#and the fatigue still messed me up until this past like tuesday

[shoutsindwarvish]

getting really tired of having to cancel plans due to migraine and other chronic illness problems

i would like it to stop :(

[chaptersleftunwritten]

Mine, All Mine

Blurb: Eddie has been infatuated with you from the moment he first laid his eyes on you and he is determined to make you his.

Pairing: Stalker!Eddie Dark!Eddie x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark!Eddie, mature/dark themes, stalking, manipulation, attempted kidnapping, 18+.

-

divider by @cafekitsune

The first phone call arrived mid spring. A shrill ring tearing your nerves to pieces at around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. You awoke with cold sweat beading on your forehead, your mind still hazy with sleep as you reached over, leaving the warm comfort of your soft duvet and grabbed your phone from its receiver.

“Hello?” Your lips barely part for the words as they are mumbled from your mouth. Your eyes stinging with fatigue as you try to pry your lids open. You are met by what you thought was silence, and instead of overthinking it, you hang up. Returning back to your lulled state of slumber.

However, little did you know that it was just the beginning of a long array of phone calls. They all arrived at the same time most nights. Your body began to expect the phone to ring but your heart would jump every time, startled by the sudden noise from beside your bed.

“Who is this?” You’d cry, rightfully terrified into the speaker. It had taken weeks for you to even register the laboured breathing coming from the other side of the line. Deep, staggered breaths penetrating your ears like knives, “What do you want from me?!” Your terror turned to anger- you just wanted a full night of rest. You even contemplated ripping the landline from the wall and stomping on the plastic until it was mere shards entangled in the fibres of the carpeted floor- but you never did, because part of you was morbidly curious as to who was calling... and why.

Every time you'd answer the phone you'd hope to hear a voice. Something new that could lead you to who this was but all you got was the eerie breathing. Why did they keep calling your house, were they from your town, your neighbourhood- did they go to Hawkin's High? You were clueless. No one had ever shown this much interest in you before now... before these late night calls.

You knew this much- the person on the other side of the line didn't enjoy when you got too heated with them. They hated to hear you yell or cry and so they would hang up immediately every time that you did. It was more frustrating than anything else- you were plagued with horrendous thoughts- was this just innocent? Or were you in danger?

-

At lunch time the majority of the students gathered in the canteen to enjoy their meals whilst you and Chrissy Cunningham lounged outside on the large dusty red concrete staircase which led to the schools main entrance and reception. The sun split the newly blossoming trees with veiled dispersed light causing a welcomed warmth to drown your skin.

"That is seriously messed up!" Chrissy's shriek brings you back from your hazy daydream and you blink at her mindlessly, nodding your head in agreement, "Have you told anyone else?" She questions, her hands taking yours. You and Chrissy sat on different ends of the popularity scale, however despite all of your differences you had remained close since you were children. Today was the rare occasion where you both got to catch up whilst none of her cheer friends 'minions' were around to give you icy glares and hurtfully snicker at your appearance beneath their breaths.

Your head gently sways from side to side, "No, just you. I don't want this to become a big thing, Chris." your grip tightens around her hands that are slotted with your own, "Keep this between us, yeah?" Your eyes are pleading with her more than your voice ever could and Chrissy nods her head, flashing you one of her sweetest Chrissy smiles.

"Of course. Scouts honour!” She throws her hand over her heart jokingly and you have no other choice than to take her word for it. She has been good at keeping secrets in the past- so you trust that she will, for your sake.

Unbeknown to you, Chrissy was not the only pair of ears listening in on your confessions that day. Lingering on the opposite side of the staircase smoking a cigarette against the brick wall, hidden by the shade, was no other than Eddie 'the freak' Munson. The orange glowing cherry bud at the end of the cigarette illuminated and contoured his face in a hellish haze.

When Eddie had heard your displeasure of the phone calls he decided it would be best to take a break from dialling your number so frequently- especially if you were now telling people. He couldn’t risk having his little secret getting out.. his obsession with you coming to light.

What would you say? Would you confront him? Hell, the sheer thought of it made him both frightened and enthralled. To have you talk to him- even if you were screaming at him- would be an absolute pleasure.

Eddie isn’t quite sure why this fixation with you started, but when it did it was like a match that was struck to a canister of petrol. He remembers even the smallest of details about you: Like, how one day at school he had noticed a small smudge of mascara on your eyelid and he pictured you getting ready in your bathroom mirror just for him. He also thinks about your favourite go-to sweater and how it has a stain on the right cuff from you painting both at home and in art class. Over the course of his phone calls he had managed to engrave your soft sleepy mumbles and moans deep into his memory. You were all he thought about- not even Dungeon’s and Dragon’s could distract him from that fact.

When the phone calls became unsatisfactory, Eddie took to standing outside of your house. He would come after nightfall and he would watch you from across the street, a black hood pulled over his luscious long locks. He knew that if you clocked his hair style that you would know it was him instantly… he couldn’t chance that. He loved to watch your eyes slit with confusion as you buried your head in frustration into some mathematics homework or how you would prance and dance free spirited around your room to some Kate Bush songs that would play from your stereo. He wish he could afford a camera so he could keep these sights of you forever, but he had to settle for his memory for the meantime.

With each passing night it was as if Eddie got closer and closer to your house until eventually his face was mere inches away from the glass of your bedroom window, so close his breath would appear on the window pain. You always made the mistake of leaving your curtains open, blaming it on how you loved how the ‘natural light’ awoke you in the mornings- Eddie would counter that you’d leave them open for him. He liked the idea of you knowing that he was there, and allowing him to stay and observe you.

Eddie never saw a problem with what he was doing. He would never hurt you and his intentions weren’t to frighten you… he just wanted to feel closer to you. He wanted to know you. At some point along the course of these visits Eddie became somewhat- braver. He’d notice a window open and he would climb inside, careful to not disturb his sleeping beauty in the nearby room. He felt like a knight climbing the cursed tower in which his princess was held captive in. He would sweep the house for trinkets and memorabilia that he could steal to tide him over to the following night; these often came in the form of loose pairs of underwear you had left laying around or a used bar of soap from your bathroom. Nothing too big that you might notice is gone.

It was innocent… in the beginning. Until the need to have you all to himself escalated to Eddie clearing out the back of his van. He kitted the vehicle out with duvets and pillows and blankets- but also with duct tape and handcuffs. He felt out of control. He needed you all to himself, you were too good for this horrible world. Someone might hurt you, or worse, take you away from him. He had to do something, right? To protect you.

No one would suspect you were with him at his trailer. All of his neighbours kept themselves to themselves and there’s no way they’d ever call the police considering most of them were also drug dealers. He could keep you safe. He could love you more than anyone ever had- you’d never feel alone with him, he would take care of you.

-

Your bedroom is cold as cool air sweeps through from your open window, blowing your red sheer curtains with each gentle gust. The temperatures were creeping up in Hawkin’s, meaning a lot more of your windows were left open all night long. You’d never think anything of it as you’d switch your bedside lamp off for the night, slotting yourself comfortably into your duvet cover as you waited for sleep to succumb you to darkness.

But tonight something felt wrong… something deep within your chest trying to warn you of nearby danger. You had never thought twice about the safety of your community- but tonight felt off. Something was different. Your movements are sudden as you slowly creep toward your window, peering out from behind the curtains into the abyss of your garden.

You gasp, your stomach hitting the floor at the sight of your own reflection blinking back at you in the glass. You had almost dropped to the floor at the sight of yourself but thankfully it gave you just cause to breathe a small aspirated laugh at how ‘paranoid’ you were being over nothing.

Or so you thought.

Your skin pricks with goosebumps as your body temperature drops to what feels like below freezing. Each and every one of your delicate hairs standing on end as you had turned around and your eyes fell onto shadows dancing beneath your bedroom door- someone was in your house on the other side of it and it looked to you that their next pit stop was your room.

You feel as though your bare feet have weights attached to them as you attempt to quietly move over to your bedside table, switching on the light in hopes that it’ll drive the intruder to flee. But it doesn’t. Your heavy heart is pounding in your ears and it’s making every thought inside of your brain inaudible.

“I’m calling the police!” Your yell is half hearted and Eddie can tell that you’re afraid. He decides in that moment that tonight is all or nothing and he shakes the door handle to your bedroom, pushing the door open his warm eyes fall on your stiff frame. You are flush against the wall, your hand is trembling as you hold the phone to your chest- clearly you have been unable to dial a number yet, “Eddie?” Your voice quakes and Eddie ventures further into the room, his hands splayed out in front of him to try and reassure you that he means you no harm.

You and Eddie weren’t close in any way, shape or form. But to see him in your bedroom- it didn’t unsettle you in quite the way you expected. You knew who he was, everybody did. He just wasn’t popular in the way that Chrissy or Billy was… he was the Hellfire Club master. He was the freak of the lunch hall and the King of the weirdos. You never saw him in that light, though. You secretly admired him. He was so unapologetically himself, he was so outward and fun and you actually wanted to get to know him better. You were just never brave enough, the only time you had spoken to him was art class where you had asked him if you could borrow one of his paintbrushes- and without hesitation he let you. He would give you anything you’d ask for.

You had developed a minor crush on Eddie and you had gone so long without even realising it. He was definitely your type: Dark eyes, dark hair with the bonus of it being long, his style was so unique and intriguing and the cherry on top? He had tattoos. The black ink against his pale skin made your stomach flutter and your teeth to chew on the inside of your cheek. Whenever you’d see his forearms you’d have to force yourself not to stare at him for too long in fear of being caught.

You’d dote on his remarkable talent with charcoal and how unafraid he was to embrace the true darkness and messiness of the artistic medium. Sometimes when you would see his finished portraits you could almost swear they resembled you in an abstract way.

“Hey, sweetie… let’s put the phone down, yeah?” His voice is so calm and kind and his steps are tedious as he slowly makes his way toward you but you don’t budge. Your head shaking ‘no’ as you try and keep the distance between you both.

“Stay ba..back!!” You warn, your finger finding the dial of the phone, “What are you doing here, Munson?” Your usual sugary sweet tone has been replaced with malice and Eddie’s lips twist into a frown. He can’t understand why his baby angel is reacting this way- it’s not like he’s hurting you.

“Put the phone down.” He asks again, his voice sterner this time as he pushes his hood down from his head to his shoulders, exposing himself fully to your gaze, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He holds out his pinky to you, in a form of a promise and it causes your heart to swell in your chest. You study his expression for any sort of faux honesty, for any twitch of anger or evil but you ultimately decide that Eddie isn’t a threat to you. At least not for now…

Returning the phone back to the receiver you hook your pinky cautiously with Eddie’s and you watch as a smile contorts his lips. Eddie’s mind buzzes with excitement at the small form of intimacy and his chest tenses with impatience. He needs to act now if he wants this to happen.

Eddie was here to take you with him. His van is parked a couple of houses down from yours to avoid suspicion… but as his eyes find yours he can feel a battle brewing within himself. Maybe this is a bad idea? Maybe there is another way for him to get close to you that doesn’t involve you hating his guts for the rest of your lives together?

“What are you doing here?” You ask again, your voice is softer now and Eddie widens the gap between the both of you. He stretches out his fingers before tensing them into fists and shoving them into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t trust himself around you, not when you are both so secluded from the rest of the world, “Eddie?”

It takes everything in him- his blood, his bones, his sweat, his fucking soul- for him to not follow through on his plans for the night.

“I heard someone was bothering you.” You perk an eyebrow at him, wary of how he retained this information, “I heard you talking to Cunningham last week. I wanted to check up on you, I guess.” His shoulders shrug and he winces at how nonchalant he is being. He wants nothing more than for you to know how much he cares for you. He wants to collapse at your feet and worship the ground you walk on- but instead he is forced to play pretend. To act like he doesn’t give a fuck when he does. He really does.

But when your features soften and a smile finds your cheeks Eddie decides that all this pretending is worth the reward. If it means you’ll look at him like that- he’ll never stop playing pretend, “That’s really kind of you, Eddie…” You come toward him, your arms flying around his shoulders as you embrace him in a tight hug, “Thank you.” Your words are spoke into the curvature of his neck and his rigid body is quick to mould into yours.

His strong arms are wrapped around you tightly and part of you thinks that you should feel uncomfortable- but you don’t. You hope that the embrace will last forever. Yours and Eddie’s connection feels like one that should have happened a long time ago and you hate that it hasn’t until now.

As innocent as the hug seems to you, it has Eddie’s dark thoughts swirling- they are demanding action from him and Eddie can feel adrenaline picking up the pace of his beating heart. His eyes flutter open and he catches sight of you both in your vanity mirror. Your small frame engulfed by his shadowy image makes his teeth come down hard onto his pillowy bottom lip. The picture alters his brain chemistry beyond comprehension and it doesn’t even take him a second to decide…

“I’m so sorry.” The whisper is sinister as it echos in your ear canal and it makes your eyes ping wide open. Eddie’s grip around you tightens to almost suffocating, like an anaconda snake squeezing its prey to death. Your mind starts to spiral out of control with fear. You don’t scream- for some reason you can’t, your throat won’t let you.. but you do fight against him as he lifts you from the ground, securing you there on his shoulder as he begins to walk out of your bedroom.

You claw at his back, your fingers coming to grip the solid wood of the doorframe as you cling onto it for dear life- but Eddie is stronger than you are and he rips your fingertips away from the only leverage you had. You watch helplessly as the light of your bedroom fades out of your line of vision and you are abducted to the blackened world outside.

Prisoner to Eddie Munson.

-

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000

[landinoandco]

Hey could you do one with max verstappen, where the reader a fight about him not helping around the house (witch he doesnt do because he is just tired from working hard but the reader dont know) so they yell at max and he suddenly walks away but then they find him crying in bed, because hes overworked and feels like hes never gonna be good enough at being a driver and the readers boyfriend. And feels like he can only dissapoint the reader, his dad and cristian. But the reader comforts him. Tnx

Because I'm not good enough...

Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings: angsty

Word count: 2 k

Requests are open :)

You were sat at the dining room table, staring out at the empty seat in front of you. Your arms crossed across your chest and your lip in between your teeth. You had been sat there for an hour - in the grand scheme of things an hour didn’t seem like such a long time but it was his final warning and an hour was just long enough to allow for your anger to boil over.

Dinner was in the fridge - the same dinner you had cooked an hour ago, your phone lay screen up on the table - the same phone you used to call Max two hours and a half hours ago, he told you he was on his way home. Home whilst you were in the UK was 25 minutes away from the Redbull HQ. This was becoming a regular occurrence, some nights he would come home so late that you had already taken yourself to bed. The atmosphere in the house seemed to freeze over whenever he was around even though you were yet to come out of summer, there was something hanging over the pair of you - unspoken feelings and as of now a red hot anger that threatened to escape from your usually composed nature.

Ever since the championship had taken a turn in the favour of Redbull, Max had started to become much more distant. It started off with him not inviting you along to the races, leaving on the Wednesday before race weekend and sometimes not seeing him until the following Tuesday and that was on a stand alone race weekend. On the triple headers, it could be nearing two weeks until you two were spared 5 minutes alone and even then it was a brief conversation before he rushed back to the factory or to train.

You thought you knew what you signed up for and since yours and Max’s relationship and that was three years ago so you thought you had seen it all - been through it all with him, witnessed every high and every low. This was a new territory and you knew that if it wasn’t tackled soon -

The click of the door lock echoed in the hallway, you straightened in your seat - eyes locked ahead of you and your knee bouncing.

Max sighed loudly and wiped his hand over his face, it had been a long day - he had been at the factory up until Christian had invited him out to lunch, it was nice to catch up with his boss and Max felt like he owed the man so much; guiding him through the years that had led up to the moment they found themselves in. Max felt like over the past years he had matured as a person, sometimes still short tempered but being an F1 driver it wasn’t necessarily a bad trait. After his lunch with Christian, his dad had called him - the less said about the conversation the better. By the time you had called, the last thing he wanted to do was come home and risk upsetting you. He had taken himself on a run - to clear his head and focus on what he was going to say to you because he felt like something definitely needed to be said.

He also owed a lot to you, you had put up with so much over the years and standing by his side even when he had made a mistake - although you were very quick to tell him when he was in the wrong. You seemed to be on his level, a blunt and forward look at life - there was no time for dawdling about when you had things to be done. Life was short and there was no time to waste.

Recently however, he was putting so much pressure and stress on himself about work that the hours slipped away from him and so did the time spent with you. He felt the atmosphere change around the pair of you - as though he was always walking on thin ice, the cracks beginning to show. The guilt he felt was nothing like he had ever felt before, all he wanted to do was talk to you but he was scared of pushing you away - which is ironic because not talking and letting the pent up anger build up was having the same effect. He was never that good when it came to talking about how he felt - as much as he wanted to he felt as though he would be a burden and that he would put too much pressure on you. He could never tell you what he really felt like inside. It was embarrassing, he knew that a professional athlete should never feel what he felt. It weakened him and having weaknesses in a sport like Formula 1 was not an option.

Max shrugged his coat off and walked through to the main room of the apartment - the room where you were sat waiting to pounce as though he was your unsuspecting prey.

He offered a tired smile, in response he got a sneer. Swallowing hard, you felt the anger take over, like some monster escaping from a cage.

“I have been sitting here for an hour, Max -” You shot to your feet, pointing at the table, your voice cracked slightly. “For months, you’ve been leaving me - it’s me who’s been cooking for us both, cleaning, washing - everything, Max. By myself.” You were shouting now, your heart threatening to break free from your chest. Max just stood there, a blank expression on his face - his gaze fixed to the ground. “I don’t understand what went wrong, Max. We were happy, hell, we spoke to each other. Now, I’m alone. In fact, I may as well be alone if this doesn’t change.” The words had fallen out of your mouth before you had any time to consider them - or the consequences. Your eyes went round with shock and you fell back to your seat. A loud silence filled the room.

Max, too, had not expected the words that had initiated the silence. He opened his mouth, eyes still on the ground, then closed it again before raising his head and looking you dead in the eye.

“You don’t mean that.” He managed to mutter, barely being able to raise his voice any louder. He felt a tired emptiness, this was the last thing he had wanted to happen.

“That’s all you have to say to me.” You rounded on him again, angry tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

“No - I -” He stuttered, then closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, “I just don’t think we should talk things through whilst you’re angry -” He saw you about to interject, when he raised his hands. “You have every right to be. That’s not what I’m saying. I think we should wait to talk about it so we don’t say things we are going to regret later.” Max could feel his throat constricting, he was battling to keep his emotions at bay.

You sniffed and nodded slowly, placing your head in your hands - hot tears escaping and shoulders tensed.

Max swallowed thickly, his eyes swimming with tears. He made a move and after no interruption left the room. He had only made it to the stairs before he collapsed, the fatigue getting the better of him. He was such an idiot, a fact he was certainly aware of now, how could he have let things get this bad. Did that make him a selfish person?

He couldn’t hold it in any longer, a harsh sob escaping from his mouth - fingers shaking and his head a loud mess.

As soon as Max had left the room, you had gotten up to get some water - when you paused, a sound catching your attention - a deep sounding sob. You waited, a line appeared between your brows. Slowly and carefully, you inched towards the door - waiting with baited breath for the sound again.

It was coming from the stairs and there was only one person it could be. Regret instantly pooled in the pit of your stomach, you hadn’t meant for him to cry. You were just so angry and he needed to know that.

“Max.” You called out softly, unsurprisingly there was no response. You went in the direction of the stairs and hunched over in front of you was your boyfriend - attempting to stifle his sobs. You rushed forwards, placing your arms around his shoulders and pulled his body into yours. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around your waist. You kissed the top of his head, stroking his hair as he continued to cry - you allowed him to empty his emotions out; some tears of your own betraying you entirely.

“I’m sorry, I really am.” Came a muffled voice. Pausing, you released your hold of him and placed your hands either side of his face - offering him a watery smile. Then, using your sleeves you wiped his tears away - he watched your every move, waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, he braced himself - lips trembling; he knew it was now or never. He had to tell you how he really felt.

“I’m not good enough.” He stated simply, his eyes glossy. Your forehead furrowed. “I’m never going to be good enough to take the championship, I’m going to let everyone down. Everyone that has ever believed in me - it doesn’t matter what I do, how much work I put in - I’m never good enough. And you -” He paused, meeting your gaze, a lump forming in the back of your throat. “I keep letting you down, time and time again. I was the one who caused this, I’m never going to be good enough for you.”

“If you believe that -” You began, kissing the newly formed tears away, “Then I will eat your race shoe.” You moved to sit next to him on the stairs, pulling him into your side. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s how you felt.”

You felt Max shrug, the side of his head resting on yours. “I didn’t want to burden you with all of my problems, you already put up with so much.”

“I will always have time for you, Max.” Grasping his hand in yours, “You are enough, you are more than enough. You are Max Verstappen, the fastest, strongest guy I know.” You chuckled lightly, “I know it may sometimes feel like that and that’s ok. You are putting yourself through so much - maybe, it’s time to give some consideration for your personal life. It’s unhealthy to work all of the time - then we run into issues like these.” You spoke softly, almost whispering but you could tell he was hanging onto every word you spoke. “I love you, Max. I don’t know what I would do without you.” You admitted, turning your head to look at him. He chewed on his bottom lip, processing your words.

“I love you too, more than anything.” He murmured, placing his forehead on yours. You lifted your head slightly to leave a soft kiss on his nose, earning the corners of his lips to quirk up.

Closing your eyes, you relished being in his arms again, to have him close to you. You had missed it. You had missed him. Both of you knew you had a lot to work through, that it wouldn’t simply disappear but both of you were going to do it together. Hand in hand. And that was more than enough.

[sirowsky]

The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, angst, physical injury.

Link to Masterlist

Comment: Reader continues to struggle with her abilities, but with some help, she finally begins to understand them better. Though, no good news without bad ones too...

(Is this GIF yours? Let me know, and I’ll credit you!)

Chapter 21

  The next morning you woke up in a secure room. They didn’t trust you with med-chambers anymore. That was probably about time.   Tuesday. Today was Tuesday. You sighed as you wondered just how long it would take before you’d inevitably mess up the days again.   You already missed waking up to Amaire’s brisk and energetic ‘Good morning, champ’. They were so good at using just the right level of enthusiasm to give you a boost, without stepping over into overly energetic, or annoyingly chipper.   Here, there were no lovable nurses, no doctors checking on you every hour, just sensors in the walls that continuously scanned you for changes in energy-levels.   Unfortunately, though, the science division had been kept up to date on your move, and within five minutes of you waking up, the door opened and another fucking piece of cardboard was shoved in your face.

  “Seriously? Do you people even sleep? It’s not even 6am yet…”

  “We sleep in shifts, miss. This is important, we want to get you that assessment as soon as possible.”

  Oh, great, now you felt bad for being snarky, on top of your usual less than stellar morning mood.

  “How thoughtful of you. And what about making this shit actually edible? Any idea how soon that might become a priority?”

  “Uh… sorry, miss. It’s a process.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Does the recipe actually change at all? Because it still tastes like something between paper and dirt, no matter how many times I eat it.”

  “It does, but they actually remove as much flavour as they can, since it’s so full of synthetic materials.”

  You raised your eyebrows at him before swallowing the synthetic piece of crap.

  “Sorry I fucking asked.”

  He squirmed a little where he stood, clearly uncomfortable with your language. But you were pretty sure he’d actually been waiting outside the door for you to wake up, and then not even had the decency to wait until you’d been to the bathroom before barging in. So, you didn’t really give a fuck about his feelings right then.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I just have to ask if you feel any sense of fullness?”

  “I’ve barely swallowed it…”

  “I know, it’s just that the effect should be pretty instantaneous.”

  “Well, then – it isn’t. Can I go and do my morning bathroom now, or do you have another annoying and useless point?”

  He all but ran from the room and you felt a tiny little bit bad for him. But they really should know better than to bother you first thing in the morning, by now. Especially with nervous tweens.

  You missed the relative warmth of the med-chambers. These rooms were literally just empty squares of powers-proof materials, or, as close to it as you could get. There wasn’t actually any material that was 100% proof against powers, but some metals combined with force-fields could withstand incredible amounts of supernatural forces.   There was a simple bed, and two chairs and a table, all of it made with the same power-resistant metal. That was it.   And while you did see the wisdom of keeping you in there, it also felt more like a prison than anything else, and it made you anxious. Especially since Marcus was still on single supervised visits.   He’d been verbally reprimanded for taking you to the in-house restaurant, and sitting you down among dozens of other guests yesterday, but in these circumstances that was like getting a slap on the wrist. You hadn’t really been in any state to be able to harm anyone, since he practically had to carry you there. And he’d made the judgement call that getting nutrition into you was more important than keeping you isolated, at that particular moment.   He’d sat with you while you’d gone through the equivalent of about six dinners, continually refilling your plate as you emptied it, until you’d finally had enough, and damned near fallen asleep over your plate.   You didn’t expect him to visit until school was out for the day, so you prepared yourself for a long and dull morning, probably accompanied by nothing but the fucking science division.   Oh, joy.

  It was just before lunch that the door opened for the fourth time that morning. You were just completing your eight set of push-ups, burpees and hand-stands, and you were in no mood for more synthetic foods. Today was the kind of day where your morning mood just lingered, and became your overall mood.   You were pushing yourself physically in an effort to keep yourself calm and balanced, despite the boredom and interjecting annoyances, but it wasn’t quite working.

  “Did some idiot give you coffee?”

  You actually warmed at the sound of Anita’s sharp voice behind you, and you let your legs fall down from your last hand-stand and stood up to see her magnificent scowl.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Well, sit down before you pass out.”

  “I’d rather stand. I have a little too much energy at the moment.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I generally do. So, what brings you to my dungeon on this unremarkable Tuesday?”

  “Just checking on you for Marcus. He’s a bit worried after yesterday.”

  “Yeah… that wasn’t a very good day, either. I don’t seem to have a lot of those lately.”

  “Mm. It’ll get better. All supers struggle after discovering their powers, it’s just that, usually, they’re kids or teenagers which means they don’t have the grown-up problems to worry about too. You’re juggling a lot, loco. Give yourself a break.”

  “Wow. Marcus must be really worried if you’re actually being nice to me.”

  “I’m always nice to you.”

  You looked at her with a mockingly shocked expression.

  “Incredible. You’re lucky I kinda love you.”

  She squirmed and got up to leave, and you couldn’t help but grin widely behind her back.

  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “For what? The privilege of your visit?”

  “No, niña. For the smile on your face right now.”

  She didn’t even look back as she said it, somehow still knowing the smile was there. It lingered on your face for a good few minutes after she left.

  You gave up on trying to exercise your stress away, after your arms gave out and you fell on your face, during your fifteenth set of hand-stands.   You did have an actual bathroom, with a shower. But it was an adjoining room that could be detached from the actual cell, if anyone feared you might try to use the toilet as a battering-ram for some reason.   You took a long and soothing shower, letting the soap wash away the sweat and grime, but also some of the nervousness that seemed to live in your skin. You took some time to take care of your nails and put on creams and blow-dry your hair.   You hadn’t taken the time to really groom yourself in weeks, and it somehow made you feel better. Less chaotic and messy.   When you stepped out of the bathroom, the errand-boy from science was back, and whatever good mood you’d managed to accumulate, evaporated in an instant.

  “Oh, for the love of fucking Hades, will you just leave me alone, already!”

  A puff of energy escaped you, and it was enough to fling the scrawny little boy across the room and into the wall, head-first.   All the anger inside you morphed into a lump of ice in your heart, as you watched him collapse into a pile on the floor.   You ran over to him and picked him up into your arms, holding him tightly as you pushed your energy around him, and felt that thing leave you. That thing that wanted to make it right, to make him whole again, and in the next moment; he was.   You felt him twitch back to life, and your own energy drain, but you kept holding him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to, I swear, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.”

  “Uh… it’s okay, miss. I’m fine.”

  You let him go just enough that you could grab his face and look into his eyes to make sure.

  “Nothing hurts? Nothing feels bad, or weird?”

  “I feel… great. My shoulder’s been killing me after a baseball accident last week, but it’s all better now. How’d you do that?”

  Suddenly terrified of how easily and effortlessly, you’d hurt this boy, for no reason, you crawled away from him.

  “Go. Get out of here. Don’t come back, don’t let anyone come back in. Stay away from me.”

  You crawled all the way to the opposite wall, before the fatigue overpowered you, and you passed out.

  When you came to, you’d been moved.   You were on a hard bed of some sort, in what looked like a lab, and there was an elliptic-shaped, transparent dome covering most of your torso, as well as two thin tubes leading into each one of your arms, and another two into each leg. IV-tubes. And the banana-bags they were attached to where in the gallons- not ounces -category.

  “What… what are you doing? It’s not safe… you have to put me back, it’s not safe…”

  “Calm down, miss. Everything’s fine, these instruments have been calibrated to absorb your energy, you can’t hurt us here.”

  Her voice was soothing, comfortable without feeling forced.

  “My name is Doctor Emily Kane, and you’re in the Research division right now. We’ve decided to go ahead and do your assessment. For the moment, it seems more urgent to understand your abilities, than keeping your energy up. That said, we’re not going to push you until you’re completely drained, don’t worry. We’ve taken as much precaution as we can.”

  “I… I think I killed that boy…”

  “And then you saved him. It was an accident, and I understand that it frightens you, but the key to controlling your powers in the future, is precisely by not being afraid of them. And the best way to reach that point, is to understand as much about them as you can.”

  She met your eyes and held your gaze until you nodded.

  “Okay. Then let’s get started. This machine on top of you is going to absorb and measure and categorise your energy, so I want you to try and activate your power right now.”

  You took a few deep breaths, and tried to push your energy out, but it wouldn’t come. Your fear had locked it down, and you wanted it to stay down. Forever.   After twenty minutes of failed attempts, no matter how much the good doctor tried to either soothe your worries, or antagonise you, she finally had to admit defeat and was forced to change tactics.

  “Okay, this isn’t gonna work. Bring him in.”

  The door opened and Marcus stepped in, and came towards you, and every piece of equipment in there that was attached to you, started beeping and moving.

  “Marcus… you shouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. You won’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “But I do.”

  He kissed you, really kissed you, and the machines went crazy as you heated up for him. You wanted to touch him so badly, but your arms were trapped by the elliptic dome on top of you. Your ghost hands found him, curling into his hair and holding him to you, and all the while the room got louder and louder.   The frustration of not being able to feel his skin against your body, eventually made you angry. Angry enough that your energy flared, and the dome really did absorb it.   Somehow, that was a big enough surprise to you to break through your lust, and make you pull away from Marcus to stare at the dome while you shot another burst of energy through it.   It just disappeared from you as the machine sucked it up, and for reasons you couldn’t understand; it all seemed like a challenge to you. Like it was baiting you to try harder.

  Challenge accepted, Data.

  In your periphery, you saw Marcus back away, as you held back and gathered your energy under your skin. You had broken an entire med-chamber by filling the room with an invisible density, you’d certainly be able to break one little machine.   When the energy was so thick under your skin that you feared you might burst from the pressure, you released it. The whole room shook, but only for a moment, and then the dome had swallowed it all up.

  “Amazing…”

  Dr. Kane’s voice broke into your concentration, and you forgot your challenge.

  “I’ve never seen this type of energy before. It seems to exist in several dimensions simultaneously. Fascinating.”

  “Dimensions? Wait, it really is ghost energy?”

  She chuckled slightly at that.

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “Well, we’ll have to perform more tests, obviously. But, basically, it means that you have the ability to tap into one or more alternate dimensions, and draw energy from them, into this one, using your own body as a conduit. It also means that there’s theoretically no limit to how much power you could wield, with the exception that acting as a conduit is seriously draining on your own body. So, let me be clear: your power absolutely can kill you.”

  You took a minute to absorb that, not that you actually could yet, and you felt, more than saw, Marcus shift nervously at your side.

  “And the healing?”

  “That one I can’t answer with any definity until we’ve had a chance to observe it through these instruments.”

  “But… your best guess?”

  “My best guess would be that that power actually comes from you, not some other dimension. It seems to be a clean transference, your energy and life-force is transferred to the injured person, instantly weakening yourself, much more than acting as a conduit does – but also instantly healing the recipient. It’s interesting that you’d develop these two powers specifically, though. It seems to indicate that you have a naturally self-sacrificial tendency.”

  Marcus flinched.

  “Self-sacrificial?”

  “Yes. A willingness and capability to take on difficult or even impossible tasks and burdens in order to protect others, regardless of personal pain or even the possibility of death.”

  That was a little too true for comfort.

  “And… while we’re on the subject of things that are less than fun to talk about, I feel obligated to inform you about something we’ve discovered about healing abilities in general.”

  “Okay.”

  There was something in her tone that made you feel like running out of the room.

  “We don’t know why, exactly, but it seems that women with healing abilities of any kind have an increased difficulty in conceiving children. We think that it might have to do with the fact that women bleed during their cycles and that their abilities instinctively try to prevent it, thereby messing with the natural order of the female body.”

  “But… I can’t heal myself.”

  “It doesn’t seem to matter. Have your cycles been regular?”

  “…No… not since the experiment. I figured it was because of the coma, since nothing at all worked during the time I was under, and for a while afterwards.”

  “Irregularity is one of the tell-tale signs, I’m afraid. But, listen, this is not an exact science. Couples that have been medically declared infertile or sterile have managed to get pregnant anyway. Nature’s amazing, and there’s so much we still don’t know about supers. So, if this is something you want, don’t let the science get in your way.”

  You had no idea what you wanted, only that you were suddenly glad that you’d at least started this conversation with Marcus a while back. It felt like it would’ve been a more difficult subject to broach now, if you hadn’t.   But this wasn’t the time to have it. There were more tests that needed to be done, and for the first time, you really wanted to know what more the science actually could tell you.

  You glanced at Marcus, hoping not see him crushed by the news, and were relieved to find him looking calmly determined.   You’d talk about it later.

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight​ @farfromjustordinary​ @allmyspideys​ @hrk-fic-recs​ @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts​ @computeringturtle

[e-milieeee]

haunted

Summary: When Gabriel goes a step too far, Plagg has decided he’s had enough. 

Meanwhile, Gabriel Agreste has discovered that his house may or may not be haunted, because a vengeful spirit certainly seems to be after him. 

Notes: basically plagg being a little gremlin and trolling gabriel like he deserves. ft. gabe’s 3 remaining braincells. based on this post by @hamsternamedmarinette and @snail-noir im sorry its so crappy lol 

haunted

“Well,” Adrien is saying as he trudges inside the room and kicks the door shut. “There’s that, then.”

Plagg flits out from his shirt. His face is set in an angry mask, tail sticking straight up. “That’s that?” he echoes. “No, that’s absurd! Your father’s absurd! He should come back here and I’ll give him a piece of my mind and—”

Adrien squeezes his eyes shut. “Plagg, it’s fine. Forget it.”

Plagg makes an angry noise in the back of his throat. “So you’re just gonna take that? For weeks? He has no right.”

In his hand is the piece of paper—now crumpled—that his father had shoved into his fingers before he stormed off: the schedule for the fashion show. It runs for a week, but there’s also a terrifying amount of preparations to be done two weeks prior—all of which his father had decided he needed to be present for.

“I can’t risk making father angry,” Adrien settles with.

Plagg folds his arms. “Fine,” his kwami says curtly, in a manner of speaking that Adrien always finds hard to argue with. “Hypothetically speaking, then, if your father found out his plans had been cata—destroyed, would you be allowed to go out?”

“Plagg, I’m not going to break into my father’s study as Chat Noir to cataclysm his work just so I can go out with friends.”

Plagg smiles at him. It’s the smile Adrien had often gotten before he’d discovered the toilet paper in his washroom all scratched up and littering the floor. “Don’t worry,” comes the reply. “You won’t have to.”

***

Gabriel Agreste’s study is locked, but that doesn’t prove a problem for the small black shape that slips through the doors like they’re made of nothing more than mist. It’s dark, but cats have always seen better at night anyway.

There, on the top of his desk, lies the designs for the first set of clothes that are to be showcased. Meticulous notes. Fabric samples. Timing and schedules. Signatures and contracts.

The small, black cat picks the folder up with two paws. Then it crumbles into dust.

***

“Nathalie, did you touch the folder on my desk?”

It’s been a long morning—Gabriel had been up at 4 AM in an attempt to see if he could get an edge on Ladybug and Chat Noir. It had been horrendous to find someone to akumatize so early, and by the time he’d pinpointed his victim—forty five minutes later—he had nearly fallen asleep. He’d been pummelled by Ladybug and Chat Noir. Absolutely pummelled. And then, as if the situation couldn't help but get worse, Audrey Bourgeois had called him at six (just when he was about to go back to bed) and told him she couldn’t make it to the fashion show.

That woman had no regard for timezones. And no regard for him, either, because part of the marketing for the fashion week was Audrey’s attendance.

Gabriel was considering akumatizing himself when he realized the manila folder on his desk—that had been there when he left the night prior—was nowhere to be seen.

He searches through all his files. Crawls under his desk. Checks his lair. It's gone.

“Nathalie!” he bellows again, and she comes barrelling through the door to his office.

“What is it, sir?”

Gabriel takes a deep breath. “Have you seen the files for the fashion show? It was in the folder on my desk when I left.”

“Sir, I haven’t been in your office since last night, and I’m certain I saw your files there. Are you sure you haven’t misplaced it?”

Misplaced it, yeah. That’s what it was. Probably.

Now, what he needed was a nap.

***

The files do not turn up. Gabriel sends Nathalie to print them out again. The most important stuff is stored on his computer, but there are signatures he’d spent weeks getting.

He locks the files in his drawer the next time he gets it.

***

Tuesday morning finds Gabriel Agreste feeling much more refreshed. He even joins Adrien for three minutes during breakfast.

He walks into his office to find his favourite coffee mug in smithereens on the ground.

The files are still stored safely in his drawer. But there is a big, ugly tear across the dress he’d been working on for the past three months.

Gabriel screams.

***

Gabriel Agreste isn’t a fan of security cameras in his office. Especially because anyone with some hacking ability could possibly get their hands on the tape, and the last thing he needs is someone seeing him descending into his lair, or opening the safe behind his painting. Really—there’s simply too many sketchy things he’s done in the office for him to trust putting a camera there.

But he installs two of them nonetheless. His coffee mug could be an accident. But that rip on the dress? No, the only explanation is that it was intentional. But how?

Gabriel thinks of possibilities until he gives himself a headache.

***

“Father seems stressed lately,” Adrien notes to Plagg. There’s not much time for himself between busy schedules, but the moments in between he catches to talk to his kwami. The past week, stuck alone in his room with barely any interaction with his friends, has been draining. He cherishes the precious minutes he gets to spend with Plagg.

“Does he?” Plagg asks in a tone of practiced disinterest. “Well, he does have that really important fashion week thing coming up.”

“He asked me if I’d broken into his study a day ago, but he always locks his study. I think some of his files were missing.”

“Oh?” Plagg replies. “That’s terrible misfortune.”

“Father says he thinks a thief snuck in in the middle of the night and stole them, but we have security cameras all around the house and nothing happened.”

“Spooky.”

“Plagg…”

Plagg only shrugs. “Perhaps your house is haunted,” he replies disinterestedly. “Good thing you’re not scared of ghosts, Adrien.”

***

The house is haunted, and Gabriel cannot sleep.

The most terrifying part of watching the footage is that he sees nothing. There is no movement. No nothing. But then, the next morning, his files inside the locked drawer have disappeared.

Nathalie asks him about the dark rings around his eyes. He drinks two more cups of coffees in response.

***

Gabriel’s eyes are burning, but he’s determined to stay awake.

He likes to think himself neat and meticulous, but even he has his breaking point—his desk is littered with coffee cups, and he’s resorted to drinking energy drinks to keep himself awake. There’s less than ten days until the fashion show starts. It’s been so heavy on his schedule that he’s barely found time to akumatize three three people the past week.

Ladybug and Chat Noir must be having a field day while he’s sitting miserably in his office, waiting to catch the thief, too exhausted to summon up more akumas.

The clock ticks past midnight. Gabriel nearly faceplants into a coffee mug.

Another cup of redbull.

By the time it’s two in the morning, nothing shocking in particular has happened. Every time the flashing light of a car drives past the front of the house he starts, sits back down, and struggles to keep his eyes open.

It’s 2:04 when a crash sounds outside of his office.

Like a madman, Gabriel scrambles up from his seat. He knocks over a half-finished mug of coffee in the process, but that doesn’t matter. The door of his office slams open. He trips on a rug. But he gets up and runs like he’s never run before.

With all the force he can muster, he slams his palm down on the light, and the once-dark staircase and hall become bathed in golden light. The chandelier flickers twice and he stares down at the hall with half the mind to wonder if he’s going to finally see the ghost.

Gabriel is the only one in the hall.

He checks once more. Then again. Then again. But there is no one there, no source of the crash—

Oh, no.

The painting he’d bid at an auction twelve years ago—one that had cost a fortune—has fallen off the wall and face planted into the floor. The sight of it physically hurts Gabriel, and he’s scrambling towards it in a mixture of fear and anger when another noise sounds in his office.

In the months of being Hawkmoth, Gabriel Agreste has felt a generous range of emotions. But never has he felt such bone-chilling fear.

He heads back up the steps with robotic movements numbly. Down the corridor. Into his office.

There is no one there, and the mess that has been made is moreso his fault than of the invisible thief—or ghost—but then Gabriel sees one of his locked drawers open and the contents inside dumped unceremoniously on the ground.

The next day, when Nathalie finds him out cold on the ground, he attributes it to the exhaustion and the amount of coffee and energy drinks he’d consumed. But deep down, Gabriel knows that it’s the terror that’s finally caught up.

Either way, he faints.

***

Gabriel is confined to bed by a very concerned Nathalie. She usually heeds to his instructions, but the rare insistence from her and his own fatigue lands him out of commission for the day. It doesn’t stop him, however, from giving her a set of instructions.

“First, my office,” Gabriel croaks. His throat hurts—he must’ve caught a cold as well. “Please clean everything up and reinstall the locks. And then… and then…”

He thinks of the missing files—three times—and grits his teeth. “Cancel the fashion week.”

Nathalie’s jaw drops open. “Sir—”

“I know,” Gabriel mutters. “I just… I’m left with no choice. I’ll reschedule. Make up some excuse.”

She dips her head. “Noted, sir. Is that all?”

Gabriel gives her a miserable nod. She’s halfway out the door when he remembers.

“Nathalie!” he yells. “Get me a shaman, too.”

***

“The fashion week is cancelled.” Adrien looks up from practicing piano. “Father is sick, I think, which might be why. Nathalie looked super stressed when I saw her before my lessons.”

“Cancelled?” Plagg echoes dispassionately. “Huh. That’s too bad, I guess.”

“No, that’s good! I mean, it’s not good that my father is sick and Nathalie is stressed, but… at least I won’t be hounded about preparations. I even got permission to go out today.”

“Huh,” Plagg replies. He settles himself into his wheel of cheese. “I guess you’re lucky after all, then.”

Notes: yeah idk what i wrote but master fu is the shaman they hire and he finds out gabriel is hawkmoth and arrests him and the end if u wanna know what happens next 

Here’s my fics masterlist! 

[alittlebitgoofy]

if i had my way i would be yours - chapter two (taywhora)

i’m pretty proud of manaing to keep to the deadline (mostly i mean it just hit tuesday and i said late last week but it’s basically monday and been a lil over a week) 

this chapter is fun, tayce and her journey with denail and internalised homophobia

ao3 link

“You cunt! Why’d you blue shell me!” A’whora huffed, placing her controller on the table before directing her attention to Tayce. 

“You hit me first, you little hound! I swear, it was like four red shells!” 

“Yeah, but you were ahead of me,” A’whora whined, her frown beginning to form into a pout as Tayce stared at her with a raised eyebrow. “You were first, not my fault.”

A’whora was cute when she was angry. Video games lit up her competitive streak more than anything, leading her to pout and whine whenever she was beaten. Her complaints were currently directed at Tayce, who’d narrowly beaten her in the last race. Bimini watched them with a bemused grin, the more tayce tried to calm her, the more A’whora pouted.

Tayce tried to hold back her amusement, though seeing A’whora turn away from her with an exaggerated huff made her break character, wrapping an arm around her shoulders with a laugh. The blonde squeaked as she was pulled in, quickly wrapping her arms around Tayce and leaning her head on her shoulder.

“You got lucky,” she murmured into Tayce’s chest, curling into her arms further around her waist as the taller girl ruffled her hair. “You’re so competitive, just accept you lost, you little idiot.” “Can you two stop flirting and move so we can do the next race?” Lawrence shook her head, turning to Ellie to mutter something into her ear. The taller woman snickered, catching the attention of the pair, quietly separating before going back to playing.

Tayce shook it off, remarks like that weren’t something that bothered her. Their relationship wasn’t like that, she didn’t like girls, and A’whora was like a sister to her. 

So why did her heart beat faster at the blush on the blonde’s face, why did she need to watch her flusteredly trying to play it off and failing miserably?

She’d always thought A’whora was cute, anyone with eyes would have. Something about her drew Tayce in the moment they met; the way she pouted when anything slightly didn’t go her way, how she laughed at her own jokes, the way her eyes lit up when Tayce laughed at something she said, her dimples showing as she grinned. 

She could admire the beauty of her friend without it meaning anything, right? 

“Tayce! The game is starting!” Tayce snapped her attention back to a giggling A’whora, gesturing to the screen with a shake of her head. 

Fuck, the game. Why did she agree to play again? Ellie had subbed out for Bimini, the five of them somehow making the four player game work. Tayce tried to shake her thoughts, focusing on beating A’whora, hearing her whine about Tayce cheating one more time, both of them knowing she was better at the game but not wanting to say it. 

---

Tayce spent the rest of the time trying to act cool. No one seemed to notice anything off, too attentive on the game and the comments that the loser would always drop, denying a lack of skill and saying it was the game. 

Bimini was too caught up texting their girlfriend to try and swap in to play, it slightly irked Tayce to see people happy in a relationship. Though she’d never say it, it stung knowing she lacked something to get that from anyone. Everything she tried failed, what was she lacking that everyone else seemed to have? 

The more she pondered it she became away from the ongoing tension with Lawrence and Ellie. It was clear something was going to happen soon. The way their attention went to each other instantly. 

They had each other, the idiots just didn’t realise it quite yet. 

A’whora was the only one like her, though she never understood why. She was perfect, sweet, but not afraid to stand up for herself. She was funny, quick witted to a scary extent. She always knew the right thing to say to get Tayce bursting into laughter, though her insults would sting like nothing else, she always knew where to strike. Not too bad to turn people on her, but harsh enough to shake up the person it was directed at. 

The blonde caught onto Tayce’s introspection, quietly moving to grab her hand and making the brunette jump in the process. 

“You’re thinking too hard again, aren’t you?” A’whora titled her head as Tayce turned away, denial. Great. 

“I’m fine, I'm just bored,” she muttered out a response, knowing neither of them believed it, but attempting it anyway. A’whora saw straight though her, grumbling at the lack of proper response before moving closer to her. Her arms found their way around her waist soon after and Tayce had to fight the dopey smile coming to her face from the affection.

“Don’t let them get to you, you’ll find the right person, it just takes time. I haven’t, have I? You’re not alone.” Her tone turned softer, whispering so only Tayce would hear her. 

“Yeah, thanks Rory.” Tayce gave a small, genuine smile, wrapping her arms around her waist back to pull her into another hug with the attention off of them for the time being. 

“I’m still better at mario kart than you, though,” Tayce giggled at the exaggerated pout on A’whora’s lips at the quip. 

She knew she messed up the moment, but it felt too good to see A’whora giggling, her dimple showing enough to make anyone squeal in how adorable she was. 

“We’ve won a similar amount of games! Don’t discount me there, lass!” Tayce just shrugged, holding back her laugh at the pout on A’whora’s face, turning her attention around them to see Bimini looking at them with a raised eyebrow, their eyes flickering back to their phone briefly before continuing to watch them in interest. 

Ellie and Lawrence were thankfully too distracted in playfully insulting each other; it made A’whora and her look tame in comparison to how much they unwittingly flirted. At least it kept the attention off of them, Tayce gestured to whatever they were up to, and Bimini let out a laugh at the mess of them just before figuring out their feelings were mutual. 

The games kept going, keeping the thoughts away for that much longer. She was acutely aware of how A’whora started to lean against her, grumbling when Tayce attempted to move. She huffed more at losses, not deflecting it with jokes as she had been an hour before. Everyone had started to quieten down now, A’whora just happened to be more grouchy than the others the more time passed. 

It wound down as Bimini announced the last game, A’whora having given up playing a while ago to lean against Tayce and mindlessly scroll through her phone. Someone commented on her being suddenly antisocial, to which she just grumbled and turned to Tayce for defence. “She’s just grumpy cause she’s tired, don’t mind her,” Tayce quipped, getting a laugh from their friends as A’whora groaned next to her. “Oh fuck off, you’re supposed to stick up for me.” “You’re like a child who’s up past their bedtime,” Tayce deadpanned, A’whora rolling her eyes at the statement though still stayed leant against her roommate. 

They’d made it home soon after. A'whora was scarily quiet, though Tayce knew it was because she’d spent too much time with people and exhausted herself mentally. She didn’t bother her, only sliding her hand over hers when they got into the uber to get home.

“Are you going to bed now?” Tayce questioned as they got in, A’whora turning to look at her quizzically before responding. “Not right now, I’m going to get into bed and go on my phone for a bit until I fall asleep.” She shrugged, voice laced with tiredness she wasn’t willing to admit to. “Alright, I’m going to play some games until I feel tired, don’t stay up too late. I know how pissy you get when you don’t sleep enough.” “I do not!” A’whora shook her head, laughing as Tayce shot her a look of shock at the denial. Tayce’s presence made her relax, not feeling the social exhaustion so much when she engaged in conversation. “You absolutely do, and don’t try to deny it. You better not be up by the time I go to bed.” “I doubt I will be, but never say never.”

They bid each other good night, Tayce turning to her room to hook up her xbox and play some more. It kept her brain occupied letting the previous thoughts wash away. She didn’t know what had come over her, but it was something she’d shake off soon enough. It took an hour of online playing for her to start to feel the fatigue, turning it off and stretching before going to move to her bed. She remembered A’whora, wondering if she was still awake. It was getting late, and if she wasn’t asleep by now then tomorrow would be a long day. Curiously, she went to check, poking her head round her door to see a sleeping A’whora with her phone on her chest.

Of course the idiot forgot to put it on charge. Tayce laughed silently, moving to put it on charge to avoid the complaints she’d hear the next morning. Tayce felt her eyes linger on her asleep roommate. She knew it was weird to look at her sleeping, but she looked so peaceful, curled up in her duvet with her face half buried in her pillows. She was adorable while awake, this felt like something she shouldn’t get to see, A’whora fully relaxed and cozy in her bed. The brunette left soon after, confused about the lingering image of how adorable A’whora was in her brain. The warmth in her chest prevailed as she started to fall asleep, something in her wishing she could hold A’whora as she slept. Be close to her when she was that relaxed and vulnerable.

She couldn’t think too hard on it before she was asleep, only hoping whatever was going on would pass within a few days.

She never looked at A’whora like that, why would she start now? 

[hunterinabrowncoat]

Today is a Sunday, so I was at church this morning. I didn’t have much time to get ready before I was picked up, so I left the sheets that I’d put on to wash last night in the washing machine and texted my partner asking him to put them out to dry. And he did, which I’m thankful for.

But I am completely confident that, despite the fact that we share a bed and he also uses those sheets, if I hadn’t texted him, they would have stayed in the washer all day.

We had a few drinks last night, some friends and I, so there were a few glasses and bottles when I came down this morning. I left for church with a vague sense of hope that maybe it will occur to somebody else that they are also perfectly capable of taking them in to the kitchen to be washed up. By half past 7 in the evening, it evidently hasn’t occurred to anyone.

Yesterday I cleaned the bathroom. It hasn’t been done since we moved in a month ago and it took me a good hour or two. Being chronically ill, cleaning the bathroom yesterday meant that today I have been too tired to do much of anything. There is a significant pile of washing up on the side. I know it will still be there tomorrow, with a few more additions.

The other week I told my partner my friend was coming to stay on Friday, so the spare room - which is a jumbled mess because piles of boxes and bags remain unpacked - needed to be cleared before then. I know he has trouble remembering things and organising himself because he has ADHD, and I want to be as accommodating and understanding as I can be. So I gave him almost a week’s notice with a clear deadline, I offered to help, and I reminded him several times. On Tuesday he said he’d do it on Wednesday. On Wednesday he said he’d do it on Thursday. On Thursday he said he’d do it on Friday. On Friday he didn’t come home from work until 45 minutes before she was due to arrive.

This week I asked my partner if we could try and unpack and sort some more things in the spare room on Saturday, knowing that it’s the only day it will ever get done because he’s too tired after work on weekdays, and I am often out on Sundays. He agreed. When I reminded him at about 2pm, he headed to the living room and told me to come get him when I wanted to get started. He made a start at about 5pm. Almost all of the stuff still unpacked is his, so I cleaned the bathroom.

Almost every day since we moved in to this house, I have done some washing up. I don’t always manage to clear the dirty dishes completely, but I make a good dent. And almost every day I come to the sink and find it full of crockery and food and greasy water that’s backed up because the drain is blocked. So I clean it out and rinse whatever crockery is now covered in slimy residue, and put the drain cover back in place so that more food doesn’t go down the drain.

And I contemplate whether or not to message the group chat and ask my housemates to clear food out of the sink when they use it. To help with the washing up. To put the drain cover back when they’re done if they’ve removed it for some reason. To not leave sponges in the sink full of water because they’ll go rancid.

I don’t think it will make any difference. No message or reminder ever really does. And I don’t want them to think I’m a constant nag, or really pedantic, or anal about cleaning the house.

Because I’m so fatigued, and because it’s supposed to be my religious day of rest, I really wanted to just spend today... resting. So I haven’t really done anything. But it doesn’t feel much like rest because if I ever take a break, despite living with three other adults also perfectly capable of doing all the things I do, I know that I’m piling up more work for myself tomorrow.

Because unless I say or do something myself, those wine glasses will stay in the front room for days. The washing up will continue to pile up. The spare room will become a permanent dumping space that never gets sorted. The sheets will never get washed. The bathroom will never get cleaned.

As we were drinking last night, we watched some Steven Universe, and joked about what characters we were. A friend said she hates to admit it, but she relates hard to Pearl. My partner said there is more than one Pearl in our group. I know he meant me.

I shouldn’t be offended. It was all in good fun. But I know that’s how he and my friends probably see me... Pedantic. Anal. Perfectionist. Nagging. Condescending. Controlling. Everything has to be just so.

And it feels so unfair, so invalidating. Because I don’t need everything to be just so. I just want things to be mostly clean and tidy. I want to know that if I take one day off from doing an endless, ever-repeating list of chores, that other people will see what needs doing and pick up the slack. I don’t want to be the only person who notices that things need doing, and then does them.

And I’m tired. I want to be able to take a break and actually enjoy it without feeling stressed because every day that I don’t keep up with everyone else’s mess as well as mine, is another day of work piled up.

But I don’t have any faith at all that things will change. Because despite sending messages to our house’s group chat, despite bringing up all of these issues before, despite making rotas to delegate cleaning responsibilities, despite reminders, despite bending over backwards to try and make it as easy as possible for others to get it and for things to change...

Nothing ever does.

[feminarrie]

under the same moon - three

a/n: sorry for the wait, loves! i’ve been in a lot of pain the last week, but finally managed to finish chapter three! it’s a little over 2.2k and a whole lot of soft niall! a big big big thank you to @fireawaynjh for beta reading this chapter! 

want to be added to the taglist? send me an ask!

Niall sighs as he gets out of bed, chest heavy and eyes still bleary with sleep. He’d gotten almost a full eight hours last night, but his lack of a consistent sleeping schedule never allowed him a day without some sort of fatigue. And it’s aggravated slightly by Hanna’s presence in his life, but he’d rather lose sleep talking to her than miss out on the small glimpses into her life back home.

He widens his eyes in an effort to wake himself up more, prolonging his blinks to clear whatever blurs his vision. It doesn’t help much, but he hasn’t got time to sit around. He’s got a six hour shift at the record store just a block away from his flat. Plus one of Liam’s friends, Zayn, had asked if Niall would mind recording some of his music. Which, of course, Niall has agreed to when Zayn promised to pay him a hundred quid.

Fingers comb through the tangled mess atop his head, leaving some strands sticking straight up and others flopping down on his forehead. He supposes that a shower was likely a good idea, even if it meant skimping out on a healthy breakfast in favor of an overpriced scone and coffee from Starbucks.

Niall gets up to rummage in the black chest of drawers, finding a pair of black Calvin Klein’s and wandering off into the single bathroom in the flat. He’s grateful that Liam’s likely still sleeping in because he’s genuinely never met somebody that takes so long in the bathroom just to come out looking the exact same.

(Which also frustrated Niall because Liam was already fit. He could get just about any girl as soon as he steps out on the street. So, it really isn’t fair that he makes the water run cold before Niall’s had the chance to shower).

After he’s turned the shower on and while he is waiting for it to heat up to an appropriate temperature, Niall types out a quick good morning text to Hanna.

Good morning, love. Getting ready for work, but hopefully I’ll be out before you’re even awake. Hope your day starts off well!

After he’s pressed send, Niall scrolls through some of his curated Spotify playlists. He settles on one that is a compilation of his most listened to titles and turs it up to full volume. Take It Easy by The Eagles echoes of the white walls of the bathroom. Niall hums along with it as he steps into the shower. Before long, though, his voice is carrying over the sounds of Glenn Frey’s own vocals.

Niall sings his way through two more songs on the playlist before he’s stepping out of the shower. Brunette locks are plastered to his forehead and beads of water travel down the bridge of his nose only to drip to his lower lip. He licks the droplet away as he reaches for the grey towel that’s neatly hung over the metal rod of a towel rack. He uses it to quickly dry off his hair, leaving it in loose curls and sticking up in different directions. His body follows next where he starts from his feet and then all the way to his broad back before he steps outside of the porcelain tub to tug on his boxer briefs.

As he unlocks the door to exit, Niall grabs his phone from the shelf that’s hung exactly in the middle of the two towel racks beneath it. He pauses Jackie and Wilson by Hozier because he’s sure that Liam wouldn’t appreciate the blaring music as Niall makes the trek back to his room.

He doesn’t expect Hanna’s name to pop up on his screen, though. It’s only a quarter past seven in the morning, so he had expected Hanna to be tucked into bed for the night. Especially after she had groaned about needing to get back into a decent sleep schedule before classes resumed.

Sonam and Tyler are back!!! We’re out for Taco Tuesday and dancing!

Wish you could party with us n not have to go to work. ): ): ):

Niall sends a message that tells her that he would much rather be out with them than getting ready for his shift. Especially when his 8am to 2pm doesn’t generate the most traffic or revenue. Instead, he spends the majority of his time typing lyrics down on the notes app or texting Hanna when she’s awake.

He tosses the phone onto his bed and pivots to find an outfit within his closet. It’s mostly an array of deeper tones—browns, navies, oranges—but, they’re broken up with some white graphic shirts and striped short sleeved tops. He settles on a heather grey top that he pairs with his signature black jeans. Niall doesn’t bother with a sleek boot, but picks a pair of worn black Nike SB Blazer Mids.

The clock on his phone reads 7:38am when Niall finally all of his stuff ready to go. A phone charger and notebook thrown haphazardly into his backpack, his wallet tucked into his back pocket. He pulls his beanie and peacoat from their respective hooks just to the right of the door

When he steps out the door, he doesn’t bother to lock it behind him. He figures Liam will likely be leaving in only a few short hours and would need to lock up regardless. Even so, he texts his roommate a reminder to make sure everything is locked up before he leaves. Not that there is much worth stealing, if you asked Niall, but his laptop and guitar could sell for a pretty penny if they were taken.

Their flat is on the third floor, so Niall doesn’t bother with the elevator like he usually does. But, he can see from the electronic numbers that are lit up above the steel doors, that waiting for it isn’t worth it. Instead, he’s jogging down the stairs and pushing the door open to reveal an empty lobby.

With the holidays just passing and the upcoming semester drawing nearer, he had expected there to be more commotion. But, he reasons that it’s likely that most people won’t be leaving for their morning commute for another half hour or so. At least, those with traditional nine to five desk jobs.

Niall doesn’t dwell on it, though. He simply shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and uses his weight to push open the entrance door.

The wind licks and bites at his skin, dyeing his cheeks and nose a shade of pink. The windburn and frigid temperatures have never been kind to his skin, but Niall has yet to learn his lesson. He routinely leaves the house without a scarf or gloves. Hell, he isn’t even sure if he owns any.

And he thinks about buying them, sure. But, whenever he actually pops into ASOS or TopMan, they’re never first priority.

He’s grateful that the walk to Starbucks is only two minutes because he’s ducking inside before he even realizes it. The smell of ground coffee and pastries occupy his senses. His eyes flitter across the menu as the scents swirl around him, twisting and turning until his stomach makes an audible growling noise.

The line is fairly short, only four others in front of him when he finally decides on his order. He takes the time to dig his phone from his pocket once more, seeing that Hanna had texted him back only three minutes ago.

Really wish you could be here!

You’re all I keep thinking about tbh.

Oops. Gotta go, the tacos are here and I’m so hungry. ):

Niall is smiling down at his screen like a proper idiot. Face lit by the blue light of his phone and teeth on full display. He doesn’t really know what part of Hanna’s messages have him grinning from ear to ear. He knows that, in part, it’s because she’s just so cute. It pains him at times, if he’s honest. Puts his lower lip in a pout because he almost always thinks about how he’d like to kiss her and tell her just how cute she is.

As he rereads the texts again, inching forward as the next person in the queue is ordering, he finds himself reading over the second message the most. Hanna’s admission, though small, has Niall rising up that much closer to cloud nine. He won’t allow himself to take up residence there, for fear that Hanna may not actually feel the same. Even though he’s fairly positive that she does.

He’s satisfied with how he is feeling now, though. He’s warmed by his proximity to the sun. Lightheaded from the fast growing altitude. Weightless as he allows himself to float just beneath the surface of cloud nine.

Niall’s only brought back down to earth by the impatient barista behind the counter. His tightlipped smile is disingenuous when Niall finally steps forward. He pays him no mind, though. Still feeling as though nobody can touch him even though his feet have settled back down on the ground.

He orders a simple black coffee with a few pumps of vanilla syrup and a buttered croissant. Niall pays for both and before he’s even wedged his wallet and phone into separate back pockets, his order is so waiting for him at the opposite end of the counter.

His movements are quicker after he’s noticed the clock. He’s got about seven minutes to make a ten minute walk to the record store. So, he fills the remaining space in his cup with cream before securing the lid and venturing back out into the cold.

One hand is shoved back into the warmth of his coat pocket while the other holds a coffee that would be too hot if it weren’t for the below freezing temperatures outside. The beverage sloshes inside the cup, only contained by the green plastic stopper that Niall had knicked before stepping outside.

He manages to arrive thirty seconds early and with only a quarter sized coffee stain atop the lid. He balances the cup in his left hand while his right digs for the keys to open up the store. They’re deep in the corner of his coat pocket, where Niall’s fingers must pinch and shift them until he can get a decent grasp on the cold metal.

The inside of the store is dark when he enters, save for one neon sign in the back that Niall never remembers to turn off. It hangs above the listening area that is tucked in the left back corner of the store. “Good vibes” is written in all lower case letters and glows pink in the dimly lit space.

Niall thinks the sign is somewhat cringeworthy and hardly fits with the rest of the store’s aesthetic. The open layout is contained by exposed brick and covered with records that are chosen weekly by the staff. What is left of the empty wall space is occupied by signed posters that almost always have a glare from the string lights hung throughout the room.

After setting his stuff down, he flips the black and white “closed” sign, so that it reads “open.” He switches the lights on next before rounding the counter to prepare the register. It only takes five minutes for him to completely settle in. It takes another five for his hands to finally thaw enough for him to grab his phone.

Hanna’s name appears on his screen once again.

hello again. I’m a little drunk already.

margaritas and a vodka cran will do that to ya though.

still wishing you were here!

probably best you aren’t, though.

not the prettiest drunk, you know?

Niall is about to text her back to let her know he’s seen her pretty drunk. He had seen the way her lightly freckled cheeks were flushed and likely warm to the touch when they had first met. Her hair had been tossed up into a messy bun that barely contained her thick brunette hair. Niall had also watched her shovel fries into her mouth without a single breath that night, too.

But, Hanna already sent another message by the time he finished typing up his own response.

can’t have the boy that i like, but have no chance with, seeing me like this.

Niall watches as his cursor jumps backward as he backspaces his message.

Is it too early to be that giddy over such a simple declaration of mutual interest? Niall doesn’t think so.

In fact, he allows himself to float just that little bit more until he is sitting comfortably on cloud nine. He feels floaty and yet, never more anchored down than he does now. Even as his thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of how to properly respond, he feels at ease.

He settles for a simple response. Short, clear, and hard to misinterpret.

Don’t say that. Call me when you get home, love.

He types out another message asking her to be safe while she’s out. With an extra reminder to have fun with her friends as they celebrate being back together.

And on the opposite side of the world, Hanna is making her own quick ascension to cloud nine. Even being as intoxicated as she was, she is still capable of reading Niall like an open book. Which is how she feels a potentially blooming relationship should be:

Easy.

feedback? | series masterlist

taglist: @stylishmuser | @exoticniall | @irish-nlessing | @niallersdirtylaundry | @niall-is-my-dream | @fireawaynjh | @starboyhaz | @klairelavarias 

[misterghostface]

.Tapes

When Stan starts his second year of college, he instantly hates his new roommate. But will Richie be able to win him over with his cassette tape obsession? Secret Santa for @sadlysaraofthelosers ! Sorry its late honey, merry christmas! @itfandomprompts

Also a massive thank you to @midnightmillie for helping me to edit!

Read on AO3 here!  ///  Fanfic playlist here!

When Stan had collected his key from the front desk, he’d been prepared for having an unbearable roommate. He didn’t expect them to be friends, necessarily, but in the worst-case scenario he thought that maybe they’d be able to ignore each other. At least long enough to get through the year in one piece. But later, standing in the doorway of what should have been his dorm room, Stan realised how naïve he’d been.

He dropped his bags into the only patch of clear floor space he could see and sighed, wading through the piles of debris to what he thought could be his bed. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was mess. Stan could already imagine how terrible the next year would be if he stayed here. In fact, he didn’t know why he hadn’t applied for a transfer already – surely, he should phone the accommodation liaison while his mysterious roommate was out somewhere else.

He looked across to the messiest side of the room. He wouldn’t be able to transfer without a good reason, he knew from experience, but maybe there was something here that he could use as evidence that they didn’t get along – maybe an anti-gay poster, or a political t-shirt – just something that would prove a ‘clash in values.’

Stan snorted. As though a lack of basic cleanliness wasn’t a big enough thing to clash over.

After making his way to his roommate’s desk, he bent down, to have a look, hand on his knees. When there was nothing incriminating on the top – just a collection of candy wrappers and packets – he pulled out one of the boxes that had been stashed away underneath and opened the lid.

Inside were rows of cassette tapes, some of them of bands Stan didn’t even know you could get on cassette; The Cure, Led Zeppelin, The Ramones, even one called Wolf Alice, a group that Stan was pretty sure had started making music long after tapes had become obsolete. In the next box he found more of the same.

One thing was for sure, his roommate was not only messy but also a complete weirdo. Who would take the effort to transfer music from a CD onto a cassette tape, if they’re not weird?

Suddenly, he felt guilty. His mind was taken back to his school days, when he used to be called a freak for wearing a kippah or for getting stressed out when there was an uneven number of pens in his pocket. Maybe he was being a bit too harsh. It was unlikely, but maybe Stan just had the wrong end of the stick. He hadn’t even seen the guy yet, after all, and what if he was actually alright to talk to?

Stan sighed, swiping his arm across his mattress to brush piles of his roommate’s underwear, comics and pencils to the floor, and began the process of moving in. He’d give it a week. Just a week, he told himself, and if it was absolutely insufferable, he would see about changing rooms.

But it was going to be a long week.

***

“Who the fuck does work on the first day of college?”

Stan rolled his eyes and didn’t reply, focusing on the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. He was quite glad that he already had an assignment, actually, because it gave him a brilliant excuse to ignore his boisterous roommate.

Their first meeting had been awkward at best, his roommate – who had later introduced himself as Richie – barging in to find Stan meticulously dusting his side of the room. He had beamed and ran over, sticking a hand out to be shaken and babbling at decibel levels that could only be described as inhuman. Stan had just ignored him until he went away.

Obviously, Richie was unperturbed, as he was still trying to start a conversation, looking over Stan’s shoulder and asking endless questions (“What does ‘demographic’ mean?”) about his work for Introduction to Business.

He tuned him out, instead focussing on the music coming from the cassette player – ‘Simple Season’ by Hippo Campus – which was actually just calm enough to help him relax.

Richie leaned once more over his shoulder, pointing at the screen. “Wait... there. You’ve written ‘scold’ instead of ‘sold’. Spellcheck won’t pick up on that since it’s a real word.”

“Oh yeah, thanks.” Stan cursed internally as he looked up to where his roommate was pointing. “Don’t you have any work to do?”

Richie smiled infuriatingly and reclined back onto his own bed. “Nope!” He popped the ‘p’. “I don’t have to do anything but relax my fingers, babe.”

“Your fingers?” Stan turned away from his laptop, fighting the blush that threatened to come upon hearing the pet name.

“Oh yeah, I play guitar, didn’t you know?”

Stan shook his head.

“Damn! Well, if you’re a good boy I’ll play for you sometime, I guess.”

“I’ll pass,” he sighed, but Richie ignored him in favour of whistling to the music. After a minute, Stan realised he’d been tapping his own fingers to the beat.

***

Richie was already gone when Stan had woken up on Tuesday, and for some reason he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. That was stupid, of course – seeing Richie was the last thing he wanted. Or at least that’s what he told himself. He got dressed and left with minimal fuss, which last year he would have loved, but now felt was profoundly wrong.

He was sitting in the back row of a lecture theatre, eyes drooping with fatigue and the collar of his shirt digging into his neck, wanting nothing more than to go back to his room and sleep. He had spent most of the night awake, stressing about the paper he had to finish, and about how little he actually wanted to write it. He was confident that he could get a good grade – but God it was so boring.

He slouched down in his seat, far enough that Mr. Sampson couldn’t see him, and laid his head back on the wooden chair back. He closed his eyes and blocked the lecturer’s voice out. He just hoped he didn’t start snoring.

Shoulders loosening, he started to relax as the voices around him became a low monotonous buzz. Perfect bliss. He sighed happily, feeling himself begin to drift off.

The door banged open, shocking him awake and back into an upright position. “Oh sorry!” yelled a very familiar voice over the blasting of a handheld speaker. “Wrong room!”

Everyone turned to stare at Richie, who had begun to leave the room again, exiting to the very apt tune of ‘Talk too Much’ by COIN. Mr Sampson sighed.

“Alright, class dismissed. Go home and get on with your essays while I go and track down Mr. Tozier.”

Stan closed his eyes again in victory, then reached down and hurriedly stuffed his books back into his bag. For once, thank fuck for Richie!

With a newfound spurt of energy, he pulled himself to his feet and forced himself through the crowd that was congregating on the stairs. He pushed the door open with both of his hands – free at last! – and forced himself out into the bright sunlight, taking in a gulp of fresh air and taking off in the direction of the dormitories.

When he hurried past the place where Mr. Sampson was laying into an innocent-faced Richie, he could’ve sworn he saw his roommate wink.

***

With Wednesday came heavy snowfall, and with snowfall came news of lesson cancellations after lesson cancellations. Stan laid on his bed, chin resting on his hand and legs in the air, crossed at the ankle. Richie was sitting cross legged on top of his own duvet. They both stared out the window.

“Do you ever feel sorry for the animals, when it’s like this?” Richie asked.

“I don’t really like to think about it.”

“Well nobody likes to, but I can’t seem to help it sometimes.”

Stan tore his eyes away from the snowy scene in front of him and turned his head to look at Richie. Their eyes met. “Yeah, I get that. I wonder where all of the campus rabbits go when it’s this cold. And how the birds cope with their nests being frozen over.”

“I suppose they’re probably fine,” he replied, shrugging and scratching his face absentmindedly. “I mean, they’ve lived through winters before, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right. What’s got you so concerned about animals all of a sudden?”

“Why, am I not allowed?”

Stan frowned, then shrugged. “Sure, you are, I just didn’t recon you would.”

“We’ve only known each other a few days,” Richie pouted, “I think it's fair to say you don’t know everything about me. I love animals, dude.”

Stan smiled, thinking back to the previous winter spent on his ex-boyfriend Mike’s family farm. “I love them too. Have you ever had to brush snow out of a sheep’s wool? It’s so weird, because on the top it's so cold and wet, but at the same time it’s warm and soft underneath.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah! Not that they’re probably supposed to play outside in it anyway, but it seems impossible to keep them all inside for the whole winter.”

“I can imagine. I used to have a friend that lived on a sheep farm. Haven’t talked to him in a while, actually – maybe I should ask him if I can go and feel some moist wool.” Richie stuck out his tongue. “I wonder what he’d say to that.”

Stan laughed. “Probably nothing good if you phrased it like that. Perhaps I should give Mike a ring, see if we can go visit?”

“Wait,” Richie said, now giving Stan his full attention, “do you mean Mike Hanlon? THE Mike Hanlon? Who I used to go to school with?”

“Well if you went to Derry North, yeah, I suppose you must’ve done." His brow furrowed slightly. “That’s so weird, what a coincidence! I didn’t ever expect to find someone from Derry all the way out here.”

“Why didn’t I see you around school too, then?”

Stan shook his head. “I didn’t go there, I met Mike when we were little, at Boy Scouts.”

“Wait, I remember now – didn’t you two date for a while? He talked about you quite a bit.”

“Yeah, and what about it?” Stan bristled. “You have a problem with that?”

Richie’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, of course not! I was just saying.”

“Oh. Well, good. My past roommates usually tried to switch rooms when they found out I was gay, as if I was going to start spying on them in the shower or something. Which I don’t, by the way.” Stan began to relax again, and laid back down to look at the snow out of the window.

“Shame that. I’ve got a cracking bod. You’d be falling over yourself to ask me out.”

“Richie!”

***

Stan’s breath misted in front of him, yellowed slightly by the artificial light coming through the window. One earbud rested in his ear. He was sat on the low wall just outside of the dormitories, red nose poking out over his tightly wound green scarf.

“What are you doing out here, stranger?”

He turned to see Richie standing in the doorway, hands jammed in his pockets and coat unzipped.

Stan smiled. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Coming to sit down next to him, Richie’s teeth began to chatter.

“Yeah, me neither,” Stan admitted, then tutted; “you’re going to catch your death out here like that.” He reached over and grabbed the zipper on Richie’s jacket, pulling it up to his chin and then pulling up his hood, trying to cover his ears despite his unruly hair getting in the way.

Richie laughed quietly and leaned forward until his forehead was resting on Stan’s shoulder. “You’re like my little husband.”

“Yeah right, I hated you at the start of the week,” Stan protested. Nevertheless, a hand snaked around under Richie’s hood to play with his hair. “You’re a menace.”

Richie nodded. “That I am. But I’m irresistible. Don’t feel too bad about it, everyone gets sucked in eventually. It’s just my miasma.”

“Your miasma?” Stan raised an unseen eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean,” Richie replied with a smile that was lost in Stan’s shoulder. “Anyway, what are you listening to?” He reached around to grab the earbud that was dangling on Stan’s chest and put it into his ear, then sat up and laughed.

“What! It’s my favourite song!” Stan playfully slapped the back of Richie’s head.

Richie looked at him incredulously. “This? This is your favourite song? Are you being serious?”

“Hey, what’s wrong with Mr Brightside?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s a good song! I just didn’t expect anyone to call it their favourite. It’s like Bohemian Rhapsody, everyone loves it when it comes on but no one calls it their favourite.”

“It’s my mom’s favourite.”

Richie sighed good-naturedly. “Of course, it is. Someone needs to introduce you people to some new music.”

Richie sat up further, and Stan’s hand fell from his hair. His hand immediately felt the loss, and it took a great deal of willpower not to reach up and pull Richie’s head down onto his chest. He stuffed it into his pocket instead, as though the weird feeling he was getting was lack of warmth and not something else.

Richie patted his pockets until he found the one that he was looking for, then pulled out a cassette player. “Listen to this one instead.”

Rolling his eyes, Stan paused his music and pulled out his earbud, replacing it with the one that Richie was offering him. “Oh wait, I think I know this one. It’s by Rex Orange County, right? Mike used to listen to this all the time.”

“I know,” he laughed, “who do you think got him into it to start with?”

“Well maybe you should get me into some new music, since you’re the expert.”

“You know what? Maybe I should. Perhaps I’ll make you a tape.”

Stan hummed. “Why do you like cassette tapes so much anyway? Why not just put all your music on an iPod, or use CDs?”

“My dad used to buy me tapes when I was a kid, and it just went from there I guess,” Richie shrugged. “You were probably expecting it to be a long story, but that’s all there is to it. I’ve just always associated them with happy times.”

Stan smiled and absentmindedly grabbed Richie’s hand. “Nah, I completely understand. It’s like how I’ve kept the cars I used to play with as a kid.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Richie laced their fingers tighter and squeezed, looking off into the distance. “You don’t really hate me, do you?”

“What? Hate you? No, of course not.” Stan’s brow furrowed. “I was wary to start with but certainly not now. I quite like you actually.”

“Oh good. I quite like you too.” Richie leaned over to rest on Stan’s shoulder, but at the last moment turned his head to brush a feather-light kiss on the hinge of his jaw.

“Richie?”

He stood. “It’s getting late. Come on inside before you catch a cold.” He pulled Stan to his feet by the hand. “We should talk more in the morning.”

“You’re a funny one, Tozier.”

“Just how you like it.”

As Stan watched Richie’s retreating back, he couldn’t help but agree.

***

The accommodation office – a place in which Stan found himself far more often than any other student – was small, cramped, and deeply weaved with the smells of lavender and biscuits. He looked across the desk at Mrs Flint, a motherly woman with crinkled skin and a kind smile, as she pushed back a grey hair with one of her delicate fingers.

“How are you holding up this year, Stan? I was surprised to have not heard from you yet.” She brought up his file on the computer and tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “If you feel like you and your roommate don’t quite fit, there’s a few other people requesting room changes. I’m sure I can arrange something again.”

Stan smiled and wrapped his fingers around the new cassette tape in his pocket. Richie had given it to him that morning, along with a kiss on the lips and an invitation to dinner. “Not this time, ma’am. I think we’ve finally found a winner. There’s nobody else I’d rather spend my time with at the moment.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but are you sure? Last year you barely lasted a month before asking to be swapped around. What’s different this time?”

“There’s something special about this one. I just know it.” He looked behind Mrs Flint at his new boyfriend, who was pulling faces at him through the glass panel of the door. “He’s absolutely perfect, and I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

[castlehead]

: LITTLE MILE,

PART ONE : : [live for the weekend and buy grams of blow with your paycheck.

see section A. feel good about going for walks. work thru a long distance relationship and get through the suicidal shit okay. then

break promises but also keep a few, not to keep up appearances but you wish rather to keep the purity of your word, which is hard fucking work. wait till she comes for a visit after super long time

apart and spread some roses on the bed because she likes that sort of thing. leave oreos on the pillow as oreos are delicious. ride her later in the night about that time you smoked six cigarettes in five

minutes as she was blowing xanax to prove a point. go to sleep crying but remember a few special moments as well and base your memories around that. see GOD for awhile but then decide it was

bullshit and perhaps just your conscience given a literal voice. see section A. hear nobody text you for days and understand some weird nonsensical ehrebung at really enjoying a smoke for the first

time in the morning as you look out the window. it is brisk and sunny and the bricks of the buildings look beautiful. think what a day what a day etc. then actually try to accomplish something with friends in

PARK SLOPE. understand finally that the general agreement is you whack as shit. then find a letter from your girlfriend from awhile ago and feel uplifted all over again for some reason but as for positivity

you do not discriminate. drink horn of sun to fierce last dregs. think about whether you are actually thin or just think you get thinner when you are really just used to how fat you are. talk to your girlfriend at

a certain point mentioned in section A. while on break for way too long.

sweat out a cluttered subway ride every morning forever. decide to jump off the BROOKLYN BRIDGE then decide not to. look meaningfully at a

church because you are reading twilight of the idols. repeat a lot of different stuff at irregular intervals. repeat stuff at regular intervals. learn that those statements are an acceptable example of an irregular repetition: or is

irregular as regards time only, not difference: an irregular life has less to do with fiber than we think. an irregular life can be as varied as disposition to pate : : as feeling to brokenness, as alteration altered to fear of change

might comfort one back into the nest of ignorance : it doesn't have to mean as regards, well, anything : it itself can be fiber, a fibrous fiber: so: we scrounge for something burred underneath the soft netting: crack up: put way too much

weight in your presence at social events : leave social events early or go to sleep in front of everybody pretending to be passed out : see social events as a total stressor : don't kno what to do : never know what to do ever: social

events. assume yourself a negative, discomfited person thereby. lose all friends because you dig deep into stupidity to find a reason for it, think about it until you go blind, rectify and rectify till all's a mess: is that what you want: yes:

friends are lost based upon too many simpering blasted apologies. really wish that you will leave a good looking corpse and do leave a good looking corpse. wonder why you don’t think about childhood very often, as in the concept.

see section A. come to the conclusion that fuck yes it is too late to have a happy one but really come to understand that that doesn’t matter as all things are for a time anyway but then get pissed off about this because you then realize as well

that you are mere mortal and still fields of open grass and oak away from describing something beautiful or whatever but then also wonder that you are infinite wherein the moment is concerned: and then think about your ex

for some crazy reason because all that matters is the past as regards what you’d want to retain in some eternal rolodex of spite or some shit, or maybe it’s just you but you can’t reimburse your mom because of all the infinite

you’re feeling and tell her you can’t and she says that is okay but doesn’t mention that it is ok because the advent of your twenties was mainly depressing, and you there, in room, gnawing at psyche like some useless ape as usual say, WELL

OUT WITH IT, and there she goes finagling a fart out of her ass your mom we are speaking of your mom and her aggravation and her remnant pain from a lost job years ago because oh certainly to fail once is to fail forever

and then you as you are young realize the moment is forever and you can make it a failure and you can make it a wonderful revealing of some big thickened BLEAR asking for property, asking for sense to be given it but you

can’t you can’t justify the dread nay [beckett] nor the odd ghosts in your bathroom that time you spoke to yourself for days and and and so then so then the weekend promises at least an end to this damned ineradicable

gloom and empty state as in empty and taxing but no state of emptiness no state of gloom yet here is gloom here is the reflections of a man refusing too long to look in the damn mirror and see himself is it you or is it i or is it all

the damn farts from the woman who birthed you wanting to be the final whiffing sound as to all of your gutsy failures and drudges through fields of stone and grass and oak you paint out of a backpack and some green

carpet in your room that one time you tripped balls on a tuesday on mushrooms and the razor talked to you and proved by its unassuming nature a very grill to the face that damned long face of a son too burnt

into his own damned house and wired by the damned eternity that sounds like some resilient, grand tocsin, some priketh ye some don’t but ya know it’s all just plain forgotten and happy at that, I’d live in codes wordless

more than explain this meaninglessness and/or stain on the life of time, that is humanity: that is growth: that is the paradigm of something written, written, scratched along the judgments of your mom’s farting fucking

asshole, your grown ass self, so proud to put on pants, so good at that one joke made riskily at a party and relished ever afterwards, so good at failure, happy failure, happy, happy to enter that small crack in the sadness too, happy

to bloom out of dismissal, shunning, happy to mature past the point of needing a single reason for a fart, an end, or a waste of mind. turn 30.

repeat. [etc] see section A.] ?? . . . .

RAGE on rage on, collapse into morning day like something of a storm, at least Frightful mist, some thunder bloom / glass incipient of the troubling harrowing: Some awful precondition. Out its frightful bells: wetly dew paints grass lucent-

-And I rise away from all that in my small cave in my state an eye half open, My knuckles are red from cracking them on my own jaw very a lot that night And some banging head i.e. sleep deprivation considered itself and made it

Worse. I thwarted myself continually mind whanging useless and thickly, like Sometimes i feel like that hamster I had when I was in middle school, wasn't, That i never named - - - uh, worth, it, wasn't worth it . S'ok it's ok for things

To no be worth it. Don't cry well then here's a fucking cookie Tard. I literally Just spat up phlegm right on my computer / no joke / I am freakish, & loud Also re hamster-mortality: I kno it is tragic, my girlfriend lost HAMSTERR

Named peanut. An entire quadrant of space specking thru eyes of that thing All day . Dont think ive evr done this much speed in one night (lol) i dont think i should be able to backtalk : this quick speed = religious,

[chalk dust molars fanatical facial people crunch 'em with 'em to dust. be sure to drudge up spume in the foggy brume some master floater or for sake of interracial justice an inanimate image of justice untarnished by opinion

or blaspheme. vulgar just for sake of cashing in on the weird honey : dip in there : of big politics etc anticipatory raging, prolepsis, summoner say : ARiSE ! ! !! : my girlfriend: she is sleeping right next to the and oh like a lamb she is, right

next to the voodoo-man, shepherd, making us all fly thru the honey right into some strict objective eye, truly naked vision, making commune with image and self. - - ] She goes on dozing into me and snoring soft like a, like subtle universal truth, or

Somethin. My snot is stuck in the bakc of my skull, i feel, i feel like waking up my Girlfriend with my hands all over like tidal waves : : i know hamstermortality, to let The reader kno : it is the wave of arcanum 17 : it is, it is waft of hope, like random

Prescience. Iit is the great like space etc of all, or some completely lazy encompassing. Kewl things only exist cuz hm i guess they exist for — — time, like hamsterts, Hamsters = meaning of universe, it’s like classical semantics or fuzzy logic:

Supervaluationists predicting borderline cases!!! How many hairs must i lose before You can call me bald : for the hairs will exist alway / they will, they will scream out : They will be a thing that is they are the very fuxxx god calls logic

Slash these words apart, greet blame and slash that, grab the bags: Run from the rage then, drum up some possibility for fuel, beat legs For leagues. ‘Message’ after ye with a bat, won’t get a thing so. But

Kicked up dust he’ll cough on, sweat drooling, finally fatigued: marigolds Fooling in the wind around him, agh, long day: we run into the ‘Pome’ Later: find it sucking on a sugar lump in some coffeeshop, well, money:

Who knew, who but the pivot finally: as drain groans a fable like a job to Do. Shit twists with flood and the seagulls berating lend belief at it all with Solid statement, caw, caw, wishing, duh, To Be Done With Message

Of course, especially one that some brine of heart sloshed up: some Reticular wisdom like as hair, hateful : some weird gloss over shadow Dims the bald head, the bald ‘Message’ - the crested ol’ bigot furious

Yawp yapping damnable in that there roast for the father: big squeeze, Squeeze of animus. Finally, down the block of stillness, down dug into The brig, obstructed color, rigid air, manic doors, kids laughing at him:

Little Mile : : feel it all over again : what answers can we get to as regards You fully: an elliptical, maybe? Or trash, or earthy disarrangement, dirt, Particles resulting in flipflop, wages made but unfulfilled for good? Or

Maybe marigolds !! Breezes coming out of their loops into wiggling weight Themselves, hulking as cathedral tunes, heavy with ambiguous threadiness, And that holy torment of an ever-figuring progenitor, professor of the

'Message'—black & bleak—against the righteous curiosity, ol' puff-head, ol' Apoplectic, Sorry For The State Of - - and dese homeless parties of the Sad. The sad chase, the chase as I must do is still solo. But grand, the

Hemophilic fire, the rusty brigade o’ pleaches o’ daffy hair, dummy cunt To stake on cosmic sex, just a blowoff: still. Then. Little dragoons whiffed It up anyways and blessed the fakery past mythos into real, made a great,

Big sepulcher for all 'em fathers: all the risks at tacky jive: lagoon: great, Great swoon of fibrous living out the ducky’s little murmuring in the mud, Tump-a-tump with buckles o’ swash : #dgaf : yet is we da pirate , as in ,

We is , we ah make anything magnificent and say it is that and leave it So. We. Croon and wait for that swell damned music’s dish to punch big and soft into the pillow : we: meet poetry POETRY POETRY POUR IT ALL

And soft into th. pillow. We. Down a side-street : have a baffled-eye ‘a sec: Din in the den gets closed the sisters ears : think some nature-shit: stfu: Bucolic site there wispy girl : pencil neck : root , , , for Image-Pleasant:

For you that is : root for the Panjundrum not, in his anger-yells all daffy, Deadening reasons for the noise, amplified like a big [bracket] to the side Of something, past declaration, past the final honesty and towards some

New squeamish chuck of ew-grease out of my bad throat : 'Message' Attempts to toughen with - providence, it feels, it knows - of mere scraps Of itself, and then I emit new strings for my shoes, frayed knot, couple

Stoners ranting in a parking lot when one sees a human innim and flees, From eye of him : one states the [bracket] as annotation even though it Supplies nothing : mere notation is as much enclitic for an infidel sense

As rhyming to behead borders of rhythm with timing , adding meaning Like chaff at the end while a sprocket ebbs out then 'splodes at once, a Gathering of mite and fingernail and bedding shod in the cracks under

The bland couch then sets aflame, burning down the garbage, which is Everywhere : police police : fuck da : : whelp : lost musings only whelm As much as one is willing to go rapidly , that is, will be as quality as the

Quicken, enacting some different statement thru defensive natures of style Like Declension : Logoaedic : parse the thought, then let it run before the Jello melts, food gets cold: picnic raped by ants. Premise of the rule. So the:

Uh: bracketed, shuffling fragged things dole more out for the warmness, As in, have something mean what it means, leave it at notation , make the Final well and, "End like a spear, not like a broom" - - Well, who knows

About honor: maybe just to prove myself I will right something really for Awhile too messed for the husbandman to mould with his ass: drop the Incisive manacles, they get my wrist bit with copper: write to right a thing

You never mention: madden out copper tongues: make demands about Stuff you have no idea you are actually talking about: but that's not going To mention itself either and is perhaps what is missing for the right reasons:

So why yell out proper tongues if that is all tongues want is their own voice To hock a spray of legit logey sniffed up the nasal psg. and out into the World. Well. Garbage burns itself to slew. But you like that. You enjoy

The mesmerized epiphanic trumpeting, priketh, prike prike : nasty uncle, He was , and a bald head a sunshine away from DEATH-LAZER. Stun, But be stupid as brick. As was said, I speak to reflect mirrors in darkness.

Should be obvious. Maybe this inkling of finding a new way to speak'll Dart straight for the first reason to pant and wave commodities at the sullen Sucker-tourist upon losing his next day's provender at the hands of silly kids.

DeMand: Wring rungs out proper tongues, lick pompous, drone on in thatt Stat o’ thing: status of thing: state of things: rut t tt t t t tt t tt t t tttt tt t t t t tttt Guts me : feeling in’t I feel nothing but in hole: & & & & & & & & & & & & &

Still the great compilers edge more into the fantastic, learn to eat it along with The tragic as one happy meal. Eventual blossom, hoping Mary and Ed ride fine Off into the sunset, cans tied to the bumper clicking like cliché: Jesus is sick :

He tells me so much is at risk here : then again, who could harbor such a feel But Big J or Yeezy : : well he’s a prick : that’s why you shouldn't music so much: I don’t listen to music nomores: even you’re tarnished bc of all this harlot noise

Attempting heaven, & whatnot : WHAT? WHO THN ?? WHAT THEN ?? So Fortunately, I’m Done. Getting into ye head. I’m already there. Felt random & Also, tortuous pressure spread keen thru label after label, waiting for sustenance,

It was given, as if words could ugh the body with ugh : feed me with 'don't' is What the character 'Message' means. This sentence means it is myself declaring A sentence. That is what it means, and the Myself in it shines out of that part of

It like some beautiful renegade oxygen, a distillation more perverse, a naked way, A death of all that damnable stuff we got our heads warped around in like some Exquisite Fucking Turban [tho false] tho, maybe drunk off picked points smacking

Of defeat, well : : : such's to give up meaning at all - - MESSAGE _a t_ _a l l_ [?] As if words could damage the body : does language uh have one string it can plukk To stop the heart?[.] Or does it all. Well. Uh, lose weight: is it a fascinating receptacle,

Or mere extensiveeverything: ” Do You Believe In God.” – – – – – – I wouldn't be Able to give you anything for jesus, much less Jews. HAve little idea what I believe. Belief is odd. I think I believe in, just, being chased, you know, for thievery. It's a

Saturated L.A. sun like in this song by [The National] it is called "Pink Rabbits." it Is really damn good I remember feeling like the string to my heart almost cut that one Time. But I couldn't tell you anything a medium in some spooky curtained shop

Wouldn't be able to perform with a bit more erggh 'flair' well damn I despise flair write To construct a core or write to DeMand to write or write to right something wrong w. Your sister's [hairdo] or write about strings. Write about all the strings. What all of

Them would do if connected THE WORLD IS POME across the globe. Don't think There'd be much room else for people. Well no worries then, you’ll steal hunches till you Can’t even breathe a thinnest wisp of sister-air. Enjoy never figuring out anything. I

Like to tip-toe but that's no way to run , I gotta say the world is fucked w/o a point , , , The drain is really sick [!] w. all this flood it might as well be the guts of garbage And the rightness of wrong , of the failed and of lineage thru language do we bring

Our own booze do we sing some amped version of the obvious soullessness everybody Gets to grate all over everybody else like some annoying sadness too small for this World, too inscrutable to be anything bt what it is, what it is not anything, as POME

Is words, not ideas, get subjugated by need to buddy up with certainty by corroborating This or that line with another, breaking another, letting pennies go slipshod thru da Grate, while all the while mighty confusion rends a new surprise in plain polished sight,

But o the bees in my gut wig out more folly but as plain to live and hope by their ruin To bring the ties untangled, yes, state the statement-as-goal, martyr a few mirrors thru Indelible mistake, ending Kierkegaard at Democritus' river etc. NO WE NEVER

STEP THRU THE SAME RIVER TWICE NO NOR PERHAPS ONCE, anyways, The bees escape nathless from a pirson-prison. In spite of all this floppy flotsam, Like some weird torture. The stingings bless, the robust yellow flow mitred across

De backs uf'm. And I still considerable, a regular pill for the unagog men still seeing Me unsightly, some lack, some twit, some spook : er something as like, as what god Makes of his leftovers in the afternoon between jobs: but me young boss: HOSS:

What?, zooks, gain, what gain 'questionmark' nothing an adorable steeple could not Bring together as all us wonderful people together rise them, these middle fingers- -Pointing up UP UP, run with lacking, then, fuck, huh?, shut up, suited only to

Sslipped phrase, the bank account gets canceled & yr out on the streets with only Luck and Fucks to feed you. Wiring runoff, shattered, wrecked, fetid, but all of it So Human that nobody seems to mind: neither of those three words can understand

My theosophy, nor gainsay, I'm too cryptic: : fault fault, fault fault, thwartedness- -But still continuance, shorn but not straight dead. Lucky but suffering. What a bore, To get brought in by force, to the party, snatch a few lichen, press against petri dish

To make dialogue unheard of or no at the party what this is about, this sleight of hand, This emotional screening we seize up and clench our asshole to forget about, rot in it I Say, row those sewage tentacles, mandibles, new legs from the mess, new smack to

The veins, new shot, lessening as day and eyesight, NARCAMNARCAM. Ruin stake [valuesystem] bless me achoo gradient risen sceptic collide me w truth,

Ruin stake dress me up in my garters and delirious falbalas at table, valuesystem,

Run to the ruin: make stand up puppetry the rotary: vast tracts of time enable the- -Child to believe he is infinite. Child god goes wishing-wishing at peak, wishing To see: you flee from definition like that stoner guy from earlier all the time, you

You let the questions mysteries bleed out thru yr fanciful cufflinks: drat: quaint: Wanna bleed staid blood. Want to create the hurt that must hurt, that must come: Just to have some control, as elusive blood, got to pour lopsided from a precious

Wound : : we gaze into ourselves and do not speak, wondering what batty thing Happened back there: we go wishing to dash away performance with a little more Laze: 5-year-old Genius. But yea. But, with you I shuffle into someone free. You

You see the curtain and you know the pianist is behind it nodding off into overdose: You are knowing what curtains mean and that curtains rarely help to cover meanings: You realize there is nothing to peek at nothing to see so you shrug and go home to

Your death, ever-approaching some more-appropriate redness , , , but the redness in The West , tho. What's with that haze that looks like the hoarsest GLARE of all: It is the shot in the arm taken too breezy, brought you to the finale, the glimpse then

Recession into embedding blank blankets of so-and-so upon your life, weighty big Deaths greeting you with comfort, delicious sating of the lorn, and raggedy willful Bravery so long perceived like an animal, that is, now seen so much to salute. So I

Have access now into your maze : it is dangerous here : bees go grinding against the Gut. Entrails that trail haphazard underneath everything forever : the flighty frolic Of your hair, sister : good on you for nvr doing hoarse/horse. Your hair that speaks

In looks looks like the bigger maze, the bigger harder hug to give one day when just , When things get better: just so one don't get bitter, what from examining all sides of The same pipe dream. DeMand, and makes thus bigger dissonance w. me. Say me,

Of your aspect, at base, nothing less, your talent is my name and sister-curse, my uh My name is one to have in spades, you gotta have it so it radically disappears under A veil mentioned elsewhere in full wherein the chase is always and never the point

As your legs, extremities exist by the disappearance of a prior location, or some Name, some name called death we get into other ideas 'bout. But it is a lost name. Bu I cannot bless more than I bleed. Whatever that means. Perhaps I tell

This to others, they do not offer but stares and blinking : oh alienation : what an Easily dismissible thing : REAL PROBLEMS hah : in that case, those girls Kidnapped in Nigeria're having real problems : suffering is subjective & hell

We, as In I, Race Towards It as anything the wiser, wise as answer, jus cast answer, Jus cast ANSWER:- whatever happen to be, jus quake out a few inappropriate Inabilities in front of anyway, including meshing: hear aspersions there, here

And there: I say, if one feels pathos then uh                              you know the whitest lash fuck express it, fuck!, don’t you                        painful on your brow                                                                              loose the snow came, bother with a perfect shape as the                   clad in crammed houses families shape you have is naturally a very          frown at homies, themselves children, improvisation, imperfect as a sky                made random and the same                                                                                 as all storm, asleep flakes or something, like, one sky, just                        made like me to feel like an actor one. i guess, uh. that is what i                                       make like to me guess. that nothing happens if we                                     within the thin walls,                                                                   while bruised dads glimpse the hood are indifferent or something. give           in rochester,   barely guap to eat, to obsession, passion etc. then uh                       my father runs into a grand jizz what follows’s a thing the greater                                  on the way back                                                                        captures it and puts it in a safe . for therapy. write on for therapy?                               his father was a vato, well fuck yes. do it and do it and                           gift-wrapping raining down do it. i like channeling whitman , ,           on christmas, wanting to capture fame                                                                                       and getting the pink slip . cuz it’a means wealth, like, iduno                    it was majestic, slowly he i guess like, [vulgate,vulgate] it    drowned in throat cancer, later. my dads hates is freewheeling all over the place                christmas, but at least he caught                                                                                     a good fuck in childhood and without regards -blank- see yu kno, i cant write on tumblr atm bc something is wrong with my uhhhhhh

keyboard. it doesn’t allow me to , ,          delete the space between one anddd             another line. so i am writing this

                                   to you. it’s probably not really i guess to interesting just see that infinitesimal cube understood so , ,

uh, distantly, as me here, in this room, hanging out with whitman! as in i see ‘im, right here. he is in

the corner smiling to himself bout some private meditation, mostttttt likely. have you figured out this

is a msg in enjambments yet?, you are really cool and ring out , , , , , , despite, right?, whether or not or

            maybe regardless. PART II : : : : ERHEM: fast sadness folds in a toilet like down it you know like those soothing squares, gulls take to the particles after response to command goes lagging, and the aqueduct explodes filter to filter after longing for more than garbage could recall, prideful trash–

garbage i done made myself blind blabhah i done made a bad hither, done dash right into the fount of degrading. i feel very such things as i feel and call them detritus still. i am monstrous i am - big eye, i can fuck myself without any charity-help from anybody.

i am to call myself things like topaz once the giddy girth sloshes within a pictureframe's modest dimensions, and the sharks while snapping snapped alive by the implied sort of movement given only to starkly imperishable images that lighten you up at the art

show. well its time t-to start from the start and start a movement founded on a ginger ignorance of other movements. is i-t: is time to start from the beginning of focus way past bemused glance, ripe glare, teeth beside themselves w cavities of roe and garlic:

it’s time to inaccurately anticipate something, like we knew it was coming and wanted our surprise to look nice. anticipate the perfect slur, find a wide audience for that: it is, uh, time to enact maelstrom considerably, like, lofted above the saddest cloud's

drenching of itself: clouds they are clowns : be sure to recognize the hidden voice, what rattles us is not the mystery of how and logical wherefore but in transmuting some odd warfare of a distant crud's finding, that is - - - it is not what links but what is explained,

which for me is the distance crud, or clod, i call planet : am i a part of it or do i depart from its frequent accusings, importances, rudeness, and flat commodity, material, or just shattered booms hailing the demise of precept got so infrequent that one, less

righteous, is more thru the confessional of the lessness, a lesson : us, , rule, , : the sea like an antelope’s stride is, that is, like the picture purely between man, shark, and sea, of slopping sides over the frames of the picture: something by movement not volume,

by not expanse but a few flits of eye - big eye, - regardless of bigness it is, is and will be there for when the ranting stays, crucial delectable bizarre 'mischance of machinery' while the self goes further out, taken by the turning tides, and then yet this is a bit more

than mangling the heart by placing it on sleeve; this will always be here, distant, or like, remote!, yeh, better word!, you will disassociate whatever

from whatever, [edittttttttttt ttt ] from your blinding clarity [edit] : : you will take an eye out for the bossman cannot : since

wills black as char make the crud, clod, dusty clod, a piece of crud: "shouldn't be so hard to have a nice day." Mutter and grimace. wake up to totally remove yourself in the only way possible, that is, from the world of dreamstate: and piss dole me a new

self of yuck and maelstrom. PART III : : drying the die out of to play craps . or somethings like pinochle of life itself, shouted madman. made anterior who wants the soul who wants it made outside of use I see. something— / something digs for a very hinting it goes like something as must to stop,

as much to save the world as self by saving declamatoriations [!!!!!] declarations yeas, declaiming . / well go ahead and rue the ensuing bratty corps of lifer’s whom stake much on image / nada -rtiet- [edit] editwrite made something is^^^ within that words

them words something letters inverted salamander-language seen spanking new by breaking every rule, ruling over breaks like you had more time. / discovering the body, etc. and it all makes you want to imprint on the wise world some attmept, to do more

by removal of sense if sense is not snuffed out already by now in this senseless world, just going on and on!!!! to the creakiest hints shuffling under floorboards like captives from the bad!! quite the soul search. make more inklings, don't harry yourself, I say,

to discover a bunch of cool shit, also, uh, master it. master thinking in language. maybe i always never did nitpick and nitpick only yeup that is me I knit together the nits the nits are scratchiness, a scratchiness. then I think about how nice honesty is as re the slow

deliverance or rather sparing of us all by the most high / as by and by,, we grope for some bigger socket to launch a sensitivity of me I we errybody into, and me and ha and ha. ALERT. cannot diverge ALERT ALERT ALERT!!! Whoop show./Whopp whoop

whoop, can’t but take it down I wsiwiwsh i wish i was blind, i wish the rails weren’t so sharky : : so bloome [!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!] 5$%uh September 13, 2014. Leave a comment Edit POME34 there is language to report, a monster essence. hammer away

and believe till the growth gets funnier and then throw it away handsomely / feel it run like sand thurr rthru your thru thru you[edit]hrought your fineger.s ample tome, im ean time, to write, requite certain disposable nothings like a big random power/ mind goes

and glowers at itself again. ah you kno. broken triangle. anything broken becomes an angle or many. a ziggidy line or somesuch. / so break a whole, rift it to life as some ziggidy line. some sorta line that breathes with uncaring for anything like information

but retaineing formless form as if your occupation was with something else/ let relax the

strands in you ankel, let the angel fall my dear / dont deny it / yur a good person, dammit. all the se facile blunders. all this. these stupid years of making. in the making,

or just making, about too. etc. greqat. great magnificent quiet [edit] is that which i search for and make and build into the most complex geometric shape for good / only to rift it and - - make what people would holy-fy even more bettr than the more better it was /

bby oh how you go on concealing pleanty of plaintiveness. am i nice ?? so what if you are. youre a stara special star . . . yr starved, strande line you ssay you are a bulk of issues you say you dance like a man made

of things .. light as wing . dwindle. wind. light as wind. so much so much to destroy sitll. my eyes need more blurs t[edit] to in order make everything wrong rightwise. foreget aspbergers. or any label / speak pretty

mane’s ruffling sinousity in wind. / a bloke with flow / gnarly [edit] speak charlie stude the sirfur, charlie stud is he who rides the wave, rides wthe wave in /by just meeting

wit ha hello and a hahaha at ripe ombustive ripe combustiveness at / a large offense

[soldierstark]

Late Night Magic | Part 2 | LOKI LAUFEYSON X READER

Description: Nightmares are a common occurrence for the reader as her power emanates darkness and danger. This leads to an odd connection between her and Loki who resonates with her through 2:30 am conversations.

Author’s Note: Ya’ll really enjoyed Late Night Magic and with so many requests for a part 2, I couldn’t not write one so here it is. I pulled this out of my ass in like an hour and a half and I think I turned out pretty well. I especially like the dream sequence. Anyways, as always I appreciate feedback and I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!

Word Count: 1891

FANFICTION MASTERLIST | Part 1

The onslaught of hard liquor down my throat lead to me having a coughing fit as I slammed the shot glass down onto the counter. I wiped my mouth violently and leaned against the counter, my (Y/H/C) hair falling over my shoulders and covering my face.

“Why the sudden change from tea to whiskey?” a voice asked, breaking the eerie silence that overcame the Avengers Tower while everyone else with a normal sleep schedule, well, slept.

I looked up and shook my hair out of sight, coming face to face with the only other person who was ever up at this time of night, Loki. He approached me casually before leaning his elbows against the counter opposite from me.

“Another nightmare?” he asked in a soft voice. Loki’s face looked relaxed aside from the fact that his eyebrows were scrunched together. It was almost as if he were… concerned.

I reached a hand up and pushed a stray piece of hair behind my ear, looking away from his piercing gaze. A dry laugh escaped my lips along with a flush of color to my cheeks as I recalled the dream that woke me up tonight.

“I wouldn’t call it a nightmare per say,” I trailed off, looking back up at Loki. “It was just rather… well… strange is the only way I can think to describe it.” My hand gripped the bottle of whiskey carefully as I poured myself another shot.

“Care to elaborate?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not to you particularly no,” I replied, downing another shot of alcohol.

“And why is that?” Loki prodded. When I didn’t respond he asked another question. “Was I in it?”

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant. “No,” I lied through my teeth.

Loki stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest. He tilted his head to the side slightly and studied my demeanor carefully with a smirk. I got the sudden urge to shiver though I wasn’t cold.

“You know (Y/N), though I am the god of mischief, I am also the god of lying. Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to see your dishonesty?” he quipped sounding amused.

I pursed my lips and began screwing the cap back onto the bottle of whiskey. 2:37 am on a Tuesday was not the time to be getting drunk off my ass. “No, I was just hoping you’d ignore it.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it’s too late for you to be picking an argument with a girl who could literally destroy you with a simple touch,” I replied monotonously, putting the bottle away into the cabinet above the cups where it belonged.

I turned around to face Loki again, leaning my back against the kitchen counter. The moon light streaming in through the wall of widows a few feet away gave Loki’s silhouette a silver lining. Much like that of a cloud obscuring the sun’s afternoon rays.

“I thought we already established that you wouldn’t do that?” he retorted cheekily before clearing his throat. “But seriously (Y/N), what was the dream about. It must’ve been quite odd to wake you up at this hour.”

I chewed my bottom lip slightly and looked down at my bare feet which rested upon the cold kitchen tile. I could feel Loki’s gaze burning into my skin during the moment of silence that overcame us before I replied.

“Yea…. Quite strange it was,” I answered vaguely, recalling the dream I had awoken from mere minutes ago.

“I don’t know how much longer we can hold them off,” I gasped out between labored breaths. I swung my silver katana around me, skillfully killing any one of Hela’s undead soldiers that came my way.

Loki and the Valkyrie girl along with Bruce all ended up in the same vicinity that I was in. We were all using the various weapons we had on us the fight off the army of soldiers.

“Heimdall needs to get the civilians onto the ship faster… they’re just gonna keep coming and there’s no way we can kill all of these,” the Valkyrie girl yelled, twisting around to stab another one of the undead from behind.

My arms were burning in protest despite the rush of adrenaline I received from battle. Epinephrine can only get you so far when it comes to physical fatigue. I was starting to feel the effects of battle both mentally and physically.

Things couldn’t go on like this much longer and from the look of things, we had a long way to go.

“We don’t need to kill all of them,” Loki ground out between the stabs he took with his two knives. “We just need to buy Thor more time to kill that bitch.”

My ears perked up at the Princes words, and idea forming in my mind that might just be the solution we were all looking for. I maneuvered myself through the hoard of undead soldiers while simultaneously fighting them off.

“Loki,” I yelled once I got closer to him.

“What?” he yelled back sounding distracted, still fighting off Hela’s soldiers.

“You and the others need to get on the ship along with the civilians,” I said quickly. “You’ve got to get off this planet.”

Loki was able to steal a glance at me for a split second before he had to turn his attention back to fighting. “What? No! I’m not leaving you here (Y/N). You’ll get killed,” he replied exasperated.

“I’ll be fine Loki, I do have a plan you know. Plus it’s not like we have any other option,” I argued back. “What do you suppose we do instead? Stand here and fight to our deaths?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Loki let out and indigent snort, stabbing an undead soldier through the skull. “I think we should do something that won’t end in a suicide mission for you. I don’t even need to hear your plan to know that’s what it is.”

“Loki for the last time I’ll be fine! For the love of all things please just get everyone on the ship,” I demanded, swinging my katana in a wide arc taking out 4 soldiers.

I stood up straight and looked over at Loki, having an undisputed staring contest with him. His eyes were filled with unreadable emotion as he surged closer to be me, pulling me into him by the waist.

I let out a gasp of surprise as he leaned his head down and pressed his lips against mine firmly. I tensed up slightly but relaxed into the kiss almost immediately after, returning it with fervently.

Loki’s lips were surprisingly soft and warm, the feeling that shot through my body at the sensation was indescribable. Despite the battle going on around us, I felt perfectly safe in that moment wrapped in his arms.

The kiss ended almost as quickly as it started, both of us pulling apart for air.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Loki said softly, so soft that I could barely hear him over the sound of the battle raging on around us. And with one last smile, he started making his way towards the ship. The rest of the ‘revengers’ following suit.

I quickly sheathed my katana and made fists with both of my hands. I hit my wrists together two times and on the third, black flames erupted from my palms like fireworks.

Ever since I discovered my power of cataclysm, a little part of my focus had always been spent on keeping it under control. Never had I ever been able to give something my undivided attention out of fear of losing control all together.

For the first time ever, I didn’t have to fear losing control, because that was all a part of the plan.

I let the power of destruction over take me and in one swift move, I shot my hands out and watched as Asgard began to crumble to ruins around me.

“The dream itself isn’t what’s bothering me Loki. It’s the meaning behind it,” I breathed out, wringing my hands together nervously. “Yesterday you said the dreams are reflections of your subconscious, well my subconscious is telling me something that I really don’t feel like dealing with.”

Loki licked his lips, not taking his eyes off of me. I found myself entranced by the motion. Man was in deep. Of all the people I could possibly get a crush on, my mind just had to start liking this thousand year old Prince from an alien planet.

I had such great taste in men.

“I’m just curious as to what this all has to do with me,” Loki admitted.

I pushed myself off the counter and made a move to exit the kitchen. “It’s not important Loki,” I grumbled trying to push past him.

Loki’s arm reached out and gently grabbed me by the elbow, halting my movement. “And where do you think you’re going?”

I rolled my eyes. “Back to bed.”

He let out a deep chuckle and shook his head playfully. “Nuh uh. Not until you tell me about your dream and what I was doing in it.”

I threw my head back with a groan. “For someone as old as you are you can be really immature. Will you please let me go to bed?”

“If you want to go back to bed that bad, all you have to do is tell me about your dream (Y/N)”

I let out an exasperated sigh and gave Loki an indignant look. “How about I show you?” I compromised, the shots of whiskey I took giving me some courage I otherwise wouldn’t have.

Loki gave me a heart stopping smirk. “Even better.”

Taking a step forward, I wrapped one hand around the back of Loki’s neck while the other made it’s way through his long dark hair. Standing up on my toes, I pulled his head down to mine and kissed him firmly on the lips.

He reciprocated almost immediately and wrapped an arm around my waist while the other went around my back, pressing me closer to him. Our lips move in synch as I rummage my hands through his hair, messing it up undoubtedly.

I pull Loki’s face even closer to mine, electing a deep, lustful moan from the back of his throat. For what seems like forever, we kiss deeply without another care in the world.

That is, until we’re interrupted by the millionaire who owns the very kitchen we were making out in. “What the hell guys?” Tony groans huskily, rubbing his eyes wearily. “It’s like 3 in the morning go to sleep.”

Loki and I break apart and turn quickly towards the voice of Tony Stark, putting as much distance between ourselves as possible.

“You know what,” Tony starts waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t even care anymore do whatever the hell you want. Just clean up when you’re done will ya? Thanks.” He finishes with a yawn, turning around and walking back down the hallway towards his room.

I let out a quiet laugh and look over at Loki. “Good night Prince Loki,” I say jokingly, making a move to leave the kitchen.

“Good night Lady (Y/N),” he replies with a smile, finally allowing to pass him and go back to bed.

Tagged: @holamora @sherlokidlikeshit @domcaaa996 @iamhamburglar

[ciderapples]

Joyce & Hopper. Bleachers & Camels. A bitchfest, and a little weird love.

Movie night is Wednesday.

Wednesday gets the honor because Wednesday sucks: because he has to do the weekend paperwork that he’d put off Monday and Tuesday but can’t leave for Thursday because the guy from state comes to pick it up. And Wednesday is Flo’s day off, and the Markey girl that fills in for her is just a little in love with him and just barely not a child. All day long it’s ‘oh, Sheriff Hopper,’ and mooney stares through the window of his office door and more hot coffee refills than he can reasonably consume.

He’d can her if Big Pam Markey, PTA president, didn’t scare the shit out of him.

Big Pam Markey scares the shit out of him.

Shoulder pads the size of hubcaps: he should be scared.

By the time Hop drops little Pam off at home (really not the purview of the police department, as he’s told Big Pam never, not once, and he’s never going to) and hits the IGA for beer and defrostables, it’s almost seven. He’s got the energy to operate anything that requires three fingers or fewer: a microwave. A bottle opener. A VCR.

He takes the truck quicker than he should down the driveway. It pitches like a ship through the washouts and ruts, waggling his spine like a rope, gravel patches vibrating up through his thighs and out through his ears. It shakes the stress out of him, leaving him with pure, distilled mental fatigue and the bodily constitution of wilted celery. El never seems to notice his composure: as soon as his keys turn in the door, she comes at him with such-and-such permission slips he has to sign and look-at-this-test-I-got-a-hundred-on and somebody’s birthday party is tomorrow and we need a present right now and it has to be cool.

His hand feels like a gigantic paw on her little head, sinking into the kelp forest of her curls, slightly green from her recent attempt to go blonde. He keeps her at elbow’s length so he can get around her into the kitchen — beer to the fridge, first things first — then pulls out a chair at the table. There’s a pen already there.

“This one is to go to the mayor’s office,” she says, kneeing up onto the opposing chair and splaying across the table to fingerpoint to the empty line.

“Mayor’s office?” he mutters. “That’s a field trip, now?”

El rolls her eyes.

“You know I can take you to the mayor’s office whenever you want.” He signs: a wiggly line with nothing particularly Hoppery about it. He’s gotta change that before she starts forging things just because she thinks she can get away with it.

“Um, no thanks,” she says. She slips the sheet away and slaps another one down. “This is because Amy Waltrine has strep.”

He adjusts the paper to get a better position to try a new signature.

“But she doesn’t really have strep,” El says, as he thinks about what to change. “She has the clap. So, don’t worry about it.”

Hop’s pen hovers in the air. So many things wrong with the words that just flew nonchalantly out of his daughter’s mouth. “She has the what?” he says, squinting incredulously. El senses, just now, that this is one of those things she didn’t quite put in the right box.

“The…clap?”

“Who told you that?”

“Amy Waltrine?”

“She just — you kids talk about that stuff?”

El shrugs.

Hop shakes his head. He doesn’t understand the world anymore. Since when was gonorrhea some perverted badge of honor? Back in the day you felt some healthy shame and kept your mouth shut about it and never went into the backseat with Mary Kelly again.

Kids.

“Well, look,” he said, finally touching pen to page again. “You remember that conversation we had? About boy-girl stuff?” He glances up to make sure El’s blushing bright red. Yeah, she remembers.

“Daaaaad,” she says. “I’m not…doing it.”

“That’s right you’re not,” he says. He scrawls his name, tosses the pen down and lets her take the sheet. Dammit— he forgot to try the new signature. “And if you are…”

“They’re in the kitchen drawer.”

He stares her down across the table. If she can’t say the word to him, no way is it going to roll off her tongue with little Jimmy Johnson. “What are in the kitchen drawer?”

“Ugh,” she protests, but she levels the stare back at him. “Condoms.”

Hop sighs again, deep and huffy, like he can wipe his brain clean. “Go put that stuff away. You’ve got a movie to pick.”

Clutching her forms, El slides back into her seat and looks at him apprehensively.

“What?” he asks. He leans back in his chair until the vertebrae crack. El makes a face: gross. Hop grins behind his scruffy beard. “What?” he repeats.

She looks hesitantly toward the door, just as he realizes she’s not in her traditional movie night attire. No boy band t-shirt. No little cartoon pajama pants. No floofy slippers.

“You got plans?” he asks.

She looks at him with loosely feigned remorse, but she’s hovering on the edge of the kitchen chair with anticipation, glancing again toward the door.

“On movie night?” Hop presses. Does he sound pathetic? He wants to sound funny, but she’s never missed a movie night. It’s their night: he suffers through some unbearable kid flick and they plow through bags of microwave popcorn and he gets to sit next to her on the couch and pretend she’s still his little girl. Movie night.

But suddenly, El looks genuinely apologetic, and Hop snaps himself out of it.

“Alright, then,” he says. He puts his hands on the table top, letting the smooth formica slip under his fingers. “Whose door’ll I have to break down if you’re late?”

El’s face breaks into sunrise. She leaps from the chair, quick as a bird, and pecks him on the cheek. The things he trades. “Movies. Max and everybody.”

'Everybody' includes Mike, he's sure, but he doesn’t have to press it. “Remember,” he prompts, and she knows the drill.

“Home by nine, or call. Say please and thank you. Don’t break the law, unless I can get away with it.”

“That last part was a joke,” he says, but he likes it, and he likes that she’s kept it. There’re too many rules in the world to begin with; let her bend a few.

El disappears down the hall in a flurry of dry-leaf footsteps, and Hopper is left alone in a suddenly-silent kitchen. He’s got three videos on top of the TV, all tailored toward the mercurial preferences of a teenager, and an extra TV dinner to kill.

Salisbury steak and Sixteen Candles.

What a night

*

Twenty-five minutes of Long Duk Dong and mushy peas are about all Hop can take.

He shoves the unfinished plastic tray to the other side of the couch and pauses the video. For a long moment, he stares into the tape squiggles, trying to figure out why he feels like a potato about to explode in the microwave.

One missed movie night is…nothing. There’s plenty worse going on around town: the little assholes that huff paint behind the Ace, or the punks he has to run off the record store every other night with their weird hair and racoony eye junk. It’s not like she’s shoplifting girl crap from the drugstore, or getting busted out on Boner Boulevard in some kid’s beater.

But it’s not just a missed movie night.

It’s all these little things that’ve started creeping up on him, one at a time until he can’t shut the door on them anymore.

She doesn’t sit next to him on the couch anymore, for one. Sometime over the summer she’d claimed the opposite armrest, and the first few times she’d had a reason (a hot mug of something to balance, a school notebook with homework to finish) but now she never does.

And she doesn’t do bedtime anymore, either. Used to be he’d come in and sit down and she’d roll toward him, pretending to be sucked into the giant vortex his two-hundred-fifty pounds made in her mattress. They’d shoot the shit about this shitty kid and that cool kid and some field trip coming up and what did she want for Christmas and should they get a puppy, and then he’d kiss the top of her head and make a mess of her hair and close the door behind him when he left. But lately he goes to check on her and the door’s already shut, some weird music going on, and she yells, ‘night, dad’ and he stands there like an idiot in the dark, wondering what the hell changed.

He’s too old for this shit.

Heaving himself up off the couch, he marches to the kitchen, grabs the phone off the wall and punches a number.

“Code red, Joyce,” he says, when she picks up. “Code red.”

*

The first thing that Joyce says is—

—no, the first thing Joyce says, after ‘light me, Hop,’ is:

“Is this about Amy Waltrine?”

Hop is knee-deep in a drag on his Camel and he almost chokes it out. “The clap kid?” he says, finally, on the exhale.

Joyce makes a face. "Hop."

“No, it’s not about the clap kid.” He shakes his head in his own cloud. He manages to contain himself for a few seconds before the indignation bristles through. “I don’t get it; I really don’t. How’re they even doing that at this age? We were, like, sixteen!”

“Seventeen,” Joyce says.

“Sixteen; seventeen…this kid’s, what, thirteen?”

“Fifteen, almost sixteen” Joyce says. “Two years older than Will.”

Hopper sulks and passes the cigarette. “Still. She got it in her throat.”

“Hop.” Joyce slaps him on the shoulder. She sips when she smokes, making choo-choo puffs that sail past Hopper’s face in the dark. When she’s done, she dances the cigarette back in front of his face, and he tries to take it but she doesn’t let him. He can’t miss the look she gives him. “There but for the grace of prophylactics went I,” she reminds him. “And you.”

He sighs and rolls his whole head. She lets go.

“Just don’t say anything to Shelly, okay,” she says. “She’s mortified.”

Hopper nods in agreement — though why he would ever mention that to Shelly in the first place is beyond him — and takes a slower, gentler puff. He’s starting to calm down. Actually, he’d calmed down a bunch on the way over: Lynyrd Skynyrd on a dark road really wrings the shittiness out of him. Lynyrd Skynyrd, and being ten minutes and a football field away from sharing a Camel with Joyce Byers and bitching about their kids.

Solidarity, man.

“So who was the other kid?” Hop asks. He tries to do it surreptitiously but Joyce knows him way too well.

“What are you going to do, lock him up?”

“Maybe.”

“El’s smart,” Joyce says, smiling out over the field. The whole thing’s dark except for the red playclock, which somehow never shuts off. The white lines are fresh, glowing in the moon.

“Yeah, she is.” Hop’s attention, too, settles on the red clock. Eight thirty-two. He’s too fucking tired for eight thirty-two.

They both go quiet.

“Thanks for coming out,” he says after a while. Even after just the one smoke, his voice is back in the gravelly gutter where it used to sit when he was sucking down two packs a day. “I’m still quitting,” he says. “Sometimes you just need a goddamn cigarette.”

Joyce agrees in silence.

“What happens to these kids, huh?” he asks. The words are as soft and faint as his breath. He turns his head to her, beard rustling over the fleecy ruff of his coat. Her face is neutral, receptive. It encourages him. “It’s all, movie night and chasin’ ‘em down the hall and ‘daddy, do my hair’ and then, boom, she’s going out at night and some kid’s got the clap.”

Joyce gives his arm a little wiggle. “It’s not that bad,” she says.

“Hey, I’m not saying a kid can’t have freedom,” he says. “Just-”

“Just what?”

He holds his breath like it helps him think. “Well, you kept yours right,” he says. “How’d you do it?”

Her mouth quirks. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know,” he says. “You’ve got two…” He doesn’t want to say it, but there’s no other way to put it. At least, not that he’s clever enough to come up with. “Two fine, upstanding momma’s boys.” He puts his hands out between them to forestall her open-mouthed offense. “Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing; that’s what I want. I mean, those kids miss you when you go to take a piss.”

“That’s disgusting.”

He shrugs, shoulders and eyebrows hitching up together. “You like it.”

“I like my boys,” she says.

“And they like you.”

Joyce presses her lips together and leans deeper into Hop’s shoulder, close to feeling his arm through the eight layers of coat and flannel. “El loves you, Hop. She’s not going anywhere. But she’s gotta have something else going on.”

Hop snorts. Joyce sees it from below — the billow of air over his shiny, iced beard — and it reminds her of a billy goat. Put some horns on him; he’s got the whole stubborn rest of it covered.

“A girl can’t live on Schlitz and Bob Seeger alone,” she says. He head butts her. Just gently…but the goat thing stands.

“Worked pretty well for you,” he mutters gruffly. He stubs the cigarette out on the silver slat and drops it through the gap, condemned to the no-man’s-land under the bleachers.

“I was a little weird,” she says.

“A little,” he corroborates.

She leans in to shoulder-check him but he sees her coming. His big arm catches her at her zenith and mashes her deep into all that coat fluff. Some of it, she can tell from the warmth, is Hopper fluff. Both are very cozy to be smashed against, but Hop still, after twenty years, doesn’t know his own strength. Joyce’s peeping sound is how she communicates that he’s got her ribcage in a vice.

“Sorry,” he says, but he only loosens up a little.

They breathe together (Joyce, shallowly).

Look at the stars.

They stay motionless enough that their warmth hangs around them, and the punishment of fresh cold discourages even the slightest shift. Joyce lights another cigarette and smokes it like a statue, hand stuck up by her mouth. When it’s mostly done she tosses it down with all the other illegal, irresponsible, little-forest-animal-poisoning litter.

She feels Hopper’s chin double up against the top of her head when he looks down at her, and she looks up expecting a sarcastic scolding but gets a totally different Hopper.

A little more open around the eyes.

A little more pink in the cheeks.

A little less symmetrical in the smile.

She knew that look twenty years ago, and it hasn’t changed at all.

He’s gonna ask.

“Joyce,” he says, staring not at her, but at the stars.

“Yeah, Hop.”

They’ve been circling this, not like a drain but like a hunt. Every night drive, every smoke-out behind the high school, every midnight fried egg at the diner, they’ve come closer and closer to some center, like the North Pole, and Hop’s got this flag to plant. At this point, he’s so used to carrying it he doesn’t realize how heavy it’s become. His shoulders bend under it: all the time, but especially here, and now.

Joyce’s body is pulled suddenly, gracelessly, by an unscripted jerk of his arm.

“Sorry to get you out here on a school night,” he says. “I know you’ve got…stuff.”

He gets up, bleacher creaking, and offers her a hand.

The flag stays where it is, tied to his back.

His loss makes her cold, but his hand is still warm to the touch.

“We’ve all got stuff,” she says. “You know I’m here for ya.” She says ‘ya’ instead of ‘you’ so he won’t get scared. For a terrifying bearlike human being, it’s surprisingly easy to get his tail between his legs: sometimes just the barest hint of sincerity’ll do it. Then, of course, there are times he surprises her.

Though he doesn’t often do it this way:

“I love you, Joyce.”

Lightning.

It’s like she’s opened her coat, and shirt, and everything — all the way down — and let winter pour in. Just, ice, through every inch of her body.

Hop just sighs, eyebrows furrowing so deep they hide his eyes. “No, no,” he says, and Joyce realizes her face must be stuck in some terrible expression: it gets away from her sometimes. Hopper grips her shoulders, facing him, corralling her. “Here, it’s—” he sighs again “—it’s this whole thing with El. And with-”

His head dips. Hands loosen. Joyce puts hers up around his wrists and squeezes.

“With Sara, we always said we weren’t going to let it happen, you know?” He keeps looking at the ground. “We weren’t going to let her get too cool for us.” He laughs, but not really. “The world wasn’t gonna get her. She was going to stay our little girl.”

Joyce squeezes harder. Hop squeezes back.

“Growing up shouldn’t mean you can’t hug your dad or smile or actually like anything. But these kids hit high school and ‘love’ means ‘fuck’ and I think that — I think it’s fucked up. I think it fucks kids up. And I’m not letting some bozos convince my daughter that you have to turn into one of those record store punks on your thirteenth birthday.”

He stops talking. Out of breath, maybe.

Joyce is still frozen in place. She dares lift her eyes, and he’s looking right back at her. His gaze sticks like glue.

A few moments into his silence, she says: “What does that have to do with-”

“Everything,” he says. “I’m getting the word out. I’m gonna use it.”

She blinks.

“So, I love you,” he says. “And you love me. And we should fucking say it.”

She blinks again.

“Look: it means something that I call you,” he says. “And it means something that you come. It doesn’t have to mean more than that, but let’s call it what it is.”

She’s voiceless.

He’s impatient.

“You don’t have to get all weird about it. The whole idea is that you don’t get all weird about it.”

She nods. “I get it,” she says, a little raspy, and forces a smile.

“Come on,” he says, half joking. “Don’t tell me the cool kids got to you, too.”

Joyce doesn’t know how to explain to him what’s happening to her at this second, as he looks at her and she’s appearing to stay exactly the same. A fuse has been replaced somewhere, something she’d burned out so long ago and gone without for so long she’d forgotten it was ever there. Circuit completed. And what she feels, is a bewildering combination of fear and fearlessness.

The fear feels familiar. She’s no stranger to fear: everything she’s ever gotten for herself has made her afraid in return. Her beautiful, fragile kids; Her beautiful, shameless husband; Her weird, shattered reputation. It’s all mixed up into a wet, cold, ash that’s frozen like cement around her life. But she hasn’t felt fearless in a long, long time, and she doesn’t know why now, except that it’s in some way because Hopper loves her and Hopper is good.

Good in a way that’s beyond morality. Beyond reason. The kind of good he is, is elemental. She can smell it in the back of her head.

She’s been waiting for years, maybe since high school, for this declaration of love to come floating up out of him, like a body from a swamp. She realizes now that she’s been dreading it. More fear. Fear that love would mean fuck, maybe: like he’d said. And that the last little pure thing she’d been able to keep from the cement would be buried and gone.

But this is not a burial.

This is a force of nature, six-foot-four and heavy, unstoppable, coming out of the woods to stand in front of her and kneel.

It feels like the opposite of fear; it feels powerful, and she feels taller, and stronger, and when she looks up at him she takes his gaze straight. The way he looks back at her says she can get whatever she asks for.

He licks his lips.

He’s not afraid of her, either.

[advocatewrites-blog]

Simple/Clean Chapter 1

Simple/Clean: An Original Character’s Story

Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Sci Fi, Comedy, Parody

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts (1) (Final Fantasy, Disney Movies)

Played As: Subversion Parody (Kingdom Hearts Franchise, Final Fantasy Franchise, Disney Animated Canon (and Pixar), Kingdom Hearts Fanfictions, Self insert Fic)

Style: Insert

Synopsis: There are many worlds, but they share the same sky. One Sky, one Destiny. And when that destiny is threatened, the universe calls on one hero to save the day. Or, more like, five. When the Earth is consumed into Darkness, Danielle Scott and her friends are given the Keys between light and darkness. If they are going to save the worlds and find her brother, they are going to have to go on a multiverse-wide road trip to find the Door to Light. If only they had a better weapon than keys.

Characters: Dani S., Hanna S., Katie W., Nadine A., Dim S.; Sora, Donald, Goofy, Riku, Kairi, King Mickey; S. Leonhart, Yuffie K., Aeries G., Cloud S., Cid; Maleificent, Xeahnort, Xemnas

Relationships: Canon pairings apply, and not the focus. Sora/Kairi. Interpretable female OC/female OC and male OC/Riku

Rated: +K for violence and occasional language

Disclaimer: The Kingdom Hearts series was created by Tetsuya Nomura and owned by Square Enix. The Final Fantasy series was created by Hironobu Sakaguchi and owned by Square Enix. The films depicted were created by the Walt Disney Animation Studios and owned by the Walt Disney Company. Any other work mentioned or homaged are property of their respective owners. This is a non-profit fan-based work that only seeks to entertain. Please support the official releases.

I've been having some strange dreams lately…

Like, is any of this for real?

Or not?

Simple / Clean: An Original Character's Story Part of the first configuration of the Original Character’s series

A Kingdom Hearts fanfiction By the Poor Sap Advocate

Chapter 1: Pale Blue Dot

Dani knew she was dreaming.

She just wasn't sure what she was dreaming about.

“So much to do...so little time…

Take your time. Don't be afraid.”

 The voice speaking to her was neither male nor female, neither loud nor soft, and seemed to be nowhere and everywhere at once.

Dani tapped the floor below her with her foot, testing for sturdiness. When she felt solidness, she stepped forward.  Light erupted from her feet, strong enough that she needed to cover her eyes. The sounds of rustling wings was what caused her to uncover, and she looked up just quick enough to watch a flock of doves fly past. Her gaze fell back on the ground below her.

She was standing on a circular platform made of an intricate stained glass pattern. Most of the tiles were dyed a bright yellow, and had the etchings of designs and people in them that Dani couldn't quite make out with the light. What she could see was the figure of a boy, probably no older than her, colored in bright yellows, reds and browns.

“Now, step forward. Can you do it?”

Dani furrowed her eyes together in concentration, and took one step forward. Her other foot trailed behind her.

“Alright. Now you've got it.” The voice praised.

Dani felt herself smile. This dream was going to be easy! 

“The door is still shut.”

“Power sleeps within you.

If you give it form,

It will give you strength.

Choose well.”

“The power of the warrior.

Invincible courage.

A sword of terrible destruction.

Is this the path you seek?”

“Yeah, I feel like the sword is going to be a better weapon for me than the shield and the stick with the mouse head.” Hanna said.

Hanna also knew she was dreaming, but she wasn't sure what she had eaten that night that would provoke such a nightmare. It was beyond usual dreams of big scary monsters and showing up to school naked; this dream has a physical feeling of uneasiness attached to it.

“Then your path is set.

The warrior of the Day.

You've gained the strength to fight.

Use this strength to protect yourself and your friends.”

The stained-glass platform shattered beneath her, and Hanna felt herself fall.

“The path of the guardian.

Kindness to aid friends.

A shield to repel all.

Guardian of the Morning.”

Katie knew that she wasn't dreaming. There was a difference between lucid dreaming and hallucinations. And this...was somewhere in between.

She didn't know what to think.

“Behind you!”

Reflexively, Katie swung the shield in her hand like a bat. It collided with something, but she wasn't sure exactly what. Shadows lurked and hid into the platform, and only once they were out of sight did Katie take a chance to look at the platform in front of her. Most of the tiles were dyed a light blue, and had the etchings of designs and people in them that Katie couldn't quite make out with the light. What she could see was the figure of a boy, probably no older than her, colored in white and black. There was some figure behind him, colored only in blacks, and Katie couldn't tell if that was a deliberate design choice or not.

“There will be times you have to fight.

Keep your light burning strong.”

“I'm sorry, when?” Katie asked. “And what will I be fighting? I feel like these are important things to know, Mr. Mysterious Voice.”

She got no answer. Instead, a set of stained-glass stairs lit up beside her, revealing the next path. Katie decided there was no other way to proceed.

“The Power of the Mystic.

Inner Strength.

A staff of wonder and ruin.

Mage of the Afternoon.”

It was a long staircase, and it took Nadine some time to make her way to the next platform. However, she didn't feel any fatigue once she did. She took a chance to look at the station under her. Most of the tiles were dyed a bright pink, nearly magenta, and had the etchings of designs and people in them that looked like they were pixels rather than glass. What she could see was the figure of a boy, probably no older than her, as tall as she and colored in yellows and reds, descending into random snippets of binary.

“The close you get to the light,

the greater your shadow becomes.”

Nadine certainly didn't try to look down at the ground beneath her. Why would you think that?

“But do not be afraid.

For you have been blessed with the power of Light.

Use it well.”

She was also trying very hard to ignore the mysterious voice, but it seemed like listening to it was the only way to progress through. Nadine sighed as another staircase illuminated.  She didn't feel fatigue in this lucid state, but she could feel boredom.

Flashes of light and color crossed her vision as she ascended the staircase. She didn't pay it much mind, at least until she reached the top. The platform was a pale green, depicting figures and people she could make out but didn't recognize. There was a boy probably no older than her colored in pale greens and greys.

There were also other people on the platform.

“Well,” Dani said. “This is awkward.”

“Do not be afraid.

Before Nadine could respond, the platform shook beneath her. She heard the shattering noise of glass, and looked down quick enough to see the platform crumble. She reached out for something, to no avail, and fell.

You hold the mightiest weapon of all.”

Danielle Scott fell out of bed.

It took her a few minutes to shake off the feeling of panic that came after waking up from a nightmare. Once she could think clearly, she untangled herself from the mess of blankets and turned off her alarm. It took her another minute to think about what just happened.

She had been dreaming, but...about what?

The power of the warrior.

Invincible courage.

A sword of terrible destruction.

The warrior of the day

Dmitri Scott did not have any nightmares that night. In fact, he did not find out that his sisters were having nightmares that night until much later.  He did not sleep that night at all. His night was filled with him watching the sky, waiting for something to change. It just so happened that that night something was changing.

Dim was not a bad student, nor was he a particularly lazy one. It was more the fact that he already knew that school was not the most important thing in his life, and he could easily circumnavigate it if something else provoked his attention. So if he found that dealing with a certain situation was more important that going to one of his classes, he would skip without a second thought.

Nobody looked at him twice as he sneaked in with the class occupying one of the computer labs. Nobody really cared that he obviously wasn't doing the work assigned, either. Dim figured that they cared just as little as he did about whatever class this was. Once that paranoia had faded away, he allowed himself to focus on his work.

It only took him a few minutes of searching to confirm his suspicions: The stars were going out.

There was no scientific consensus on it, which was a bit more concerning than the actual stars going out. Dim turned to conspiracy sites and folklore databases. And that made him worry all the more.

“Hey! That isn't Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing!”

Dim shut down the computer and ran out as fast as he could. No more school today. Something big was going to happen, and he should get ready as best he could.

“So I had this dream last night,”

“Right.”

“And you were in it,”

“Right.”

“And you were in it, and you—”

“Which one was I, the Scarecrow?”

It was a rare occasion that Dani, Hanna, Katie and Nadine got to walk home together. The school year was near its end, and they needed all the help they could get with final exams. Usually, it was a time Dani relished. But right now, she needed all the help she could get.

“No, it wasn’t like that. It was really…lucid?” Dani said. “And kind of chiaroscuro-y. Or Caravaggio-y. But I think it was something important.”

“Why do you say that?” Hanna asked.

“It had…it felt like a premonition, you know? That something big’s gonna happen.”

“Well, next Tuesday’s they’re serving chicken fingers.” Katie said.

“Something bigger than that!” Dani huffed.

She was so lost in her own mind that she forgot to keep walking. The others noticed after a few feet and turned back to her.

“I mean, we can’t just accept that this is all there is, right? If anyone were to send us the call to adventure, that would have been it! What if we’re destined to go on a great adventure?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, there is a vast cosmos around us so infinite that it makes your tiny human thoughts insignificant.” Nadine said.

“Thanks.” Dani sighed.

Dani would have said more, but in that moment, the ground shook under them. She reached out for something, to no avail, and fell.

“Run for your lives!” She could hear Dim shout. “The forces of Darkness are attacking!”

Before she could try and find her brother, the ground stopped shaking and she caught something out of the corner of her eye. Her shadow shifted under her feet, rising in height and growing into a form that no longer resembled her. It rose above the pavement, and towered over her in a very real, very physical form.

The door has been opened.

“Dani!”

It took Dani a minute to gather her bearings. She found herself pushed on the ground, with Dim in front of her.

“Get out of here! I'll buy you time!” He said.

“Fu—Likely story!” Dani said. “You're 5''9 and you weight nothing!”

“Oh, and you think either of us are going to be able to take that thing on in a fistfight?” Dim snapped back. “Get out of here!”

“We're not going to just leave you here!” Hanna said.

Do not forget.

The monster turned its attention to them.

“Dani...” Nadine said, her voice full of fear.

“I'm not leaving without you!” Dani insisted.

The monster staggered as it turned around, ground shattering in its wake. The skies turned dark. The whole world was ending. It reached a hand towards Dani. Dim held a hand out to block her from getting in his way. Thick, shadowy hands that did not appear to be any kind of physical wrapped around him.

“DIM!”

There was a flash of light, then darkness.

You have been blessed with the power of Light.

You hold the mightiest weapon of all.

Use it well.”

Author’s Note: Well I didn’t expect I’d end up here. I have been working on this series and these characters for literally years; since about 2006. I wrote this as just a part of a larger franchise-like series, where the characters are the same but the events and circumstances they are in are always different. I started this installment last year. However, everything just clicked with this particular installment. Everything! Everything! Well…this chapter was probably the weakest. I’ll be posting the second one tomorrow just so we can get somewhere quick.  Still, I am very excited about this, not only this story but for what else I’ll be doing with these characters.

Welcome to Simple/Clean, and welcome to the Original Character’s Series.

[threegirlsandablog]

Redemption

Redemption I was awakened by the sound of dense plastic on metal bars. “Rise and shine, maggots!” The officer grinned, showcasing the sizable gap between his front teeth as he sing-songed his usual morning greetings. He smacked his baton against the bars once more, and the sound rattled through my bones, popping my eardrums and chattering my teeth. “Up and at ’em, boys!” When greeted back with tired groaning, an edge crept into his lighthearted voice: a warning blade that sliced the hair just above our napes. “C’mon, c’mon, get up, get up!” The cell was a familiar sight, alive yet not alive with the dim glow of overhanging bulbs that just barely clung to the cracked ceiling and my bunkmate sending me the same glare that caused the scars on his cheeks to curve into smiling crescents. “Alright, everyone into the mess hall. No grub if you’re late!” The correctional officer barked, giving the steel bars a few more hits as rows of orange-clothed men filed out. As the cell emptied, I was stopped at the doors. The officer grinned, words whistling through the gaps of his teeth.“I’d like to have a word with you, Dobson.” The officer fell into line at my back, the sergeant who had been standing at the entrance leading the way as we branched off the main hallway. My eyes remained trained on the sergeant’s back, watching the creases of his uniform rippling through the fabric, my lips sealed shut. I had learned to stay quiet at moments like these. We reached the warden’s office and I was left to stand alone before the tall steel desk. “Am I in trouble?” The words tumbled from my lips without consent, leaving in an anxious, shaking whisper. Did he know about what I did last week in the mess hall? Or what I did last Tuesday in the courtyard? Maybe he knows about what I did to my sleeping cellmate last night? The warden gave off a hearty chuckle, briskly interrupting the trainwreck of thought backing up in my brain. Folding his hands beneath his chin, the man offered a peaceful tilt of his lips. “No, no, of course not. Quite the opposite, actually.” A pause. He brushed a bit of lint from the shoulder of his uniform. “You’ve actually been selected as the beta tester of a new technology a very influential private company has been funding.” He pushed off the desk, leaning back in his chair and looking at me down his nose. “You will be provided any necessities: food, water, shelter, clothing, etcetera.” “What will I be doing?” A gulp caught in my throat. A woman standing in the corner of the room suddenly stepped forward, and with her stark white lab coat, I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed her sooner. “You will be testing the use of a new device. The effects are unknown, so you will be closely examined for a few days after.” A burst of confidence spilled from my lips. “So what, I’m the new guinea pig of some rich kid’s dangerous new toy?” The warden pursed his lips at the accusation, eyebrows twitching as he groped for a suitable response. “Think of yourself as a pioneer, paving the path for scientists all over the world. And if you choose to accept their offer, you will even be payed a hefty compensation for your time.” Another flash of courage sent my heart pumping in fast, sporadic bursts. “And if I refuse?” His reply was immediate. “I believe you would do well to accept, seeing as how we know of the many misdemeanors that have piled up during your time here. You will be taken out of our hands; if not now with this project, then later with the authorities. Wouldn’t you rather choose?” My resolve teetered above a great canyon that reverberated echoes of its crumbling parts. “Fine,” I managed to hiss through clenched teeth, still clinging with failing strength. A simpering grin. “Then I believe we can turn a blind eye to your former transgressions. Now, if you would follow Ms. Hager to the testing center…” . . . “I’m testing out a time machine?” Gawking at the petite woman, fantasies of retro cars and hoverboards filled my mind. “It is a machine that can predict the outcome of millions of scenarios as well as connect it to similarities of the past. With this combination, our goal is to be able to provide the user endless information to lead them to the most beneficial decision. Well, that was our goal.” Smoothing out the top of her tight ponytail, Ms. Hager frowned. “A few years ago, the founders of our project went through financial hardships and had to sell their ownership. A private investor now controls our laboratory: a family of rich snobs funding us as a form of entertainment. We’ve had to completely uproot our former progress, turning what was once an intelligent network of supercomputers into this.” Heeled shoes clicking to a stop, Ms. Hager pulled an item from a display case and looked down at it with obvious disdain. “They believed it would be more enjoyable to live through scenarios and experiences rather than read about them, and so we created this to meet their shallow desires.” “It’s a watch.” I observed with skeptical eyes as she laid the cool metal over my wrist and buckled it from behind. Its touch-screen face was enormous: at least the size of my fist, maybe larger. A wry chuckle was her response. “It’s more than just a watch. This device is equipped with a downgraded extent of the original’s processing capabilities, and can also create a rift that will allow the user to travel back in time.” “I’m not buying it. Does this even have enough power for that sort of thing?” Frowning, I swiveled my wrist around, testing the weight of the metal and looking for bulky areas. “It’s so… tiny.” Mischief lit in her eyes. “I’m so glad you asked!” She scurried out of the room and into the viewing office. I watched through the bulletproof glass as she weaved between rows of cluttered desks and stuffed drawers, digging through a supply closet until she returned, wheeling in a stack of what looked like car batteries. She unraveled a thick bundle of cables, plugging in wire after wire until the watch was caught in a web spun with bright orange cords. “When you first open the rift, we’ll be supplying you power through the building’s generator. This is all for your return.” “Won’t this look a bit conspicuous?” I asked, nudging the heavy duty package cart for emphasis. “Less conspicuous than a time machine car going eighty-eight miles per hour, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides, it’s designed to look like a stack of boxes so that if anyone asks, you can just say that you’re making deliveries.” A smile pulling at her thin lips, she did a once-over then a twice and thrice-over before stepping back. “Alright, you’ll have two hours of free time to roam around and enjoy yourself before you come back. Just try to avoid interaction with anyone, as it could disrupt our current timeline.” She looked up from her frantic note-taking. “Now, is there a specific day you’d like to travel to? You’re allowed to choose.” My answer was instantaneous. “March eighteenth, 2022.” Turning to the row of computers at her left, Ms. Hager punched in a line of code then took a dozen steps back. “Alright. Now to warn you, there are several possible side effects to time travel. They include nausea, headaches, stomach aches, muscle cramps, muscle fatigue, muscle spasms, blurry vision, hearing loss, internal bleeding--” “What?! Wait--” “--brain hemorrhage, broken bones, ruptured arteries and/or veins, affected brain waves, damaged nerve cells, hallucinations, slurred speech, and possible death.” Before I could protest, the watch on my left wrist emitted a shrill sound, the row of computers and their coolers powering on. “Good luck and don’t die!” Ms. Hager yelled, barely heard above the whirring desktop monitors and harsh electronic beeping and the deafening roar of blood rushing in my ears. The white walls around me were suddenly not so white anymore as they fell, enveloping and folding me into their collective darkness. . . . “Get out of the way!” My open eyes were met with an onslaught of light. Furiously blinking away the spots in my vision, I found myself standing in the middle of a busy road. The cars had luckily stopped for me, although not without complaint. Quickly wheeling my cart over the curb, I shouted an apology to the line of people in their self-driving cars. An elderly man on my right raised two wobbling fists, cursing me out as his car drove away. A wave of nostalgia clogged my senses as I walked through the busy city that I grew up in. “This is really the day,” I murmured, mouth hanging open as I gazed around. Everything was the same as it was before. A boy in a t-shirt a size too big for him ran past, soles flapping as his worn-out rubber shoes smacked against the sidewalk. Laughter bubbled from his lips, as if he were so full of happiness that it couldn’t help but overflow and dribble down his chin. “Hey, wait!” Subconsciously, my hand reached out to hold his shoulder, stopping him an arm’s length away. Turning to look at me with hypnotizing blue eyes, I found myself speaking. “I need to talk to you.” The thirteen-year-old shrugged off my hand, taking a wary step back. A caution edged into his innocent tone. “My mom told me not to talk to strangers.” “But I’m not a stranger. I’m you from ten years in the future.” My mouth ran on its own. “This watch brought me back in time, and I chose this day because I really need to warn you about something. Just give me a chance. Please.” Another scrutinizing look-over, and he crossed his arms in a surge of sudden confidence. “Prove it.” I thought for a moment. “Your full name is Douglas Harvey Dobson.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyone could know that.” Amusement lifted the corners of my lips. “Alright. Everyone has called you Dougie since your seventh birthday when you danced to ‘Teach Me How to Dougie’ in front of your entire family. You’ve spent the last six years trying to destroy the hidden flash drives your mom keeps of the video.” There was a silence, torn and punctured by the shrapnel of a dropped bomb. A tentative note lingered in the rubble. “Do I ever find all of them?” “No.” Shared laughter burst through the air, rising then falling in volume until he and I were clutching our sides, breathless and giggling. “So you’re really me?” Dozens of questions passed behind his eyes, falling from his lips in a seemingly endless stream. “Do I become an astronaut? Or a racecar driver? Or a vet? Do I get married? Do I have kids? A house? A dog?” “Slow down.” Chuckling, I ruffled his hair despite remembering how the gesture would irritate me at his age. “I’ll only answer one question.” He pondered for a moment. “Is future-me a good person?” His blue eyes seemed to reflect the sky as they looked up at me with a weathered innocence, at the age where he wasn’t oblivious, but too much of the world was still unknown to him, and the sky wasn’t a bright blue, but an overcast sky with promise of sunshine. The smile dropped from my face. I avoided his curious gaze. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He frowned. “So you’re a bad person? I’m a bad person?” “No!” The urge to comfort him slithered into my chest like a snake, wrapping itself around my lungs until I couldn’t breathe in fear that those overcast skies might rain. “You--we just made some bad decisions. But that’s okay. I’m here now, so maybe our future can change.” “What kind of bad decisions?” The sun returned to the overcast skies, peeking out from behind the clouds with bright curiosity. “Today is the day we go to juvy. After that, we go to jail.” I ran a hand through my hair, a deep sigh rolling from my tongue. “We do some bad things. We followed the wrong path.” My younger self took a step forward in shaking bravery. It was his turn to comfort me as his small hands awkwardly patted my arm, a hopeful grin chasing the thunderclouds from my irises. “That’s okay. You can just tell me what I did to get in juvy, and I won’t do it. Then we can take the right path!” “Dougie…” A small smile lifted my lips before sobering, a serious expression falling over my features as I leaned down, hands on his shoulders, his gaze held in mine. “Don’t take the tag off your mattress.”