#making me feel like she wasn’t very experienced w the kind of haircut I was asking for

[bssaz97]

Fun Times #1

*Atlas Academy, Recreation Room*

The RWBYNOR group have been experiencing a problem that many Huntsmen experience from time to time....boredom. They had no missions as of late and everything else was pretty much run of the mill errands to do. Something that they all either didn’t want to do or found too tame. The door to the rec room opens and comes in Jaune Arc with frizzed hair and a ‘STOP’ sign he got from his babysit- er, primary school voluntary work. He took a look at the room around him and found a spot to sit at on the end of a couch, in between RWBY and NOR. He sat down and sets the sign on his lap.

Yang: ....Ok I’ll bite, what happened to you Vomit Boy? Did those kids become rascals and tried to climb you like a tree?

Jaune: Pff, I wish, the kids were fine. It’s the mothers of those kids that I had to ward off.

Ruby: Wait what? Those ladies are still giving you trouble?

Jaune: (Rubs his face) No, it’s not that, they’re actually very friendly. A bit too friendly. I swear I had so many of them trying to ‘thank me’ for taking care of their kids that it’s really starting to get on my nerves. I think I’ve been given so many casseroles from Mrs. Lars that it’s starting to pile up in the fridge faster than we can get rid of.

Ruby: Well have you tried I don’t know......telling them to back off or that you’re not interested in their advances.

Jaune: I’ve thought about doing that but I’m worried that if I do that and they take it the wrong way, or maybe they aren’t trying to flirt with me and were just trying to be nice in a over friendly way and they’ll look at me like I’m the one getting the wrong idea.

Nora: Mmm. That’s a good point, a lot of ways they could spin it to make it seem you’re the bad guy. Thirsty moms are a scary thing.

Ruby:(Murmurs) I’ll give 'em something to be scared about....

Jaune: What was that Ruby?

Ruby: What? I didn’t say anything. I was....thinking about that casserole that you mentioned. I’m gonna go get some! (Saying the last statement very tightly then left for the kitchen)

Oscar: So, I’m gonna assume we’re going to be having casserole again for dinner?

Nora: Looks like it. I gotta say, I loved the idea of you getting more attention from the ladies because of the new haircut, but now it’s starting to become old. I miss eating other food!

Blake: Maybe we can go out somewhere to eat so that we have something to do.

Weiss: Actually that does remind me of something. Winter said that the academy was going to be holding a ceremony for a class reunion for older Atlas graduates that she’s going to be attending this evening. Perhaps we can go there.

Oscar: Wouldn’t you all need clearance for that from Ironwood?

Weiss: Nonsense, the event is open to all the Atlas students and hunters, besides it more of a formality for old friends to reacquaint with old peers.

Blake: Well that could be fun. What do you think Yang? ....Yang?

She turned to see that her partner was locked on to her scroll and was having a content smile. Yang looked to be texting someone when all of a sudden she feels a nudge on her shoulder. Yang looks away from the screen and sees everyone’s eyes looking at her inquisitively.

Yang: (Closes her scroll) Haha! Sorry guys you were saying?

Nora: Well.~ You seemed in a good mood, who were you texting?

Yang: Hmm. Oh! I was just reading a message from a pen pal of sorts.

Weiss: Pen pal? I wasn’t aware you had kept in contact with any social relationships outside the rest of us.

Yang: Well Weisscream, I’m sorry to disappoint but I do have a life outside of you all and saving the world. Plus you can’t tell me talking to the same people everyday doesn’t sometimes get on your nerves.

Weiss: Hmm. Fair point. So who are they?

Yang: Oh they’re called Nunya.

Weiss: ‘Nunya’? That’s a interesting name.

Yang: Yeah and their full name is Nunya Business!

Weiss: What kind of name is.....Hey wait a minute!

The other remaining friends starts to laugh at the expense of former heiress. While on of the more intellectual of the group, slang was still foreign to her.

Weiss: Alright! Alright! I get that I walked myself into that one. Sense you are not willing to reveal the identity of your friend Xiao-Long, I will not pry any more.

Yang: Great. Glad to hear Weisscream. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna go to the dorm.

Blake: You’re not going to the ceremony with us?

Yang: Sorry Blakey but I’m gonna be flying solo tonight. Miss me too much you guys!~

With that Yang left the rec room and was out of sight from the group.

Jaune: Well sense she’s gonna be doing her own thing, maybe we should try going out someplace fun. Be nice to spend with people my age than moms and kids. By the way is Ruby back yet? She’s been in the kitchen for awhile.

Ren: I’ll check. (Walks from couch to rec room Kitchen) Ruby were you able to-

Ruby is seen looking at a burning pile of what smelt of casseroles in a trash bin. She looks at Ren and they make eye contact for a brief moment before he slowly backtracked his steps and made his way back to the couch.

Ren: Just checked with Ruby, turns out we’re out of casserole. Went bad.

Jaune: Dang it! I knew we wouldn’t be able to finish them before they spoiled.

Ruby:(Coming back from kitchen) Welp! Since we’re out of food, I vote we go do something fun! Maybe we could get Penny to join along.

Weiss: I think she maybe too busy attending the ceremony with Winter as she’s a Atlas representative.

Ruby: Oooohhh yeah. Bummer.

Jaune: Hey Ruby how about we all go see that new movie that we’ve been seeing on the posters lately?

Oscar: Can I come along?

Ruby: Oh, sure I don’t see why not? Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah that’s sounds good the more the merrier!

Oscar: Yes!

Nora: Well you can count us in too! Beats going to a snore fest like a social event. (Grabs Ren and wrapped her arm around him)

Weiss: Well I guess that just leaves you and me Blake.

Blake: You know actually I noticed that the Atlas library had a book that really seemed interesting to read-!

Weiss:(Grabbing her via summon arm) Oh no you don’t! I refuse to attend this event by myself, and you’re the only one singled out by everyone here. So dare try to weasel your way out of this!

Blake: But-! Books!

Weiss: (Dragging her friend to the exit of the rec room exit) They aren’t going to grow legs and run away, they’ll be there when we return.

Blake:(Whimpers)

Soon both W and B of team of their group left the rec room leaving only five of the eight friends by themselves.

Jaune: Guess that just leaves us. Kinda funny, this may be one of the first times we’ve had a chance to hang out as team RNJR.

Ruby: Wait really?! ....oh yeah! Oh this’ll be great then, this will be just like when we had time to relax during our time in Anima!

Nora: Oh yeah Team RNJR is back baby! Wait a minute, we have Oscar with us so that does kind of chance the name a bit.

Ren: So what should we call this arrangement then?

Nora:Hmmmmmmmmmmm.

Jaune: Guys we don’t need necessarily a new name for the group, we’re just going to see a movie, not fight a final boss Grimm.

Ruby: Besides, it’s just like Jaune said, doesn’t matter what we’re called. As long as we’re together. (Smiles)

Nora: Yeah you’re right. I’ll think of something later. Anyway let’s make this night a killer!

Ruby/Jaune: Yeah!

Ren/Oscar: Yeah.

*RWBY Dormitory*

Yang entered the room and sighed. That was a close one, she almost didn’t think they would let her leave that easily. Before she could think about the matter further she felt her scroll vibrate as her friend had messaged her once more. She opened the scroll to view the message.

White_Knight: Are you still up for tonight? I didn’t rush you too soon did I?

White_Knight: I could always reschedule!

Sun_Dragon: Nah . You’re good, just my friend was trying to be nosey.

Sun_Dragon: Anyway, you still want to go see that new horror flick that’s out now? Heard it’s supposed to be intense.

White_Knight: Most definitely. I’ve reserved private seats for us on top where we won’t have anyone being ‘nosey’ as you say it.

Sun_Dragon: Really?! Dang I thought reserving a seat was hella expensive on primere night!

White_Knight: Never to fear, I have good connections so the seats are very much legit.

Sun_Dragon: ....bet?

White_Knight: On everything.

Sun_Dragon: Geez Knight, keep tryin’ to impress me and you might get yourself a girlfriend by the end of the night cutie~ ;-)

White_Knight: I like to impress my dear. But let’s keep it slow before we start talking about relationships. Or you might come off as desperate ;-)

Sun_Dragon: Ok see you tonight <3

White_Knight: Can’t wait! <3

Yang smiled after the chat with her pen pal. She originally started talking to Knight after download Instaspam on her scroll when she took that selfie with Blake. Originally she got a lot of likes for how the two looked like a cute lesbian couple but she put a plug on that real quick. While she and Blake we’re getting back to better times, she wasn’t really interested in starting a full on relationship with her partner. Kind of brought bad thoughts about her own family dynamic so that was a no-no. Of course she did lose a few subs for the apparent ‘queer baiting’ from some of the ruder people on the app, but others were actually glad that she made the clarification early on so that people wouldn’t make inaccurate assumptions.

It was actually how she met Knight, through a personal message saying how brave she was to tell the truth and not to take the fake friends words seriously. Yang was a bit suprised about the message so she thanked him later and one thing lead to another and they were talking almost everyday whenever she wasn’t on missions. She got a look at his profile and it looked like he was a music enthusiast and played multiple instruments like the piano and violin. She of course teased him of being a nerd for apparently liking classical music for being a young man. However to her suprise he sent her a link to one of his tracks of his music and while not of fan of classical, he was very good at playing piano covers. He didn’t have a profile picture so she asked if she could send her a picture, she had to be sure he wasn’t a creepy old man or something. To her suprise he did send a picture. Granted he was wearing a hat and a pair of glasses but he definitely looked young. Maybe a bit too young. She was a bit uncomfortable about this little tidbit about Knight, but she knew he was definitely only two years younger than her.

Yang’s sisterly instinct was too let Knight know that he shouldn’t try to flirt with girls older than him but the more she thought about it....it couldn’t be that bad. They stayed only as friends and besides casual teasing it wasn’t anything excessive that would send people the wrong message. So she kept in contact with him. Besides her own sister had a massive crush on a guy two years her senior so it wasn’t that bad. Besides Knight was a nice guy, always polite, never vulgar or tried to ask for body shots of her. What really got her was his respect for women. He apparently had a family mostly consisting of women so that put some insight. So Yang was very glad that Knight didn’t turn out to be a creep. Who knows, maybe she might give him a reward if this first outing goes smoothly.

Yang: Guess I’ll see you tonight Mr. Knight.~

*Schnee Manor*

Whitley has been rereading the chat for the past two minutes and couldn’t believe how far Sun_Dragon and him have come from complete strangers to good friends. He originally gotten Instaspam as a way to entertain himself and share his musical taste to other musical enthusiasts. When one of his recommended came up one day and he saw a picture that immediately took his breath away. That was when first was introduced to Sun_Dragon. He saw at the time how people were bashing her for the honestly miss assumptions about her relationship with a friend. He couldn’t believe how others could be so ignorant and uncouth behavior they were treating the poor dear. He normally doesn’t try to engage in these types of topics but he knew he needed to say something that would let her know that not everyone was like these wolves who just enjoyed to harass her. From their their interactions developed then blossomed into the first genuine relationship he’s ever had.

Truthfully if he had to say, Sun_Dragon may have been his only friend. A friend that he had grown especially fond of. Whitley tried to reason that he was only had a small crush because of her majestic beauty, but soon he began to realize that he found everything about her wonderful, her personality, her casual attude and her plain honesty she told. He had never met a more genuine person than Sun_Dragon. The only problem he was worried about was if his age had worried her some, because being a underage minor made some who were female admirers scared off because of fear of being called a pedophile. However she seemed not too worried about the age gap as she was only two years older than him. That made his whole day when she told him that. Whitley was content for the most part with the screen conversations they had but soon he desired to step up the pace, to meet in person. Whitley was sure she would turn down his advances but surprisingly Sun_Dragon favored the idea as well and now brought him to this moment. In a mere few hours he will meet the woman of his dreams. So naturally he only had one response.

Whitley: YES!!! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes yes, yes! Whitley you’re a genius! Oh my gods! Thank you! Oh......this is officially the best day of my life.

So yes, he was excited.

*Trying something different just a bit of a side story, not canon to anything just a spoof or omake if you will. More for comedy than anything. Hope you all enjoy!*

[gotatext]

by this point im p sure u all know the drill.... i’m nora, 23, she/her, gmt and tonight matthew im going to be greta o’driscoll, a terrible person but a hot one which frankly makes it almost ok. here is her pinterest..... this intro is literally just copied n pasted frm the last time i played her so soz if u’ve read it like 10+ times.... 

「 diana silvers. cis-female. 」have you seen greta o’driscoll around yet? i hear she decided to be in POTENTAS for their SOPHOMORE year as a CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY major. the 20 year old SHEPHERD is known to be tenacious, magnetic, capricious and evasive. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, gmt.

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

was always a really sporty bitch. it started with a junior athletics squad, which turned into athletics and cheer, which then became athletics, cheer and hockey until she basically was doing a different activity every night. she came to see her body as a tool that she could make work for her if she trained it up and this attitude’s always kind of stayed with her that as long as her body is strong she is capable of anything. runs every day. 

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

left school at 18 n went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was working at a strip club. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time.

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate.

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea… pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming….. 

she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch. maybe it’s maybelline, maybe its coke.

massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her 

isn’t a foward-planner, however. greta prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manners so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. 

not afraid to go after what she wants !! ambitious academically and romantically thirsty !! she loves the adrenaline of the chase. when someone’s easy to get, she becomes bored. very bisexual and very proud of it. feminist as fuck nd part of a queer representation in the arts group which holds fortnightly meetings to discuss lgbt representation in film, literature, art etc.

old soul in a young person’s body. all the shit that has gone on has kind of aged her. she’s quite cynical about everything now. always smoking smoking smoking. very edie sedgwick in that way.  little girls skirts bought for next-to-nothing at the market because she’s skinny enough to get away with it, barely long enough to cover your bum, and then the ugliest baggy sweater you’ve ever seen thrown over it.

likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

super into pop art and andy warhol. puts female friendships above everything but at the same time, would fuck her best friends man

her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk.

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

wanted plots

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sports rivalries ! sporting friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!! 

since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

 girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

and I want like, fellow criminology students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? 

she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. 

ppl she did a few modules with ie. art history, bio-med, film studies, before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with

 ppl who she runs track with. 

someone she’s trying to make a zine with. 

here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[blueplanettrash]

Lance Shirogane-West (Part 2)

Here’s the second part! I think there’s gonna be one more part after this. I hope all of you enjoy it! 💙

@candywii666

I thought that when I saw Shiro again I’d feel something. Relief, disbelief or something like that. But that wasn’t the case. I was immediately on edge, I didn’t know why but it was like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was so weird, he came onto the bridge with a new haircut and outfit (he looked like a complete dork) but I didn’t feel anything for him.

Everyone else was fine though, especially Keith. That didn’t last for very long though; before we knew it Keith was gone. He went and joined the Blade of Marmora, I can’t say that I’m angry that he left or anything but it still kinda felt like a betrayal. We were finally in a good place, at least I thought so.

I constantly had to watch myself to stay on his good side but when it came to arguing my or other’s cases for that matter, there wasn’t a good side. Even when his plans were complete bullshit, or he couldn’t see how comfortable Lotor was making himself on our ship, or how he was treating everyone on the team like they were dirt on the floor. I just didn’t understand, he was treating the prince, our enemy better than his friends.

For the most part, the plans weren’t putting us in more danger but when Lotor brought up the Kral Zera, it was enough. I couldn’t let him keep putting our lives on the line for nothing more than a chance. I wasn’t alone in the sentiment either, Allura and Hunk agreed with me too.

“Shiro, we’re all on the same side here,” I said hesitantly stepping forward a bit. My head whipped to the side. What just happened? My cheek was burning, it was throbbing. Why does it hurt?

Slowly I looked back over at Shiro, disbelief rushing through me. Did he just-

“I TOLD YOU TO STAY OUT OF IT!” He yelled. I flinched, my hands went to my chest. They were trembling. I’ve never been afraid of my dad before, I couldn’t even dream of it. But now, I was terrified and devastated.

The lump in my throat grew and grew until I couldn’t swallow it anymore and I just burst into tears instead. I covered my face with my hands and I ran out of there as fast as I could, ignoring the calls of my name.

Allura found me hours after the incident right after I summoned my broadsword for the first time. She was happy for me but I was still thinking about what happened. At first we only talked about my progress and what I’ve been able to accomplish but eventually, our worries about him came up.

“All I’ve ever done, I’ve done to make him proud. Now he won’t even look at me,” I said quietly, turning away from Allura. I can only imagine that she was looking at me with surprise even though I was the one crying my eyes out with a bruise swelling around my eye and cheek. She came up behind me and wrapped me up in a hug and I let myself fall again.

I didn’t even think before I pushed Allura out of the way of the beam. I didn’t think about my parents’ reactions, I didn’t think about what my friends would think. All I could think at that moment, was if I was too late.

But then I felt the pain. It was nothing I’d experienced before. I was getting ripped apart from the inside, I was screaming, I was crying but no one could hear me. Then it all went black.

There wasn’t any gate, no being that greeted me, it was only darkness. Silence. I was floating with nothing around me. It’s hard to be brave when you don’t know what’s happening. Me, I’ve never been particularly brave but I don’t think anybody would’ve been if they were in my position.

Just as quickly as I left, I was back. Allura was standing above me, a smile on her face and tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You saved me,” I croaked. My throat was on fire, which wasn’t much of a shock since I’d just basically been electrocuted to death.

“I owed you one,” she replied with a weak laugh and I thought that would be the end of it. I really did. Later that night when I woke up in a cold sweat, I realized that it wasn’t.

I’d never felt terror like I had that night. Over and over again, I relived that moment of unbearable pain. I physically felt my heart stop in my chest, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t stop it.

My hands were shaking when I brought them to my chest, dumbly checking to see if I still had a pulse. It sounds foolish, I know, but sometimes you just need to know. I could feel beads of sweat soaking through my clothes and I could only sit there panting, trying to make sense of everything I was feeling.

Before I really knew what I was doing I was standing in front of Shiro’s door, hand poised to knock. Without thinking too much about it, I did just that and anxiously waited for an answer.

“Wha?” Shiro said groggily as the door slide open. “Lance?”

“Uhh, hey Shiro,” I greeted, voice shaking slightly.

“Why’re you up?” He asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Oh, I u-um, I uh couldn’t sleep, I had a n-nightmare,” I tried to explain, my hands clutched in front of me. Shiro sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance. I gulped and looked down at the floor in shame.

“Well, what do you want me to do about that?” He asked sarcastically. “Give you a hug or something?” I flinched back as a flush of embarrassment heated up my cheeks.

“Oh my God you do,” he deadpanned. I couldn’t even look at him at that point. “You’re not six years old Lance, go back to bed,”

Then he closed the door and left me standing in the hallway. God, I felt so stupid as I trudged back to my room. I wanted to scream, I wanted to burst into tears, I wanted to sleep, just anything to try and forget the embarrassment I’d just gone through. It was no surprise that I didn’t get any sleep that night.

I’ve been more relieved to be right in all my life. Sure, I still felt terrible that I didn’t do anything to get rid of the clone, or convince the others that there was something wrong. But, it was infinitely better having the real Shiro, or at least his soul (?) back with us. Although it didn’t seem from the outside that I was. In short, I was avoiding Shiro.

Not that it was too difficult, Keith was taking up a lot of his time since it’d been so long since he’d seen him. After that Pidge was spending a lot of time with him and with Pidge came Hunk. So in the meantime, it wouldn’t look too bad if I wasn’t going out of my way to talk to him. There wasn’t really a particular reason why I wanted to avoid him. I just didn’t want to get my hopes up I guess. I wanted to have a good relationship with this reality’s Shiro but I also knew that it would make me miss my parents even more than I already did. When I was over that, then I would be able to approach Shiro again. In the end though, it wasn’t really my decision.

After waking up one morning, I discovered Shiro in the cockpit glancing around nervously. When he noticed me, he gave me a small smile and a wave while I just stared in shock.

“H-how did you get in here?” I asked, eyes wide. Shiro laughed and scratched the back of his head.

“Turns out Kosmo can teleport people too,” he answered.

“Right, um, what are you doing here?”

“Well, we haven’t really gotten to talk about things, it seems like I’ve talked with everyone but you,” he replied, looking down at the floor. “Which sucks considering what I did to you,”

“It wasn’t you!” I blurted out before I could stop it. I covered my mouth quickly, looking at Shiro with wide eyes. He looked at me sadly before giving me a small smile.

“Thanks, Lance, that really means a lot… but it still kind of felt like me? I have all of his memories but it feels like I’m looking in through a dirty window or something,” he tried to explain.

“We all know it wasn’t you. I know that it wasn’t you,”

“Still, it doesn’t change that it was wrong. Especially when he hit you, I’m sorry that happened,” Shiro said regretfully, shaking his head.

“You couldn’t have stopped it,”

“It must’ve hurt though, you were crying,”

“It wasn’t because it hurt,” I said with a blush, somehow embarrassed despite the situation. Shiro only raised his eyebrow in response.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s because you’re the one that hit me,” I admitted, looking down at the floor. Tears pushed against the back of my eyes and there was a stubborn lump caught in my throat.

“Oh,” Shiro blinked. “I understand, it must have been scary for your leader to hit you,”

I let out a bitter laugh and shook my head. It almost felt like I was losing my mind. He didn’t understand, not that I was making it easy for him to get it but I was at the end of my rope.

“Leader, try dad,” I said quietly, clutching tightly at my hair. You could probably hear a pin drop at the sudden silence in the cockpit. It was like Red decided to quiet all their engines too. I glanced over at Shiro but he was only looking at me and blinking in confusion.

“Uhh… what are you talking about?” He asked baffled.

“I need to tell you something,”

After a few seconds of silence, I accepted that he wasn’t going to say anything else.

“I’m not from this reality, I’m from a different one where you’re my biological father,” I said, speaking clearly. I stared in his eyes, just daring him to call me a liar. Finally, he just shook his head and leaned against the wall.

“Lance, you realize that sounds crazy right?” He asked, dropping his face in his hands.

“Of course I do, you and pa didn’t raise an idiot,” I huffed rolling my eyes.

“Wait. Pa?” Shiro asked, looking up, suddenly desperate. “Who’s your other father?”

“You can’t look at me and already guess?” I asked with a small grin, crossing my arms. At first, I thought I may have said the wrong thing when tears started welling up in his eyes, but then a relaxed smile crossed his face.

“Adam?” He asked quietly. I smiled back and tucked into his arms.

“Yup, my real name is Lance Shirogane-West,”

There’s no way in hell that they put Adam W. on the memorial and thought that I wouldn’t immediately think about Adam West. So that’s what I’m calling him. Hope you don’t mind.

Part 1

[stephspencer10]

PART 1

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer

My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19 

MY DADDY

 My Memoir Backstory “My Daddy” takes up where I left off writing “My Memoir Introduction: I Was Born a “Saint.” After I wrote this blog, I realized I’d put the cart before the horse — started my Memoir bass-ackwards: I got myself born before I told you anything about how I got here.

Since we all come from the past, my readers ought to know what it is that went into my making. So I’ve decided to present a bunch of backstory, beginning with my father, Floyd Otto Spencer. Ending with my mother, Esther LeBaron McDonald de Spencer and her LeBaron backstory. 

After this backstory, I’ll continue with my Memoirs. But it will include more tales about Mother and Father as they intertwine throughout my life.

Now, for a bit of how I got here from the past. And some of what went into my making.

My Daddy: Part 1 

My handsome five-foot-10.5-inch, black-haired, black-eyed, dark-skinned (when tanned) father was a hot-tempered, strict, shy, witty, sharp-tongued, short-fused, highly gifted man. “Daddy,” as we called him, was also a sensitive Artist and Creative.

Born July 27, 1895, in Marion, Michigan, he died on my nineteenth birthday, April 18, 1965, in Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico. His death was the outcome of a freak “accident.” I believe my Mother Esther LeBaron Spencer and her brother, my Uncle Ervil LeBaron, had a hand in it. (I will relate this whole incident in my upcoming Memoir.)

Born in a backwoods frontier town, Daddy was very much of pioneer stock. His parents were mostly of English descent, he believed. He was unable to track his full genealogy. But knew his mother was one-half Indigenous American — Mohawk Indian to be exact.

One Sunday afternoon, in our small living room, lit only by light from the windows and fireplace, Mother was giving Daddy his monthly expert-looking haircut when we children, catching Daddy captive, saw a good chance to gather around his knees and pepper him with questions about his parents, grandparents, and past.

He was a shy man, of few words, and usually busy working. One of his favorite sayings was: “It’s better to keep your mouth shut and look like a fool than to open your mouth and prove you’re a fool.” Even now he was hesitant to answer all our forward questions. But when asked about his bloodline (for bloodlines are very important to Mormons), he sheepishly responded:

“My grandmother on my mother’s side was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian squaw. I used to visit her in her Hogan from time to time.” He was embarrassed to admit this. But then he added:

“She was a typical Indian … Sweet, poor, and no furniture to speak of. I can still see her squatting on the floor as she did her routine work in her dark little Hogan that had only one window and a fire burning in the middle of the room — smoke rising up and out through a hole in the ceiling.”

This helps to explain why Daddy used to chide Mother when he saw her squatting on the floor sorting beans or such. He’d cry: “You look like an old Indian squaw! Get up and sit on a chair at the table to sort your beans — like a civilized person!!”

However, after joining the LeBaron cult and learning from my uncles the Mormon beliefs Joseph Smith taught about the American Indians — that they “were part of the lost ten tribes of Israel, and were going to play a very important role in the last days,” Daddy made an effort to get in touch with the indigenous American Indian side of himself.

He even began to exhibit pride in being at least one-quarter American Indian. I say “at least” because he was not sure of his full heritage — only that his mother was half American Indian.

But one day he took a trip to visit the Hopi and Navajo Indian villages in Arizona and New Mexico, returning home feeling very exhilarated, uplifted, and more proud than ever of his Indian heritage. It rubbed off on me: I’m at least one-eighth American Indian, and proud of it.

My Daddy (around ages 19 & 53 consecutively)

“Show me someone who believes you can’t change history, and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t tried to write their memoirs.” Mark Twain

My Daddy, Part 2

Daddy was his parents’ only child.  They divorced when he was three years old.  When Dad was fourteen years old, his mother bore his half-sister Doris, by her second marriage. Sadly, when he was twenty-seven, she died of rheumatic fever, leaving Daddy his mother’s only child again — though he had half-sisters from his father’s second marriage that he got to meet and spend some time with.

He was raised Methodist and held White Anglo-Saxon Protestant values, including their strong work ethic. Daddy was always a hard worker. You might even say he was a workaholic. That figures: His father was a “raging alcoholic.” Going to extremes in any area is indicative of addiction. God is a drug for religious addicts –– religious fanatics. Daddy completely and emphaticly gave up alcohol and tobacco when he joined the Mormon church at age thirty-five. Religion then became his drug of choice.

“Twelve-Steppers,” especially ACA’S/ Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Families — a 12-step program  — know what I’m talking about. If these terms are new to you, it may be worth looking up 12-step organizations in your area. They were very valuable in my development, given the dysfunctional family I was brought-up in — I mean brought-down in!

Now back to more Bio about Dad: “At around age four,” Daddy told me, “my mother gave me away to her sisters to raise. Years later, Mother wanted me back. But I refused to go back because I was so hurt and angry at her for what she’d done!! I was happier living with my aunts and cousins,” remarked my father.

Then he continued, “I often had to dig tunnels in the snow during winter time to get to school because the snow piled up so high. Sometimes it was up higher than the schoolhouse door. My school consisted of one room and one teacher teaching all the grades from 1st through 12th. 

“I didn’t do very well in her classroom— Didn’t get along with that didactic, strict, bossy teacher. She regularly humiliated me in front of the class … often made me sit in the corner with a dunce cap on … partly because I was the class clown — always made the class laugh at my witty wisecracks and cutting up … would wiggle my ears, pull funny faces, and draw caricatures, etc, when the teachers back was turned.

“In fifth grade, I couldn’t take any more of this mean, punishing teacher I’d had since first grade. So I dropped out — refused to go to her one-room school anymore — though it was the only school around. I couldn’t learn under her tutelage.

“However, from then on I felt I was a failure in many ways — not to mention that my parents divorced. Then Ma gave me away when I was so little. That affected my self-worth. But due to my one-and-only elementary school teacher, I further questioned my self-worth, because I kind of believed it was due to my lack of brains that I wasn’t getting better grades in the teacher’s class.”

That bad impression of himself as a student and person went with him throughout his life. It affected his self-confidence and self-esteem, further adding to his shyness and his, oftentime, not feeling very good about himself … in some ways.

But lack of a good supporting education, in and of itself, is enough to affect anyone’s self-confidence and achievement in life. They see many people able to accomplish things they cannot accomplish, often not realizing their only drawback was they had no competitive foundation — as in Daddy’s case where he had only a poor, one-room classroom education typical of the early 1900’s in backwoods-pioneer towns.

Education was not mandatory in those days. It was a privilege to go to any school. Families worse off than my fathers’ didn’t go to school at all.

It wasn’t till after 1918 and World War I had ended that our country realized public education must be made free, mandatory — and paid for by our tax dollars. It would not only prepare better future soldiers for our country’s defense system, but The Industrial Revolution, then in full force, also required that people be able to read, write, do math, follow the Employer’s directions, show up for work on time, and be dependable. Mandatory education developed these skills and habits in an otherwise unruly, unschooled person.

But, despite a poor preparatory education, Daddy accomplished much more in life than many people with a far better education and advantages. He was a proud and confident man in various ways, therefore. His being gifted, talented, and successful at things he attempted helped build his self-esteem, despite the negative aspects of his early education and childhood. This confidence exudes in his photos.

His teacher and that old-fashioned, backward school system had branded him as “Not Smart, a bad person, and a poor student — a DUNCE!” How sad, because he was a bright, gifted boy. I taught school for thirty years; should know what I am talking about!

It grieves me that there are teachers who can be so judgmental they brand children for life, thinking they know what they’re doing. They don’t! I’ve experienced this branding firsthand. It only shows the ignorance of those teachers who would do such a thing to a student.

Their ignorance, arrogance, ego, and the need to control gets the best of them. If they looked at and treated every student as if that child were the son or daughter of the school Superintendent, Principal, or President of the United States, I guarantee you that would take any judgmental Educator down a notch or two — and their students up a notch or two!

PART 3

Family Collage includes Dad’s mom and him as a boy (in glasses)

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin it now.” ~Goethe~ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The year was 1958. The setting: Our home in Hurricane, Utah. The place: Around our average-sized family-room fireplace:

While the flames flickered and leapt, warmed and lit our cozy little living room, we Spencer kids (there were eleven of us then) sat huddled around our parents on the colorful rag rug Mother crocheted.

I was twelve, second to the oldest, and seventeen months younger than my oldest sibling, Doris — one of my rivals! While sixty-three-year-old Daddy sat situated on a high stool with a towel wrapped around his neck and shoulders, my talented, artistic thirty-seven-year-old Mother was at her routine task of trimming his white hair with the hair clippers he’d bought for this purpose.

As was often the case during such times, we kids were once again peppering Papa with personal questions about his intriguing boyhood, family, life … and white hair!

“I discovered my first gray hair when I was only fourteen years old!” Daddy explained. “Gray hairs really stand out when your hair is pitch black like mine used to be!”

My siblings and I were further enlightened when Mother got out Daddy’s scrapbook and a photo album so he could explain the pictures and keepsakes in them. There was a picture of my paternal grandmother dressed to the “T” in the high fashions of the early 1900s:

“My mother was a socialite,” he opined disapprovingly. “She was more concerned about her appearance and joining social circles than she was about staying home and being a good homemaker and mother. She always decked herself out in the latest grand styles of the day — as you can see in this picture,” continued Daddy, pointing to a photo of his attractive mother in a hat.

I never got to meet my paternal grandparents nor Daddy’s aunts who raised him. Daddy was about fifty-two when I was born. I was around five years old when, in her nineties, his last aunt died. At that time, she lived in Michigan and we lived in St. George, Utah. Lack of time and money precluded Daddy’s going to her funeral, though he had wanted to attend.

Before she died, I recall how elated he would be whenever a letter arrived from this aunt. Sometimes she would include a photo of herself, so I at least got to see what she looked like as a ninety-year-old woman … And I recall, too, the tears in Daddy’s eyes (a man who seldom showed any sign of tears) when he read the letter that said she’d died.

One of the many disadvantages of having a father old enough to be your grandfather is his parents die before you’re old enough to meet them — that is, if he even kept in contact with his parents at all — which he did little of.

Continuing with Daddy’s pictures: In another photo, his handsome “half-breed” entrepreneur mother stood on the porch in front of a wooden building. Daddy recounted: “My mother owned a hotel or boarding house. I helped her with the work there, oftentimes … sweeping the big porches, fixing things, and helping at the front desk. 

“In my free time, I loved to create things that really worked … like miniature model windmills I carved and devised myself, where the blades of the windmill could actually turn if you blew on them … or when there was wind.”

He was very proud of his ingenuity and creativity — the things he was amazingly able to build or sculpt though only a young boy — a child … things nobody else around him devised or created, not even adults. He loved to draw, too — funny caricatures and so forth.

“I also loved to design and create things like little wagons and cars with wheels that could roll — and even little houses and buildings. And I loved to carve whistles, wooden ducks, dogs, and other toys that had wheels on them so they could be pulled around with us wherever we went — which was how we made our toys move back in those days. 

“My dream was to be an Engineer — How I longed to be in the driver’s seat of a train and to work on trains. Trains were the big thing then — an invention just coming into existence when I was a young boy. It was back when most people did not own a car and Model T Fords were barely becoming the big rage among the rich. 

“One of the first cars accessible to the masses was the 1908 Model T, an American car manufactured by the Ford Motor Company. I was thirteen years old when that car came out. Henry Ford was my idol! I loved that he was an Inventor. I wanted to be an Inventor myself — to design and create things like Ford and other Creators of my day.

“If I could’ve had my way and I’d had the advantage of money ‘n’ a good education, I would’ve been an Engineer. But instead of goin’ back to school ‘n’ workin’ for years to get the education I needed so as to go to college ‘n’ get an Engineering Degree, I married ‘n’ had a bunch of kids — to help build up God’s kingdom. Then spent my time workin’ to raise ‘n’ support my families — My first family with Eva. And now this one with yer ma.” Then Daddy changed the subject:

“As a youth, I never liked to sit around wastin’ time, nor to play silly games like the rest of the kids … liked to put my time to good use … to create things. Silly, noisy kids got on my nerves.* But being an only child was a very lonely life. That’s one reason I chose to have lots of kids when I got married.” 

*Explanation: Daddy was an Introvert — a creative like me. If you do not know the characteristics of the different and unique special Introvert brain and personality, there are a number of good books on the market that explain this valuable and wondrous trait.

If you are related to Floyd Otto Spencer, chances are you and some of your children and posterity are also Introverts. Most Creatives, such as artists and writers, are Introverts or at least Ambiverts, as opposed to Extroverts. The world needs all these personality types.

The following are titles of three excellent books on this subject that you may be interested in reading or at least skimming. If you can’t find some of these in your library or online, there are other books on the subject.

1- “The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World,”  by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D.

2- “Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto,” by Anneli Rufus

3- “The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You,” by Elaine N. Aaron, Ph.D.

PART 4

My family (minus one sibling) in early 1964

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”  ~ Anne Lamott

Going back to where we left off with Daddy saying he wanted to have a large family of children, let me tell you that this is one dream he fulfilled. He had eleven beautiful children with his first wife Eva Bowman Spencer. And fourteen more beautiful children with his second wife, my mother Esther LeBaron Spencer. Thus, he was not only guaranteed to never be lonely again but to never have a moment’s peace or quietude, either.

More often than not, there was even a new baby crying, keeping him up at night. But he finally learned how to pretty much fix that: He would waterboard them (not that uncommon, at least among the Mormon fundamentalists). At times, he would even beat the tiny new babies incessantly for crying. (Tears!!)

But mainly, he mostly held his big strong hand over their mouth and nose till they were suffocating, all the while yelling at them: “Shut up the goddamned crying!! Do you hear?! Shut up, I said, or you’ll get more to cry about!!”

After he did that consistently a number of times, it generally taught most of his babies not to be caught dead crying  — if they could possibly help it. (Then you wonder why Morman fundamentalist children are so well-behaved?!)

He, like many fundamentalists, believed the Bible’s “Spare the rod and spoil the child” meant to literally beat the devil out of the kids so as to make them submissive to adults and thus to God. They believed the sooner they were made submissive, the better.

But I have since learned that some spiritual leaders believe “the rod” is only a metaphor for “the gospel.” In other words, if you don’t teach your children the gospel, they will grow up spoiled, wayward, and rebellious.

I believe force and brutality toward children — or anyone … or any animal — does just the opposite of beating the devil out of them: It beats the devil into them; i.e., can make them angry, hateful, emotionally disturbed, mean, and devilish. It also can cause them to split from themselves, and to lose their will, give up, and become zombies or such. It breaks their spirit.

In fact, one of the best ways to hypnotize a hyperactive, incorrigible, misbehaving child is to plant yourself right in his/her space and yell vociferously in the child’s face: “Behave! Stop that!” Or whatever else it is you wish of the child. The child will do what you tell him/her after that … at least for a while.

 I wonder what kind of abuse my father suffered at the hands of adults when he was growing up since violent and abusive ways of parenting are generally passed down from one generation to the next.

Unless one is able to recognize, then intercept and stop this abusive cycle and pattern learned from one’s upbringing and teachings, it will be passed on to one’s own offspring ad infinitum!

But thank God/Goodness, there are now laws in our country that carry stiff penalties for abusing children — as well as women, animals — or anyone … thanks to coalitions of good people who have worked diligently together throughout our society and other civilized parts of the earth to make this world a better and safer place for everyone.

However, reclusive families, such as in cults, often remain backward when it comes to improvements in behavior norms. Believing they are the only ones with “the truth,” and lead by poorly educated, narrow-minded leaders,  they learn nothing much from “the world” that, nonetheless, continues to change and improve as it strives to learn how to make a better world for all through education, college, books, publications, educational T.V., films, computers, and social media.

That said, one reason Daddy and Mother were so anxious to move to the LeBaron colony in Old Mexico in 1960 was that shortly before their decision to move, a Federal law was passed against Child Abuse. It stipulated dire legal penalties for parents who hit, beat, or otherwise physically abused their children. Daddy proclaimed vehemently, in regards to that law:

“What the hell right has the government to step in and tell me how to raise my children?! I am the Priesthood head of my family! The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ In other words, parents are to ‘bend the twig’ correctly. We do that by beating the devil out of our children while they are still young enough to be taught how to behave and grow up as straight vines, not twisted, warped ones. 

“Once a seedling is warped, you can’t change it. You can observe an example of that in plants and trees that weren’t supported and staked properly so they would grow straight rather than deformed. I can’t wait to get out of this wicked country and gather with the Saints in Zion, there in Colonia LeBaron where I’m free to exercise old, time-honored Biblical laws when it comes to raising my family!” 

PART 5

Daddy (Floyd Otto Spencer) in his mid-50s

   “A good memoir is born from that uniquely important place in your personal history.” “Writing Your Hot-Topic Memoir” Dr. Scott 

Daddy was an autodidact. In other words, he was self-taught in many areas. He would get books on auto mechanics, carpentry, building construction, watch and clock repair, farming, health — you name it — and learn how to do these things … How to eat healthfully, for example. Sometimes he took Night School classes too.

By the late 1940s or early 1950s, he was a Singer Sewing Machine salesman and repairman. He went from home to home selling and setting up this newfangled, popular electric sewing machine that had quickly outdated the old treadle sewing machines.

He taught the proud owners how to use their new modern electric Singer sewing machine and its many attachments — such as the attachment for making buttonholes. And he maintained the machines, should they need servicing.

Later on, he morphed into a self-employed entrepreneur — a General Contractor, capable of building homes and commercial buildings from the ground up, including creating the blueprints.

People hired him because he could save them money, time, and trouble by doing everything himself: He could do the blueprint, foundation, building’s frame, cement work, flooring, roofing, electrical, plumbing, brick and rock work, landscape, carpentry, painting, and whatever else the new building required.

Provided they had time to wait for a one-man job to be finished, he was your man. Hiring a bunch of contractors and construction workers to do the job all at once was much more expensive and time-consuming, but would get the job done a lot faster if that was what one needed to do.

Because he was an introvert (or ambivert?) he preferred to work by himself. It’s a good thing because he didn’t get along well with most people. He had an artistic, fastidious, and perfectionistic personality, topped off with religious fanaticism, a high-strung, short-fused temper, and a sharp tongue. What’s worse, he regularly called to repentance people in his presence he saw doing things that were against his religion!

For example, he would tell mainstream Mormons they were headed for hell because they had given up plural marriage, practiced birth control, and had “mutilated” the holy temple garments Joseph Smith “ordained of God” and said should never be cut nor otherwise changed. This foot washing fundamentalist father of mine took his religion very seriously!

That said, he would regularly worry, harass, and chastise women in the Mormon fundamentalist groups, too, for doing things like cutting their hair, sporting “worldly hairdos and makeup” — and for wearing their hemlines too high and their necklines too low! (Hemlines were supposed to be about down to the ankle, and necklines about up to the collarbone.)

“That tight sweater and skirt you’ve got on is exactly what leads men to rape women! You look like a goddamned Delilah!!” he swore at me one day when I was thirteen years old and dressed to go to school. That sure “learnt” me a lesson!

 Though I took off the sweater and skirt, so popular in the 1950s, and never wore such clothing again (during my life in the fundamentalist cult) I now know there is no excuse for men to rape women under any condition!

If how women look or dress determines whether they get raped or not, then what about Aborigines and other Indigenous societies who go/went around, as a way of life, stark naked, half-naked — and “half-baked“? (Pun intended.)

It’s all a matter of culture, style, and one’s values, really. Women are not to blame if some all-brawn-no-brains men choose to dominate and use women to their own advantage.

A man’s being more muscular than women doesn’t make him superior to women. It certainly doesn’t give him the right to brutalize them or run them. Only backward people adhere to that old-world way of thinking.

In general, men aren’t superior to women, other than muscularly. (When I was young and in shape, I was able to win more than one out-of-shape man in an arm wrestle, LOL!) Women are not objects, either, as some men seem to think. Men don’t own them — nor do they have the right to strong-arm nor otherwise control women — despite what some fundamentalist Mormons, et Al, believe.

But getting back to Daddy, his regularly chastising others and setting them straight led me to believe he, himself, was pretty perfect. He must be, it seemed, if he could call others on the carpet for not adhering to our extremist sect’s strict dress code or other such. If he could call others to repentance, he must be doing everything right himself, yes?

However, in hindsight (always the best sight) I see he needed to lighten up, simmer down, mind his own business — and quit projecting his own fears and faults onto others. In other words, like so many of us, he needed more patience and persistence, and less pestering of others; i.e., He needed to exhibit more charity. He just didn’t know it yet.

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer PART 6

Dad in his 60s

“Like all the arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.” Arthur Conan Doyle

Shortly before Daddy died, I saw a change in him. His visage fairly glowed, and he had become much more loving, relaxed, patient, kind, and happy — such that I no longer feared so much being in his presence. He had become more pleasurable to be around.

It was as though he’d undergone an epiphany — a life-changing experience, though I was not around him enough nor on comfortable enough terms with him to inquire as to any such experiences he might have had. Furthermore, I was married then, and very busy taking care of my six-month-old baby at the time he was nearing death … then died.

During his lifetime he had always done a lot to help others. Being an all-around handyman and Jack-of-all-trades and Master of a few, people often came to him for advice or called on him to help them fix something.

He never turned them down, that I know of, much to Mother’s frustration and dismay. More than once I heard her complain, “Daddy, why don’t you turn some of these people down?! There are things piling up around here to be done while others impinge on you to work for them for free!” (Mother generally called him “Daddy” just as we kids did.)

Yes, he had plenty of his own work around the house waiting to be done. But people appreciated and respected Daddy for his knowledge and know-how when it came to being “Mister-Fix-it-Man,” and he enjoyed his revered reputation, too. He was no Scriptorian, though … unlike my mother’s brother, Ervil LeBaron, who often called on Daddy to fix things for him.

Uncle Ervil, who many of my readers may know of or will soon hear about, was just the opposite of Daddy. He spent most of his time studying Scriptures and Mormon religious works, writing some — and preaching a lot. I don’t recall him ever doing any manual labor. He managed to get my father and others to serve him, instead.

I don’t know how much money religiously-stalwart Daddy also put toward supporting Uncle Ervil and all Ervil’s many wives and children, as well as my other uncles and their families, at times, when they were hard up for money and food.

I only know he certainly paid much more than his 10% in tithing, despite the large family he, himself, maintained. And he did this right up until the day he died at about seventy years of age! There was never any retirement for him — my hard-working papa!

Like everyone else, dedicated and diligent, conscientious Daddy liked feeling special and needed. And he enjoyed serving God, all the while being able to put to use his skills and ingenuity as he helped repair others’ broken equipment, or advised them on how to build something — or taught them how to do some of these things for themselves. Thus, he employed many of the things he had learned how to do … right up until the day he died.

So where he lost favor with people due to his judgmental temperament and sharp tongue, he gained respect and popularity by being otherwise naturally unassuming and willing to lend a humble, helping hand. And he benefitted from that respect, acceptance, and connection. It was a wonderful interchange of mutual love and appreciation.

*Other facts about Daddy that I didn’t bring up earlier:

*He was very sensitive, astute, and strong-willed. Therefore, as a young man, he abandoned his parents in Michigan, due to fallings-out with them — never again to contact them nor to return home for a visit.

His aunt had raised him since he was around four or five, I believe, as I related in an earlier blog. I’m not sure how young he was when he left his aunt’s home and took off to make it on his own. I’m only sure he was a true survivor. And what didn’t kill him made him stronger!

*Once he proudly told me: “I gave up smoking and drinking when I joined the Mormon church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints). I was able to quit “cold turkey!” I simply decided to quit.  And I never smoked again!”

And Daddy said, of his past smoking habit: “People who will smoke, will drink; and people who will drink, will chase women.”

 He also informed me: “I gave up square dancing, too, because I found that it led to fornication when men and women danced with other than their own spouse or partner.”

*Once, when I was twelve years old, he caught me looking up the word “sex” in the dictionary. He reproachfully admonished me, proclaiming: “The words “sex” and “fun” should be cut out of the dictionary!! Sex is only for procreation!  And people shouldn’t be wasting their time playing/ having fun. The Lord’s Kingdom won’t get built up that way!”

I disagree with him in some of his misconceived conceptions. But we all are in a process of learning and growing during our lifetimes. I bring up these above points to simply show what a stoic life he, I, and other true-believing fundamentalists lived.

But other points in his favor are that while Daddy was living in Arizona, and raising a large family with his first wife Eva, he was a Boy Scout Master, which position he enjoyed and was very proud of.

And he was even Mayor of a small city for some time, I was told. But I’m not sure what city that was, let alone the dates. My daughter checked and couldn’t find his name listed as having been Mayor of the city where I thought my parents said he’d been Mayor. So who knows! More family lore?

PART 7

1958 Family Photo (I’m middlebrow, 2nd from left, .)

The Writer’s Prayer: “Make this tale live for us in all its many bearings, oh Muse.” Steven Pressfield The War of Art

While married to his first wife Eva,* for some time Daddy owned a small Mercantile shop. Then World War II removed his main source of income, rubber tires:

“The war efforts needed all the rubber to build war equipment. Selling tires for the Model T Ford, and other such, was how I covered my overhead. So I was run out of business when I couldn’t sell rubber tires anymore,” he explained.

“While I still owned my store, a woman would come in daily and hit on me. I finally told her, ‘I haven’t got caught up to home yet!’ That sure put a damper on things!”

Daddy loved to tell that joke. One great thing about him is he was good at ad-libbing jokes and getting a laugh — a natural comedian, he had a wonderful sense of humor. Sadly, he tried to curb this special talent once the LeBaron cult started cracking down on light-mindedness — considered a sin. (They didn’t know “Laughter is the best medicine.”)

I never spent much time around Daddy. Highly sensitive me avoided being in the same space with him whenever possible.When I had to be around him, I hid in the shadows. When I could do so without being noticed, I would escape to my attic room, especially after I became a teenager because his anger and abuse doubled toward me by then.

I already mentioned a little about this in previous blogs: He had a terrible temper that I got the brunt of more than all the rest of his children put together. I was the scapegoat of the family, so was glad he was usually away from the house working all day. That lessened the stress I endured because of him — and because of Mother. She would get me in trouble with him every chance she got — like every day, once I became a teenager!

But on Sundays, he did not work — which meant he was always home keeping the Sabbath. After our daily morning prayers were said in the big family circle, breakfast, and our family Sunday School service was over, Daddy would sit in his overstuffed armchair in the living room and read the newspaper and comic strips in front of the fireplace he had built and decorated with petrifiedwood rock work.

Hidden out of his view and reach, I loved watching how he would sometimes laugh till he teared up reading the Little Orphan Annie comic series. As a child, I especially loved it when he would throw me the “Funny Papers” after he got through reading them.

Then I would lie on my stomach on the carpet, a distance from him, and try to read and understand The Funnies. But try as I may, as a kid, I never could figure out what Daddy found so funny about his favorite comic strip, Little Orphan Annie. 

I lacked the maturity and experience to comprehend such things. Daddy was twenty-six years older than Mother, and about fifty-two years older than I — old enough to be my grandfather.

But other than being around him on Sunday mornings so I could get the funnies once he was through with them, mostly I avoided being in the same room with him. I was afraid of him.

By the time I was 14, almost every day he would lash out at me, both physically and verbally. And, often, he would make fun of me and put me down in front of my family or friends … or whoever else happened to be around when he found a reason to ridicule me and “put me in my place.”

Because of this, I developed a confused love-hate feeling for him, though I never realized it till much later. Mother always told us what a saint Daddy was and that he was the very best man in the whole wide world! Needless to say, I never got to learn a whole lot about my father, due to it being so miserable for me … so threatening to be around him.

But I remember, when I was four years old, he took an oil painting class. I recall him sitting out under the backyard trees with his easel and paints, copying some nature scenes that included our house he had bought around two years before when it was not much more than a shack.

He was remodeling it to make it a livable home. He would buy a run-down ramshackle of a place, fix it up into a fairly decent abode, then, before we had much time to enjoy the better living conditions, we’d end up moving, for one reason or another, to a new ramshackle abode. And the whole damn scene would start all over again — we Spencers living in a mud adobe abode or whatever, till he fixed it up into a half-decent place to live — and then we would move. “Why couldn’t we ever stay in the home once it got fixed up and had running water, a shower, electricity, and a flushing toilet?” I used to wish and wonder.

We moved around twelve times from the time I was born in a mud adobe abode in Mexico till I turned fourteen! Then we moved back again, “fool” circle, to another mud adobe abode in the Mormon fundamentalist cult where I first started out: Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico!

Then, wouldn’t you know, no sooner did Daddy do a complete makeover of our new mud adobe abode in Colonia LeBaron, but what I was married off at age sixteen in an arranged polygamous marriage!  And that entailed moving again, this time to my own home …  and another mud adobe abode!)

PART 8

My father Floyd Spencer

“An unexamined life is not worth living.” Plato … quoting Socrates

In the Previous blog, I mentioned that when I was around four years old, Artist Daddy, with easel and oils, used to sit beneath the big green shade tree in our front yard and paint the nature scenes around about him. Often he used our home as a backdrop for his paintings. Mother kept these “Masterpieces” hanging on the wall in our home, proudly showing them off to visitors.

But, sadly, Daddy didn’t continue for long with his oil painting hobby and venture. Though oil painting had been a lifelong dream and yearning of his, he was in his late fifties when he’d finally had the where-with-all to try his hand at it. But, sadly, he soon discovered oil painting or water coloring pictures — or even sketching — took a lot more time and money than he could devote to his beloved hobby, Artist though he was … better still, “frustrated Artist”!

What it boiled down to was he had to give up his artistic drive and dream because it conflicted with what he believed was his higher calling: To bring little spirits up in heaven down into good Mormon fundamentalists homes; i.e., to have all the kids he could have! He was devout, to be sure. Whatever his faults, there was a lot of good and good intentions in this man.

After he sacrificed his painting hobby, due to conflicts of interests — God, his family, and religious beliefs came first — Mother gave him piano lessons because around about that time he had finally bought trained–concert-pianist Mama a piano!

But when he saw four-year-old me could sit down and play by ear whatever I heard him practicing as he struggled to learn to play by note, he was humiliated and felt cheated that it should come so easily to me, a little kid, what he had to work so hard for as an old man.

So, just like my older sister … and for the same reasons, I suspect … they both soon gave up for good and forever any attempt to learn to play the piano. But Daddy qualified it with some truths when he said:

“Bein’ an artist and playin’ musical instruments is for rich people. It takes an awful lot of time. And I have to spend my time and energy makin’ a living to support my family.” Then he added, as an afterthought,“Rich people get rich off the backs of the poor.”

However, I would qualify it with: “The Haves” and “The Have-nots” can usually be traced back to “The Did’s” and “The Did-nots.” (Readers Digest) 

For example, the “Haves” did not have a lot of kids and wives! They chose “Quality over Quantity.”  

Even so, Daddy had learned to play the harmonica as a young man. When I was 10, he taught me how to play “Home, Sweet Home” on it. From there, I was off and running, easily picking out by ear other tunes on the harmonica.

But something I could never do was whistle, though Daddy could whistle like a Pro — the only one in our family that could ever do that, far as I know. Though we all really tried hard to learn how to whistle.

In fact, when I was nine years old, it was quite a funny sounding scene around our home and yard, there for a while: All of us kids and even Mother went about trying to “whistle a happy tune,” when, at best, we weren’t blowing much more than our lips, hot air, and a lot of strange sounds!

But whenever Dad was at home and working around the place, he was his own radio — and ours too! His whistling could be heard throughout the home and yard. And I loved it — loved his beautiful whistling of tunes that were always right on pitch.

In fact, one breezy spring morning in Hurricane, Utah, when I was around eleven, I was blown away when I heard Daddy out in the barn milking Bossy, our auburn Jersey cow, exquisitely whistling the hit tune from the 1950s Musical Oklahoma!: “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!”

Mother was a trained concert pianist. But Daddy’s musicianship was that of a gifted, born Whistler! I never realized, back then, what an asset and talent it truly is to be able to whistle — whistle any melody beautifully! Oh, how I would love to be able to do that myself.

PART 9

Ma & Pa on their land, the Galeana Springs, near Colonia LeBaron, Chihuahua, Mexico

“In the course of my life, I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.” Winston Spencer Churchhill

In the previous blog, we were talking about some more of my father’s accomplishments and sacrifices. Among other such memorabilia is the following: He was a proud Veteran of World War I. He fought with the 308th Engineers from Ohio to the Rhine. There are videos of his Platoon on YouTube, showing them constructing a bridge, among other things.

While with his Platoon in France, during his WWI Service, Daddy got to meet Winston Spencer Churchhill! So he had double the reason, on January 24, 1965, for taking three days off work to keep his ear tuned to the radio all day and into the night when Churchhill died.

Yes, for three days he listened to the constant end-to-end radio broadcasts about world-famous leader Winston Spencer Churchhill as Radio Broadcasters expounded upon the many great accomplishments and services this icon had performed for society. Daddy could especially relate to Churchill’s accomplishments when it came to World War I and World War II. Sadly, I didn’t even know who Winston Spencer Churchill was!

It figures, as, at the time Churchill died, I was eighteen years old, had been married off in an arranged marriage at age sixteen, and held captive in the LeBaron doomsday cult in Mexico since August 1960.

 August 1960 was the unfortunate date my parents uprooted our family, locks, stocks, shocks, and barrels, to move to Zion “to gather and mingle with the Saints and avoid the calamities that were coming very soon to wipe out the wicked. (Colonia LeBaron was “Zion.”) In hindsight, I see it was really quite the other way around: Gathering to Zion was nothing but a calamity!

I had barely graduated from eighth grade, in Hurricane, Utah, before we left for this “Zion.” My parents walked us right into a ready-made viper’s den and cult calamity, thinking they were doing just the opposite — preparing for the end of the world that was due any week … if not sooner.

Well, it WAS the end of my world! Their man-made CALAMITY wiped out and ruined my hopes for “The good life.” I have been trying to do catch-up ever since.

As cult-fate would have it, there was plenty of wickedness going on in so-called Zion “to mingle with.” It turned out to be quite a little colony of “Saints” — or a “Little House of Horrors”!

I’m just glad it wasn’t another Jonestown! At least my self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Joel never asked us to drink the Kool-Aid. However, self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Ervil was quite another story.

As my Memoir unfolds, you shall hear what I mean. Because I intend to unmask the Colonia LeBaron Mormon fundamentalist cult life I endured while stuck living eight years in Mexico down past the Rio Grande — a life I barely survived to blog about. It was about fifty-eight years ago, as of March 2018, that my family “gathered to Zion.” I have been trying to get over it ever since.

Their prophet, my Uncle Joel LeBaron, had prophesied: “The destructions foreseen in the Book of Revelations are coming any day now to rain down upon the United States! Mexico is the land of refuge for the Saints.”  Mother claimed she, too, had seen this “end of days” in a dream!

Go figure: The sky was falling … another Chicken-Little story … or LeBaron story? If you want to get power, claim you’ve had a revelation, a dream that shows the world is coming to an end. You’ll most likely get some followers.

The truth is, yours and my world IS coming to an end: We never know the hour of our death … the end of our OWN world. (Maybe that’s what scares people to death so much!) But the world, itself, and new life will continue on, as it has for thousands of millenniums.

If you claim “the sky is falling/ the world is coming to an end, some Millennial’s (i.e., Messianic apocalyptic dooms-dayers who believe the end of the world and “the Millennium” is imminent) will likely believe and follow you. Chicken Little sure got his following … if you recall that children’s fairytale.

But now back to reality: After being pulled out of school and moved to that secluded and barren, Chihuahuan Desert wilderness, I had no chance for further education.

That was a calamity in itself! Quite the end of my world — at least as I had known it. I, a Bookworm, wasn’t even allowed to read, let alone have any contact with the outside world, in any way, shape, or form. So, no: I wouldn’t know who Churchhill was.

Before I was married, while living in LeBaron’s “Zion,” all my family-of-origin had, as far as connections with the outside world were concerned, was Daddy’s little battery-run radio — which only he was allowed to use!

Even worse, all we ever heard about from Mother was mostly cult dogma and propaganda. And how great she and her family heritage was: Her father, mother, brothers — especially her brothers, Joel and Ervil, the “prophets” of the cult! Mother had to be number one. So, sadly, I never got to know how special my father’s Spencer heritage was. For some reason, Daddy never mentioned it either. Or maybe he did but I wasn’t around to hear.

NOTE: Though there is more to relate, as to my father’s history, I will relate it in the context of my own continuing Memoirs.

For now, I conclude my nine-part series,”My Daddy,” (Renamed with the lyrics of the following comical song I wrote. There is a verse in it about my amazing father. But first this Intro: ~ My Song: “Pretty City Chic: A Bit o’ Bio in Verse”

Stephany Spencer-LeBaron, age 38

 Pretty City Chic

Dearest friends and fans, Please note: This tongue-in-cheek song I wrote Is half-finished so I don’t gloat, But pray my poem won’t get your goat;

It’s late — blog’s due “mañana;” Check the song later on … uh … You’ll find it’s been “re-wrote”… “Needs work” is my last quote. But please enjoy what I wrote; Now I humorously emote:

Pretty City Chic

Hey! I’m a Hack Who’s written this hit Called “PRETTY CITY CHIC”– A HEE-HA COMEDY SONG — A BIT O’ BIO IN VERSE, FOR BETTER OR WORSE, WITH TRUTH ‘N’ EXAGGERATION INTERSPERSED:

HEY, they’ve called me “Pretty City Chick,” But Hillbilly music is my shtick; My Hillbilly ways are here to stick, So you may as well git over it — Join in ’n’ sing a bit With “City Chic” —

Born in Mexican sticks in 1966. I’ve dual citizenship — What a trip! Now Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick.

I’m an all-American-mongrel, Apple-pie girl — A Hines-57 mixed-up mutt With apple pie stickin’ to my butt ’n’ gut — But Red-necked reactionaries ain’t my thing; I’m here fer music and to sing!

Yeah, I’m an All-American-Mexican, Scots-Irish “Mick,” With Welch ’n’ English, So, sure, I’m a Brit … With French, German, Mohawk Indian a bit. If there’s no Tom Slick Hidin’ in the pit, Far as I know, that’s about it — That‘s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!

My father was a proud Veteran of World War I. Those Vets were well-appreciated For what they’d done! Pa was an artist, creative — Jack-of-all-trades; Master of a few — Good at many things — What couldn’t he do?

Ma was a Creative — Artist thru ’n’ thru; Poet, Pianist, Painter — Whew! Loved talking religion, old or new — Long as it agreed with what she already “knew.” She graduated with a BA in Journalism too; Quite an accomplishment — Ma was sixty-two!

She was runnin’ me competition then, For I was still in College too. But her motto was: “Anything you can do, I can do better; I can do anything better than you!” (And she meant it too!)

REFRAIN: Hey, they call me “Pretty City Chic,” But Hillbilly music is my “shtick,” My Hillbilly ways are here to stick! So you may as well “git” over it; Join in ‘n’ sing a bit With “City Chic,” ‘Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick. Well, that’s my story And I’m “shtickin’ ” to it: “I’m Pretty City Chic!”

(By Stephany Spencer)

NOTE: The following is an iPhone video of me at the California Writers Club, March 2017, performing the above song I wrote, “PRETTY CITY CHIC” (BEFORE I RECENTLY “RE-WRIT” PARTS OF IT!):

NOTE: This concludes my nine–part Series, “My Daddy,” renamed “Pt 1-9: My Father Floyd Spencer, Fundamentalist Mormon LeBaron Cult Member.”

Thanks for visiting and sharing my blog site with me. 

I love to write. But it’s icing on the blog when I have readers who devour it on top of my cooking it up!  

 In future blogs, I’ll tell you a little about my maternal grandparents and Mother — How she and Daddy met, some of their adventures together, etc. —

That is, I may tell you about the beginning of my father’s Mormon fundamentalist cult saga that culminated with his bringing me into the world — along with many other kids and events — which culminated in my creating this Blog. Chain reactions? That’s life!

Pt 1-9: Floyd O. Spencer, Mormon LeBaron Cult Member PART 1 My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19…

[girlhb]

restless ♡

taekwoon/(girl)hongbin, nc17, 1700w

it isn’t really a fic, more of a drabble ~ in which hongbin is nervous of her first time, so asks taekwoon to help her

The wine was stolen from her dad's basement pantry, one bottle of a hundred really couldn't hurt. Except it'd been warm and boiled in Hongbin's tummy until her knees felt watery and she'd had to lie down, curled up on Taekwoon's bed.

'Binnie,' he'd scolded her, drowsily, as if doped and not drunk. He got that way when it was wine. She found it kind of cute. 'You don't have to drink that much.'

'I didn't.'

'Then don't drink so fast.'

She'd murmured a low, 'Shut up,' and rolled over, under the blankets, her long auburn hair a tangled mess all over her face. She'd pretended to be asleep when Taekwoon brushed the hair off her damp forehead, his thin fingers soft against the shell of her ear. He'd lingered and she'd felt it, trying hard not to smile.

But this was all forty minutes ago and she felt a little more collected now, sobered up. Hongbin sat with her back to the headboard and her hair over one shoulder, watching tiredly as Taekwoon clicked through channels.

'Nothing?' she asked.

'Nothing.'

So they settled on Old Boy for the hundredth time, Taekwoon taking up his usual spot beside her. He asked her to pass him the bottle, so she did and took a sip after him, tasting spearmint from his gum.

When Hongbin leaned over the side of the bed to slip the bottle under the mattress, her head began to rush and she felt giddy, tingles spreading up her legs to her chest; blood flowing to the tips of her toes. Wine always did this to her.

'What are you smiling about?' Taekwoon muttered, never looking away from the movie. A hundred times of the same scenes, over and over and still he watched enthralled every time. Hongbin smiled at his disinterest in her, and nestled herself into his side.

She whispered against his cheek, 'I wanna ask something. Can I?'

He hummed.

'But. . . you can't laugh at me. Or think it's weird, alright? I'm asking seriously so don't —Don't make fun of me. Okay?'

He smirked, one corner of his mouth curling up. She hated when he smiled like that. It reminded her too much of when they were kids and he'd poke fun at her school skirts, her bad haircuts.

With a scoff, Hongbin picked at her nails. She'd colored them last week (Taekwoon helping to paint her left hand) and the varnish was peeling off around the edges. Taekwoon nudged her gently, his smile gone and eyes steady; she ducked her head bashfully.

'I like a boy.'

Taekwoon blinked, indifferent.

'And. . . I think he likes me.' It was a bit of a stretch, but she was sure Wonsik's pained laughter and the multitude of blushing he endured every time she spoke to him had to mean something. But she spared Taekwoon the details. She could tell she was losing him, his eyes growing glossy and shifting toward the movie.

She touched his arm and his attention was back on her, undivided but a little tired. Like the wine was finally setting in.

'You know I don't have any experience with boyfriends and—' Hongbin fretted, nails digging gently into Taekwoon's arm. Exasperated, she demanded, 'Do you love me?'

Taekwoon snorted softly. 'Is that your question?'

'No, no. Just making sure.'

He smiled, amused. 'I do.'

Hongbin smiled back, a little forced. 'Okay.' Here was the hard part. Her spine tingled and all the soft hairs on her arms stood alert, her heart pounding hard enough she was certain Taekwoon could hear it. He watched her quizzically, his head tilted like a dog that's heard a particularly strange sound.

'Will you sleep with me?' she mumbled, hesitantly. Then, when Taekwoon failed to respond, his lips parted slightly like he was trying to figure out an answer, she took his hand between both of hers. 'You remember when you asked me to kiss you by the pool house when you were fifteen?'

Taekwoon startled. Tipping his face down, he muttered, 'Yes.'

'It's like that.' She squeezed his hand. 'I wanna do it, but I don't. . . want to with just, like, anyone. You know?'

Taekwoon nodded. His fingers curled around Hongbin's thin hands, able to fit both of hers in one fist. 'You wanna sleep with this guy?'

There was no way of telling if the tremble in Taekwoon's tone was simply nerves, or maybe a hint of jealousy. She'd understand if it was. She could remember the anger that boiled inside her when Taekwoon had slept with a girl from his maths class. Wondering, painfully: why her.

But this was a little different.

Hongbin chewed her lower lip. 'I dunno. It might happen, right? It's scary.'

'Yeah.'

'There's a little time before university starts. I don't like the idea of going there and not having experience?'

Taekwoon kept nodding, not giving much of a response except for a twitch of his fingers, his eyes darting between Hongbin's face and his lap. She pulled at his hand gently and he let her.

Apprehension burbled like a whirlwind, spinning her guts all around until her mouth felt thick with anxiety. Hongbin didn't notice right away, but she was making a low whining sound very quietly in her chest. More of a rumble than anything, but it was there and Taekwoon heard it.

He touched her cheek with his left hand and put his right arm around her middle. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but closed her eyes instead. Then his mouth touched hers and the wine loosened her muscles and made her weak. Keening, Hongbin pulled Taekwoon closer, feeling the heat swarming between her legs.

'Just once,' he said lowly.

'Why?'

'It's better that way.'

She never opened her eyes and so never saw his face distort, worry lines across his forehead that smoothed as quickly as they'd appeared. She carded her fingers in his hair and felt him tremble.

Hongbin kissed him again and then again, gradually sinking onto her back with Taekwoon hovering over her. She thought this was it—as quickly as flashing light he'd crawl between her legs and bear down on her until the fire in her stomach burned out. But no such thing happened. Instead it was his hand pushing under the blankets and ultimately under her dress. His blunt nails tickled her inner thigh, ghosting over the front of her panties that were damp and sticky against her.

A strangled sound like a moan, as delicate as his voice. Hongbin melted at the sound.

'I can't right now,' Taekwoon muttered. 'I w...want to, but I can't.'

Taking Taekwoon's mouth with her own, Hongbin didn't stop kissing him as she told him it was alright. She understood. They could work up to it, she urged, all the while guiding Taekwoon's hand back between her legs where her muscles spasmed, a heat sweltering inside her.

Normally, she wouldn't be so abrasive. She hated when Taekwoon's mouth trembled—a dead giveaway that he was panicked—but his hands were firm, faintly experienced. He touched her with deliberation that sent sparks down her legs.

He said, 'Don't let me hurt you,' and slipped a finger into her panties, then into her.

It was all it took.

Panting, the wine congealed to murk inside her head, Hongbin tightened around Taekwoon's finger and felt him glide into her, her stomach flexing deeply. She bit his lip to stop from moaning too loudly as warmth rushed out of her, her thighs quivering as she came.

Taekwoon dropped his head against her shoulder, and pushed his finger deeper into her.

There was a moment, exciting as it was confusing, when Hongbin really thought about what she had asked. She blinked up at the ceiling as Taekwoon kissed her throat and felt dizzy with excitement, his finger moving slowly in and out, a motion she was familiar with but only with her own hands.

She bucked against him and let him fit another finger into her, the stretch different than she was used to. His fingers were much longer, bonier around the knuckles, but she liked it—liked it even more when he kissed her and pressed his cock to her thigh. Hongbin wanted him inside her, but wouldn't dare ask again—not tonight. She was afraid of him retreating like he had so often before back in grade school when she'd make the mistake of pressing him too far.

She came again minutes later, Taekwoon's fingers so drenched they made an awful wet sound that embarrassed her. But then he pulled away and Hongbin got a good look at him, saw how utterly wrecked he was—his hair tousled, cock straining against the front of his jeans—that all her chagrin fell away. Then she took him into her hand and pumped him twice before he spilled over her fingers with his hands balled into fists against the sheets.

He moaned her name and she felt on fire.

/

Since they were young, back when Taekwoon had asked Hongbin to kiss him, the line which separated their personal space had been blurred. Which was fine. It worked for them. Hongbin had someone to cling to on the nights she drank too much too quickly, and Taekwoon's hand never seemed to leave her lower back when they went out: movie dates and modest restaurants. Sometimes to the old VHS store that no longer sold VHS's but was called Tape City all the same. And so there wasn't so much a difference when Hongbin, slightly hungover and groggy, woke at a quarter to eleven that evening, a few hours after Taekwoon had touched her. Her head spun for a moment, teetering on the edge of sleep; she felt Taekwoon asleep beside her and quickly nuzzled into his side.

He stirred.

'I should go home,' she said lowly. 'It's...late.'

'Yeah.' But his arm tightened around her and kept her in place. He buried his face into her hair. 'Or you could stay?'

She kissed him once, and said she couldn't. She had to go. And peeling herself from him, a little woozy on legs that couldn't support her well, Hongbin stepped into her shoes, then out of his room.

[toopliss-chewtoy]

Hard Coded - Ch. 5/8

I’m so, so sorry for how much time there is between chapters >.< So many other little things that come between it that distract me... oh well, better late then never. A pretty long chapter this time too, please bear with it!

The glorious art in this chapter was done by @rokutsubasa61! She does great stuff, so be sure to have a look when you finish reading :D - J.

[Read from the start] Size: 4282 words Warnings: Author chose not to show warnings - some apply! Also on AO3

Chapter 5

“No cellphones at the table,” Stoick said with a stern frown.

“Sorry, dad.”

Hiccup put his phone away and continued to eat. His steak was pretty good - thanks to the fact Gobber did all the cooking - but his mind was distracted with other things. Things related to a specific white-haired boy.

“Who were you texting, anyway?”

“Just a friend from school.” A friend who he’d been going out with for a couple of weeks now, but that was on a strict need-to-know basis only. He didn’t want to talk about that, not with his dad anyway.

“Who?”

“Does it matter?” Hiccup gave his father a sarcastic stare.

“I’ve never seen you text this much before.”

The teen thought about that. He seriously doubted that he really texted Jack that much around his father. What was he going on about?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Humor me.”

The tension in the room was palpable.

“Why are you so insistent? What’s it to you who I’m texting with, it’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend.” Stoick grumbled. “Is it that white-haired lad?”

“Yes… he has white hair.” Hiccup frowned. “How do you know?”

“I saw you kiss him.”

All colour drained from Hiccup’s cheeks, reducing his complexion to something very much like Jack’s hair after a fresh dye. “W-what? I-I never-”

“I was done early and going to pick you up because of the weather. You were already in his car.”

It had been raining cats and dogs today, so of course Jack had offered to give him a ride home. Hiccup had kissed him in the car to thank him… and that hadn’t been just a peck on the cheek either. Good Gods! Stoick had seen that! Hiccup was mortified and scared at the same time. He wanted to go back in time to stop his past self from getting in that car and prevent this all from happening. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He wanted Jack to do some weird demonic summoning spell that would instantly transport Hiccup to his bedroom.

“Who is it?” Stoick demanded.

Hiccup considered his options. Maybe this could still be salvaged.

“Jack, from the baseball team. We have science together.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“A few weeks now,” he confessed. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned coming out, but there was no denying it now. He carefully kept his face neutral, doing his best to appear confident. Fake it till you make it, right? In truth, however, his hands were shaking like little twigs in a hurricane-level storm, right there under the table.

“Impossible. You’re not gay,” Stoick said. “It’s in your barcode.”

“Oh please, my barcode-”

“Don’t interrupt me. This is just some futile rebellious act or something, and I will have none of it. You will break up with this boy immediately.” The bearded man gave his son a frightening look, just daring him to try his patience and see how ugly it could get. It took all Hiccup’s self-control to stay calm and not break down to scream or cry or both. Not yet. He had to face his father head on on this one.

“No.”

One word, yet so hard to deliver.

“No?” Stoick’s frown got so deep it put the grand canyon to shame. “You’re grounded until you break up with him. No phone, no internet except for school, and Gobber will bring you to school and pick you up right after.”

“You can’t-”

“I can. Now go to your room.”

Hiccup fled the dining table with his heart hammering in his chest. He went straight up to his room and slammed the door shut. Toothless startled, jumping a foot into the air and landing on the ground with an angry meow.

Hiccup paid him no mind and flung himself on the bed. A white hot rage boiled inside him. At the same time an incredible feeling of betrayal made him want to bawl his eyes out. He’d know his dad wouldn’t take it well, but actually experiencing it still hurt so much. And now part of him wanted to rigorously redecorate his room by throwing all the furniture around, and another part wanted to hide under the blanket and cry.

Stoick hadn’t taken his phone just yet, so Hiccup quickly told Jack as much as he could. He didn’t get a reply before Stoick came to collect the device.

After that it was just him. No connection to anyone outside his room. No support.

At least no-one but Toothless witnessed his breakdown.

Gobber knocked on the study door and went straight in, not needing to wait for an answer. As usual, Stoick was still working. Preparing for meetings, reading background material, answering countless emails - it was a never-ending stream of work. Not that you’d ever hear the man complain. He knew perfectly well what he was getting into when he ran for Mayor with even aspirations beyond that. He’d told Gobber as much when he’d asked him to be his personal assistant. Gobber had accepted that position not just to help his friend, but even more so to make sure at least someone was taking care of Hiccup too.

He’d address what had happened during dinner soon, but first…

“Courier,” Gobber stated.

The big, bearded man frowned. Gobber had seen that turn into his default expression the last few months.

“At this time? What did they bring?”

“The lad won’t say, he’ll only give it to you. Don’t look like much of a courier to me either.” The bald PA shrugged.

“Let him in.”

Gobber went to fetch the odd ‘courier’. If he was really that, because what delivery boy wears such an fine suit? Gobber was no expert on suit brands - he hated the damn things, it was bad enough he had to wear one - but it looked more expensive than anything he’d ever owned. Add to that the fancy briefcase he was carrying and you have the poshest delivery boy of the century.

The unknown figure wore it with confidence too, as if he was entirely used to this kind of stuff. He looked very unremarkable otherwise. Neat haircut. Clean shave. Your typical banker, including the borderline arrogant smirk. Gobber followed him inside and shut the office door, curious what he had to say to the mayor.

To Gobber’s surprise, the pseudo-courier didn’t say anything at all. He simply took an unmarked, sealed envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Stoick. It was large - the kind that holds A4 printed documents - and not very thick.

“Is that all?” Stoick asked. At least he was just as surprised as his PA. “All the way out here for this?”

The visitor nodded. “Just delivering,” he said. “We hope to hear from you soon.” He glanced at Gobber, nodded at Stoick, and turned around to leave again. Gobber showed him out, thoroughly puzzled by the whole affair.

Stoick rubbed his temples, trying to keep the oncoming headache at bay. First that thing with Hiccup, now this… one peek inside the envelope confirmed his suspicion. It was a letter and thin document from Echelon, the company behind the barcode system as it is used today.

It must be a sensitive piece of paper if they delivered it like this. He quickly scanned the letter.

This definitely wasn’t going to help with his headache. They were getting impatient, and had sent technical instructions to make their transition go faster. The script was only a few pages long, but Stoick really didn’t want to deal with this now. He stashed the envelope in a drawer together with Hamish’ phone. He locked the drawer, pocketed the key, and decided he’d done enough work for one day.

Hiccup lay in bed. It was late, but sleep wouldn’t come. Father sleep had been scared off like a startled deer during hunting season and he’d probably not return to his duties anytime soon. Instead he surfed the glorious wave that was 400 channels of satellite TV, hoping to find something that could distract him. Or even better, lull him to sleep after all. So far he’d only found tasteless comedy-shows, crappy sitcoms that weren’t even funny 30 years ago, and doctor Phil reruns. He sighed. He wanted to chat with Jack. That idiot would probably stay awake to text back as long as it took for Hiccup to fall asleep. Sometimes Hiccup wondered what he’d done to deserve such a kind boy.

He couldn’t wait for school tomorrow. At least he’d be able to see Jack there. Maybe sneak off to a more private place for a hug or holding hands or something.

“Tomorrow the trial of Dr. D Faustino will reach it’s conclusion.” A news anchor said. “Experts claim he is facing up to ten years in prison for alteration of multiple barcodes during his career as plastic surgeon.” Hiccup perked up. He didn’t watch the news very often - not  on TV anyway, that was more entertainment than news most of the time. But you didn’t hear about someone messing around with barcodes every day.

“How do you estimate the chances for a not-guilty verdict of your client?”, asked their correspondent to a guy with a sour face and gray suit. The tag in the corner said he was the doctor’s lawyer.

“I feel like we stand a good chance tomorrow. The evidence is all circumstantial at best. Today’s verdict will have a tremendous effect on the debate and social implications connect to changing ones barcode as well - it can transform the entire issue . I think the judge and jury are well aware of the deep underlying effects the verdict can have.” The lawyer then promised to appeal, of course, should the verdict be ‘guilty’.

Hiccup zoned out the moment some so-called ‘experts’ were asked for their opinions. He was repeating the lawyer’s words. Such a delicate case could have serious implications… if people would only listen to that lawyer. He seemed to have thought things through for a change. The man was probably of the opinion codes were overrated, that the real world wasn’t as black and white as the lines on your wrist. But no-one would say that on television, of course. All anyone ever wants are bite-sized pieces of black and white “truth”, taking any easy solution over actual thought and nuance.

Maybe with this court-case going on, some debate could be found online. Hiccup was hungry for any arguments against barcodes, especially now.

He got out his laptop. It was meant for school and thus absolutely littered with parental control software. Surely he could find a way to break through it, but one slip-up and his dad would find out and take the laptop away altogether… he couldn’t risk that. So for now he’d have to live with internet filters, restricted software, and worst of all: a time limit. It still had Google. That was something.

He had to work fast and efficient here. No time to do more than a quick scan over forum threads, which were more troll infested than information rich anyway. He was on the lookout for any credible sources like news websites or literature. The most recent news was easy to find. Google was kind enough to put that on the first two pages already. Faustino was on trial, buzzfeed was covering which famous musicians had an asterisk, and Congress would soon vote on a new bill to update the Barcode Security Act. The Enhanced Barcode Security Act, as it was very creatively called, was expected to pass into law without any problems. Now that was interesting.

Of course Hiccup had known the BSA existed, but why it was being updated was a mystery to him. He’d tried to read the original act with all its impossible legal jargon. As far as he could tell, it was just your basic privacy legislation, but then for barcodes instead of emails and phonecalls. This bill had been around for years now.

What politician had been brave - or perhaps foolish - enough to start a debate about it and get it appended? It wasn’t even clear to Hiccup what had to be ‘enhanced’ about it anyway, nor did any of the news-sources specify what exactly was going to change in it.

Sadly, as he dug deeper, he found more steaming troll-dung and tinfoil hats. Topics like these were an absolute favourite for the conspiracy nutjobs and the internet was full with ‘alternative facts’. It was pretty difficult to sift through the heaps of information and distinguish what was real and what wasn’t.

He longed for just a shred of reliable evidence to slap in his dad’s face. To back up what he’d known for years already: that a barcode does not define you, and that the match-making system was the biggest load of crap in the history of pseudoscience. So he kept searching. He still had fifteen minutes computer-time left before he needed to enter a password. No pressure.

Toothless was draped over his legs for moral support. The cat hadn’t left his side after his breakdown, which he was thankful for. Now that Hiccup was doing all right again, Toothless was relaxed as well, purring contently.

More fora. Reddit threads. 4-chan. Sometimes parts sounded reasonable, maybe even borderline scientific, but Hiccup was pretty sure it was better to disregard anything that was mentioned in one breath with ‘lizard people’ and ‘virtual Satanist invasions’. When his time was up and the laptop started to shut down on its own, he hadn’t learned much more.

He was fairly certain government committee reports at least existed, as well as scientific literature. Google scholar praise be unto thee. Sadly, any real article was behind a paywall, without as much as an abstract or conclusion available to Hiccup. And there was no trace of the government reports online at all. He hadn’t managed to find anything about the public debate at the time the whole system was introduced either. Even when searching for that specific period in time, all he got were marketing campaigns by Echelon Corp., the telecom giant.

Frustrated, Hiccup put the laptop aside. Toothless had dozed off and protested vocally against the sudden movement.

“Sorry, bud. You can’t help it either.”

The information was out there, Hiccup just couldn’t get to it.

Unless… His dad was going to run for governor election. Maybe Hiccup could get what he needed through his dad! Step one would be to break into Stoick’s home office and check his papers. Perhaps he could even get in his laptop. Who knows what kind of things that could give him access to! He’d just wait till tomorrow, when his dad wasn’t home, and have a quick look.

Wild trails of thought continued for a little bit longer, but his brain soon gave up. He was worn out just enough to sleep a bit.

The next day was better. He had one period off in the afternoon, and Jack had skipped a bit of training so they could spend it together. In fact, it seemed as if Jack had made it his mission to smother Hiccup in hugs. He touched the brunet whenever he could, evidently determined to show how much he loved Hiccup, and totally ignoring the surprised people that saw them.

At lunch, they sought some privacy, sitting on the ground in a remote hallway. Far away from the busy buzz of the cafeteria.

“I can’t believe your dad is doing this. This is pretty abusive if you ask me.”

“What can I do?” Hiccup replied. “He’s my dad and well respected at that. He can do as he pleases.”

“Still shitty.”

“Well… yeah. You don’t need to tell me, I can’t even go online at night.�� Hiccup sighed.

“I know. Sorry. I love you.” Jack said. He rested his head on Hiccup’s shoulder.

“I love you too.” Hiccup played with his leather bracelet. “We’ll get around this.”

The constant affection during the day, made the isolation that was to come in the evening seem a bit more bearable. As expected, Gobber was there to pick him up right after school. Hiccup immediately spotted him as he walked out the door, waiting in the car, not far from the main entrance. Hiccup squeezed Jack’s hand and together they walked down the few steps to street level. People were all around them, and normally Hiccup wouldn’t do a thing with that many onlookers. He wanted to make a point though. He swallowed and kissed Jack right there. Not an innocent peck on the lips either.

“Wow,” Jack breathed. “I thought you wanted privacy for that.”

“Making an exception this once.” Hiccup smiled nervously. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yea,” his boyfriend promised. “See you tomorrow.”

Hiccup squeezed his hand one last time. The looks they were getting from their peers made him incredibly self conscious, so he quickly got into the car. When he looked at Gobber, he could swear the man was trying hard to hide his grin. Not quite the response Hiccup had expected, but he didn’t ask about it. He didn’t grumble to Gobber about being picked up either.

When they got home, Hiccup went up to his room as usual. Instead of starting on his homework, he pretended to watch TV, keeping a watchful eye on Gobber’s car outside. The moment he left for some grocery shopping, Hiccup went to his father’s study. The door wasn’t even locked.

Now he had about an hour to snoop around… and he had no idea where to start. He looked around, wondering when he’d last been in here. It felt like ages ago. There was an old, dark wooden desk with a sizable ergonomic chair behind it. Opposite were two smaller chairs. The floor was simple but clean carpet and the walls were mostly lined with bookshelves with rows of ledgers and books, some of which were leather bound. Unlike those show-studies of billionaires, however, Hiccup was pretty sure Stoick had actually read every page that was on his shelves.

He walked past the rows of ledgers and books and read their titles. The fancy bound books seemed to be an encyclopedia. Part 15 was missing and it stopped after 31 with room to spare on the shelf. There was a framed picture of Stoick and Valka, Hiccup´s mother, together. Hiccup had a picture just like that in his room, but then with only Valka on it.

He sighed, getting a bit frustrated.

What did I even expect? A folder with ‘my secret stuff’ written on it?

He wasn’t even sure if his dad had excess to the documents he was looking for. Also because the term ‘documents’ was rather broad and vague and he honestly had no idea what he specifically needed. Maybe this wasn’t as smart as he’d initially thought.

Of course he tried the drawers. They were all locked. In the top drawer was a keyhole, and the key was not in it.

Great.

It took him nearly half an hour to find the key. It lay behind the framed picture. The whole concept was so bad-spy-movie-like that Hiccup couldn’t help but feel very disappointed in his father’s attempt at secrecy. This man was not made for keeping things hidden, obviously.

He had to hurry now; he was running out of time, and he didn’t want to make this a daily thing until he found something. That was way to risky.

Inside the drawer was his phone and a letter from the cable company. Underneath that some more papers. A plain white envelope caught his attention. On it was just one name, in Stoick’s handwriting. ‘Valherama’, it read. Hiccup opened it, feeling like a voyeur and an archaeologist finding a new dinosaur at the same time. The envelope contained a hand written letter from Stoick to his wife. It was dated may, three years ago. One month after the accident, Hiccup realized with a start.

His hand trembling slightly, he scanned the letter. It was overflowing with sorrow and regret, but also love. So much love for Valka. Stoick really loved her with all his heart. Hiccup’s vision got blurry, and he rubbed away at his upcoming tears. Stoick missed her just as much as he did. But there was something else too. Not just general regret about the accident.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, my dearest, for I have done a terrible thing. Even now, in this letter, after you have long gone to heaven, I am weak. I cannot get myself to confess to you, and all I can say is how sorry I am. I hope one day Hiccup can forgive me.”

It didn’t actually say what Stoick had done, but it had to be bad for him to feel this guilty over it. A bit further, it said Stoick ‘kept the original papers to remind himself of his folly’. So whatever it was, there were still documents in existence to prove it.

Just not in this drawer.

He’d seen pretty much all there was to see. The drawers contained nothing else out of the ordinary. One might consider random places in between the ‘taxes 2014’ folder a good hiding place for secret documents, but Hiccup doubted his father was that cunning, considering where he’d hidden the key.

But every office should have a safe, right? He hadn’t seen one yet. He checked behind the painting on the wall, just in case, but there was nothing. At least Stoick wasn’t that D-rank-movie cliché.

Hiccup poked his head onto the hallway. The coast was clear. He slipped out, closing the door behind him, and went straight for the master bedroom. Another common safe-hiding spot: the floor of the closet. It was a standard looking thing with a dial lock. The combination was his parent’s wedding date. He had to look that one up, but it was his first guess, and it was correct. He hoped the security measures at his father’s office were better than the ones he implemented at home, or no state secret would be safe.

There were your standard safe-things. A wad of money, a little felt box… and a few yellow envelopes. The kind that’s tied shut with a little piece of string on the back. There were no markings on the front. Hiccup opened one and found… his birth certificate? Or at least a copy? And a letter printed on Burgess Academic Hospital paper. There was also another, heavier envelope. Before he could take a look, he heard the front door slam shut. He damn near shat himself. As quick as he could, he took both envelopes, closed the safe and returned everything to its normal state.

Inwardly cursing continuously, he fled to his room.

Safe.

When he’d calmed down a bit, he dared take a peek into the booklet before hiding it. The table of content showed it was rather extensive. Privacy risks, public opinion, insurance influences, corporate access, etc.

The last subsection was unknown to Hiccup: ‘Ghost implementation’. When he flipped to it, it was just half a page. They cited some other researches Hiccup was sure he would never find. So much for that. But this booklet was a promising start! Finally something that might show how unreliable this stupid system was! Hope bloomed in his chest, and he allowed himself a little smile. Maybe he could-

Someone knocked on his door. He nearly dropped everything and scrambled to hide it under his covers, throwing an angrily meowing Toothless off his bed in the process.

“Yes?”

Gobber came in. “Picked up a magazine for you when I was out.” He held offered a gaming magazine. It was something Hiccup would probably never read under normal circumstances - physical gaming magazines were rare these days. But considering Hiccup’s limited internet access, it was a welcome gesture. He was surprised too. Was Gobber on his side in this?

“Thanks,” Hiccup tried to smile sincerely. “I could use that.”

“No problem.” Gobber nodded, hesitating. “And ehm… don’t worry lad. He’ll come around.” He left again before there could be an awkward silence, leaving Hiccup with new admiration for the man. He didn’t know Gobber cared that much. But for now, Hiccup had other concerns. He had to hide his ‘loot’ soon, and hide it well, or he’d be caught without having any extra copies.

He granted himself another quick look at the hospital letter before he’d stash it away. It was brief and honestly quite vague, stating that ‘the procedure had been succesful and payment should ensue’. No details, no price. The signature was illegible. Dr. F- something. Honestly it raised more questions than it answered. What procedure? On who? Was it related to ‘the thing’ Stoick regretted so much?

He looked at his birth certificate again. Odd to see his own, full name standing there. Below there was a string of letters and numbers on it - the code as a scanner would read it from Hiccup’s skin.

His breath hitched.

Impossible!

The code on the certificate.

The code on his wrist.

They didn’t match.

He ripped off his bracelet and stared at the black lines imprinted on his pale skin. He knew what they represented. It was something else entirely. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Suddenly the letter made sense. Dr. F- something. Faustino, the one who was now on trial. Stoick’s regret. It all clicked together.

Stoick had ordered Hiccup’s barcode to be altered.

[i-read-good-books]

Expomise Chapter 6!

I updated Expomise!

Summary: 

“It’s really good to see you, Victor. Love the hair.”

His friend flushes, “Y-yes, I thought so, too.”

For a moment, they just kind of stand there, in silence, not really knowing what to say. Yuuri wants to tell him to come in again, wants to ask how Chris and Georgi are doing, wants to reach out and touch him, like he always does.

Except… he doesn’t.

Link to ao3: here

Chapter under the cut:

“I am a strong, independent wizard who needs no man,” Yuuri whispers to himself, clutching his scarf close to his chest. “This is fine.”

“Yuuri?” Luke’s voice reaches him just as he’s finishing lacing up his skates, as cheerful as always. “We’re waiting for you here!”

“...Coming,” he calls back weakly, straightening himself up and turning to glance backwards. The Coaches who have hours in the mornings are on the ice, carefully guiding beginners and lecturing some more experienced skaters, all of which look half-asleep still, clinging to the barriers and groaning every few minutes of exhausting exercise.

Luke, of course, is also there; because the universe just hates Yuuri that much that it didn’t have enough making him anxious and terrified of squirrels. He’s at the short door that opens up to the ice, beaming at him, wearing his colourful pink beanie and the tightest leggings Yuuri’s ever seen (and he’s a ballet dancer). “Slide in, big boy.”

Yuuri flushes as he’s making his way towards him, wincing at the sound the blade make against the ground, even if it’s protected against them, “Please don’t call me that, Luke.”

“Aw,” the teenager pouts, in a way  so unnecessarily dramatic that it reminds Yuuri of Phichit. “But aren’t you such a big, strong boy?”

“I’m thi- almost fourteen,” he splutters, not meeting his eyes. “And I’ve got class now, you know.”

“You were so much nicer to me at the beginning,” Luke smiles, gently moving so that they’re skating together towards where the  Coaches are. Yuuri only has morning classes like these on weekends, since he mostly uses the rink alone with Celestino during the afternoons, to practice his magic, and he’s changed his rink from last year, so he’s still a bit unfamiliar with the rest of the adults there. That means nothing when it comes to Luke, though, he practically lives here.

Yuuri met Luke last year, at the open ice rink during Christmas, and Luke told him he had talent.

“He was scared of you at the beginning,” Yuuko pipes in, happily coming to a stop in front of them. She’s the reason Yuuri changed rinks this year, to one further away from his home, which he has to Floo to. It’s close to Minako’s, though, so he makes the trip count.

“He couldn’t be,” Luke gasps, “I’m so undeniably pleasant.”

He smiles at Yuuri as he says so, taking a moment to rub his shoulders in a friendly way, the same kind of ‘big brother’ affection he loves showering Yuuri in, and his blue eyes shine.

For a moment, Yuuri can’t breathe properly.

“Come on, Yuuri,” Yuuko grabs his hand, “We have to practice together! That’s why we’re rinkmates. You can try holding me up.”

“Yuuko, that’s dangerous - “

“Gotta go, bye!”

Honestly? She’s just saved him from completely humiliating himself by trying to speak to Luke normally. It’s basically impossible.

…

Yuuri is um, he’s pretty sure he kinda, um… he kinda likes Luke.

It’s not a big deal! And it’s not like Yuuri is like, totally lusting after him or falling in love with him, either. Luke is just really handsome, and nice, and smiles a lot, and holds his hand when he trips on ice, and says his skating is good, and -

Well. Luke is um. He’s a cool guy, okay? Anyone would have a small crush on him, he’s got that special charm that makes people flock to him like birds. Mari teases him about it all the time, to his absolute horror. Whenever she comes pick him up at the ice rink she makes a show out of calling out Luke’s name, asking how Yuuri’s done, and smiling blindingly the whole way through, ecstatic.

“I hate you so much,” Yuuri groans as they exit the place, burying his face in his hands. “Why can’t you let me be?”

“Oh, was I bothering you two?” Mari presses the back of her palm against her forehead, mock-ashamed. “I never meant to interrupt your romantic encounters. But you can’t blame me, the last time you had a crush was on that one girl who lives across the street.”

“He’s like, your age,” Yuuri whines, pushing her so that she moves quickly. He’s almost certain Luke can’t hear them, but it’s better to make sure. Just in case. “And I don’t like him!”

His sister hums noncommittally, “Yes, of course. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Yuuri.” She smirks, “Or whatever helps you at night, even if you don’t actually sleep.”

“Oh my god - I can’t believe - I am going to murder you -” His cheeks are flaming red. Did she just imply…?

Mari holds her hands up, “You’re almost fourteen, little bro, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Yuuri glares at her, hoping his blush isn’t as noticeable as he thinks, “Well, you tease like a two-year-old, so it’s an easy mistake.”

“Oi!” she punches him in the arm lightly, cackling when he yelps. “No badmouthing your sister because you get hot over an older guy!”

“Please kill me,” Yuuri begs to no one in particular.

Of course, Phichit’s reaction to the “news” (Yuuri awkwardly mumbling, “I think I have a crush on a guy at my ice rink.” during one of their nightly Skype calls, feeling like his heart’s about to burst out of his chest) is much different, and almost endearingly Phichit-like.

First, he tells Yuuri that under no circumstances is he to try to date the guy, as if.

“He is much older than you, Yuuri!” he waggles his finger threateningly on his laptop’s screen. “And a guy who hasn’t already asked you out on a date after seeing you in your ice skating glory doesn’t deserve you, anyway. Besides,” he seems especially insistent in this part, “I think you already have some very, very dateable people around you. You don’t need this boy.”

“I’m not going to date him,” Yuuri whispers harshly, checking around to make sure his parents haven’t woken up. No sound from their bedroom. “I was just telling you because it’s been driving me mad. Now that I’ve actually told someone, I can forget him!”

“Oh, no,” Phichit smiles, “You ain’t forgetting Luke Matthews anytime soon, buddy, but well. He’s your type, isn’t he? Gorgeous blond hair, endless blue eyes, smooth pale skin, and that smile, dear lord.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, “Phichit, how do you know what he looks like?”

“How do you think?” he raises an eyebrow. “I just followed him on Instagram, obviously.”

“Phichit, unfollow him right now or I swear I will cut off your wifi.”

His friend winks, “We’re not in Hogwarts, my dear Yuuri.” He laughs at Yuuri’s dismayed expression of realization, and settles back in his chair, his smile widening. Phichit’s gotten a haircut recently, a nice one that makes his eyes stand out more. “How’s the summer coming along otherwise, cute boy notwithstanding?”

Yuuri bites his lower lip in thought, running his fingers through his hair, “Um. I’m getting more and more into skating, actually. I might be able to do a proper competition jump soon, other than waddling through my Salchow. Yuri’s been hinting at wanting to try my mom’s katsudon, so I’m probably gonna invite him over sometime soon.” He thinks about it, “Might invite Victor, too, while I’m at it.”

“Oh yeah, you do that.” Phichit nods, and then he lets out a small laugh, “Don’t tell him about Luke, though.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Yuuri rolls his eyes, “I’m not that stupid, you know, I’d already figured he might be jealous.”

His friend stares at him, mouth hanging open, “You had? Um, w-when?”

“Like, the first day?” Yuuri sighs. “Victor’s really nitpicky about anyone teaching me figure skating, he gets all petty every time Yuuko helps me with anything. Do you think I’d tell him about an older guy with more experience giving me lessons?”

For some reason, Phichit looks almost like he’s about to laugh again, his eyes twinkling, but he just says, giggling, “Yes, I’m pretty sure Victor would object to an experienced guy giving you private lessons, Yuuri.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, huffing at his friend, “Honestly, you treat me like I’m so dumb. Obviously I’d realized Victor is a protective teacher.”

“Very protective teacher,” Phichit agrees, smirking suspiciously.

…

yuuri katsucky (because you SUCK)

i dont know what u wanted me to do. like. do u want to like. poison the food or smth. i dont care tbh. im going to ur house anyway bc im invincible. so fuck u who cares tbh

nikiforov says hes going too but meh.  whatever

Yuri always writes such nice things.

Knowing that both Yuri and Victor are coming means that Yuuri spends the day before their arrival cleaning every corner of the house, meticulously making sure his parents don’t leave anything...incriminating (like the one teen Witches’ Fave Hottie: Victor Nikiforov! poster he bought because he was curious) around, and peering over their shoulders as they cook and wrinkling his nose if they put their feet on the table.

“Seriously, you’d think you were the adult,” his mother mutters, ruffling his hair while he works on his summer homework. His parents make him see a tutor to keep him updated on muggle school work, in case he doesn’t want to work in the wizarding world. Mom still thinks that the fact that they don’t study biology at Hogwarts is a crime against humanity.

He’s still fretting, fixing his clothes, the moment he hears the doorbell ring.

The first thing that Yuuri thinks when he opens the door, smiling, calling out to his parents, “They’re here!”, and sees the two Slytherins waiting outside for him is that, no matter how much he sometimes feels like Celestino is working him to death, it’s nothing compared to Feltsman.

It’s less noticeable in Yuri, who’s grumbling, wearing respectable clothes for once (although his earrings are tiger claws, of course), because the boy still looks almost eerily like a fairy, lean and skinny in a way that suggests elegant rather than ‘awkward’. But it’s undeniable the second he glances at Victor.

Victor babbled about ‘starting to really train’ for Junior Worlds after he came clean to Yuuri regarding it, delighting him with schedules upon schedules of what he had to do this summer to get up to bar in order to compete internationally. He even confessed that he may not write as many letters, with all the stuff he had to do, apologizing profusely. So Yuuri was expecting him to gain a little muscle and all but, um. They haven’t seen each other in almost two months, and the change is just a little bit striking.

His hair’s longer, almost reaching down to his back now, but he’s got it on the side, tied up in a stylish ponytail. Apart from that, all the differences are the fact that Yuuri’s pretty sure Victor’s grown at least ten centimeters since he last saw him, which finally cements his position as ‘the short friend’, something he’s been able to avoid with Phichit, thankfully. He also just seems more filled out; his shoulders are a bit further apart, his face is slightly skinnier, and he stands with more confidence, balancing his weight like he’s making an entrance.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Victor says, smiling.

He reminds Yuuri, just slightly, of Luke.

“Your voice is deeper,” he blurts out automatically, even though it’s not that big of a change, after taking in the rest. He flushes, embarrassed, and doesn’t meet his eyes, “Oh, sorry, uh, come in, you two, we’re expecting you!”

Yuri rolls his eyes, “Always collected, Huffle.”

Yuuri pokes his nose as he goes by, laughing at his infuriated yelp, “It’s good to see you, Yuri.”

“Don’t steal any paintings,” Victor tells him cheerfully, which makes him glower so bad that Yuuri’s kind of impressed he doesn’t back down. He turns to look at Yuuri again, “How have you been?” Victor bites his lip and fidgets with his hands, glancing at him from between his eyelashes, “I’m really sorry I haven’t been able to write much recently, Yakov’s been running me down.”

“Um,” Yuuri swallows. Were his eyelashes really that long before? “Oh, um, it’s fine. You already told me about it, you know.” He smiles back at him,“It’s really good to see you, Victor. Love the hair.”

His friend flushes, “Y-yes, I thought so, too.”

For a moment, they just kind of stand there, in silence, not really knowing what to say. Yuuri wants to tell him to come in again, wants to ask how Chris and Georgi are doing, wants  to  reach out and touch him, like he always does.

Except… he doesn’t.

“Yuuri?” his mom’s voice, coming from the kitchen, interrupts his train of thought. He startles, turning back. “Don’t leave your friend at the door, it’s rude.”

“Sorry, mom,” he mumbles, chastised. “Oh, so, you have to take your shoes off, see…”

…

Yuri and Victor meeting his parents goes extraordinarily well. Yuuri was slightly worried that Victor would say something accidentally offensive (one can never be sure with purebloods. Phichit, in his search for knowledge, innocently asked Yuuri when they were 11 if muggles took showers, too.), or that Yuri would burn the house down or something (one can never be sure with Yuri Plisetsky), but they come out of it mostly unscathed.

“So, Victor,” his mom sets down her fork and looks at his friend, smiling. “Yuuri has been telling us about you since forever. It would be truly nice to see you figure skate.”

Victor preens, leaning back in his chair before answering, turning on the ‘pureblood charm’. It’s a term that Leo and Yuuri made up after spending so much of their time around old, rich purebloods: however ridiculously awkward they may seem around their friends, regardless of their gross quirks and hand gestures, they turn into something like wizarding debutantes in the presence of any respectable adult, channeling thousands of gala nights into perfect table manners, unbelievable skilled public speaking and just the right amount of compliments.

Yuuri thinks it’s kind of silly, but undeniably useful for some situations. Leo calls it “Phichit trying not to seem Phichit”. Yuri has another name for it: “pretentious pampering”.

“Well, Mrs. Katsuki,” Victor closes his eyes briefly, beaming at her, “I’m sure that Yuuri has exaggerated my abilities. You see, he’s a very biased friend, although I do appreciate it.”

His mom smiles, “Oh, you’re so well-spoken, what a treasure.”

Yuri, who’s said a total of 10 words during the duration of the meal and is currently shoving katsudon into his mouth as quickly as possible, snorts.

After lunch, when they’re helping clean up the kitchen, Yuuri moves next to Victor, murmuring, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

His friend cocks his head at him, furrowing his brow in confusion, “Do what?”

“Go all ‘look at me, I’m respectable’ on my parents,” Yuuri shrugs. “They don’t care, really. Phichit never goes pureblood mode on them. And, um,” he flushes, scratching the back of his neck, “They’re going to like you anyway, with all the stuff I’ve told them about you. I’m pretty sure my parents are convinced that you and Phichit save me from hordes of bullies every minute I’m in school.”

“I would,” Victor says immediately, as if on reflex, and then freezes, “I mean, we would.” He licks his lips, glancing downwards, “I didn’t mean to um, go ‘pureblood mode’, or whatever.”

“I’m used to it,” he smiles. He steps a little bit closer, mindful that no one hears them, just enough that their feet are almost touching in the narrow kitchen. It’s a little harder to breathe. “But you can be yourself with me, okay?”

Victor’s eyes flutter shut, before he whispers, quiet, “You’re an evil, evil guy, Yuuri Katsuki.”

…

Victor has to leave early (something about the amount of hours he has to sleep while on ‘Yakov’s training regime from hell’), but Yuri’s allowed to stay a little longer. Mari pats him for a while and challenges him to a selfie match of death (the theme is ‘who can balance more things on their nose while taking a selfie at the same time’, and it ends with them breaking five ceramic bowls and Yuri’s shoe on Mari’s face), and after a while both Yuri and Yuuri go upstairs, letting the adults watch a film. Something about a stone, a three-headed dog and a giant chess game. Honestly, Warners Bros are running out of ideas.

“Katsuki,” Yuri begins, flopping down on his bed and narrowing his eyes at him. “If you even think trying to make me play a board game, I’ll murder you.”

From where he’s kneeling down next to his bookshelf, Yuuri quickly lets go of the Monopoly box, “O-of course I wouldn’t do that, haha.”

Yuri huffs, stretching out on the bed like a cat and sighing, “I should have just gone home. You’re a mess, like always.”

“Well;” Yuuri swallows, moving to sit on his desk chair. “What do you want to do, then?”

“Sleep. Wake up and find out moderate maiming is legal and encouraged. Maybe eat pizza.”

“You just had like, three katsudon bowls!”

Yuuri hisses, “I don’t need you and your judging in my life.”

He holds his hands up, admitting defeat, “Okay, okay.” Yuuri giggles, “You’re cute when you’re excited about things, you know.”

The younger boy glares at him, showing his teeth, “I am not cute.”

“Oh yeah?” Yuuri teases, dragging his chair so it’s closer to the bed. “What about when you spent three hours telling me about the cat shelter that had opened up next to your house?”

Yuri’s ears go bright red, “I was not excited, you degenerate, I was merely moderately pleased that the human race has finally accepted cats as superior beings and are providing for their needs cost-free.”

“Or when you made me rewatch Otabek Altin’s catching the snitch ten times in the match against Portugal? With added commentary? And flaschards?”

The Slytherin throws a pillow at him, “It was twenty centimeters away, Katsuki. Learn to appreciate gods on Earth.”

Yuuri just laughs.

…

Hey Victor,

Thanks so much for sending me a book like you mentioned when you came over last week. I just thought that the book we talked about was one on magical creatures (remember? I mentioned I was struggling with the utter hell that is learning that so many stuff I thought didn’t exist is actually real?) and not your copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Still loved it, though.

Yuuri

…

YUURI

OH MY GOD I’M SORRY

IT’S MY SUMMER READ OKAY THE MUGGLE STUDIES TEACHER MADE US READ ONE OF THESE LITTLE SHITS IT’S NOT LIKE I WAS READING IT BECAUSE I LIKED IT OR ANYTHING OKAY

SENDING YOU THE RIGHT BOOK WITH THIS LETTER

FML

VICTOR

…

“Hey,” Luke’s voice so close to him makes him look up, startled. The older skater is standing next to him, smiling cheerfully. He adjusts his beanie before patting him on the shoulder, “So, you’re leaving, are you, big boy?”

Yuuri flushes, not meeting his eyes. It’s his last figure skating lesson before he goes to Hogwarts for the school year, and he won’t be coming back until the summer. “Yeah, boarding school.”

“Ah, boarding school,” Luke muses. He bites his lower lip, glancing around them for a few seconds. He seems nervous. “Um, before you left, I wanted to ask you something.”

Yuuri nods, itching to get on the ice and start practicing, “Sure.”

Luke blurts out, “I was kind of hoping I could get your sister’s number.”

Yuuri freezes.

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s why he was so friendly, he realizes, with an almost disturbing calmness. Luke’s waiting for an answer, cheeks red, scratching the back of his neck. He looks just as embarrassed as Yuuri feels by this conversation, although for very different reasons. Luke probably didn’t even guess that Yuuri sorta has a crush on him. He swallows, “You like my sister?”

“...yeah,” Luke mumbles, staring at his feet. “I know it’s super weird, to go around asking her little brother, but I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be coming anymore, and I hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask her, so I was just hoping - I’m sorry, this is terrible.”

Despite himself, Yuuri lets out a short giggle, “Yeah, a little.” He takes a deep breath, ignoring the slight pang in his chest. “But I’ll give you her number anyway.”

Luke beams at him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and rubbing their cheeks together in excitement, “That’s my boy!”

It still makes Yuuri feel slightly lightheaded, having him so close, touching. And yet, there’s many things Yuuri can deal with, but crushing on a guy who would like to date his sister is not one of them. He’s ordering Phichit to unfollow him on all social media and erasing him from his memory.

“Yep,” he mutters. “That’s me.”

He reconsiders. Phichit would probably get angry on Yuuri’s behalf, even if it was more of a hero-worship crush than anything else, and make a big deal out of it. He’ll tell Victor, instead, he decides. Just omit the part where he’s a skater and everything will be fine.

…

“Mom,” Victor says, in a very quiet, very controlled voice. She looks up from the book she’s reading, blinking. Her son is holding a letter, one of those that come with puppies stickers on the front and Yuuri Katsuki’s signature on the bottom. “Have you ever wanted to murder someone?”

fin

[davidastbury]

Early Morning .... Manchester ... postcode M1 4RJ

Pavement littered with the detritus of last night’s fun and folly - smashed bottles, crushed cans, pizza packaging, Costa cups, vaping cartridges, vomit.

I was stepping carefully, skipping over pools, when I came face to face with a lovely Japanese couple. They were adults but looked about twelve - identical mops of the blackest hair imaginable and Pierrot white faces. He in belted baggy jeans; she in a very abbreviated Burberry mini-skirt.

There was an instant recognition of our incongruity- they probably thought I looked funny jumping over the puddles; I thought they looked absolutely divine. So we all laughed - and then I carried on, stepping carefully around the smashed bottles, crushed cans and vaping cartridges.

THE American

Henry James said that the Fellow’s Garden at Trinity Hall, Cambridge was the most perfect small garden in Europe ...

‘ ... The trees are of prodigious size; they occupy half the garden, and are remarkable for the fact that their giant limbs strike down into the earth, take root again and emulate, as they rise, the majesty of the parent stem. The manner in which this magnificent group of horse-chestnuts sprawl about over the grass, out into the middle of the lawn, is one of the most heart-shaking features of the garden ... ‘

He also rhapsodised about ‘the other place’ ...

‘... the beautiful gardens of the Oxford Colleges - charming lawns and spreading trees, music of Grenadier Guards, ices in striped marquees, mild flirtation of youthful gownsmen and bemuslined maidens; memories too, of quiet dinner in common-room, a decorous, excellent repast; old portraits on the walls and great windows open upon the ancient court, where the afternoon light was fading in the stillness; superior talk upon current topics, and over all the peculiar air of Oxford - the air of liberty to care for the things of the mind assured and secured by machinery which in itself a satisfaction to sense.’

North of Cambridge

The train was delayed somewhere north of Cambridge and then went at a crazy gallop as if trying to make up lost time. Imogen stared out at the blur of landscape, she was in a foul mood. Her boyfriend, knowing her as he did, realised that there wouldn’t be much enjoyment for him - she was in one of her ‘pushing away’ moods - yet he was under the spell of that mane of red hair and her peevish, caustic, perfection.

‘There’s my school!’ - she called out, pointing at a building in the distance. He decided to go along with her mood and said it looked like a Victorian mental asylum. ‘Good description’ - she replied. ‘Apart from me, it’s full of very tall girls whose fathers are Church of England vicars - or their dads are dead and the church pays the fees.’

And he was right ... there wasn’t much enjoyment that day. The railway line was long since ripped up; the school demolished and is now a science park; everything has gone - Imogen has gone, leaving memories that crumble when touched, like ancient paper or dried flowers.

And only now - at such a distance in time, does the enjoyment pour through.

Young Couple ... 1965

It was a soft goodbye - they’d see each other again - three months wasn’t all that long - it would pass. But he was gloomy and she put her arms around him and made him smile. And the train pulled up noisily; awful squealing brakes, doors slamming open, it was difficult saying anything. He stood at the window and looked down at her and felt that he might never see her again - or he might see her but she would no longer look at him this way. And then it was all over - the train moved, laboriously gathering speed.

He wanted to turn away - go to a seat like everyone else - but he stayed at the window, seeing her vanish.

But he wasn’t aware of the railway’s eccentric topography. The little station passed out of view causing the young man to think - ‘Well, that’s that!’ - but a few seconds later it came back into view. He could see the station again; he could see her again. And then a huge building, railway sheds, blocked everything - but then it cleared and again he could see her. This occurred a few more times and it horribly disturbed him. Saying the goodbye was bad enough - he could still kindle hopes - but these repeated views hammered home the message - ‘You will never see her again’.

A French Trip 1965

Paris was fabulous but he had liked Deauville and Trouville far more. Those two little towns on the Normandy coast made his heart sing. He felt he had stepped into the pages of Proust! The sea-air and gulls; the ribbon of ornate railings; the iron street-lights converted from gas; the butter yellow facades of the hotels where uniformed men held back the doors; the excitement of foreign faces; the elderly women, white-haired and fierce looking, sitting in their wheel-chairs being pushed along by nurses; the wonderful French men with their grey flannel suits and silk ties, smoking Gauloises cigarettes; the feeling of a charming ill-health, not the frightening kind, more like when you were a child and your mother was looking after you; the clever girls leaving the Lycée each afternoon so stylish in school uniform, so pretty, so ... je ne sais quoi; the little cafes, modest and plain, yet serving Chateaubriand steaks few London restaurants could match; the sunshine and elegance and gorgeous ease of it all - he was captivated.

Going back to England filled him with dismay - but there was one further surprise. He and his friend boarded a boat from Dieppe to Newhaven. Again it was a beautiful afternoon. The top deck was quite crowded and he leaned on the handrail watching the complications of disengaging ropes and the jerky manoeuvres to leave the jetty. The boat shuddered and the gulls screamed. People laughed as they almost overbalanced. A man wearing an apron was selling drinks; black coal smoke poured from the chimney but was deflected by the breeze; a young teacher with a party of tiny children got them singing; an elderly man wearing shiny brogue shoes looked up at the sky, as if praying; a woman was clutching her pet dog, nuzzling him with kisses and the dog looked over her shoulder, tongue out.

And in the middle of all this - like the motionless centre of a tornado - stood the most astonishingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. He was nineteen and fearless - he went up to her as if going to his death.

She took his hand and smiled.

She said - ‘My name is Agnes Bujold and my town is Dijon.’

Anna

I’ve mentioned Anna before - the student nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital, married to the unemployed drummer. She was gentle, soft-spoken, generous and uncomplaining, even when her husband brought home his pals from the pub - usually out of work musicians but also every sort of drunk who had missed the last train home, or didn’t have a home to go to. Even at the end of a long shift, when she must have been exhausted, she sorted out supper and carried heaps of bedding.

It taught me a lesson - confirmed many times over the years - that women will overlook mediocrity in their men. Once their heart is set on someone they will overlook almost anything. Anna was a much finer person than her husband. She had intuitions and intelligence far beyond his. She probably climbed upwards through the nursing grades - she had a brilliance about her - he probably didn’t change, he would drift in and out of work, sometimes making money, sometimes playing for the beer. Yet she wouldn’t hold his lack of success against him; she wouldn’t ever make him feel a failure. Her only demand, perhaps never spoken in that soft Welsh voice of hers, was that he treasured her above anyone else - that was all that mattered.

Took a walk today - a few miles along main roads, side roads, country lanes and so on. Passed lots of people but no one I knew; no one wanted me to stop and talk - but - so many (I didn’t count, but it was a lot) smiled and said hello. I’ve never experienced that before.

It’s not all jostling and fighting in supermarkets - people are nice to each other; there is friendliness and affection.

Haircut in Houmt-Souk

He was a charmer! The barber of Djerba, small and bald and old, but nimble on his feet, skilfully snipping the undergrowth at the back of my neck, all the time chirruping in an amalgam of English, French, Arabic etc. Delighted to have a foreigner captive on his faux leather chair. I could see him beaming at me in the peeling mirror - around which were fading Polaroid snaps of the man himself - much younger - in a white tuxedo and bow tie - brandishing a violin.

‘So you are a musician?’ I asked.

He swelled with pride and nodded enthusiastically. I made some pleasant remarks and then he vanished into a side room behind a plastic screen. He reappeared carrying a violin case.

What happened next was a concert - for me and for those waiting their turn. His eyes closed and started to play - ecstatic romantic music - palm court music - Viennese waltzes, Polkas, sobbings and pleadings from his violin - the ache of separation, the hope of meeting again, deepest melancholy, and then! Back to the frivolous and pretty!

This man had played on ocean liners and in palaces. He had been in Egypt before the revolution - the one in 1952 - he mentioned parties for Soraya, the second wife of the Shah of Iran. He had played for everyone - and he was playing for me!

His head was back, swaying to Strauss - a small crowd had gathered. The door was open and the sound had reached the street. Everyone was smiling and nodding to me and the doorway was blocked with small children playing imaginary violins.

‘ ... and hearts that we broke long ago, have long been breaking others ... ‘

W. H. Auden

She had finished with him and he had only himself to blame. Word had got back to her that he’d been seen with another girl and she wasn’t having any excuses. So she finished with him - dumped him as the modern term has it - and there couldn’t be any reconciliation; it was over; totally.

He felt unhappy and angry with himself for a while. Eventually the guilt eased and eventually faded altogether, but then unexpectedly returned in a different form - he was afraid that he may have hurt her in a way that had not occurred to him at the time. He had adored her and she must have known it - he rushed to meet her - he loved being with her - he was always surprising her with gifts - he put her wishes before his own - he couldn’t get enough of her loveliness - but he began to feel a dreadful realisation that he hadn’t made her see how much he liked her - how much he simply liked her.

[americanduckling]

I guess I wrote something

I dunno. It's Jerry again. How he, Jonny, and Rockelle met Ocean. Potentially.

Hope you like. Assuming you read it.

Anyway, this is Jerry & the Robot Part 1

_____________________________________

The dark van sped off, from a location it wasn't supposed to be at.

Jerry, Jonnathan, and Rockelle were hiding in the bushes, trying their best not to be noticed by the people clearly trying to rob the somewhat technologically advanced shed about 20 feet away from them. The kids were successful, barely.

"Why couldn't we hide behind a tree or something," Jerry whined, scratching his arms and picking leaves and broken twigs out of his orange hair. "Those bushes were ITCHY! They look way more comfortable in cartoons."

"Yeah, well, real life sucks huh?" Jerry's cousin, Jonnathan, was having trouble removing a larger twig from one of his antennae. It had applied a sticky residue to him, and it seemed like it had no intention of releasing. "Besides," he continued, "the trees wouldn't've hid all three of us nearly as well. We woulda been had, no doubt." He ran a hand through his hair, hoping to cover up the twig with a mess of pink instead. "You see that shed, right? Those guys probably took some kind of crazy invention or weapon; we'd definitely end up as test subjects."

"Hmmm, maybe," the soft voice of Rockelle piped up. Her hair definitely had the most junk in it, due to how curly it was. Despite this, she focused on removing the leaves and twigs from Jonnathan's head first, and used magic to help alleviate Jerry's itch. "It looked like Xander and Lucy weren't taking any weapons; it seems to me that this was a kidnapping."

Xander was, in essence, the kids' arch-nemesis. A powerful vampire that has repeatedly attempted to take over their kingdom, Marin Valley. They'd bested him twice before, and Jerry had just assumed he would have taken a longer break to take care of his young sidekick, Lucy the Lema, who was a humanoid with certain lemur attributes.

"Whoa whoa, hold up." Jerry's eyes widened in the moonlight. "What makes you so sure it was Xander and Lucy?"

"Well," Rockelle began, furrowing her brow, "the last time we went to investigate something, it was them. And when you and Jonny went trying to save the Kingdom that first time, it was them, too. Their escapades always seem to attract you two, like some kind of... Adventure Magnet." She paused, lost in thought for a moment. Then her whole face brightened, and she began clapping her hands like a gleeful child. "That must mean I'm part of the magnet, too! We're Adventure Buddies by fate's design!"

In that moment, Jerry had an epiphany. "Wow, when you put it like that, it makes perfect sense! Rock, you're a genius!"

"Actually, yeah," Jonny mused in agreement, without his usual snarky comments. "It does seem incredibly likely that we're dealing with Xander and Lucy again."

Jerry blinked, eyes dull as an old emerald. "...Oh. Right. Xander and Lucy. We weren't talking about the magnet theory. Of course." A pause. Then, a question. "You said you thought it was a kidnapping, Rockelle?"

The question startled Rockelle, who was playing with a snakefly that had landed on her arm. "Hm?"

"What made you think it was a kidnapping?"

"Oh, I heard muffled yelling. You guys were too busy shushing each other to really notice, I guess. Probably worth it though; we didn't get caught! I'm sure you guys quieting each other made us go unnoticed!"

Jerry's and Jonny's cheeks flushed purple, the telltale sign of an embarrassed Ami. Any other person would think Rockelle was being passive aggressive or sarcastic, but Jonny knew sarcasm.

Rockelle legitimately believed their incessant bickering was what kept them all safe in that moment.

Her eyes practically glowed in the moonlight. "You guys really are experienced adventurers!"

Jonnathan took a moment to compose himself. "A-anyway," he stammered, still feeling a tad self-conscious, "we should probably go check out that shed. Make sure everyone's okay, and all that stuff."

"Oh, yeah," Jerry said, looking over at the mysterious small building. "Everyone's probably... huh. The lights are still out."

As the kids approached the gleaming metallic shed, it grew apparent that no one was awake. The lights were all out and there was no commotion either. It was almost as if the place was... empty.

Rockelle took the liberty of knocking on the door (the classic "Shave and a Haircut" rhythm, of course), but nobody answered. The vibe had dipped considerably. The lack of echo from the door created a harsh clanging noise when Rockelle knocked which, combined with the soft glow of Tente's moons, created an eerie feeling.

"M-maybe nobody's home?" Jerry offered, voice shaky and concerned. "Whoever was kidnapped p-probably lived by themself, or something."

"I hope not, man," Jonny responded grimly. "If that's the case, we don't have many leads on where Xander and Lucy are headed. Xander doesn't typically operate from his house, y'know?"

Rockelle choked out a question. "S-so... do you th-think that he..."

Jonny could see the fear in Rockelle's eyes as her dark skin went pale. She was so scared for the people she looked like she was about to cry. "Oh, nah," he reassured her. "No! Xander's a jerk, but he wouldn't just hurt people like that. He's got strong magic though. Maybe they're all under a sleep spell or something."

That seemed to mollify her, at least a little bit. "R-right," Rockelle sighed, relieved. "You're right, Jonny. Everyone's okay. Yeah."

Jerry, seeing his friend so worked up, managed to put on a serious face, which is pretty unusual. "Again, that's assuming anybody's even in there." He pushed on the door, but nothing happened. He continued to push and push, but was unable to budge the door. Still, though, Jerry was nothing if not determined, and he continued to try his hardest to open the door.

This went on for several minutes.

Jerry stared at the metal door for maybe 7 seconds, then looked back at his companions. "...This was supposed to be my cool action hero moment."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't," Jonny quipped.

"Maybe it's locked?" Rockelle wondered aloud. "I wouldn't know how to unlock a high tech scientist's door though."

"Xander and Lucy were in a hurry though, Rock," Jerry countered. "I doubt they would have time to re-lock the door."

"Well," Rockelle responded, "maybe it locks on its own?"

"Is that possible?"

"The captive is clearly really smart; he probably has some sort of precautionary mechanism to make sure it automatically locks."

A pause.

Jerry stared at the girl. "You sure they're male?"

Now it was Rockelle's turn to blush. "W-well, uhm... I mean, I heard the struggling, and when the kidnapee would make a noise it sounded masculine so I just-!"

"Yo!"

Jerry and Rockelle jumped. They looked towards the source of the outburst. Jonny stood in front of the door, facing them, and pushed it to his right.

"It's a sliding door."

As Jonny walked through the shed's entrance, Jerry looked at Rockelle.

"I feel stupid," he said.

"You're not stupid, Jerry," Rockelle reassured him. "Many people make that mistake. Now let's go."

Trekking into the darkness, the children began calling out to anybody who might hear them within the dwelling. However, nobody called back. No matter how earnestly they tried, it seemed that no one was around. Eventually everyone decided it would be wiser to reserve their efforts to look for clues.

It could be assumed there was much to be seen inside of a high tech shed. But even in the moonlight, the room just wasn't very well lit. Jerry and Rockelle used light magic to create makeshift flashlights out of their respective weapons: the Wonder Blade for Jerry, and Marin's Wand for Rockelle. Jonny, who didn't really use magic, found himself bumping into everything.

"Can one of you guys find a light switch?" he called, exasperated. "I'm shocked I haven't tripped over my own feet and cracked my skull in half."

"I thought you had unusually good night vision, or whatever," said Jerry, absentmindedly.

Jonny sighed. "Yeah, well, it's not working tonight. Please find a light switch."

"Alright then, will do," offered Jerry.

Jonny tensed. "Wait, actually... not you."

"What?" Jerry was offended. "Why?"

"Because you're gonna touch something you ain't got no business touching. We're trying to not break things. Rockelle, try and find a light-"

"Oooh!" The Princess squealed in delight, her reflection bouncing off of a collection of colorful chemicals in meticulously stacked beakers. "Wow, look at this thing! It's got all these colors and bubbles and... and..."

Jonny stared at her. Turning the light towards his face, Rockelle could see an odd mixture of confusion, annoyance, and... concern?

"...What happened?" she asked.

Jonny remained silent for a few seconds. "...Jerry go find a light please."

"You got it."

Jerry began to look around at the walls, scanning for a switch to turn on the lights. He couldn't find a switch near the door they entered through, and most of the walls were covered by either a bookshelf or a chalkboard. Rockelle continued to marvel at the display of beakers on a table in front of the right side wall, while Jonny was sitting in a sort of "cooler" version of the fetal position on the floor, telling Rockelle not to touch anything.

The room overall had a sort of rectangular shape. Between all of the books and shelves, there were doorways leading to other rooms, but the walls were too cluttered on the left or right sides to have any light switches.

"I think there aren't any switches Jonny," Jerry said, absently scratching his head.

"Dude," Jonny breathed, "that's stupid. There's not a house in the world that doesn't have lights."

"I doubt that this room has no lights, man. I said I couldn't find a light switch. There's a difference."

Rockelle managed to pull herself away from the chemical display. "Guys," she gasped. "Look there! Above the door!"

Jerry turned to look at where Rockelle was directing him, and noticed something broken hanging off of the top of the doorway. He directed his flashlight towards the point of interest.

"Oh, huh," Jerry said. "Looks like it's some kind of sensor."

"A motion sensor," Rockelle explained. "The lights were probably automatic. The sensor being broken seems like evidence of a big struggle."

"Ugh," groaned Jonny. "So I'm just blind then, is that it?"

"Probably not, Jonny," Rockelle soothed. "I'm sure there's a manual switch somewhere, like... at the far end of the room over there." She pointed her wand at the other side of the room, finding a switch on the wall, a large lever, and next to that... something on a table?

"...Um...? What is that?" Rockelle tensed.

The three of them inched closer to the other side of the room, with Jonnathan in front in order to shield the two younger kids from... whatever it was that surprised them. It looked like a raised platform with glass around the top, likely to contain something within.

As they edged closer and closer, it quickly became clear that there was a person lying on the platform within the glass. A girl, in fact. She couldn't have been much older than Jerry, who's 12. And that's assuming she was older than him at all.

She looked like she was in a coffin.

Rockelle was dumbfounded. "Why... is there a girl... in a glass coffin...?"

"And why didn't she hear us with all that yelling we were doing?" Jonny was beside himself, mostly in confusion. "Hey!" he yelled. "Little Miss! Wake up! Are you okay?!"

The girl didn't stir. It didn't seem like she was moving at all. Her chest and stomach weren't rising and falling through her yellow shirt, which had white sleeves. Yet she didn't look dead. Just... in stasis?

The kids continued to stare at her. Right away, one of the things they noticed was this girl's ears. Mostly because she actually had ears; pointed ones. So right away, it was obvious she wasn't an ami like them. A smaller detail that was easy to miss were these thin lines on her face. They seemed to start at the bottom of her head and travel up to the bottoms of the girls eyes. The most egregious detail that most other people would probably notice first was the large, poofy, wolfish tail she had. It was blue, the same blue as the hair on her head, and had a white tip.

"A werewolf?" Jerry asked, though really it was a rhetorical question. "Is she okay?

"We should probably turn on a light to get a better look at her, wink wink."

Jerry and Rockelle shot confused glares at Jonnathan.

"...It's annoying being the only one without a magic flashlight," he griped.

"Well then," Rockelle chirped, "let's get this boy some light!" She giggled as she flicked the switch on the wall.

The giggling ceased when a loud hum began to nearly vibrate the air.

All of a sudden, blue lines of light began to flow from the wall to the coffin, which itself was actually more akin to a sort of large control panel of some sort. The process was slow, and the light took many different paths on its way to the platform. It reached the platform, crawling up on its way to... the girl in the glass?

The werewolf girl immediately began to twitch and spasm, almost vibrating in place. Her joints began to glow with the same color of the lights surrounding her, soft and blue. All the while, the loud mechanical humming sound reverberated throughout the room, and the air seemed to crackle with electricity.

All three of the kids were completely nonplussed.

"What. Is. Happening??" Jerry nearly shrieked. "Is she a robot? Did we just activate a robot??"

"Rockelle???" Jonny asked, actually shrieking. "What did you do??"

"I don't know!" Rockelle squeaked out. She was defensive all of a sudden. "I thought it was a light switch! It was small, and on the wall! I've lived in a castle my whole life but I'm pretty sure that most light switches are like that!!"

"Rockelle!" Jonny yelled. The humming was so loud he had to, but still would have if it was quiet. "You activated a ROBOT! Someone else's robot!"

"I'm sorry! Sheesh!"

The humming quieted down. Then, for a brief moment, silence.

Jerry spoke up. "...Who maps a big giant fuction like 'activating a robot' to a switch that small anyway?"

Jerry never got an answer to that question. Now, don't freak out, he's fine. Jerry is okay. Everyone's okay, as a matter of fact. But, when the words left his mouth, there was a hissing sound. The glass casing on the large metallic platform raised itself up.

The girl within opened her eyes.

Slower than any other person would, she sat up. Then, she blinked. Her eyes glowed blue as she (quite literally) scanned her surroundings. The robot girl opened her mouth.

[Ocean Unit activated.] She stated this in a matter of fact way. This "Ocean" unit sounded just like a kid, but her voice had very little inflection. It was easy to see there was no emotion behind it.

[All systems: functional. Location: Papa's house. ...Unauthorized personnel detected.]

Rockelle gasped, softly. "Papa's house...?"

Suddenly, the robot turned towards the kids. [Unauthorized personnel detected. Error. Unit mode lock enabled due to improper shutdown during combat mode.]

Jonny gulped. "...Locked into combat mode...?"

The robot, Unit Ocean, reached out her arm out and pushed the lever.

...The lights came on.

"Oh!" Jerry exclaimed. "So the big switch was the light switch?"

Unit Ocean began flying, using rockets in her feet. Her fists clenched and crackled with electricity. Her eyes changed color, glowing red.

With Jonny and Rockelle poised to do battle with the killer robot before them, Jerry only had one thing to say.

"...Y'know what? Yeah the whole light switch sitch can probably wait until later. I think we have bigger fruit to pick."

[Unauthorized personnel detected... prepare for combat.]

[gilberthampton]

OC memes from vent

im in class idc 🎆 40 too specific 🎆 fictionkin questions created by @.nyasori 🌙 Your kin of choice: 🔥nia rosewell 🔥 Turned OC meme and im sorry 🌙 1. If you could punch one person from your canon in the face right now, who would it be? JAHHJSJND her older brother 🌙 2. Do you like your hairstyle from your canon or would you rather have a different one? permanently unsatisfied w her hair but never changes it till post cain drama and then she goes full out, gets a magical girl bun cut, dyes her hair pink n loves it. basically an Important Haircut bc she's done being stuck in the past 🌙 3. If you had to prepare a lunchbox for your kintype, what would be in it? Lunchbox - homemade but somehow perfect anyway, everything is in it, packed till it's full, lots of sweets and snacks 🌙 4. If your kintype would be an animal, which one would they be? hummingbird. or wait, a bunny 🌙 5. Your kintype suddenly rules a kingdom. What is the first thing they would do? she's dreamed about being a princess but has no idea how to actually run a kingdom so.. enjoy the good life, proceed to freak out when pressured to make heavy choices 🌙 6. Who's your kintype's best friend? Why? alice n mina n nia r Squad 🌙 7. What's your least favourite ship involving your kintype? Why? the person she hates the most is.. odin 🌙 8. What was the very first memory you've gotten from your canon? 🌙 9. What do people think of the media you're from? Is it popular or obscure? 🌙 10. What was your kintypes relationship with their parents/guardians? she loves them dearly but probably subconsciously pushes all the blame on them bc they didn't do a very good job stopping odin from hitting her when she was younger 🌙 11. What would your kintypes Myers-Briggs personality type be? INFP 🌙 12. Someone insults your kintype badly. How do they react? she criesssssssss and cries and gets all self conscious and her instinct is to go to other people so they can pity her and make her feel better. gets all shy around the person afterwards. if she thinks about it too long she starts crying again 🌙 13. If/When they were in school, how good were they? Would they be a nerdy outsider, a social butterfly or something different? a friendly but fragile classmate. that one girl who always wears frilly dresses. probably cries at least once a day, easily excited but just as easily upset, mediocre with grades. 🌙 14. If your kintype was in a classic RPG, what would their class be? ranger / long distance 🌙 15. What is the most obscure or funny memory you have as them? 🌙 16. You suddenly switch roles with your kintype. How well would they handle your life? she'd miss her friends but she's kind of easy to get along with! so like, normal. probably would not like my parents at all 🌙 17. If someone tried to hit on your kintype, what would they have to say to make their heart melt? just compliment her -- anything 🌙 18. Does your kintype have any strange hidden talent that wasn't mentioned officially? she's double jointed ? 🌙 19. How would your kintype react to someone confessing their love to them? blushy, nervous, flattered, so happy she could cry, 100% ready to kiss even if she doesn't reciprocate. If she likes someone else, though, she'll inevitably turn u down. (Looking for that perfect manga romance) 🌙 20. If you could ask the creator of your canon's media one question, which would it be? get a life? 🌙 21. What is the most obscure ship you've ever seen your kintype in? 🌙 22. What is your kintype's zodiac sign? Does it fit? ill figure out their birthdays sometime, okay 🌙 23. If they had an elemental alignment (fire, air, water, earth), which one would it be? water 🌙 24. Your kintype and their best friend get stranded on a lonely island. What would they do? FREAK OUT and probably be a useless baby bc her friends r too nice to tell her to stop whining 🌙 25. Has your kintype experienced any trauma? If yes, did it affect their personality? in her childhood. odin didn't really understand other people's point of view, and he would grow harsher and harsher with his younger sister bc he couldn't fathom _why_ she would be so upset about things, and he would get furious. oh yeah. has a lot of unresolved anxiety and memory issues, scared to death of her brother, whatever 🌙 26. Do you share any physical traits with your kintype? ugh... Nah? 🌙 27. Who's your kintypes biggest enemy? Why? 🌙 28. Does your kintype do any morally questionable things? How do they justify it? she gets too caught up in things and gets kind of stalkery-ish, guilt trippy and passive aggressive without realizing it. her defense is that she doesn't do it on purpose, which is true, but it doesn't excuse her from it. 🌙 29. If your kintype was at a party, what would they do? start messing around with her friends. or shyly look around for her crush the whole night. if she doesn't know anyone, she's mostly in the bg, but being around people she's comfortable with influences her into a louder state 🌙 30. What is the favourite season of your kintype? spring 🌙 31. What does the name of your kintype mean? Where is it from? "Nia is a feminine given name with multiple origins. It is a Welsh variant of Niamh, an Irishname meaning 'bright.' It is also a Swahili Name meaning 'will.'" Basically i just chose it from a list bc it sounds nice. though it _is_ her nickname? 🌙 32. What did your kintype do if they were sad, exhausted or angry? 🌙 33. If your kintype would have a pokemon type, which one(s) would it be? grass fairy 🌙 34. Were they in a romantic relationship with someone? What did other people think of it? she was crushing hard on cain and (unnamed) for the longest time, but cain fucked her up pretty badly. gets a crush on milo and they start dating after a VERY LONG TIME. their friends find it cute and they're like, took u long enough!!! outsiders find it weird bc they're so different in personality?? 🌙 35. How quick were they able to form bonds? Why? probably really quickly bc she's friendly and chipper and ^____^ 24/7, but i feel like she also gets on people's nerves. so True friendships, eh, casual school friendships, lots 🌙 36. Does the fandom ever misinterpret your kintypes? 🌙 37. Do your canon and the official canon match up? If not, what are the differences? 🌙 38. Did your kintype ever feel guilty about something they did? Why? i think she blabs too much and is too loud and not considerate enough of other people -- which can irritate and hurt them. she definitely feels some regret for that 🌙 39. In what ways do you act like or relate to your kintype? we're both sensitive and cries, we love cute shit, uhhhhcffggh i don't know i put a little bit of me into every oc 🌙 40. Finally - tell us a fun fact about your kintype that not many people know! she's obsessed w anime shit Tagging: YOU i think i did this meme for Alice already ┌··┤ oc survey ├··┐ ┗• made by @jem •┛ do not _edit_ or _remove_ the credit please ! fill out this survey for your original characters using this symbol ( ● ) to indicate what applies and specify if you wish ! http://name : mina discofever http://age : 16 http://birthdate : 2/14/01 http://height : 5'6 http://gender ○ male ● female ○ other: ________ http://sexuality ○ gay ○ lesbian ● bisexual ○ pansexual ○ aromantic/asexual ○ other: _______ THERE'S NO HET OPTION DNDNNFNDNF http://hairstyle ○ short ○ pixie ○ bob ○ shoulder-length ○ elbow-length ● hip length or + ○ other : _______ http://hair http://texture ● straight ● wavy ○ curled ○ very curled ○ other: _______ http://eye http://colour ○ brown ○ hazel ○ blue ○ green ○ gray ● other : pink http://body http://type ○ muscular ○ toned ● average ○ scrawny ● curvy ○ overweight ○ other : _______ http://skin http://tone ○ pale ● fair ○ golden ○ tan ○ dark ○ other : _______ http://markings ● scars ○ tattoos ○ piercings ○ beauty marks ○ other : _______ http://posture ● upright ○ neutral ○ slouched http://face http://shape ○ round ○ oval ● heart ○ square ○ long ○ other : _______ http://direct http://family ● mother(s) ● father(s) ● brother(s) ○ sister(s) ○ son(s) ○ daughter(s) ○ other : _______ http://strong http://point ○ brute force ○ agility ● stamina ○ intelligence ● wisdom ● charm http://weak http://point ○ brute force ● agility ○ stamina ● intelligence like she's not DUMB she's just bad at school ○ wisdom ○ charm http://perceptiveness ○ oblivious ○ dull ○ average ● sharp ○ mind-reader http://speech ○ vulgar ● basic ● average ○ polite ○ educated ○ pretentious ○ other : _______ http://education http://level ○ less than high school ● high school ○ college ○ masters ○ PhD ○ other : _______ http://moral http://code ○ self-interest ● universal law ○ religious ○ other : _______ http://preferred http://environment ● big city ○ small town ○ suburbs ○ arid desert ● woods or rainforest ● mountains ● open fields ● beach ○ the confines of hell ○ other : _______ http://residence ○ dorms ○ city house ● suburban house ○ mansion or manor ○ trailer ○ farmhouse ○ other : _______ http://housemates ● family member(s) ● friend(s) ○ landlord/lady ○ none ○ other : _______ http://mode http://of http://transport ● public transport ○ taxi ● motorcycle or scooter ○ car ○ other : _______ http://preferred http://drink ○ water ○ alcohol ● natural juice ○ coffee or tea ○ carbonated drinks ○ other : _______ http://preferred http://food ● sweets ○ meats ● fruits ○ vegetables ○ carbohydrates ○ other : _______ http://social http://class ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ low middle high http://affection http://for http://others ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ low middle high http://social http://interaction ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ low middle high http://favourite http://genre ○ comedy ● romance ● thriller or horror ● mystery ○ science fiction or fantasy ○ contemporary ○ historical ○ literary ● action or adventure ○ drama or tragedy ○ other : _______ http://criminal http://record ● underage drinking ○ drunk driving ○ assault or arson ○ manslaughter ○ murder or attempted murder OKAY SHE'S NOT A MURDERER BUT TOTALLY IN ANOTHER AU ○ protest or activism ○ false accusations ○ _nothing they can prove_ ○ other : _______ http://learning http://style ○ nature ○ music ○ numbers ○ people ○ self ○ picture ○ language ○ body i don't know what this means http://deadly http://sin ○ pride ○ wrath ○ gluttony ○ greed ● envy ○ sloth ○ lust http://heavenly http://virtue ○ humility ○ patience ○ temperance ○ charity ● kindness ○ diligence ○ chastity http://self http://discipline ○ what is that ○ no ○ when it suits them ● decent ○ intense http://creativity ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ low high Will's more of a thinker so she leaves it to him http://cleanliness ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ low middle high http://usual http://outfit ○ formal ● casual ○ lazy ● sporty ○ other : _______ http://likeability ○ non-existent ○ when they attempt ○ pretty okay ● cool person(tm) ○ god-like http://luck ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ low middle high http://common http://fears ○ spiders or insects ○ wild animals ○ darkness ● death ● ridicule ● abandonment ○ other : how enjoyable was this survey ? ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● bad good 🐌🐌🐌 ┏ ┓ ♚ another kin meme ♚ ↳ created by @.mut4nt don't remove credit ┗ ┛ tagged by: MYSELF ♞ if you don't want to or can't answer a question, skip it and please don't delete it! ♞ ┏ ┓ ♚ about your kin/id ♚ ┗ ┛ • kin/id of choice • ↳ milo zersuit. his last name is just so bad and i tried to make a samus reference but it's just so bad • canon of said kin/id • ↳ merrverse • gender + sexuality of said kin/id • ↳ I... THEY'RE ALL STRAGIHTH HORRIBLE BOYS • age of said kin/id • ↳ 16 • emoji used to define said kin/id • ↳ 🎹 • emojis that remind you of them • ↳ 😴💤🥀🌿🌌🌃⚓⌚🌒🌚☔🎑🏒⚙️ • favorite canonmate(s) • ↳ he hates everyone but nia. probably is somewhat amused by prince • favorite places in your canon • ↳ • your kin/id's aesthetic • ↳ blue, blinding lights that seem so bright as night swirls around you; the breath of a sunset and the melancholy that follows with it; glow aesthetic street signs; gas stations at 2 am; unopened cigarettes and broken promises and the cold hand of someone you once loved in yours in the dead of winter; winter but no snow; winter but no glory... • songs that remind you of your kin/id • ↳ do i wanna know - artic monkeys • colors that remind you of your kin/id • ↳ all shades of blue, a never pure white • favorite item(s) from your canon • ↳ he cherishes his hoodies • favorite memory • ↳ • have you met any canonmates? • ↳ • do you want to meet canonmates? • ↳ ┏ ┓ ♚ this / that ♚ ┗ ┛ • coke or pepsi • ↳ coke • dog person or cat person • ↳ cat • pop music or rock music • ↳ neither, but probably rock • morning or evening person • ↳ evening • sweet or savory • ↳ savory • stay at home or always on the go • ↳ stay at home man.. • introvert or extrovert • ↳ introvert • wine or beer • ↳ he doesn't drink, but would probably like wine • super strength or super speed • ↳ s.....peed • always bored or always tired • ↳ oh my god both. mostly tired • chocolate or lollipops • ↳ chocolate • pulp or no pulp • ↳ he is a straight up pulp hater • video games or board games • ↳ vidya games • sneakers or flip flops • ↳ sneakers • snapbacks or baseball caps • ↳ ugh, I dunno • black or white • ↳ white • mountains or beaches • ↳ mountains • pasta or rice • ↳ rice • sports cars or trucks • ↳ he doesn't really care for cars but probably sports? • piano or guitar • ↳ PIANO , that's like his only talent • hot weather or cold weather • ↳ cold • laid back or strict • ↳ laid back strictness • melee weapons or long distance • ↳ long distance • gemstones or metal • ↳ gemstones • sarcastic or sincere • ↳ sarcastic • galaxies or planets • ↳ planets • easily excited or easily tired • ↳ HE HAS DEPRESSION ♚ tagging ♚ ↳ youuu "merr for the last time stop doing more kin memes and changing them to oc memes" y'all mind if i just ┏ ┓ ♚ another kin meme ♚ ↳ created by @.mut4nt don't remove credit ┗ ┛ tagged by: i stole this from dave ♞ if you don't want to or can't answer a question, skip it and please don't delete it! ♞ ┏ ┓ ♚ about your kin/id ♚ ┗ ┛ • kin/id of choice • ↳ colton scott but im definitely changing his name so it's alliterative. ive been reading a lot of scott pilgrim • canon of said kin/id • ↳ uhhh.. merrverse • gender + sexuality of said kin/id • ↳ he's cis. and has never been really knowledgeable to consider *gasp* dating another guy?!!!!?? • age of said kin/id • ↳ i tend to set them all around 16 • emoji used to define said kin/id • ↳ 🎸 as it is this guitar kind of annoys me but shdbdbd • emojis that remind you of them • ↳ ✌️💫👔🌻🌆✨🎖️⚽🎮🎸🎹🎧🖱️💿 i hate him • favorite canonmate(s) • ↳ HE LOVES HIS GF VERY MUCH OBVS...colton has a different social group outside of the main cast but he likes most of them, sure. • favorite places in your canon • ↳ probably his garage/room • your kin/id's aesthetic• - it's really really indie rock... half assed music; the obvious plucking of a guitar, and less than perfect perfectness; a bunch of lyrics on aesthetic images; bruised limbs, knuckles; contemplating your life past the normal extent a teenager should go • songs that remind you of your kin/id • ↳ ......indie rock bands THAT ONE SONG by the artic monkeys, the strokes, front bottoms • colors that remind you of your kin/id • ↳ a darker yellow-y green • favorite item(s) from your canon • ↳ 🎸🎧🎮 • favorite memory • ↳ AJAHAJS I DON'T KNOW • have you met any canonmates? • ↳ • do you want to meet canonmates? • ↳ ┏ ┓ ♚ this / that ♚ ┗ ┛ • coke or pepsi • ↳ i feel coke but he likes sweet things so...Hmm • dog person or cat person • ↳ DOG • pop music or rock music • ↳ rock ajsjjs • morning or evening • ↳ evening • sweet or savory • ↳ sweet • stay at home or always on the go • ↳ he's sociable and friendly but i feel like he'd spend a lot of time by himself • introvert or extrovert • ↳ introverted extrovert