Alas, alas, alas, Wings!
I'm a lurker. Will probably always be, but I am trying to break from my habit of always sticking to the shadows by actually commenting and giving con-crits to my favorite artist and all that good stuff. It's my goal for this year, which is harder for someone like me who prefers to be quiet and let people do whatever they want.
Such passivity is starting to bug me because my fandoms? They are all full of wank. And you know what? Sometimes it makes sense, and somedays it doesn't. 'Slash' being everywhere. It's not. In the interwebz? Yeah, not really. Het? You'll find everywhere. EVERY. Where. I like my slash. And my het. And you know what? I like my femslash too! And I like friendship and gen and I am one of the luckier ones because anything well written appeals to me. The slash is usually just better though and you know. Personal preference and all that. Don't like slash, don't read. Don't like het. Don' read. Don't like fanfiction? Well then just move on.
:/
Unto other things.
Title: Goals
Summary: Twenty-nine and on top of an unstable world, Wendy Testaburger is learning the hard way of how not to make a deal with the devil. Wendy/Kyle, Wendy/Stan, mention of others.
Author notes: I don't know why I see this particular couple as sophisticated-ly angry. Wendy has proven she could/will be, in a nutshell of course. Kyle, he's rough around the edges. Still, I don't think he will really reach that level. As this is a vast experiment it’ll probably also be unfinished.
Rating: PG-13 may turn NC-17
Chapter 1
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"Look Wendy. This isn't working out."
"You always say that Stan." She snaps writing another set of notes in her planner, she doesn't bother looking up at him. There's no point anymore. Frustrated tears prickle her eyes but she manages to stifle them back.
"I mean it this time!" He snaps back. Wendy looks at Stan this time closing her things and putting them away in a brisk manner. Mouth set firm, eyebrows drawn down in annoyance she pretends her notes are euphemisms for the secret of life in general.
"Funny, you always say that too."
"Wendy," he starts almost pleadingly.
"Fine Stan. We will have some time apart. I'll see you in a month." His face scrunches in confusion.
"You always come back in a month."
"Do not."
"I have to go."
"Wait, Wendy,"
"What now Stan? Is the break over already?"
"Nothing, I'll be over to pick up my things later tonight."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Her day turns even sourer when she sees a haggard man standing in front of her building. She puts on a polite smile; her actions always speak louder than her words when she's not behind a podium in front of hundreds of people after all.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"Um yeah, actually, I am looking for Stan Marsh does he live-" They both stop suddenly when he lifts his head to meet her gaze. Oh goddamn it.
In front of her building, pressing the Marsh-Testaburger residence was Kyle Broflosvki.
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Moving outside of South Park Colorado's boundaries had been a dream come true in Kyle's eyes and he had bubbled with naive excitement, nervousness, and expectations as he counted down the days. Reality soon made its big appearance when Kyle stood in a seedy apartment in an even seedier neighborhood with barking dogs, blistering cries of babies, and the wails of police cars rushing by. He decides those are mild setbacks, simple stumbles in his quest to realize his dream. The self-reassurances keep him steady until his next big assignment.
It doesn't come.
Three weeks go by before he finally stops lying to himself. He may very well be living what his distraught father called, a 'starving artist's life'. He'd live a life of no recognition and then die a penniless death. His mother rolled her eyes at the dramatics; Kyle had too. His father was being pessimistic.
When he opens his fridge and stares at the rows of empty shelves, Kyle isn't very pleased he finds himself agreeing with his father. It becomes even more sobering the next day as he hands in his fifth job application at the stores near his apartment, and they say “We don’t need help right now.”
He waits for a call-back or two anyway, but they never come.
In the warm recess of his apartment, newspapers, pieces of scrap paper and pens litter his small couch, a lone plate and cup sitting on the sink waiting to be clean, frustration starts boiling in him.
Take it in strides, he wants to tell himself.
He takes a quick look around his sparsely decorated room, punches the wall nearest him, and leaves --with a throbbing hand and the realization he'll need to patch up the hole left behind-- hoping the cold diverts his attention away from his grumbling stomach and the fact that the last few dollars he'd stashed away as emergency money have already been severely tapped into.
He finds Stan's number and address in the emergency money and doesn't know what to do about it. He puts it into his back pocket hoping to forget about it.
Nights later he stares at Stan's number and address for the umpteenth time and is mortified.
Eventually he stands in front of a phone booth in front of his apartment, a dollar twenty five of change clinking in his pocket along with the Stan's phone number, a candy wrapper, and lint. He still doesn't know what to do about it. The phone number. Or rather, he really wished he didn't have to resort to greeting his friend until he was securely on his feet. He slips two quarters into the phone slot before chickening out. He saves the quarters, hoping it is all bad luck.
A few days later he finally decides to look up the address on the small slip of paper. It is miles away from where he lives and Kyle isn't sure if he wants to make a trek that may very well end in embarrassment. He spends the quarters of change getting a small candy bar, deciding to make the stupid trip. It’s either that or call his parents for help.
The next day it snows, and Kyle takes it as a sign. He doesn't get out of his bed and stays inside falling in and out of sleep to the slow rush of traffic, a few yells, and his thoughts.
His stomach cramps, and eventually he makes progress. A kind old lady from across the half says she's been watching him waste away and gives him a casserole of chicken noodle, or something like that. She sits him in her living room and asks all sorts of personal questions he's never sure of how to answer, but he tries anyways, if anything because he’s deeply grateful for her kindness.
No, he doesn't have a girlfriend anymore; she thought he was too immature. Yes, his parents love him very much, no, he doesn't need their help. I don't know why I am willing to take help from a stranger. Yes, I am aware you could of have poisoned me with rat poison or arsenic if you had wanted.
Finally she relaxes and leans into her couch.
"What brings you to this neighborhood?" She asks stirring sugar into her tea.
"I’m an engineer."
"Engineers don't live in places like these." She says giving him a cup of hot water with a hint of jasmine flavor. No they don't, do they? He doesn't know why he started lying to her. He likes her.
He leaves the kind old lady, and takes the chicken casserole with him. Kyle means to return the container later, but is preoccupied with a sudden new project with a small business, a street down and doesn't even see her for several days.
By the time he catches a break he realizes he still has the glassware and hasn't expressed his gratitude. He knocks on his kindly lady neighbor's flashy door, 7c, but there is no answer. He jiggles the doorknob figuring she wouldn't mind him returning the glass ware and sincere thanks.
He thinks of inviting her out to dinner too. Today was payday after all and he remembers she had mentioned she'd like to visit an authentic Indian restaurant. The one where they make you sit on the floor, eat off it, and pay a fortune for it, she said cackling. It was the least he could do, and he kind of wanted to embellish a little in that life.
An hour later, the elderly policeman tells him the paramedics believe it was a heart-attack, that she's been dead for days. He is asked questions he doesn't know the answers to, and Kyle once again feels grossly inadequate. He doesn't know what to do with the glass dish in his hands, and gives it away to a homeless person in front of his building. Apparently she didn't have anyone 'next to kin'.
The next day he puts his jacket on, snow or not and finally goes to the address Stan had given him. Fairly new to the city, he gets lost several times, and doesn't arrive to his destination until the weather turns very bleak, the sun sets down, and his cheeks feel like they're iron slabs, and he’s sure he’s already lost his ears somewhere between his apartment and the godforsaken building he’s standing in front of.
He nearly laughs when he sees the grandeur of the apartment and wonders just when Stan had gotten so fucking successful he was actually kind of jealous? Instead he presses the button that reads 'Marsh' and hopes that the doorman stops giving him accusing death glares.
"Excuse me sir," someone says breaking him out of his thoughts "Can I help you?"
"Um yeah, actually, I’m looking for Stan Marsh does he live-" They both stop suddenly when he lifts his head to meet her gaze. Oh. Kyle frowns re-reading the address hoping it had been his mistake. Marsh-Testaburger. Shit. Stan hadn't mentioned that. Why hadn't he noticed that?
"Hey." He says awkwardly and she returns the greeting warmly opening the door to the building and leading him inside asking placid questions about his health, his family, his work. It throws him off a bit.
"I was looking for Stan," he says quickly, hoping she understands. Wendy stares for a second too long so he adds, "I can come back later!"
Finally, Wendy smiles a little and invites him into the apartment despite his protests. He is glad because he doesn't think he'd like to sit on the front steps waiting for Stan to arrive.
He'd hate to feel like a bigger loser than he is now and he rather not lose his fingers to frostbite.
Such passivity is starting to bug me because my fandoms? They are all full of wank. And you know what? Sometimes it makes sense, and somedays it doesn't. 'Slash' being everywhere. It's not. In the interwebz? Yeah, not really. Het? You'll find everywhere. EVERY. Where. I like my slash. And my het. And you know what? I like my femslash too! And I like friendship and gen and I am one of the luckier ones because anything well written appeals to me. The slash is usually just better though and you know. Personal preference and all that. Don't like slash, don't read. Don't like het. Don' read. Don't like fanfiction? Well then just move on.
:/
Unto other things.
Title: Goals
Summary: Twenty-nine and on top of an unstable world, Wendy Testaburger is learning the hard way of how not to make a deal with the devil. Wendy/Kyle, Wendy/Stan, mention of others.
Author notes: I don't know why I see this particular couple as sophisticated-ly angry. Wendy has proven she could/will be, in a nutshell of course. Kyle, he's rough around the edges. Still, I don't think he will really reach that level. As this is a vast experiment it’ll probably also be unfinished.
Rating: PG-13 may turn NC-17
Chapter 1
-
-
-
"Look Wendy. This isn't working out."
"You always say that Stan." She snaps writing another set of notes in her planner, she doesn't bother looking up at him. There's no point anymore. Frustrated tears prickle her eyes but she manages to stifle them back.
"I mean it this time!" He snaps back. Wendy looks at Stan this time closing her things and putting them away in a brisk manner. Mouth set firm, eyebrows drawn down in annoyance she pretends her notes are euphemisms for the secret of life in general.
"Funny, you always say that too."
"Wendy," he starts almost pleadingly.
"Fine Stan. We will have some time apart. I'll see you in a month." His face scrunches in confusion.
"You always come back in a month."
"Do not."
"I have to go."
"Wait, Wendy,"
"What now Stan? Is the break over already?"
"Nothing, I'll be over to pick up my things later tonight."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Her day turns even sourer when she sees a haggard man standing in front of her building. She puts on a polite smile; her actions always speak louder than her words when she's not behind a podium in front of hundreds of people after all.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"Um yeah, actually, I am looking for Stan Marsh does he live-" They both stop suddenly when he lifts his head to meet her gaze. Oh goddamn it.
In front of her building, pressing the Marsh-Testaburger residence was Kyle Broflosvki.
-
-
-
Moving outside of South Park Colorado's boundaries had been a dream come true in Kyle's eyes and he had bubbled with naive excitement, nervousness, and expectations as he counted down the days. Reality soon made its big appearance when Kyle stood in a seedy apartment in an even seedier neighborhood with barking dogs, blistering cries of babies, and the wails of police cars rushing by. He decides those are mild setbacks, simple stumbles in his quest to realize his dream. The self-reassurances keep him steady until his next big assignment.
It doesn't come.
Three weeks go by before he finally stops lying to himself. He may very well be living what his distraught father called, a 'starving artist's life'. He'd live a life of no recognition and then die a penniless death. His mother rolled her eyes at the dramatics; Kyle had too. His father was being pessimistic.
When he opens his fridge and stares at the rows of empty shelves, Kyle isn't very pleased he finds himself agreeing with his father. It becomes even more sobering the next day as he hands in his fifth job application at the stores near his apartment, and they say “We don’t need help right now.”
He waits for a call-back or two anyway, but they never come.
In the warm recess of his apartment, newspapers, pieces of scrap paper and pens litter his small couch, a lone plate and cup sitting on the sink waiting to be clean, frustration starts boiling in him.
Take it in strides, he wants to tell himself.
He takes a quick look around his sparsely decorated room, punches the wall nearest him, and leaves --with a throbbing hand and the realization he'll need to patch up the hole left behind-- hoping the cold diverts his attention away from his grumbling stomach and the fact that the last few dollars he'd stashed away as emergency money have already been severely tapped into.
He finds Stan's number and address in the emergency money and doesn't know what to do about it. He puts it into his back pocket hoping to forget about it.
Nights later he stares at Stan's number and address for the umpteenth time and is mortified.
Eventually he stands in front of a phone booth in front of his apartment, a dollar twenty five of change clinking in his pocket along with the Stan's phone number, a candy wrapper, and lint. He still doesn't know what to do about it. The phone number. Or rather, he really wished he didn't have to resort to greeting his friend until he was securely on his feet. He slips two quarters into the phone slot before chickening out. He saves the quarters, hoping it is all bad luck.
A few days later he finally decides to look up the address on the small slip of paper. It is miles away from where he lives and Kyle isn't sure if he wants to make a trek that may very well end in embarrassment. He spends the quarters of change getting a small candy bar, deciding to make the stupid trip. It’s either that or call his parents for help.
The next day it snows, and Kyle takes it as a sign. He doesn't get out of his bed and stays inside falling in and out of sleep to the slow rush of traffic, a few yells, and his thoughts.
His stomach cramps, and eventually he makes progress. A kind old lady from across the half says she's been watching him waste away and gives him a casserole of chicken noodle, or something like that. She sits him in her living room and asks all sorts of personal questions he's never sure of how to answer, but he tries anyways, if anything because he’s deeply grateful for her kindness.
No, he doesn't have a girlfriend anymore; she thought he was too immature. Yes, his parents love him very much, no, he doesn't need their help. I don't know why I am willing to take help from a stranger. Yes, I am aware you could of have poisoned me with rat poison or arsenic if you had wanted.
Finally she relaxes and leans into her couch.
"What brings you to this neighborhood?" She asks stirring sugar into her tea.
"I’m an engineer."
"Engineers don't live in places like these." She says giving him a cup of hot water with a hint of jasmine flavor. No they don't, do they? He doesn't know why he started lying to her. He likes her.
He leaves the kind old lady, and takes the chicken casserole with him. Kyle means to return the container later, but is preoccupied with a sudden new project with a small business, a street down and doesn't even see her for several days.
By the time he catches a break he realizes he still has the glassware and hasn't expressed his gratitude. He knocks on his kindly lady neighbor's flashy door, 7c, but there is no answer. He jiggles the doorknob figuring she wouldn't mind him returning the glass ware and sincere thanks.
He thinks of inviting her out to dinner too. Today was payday after all and he remembers she had mentioned she'd like to visit an authentic Indian restaurant. The one where they make you sit on the floor, eat off it, and pay a fortune for it, she said cackling. It was the least he could do, and he kind of wanted to embellish a little in that life.
An hour later, the elderly policeman tells him the paramedics believe it was a heart-attack, that she's been dead for days. He is asked questions he doesn't know the answers to, and Kyle once again feels grossly inadequate. He doesn't know what to do with the glass dish in his hands, and gives it away to a homeless person in front of his building. Apparently she didn't have anyone 'next to kin'.
The next day he puts his jacket on, snow or not and finally goes to the address Stan had given him. Fairly new to the city, he gets lost several times, and doesn't arrive to his destination until the weather turns very bleak, the sun sets down, and his cheeks feel like they're iron slabs, and he’s sure he’s already lost his ears somewhere between his apartment and the godforsaken building he’s standing in front of.
He nearly laughs when he sees the grandeur of the apartment and wonders just when Stan had gotten so fucking successful he was actually kind of jealous? Instead he presses the button that reads 'Marsh' and hopes that the doorman stops giving him accusing death glares.
"Excuse me sir," someone says breaking him out of his thoughts "Can I help you?"
"Um yeah, actually, I’m looking for Stan Marsh does he live-" They both stop suddenly when he lifts his head to meet her gaze. Oh. Kyle frowns re-reading the address hoping it had been his mistake. Marsh-Testaburger. Shit. Stan hadn't mentioned that. Why hadn't he noticed that?
"Hey." He says awkwardly and she returns the greeting warmly opening the door to the building and leading him inside asking placid questions about his health, his family, his work. It throws him off a bit.
"I was looking for Stan," he says quickly, hoping she understands. Wendy stares for a second too long so he adds, "I can come back later!"
Finally, Wendy smiles a little and invites him into the apartment despite his protests. He is glad because he doesn't think he'd like to sit on the front steps waiting for Stan to arrive.
He'd hate to feel like a bigger loser than he is now and he rather not lose his fingers to frostbite.