#Dona writes

[yuiyuuji]

did i just write a oneshot with 1999 words about Baz and the oscar night? damn sure i did. holy hell this was so much.. so many feelings..

[cloudgremlin-creations]

Monday Fashion Bois: Leonardo [last name pending]

Instead of going to find like, fashion references No I just make stuff up with my Brain (why do I do this to myself) but hey at least anime merch I can just yoink images straight from the Vast Internet Void :D

Lee spends like an entire year after moving in with the O’Neils just stealing Dona and Michael’s clothes (he tried stealing April’s and she got revenge so he didn’t do it again) but slowly he manages to find his own style! It definitely begins with his siblings getting him teasing gifts of secondhand anime merch (since he refuses to wear brand new clothing) which slowly devolves into Lee adopting a mix of Japanese folkwear (often handmade for him by Dona) with a modern minimalist twist, and various secondhand/stolen-from-sibling oddities.

[epitaffia]

moonchild by king crimson...i used to think this was a pink song, but i was so wrong.....it's a donatella song....

[fitzrove]

"Of course I can't tell you everything I saw, heard and did; suffice it to say that I spent 4-5 hours in the [1873 Vienna World] Fair every day; I kept a diary of what I saw. The young 15-year-old Crown Prince and I had become very good companions and went on many an excursion and many a walk together. [...] I quickly became well acquainted with Crown Prince Rudolf, which was not surprising given his winning personality, which easily captivated those unfamiliar with the world. We went on many excursions together to the surroundings of Vienna, especially to the wonderful Vienna Woods, the Lainzer Tiergarten and the Kahlenberg, from where we enjoyed the beautiful view over the city and its surroundings. Of course, we also visited all the sights of Vienna, among which the famous gems of the old German Empire were not the least of my interests. I usually shared meals with Crown Prince Rudolf, and we were occasionally invited to dine with the Majesties. (pp. 85-86) [...] As I mentioned, I had become acquainted with Crown Prince Rudolf at the Vienna World Exhibition and had sought to maintain good relations with him ever since. He was a stimulating, intelligent man, captivating in his fresh liveliness, full of sparkling humor, but not without a considerable satirical streak. We were both great nature lovers and also devoted to our passion for hunting; Rudolf was also a knowledgeable zoologist, especially an ornithologist. To my chagrin, however, I noticed over the years that he didn't take religion very seriously, and it was painful for me when my companion poured out his mocking jokes about the church and the clergy as well as the simple faith of the country folk. Other character flaws could not remain hidden from me either, and so it came to pass that my original trust dwindled and we grew more and more apart over time. In addition, I gradually realized how little the crown prince was inwardly inclined towards the new German Empire and the Dual Alliance; above all, he hated Prussianism in his soul. For all these reasons, our relations became cooler and were ultimately cultivated on both sides solely from the point of view of political necessity." (pp. 276-277)

ex-Kaiser Wilhelm on Crown Prince Rudolf in his memoirs (Aus meinem Leben, 1927), translated from German by me with help from DeepL

[wackyworldcomics]

The following sketches are... a bit sketchy. I couldn't find my micron pens and my really nice pen still made things a little sketchy.

Anyways- whose curious about what Cave Finder characters carry? No one? Well too bad!!!

Here's what Claire carries:

Claire grew up as her father's magician's assistant, so naturally she would have a lot of "magic" tricks (or not really since her dad only tought her a couple card tricks and how to pick a lock. Most of what they practiced was escape artist techniques! Or well... she did at least...).

Atka has:

Even ancient tunics in this world have a lack of pockets... But who needs tricks when you can create stalagmites?

And [insert official name here] carries a whole lotta stuff:

Perhaps he should become a magician. He certainly is more capable than Claire (he told me to write this. He also said magicians are hacks.) When you have no magic powers to speak of, you've got to load up on all the magic tech you can get. As well as normal tech to practice your raw skills.

Now- what of our antagonists?

Kharon is a simple man. He carries a knife. He gets to stab. He likes to stab. Not so much clean. He also is not a fan of anything that is too loud- less it be the scream of his victims allowing him to give chase. It's his job to stab- he has a license for it. Can't get everything handed to you by your rich mother.

Speaking of- what does the Selma-Dona like to carry?

You know what? Maybe we're better off not knowing.

Eventually there will be cleaner and more colorful pictures. EVENTUALLY! It's hard to do that right now- I'm sorry.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 12: i haven't slept for days, but who's counting?

Red + Insomnia

2394 Words; Sit Still, Look Pretty

TW for implied kidnapping

AO3 ver

There had been little warning.

Dion had wandered off of the fairgrounds some time after lunch to find a payphone to talk to Gisu. He was more than old enough to do so, and Augustus trusted that he would be back well before sundown. If anything, Augustus was happy that his son was able to hold a steady relationship.

But then Dion didn’t come back.

The sky began to shift, brilliant warm hues coloring the horizon, and Augustus had yet to see his son return. Perhaps he had just missed him? Augustus made his way to Donatella, who was going over their equipment by the caravan.

He wrapped his arms around her, greeting her with a kiss on the shoulder. “Дорогая, have you seen Dion?”

Donatella giggled, turning around to kiss him back. “I don’t believe so,” she responded, “Isn’t he usually back by now?”

Augustus nodded. The horizon had been set aflame by the falling sun, and yet he hadn’t seen Dion return. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he started, “But I can’t help but worry.” Dion was strong. But with everything that had happened over the summer…

“Oh, mio caro,” Donatella put her hands on his shoulders. “Let’s go look for him. I’m sure our little bambino just lost track of time.” She set the clipboard on one of the crates.

Yes, that would put Augustus’ worries to rest. He took Donatella’s hand, then stopped.

“Wait, let me—” He raised a hand to his temple, and with a burst of mental effort—he was still getting used to his powers, still trying to wrap his head around them—he reached out to Frazie.

Солнышко, can you hear me?

This is still so weird, Frazie’s mental presence responded. But yeah.

Augustus concentrated. Watch the kids for us, okay? Your Mom and I are going on a little walk.

Ooookay. And with that, Frazie’s mental presence left the conversation.

Augustus removed his hand from his temple. “Let’s go.”

Donatella snorted. “I sometimes wonder if you love your new abilities more than you love me,” she joked.

Augustus leaned into her. “Я люблю тебя всей душой.” He murmured. And it was true—he loved his wife with every fiber of his being. It was impossible not to.

Donatella chuckled. “Ti amo anch’io.” She returned. “Now let’s go find our son.”

+=+=+=+=+

The sky had long darkened by the time they returned. There had been no sign of Dion anywhere—the payphones were abandoned.

Frazie had realized what their “walk” was for by the time they got back; Augustus wouldn’t have kept the truth from her, regardless.

Still, Augustus held hope that Dion would return come the morning. Surely, after everything that had happened over the summer, after all that the family had been through, they were at least owed some degree of luck by the universe. Surely.

But the sun rose again with no Dion in sight, and Augustus could deny it no longer—

Something had happened to his son.

+=+=+=+=+

Queepie didn’t like it.

Seven days. Seven days of that icky sticky feeling that Queepie abhorred. Seven days of it permeating the entire camp like fog, clinging to every surface.

The last time Queepie had felt like this, had felt this anxiety-nausea coiled in his stomach and making it impossible to dance, was when Raz had run away. He hated it. It clung to everything and everyone, even him.

He wondered if Dion had run away. He couldn’t imagine why, though. But Raz’ example was the only one Queepie had to go off of—he couldn’t fathom any other reason for this icky sticky feeling.

The radio blasted some nameless song—Queepie wished they were close enough to the quarry to catch K.L.O.B. Morris had been talking about getting new songs before winter—Queepie wondered what it’d sound like when the family returned.

But Morris wasn’t here, just like Dion—though at least Morris wasn’t missing.

Queepie leaned back, closing his eyes against the bright blue sky. Even up here, on top of the caravan, everything felt icky. The radio kept playing, the birds kept chirping, the leaves kept falling, the world kept turning—

“QUEEPIE! How many times have I told you not to climb up there!”

—and Donatella’s voice cut right through the air, icky sticky.

Queepie stuck out his tongue. He knew how to fall, and the caravan wasn’t even that hard to climb. If anything, it was safer up here.

(Dion had told him, once, that a bird might swoop down and snatch Queepie up if he sat on top of the caravan. Queepie had thought that sounded so cool, but no birds ever came. So even still, the caravan was safe.)

“Don’t make me come up there!” Donatella threatened. “Arquipo Galileo Aquato!”

Queepie grumbled. He started to make his way down, the radio floating down with him. He knew better than to mess around when being full-named. It was like a law of the universe, or something: being full-named meant trouble if one didn’t stop what they were doing.

Donatella scooped Queepie up the moment he was back on the ground. “I don’t want you wandering where I can’t see you, gufetto.” She murmured. “Not while your brother is missing.”

Queepie huffed, crossing his arms. “You could see me up there.” He pointed out.

“That’s not the point.” Donatella replied. “I couldn’t find you,” She explained, “And that scared me.” She pressed a kiss to Queepie’s forehead, ignoring the way he squirmed. “Don’t scare me like that, okay gufetto?”

Despite his misgivings, Queepie curled into his mother’s grasp. “Okay.”

He didn’t want to make the icky-sticky feeling any worse than it already was.

+=+=+=+=+

Mirtala squinted into the darkness. What time was it? Wayyyyy too early to be up, she decided, rolling over.

Beside her, Queepie was still asleep, blanket clutched tight in his hands. She had offered him Prince Froggington, but Queepie had refused the rabbit plush on principle. Whatever. He could have his blanket, then, and Mirtala would hold onto Prince Froggington. Even though she was a big girl, now, and didn’t need to hold onto a plushie—she just felt like it.

A few moments later, Mirtala rolled over again. Her face scrunched up, and she squeezed Prince Froggington a little tighter.

Queepie’s breathing mixed with the muffled sounds of the outside world. Mirtala tried to slow her own breathing, to relax and fall asleep—

She rolled back over. She hugged Prince Froggington tighter.

Sleep still refused to take her back into its embrace.

With a grumble in the back of her throat, Mirtala sat up. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and stood, opening up the tent flap. Cold night air washed in, and she shuddered, but still, she padded out onto the dirt and closed the flap behind her.

Mirtala made to walk over to Dee’s tent—

It wasn’t there. Mirtala rubbed at her eyes. Right. Dee had been missing for two weeks—there was no point setting up his tent when they moved to the next town. She’d heard Mom and Dad talk about returning to the quarry, where Raz and Nona were. Maybe Raz could use his secret agent skills to find out what happened to Dion.

Mirtala held Prince Froggington closer. The air was really cold out here, so she couldn’t linger. She turned to Frazie’s tent.

Sisters had to stick together, after all. Sure, Dion wouldn’t wake for anything until the sun came up, but Dion wasn’t here right now. So Mirtala went to Frazie, who was just as good. She could almost pretend that Dion was here, and she was just choosing Frazie’s tent over his stinky no-good boy tent. Frazie was warmer anyway.

(Maybe if she wished hard enough, Dion would come back.

It wasn’t likely, but Mirtala couldn’t help but hope. Dee would be back soon. He had to.)

+=+=+=+=+

Three weeks.

Dion had been gone for three weeks, and Frazie was pissed.

Where did he get off, disappearing like that? Without a trace, too. They’d just gotten back to traveling after Pooter’s big adventure, too, and now this?

Frazie wanted Dion back just so she could yell at him. Punch his stupid face for making everyone worry—

For making Frazie worry. For making her lay awake at night thinking of all the horrible things that could have happened to him—

Frazie shook her head. She needed to focus. With Dion gone, all of his chores fell to the rest of the family. To her. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here, meaning Frazie had to step up and cover for his missing ass.

She was doing the laundry, now, working Queepie’s blanket cape against the washboard. Her baby brother had screamed and kicked when she’d come to take it, but Frazie took it anyway—it was disgusting. It needed to be cleaned.

Normally, it was Dion who ended up cleaning Queepie’s cape—he was the only one besides Mom who was willing to put up with the inevitable outbursts. But Dion wasn’t here. So it fell to Frazie to step up, kneeling over the basin on bruised shins.

“How much longer?” Queepie lifted himself up to lean over the side of the basin. Frazie put a sud-soaked hand on his face to push him back before he fell in.

“It wouldn’t take so long if you let it get washed more often,” She grumbled, scrubbing at a stubborn snot stain. Ugh. When Dion got back, she’d have to tell him to clean Queepie’s cape more often—this was just disheartening. He could deal with the bruised shins and the grody blanket cape in Frazie’s stead.

Queepie crossed his arms. “It doesn’t need washed.” He insisted. “It’s fine.”

Frazie made a face. “It’s disgusting, is what it is.” She scrubbed at a particularly crusty spot, trying not to imagine what it could be.

Queepie gasped. “No it’s not! Take it back!”

Frazie stuck out her tongue.

“Take it back!” Queepie gripped the edge of the basin, lifting himself up to lean forwards once again, “Take it back take it back take it back—”

The water exploded. Queepie fell back onto the dirt.

Frazie blinked. Water continued to drip languidly from her hair, from her shawl, from every inch of her down onto the dirt.

Queepie looked up at her with wide eyes.

“AUGHH!” Frazie was done. She was so done. This wasn’t even her job—but Dion just had to go and disappear without even any sign that he was still alive, like some selfish jerk who didn’t care if it stressed out the family he left behind—

She stood up, her hands balled into fists. “Guess what? Your blanket’s done!” She kicked the side of the basin. She wasn’t doing any more of this. The water was frigid, anyway.

Queepie made a face. “It’s wet!” He complained.

“DRY IT YOURSELF!” Frazie turned on her heel, not lingering long enough to see if Queepie started crying. She didn’t care. She didn’t. She didn’t care that Dion was missing or that she was soaking wet or that Queepie was probably crying by the basin over a waterlogged blanket cape and a mean older sister. She didn’t have it in her to care.

Frazie shoved open the flap of her tent and fell onto the bedroll, not caring if she got it wet. She screamed into the pillow.

Her eyes stung. It was probably just the soap. Her face was warm. (The laundry water was cold.) Her throat tightened.

Still, Frazie was fine. Everything was fine. She wasn’t crying at all.

(She’d always been good at denial.)

+=+=+=+=+

Donatella shuffled out into the morning air, pulling her coat a little tighter over her shoulders. The November sunlight wasn’t enough to warm the air, especially not at this hour—there was barely any, actually, the horizon just beginning to tint red. Still, she was out here, her hair still in its braid from when she settled into bed the night before, squinting blearily at the mailbox they brought with them on their travels, all because she couldn’t sleep.

She opened the box. A letter from Lucrecia, an ad, a bill, another ad—

Her foot bumped against something on the ground. Donatella looked down.

Well. That was certainly different.

The package was a plain cardboard box, barely half a foot tall. “The Aquato Family Circus” was written across the tape in elegant blue marker.

Donatella didn’t recognize the handwriting, and couldn’t find a return address. She regarded the box suspiciously, unsure whether she should open it.

A breeze blew in. Donatella shivered.

“Oh, fine.” She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to open the package, but she wanted to bring it into camp even less. And she certainly wasn’t going to waste time mulling it over—not in this cold, and not when she hadn’t slept nearly enough.

For lack of a knife, Donatella pried the tape off with her fingers, scraping at the edge with her nails until she had enough to grab and pull. It came off with less resistance than she was expecting.

Donatella pushed the flaps aside. There was a note atop a layer of bubblewrap. She pulled it out.

What lovely embroidery!

That was it. Donatella turned the card over—nope, nothing else. Just those three words in elegant blue ink, the handwriting unfamiliar. Alright then.

Prying apart the bubblewrap, Donatella pulled out a blue vest, neatly folded. Her thumb brushed over familiar embroidery on the collar—

Donatella was wide awake now. She set the vest in her lap, pulling out green-and-white tights with patches on the knees, a red sash, brown shorts with swirls sewn onto the hems—

Donatella felt lightheaded. She needed to lie down—

She pushed aside the last layer of bubblewrap to find a pair of green boots. There was a scrap of blue fabric in one of them, and in the other—

Seven red hair ties. She rubbed one of them between her fingers—she could just barely feel the grease.

Donatella inhaled a stuttered breath. The cold air was like sandpaper down her throat—or was it the pounding of her chest that made her throat tighten so? She struggled to breathe in, to get any air when she was utterly surrounded by it—all she could see were the red hair ties in her hand, red red red filling her vision while the world spun.

When she managed to breathe again, her scream shook the trees.

[sxnguinesxnctum]

[ like yes i adore Laurence but once again I need to repeat myself: he's, without any shadow of a doubt, a morally gray character at best and a villain at worst. a villain who plays that role out of ignorance and who ends up fully understanding the weight of his actions at the very end, granted, and at least how I write him someone who fully accepts his punishment - but a villain nonetheless

we can funny haha the vicar as much as we want and he undoubtly has good qualities - and if anything he isn't directly responsible for Some atrocities ( COUGH COUGH MENSIS COUGH COUGH THE ORPHANAGE ), but just because he did (or, at least, I make him do) plenty of right that doesn't cancels out his wrongs ]

[brain-bumbler]

What character do you think is underrated in pn2

...Dion. But maybe I'm underestimating the number of other people who blorbo this side character and its not just like me and two friends xD Though I also wish Frazie had more dissections and works. She's so interesting!

I think a great thing about Psychonauts is that every character is so unique and individual and creative, they all stand out in their own spotlight. And the fandom is really great about giving everyone attention. I can't think of any character that I haven't seen a lot of love for- because they're all lovable!

When I really think about it though, Truman is a good case for being underrated! He seems like such a great dad character. The fandom loves Gus, but let's not forget how Truman seems so caring and supportive of Lili. He's possibly a single dad, dealing with a whole organization and a little firestarter at the same time. Dilf Truman truthers where are you?

[shoutsthedustflake]

Jesus Christ, I honestly try to keep my snobbery to a dull roar but both the positive and negative reviews of The Secret History on Goodreads are fucking disheartening.

[defensivelee]

complaining about the rape apologist story that takes place in a rape apologist society rlly is nuts im ngl

[starvingtongue]

some spicy dona headcanons under the cut.

probably to no surprise, but she's usually the one that d.ominates in the bedroom. occasionally she'll like her partner (mainly Barthello) to d.ominate her once in a while, but for the most part, she's the one that's on top. she gets a kick out of being able to ride her partner and having their hands guide the motion she's going in.

likes being picked up, likes being able to wrap her legs around her partner when being picked up, likes her hair being tugged a little.

surprisingly, is mostly a gentle lover. she likes the build-up, the fun of it all, being able to tease her partner. while she does occasionally like it rough and does dominate most of the time, she's likes gentle caresses, a graze of the thigh.

she has a pretty healthy s.ex life a year or so after the events of X. her and Barthello initiate pretty equally, though Dona is 10x more confident with it and communicating her needs. she's encouraged Barthello to be a lot more open and communicative with what he wants out of it too.

not adverse to using toys in the bedroom (though Barthello took some persuading), but is still quite 'vanilla' with the positions she likes. she knows what works for her and gets her off.

not adverse to having s.ex in places other than the bedroom. just don't ask where she's done it in her house in Kilika.

[marcogiovenale]

numero doppio di 'utsanga', appena uscito

utsanga.it, nn. 39 e 40 (marzo/giugno 2024), con opere diLamberto Pignotti, Carlo Belloli, Lucia Sapienza, Anna Guillot, Nadia Cavalera, Francesco Muzzioli, Daniel Barbiero, Francesco Aprile, Cristiano Caggiula, Dixie Denman Junius, Gianluigi Balsebre, Fernando de Filippi, Fernando Miglietta, Cecelia Chapman, Alfonso Lentini, Tim Gaze, Gian Paolo Roffi, Egidio Marullo, Shadi Fathi, Ninfa…

[bat-the-misfit]

imagine if brazil had a boyband

[wackyworldcomics]

Posting this out of context because it's hilarious

[razzle-zazzle]

1628 Words; @brain-bumbler's Dormmates AU

AO3 ver

Norma came into awareness slowly, the world melting into place around her. Sweat-slicked hair clung to her forehead, her cheek smushed into the pillow. Her throat felt raw. Her whole body felt damp, sticky with sweat, her sheets impossibly heavy atop her. Her neck ached.

Norma blinked, bleary eyes struggling to focus on the darkness before her. For a moment, she was under the impression that she needed to get up right now and get ready for the day, before she was late. But her bed was so comfy, and her eyelids so heavy—

Ugh, it was wayyyy too hot. With a groan, Norma kicked at her sheets, wiggling until her legs were free. Her neck ached, like she’d been sleeping weird.

But she needed to get up, now, before she was late. She had classes. The clock read 3:42, she needed to get up—

Wait.

It was Saturday. She didn’t have classes today.

Norma rolled over as some of the fog in her head cleared. She didn’t need to get up until eight. Her eyes started to sting in the way they always did when she woke up way too early, her throat ached, there was a drool spot on her pillow—

Oh, god, no.

Please, she thought, her mouth and throat dry as sandpaper. I just want to sleep.

But sleep wasn’t going to come, was it? She closed her mouth, attempted to swallow—

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, because her mouth was shut and her nose was blocked. Because her sinuses refused to let her have a moment’s peace, and now here she was, her throat dry and aching because she’d been breathing dry air in through her mouth all night. Ugh. Of all the awful things to wake her up before she needed to.

Norma turned back over. The clock read 3:46. The number taunted her, the soft green glow seeming to laugh at her misfortune.

Slowly, Norma sat up. Maybe her sinuses would drain long enough for her to fall back asleep in a reasonable amount of time. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and her fingers to the bridge of her nose. The trick didn’t always work, but at this ungodly hour Norma felt that the universe owed it to her.

Norma closed her mouth, and tried to breathe through her nose. She didn’t want to have to blow it—sure, her dormmate was Sam, who could sleep through bagpipes, and there were tissues on her nightstand, but still. It left her feeling gross, and Norma wasn’t that desperate.

She opened her mouth with a gasp. Okay, so maybe she was that desperate.

3:57. Norma blinked at the clock, tissue in hand. Her head and eyes hurt from being awake so early. She fumbled for the wastebasket.

Ugh, this wasn’t working. Breathing through her mouth was awful. Norma laid back down. Maybe it’d help if she shifted the way her head was resting.

She stayed like that as the clock ticked on. Tossing, turning, her frustration mounting. 4:15. 4:23. She had to kick off her sheets entirely, sticky with sweat. 4:27. 4:32. 4:36. 4:38.

Norma rolled over. She just wanted to sleep. She couldn’t breathe through her nose. Her mouth was so dry.

4:47.

4:54.

4:58.

5:01.

Oh, for the sake of—

Norma rolled out of bed with all the grace of a drunken moose, fumbling on the nightstand for her glasses. She stumbled towards her closet, lighting a small flame on her fingertips to give her light to see by.

Benadryl, cold medicine, painkillers, bandaids—there! Decongestant. In the light of the flickering little flame, she popped the bottle open, and shook two of the pills into her hand. With the way her sinuses felt, she was glad she still had some left.

She needed water. There were sinks in the bathroom, but no cups. Kitchen it was.

Flame in hand, Norma trudged out of her dorm, through the small hall to the common area. She rounded the corner, her focus locked on the little kitchenette where she’d find a sink and a cup—

The light was already on. Someone was quietly humming.

So apparently Norma wasn’t the only person up at this ungodly hour. Norma knew that Morris woke up fairly early to give himself time to build up his pompadour, but even then, she had always gotten up before him. She’d alway been the earliest riser in the dorms, able to calmly enjoy her breakfast while everyone else was either still in bed, just rolling out, or busy in the bathroom using all the hair product.

At least, she had been the earliest riser. But ever since this intrusion to their space, that title often ended up going to one Dionysus Aquato.

And there he was now, standing before the stove, scrambling eggs at five in the morning in circus tights.

Silence filled the space between them. Norma blinked blearily, her eyes adjusting slowly to the light. Dion stared back at her, his face blank with surprise. His hair was down, brown curls held out of his eyes by a pair of hair clips.

They stood there, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of frying eggs. Just the two of them, staring at each other.

Norma—and she wasn’t entirely sure what she intended to say, if anything—opened her mouth a little further, her voice starting to come out in a strangled croak—

Dion turned back to the stove, and his quiet humming resumed.

Whatever. Norma was in no mood for conversation, nor did she care to pry into whatever nonsense was going through his head. She went to the sink, telekinetically grabbing a cup from the cupboard.

She felt a reflexive spike of anxiety-distrust from Dion at the soft glow of her telekinetic hand, and ignored it. There was a reason she never tried to pry into his head—Dion’s brain was just as obnoxious as he was. Norma supposed it was fitting, that the guy who muttered under his breath had thoughts that never shut up, but that didn’t mean she didn’t dislike it.

With a grumble, Norma swallowed the decongestant, chugging the rest of the water to get the taste out of her mouth. After refilling her cup halfway and finishing that off, she reached for the dish soap and a rag.

Behind her, Dion took the pan off the heat, turning off the stove. His humming had turned to quiet muttering, small phrases popping out at Norma as she tried not to listen. She was too tired for eavesdropping, and she had long since learned that the acrobat never said anything worth listening to, either.

But her brain kept latching onto the sound; kept latching onto the words and trying to decipher them all. Norma set the cup on the drying rack and rubbed her temples. That decongestant was not kicking in fast enough. Breathing through her mouth was awful. Being awake at this hour was awful. And that obnoxious muttering was awful—

She whirled around, “Can you stop?” Ugh, even her voice sounded awful.

Dion’s muttering ground to a halt as he scraped his eggs onto a plate. “Stop what?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

Norma gestured at him. “Your mumbling.” She glared at him, “It’s so grating.”

“Sorry if I’m annoying you, princess.” He spat, not sounding sorry at all. “Why are you even out here, anyway?” He sat down at the table, his plate in front of him. “You don’t have classes today.”

Norma didn’t even want to dignify that with a response. But she had never been able to leave a conversation without the last word, so she pulled out a chair of her own, sat down, and responded, “Because I needed water.” The obviously, you fool went unspoken.

The soft clink of fork against plate was Norma’s only response, then—

“Why are you still here?” Dion asked around a bite of eggs. “You already had your water.” He pointed out.

Norma raised her eyebrows, completely intent on not saying anything—

“I couldn’t sleep.” She admitted. “But I bet you know all about that.” It wasn’t a wild guess, given the facts laid out before her.

Dion huffed, his eyes falling down to the plate before him.

Norma smirked. She was starting to feel more awake now, but her throat and eyes still burned from waking up so early. Maybe she should go back to sleep…

Some part of her balked at the idea, for no good reason. But Norma still continued to sit there while Dion ate his eggs, ignoring the siren call of her unlit dorm and warm bed. Not because she was interested in hanging around this loser, of course. She was only here because she wanted to be, obviously, completely independent of any other factors.

(Because going back to her room just because Dion was out here felt like admitting defeat.)

They sat there in silence, the only sound the soft clink of fork against plate.

Whatever. Norma didn’t feel like talking anymore, anyway. Not until her sinuses cleared, and not to Dion. That he had seen her in her nightgown was vulnerability enough, she felt. Just because the guy was rooming with her and the other junior agents didn’t mean she owed him anything.

Norma glanced at Dion’s plate. It looked like he had mixed cheese and herbs into his eggs—not that she wanted any. He’d only made enough for himself, and Norma wasn’t in the mood to eat right now.

Her sinuses were clearing up, finally. She could go back to bed. Maybe even make herself a cup of hot chocolate.

She continued to sit in silence at the table.

[doloresalagarta]

emprestado

hoje amanheceu frio como raramente tem amanhecido esses dias apressados de dezembro e vesti seu suéter colorido por baixo de toda naftalina o seu perfume ainda mora aqui (aquele que me fazia espirrar) chorei por cinco minutos, tomei meu antialérgico e fiquei o dia inteiro coberta de você não tinha notado que faz quase um ano desde que você me abraça e eu sinto seu perfume em mim