsticks." He winks, and it makes your heart flip even though all you want right now is to go to the bathroom and barf your guts out.

Feelings are complicated.

You smile back at him nauseously, tight lipped and all, then you pull out your phone, go on maps, and search for the closest cliffs to jump off of.

After he's done, Childe slouches back in his original seat with a different kind of enthusiasm, and opens up his messages. He texts Zhongli a "thank you <3".

[anistarrose]

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

[domesticmail]

the bird and her cage; one

chapter one; litany in which certain things are crossed out

a/n: colton anon !!! here’s your first chapter :) i hope you like it!!

MASTERLIST

PLAYLIST

TAGLIST

warnings: mention of physical, verbal, and mental abuse. alcohol.

word count: 2.3k

you poor, sad thing

you want a better story...

who wouldn’t?

           -  richard siken

You are so cold. The jacket you’re wearing was meant to look cute, not to provide warmth, and you’re suddenly regretting the choice to wear it as freezing air bites any revealed skin. Your hands are shaking, your legs are burning, and your teeth are chattering as you force yourself to move, keep running, keep moving, you can’t stop you can’t you have to keep going.

Headlights engulf you in bright, cutting light. You look back while moving forward, craning your neck to get a good view of the car because oh god, if it’s him, you’re going to die.

As the Volkswagen speeds past you, you put an arm up to shield your eyes from the light. Fuck. Your breath fogs the air and when it feels like you are finally too tired to keep running, you remember your phone, its weight pressing against you in your back pocket. Like a woman who has found god, you cry as you take it out and, hands and fingers shaking in the freezing air, get yourself an Uber for wherever the fuck you are. You type in “hotel” and click the first address you see, nearly sobbing with the release of tension. Thank god, you think to yourself, I can leave, I can get away, thank god, oh, thank you, oh my god.

Thirty minutes later you find yourself standing in front of a random hotel in St. Louis, broken-hearted and desperate.

And it’s painfully apparent.

The guy at the reception desk clearly sees that you’re in some sort of troubling situation, because he doesn’t ask any more questions than he has to. He smiles in that pitying way that strangers do when he hands you your room key, second floor, and you just nod weakly.

The room is comfortable. It’s unremarkable, really - clinically clean, the way hotel rooms are. You know they don’t clean the duvets, so you fold it down and crawl under the covers. You bring your knees to your chest and just rest for a moment. You close your eyes, big inhale, big exhale. I’m safe, you think to yourself.I’m finally safe.

The thought brings tears to your eyes, and in the company of yourself you cry, shaking sobs racking your body, fragile and sad and finally, finally safe. Your phone pulls you from the tears, ringing the tone you set specifically for one person; the only person on the planet you trust. Of course he’s calling, you think to yourself. No surprise there. His timing, coincidental or not, is unmatched.You slide answer on your phone screen, push the speaker to your ear with a sniffle.

“Dad?

”His voice, deep just like you remember, echoes through the other end. You haven’t heard him in a while, he’s been on a work trip, you thought, and yet here he is. Dad knows. “Kid?”

Your voice catches in your throat when you ask again, “Dad?”

“Hey, kid, are you okay?” That stereotypical concern lacing his words. It’s been weeks since you’ve talked over the phone, and here he finally is, exactly the way he was last time you spoke.

A hiccup as you say, “No - no, Dad, I’m…” Your words trail away. What are you supposed to say? Steven turned out to be an abusive prick, just like you’d always guessed. I’m in the middle of a place I don’t know, and I am so, so tired, Dad, I need you to save me. I need you to come here and save me because I don’t know if I can save myself from this - “You there?” He asks.

“Yeah, sorry.” You clear your throat. Better to go with the less explosive option. “Um, Dad, Steven and I broke up.”

A moment of silence.“The engagement’s off?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle.

Another pause. You can practically see him now, rubbing his forehead in that way Dads do when they know there’s something really bad going on but they don’t know if boundaries permit them to ask. He inhales and exhales hard. “Are you okay?”

You start to say yes, but your voice catches again, the lump in your throat like a terrible rock, throat constricted around it, and you begin to cry as you say once more, “No, I’m not, I don’t know where I am or what to do and I’m tired, Dad, I’m so tired of doing things. I’m tired of him and of everyone and of my life and I just - I want to get away.”

Once again, a pause. He’s got his index and middle fingers pressed into his cheek now, thumb supporting his chin, weighing your words. If he were a better man he would buy you a plane ticket; if he were worse, he would tell you it was your fault.But he is merely himself, and he clears his throat. “Okay. Okay.”

You rub your nose and sniffle again.

He asks, “Where are you, kid?”

“I - I don’t…” You start, then catch yourself. “One second.” You pull up Maps on your phone, then sigh. “I’m at a hotel in St. Louis.”

“St. Louis?” He whistles low. “That’s a ways away from Kansas, Dorothy.”

“Dad.“ You laugh despite yourself.

“I know, I know. Forgive me.” He coughs. “So, St. Louis. Missouri?” “Yeah.”

“Mkay. Do you want to come home?”

There’s a question. If you go back home, back to New York, you’ll be stuck in your apartment, and that’s...less than preferable. You’d rather not spend the next month in the bed you shared with him, every picture and appliance flooded with memories of the vile man you’d been engaged to. 

And anyways, this hotel room wasn’t that bad. Like you’d said earlier, clinical. No memories. A clean slate.“No - well, at least, not yet,” you sniffle.“Okay. Do you - are you in a good hotel? Do I need to get you a room somewhere nicer?”“No, no, Dad, I’m fine where I am.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“You don’t have to keep saying okay.”

He sighs on his end of the phone, and you can’t help yourself from smiling.

“Look, you’re an adult,” he says, “so I’m not going to micromanage you or anything. I mean, if it were your mother instead of me, you’d be on the next plane home. But I think maybe this, this time away, it’ll be good for you.”

“It will, Dad, I promise. I just can’t be anywhere he is right now.”

Another trademark pause.

“Did he hurt you, honey?”

You gulp.

“Y/N?”

Exhale. Don’t panic. If you can’t trust him, who can you trust?

“He was...abusive, yeah.” Sniffle. Tears threaten to flood your eyes but you hold them back with a sharp nip to your lip. “But I’m safe now. I’m safe.”

“I’ll make sure the son of a bitch can’t come within a mile - “

“No, Dad, you don’t have to - “

“I want to. Let me do this for you.”

You sigh. “Dad.”

“No. No leaning on this one.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” You can practically hear the angry grin on his face. Men, you think to yourself. “You have your wallet, and money, and everything?”

You pat your other pocket, feel the ridges of your wallet pressing into the fabric. “Yeah.”

“Okay. What about clothes?”

“Uh….no.”

“No problem. I’ll make a few calls.”

“No - “

“Yes. I’ll text you with the details.”

You huff. “Fine.”

“Alright. You call me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Hey. I love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too.”

He hangs up first, and you find yourself sitting alone in the empty hotel room.

You’re not good at being alone. You come from a big family, five siblings, two parents; you’re used to noise, commotion, distractions. The hotel walls feel like they’re creeping in on you, big, silent rumblings as they crawl towards you slowly. The lack of noise is deafening, your skin is crawling, eyes itching for a distraction.

You need to get out.

There’s a bar a few blocks away, Yelp informs you as you weave through pedestrians on the sidewalk. Someone bumps your shoulder; you turn to look at them but they are already lost in the crowd of people. It’s a Friday night, everyone is getting out of work, just let it go. You’re going to get stampeded if you don’t keep moving - there’s already someone passing you, silently annoyed, you’re sure.

Paddy O’s, the sign high above the door says. From inside you can hear the hustle and bustle of a Friday night crowd, no doubt watching some event on the TVs above the bar. 

The door swings open and suddenly the noise loses its muffler as two beautiful women exit. One is tall, with deep, dark brown hair and striking features. Her left arm is draped around the shoulders of a smaller redheaded woman, who is laughing and holding her hand. The redhead has a pronounced accent and can’t get through three words without bursting into laughter. The taller woman is smiling down at her, chuckling.

They are dressed like they went to the bar immediately after work; that is to say, they’re dressed quite nicely. You look from the tall woman’s pantsuit to the redhead’s turtleneck and pants, and then to your own outfit. If their clothing is the usual for this place, then you are severely underdressed.

It’s a bar, Y/N, you think to yourself, shaking your head. You close your eyes and inhale steadily. You’ve got this.

After a few moments, you open your eyes again. The couple has disappeared from sight; probably back to their car. You walk to the doors and open one, entering the bar.

As expected, it’s loud, and it’s crowded, but there’s a seat at the bar a couple feet in that looks comfortable enough. You move through the surrounding patrons to take the seat, and order yourself an old fashioned - it’s your dad’s favorite, and you could use a little comfort right now.

The people on either side of you are deeply engaged in their own conversations. To your left is a woman of about 20, sitting with a man who you assume is her husband. From the small pieces of their conversation you can pick up on, she’s having a problem at work, and from the looks of it, he is humoring her by pretending to listen. You don’t know if she knows he’s not actually listening - but that’s not really your business. The guy to your right, you can tell, is one of those guys who peaked in high school. He’s chatting up the girl to his right about how his YouTube channel is just getting off the ground, and the merch line (you cringe at the phrase merch line) is coming out soon. 

So you’re by yourself, basically. The seat you’re occupying is your own little bubble in this bar, where you are the sole occupant. There’s nobody looking at you, nobody watching your move, listening to you order. No one is engaging you in conversation, trying to grab your attention. You are, just like in the hotel, completely alone.

And holy shit, you hate this.

Panic floods your veins, because oh god, this was a terrible idea. You are completely alone in a city you have never been in before and you decide to go to a fucking bar? In a random city? Oh, this takes the cake for stupid decisions. You really just up and decided to put yourself in a dangerous situation in a town where you have no one. Very smart.

You take a sip of your drink as the guy who peaked in high school and his date get up from their seats. The empty space makes you uncomfortable; you don’t want anyone to sit there but you also don’t want to be sitting next to open seats.

The glass is shaking in your hand. This is what you decide to focus on.

Deep breaths.

The breathing exercises don’t help, and the shaking is getting worse. You feel like crying as the rest of the Old Fashioned floods your mouth, the sweet liquid slipping down your throat as you swallow. The tears are gathering in your eyes again. You try to blink through them but it’s not working, everything is getting blurry and god damn it you’re crying at a bar you’ve never been to before in a city you’ve never seen and this all could’ve been avoided if you’d just flown home, you fucking idiot.

Someone’s sitting down in the empty seat to your right, and embarrassment heats your face. Your instinct tells you to get up and leave but you feel frozen to your seat so instead you just look away, look anywhere but the stranger to your right. 

“Excuse me, are you okay?” 

You can’t turn around because if you turn around the person will see you crying, and you cannot be seen crying by another stranger today, so you just bite your lip hard and nod, hoping the person will take the hint.

They do not, because who the fuck would ignore someone crying in a bar? Someone who looks remarkably out of place, and desperately in need of a friend?

“Hey, are you alright?” They ask again.

You hiccup, then laugh self-consciously. You turn to the stranger, a tall - wow, a remarkably tall man. He’s broad and, well, really, he��s built like a fridge. He’s huge. He towers over you so greatly that for a minute you think maybe you’re hallucinating, but the sad look of concern he’s giving you tells you that no, he’s real. “Do I look okay?” You ask.

He offers a sad smile. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

You laugh again. “Thanks.” You sniffle. “You’re the second random person to see me crying today, so. Congratulations.”

“I feel like maybe that’s not something I should be celebrating.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

He’s looking at you like you’re fragile, like you’re going to break, and it’s killing you, but he is company, and that’s what you need right now. You smile at him weakly. “Is this the part where I buy you a drink to apologize?”

That brings a smile to his face. He laughs, a low sound that you know comes from deep in his stomach, and the air feels a little lighter. “No, absolutely not. If anything, I’m buying you a drink.”

“God, no.” You exhale, and smiling comes a little easier. “I can barely hold the glass.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Probably.”

And here is the awkward pause. The pause where you debate whether or not he’s gonna continue talking to you. Are you worth his time? You can see in his face that he’s considering something - probably which excuse he’s gonna use to go back to his friends.

Surprisingly, he fills the silence. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re new here, right?” 

You nod. “I’m actually from New York.”

He actually laughs again at this. “Don’t take this wrong, but I can tell.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh.

“No no no no no, it’s not a bad thing, I swear!”

“Okay, saying ‘I can tell you’re from New York’ is always a bad thing, you can’t just - “

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

You furrow your brows at him, smiling. “What’d you mean then, huh?”

“I just mean...you have that vibe, you know?”

A laugh bubbles up from your throat. “No! What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’s laughing too, both of you facing each other. “You’re confident. You know what you’re doing.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, unbelieving. “I’ve known you for all of, like, five minutes. In fact, I don’t even know you!”

“Oh, shit, I’m so rude, I’m sorry.” He extends a hand. “Colton Parayko.”

You take his hand, and as you do, you look him in the eyes.

For a moment, everything stops.

There’s something meaningful about the way he’s looking at you. Something important that you can’t quite put your finger on. He is, for a moment, seeing you. The music has paused; the bartender has frozen; the woman to your left has stopped talking. All that is, is your hand in his, the tender way he’s holding your hands, like he is rooting you in this moment.

And then you shake his hand. And you say, “Y/N L/N.” And you pretend that didn’t just happen, that you’re not still looking him dead in the eyes because you’re scared to look away.

When your hands part, you can’t help noticing that yours feels empty, cold. 

You spend another two hours talking to him. He is easy to talk to, really; he has a comfortable presence. By the end of the night you are facing each other in your seats, your knees touching. You’re leaning forward when you talk, and he’s got one arm on the bar, the other one gesturing wildly. 

Conversation flows like a river between you two. You talk about New York; he’s been there once or twice, he says.

“Oh, really? For what, a frat trip?”

He laughs. “No, for hockey.”

“Did you play in college?”

This is the funniest joke he’s ever heard, apparently, because it absolutely sends him. “No, no.”

“What did I say?” You ask. You’re confused, you thought it was a pretty normal question.

He looks away from you, and then makes eye contact again, you’re having another moment. “I like you,” he says, smiling.

You’re even more confused now. “I mean - thank you. I like you too, but what’s so funny?”

He clears his throat and looks down at the bar. “I play hockey for St. Louis.”

You aren’t in the middle of drinking anything, but this makes you choke. A strangled noise comes from your throat as you slap a hand over your mouth. He grins at you. 

You remove your hand slowly. “Like. The city.”

“Yeah.” He’s almost bashful about it.

“Wait. Wait wait wait wait. Wait. Hold on just a fucking second.”

“Okay - “

“I’ve been sitting here. Bitching to you about my life. For hours. And you couldn’t find the time to tell me you play for the fucking National Hockey League?”

He giggles, and the sound almost seems unnatural coming from someone his size. “That’s...about it, yeah.”

“Oh, I am such a dick!” You exclaim.

“What? No, no -”

“I spent this whole time talking about myself!” You huff, closing your eyes. “I am so sorry.”

He puts his hand on your hand, and your eyes shoot open. Every time he’s touched you tonight, every passing contact, you feel warm, and the butterflies in your stomach start to act up. You can feel your heart rate quicken as he says, “Don’t be sorry. You definitely needed it.”

You smile at him. “Thank you.”

There’s another pause in the conversation, but this time you’re the one debating. You like him - a lot. He’s so warm, and kind, and sweet, and you can tell he’s being genuine, that he’s not just being polite, but you don’t want him to think you’re desperate. You’re not. You just like him. A lot.

You speak up at the same time he does.

“So - “

“Can I - “

“Oh,” you laugh. “You go first.”

“No, no, ladies first,” he responds, gesturing to you. “The floor is yours, Ms. L/N.”

“Um, well.” Suddenly you feel embarrassed. “I kind of made tonight all about myself, and I think maybe I owe you, now.”

He looks surprised, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, you do, kind of.”

“Okay,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “So. I don’t know how long I’m gonna be in town, but...maybe we can do this again, sometime?”

There’s something about the way he grins at you that lights up your heart, because your pulse is rapid as he says, “I think we can work something out.”

You trade phone numbers. He offers to walk you back to your hotel, but you decline - you did just meet him tonight. If this were New York, it’d be different, you’d invite him in for wine and maybe more, but this isn’t New York. Plus, part of you is just so tired. For the first time in what feels like years, you actually want to go to bed.

The night air is warm, and on the way back to the hotel room, all you can think about is the way his hand felt on yours.

When you reach your room, you slip your clothes off and get in the shower. You hadn’t realized how tight your back was earlier - the knots in your upper back are causing aches in your lower back. The hot water loosens the tension, and you can finally relax.

As you’re toweling off from your shower, your phone buzzes.

colton parayko

So, is it weird to ask if you’re free tomorrow?

Maybe being alone in St. Louis isn’t that bad after all.

And hey - 

You’re not really alone, are you?

[ikeservant]

Hello hope you are doing well!!! Can I ask for hc for Kenshin, Ieyasu, and Hideyoshi (or anyone else you want) discovering that MC is a hardcore otaku who thirsts over anime/otome boys😂😂? Maybe Sasuke gotta help explain to the warlords what even anime/otome is XD Thank you all the time I love your stuff!!!

Ahh thank you so much!I love this prompt lol! I’m dummy weak thinking about a bunch of 1500s warlords finding out in the future that people write headcanons/fanfics/fanart of them dream about fictional dudes. I’m people 😂. Also put what genre/type of anime they’d be into if they were able to be introduced to anime and manga.

Kenshin: Probably thought that Sasuke and MC were siblings because of her using similar weird words and fangirling during the weirdest times. Sasuke would explain to him how from their time that stories and tales were widespread and had vivid illustrations that people would gather around and develop a fanbase. Would be very confused to see keychains and anime merch from MC’s bag from the future. When he asked why there were decorations of 2D men, MC excitedly explained how they were all “best boys” and tell their stories and tales, meanwhile Kenshin was glaring daggers at these fictional men that pose a threat. “Kenshin your yandere side is showing. You are the bestest boy and you’re the only one I want to wifey up.” He’ll have to ask Sasuke what half of that sentence meant, but he was pleased that he was the 3D man that she chose. If MC could bring back some manga/anime for Kenshin, he’d be in love with any war/gore and action based ones. Not necessarily for characters but how cool the action and fight scenes are and wants to try them out with Sasuke (run Sasuke).

Ieyasu: Was very confused when they first met and MC was very eager and pushy to get to know him better. “Why are you following me, you weakling?” “I know you’re a tsundere. You’re hard on the outside but gooey on the inside. I’ve played so many routes with tsunderes that I shall uncover you in no time. Just like the simulations!” *cue Ieyasu thinking MC is absolutely insane and going the complete opposite direction*. Eventually MC grew on him and he did end up softening up and falling in love (JUST LIKE THE SIMULATIONS! SCORE FOR MC). Would find a lot of the terminology MC uses weird but still made him want to learn what it meant.  Did not know what “I ship it” meant when MC chuckled that when he started complaining about Mitsunari, but rest assured will gag when he finds out. Startles MC when they’re laying in bed and he says “I.. ship us.” awkwardly trying to use her weeb terminology, earning a kiss for this cute tsundere 😉. If MC could bring back some manga/anime, he’d be very intrigued with complex characters and plots that have both dark and light elements and have an overall empowering message. Relates to characters that have a tragic backstory but endure and grow stronger and roots for them in the end. (Might imagine MC as the love interest but don’t tell MC that)

Hideyoshi: Now the first thing coming out of MC’s mouth when he decided to trust her and smile at MC while offering to be friends and help carry the vase she was carrying was “A-am I witnessing gap moe in real life?” with a look of utter awe. This confused the heck out of him, “M-my name’s Hideyoshi. Who’s Gap-Moe?” Eventually would get used to the random terminology, although very confused. When he saw the anime themed keychains and wallet in MC’s purse and asked about it, he should’ve prepared tea because that was a looong lecture that he understood nothing of but found it adorable how excited MC was talking about it. “Wait so what are fangirls?” “You know those girls in town that rush to you and gush over you? Those are fangirls. My fangirl group just goes after fictional guys.”, making him confused even more while also lowkey wishing MC was his fangirl and wondering if he is a fanboy for MC (spoiler alert: he IS. And he’s a fanboy for Nobunga). Made him realize how much MC made his kokoro go doki doki (this is the most otaku trash phrase I’ve ever said). If MC could bring manga/anime, he’d love anime where good trumps evil and heroes defeat villains because he loves imagining defeating injustice and having a happy ending for Japan while defeating the cruel enemies and rivals around Nobunga. Also loves emotional/heart wrenching love story manga and anime that make you cry and get hit hard in the feels with the characters b/c he’s such a romantic with a big heart. Would hug the hell out of MC after finishing of any of those types of series while saying that he will always love her‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚

Bonuses b/c I thought they’d be fun:

Shingen: Literally finds anything about MC fascinating, and the fact that they’re passionate about fictional stories and are so emotionally touched by them made him love that MC had a big heart, even for fictional characters. Gets a lil jealous when MC starts fawning over specific fictional dudes. When MC and Shingen are a couple and she starts talking about one of her fictional baes he’d probably literally sweep her off her feet and say something cheesy like “But can he do this” and swoop in for dat kiss. Would probably find his own meaning in the terminology and use it. “This is my waifu, my goddess, I am her biggest fanboy.” is how he’d probably introduce MC as (swoon). If MC could bring manga/anime, he’d be a hardcore sucker for romance anime and would reenact many of the romantic scenes, even the confession scenes. “Shingen we’re married. This is the 45th time you’ve confessed to me.” “But not like from this anime (´•ω•̥`). Would also like detective/mystery series bc he likes unraveling mysteries and plays behind the scenes.

Yukimura: “Not another Sasuke-speaker.” Would be hanging out with MC and Sasuke and listening to the weird terminologies. Would also probably make fun of MC at first for her fantasizing about fictional men and having merch of them saying “Is that cuz you can’t get a real life man?” (cue the heated arguing). Would eventually be intrigued by some of the story plots MC tells him and would eventually fall for her nerdiness and everything. Would ask Sasuke for help on coming up how to confess to MC like in the anime and otome games she talks about (A for effort, my boy). Would be a blushy puddle but puff his chest out if MC fangirled over him. If MC could bring anime and manga, he’d freaking LOVE superhero anime bc he just wants to save everyone and do whats right and he just looks like the type of dude that loves superheroes and superpowers and gets pumped when the hero defeats the bad guy.

Mitsuhide: Would be curious about these strange, foreign words MC says, even though its just fangirl lingo from 500 years in the future. Would probably tease MC if they had any keychains or small merch of anime characters. “Why have a pocket-sized man to love if there’s a full sized one right here.” 😉. Would find it very creative that there’s so many diverse stories and characters. Loves when MC gets excited talking about story plots, gets a lil jealous and tries steering the topic away from thirsting over the dudes. Would probably confess his feelings by saying “Is there a real life story about a kitsune falling for a foolish mouse and they become lovers for eternity?” “Not that I know of.” “Want to make that story happen?”. Would love speaking modern slang and otaku terms with MC because its like their own little love language and it also pisses Hideyoshi off since he doesn’t understand wtf they’re saying. If MC brought manga/anime, would love psychological based horror, seeing how characters react to scary situations and what’s the mental breaking point to madness, or plots with mind games and outwitting opponents bc he’s all about that big brain and likes seeing characters creatively outsmart enemies. Likes characters that are morally gray/antihero that do good but do so in unorthodox ways bc he relates to them (and is secretly smug if MC says they need more love bc it feels like she’s saying that about him too). Likes stories w/ bittersweet endings because he likes seeing the beauty in things while acknowledging the harshness and cruelty of life as well.

[samsonet]

Mum said we have to play outside

Sequel to Mum said it’s my turn on the Switch.

~

He wants to show Hop around Wyndon.

Going out in public takes preparation, though. When fans see Champion Leon, they rush to him, and they’re not always socially appropriate, either. He does not want to risk exposing Hop to any of the particular touchy ones.

So he’s not wearing his uniform today. Instead, he picks a black sweatshirt and trousers. He can’t keep his hair loose, so he ties it in a bun to hide its length. He can’t wear the crown snapback, so he’ll have to go bare-headed —

Oh, who is he kidding. He picks a different cap — this one white — and puts it on.

He steps into the living room, setting the champion cap on his brother’s head. “Hey. Have you ever been on a monorail?”

*

It turns out Hop expects the monorail to be just like the train from Wedgehurst. He gasps in surprise when the car rises and the city comes into view below them, and Leon has to laugh.

Hop’s sitting backwards, face almost pressed to the window. Leon is too big for that, so he’s sort of twisted halfway so he can watch the scenery and keep an eye on the digital display. It’s his job to make sure they stay in the safe side of the city, after all.

“Lee?”

“Yeah?”

“You really live here?”

“Hop, we literally just left my flat.”

“But how do you not get lost?”

“Oh, come on! I’m not that hopeless.”

The car passes over the dead-end street that Leon often finds himself in.

“...Charizard usually gets me where I need to go.”

Hop laughs, fogging up the glass.

As the rail goes, Leon points out landmarks. There’s the Hondew Building, there’s Sleet Street, there’s Rose Tower. And there…

“The stadium! That’s the stadium! You battle there, right?”

“Yep!”

“We gotta go see it!”

Leon forces a smile. He knew Hop would be excited to see Wyndon stadium for himself, but he had been hoping he could avoid actually going there. This was supposed to be a day off; he didn’t want to spend it at his workplace.

But Hop is giving him those big pleading eyes…

“Okay. We have to get off in three stops, then. Pay attention or we’ll miss it.”

Three stops later, Hop grabs his hand and pulls him out.

Leon spends the walk thinking about how he wants to play this. The public isn’t allowed to enter the stadium when there’s no match, and he’s not sure he wants to use his position to bend the rules. On the other hand, Hop did come all the way out here, and he should probably get to see something that most fans can’t.

Would bringing him into the locker room be cool enough? He could get to experience what Leon does before a match, sit on the benches, maybe let Wooloo out to chew on things.

But as they enter the stadium, Hop doesn’t ask about any of that. Instead, he heads right into the gift shop.

Why? He has to know that Leon would give him any merch he wanted, if he asked.

Leon follows, curious, until Hop turns around and holds up a hand. “I don’t want you to see this. It’s a secret.”

“...okay, then.”

He stands by the doorway, pretending to look at his phone. Hop disappears behind the racks.

Minutes pass. A staff member comes up and asks if he needs help, but when they recognize him, they apologize and back off.

It’s incredibly awkward, but he supposed that’s just what happens when you’re the older brother of a tween.

“Hey! Give him back!”

That’s Hop’s voice. It strikes Leon like a knife to the chest.

“‘ey,” an older boy’s voice mocks. “Gib ‘im back!”

Leon rushes toward the voices.

He finds them in the back, by a rack of posters. Hop has his fists curled and his face scrunched, like he’s about to cry. There are two teenage boys standing in front of him. One of them is holding a pokeball just out of Hop’s reach.

“You’re the one who dropped the ball, mate. If you want your Wooloo back, you gotta ask nicely.”

“I — I — please, give me back my Pokémon.”

The other boy laughs. “Dude. He looks so much like Leon.”

“He does! Do you think Leon looks like this when he begs?”

“At least Leon can talk right, though. But hey, you’re cute, too, kid.”

Alright, that’s enough.

Leon steps forward, plucking Wooloo’s ball out of the boy’s hand. He hands it to Hop, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine…”

“Good.” He turns to the boys, glaring at them. “You two had better go. Now. And don’t come back.”

They stare at him. Leon can pinpoint the moment where they put two and two together and realize that the reason “this kid” looks so much like Leon is because he’s Leon’s little brother.

“Oh shit.”

And they run like hell.

“I’m sorry about that, Hop,” he says. “Most people here are nice, I promise. I’m sorry about the bad ones.”

Hop holds his Wooloo close to his heart. “Thanks for helping me, Lee.”

“Of course! That’s what big brothers are for, right?” He glances at the rack, noting that a couple tubes have been half-pulled out. “Now. You wanted to get something, right? Is it okay if I help you look for it?”

“Yeah… I wanted… I wanted to find a poster for number twenty-one.”

Twenty-one? Who would that be… Raihan is number 241, but if he’s who Hop meant, he would’ve just called him by name. And there aren’t any major leaguers who have two-digit uniform numbers...

“Um… who’s number twenty-one?”

“Soledad. From the minor league.”

“Ah.” Soledad is… a normal-type specialist, if he remembers right. “You’re a fan of her, then?”

“Gloria is.”

“Ooooh.” He wiggles his eyebrows, letting the motion do the teasing.

“Lee!”

“Sorry! You’re so cute.”

With that, he starts searching methodically. The minor league is nowhere near as popular as the majors, but there’s gotta be some merch for them…

As it turns out, there is one singular poster with the number 21 on it. Hop smiles when he finds it, the trouble from earlier seemingly forgotten.

“How much is it?” Leon asks, pulling out his wallet.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna pay for it myself.”

“You have money?”

“Mum gave me some on my birthday.”

Hop’s birthday was months ago. Had he been saving it all this time, for this?

“Alright, I’m impressed. Go buy your friend her present. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

*

Hop does not ask to walk on the pitch. He’s not even interested in checking out the locker room. Instead, he darts about the lobby, taking deep breaths like the air itself is different. He reads every sign, looks at every screen.

Leon walks behind him, carrying the bag with the poster.

Eventually, his brother returns to his side. “I’m hungry.”

“Hello, Hungry. I’m Leon.”

Hop makes a noise that can only be described as verbal keysmashing.

“Ha! Sorry, sorry! Come on, let’s get something to eat. I know a place. Here, pull up ‘Z-Noodles’ on your phone.”

*

Z-Noodles is theoretically a fifteen-minute walk from the stadium, but Leon forgot that he has a much longer stride than Hop does. It’s okay. It just gives them more time together.

He keeps his arm around his brother’s shoulders. They don’t talk, but the silence is comfortable. If Leon had to guess, he’d say Hop is looking forward to the meal as much as he is himself.

“Lee?”

“Yeah?”

“Those guys, back in the store…”

“Oh, don’t think about them. They won’t bother you again, got it? Not as long as I’m around.”

“It’s not about that.” Hop’s face is pinched. He wrings his hands. “They were making fun of how I talk.”

“They’re just stupid, Hopscotch. They don’t like seeing anyone happy, so they’ll do whatever they can to pull you down. Don’t let them win.”

“But, Lee… you don’t talk like I talk.”

Leon bites the inside of his cheek. He does not want to explain to Hop about Wyndon’s classism problem; it had been painful enough to grow up around it. Learning the quirks the Wyndon natives had, losing his Postwick accent…

“I mean… I dinnae ken abou’ tha’. It’s all fer show, you know? I turn it on an’ off.”

Hop stares up at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

Then he breaks down laughing.

“Dinnae— dinnae ken! Oh, Lee! Can you imagine talking like that during a match? Nobody would know what you were saying!”

“I guess I’d need you to translate, then!”

Hop is smiling again. That’s all Leon wants, really — all he can ask for. He’d do anything for that smile.

*

They’re digging into some delicious ramen when Leon asks, “So, did you have fun today?”

“I did! It was lots of fun!”

“I’m glad.” Sluuuurp. “You know, if you lived here, you could see everything. You could come with me every day, and you’d get to do whatever you want.”

Hop looks down at his bowl. “Yeah.”

“I mean… I’m not trying to pressure you. It’s just… I miss you a lot, you know? And we never really have enough time to just… hang out.”

Hop sighs and mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“I wish I was Gloria’s brother.”

What.

Leon goes back through everything that’s happened since his family arrived. Has he done something to hurt him? He didn’t mean to. He doesn’t even know what it would be. Or is this something Hop has been thinking about for a while, something that grew out of the years Leon was away?

Or...

“Hop… Is this about those boys picking on you because you look like me? I’m sorry about that—”

But Hop is shaking his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s— actually, I wish Gloria was our sister. That would make everything so much easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“Then I wouldn’t have to choose between you.”

Is… is that how Hop thinks of it? Having to choose between his brother and his best friend, not being able to be there for both of them at once? In that case, it’s clear why he clings to Gloria. She’s a small girl with no family besides her mum, and she’s not even a trainer. There’s no way she can compete with Galar’s undefeated, beloved champion.

Hop must pity her.

“Hey,” Leon says, reaching over and taking Hop’s hands in his own. (Hop is so small, so delicate.) “You’re not choosing between us. You have us both. I’m going to be your brother no matter what. And I’m sure… I’m sure that Gloria will always be your friend, no matter what. It might be hard to keep up with both of us, but you can do it. I know you can.”

There. There’s that smile again. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” He squeezes Hop’s hands, then lets him go.

“But, you know, Lee…”

“Yeah?”

“If you endorsed us both for the gym challenge, then me and Gloria could come to Wyndon together.”

Leon laughs, ruffling his brother’s hair. “I’ll consider it. Now, finish your food. There’s so much more I want to show you.”

[calpalirwin]

Insecurities

Summary: You were just a girl in a bar when Ashton Irwin literally bumped into you. His interest in you, although charming, also made you question if he was serious. After all, in what world did a man like that pursue a woman like you?

And away, and away we go!

Part 4

You double checked with Ashton that he would be at the train station to pick you up as you took a seat, a suitcase that fit the carry-on requirements- you weren’t going to let Ashton pay for checking your bag in addition to your plane ticket- tucked next to you and your small backpack cradled in your lap. Finally. After two months, you were finally going to see your boyfriend. You smiled as you put on your headphones and hit play on your playlist.

The time that you were on the train passed pleasantly. You loved trains, especially when the route offered a view of the ocean like this one did.

“Love!” Ashton shouted, waving his hands over his head so you could better spot him once he caught sight of you.

You hurried over to him, the wheels of your suitcase clattering against the cobblestone pavement “Ash! God, I’ve mi-” you started to say, but got cut off by him wrapping his arms around you and lifting you up so he could kiss you without bending down. “Missed you,” you finished, already blushing as he set you down.

He opened his mouth to respond, but instead repeated his action of lifting you up off your feet. This time, you wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. His own arms were holding you securely, one arm moving from your back to hold you just under your ass. The second kiss was deep and long, as neither of you cared who was watching. All that mattered was that you were back in your boyfriend’s arms, his scruff scratching at your face. “You need to shave,” you told him, breathless as you finally separated.

“You need to stop before I gag,” Calum’s voice sounded. He had a hand resting on your suitcase that had rolled a ways off in your need to be as close to Ashton as physically possible.

“CalPal!” you greeted, skipping over to throw your arm over the other man’s shoulders and reaching up to peck his cheek. “Missed you, kid.”

“Missed you too, GalCal, but not as much as this one,” he said.

“Shut up,” Ash giggled.

~~~

“Ashton!” you shrieked as Ashton’s wet and cold body pressed against your dry and warm one.

His giggle sounded in your ear. “So cold,” his teeth clacked together as he shivered in his towel, his shorts still dripping water from his 2-minute ice bath.

“Then go get dressed, you goof,” you told him.

He mock-saluted you, with a cocky smile before disappearing.

When he emerged, dry and dressed in a jumpsuit, you scolded him. “You got my clothes wet, you jerk.” You shed your hoodie, with its damp shoulders, and sighed. “That was the only one I packed, too… Jerk,” you told him, pouting.

“Sorry, love. Let me buy you a new hoodie.”

“Ash, no,” you protested as he grabbed your hand and dragged you out of the dressing room and towards the merch table.

“Just look, at least?” he asked, his lower lip jutting outwards, making his hazel eyes go wide and sad like a puppy.

“Just a look,” you conceded. You looked over the display of hoodies, t-shirts, and other items. “Oh, that one looks cool,” you said, pointing at black bomber jacket with the small logo emblazoned in one corner. The lady working the booth handed it over for you to get a better look, saying they had every size in stock. Your eyes glanced over the pricetag before going wide. “Whoa…” you said, handing the lady the jacket back. “Uh, maybe not that one. Maybe… this instead,” you said, reaching for the simple black t-shirt that bore the same design as the jacket. You checked the price on the shirt- a little more than you normally spent on shirts, but definitely more splurgable than the jacket had been. “Yeah, perfect. Um, do you have this in a small?” you asked the lady.

“You said you needed a jacket. I would’ve bought it for you.” Ashton murmured as you modeled your purchase for him back in the dressing room.

“No,” you said, giving a shake of your head. “You’re already not letting me pay you back for the plane ticket. I’m already crashing your tour. I can buy my own merch.”

“1.) You’re not crashing anything. We all want you here with us, me especially. 2.) Why won’t you let me buy you something nice? You’re my girlfriend. Your birthday is next week. I want to spoil you.”

You smiled at him. God, the way his eyes lit up and his dimple showed when he said you were his girlfriend. The way he adored you drove you the good kind of crazy. “Well, if you bought me my own hoodie, I wouldn’t have a reason to wear yours,” you said, nodding at his hoodie that was draped over his backpack in the corner of the room.

He bit his lip as he pictured you wearing his hoodie and nothing else. Fuck, this was an argument he was more than happy to lose.

~~~

You collapsed on the couch, exhausted from dancing around, as you waited for your boyfriend to get in from his set, still reeling from the fact that this was your life. You looked up from your spot on the couch when you heard the door open, revealing a sweaty but grinning Ashton, and his equally smiling and sweaty bandmates. “You know you don’t have to hide in here, love,” he told you, planting a sloppy kiss on your forehead. “You can hang out with Crys and Si, backstage.”

“I know,” you smiled up at him, “but I needed to study.” You picked up the book you had long ago discarded in favor of your dance party as proof. In actuality, although you got along with Crystal and Sierra, you still felt on the outs. They were pretty, Crystal was a model for fuck’s sake, and you were just you. In any other timeline, the only one of them who you would probably be friends with was Michael, as he was definitely the dorkier nerd out of all the boys, although even he was hot, and talented, and engaged to a frickin model for fuck’s sake!

He frowned a little as he pressed his forehead against yours, “Okay then, college girl. You getting hungry?”

You nodded. You had all gone out to grab a bite to eat before the show, but that had been a while ago, and you were always down to eat.

“Good. Night’s almost over. We’ll go out to eat once we do our last song okay?”

“Okay.”

“Will you watch?”

“I am,” you said, nodding up at the screen on one of the walls that showed what was happening out on stage.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I watched you the other night, Ash,” you reminded him gently. After your gag-worthy hello at the train station and small disagreement over the hoodie 2 days ago, you had stood backstage completely mesmerized by the fact that 1.) this was your boyfriend and 2.) this is what he did for a living. As much as you had loved it, it wasn’t something you felt needed to be re-experienced so soon. No, you were content to have your quiet dance party by yourself. You would however, stand backstage and watch again when he did his Vancouver show in another week.

He sighed and straightened up.

As you heard the sound of water running, signalling that the other 3 boys had disappeared to shower, you assumed Ashton was off to do the same. “Want me to join you?” you offered.

He shook his head, “I’m gonna shower later. I need something to eat.” His tone was clipped, like whatever you had said was upsetting him, as he went over to his stuff to grab his wallet.

“But, you just said we’re going out to eat in a bit,” you pointed out, confused as to why he seemed mad.

“Fine, I’m gonna take a walk, okay?”

“Well, wait, I’ll come with you,” you offered, getting up.

“Alone,” he said heading for the door before you could say anything else.

You sunk back down on the couch, sighing, not sure of what just happened. Could he really fault you for hiding backstage? Couldn’t he just be glad that you were here with him?

Michael, reappearing with different clothes and damp hair, took a seat next to you, grabbing a game controller. “Want in?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m fine,” you said, still staring at the door your boyfriend had all but stormed out of.

The game controller clattered against the coffee table and the couch shifted as Michael turned to look at you. “This isn’t your scene is it?”

You took your hat off to run your hands through your hair before putting the hat back on. “No, no it’s not. Not even close.”

“He doesn’t expect it to be. That’s part of why he likes you so much. Look, we normally date 2 types of girls: those accustomed to our world, or those who are fascinated by our world. Generally we opt to those accustomed to it because they get it. They get the weird hours and long absences. But you? Well, you’re the 3rd type: unfazed. Which is good for Ash. He needs someone to call him on his bullshit and who isn’t intimidated by his lifestyle. But, he sees Crys and Si, and how they hang around backstage and cheer us on, and I think it’s hard for him to not want that for himself.”

“But, I am doing those things. Just in my own way. Out there is just too… too…”

“Loud?”

“Yeah and…” you struggled with both the words to say and whether or not to say it. “And I’m a jeans and sneakers girl. I’m not a bright colored dresses and miniskirts girl. I’m not a girl that fits his image. I’m… I’m GalCal…” you finished in defeat.

Michael chuckled, “No, you don’t exactly scream “punk band girlfriend,” that’s true. But that’s a good thing. He doesn’t need a girl to fit his image, he needs a girl that fits him.”

You didn’t get a chance to respond that they barely qualified as “punk” anymore as Ashton came back from his “walk”, a pretzel and soda in his hands. He plopped down on the other side of you and wordlessly handed you the pretzel. You tore off a piece and leaned against him, “Thanks, Ash.”

He nodded as he tore a piece of pretzel off with his teeth and chewed. He wasn’t sure why he was so bummed by you staying backstage during his set. He had seen your little dance party through the livestream of the dressing room. He wouldn’t admit it to you though, for fear you’d get embarrassed and stop, choosing instead to let you believe he believed your lie of studying. He wasn’t a school person himself, so he admired your dedication of trying to take your studies seriously. Still, he was bummed you had opted to hang out backstage. But, as he sat next to you, sharing his pretzel and soda, as you both watched the other 3 boys play their videogames, he relaxed, choosing to seek comfort that in this very moment, you were next to him and he could steal glances at you whenever he wanted to.

However relaxed he was able to get, though, disappeared when a stagehand walked in to tell them to get ready for their song. Ashton pressed a soft kiss against your forehead before getting up. Whatever anger he was still holding onto flickered out, replaced by a smile when he noticed you got up to follow him and everybody else out. “It’s not like I was studying anyway,” you admitted, grabbing his offered hand.

His smile got wider and you thought about how you’d do anything to always made sure he kept that smile. You walked out with him, hand in hand, before moving to stand by Crystal and Sierra, who were giggly and a little sweaty from the lights and dancing. Taking your cue from the girls, you giggled and danced while the boys played, then gladly followed Ashton back to the dressing room for a shower, both of you letting the warm water wash away your insecurities about dating the other.

The feeling however, was rather short-lived.

You were all out at one of those 24 hour diners, admittedly your favorite part thus far of tour life, when the bell on the door jangled, announcing the arrival of another group. “Oh, my God! Ash?!” one of the girls from the new party asked, walking over to your table.

Ashton’s eyes went wide with recognition as he scraped his chair back. “Leah, shit! Good to see you!” he said, giving her a one-armed hug- the same one-armed hug he had given you outside the coffee shop all those mornings ago. 

As he quickly introduced Leah to the group, you couldn’t help but notice that she was everything you weren’t- long hair, heels, nice makeup, even a bright miniskirt. She was what you pictured in your nightmares about the type of girl Ashton deserved to be with. You took a quick inventory of how you looked in your usual ensemble: a swipe of mascara to make your eyes appear less tired and more noticeable behind your glasses, chipped black nail polish, a hat covering up your short hair, blue jeans, slip-on Vans, a simple t-shirt, and Ashton’s hoodie to ward off the cold; basically your traditional GalCal look. A look that had you suddenly feeling inadequate next to the pretty girl at Ashton’s other side.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you said, pushing back your seat and rushing away from the table. To add to the humiliation, you tripped against the leg of your chair in your escape, stumbling forward before centering yourself and speed-walking out of the diner, ignoring the stares and the small “Love, you good?” from Ashton.

You sat down on the curb, gulping in large breaths of air. “Pull it to-fuckin-gether!” you whisper screamed at yourself. “He is dating you. You clearly sees something in you. Just let him! Why won’t you let him in?” you continued to berate yourself as your mind spiraled to put the pieces together. You used to not think so low of yourself. You used to think that it mattered more that you were kind and funny, and smart rather than pretty. What had happened to that girl who didn’t care gave no shits about what people thought of her, because she was comfortable with who she was? 

“Oh, you stupid fuck…” you muttered as you realized it was your ex that turned you into this. He had started out much like Ashton had, liking that you were way more tomboy than girly girl, liking that you guys could get places on time because you didn’t take forever to get ready, liking that you were independent enough to not be clingy, but dependent enough to be available for him. It was a slow build to him becoming turned off by all the things he swore he loved about you. When you first cut your hair to the style you now had, he made an offhand remark about how it’d be hard for him to pull your hair in bed. When you went shopping for new jeans, he pointed out the skirts and dresses instead. And when you began to get comfortable around his boys, he started flirting with girls right in front of you. The final straw was when he began parading those girls around in front of you. You accused him of not loving you for you. He accused you of being a jealous whore- a class act of a man, really. And in the end, you had left, swearing that 1.) you would never change yourself for any guy and 2.) you’d never be stupid enough to fall for the guy who said he liked you because you were different. And then Ashton had bumped into you with his broad arms, slight accent, and an irresistible giggle and you thought maybe, just maybe, this loud guy with a soft side and even softer touch, might be worth the risk that came with falling in love. Oh shit… were you in love with Ashton Fuckin Irwin?! Damn it… of course you were. How could you not be in love with him?

“For a college girl, you’d think you know how to find a bathroom,” your boyfriend said as he sat down next to you on the curb.

“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” you asked, annoyance barely masking the shaking in your voice.

“Is this about earlier? Aw, love, c’mon… I’ve been on tour for 2 months. Can you really blame me for being upset you don’t want to see my shows when you agreed to be here with us for 2 weeks? I know you got to study for school, but you could’ve said no. It would’ve sucked, but I would’ve understood.”

“Maybe I should’ve,” you muttered, more to yourself about the whole dating Ashton thing, than in response to his asking if you wanted to join him for this part of the tour.

“Well, you don’t have to stay.” 

There it was: the out. The out where no one had to be the bad guy; where you could both admit you were in over heads, no hard feelings, clean cut. But, that’s not what you wanted. You wanted to not have any insecurities like you used to. You wanted to stay with your boyfriend on tour. And you wanted more than anything for him to love you as is, no changes necessary- the same way you were beginning to love him. “I want to stay though,” was what you managed to say.

“Good, I want you to stay, too.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? You’re my girlfriend. I’ve missed you.”

“But this…” you said, gesturing at nothing, “this isn’t me. This isn’t my life. I mean, it’s LA so it is technically my life,” you began to ramble, so you finished up with “but, my life is here, not out there.”

He turned to look at you, his sad hazel eyes piercing into your boring brown ones. Jesus, fuck, everything about him was interesting and you were just so fucking boring. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I don’t fit into your world. I’m not a girl who wears tight skirts and does up her long hair. I’m not like that,” you said gesturing to the diner. “I’m just me, okay? A boring nobody.” And with that, the floodgates opened and you sobbed.

He rubbed at his face in irritation. “Why do you always think you’re not good enough for me?” he asked, his voice low as if he was more asking himself that rather than you.

“Because I’M NOT!” you scream-sobbed at him, your voice echoing around the empty parking lot. 

“That’s bullshit!” he laughed at your lie. “God, that is such bullshit,” he continued to chuckle in disbelief, rubbing at his face again and letting out an irritated sigh.

The next sob got stuck in your throat. Was he laughing at you? Really? Now? “Well… I mean… Leah… she…” you gave up trying to hiccup through the words and just sighed before revealing everything you ex had done to damage your sense of worth, how he had made you feel much like Ashton made you feel now, before it got ruined. “You deserve girls who look like models, not GalCals” you finished sadly. “You’re gonna get bored of me, okay?”

A small smile crept across his lips and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap. One of his hands cupped your chin, tilting it so you could look up at him. “I could never get bored of you. I love you.”

“You what?!”

He let out a small chuckle before repeating himself, “I love you. Every part of you.”

“What about your image?”

“If anyone should be worried about their image being ruined, it’s you, love.”

“Ash…” you whined, desperately needing him to take this seriously. 

“I mean it. You don’t think I get insecure or jealous seeing you hunched over a desk with a stack of books? You’re smarter than me by a landslide.”

“How do you do it? Not let it get to you?” you asked him, smiling at his admission.

He shrugged and held you tighter. “I hold on to the belief that you’re with me for the same reason I’m with you. Crazily head over heels in love.”

You smiled up at him. “I am. In love with you, that is. Crazily head over heels in love with every single part.”

“Oh, thank God!” he giggled. “Cuz Leah’s my cousin, and she likes Cal so that was never gonna work out.”

“Seriously?!”

He giggled again, “Dead serious. She’s probably crushing on you, too.”

“Ashton…” you growled, both at the omission of Leah being his cousin and the “GalCal” bit.

“Well, if you had waited a few seconds before running off, you would’ve known that,” he tsked.

You lowered your head, feeling very stupid for your behavior. “Sorry. For seeming like I wasn’t supporting you back at the show and for letting my insecurities get in the way. I’ll watch your shows from backstage, okay? And try to not let my insecurities eat me alive.”

“It’s fine, love. I was a jerk for being mad. I guess I just wanted to see your little dance party for myself.”

“Wait, what?” you asked, heat rising to your cheeks.

He giggled again and took out his phone to show you the live feed of the dressing room. “We have it for security reasons. I saw you the whole time, love.”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest. “I’m just gonna go die now.”

“How ‘bout we just go to the bus and we can have our own party?” he hinted suggestively, before kissing you fiercely.

[jessiesgirl0702]

Damn These Dreams

Part 4 A few more weeks had passed, and Chris seemed to be sleeping without the medicine; every now and again, he'd have a nightmare, but they seemed to fade, the more he stopped thinking about the miscarriage. He was glad the nightmares had stopped before he went on the road again; he didn't want all the boys knowing he was on the medicine, even though most of them knew, because Kevin was with them when Amber had called him about it. Chris ran around the house, trying to get all of his clothes and everything he needed on the road together. "Baby, have you seen my wallet?! I can't find it anywhere!" "Just take a deep breath, Chris. You're going crazy, and forgetting everything." Chris stopped pacing, and took a deep breath. "Now that you're calmish, go check your nightstand." He ran upstairs, checking his nightstand; when he found it, right where Amber said it would be, he quietly thanked her. She swore, if his head wasn't attached to his body, he'd lose it too. He ran back downstairs, wrapping her in a hug. "Thank you, baby." He pressed a kiss to her lips, leaving her breathless. "Are you coming with me this time?" "I have to be at the shop this weekend, baby.." Chris sighed, wanting his wife to go with him. "Honey, we have people we trust running the shop, plus, remember us talking about one weekend we were going to bring merch from the shop, to see how well it sells at shows?" Amber nodded, almost forgetting about that discussion. "Do you want to do it this weekend, then?" Chris nonchalantly smiled, nodding. "Alright, goober, but no bringing me out on stage," "But baby.." "I said no." Chris sighed, trying to come up with a way to get her out on stage, for at least one song. "Well, now you need to get ready, missy." Amber smiled at Chris, running upstairs, grabbing enough clothes for the weekend. "I'll be down in a second!" "Well, hurry up!" Amber scurried across their room, grabbing designs for the new line; she wanted to show Chris, but not until she knew they were perfect. "Are you done yet?" "Yeah, I'm coming!" Amber tucked her designs in her bag, hoping Chris wouldn't find them in there. "It took you like 10 minutes to grab like 3 outfits?" "Actually it's like 6, but yeah, I have so many options here, and I don't have to ever pick my clothes out until I'm gonna put them on, so I had to make sure I grabbed cute enough clothes." Chris chuckled, patting her butt implicating that she needed to take her stuff outside, so they could go meet the bus. "Since you wanted me to go, you're in charge of calling the store, and telling the girls I won't be in this weekend, and that we need shirts, hoodies, hats, and koozies at each show this weekend." Chris nodded, pulling his phone out, calling the store. "Lucky Number Seven, this is Amanda, how may I help you?" "Hey, Amanda, its Chris; I'm just letting you know that we're on our way to the store to pick up some merch. Amber is going to sell some at the shows this weekend." "Okay, what do you need, mister Young?" "Amanda, what have I told you time and time again about calling me that?" "Not to.." "That's right; now, we need tees, tanks, hats, hoodies, and koozies." "Yes sir; I'll have those ready for you. Approximately how much do you think you'll need?" Chris looked at Amber, mouthing 'how much do we need?' Amber thought for a moment, before answering. "I'd say 2 cases of each size for each show." Chris nodded, before passing the word along to Amanda. "Probably 2 cases of each size, per show. That also means 2 cases of hats and koozies for each show." "Okay, Chris, I'll have that ready for you guys." "Thanks, Amanda! Have an amazing day." "You too, sir." Chris hung the phone up, and then finished putting the rest of the bags in the back seat, leaving the bed for the merch they were bringing with. "I sure hope that's enough; you know people are going to go crazy over it." "I know, but this is just a test run, remember?" "I know, but if people go crazy for it in store and online, just imagine what they'll do at a concert." Amber nodded, showing she understood. "I think we're ready to head to the store." Chris nodded, hopping in, and heading towards the store, excited for this weekend, knowing it was the first weekend in a long time that Amber had gone to all of his shows since the store opened. Amber looked at the mass of boxes of merch, shaking her head. "What, babe?" "I really hope this goes over well..." "I think it will, sweetheart. With how the sales go on store, I think people will definitely take advantage of it being at our shows." Amber nodded, and then climbed into the truck so they could head to the bus. "So, when we get on the bus, where are we going to put all of these cases of merch?" "I don't know yet, but we'll figure something out." Amber nodded again, as they headed towards where the bus was, hoping it wouldn't rain and ruin the merch. When they got to the bus, it had just started to sprinkle; the boys worked as fast as they could to get the merch into the bus, so it wouldn't get wet. "Looks like we just got here just in time." "No kidding. Thankfully there was enough room on the bus to put them on there." "Yeah, but can we move comfortably in there now?" Chris nonchalantly disregarded the question, and changed the subject. "Alright, so since we got everything on the bus, are we ready to head out?" Everybody cheered, climbing onto the overly packed tour bus. "Where's the other bus, with Monty, Terry, and Mason?" "Uhm, probably at the venue, why?" "Well, I was just thinking that they could take some of the merch with them, and we'd take some, but never mind now." "Oh, well, were just gonna have to deal with it for now." Amber nodded, trying to figure out how they were going to move comfortably, with all the boxes in the way. When they finally arrived at the venue, Amber and Chris had fallen asleep, due to moving the boxes from the store; Kevin poked his head into their room, hoping they weren't doing anything, let alone naked. He sighed in relief when they were fully clothed, and just cuddling. "Pst, Chris, wake up." Chris groaned, not wanting to get up. "Chris, were at the venue. Come on, man, you've got to get up." Chris sighed, unwrapping himself from Amber, hoping she didn't wake up when he shifted, let alone climbed out of bed. "Why did you get me up? I was sleeping so good man. Do you know the last time I slept that good?" "Probably before the nightmares. But, I got you up, because Rob wanted to talk to you." Chris sighed, rolling his eyes, not wanting to deal with any bull shit; he walked out of his room, and Rob was sitting on the couch. "What do you need to talk to me about?" Rob looked up at Chris, from his phone. "What's all of this shit?" "What shit?" "These boxes, Chris." Chris looked around, remembering what the plan for the weekend was. "Oh, yeah, we brought Lucky Number Seven merch with us; we wanted to see how well it sold at shows, since it sells out fast in the store." "I see; and don't you think you should have ran that by me first?" "Not really." "Who's gonna a run that stuff? Because the merch guys already have their hands full with the tour stuff. They don't need to have anymore added to it." Chris exhaled sharply, trying to stay calm. "Well, you see, I do have a wife that runs the store back home, so she can do it before and after the show." "And what about during the show?" "1. Lucky Number Seven will not be sold during the show. 2. How often is merch actually sold during the show?" "Whatever, Chris. You're just getting too much on your plate, when you're not even the one that's in charge of doing any of that. You're just the one on stage." "Just trust me on this; we've got this worked out." Rob rolled his eyes, walking out of the bus. "Whatever, Chris. If this doesn't work, so help me." "What are you gonna do?" "I don't know, but I'm gonna do something." Chris chuckled, walking back into his room, where Amber was now sitting up, slightly confused with bedhead. "Did you have a good nap, gorgeous?" "Yeah, until you got up... where did you go anyways?" "Rob wanted to talk to me; he's being a dick right now." "Oh.." Chris nodded, wrapping Amber in a hug, and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I hope you're ready for the craziness of the weekend." Amber bit her lip, hoping she was ready for it too.

[theramblingonesie]

Sweet Tooth Sal: Criminal Intent

It started off as just any other Tuesday at the theater. My staff was working hard selling tickets and restocking the merch, the event organizers were running around town dropping off paperwork and making sure our special guests stayed special, and the volunteers were taking the time and care to explain to me that they knew how to do my job. I was busy running my tiny world in stilettos, saving customers’ lives one light switch and one lost pair of glasses at a time.  Our shows were running on time, the theater was clean, and audience members were engaged in lively, thought-provoking discussions.

And then, it happened.  For what some might argue was only a trivial $3.79, my world went black.

*************************************************************************

Being the venue manager at a film festival is pretty cool.  On one hand, it’s very long hours and you basically miss everything. On the other, you have the opportunity to meet some wonderful artists, and feel proud when your work helps to create a safe container to transport audiences into other worlds—worlds of deeper feeling and meaning, worlds of pleasure and escapism, worlds of introspection, connectiveness, and healing.  I know that being middle management is kind of the butt of many elitist jokes, but in this particular position, I really enjoy it.  I have enough autonomy and control that I’m able to have fun with my staff and our environment, encouraging everyone to work hard but also explore their creativity and prioritize their individual needs. At the same time, I have the joy of getting out of customer complaint jail by saying “yeah, that’s a total bummer, but I don’t make the rules. Feel free to chat with my boss, but in the meantime let’s work to make you comfortable.” Or even, “yeah, I ALSO wish we sold beer and wine here. I know, we’re the worst. For what it’s worth, I’m also suffering by being sober.  Enjoy the show!”

*Goes into the back room and pours a glass of Prosecco that my amazing boss brought me*

Even with minor frustrations and moments of stress, the joy and love of the event wash over it all and return me to a space of inner peace and purpose.

Except for one time. That one fateful Tuesday.  Let’s return to our story.

**************************************************************************

As I return to the lobby from testing the microphones, the sea of a buzzing audience parts to show me a gentleman waiting, unattended, at the merch table. I come around the corner to discover that it’s not a customer, but a roaming staff member who has, to this point, caused me a lot of frustration.  Daily, this person has squeezed me out of my office space, and demanded extra tasks and favors that are not only a part of my job description, even though he is not someone who has any authority over me.  I frequently wonder, every time he comes by, why on earth he’s even in the building.  There is another man who carries the same job title, who is ever-lovely and a joy to be around.  But this man, this particular pain in my ass, is just oblivious, to say the least.

We’ll call him Sweet Tooth Sal.  

I come around to the back of the merch table and flatly ask, “Hey Sal. What do you need?”

“Hey Sam! Let me buy one of those chocolate bars!”

“We don’t sell chocolate bars here, Sal. Per usual, we only ever have water.”

“Oh, well shoot. I just ate the chocolate that was in the back room, so I figured I’d just give you a couple bucks to grab another one.”

 See: Flames.

Sentence example: Flames on the side of my face.

 For those of you who don’t know me, let me explain my relationship with chocolate.

Chocolate is sacred.

Chocolate is necessary.

Chocolate is life.

Reece’s is not chocolate.

Hershey’s is not chocolate.

Chocolate costs a minimum of $3.00 per bar.

Chocolate tells me I’m beautiful and holds me when I cry.

Chocolate tells me I’m a boss when I’m stressed at work.

Chocolate is the first to celebrate my successes with me.

Chocolate rescues me when my blood sugar drops from forgetting to eat.

Chocolate is a gift to my friends.

Chocolate is for sharing with people I love.

 CHOCOLATE NEEDS TO BE ASKED FIRST.

 I had purchased three very special chocolate bars to keep in the breakroom for the duration of the festival for all of the above reasons. Said chocolate is only sold at one specific store in the area, so they’re not easily replaced. And of all people, I was not interested in sharing with Sal.

My oscillation between rage and shock happened too quickly for my brain to fully connect with my mouth.

“No, Sal. That was my personal chocolate. It was very special chocolate that you can’t buy here. You can only buy it at (insert health food store name). It’s not cheap.”

“Oh, well, you left it out in the breakroom, so I figured it was for everyone.”

“It’s not for everyone. It’s mine. I had it tucked off to the side.”

“Yeah I was gonna replace it, but since you don’t sell it here, whoops! Sorry!”

What could I do? I was stunned! I know, most of you are reading this like, “I WOULDA PUNCHED HIM IN THA FACE!!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA SCREAMED AT HIM! I WOULDA MADE HIM DROP TO HIS KNEES AND TURN OVER HIS WALLET!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA CALLED THE COPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA CUT HIS TONGUE OUT AND FRAMED IT ON THE WALL AS A WARNING TO ALL THOSE WHO DARE EVER CROSS ME AGAIN, AND THEN DOX HIM ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I’m sure you would have.

I, on the other hand, hate confrontation, and offered a mousy, ‘splainy finger-wag as my whole body shook:

“Um…well, Sal…uh, that breakroom is, um, for like, festival theater staff, and it also belongs to the theater’s regular staff year-round, so y’know, we need to be mindful of sharing space, and it’s really…uh it’s nice…you…we all need to ask before we take other people’s food cuz maybe someone brought something that was very special to them or mmm maybe they can’t afford to replace it, but like, it’s just good to ask first cuz yeah…”

 I think I made it as far as “uh, that breakroom is, um” before he turned around and walked away.  The rest of my mumbling was done at his back, and probably continued after he had turned the corner and closed the theater door behind him.

YEAH, GO GET HIM, TIGER. YOU REALLY PUT HIM IN HIS PLACE.

So I did the only thing one in my position could reasonable do.

 I texted all of my friends about it.

 I felt better after speaking with them, as they totally confirmed the rudeness of the situation. I settled comfortably back into my chair and began slowly burning each letter of Sweet Tooth Sal’s name into my dead-to-me list.

The next day, as I was running around doing my usual duties, Sweet Tooth Sal pulled me aside and said, “hey. I’m sorry about yesterday. I got you this”, and he handed me a new chocolate bar. I inspected the bar. It was dark chocolate with espresso. It looked nice. The ingredient list checked out. Again, I was in shock, but I took a deep breath, looked up and said, “thank you, Sal. That’s very kind.”

A new anger bubbled up inside of me. It was strange.  I knew I should have felt relieved, that justice was served, and that it was time to shift into a space of forgiveness.  But for whatever reason, I was almost angrier. I was angry that I couldn’t be angry at STS anymore, and then angry at myself for not being a more enlightened human who could just accept and move on.

I paced. I paced for what seemed like eternity.  I texted my friends again, venting how angry I was about not being allowed to be angry anymore, because he technically did the right thing.  I was bitter. I was bitter that he finally gave me a solid reason to write him off, an obvious offense, and then took it back, putting me back into a place of dealing with the guilt over just generally disliking him.

I sat at my desk stewing and eating the chocolate.  I wondered what was happening inside of me that made me so attached to my anger, and then re-anger upon un-angering.  As I contemplated, STS came back out of the theater and slimed his way behind the merch table and right up next to me.

“Hey Sam. So, heh, a guy buys a girl a chocolate bar to say he’s sorry, and then comes out of a movie to ask if she’ll split it with him. Whaddaya say?”

“Yes.” I replied. “Absolutely; help yourself.”

“Thanks! Yeah I just kinda grabbed this from the other theater. Is it any good?”

“Oh, it’s delicious. Yes.”

My righteous anger returned. I was elated.

STS returned to the movie, and I completed his name on the dead-to-me list. Glowing.

And then I released it.

****************************************************************************

When I tell this story to other folks, I get a mixed reaction. Mainly, due to the purposely absurd delivery, most just get a laugh out of it.  Some see my behavior as cowardly, others understand the depth and layers of my reaction, many a combination of both.

Anger, in the kingdom of emotions, is one of my closest friends and dearest allies. Due to my specific cocktail of mental illness and trauma, I have horrible boundaries.

I am terrified of saying no. Even when I say no, I feel like a bad person and my abandonment fears kick in.

I don’t want to be the loser, the prude, the psycho, the dummy, the weakling, etc. 

I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings or be a disappointment.

I don’t want to be the cause of pain, and I don’t want people to dislike me.

I don’t want people to lash out at me, shame me, or attack my core in a defensive, hostile response to me saying no.

I don’t want to be left out in the future because of the one time I had to say no.

 Does this sound like most women you know?

Anger, in its healthy expression, is simply “no”.  It’s not throwing chairs. It’s not ripping out someone’s heart. Sure, those actions may follow the initial inner anger signal, but that’s not the essence of anger itself. I will repeat this over and over again—

Anger is the signal inside of you that says a violation has occurred and you need to set a boundary.

That could be anywhere from your favorite mug being left out dirty-- “Ugh, boo, no. Hey friend, do you mind just washing my mug after using it? Thank you!”

To finding out your partner has cheated on you-- “FUCK YOU NOOOO. We’re going to therapy.”

To hearing horrors in the news-- “NO, I will not stand for this. I’m registering to vote and donating to those who can help.”

The word “violation” feels big and extreme, yah? It doesn’t have to be that way. Whether it’s a little grr or a big grr, it’s important to know when our bodies are saying, “hm, this doesn’t feel good”, the same way we learn to understand our food cravings.  When we crave a certain food, that doesn’t mean we’re starving and have a nutritional deficiency so low that we need to go to the hospital. It just means, hey, this thing wants our attention so this beautiful machine can stay powered up and healthy. We don’t need to wait until we black out on the floor before changing our diets, just as we don’t need to wait for a heart-breaking tragedy for us to admit we feel hurt, unsafe, or disrespected.

I try to remind myself of this on the regular, because I still struggle with it.  I hold onto my anger for dear life, because it’s the only emotion that helps me to feel safe. As a person with very loose and questionable boundaries, I am very easily manipulated and taken advantage of. I have a talent for attracting people with hidden agendas, control issues, and narcissistic personality traits, as well as being the person that will bring out dirty behavior in people who are otherwise fine around others.  I used to view this from the lens of a person with a strong victim complex.  These days, as I no longer wish to have that be my identity, I recognize how deeply people’s energetic signatures affect us and influence certain behavior, and my role in how what I feel/present will elicit certain behaviors in others.  A frequent conversation I have with friends—

Friend: “Huh, that’s so weird. That person’s never done that to me.”

Me: “Of course they didn’t. Because you have self-esteem/social status.”

For people like me, as we’re navigating the path of being adults and figuring out how to heal ourselves, anger may be our saving grace. As the storyteller in me presents the bit about Sweet Tooth Sal through humor and drama, the human in me knows exactly what was going on in my head at the time.  This man had been behaving in an entitled, arrogant, rude manner for days.  Because I didn’t want to be seen as an oversensitive asshole, nor did I want to create a tense environment (which usually happens whenever I stand up for myself or my friends; also, people get really flipped out when tiny femme-presenting women are assertive) I just kept “letting it go”.  When he pulled this shit with my chocolate, it wasn’t about the chocolate at all. If it were anyone else there, I probably would have laughed and said, “you owe me a drink, you jerk!” Or, “oh please, I’m happy to share. Which one did you try? Isn’t it so good?”

But this man represented everything I hate about fragile masculinity and entitlement.  He was white, middle-aged, a social climber, a misogynist, and pushed my staff and I around as if we revolved around him.  As soon as he gave me a direct, personal reason to dislike him, I took it.  It felt good, because that part of me that was angry every time he was in the building was saying, “thank you for setting this boundary. Now we don’t need to engage with him.”  When he wanted my forgiveness, the part of my mental illness that leaves me easily taken advantage of became activated and scared. My anger jumped up and said, “but we felt safe when you were angry and had to tell him no. If you drop this, he will hurt us again. He’s manipulating you into not holding him accountable for him behavior; please don’t let this slide.”

But then my social conditioning kicked in and shamed me by saying, “y’know, people think you’re a terror and weak-minded for your anger. You’re a joke. Healthy people let things go.  Healthy people don’t cry about everything. If you don’t forgive him, it just means you’re a hateful person who likes discord. No one is going to believe your side, and he’s gonna tell the organizers that you’re a bitch and you’ll never get hired back.”

Conflicted, I just sat there and prayed, as I often do in situations where I feel stuck like this.  I kept saying, “I need to be angry, but I’m so scared to say so because he’ll just attack me and call me crazy. Everyone else will say he’s nice and I’m just creating problems. Please, please universe. I don’t trust that this person will miraculously wake up and stop being a pain in the ass. Please let him show his true colors again so I don’t have to go digging for them to prove a point. JUST GIVE ME A REASON.”

Moments later he did.  So when I laugh about being pleased about regaining permission to be angry, it’s not about being happy that this guy is a jerk.  In an ideal situation, it would have been great if he was never a jerk at all. It was the relief that he did the dirty work to prove my point, and I didn’t need to go through the painful emotional labor to call him out for it.  I was already exhausted from chasing after him all week for going into places that were off limits, throwing his equipment all over my paperwork and computer, tossing about my merch organization, and interrupting me in the middle of my job so I could serve him with something that was 100% his responsibility, only to have him unapologetically puff off and have mini-mantrums every time in response.

“But, but you told him it was fine! That’s a lie, and passive aggressive!”

Yep. You’re right. But with some people, you just have to smile while you hand them the shovel, tell them what a beautiful hole they’ve dug, and then walk away, because you’ll probably never get through to them with reason or vulnerability. And I found that, since I settled in my mind on him being total turd and no longer wrestling with whether or not I was supposed to like him, it was far easier for me to set boundaries for the rest of the week, because I had 0 investment in us getting along.  Whatever special treatment he wanted and wherever he wanted to go that was not accessible, I just smiled and said no.  I didn’t try to excessively explain myself or blame myself for his inconveniences. I just said no, gave him an option or two about how he could find an alternative, and then let him figure it out.

I think this story is important, because a lot of people assume that since I’m directing a project all about women’s anger, then I must be some kind of expert. Some people have called me the Queen of Anger.

I’m not.

More like, Queen of Self-Doubt Who Constantly Questions Her Reality And Just Wishes People Respected Her But Is Too Afraid To Ask For It And Why Can’t They Do It Without Being Told.

I really, really struggle with anger, which is why it’s so fascinating to me.  I’m often either trying to hide it, or exploding when it builds up too much.  By creating The Scarlet Tongue Project, part of my intention is to contribute to developing a world where women who struggle like me, and anyone else who struggles like them, don’t need to be afraid of this emotion anymore, and we can use it authentically to create the brightest, healthiest, loving lives we can.

If something hurts you today, I hope you are able to give yourself permission to be angry and say no.  If you don’t feel ready for that yet, but want to learn more about women who do, you can help out by supporting the Patreon for my film project at https://www.patreon.com/thescarlettongueproject

Thank you for reading!

 https://www.patreon.com/thescarlettongueproject