justahopelessaromantic

[justahopelessaromantic]

(When memories snow and cover up the driveway, I shovel all those memories, clear the path to drive to the store, and) "Dinner for Two". - [A TADC Flash Fiction]

Fandom: The Amazing Digital Circus

Timeframe: Post Canon

Accompanying Playlist for this Fic on Spotify and Youtube

Summary: “And when memories melt…Could I go on break? Be back in my room, writin’ speeches in my head [and] listenin’ to…that clap, for me, in the dark?**” (Gangle 1)

[Or;]

"...Memories melt...I hear them. In the drainpipe, drippin' through the downspout as I lie awake, in [the] dark." (Gangle, Probably 24)

[Or even!!]

Post-murder-suicide, Genevieve “Gigi” Gangle and Matéo “Jax” Joan”e” wake up to a world worse* than digital.

-----------------------------

*The reliability of measuring the real world’s severity in today’s political climate is (even today) still hotly contested by many established members of the medical, musical, and scientific community. You are encouraged to do your research before presuming the mad ramblings of the molting, tripping 21st-century equivalent of a Victorian noble gracefully (see: “artfully” and “with evident purpose, of which she feels no need to spoonfeed to her audience, the unpretentious cunt.”) dying of tuberculosis as (un)objectionable fact.

**No, you may not.

Kitchens smell…nastier than you remember.

At the very least, this one does. You would have to check a few more to make sure it's not just this one, but the thought of having to hold more than one version of the same type of room with the same purpose inside your head at the same time? That feels like too much. You’re too used to everything belonging to one place, to knowing every activity, device, and task was sectioned off to one place. The luxury of never needing to go looking for anything.

You hear something clatter against the kitchen floor.

You hear a lot of things clatter against the kitchen floor. Mostly metal. You’re quite proud of yourself for remembering what metal sounds like.

You're not as proud of the way you shift around for comfort, your ass never actually getting off the floor.

But that’s fair, because you're not used to being proud of yourself anyway, apparently, because rust grows fervently in good, sopping conditions, apparently, after 4 fucking years, apparently. You haven’t had your skin, your oils, your grease, your snow-topped mountain ranges burning red in the hot sun in four, fuck-ing years and disrespect has set in deep, neglect callousing the bitten tips of your good playing fingers (which necessitates it, you guess.), and you’re not used to him setting the table or accusing you of pre-emptily forgetting to wash your hands (apparently you forget “well enough”) or holding on to his second favorite aunt’s notebook, so being proud of him is out of the question too.

You cover your ears as he the dustpan against the edge of the rotting trashcan, making the poor thing balance on one foot. You do that now (Probably cause of the ears). And he cleans up glass.

You’re still checking for sparkles on your plat-

“Dinner’s ready. Get off the floor.”

From this angle, he only needs to bend down by about 47.08°, give or take. Eyes blank, refuse to leave his. Arm hairs poke your pit, brush through the bushel of wild coils you didn’t have four years ago. The contact still feels missed, like a dream you’ve had for so long, you find yourself surprised, on occasion, at not having achieved it already.

There’s a stumble as you rise, limp and dripping on the floor, and you almost ask him to wipe you up, but you still get to the table, all on your own.

He used to let you dry dishes. But only on Thanksgivings.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Happy anniversary Omori!!! I I couldn’t ask for a lovelier game to sink its claws into my heart and never let go <3

And a merry christmas to omocat and everyone in this wonderful fandom!!

[justahopelessaromantic]

honey, don’t feed it, it will come back (Preface/Warning to be strictly heeded by all those lucky enough to bare witness to it)

Fandom: South Park AU: Stick of Truth AU Links to Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and the Epilogue Accompanying Playlist for this Fic on Spotify and Youtube Disclaimer: The author of this work does not condone/endorse the messages, themes, and concepts presented by South Park. Considering how said work is melodramatic gay fanfiction written in child storybook form of all things, I'm sure this seems reasonable to assume. However, it’s astonishing how many times I've stumbled upon people in this fandom who are wholehearted believers of almost everything the show says, and, quite frankly, I would rather evaporate from this plane of existence than potentially be presumed as a bigot or, god forbid, a centrist. Summary: "The Life and Lies of That Thing over there, shivering in the corner, shaking the bushes." (Written by someone sick in the head, and maybe the funnybone)

Once upon a time, the most beautiful maiden in all the land was digging some sort of rabid…thing out from her neighbor's molting, sweating garden.

(It is unclear if the aforementioned sweat originally bared shelter within the cracking walls of the weed’s pores, or the thing’s)

Her maidenhood was made known to the village (quite loudly, I might add) by the shimmer of her great beauty (“shimmer” as meant in the literal sense, that is. A local schoolboy was quoted in The Daily Parchment as having been blinded by “the freshly sharpened string of pearls woven into the valleys of her gums). For if it were not for the shine of her coat, none would dare find themselves looking past its complete attachment to her “person”. And though even the daftest of the townsfolk could see that such animalistic eloquence and stature could only come to be through the curse of a witch (or a second gift from god, perhaps, to keep her from the wiles and whims of the men and boys she walked home), the fruit she bore, fuzzy and already split open for a few hours at this point, blood and juices running from him, down his thigh, seeping into her mane and sticking to his steps and sewing the seems of botanical stems together, blades of grass cutting through the stream, guiding it along the lining of the stone path-

And through even that!

He was but a fond footnote in the neat folds of her memory, as her rich company always claims, and she was but the catalyst of his everything and everyone and himself, making for a fair more enchanting tale.

But since it is only fair (and because he would inevitably get his way in the matter anyway), we instead present The Life and Lies of That Thing over there, shivering in the corner, shaking the bushes.

We hope you enjoy.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news and that kind of love (Scene 2: Dinner and diatribes)

Fandom: South Park Ships: Bunny (Kenny/Butters) Link to Scene 1 Accompanying Playlist for this Fic on Spotify and Youtube Disclaimer: The author of this work does not condone/endorse the messages, themes, and concepts presented by South Park. Considering how said work is melodramatic gay fanfiction written in theatrical script format of all things, I'm sure this seems reasonable to assume. However, it’s astonishing how many times I've stumbled upon people in this fandom who are wholehearted believers of almost everything the show says, and, quite frankly, I would rather evaporate from this plane of existence than potentially be presumed as a bigot or, god forbid, a centrist. Summary: In the wee hours of the morning, a prayer is answered. (Or:) "Your friends are a fate that befell me / Hell is the talking type / I'd suffer Hell if you’d tell me / What you'd do to me tonight"

LIGHT ON. Both characters are occupying cruddy, worn-down lawn chairs staring at the now-moved stove, a human limb or two sticking out. Having a cord that’s attached to the stove and clearly leads back to a supposed outlet is optional, but preferred.

BUTTERS

He wanted a burial.

KENNY

Who, Stevie?

BUTTERS

(Giggling)

You mean Stephen?

KENNY

(Wordlessly shrugs)

BUTTERS

(Giggling harder)

You silly goose.

Kenny bursts out laughing, causing Butters to do the same. At some point, before they calm down, Kenny deliberately and noticeably pushes Butters back into his chair after he leans too close to the fire.

BUTTERS

…He wanted to be 6 feet deep so he could “feel the lord lift his soul away from the flames of hell licking his bones”.

KENNY

Jesus. Normally, I aim 6 feet deep to make a girl screa-

BUTTERS

(Mapping out the imagery with his hands)

I wanted to bury him so we could put my mom right next to him, and then we could dig a little hole between the two dirt boxes, you know, so their skeletons could hold hands.

KENNY

…Oh, dude.

BUTTERS

Yeah, I know.

KENNY

Oh, no, fuck that, man. That’s like…the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, fuck…Leo, how the hell do you…

(Turning to Butters and lightly shaking his shoulders)

…How does…anybody talk to you and not fall head over heels?

BUTTERS

(Smiling brightly, giggling, and weakly punching Kenny’s arm)

However you dodged that bullet!

Suddenly embarrassed, Kenny awkwardly chuckles before dropping the strained smile and leaning in, pulling Butters closer.

KENNY

…Do you want a better alibi, Butters?

BUTTERS

…You said South Park crimes don’t need good alibis, Ken?

KENNY

(Speaking intensely and actively dodging Butters’s attempts to correct him)

They don’t need kids like us either, Buttercup. They don’t need us, and we don’t need them, and I snuck into your backyard with nothing but some good ol’ McCormick charm to talk you into ditching this stupid town for good, with me and the guys tonight, and don’t you dare ask me if Cartman’s coming, ‘cause I can’t stand him, and you don’t need him- No, fuck you, you do not, Leo!

(Grabbing Butters’s face by the hand and turning it towards the fire)

Look what you did without him!

(Pulling Butter’s face close to his and grinning)

Think about what we could do together if we leave now! We could stay with KEVIN and KAREN, and- and STAN could hook us up with a long-term plan, and I could pick up odd jobs while KYLE gets his degree, and then we’d be fuckin’ set, dude!

(Cupping both of Butters’s cheeks in both hands)

We can finally get you the life you deser-

Butters rips his head away and Kenny’s toothy grin slowly fades, growing defensive and rising from his seat. The fight escalates gradually.

KENNY

…No. No, don’t you pull that crap with me, you little shit!

BUTTERS

(Sinking into his chair exasperated)

Oh, Christ, here we go again.

KENNY

You can’t act like I’m bullshittin’ you every time I point out how you’re the best fuckin’ part of this town, just ‘cause you’re so uncomfortable with your own fucking existence-

BUTTERS

(Shooting up out of his seat)

Oh, please! You wanna talk “comfort”? You couldn’t look me in the eyes ‘till high school!

KENNY

(Unhinged)

Because those fucking eyes were still big and bright and full of fuckin’ wonder even when you were the school lapdog and mine were dead and nobody would look at them, but you did! You looked at me and you saw friendship and- and a future and fuckin-… potential, god knows why! And all of a sudden, I was your favorite, and I couldn’t get why that rocked my nine-year-old world, but I get it now, and I can’t lose it again, so please! Please, can you just…trust me on this one?

A beat passes. Butters scoffs. He calmly walks to a tearful Kenny bent over a chair and looks down at him, voice calm and collected. Kenny’s head is bent down.

BUTTERS

You want me to trust you? What, like I trusted my uncles?

Butters bends over, head level with Kenny’s. Kenny looks up to meet his gaze. The audience can faintly hear his teeth grit.

BUTTERS

(Gently but furiously)

You don’t get brownie points for fucking me, Kennith. You get called a faggot by all our little pals, and Eric saying you could do better.

Shouting, Kenny shoots up while slamming his hands on the top of the chair before roughly grabbing and shaking Butters, pulling him closer. He sounds frantic and desperate, his voice breaking and tears pouring down his face.

KENNY

I don’t want better, I want-

He freezes. A long pause passes.

…I wanna make a toast.

He sprints offstage before Butters can say anything. A long pause passes. He jogs back with two beer bottles in hand, one already opened. He pushes the open one into Butters’s hand before cracking the other one open with his own violently shaking hands. He looks like he’s been crying even harder offstage and sounds like he still has some waterworks left in the tank. He raises his beer, voice slightly wavering.

To our newfound freedom!

Butters stares blankly, before smiling sadly. They click glasses before settling back into their seats. Butters holds his in both hands cautiously while Kenny uses one hand. They both drink, turning away from each other. LIGHTS OUT.

END OF PLAY.

[justahopelessaromantic]

In your dreams, kid (Ch. 5: Quiet [n.] - Like silence, but not really silent

Fandom: Omori Timeline: Post Good Ending Ships: Suntan (Sunny/Kel) Links to First, Previous, and Next Chapter List of Accompanying Playlists for this Fic Pinterest Moodboard for this Fic Summary: Under Sunny’s hypocritical, well-intentioned advice, Kel puzzled over his mental checklist as the bruised house drifted out of sight, now a grey blur. An assortment of surgery, artery-clogging snacks? Check! Mixtape Sunny made special for him, covered in little red hearts and a doodle of the two of them holding hands? Check (No, actually, he will not read into that, thank you for asking). An 8-pack of Monster so Aubrey wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel while he drives her mad with alien conspiracies and iSpy all night? Check! (Sunny downed three, the absolute madman, before they even stepped foot in the car, but he figured it still counted) Homework? ...check. An excuse for stealing Ms. Suzuki’s car, running away with her son and "future daughter-in-law", and showing up at his incredibly busy brother’s dorm room? You know, something even remotely better than “You sounded like you were about to cry over the phone last night and you don’t cry and I’m so worried and distracted and madly in love with you, I simply had to come check on you, so...Surprise!” ...He’d check that one off sometime before they got there. Probably.

He resigned himself to fixing this because he cared about his friends and wanted them to be okay, first and foremost. His primal, base need for some kind of goal to laser in on as a distraction from his own dark thoughts was barely an afterthought, honest.

It was Basil’s smile that hit Kel first, words tumbling after. Mischievous. Adoring. Laughing with him, not at him. It's the one Kel gave when the guilt of faking it weighed down on the corners of his mouth. He wondered if Basil carved the eerily perfect curve out of the good of the situation like he did.

“Hey, Kel.” Through some kind of witchcraft, Basil had managed to make his voice even softer, even smaller. Kel was grateful, he swore. He was grateful for everything they did, but the gentle almost-whisper was kind on his over-sensitive ears, even with how closely they sat together. They smiled, and it warmed him faster than the heated porcelain cupped in his hands. “How are you feeling?” Kel resisted the urge to lean into the hand now rubbing his back, aching for the raw, unabashed comfort of Sunny’s arms around his.

He could feel Basil’s eyes crawling all over him, but he’d sew his mouth shut before saying that. Unless the aforementioned witchcraft gave him the ability to read minds alongside his weird Poison Ivy thing, Basil didn’t know anything. Yet. He turned his eyes to the reflection in the cup just in case, wary of the residual guilt swimming in his eyes. He could spill over as easily as this teacup, if he wasn’t careful (and, historically speaking, he wasn’t).

“Fine.” He took a sip to avoid further suspicion before it dawned on him that oh shit, he liked tea now. Wack. “You?”

The counterattack raised an eyebrow and the tone of Basil’s voice, but what really made his blood freeze was the cross of his arms before holding a hand over his chest. It reeked of his mother and the persistent stench of her disappointment. “...I’m alright, but I’m not the one who woke up screaming and crying.”

Busted.

He gave it a good try though! Using their own signature move against the divine Masters of Deflection themselves took guts. Guts he’d spew all over the carpet if it weren’t for his rigorously trained immune system.

“I wasn’t crying.” He scrambled under Basil’s unimpressed frown for an excuse for such a blatant lie. “M-my body was just..” His fear slithers up, reaching to claw at his mouth before dragging something only believable to people who didn’t know him. Sunny and Basil knew him, for better or, in this mortifyingly dragged-out scenario, worse. ”...overworking itself in my sleep!”

Basil’s eyebrow was trying for the ceiling now. A noble goal, but Kel wasn’t giving up just yet. “N-no, seriously! It happens all the time when I play, I swear!”

“You don’t cry when you play.” Oh, now Sunny joins in? The one time he’s not encouraging him to speak up? Jesus, he was just trying to quell their worries. Is that too much to ask? Does he really need to know? “At least…” Sunny shifted his gaze down, just a tad. Enough for his eyes to follow in bereft anticipation. “...I don’t think you do.” Perhaps he should keep an eye or two out, he mused. To let the referee know.

Kel’s fingernails drummed against the cup and he wondered if this was how Basil felt like right before spiraling. He really hoped not. This felt too cruel for the universe to inflict, even for Basil, even once in a blue moon. The clinking was grounding. Harsh. Kinda rude if you ask him, with an oversensitive Sunny resting his head on his shoulder (Fuck, could Sunny feel the warmth spreading across his cheeks from there? It felt…inappropriate, considering the mood).

The makeshift metronome was relievingly reminiscent of the tea parties Aubery and Mari would drag a humoring Hero and an indifferent Sunny into (He recalled, regretfully, distracting an intrigued Basil with Spaceboy comics, rolling his basketball back and forth, whatever his tainted little mind could think of, tucked away in their cramped little corner). Kel wished he was there, that this hazy little early morning was as far away as a balloon let go of in his own overexcitement, getting smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared into the clouds.

Mari used to complain about his “wishing life away”. Probably ‘cause she knew how to spot the good in every living, breathing moment. Even moments like this.

He blinked hard. His eyes searched, scanned, adjusting to the darkness only to be met with his dead-eyed shadow dancing over boards and boards of dead trees.

Kel wondered what she’d say now. How she hid the faint shadow of distress from something as bright as her little sunshine. If she simply tucked it behind a lock of hair to circle the drain during her morning shower. Swallowed it only to puke it onto over some harrowing piano piece later. 

Well, if he couldn’t be Mari (and believe him, he tried), he could be honest. One of them had to be, and Kel was a marvel at picking up the slack where his friends struggled. It was second nature at this point. Grateful, tiresome, rewarding second nature.

Sucking in a huge wavering breath, almost as if he could heave out the fear swirling in his lungs on the exhale, Kel spat out the most avoidant truth possible, which was absolutely not a copout, shut up.

“Only when you’re not watching!”

...Ah. A tad too truthful in his humble, humble little opinion. One could even call it a worst-case scenario. How did Hero do this again?

“…What…” Oh, that silence could swallow him whole if it wanted, and he wasn't in the sport of putting up a fight. “…does that…” God, fuck. “…mean, Kel?”

With all the care and precision in the world, Kel just...didn't answer.

“Kel, why are you crying when you play basketball?” He vaguely heard a pinch of halfhearted stammering. From him, he had to presume. “Kel? Kel-“ He’s folding now, blaming his losings on a rancid deck, when surely, he was just fumbling with understanding the unending rules- “Kelsey!”

Kel’s silence floated over the room, draping over the late-night conversationalists in a makeshift pillow fort. As if one of the light gray clouds outside seeped through the ceiling, too heavy with tears to drift away to safety. 

Out of pure, dire necessity, Basil was the loudest voice in the room.

God help them all.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news and that kind of love (Scene 1: Honey, I laugh when it sinks in)

Fandom: South Park Ships: Bunny (Kenny/Butters) Link to Scene 2 Accompanying Playlist for this Fic on Spotify and Youtube Disclaimer: The author of this work does not condone/endorse the messages, themes, and concepts presented by South Park. Considering how said work is melodramatic gay fanfiction written in theatrical script format of all things, I'm sure this seems reasonable to assume. However, it’s astonishing how many times I've stumbled upon people in this fandom who are wholehearted believers of almost everything the show says, and, quite frankly, I would rather evaporate from this plane of existence than potentially be presumed as a bigot or, god forbid, a centrist. Summary: In the wee hours of the morning, a prayer is answered. (Or:) "Your friends are a fate that befell me / Hell is the talking type / I'd suffer Hell if you’d tell me / What you'd do to me tonight"

SETTING:

An upper-middle-class kitchen in the dark. Blood is everywhere. Two corpses, dressed fairly plainly and modestly while appearing as somewhere in their mid-40s, are spread across the room. The man is bleeding out via gunshot wound while the knife, covered in blood, peanut butter, and jelly, is still sticking out of the woman’s throat. Two PB&J’s rest next to a children’s lunchbox. The crusts on one are only partially cut off. A part of the floor has sticky white stuff splattered here and there. The kitchen window shines a ray of blue/white light into the room that lands right between the window and the woman’s body. The audience can see the stove. The soft sound of its humming is optional, but preferred.

BUTTERS is standing opposite of the man’s body on the other side of the room, holding an overly large shotgun in hand. A beat passes. He‘s still frozen as he drops it, only fliching as it hits the ground. A beat passes. He shakily stumbles over to the window, completely out of it as he awkwardly steps over her body before sinking to his knees in front of the window. He folds his hands on the windowsill before a beat passes. He suddenly remembers himself, shutting his eyes, bowing his head, and bringing one of his hands to his throat. He makes a cross with his hands while reciting the beginning of a Hail Mary prayer like someone who’s memorized it perfectly but is clearly in shock. He speaks with a heavy southern drawl and accent.

BUTTERS

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Now trembling, he laces his fingers together again.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the Fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now…and at the hour of our death. Amen.

A beat passes. He begins, sounding unsure of himself, almost like he’s perpetually asking a question.

…Dear lord…Hi…I know we haven’t exactly spoken in a while, and- and I do apologize for that!...I’m sure it must be frustrating, waiting on one of your most devoted followers to check in. Lord knows- Oh, whoops! My bad. I know it drives me up the wall when I text my friends about hanging out over the weekend and then ERIC don’t even say nothing about it until third period. O-or when KENNY calls me back, but it takes him a sec, and then when ya pick up the phone, his throat’s all deep and scratchy and you know he’s not really calling to talk. He’s just calling to show off, ‘cause he knows I can tell he just got some good pussy, I can smell it on his breath through the damn phone line. So then- then he starts going on about how he’d loooove to make plans, and “How was your day, Leo?”, and “Hey, Bun bun, I aced that test you tutored me on, ain't ya just so proud of me?” Fucker. All while that poor girl’s probably just sitting there, waiting for him to just quit his yammering, so she can finally get some fucking beauty sleep!

(Snapping his fingers and pointing)

Or- Or when you call your parents about the list they left you ‘cause it just don’t make any sense, but they only pick up while they’re pulling into the driveway, and by then it's too late and you're practically grounded already, so you’re all like “Well, to hell with it!”. And then you get into even more trouble for saying that, even tho-

(Pausing for a second before remembering himself and folding his hands again)

..Oh…Sorry. I don’t mean to make any excuses or nothing. I know missing your nightly prayers still ain't acceptable behavior…Well, I mean…

(Gesturing vaguely)

I know none of this is acceptable behavior. What I said, what I did. I- I just…

Butters makes a frustrated sigh borderlining between a growl or groan. He continues, voice gradually getting shakier until Butters is barely holding back the waterworks.

Everyone’s coming here for the wake…and my uncles are already real sore, I bet. ‘Bout grandma dying…Can’t imagine how sore they’ll be, seeing what I did to their baby sister!

Butters bursts into tears at the phrase “baby sister”, burying his face in his hands and letting out a few sobs.

And how sore I’ll be if they figure I should-

He lets out a choked sob before taking in a shuddery breath and exhaling slowly to collect himself, voice grave and wavering.

…I know I ain't in any position to ask for nothing, on account of what I’ve done…But if you could just send down something nice…like a sign or something, or…

(Pausing, his tone shifting into something soft)

…or an angel…Yeah…yeah, an angel. The loveliest one you got, won’t you?…One I could trust.

A beat passes. Kenny climbs through the open window, speaking in a muffled voice.

KENNY

(Sly)

Sure you need one, ‘cause I’m looking at-

Butters stumbles back as Kenny lands face first before frantically scrambling to his feet. A beat-up parka covers his mouth and hair. The hood has fur lining the edge. He’s illuminated by the light as he stares at the dead father before slowly lowering his head to meet Butters’s gaze. A beat passes.

BUTTERS

(Overjoyous)

That’ll do!

Butters throws his arms around Kenny’s legs, burying his face in them. Kenny does not move.

KENNY

(In abject horror)

…Holy shit, dude.

(Looking over to the mother’s corpse and pulling down his hood, unmuffling his voice)

…The hell did you get dragged into this time?

BUTTERS

(Cheerily)

Nothing!

KENNY

(Trying to sound casual, but still failing)

Ah, so this is all a morbid hallucination my fried brain cooked up…That checks out.

BUTTERS

(Realizing)

Oh! Well, no, this ain't nothing! This is landing me a one-way ticket to hell. I mean I didn’t get dragged into it.

KENNY

…Meaning…like, Cartman’s not gonna burst out of your dad’s dead body and start waving around his lower intestine in a victory dance? This is all you?

BUTTERS

Yup!

(Letting go of Kenny to sit criss-cross applesauce, peering up at him contently as he starts taking care of evidence)

You see, my mom came in while I was packing lunch for the both of us, and she starts hollering about me being a perv and a homewrecker, and I didn’t quite get what she meant, so I ask her, right? So she whips out this old condom my uncle musta left from yesterday, and I figure she suspects my old man, so I try to explain myself, but she just kept yelling and crying—And, she’s getting real hysterical, Ken! Think she might’a had too much wine at the funeral.

KENNY

(Not looking up from what he’s doing)

Oh, I believe it!

BUTTERS

(Giggling)

So-so she keeps waving that…

(Gradually growing more anxious and uncomfortable before delving into pure rage)

…thing around. And I start explaining even harder and she just keeps dangling that thing in my face and some of my-my stuff starts spilling on the floor. And then I start fretting over stepping in it and how pissed off my dad’s gonna get if I don’t clean up in time, and how he’s almost home, and how mom’s just…holding the proof- I didn’t even have to tell her! She’s fucking holding it! Which means she knows, and she’s just standing there, yelling at me! And…well, by then, she was just yelling at the lord, I think, but she just-

(Trembling and crying tears of anguish and anger)

I just couldn’t-

Kenny whips around at the sound of crying. At some point, Butters has stood up in anger, now facing the audience.

Stop thinking about how I was…

He trails off, roughly whipping under his nose with an open palm and sniffling before hitting the side of his thigh twice in frustration. He balls it into a fist and hits himself a third time, gingerly shaking his head before turning back to face Kenny.

…What’d you call it again?

KENNY

…Assaulted?

BUTTERS

(Aggressively pointing)

Yeah, that! I was- I got assaulted-

Butters stumbles. Before he can collapse onto the floor in violent, furious sobs and gasps, Kenny catches him, holding him up in his arms and keeping a steady grip. Constantly switching from burying his face into Kenny’s arm and screaming in his face, Butters tries to pull himself together multiple times while ranting. He doesn’t fully succeed once. Slightly frantic and at a bit of a loss for words, Kenny doesn’t waver once, though he sounds like he’s just on the cusp of doing so. He just keeps eye contact, fervently hanging onto each word.

He fucking touched me and I was a baby and she was holding it in her fucking. Hands-

Butters stomps his foot on the words “fucking” and “hands”. He lands on Kenny’s foot the second time. Kenny does not let go.

And she still didn’t do shit, and it was a big fucking deal! I mean, it was, right?

KENNY

(Anxiously reassuring)

Yeah, yeah, it was, man.

BUTTERS

And I just thought that somebody should be…someone shoulda been doing something about it, yaknow? And they didn’t! So I did it- I did something.

KENNY

You did. I can tell.

BUTTERS

I told that fuck- I said “I don’t! Care! Somebody has to pay for what happened to me, and if God won’t do it, you will!” And then I shoved it in her throat and I laughed in her face, and then dad storms in screaming his freaking damn head off and I didn’t trust him, I never did-

KENNY

As you should.

BUTTERS

So I watched him go for that fucking belt, the bastard, and then I got pissy, ‘cause he didn’t even have to kill his mom, she croaked all on her own, and the last kid she put her fucking hands on was me, Kenny, me! Not him, me!

KENNY

I know, dude. I know.

BUTTERS

And, and I got the shotgun off the wall and I fired two, I fired two warning shots, and I felt bad, so I cried, and my eyes got blurry, so, so I missed, but I don’t care! I did it. I did it, goddamnit. I did it all on my own, Ken! I did it all by myself!

Butters finally falls apart, hysterically sobbing into Kenny’s shoulder as Kenny pulls him into a bear hug. He rubs circles into Butters’s back, scrunches a hand into his hair, and alternates between shushing him, whispering sweet nothings, and roughly planting kisses all over the top of his head. He starts crying, though he’s notably much more composed than Butters.

KENNY

You did, you did, man! You did it all by yourself, and now everything's gonna be okay, and I’m gonna take care of everything, and I’m so, so, fucking proud of you, Bunny, holy shit, I’m so fucking proud!

BUTTERS

(Looking up and gasping for breath)

Honest?

KENNY

(Letting out a watery cackle)

Fuck yeah, are you kidding me? Dude, I just slit my mom’s throat and booked it.

(Hoisting Butters up and spinning him around)

This shit was performance art, baby!

BUTTERS

(Giggling while slapping Kenny’s shoulders and kicking wildly)

Kenny! Kenny, put me down, ya silly! I’m gonna puke!

KENNY

And miss this lovely view?

BUTTERS

(Slightly annoyed, but still in good spirits)

Kenny!

KENNY

(Chuckling as he sets Butters down and bends over)

Sorry! Shit, sorry. C’mon, hard part’s over, man. Now I get to teach you about all the cool, sexy stuff I learned from the investigative murder porn channel. You know, the one you're such a scaredy cat about.

Butters, now riding on Kenny’s back, piggyback-style, shoves a fist in the air and cheers. Kenny laughs and walks offstage. LIGHTS OUT.

[justahopelessaromantic]

In your dreams, kid (Ch. 4: Four dirty children, one far, far away)

Fandom: Omori Timeline: Post Good Ending Ships: Suntan (Sunny/Kel) Links to First, Previous, and Next Chapters List of Accompanying Playlists for this Fic Pinterest Moodboard for this Fic Summary: Under Sunny’s hypocritical, well-intentioned advice, Kel puzzled over his mental checklist as the bruised house drifted out of sight, now a grey blur. An assortment of surgery, artery-clogging snacks? Check! Mixtape Sunny made special for him, covered in little red hearts and a doodle of the two of them holding hands? Check (No, actually, he will not read into that, thank you for asking). An 8-pack of Monster so Aubrey wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel while he drives her mad with alien conspiracies and iSpy all night? Check! (Sunny downed three, the absolute madman, before they even stepped foot in the car, but he figured it still counted) Homework? ...check. An excuse for stealing Ms. Suzuki’s car, running away with her son and "future daughter-in-law", and showing up at his incredibly busy brother’s dorm room? You know, something even remotely better than “You sounded like you were about to cry over the phone last night and you don’t cry and I’m so worried and distracted and madly in love with you, I simply had to come check on you, so...Surprise!” ...He’d check that one off sometime before they got there. Probably.

Evasive feet clunked against bamboo, like the stutter of a cheap elevator cord dragging Mari’s soul up to heaven, too weak to bang against the metal. His sweaty skin peels off of Sunny’s, the whine of a screeching halt reverberating off the walls.

Kel, as always, wasn’t afforded the luxury of dwelling on whether or not Sunny found that gross or swelling up in pride at Sunny’s distinct “Holy shit he actually showered” smell. Couldn’t even fight the blush illuminating his face in the dark for the amusement of a giggling Basil. The sight of black slopes under wiggling toes drained every last drop of blood back down to his thundering heart.

They didn’t use the elevator.

Sunny isn’t really a surprise. When he actually has the energy to throw on shoes, he silently stews in how inconvenient they are, tossing them in his closet the moment he hits the mattress.

They didn’t use the elevator.

But Basil? They clean themselves silly before daring to take even one step onto the welcome mat, even after digging his toes in the mud with Kel (much to Aubery’s hilarious disgust). Aubrey jokes that Ms. Polly’ll have his head, and Kel, bold in his pursuits, adds that Basil’s just looking for some head of his own, nudging his side. Aubrey shoves him down and he and Basil laugh as they wipe away the splashback of brown sludge. A tale so classic, Sunny could have dreamed it up in headspace.

They didn’t use the elevator.

Basil’s no better at keeping secrets nowadays, only having less. Ms. Polly, she keeps tabs on the panic in his voice when she positions her broom at that first step, how he offers to do it themself only to freeze by step three.

They didn’t use the elevator.

Filthy stairs in a spotless home.

Sunny and Basil didn’t use the elevator. They took the stairs.

They took the stairs.

          They

                   Took

                             The

                                 Stairs

            They took the stairs.

Kel...fucked up. Big time.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Go away, come again another day (Ch. 3: "One stormy day!" by Monaca Komaeda)

Fandom: Danganronpa AU: Medieval/Fantasy AU Ships: Nagito/Monaca, Mahiru/Sato, and Soapies Links to Chapters 1 and 2 Summary: The kingdom's people do their best to get through the day. The storm rages on regardless.

Her mornings are spent outside with her brother.

Technically they’re spent with “the servant”, but his suggestion that she treat him as such triggered a tantrum so visceral it rattled the book on his nightstand, his mangled bones, and his weak heart. Poor Ms. Maki had to rip herself out of Miss. Painter lady’s warm sheets calm her down. Nagito, to absolutely no one’s surprise, said he'd be fine. She wasn't exactly keen on comforting adults, but she held him anyway.

Still. He usually had the whole morning to pepper her forehead with wake-up kisses. To get tugged back under the covers for drowsy cuddles because if Monaca wants it, it happens. To adore and be adored.

The rest of her day is spent with him supervising her and the rest of the “warriors of hope” (nicknamed by Masaru and him), big sis Junko (sometimes big sis Mukuro too, if his luck panned out in her favor), or the king and her loyal nanny.

And don’t say it's still their time, because the nuzzles against his cheek and the way he cards through her hair is different without all these subjects running around her. Ring around the Rosie is intimate, not private. Quit acting like the ate matters when they were all out of food!

Really though. His fingers don’t get tangled with Junko’s chin indented into his shoulder, her hair brushing critique advice jutting into his skin. She doesn’t turn to kiss his cheek with Masaru scrutinizing all eyes on him.

She can’t move up to his bitten-up, pale lips, crackling like the sparkling fireplace. Not with the lightning illuminating his pale face.

That’s peasant activity.

The flicker teases a halo outlining him. Monaca wishes she could be that angelic, but they’re not blood-related. Holiness doesn’t run in the family anyway.

(Monaca wishes on a lot of things, but the stars hid from her tonight. They must know of the luck she already relies on.)

Point being, it’s just not the same and she should still be having breakfast in bed right now and everything is stinky and horrible and utterly poopy! Has Monaca made herself clear? Good.

She buries her head into her brother’s arm and sighs, the hot breath making him shake with absent-minded giggles. He feels her grin in return. At least her favorite subjects are here. At least it’s not school.

I mean, it is school, if the building itself counts. Just not, like, school school. Monaca doesn’t have to know anything other than how to entertain herself and when dinner is. She’ll still take directions from Mr. Monokuma (yuck!) and Ms. Monami once everything clears up, but still. It’s miles better than being dragged to school.

Not that she didn't feel bad about all the destruction and death, mind you. What kind of hideous monster did you take her for (Probably not even one with cool teeth and an extra stomach, she bet)!

But that was outside. And everything outside is vague and abstract and outside. Not safe, kinda bland, cozy inside. Outside. And unless inside becomes outside, they should be safe.

Ms. Monami made it clear that that was impossible, anyway, even if the roof got ripped off or something like that! And her teacher had to be right because she was a teacher! Duh. Teachers just know these things, you know? They’re, like, geniuses or something. They have to be if she can’t figure out what they know without their personal help.

Though she assumes Miss. Momami meant that “inside” sorta just...quietly slipped away to somewhere else during all the commotion. Like how, in a few weeks, the memories of the hurricane would feel as far away as a balloon floating so high up you can barely see it after you let it go. Luckily though, this situation involves more than one crying child.

She’s twelve, anyway, so she isn’t supposed to worry about hurricanes or big scary stuff anyway. That’s for the adults to deal with (Though, with so many of them running around like chickens without heads, they seem to be doing a really bad job at it in her leaderly opinion)! Her responsibilities include keeping her room tidy whenever she felt bad about getting Nagito to do it via puppy dog eyes and being the line leader for the rest of the week. 

If someone added something like dealing with the aftermath of Masaru and his parents not making it or Miss. Toko closing her library to water damage, her five-year-old psych simply wouldn’t be able to handle it! Her head would swell up with all the age-inappropriate knowledge until the chandelier poked it, glistening from the natural strobe lights. Once it popped, all of her guts and puss and the chunks of her brain would fly everywhere, covering the whole classroom in bloody red.

At least, that's what Masaru says. He also says her dog would lick all of her up, but that part is just dumb. Probably only says that to freak her out anyway.

Jokes on him! It doesn’t even work, ‘cause she asked Mr. Monokuma and he says that dogs only do that if their owners die alone. And she’s gonna spend every sleeping moment with her brother, so there!

She still has a hard time wrapping her head around the concept though, even if it doesn’t apply to her. Especially with how gleefully he licked her hand before Nagito dropped him off at Mr. Dark Supreme Overlord of Icicles guy’s place. Poor thing probably had no idea how horrible everything was, having a hard time shivering and shaking at the crash of thunder with the “ancient protection spell cast over this realm” and all that.

Maybe he thought rushing over to the palace was some sort of mad dash to get to a family vacation spot before nightfall.

In a really dark, morbid way, it kinda was. She didn't think she would say that out loud, though. It sounded mean in her head and mean things always sound even meaner out loud. Especially after you’ve said them.

Monaca’s trying not to be so mean these days.

Moving her hand to pet Jarato’s surprisingly exposed tuft of hair (blonde, like her puppy), Monaca took one last wistful look at herself in the imaginary mirror before peering over at the startled boy’s work. She still couldn't figure out how he did it.

And what a shame, too! She was a smart kid. With a little bit of practice, she could even rival him. Could draw, like, a bazillion pictures of every little freaky image that came to her friend's mind! Kokichi could have sent her on that search mission with Ms. Saihara and Ms. Kirigiri to share her art with the world! She could even ask Mr. Dark Spooky Guy or that witch lady to bring her drawings to life!!!

Ah, well. Nagito still insisted on hanging up every bad doodle she made for him and cooing over what a sweet little beacon of hope she’s turned out to be in the end, so she’s probably not doing too bad for a twelve-year-old.

She audibly groans before dramatically plopping down, face flat on the floor, only barely lifting her head to see the “professional” laying down as well. Mahiru (That’s what Ms. Maki introduced her as, right?) gazed out the window through a sliver between the blinds. She looked bored. Even more than Emma.

For a dull heartbeat, Monaca narrows her eyes at the spare paintbrushes Jataro found before snatching them up and stumbling over to bask in the striped moonlight reflecting off the daydreamer. Maybe they could be bored together.

Or she could scare her into painting with her. That worked too.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Memories (Ch. 6: Asui)

Fandom: My Hero Academia Links to Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 Summary: They'll probably write memoirs about all this. That or they’ll pay someone else to. When they're all retired top heroes, of course, ready to share their life stories with the public they’ve spent their lives protecting. Who knows? It might even inspire the next generation of crime fighters! Maybe they'll even throw together a neat little scrapbook or something as a class this year and give it to Mr. Aizawa as a gift. For now, it'll just have to settle for rattling around in their brains every once and a while. You know. Like memories do.

Tsuyu remembers the cold air hitting her face

As she slowly emerges from cool waters

Droplets stinging her eyes

As they 

Drip

Straight

Down

Only to silently melt back

Into the waves

Soothingly rocking her

She holds her ground

She always does

If she doesn’t, who will?

She sinks back down

Disappearing into the cool absis

Leaving only the sound of the trees

Rustling in the wind

And the familiar symphony of croaks

From her friends

She could stay

Of course

But her other friends live on land

She can’t imagine why

[justahopelessaromantic]

In your dreams, kid (Ch. 3: You know the layout, don't you?)

Fandom: Omori Timeline: Post Good Ending Links to First, Previous, and Next Chapters List of Accompanying Playlists for this Fic Pinterest Moodboard for this Fic Note: I should probably mention that Basil uses he/they pronouns in this fic, just to clear up any potential confusion! Summary: Under Sunny’s hypocritical, well-intentioned advice, Kel puzzled over his mental checklist as the bruised house drifted out of sight, now a grey blur. An assortment of surgery, artery-clogging snacks? Check! Mixtape Sunny made special for him, covered in little red hearts and a doodle of the two of them holding hands? Check (No, actually, he will not read into that, thank you for asking). An 8-pack of Monster so Aubrey wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel while he drives her mad with alien conspiracies and iSpy all night? Check! (Sunny downed three, the absolute madman, before they even stepped foot in the car, but he figured it still counted) Homework? ...check. An excuse for stealing Ms. Suzuki’s car, running away with her son and "future daughter-in-law", and showing up at his incredibly busy brother’s dorm room? You know, something even remotely better than “You sounded like you were about to cry over the phone last night and you don’t cry and I’m so worried and distracted and madly in love with you, I simply had to come check on you, so...Surprise!” ...He’d check that one off sometime before they got there. Probably.

Basil stumbled on their way down the stairs, picturing Mari’s lifeless corpse at the bottom, ready to trip him. He cursed his hideous brain for letting him remember that so early in the morning. He cursed his eyes for not immediately finding the tea leaves right where Sunny said they would be. He cursed his hands for fumbling with the kettle and later, the porcelain teacup (Hopefully Mom wouldn’t mind) and his skin for being burned so easily by flying drops of boiling water. Apparently, his body had landed squarely on No Thanks™ that morning. An understandable answer, considering their urgent lack of sleep, but Basil, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t exactly asking. His friends needed him (even if the situation was pretty low stakes) and Basil had no intentions of disappointing Sunny twice in the same night.

They cupped the thin porcelain with his freezing hands and let the warmth wash over his palms, steam tickling his nose and warming his now rosy cheeks. At least those worked right. He turned to bear witness to the moonlight pouring through the window pane onto their overlapping silhouettes, bracing himself for a step forward.

Now if only his feet could pull their shit together like his vocal cords couldn’t.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Close in Comfort

Fandom: Be More Chill Ships: Arson Bros (Richjake) Summary: Then Rich came into his life. And everything went to shit.

Jake didn't know when it started.

Maybe it stemmed from the example his parent’s violent and illegal lifestyle set. Maybe something happened when he was a kid. He vaguely recalled rubbing his eyes and yawning as he crept down the stairs to ask his parents if he could sleep with them that night after a particularly bad dream when he was 3 before ending up with a black eye and a cracked skull from the fight in the living room, resulting in his parents fretting over him for over a week and vowing to never bring work home again (Ironic, seeing that baby Jake didn't mind and, as a matter of fact, thought sporting the scar and bruise look made him hella badass.) Maybe the hit did damage to his brain and that did it. Maybe he was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline. Maybe it was the overwhelming ache that confronted him every morning and insisted on lingering with him almost every day, telling him that something desperate to his worthwhile survival (though he could never tell what) was missing. Maybe that was a symptom and not the cause.

What he did know what that he’d always been different from the other kids. And, yeah, he knew how incredibly cliché that sounded, but it was true! Sure, stuff like taking in interest in more violent hobbies as a child, such as tackle football, plucking the legs off of bugs whenever he spotted one, and roughhousing with the neighbors’ kids seemed normal enough, but a people person like him found it obvious that most toddlers weren't too thrilled by sneaking into their baba’s room and bingeing gory horror movies until his dad scooped him up and playfully dumped him into his bed, not even bothering to scold the giggling child for staying up so late or his viewing material.

That paled in comparison to the darker stuff he would get up to later though.

Throwing rocks at his neighbor's windows, subconsciously hoping the glass shards would cut them as they walked past it. Swinging his bat at the other team’s members when he lost a game and doing a disturbingly major amount of damage. Biting the kids on his block if they got under his skin. All of it concerned the adults in his life (save for his parents who only insisted it was simply a sign of the phenomenal criminal he would grow up to be) and himself. He developed a base sense that none of it was normal, despite in how right and natural it all felt.

Over time, his peers began avoiding him and his teachers began reprimanding him before his parents had the chance to blackmail them not to, so, to remedy the sting of his loneliness and harsh criticism, he bottled up those impulses deep down and made an effort to behave the best he could, gaining praise and popularity in the process. After the image of resident good boi Jake had been cemented, he figured he could handle it. That he could be a normal kid.

Then Rich came into his life.

And everything went to shit. 

He didn’t pay much mind to Mrs. Mell’s announcement of a new student. At best, he’d have a new friend, which didn’t mean much, considering his surplux of friendships at the time. At worse, there’d be another kid copying off his tests in class. Yet, as he leaned against the playground’s fence pouring water on an ant farm and gossiping with Jenna while a particularly rowdy squabble spilled out of the courtyard and into the sand box, Jake took the time to squint and tilt his head to get a better view of the fight. And their he was. The new kid, drenched in bruises and fat tears spilling down his face, wildly swinging and clawing at his aggressors in a pathetically vain attempt to feign them off.

And yet, somehow, in his chaotic state, he still came off as the most gorgeous person Jake had seen. It was as if, suddenly, everything had clicked into place and the empty hole inside himself was filled instantly as waves of tranquility washing over him the more he stared at him. Like everything was right with the world and nothing else mattered as long as this kid was ok.

Maybe that explains why he felt such an intense, burning desire to protect him.

Tuning out his friend’s cries of confusion and throwing himself into the fray, Jake managed to scar each bully either mentally or physically, sending them running and/or crying. Swiping up the sky blue glasses on the ground, he slowly bent down and gingerly placed them back on the new student’s head, wide brown eyes hiding behind now slightly cracked frames locked with his in a way that made him feel things he couldn’t put into words even if he tried as he offered a soft smile and brushed a few tears away.

“Hi! My name’s Jake. What’s yours?”

“...Richard.” He muttered, shrinking back into himself and picking at a scratch one of the other kids left. Guess he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Oh well, he could work with that.

“You got a really pretty name, Richard. It fits ‘cause you’re a really pretty guy.” He held out his hand and helped the now red-faced kid back up, almost falling down himself from the sheer shock of holding hands before tugging on his sleeve. “C’mon, I’ll show you where the nurse’s office is!” Fiercely shaking his head, Rich stumbled back as he...trembled? What was that about?

“Nuh-uh, can’t!”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause than they’ll see the scars and then they’ll get mad at my Daddy and take him away again and it’ll be all my fault!” He cried as he furiously scrubbed away tear streaks and dug his nails into his arm, unintentionally drawing blood from a fresh cut. Acting on impulse, Jake swept up his new friend in a tight hug and explained that he swore he wouldn’t let that happen, added how they couldn’t do that anyway ‘cause Rich getting hurt “is, like...illegal or something!”

“Promise?” He sniffed.

“Promise.”

And with that, the two were off, running back to their classroom and leaving a pack of jerks and one immensely confused Jenna behind them.

[justahopelessaromantic]

The Blue Smudge (Scene 2: "I am glad my case is not serious!")

Fandom: South Park Ships: K2 (Kenny/Kyle) AU: The Yellow Wallpaper AU Links to Cast of Characters Page and Scenes 1, 3, and 4 Accompanying Playlist for this Fic on Spotify and Youtube Disclaimer: The author of this work does not condone/endorse the messages, themes, and concepts presented by South Park. Considering how said work is melodramatic gay fanfiction written in theatrical script format of all things, I'm sure this seems reasonable to assume. However, it’s astonishing how many times I've stumbled upon people in this fandom who are wholehearted believers of almost everything the show says, and, quite frankly, I would rather evaporate from this plane of existence than potentially be presumed as a bigot or, god forbid, a centrist. Summary: "I get positivity angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere." (Or:) According to most food safety experts, margarine, when exposed to the elements, lasts for roughly one month before going bad.

LIGHTS ON. It’s dark. Wallpaper Girl hangs over the crib, absentmindedly drumming her fingers on the railing. Kenny lays face down in bed, still in his now-unzipped parka.

WALLPAPER GIRL

(Speaking at normal volume)  

Why do you sleep in that thing?

KENNY

(Sounding groggy and slightly annoyed, semi-whispering)

…’Cause it's cold.

WALLPAPER GIRL

But you’re in your tighty-whities?

KENNY

(Sleazily)

Gotta show off the goods, man!

WALLPAPER GIRL

(Giggling)

To who? Kyle? Cause’ if that’s it, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree, little fella. He’s all fancy and professional and…

(Sincerely)

Well, no offense, but…well, in my experience, scoring young doesn’t make you a pimp or some big-shot player, if I’m being honest. It really just makes you a whore.

(Pausing for a moment before speaking)

It’s like…it's like when a little girl gets touched by her old man, and she starts making it everybody else’s problem ‘round eighth grade? She gets all…

(Wiggling his fingers in disgust)

…gross and sticky. At first, you feel bad for her, but then you realize! She’s throwing all these tantrums ‘cause she’s been a slut ever since she was a kid, and she doesn’t know how to be anything else, so now she’s just throwing shit at the wall and seein’ what sticks. That’s how you know there’s nothing actually special to her. Now she’s just some whore.

A beat passes. Kenny looks disturbed.

Least, that’s what I figure. ‘Sides, I think fooling around with him makes you a perv anyhow, so…

(Shooting up and bouncing on the crib’s padding)

You wearing those ‘cause your sister’s dropping by next week? With your family and everything?

(Stopping to tease him)

Are you just getting ready to show off for-

KENNY

(Frantically screaming, sounding hysterical with distress)

Dude, it’s fucking, three A.M., can you just-

LIGHTS OUT.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Memories (Ch. 5: Denki)

Fandom: My Hero Academia Links to Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6 Summary: They'll probably write memoirs about all this. That or they’ll pay someone else to. When they're all retired top heroes, of course, ready to share their life stories with the public they’ve spent their lives protecting. Who knows? It might even inspire the next generation of crime fighters! Maybe they'll even throw together a neat little scrapbook or something as a class this year and give it to Mr. Aizawa as a gift. For now, it'll just have to settle for rattling around in their brains every once and a while. You know. Like memories do.

Denki remembers the blinding white of the walls

(It’s funny

His memory’s usually shit

why hasn’t it blocked out what happened from his mind yet

The details hard to make out)

They make his vision spin

Blurring everything around him together

God, why is his brain wired this way?

Until it's just him

And her

And the faint ugly mustard yellow of the hallway

Hanging in his peripheral vision

(It seemed so lovely and quaint

When his mother took him to pick out the paint color with him

Wistfully musing over how

If you stare long enough

It almost matched her favorite house in San Juan

But that's where it happened the first time

Now it’s ugly and gross and dirty

like her like him)

The soft cotton of her sweater

Pink, he thinks

Suffocates him

Scratches his face

As he buries his face

Into the crook of her shoulder

He forgets if it’s some desperate grasp at comfort from someone he trusts

Idealizes

Loves in theory

Or just not to look weirder than she says he already is

(And if there really is a loving god

what kind god would do this to some random kid

Who’s protecting him

mama what kind of protection is this

Despite his mind and its repulsive thoughts,

mama why did He send me that sick dream about her

Like mama always says

mama you say i can always come to you if something happened

After she ruffles his hair

mama its happening

Playing with the static electricity it stores,

mama sometimes i play scenarios in my head where i slip up and tell you and i cry and you cry and hug me tight and its nothing like sis’s hugs and you promise to keep me safe from her and but that cant happen cause you would have to know and you cant know you cant you just cant

He won't let Denki remember

mama why wont He let me forget)

Arms are holding him in place close

Hands wandering down his back

Lower and lower and lower and lower and lower and lower andlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowera

In a tight, suffocating embrace

tooclosetooclosetooclosetooclosetooclose

Leaving him dizzy and nauseous

His body lingers in her touch of course because this is normal

Resisting the perverse typical urge to squeeze tighter

quit making it weird you fucking freak

(Kaminari doesn’t know much

But he knows hes going to burn for this

He just knows

The knowledge crawls around his brain

Like a cockroach

Making his mother screech

Before she grasps for the broom

Curses it out

Chases it out of the narrow laundry room and into the kitchen

Encouraged by his hysterical laughter and his sister’s giggles and playful eye roll

Textbooks and homework splayed all over the counter

Their backpacks

Their legs

Tangled together

Before he pulled away from her touch)

No one hugs him at U.A.

Maybe its ‘cause they want to die on the battlefield 

In gore and glory

Not by accidental electrocution

(One day Denki will strike himself down

With lightning

From electricity he let fester in the air

And the Lord will get full credit

And his sister will weep)

And what kind of douchebag doesn’t hug his own sister?

what kind of hero freezes in the face of danger

Sharp nails scratch his skin

As he weasels his way out of her grip

Static dances on her skin like her fingers did on his

He spits out a shaky apology

Barely a whisper

She could barely hear him

could mama hear

could she hear him if he screamed

would she want to

Be more careful

She pleads

Runs off to go help with dinner

Down the hall

Out the door

shes in the next room why can he still feel her hands

Like she’s forgotten him already

he wishes he could too

Denki remembers wishing he didn’t have to play nice with adults

With sisters

Like her

Sisters that touch

Denki remembers her

Clear as day

He wishes he could forget

[justahopelessaromantic]

Memories (Ch. 4: Mina)

Fandom: My Hero Academia Links to Chapters 1, 2, 3, 5, and 6 Summary: They'll probably write memoirs about all this. That or they’ll pay someone else to. When they're all retired top heroes, of course, ready to share their life stories with the public they’ve spent their lives protecting. Who knows? It might even inspire the next generation of crime fighters! Maybe they'll even throw together a neat little scrapbook or something as a class this year and give it to Mr. Aizawa as a gift. For now, it'll just have to settle for rattling around in their brains every once and a while. You know. Like memories do.

Mina remembers the squeak of rubber soles

Grinding against uneven concrete

Sweat dripping down her forehead

Soaking into the sidewalk

Oh!

If only she could do the same

As her cracked lips sputter out directions

And he’s gone

The sunlight he once blocked blinding her eyes

As she collapses

Her friends following suit

Soft skin trembling against her’s

Hands gripping at her collar

Tears pricking her eyes

Mina remembers wishing she didn’t have to play nice with adults

With men

Like him

Men that scare

She will never forget

[justahopelessaromantic]

Go away, come again another day (Ch. 2: Blue dripping down the bedpost)

Fandom: Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony, Danganronpa 2: Goodbye Despair, Danganronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls, and Danganronpa 3: The End of Hope's Peak High School AU: Medieval/Fantasy AU Links to Chapters 1 and 3 Summary: The kingdom's people do their best to get through the day. The storm rages on regardless.

Tomorrow, dawn will crack like the castle’s aging paint job, and you will rise from slumber. You will present yourself to pure, unabashed royalty, curtsy, and request pardon for being out of commission. Years from then, you will craft and weave the story of tonight for your future children, slathering it in coats of intrigue and fine-tuned detail.

You hate to even think it, but your hailed creativity gives you absolutely nothing to work with tonight. All you can do is scrounge up old writing adages, settling on “It was a dark and stormy night”. 

Except, it could very well be day. And were you sure it was actually dark out?

The only certainty at hand, really, was the storm. Your king (Or the little bastard, as Maki calls him) smiles in that horrible way he does. He’s given the perfect opportunity to be honest with his subjects.

He does not take it. This is not a surprise to you in any way whatsoever. You can read those types of men like a book. Still, these few sudden years of kindness have worn his lies down. Now they only provoke instead of guard. Compulsive, without the pathological.

He says the storm is all anyone was allowed to know. You know, like a liar.

He pretends it's because he simply won’t share with the class. You know full well the storm is the only one keeping secrets here.

You don't know if his questions gnaw at him as he lays in bed, searching for answers in his daughter’s mural hanging above him, but you can guess.

The sky hangs above you all. The shifting, otherworldly nuances it captivated humanity with are trapped behind shut blinds. The rationed meals Nagito brought tittered in the limbo between “Questionable, but probably safe.” and “Teruteru and Ruraka would have Maki’s head for letting children eat this, but the nanny is a bit desperate at the moment.” You press your hand to the wall. It rumbles with uncertainty.

For those few pseudo-weeks trudging along, all that was, and ever would be, was the storm. She wailed against the roof, determined to cement her downpour of terror in our memories. The kingdom would never forget her. She wouldn't allow it.

You’ve saved her a spot in the back of your mind. Given her free rain to crawl around the folds of your brain. You find her slow-paced, offbeat music and accompanying light show comforting, in some base, primal way.

You can’t say the same for your temporary roommates, however. Sure, Jataro seems content vandalizing her bedframe with the help of her oil paints and Nagito seemed pacified with doting over his little sister, lost in that little world of his as he gently rocked her back and forth and twiddled with her green locks (God, what a weirdo. A sweet, friendly weirdo, but still).

But poor Monaca sounded like she was trying to talk herself out of her own boredom. And Maki? You had no intentions of slandering your dear childhood friend, but the royal nanny looked close to murder. Whether Nagito was first on her kill list for hope-related crimes, or the kids for making her work overtime, it was clear from her lidded eyes and dead stare that exhaustion and cabin fever was setting in.

You wonder if Sato’s has set in yet or Hiyoko’s boredom before sheltering your flaring cheeks with your hands, as if Monaca’s chilling stare was preening your face for a cause. You have no right fretting over the princess in your spare time. Not like that.

To distract from your quickly wandering thoughts, you drag yourself over to the only window by your palms, grunting as your head awkwardly circles the border of film noir grey peeking through. The rough carpet stings, stray dirt and sand scraping at your palms and the pads of your fingers, but Hiyoko has taught you the odd joy found in the childish. Even crawling around.

She has taught you how to pine too, but Monaca’s widening eyes refuse to let yourself linger on that tonight. You swear, between her, the queen, and Maki, there’s not a single room in this godforsaken mansion you feel safe being suspicious.

Once facing upwards, you answer your forearms’ aching pleas and collapse each limb piece by piece, until all your eyes can focus on is the ground-up lapis lazuli meticulously slathered onto the ceiling. The glimmers of flashing white light turn hazy in the corner of your eyes.

Someone outta paint a mural up there. Definitely not you. Still life doesn’t make for a good mural. Your work slots neatly into its frame and that’s that. You’ve been that high up before, anyway. In your naive goodwill, you offered to help the royal carpenter (Mondo, right? Everyone blends into each other around here) take down the queen’s requested royal family portrait. You don’t know which startled you most: the view from halfway down or the mortifying, loving detail you poured into the rosy red of Hiyoko’s cheeks and the dull purple rage in Sato’s eyes.

Somebody, though. Scrape off that pompous ultramarine. Have Angie sketch out a design. Maybe get the children up there and let them smear the primary colors around until it looks decent. Make it a reward for dealing with all this and a break for Maki.

The faint sense that you should give your close friend somewhat of a break now wafts away the slough of your thoughts, like someone waving away smoke after putting out a candle. Couldn’t let the poor woman carry your shared unfortunate situation on her shoulders alone.

It was both of yours, after all.

Your attention, and your head, turn to the little girl laying down beside you, head propped up by her arm. You were sure she hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now she just...was. Staring into your soul in the most bored way possible. You had enough experience painting with Jataro to know kids were kinda just...like that and that you should at least make an effort to entertain the poor girl, but still. How could you strike up a conversation like this when you just spent the last half hour or so avoiding eye contact and scarfing down lunch in loud silence, save for the pitter-patter of the king and his lovers above?

Isn’t your duty as a friend to shield your quiet friend and your shared soft-spoken company from an impending tantrum anyhow? Isn't the thunder enough?

Without breaking eye contact, Monaca pulls one of your paint brushes from behind her and flicks it, folding her arm to rest her head. It bumps against your arm before rolling a few centimeters in the other direction. Neither of you says anything until it comes to a halt.

“Jataro’s too embarrassed to ask for your help painting the bed, so Monaca’s doing it for him.” And so she is, offering just enough words and a bone-chilling smile (Embarrassed of what? His art skills? Asking her to deface her belonging together, as if that isn’t the sweetest she’s heard all day? Himself?) “Don’t worry!” She brushes the tip of your nose as her own scrunched up in a smile. “Monaca will help too!”

By the time the three of you are done, Maki is knocked out at the foot of the bed, Nagito and Monaca are curled up together (as they should be), neatly tucked in, and Jataro is buried deep in your arms, bouncing on your lap in pride. You’ve both made art with your tiny little hands and survived the subsiding storm. The knowledge is mutual.

[justahopelessaromantic]

In your dreams, kid (Ch. 2: early to rise)

Fandom: Omori Timeline: Post Good Ending Ships: Suntan (Sunny/Kel) Links to First and Next Chapter List of Accompanying Playlists for this Fic Pinterest Moodboard for this Fic Summary: Under Sunny’s hypocritical, well-intentioned advice, Kel puzzled over his mental checklist as the bruised house drifted out of sight, now a grey blur. An assortment of surgery, artery-clogging snacks? Check! Mixtape Sunny made special for him, covered in little red hearts and a doodle of the two of them holding hands? Check (No, actually, he will not read into that, thank you for asking). An 8-pack of Monster so Aubrey wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel while he drives her mad with alien conspiracies and iSpy all night? Check! (Sunny downed three, the absolute madman, before they even stepped foot in the car, but he figured it still counted) Homework? ...check. An excuse for stealing Ms. Suzuki’s car, running away with her son and "future daughter-in-law", and showing up at his incredibly busy brother’s dorm room? You know, something even remotely better than “You sounded like you were about to cry over the phone last night and you don’t cry and I’m so worried and distracted and madly in love with you, I simply had to come check on you, so...Surprise!” ...He’d check that one off sometime before they got there. Probably.

If Aubrey stuck to her early jogging routine like she once stuck to Mari or Basil’s insomnia didn’t feel like lending itself any rest, there was a good chance they’d spot his widened eyes from the stairs and ask about a supposed morning. Kel, of course, would say no, but he’d take note of the thin hue of light draped over the sky, since that basically meant it was sunrise, which basically meant it was morning.

To him, at least.

Kel was intrinsically aware that “morning” meant going out and getting…something, but putting together mental to-do lists was hard on good days. Harder still with bony arms gingerly wrapped around him in a vain attempt to stop Kel’s trembling, whispering scripted yet sincere sweet nothings. The hands on his back were embarrassingly welcome, yet so hesitant, only daring to brush over the cotton fabric, tickling rather than soothing. The effort, as always, was appreciated. Even his gentle rocking back and forth feels awkward, like Sunny never learned quite how to shift his weight right.

Like he was the one used to being held.

...Oh. Oh, boy.

He was probably about to cross some boundaries today. Maybe even upset Sunny. God, he hoped not. He could hear the signature pitter-patter of a wild Basil from the living room, the clang and clatter of nervous hands finally quieting. They didn’t seem stable enough to handle two friends close to tears.

Still though. He always had questions (Hero used to gush over that. Called it a “learner mindset!” His teachers were less impressed). If he didn’t get an answer today, he’ll be restless all morning, and no one liked a restless Kel besides Kel (and Aubrey, when she was looking to pick a fight).

“Heh,” Kel prayed his sleepy voice didn’t make that sound forced. “Mari teach you all this?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Ah.”

Something anxious and kinda pushy in the back of his head told him to add something about being totally fine now, no worries, man. Maybe some kinda vague, tongue-in-cheek “no homo” joke to make sure Sunny didn’t read any farther into this blatant cuddling. You know, with “ENJOYING HIS WAY TOO MUCH FOR A STRAIGHT MAN” practically stamped in bold red ink on his massive forehead.

The impulsive dumbass with too much control in his head felt it appropriate (for some ungodly reason) to comment on how this was the perfect atmosphere for a first kiss. The nerve-wracking silence made shutting him up difficult, but Kel was always up for a challenge.

Still, his touch-starved ass was taking any distraction from that lingering dream he could get his slick hands on. He buried his nose further into the black shoulder strap instead. Sunny seemed satisfied with that answer, hummed in response. Hummed again, and again, and again, and…

Oh, Kel knew this song!

...Well, not by name, but he knew Mari and Sunny’s songs when he heard it. Their duet, Mari called it. Close enough. Kel had a feeling Sunny would rather he not know the title. He seemed determined to keep it a sibling thing, something he could share with her beyond the grave. Kel could respect that.

Despite the raspy texture of grogginess and selective mutism, he carried each note with such loving precision. Like a musician who loved their job more than their well-being. Kel knew how dangerous dwelling over her memory in public was, (stupid overemotional bullshit, worrying anyone who caught him!), but, hey. It was late (well, it felt late), and the strongest image of her floating around in his head at the moment was too unnerving to really tinker with. So, using a faint memory of their impromptu duet during one of her picnics as reference, he scrunched up his face in thought and tried to picture the implications of that melodic texture.

Just the two of them, snuggled up in her fluffy sheets, shadows cascading over their silhouette (How did they always manage to look so mysterious?). Sunny’s little fingers digging into her sides, like his lifeline could slip through his fingertips at a moment’s notice (the irony is rude and disrespectful, as far as Kel is concerned). His ragged breaths and tightlipped whimpers settling into a steady unison part, intertwining with her voice as he slowly melts into her chest. The dispassionate rigor of their violin and piano playing could never compare to the sound of them mixed up in each other, communicating in a way only they understood. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ll protect you.” without words to bog down the intimacy of its delivery.

The last time he crawled into bed with Hero, he chuckled and said something about Kel being a little too old to deal with nightmares like this, ruffling his hair before draping the covers over him and pecking his forehead. He probably wasn’t being serious.

Kel stayed out of his room anyway.

[justahopelessaromantic]

The punks are writing love songs (Oh-oh)

Fandom: South Park Ships: Style, Stendy, Tolkien/Nichole, and Bendy Disclaimer: The author of this work does not condone/endorse the messages, themes, and concepts presented by South Park. Considering how said work is melodramatic gay fanfiction written in theatrical script format of all things, I'm sure this seems reasonable to assume. However, it’s astonishing how many times I've stumbled upon people in this fandom who are wholehearted believers of almost everything the show says, and, quite frankly, I would rather evaporate from this plane of existence than potentially be presumed as a bigot or, god forbid, a centrist. Summary: "Abbreviate the longish names / You can bet that hearts will beat (Ooh-ooh) / The sort-of clever and nostalgic ones / Will sing their poems at breakneck speed" (Or:) It's a common writing practice among the pretentious and the soulful to put a little piece of themselves into their work, like a prize or easter egg of sorts for the listener to find. No one gave Nichole the memo.

SETTING:

The edge of a school cafeteria. Two wide exit doors are implied by characters walking off stage. Three standard lunch tables are scattered about the right side of the stage. Two or three teens, at least one of them eating something visually dull and unappetizing off of a lunch tray, sit at various tables, implying lunch is almost over and students have begun to leave in preparation for class. The tables look improperly washed, and there’s litter and a touch of graffiti scattered around the place. Optionally, a wilting potted plant can hang in the corner and/or posters, either inspirational or about school info., can be plastered haphazardly over some of the wall’s damages.

STAN is sitting at the table closest to down right, one chair away from the very edge. He’s clearly frustrated, yet incredibly focused, to the point where it looks like he’s at least partially unaware of his surroundings. He constantly switches from scribbling on a notepad, furiously erasing, and fiddling with the acoustic guitar hanging off his shoulder. NICHOLE emerges from stage left, briskly walking to the exit before stopping in her tracks. TOLKIEN sits at the opposite end of the table, patiently taking notes on his laptop from a textbook.

NICHOLE

(Whipping back around to take up the chair next to him, throwing her backpack on the floor.)

Oh, hey, Stan! So you’re still working on that song, right? About the guy and his girlfriend and the freaking out over,

(Taking an audibly sharp breath before taking on the stereotypical performing voice of a Shakespearean actor, gingerly placing a hand over her heart)

“The divine horror of impending familiarity found deep within the labors of a dear lover”,

(Teasingly)

As you so pretentiously named it?

TOLKIEN

(Looking up at the sound of her voice before smiling like he knows exactly what's about to happen, slowly closing his laptop, and pushing it to the side so he can rest his head on hand to watch them)

STAN

(Jerking up at the sound of her voice, decently surprised by her sudden and energetic involvement, before adjusting and gradually responding with a calm and friendly demeanor)

…I mean…as humiliating as it may be to admit, I write, like…a lot of those. You’re gonna wanna be a tad more specific.

NICHOLE

(Acting playfully exasperated before breaking out into a smile and lazily pointing a finger in Tolkien’s direction)

Oh, I know. You're more of a romantic than this dill weed.

TOLKIEN

(Fondly)

Takes one to know one.

NICHOLE

(Scoffing bashfully and waving her wrist)

Shut up.

STAN

(Clumsy jerking away as she grabs his notebook from underneath him, shooting Tolkien a comically exaggerated stupefied look)

TOLKIEN

(Casually shrugging his hands up while smirking)

NICHOLE

(Stealing the pen from Stan, startling him again, and jotting stuff down, occasionally glancing back up to check if he’s paying attention and emphasizing with her hands)

Ah, here we go! Okay-

(Getting distracted)

It’s turning out lovely, by the way. I mean it’s probably gonna be up there with “Dropping Like Fireflies” and “My Favorite Boy, My Dearest Wildfire”. I guess it's fitting, though, since the first one’s about the death of your dreams, and the second one’s about unjust yearning that everyone figures is getting kinda old, and they’re both really about outgrowing opportunity that sort’ve, may or may not have been real in the first place, and so is this, but…I mean…I hope you don’t take this as critique. Just, like…an idea or something.

STAN

(Speaking drastically slower than her and grinning with amusement)

Considering I only scribble this shit on McDonald’s napkins for geniuses like you to pick apart later, I would be delighted to hear it.

NICHOLE

(Sighing in slight relief)

Oh! Great. Okay, so-

(Stealing the pen from Stan, startling him again, and jotting stuff down, occasionally glancing back up to check if he’s paying attention and emphasizing with her hands)

Imagine you’re the guy, right? 

STAN

(Playfully saluting with two fingers)

Can do, teach!

NICHOLE

(Lightly giggling)

And you're at her doorstep, picking her up for your date, and you notice how she’s only wearing a super casual dress, like one you don’t have to zip up or anything, you just throw it over your head and you're good? But usually, she dresses up for this kinda thing, with, like, a buncha layers. Like, like one of the characters from a Disney sitcom from the 2000s, yaknow what I mean?

STAN

(Nodding ridiculously intently, like he completely understands what she means. He does not)

NICHOLE

(Smiling brightly before cheerily going back to it)

Right! So she’s dressing weird, and she keeps messing with her hair, even though she never does that, ‘cause it takes her forever to do, and she hates messing it up. And then she calls you babe, instead of babydoll, which she never does. And then- And she’s not looking at you when she says this! She’s looking out at the distance, like, wistfully and forlorn!

STAN

(Jumping in with overzealous intrigue after Nichole realizes how pretentious those words might sound and how into it she’s been getting and freezes up)

Yeah, okay, I’m following ya!

NICHOLE

(Seeming pleasantly surprised, yet still visibly toning herself down)

Oh! But, ah, anyway. So then she starts complaining about how she had to leave some big sleepover early for this damn date, and that she and what’s-her-name planned it for weeks. Even though you always have date night around this time of the month and she scheduled it today anyway, which sets off alarm bells in your head, but whatever, right? You're probably just being paranoid again, and that’s what she’s gonna diagnose you with, ‘cause she’s a total, sort’ve…

(Gesturing unintelligibly and then later trying to catch her breath)

…armchair therapist anyway, and you’ve done that with your best friend too, so why even bother bringing it up? But then she goes into, like…crazy detail. Suspicious, crazy detail. 

STAN

(Immediately sliding forward, leaning in closer to her in fascination while his fist holds his chin up and covering his mouth)

NICHOLE

(Getting visibly caught up in the romance by the end)

All of a sudden, she starts goin’ on and on about how she always makes banana pancakes and scrambled eggs in the morning before her dearest friend wakes up, ‘cause those are her favorite, and she always sleeps in too late, and what’s cooler than-

STAN

(Slowly growing more fidgety and visibly flustered as Nichole passionately and tenderly paints the picture)

NICHOLE

-watching your absolute bestie trail after the smell of their favorite breakfast into the kitchen, hair a mess, curls all over the place, and her eyes are all droopy n’ peaceful, and she’s giving you the cutest, tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen as a neat little thank you? When it just makes you wanna…

(Waves hands around aimlessly until pausing, turning her head to look Stan in the eyes, and viciously squashing his now boiling red cheeks in between her hands)

Hmph…You know?

Stan desperately tries to save face. And fails. Miserably.

STAN

(Sounding squished due to the hands on his face)

May- uh…Maybe your brill- uh, lovely way with…wor-

TOLKIEN

(Cutting Stan off before nodding in Nichole’s direction, sounding absolutely enamored and brimming with wonder by the end of his slightly animated story)

Absolutely nothing. Not even that.

(Leaning over the table, arm and hands soon sliding all around, showing clear engagement with the conversation)

Me and Nicky woke Clyde up with crepes one time. He screamed “Holy shit, rich people pancakes!” so loud, the neighbors definitely heard it, shoveled them into his stupid puffy cheeks like a freakin’ chipmunk, and gave us “syrup kisses”–and yes, he did call them that–before accidentally hitting me with his backpack and making a mad dash for my car. All while never actually saying the words “Thank you”.

(Looking up to meet Stan’s eyes, trying to convince with his tone)

I…don’t think a nicer display of friendship exists, Stan. I don’t think this world is good enough to handle it.

NICHOLE

(Stopping herself before she gets caught up in reminiscing)

Oh, yeah! That was- Oh! No, no, no, wait, okay, wait. Okay, so the girlfriend tells you all that, right?

STAN

(Slowly, clearly dazed from the overload of information from both sides)

…Uh, y-yeah, right, I- I gotcha…

NICHOLE

(Gradually starting to emphasize her words more heavily)

And then she mentions how they both help with cleanup, ‘cause it's actually fun at their house. there. Plus, she wants to make a good impression on her mom, and thank her for having her over, yadda, yadda, yadda. You know the drill. And then they get started on homework, even though it's a Saturday. And, sure, your girlfriend’s a total freak who fucking loves school and stuff, but who the hell actually does homework on a Saturday, unless…

(Gestures to him, like he’s supposed to fill in the blank, and dramatically explains the rest when he stays quiet like nothing happened)

She’s with someone whose company makes Calculus and scrubbing syrup off dirty dishes worth it. And that’s how your character realizes what’s going on, ‘cause he’s totally been there and all that good stuff.

STAN

(Confused)

…He…He has?

NICHOLE

(Intensely, voice lowered)

But here’s the thing.

(Points to Stan and then herself)

You and I know that, ‘cause we know what the song’s about, ‘cause we’re co-writing it.

STAN

(Quietly confused)

We are?

TOLKIEN

(Casually typing up notes again and speaking with certainty)

Yup.

NICHOLE

(Ignoring him before gesturing to the audience watching this play)

But they know that, because I just gave them a buncha context clues to sift through. I didn’t have to turn around, break the fourth wall, and go:

(Shuffling her body over to face the audience)

“Hey, the grand twist in my friend’s song is that his girlfriend is falling for someone else, and he totally should be freaking out, ‘cause he knows exactly where this is headed:”

STAN

(Voice filling with terror)

I should?

NICHOLE

“The corner of nowhere and angstville!”

STAN

(Pauses for a beat before audibly squeaking)

NICHOLE

(Turning back to Stan and pointing her finger at the audience, speaking like she’s proud of herself)

They figured it out all on their own.

STAN

(Pitch shifting in mortification)

They did?

TOLKIEN

(Leaning in towards Stan and Nichole)

Also, follow-up question: Who is “they”? You're pointing to a brick wall, babe.

NICHOLE

(Dismissively)

Don’t worry about it.

TOLKIEN

I mean, I will anyway, but okay.

NICHOLE

(Joyfully and dramatically picks up the songbook, shuts it, and pushes it into Stan’s hands, placing her hand on the cover in triumphant confidence)

So, you don’t have to keep all those extra lines where you go,

(Recounting song lyrics in the style of dramatic poetry)

“Should I be taken’ notes? Will this be on her heart’s homeroom quiz?” and “Have I been down this sorry road before? Is it my time to send her on her way, without me?”. The crowd’ll get the point just fine!

STAN

(Awkwardly laughing to cover up his latent fear)

…I mean…bold of you to assume I play in front of crowds…or that I still want them to “get it” after…this…Or that anyone in this town will be “fine” about any of this…But, uh…

(Placing a hand on her shoulder while genuinely trying to sound thankful, but falling flat due to shock)

…Thanks?

NICHOLE

(Starts shying away, awkwardly swinging her backpack back over her shoulders and standing up)

I mean, I was just thinking about that, and I thought it could, um…help! Maybe. But, yeah, so I’d better head to class, so, uh, yeah good- uh, goodbye!

(Shortly waving before speeding away while staring down at the floor, mortified)

STAN

(Staring at her walk off, then slowly raising his hand to wave back, pale and dazed, before turning to look out at the audience)

Dude…Your girlfriend is insane…Or got the gift of prophecy from Apollo.

(Pauses for a beat)

Or some wisdom shit from Athena.

TOLKIEN

(Nonchalantly with a proud smile on his face, yet still showing pity/concern for Stan)

And yours is in the same boat as you, bud. So…good luck, and ah…

(Getting up, patting him on the shoulder, and walking off)

Save a writer’s credit for my girl on your big album debut, okay? I’m buying every CD!

END OF PLAY.