#(sorry principal producers) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vastill · 6 months

Text

Blue petals

Larissa Weems/fem!reader

warnings: 18+, NSFW, oral, fingering, sex pollen, pet names, swear words

words: 2000+

My requests are open!!

English is not my first language!!

A/N: hello darlings💚 im back and im back with a smut! i finally finished it and i think im happy with how it turned out. i hope you guys will enjoy it!!💚 let me know what you think!!

Principal Weems found solace in the quiet company of flowers whenever she felt overwhelmed. The plants in Nevermore’s greenhouse always were well-groomed and in the easiest way possible beautiful. She refrained from disturbing the botany teacher, so she would often venture to the greenhouse after her work hours.

However, a new plant had appeared in the garden. You were unsure how it got there and didn't have time to identify its species. Being a Nevermore teacher consumed most of your time. You decided to examine it over the weekend and, for now, simply transferred it to a pot and hid it at the back of the greenhouse to keep it out of sight.

On a Friday night, you were in your office studying the newfound plant. Searching some information in books and on some discussion forums for botanists. There was very little information about it, but it wasn’t poisonous. That’s comforting. You were scrolling through some articles and found the photo of said plant. It said sex pollen. You didn’t need more information to start sprinting to the greenhouse, hoping that no one got close to the plant.

How wrong you were.

While you were in your office, Principal Weems wandered into the greenhouse. There, she stood admiring the new plant you had acquired. It was remarkably beautiful, captivating her attention with its small size and vibrant, shining blue petals. She had never seen anything like it before. Curiously, she leaned in to sniff the plant, and its strong aroma awakened something within her, although she didn't think much of it. As soon as she heard footsteps approaching the greenhouse, she quickly left and returned to her office.

You rushed to the greenhouse to take care of the plant and started wondering whether you should inform Principal Weems about it. After all, some students might have interacted with the plant while you weren't watching. Yes, you should tell her. And with that, your walk to the principal’s office began.

Larissa didn’t know what happened, she was horny. She felt an intense urge to satisfy herself immediately, fearing that she might explode if she didn't. Her hands instinctively began to explore her body, starting from her neck and moving down to her chest. Her breasts were never this sensitive, and she was touching them through her blouse. She couldn't help but wonder how she would react when her most sensitive area was touched. Unintentionally, a moan escaped her lips. Just as she was on the brink of climax from the mere touch on her chest and neck, her blissful moment was interrupted by loud knocking. She quickly composed herself, making sure she appeared presentable and invited the person at the door to come in.

You walked into the office, Larissa seemed off, something was different in her, and for now, you couldn’t grasp what exactly.

“Principal Weems, hello, I’m sorry for the interruption but I need to inform you about a plant that was in my greenhouse.” You said quickly. You looked at her but she wasn’t saying anything, she was just staring at you. Her dilated pupils scanned over your silhouette. Were you dreaming? But the plant didn’t do anything to you. No, it didn’t, you were sure. So what is going on?

Fuck.

“Principal Weems? Did you go to the greenhouse today?”

“Hmm?” she shook herself from daydreaming.

“Did you go to the greenhouse today?”

“Oh yes, this new flower is exquisite, what kind it is?” Larissa said with a dreamy voice.

“Oh my, did you touch it? Or sniff it?” Please say you didn’t, please, please.

“Yes, I did. Why are you so tense up Y/N? Something happened?”

“Principal Weems, Larissa if I may, this flower produces something like, well it’s called sex pollen.”

“What?” That sobered her up a little. A sex pollen flower, that’s why she was feeling this way. “Oh my god, please tell me you are joking.”

“I am not, I’m sorry that I didn’t take care of it earlier. I just figured out what it is and walked straight to your office.”

“Fucking hell. Can I do something about it?” Larissa asked, her voice holding hope.

“Um..from its name, it only comes out of the body with..um intercourse or masturbation. You need to relieve yourself or someone needs to do this for you.” You told her, embarrassment visible on your face. You didn’t think you would be having this conversation with your boss. “I’m sorry I will leave you to it. If there will be some complications or something like that you know where to find me.” And with that, you left to your quarters.

Larissa was left alone, horny, and frustrated. She tried and tried. But anything brought her relief. She was left with only one choice.

Find you.

After you left, your mind wandered to the tall blonde and wondered how she was doing, specifically what she was doing. The images of Larissa pleasuring herself lingered in your mind. As you were getting ready to go to sleep, a knocking sound interrupted you.

You opened the door to see extremely angry Larissa.

“What happened? A-are there more difficulties? I don’t have an antidote yet.” You asked with worry in your voice, but when she looked at you with her eyes full of lust, you knew that wasn’t the problem.

“Can I come in? I don’t think it’s a matter I want to discuss where anyone can hear me.” She said nervously, fidgeting with her fingers. “I tried Y/N, and tried and nothing helps. I don’t know what to do now. I think I might combust in a moment if this feeling won’t disappear.” She told you, her voice whiny, you never hear her like this.

“I’m terribly sorry Principal Weems-”

“Larissa, please Y/N, we are over it.”

“Okay, so I’m sorry. Larissa, I don’t know how to help you. I wish I could but I don’t have any medicine or solution yet.” You said hanging your head low.

“I think I have an idea,” she said as she came closer to you. “Y/N, I will be honest, and you can do anything with it,” she said, taking a breath. “I find you very attractive, not just in looks, but also in your way of thinking. I would never tell you this, but the situation is extreme. So, darling, would you do me a favor and have sex with me? Please?” She looked gorgeous. How could you deny someone like Larissa? She was perfect in every aspect, especially when she looked at you with those ocean-blue puppy eyes.

You grabbed her chin and kissed her hard. Her lips felt soft and warm against yours. As your lips met, they parted effortlessly, inviting your tongue to explore. Your lips moved in sync, filled with urgency. When you needed to catch your breath, you nibbled on her lower lip before parting. You took her in, her hair messy, pupils dilated and full of desire, and her lips swollen. You couldn’t take your eyes off her, a slight blush crept on her cheeks from your stare.

“Come here.” You led her to your bedroom, keeping your mouths locked together along the way. When you felt resistance behind her you lightly pushed her torso. She landed on the mattress with a soft sound. Wasting no time you straddled her lap and attached your lips to her jaw. Moving lower to her neck, you searched for her sensitive spot. And when you kissed behind her ear, she moaned, so you stayed there, leaving light marks for her to find later.

“Y/N, please. I need you dear.” She moaned, her hips bucking beneath you. You quickly undressed her, starting with her shirt. Taking a moment to admire her, you gawked at her beauty.

“Larissa, you are so beautiful. The most perfect woman I have laid my eyes upon,” you said before attaching your lips to her neck again, but this time going lover. “Lay down for me,” you instructed, standing up and ridding yourself of the T-shirt and pants, leaving only your panties. You could feel her eyes roaming around your body.

Once again, you straddled her, your lips finding their way to her neck while your hands massaged her breasts. She was a moaning mess under you. You kissed around her nipples, never exactly touching them but when you did she let out a scream. And you were thankful for soundproof rooms in Nevermore.

“Oh, please, please Y/N. That feels so good,” she breathlessly pleaded, her hips rutting against the air. “I think I might cum only from this, please don’t stop.” So you continued, taking the other nipple in your mouth, sucking and biting it. The sounds that escaped from her mouth were heavenly. You wanted to hear them for the rest of your life.

“Fuck, fuck, yes! Oh darling, please, I’m so close!” She screamed, and with that she orgasmed. You never brought a woman to her peak solely by devouring her breasts. Her chest heaved as she took deep breaths. You moved away to give her a moment, but she grabbed your neck and pulled you in for a kiss. Her mouth hungrily met yours, teeth clashing together. The kiss was clumsy yet filled with desire and tongues.

“How are you feeling darling?” you asked with a voice heavy from lack of air.

“Better, but still Y/N I need more from you. Please touch me.”

“But I’m touching you, don’t you see?” you said with a smirk.

“Y/N, I want your fingers inside me. I need your tongue all over me bringing me to orgasm after orgasm. I need that so much. Please give it to me.” Larissa begged you.

“Your wish is my command. But for the record, I never took you for a begging type,” you said, lowering yourself to her stomach, and leaving a few kisses and marks in your wake. Her stomach twitched when you lowered yourself. “Can I take these off?” you asked.

“Yes!” she said quickly.

You nestled between her legs, her glistening folds in front of your face. Her scent overwhelmed your senses. You started by kissing her thighs, getting closer to her center. You gently kissed her clit, causing Larissa to whine as her hips bucked into your face. You began licking and sucking on her clit, listening to the moans that escaped from Larissa's mouth. One of your hands grabbed her hips to prevent her from moving while the other slowly approached her entrance. You slid your fingers inside her, feeling her wetness and heat. Curling your fingers, you continued to move them in and out of her, building a steady rhythm.

“Harder, please!” Larissa let out between her moans.

You added a third finger, pumping them faster and deeper, making her moan and writhe with pleasure. Her hips trying to match the rhythm of your fingers. She was lost in pleasure, her moans freely leaving her mouth.

“Oh fuck-” you could feel her tightening around your fingers. Her fingers tangled in your hair. Larissa's hips moved of their own accord, using your face for her own pleasure. “Please, don’t stop! I’m so close!” You could only emit a low growl.

Her movements grew sloppy, and she was on the edge of orgasm. You worked harder than ever to give her what she desired so desperately. And with another curl of your fingers, her body stiffened, and she let out a scream. Her thighs clamped around your head, and you allowed her to ride out her orgasm. When her movements slowed down, you gently removed your fingers, earning a whimper from Larissa.

Glancing at her blissed-out expression, you admired her beauty. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from kissing and biting, but what fascinated you the most were her eyes, filled with emotions. “Are you okay?”

She looked at you with tired eyes and smiled gently. “Yes, I feel better. And I can assure you that we are going to do it again in the near future.” You chuckled at her response. She grabbed you and pulled you closer.

“Take a lady on a date first!” you giggled as she attacked your neck with kisses. “Maybe I will, but right now, I want to return the favor.” Your eyes widened as she smirked at you.

You didn't need any more encouragement. The two of you spent the rest of the night rather occupied with each other. It was a night neither of you would soon forget, and it was only the beginning of a passionate affair between you and Principal Weems.

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #larissa weems fanfic #wlw fiction #wlw post #vastill

329 notes · View notes

thesapphictimelady · 2 months

Text

Ad Astra Per Aspera Chapter 2

Word Count: 2.2K

TW: Implied previous domestic abuse, references to alcohol

A/N: I’d like to point out I am NOT a plumber, the plumbing mentioned in this chapter is something that worked in my old classroom. It is not meant to be a solution for everything! Anyways, this is not proofread but I hope you enjoy it! Comments are always appreciated!

“New kid, time to wake up,”

Cassie groaned and rolled over on the couch, throwing her arm over her eyes, “Go away, Jenny, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jenny? Geez kid, how much did you drink last night?” Melissa chuckled, “It’s me. Ms. Schemmenti?”

Cassie sat up, “Oh my god, Ms. Schemmenti I’m so sorry! I-I thought you were…”

“Don’t worry about it kid, get dressed. We gotta get to school.”

Cassie hastily grabbed a dress out of one of the boxes that were strewn around the small space and headed into the bathroom to change. Once she had pulled her dress on, she set to work removing the makeup from last night and reapplying. She winced when she saw the bruising on her neck was still a sickly green color but she made quick work of covering it up and then applying some mascara and lip gloss.

When she left the bathroom, she saw Melissa had settled herself on the couch.

“I’m really sorry about the mess,” Cassie said, “This was all I could find on such short notice and it’s…it’s really small.”

Melissa snorted, “Really small is certainly one way to put it.”

Cassie flushed and started digging through a box until she produced a thin gray sweater to layer over her pink dress.

“Ms. Schemmenti, you don’t have to wait for me. I know you drove here last night,”

“Nah, I’m giving you a ride. I might as well. Plus the parking might be limited today,”

“Why would the parking be limited?” Cassie asked, pulling on her shoes, “There were tons of empty spots yesterday,”

“The Eagles are playing and Ava rents out parking spaces,” Melissa said, twirling her car keys around one finger.

“Is she allowed to do that?”

“Ava just does whatever she wants. Besides, sometimes you gotta bend some rules”

Cassie opened the front door and the two stepped outside. Despite the time, it was already hot out and Cassie was glad she had chosen a thin sweater.

“Come on,” Melissa said, opening the car door, “I want to make sure we get seats with Barb.”

Cassie got into the car and set her bag by her seat. Melissa’s car smelled like vanilla but there was a lingering scent of menthol. The drive over to the school was quiet, and Cassie rested her head on the cool window. Before she knew it, they had pulled into the school parking lot. It was already crowded and the smell of barbecue filled the air.

“Barbeque? It’s 7 in the morning!”

Melissa shrugged, “They get started early. Now let’s get inside.”

Just like Melissa had said, Ava was hungover as hell. The lights in the gym were dim and the principal was wearing sunglasses and sipping gatorade.

“Hi,” Cassie said, going to introduce herself, “I’m Cassiopeia. I started yesterday.”

Ava waved her away, “Girl, it’s too early for this,”

Melissa snorted and pulled Cassie over to where the folding chairs were set up, setting her bag on a third seat for Barb.

“I’ll be right back,” Melissa whispered, before going back to where Ava was and whispering something to her. Ava pulled her sunglasses down to eye Cassie before handing Melissa a gatorade.

The redhead handed the gatorade to the younger teacher, and then produced a bottle of aspirin, “Here, you’re gonna need these. That hangover is gonna hit you. Plus it’ll help hold up the fact that I told everyone that you went home sick yesterday”

Cassie took the aspirin and settled into the cold metal chair, closing her eyes.

“Cassiopeia!” Jacob called.

Cassie smiled and waved at him, “Hi Jacob,”

“I’m so glad you’re still here!” he said, “I was worried something might have happened when Melissa said you went home sick!”

“Something did happen,” Melissa cut in, “She got tsick.”

Jacob flushed, “I know that! I just meant…well, Melissa you don’t have a great track record with aides and teachers,”

Cassie held up a hand to stop him, “I’m fine. I feel much better today.”

“Well that’s good! I want you to meet Gregory and Janine,” Jacob said, gesturing at the pair behind him, “They weren’t here yesterday so they didn’t get to meet you. Guys this is Cassiopeia. Did you know…”

Cassie closed her eyes again, shutting out Jacob’s explanation of her name.

“I’m glad you’re here Cassie,” Barb said softly, taking her seat next to them, “Melissa told me you weren’t feeling well. How are you feeling this morning? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Howard, thank you. Ms. Schemmenti brought me some aspirin and Ava gave me a gatorade.”

“If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. They aren’t comfortable, but if you need to take a nap I can get out the mats my kindergartners use.”

Cassie smiled softly, “Thank you, Mrs. Howard,”

“Alright nerds, find your seats,” Ava said, “Let’s get this started so I can go take a nap. I mean, run the school”

Melissa rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“First things first, we have a new teacher,” Ava said, “Her name is…Princess Leia or something,”

“Cassiopeia!” Jacob corrected her.

“Yeah that. She’s in Ms Schemmenti’s classroom until we can open up a classroom for her. Next, the sinks in the 1st floor bathrooms are backed up so until Mr. Johnson gets back or the city sends someone, I’m putting hand sanitizer in the bathrooms,”

Cassiopeia raised her hand, “Do the sinks share pipes?”

“Girl, how am I supposed to know? What do you think I am, the city?”

”Yes,” Melissa cut in, “the sinks share pipes and a wall.”

“I can fix it then,”

“No!” Barbara said quickly, “No, these things are best left to the experts. Do you all remember when Janine tried to fix the electricity?”

“No, I really can fix it. It’s super simple to temporarily fix it, at least until a professional can take a look. I just need two plungers and someone to help me.”

“Fine,” Ava said, rolling her eyes, “Schemmenti, you can help Peia,”

Cassie wrinkled her nose at the nickname, “Peia? Really?”

“Told ya someone would give you a weird nickname,” Melissa whispered.

“Janine has some team building activities this afternoon,” Ava continued, “And Gregory and Jacob have worked together to cook some of the produce from the garden for lunch. Now get to your classrooms and do…whatever it is you people do.”

“Come on,” Melissa said, grabbing their bags, “Let’s put our stuff away and I’ll find the plungers,”

Once they got to the classroom, Melissa set their bags on her desk and dragged a second chair over to it.

“Sidown kid,”

“Don’t we need to get the plungers?” Cassie asked, tugging on her sleeves.

“That can wait,” Melissa said, closing the classroom door, “I wanna talk to you,”

“Ms. Schemmenti, I already told you-”

“No, ya didn’t. Lemme finish. I wanna talk to ya about what you said this morning.”

“This morning?”

“Ya called me Jenny.”

Cassie groaned and put her head in her hands, “Ms. Schemmenti, I was half asleep!”

“Did Jenny do that to ya?” Melissa gestured to her arms.

“Ms. Schemmenti, I-”

“S’okay,” the redhead said, “I get it. Let’s just go get the plungers.”

“I got ‘em,” Melissa said, her cheeks slightly pink from running around the school.

”Perfect, you take the boys, I’ll take the girls. We’ll probably need to call each other to be able to hear.”

Melissa nodded and Cassiopeia went into the girls bathroom, locking the door behind her and taking her sweater off. She quickly dialed the redheads number.

“Hey, okay, so when I say go, put the plunger over the drain and start plunging,”

“And you’re sure this will work?” Melissa asked.

Cassie bit her lip, “Well…no. But it worked at my old school! It’s worth a shot.”

“If you say so, kid.”

“Okay,” Cassie cradled her phone between her shoulder and her cheek while she got the plunger into position, “Go,”

Within a couple minutes of plunging, the dirty water that was in the sink started to drain.

“I’m impressed kid,” Melissa said through the phone, “I didn’t expect that to work,”

Cassie grinned as she set the plunger down, “I told you I could do it! At my old school, this happened every other week.”

“What did the plumbers say?”

“Oh, we never had anyone come out to look at it! The district said it wasn’t necessary,”

“That’s ridiculous. Alright, I should get these plungers back to the closet.”

“Hang on, I gotta unlock the door,” Cassie hung up and tugged her sweater back on. Melissa knocked on the door and Cassie unlocked it.

“Geez kid, you look like you need some fresh air. Lemme put these away. You head back to the classroom.”

Cassiopeia made her way back to the classroom, collapsing into a chair and chugging her gatorade. She tossed the empty bottle into the trash can and reached into her bag, pulling out a folder of paperwork.

“Hey,” Janine said, poking her head into the room, “We didn’t get a chance to talk this morning. I’m Janine, I’m the other second grade teacher!”

“Hi,” Cassie said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m glad you’re here! I see you met Melissa already.”

“Ya, she did,” Melissa said from behind Janine, “Whatdya need Janine.”

“Nothing! Just wanted to introduce myself! Actually, I’m trying to get some clocks to teach time…”

“Did you check the teacher supply closet?”

“Yeah but those clocks are made of cardboard and they’re falling apart!”

Melissa sighed, “Okay okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

Janine squealed, “Thank you! Cassiopeia, you are working with the best teacher!”

Cassie laughed as Janine danced out of the room.

“She sure is…energetic,”

“That’s one word for her,” Melissa said, wrestling one of the windows open, “Want me to close the door so you can take off that sweater?”

“You don’t have to! What if one of the teachers need you?”

“They can email me,” Melissa said, closing and locking the door, “Ya look…actually you look pale. Your cheeks are pink but the rest of you looks…” The redhead held her wrist to Cassie’s forehead, “You’re not running a fever. Do you need to go see the nurse?”

“No, I’m fine, Ms. Schemmenti. I’m not sick. I-it’s makeup. I probably put too much concealer on my neck this morning.”

Melissa dropped her hand, “I’m sorry kid, I thought-”

“It’s okay,” Cassie cut her off, “I’m fine. I just…want to get to work.”

“Ya know, if you need someone to talk to…”

“Thanks, but I’d like to grade some of these math tests right now.”

“Okay kid,” Melissa handed her a red pen and a stack of papers, “Make yourself at home wherever.”

Cassiopeia tossed her sweater on one of the desks and went to sit on one of the beanbags in the back. Once she had found a comfortable position to sit in, she pulled out her earbuds, putting one in and starting her playlist while she started grading.

Melissa sat at her desk, glasses perched on her nose as she tried to focus on the papers in front of her. She couldn’t get the girl in her classroom out of her head. She set her pen down and put her head in her hands, thinking back to that morning.

After Cassie had fallen asleep on the couch, Melissa had set to work making the pizza dough. She preferred making it from scratch. The young woman had been curled into a ball and Melissa knew she wasn’t sleeping well. She would whimper or cry out every few minutes but Melissa couldn’t bear to wake her. She had looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in months.

Once the dough was finished, she had knelt on the floor and stroked Cassiopeia’s hair until she settled. She had wiped tears from the sleeping girls face and sung softly to her.

“Ms. Schemmenti?” Cassie said, breaking Melissa from her memories.

“What’s up kid?”

“Do you want me to grade those? You look a little distracted.”

“No, I’m fine. Just a little distracted.”

Cassie nodded and put her earbud back in.

“Melissa,” the door handle jiggled and the redhead jumped up and threw Cassie’s sweater at her.

“I’m coming!”

Cassie tugged her sweater on and Melissa unlocked the door, letting a confused Barbara into the room.

“Hey Barb!” Melissa said.

Barbara looked back and forth between the two, “Is everything okay in here?”

“Of course, Mrs. Howard!” Cassiopeia said, standing up. The second she stood, however, the room began to spin and she swayed slightly.

“Cassiopeia?” Barbara said, rushing across the classroom, “Sweetheart are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, sitting back down, “It’s just…it’s just hot in here.”

Barb glanced over at Melissa, who was already rummaging in her mini fridge to get a bottle of water.

“Here kid,” she said, “drink this.”

“Why don’t we take this off…” Barb reached for Cassie’s sweater.

“No!” Cassie and Melissa said at the same time.

“I need my sweater, Mrs. Howard,” Cassie whispered.

“If you say so…” Barb said.

“Kid, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning did you?”

“No…we were in a hurry…”

“Melissa, go get Cassiopeia the apple off my desk,” Barb said.

“I can’t take your food!” Cassie argued.

“You aren’t taking, I am giving it to you. And you will eat it. Stay here. I’m going to see if Ava has a fan we can use to cool you down.”

#abbott elementary #melissa schemmenti x oc #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader

121 notes · View notes

jgracie · 8 days

Note

talking about pjo x f1… WHAT TEAM WOULD DO YOU THINK THE CHARACTERS BE IN?!

OFF TO THE RACES — PJO/HOO + F1 TEAMS

masterlist | rules

↳ part 2! (i can only put 10 pics in a post 😣)

an anon i got SO excited when u sent this so obviously i had to make it a whole post 😇 love u so much ! also i only included the relevant teams sorry not sorry i was not ab to find some random person to put in kick sauber or wtv it’s called now 😭 should i write reader x driver chars?!?

FERRARI’S DRIVER LINEUP CONSISTS OF . . .

OO1 — PERSEUS “PERCY” JACKSON

after placing 3rd in his rookie season of formula one, percy jackson quickly became a fan favourite amongst newbies and old timers alike! he had no trouble receiving a contract from ferrari at the end of last year, much to williams' dismay, and now seems to be bringing a team that we once thought was having its downfall to the podium! now, he seems to be on his way to winning his first ever world drivers' championship. hopefully, jackson remembers that the higher up you're sitting, the more people there are to tug you down...

OO2 — LUKE CASTELLAN

ferrari loyalist luke castellan has been the italian team's main driver for the majority of his career. none of his teammates could ever beat him - sneaky and speedy, he knows exactly how and when to comeback after a not-so-good weekend. if you're anywhere near castellan on the track, you should be extremely worried. now that ferrari have signed percy jackson in his second year, will castellan be able to hold his ground as their number one guy, or will percy eliminate him like he did the rest of the grid?

RED BULL’S DRIVER LINEUP CONSISTS OF . . .

OO1 — JASON GRACE

if you know red bull, you must know jason grace, who's been part of the red bull family ever since his days in formula four! grace seems to have been born with a god-given talent on the track, his smooth and precise takeovers catching the eyes of all sorts of people in the industry. despite receiving various contract offers left and right, grace stuck with red bull. in recent years, however, fans are beginning to believe that jason's heart simply isn't with them anymore...

OO2 — ANNABETH CHASE

after many years of persistence and hard work at haas, annabeth chase finally managed to catch the eye of red bull's team principal. people were hesitant to warm up to her at first, but she earned their love in no time by consistently placing on the podium and even landing a couple wins! clever cookie chase will do anything to be standing in front of the crowds, champagne bottle in one hand, trophy in the other - even going as far as disobeying team orders and overtaking teammate grace in some occasions, which might prove to be a sticky situation in the coming season

MCLAREN’S DRIVER LINEUP CONSISTS OF . . .

OO1 — LEONIDAS “LEO” VALDEZ

joining mclaren this year is none other than last year's formula two driver's championship winner, leo valdez! with quite the knowledge in machinery as well as fiery speed on the track, leo is definitely a force to be reckoned with. unfortunately, he hasn't been able to produce the results we've all become accustomed to from him, often dnf-ing and barely scoring any points. this might be getting to him, but oh well, all da ladies luv leo anyway!

OO2 — TRAVIS STOLL

completely juxtaposing his teammate and proving that the mclaren car is an absolute beast, travis stoll has quickly become a familiar face to see on a podium that was once a blur of blues and reds. despite this, he's managed to stay humble, insisting the praise should go to his younger brother and race engineer - connor stoll. the two are well known for silly banter and heartwarming singalongs during races. however, recent news of the younger stoll being jealous of his brother has started circulating...

#percy jackson x reader #luke castellan x reader #jason grace x reader #annabeth chase x reader #leo valdez x reader #travis stoll x reader #pjo x reader #hoo x reader #pjo headcanons #hoo headcanons #f1 x reader #f1 x pjo #cynwrites #idk what else to tag this with LOL #˖◛⁺⑅♡ luvletters #anonymous ೀ

145 notes · View notes

rexlroze · 3 days

Text

𝟐 — 𝐃𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Hobie Brown / SpiderPunk x Fem! Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.5k

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Use of Y/N, No physical description of reader other than mostly height comparison. Swearing, Mention of alcohol, drinking, vomiting, Fluff.

𝑁𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠

𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

A/N: I honestly had to rethink this over and over again so many times even though I was like half way thru the damn chapter so that's why making this took me long, also the fact I have the attention span of a child. I was really not sure about this whole thing cuz it kinda felt too sudden but hopefully, it turned out fine? for me it did tbh but like. *blink* yk? Or maybe it's just because I'm not confident in my fucking writing skills and need validation for every damn step I take<3 But anyways, I made half of the notes for this chapter during math class and the teacher caught me so that too (Spoiler Alert: I got sent to the principal's office :3) but that's besides the point. Also if some of the characters were a little OOC, I'm very sorry- I tried my best to make them as accurate as possible (some inaccurate shit tends to get on my nerve, mostly if it's produced by me) annnnd I need to stop ranting💀. I don't take requests nor do I plan on doing so in the future. Happy reading! 😉

Chapter 2 >>> Chapter 3

Each Stroke of paint is smooth, filling the wall with a little more color than before. The bristles of the paint brush gently swipes over the wall. Music flowed into your ears and through, making you hum.

The atmosphere was calming, like nothing could ever—

“Whatcha listenin’ to?” A teasing voice appeared beside you making you jump and your shoulder tense up.

Right. You forgot he was still here. Pushing your headphones off, “a song.” You answered flatly, turning away from him, your back facing Hobie as you dipped your paint brush into the thick minty liquid that was within the metal bucket and slid the brush across the wall.

“Really? I'll have to check it out when I get home.”

You scoff at the sarcasm in his tone.

After yesterday, he helped you with a little cleaning. You thought he was probably going to dip and disappear from your life after that so when he returned the next day (today), it did surprise you a little. He's been just hanging around. You don't know why, he doesn't owe you anything. “Why are you helping me again?” You turned to him with a quirked eyebrow.

“Mate, you've asked me that like 4 times already.”

“And each time, I haven't gotten a proper answer.”

This time, he's the one to scoff. “Is it that bad to want to just help somebody?”

“You're dodging the question again.” You say in a sing-song voice.

He holds his hands up in surrender, “aight aight. I'm just tryna help out a friend of a friend, y'know? Plus. I ain't' hurtin’ anyone, right?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means, love.”

You sighed, your arm falling to your side. Your other hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose, “okay. I'll admit, I'm being a little… douchey.” You say, biting your lip, “But I can't say that I don't appreciate your help, and company.”

“Little's an understatement.” Hobie quipped, snickering to himself which made you throw a side glance in his direction. An innocent smile spread across his face.

You rolled your eyes turning back to the wall to continue what you were doing. Hobie took it as a sign to pursue his side of the wall.

A small spot was left just at the top of the wall making you push yourself up on your tiptoes, trying to get to the empty white patch on top of the wall.

Hobie, who was distracted by his own work, took a glance at you when he heard a few groans of frustration. Seeing you so frustrated over such a small thing brought a small smirk to his face. He settled his brush down into the paint bucket and made his way to you, your head turning to him when you caught a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye extending his hand, beckoning for you to give him the brush you held.

You raised your eyebrow but gave in, settling the brush into his extended hand, your fingers grazing his palm before you quickly withdrew your hand to your side.

He stepped forward closer to you and the wall, making you step back away, giving him space as he took care of the last white spot on the wall.

“Thank you,” you gave him a small smile and a nod.

“No problem.” He returned the smile. You two stood there holding eye contact. His eyes were as pretty as they were in the poster. No. Prettier. You thought, why? You didn't know.

You quickly cleared your throat and looked away to look at your progress the two of you had made whilst he sunk the paint brush back into the depths of the mint paint after filling the small white spot with paint.

The two of you had already completed three walls, the last wall was just about half done. The only other thing left to paint was the closet, you'd get to that later.

“You wanna go get a drink?” Hobie suddenly asked, turning his head towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather vest.

You rubbed a hand over your jaw, the thought of a break was very enticing right about now since you'd been busy for about a solid 4-5 hours. You answered after a second or two of silence. “Sure. I could use a little break.”

“Good cuz I know an awesome pub around here.”

“Lead the way.” You said extending your arm towards the door.

—

The two of you walked side by side, Hobie’s gaze fixed on the rock he kept kicking in front of him during your walk, yours lost in the sky that was split into hues of yellow and pink.

“So, I haven't really seen you around here before.” Hobie suddenly spoke up after his rock companion got left behind, a small pout formed on his face which disappeared as quickly as it appeared when it did but obviously he wasn't going back just to retrieve a rock.

“Just moved here about a few days ago, used to live in York with my parents.” You answered, crossing one of your arms behind your head.

“Hm.” He nodded before silence fell over the two of you again, seems neither of you knew what to say. Your eyes lingered on the sky, watching the purple mixing into the pink and orange.

This time, you decided to break the silence. “So, where are we going?” Your head turned towards him, tilting your head a little.

“It's a surprise.” He answered, shrugging his shoulders.

“It's a bar.”

“Your point?”

“I mean, how ‘exciting’ can a bar really be?” You snorted.

“Depends, you ever been in an underground pub?”

“No— say what now?” You gawked, turning to Hobie with wide eyes who just smirked and lifted his chin. When he didn't continue elaborating further, you decided to poke at the subject. “Wait, c'mon. You gotta tell me more.”

Chuckling, he let out a low whistle. “No, I don't.”

“You can't just tell me we're going to an underground bar then shut up. Like- what if I get kidnapped or sumn?” You exaggerated, throwing your hands up in the air.

“I'll be right there beside you, love, won't even let anyone lay a hand. Good?” He proposed, playfully tilting his head a little.

“You're torturing me.” You groaned.

“Maybe that's my plan.” He shrugged, flicking invisible lint off his jacket.

“...”

“How do I know you're not the one who's trying to kidnap me?” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Doesn't it seem oddly weird you just randomly appear at my parlor, offer me help and now you're taking me to a very secret underground bar.”

As Hobie heard you ramble on, he couldn't help but start to chuckle. His chuckle twisting into a flown blown laugh as you threw a playful punch in his shoulder.

“Tell me. You have trust issues or something?” He chuckled, wiping an unshed tear from his eye. “Just have a little patience. It'll be worth it, I promise. I mean, you can always go back if you’re too paranoid.”

“Hilarious.”

“I'm being serious, I can walk you back right now if you'd like.” He offered, slowing down.

Your lips parted as you thought about it for a quick second before shaking your head. “Nah, no thank you. I'm coming along.”

“Hm, suit yourself.” He shrugged looking back to the front of the street. Your footsteps falling in sync with one another once more.

Silence taking over, punctuated by the honking motorcycles and cars and the birds chirping.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Twelve minutes later, the both of you stood before an abandoned 2 storey office building. It looked like it hadn't been used in decades with its cracked windows which reflected the creamy moonlight. Graffiti turned the concrete structure into a riot of colors, doodles, swear words and penises with overgrown vines that clawed their way up the sides.

As Hobie strode towards the door, his hand inches away from pushing the door when you suddenly spoke up, “it's in there?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” He said turning his head towards you, “I know it don’ look it but I promise it's on purpose. Keeps the coopers away.”

“Ehh… I don't know. I'm starting to believe the whole “you're trying to kidnap me” thing.” Skepticism traced your voice.

“Oh, c’mon. Just trust me.”

“That's what I'm scared to do.” You scoffed. “This looks like a place where serial killers would stuff their victims in.”

“Dunno, never tried digging around. Two bodies at best?” He analyzed jokingly, covering up his laugh with a cough as he saw you pale a little.

“You're not funny.”

“Dunno ‘bout that, love.” He snickered. “You comin’?” He didn't wait for you to answer before he disappeared into the building.

You crossed your arms tapping your foot, not wanting to follow him in because of your stubbornness but something about standing alone sent chills down your spine.

I'm gonna kill him. You quickly sprinted into the office-like building following Hobie's direction, running away from something you don't even know.

You find yourself walking behind Hobie who walks up to an elevator across the room. The walls were crumbling, chairs laidon the floor, tables flipped upside down “Why the hell is this place so run down?”

“It's a meeting ground made by the government, basically all the corrupted and secret shit that they wanted no one knowing happened around here but word got out. Eventually punks started graffiting the grounds, protesting, sneaking in and eventually drove them out to who knows where. Started using it as a club and a speakeasy after cuz it was spacious grounds. Coopers don’ blink an eye towards this direction cuz they're bloody cowards.” He casually explains (leaving out the part where he whooped their asses and corrupted all their data with a chip he made as Spider-Punk but you didn't need to know that.)

He pressed a few buttons which opened up the elevator doors. Wordlessly, he gestured to you to get in.

“And you know this how?” You lifted an eyebrow climbing into the elevator, he followed suit.

When you asked that, it brought a proud smile to Hobie's face, “I was one of the punks.” He answered nonchalantly without glancing at you, the pockets of his leather vest stuffed with his hands. The elevator door slid back together locking the both of you in.

“Of course you were,” you said it like it was one of the most obvious things in the world for which you got a little nudge in the shoulder from his elbow. He pressed a button on a small keypad beside the door making the elevator flow down.

The elevator finally stopped making a small chiming sound after what seemed like minutes but in reality. It had been barely more than 40 seconds. Guess time just slowed down when you're in the presence of awkward silence… or Hobie.

The doors opened up letting bright neon lights seep in and illuminate your face. The ‘bar’ (which looked more like a rave) was more lively than most bars you've gone to. Vibrant blends of pink, blue, and yellow casted over you.

“W'dya think?” A voice shouted over the blasting songs, Hobie's voice. You just stared at him wide eyed, unable to make up a coherent response. “You'll get used to it.” He nudged you before stepping out the elevator, signaling for you to follow him.

You shook yourself out of your daze and promptly caught up with him. You swore to god you've put way too much trust in someone you met a day ago. Maybe not even a complete 24 hours yet but you're too deep in and too stubborn to turn around.

“You come here often then?” You arched an eyebrow in his direction, his gaze straight ahead but he tilted his head a little to meet yours.

“Occasionally. Usually—” He was cut off by someone who called out to him in the crowd. “Yo, it's Hobie everyone!”

People glanced in your (his) direction, waving at him and cheering him on. Said man waves back, winking in the direction of a few gals who probably fainted with how excited they got but you didn't bother checking.

“Mr.Popular, huh?”

“That's one way to put it. I come here to hang out often so I know people.”

“Do you usually take all your girls here?” You suddenly blurted out, heat clawed its way up your neck when you processed what you just had said. He raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress the shit-eating grin that came onto his face. “Shut up, I didn't mean it like that.” You grumbled, turning your head away from him.

“I didn't say anything,” he shrugged, feigning obliviousness.

“You implied it.”

“Did I?”

Something about his tone just wanted to make you sink into the floor and become one with the secretundergroundbarraveparty (whatever it was) or maybe punch that stupid smile off his face but you didn't do either. Instead you continued making your way through the crowd with him until you reached a bar. Several drinks lined up on several shelves behind the counter. You could tell that it wasn't just some cheap liquor crap either. It made you wonder where they had gotten it from.

He sat down on one of the stools, locking eyes with you before patting the stool beside him. Before you could say anything, your body moved on its own, settling yourself on the stool. Nobody else was really seated near your guys, most of the people were already drunk and partying.

Hobie leaned back against nothing but the air particles, his eyes resting on you when you stirred a little, turning to face him, “what?” you tilted your head.

“Nothin’, just thinking.” He gave you one of his small smiles before his attention averted to the raven-haired girl that walked through one of the doors that was hidden behind the counter. Her eyes fell on the two of you making them pop open, “are my eyes deceiving me or are those my most favorite people? Y/N, you didn't tell me you were in town!” She beamed.

“Yuri?” Your eyes harmonized hers. “I was gonna surprise you but… wait, what're you doing here?”

“Me? I work here, babe. The real question is what are the two of you doing here, hmm?” Yuri gaped, leaning against the counter. Her arms crossed over it.

“He dragged me into this.” You said pointing your thumb at the man beside you, making him gasp dramatically, “nah nah, I see how it is.” He drawled, turning his head away from you.

“Drama queen.” You accused, punched him in his bicep. The two of you acted like you had known each other for years by now.

“Ooh, you two must be close.” Yuri cooed, tilting her head, her cheek squished up against her hand as she watched the two of you interact.

“We met yesterday,” you scoffed, turning down any further suggestions that she could blurt out.

“Is that supposed to make a difference?” Yuri sassed, wiping a glass mug down with a cloth that was under the counter.

“Yuri.” Your eyebrows knitted together making her smirk, “what? I'm being serious.” She smirked.

“If this is you being serious, I don't wanna know what you being unserious is like.” Yuri snickered, placing two mugs in front of the two of you. Her body twisted around pulling out one of the alcoholic drinks out of the shelf and shaking the bottle before pouring it into your glass. “So darling, how've you been, how's Camden treating you so far?” She asked, pushing the two mugs across the counter towards you too.

“It's been alright. I've been working on my parlor recently. Otherwise… nothing special. Oh, Spider-Punk also saved my brain from spewing out like three days ago so that's something,” You shrugged when you suddenly heard Hobie choke on his drink, his beer going down the wrong pipe making him cough harshly. You and Yuri raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“Bloody hell. Sorry, this- this drink is really strong,” He sputtered, clearing his throat. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, tears stinging his eyes.

“Okay…” Your tone contained skepticism in it, “you good now?” You asked to which he nodded. “Fantastic.”

You nodded, turning back to Yuri. A silence washing over the three of you even with the blast of music and chitter chatter in the back.

Yuri opened her mouth to say something but quickly closed it when she heard the door squeak open. A brunette walked through, his face flushed as he stumbled towards the counter. “Hey!”

“Flash!” Yuri squeaked, her eyebrows knitting together. “You're not supposed to drink during your fucking shift!”

“Bloody hell. Chill, mom.” He rolled his eyes, voice awfully slurred leaning his hip against the counter but miserably failing after almost falling.

“Ay,” Hobie lifted his head in a greeting while you sat beside him thinned-lipped.

“Oh my god. Hobie, is that you my man?” Flash exclaimed, throwing his arms out in a hug but unable to reach him due to the counter that separated them so going for a high-wave instead that he missed by a head.

“The one and only,” Hobie snickered, grabbing Flash's wrist and guiding him through the high five properly.

Flash clicked his tongue, turning his head towards you, “Ooh, and who's this pretty little thing?” He smirked, grabbing your hand that laid atop the counter and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You gave him a polite smile, retracting your hand. You opened your mouth to introduce yourself but Hobie beat you to it. “Y/N Y/L/N. We met yesterday.”

“What he said,” you dipped your chin in agreement.

“A pretty name for a prettier lady,” Flash winked at you when Yuri pushed him away with her whole hand pressed up against his face, “don't mind this idiot. He always gets like this when he's woozy.”

“‘m not woozy.” Flash grumbled, pushing her hand off his face and crossing his arms over his chest like a child who didn't get what they wanted.

“Sure you aren't.” Yuri rolled her eyes, wiping the black marble counter with gold veinings etched into them with a scruffy cloth tinted a light brown at hand (you assumed that it used to be white once.)

“Just a little bit, alright?” He grunted.

You tune in and out of the conversation thinking about what you could do back at the parlor, what you still need to do and improve, how you're going to start developing and promoting your work. Making a website could do me goods, never hurts to try. Maybe I should make a Facebook page— You jumped out of your twilight zone when a pair of fingers snapped right in front of your face.

“Welcome back to earth, love.” Hobie's voice was the first one you processed.

“Sorry, just got some things on my mind.” You ran a hand over your head till the nape of your neck, letting it settle there.

“I can see that,” Hobie took the empty glass of beer in your hand and replaced it with a refilled one. Your eyes lingered on his hands, watching them with precision before your eyes found their way back to your glass, staring at the foam floating at the top of the glass. You brought the glass up to your lips letting the liquid burn down your throat.

Hobies eyes lit up with amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Calm down, love. The drink ain’ gonna run away from you.” He quipped, his fingers gently wrapping around your forearm pulling the drink down from your lips. Your body slightly tensed up as his warmth seeped into your skin and throughout your body, your eyes meeting his.

Hobie's amused smirk seemed to drop into a line when he noticed the change in the atmosphere. His eyes stuck on yours, yours on his.

The tension suddenly drowned out by the cackle of Yuri who was watching Flash flirt (and fail miserably) with some gals that sat a few seats away from the two of you. His hand quickly untangled itself from your arm finding its way back onto the counter. You let out a breath of relief thankful for brief distraction.

Flash trudged back to where the three of you were, his shoulders slumped with a small pout planted on his face after the girls left with scowls and disgust etched on their faces.

“No luck?” Yuri teased.

“Shut up.” Flash huffed, snapping his head away from her to which Yuri hummed smugly.

Hobie reassured Flash by giving him a small pat on his back whispering some words into his ear that seemed to lighten him up.

“Hey, up for some dare or drink?” Flash beamed suddenly, his movement more animated than before.

“What?” you tilt your head quizzically.

“Dare or drink, do the dare or chug a beer.” Flash summarized with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“Oh no, I should probably get back in a couple of minutes,” you interjected, waving your hands in the air dismissively.

Yuri frowned, “c'mon babe, my shift is almost over. It won't hurt you to have a little fun, y'know?”

“I really shouldn't-” You protested but quickly folded with Yuri's small pout the alcohol in your system. I'm so gonna regret this later.

—

“Chug, chug, chug!” The three chanted while your hazy eyes tried to focus on the mug of beer in front of you. This might've been your fifth drink of the night, but could you blame yourself? You were definitely NOT texting your fucking ex that you missed him (given by our dear Flash). Not in a million years, but it was more tempting than chugging another beer and inevitably using the next person near you as a vomit bucket.

“Fuck, 'm gonna vomit.” You slurred, putting the glass mug down on the marble counter. Somehow, even with four and a half beers in your system, you could kind of think properly.

Kind of.

“It's the beer or the dare, babe.” Yuri reminded, wiggling her finger.

“Mhm,” you pinched the bridge of your nose trying to rub the blur out of your eyesight. “I-I’m going to find the bathroom.” You shook your head, standing up clumsily. You swallowed the saliva that had built up in your mouth but it didn't help with your slurring at all.

You just whipped around and showed yourself the way towards the bathroom which you had no idea where the fuck it was simply disappearing into the crowd.

“That's not even the direction of the bathroom.” Yuri murmured, sighing defeatedly.

“So… who's going with her?” Flash raised an eyebrow, his eyes bouncing between Hobie and Yuri. The two stared back at him, making him raise his hands in the air defensively, “not it.”

It made both Hobie and Yuri roll their eyes. Yuri turned towards Hobie, opening her mouth to say something but Hobie interrupted her before she could.

“I'll go, ya both enjoy. If we don't return, we left, ‘ight?” Hobie gave them a curt nod and small goodbyes before he headed your way quickly just in case you were about to do something stupidly stupid and wouldn't be able to take it back.

Hobie strutted through the packed room, hands in pocket, eyes searching for a certain (h/c) headed individual. His height an advantage as he could see over the array of people. His nostrils taking in a whiff of the sweat and alcohol mixed in with the air, dancing bodies bumping against his.

Where did she go? He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes wandered over the room, skimming through the crowd but unable to spot you. You went in the complete wrong direction so you couldn't possibly have made it to the bathroom.

Should he call your name? Probably not, as tempting as it was, you weren't really a lost child.

He caught a glimpse of you – your back turned to him whilst you talked to two other girls. He doesn't remember introducing you to them. Maybe you knew them already? He pushed the thoughts aside, walking over towards you.

He tapped your shoulder, “Y/N-” only to freeze in his stance when he saw ‘you’ turn around.

“Huh?” The amber-eyed woman looked Hobie up and down, her eyes sparkling. “Sorry, can I help you?” She spoke softly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Sorry love, thought you were somebody else.” He explained noticing her smile slip a little.

“Oh.” She murmured melancholy, plastering a fake smile on her face. Hobie nodded and quickly left before she could say anything else.

Something – Someone – suddenly slammed into his side, his hands reaching down and grabbing their waist to steady them.

He looked down, finding your hazy eyes melding with his, “you good?”

“Just a little… light-headed.” You reassured, rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm unable to ignore the uneasiness in the back of your throat but you didn't see why he had to know that.

“You wanna get outta here?” Hobie suggested, watching you narrow your eyes at him before nodding and mumbling something he assumed was a yes.

He moved his hand up wrapping around your shoulder and leading you towards the elevator.

—

Ding.

The Elevator had reached the top, the metal doors sliding out revealing how the dark blue had taken over the sky, multiple glowing specks adorning the sky. What time was it? Where were you two going now? You wondered, your thoughts racing from one to another. At least they hadn't gone completely blank… yet.

Your body moved on its own — with the help of Hobie, of course. Otherwise you'd probably still be tossed around the crowd like a colorful toy among a group of children.

You'd rushed over dipped your head over a plant pot that busied the wall right next to the elevator when you reached it. Gagging and retching, expecting your half-digested lunch and almost 5 beers to make a quick reappearance but it never did.

“You feelin’ better?” The voice snapped you out of your musing.

“Nope,” you answered with a pop of the p. “I think… I think it's probably gotten worse actually.” Your answer was slow, trying to comprehend each syllable you spit out of your mouth.

“Eh, should've known better before dragging ya into a bar and making you chug beer.” He sighed, feeling you lean against him while he continued to steady your movement.

“Probably.”

“Definitely.”

“Did you enjoy at least?” Hobie asked, trying to make some good of the situation.

“Mhm.” You crooned, stumbling over your own foot but never making it to the floor. He twisted the door knob that probably would've broken down if the breeze of air was too fast. “So where do you live?”

“Eh… my apartment.” You answered.

He chuckled at your ominous answer, “and where would your ‘apartment’ be?”

Huh… your apartment? It was on street… Your thoughts went blank. Did you just forget where you fucking live? yes. Yes you did. But if you think hard enough– nope. nothing. Maybe you shouldn't have drank that much.

With how long you were silent for, Hobie realized the problem. “Ya forgot?”

“I forgot.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @the-kr8tor @missshelleyduvall @hobieszeze

Banner(s) by @/cafekitsune

75 notes · View notes

l0ves1ckf0ol · 1 year

Note

hear me out! nevermore has a musical they produce for the spring. they they so happen to do Chicago, the reader is velma kelly and xavier falls in love with the reader while he is helping with set for the show.

CAUGHT IN THE ACT | xavier thorpe

"you're breaking character, xavier. "

also a bit of a disclaimer i only heard abt the summary and i have no time to watch the whole musical but imma just go with my common knowledge i have for this. SO MOSTLY ITSBJUST THEM AND LESS CHICAGO IM SORRY SHSGS

"damn! only got ensemble, what about you y/n?" enid groans, you smirk at her "i got velma kelly." you say a toothy grin growin on your face. wednesday frowned at the conversation, "remind me again, why are you doing this?" she sighs out to you, almost looking disappointed. "i may be the child of the poltergeist and yes i love to hide but y'know i have to try out stuff once in a while." you reply to her, "also it's because of principal weems. she said that i had to do this or else i won't be sleeping in my own dorm, i set one on fire by accident." you add as enid laughed, "you never try out these things, y/n. why the change of heart? also you could've spent beekeeping with me and ottinger rather than be in that horrific display of singing." wednesday wonders curiously, did she see right through you? "just trying things out, wednesday." you breathed out to her, trying to play it cool looking ahead of her to a specific long haired boy who was busy on his sketchbook.

you've never heard of a theatre within the school, but it certainly exists. it's just that it needs cleaning up. you were there for rehearsals, since it was a saturday morning everyone was either in jericho or lazing away in their dorms. principal weems was unsure if you were going to stay put in the school grounds but you stayed behind, truthfully. you suddenly begin to despise being the lead for this musical, the pressure was getting to you and you start to worry if you're going to screw up.

"okay, let's go again, lights-" you announce as you start pacing the stage, "camera- paint?" you notice xavier coming up to the stage with a small bucket of what looked like maroon paint. "sorry for interrupting, please continue." he says politely, walking over to the lousy background of the stage, it had a sickening yellow color to it with loads of crusty paint slipping off the cement. "wouldn't you be at jericho by now?" you ask him as he dipped his wide brush in the paint and started painting from below to above.

"nope, weems asked me this morning to make a good background for the musical, it needs to be barely noticeable because they're using cardboard cutouts as scenes. she said black but for interrupting my coffee hours, i'll go with maroon instead." xavier answered, "could've gone with neon instead to infuriate her more, no?" you offer, wiggling your eyebrows. xavier laughed, "then i'll feel bad." he replies. "you have a soft heart for someone who looks like they ate a piece of lemon." you mentioned to him, he looks at you for the first time he walks in the room with a downturned smile, if that made sense.

"well- don't tell anyone about that. that right there is my biggest secret." he jokes, shaking his head left to right with a scoff. "alright, it'll be our official secret."

- xavier's pov (?) -

xavier never thought of you, or even acknowledged you that much but for some reason, after that conversation at the theatre you were basically unforgettable. he said hi to you in the hallways, everything seemed so monochrome but when you walked in the same room as him? instant color. so whenever he was free, he would do at least something to see you. this had been going on for a good 2 weeks

a week before the final rehearsal, he brought wax because weems tasked him to wax the stage. as he was nearing the door your voice rang clearer and clearer. your beautiful voice. xavier sighs to himself, he was at a loss by now, he tried his best to sneak inside unnoticed but the poltergeist could spot a shadow moving a mile away. so you instantly stopped.

"xavier?"

"oh hey sorry, i came in here to uh... wax the stage." xavier mumbled timidly, finally getting up to his normal height. you frowned, "thought this school was rich enough for maintenance people." you told him, he was trying to find the answers, for a moment he thought you were about to catch him in the act. "or was this only an act of service to suck up to the principal?" he could almost sigh from relief, "um yeah, been failing ms. thornhill's class lately so." xavier lied, he was doing excellently in that subject. a firm "hm." said it all, you probably knew, you just didn't want to spoil the fun. while y/n was singing her lungs off, xavier was sure it had something to do with jazz, he wasn't familiar with the musical. he was pre occupied scrubbing the floors with wax, luckily he wasn't wearing his school uniform since it was after class hours, otherwise those sweet blue slacks were toast. you didn't leave until he finished, you had other plans, xavier was onto you. if you figured him out, xavier was dead to himself and his dignity, i mean he wasn't ashamed with liking you. you were amazing, he just wanted to be sure that he liked you. lies.

"you finished. now, walk me to my dorm will you?" you ask him as you picked up your things from one of the leather seats and went outside as he followed. xavier left the wax at the stage, he remembered to return it tomorrow. as you walked the only sounds both of you could hear were your steps against the cobblestone floor, this only happend for 3 minutes. "so uh-"

"do you like me, xavier?" xavier wanted the ground to swallow him up right now. he stops in his footsteps and you turned from your heel, with a raised eyebrow. testing him. for a moment xavier almost breaks but he endured "do i like you is the question, what do you think?" he said, now you were testing each other. "i think you have had a little crush on me, ever since you painted the maroon background at the theatre. i know the maintenance people here, and i know that weems would never leave out an assignment for them, especially since it's this heck of a theatre that has not been used for a decade." you point out to him, with a devious smirk on your face.

xavier tugged at his jacket and approached one step forward toward you, "we both know you're a lazy poltergeist, l/n. why do you have extra rehearsals every after rehearsal- alone in the theatre?" you scoffed at his accusation, placing a hand on his chest, leaning in slightly, this made xavier's stomach do a flip and made his knees weak. "since we both are onto each other, you and i know the answer." you whispered as you lean back with a teasing side smile, xavier sighs out through his nose, his cheeks could match the theatre background, a sign that he gave up. his slim hands went up to your cheeks, his thumb caressing it. his lips were practically brushing against yours now,

"may i kiss you?"

"you're breaking character, xavier." you smiled, pressing your lips on to his, giving him an answer.

#gn reader #xu's fics #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams netflix #xavier thorpe fanfic #xavier thorpe x gn reader #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe

952 notes · View notes

saintslewis · 9 months

Text

❝ Infrunami ❞ • LN4

pairing: lando norris x black fem! driver reader

summary: in which it’s enemies to lovers at first but lando finds his feelings and quick.

warnings: cursing, arguments, pettiness, descriptions of a crash, typos.

taglist: @thisismeracing @goldsainz @planete777

saint's team radio: this is from a lovely request right here and i do hope it lives up to your expectations! i loved writing this and i hope you enjoy it 💗

a bit of social media.

Bahrain. The first race of the season and most importantly, your first race in McLaren. The sweat at the back of your head was threatening to fall as the sun blasted on everyone who wasn't underneath shade. Walking through the official paddock entrance, you looked through your tinted sunglasses to see many people ranging from media, fans, teams, family and more. As soon as your orange and dark green Nike dunk lows touched the ground, cameras rushed in front of you and random words were thrown at you but you knew you had to focus on one thing and that was to get to the McLaren motor home.

"This is going to happen every time you step foot into a grid entrance around the world and don't take anything they say seriously, especially right now since it's your first race in F1." The voice of your media person, Leah, said in your ear. You held your purse handle more tightly as you continued walking. Fame was destined when you entered this sport but gosh, was it overwhelming with all the fans and criticism about you. However, you knew that you would face this with your teammate by your side.

"What are those big cameras for?" You asked Leah, noticing the enormous cameras in front of you and to the side. "Netflix." She simply said and you decided to smile and wave to both cameras, already establishing the kind of personality you would portray to the media and the rest of the world.

"Y/n!" McLaren's team principal and your new boss, Zak Brown, exclaimed happily as you walked into your team's motor home and the entrance was decorated with welcome signs, flowers and all types of snacks for everyone to enjoy. Your eyes wandered around the room and you greeted the team that was present but you could feel someone sending daggers through your back. You turned around only to see your new teammate, Lando and his face said everything you needed to know that he was clearly unhappy with your arrival. As you made eye contact, he walked out of the room and went upstairs with his arms crossed and the meanest scowl on his face.

"Hey n/n, you've got a few things you need to film with Lando before going on the track with Lissie later on. And fix your face, your dislike for each other is showing." Your best friend and assistant, Renee, looked at you and smiled at the eye roll you sent her. "We don't dislike each other, just don't look at me funny and we're cool." You said as you clutched the handle of your purse once again and made your way upstairs.

"And that's it. Thank you guys!" The producer for McLaren's youtube channel called out to you and Lando. You hated the whole experience because you had to pretend that you could even be in the same room together. Anyone could tell that he was only giving you the cold shoulder and that struck a nerve because you truly wanted to bond and possibly be friends with him but that all ended when he looked into your eyes this morning.

"Hey Lan-" Before you could even finish your sentence, he got up from the swivel chair and walked away once again, making you sigh. Coming up to you was his media personnel, Charlotte with a sorrowful look with her hands fiddling. "I'm so sorry, he's never usually like that. I'll try talk to him." She apologised on his behalf. You could just feel the pitiful looks some of the media staff gave you because obviously the room was still full of people.

"It's cool. Just tell him to get his shit together for the anthem." Your tone had completely changed from hurt to trying to push your anger away. Charlotte clearly noticed the difference too as she dismissed herself from the conversation and went in the direction that Lando went in. Turning around, you faced your assistant with a smile that showed that you wanted to get the fuck out of the room and get on with your other activities.

The crowd was quite loud as you heard them from the garage as they would chant their favourite driver's name. You placed your AirPods in and wiped your nose a little, avoiding your nose piercings. The fireproofs were extremely comfortable as you walked to where the rest of the drivers were getting ready to be welcomed to Bahrain with their national anthem. Standing in between Lando and Charles, anyone could tell that you would much rather interact with him than your teammate and you knew shit like this would get you in trouble but until the unnecessary attitude leaves, you would continue giving him the same energy.

"It's light out and away we go!"

"Y/n L/n has created history as the first female formula 1 driver to have a podium in her first race in McLaren, congratulations!"

Australia

"You've been on a roll, Y/n. Teach me your ways!" Daniel exclaimed as you, Alex, Charles and him had huddled in front of the McLaren motor home. It was pretty hot out as you all wore sunglasses to shield the suns rays from your eyes. "I know this'll sound bad but I just think about whatever's waiting for me after the race while thinking of hype songs while driving." You shrugged your shoulders after what you said.

"Essentially like you're in a movie?" Charles chuckled. "That exactly what it is, Charlie." You smiled and carried on the conversation with more jokes. From wherever you are, you could always feel someone staring at you. Looking up, you saw Lando standing by the large window looking down at your little group, feeling his breathing becoming quicker the longer he stared. The two of you had kept the little staring contest on until someone had startled him.

"Mate, I've been calling your name for at least two minutes now." Oscar's voice eventually reaching his ears after a moment. "First, she's basically the favourite after Bahrain and Saudi now my boys ditched me to hang out with her? What the fuck?" Lando immediately complained as he let go of the railing to face the McLaren reserve driver who looked at him with complete disbelief. "You don't like Y/n?" Oscar questioned while taking a bite of the cookie in his hand.

"Well isn't it obvious, mate? It's this weird look she gives me every time and the cold shoulder and- where did you get that cookie from?" Lando began but cut off his own rant to look at the mouth watering sugar cookie in his friends hand. "You won't like the answer." Oscar said, taking another bite, careful to not spill any crumbs on the ground.

He groaned out loud when he eventually realised that you made the cookies and clearly everyone received them besides him as he saw most of the drivers eating them throughout the afternoon. "I'll see you later, mate." He said, patting Oscar on the shoulder before making his way to his driver room, avoiding any signs of Charlotte yelling to go change. As he stepped in, he smelled a sweet scent and turned around to see a paper towel with two McLaren themed sugar cookies on it with a note next to them. His heart softened as he went closer to the cookies. He picked up the note and quickly placed it down with a bit of a smile on his face.

You're still a bitch but I make great cookies so eat them. hope you fall on your ass,

y/n.

yourusername

yourusername: lil backstory for y’all 🤭 1: it’s just me looking cute as always. 2: meet Bella and offset, random seating arrangement or was it? 🤨 3: LEWIS TOOK ME TO GO SEE QUEEN BEY AND TAYLOR OMGGGGGGG 4: mood 5: the bracelets for everyone 😚 6: Charles was taking a picture of my outfit 🧍🏽‍♀️

tagged: bellahadid, offsetryn, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc

view comments

user i literally love you

taylorswift13 it was amazing meeting you! 🩷🩷

yourusername you too! (screaming, crying, throwing up rn)

bellahadid madam President 🫡

yourusername leave the motorcade story ALONE anyways, sleepover?

lilymhe still don’t wanna talk to you but you’re gorgeous or wtv 🙄

yourusername i’m sorry i threw the club so far away ☹️

lewishamilton we still have paris fashion week

yourusername superstar shit or something 🤭

user aren’t y’all supposed to be driving all the time???

yourusername we are, we just need to be rockstars rn

user THE BRACELETSSSSSSSSS

user she’s a swiftie??? i love her even more 🥹

user why isn’t she interacting with Lando tho??

user that’s none of our business

Miami

A not so pleasant qualifying for either of you even though you placed P2 while he placed P15. He was your worst enemy throughout the session as you would fight through all the corners and curves. As much as you brought the drama to the race, you were livid.

You couldn't even pretend to enjoy such a historic achievement because you were walking awfully fast to the McLaren garage, ignoring the voices of the officials and your team as you couldn't spot him in the garage so you walked to the upstairs section where your drivers rooms were. Finding him and his friend, Max Fewtrell, leaning on a counter drinking water, unaware that the session had ended. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Norris?" You said as you entered the room, not even worried about the camera crew following you. Max being a good friend to Lando and acquaintance to you, he forced everyone out of the room to not escalate the situation further.

"What's wrong with me?! Do you not know how to drive?" He asked, pointing at himself and controlling his voice to avoid his voice cracking. Sighing out, you had to choose your words carefully. "I'm quite good at driving. look at the previous races. You don't fucking drive that tractor like it's a construction site." You spoke, not breaking eye contact with the boy.

"Bullshit! Your driving put me in P15! You could've crashed me into the wall." He began raising his voice a little but that was to piss you off even more. "Lower your tone, Norris. You know goddamn well that the wall was far away and you didn't want to move when you were asked to. What is your issue?" You scowled. The longer you spent in the room with him, the worse your insults were going to get.

"What's my issue? What's my issue, y/n?!" Lando began chuckling as he asked his questions, his face turning the slightest of red. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "I don't have the time for your shit. Do your job better tomorrow." You said with such venom in your words and turned to walk out of the room, seeing cameramen pressed against the door to any bit of your argument for content. Walking through the small group of them, you made your way to your drivers room to cool down.

Monaco

Thursday, Media Day

The conference room wasn't as warm as it was outside. The oversized McLaren themed football jersey was incredibly comfortable and your lv trainers perfectly matched the chilled look you had going on. Sitting as comfortably as you could on the white couch, your teammate next to you was fidgeting around and was avoiding any type of communication with you.

In your head, you cursed him for looking so handsome with his facial hair that he has been trying to grow for some time now. The all white outfit was something you did not expect from him but gosh, did you love it. What derailed you from having a wandering eye on Lando was the argument you two shared nearly three weeks before Monaco. That would immediately change your mind on how you thought of him.

Lando, on the other hand, had to force himself to not stare at you. You were practically glowing next to him, your jewels shining brightly and your perfume scent was enough for him to think of you everytime something sweet lingered around. He would never admit it to himself that he took a liking to you but the more he complained to his friends, the more they were convinced he liked you.

"Hi, I'm Madison from FemmeFormula. This is more of a personal question for you, Y/n. The friendship bracelets have been doing the rounds on the socials by the way, thank you for my one. What really inspired you to make them?" She asked, visibly happy to ask you since the interaction you shared this morning from the morning.

"Hi Madison! Uh, recently went to The Eras Tour and then a few swifties gave me bracelets and I wanted to make my own to give my fellow drivers." You answered with a smile on your face, lifting your wrist to look at the custom bracelet you made yourself.

"And where's yours Lando? Surely it got lost in the mail." You smirked, knowing you were slowly getting on his nerves because the smile seemed innocent to the journalists but he exactly what you meant.

"I'd like to hope it's even in the mail." He have a fake smile, earning a few laughs and trying to not show any other emotion than whatever it is he has going on.

Another journalist stood up and introduced himself to you two. "Harrison here from ESPN. This one is for Y/n again. Would you consider yourself the number 1 driver for McLaren and would you ever let Lando through since you're bringing home the wins? He hasn't been as consistent as-"

"Okay Harrison, I'll stop you there," You sat upright for this one. "Lando has been here longer than I have and I absolutely respect him for being such an amazing driver. Yes, our team relationship hasn't looked the best the past couple of weeks but that's sportsmanship. Now, if you'll all excuse us, we have a Grand Prix to tend to." You finished, placing the mic on the couch and stood up, fixing your shorts and extended your hand to Lando with him immediately taking it.

Hand in hand, you walked out of the conference room with cameramen and journalists hot on your toes until you made it to the secret entrance of the McLaren motor home.

"Um-"

"That was called sportsmanship, Norris. See you on track." You spat out, letting go of his large hand and walking to your drivers room, leaving the British boy stunned.

Spain

The orange romper was the perfect fit for the hot Spanish weather and you knew you looked good, showing off your glittering skin with the matching bucket hat. The sounds of Rosalia's 'Motomami' blasted through your AirPods as you waved at the crowds during the driver's parade and the gap between you and Lando was very noticeable but you couldn't care because you were there to win and spoil yourself afterwards.

"If you could stop pacing around, then you would stop our nerves too." Renee said, playing with a pen watching you become anxious all over again. The feeling in the pit of your stomach has been weird from the moment you woke up. Your stomach felt like it had been tied with a rope and the deep breaths practice weren't really helping at the moment.

"I mean think of it like this; nothing bad has happened since you woke up. It has been, dare i say, a perfect day. Whatever it is will pass quickly and you could be battling Max for the Championship." She smiled, trying her best to lighten your spirits but something was off and you couldn't put your finger on it.

"Not too much on the championship talk, that's gonna upset some people." You joked, eventually stopping in the middle of the room and adjusted your fireproofs one last time before heading out to the track.

Your sunglasses perched perfectly on your nose, the gum you were chewing still had all its flavour, your wig was layed so good that anyone could say 'lace where?', the setting spray on you working wonders because it didn't smudge the last race and your lipgloss was poppin. Physically, you looked like you had the whole world in the palm of your hand with your charm and confidence guiding you but gosh, you felt like you could cry any moment now.

Feeling a large hand on your shoulder, you saw the tattoos and immediately recognised the hand to be Lewis'. You two looked like partners in crime with the matching sunglasses and the same confident walk you both had as you walked towards your garages. "The teammate thing you two have will go away soon, y'know? If it doesn't, you always have a place in Mercedes." Lewis smiled wide with his last sentence, walking a little faster to his side of the garage.

You hoped it would go away soon but if the attitude is still there, then so be it.

"Mate, you have to talk to her at some point. I'm getting tired of leading your fan club." Daniel complained as he stood next to Lando, a few minutes before the start of the race. Lando snapped his head at Daniel. "I can't. Everytime we interact, we always fight." He rolled his eyes at the thought of it. He truly wanted it to end but if you wanted to continue it, then so be it.

"And who's fault was that? You didn't welcome her in properly, you didn't even show up for her welcome dinner. Most of the grid have done really cool stuff with her because they welcomed her in. She would come to me and say how much she wants to be anything with you at this point but just not fighting." Daniel expressed, looking around to make sure no one was hearing the conversation.

"Oh god, imagine how she feels..." Lando trailed off once he started thinking about most of your interactions. "How do I fix this?" He asked Daniel who truly wanted to laugh at his friend's desperation to make things right with you.

"You have to go race soon. But just know, she likes kpop, Beyoncé, the beach, Taylor Swift and Lewis Hamilton but I think the world knows that one. Have fun, mate!" Daniel began walking away with a smile and a wave to Lando who was stressing his life away.

Turn 15

It was staring at you as you inched closer and closer to it but you knew you couldn't make it past it even you tried. The car hadn't been your best friend today and it made sure to show the world that your winning streak was about to be broken.

Fighting off Perez and Sainz was incredibly hard and caused such damage to your tyres and brakes everytime you would oversteer. Carlos had eventually fallen behind you and Checo and you swore he had something out for you today. Approaching the turn, you felt your body turn cold when you felt Checo's rear end collided with your side and that sent you flying into the wall with a very hard impact, one that could make you pass out for a few minutes.

You kept your hands onto the steering wheel, shuffling your feet together to make sure that they were still moving and you moved your neck a little, immediately feeling a pain on the right side. "Are you okay? Y/n, please answer!" Your radio engineer stressed out, the silence falling upon the McLaren garage when you didn't answer immediately.

Your eyes were fighting to close, to just relax your body and wait for whatever help that was coming. You obviously had no idea how bad the crash was, how the crowd was silent whilst filming the scene, how much Lando was panicking once he heard.

The safety car was deployed once the yellow flag had been waved and both McLaren's were both on the side of the road with one driver makes his way to see the other, hoping to be given a chance to fix it. The paramedics were already attempting to remove you from the car, your body slumped a little but you did move your head, giving the world a sign that were okay.

He rushed to your side to hold your helmet as they took it off your head, your makeup truly not smudging. The paramedics had let you sit in the ambulance whilst they had gotten ready to take you to the track clinic. Looking up, you see him look at you with such concern.

"Is the safety car out? Cause it'll help Hamilton-"

"Y/n." He deadpanned.

"I'm okay, Norris. Go finish the race for me and you both. Don't make the both of us out of the race." You weakly smiled, feeling the pain on your side hit you as you moved a little. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. For everything. I want to make things right with you after this." Lando's eyes said everything you had been wanting ever since this weird situation began.

You leaned in to hug him and he was surprised, returning the hug with much more energy than you expected. You lifted your race sleeve to show two bracelets and you slipped one onto his wrist, watching him look at hit with curiosity. "I kept yours with me." You winked at the flabbergasted man who's cheeks were slowly turning red.

"Now seriously, go finish the race." You shooed him out of the ambulance and watched your new companion run to his car immediately get back into the race with one thing on his mind and that was you.

yourusername

yourusername: LIFE UPDATEEEEEEE ‼️ 1-3: LANDO TOOK ME TO GO SEE BEYONCÉ AGAIN AND SHE WAVED AT ME AND SAID MY NAME AND I LOOKED GOOD AHH.

4-6: LANDO ONCE AGAIN TOOK ME TO SEE SEVENTEEN AND TWICE OMG I LOVE THIS MAN PLS

5: just me looking cute as always 🫦

6: my sister made this hat for me 🥹

7: look at this cutie patootie (but extremely sassy!)

tagged: landonorris

view comments

landonorris practicing choreo was HELL but I loved it

user where did you find this one?????

yourusername f1 🧍🏽‍♀️

sza the first outfit my GOD

yourusername 🤭

beyonce so glad to see you again 🩷

yourusername it was lovely seeing you

landonorris she’s actually running around screaming

yourusername you can’t say this about me on Beyoncé’s internet

mclarenf1 the papaya fit 😋

yourusername can’t leave my duties as the papaya princess 😣

user ik this is late but the fact she can easily beat max is so impressive to me and i love it

yourusername it’s my favourite thing ever

maxverstappen1 yeah yeah 🙄

user OOMF THEY BOTH REPLIED TO YOUBEISNEISJS

Fin.

#formula one x black reader #x black fem reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #x black reader #f1 imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x black reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #fanfic #☆ ‧₊˚ saint’s media pen #saintwrites #Spotify

242 notes · View notes

thecoddaughter · 2 months

Text

Rat Grinders Facts and the Implication of Those Facts:

They were the High Five Heroes. They have hated the Bad Kids since Freshman year. They had at some point rebranded (unsure if that was before or after Lucy died). They are not popular. They are boring power grinders.

Since Lucy died, they have: produced a rock star who fakes half his fame ("Sorry im getting mobbed for autographs"), a Sol televangelist's grandson, a great-great-great grandson of an ancient blue dragon, a secret bloodrush star, and the chick who found the rouge teacher/is running for president.

THEY ARE TRY HARDS. AND COPY CATS!

Before even junior year, The Bad Kids are stacked outside of just their adventuring feats...

Fig: the archdevil of rebellion, lead of Fig & the Cig Figs, daughter of the Blood Rush coach, daughter of the vice principal Fabian: captain of the blood rush team, son of infamous pirate Kristen: fallen chosen of Helio, lives with the school counselor, quirky Adiane: the elven oracle, adopted daughter of the school counselor, very well connected sister Gorgug: drummer of Fig & the Cig Figs, dated Zelda (one of the Seven), blood rush team Riz: that strangely connected kid, friend of the the Seven (through Penny), quirky

#fhjy #fantasy high #the bad kids #the rat grinders #fantasy high spoilers?#fantasy high junior year #dimension 20 #d20

63 notes · View notes

colsonlin · 2 years

Text

“Cape Cod”: a good old-fashioned short story (a 45-minute read)

“Cape Cod” is an analysis of our society’s tendency to produce narcissism, sociopathy, and casual dehumanization. It felt so good to get all of this off my chest! —Nina

A lot of how we talk about middle school in America is something I take issue with—like, for instance, that it’s somehow not the most formative experience of our lives. (It is.) A lot of people say “college,” but I had already cycled into an idea of who I was going to be as an adult by then—an A student, a talker, a birdwatcher, a take-no-prisoners observer of human social life. I studied sociology at the University of Maryland. At my retail job now—I work at a Nordstrom in Connecticut—I interact with a dying breed: old rich white women who still buy their cashmeres at the mall. At my old retail job in Farmington I was a cashier. At Nordstrom I’m more of a saleswoman—I don’t hand my customers their purchases after I’m done folding their clothes into the bag, I walk around the counter to deliver their parcels to them personally. I work six nights a week until the mall closes at 11 and on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays I drive to my second job at a call center in Southington. I earn enough money to pay for my Hyundai and an apartment above the laundromat, have coffee on the weekends, keep up with my student loans, and map out what the next step will be.

College feels like a million years ago.

Middle school still feels like yesterday.

“Brenda” (not her real name), my supervisor at my old department store in Farmington, was the portrait of managerial incompetence. She was fat and unmarried and all of the associates who weren’t actively helping a customer used to crowd into the stock room whenever she came out of her office, usually to berate one of us for misplacing a store key. We all know a Brenda from middle school. Everything you say is wrong, and everything she says can’t be improved upon. Three of us quit within the first ten months of Brenda’s arrival, and at least one of us later wrote an anonymous email to the district manager about her obvious drinking problem.

My old department store—I don’t want to get into any trouble here so let’s just call them “Not-Quite Sephora”—was in a strip mall. I never knew who to feel more sorry for during the day, myself or the customers who came in. I once explained to my boyfriend that we were kind of like Wal-Mart’s “more youthful older sister”—a high school varsity cheerleader perhaps, but still stuck in the past all the same.

There were ten of us on the first floor—the second floor, “Men’s,” might as well have been a different planet entirely. Brenda acted like she was better than all of us, because she has a master’s degree in “Global Business Administration,” whatever the fuck that was. Brenda didn’t seem to understand that all her master’s degree did was make her look both underqualified and overqualified for her job at the same time. (Her main role, from what I could tell, was assigning holiday bonuses and amplifying customer complaints.)

Not-Quite Sephora has a dying business model, but we were kept artificially alive by a steady stream of suburban glum as the principal anchor of a once-iconic strip mall. The first floor was perpetually understaffed—our Google reviews under Brenda’s mismanagement decayed from 4.2 to 2.8 stars (and this coming from a woman who tends to take “American public opinion” with a grain of salt). The turnover rate among everyone except me, Ashley, and Gabby seemed to be such that a new Chris, Brian, or Andy was being fired every three months. Good riddance, I always thought.

Men don’t understand how to take orders from a woman, and the ones who say they do are liars from the black lagoon.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Brenda’s most direct feature was that you couldn’t get a direct answer out of her, ever—it was either caustic sarcasm or happy-peppy self-deprecation. Everything she said was either designed to suppress or to charm. She was intelligent, which was the problem—quick-witted even—she prized competence, prided herself on being everything everywhere all at once (with self-pity), once complained to me in the break room that she was an ex-spelling-bee champion. Appearance-wise, what once made me jolt awake at night was that she tries, she actually tries. Not doing anything to set Brenda off had become something of an obsession of mine by her third month there. I applied to other jobs, but only in non-retail.

Trying to go non-retail—my life in a nutshell.

Brenda took over at a precarious time. Inflation was rising. Covid was either over or about to be over, but either way, brick-and-mortar seemed to be one of its death tolls. Brenda had mousy blond hair, wore black trousers to work, and used to tramp around the store carrying an inventory clipboard whenever she was upset about something. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to take fashion-merchandising so seriously. Her first day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda compared our fitting rooms favorably to the fitting rooms at her old Kohl’s in Florida, now shuttered (“So coming back up here was kind of like coming home for me, y’know?”). Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey and you can tell.

You can guess what her politics are.

I think what appealed to me most about the Cape Cod trip, if I were to be honest, was the right to tell Brenda that I’d have to take a few days off in mid-September because my boyfriend had invited me on a trip to “the Cape.”

Here was a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had located the profundity of her self-esteem in “competence”—and yet it never finally occurred to her that the only way to be “competent” in your everyday life is to command the trust of those around you. Trust is earned, Brenda, and it’s lost with unreliability. I could never really trust that woman not to not trap me inside a rule without being able to explain to me the reasons—not to not be imperious and self-certain and in self-protection mode at all times—and not to not explode all of her emotional wreckage on me, drenching me in the black mist of her self-absorption. Brenda was always right. Brenda is never to be questioned. (Brenda’s real name is “Karen,” which is why I didn’t want to say it at the time.)

It felt so good to able to tell Brenda that—all of her anxieties about the back-to-school rush aside—I’m going to have to take three days off in mid-September because my boyfriend has invited me on a trip with his three friends to the Cape. (I met my boyfriend a year ago on Opal.) It pained me to be so petty—no, not the reference to Cape Cod, which was just a kiss on the lips, but the reference to having a boyfriend, which was my primary poison. I wore more eyeliner to work, not less, the longer the weeks went by trying to circumnavigate Brenda’s imperialism. I enjoyed looking like a magazine cover while supplicating to her at the makeup counter.

We worked at a department store.

(“—so that’s my life, okay?”)

I could see it already. I love how Brenda, with her master’s degree in Global Business Studies or whatever the fuck she majored in, has to flinch every time who I really was blinked in front of her. I bet you flinched every time you saw me shrug into your office, Brenda, no matter what you called me into your office for, because I know about the Us Weeklies you stole from the front stands—I told Accounting about them!—I know how responsive you are to young women with movie-star looks who had won the genetic lottery. I smile at you, Brenda, precisely because I know how my angelic dimples make you feel. It makes you feel like you want to protect me.

It makes you feel you need to defend your true queen.

Beauty was my one and only power over Brenda, but I can assure you I only used it sparingly (all it took was sparingly with a woman so obsessed with appearances). We don’t talk about being pretty enough, which is another way of saying we don’t talk about seeing only the appearances enough. Seeing only the appearances was how I, prior to this weekend, once saw Cape Cod. What do you know about Cape Cod anyway? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mentally google it? I want to leave you now with an image of seagulls.

I matched with my boyfriend last September on Opal.

Now I know what you might be thinking—this whole story basically amounts to one long humblebrag about how I have an account on Opal, lol. No. First of all, I deleted that account six months ago. My boyfriend and I both did, on the same day—that was how we agreed to be serious.

Opal’s cornered the market on young attractive people who like to paraglide to remote destinations—the one and only trick it has up its sleeves is “exclusivity,” which in America is a royal flush. I’ll tell you real quick how I landed an account on Opal. A hedge-fund apparatchik I had gone on two dates with wrote me a recommendation letter after I told him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us, but did he still want to be friends? (And what do friends do?) It was his fault. He was the one who’d bragged to me about having an account on Opal in the first place. He even helped me pick out my profile pictures.

I left the Alma Mater field blank.

Opal’s about what you’d expect—videos of narcissist after narcissist who summer in Thailand. I swiped past all of the alpha males, which took days. Men who were earnest or men who were silly were the only men I could take seriously.

My boyfriend’s in that five percent of men just below the top ten percent that most women don’t know to circle the ocean for. You know the type. He’d be unstoppable if just one or two more things had gone right for him, but as it were, the wrong job, the wrong company, the wrong alma mater, had kept a handsome face trapped beneath a monthly gym membership. You’ll recognize these five-percenters from their personality—pure souls who’d lucked out facially, two sevens on the slot machine, but whose unambiguous victory had been stunted by some existential lemon. Some of them have eating disorders. Some google “male plastic surgery” in the dead of night. In my boyfriend’s case, he’s pansexual. Open-minded women have rejected him, which gives him a chip on his shoulder, and now he thinks he understands what it’s like being a minority. My boyfriend’s the type to care a lot about social issues. I’m not sure he even knows we’re interracial.

His parents have a house in Cape Cod.

His dad’s a federal judge and his mom’s an immigration attorney. Until we met and he started showing me pictures on his phone of his childhood vacation home, I had never really thought a lot about Cape Cod. I only knew it as the brand of a potato chip one step up the class ladder from Lay’s, and as a cultural metonym for white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, and the Kennedys. Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey, but I’m sure she must have learned at her master’s program what Cape Cod was.

Cape Cod was where she wanted to be.

And as it so happens, Brenda?

Cape Cod is me.

I wanted so desperately to tell her but I couldn’t.

I wanted so badly to inform Brenda that I had more important things to worry about than making sure the lipsticks were alphabetized, or that the powders were arranged in alternating shades of rouge and beige: namely, that a splitting image of one of the stars you read about in Us Weekly had a life to live, and she was going to enjoy the fruits of her beauty—fruits that Brenda could only live vicariously through (I tallied six missing issues of Us Weekly over the course of a year; no other magazine had gone unaccounted for during the same period except for a single issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which I found one night crumpled on top of Brenda’s desk).

The way Brenda’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Mackenzie Davis—I just needed Brenda to recognize my own beauty in the same way! It flipped around, you see, like a head trip—sometimes Brenda bowed to her true queen, and sometimes she said mean things to me. I wasn’t thought of as “intelligent” by Brenda, and I could never tell if it was because of my race or my beauty—the two possibilities flickered around in my head like a dueling candlelight until one night I decided, “It’s both,” and just let it die.

Resentment was brewing between me and Brenda.

Ever since I realized I would have to lie to her about my Cape Cod trip, because September would be the back-to-school rush, and there was no way Brenda was okaying me those vacation days. At Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda’s first rule was: “Just be honest. I want to know everything.”

But do you, Brenda?

Do you want to know how I plan to get out of work during the back-to-school rush, because I’ll be with my boyfriend and his three Yale Law classmates traipsing across Cape Cod? Do you really want to read about a beautiful woman’s life in Us Weekly? (Just steal my diary.) I’ll call in sick. I’ll lie and cough right to your face over the phone, Brenda, and I’m telling you it’s corona. I don’t have to be honest with you about anything because you rule by fear, not trust, and in a world of fear without trust anything goes.

Fear without trust is the animal kingdom.

And Not-Quite Sephora is the animal world.

The night before my last day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda humiliated Ashley in the stock room. (Ashley had made the mistake of asking her for paid time off for a wedding in December.) I didn’t overhear it, but I heard about it, which was enough. I have always had a way with words, and I gave Brenda some direct evidence of it by way of a resignation letter I wrote to the district manager—only it wasn’t really a resignation letter, it was more like a record of how Karen McHiggins was a terrible supervisor, sent to Corporate and cc-ed to the entire floor. (What mattered wasn’t that I had cc-ed the entire floor, but that the next morning, every single person on the floor congratulated me.) The group chat I’m in with Ashley and Gabby pops off more than ever now ever since I quit, only I didn’t mean to quit.

I only wanted to take a truthful temperature.

Brenda showed all of her cards when I showed up to my shift the next day. “Nina? My office. Now.”

I made eye contact with Ashley, who was already in her uniform, and we both smiled.

She kind of gave me an eye hug.

I wore nude lipstick that day.

The email I had sent Corporate was subject-lined “Management’s Mismanagement,” and it listed six bullet points about Brenda’s bad behavior (one involved throwing a purse at a mannequin; the last five were instances of emotional abuse). It ended with a paragraph about Brenda’s encounter with Ashley in the stock room (Brenda had called Ashley “unlikable,” “self-absorbed,” “a fucking dipshit”).

I laid out the case like the lawyer I couldn’t afford to be (I had other interests, hobbies, and pursuits in middle school, like not killing myself). Brenda was probably shocked I could write. She was probably shocked I could read, but I wield words as weapons—that’s the only thing you ever have to know about me. (In third grade, I won the spelling bee too.)

How did I dress for work the day after I wrote “Management’s Mismanagement” (and really I should say the morning after, because I sent the email at 4 a.m. and had to wake up three hours to let an exterminator in)?

I looked like a star.

I had even spent the last six months of my life casually coaxing Brenda toward the mixed-race celebrities I wanted her to subliminally see me as. Cape Cod would smile. I’d fit in well there, because in my late forties or early fifties I’d have the sort of personality that everybody at Beach Road would know to be impressed by—I could lift my life up to heights that the bourgeois rabble couldn’t even see. Not a single one of my applications to a white-collar job had ended in a palatable offer. Not-Quite Sephora, founded in Vermont, has a labor-friendly CEO. My benefits were good—I even had vision and dental. “One way or another, I’m bringing up my Cape Cod trip,” was the last clear thought I had before knocking on Brenda’s door.

“Come in,” a harsh voice gruffed.

I opened the door.

“Close that please,” was the first thing I heard Brenda say before she and I even made eye contact.

I closed the door dutifully.

Karen McHiggins was standing next to her desk in red pants and a black blazer. She had tied her hair into pigtails that day for some reason, although her hair was so short that they ended up looking more like ringlets, and her eyes behind her glasses were blue and pixel-like. Brenda made a quick gesture at the floor with her hands, almost like she was trying to say “Enough!”, and then said: “What is going on, Nina—what is going on, because I do not understand you.”

Her voice was hoarse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her red pants—but your blazer is black?—so I just said, “I—” while panning my gaze to her desk, waiting for her to continue.

Brenda’s desk was a mess.

Just like her thought processes.

“If you have ever had a problem with me, you could have come to me directly. What have I always told you, Nina—” Brenda was now screaming.

Brenda thinks screaming has an effect on me.

She’s right—loud noises do have an effect on me. Elevated decibels have an effect on every animal that evolves through nature. How much do I hate Brenda right now? My eyes are staring into hers—but I don’t see a human.

I see an animal.

The power of volume is that it throbs the ear—and ears desire music. Ears desire harmony. Wild animals make me forget poetry as I bolt into the jungle—how much do I hate the woman screaming into my ears right now? Well, there’s a simple formula for that, and all of us are making it, even if we don’t know that we’re making it. We take how much anxiety we experience from being around a person, and then we multiply it by a factor.

My factor is 1 when that person is equal to me.

My factor is a fraction of 1 when that person is homeless.

My factor is greater than 1 when that person is greater than me.

And for Brenda my factor was 42,137—that’s 1 for every dollar that the winds of Brenda’s turbulence lorded over me, granting me vision and dental.

The ensuing number is a hatred.

How much anxiety was Brenda creating in me? Well, for starters—how much did I distrust Brenda? (And how much did I secretly want Brenda to like me?) All the eyeliner I wore to work every day—it wasn’t for mall patrol, it wasn’t for Ashley, and Lord knows it wasn’t for Gabby.

It was for me.

But maybe a little bit of it was for Brenda.

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now?

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now? Well, let’s see—I submitted 42 job applications, all non-retail. Interviewed at 11. Final-rounded at 7. Received an offer at two—both in New York, which I couldn’t afford. A young white boy at a social media marketing firm told me during the interview that I was “obviously brilliant” before offering me an internship. By July, Brenda towered over me like a god. I fell asleep at night fantasizing about her supervillain origin story. Brenda complained so much about Americans who weren’t vaccinated that I once asked her if she was a childhood polio survivor. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” Brenda laughed, and I laughed too. “Oh, I was just curious.”“How many times have I told you, Nina…”

My expenses have been going up, thanks to my new boyfriend. (As a matter of fact, I am the type of girl to go Dutch!) Taking over Brenda’s position would mean a four-percent raise. To my surprise, Brenda took off her glasses, put them on top of a crinkled magazine on her desk, and started crying. Like, actually crying.

Two actual teardrops leaked out of her eyes.

Self-pity makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable when the powerless do it, because now I have to do something, and it makes me uncomfortable when the powerful do it, because now I have to eat them. When somebody more powerful than me expresses self-pity, I can’t help it: I want to guillotine them. I want to take away their right to exist, but I want to watch them suffer first. If I were God, I’d invent Hell just for Brenda. It satisfied me that Brenda would most likely die without children or a partner. I want all capitalists in the First World to die without children or a partner, but to have afterlives that go on forever.

It still doesn’t seem enough though.

Brenda’s office has a desk, no windows, and a door that leads to the loading dock. A poster on the wall behind her desk, and I was just noticing this about her office now for the first time, was of a lighthouse in Cape Cod. “—the back-to-school rush—” Brenda was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

The ceiling light was fluorescent, and the walls were built of the same beige bricks that made up my elementary school. I once applied to a master’s program in sociology at Johns Hopkins University.

I got in, too.

I hate it here in America—doesn’t anybody else? Is this really that much better than the Soviet Union?

Sympathy for Brenda?

Brenda who lorded over my vision and dental like a bureaucratic algorithm—my boss Brenda?

I did good work.

I was Brenda’s star employee! (I left that part out because I’m not the bragging type.) The only work I couldn’t charge for was the work I didn’t want to do—navigating around the runes and mysteries of Brenda’s uncharted sensitivities like Leif Erikson. The truth was, I hated Brenda for not being able to see me as a beautiful woman just because I wasn’t a beautiful white woman like the pin-up girls she’d gone to school with in New Jersey. Brenda bleeds white guilt, but she rarely ever let me massage any of it toward my favor, except superficially (and you can guess by now how I feel about superficiality). Brenda’s insincerity dehumanized her to me. We humanize each other first as leaps of faith, and then through trust—and nothing about Brenda’s way of existing suggested she could be trusted by me. Not her white guilt. Not her New Jersey liberalism.

Not even her tears.

In fact the longer Brenda cried, the more intensely I wanted to punish her—the phrase “white bitch tears” comes to mind. I wondered if Brenda sincerely didn’t understand that if I could push a button to keep her trapped inside a hole for the rest of her life, I would, and her tears only made me want to push harder. Still, it gave me a start to see—this woman who could take away my ability to not go into debt like checking “Buy Now” on Amazon—reduced before me into a person now trying to trick me into believing she has a soul.

Don’t the workers of the world understand?

Powerful people don’t have souls.

Brenda having a soul would have meant taking my ideas about the BOPUS orders seriously, and not dismissing them out of hand because how could any good ideas come from Nina, the pretty one, if Brenda’s even not-racist enough to see me as pretty (BOPUS is industry slang for “buy online, pick up in store,” and it’s basically brought Not-Quite Sephora to its knees—that and Brenda’s mismanagement). I could divide my hatred of Brenda by a factor to account for the fact that she was fat and unmarried—but whose fault was that, Krispy Kreme? Do you think I actually like exercising?

Are you ready for some real talk now?

I can tell you about the runner’s high until I’m blue in the face, but I’m not built inside like a runner—I’m built inside like a girl who understands that nothing tastes as good as being pretty feels. I don’t know how American society decayed to this point—my Ph.D. dissertation in sociology at Johns Hopkins would have been about the link between an artificial society and the importance placed on appearances, but I couldn’t afford to go, I had actual work to do in middle school (like not killing myself) so I never bothered thinking very long and hard about anything. “Quitting would mean losing my gym membership,” I suddenly remembered.

A new recognition suddenly dawned over me—no gym membership would mean no Cape Cod. It takes a couple hundred months and a couple thousands steps to get there, but trust me, I’ve worked out the odds.

(I make my brain work for me.)

I looked at the lighthouse poster behind Brenda’s desk and said: “Brenda, it’s just—how you treated Ashley last night in the stock room…”

“You weren’t even there!” was what a clear-headed Brenda would’ve said, but Brenda the Tender said nothing.

“I heard about it from Gabby,” I continued. “You know, we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I know, I know,” Brenda whispered.

“You don’t know how to create a functional work environment sometimes. Groups are held together by trust, not fear.”

I wasn’t quitting.

I was saving everyone at Not-Quite Sephora from Brenda’s bad temper. Brenda’s boss Charles would understand—he’d say, Nina made some good points in this email, but it sounds like you guys have everything worked out, so get back to work—and everyone would move on.

Only Brenda would now be moving into the light.

She would see how her anxieties about Not-Quite Sephora’s declining sales figures were spilling into her paranoias about job security (“And what will I do with all of my competence now that I can’t find a job because I’m old, fat, and ugly?”) and have been spilling into us as sarcasm and curt dismissals ever since her second day on the job. (Her first day was lovely—I was obsessed with Brenda! I even nicknamed her “cool Mom” to Gabby and Ashley.)

How Brenda appeared to me that first day was how Cape Cod once appeared to me too, before this weekend—white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, the Kennedys.

Cape Cod had told me a story—and so had Brenda when she first took over Kristi’s post at Not-Quite Sephora (Kristi got pregnant and never came back). Cape Cod’s story was Yale Law, benevolence, intellectualism. Brenda’s story was that she was loud and earthy and understood how to make an entrance—if she’d been honest, she would’ve just said: “I can use my power to make you feel however I want you to feel about yourself. I’m an emotional abuser.”

But the story I heard, because I’m a gullible sweetheart, was “Fun Mom.”

I laughed along amiably to “stressed-out Mom,” bopped along bewilderedly to “not everything is functional upstairs Mom,” and—how do I put this?

I didn’t like the mother who had a master’s degree.

Self-protection was Brenda’s middle name, and nothing I said using the tools of reason or logic could penetrate the fortress of Brenda’s first impressions—that’s the definition of “closed-minded,” by the way (Brenda has a lot to say about closed-minded people—that’s the crazy part).

How we look is the first story we tell each other about who we are. It’s our audiovisual accompaniment to the words that make up the second half of our story—the “spoken half”—and everyone understands that this isn’t fair, everyone understands and then does nothing. Brenda isn’t the only person who learned how to survive in America by going to an American middle school. She’s only lost her temper at me a couple of times, but I’ve been tracking all of them.

I’ve been watching you like a falcon, Brenda.

I’ve been watching you like a true A student.

True A students are out of favor in America for a reason. We’re only mortal, but we’re a little bit supermortal too. Because what I really didn’t like about Brenda was her insincerity—“When have I ever said no to you, Nina?” Brenda was now drying her eyes with a tissue and screaming.

It was a change in the air—a subtle bit of misdirection that she probably thought I was too stupid to catch (I’m not).

I was the powerful one now.

And Brenda McHiggins was now “the victim.”

“You threatened to fire me right after Easter for being late on a BOPUS order,” I treaded carefully.

“Nina, ninety-nine percent of our Google ratings come down to the BOPUS orders—”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t .”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t here.”

“But I never threatened to fire you.”

“You told me you’d have my name forwarded to Charles!"

“Exactly!”

“Which is the same as getting fired!”

“That isn’t true, Nina—I would have protected you.”

This statement was so stupid that it almost broke my brain. “Wha—protected me: do you not understand how Charles operates?” Brenda turned her back to me, waved her hand in the air, and said: “I’m not going to go into this with you again” as she looked for her glasses.

“It’s right there,” I said. “On top of Better Homes & Gardens.”

“Oh,” Brenda said without acknowledging me.

Brenda put on her glasses and then sat down into the chair, which made a sound like it was about to snap in half.

This was how she always liked to berate us—from her chair. I had seen that painting of the lighthouse behind Brenda’s desk so many times—it just never occurred to me that it was Cape Cod. Sometimes, I’d overhear Brenda berating Gabby on my way to the restroom and I’d think, “Well, she isn’t wrong—Gabby is kind of stupid—but that’s still not the way you talk to her. You have to incentivize her to trust you first.” (Gabby was the one who first changed Brenda’s nickname from “Fun Mom” to that cunt with a stick up her ass.) Ashley and I burst out laughing. (What else is there to do inside a dying country?)

“Everyone here is so short-tempered with each other because you set the tone. I’ve been too afraid to ask you for three days off in September to go on a trip with my boyfriend for our one-year anniversary because I knew you weren’t going to say yes, so I was just going to take them off as sick days—and that’s not a functional work environment if people are constantly doing things like that all the time, because what you really need to do is go to Charles and ask for more staff.”

“This September—oh, Nina, you got to be kidding me!”

It was the first honest thing I ever heard Brenda say.

I thought about my naïve dream from earlier—how I thought I was going to turn Brenda around.

How I thought I was going to save the store. “The problem is we’re under_staffed_” was what I should’ve said—I get that now, I do, and I don’t know why I couldn’t wear it in my mouth even as it was trying to form in my subconscious. Because other forms were rising in me now too, forms like: “Brenda is a world-class manipulator. She butters you up just to brine you.” (I couldn’t even trust her tears, and if you can’t trust someone’s tears, you can’t trust them to ever find help.) I don’t know how I’d fare if it were just me and Brenda on a deserted island—I could see her killing a cougar for us with her own bare hands, but I could also see her killing me. “I never said that, I just told you I’d have to forward your name to Charles”—Brenda the liar. Brenda who could probably play dead about as well as she could play stupid—any falcon worth its weight in bird could see through it.

“I’ve been having issues with my boyfriend,” I suddenly blurted out.

Where had I learned this from?

Middle school.

“The anniversary trip means a lot to him, and I can’t even say yes or say no—it just hangs there over us, because he knows about the back-to-school rush. And he’s not even someone I—even feel fully comfortable with in some ways. But I’m also scared to lose him, I’m scared every time I come into work on Tuesday because I don’t know how you’re going to change my hours. Everything we do revolves around my not having enough time—I’d have issues building a perfect relationship with him if we had the rest of our lives to ourselves on a deserted island, but every weekend until closing? He works a normal job! He’s tired all the time too, but he makes time to see me and I can’t—I can’t come to you about anything.”

I didn’t cry.

But I did smile in my head:

“Wanna play victim, bitch?”

I could see Cape Cod now—I could see its lighthouse drawing my boyfriend and I closer and closer, I could see us dancing now to The Strokes at midnight like we were back in middle school because I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life, I don’t want retail, I don’t want resumes and cover letters and I don’t want to meet any more Brendas—what I want is for the Brendas of the world to collapse at my feet, but all I can see are the Brendas of the world closing in on me until death and so I need a release, I need to go back to middle school (I was popular in middle school, I can admit that now, I had bee-stung lips, and a bee-stinger too)—I need The Strokes (haven’t you ever made out with a boy in a hot tub while stroking your nails across his abs, parting the hair where his lower back begins?)—“Is this it? … Is this it?”—(my boyfriend and I swimming in the stars of our liberation, and I’ll give him all the vision and dental that he likes)—prey: always just a one-click order away (and we’ll eat lobster, because lobsters hold harms forever)—I the warm body and he the warm arms, holding me in his lanky-panky forever (and if Connor ever got a gym membership I would die—I don’t need a perfect 10, I can settle for an 8.9)—my captors: do they know? Do they understanding I’m not living my one true life? Wearing Ray-Bans while gazing out at the Atlantic from a yacht, because Comfort is my one true God—I’m ready, Mr. DeMille, for my one true closeup to begin. How am I still in Brenda’s office? I’m twenty-seven years old—how am I twenty-seven years old and still smoldering in Brenda’s office? In middle school I listened to The Strokes while everyone else listened to pop hip-hop—another Universe has been calling to me all my life. And all it would take was just a few more thousand steps to get there.

I’ve been running every day since I was thirteen. I don’t even eat my desserts correctly—I just spit and chew.

Ashley and Gabby remind me of who I was back in middle school. I had power over everyone back then except Abercrombie Couture (not her real name). Abercrombie was the class favorite—it’s hard to explain, but among the very-outgoing girls, Abercrombie was Frivolity Personified. And when only the people who needed to see it could see it, Abercrombie was the cruelest human you’ve ever met—she’d ignore you so subtly you’d drive yourself crazy for days asking the other girls if she was mad at you. Back then I had already begun telling myself I was too cool to care—but I still have nightmares about Abercrombie sometimes, about the way she’d say hi to everybody else at the party except me. “I just can’t deal with your emotional up and downs anymore, Brenda! Like I’m sorry—I’ve defended you to Ashley and Gabby so many times! I’m sick of having these conversations with them.”

Abercrombie, I later realized during college, must have been unsettled by how candidly I could talk about her behind her back. That was my little power over her, and I’d like to think I wielded it gracefully. (Abercrombie was dethroned by a lurid sex scandal involving a used condom in eighth grade, and I’d like to believe I led our class to a more open and inclusive place after her dismissal.)

“Three days—where you trying to go, Wuhan?”

“No. The Cod.”

“The what?”

“The Cod.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Massachusetts.”

“You mean Cape Cod?”

That was how quickly I realized I had fumbled the ball—that was the speed at which I realized I had fumbled the fuck-you—the one thing I needed to do correctly and I had fumbled the ball trying to cross the finish line. “It’s the Cape, not the Cod sweetie,” Brenda was already huffing to me by the time I realized my mistake, with a smile on her face. She’ll deny it to this day, and in absolute candor I can’t really say it was a “physical” smile—I don’t remember what it looked like, I don’t remember if Brenda actually huffed or if she even moved her mouth all that much at all, it was more in the eyes, but that bitch smiled.

I grew up in Nevada.

My boyfriend graduated from Yale Law and with him I can see a way out of my life—and I really don’t understand why that’s such a terrible thing to say. And I’m about to lose him—it’s in between the lines, but I can just feel it, I have him wrapped around my little finger because that’s the only way I’d ever have any man who loomed so tall over me, with him it’d be Cape Cod until the end of my days and nobody would ever laugh at me for calling it the Cod again—I’ll just rename it.

My hatred of Brenda in that moment was rivaled only by my childhood hatred of Abercrombie Couture.

But I knew I had to proceed gingerly.

I began to feel like Leif Erikson again—what other uncharted sensitivities do you have, Brenda?

Do white people really have white guilt?

Verbalizing the subconscious is like navigating by stars—Pequod knows where it’s trying to go, it just needs the conscious mind to plot out the steps to get there first—only I couldn’t verbalize any of this, all I could do was feel the mind for throbs like the twitches of a rat’s tail inside the forest below—and I was throbbing for a release, I was throbbing all my middle-school embarrassments, I was throbbing Cape Cod. A woman who understood nothing but appearances stood in front of me, utterly preoccupied with her own self-preservation—neither wise, open-minded, nor beautiful—but who could mean the difference between me and my income, between me and my livelihood, between me and my boyfriend breaking up (which would mean the difference between me and Cape Cod)—and I couldn’t even get anyone on the second floor to take her magazine theft seriously. How do I even begin to tabulate all her subtle knife-wounds to the psyche?

My favorite song by The Strokes?

“Hard to Explain.”

“You can correct the way I say things all you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I live in fear of you—okay? I go home every night and cry. You bully Ashley and Gabby every day but I’m not Ashley or Gabby—okay? You have not created an emotionally safe environment in the workplace and it’s affecting my life—okay? I’m sorry you take yourself so seriously, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with your fear that all the girls who thought you’d never amount to anything in middle school might be right, but if you have to terrorize other people just to feel better about yourself, that’s not how I roll—okay? That’s not me. The way you talk to Ashley, Gabby, Mike, Chris—it’s un-ac-cep-ta-ble, Brenda.”

And this is where my ship was trying to go:

“I don’t think you belong in your position. So that’s what I told Charles.”

I’d set fire to Cape Cod if I could.

I’d set fire to my boyfriend’s lake house, I’d set fire to Brenda’s Us Weeklies, and I’d certainly set fire to the poster of the lighthouse with seagulls behind Brenda’s desk.

“I don’t work here anymore. Not until you apologize to Ashley,” I added quickly.

My speech was now outpacing my life decisions.

“And I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, okay? Because you know how hard I work, you know how much I give to this store every day but Wannabe-Nordstrom isn’t my life, okay? I am not living the life I want to live every single day—so that’s my life, okay?”

Were ordinary people in the Soviet Union this unhappy? Has anyone ever bothered to ask them?

The only thing I ever knew how to do around Brenda was say whatever I needed to say to make her feel comfortable.

Like seagulls exploding out of a cove, that was the only thing Brenda ever seemed to value: her personal comfort. I don’t remember how Brenda looked in that moment. She kept darting her eyes between Better Homes & Gardens and the floor, and her glasses were foggy. I gazed at Brenda with a falcon’s stare and said:

“Think of last night as my last straw.”

It’d be worth it, you know.

It’d be worth it to suspend my gym membership for a few months to see Brenda have to swallow the fruits of her own disorder. I hadn’t coaxed Brenda into reacting the way she did to Ashley’s request—I had only coaxed Ashley into talking to her, and that was a sincere act of friendship: “You have to stand up for yourself with people like that, Ashley.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Brenda and you are like best friends.”

“We are not.”

“You have her wrapped around your little finger, Nina.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and then I hit Ashley’s face with a big fat pillow until feathers fell out, which of course never happened because Ashley and I don’t have open and honest conversations about anything. All Ashley said was “You’re probably right,” and I could sense in Ashley’s eyes that she was perceptive enough to understand I was probably wrong—but even I couldn’t pick that up, at least not consciously, so in a way, Ashley doomed herself by failing to correct me.

I was Brenda’s star employee and everybody knew it.

I’ve been an A student all my life.

I’m the picture of good anger management.

Management hates it when you quit. That’s the one thing you can still lord over them, even during a recession (and July 2022 in America was anything but)—replacing an employee costs time, and time is money. Every store manager knows that—even Brenda (her management woes don’t source back to her inability to optimize).

And then Brenda said something so stupid that for a second I almost thought she was parodying Gabby.

“I thought you and I could speak openly to each other.”

Brenda.

Girl.

Just because you tell me about the medications you take for your back problems doesn’t mean we’re friends.

Was this really happening right now?

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I told Brenda. “I did speak openly in the email.”

Was Brenda really buying into Ashley’s delusion that management and workers can be just friends?

Or was she just calculating that I—because I’m pretty—was stupid enough to buy into it too?

“Actually, no—the way you engage with others doesn’t seem intended to provide a pathway for sincere and open conversations. You have a ‘No Assholes’ policy that seems intended to make other people suppress their true feelings around you at all times, because anybody who contradicts you is automatically an asshole.”

I didn’t say that.

I just said: “It can be intimidating to speak to you sometimes.”

Even when you try to laugh with me about your muscle relaxants, I laugh back, but what I really want to say is “Brenda, a certain percentage of the population is going to have back problems, and you have given me no particular reason to care about yours.” I think again now about if Brenda and I were stuck on a deserted island. I’d probably have to save her life from the elements from time to time, and that’d build trust between us. “What we’d need to do is charter a plane somewhere, and have the plane crash. That’s the only way to resuscitate this relationship.”

“How many times have I told you, Nina, you can come to me about anything…” and before I could even respond, Brenda began comparing our dynamics to a mother-daughter relationship and I was one second away from saying, “Bitch, that’s your problem,” but I caught myself and said calmly:

“Brenda, that’s the problem.”

Brenda looked at me earnestly.

“Just, that right there—the word you used. I don’t think you really understand other people’s boundaries? I tell you obligatory anecdotes from my personal life because you specifically ask to hear them, not because I want to volunteer them—again, that’s how afraid I am of you, Brenda, because I don’t even feel like I have the right to tell you that my dating history is, actually, now that I think about it, none of your business. And then you lecture me about how I talk to my boyfriend? Again, because you asked to hear the details, and you actually make it so that now I’m thinking about my boyfriend at work instead of focusing on my job, which you then get mad at me for? I don’t think you really understand, Brenda, how your friendliness comes off when it’s mixed with so much—neediness, I don’t know, this need to control everything all the time—to make everything perfect.”

The first time I ever met Brenda, we got along so well that after our shift we went to a Red Lobster on the other side of the strip mall, where she bought me three milkshakes. I told her about growing up with my mom in a trailer park in Nevada and she told me about growing up with her mom in a trailer park in New Jersey—we laughed a lot that night. I don’t even remember what we laughed about, but we were both talkers, Brenda and I, we were both tellers, and we were both showers. I could tell after my first milkshake that Brenda must have floated in the margins of the sub-popular crowd in middle school, and she all but confirmed it on the second (she just had one of those I’ve seen it all energies).

“So how does it feel being back in the Northeast?”

“Honestly?” Brenda said, grabbing a French fry. “I’m ready.”

You couldn’t hear the ocean from where we were sitting, but you could hear a highway.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Sometimes at night, while I fantasized about quitting a company whose Corporate was famous for giving their employees vision and dental (and anyway, what else would I do besides marketing or retail? In what other way might I be called upon to serve the good people of America?), I’d climax with an image of Brenda sitting alone at home on a Thursday night (that was Brenda’s day off), crocheting to Fleetwood Mac, with a cat rubbing up against her ankle. The only mystery was how many paintings of beaches dotted her apartment.

I know Brenda doesn’t talk to her mother anymore (“Neither do I!” was probably one of our first laughs), and I’d fantasize about how much she probably secretly admired me—because I was pretty—because I could always talk my way into classes and parties she could only stare through the curtains of (I once helped Brenda create an account on Plenty of Fish), and now it was too late for her because she was already in her late forties or early fifties—and I?

I was bound for Cape Cod.

“What are the locals there like,” all summer long I used to wonder. I work at a Nordstrom now.

And I no longer wonder.

“Oh, sweetie—it’s called the Cape, not the Cod.”

Wasn’t that how she had said it?

Even in her most helpless moment, she was still so condescending—she was still just so frivolously condescending—I mean think about the stakes here, girl, you’re about to lose your star employee right before the back-to-school rush—was the poison dart worth it?

Was the poison tip worth it, Brenda?

“I don’t think it’s healthy for me to work here anymore,” I suddenly blurted out. “You’re not a good influence on me.”

“What can I say to make you stay just through September?”

It was so quick and direct that it snapped me instantly out of my sympathy spell.

Brenda.

There’s the Brenda I knew—Brenda, you’re back!

And you’re still holding onto threads in the air.

This store will dissipate, Brenda. Your job will dissipate, and then you’ll have to go right back out there again and sell your competence at another round on the roulette wheel. (Just don’t end up at another store that sells beauty supplies, Brenda—I don’t think you quite understand what they’re really telling the world.) “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Brenda. I know how hard the last few months have been for you, and I thought very long and hard about doing this to you. But I have to prioritize my own mental health.”

“You know Charles is only giving me a year.”

Brenda said this with a vulnerability I had never heard from her before.

Her voice was like a child’s.

Guilt—it’s impossible to summon it for a person you’ve already dehumanized. Cockroaches die every day.

My subconscious was churning again—I would have a child with my boyfriend someday, and I would protect her from people like you, Karen McHiggins. “Brenda, you have the mental age of a child,” was what I really wanted to say to her. “When I fuck up at work, who do you think I go to? Nobody—do you understand that, Brenda, because adults take responsibility for their shit.”

But I would have to sugarcoat it, because someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would be unable to understand that the powerful can’t be friends with the powerless, no matter how hard they tried—and someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would also need everything sugarcoated for them.

“Brenda, I don’t know how to break this to you but there isn’t going to be any back-to-school rush! It’s not 2019 anymore—Covid killed retail. We don’t know whether we want to be bargain basement or high-end and the middle class is dead, everyone wants either a bargain or an experience! What did they teach you in that master’s program?”

Only I couldn’t say that either, because Brenda would somehow spin it into me losing my cool, which is the one thing I never do—I’ve been one thing and one thing only all my life, and that’s an A student.

“You’ve given your life to a dinosaur, Brenda—move on. Department stores are dead—this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Your image of America—it’s a façade, and I can prove it. It’s that picture of the lighthouse you keep behind your desk that you pilfered from returned merchandise, and I can prove that too. We’re like explorers in an uncharted land. Things are going to fall apart for us in ways we have no templates for, just like they did for all of the generations before us—only they weren’t as trapped inside the façade of returned merchandise as we are! Settled mores are changing. This century could still look like anything—it’s all up for grabs, and more and more people are just beginning to wake up to this new dawn. Maybe what you really need to do is start a YouTube channel. You have the voice for it, you have the charisma, and you have the storytelling abilities—we could all profit from hearing from your perspective, only nobody will because you’re not young, thin, or beautiful, but hey—it’s worth a shot! You’ll have a better chance there at the lighthouse than you do in retail.”

Only I didn’t say any of this either, because I knew Brenda couldn’t hear a word I was saying. Brenda was dead between the eyes—her soul died in middle school, and she’s been dragging the corpses of would-be lives ever since.

“You’re not a particularly smart or competent person, Brenda, and what’s happening right now speaks for itself. You didn’t just get unlucky, Brenda.”

Brenda once whistled to me when she saw me change into a sundress as I was leaving my afternoon shift—“Whose heart are you breaking tonight, Nina?”

“None of your business!” was what I wanted to tell her, but I wanted to let Brenda live vicariously through me—it was the only gentleness I could ever offer her.

“You know Charles is only giving me the year,” Brenda had said, and she was staring into the void now. I could feel her back pain. She had given her whole entire life to Not-Quite-Sephora, six days a week, and on most nights on my way to the restroom I could hear “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac playing from a small Bluetooth speaker. I looked at Brenda and said: “I have no idea what you want from me. It’s not my job to make you look any better than you are at your job. And I don’t know what your agreement with Charlie has to do with anything—in fact, I had lunch with him the other day.”

Brenda lifted her eyes.

“What?” she said stupidly.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I was trying to get a vacation approved. No, Brenda. I needed to talk to him about a few things.”

“What things?”

And then, before I could offer an answer, “What are you trying to say, Nina? Just spit it out!”

“You have a problem, okay? I’ve seen the way you’ve unraveled in the last few months—Gabby and Ashley are afraid of you, Chris is about to quit, literally nobody can handle your emotional volatility anymore. Everybody’s so short-tempered with each other all the time and coming to me for help, and it’s not my job to help them—that’s your job! You’ve created a situation where nobody can even talk to you. We just smile at you out of fear. You don’t command anybody’s respect—you know that, right? So we basically have to operate without a supervisor—you understand that, don’t you?”

It feels good to eat.

I no longer have a gym membership anymore. Instead, I jog every Tuesday and Friday at the public park.

“So yeah—so I guess I just thought it was about time Charlie heard all of this. He’s actually very reasonable if you talk to him in a reasonable way. He said he’d look into opening one or two more positions for us to cover the weekends. But you probably won’t be there to oversee it.”

Not-Quite Sephora was founded as a regional competitor to J.C. Penney in 1991. It never expanded beyond the Northeast, Minnesota, and California, and it’s about to die—it’s only a matter of time. Unless if maybe Corporate in Burlington saw the light and hired someone like me and actually listened to her ideas for turning all of their stores into “experiences,” which is what I’ve been trying to tell Brenda every time she questioned one of my lipstick arrangements. A lot of what I miss about middle school is the taste-test of freedoms I enjoy every day now as an adult: you build a friendship with the highest person who’ll take you in.

That’s how you climb a hierarchy.

Brenda looked at me like a wounded animal.

There really isn’t ambiguity, is there, about which one of us would survive if it were just you and me on a deserted island. A new recognition was forming inside of Brenda, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it settle in—you can’t treat people like you treated Ashley the other night in the stock room, this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Of course, Brenda was too obtuse to work out that I was only bluffing. The truth was, I had talked to Charlie briefly on the second floor, but he just told me to “put it all in an email,” and I knew he was never going to speak to Brenda long enough to ever contradict anything I had just said—Charlie’s not exactly the open type. Besides, Charlie did agree to look into hiring more part-timers, the way Charlie ever agrees to anything—by pretending it was his idea all along. “It’s the unreliability of when customers come in, that’s the problem,” Charlie had explained to me. (“Yes, that’s true. Unreliability is always the problem,” I told Charlie.)

You can’t rely on other people’s testimony when you ask them about Abercrombie Couture.

You have to come to me.

I’ve seen sides of Abercrombie that nobody else has.

“So what’s the dating scene like out here?” Brenda had asked me that first night at Red Lobster, while popping a French fry. I remember trying not to look at Brenda like she was serious. “It’s just men!” I remember laughing to Brenda in front of two tall glasses of milkshake. “It’s just a bunch of men—that’s the only way I know how to put it!”

And then Brenda in her black blazer and black pants laughed too.

Like we were girlfriends.

“I would’ve given you those vacation days, Nina,” Brenda finally said in a whisper. “If I had just understood that you knew what you were doing when you took them—what you were doing to the store—I would’ve given them to you.”

A new sincerity is trying to grow in the air all around us—I can hear its infant-screams, can’t you? (Couldn’t Brenda?) “Oh my God, Brenda. This is about so much more than whether or not I can go on one trip to Cape Cod.”

“That is all this is about to you, Nina, and don’t you pretend otherwise—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“—because you have a fancy boyfriend now.”

“Leave Connor out of this.”

I don’t really know where my life’s going to go after Cape Cod. Colson’s mental health—it causes collateral damage to people (Colson was one of Connor’s three friends that had stayed with us at the lake house). I don’t really think he understands that his actions have consequences on other people. He thinks I’m one of the popular kids who terrorized him in middle school, but the truth is—I’m just a little bit higher or lower on the pecking order than he is. All of us are—all of us down here. I can’t really bring myself to fully hate him for what he did, but then I remember what his life is and I do—I hate him by several orders of magnitude more than I ever hated Brenda. And what Colson and Brenda both have in common, of course, is their dripping self-pity: they’re both absolutely lacquered in it (what is it about competitive social environments that produces so much self-pity anyway, dripping like honey?). I didn’t have too much compassion for Colson when he asked me to feed some of his honey back to him with my fingers. “Money,” I wanted to tell him.

“How much money you have is an easy way to tabulate what your self-pity is worth to me.”

But to be honest, I couldn’t even lift a finger to care.

Cape Cod was only four days ago, but it’s already just another memory now—that’s how all of our weekends are bound to end. Several hundred more of these and then it’s lights out. Connor and I listened to the first season of Serial on the way up, and as we walked through Martha’s Vineyard later that afternoon, we saw fifty migrants from South America file onto a bus bound for a military installation.

There were cameras and cake everywhere.

We’re all participants in this gladiatorial contest to see who ends up in Cape Cod as the sun sets over our lives.

Colson recently wrote a book called A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite.

I wish him luck.

I have plans for him, you know.

No matter what his next chess move is—I have a plan to stop him. I left Brenda alone in her office that day. I never learned where she went after she was dismissed from Not-Quite Sephora, all I remember is Ashley and Gabby coming over to hug me as I grabbed my purse from the break room, and they both quit two days later. It was because there’s something in my soul that doesn’t like to see other people are in pain—even people without souls like Brenda (Colson doesn’t count because he’s not really a human in my eyes, he’s more like a bad anecdote you shake off)—that I found myself hugging Brenda right before I said goodbye, holding her as she kept saying to me that I’d been like a daughter to her: “Brenda—Brenda, listen to me. My boyfriend has an ex-boyfriend whose stepmom also has a drinking problem, okay? Brenda—are you listening to me? They live in Westport…”

Cape Cod will die.

It’s only a matter of time before it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. I sail America’s values like Leif Erikson now—other people have built their homes and comforts here, but I don’t mind. I wonder sometimes what Abercrombie Couture anesthetizes her listlessness to these days—HBO? Unsubtle affairs with younger men? “How long before mundane dehumanization bears fruit?” I smile to myself every day at Nordstrom, as I walk around the counter to deliver my customer’s parcels to them personally.

I see Abercrombie sometimes in the eyes of the women I help at Nordstrom. They’re all moms, and if that’s the final meaning of our lives—then yes, I agree.

Let’s all be moms.

You don’t know the Hell I’ll reign over America’s guilty class in the twenty-first century, but you will soon: I will mother the destruction of America’s guilded gilts into existence. I broke up with Connor this morning. Something about his reaction to Colson’s breakdown in Cape Cod just didn’t sit well with me—he couldn’t see through Colson’s insincerity, and that makes me think he might not have what it takes in this life to go where I’m trying to go. At my new job at the mall, I nibble on old memories like a woman who hasn’t eaten now in years. The last person I ate was my narcissistic mother in Nevada—she ruined my childhood—she was the Leif Erikson of my formative years—but then again?

So was my middle school.

College feels like a million years ago. My sorority sisters are all married with kids now. Mothers will do anything to protect their young.

#MeToo.

2022

959 notes · View notes

anguishedlurker · 27 days

Text

Sorry, our hands are tied about this!

Prompt "Nocturne fucked up BIG TIME and now needs help from the ghost kid." from kadziduo on ao3/ @duchi-nesten on tumblr! Get phic phought :) Edit: Functioning Ao3 link now that I have a working brain tonight

“Fix it. Before I do” Was all Clockwork said before vanishing.

Fix what? Nocturne didn’t know, but nonetheless knew that Clockwork was presently threatening its non-life into vanishment.

Many types of accidents could be arranged.

Fix it before Clockwork does, and left to do its own research to boot. How droll.

Creeping, trawling through random dreams for a hint. Its purpose, if not its goal in its non-life. Delightful nonsense and soft desires clashing against horrid possibilities and terrible unrealities.

Fix it, before Clockwork does. How unhelpful.

Fix it, fix it, fix it… What a dreadful chant to have been produced by the English language.

Finally, Nocturne conceded that it would have to either be very lucky, or open its eyes to the waking realm to find anything out.

If pressed for honesty, it would not call this a dreadful task. The waking realm is, afterall, the source of the realm of sleep. It pays to understand what one is reflecting.

But ah, so many dull details to mull over...

Fix it. Fix what? It wasn’t obvious until it was all that could be seen.

Magical items with magical properties are objects largely outside of Nocturne's purview.

Unless it has to do with sleep.

And unless it’s the one that made the cursed things, which were now its problem to solve.

In more ways than one, even.

Clockwork has simply sped the timeline up on this being its problem.

The objects were older than English, but could be generously translated to ‘Ribbons of Night’. Each of the six operated slightly differently from the other five when active.

Which makes it sound as if one ribbon could be depended on to be the same ribbon when activated.

Absolutely not. Even with a ribbon permanently attached to oneself between activations, there was no predicting which one you had at any given moment. They were the unholy fusion of dream logic and schrodingers box principals.

It was more complicated than that, granted. There were in fact signs that could point you towards which you had at any given moment, and thus could be leveraged to accomplish whatever ones goal was reliably if you were willing to wait.

No matter what, they were usually weak enough to not be a bother to much more than the fool who thought they could control the mind, and whatever half dozen idiots they saw fit to terrorize.

Usually.

It greatly depended on the energy willfully put into them, see...

More energy, more chaos and for even longer. What’s not to love?

Adorable little things, so long as a weird cult of both ghosts and humans don’t get all six and strategically place them around both realms and dump a small nations worth of power into each of them.

You know, because who would ever do that? Truly, such a thing would take a ridiculous series of logical leaps (to think it was a good idea) and logistical nightmares (to make real) that it would be immediately branded a fever dream and disregarded.

Nocturne would typically be inclined to not be involved with the whole debacle, its not as if it could reabsorbed the partitioned fragments itself, but there’s a small problem with the ribbons and how they operate.

The issue is slightly two-fold, and also just the same problem twice over. What can Nocturne say, its things like to be complicated like that.

The ribbons are small fragments of Nocturne, modified for usage by the average ghost. Living need not apply, but if they can work around it then power too them. Nocturne's power is a scary thing to have loose in any realm, particularly at small-nation’s-electrical-grid scale.

And also, the dreams are fragments of Nocturne, that turning off requires either patience for their power to run dry or for a test of power and will to succeed.

Backlash from such a test is usually not of Nocturne's concern- if a fool decided to power a ribbon beyond their control and had to pay to turn it off, Nocturne's side would sting for ten seconds and then stop. Whether the fool was dead or not didn’t matter to Nocturne.

But if the ribbons were powered to the point they’d take years to stop, and also all six of them were going strong at once, meaning that everyone would be forced to contest them, win or lose, in the name of everyone’s continued existence…

Nocturne has finite durability, and that’s a lot of damage.

Even if the inflictors will die with Nocturne, it will be done because nothing has a choice right now..

The whole mess did clarify to Nocturne why Clockwork would care to harass it, though. It gave two reasons, even.

World balance… not Nocturne's domain, though certainly one of Clockworks. Accidents could be arranged, but these ribbons were older than most living nations.

Accidents could be arranged, but Clockworks chain was rather short. A plan like this would’ve been decades in the making, if not centuries, and the observants would be none too pleased if Clockwork were to do real work outside their supervision. Meaning for real work and not silly lessons with effects quickly undone, Clockwork’s self initiative had chain of about six weeks in either direction, with one arranged accident per inconvenience before they were pressed about activity.

An accident could be arranged, but unless that accident extended across two dimensions and obliterated somewhere around four hundred to two thousand beings in one go Clockwork was stuck explaining themself to the council. And to papercut a decades long plan to death? That work would be noticed too.

Accidents plural could be arranged, but no accidents Clockwork could justify to a council of the most belligerent asshats Nocturne had ever had the displeasure of meeting would also arrange a solution without sending everyone years back, something the council would not do.

The decorative bow atop the rest of Clockworks restraints was that accidents could be arranged, but even if Nocturne's spot were to be taken the successor would simply have the same problem because the process would make them into the ‘same’ being and they would inherit the ribbons, and killing Nocturne (or otherwise) in such a violent manner would have massive world shaking blowout. Potentially worse than the ribbons were doing and would do over the years.

The final answer was to destroy decades worth of timeline to fix this, and no ghost in the world would agree on how or why to do that. Could the council stop debating themselves to obliteration before their time to solve this was up?

Clockwork didn’t seem to think so.

Getting to Long Now was such a nuisance on average, but Nocturne (correctly) presumed that one it’d gotten to the bottom of its new task then Clockwork would humor it with a more thorough conversation.

This time, it didn’t even have to break the front doors. How unusual!

Clockwork refused to turn from the mirrors before them, and Nocturne had to force down the indignation as it took its place high above.

Dreams are much weaker than the irrevocable force of Time, and killing Nocturne here would be messy and bad, but make the new problems straight forward.

“I will elect not to lecture if you turn to speak on equal terms. I will call this fair, given you’ve decided you’re in a corner. Enough to reach out.”

Ahhh to not lose touch with scathing statements, drenched in politics. Nocturne never misses them much, but such words have use.

Passively, Clockwork flickered and reappeared facing Nocturne.

“Better.” Nocturne hummed, electing to drip onto the floor from the ceiling. “Now-”

“Do not pretend you’ve power over this mess any more than I.”

“Never claimed anything of the sort! But you could do to acknowledge your partner in crime before you bark commands down the chain.”

Clockwork’s hand twitched, tightening around their staff, and Nocturne was sure they were mentally calculating if it was worth trying the conversation again.

“Now, I know the goal is peace, but pray tell if you’ve got a spare thought for how that is going to happen?”

Nocturne would genuinely like to know; Its continued existence was on the line the moment an idiot got martyr-y about it.

“Handling the ribbons is a monumental task at this scale, with few qualified to stop the ribbons and fewer still capable of surviving the job.”

“Yes, very much so. But if you’ll kindly direct some concern to the rest of the issue…”

Clockwork sighed, and turned to mirrors.

With a grand gesture designed to piss it off, the ribbon of… translation pending, appeared before them on the mirrors.

In the realm of volcanoes and fire was a crack, and in this crack was madness, and in this madness was a shard of Nocturne's body.

It was difficult to articulate the appearance of ‘void, but with sharp edges and hatred’, but thankfully Nocturne didn’t need to speak aloud about such a thing. Just stare at it as Clockwork warmed up to their point.

And then they didn’t progress the conversation in an action likely designed to piss Nocturne off even more.

Good thing Nocturne did not have teeth to grind.

“Yes, yes, the ribbon of… pleasure?”

“Close enough.”

Nocturne was sure Clockwork was smiling underneath that hood over its noise of disgust.

“The ribbon of pleasure, in the infinite zone of volcanoes and fire, and at the center my fragment ripe for the challenge. I am waiting to die from these miserable little mistakes, and await your suggestion to the contrary.”

“Now, who said anything about challenges?”

“Me.” Nocturne huffed, shuffling forward to examine the fragment.

“Why?”

Oh Nocturne could just...

“Because the fools who started this will have no further options. Because anyone fit to rise to solve this will not get further options.”

“Wrong.”

Nocturne refused to squirm in the following silence, immediately deciding it would out wait Clockwork of it was the last thing it ever did.

Clockwork seemed to catch on immediately at least, though it was difficult to tell if such a catch on was in fact after two hours of Nocturne commuting to suicide by any other name.

“Petulance will not serve you well in this instance. Regardless, if an appropriately powered being can approach with an appropriately malleable skillset, most fragments of this nature can be absorbed as opposed to destroyed.”

Ah. They’d gone mad, it sees this now.

“A fascinating theory. But see, there’s a lot of ifs you’re not articulating.” Nocturne hissed, jerking back from the mirrors to refocus on Clockwork.

“You first.” Clockwork hummed.

Of modest annoyances, this one failed to land. The predictability was more annoying, really.

“If we can find an appropriate candidate then they’d have to have the theoretical potential of at least me, and if we can find that someone they would have to be a child- still moldable in all ways including accepting my power-, and if we could find that child then even beyond its capacity to change it must have the separate capacity to walk two worlds, and if we find that child then we must hide it for long enough to get to keep it from the observants’ machinations and purify it of my influence. Provided we even can purify it.”

The final two were the truest sticking points of all; Nocturne, just as Clockwork, would never be permitted to keep a child. Nocturne wouldn’t even be allowed to keep a willing adult, but that was beyond the point.

“Not easy enough to hide, but I have my ways in keeping the observants eyes off me to get real work done.” Clockwork allowed.

Nocturne didn’t get chills easily, but it finally clicked to it that maybe, just maybe...

Nocturne was already in some deeply illegal shit just by being here, this time.

“You didn’t. Not already.”

“Oh, but I have. Did you think you’d get to say no to me? The moment the observants understand they have a blank spot in time, you will be found and interrogated as the missing piece.”

Nocturne was forced to pause.

It really, truly had to physically wrench itself back. The wild temperament of Dreams would lead to disaster.

“Fascinating. Would you like to know your odds of sense, in this instance?”

“No. I’d like to know who you have in mind, since you’re so smart as to kill us both.”

Clockwork hummed, pleased with themself as they waved at the mirrors again.

No chills, but…

“You’re joking, right?”

The young boy that had foiled its romp in Amity, desperately trying not to wilt into the wallpaper as his parents ranted and raved.

“Why would I?”

“To lure me into false hope. Your pet child is non negotiable to you, and you’ve missed the part where we’ll need to strip it of everything it gains. You wouldn’t.”

Clockworks hand tightened again, and Nocturne could hear the staff creak ever so slightly as the pressure became far greater than any mortal material could dream of handling.

“My child… I am pleased to know you regard it as such, but no. Young Danny is not mine to keep.”

“In formalities alone, no. But he’s yours, and you’re rather fond of the boy. Unless I’ve been seeing some other ghostling visit you every Sunday.”

Clockwork wasn’t looking directly at Nocturne, which was not technically a good sign.

“Not to keep.” Clockwork growled. Cracks spread along a mirror or possibly three, Nocturne was suddenly much too fixated on every errant twitch to care about the mirrors.

Nocturne did its best to not flinch away- despite the obviously in-equal status, Nocturne was a GOD in its own right. It couldn’t afford to flinch.

“That doesn’t matter, Clockwork. And if you would deign to clarify how we’re going to purify it...”

Clockwork didn’t relax as they shook their head no.

“The fuck you mean no, I’m helping dig your ass out this mess too. You wouldn’t be knocking on my door if you had other choices.”

“Two fold issue, a long story hardly of relevance.” Clockwork huffed, turning back towards their mirrors. With a wave and a suspiciously loud tick noise, the mirrors in question returned to an undamaged state. Phantom’s family resumed arguing on them, the boy left to awkwardly shuffle towards the stairs.

“Kroonoooooossss.” Nocturne elected to drawl after a pause.

Don’t get it wrong, it knew its risks. But it had a very bad hand before it, and would like to know if the pot cards made a difference.

The noise of total contempt Clockwork gave in response made it all worth it.

“There’s no world where you don’t know my problems with this. It’s lunacy at its finest. You’re sending me in blind to lead the meek and blind, the observants would rather I die and they play cleanup than let us do this anyhow, and somehow I think I and the observants have the fewest issues with these events. Forgive the acquisition of slang, there’s too many plot holes with this plan!”

“No, there isn’t. But you don’t have room for negotiation, do you?”

No, but that’s not stopping it.

“You have me verbally hostage, if not physically. I think me demanding a real answer as to why you care is the least amount of detail you can give me.”

“Wrong. Conversation over, go home and decide if you’d like to live.”

Nocturne wouldn’t have been able to take the belligerence anymore, lurching itself forward to assault Clockwork.

But it was already awake in one of its caves, three days before Nocturne figured out its task, one day before Clockwork had even informed it that it had a task, and a full sixteen hours after the cultists had completed the rituals.

Nocturne had fucked up in many ways, big and small.

For one, it had risen to Clockworks bait at all. Talk about taking one step forward and having your shins shattered for the effort…

Impossible to say if the mess could’ve gone differently, though. Clockwork clearly had a plan that Nocturne was but a vehicle for.

For two, Nocturne had no doubt Clockwork had already spent their one cosmic accident budget to make Nocturne look even worse out of this- all the better to force it to their whims. It had an educated guess about where that accident went, but what did it matter? Clockwork didn’t do anything by halves, Nocturne was fucked. Which went back to point one.

There were more fuck ups of course, some of them older than the swears it was muttering. A specific six of them, in fact.

One in the land of Volcanoes, one in the land of Atlanta Georgia, one in the land of The jungle, one in the land of Dallas Texas, one in the largest functioning cyber-network in the zone (now if Nocturne could get a clear answer about what that was, this would be nice), and one in the land of Shenghai China.

And apparently at the center of it all, a not-dead child to save them all! Joy!

Lunacy, lunacy, lunacy… What would the point be, in the end? Making the boy suffer like that for the world, once again?

Provided Clockworks pet could live, anyhow…

Maybe that was the point. A dramatic exit for what the observants already had their laser sights on, anyhow. A heroes death at it’s finest.

Whatever. It had its path and task, and despite everything Clockwork wasn’t self destructive. The situation would be solved if Nocturne obeyed.

Nocturne refused to trust any other detail of the situation, not that it changed its new goal.

It had to move fast. Find the portal, enter the house, spot the boy. Shuffling to the stairs as his parents bellowed away over something stupid.

Punctuated by everyone but him collapsing to the ground like all pathetic mortals in The Final Rest’s presence.

Form of stars, voice of satin, dripping like slime from cracks at the edge of the child’s vision.

Nocturne was sure it had made its entrance clear.

The white rings traveled up the child's body, revealing his powered form even as he dropped into an aggressive stance.

“Halt. Despite my entrance, this is more an offer of peace. Nice and quiet now, wouldn’t you agree?”

The boy couldn’t hide the shaky breath he took.

“Knocking people out isn’t peaceful.” He hissed, turning to glare at one of Nocturne’s larger blobs.

“I thought I kicked you out already. Back for another round?” He attempted to taunt, false confidence rising by the second.

“Please, child. Booting me out of one of my more vicious play fights is not a point of pride.”

The boy flushed a deeper green in barely concealed rage, backing away from the bulk of Nocturne’s form as it pooled in the center of the room.

“You have to have seen the news already. Three human locations under mysterious effects. It hasn’t been long, but it’s been profound, no?” It asked bluntly, rising as an owl this time. Rams were so last week, afterall.

The boys eyes flicked to the middle distance, contemplating.

“Maybe. Or maybe I don’t follow politics. Who knows, really?” He huffed.

“Stupidity gets you nowhere. Cultists have stolen artifacts of mine and used them for terrorism in its truest definition, in both the human realm and the infinite realm. It will spread if unmanaged.” Nocturne sighed, glooping its way towards the boy and stretching to far taller.

That certainly elicited a reaction, but who could say what was going on in the boy’s skull?

“And you’re sooo altruistic you wanna solve this yourself, I take it?” He prodded, backing away to the wall. If it occurred to him that he could phase through the wall and simply leave, it didn’t show.

Perhaps the child could’ve been a politician with that tonal bite. Alas...

“I have plenty to lose of they’re dealt with by traditional means. And you have much to lose if this spreads too far. The amount of people who die regardless if traditionally dealt with is uncountable. You, and the world with it, are in just as dire of straits as I with this mess.”

The boy paused, looking Nocturne up and down.

“And why should I take your word for it?”

Hmm… maybe if..

Nocturne made a sound like a shuddering breath and sank its form to only slightly taller than the boy.

“Because it’s not my word, it’s Clockworks.”

Another strong reaction. Nocturne was getting somewhere.

“And if you’re lying?”

Nocturne bowed forward slightly to imply consideration.

The child wasn’t wrong to distrust it, dreams were tricky things afterall. And personal experience gave a firm indication as to Nocturne’s temperament, be that true or false.

But the awake were always so predictable…

“We can visit them to ask, if you like. But permanence will take within days. It needs to be you, and we need to go. Now.”

The boy closed his eyes, considering.

“Clockwork, first. No confirmation, no help.” He ordered, eyes snapping open ans he crossed his arms.

“Of course.” Nocturne muttered, carefully eyeing how the child prepped to fly along with it.

He didn’t get the chance to fly on his own, already plucked away by Nocturne as it swooped down to the portal.

No time to waste, its non-life was on the line. And if the screaming was funny, then that was a bonus.

#danny phantom #dp #fic #long #phic phight #phic phight 2024 #phandom event #Nocturne (Danny Phantom)#Clockwork (Danny Phantom)#Danny Fenton

36 notes · View notes