#but holy shit the decision not to come later was a spectacular fuck up as is the way he keeps treating him like an errant teen

[rainbowcarousels]

Writing Armand has the same issue/fun of writing Sephiroth in that they're so far dissociated from their own trauma and sense of identity that I rarely write them analysing their own thoughts or experiences because there's so much disconnect that they can't play connect the dots easily.

[destielharlequinchallenge]

The Destiel Harlequin Challenge Master Post: 2020 Mega Bang

Participants in the 2020 Destiel Harlequin Challenge completed an amazing 20 fics and 3 sets of artwork! You can learn all about those here!

Spectre (fic by a_dusky_gold, art by aceriee)

This whole thing… this was supposed to be a fucking farce. A way to keep Nicholas Vaught occupied until the deadline he’d given Dean would run out, and he’d still get the money to send Dad to the Town Hall rehabilitation for alcoholism, because that was the goddamned deal.

There were no such things as ghosts or magic or a Book of Life. Dean knows, okay? He wasn’t the Army’s goddamned Mystery Raider for nothin’; he knows history, he knows artifacts, and he knows that the Book of Life is an ancient myth that is about as real as werewolves or vampires.

And yet.

“The Book of Life,” the man had said. Dean can’t even remember his name.

Shit, shit, shit.

Dangerous Ground by Amethystaris

Special Agents for the Department of Diplomatic Security, Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester have been partners and best friends for three years, but everything changed the night Cas admitted the truth about his feelings for Dean. And when Cas was shot a few hours later, Dean felt his reluctance to get involved was vindicated.

Can a camping trip in the High Sierras save their partnership?

Honour Undressed by andimeantittosting

Among his friends, Castiel, Lord Milton is everyone’s confidant and, along with his trusted valet, the fixer of problems. But there is one secret Castiel has never shared: he is in love with his valet and has been for years.

Born in the gutters, Dean Winchester was assigned as Castiel’s batman in the war, and when Castiel travelled home to take up his title, Dean followed him as his valet. To assist Castiel, Dean is not above a little burglary or blackmail. But the one thing he wants for himself is Castiel’s heart.

When Castiel’s closest friends become the target of a blackmailer, certain truths come out. But while Dean determines to seduce Castiel, Castiel is adamant that he must resist, for if there is one rule a gentleman must follow, it is never to dally with his servant.

Havenport by BlueMasquerade

Castiel cleared space on his desk by the expedience of sweeping the previous contents to the side. He set the bundle down in the center of the surface and studied the knots in the rope before expertly untying them.

The book was old, its leather bindings cracked and crumbling. He carefully opened the cover to reveal the pages within, each hand cut, the edges beautifully deckled, the text written in pen and ink.

“This is written in ancient Enochian.” Castiel looked up, gaze narrowed. “Where did you obtain a book written in ancient Enochian?”

“Is that what it is? All I could tell is that it sure as hell isn’t English.” Mr. Winchester grinned, a dimple flashing in his cheek.

an aching in my heart by contemplativepancakes

When Dean’s best friend dies, leaving behind her daughter, Dean knows he has what it takes to give Claire the life she deserves. The problem is, they’re not related by blood, and Claire’s long lost uncle gets called to take her in. Castiel Novak was bad news when he was in highschool with Dean, and judging by his blue hair and tattoo sleeves, nothing’s changed. Castiel ran out on his family once before, and there’s no way Dean’s going to let that happen to Claire without putting up a fight.

Fools and Fate by Danica_Dust

Castiel Novak fled his coven to escape the rigid, predetermined Fate laid out for him within its confines. Desperate and alone, he took shelter in the city of Sacriloga, forsaking all magic and living off whatever he could steal. There, witches like Cas are hunted. They are feared. And they are burned.

When Jack, a young witch also on the run from his own coven, seeks out Cas’ aid, however, Cas finds that he cannot reject the boy, leaving him to his sure destruction. Especially after the newest visitor to Sacriloga makes his presence known: the legendary Hunter, Dean Winchester, who has been following Jack’s trail.

Sworn to the Men of Letters, Hunters live by one principle: thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Dean’s path was never meant to cross with Cas', but a desperate stunt and a single mistake forces them into an impossible union—holy matrimony.

The war between the witches and the Men of Letters is an ancient one and Cas' most dangerous enemies bring a Fate worse than fire. Unable to ignore his growing feelings, yet powerless to change what he is, a choice must be made.

A suffocating Fate on one hand. A precarious freedom on the other. And in between, the kind of love that makes fools of us all.

Ozone by Deancebra

A young magic user who wants desperately to live. A jaded recluse who has forgotten what living means. They’re each other’s only chance.

Dean’s wild magic is killing him. The mage guilds have given up on him, and it’s only a matter of time before he dies in a spectacular, catastrophic bang. His only hope is an exiled wizard who lives in seclusion—and is rumored to have lost his mind.

The years alone on his hilltop estate have not been good for Castiel Novak. After the magical accident that disfigured him and nearly destroyed the village, he drifts through his days, a wraith trapped in memories and depression. Until a stricken young man collapses on his driveway, one who claims Castiel is his last chance. For the first time in fifteen years, Castiel must make a choice—leave this wild mage to his fate or take him in and try to teach him, which may kill them both. The old Castiel, brash and commanding, wouldn’t have hesitated. Castiel the exile isn’t sure he can find the energy to try.

A Demon Like Him by EllenOfOz

Dean Winchester doesn’t want to be a warlock. The idea of working in a lab, channeling demonic magic into enchanted batteries is not what he wants to do with his life, but it’s a dangerous opinion to have—his father was a powerful and well-connected warlock, and Dean is expected to follow the family tradition.

His only way out is to fail the demon summoning class—failure means expulsion from the Warlock College. Despite Dean’s best efforts to fumble the summoning, it works. Although not the way anyone expects.

Dean’s demon, Castiel, is an incubus, but also a powerful mage on a mission to rebalance the magic that is being stripped from Demonside by warlocks.

Dean must choose: fail out of his final exam and turn his back on becoming a warlock, or help Castiel and graduate. But he doesn’t count on how hot the incubus is, or how close they have become in just a few days.

A Working Relationship by fangirlingtodeath513

The homes that Castiel Novak designs for Angelic Houses are to die for. They’re pristine, perfectly designed and organized, and they’ve caused more than a few bidding wars. It’s the perfect job—he’s organized, good with math, and he’s able to pick up on design trends relatively quickly. The only thing that isn’t perfect? His obnoxious older brother, Luke. Castiel’s been vying for a position on a flipping team for years now, but Luke has never even considered it. When a lecherous gossip reporter overhears an argument, they receive an offer they can’t refuse.

They’re invited to compete on Flip Off, a competition where two people flip houses and compete for the highest profit. Castiel wants the leverage a win would bring him, but he also wants to prove himself. Enter Dean Winchester, a contractor with his own team and one that’s blissfully unconnected to Angelic Houses, allowing Castiel to prove himself without any help from the family company.

The undeniable attraction between them certainly doesn’t help matters, but Castiel is resolute in his decision to make a move only after they’ve finished working together. At least, that had been his plan until Dean made him an offer he simply couldn’t refuse.

Crashing In by followyourenergy

Castiel Novak is convinced he’s the last unwillingly single person in Lupine Cove. Even Gabriel, his perpetual bachelor brother, has found love. It’s probably because Cas leads the most boring life in existence. He’s a gay man living in a rented, one-room cottage in the same small coastal town he grew up in, just getting by as the owner of the same convenience store he was practically raised in. The most excitement he gets is chatting with the locals or maybe, if he’s unlucky, oversleeping and rushing to work. So when a baby is left at the Safe Haven drop-off at the local fire station, he takes the opportunity to step in for the child temporarily, at least until suitable parents, plural, can be found.

Life certainly gets more interesting.

And it gets even more interesting when a handsome man comes crashing—literally—into his life.

Make Me Believe by GhoulsnHalos

Ten years ago, Castiel Novak’s stepfather disowned him, taking from him his place as hereditary heir to the head of the Hunter and Warrior Guild. Now, he’s a self-made, and celebrated, master gem and metal smith. Castiel doesn’t believe that the God’s decide your soulmate. Until he designs what can only be a gift fit for his soul mate, who in contradiction to the etiquette, if not the laws of Neffroen, must be a man.

Dean Winchester is convinced that he is a lowly, dumbass, no magic hunter who couldn’t possibly be on the same social scale as a Novak. So, why is it when he spots the jewelled torc in Castiel’s shop, Dean develops an obsession over the neckpiece and its creator? It can't be anything to do with the will of the Gods, no matter what anyone says, because that's baloney and Dean's not into men.

When Castiel’s long-lost brother turns up and suggests he ought to challenge their stepfather and that Dean is destined to help Castiel rule the clan, Castiel takes some convincing. The real problem is Dean. Can Castiel with the help of family and friends convince Dean of his place by Castiel’s side? Can Dean play the part everyone expects of him to help Castiel regain his rightful place in society?

Shielded Heart by JuniperJones

Arthos, the Infinite City, is a place of alien wonders and indescribable beauty—and, most importantly for Dean, it’s also halfway across the universe from his abusive ex-fiancé. He came to the city desperate for a fresh start, but he finds himself downtrodden on a world of aloof alien beings with little hope of finding his place—and a good chance of being kidnapped or killed before he can even settle in.

At least until he is saved by an irresistible alien with piercing eyes and a seductive smile.

Castiel is the living embodiment of temptation, and he makes no effort to disguise his desire for Dean. But when his past threatens to drag Dean into a dangerous underworld, Dean discovers Castiel isn’t who he claims to be. After enduring so much suffering, can Dean bear to take a leap of faith with this mysterious alien? Can he trust Castiel with not only his life, but his heart?

Stumble and Fall by Kitmistry

Castiel was raised to do one thing: serve his country, whether that was fighting a war or becoming an expert spy. But when his lover is charged with treason and executed Castiel defects. He has evidence that can destroy the KGB’s entire spy ring in New Mexico, he has names of scientists involved with atomic weapons who send information to the Soviets, and he won’t stop until he has revenge.

Putting all his trust in the Americans, Castiel finds himself under the protection of U.S. Marshal Dean Winchester, who is too cocky and attractive for his own good, but at least seems to know what he’s doing.

When a routine transfer to a safehouse goes horribly wrong, Castiel and Dean narrowly escape with their lives. With the Marshals compromised and Castiel being framed for murder, he and Dean are on the run from KGB and law enforcement alike. They have no one to trust except each other, and nowhere to go that their enemies can’t reach.

The Shots We Don’t Take by MandalaRose

Still nursing the tatters of a broken heart and trying desperately to stave off the terror of his impending graduation, college senior Cas Novak decides it’s time to blow off a little steam. Not just any hook-up will do, however. The last thing Cas needs right now is a distraction. On the lookout for someone he can enjoy a steamy night of passion with before leaving them behind entirely, Cas thinks he’s found exactly what he needs in cocky university hockey star and well-known playboy Dean Winchester.

Dean is gorgeous, doesn’t date, and is the singular most infuriating person Cas has ever met. He’s the perfect one night stand...that is, until Dean decides he wants an instant replay of what was supposed to be a one-time event. Will Cas’ offer of friends, sans benefits, convince the arrogant love ’em and leave ’em hockey defenseman to find an easier score? Or will Dean wear down Cas’ defenses and lure the sexy nerd in the dorky trenchcoat back to his bed?

Bullets Over the Bayou (fic by mattzerella_sticks, art by dontbelasagnax)

Everyone wants Castiel Novak to quit the force, including Castiel. But he stays on despite the toxic work environment he’s surrounded by. Still believing he can do some good despite the many lines of red tape impeding him. Luckily, a pair of scissors by the name of Dean Winchester drops into his hands, and he finally feels like he can do some good.

Dean Winchester thought he would be in New Orleans for a day or two. Identify the body of his deadbeat father and then move on. No one knows he’s here. His mother and brother are blissfully unaware of the danger his father roped him into. With a parting gift of a journal, delivered to him the same day he received word about his father, Dean has become the target of a group of people who want him dead. The same people who killed his father.

Racing against the clock, can Dean and Castiel figure out what is so important about John Winchester’s journal that someone would kill for it?

Masquerade by noxsoulmate

It had begun as such a good plan; one that benefitted them both. And masquerading as Castiel Krushnic's boyfriend during the weeks of balls, galas, and charity events certainly was no hardship. With the impending end of their arrangement, though, Dean Winchester must admit that behind the mask of an aloof CEO lies a man he could fall in love with. Or maybe, he already has…

The Medium by raths_kitten

Detective Dean Winchester hates it when his Chief sends a medium to consult on his cases. But this time, the murder is closely linked to Castiel’s world and they both need to work together to solve it.

Any Semblance of Touch (fic by saltnhalo, art by c-kaeru)

1925, New York.

Dean Winchester’s life’s work is protecting the world from the supernatural relics that could destroy it. When an amulet with the power to control the tides is shipped to New York, he must intercept it before it can be used to devastating effects. This time, in order to succeed, he needs a powerful psychometric… and the only one available has sworn off the magical world altogether.

Castiel Novak’s gift comes with great risk. To protect himself, he’s become a recluse, redirecting his magic into museum research. But with the city’s fate hanging in the balance, and faced with the power of Dean’s charm and persuasion…

He can’t force himself to say no.

The Love of a Righteous Man by SargentMom573

Five years ago, Captain Dean Winchester defied his father, Senator John Winchester. With his brother Sam, and his spaceship Impala, Dean found his place among a ragtag fleet of pirates and smugglers. Their latest mission left him with a price on his head and a scar on his heart. When a surprise attack separated him from Sam and revealed a Sith weapon, he would do whatever it took to bring his brother back – even sacrifice his own happiness.

After Emperor Michael’s death broke the psychic link between them, Emperor’s Hand Castiel Novak spent years drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a barrel. Mostly sober, three years ago he found a new purpose as the Impala’s Chief Medical Officer, and Sam Winchester’s guide in the Force. And a good friend in the Impala’s gruff but kind Captain.

Dean and Castiel must work together to bring Sam home alive. But when Castiel’s last mission is exposed, will Castiel complete it and destroy any hopes Dean had for a family? Will Dean forgive Cas’ horrific purpose before it is too late? And give them both what they really want — the love of a righteous man.

SKID by spnsmile

Dean Winchester swore off love after getting dumped and fired from his job the same day. Badly drunk, he ended up balcony-hopping until a pair of hands snatched him inside a darkened room. But it's no hero, it's someone with deep voice whispering threats with a gun pointed at his back. Dean’s too drunk to deal with life but one good look at his hot assailant plus enough beer sold him to his accursed fate. The next morning, he found himself engaged to the most notorious leader of a powerful clan, Castiel Novak.

Married life in the compound for a month was not as blissful so when he could, Dean fought for that freedom. Castiel relented and as Dean tried to put the pieces of his normal life together, getting a bike messenger job and dealing with pain in the ass clients, he now also needs to deal with the dangerous presence of his very jealous and very protective husband watching over him.

Is his life ever going to get back to normal?

[waitineedaname]

oooooo maybe a davekat meetcute? idk ne specific meetcutes but the more embarassing the better

shoutout to @bandersnatchbandwidth for helping come up with this concept AND the wonderful cat names. I loved writing this lol

—

“Princess Diana!”

What the fuck.

“Princess Diana of Southern Texas, my sweet angel baby, come here.”

Why. Why couldn’t Karkat have normal neighbors.

He peered out his kitchen window, bewildered and groggy. It was way too early to have to listen to the virtual strangers in his nearby vicinity lose their minds. His window looked directly into his nextdoor neighbors backyard. Dave… something. They’d barely interacted since he’d moved in, nothing beyond nods of greeting if they run into each other outside or the occasional “hey the mailman gave me your mail by mistake” “oh hey sick dude, thanks.” But of course, thanks to Karkat’s spectacular luck, he was having to witness Dave wander around in his yard in a bathrobe and boxers and not much else. 

“C’mere, beautiful, lemme get you back inside where it’s safe.” Dave continued to coo. What the hell was he talking about? Karkat watched his half naked neighbor crouch down at something, and then watched a ball of white fluff bolt to the opposite corner of the yard. He practically felt Dave’s groan in his own chest.

“Princess Diana, I’m begging you.” Dave approached the bush where his cat was now hiding with caution. “Come on, you’re not meant to be outside. Come back inside where it’s safe. I just got you groomed and now you’re dirty, this is just uncalled for.” He squatted in front of the shrub and Karkat had to try not to laugh as how absurd he looked. The cat was so small, but she clearly had an attitude. “Let me take you inside and I’ll open up a can of wet food and we’ll get our brushing on and you can do that thing where you massage my legs all cute and basically shred me to bits. You’re not meant to be usin’ those claws for hunting out here, you only know clawing up my knee, so come on, c’mere darling. You like the sound of wet food, ri- oh for fucks sake, don’t go further away.”

Okay, this was getting kind of ridiculous. Karkat wasn’t sure what drew him onto his porch other than the fact that he just couldn’t watch this anymore.

“Hey.” Karkat called out. Dave jumped like he’d forgotten other people could see him outside acting like a lunatic. “Do you need help?”

“Oh, hey man.” The cooing voice had turned off and was replaced with false casualness. “Sorry if I woke you or something, it’s just my cat decided to make a fuckin’ run for it. I’ll get her, though, don’t worry about it.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Karkat said before he could think it through. He was already walking over to the fence, though, so it wasn’t like he could back out now. He somehow managed to climb over it without completely falling on his ass, and then he and the cat were behind the same bush. Princess Diana of Southern Texas stared at him like ‘how the fuck did you get here?’ but she didn’t give any more complaint than a single betrayed yowl when he scooped her up in his arms.

“Holy shit.” Dave whispered in awe. “Bro, she doesn’t even let me hold her, the fuck.”

“I have plenty of experience in picking up ornery cats, trust me.” Karkat scratched her under the chin, and she suddenly looked a lot less ornery as her golden eyes drooped shut in satisfaction. “Are you gonna get the door or what?”

“Oh, fuck, yeah.” Dave jogged ahead of him to the door and Karkat gently tossed the cat inside. Dave shut the door before she could make a run for it again. “Seriously, I owe you so much, dude. Where the fuck did you learn to wrangle cats like that?”

“Like I said, I have a lot of experience. If you counted the number of people she tolerates on your hands, the result would be one solitary middle finger.” Karkat demonstrated and was pleased when it startled a single solitary laugh out of his neighbor.

“Can I meet him?” Dave asked, and Karkat blinked at him. Dave immediately looked embarrassed. “Uh, after I get dressed, that is. Or not, sorry, I dunno why I asked.”

Karkat did the mental math and decided fuck it, his morning was already abnormal. “I can’t give any promises he’ll like you, but sure, I guess.”

“Cool. Be right back, dude.” Dave disappeared inside, leaving Karkat to stand on his back porch, questioning his life decisions.

Karkat eventually decided it was probably for the best if he got dressed too since he was still wearing the sweatpants and thin t-shirt he’d slept in. He’d only just managed to pull on a clean pair of jeans when Dave knocked at his door.

“Do you like pears?” Dave blurted out before Karkat could even greet him.

“The fuck.” Karkat stared at him blankly. “Uh, yeah, I guess I like pears?”

“Do you want some?” Dave held up a bag of pear, and Karkat continued to look bewildered. “It’s just- My friend Jade grows pears, and she offered me some and I was like ‘sure, why the hell not’ because I thought she’d give me, like, four maybe, but she gave me eighty-two pears, and I just. I have no fucking use for eighty-two pears. So I thought maybe you’d like some as, like, thanks for making sure my cat’s attempt to tap into her wild roots didn’t extend past our cute little suburban fence.”

“I don’t- You don’t have to pay me for saving your cat’s life! I was just being a good samaritan for once in my goddamn life! Maybe this will be the one thing to tip the karmic scales and get the universe to stop fucking me over, but you don’t-”

“Karkat.” Dave cut him off. Karkat was surprised he remembered his name. “I have eighty-two pears. This is more for my benefit than yours.”

Karkat heaved a great sigh and took the bag of pears. “Fine. You wanted to see TB - she’s on the couch.”

“TB?” Dave asked, peering over at the couch while Karkat led him inside.

“Trash Bag. My cat.”

“Doesn’t TB also stand for tuberculosis?”

“What’s your point.”

Dave huffed a laugh. “Where is she?” 

“Right here.” Karkat dropped the pears on the kitchen counter, then went to the couch to scoop up the gray lump of fur. Said gray lump of fur yowled like a diseased possum getting tossed around in a garbage truck. Dave gasped in barely restrained delight.

“Dude, I thought she was a throw pillow.”

“Sometimes she acts like one.” Karkat huffed, petting Trash Bag’s head. She’d started purring as soon as she realized it was him holding her, and drool was already starting to collect in the folds of her squashed face. 

“Can I pet her?”

“You can try.” Karkat held her out a little, and Dave extended a hand for her to sniff. Trash Bag turned amber eyes on him, immediately identified him as Not-Karkat, and fluffed up even more than she was naturally, a congested growl forming in her throat. 

“Yikes.” Dave pulled his hand away.

“Yeah, she’s like that.” Karkat pulled her back to his chest and she went back to her gloopy purring. 

“She sure likes you though.”

“There’s probably some sick irony that the cat that doesn’t like anyone likes the most unlikable person.” Karkat rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t resist cooing a little when TB licked his finger.

“I don’t think you’re unlikable.” Dave said. Karkat looked up and found him wearing a similar expression to when he asked if he could meet his cat: the look of someone whose mouth has a tendency to say things before his brain catches up.

“No fucking offense, but you don’t really know me.”

“I mean. Yeah, no, I don’t, but. I dunno, you seem like a cool dude?” Dave scratched at the curls at the back of his head. “I know I haven’t really been that neighborly, but I’m having some friends together this weekend, and uh. Well, we’re calling it a ‘barbecue’-” He said with gratuitous quotation marks, “But it’s more like a potluck where Jade dumps all her excess fruits and vegetables on my table and Jake declares he definitely knows how to grill better than we do - which he does, but that’s not saying much - and June brings a metric fuckton of weird snacks she impulse bought at an Asian grocery store. You can come? If you want? You don’t have to, but it could be fun, um. If you want. And if my friends get too overwhelming, you can always duck inside and hang out with my cats.”

Karkat considered the offer, surprised. Trash Bag grunted at him and he resumed scratching under her chin. “Yeah, fuck it, why not. I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Hell yeah. Just come over at like five on Saturday.” Dave bounced on his heels a little bit, fidgety. “Nice to meet you, Trash Bag.” She wheezed, and Dave huffed a short laugh. “See you later, man. Thanks for the help.”

“Don’t mention it. Keep Princess Diana inside more, alright?”

“I’ll do my best.” Dave gave him a half wave, then jogged down the front stairs and meandered to his house. 

Well. Karkat supposed he could have worse neighbors.

[voidwaren]

TW Anon back again~ Saw you posted that drabble! I have a proposal for more flowing juices: hurt Stiles. Just hurt him. Make it Sterek for bonus points.

welcome back! ♡ sorry this took a second, anon. I started writing hurt!Stiles and then… well, got really carried away. needless to say, I’ll be making a much longer fic out of this one at some point. there’s none in this particular bit, but Sterek will be happening (eventually), don’t worry. also, since I like Allison and co., it’ll be an AU of sorts. 

I’ll just drop this 6k starting point since it’s the only cohesive part so far (everything else is disjointed scenes, as usual).

sorry, Stiles!

[Scott]

Scott could hear Stiles from a mile away.

His voice is so distinct, echoing just the right amount of decibels above anything else Scott was familiar with in the relative area that even at the harsh mutter Stiles was projecting his frustration in, fed up with the venture they were currently on, Scott can easily pick out what he was saying. 

“Find the selkie, he said.”  

A too-quiet forest didn’t hurt (or help) anything, however, and Scott thinks this to himself as he slinks around a tree and hears the sound of Stiles’ sneakers from slightly southwest of the position he was actually supposed to be in. Stiles was breaking the uneasy silence without doing anything more than being, well, Stiles. 

“It’ll be easy, he said.”

“Deaton just wants us to check the area and make sure she didn’t encroach on possible hiking trails where people could find her,” Scott explains quietly, not for the first time, as he emerges from the underbrush and startles Stiles enough that he clutches his chest for a moment, eyes wide with panic. “Sorry,” Scott tacks on sheepishly. Stiles glares, clearly bitter about more than just the sudden mission they had been sent on. Scott feels the inkling want to press it, but knows now is seriously not the time, so he doesn’t.

“Since when do we have to be the forefront of investigation when it comes to these things?” Stiles asks. “Why can’t Deaton go looking himself? Isn’t that his job, to protect the werebabies in the area?”

“Hey!” Scott protests, stopping in his tracks just to rebuke this particular insult, because he is an Alpha, for God’s sake, and not even remotely a “werebaby”, regardless of what age he might have been brought to power at. He had a pack. He had a good pack, even if it wasn’t necessarily made of up werewolves. He took pride in his banshee, ex-Hale-Beta, and sometimes-hunter mishmash of a pack. Even Stiles, their token Ordinary Human, pulled way more than his own weight when it came to things. Exhibit A being now, hunting down this creature on Deaton’s orders while everyone else was busy studying for finals and second-guessing their decisions to go to college across the country. 

(Except Lydia, that is, but try dragging her through the woods on a possibly-fruitless search when there is prestige to be had in the research department instead. Yeah. Not going to happen.)

Point is, his pack was pretty fuckin’ spectacular considering what he had to work with. Stiles’ insult was totally uncalled for.

“I’m just saying!” Stiles retaliates, effectively punctuating his response with a particularly loud branch-snap. Scott cringes, but Stiles ignores it, too intent on riling himself up with the topic at hand. “I don’t recall this being our job. Yes, I know we’ve had to face a few freaky fucks over the past couple months when tensions got just a teeny bit too high and someone crushed that tender camel’s back,” Stiles says in a long, rushed breath when Scott opens his mouth to defend his boss and confidant in all things too supernatural for him, “but searching for something that might not be here? This isn’t our job, Scott! You should be home, studying for your finals! They still count!”

Scott has to admit Stiles has a point. He had been accepted into the nearby community college and hadn’t taken his chances elsewhere, deciding to further pursue his veterinary degree while he was getting everything settled in Beacon Hills and knock a few cheap credits out of the way in the same blow without losing Deaton, but it still wouldn’t look great if he showed up having bombed his finals. 

He shrugs, unable to muster up a good argument to counter his friend. “Deaton’s busy right now, and it can’t wait.”

“I never thought I’d miss having Derek around so much,” Stiles mumbles, and then effectively ends the conversation by barreling on ahead through the brush, taking the lives of a few saplings with him. Scott follows behind after a beat, brow furrowed with worry, the niggling feeling that something was completely off and it had nothing to do with the sudden memory of a warning his advisor had given him about surprise evaluations based on his final grades.

Well … not totally.

-

They find the selkie.

She’s resting in a stream a few miles north of the high school; her pale, sleek lower body submerged in the flowing water and her topless upper-half resting on the grass and rocks, head already cocked to look at them once they managed to locate her by failing to notice her presence until basically walking right into her. Mostly because Stiles was too busy not giving the mission proper attention and Scott was too busy focusing on Stiles not focusing to remember to focus on what he was supposed to actually be focusing on. 

Yeah, it wasn’t going the smoothest. Her giggle had been the thing to alert them both of her presence, her actual appearance not clicking until a beat later.

Upon laying eyes on her, Stiles looks as if he suddenly can’t remember his own name, his eyes zeroing in on the most improper body part they can find. Scott is only slightly more fortunate in both departments.

“Oh,” is all he says. Stiles echoes him with a choked-off “fuck”, mouth remaining open in a less-than-attractive gape. She flashes a smile at the two of them, and Stiles dissolves into a puddle of uselessness, nothing but a pale imitation of some reject Gumby, all jellied limbs and dopey smile. Something in the back of Scott’s mind tells him this is bad, very, very bad, but he can’t seem to focus in on it long enough to act. He grabs Stiles’ arm, but then forgets why he was so urgent a moment before. It takes him a long few seconds to gather his bearings, to force himself not to look at the beautiful creature too long once it clicks for longer than a partial second that she’s causing the fog in his mind. It takes a long time, honestly, but he manages to pull himself together, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she watches him. 

She seems almost … docile, despite the sharp, dagger-like teeth that she keeps showing off every time Stiles sinks lower and lower into a pit of repulsive love-drunk reactions. Realizing now was probably the best time to knock some sense into his best friend before something they’d both regret manages to take place, Scott grabs Stiles’ collar and yanks, sending him into the dirt below.

“Ow!” Stiles yelps, pulling his face from the moist earth and leveling a glare at Scott.

“Did that snap you out of it? Jeez, Stiles. Your tongue was becoming one with the ground with how long you had it dragging out of your mouth there.”

Stiles frowns at Scott, then glances at the selkie, snapping his eyes back a second later. “Oh, god. Scott,” he chokes, strained. His eyes water slightly with how wide he has them pried open. “Scott, I want to look at her. Holy shit, I want to look, but my mind, it just … It …”

“Goes blank, I know.” Scott gives her a tiny side-glance. “I saw it. It was incredible. You had the motor skills of a sock puppet.”

“Ahem.” A tiny, clear voice interrupts them, sounding like the trickle of a stream with the omen of a hurricane all at once. Scott and Stiles both stare at each other, suddenly a few shades paler. “I can hear you just fine, you know. I am right here.”

“Oh,” Stiles whispers, blown pupils boring into Scott’s, “fuck us.”

“Fuck us,” Scott agrees weakly, his heart sinking.

“What are we supposed to do?” Stiles croaks, his voice rising in pitch. He’s losing calm rapidly, splintering Scott’s ability to keep his eyes from wandering back to the soothing sight of the selkie. Scott resists the urge to press a hand to Stiles’ mouth, knowing that would only make it worse.

“I don’t … know. Something. Just—just give me a minute, okay?” Scott drops his head into a palm, thinking. They could leave the selkie there, yeah. Sure. They could leave, not look back. Not come back. Just leave.

They could definitely just leave.

They could …

Leave?

Why?

Why would they leave?

“Dude.” Stiles’ voice breaks into Scott’s thoughts. Scott looks to him, and only just notices the grip Stiles has on his upper arm. It’s so tight, it almost hurts. “Scott. Did you tell anyone we were out here? Right now?”

Scott looks at Stiles blankly. “Uh—Allison. Allison knows.”

Stiles looks a bit more relieved at this, but it’s not by much at all. “Allison will save us if we can’t get away.”

“You feel it, too?”

“Scott,” Stiles starts, but is cut off once again by the laugh of the selkie. The realization of how screwed they are hits Scott all over again, and he struggles to think of why exactly they’re in so much danger from a creature so beautiful and soothing to be around. Why exactly his instincts are screaming so loudly in his head to get away get away grab Stiles and get away get the fuck away now now now.

Despite their sudden coherence at the severity of the situation, Scott would later recall that, no, neither Stiles nor Scott had been fully aware of their surroundings thanks to the hold the creature kept on them. If they had, they would have noticed something off about the ground, such as the way the color was slowly fading from it. Or how the torso of the selkie was lengthening, her hair growing into ropes and her teeth losing their shine. Or how the selkie wasn’t really a selkie at all.

It would be far too late by the time someone would notice, and later still when the creature would shoot from the stream, barreling directly into Scott and knocking him yards away into the solid trunk of a tree, leaving him to reach the floor of the woods by gravity’s will alone.

Wheezing, Scott tries to reach for his throat once he can grasp any oxygen at all, but can’t feel his arms. He tries to do something, anything at all, but the paralysis is too great. His whole body is numb, stunned, frozen. His mind is wavering, his conscious splintering

Scott is slowly slipping away, the blood leaking from the back of his head slicking the bark behind him in a metallic tang of scent that he only just barely manages to register at all.

The last thing Scott is aware of before blackness engulfs him is a shattering scream accompanied by the distinct cracking sound of snapping bone.

He only has a moment to register the horror of realization that his best friend is being killed before he slips uselessly away into unconsciousness.

This, Scott knows, is something he’ll blame himself for, for the rest of his life, no matter what anyone would tell him.

He would never forgive himself for any of it.

-

[Stiles]

When they took him from Scott, he’d been whole. Maybe not in the clearest sense of the word, but a few snapped bones hadn’t really been that bad. The whole “being dragged away by a swampy black horse” thing was way more traumatizing, but he’d been in one piece until he’d reached the intended destination.

When he left the clearing that day, he was whole, in as much of a way as he could have been given who he was. 

He comes back broken.

Shattered, splintered, fractured. Cracked. Devastated. 

Pick a synonym; they all fit.

The fun part was it was all literal. The brain game had taken a hiatus this time; laid its cards down and left the building for another monster to take its place. Stiles had been broken. His bones had separated in various places; his skin had torn and rolled and split, unable to accommodate what was happening to him. 

Stiles was broken.

A body to match his mind? To fit what the demon had left behind? 

Hah, no. 

No, this was worse. He was pretty fucked up in the head after all that had happened to him, sure. The Nogitsune had left no prisoners. But this—this was more. His mind crawled in a way his skin now couldn’t with the knowledge of what had been done to him. His heart tried to stop dead in his chest when he thought too hard about it, the memory of the pain slamming into him only long enough to incite a reaction before fading away behind the wall his mind immediately built up to protect him.

“That bastard,” Scott had snarled once Stiles had been coherent enough to recount what had happened to him, wolfing out more than just a little, much to his mother’s frantic dismay. She had tried to shepherd out everyone who had rushed in the moment Stiles could form a proper sentence (it being a proud, if heavily slurred, “The fuck?”), all trying to get his attention first and hear all the details they were in the dark about—which, of course, ended up being almost everything. 

Unfortunately for Stiles, only a handful were dismayed and rebutted from the scene; the rest stubbornly refused to budge. He loved Scott and Lydia more than he had words to express, but he wasn’t sure he could handle what telling them would do to their expressions, to their emotions. It hurt more than the wounds, their guilt, and he knew they still felt it, weeks later, even when he didn’t think they needed to anymore.

He gave the recount, skipping as many of the gory details as he could simply because these were the people he cared about, he didn’t need them worrying about things that had passed. He had survived and now had scars to tell his tale for him, he could spare his father and Scott and Lydia a few things here and there. He knew from the looks on Scott’s mother’s face that she knew he was holding back, but, bless her, she didn’t do more than frown deeply. 

Stiles appreciated Mrs. McCall more than he could put into words in that moment. He made a mental note to pick her up some flowers and lunch once he was able to walk normally. 

Or, you know. Move. At all.

… Whenever that’d be.

He’d been in a coma for nine days, he’d been told. When the information had first hit his ears, he’d done nothing but stare at Mrs. McCall, like he hadn’t quite heard her right.

Nine days. A week and two days. Two-hundred and sixteen hours. 

Holy shit.

Scott had broken him out of his thoughts by calling Stiles’ name then, and he had given his head a little shake to further clear it and then tried his best to be blasé about it. It didn’t quite work, but Scott and Mrs. McCall—and Stiles’ father, who had been sitting quietly in the chair ever since he had been brought in, looking like he was watching a ghost and had already made his amends, and was now too scared to go back … which did things to Stiles’ heart that he refused to linger on too long, lest they consume him—politely ignored it and let Stiles have his charade. Mrs. McCall stuck him with something, then added something to his IV before grabbing Scott and making a quick abscond to leave Stiles with his dad and have that conversation that needed to be had.

Which … could have definitely gone better. Stiles’ dad had continued to stare at him, pale and clearly showing signs of sleeplessness, lost and broken in his own way. That was Stiles’ fault, he knew, and he felt the weight of it immediately. 

Insert sharp knife straight to the heart. Ow.

Stiles had cleared his throat, opened his mouth to say something, anything, just something to clear the air and maybe make it all okay without having to go through the long process and the motions and all the things he didn’t want to amend for after getting himself fucked over and hurting his dad every damn step of the way—and instead let out a choking, wordless sob. It caught the both of them so off guard that neither of them had moved for a moment, Stiles trying desperately to blink away the tears that were now streaming down his face like they’d been there from the start and his dad watching with that blank, frightened look someone has when they’re not sure if they’re still asleep and dreaming. Then, something floods his dad’s gaze and he shoots from the chair, scraping his hand into Stile’s hair and curling into him in a way that kept them from really touching anything that could hurt while Stiles lets out noises he had thought for sure he’d be able to hold back until he got home and back in his room.

It wasn’t okay after that, but it was better. And better was good.

Not great, but they were getting there. They were getting there.

Slowly.

It had been a step in the process.

The next step was getting healed enough to take a real, physical step.

Flash forward to the current moment, the moment of self-assessment. Where Stiles has to realize yet again that those fuckers had given him so many different breaks in his body, most of them being ribs and arms and legs, with multiple lines in close proximity to one another, that there wasn’t a general consensus between the doctors who had cared for him to really go by. It was a miracle he hadn’t punctured a lung or had some form of internal bleeding, he had been told. Surgery, to stick a metal bar into his leg and realign his kneecap properly, had been the most he’d been put through, and he’d been unconscious for the beginning of it. 

He’d been so lucky, they’d told him. And Stiles had listened at the time, but he doesn’t feel lucky right now, lungs intact and bleeding only coming from the outside.

He just feels guilty. 

-

Stiles grimaces not for the first time that night, taking in the sight of himself yet again in the bathroom mirror of his hospital room. He might as well have been shut into a full-body cast with the amount of bandages and plaster that already adorned his person. Two leg braces, a metal rod shoved between the flesh within one and a recovering kneecap held in the other, one arm cast and one splint that went right up to his armpit—he was looking much worse for wear. Not to mention the layers and layers of gauze and medical tape that wound around almost every inch of exposed skin.

Stiles had, quite literally, been chewed up and spit out. Torn to shreds. Ripped up and thrown away.

But he was alive. Somehow, he was alive. He couldn’t have asked for more.

(Okay, not true. He could seriously go for a burger worthy of a heart attack right now. If only because he’s strictly not allowed to have one.)

He’s on so many medications he couldn’t name them all if he tried, and each one comes with its own restrictions and rules. Stiles hates it—suddenly, desperately misses his Adderall and the simplicity of its construct.

The thing he hates the most about the whole ordeal, though, is the fact everyone has suddenly turned into a reincarnation of his mother on some sort of maternal steroid. It’s like they were pumped with the shit and knew full well it would bother the absolute hell out of him at a time when he can’t run away from all the hugs and the hair combing and the attempts at feeding him his own damn dinner, complete with airplane noises on Allison’s end.

Hell, he can’t even move his fucking pinky toe, forget sudden ninja removal from his hospital bed, complete with a fairly decent smokescreen he had been concocting right before being put in this position.

It sucks. Stiles just wants to go home.

He’s forced to stay for as long as it takes for him to learn to walk again, and that’s a process he doesn’t even want to think about, let alone mention to anyone who questions him once he’s free from the restraints and palpable boredom the hospital had given him. It takes a long time, and, as if it’s not bad enough that he has to learn how to move his feet properly all over again despite having learned all this back when he was a toddler, the entire process hurts. Even while he’s pumped up on some of the finest painkillers the hospital has to offer, he can feel the way it aches. 

Some of it are small aches and slightly numbing throbs that he feels resonating from within his recently-fractured bones, and other times it’s sharp and stifling and the only thing he can think of right in the moment it exists—but it’s never too much. He never lets it be too much, even when he almost starts to cry after biting his tongue in shock at the knife of pain in his knee the first time he tries to put weight on it.  He can’t. 

There was no room for pain, not in the world he’d made himself become a part of.

He pushes through it all, like he pushes through everything else; because, to him, there’s only forward. He learned that from the pack, and he’d be fucked sideways by a butt ugly Satan-spawn if he’d let them think he wasn’t strong enough for this.

He was one of them, and even after he’s out of the hospital and still using crutches to get around, he makes sure they never forget that.

 - 

Stiles can’t help the small groan escaping his lips as he pulls himself to his feet, breath huffing from his chest involuntarily at the sharp lick of pain that races along more than one limb. It was more shock than anything, in reaction to feeling something more than the dull ache he’d become accustomed to thanks to his beautiful cocktail of drugs. He’d been given enough to help him along the recovery route from the safety of his own bedroom, in the form of pills big enough to make him feel like a horse, but it wasn’t the same as the steady stream of the shit that had been plugged snugly into a vein at the crook of his arm. He’d have to get used to these breaks between doses.

If he’s being honest with himself, though, he has to admit it made him feel more alive than he’d felt since the moment before he’d been admitted to the hospital.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his head and clutches the side of his nightstand with the other as he waits for the worst of the jabs of pain to ease off, wishing he’d been allowed a haircut upon getting home as his fingers snag in tangles he didn’t have the equipment to eliminate. He didn’t like having long hair—it was just something else to get a grab on, something else to paralyze him at a moment when movement was crucial. Plus, it was more work than a buzzcut, and Stiles was all about efficiency. It’s why he never bothered to match his socks. 

A soft knock at his door brings his attention to it before he’s ready to move, and Scott pokes his head in through the already-cracked entrance, wide-eyed and half-grimacing. Stiles holds up a finger the moment Scott opens his mouth to say something, cutting him off just as he’s pronouncing the first syllable of what could either be a greeting or an apology, and Stiles doesn’t dwell on which it might have been. 

“Hey, man,” he greets Scott instead once he’s able to let go of the end table, the hand blindly searching for his other crutch while his eyes stay on the sad sight Scott is making in the doorway. The boy wilts instantly at the recognition, and Stiles readies himself for what he knows is going to come. 

But Scott surprises him by keeping his mouth shut, instead moving forward to grab the crutch Stiles had been searching for and slipping it under Stiles’ armpit for him, gentle enough that Stiles barely feels the tic of pain that comes with the full-body bruise he’s become. “Hey,” Scott greets back softly once Stiles has his hand on the crutch and is standing on his own again. “Your dad let me in.”

Stiles frowns at him. “Did you lose your house key again?”

“Misplaced is a better word,” Scott says sheepishly. Stiles groans. 

“I can’t believe you. At this rate, I might as well just make you use Derek’s emergency entrance and forget the whole key deal.” Stiles doesn’t care if Derek had only done that, like, twice—he was absolutely never letting that die, because it had scared the shit out of him both times it had happened, and Derek’s reputation was too much fun to poke at.

“No, that’s not fair. I know I left it somewhere. In my room, probably. Or maybe Mom’s car. It’s somewhere!” Scott protests in a whine when Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You’d better find it, or you’re condemned to the life of stalker-level creeper who doesn’t know how to knock.”

Scott mumbles something along the lines of “I know how to knock” in a sulky tone, but Stiles is already hobbling around him on his crutches, trying to keep his breathing under control to hide how much even moving is hurting him. It’s such bullshit.

He must not be very good at it, though, because a few moments after he’s passed Scott, the pain abruptly eases and then vanishes, and Stiles turns to give the sudden hand on his shoulder a sharp look. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles argues sourly, watching the black veins pulse and disappear under Scott’s sleeve. “I have drugs to take care of that for me.”

Scott, if possible, manages to look guiltier. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. “Yeah, but I can help until those kick in.”

Stiles wants to argue with him, but the sweet relief of Scott’s touch prevents him from opening his mouth and doing so. Instead, he sighs, and Scott perks up a little as he’s allowed to continue with what he’s doing. They stay like that for a minute or two, Stiles with his back to Scott and his eyes closed against the sweet relief of his weird pain-sucking power and Scott steadily inching his way closer and closer to Stiles, the tic to his eye the only indication that he feels any of what he’s taking from Stiles.

He feels when Scott stops taking his pain away—but not by the sharp bite that existing now brings him without his drugs. Instead, a dull ache blooms, and Scott’s palm slides down the center of Stiles’ back before removing itself completely.

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles quietly, and Scott only returns it with a grin before reaching up and flicking a lock of hair that covers Stiles’ ear. He flinches away from the movement, but it’s not from fear (thankfully—he didn’t want to see Scott’s reaction to that), it’s just from plain annoyance.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with such long hair,” Scott tells him, his expression amused. “I don’t think you could even gel this into anything, it’s so long.”

Stiles huffs and swats at him with the nub of his cane end. Scott doesn’t even wince. “I’m not going to be doing anything to my hair while I’m like this. I have enough shit to do in the daytime without having to worry about making my hair socially acceptable. I’m so far behind on studying that it’ll be a miracle if I can pass any of my finals when they let me take them. Haircare can wait.”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to stop showering?”

“What? No, ew. That applied to my hair only, I’m just not going to bother with styling. I’m not turning into a hobo.”

“You’ve got the look down already, I thought you might go all the way.”

“Gee,” Stiles quips sarcastically, starting up his hobbling again, “that sure makes a guy feel like he wants to go back out in the world. Thanks, Scott.”

“Anytime,” Scott replies cheerfully, following Stiles slowly out of the room. When they pass the bathroom, Scott stops at its entrance and peers inside, his face falling into his thinking expression. Stiles notices and waits, knowing that pushing Scott usually doesn’t lead anywhere fast.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, and Stiles looks up to find Scott smiling at him with his dopey, lopsided half-grin. “Let’s just cut it off.”

It takes Stiles a moment to process what Scott is getting at, what with his drugs kicking in and the previous conversation lost the moment they had crossed the threshold out of Stiles’ room. “Oh, my hair?”

“Yeah. I can buzz it off for you with the clippers, like you used to wear it.” Scott glances back at the bathroom, excitement building in his shoulders. Over cutting hair. Or maybe it was just because he thought he had a really good idea, Stiles couldn’t be sure. “You still have the clippers around, right? That’ll make it easier.”

Stiles has to admit Scott is right, and he had only just thought of it himself just before, when he had mentally been complaining about his hair. Actually buzzing it hadn’t crossed his mind, and he blamed that on fatigue and minute withdrawal he’d been experiencing since leaving the confines of his hospital bed. 

Stiles mimes a shrug in response, then nods his head in a way that shows he’s proud of Scott’s line of thinking. Scott’s grin widens at the reaction, and he hops into the bathroom excitedly. Stiles can hear him rummaging around while he makes his slow way back, and finds Scott shoulders-deep in the cabinet beside the sink when he makes it there.

He whacks Scott gently with one of his crutches when he passes him to sit on the toilet, but, aside from a muffled yelp of “Hey!”, Scott doesn’t slow in his search. 

Five minutes later, and Stiles is sitting sideways on the toilet; his back is against Scott’s torso while he leans to keep from getting too tired trying to stay upright, and Scott holds him in place with a hand at his shoulder, the other hand slowly stripping lengths of hair from Stiles’ scalp as the clippers buzz their path of destruction.

It’s a quiet process. Soothing, really. The warmth of Scott’s werewolf-heated hand firmly curled over Stiles’ shoulder and the smooth stroke of the clippers as they sheared off god knows how many week’s worth of hair growth. 

(Stiles had stopped counting—he’d lost all the time he’d had when the Kelpie had taken him, and no one would be up front with him when he tried to pry the details out, so he decided, at least for now, that it didn’t matter. Someone would slip up eventually. They always did.)

The rhythmic buzz fills the bathroom, and it’s the only noise up until Scott’s phone dings not once, but twice, in quick succession, and immediately everything about Scott tenses up. Stiles feels the way his fingers are suddenly, but still gently, digging into the sinew of his shoulder, and he takes that immediately to know something is up, and it has nothing to do with his hair.

“You gonna answer that, big boy?” Stiles taunts once the clippers don’t start up their path of destruction again. Scott starts slightly, like he’d somehow forgotten what it was he was doing in, uh, Stiles’ bathroom. Stiles knows Scott well enough to understand that’s how Scott handled secrets, and then, from there, realize that Scott was hiding something from Stiles, and those texts had something to do with it. Whatever it was Scott was doing at Stiles’ house (because Stiles has a feeling it has nothing to do with just checking up—and he should have known better, since Scott had fallen back to mostly texting the moment Stiles had been discharged, and showing up unannounced was strange, even for Scott), it was something Stiles wasn’t going to like.

God dammit, Scott.

“All right,” Stiles starts with a sigh, reaching up and smacking Scott’s hand with his opposite one. Scott’s fingers relax. “Just spit it out. Tell me while I’m nice and blissed out from drugs, don’t make me suffer more.”

It’s a slightly low blow. Stiles understands this. He also doesn’t really give a shit.

He can feel the way Scott wilts, and then the subsequent cool scrape of the clippers again as Scott starts back up.

Scott doesn’t say anything right away—biding his time and mulling over his word choice, Stiles thinks, taking long enough that Stiles starts to feel the exhaustion of simply being alive while healing to the extent he was—but eventually he heaves a surprisingly sad sigh and speaks.

“You’ve gotta leave,” Scott finally says quietly as he cuts another stripe of hair away. He’s so quiet that Stiles barely hears him over the sound of the clippers, and immediately thinks he’s heard Scott wrong. It’s his saving grace from losing an ear, because he would have certainly jerked his head away had he heard Scott correctly.

“Say what?” he asks instead, half-mumbled, the back of his head inches away from pressing into Scott’s chest where his neck was giving out from the exhaustion.

“You’re going away from Beacon Hills.” Scott doesn’t raise his voice, but Stiles can understand him easily now that he’s listening. He severely wishes he couldn’t.

He reaches up slowly and grasps Scott’s wrist, easing the buzzing clippers, which had already been pulled away from his scalp the minute Stiles started moving, further away. Stiles turns and looks up at Scott, and is startled to realize Scott’s eyes were tearing up.

“It could come back, Stiles. Kelpie track their prey, and we don’t—” Scott chokes, nearly drops the clippers. It’s only when Stiles’ grip tightens around his wrist that Scott even bothers to turn them off. Scott takes a deep breath, a bright flush blooming across the high points of his cheeks as a tear threatens to spill, and Stiles nearly loses it right then and there. “We don’t know why it gave you back.” Scott’s free hand reaches up and scrapes the trail of wetness away. Stiles still can’t move. “What if I lose you again?”

Not we, Stiles realizes with a jolt. I.

What if I lose you again, Scott had just said, and immediately Stiles understands so much more than he wishes he did.

“Dad—” he chokes in a whisper and then stops, the shock that he was being sent away burning a path back and forth across the forefront of his mind. “Dad would never agree to that.”

Scott doesn’t answer immediately. He’s set the clippers down on the edge of the sink at some point, though Stiles had apparently blacked out at some point, because he hadn’t seen him do it. 

“It was your dad’s idea,” Scott mutters, like a scolded child.

Another blow. If Stiles weren’t already sitting, he’d be on the floor. As it is, he sways on the toilet seat, and Scott’s hands fly out and steady him.

Stiles realizes with some sort of numb realization that he can’t seem to breathe. After a few moments of hesitation, Scott surprises Stiles out of some of his shock by cradling Stiles’ head against his chest in a move Stiles would expect more of a competent parent and not an eighteen-year-old who sometimes forgets how to cook pasta correctly.

“Where?” Stiles finally chokes. He can’t look at Scott right then, fearful he’ll either scream or break down crying if he does. “Where am I going?”

“Alaska,” Scott whispers, and Stiles does look at him then, too startled by the information to stop himself. “Derek has connections up there.”

Stiles’ mouth works, but all he can manage to say, in a tone far too high for someone who had already gone through puberty, is, “Derek?”

“He’s renting a house. It’s isolated up there enough that any disturbances should be picked up faster than somewhere like here. Derek would be able to notice.”

“Derek?!” Stiles parrots again, sounding manic, his voice somehow managing to crack over the short name. Scott looks at him, looking every bit the forlorn puppy Stiles always refrained from calling him for the sake of cringe after the whole “sourwolf” fiasco, but Stiles can’t find a single fuck for that expression right now.

“It’s only for a little while,” Scott tries, but Stiles is too far lost to care what Scott’s trying to do.

He was being shipped to Alaska, for fuck actually knows how long, with Derek Hale.

Derek Hale.

And his dad had approved of this?

Stiles thinks he’s officially lost his goddamn mind.

[cerastes]

I dedicate to this to everyone who has let their dreams of writing die.

This is pretentious, or maybe vain, and I apologize if it comes across that way, I do not intend for this to be like that at all, as aside from narcissism in jest, I really think people should retain humility while still accepting and acknowledging their own good points, but when I log into my writing blog, sometimes I see a message like this and it’s wholly disarming. I know it seems like I am making a big deal out of what is basically a compliment, but hear me, I decided to not share my writing online again after some really bad stuff happened, on a personal level and on an artistic level. You may perhaps not believe me due to the way I carry myself, but I am very, very meek about my writing. Literature is something I have an eye and a passion for, and since I know good literature when I see it, it makes it terrifying when I finish writing something, because I know the flaws. It’s kinda like how graphical artists see their awesome finished products and say “this sucks” because they know real good illustrations, that, too, happens with writers, and oh man, it’s terrifying. To add to that, my previous relationship more or less began and crashed down in flames because of writing. My quality as an artist took a dive because I grew complacent, and because I focused on producing just one thing, and one thing only, something that satisfied my partner, and then I realized that despite my popularity in that community and the praise, it all felt hollow. I had not taken a step up, I took a step down. What used to be a mere exercise for my own amusement, that is, purple prosing, which is objectively terrible but it’s oh so fun to do, like eating a greasy hamburger, became more or less my modus operandi. That’s not good. It was all stagnant, it was fun, it was a cheap thrill, but part of me knew I was really just wasting away when I could be improving. That was a big part of my overhauling the blog in that RP community to just become user-drive stories: People would send asks with quite literally whatever content in the message and I would turn them into hopefully fun and neat reads, usually based on humor, and a bit later, it was time to close up shop, because the community had all really gone to shit and, sans a couple of exceptions, everyone whose skills I respected were already gone or just not into it anymore, plus, I had been writing in the Gensokyo setting for far too long. I needed a break, both from it and the bad memories that writing for the character in itself brought (because the character is intricately involved with another character, the source of my problems, and I will never, ever write a character in a vacuum or extirpate an essential part of them for personal reasons).

After that, I kind of just put the pen down. I felt afraid, honestly, because I knew anyone with writing chops could see past the hot air and the purple. I kept my daily writing exercises up for a few days and then I just gave up. In part, I was focusing fully on truly getting better from my depression, on which I was making really good progress, especially after a rather harsh and spectacular break up threatened to push me back in, thus needing my full attention, but another part was, really, that I was just so furious with myself that I couldn’t bring myself to write. A part of why I had made another “identity” when making that blog, aside from a joke aimed at some people, was so that I could start from zero, so it wouldn’t be me just being like “hey guys go follow my new blog give it attention please!”. I really disliked that attitude. You have to earn your reader base, not guilt trip for it. There was a period in that community which consisted of people making blog after blog for whatever fucking character or version of a character they could make, putting “HEY THIS IS MY NEW BLOG” on the main Skype, enjoying 2 days of attention, and then proceeding to whine forever because they ran out of inauguration-slash-pity asks. That’s no way to improve. I wanted to start from zero. Big fat irony that then I grew insecure because, damn it, I could put out drabbles and what not but I’d probably be, I don’t know, pity likes or “I know you” likes. A mess. I didn’t want that. That, coupled with my immense dislike of my own writing quality, put me off writing for a long time.

Just last year, at the end of the year, I decided, hey, it’d be cute if I put up some stuff. I mean, I made the ‘ideablog’ and I hadn’t used it at all (an attempt at trying to share my stuff again that failed initially as I was too afraid), might as fucking well, because if I have a redeeming quality, that’s just going through with whatever comes to mind at any given point. Reception has been surprisingly... Existent. It’s been good, and the praise and opinions I’ve received both publicly and behind closed doors has been both empowering and enlightening, but, I just think it being there at all has been out of my calculations. Aside from this message, I’ve also been asked if I have my stuff organized in a Dropbox for quick downloading so it could be loaded as an e-book and, if not, if I gave my authorization to do it. Another message I received was if I accepted commissions. What the hell do I say to that? It’s wholly disarming and moving, I couldn’t be happier. No one is more critical of my writing than I am, and next thing I know, someone says they’d pay for it. I’m not trying to blow my horn here, it’s just, fucking hell, I am so happy that I didn’t give up entirely, that I came back for the pen, and that the pen waited for me. I want that to reach you, I want you to know that not giving up has been the correct decision. I am lowkey shedding tears right now because, fuck, I love writing, what the fuck, I really was gonna let this go, but I am so fucking happy I didn’t, and on top of that, other people enjoy what I have to show? It’s paid off both personally and artistically to keep at it? Holy hell.

Just, please, don’t give up writing. It’s hard, it’s not immediate like seeing a drawing is (which means no disrespect to graphic artists at all), it’s no walk in the park or a cake in the walk or a piece of the cake, but it’s worth it. Rather, “don’t give up writing” is not fundamentally my message here as much as “don’t give up your art”. If it’s drawing, writing, composing, sculpting, whatever, don’t give it up. It pays off. You really have to go in it and give it the hardest try you can, whatever it is, your utmost effort, and it’s not easy, but look, all that aside? It’s about you enjoying it.

You’ll never reach perfection, but that doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t try, and you should shoot for the moon anyways, because if you land it, you kill the moon and you do us all a favor, but if you miss, hell, you still land among the stars. People really don’t want perfection, they want a good read. That’s easy to understand as a reader, but difficult to get as a writer. I think getting it as a writer, however, only pushes you to become a better writer than striving and inevitably failing to reach perfection does. At least, it’s what I’ve learned.

And for those of you who have become discouraged because you saw others do something close or similar to what you wanted to do, and in some cases, an almost identical concept? Do it anyways. Take it from me: Ideas and concepts are a dime a dozen. It’s the execution that really matters. The world has not seen what YOU do with that idea. You have not seen what you do with that idea. Maybe you have in your brain, but haha, let me tell you, what ends on paper tends to be wholly different than what initially was in your head. It tends to be better. You’ve not seen that. Everyone can imagine the perfect Olympic pirouette, but doing it is what matters. Everyone can imagine the perfect football kick, the perfect boxing straight, the perfect baseball pitch, but what does that matter if we don’t bring that imagination into a tangible form? That’s what writing is, after all, it’s our ability to show others what goes in our brains and hearts, what it is that inspires us. You don’t want to write because you got inspired, you want to write because you got inspired and want to give it shape.

So get writing.

So get making art.

Do it for yourself, and others will love it, I promise.

I’m not saying it’s as easy as just doing, but doing is the first step. You need to work hard to improve, and you need to both be confident enough to know you did a good job, yet humble enough to know you’ve got room for improvement (and hopefully, where it is you’ve got room for improvement). You can worry about improving after you get to the “doing” stage, however.

And if you gave up, please, consider giving it another try.

You never know who is out there waiting for your product. Only one way to find out.

[succubused]

Post ME3, just something I needed to write to for catharsis about the ending, Heartbroken Turian Returns To Site Of Girlfriend’s Presumed Death Three Weeks Later, What Happens Next Will Warm Your Heart

The worst part about Liara’s reaction was that she hadn’t said anything. She just looked at him while Garrus explained that he was going back to the Citadel, listened to all of his justifications and half-hearted I just need closure, you know?

Because she knew it was all bullshit.

She hadn’t even said what they both knew, called him out on it so he could hear how pathetic it was having been said out loud.

You hope to find her alive.

Liara just watched him with that sad look she’d had every day since Shepard had been lost. It was the same look she gave him when he put the memorial plaque with her name on it in a locked drawer and hurled the key out an airlock with an aggression that surprised even Garrus himself.

But Liara had seen enough dying men to know one when he was standing in front of her. She didn’t address what he told her. Instead, she crossed her arms and asked him how long it had been since he’d slept.

Shepard had once asked him if he ever had nightmares. She had sat there on the edge of her bed, hands twisting together, eyes flicking back and forth in empty space, still seeing whatever it was that had been knocking her awake in a cold sweat for months. He had asked what the dreams were, but she never told him, always just shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

I tend to expect the worst anyway, so dreaming about it seems like a waste of good sleep. That’s what he had told her. And she wiped away the tears, angrily, and crushed his hand in hers until her heart rate slowed.

She had been so afraid. He had felt it in the thrumming of the air, that one defect that Cerberus hadn’t been able to resurrect out of her; the air answered to Shepard’s biotics, and Shepard’s biotics answered to her emotions. Some wouldn’t have known the static electricity for what it was. But Garrus was attuned to it by now; she couldn’t hide from him.

Expect the worst.

Garrus glared at the wreckage beyond the shuttle window. He had always expected the worst. But that day, he just couldn’t force himself to expect Shepard to die. It seemed impossible, like the sun going supernova. You know it’s possible, you know it’ll happen someday, but the idea of the sky going up in flames tomorrow? A disaster on a scale too large to process as a possibility. That was how he’d seen the possibility of Shepard dying. And he hadn’t expected it.

What happens when the worst comes to pass? Is it still a waste of sleep if it isn’t what you expect that flashes before you, just the truth?

He didn’t sleep. He saw the Citadel going up in flames and he felt the stone dropping into the pit of his stomach as he watched from the Normandy’s med bay. They weren’t nightmares. They were just memories.

The visions of Shepard being slowly crushed beneath burning slabs of concrete, trying to scream for help but choking on a collapsed lung, Shepard dying alone and broken and not even knowing what she’d done, well. Those were merely extrapolations. Test scenarios.

Not dead.

Not dead.

“She’s dead,” he said, softly, to himself. There was no one left to hear.

The battle had been over for three weeks, but the Citadel was still smoldering, lazy embers floating through the air like fiery snowflakes. It was unrecognizable. Garrus could have been standing smack in the center of his old office at C-Sec and he wouldn’t have known.

What are you looking for?

What is is you think you will find?

He had to. He had to.

Garrus took a deep breath and coughed. The air was full of soot. Hard to breathe even with functioning lungs. If one was injured…

Stop.

Everything was different. It was as though the walls themselves had tilted, shifted to change the galaxy’s largest city into the galaxy’s largest weapon.

Or the largest tomb.

Stop.

It was all wrong. He didn’t know what to look for. This wasn’t the Citadel he knew. This was the Crucible, and he was looking for the corpse of the woman he loved among the wreckage of a dead weapon of mass destruction, and if this wasn’t a nighmare, it was doing a spectacular impression of one.

Where are you, Shepard?

Blinking up at the stars, he slowly started to make his way towards what seemed like the center of the wreckage.

Empty.

If she wasn’t here maybe he would just stay and wait to rot. If he found her and she was dead maybe he would just die here beside her. At least they would be together.

He was…where was he? It looked vaguely familiar. Purple lights still pulsing, weakly, on one side of the platform and an overturned shape so burned out it was barely recognizable as a couch.

Of course. Of course this, of all places on the Presidium, would be what somehow made it slightly intact. Slightly being the operative word—it was shattered, but Garrus could tell what it had been, which was more than what he could say about the rest of the ruins.

An image of Shepard, shattered and unrecognizable flashed before his eyes. Wreckage. Ruins.

No.

Purgatory.

Garrus?

Of course he was in Purgatory.

His laughter bounced hysterically off the ragged walls, he almost felt as though he would never be able to stop, until he sank to his knees and put his head in his hands. He remembered her here. Swaying back and forth on the dance floor while Jack watched her with both eyebrows raised more in shock than amusement. Doing that absurd thing with her hands.

Don’t crack up on me now, Vakarian.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just talking to the voices in my head. It’s all normal.”

The air shuddering, crackling.

“Not…in your head.”

Garrus froze. He scrambled to his feet gracelessly, whipping around for the source of the voice.

Her.

She was leaning against what appeared to have once been a bar, arm wrapped around her bloodied midsection, and one leg bent at a horrible angle, but her eyes were open and she was looking straight at him. Barely recognizable behind black eyes and a broken nose and split lip and blood all over but the light that washed over her face was hers. Her mouth twitched slightly.

“Shepard,” he breathed.

Her lips twitched again. “Garrus,” she croaked.

A moment and he was by her side again, and she was broken in a million places but it was Shepard, and she was undeniably alive. She smelled like smoke and blood and rot and stale whiskey but she was breathing, labored as it was. She turned her head and stared at him.

“The Crucible…what…” She swallowed painfully. “What happened?”

“You did it. I don’t know what the hell you did but you did it. You saved them.”

“I…saved Earth?”

Gently he felt her neck for her pulse. Weak, but steady. “No, Shepard. You saved everyone.”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone.”

“Whole galaxy.”

“Yeah.”

She got halfway through a smile before she winced in pain. Garrus was looking anywhere but at her face, at her broken leg, at the lacerations, at the blood on her hands both dried and fresh. Shepard always knew. She took his face in her hands, gingerly, tilted it up until he was facing her. He closed his eyes at her touch, too warm, feverish, but the calluses so familiar, rough but somehow soft at the same time.

It was real. She was real.

He opened his eyes.

“You—do you have any idea—I could kill you for—you just threw me back in the ship and you ran—”

“If I hadn’t, we’d…both be dead,” Shepard said hoarsely. “You wouldn’t be here…saving my ass. It worked out.”

Garrus shook his head. She dropped her hands and he caught them in his, careful not to press too hard on her broken knuckles. “How the hell did you survive, Shepard?”

A low chuckle. “I’m hard to kill. You of all people should know that.”

She held up an empty bottle and suddenly he knew where the stale whiskey smell had come from.

“You were right on time, though,” she commented as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “I just ran out.”

“You…”

“Probably would’ve died of shock otherwise…drunk out of my fucking mind for a lot of the pain. Whole lot of water bottles back there. I was lucky. Although I haven’t eaten anything but very stale cashews in weeks.”

“You just happened to land in Purgatory.”

Shepard was speaking more clearly now. “I crawled here on my elbows, actually. Saw the lights. I can’t walk, by the way. And I think one of my kidneys is…broken.” Shepard paused and considered her midsection. “Actually, I think I might have exactly one fully functional internal organ left.”

“Your collarbone is broken,” Garrus said.

“Garrus, my everything is broken.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to kiss her entire body but that would only break it open again.

Not dead.

As though she’d heard his thoughts, Shepard shook her head and wrenched his face down to meet hers and she kissed him, hard, re-opening her split lip in the process and he tasted her blood in his mouth but her blood meant she still had a heart to beat it through her body and that meant she’s alive she’s alive she’s alive.

“Okay,” Shepard said. She looked around herself, then back up at Garrus. “This is great, but can…can you get me the hell out of here, please?”

He smiled. Raised Joker on the comm. “Hey, I need an evac from the Citadel. Also, tell Dr. Chakwas she’s got a patient incoming. Pretty severe trauma to…well, her entire body, really.”

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts,” hissed Shepard.

A pause.

“Joker?”

“No, yeah, I heard you, I’m coming, just, I mean, you’re saying, what you’re saying is—”

“Shut the fuck up and fly my shit—I mean my ship—”

“Holy fuck.” Joker paused again. “Was that. That was. Holy fuck.”

“Just get here,” Garrus said firmly.

“I’m doing it. I’m doing it. Holy shit. Holy fuck.”

He closed the comm. “Is there a good way to do this?”

Shepard considered it. “No,” she said decisively. “There’s a reason I haven’t moved in two days. Just do it.”

“If you feel like one of your ribs is going to puncture a lung or something—”

“Garrus.”

That’s what heaven is. Heaven is her saying his name. There is nothing else. Nothing else matters.

“Okay. Okay.”

He put one arm around her back, carefully, and the other behind her knees. When he lifted her she grunted slightly and the air shimmered with her distress, but she held still.

Garrus took one shuddering breath. “Shepard.”

“Yes?” she said through gritted teeth.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

“I love you.”

Shepard turned her head against his armored chest and smiled as best she could. “I love you. So fucking much, Garrus.”

They had nearly made it and the Normandy was just beginning to leak into sight in the distance when Shepard twitched awake in his arms, suddenly remembering.

“Hey, about adopting that krogan baby…”

[magistralucis]

Breakbot + Busy P + MYD + Alan Braxe + Borussia @ XOYO, 26 May 2018  [Review]

A fantastic reward for the comedy of errors that is my life.

Been a while since I did a review of a gig! Technically, I should have done one for Justice last September, but given the amount of content I gained from that performance, I keep thinking that one has to be several gifsets and a video upload instead of me rambling on. I’ll get to it in a billion years;;; Over the weekend I went to this all-nighter and didn’t sleep for like, 30 hours? And I’m still recovering. So much like the TBB review last year, this is going to read super disjointed, like a bunch of random stream-of-consciousness notes I took over several hours. (Which 70% of this review actually relies on.) There are pics and a few lil’ gifs, all splendidly red-tinted to reflect the lighting in the club, but the tl;dr is essentially:

The Journey

As previously stated, I do not live in London. London is not easy to navigate. I do not have the strongest sense of direction and frequently map out walking paths and exact number of turns and landmarks nearby my intended destinations, which works for me 9/10 of the time - but this means that when things go bad, they tend to go really bad holy fucking shit under the influence of certain factors XOYO is the hardest fucking club to find in the entire universe. I have never had this much trouble finding a single location despite having such clear directions from multiple sources. It’s not the club’s fault, of course, thousands of people find it just fine - the stars just utterly refused to align for me this particular weekend, turning what should have been a straightforward path from A to B to over an hour of running around.

To attend to this spectacular all-nighter, I took the train from my university city to London, alighting in King’s Cross St. Pancras around 7pm. XOYO is located about a minute away from Old Street Station, which as you can see from the above image of the Northern Line is only two stops away; I could have been at the club in less than ten minutes. Because of this, I was slow to take the Tube when I initially arrived, instead stopping for a snack and some adequate hydration at King’s Cross (also tutting at Platform 9¾ which is not that impressive a display but that’s neither here nor there); I don’t think that was unwise in itself, but it was a decision that I ended up regretting, because it meant I didn’t find out about the spanner in the works until it was almost too late. 

ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

A five-minute journey on a single subway train from A to B was all I was asking. Well it turns out I couldn’t do that!!! Because fucking engineering works!!!! All the Northern line service bilboards and directional posters were papered over and the information being given was often deeply counterproductive (or outright incorrect). First I was directed to Euston to try to make a switch there, but no Northern line services were running at all. Then I came back to King’s Cross and subsequently tried out Moorgate on the Circle/Metropolitan line, which was running Northern line services - but nothing northbound, like I needed! This was exceptionally infuriating because Moorgate is only one stop away from Old Street station. I was delayed for nearly an hour purely trying to solve this problem, because even past 7-8pm the stations were s t u f f e d with people all trying to navigate this Northern line dilemma in their own way. This line splits along the way, too, so depending on where you’re headed to and where in the ‘part closure’ your intended destination sits, you could be lost in utterly infuriating bullshit like I did, being only 1-2 stops away from where you are and being unable to get to it unless you walk or take overhead transport. 

And, you know, those people had already paid and gone past the barrier when they found out about the closures. Most of that info could only be had inside. At King’s Cross St Pancras, the only info available outside the barrier were announcements on rail replacement buses - confusingly worded at that, all three of them entirely northbound from King’s Cross St Pancras (I needed southbound for Old Street). The London Underground isn’t obscenely expensive, but it’s not disposable money either! There’s a bus directly from King’s Cross to Old Street Station (which I ended up taking in order to return) - but if you paid and entered the Tube station, you’re going to want to solve the problem before signing back out of the barrier! 

fml in the end I just walked. 7-8 mins from Moorgate and then XOYO itself is hidden in an alley between two massive building complexes with naught but a red neon sign to point your way. It’s not a big neon sign. On one hand maybe it was a good thing I was held up traveling. I arrived about 5 mins after the club opened and was let in straight away. If things had gone as I’d planned I might have ended up camping out in front of XOYO for an extremely awkward hour or whatever. There was no queue; despite it all, I was that early, and was amply rewarded for my earliness. But man. 

On the other hand, I was dehydrated all over again.

Hour-by-Hour Review

Contrary to the anguished nature of the vent above, most of the night was damn excellent and the review below is the main meat of the experience. I recollected this through small notes I was making on my phone - mostly of timestamps and a single keyword, like what songs were playing at the time - and some videos I took, the position of each photo, and my own memory from yesterday. They are patchy notes, but they are as detailed as I can make them, and largely accurate. Essentially: if you’ve read this far, I invite you to come live the night with me all over again! :D

9:30PM - 11:00PM: I was the only person seeking entry to XOYO when I finally turned up, though music was already playing inside. “You here for an event?” The guard asks, and I produce my ticket and passport. “Just so you know, there’s a band playing in there at the moment - the actual, uh, techno, that’s not going to start until ten o’clock. You can go in now, but once you’re in, you’re in - you won’t be able to come back out and back in again.”

I just look at them. “What am I going to do outside for half an hour. That’s fine.”

Ticket scanned, passport checked and confirmed, bag check occurs. I read that XOYO has airport-security level bag checks, but that was not my experience. I might just have been too damn early to raise any alarms. I’m let in, visit the bar, buy some water, visit the bathroom, tidy up a bit, tie my jacket around my waist to conceal my bag, etc. Around 9:45PM I peer down at the main room downstairs to check out this band, although I come back up shortly to prepare for the main experience...

... which, uh, doesn’t take place until eleven. After the band leaves around 10PM, what actually happens is that the main room is sealed off for DJ setups while in Room 2 upstairs Joshua James plays. I had the choice of saving my energy for later and resting on the bench, or going to see him; I chose the former. Security guy lingering in front of the main room says it might open in ‘half an hour’ when I ask him on the dot at 10PM. My guy that’s the longest damn half hour I have ever waited in my life. At least I can people-watch and save my place because like always, I want to be at the front when the doors open.

11:00PM: The main room finally opens and Borussia is in the house. The dancefloor is very empty for about half an hour while he gets the crowd going. Ushers frequently come by, brandishing red penlights to take away glasses and empty bottles and lost property and the like. XOYO only has a max capacity of 800~ people and I’m fairly sure that’s spread across two rooms; the glasses are like, proper solid pub glasses, too, actual breakage hazards. I imagine it’s because it’s a small and intimate club that the choice of glasses makes sense; even in Electric Brixton they gave out plastic, and that one holds close to 2000 people. I saw several toppling over or rolling on the ground before someone came to snatch up the whole stack of them. I applaud their diligence. 

11:10PM: Also this dancefloor is incredibly sticky. Pedro is visible on the left. He talks to a backstage fan before disappearing.

11:23PM: There’s a girl next to me with her boyfriend. We meet eyes. This girl will recur a few more times during the night. Swig of water taken. 

11:30~PM: A note about the stage structure of XOYO.

As mentioned previously, XOYO is a two-room club, one upstairs and one downstairs. Downstairs is the main and the top one’s for opening acts and smaller shows; the downstairs has a dancefloor, a bar off to the side, and an elevated stage. Now the important thing about this stage is that you can get on it. There are no barriers between audience and DJ in a XOYO set, except for the ready-built DJ booth and all the speakers and equipment set that may or may not be piled around it. There is a steel mesh of sorts to separate the sides of the DJ booth from the stage/dancefloor viewing area, but aside from that, it is entirely possible for you to mount the performing stage and be about two feet from the DJ at any given time. Around this time is when people begin to mount the stage and like. Dance. But sparsely.

I will return to this stage later. I’m currently parked in front of the DJ booth.

11:40~PM: 

Pedro pops back into the scene briefly. He doesn’t linger for long there, but he’ll be back for the switchover. This is the best photo I could get ffffff

11:40~PM (not long after the above): Borussia puts Gorillaz’s ‘DARE’ on and the room goes fucking wild. The girl returns. This time we meet more than eyes and actually dance together, her boyfriend hitching her up on his back for about 30 seconds midway. This is the first point of the night that Borussia starts smiling and I’m taken by how sweet his smile is.

11:54PM: You know what I think Borussia kind of looks like Gesa if you squint

12:00~AM: Pedro in the house. He takes over slowly from Borussia, who exits amidst thunderous applause. For some reason, Pedro did not look awfully happy for most of the show. Compared to the last time I saw him DJ (opener for Justice) he seemed like... stoic? Like he had a lot in his mind. He was capable of cheer when need be, man knows how to drive a crowd, but like... the air about him was different. I have no explanation for this. It may just have been my perception.

12:00 - 12:30AM (?): I genuinely cannot remember when this first happened, only I remember Pedro being at the forefront and giving the people involved an amused glance at some point in the night. So it goes here, even though they might first have appeared during Borussia. Two incredibly scantily dressed and also gorgeous dancers, one male and one female (visibly), rolled out of the backstage area and began dancing on the elevated stage around the same time e v e r y o n e began piling on. I’d kill for the ability to dance on the heels they did holy fuck

12:13AM: I CAN SEE IRFANE OFF TO THE SIDE YES HE CAME AFTER ALL I know he’s officially part of Breakbot now but the XOYO description made it sound as if only Thibaut was coming. False alarm! The duo lives on.

12:28AM (?): Girl I was dancing with earlier + her boyfriend reappears from the bar direction. She mounts the elevated stage and disappears into the crowd.

12:30AM (?): THIBAUT AND SO-ME SPOTTED I WANT TO ATTACH THE PHOTO OF THIS MOMENT but it’s too blurry fuck shit

12:34AM: With a grin worth a million pounds Pedro puts on ‘Audio, Video, Disco’. Lighting changes to bombastic yellow and everybody just about dies for the next five minutes to follow. This was universally the reception whenever anything Daft Punk or Justice came on (Pedro also played ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ immediately after) - many people, Thibaut included, had Justice shirts on and earlier on the 26th Justice played a set on All Points East, so this was understandable.

12:39AM: Fuck it. I’m going on the elevated stage. I just hitched myself up.

12:40~AM: I can see so much better from here.

There’s a bit on the stage where the steel mesh barrier ends, and the DJ set curves away from the rest of the stage, where you can see everyone in the booth really clearly. Currently this spot is occupied by a dude and a girl who I progressively come to realize was getting increasingly drunk/high - she was clinging onto the sides - so I just gravitate towards the steel mesh instead, neglected by most people. For most part my view is blocked by people hanging around from backstage but every now and then they vacate, and I get a good side view. Not long after I settle in, Thibaut pops up for a short while, swigging from a bottle - and the girl I was dancing with from before almost crashes into the mesh shouting her hellos at him. (This is when I realize that she’s French.)

And, uh, I mean. What can you do when a thing like that happens. I join in, of course. Thibaut did not hear either of us before slinking back, but this did have the effect of the girl patting me on the shoulder for our first real conversation:

French girl: [Muffled something]

Me: Ah?

French girl: [After a few tries through the noise] You like Thibaut?

Me: Yeah! Came to see him mostly!

French girl: 😍💖😍💖😍 I’M THE BIGGEST FAN 😍💖😍💖😍

The oddest thing is that during this exchange, the boyfriend guy with her kind of gently takes off my hat and tries to put it back on me backwards. I have no idea what the fuck and I give him a look that conveys that I have no idea what the fuck ‘cause like... dude why are you taking my hat exactly??? Am I missing something??? I replace it and carry on. The girl’s swept away towards the bar again.

12:40~AM: Pedro is the only person who can pull off LeLe’s ‘Breakfast’ in a DJ set without it descending into narm territory imo 

12:40~AM: MYD IS HERE MYD IS HERE

1:00AM: Thibaut and Irfane take over at last, the latter first, then Thibaut more fully. Mama P stays at the back, watching over the situation, before silently withdrawing. 

The stage is so crowded I can barely breathe. French girl does not return. Ushers begin to move about the dancefloor carrying large foreboding black bags, not for glasses but for lost property.

1:00~AM: J E S U S 

1:10~AM: So-Me is the third one in the booth. I wish people would announce it properly whenever he turns up - I didn’t think to expect him at all, as he was not there with Pedro when I saw him open for Justice and his name wasn’t on the guests list. He feels like a lottery treat ; w ;

1:10~AM: Usher on the elevated stage. He finds a credit card on the floor and flashes an exact 🤨 look in my direction, as I was the closest to him. “Not mine,” I mouth at him, and he stashes the card in the lost property bag before vanishing into the crowd.

1:11AM: Come to think of it I’ve seen people lose some seriously scary shit on dancefloors. Like when I went to see TBB and Justice, on both occasions I’ve seen someone lose their foreign identity card. I’d be fucking terrified for my life if that happened to me - and given that I’m toting my passport around (some places don’t seem to accept BRP...?), which I cannot afford to lose whatsoever, I enter a state of brief panic while I check that nothing has been thieved from my bag. All clear.

1:23-25AM: Jesus Christ Irfane is so touchy-feely with Thibaut they’re in love I’m literally crying

1:30~AM: Because of the above mentioned affection-shenanigans, I stop dancing in order to get some photos and videos of the pair. One of the backstage fans notices. “Do you want me to take a picture for you?” He shouts through the mesh; I hesitate, because I’m not in the business of giving my phone away to strangers, but I take the risk. It turned out he made this offer during a period of very weird lighting and it wasn’t a good time for photos, but this is the best out of several attempts from him:

“It’s not a good time,” he shouts as he hands my phone back over. “sorry.”

“Thank you anyway,” I holler through the bars. He flashes a grin and we carry on.

1:30~AM (after the above): Remember the scantily dressed gorgeous dancers? They’re back, dancing on a bunch of speakers (?) next to the side view. Drama with the (drunk?) girl hogging the side view; she gets into a conflict with one of the dancers and it gets really fucking tense. I’m not 100% on what happened, but I can imagine that something that wasn’t meant to be touched was touched or that she was giving the dancer some serious attitude - like the girl was literally grabbing the (drunk?) girl by the face and telling her to get a fucking grip. The dude with her eventually leads her away and the dancers dismount the stage, disappearing into the crowd - I didn’t see them return again, which was a right shame. 

tl;dr I took the empty spot and was able to photo marginally better than before.

1:35AM: 

Jesus God this is heavenly

1:41AM: 

Best quality: his wiggles

(He was mouthing along to ‘Why?’.)

1:40~AM: I keep thinking I stepped on something. This continues for some five minutes before I finally look down and yep whoops I was stepping on something all right. It was a hefty croc leather wallet/purse thing, all black, very sticky from the floor. I set it down in front of me and handed it over to an usher less than two minutes after. Another swig of water. Thibaut’s wiggles do not in any way pale next to Irfane’s.

1:50AM (?): Yet another event I know happened but can’t remember where exactly to place. ‘My Toy’ comes on. I hear this one is a fan favourite and while I can think of better songs in Still Waters, I get to see for myself just how true this statement is. In fact, Breakbot played quite a few of their stuff - not a lot, but enough to bring on significant cheers whenever they did. ‘Back For More’ was the starter and ‘Fantasy’ came on at some point but ‘My Toy’ was easily the most popular of the lot!

2:00AM: Alan Braxe takes over. Irfane and Thibaut continue to linger, as does So-Me, but I’m beginning to see Myd far more often - he must provide the climax to this all-nighter. He had a vinyl signing earlier on the 26th; he’s greeted with cheers whenever he’s visible.

2:00 - 4:00AM: A broad sweeping observation to indicate that my phone is dying a horrible death by this point of the night. I brought an external battery and had it going again once I left the club, but fuck trying to fumble with that in the middle of a club. All those photos did it, especially the videos, and burning the battery on that so quickly was not a good idea because I wanted to take more of Alan and Myd boo

2:20~AM: Alan’s set is considerably darker in tone. Probably more like what I’m used to before I got into EDM, in fact. I consider him responsible for the mild whiplash I got from headbanging.

2:24AM: XOYO’s smoke machines are at their peak performance around this time and I can barely see a thing. Not being a big venue, this is a problem. Irfane and Thibaut and So-Me pop back up for a selfie with one of the backstage fans and rope Alan into participating; he does so exactly once and turns back, as professional as always, while the other stay on for a second and third go. 

2:30~AM: wHAT’S THAT I HEAR???? CRESCENDOLLS?????

2:30~AM: IT’S CRESCENDOLLS

2:35AM: Hey remember when it took Irfane 10 years to figure out the Very Disco = Veridis Quo pun

2:40~AM: By this point I’m getting super hungry and I’m just about out of water. Water in XOYO is expensive. Something like 2.50 for a 300ml bottle. The DJs had a stack of these bottles by the side and were powering through them at alarming speed when they weren’t drinking other things. It’s my policy to go early and buy a bottle of water at the bar of wherever I attend a gig or concert, pretty much always. It’s my first time running out with more than an hour to go, though, but despite this I keep dancing with the empty bottle clutched in my hand. I don’t actually remember why. Maybe I thought I’d fill it up after the show or something. Spoilers: I didn’t

2:55AM: Right as Myd is taking over some dude pokes me and asks to have a sip of my water. I should not have been dancing with that empty bottle. He looks disgruntled when I tell him it’s empty and moves on. Sorry my dude I only wish I’d have been able to spare even a drop but I was genuinely out;;;;;

3:00 - 4:00AM: I hate having to sum it up like this but due to aforementioned factors (dying legs + low battery + lack of water) I do not actually remember much of Myd’s set. This is a great injustice to the man and it’s pretty much entirely my fault for not taking any time to rest (seating was provided near the bar) or not buying myself another drink; next time he’s in the UK, wherever he may be and whoever he might be with, I shall make the effort to hunt him down and give him a proper listen. What I remember of his set was brilliant, cheery but mysterious, coupled with Daft Punk’s ‘Rock n’ Roll’ somewhere in the middle. Please enjoy this terrible picture of him taken with my phone’s dying strength.

3:18AM: I can timestamp this accurately because it’s on the last video I took of the night. Enjoy some Myd wiggles

3:30~AM: This was roughly when ‘Rock n’ Roll’ was on! Irfane chatting away in the corner. So-Me lending a hand. Five minutes in he leans over and distributes stickers (I think) into the crowd. I was sadly on the other side and did not get a chance to receive any.

3:40~AM: People are beginning to hunker down on the elevated stage or leaving altogether. The night is drawing to a close. 

3:55AM: Phone blinks out completely at this point. XOYO is open from 9:30pm-4am on Fridays and Saturdays (also 21+ years only policy, which I appreciate) so I figured Myd should be winding down about now. Every DJ participating so far has switched out/bowed out after an hour, after all. Myd might need a minute more to think about it.

4:03AM: Myd might need three more minutes to think about it.

4:04AM: Myd might need four or five more minutes to think about it.

4:10AM: Myd why are you doing this. Myd it’s past closing time. Myd my guy you’re pouring ambrosia upon the unworthy. Myd ple

4:15AM~: In the end I leave a few minutes early. I have to stress that this had absolutely nothing to do with the quality of Myd’s set nor that he was playing beyond closing time - encores and extra content are extremely good! It’s just that my legs were dead! ;A  ; I limped upstairs and washed my face etc and he was still playing when I came out. That’s dedication. 

The End

As soon as it’s actually over, cheers went up - and as I’m sitting at the bench near the entrance of the club just trying to get my shit together, everyone files out all at once to a bunch of weary-looking security guards wishing us all a good night.

I join the line. It’s bright outside already. Some of the guards offer to call us a cab and some of the people take them up on it. I myself walk out of the club, turn left, and down Old Street Yard to examine the bus stops. One of the bus lines are 24hr and go directly to King’s Cross; as I reach one of the relevant stops and lean around, trying to figure out the times, the French girl from earlier recognizes me and pats me on the shoulder. “You were the girl dancing next to me, right?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good and so exhausted I could melt into the floor.”

She giggles and bids me goodnight as she moves to another bus stop. I didn’t get to ask her about Thibaut, as she wasn’t by me when he came on, but I can only assume she had a good time too. Soon the 214 comes along and I hop on towards King’s Cross. The sun is rising and the white noise in my legs dissipates, just a little, only to be gone completely some twenty hours later. Feels good man.

[norsecoyote]

MCU Rewatch: Iron Man 3

Man, if it weren’t for the last two minutes, this movie would be just about perfect.

There are a number of overarching story arcs through the complete MCU, but one of the most central is the redemption of Tony Stark. He starts out, famously, as a narcissistic playboy, and by the time we get to Infinity War he’s finally acting like a legit altruistic superhero (probably leading up to some dramatic self-sacrifice in Part 2 so that RDJ can finally exit the role). By the end of Iron Man 2 he had overcome the self-destructive playboy element of his character and was genuinely thinking about the future and building a new world (note that his first appearance in Avengers has him repairing an underwater cable) but was still fundamentally self-focused (note the direct callout of the parallel between him and Loki right before the climax).

The Avengers, of course, ends with Stark making a more-or-less split-second decision to sacrifice himself to save New York, his first truly heroic act yet (since in the Iron Man movies he was purely reactive to threats for which he himself was indirectly responsible). Avengers itself ends on an oddly muted note, with the beautiful little shawarma scene [1], but in Iron Man 3 we learn that Stark is not merely muted, he is actively Not Okay, suffering from panic attacks and PTSD. This makes perfect sense, both in the context of a realistic response to trauma, and because that act of sacrifice runs completely counter to Stark’s self-image.

Because, as I mentioned in my writeup of Iron Man 2, this is a movie about finally breaking Stark out of his narcissism, and his choice in New York was nothing if not a narcissistic self-injury. His journey in 3 is to choose to actually, genuinely care about anybody other than himself, and it terrifies him. The more I reflect on the movie, the more I realize that this journey is an absolutely deliberate decision of the filmmakers, and the more I appreciate how well they handled it (except for that final two minutes, because what the FUCK, but we’ll get there).

The prologue, in 1999, shows us Stark once again creating his own villain in Aldrich Killian, but what’s notable this time is it’s not Stark’s carelessness that’s at fault (like his weapons being used to kill the “wrong” people) or his privilege (like with Vanko) but his own, very personal, total and callous lack of consideration for Killian’s existence as a human being. In an even subtler touch, it looks like he’s going to alienate his date, Hot Scientist Lady, by not remembering any details about her or their history, but then he gets super into her science and it’s all okay... except we later find out it isn’t, that she is also turned against him, and that it turns out that being an asshole is just being an asshole, and you don’t get a free pass if you happen to also be brilliant [2].

So we jump forward to the present, and Killian’s schemes put Stark’s friend and former bodyguard Happy into a coma, and NOW the righteous fury comes out! Now Stark is finally fighting on behalf of someone ELSE! Hooray! Narcissism = over. Except of course not, because Stark immediately makes what should be a protective instinct 100% about himself, because he hasn’t actually learned his lesson yet, and so his challenge to the Mandarin is all about “it’s you vs me” -- the injured friend is just fuel for his vengeance fantasy.

And so, because he clearly hasn’t learned shit yet, the film blows up his house.

The segment in Wherever The Fuck, Indiana Or Somewhere is the crux of the breaking-out-of-narcissism story because it forces Stark to engage with the question not of who he “thinks he is” but what he can actually do. This is why it’s so important that he finally shows up to take down the Mandarin wearing a cobbled-together approximation of a real Iron Man suit: it’s a physical emblem of him finally having stripped away his mental pretensions. 

(Ooh, ooh, and we should also talk about the significance of his most recent suit model being one that can break down into pieces that can fly independently and envelop others against their will, but that’s going to have to be a whole separate essay.)

(additional side bar: god damn Ben Kingsley is fucking wonderful in this. His delivery of “The Mandarin’s” monologues is genuinely chilling for all that the words are (purposefully) overwrought, and holy shit his coked-out Trevor is really funny even when you know it’s coming.)

The final piece comes when Stark purposefully, with forethought and consideration, puts himself back in harm’s way to rescue Pepper. Yeah, it sucks that the movie pulled a literal Damsel in Distress, and no it doesn’t redeem it that Pepper’s the one who finally actually kicks Killian’s ass, but it does give Stark a chance to revisit the trauma of New York and both reconcile with himself and deliberately choose to place another’s life above his own (plan or no plan, he definitely knew how dangerous it was, and again straight-up would have lost without the piperis ex machina, so I’m comfortable counting it as a legit self-sacrifice). 

So, hooray! At the end of the movie, Stark has had all his comfortable pretensions destroyed, has rediscovered who he really is underneath all the armor, and has made a genuine, two-way connection with another human being that he understands to be an equal. He even symbolically destroys all the remaining connections to his old self! That’s not a bad visual metaphor! 

Wait, what’s up with this epilogue? Why is Stark speaking directly to the audience?

Oh, cool, so immediately after coming to genuinely understand that Pepper is an independent person and not just a prop for his personal narrative, he instantly and magically takes away the AMAZING NEW SUPERPOWERS she got despite zero indication from her in the actual film that she wanted that (or that they still posed any danger to her). Then, he “finally” removes the shrapnel from his chest, which it’s never clearly explained why he can suddenly do that now, and although it does signify another clean break with his old self, we LITERALLY JUST HAD ONE OF THOSE THAT WAS ALSO A VISUALLY SPECTACULAR WAY TO END THE MOVIE.

It’s just, WHY? That final shot at the shipyard was great! Both the central story and Stark’s character growth were complete! The last two minutes or whatever are so bad and out of place that they nearly retroactively spoil the film -- it absolutely left me with such a bad taste in my mouth that it took a lot of active work to realize that the two hours preceding them were actually pretty damn solid.

Because, they are! After Iron Man 3, we finally have a Tony Stark who’s ready to be a genuine hero and/or leader, and while he now has a lot of growing to do in those dimensions, this film does a great job of putting a neat bow on his internal development... 

...right up until he literally turns to the camera and says, “If I can put a neat bow on all this, my armor was a cocoon.”

[1] fun fact I learned recently: the reason Captain America spends that entire scene with his face hidden in his hands is actually just that it was added late enough after primary shooting that Chris Evans had grown a full beard for his next role.

[2] In direct contrast to any number of other Tortured Genius Assholes in modern media

[pharmacyfollies]

4 More Days of Work Until Vacation: Pharmacy Follies

-Totally disregard the blatant level of bigotry and spectacular stupidity in this video but the look on this jagmo's face is the same look I get when....

Me: "We can't fill this prescription for Percocet. It's too soon."

Idiot: "What do you mean it's too soon? This is a new prescription."

Me: "According to your profile, I see that you got 150 tablets from a different doctor 2 days ago at the pharmacy down the street. Are you aware that we're all connected and I can see what you got filled at a different pharmacy?"

Cue the stupid look.

Me: "Do you have insurance?"

Asshole: "Yes."

Me: "I need to see the card."

Asshole: "What do you mean, you need to see the card? It should be in the system."

Me: "You aren't registered in our system so I need to see the card."

Asshole: "If I wasn't registered, how were you able to fill my prescription without my insurance card?"

Me: "Because we can sell prescriptions at cash price because not everyone has insurance."

Cue the stupid look.

Me: "Are you allergic to any medication?"

Dipshit: "I'm allergic to Vicodin."

Me: "Ok, we're going to have to call the doctor and have your script changed because he prescribed Norco."

Dipshit: "I said I'm allergic to Vicodin NOT Norco!!"

Me: "Vicodin and Norco contain the same drugs: Hydrocodone and Acetaminophen."

Cue the stupid look.

Me: "Did you want to wait or come back later?"

Wank Pot: "You mean my prescription isn't ready?"

Me: "No."

Wank Pot: "Why not?"

Me: "Because you just handed me your prescription."

Cue the stupid look.

Me: "Are you still taking the birth control pills?"

Half Wit: "Yes."

Me: "Your doctor prescribed an antibiotic for you. It can reduce the efficacy of your birth control. If you're using it for contraceptive reasons, make sure you use a back up method for at least 7 days after finishing the antibiotics."

Half Wit: "I'm not using birth control for contraceptive reasons. I use it so I don't get pregnant."

Cue the stupid look on *my* face.

-Is it really that hard to NOT eat while I'm trying to help you in the drive-thru? I mean, if you're fucking starving then eat your God damned meal before you come to the pharmacy. The last thing I want to do is see a masticated cow churning away in your trap. And when I'm asking you questions, that's the WRONG time to shove fries in your cock holster. All this time, I thought speaking while eating was impolite. Perhaps I was raised wrong.

-We almost died, ya’ll. We ran out of Hydrocodone/Apap 10-325mg and had none for 2 days!!

-For the love of all that's sanctified and holy, if you refuse to pay $3 for alcohol swabs, because Medicaid is not covering them, I don't want to hear you bitch about it. I'm not interested in your reasons. It's not *my* health. I don't care what you do or don't do. For the 1000th time. I know they told you they cover them. And perhaps they do. I've seen it where they only cover certain brands. HOWEVER, we don't carry the brands they cover. It's 3 fucking dollars. If you got money to spend on 4 cases of Coke, some shit you shouldn't be drinking if you're a Diabetic but again it's your health, then you can afford to drop $3 on alcohol swabs.

-Sometimes, I feel I'm dealing with children instead of adults. When it comes to refilling my medication, it's really fucking easy for me. I take some medications daily. When I notice the bottle getting empty, which happens towards the end of a 30 day supply, something clicks in my melon and I be like: "Fuck me blind! I got about 5 tablets left! I need to refill my shit!" and when I go to work, I refill my shit. BOOM. Done. Apparently, I must possess superior intellect because for a good majority of my patients, they are incapable of doing this.

I've lost count of how many people flip their shit because they haven't taken their heart medication in 3 months because no one in the pharmacy reminded them. I guess NOT taking your medication everyday isn't a clue enough that perhaps they should refill their medication. They need another adult, someone who works in a pharmacy, to remind them to refill their medication. Auto Refill don't work either. Everyday, I'm deleting shit that's on Auto Refill that's been sitting there for 12 days because, and hold on to your drawers for this one, you actually have to come to the fucking pharmacy to pick up the God damned Auto Refill. What?!! That's crazy talk!! I seriously don't understand how some families haven't gone extinct yet.

-Idiot: "I need to get this filled."

Me: "Ok, we can have it ready in 20 minutes."

Idiot: "How much is it going to be?"

Me: "$10."

Idiot: "Ok, I'm going to pay for it right now."

Me: "There's no way for me to accept payment now. You pay when it's ready."

Idiot: "I *have* to pay for it right now."

Me: "I cannot accept payment for it right now. The register will only let me sell a prescription that's ready."

Idiot: "I was going to have my son pick it up for me so I have to pay for it right now."

Me: "What part of I cannot sell a prescription unless it's ready are you having trouble understanding so I can further elaborate?"

Cue the stupid look....

Idiot: "If I can't pay for my medicine, how is my son supposed to get it then?"

Me: "How about giving him the money and he can pay for it when he comes to pick up the prescription?"

And she looked at me as if hot pink winged monkeys with 15 inch spiked phalluses came flying out of my ears.

-Asshole: "I'm here to pick up a prescription."

Me: "I don't see anything ready for you. Was the doctor supposed to call something in?"

Asshole: "Yes."

Me: "It looks like the doctor called it in to the pharmacy down the street."

Asshole: "I spoke to someone yesterday and told them to transfer it here."

Me: "It looks like it wasn't done but I can do that right now and have it ready in 15 minutes. Did you want to come in and wait?"

Asshole: "No, because it should've been ready."

Me: "It's not ready but we can get it ready."

Asshole: "It's supposed to be ready."

Me: "I understand that. However, it's not ready. The only thing I can do at this point is correct the situation and get it ready. So did you want to come in and wait for it?"

Asshole: "But I called and spoke to someone yesterday. They said they were going to transfer it."

Me: "Like I said, they didn't do it. I don't know why it wasn't transferred. There's nothing I can do about that. The only thing I can do is transfer it now and fill it. We can have it ready in 15 minutes. If that's too long, you can go to the store down the street, where it's ready, and pick it up there."

Asshole: "I wanted to get it filled here! It was supposed to be ready!"

Me: "Look, I don't have time to banter back and forth over this. I told you it was not transferred. At this point, the only thing I can do is transfer it now and get it ready or you can go pick it up at the store down the street where it's filled and ready. What will it be?"

Asshole: "Maybe I need to call Corporate!"

Me: "Ok. You can call Corporate. In the mean time, did you want me to transfer it or not?"

Cue the stupid look....

Because her "threat" of calling Corporate didn't cause me to soil myself. But to further drive that point home...

Me: "I'm going to let you take a few moments to figure out what you want to do while I go and help other people. Ring the bell when you make your decision."

And I walked away because I don't have time for that level of fuckery.

****I'm still dying at this stupid bastard. Lord have mercy, lol.

-I walk into that shitter of a pharmacy, put my shit way, put on my name badge, gather my pens, take a deep breath, ask Jesus for strength and answer the ringing phone....

Me: "Pharmacy, can I help you?"

Idiot: "My doctor was going to prescribe medication for my son but I don't know which pharmacy she was sending it to. Can you check for me?"

Me: "The doctor didn't ask you where you wanted it sent to?"

Idiot: "No."

Me: "Did you ask her which one she was sending it to?"

Idiot: "No."

Me: "Why didn't you ask her that?"

Cue the crickets. Perhaps the silence was due to her pondering her stupidity but I highly doubt it because around these parts, they revel in it.

Me: "What's the name and date of birth?"

She gives me the info and I see we have the script.

Me: "The doctor sent it here. We're in the process of filling it."

Idiot: "Which pharmacy are you?"

Me: "Uh, the one you called."

Idiot: "Which one did I call?"

That's when I had a moment of silence because this level of stupidity defied logic.

Me: "You called the one located at *** and the script will be ready at 12pm."

Idiot: "Ok, thanks!"

Apparently, Jesus didn't listen to my prayer or He did and decided to play a prank on me. That should've been my clue to turn the fuck around, walk out of the pharmacy and go the fuck home. But I'm a real masochist. And I got bills to pay. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

-I was convinced that Jesus was in a sadistic mood because after dealing with that fuckery, this was my first patient in the drive-thru. One of my asshole regulars rolls through and as she's talking to me, I notice she's missing half of her grill except that she only has 2 incisors on the top, is missing the teeth in the middle and kind of looks like a walrus. And that's a fucking insult to such a smart, noble creature as the walrus. That's not the bad part. The bad part is she's shoving food in her trap. And she's talking to me. And the fucking food is about to fall out of the gap between her teeth. This was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen and trust me, between Porn Hub and Rotten.com, I've seen it all. Here's where the fun begins....

Asshole: "I have a question regarding one of my prescriptions. A while ago, my doctor gave me Valium but I never refilled it."

I look in her profile and see her doctor prescribed her Valium. Back in April.

Me: "Your doctor prescribed Valium in April but it had no refills on it."

Asshole: "I never picked it up."

Me: "It shows it was filled on April 30th and you picked it up on May 3rd."

Asshole: "I never picked it up! I need my medicine!"

Me: "Considering it's December, there's really nothing I can do about it other than calling the doctor for a refill."

Asshole: "But I never picked it up!"

Me: "For the sake of argument, say you didn't pick it up. It wouldn't make a difference because the prescription would be expired today. A prescription for Valium is only good for 6 months from the original date. It was originally written in April. It would've only been good until October."

Asshole: "I NEVER PICKED IT UP!!!!"

Me: "It does NOT matter! The prescription would be expired."

Asshole: "How can something I never picked up be expired?!"

Me: "Because the law says that a prescription for a schedule 4 controlled substance is only valid for 6 months from the original date regardless if you fill the prescription or not. If you have an issue with that, take that up with DEA. You got 2 options right now. I can send the doctor a refill request or we can waste each other's time debating about this which will result in nothing. What will it be?"

Asshole: "Just send my doctor a fax!!"

I'm going to start spiking my water with Vodka from now on. At least until next week when my vacation starts.

-And this is why I can't work in an adult "book store". ROFLMAO!!!!!!!

-As the daughter of an immigrant, I tend to be more understanding and patient with them. Most, if not all, of them came to this country seeking a better lives for themselves and/or their children. I also understand that English is an extremely hard language to learn especially if you're an adult. For that reason alone, I try to be extremely patient when dealing with an adult who has limited understanding of English in order to correctly handle their prescription business.

HOWEVER, there comes a point where we must be on the same page of understanding each other because a mistake in the pharmacy can kill someone. Case in point, and I've written about this dude before, is we have a Polish patient who does not understand a word of English. He doesn't even understand "sit down". It gets to the point where he gets obnoxious because he doesn't understand us and we don't understand him. Instead of coming with his daughter, who does speak English, he comes to the pharmacy alone and when it gets to the point where no one understands each other, which is all the time, he'll break out this 15 year old grimey flip phone, will attempt to call someone, and will try to shove this phone in your face regardless if you're dealing with him or if you moved on and are dealing with someone else. The thing is, I refuse to speak on people's cell phones. You don't know what kind of filth is on them and I'm not putting that shit next to my face. At best, I'll talk if you put it on speaker phone but if you don't understand "put it on speaker phone" because you don't understand English then we're at an impasse.

So he comes in yesterday and he's V's first patient. From what she got out of it was that he's going to the Motherland next week and needs his medication. However, the majority of them require a vacation override and how in the fuck do you explain that to someone who doesn't understand English? At one point, he's trying to get someone on the phone to translate, he's trying to shove a phone in V's face, while she's taking care of other patients and she couldn't take it any more. She told him to go away. When he finally got the point that V wasn't going to help him anymore, he finally left. A few hours later, his daughter comes to the pharmacy and here's where the party begins....

Daughter: "My dad was here earlier and he's trying to get his medication filled because he's going to Poland next week."

V: "Yes, I know. A lot of them require a vacation override and some of them we have to order. I was trying to explain that to him but he doesn't understand."

Daughter: "He said that no one would talk on his phone to help him."

V: "He was in here for about 30 minutes trying to get someone on the phone. When he finally did, he was trying to shove the phone in my face while I was taking care of another patient. Not only that, I don't talk on people's cell phones."

Daughter: "Did you tell him to put it on speaker phone."

V: "He doesn't understand English. Not to mention, I was taking care of someone else at the time and it's rude to interrupt."

Daughter: "Well, my father needs his medicine! He doesn't need to be treated that way because he's an immigrant!"

V: "I understand he needs his medication but he does not understand English and I don't speak Polish. We can't communicate with each other. It has nothing to do with him being an immigrant. He comes up here all the time and gets upset because no one understands him. It's hard to help someone who doesn't understand what's being said to him."

Daughter: "I can't come up here all the time. I have things to do!"

And I'm so glad that V was handling that shit instead of me because I was in the drive-thru, I completely lost my shit over that and I couldn't help to say out loud: "No, boo boo, you're wrong!". This is a man who cannot speak nor understand English to save his life. YOUR FATHER. You have NO choice but to come up here all the time and handle his business. If you choose not to then you have NO right to complain when it's not done to your satisfaction. The faster you and your father comprehend this then the better your pharmacy experiences will be.

And for what it's worth, my dad speaks English so well that most folks don't even realize he was born in Mexico. However, if my dad ever needed help with something, you can bet your sweet asses I will MAKE the time to help him. Because I'm his daughter. I mean, I could've been the load that ended up in a trophy sock. The least I can do is help the man who helped bring me into this world. What the fuck is wrong with these selfish ass people?!! GAWD!!!

[scoutshonor56]

HOCUS POCUS!

Pick a card, any card…

 Snape, visibly losing patience: “All right…”

Little Donny Dumblefuck: “Five of clubs!”

Snape: “Holy Hufflepuff, are you kidding me!? Are you fucking kidding me!?  Even Weasley can manage this one for Slytherins sake!”

Little Donny: “OK, OK, let me show you the three cups and a chestnut…”

Snape: “You tried that one yesterday and I gave you three chances!  Exactly what can you do?”

Little Donny: “Well, I can make really stupid people believe anything I say…”

Snape: “Oh really – and what is the incantation may I ask?”

Little Donny: “Fake News!”

 Yes, Little Donny wasn’t much of a wizard, and failing that, a pretty inept and lazy magician, but he was blessed with a really stupid and gullible audience.

 I knew we were in trouble early on in this nightmare administration when I first heard blond bimbo/magician’s assistant, Kellyanne Conway, use the phrase “alternative reality” - as in dual reality.  Now there’s a concept you don’t often hear mentioned outside of science fiction or quantum physics.

 But that’s all a little complex for the simpleminded, so like with so much about this merry band of fumblefucks, they had to dumb it down – hmmm, we need a catch phrase, something simple that even he can remember…GOT IT!  FAKE NEWS!

 Now most aspiring despots worth their salt, past and present, follow the first rule of creating an autocracy: control the media; the message to the rabble.  And when dealing with people a little smarter than the Trumpkins, you go with the direct approach: achieve military authority and neuter the free press by force, leaving only one unified, state run media outlet to carefully craft and control the propaganda machine (see N. Korea).

 Aww jeez, that sounds like a lot of work though - let’s just try this: whenever the king hears something he doesn’t like, something critical, or other than outright praise for his greatness, he simply says “FAKE NEWS!”

 “Hmm, I dunno… you think they’ll buy it?  Is anyone really that stupid?”

 “Come on!  Have you seen this crowd?  Hell yes they’ll buy it!”

 You can pick any of countless times over the last three and a half years that this has been proven true, so today let’s stick with the current topic on everyone’s mind – the Covid-19 virus.

 Last week I read a sadly horrifying and grim editorial by Timothy Egan in the NY Times (you know, that “failing” news outlet), which pretty much could be viewed as a report card on the U.S. response to the virus so far, and how our once great nation is now viewed by the rest of the modern world - I highly encourage you to read it.  Among the statistics sited:

 Within 1.3 million reported cases, the United States, just 5% of the world’s population, has 33% of the sick.  As we approach 100,000 deaths, we’re also at the front of the pack in that catagory.

 Globally, the average death is 34 people per million. In the United States, it’s more than six times higher – 232 per million.

 By the end of April, new cases in S. Korea were down to less than 10 a day.  In the United States at that time, the pandemic raged at a daily rate of more than 25,000 newly sick.

 And yet, here in the United States we spend more on health care, per capita, than any other modern, developed nation.

 Brief interlude here: even as I typed this recap, I thought, looking around today and reading the news - can we really still call ourselves the “United” States?

 But that’s another story – meanwhile, this cheap shyster with clown hair and more than a few parts loose in his dusty cranium continues to insist his government has done a “spectacular job” with the Covid-19 pandemic.  “And I’ll tell you, the whole world is excited watching us because we’re leading the world.”

 What – in doing a shitty job?

 So again I have to ask myself, as I have so many times during this sham of an administration: “How does he perform and maintain this level of mind control without some mass hypnosis, or serious pharmaceuticals in the drinking water?”  How could anyone continue to put their faith in this petulant, narcissistic moron who at any given moment can state that “I never did that”, or “I never said that”, when every one of these incidences of ignorance and buffoonery are filmed and recorded, broadcast for all to see daily?  You’re the fucking president, not the schoolyard gossip. Everything you say and do concerning this country is recorded!   No, this isn’t an episode of one of your reality shows, where we can creatively – and I mean creatively - make sense of it later in the editing suite.  

 Throughout most of January, Captain Assclown wasn’t even mentioning the virus, until finally, on the 22nd, when he proclaimed “We have it totally under control.  It’s one person coming in from China.  It’s going to be just fine.” By mid-February it became something that “will go away by April”, magically dissipating like old snow with the spring warmth.  On the 24th it was “Very much under control in the USA…”  He also tweeted, “Stock Market starting to look very good to me!”  While addressing a group of African American leaders at the White House on the 27th, he once again turned into a mystical Nostradamus, saying, “It’s going to disappear.  One day – it’s like a miracle - it will disappear.”  

 In Charleston, N.C. on the 28th, at his last Trumpapalooza RA-RA Rally (before the shit really hit the fan and lockdowns started) his rabid, red meat crowd was told the whole thing was simply the latest hoax, perpetrated by the Dems to finally bring him down.

 “Watch the tiny hands closely – nothing up my sleeve, aaaaand Abra Cadabra, GONE!”  

 Watch out though, remember who’s driving the car! Hang on!  In mid-March famous demolition derby driver Donny Crash, who insists on not wearing a helmet, comes out with this head-spinning, WTF gearshift moment: “I felt it was a pandemic long before it was called a pandemic.”

 Sigh - you can’t make this shit up.

 How about a current assessment, Crash?  Glad to! Just last week (May 8) Donny tells the press, “I feel about vaccines like I feel about tests.  This is going to go away without a vaccine.  It’s going to go away and we’re not going to see it again.” Wow…

 Is there anything this sack of soggy, mashed French fries with clown makeup could say that would make his followers pause and think, “Hmmm - I don’t know about that one…”?  If he said the Earth was flat, would they believe it?  

 Oh, never mind – we all know the answer to that.

 This goes way beyond loyalty to a person or a party; it’s much closer to zealous and blind religious fealty.  This high priest of pandemonium and bullshit once again has absolutely no plan or clue; he makes decisions about this country like he’s approaching an All-U-Can-Eat fast food buffet: “Let’s see, gimme a Whopper first, and one of those fried pies!  No, nope, I’ll take the bucket of chicken with the mashed potatoes!  Nooo, wait a minute!  Give me the jumbo McDonald’s fries, yeah, that’s it!  DOH, I changed my mind, I want the McNuggets first! Yeah, gimme the McNuggets!  OH, OH, what are those, over there behind the chicken!?”

His thoughts randomly bounce and pop around erratically in his head like farts in a bathtub.  His brain is a broken pinball machine with a dozen paddles and no hole.

 And I can think of no better example of his fans than a quote I recently read from washed-up actor who hasn’t been in a decent movie since 1972’s “Deliverance”, Jon Voight – who surprise, surprise was last November awarded the National Medal of Arts and National Humanities by the White House.  That’s right my feeble-minded minions – say something flattering about me and you might just get a shiny prize!  Or maybe even a job on my team!  For some reason there always seems to be an opening…

 So let’s crack that Trump loving skull, raise the hood, and take a peek at the gears, hoses, wiring, and pistons that drive your average everyday Trump acolyte:

 “We see President Trump as a magnificent soul, raising up this nation… He will go down as the historic president of this millennium. He will be etched in stone with a gold medal, a hero and a president of the United States who won the battle. The war of 2020.  He is Donald Trump.  God bless.”

 I rest my case.

[knittingknerdy]

Business Partners- Part 2

Prompt/Summary: Your business partner invites himself to your sister’s wedding

Pairing/Characters: Tony Stark x Reader, Natasha, Clint, Coulson, Sam, Steve, Bucky, Scott.  Everybody

Warnings: cursing, drinking, reader is going to be a bit of an idiot later on.   You should work on your communication skills.  ;)

Word Count: 1834

Author’s Note:  I am cutting this down to the wire. But this is my submission for @bionic-buckyb​ 5000 follower celebration!!!!  I claimed the fake dating AU.  As of posting this, the end isn’t finished.  So I plan on eating pizza at home and try to get it done by the deadline. 

It actually doesn’t take you long to come to a decision.  Once you’re over the shock, you’re excited by the prospect.  And after you inform Tony and Steve of your decision, it doesn’t take long for the transition to happen.  

 A few weeks later, you’ve settled into Steve’s office.  Your office.  It’s still doesn’t feel quite right. You decide to tackle your restlessness by going through the pile of memos on your desk.  Most don’t need much attention.  A few require an email.  But it doesn’t take you long to make it through the list until you reach the last one.  

 It’s a notice from your competitor, Hydra Corp.  They are releasing a brand new flat screen monitor two days before your launch.  Stark Rogers had sunk a ton of money into the research and development.  And just as much into the marketing.   If Hydra released their, from what you could tell, very similar model days before yours, the company could stand to lose a lot of money.  

 “You look like someone’s been murdered.” Natasha’s voice from your doorway snaps you out of your panic spiral.  

 “Fuck, no.”  You toss the notice to the edge of your desk and she strides forward to pick it up. “Hydra is about to scoop us on our newest release.  This is not good.”  You brace your head on your hands. “I need to tell Tony.  How did we not hear about this?”

 “I’m sure it will be fine.” Natasha tries to console you.

 “Right,” you sigh, “I’ll be in Tony’s office.  Even if you hear things breaking, I’m sure it will be ok.”  

 When you peek your head into Tony’s office, he looks surprisingly calm even though he’s reading the same notice you just read.  

 “Why aren’t you freaking out?” You collapse into a chair.  

 “Because there is no sense in it.  If they release first, they release first.  We’ll deal with it.”

 “You’re too calm about this.”

 “This isn’t the first time they’ve done it.  Plus, I already have something new cooking.  We’ll get them next time.”  

 “What are you working on?” you ask with a smile.

 “Nope.  My lips are sealed until I get the kinks worked out.”  

 “You’re no fun.”  

 Natasha’s knock from the doorway pulls both of your attention.  “I’m sorry to interrupt.  Ma’am, your mother is on line 1.  She says it is rather urgent.  Also, I have this information for you about the Hydra launch.  I thought you would want to see it right away.”  She sets a folder down on the desk and leaves.  

 “Ugh, I’m sorry Tony.  Mind if I take this call?”

 “No, you can answer it in here.”

 You smile your thanks and pick up the phone, pressing the flashing button to answer the call.  

 “Hi mom.”

 “Sweetheart, Sam’s going to be there.”

 “I’m aware.  Sis told me weeks ago.  Why is this urgent?”

 “He’s bringing someone.  I don’t know how your sister could agree to have him in her wedding.  But then to let him bring someone.”

 “Oh.”  You know this news shouldn’t affect you, but it puts a knot in the pit of your stomach.  “It’s fine,” you lie.  

 “And here you are not even bringing a plus one.”

 This was really the part you were dreading.  If Sam was there alone, it wouldn’t have been that bad.  But you, by yourself, and him with someone was going to make sure everyone looked at you with pity all weekend.  

 “I don’t need a plus one,” you insisted.  Before she could answer, you heard a beep and suddenly Tony was speaking.  

 “You know I did offer to come.”  He smiled that stupid, disarming smile at you.

 “Hello?” your mom asked. “Mom, that’s Tony Stark.  Mr. Stark, my mother.”

 “Oh, Mr. Stark we would be delighted to have you.  She’s spoken so highly of you since she started working there.  We’d love to meet you.”  

 “Consider it a date then.  And please, call me Tony.”  

 “Of course, Tony.  Delightful.  Bye dear.”  And she hung up.  

 You stared in horror at the phone before gently lowering it to the cradle.  “You can’t just invite yourself to my sister’s wedding.” You had been angry at Tony before, but this was bordering on homicidal rage.  

 “Listen, I know you’re going to need something to distract you all weekend.” He held up his hand to stop you from interrupting. “You say you’re over the guy.  I believe you.  But I’ve been on the receiving end of those looks from people who aren’t quite convinced.  There were a lot of them when Pepper left. Hell, if all else fails, we’ll talk work all weekend.  I’ll bring the good alcohol.” His eyes brightened.  “We can take the private jet.”  

 As soon as you realized he got it, your resolve crumbled.  “Fine.  But we have to leave right after the launch.  And I hope you don’t get bored.  I have maid of honor duties all weekend.”

 “How could I get bored?  I’m going to convince your mother to show me all of your baby pictures.”  

 You focused on him with a glare as you picked up the folder Natasha had brought, only dropping it to skim the first few pages.  

 “Oh my God,” you exclaim.  You can’t prevent the smile from growing on your face as you toss the folder towards Tony.  “Somehow Natasha got us the specs of the Hydra release.  They based their model on one of your old prototypes.  You know, the one that caught fire after it was on for four hours.”  

 “What?! Holy shit, they did.  And they didn’t even fix it.  This is spectacular.” He paused for a moment. “Although how did they get my prototype?  And how did Natasha get this?” He gestured to the folder.  

 “I’ll ask, but she’s my assistant.  You can’t have her.  I can see you scheming.”  

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

 It turns out Natasha was amazing.  And scary.  Not only did she get you the specs, but she managed to get the name of the mole in your company.  You didn’t ask too many questions, but you did give her a spectacular bonus.  That sort of loyalty was to be encouraged and kept on your side.  

 Hydra’s launch was a spectacular failure.  Whereas, the Rogers Stark launch was a hit.  It was a shame that Tony and you had to leave before the night was through.  Tony wasn’t upset.  In fact, you were hard pressed to remember a time when he was this excited.  So excited, you considered slipping him a sedative on the plane ride.  

 Tony didn’t let up until you were pulling into the driveway of your parent’s house.  

 “I can’t believe you are staying at the hotel instead of in your old bedroom.  Maybe if I ask nicely, your mom will let me stay in your room.”  Tony is practically vibrating with excitement.  

 “Absolutely not,” you snap.  

 “Ugh, fine.” Tony pauses.  “You know, I never did ask the deal with this Sam guy.  Besides the breakup.”

 You put the car into park and lean your head on the steering wheel.  “Really, Tony?”

 “I probably should have waited to ask that.”  He at least had the self-awareness to look sheepish.  

 “No, it’s fine.  We met in high school.  I followed him to college.  He joined the Air Force.”  You took a deep breath. “When he came back from basic training, he told me he couldn’t have someone waiting for him at home.  He wouldn’t be able to do his job.  He couldn’t put his life on the line if someone needed him.  That was nearly three years ago.”

 “Oh, wow.  And now he’s here with someone.”

 If looks could kill, Tony would have melted into a small puddle of nothing as you slowly turned your head to glare at him.  

 “Really?” you ask him, incredulously.  

 “Right, so I should bring the good alcohol in now.”  

 It was a flurry of action and hugs and greetings as the two of you entered the house.  Tony was, well, Tony.  He had quickly integrated himself into your family’s inner circle.  It helped that his gift to the rehearsal dinner was a case of very expensive wine.  With another case for the wedding tomorrow.  Your mom was barely on her second glass before she started spilling childhood stories about you.  

 You escaped the embarrassing stories and were staring at family pictures in the living room.  After a particularly loud round of laughter, you prepared to stomp back into the other room to put a stop to the stories.  Only when you turned, you found yourself face to face with Sam and his date.  

 “Sam! Hi.” You leaned in for an awkward hug.  

 “It’s so good to see you.” He made it sound real at least.  “Oh, and this is Riley, my wife.”  

 You were thankful that Sam turned to look at her so you could take a moment to school your face back to neutral.  

 “Wow.  It’s nice to meet you, Riley.  How long have you been married?”  you ask.

 She smiles at Sam. “About two years now.”  

 And with that, it feels like the air has been punched out of your chest.  Your shock is so great, you don’t realize that someone is standing next to you and has their arm around your waist.  When you finally notice the contact, you turn your head in surprise and are met with a kiss from Tony.  

 He smiles at you before speaking.  “Hi sweetheart.  Did I get some good stories from your mom?”  Tony sticks out his hand to shake Sam’s.  “Hey there, Tony Stark.  Are you family? Friends?”

 “Uh, friends.  Name’s Sam.  This is Riley.”  Sam looked at you suspiciously.  “Your sister didn’t say you were dating anyone.”  

 “Who’s dating?”  You see your sister enter the room. “Oh my God.  You’re dating Tony.  You didn’t say anything.”  

 It takes a few more seconds of stunned silence before your brain catches up to the situation that you are now floundering in.  

 You steel yourself with a fake smile and turn to your sister.  “It’s still pretty new.  And he wasn’t supposed to say anything because we didn’t want to distract from your day.  Sorry.”

 “Nonsense!  I love it!”  Your sister is obviously a few glasses in.  

 “What do you love?”  You groan as your mom comes into the room.  

 “Y/N and Tony are dating!  Isn’t that the best?”  your sister yells out.

 “You didn’t tell me that,” your mother admonishes.  “You are totally welcome to stay here with Y/N.  We upgraded her old bed to a queen.  Plenty of room.”    

 “Mom,” you start, “I wasn’t even planning on staying here.”  

 She glares at you. “That is ridiculous.  Go get your bags.  I haven’t had both of my girls under this roof in a long time.  You aren’t taking that from me.”  

 Ah, parental guilt.  You know you wouldn’t be able to say no.  So you sighed and grabbed Tony’s hand and dragged him out of the house.  

[two-in-one-skele]

Walking on Eggshells

Prev || Next

A few days has passed since G has started living in Yumi’s home. He usually always wakes up before her and, due to her lack of cooking skills, he has put on himself the task of making their meals, including breakfast. Today was no exception. He hears the dragged footsteps of Yumi sleepily entering the kitchen, yawning. 

“G’morning...” she finally says, her voice cracking from tiredness. *Mor--

Immediately as he turns around towards her he regrets that decision. For some strange reason, she was freely walking around with a long shirt that, unfortunately, still showed a bit of her underwear. I mean, sure, she can be comfortable in her own home but this is a bit... and this wasn’t the first time, it’s been like this since day one. Either way, she was very clearly confused by his sudden embarrassment.

*S-sorry I... really tried to ignore it but... Could you please... put on some pants? he asks awkwardly stroking his face downward.

She was even more confused for a fraction of a second, but that immediately changed into a BURST of flashy red throughout her entire face. She had completely forgotten to cease this habit, especially since there was a stranger currently living in her house. FUCK! She runs to her room, yelling with her mouth close. She frantically puts some pajama pants and accidentally stumbles on the floor as she puts in on too quickly, making her trip. She comes back yelling the same way, running back towards G and yanks him.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SOONER!?” she yells, VERY embarrassed. *I-I dunno! I didn’t want to judge...

She makes incomprehensible noises, completely distraught about this entire situation. I mean, if it was obviously uncomfortable for him, even if she was okay with it, she wouldn’t mind if he just stated his feelings about it. Well, she couldn’t completely blame him for this. After all, she was the stupider in this situation, it’s not like he would know better. She sighs, calming herself.

“A-anyway... what are we eating today, Gordon Ramsey?” *... E-eggs? he asks, a bit confused.

It seemed like a recurring theme that he was occasionally called random names that started with “G”. However, he never gets it, even though he knows it’s some sort of joke or funny reference that he is, unfortunately, missing. He’d probably laugh if he knew who these people were.

“Aw, man... again? It’s been three days, dude. Can we maybe slow down with the eggs??”  *Not really... It’s gonna expire soon. Plus, this is the last batch. he replies, going back to cooking breakfast.

There was a short pause.

*Besides... they’re EGG-celent. he continues, turning towards her with a big grin on his face.

That caught her so off guard that she snorted, covering her mouth with her hand to keep her from laughing. However, she was about to burst.

*Pffheheh, sorry... I really had to.

There was no response, however, she was dying on the inside. She really really didn’t want to explode in laughter, but she was clearly on the verge to, laughing silently.

*Yumi, are you--?

Suddenly unable to hold it in, she burst into laughter. It was probably one of the weirdest, craziest and worst laughs even known to man. Although she was clearly resisting the urge to laugh, it only made it worse with the decreasing or increasing volume of her screeching, wheezing and something I can barely describe as a normal laugh. All of these mixes together made for a spectacular view of someone trying to stop laughing, but her own laughter made her laugh, taking breaks by painting and rethinking about the joke and laughing again, which made the cycle almost neverending, even though it only lasted a couple of minutes. The pun wasn’t even that great and yet... Holy shit.

He started laughing a bit as well, I mean, who wouldn’t. However, she quickly managed to calm herself and was clearly embarrassed by the whole thing.

“U-um, sorry... I have a really horrible laugh...”  *Heh, it’s fine. I actually--

Suddenly, he was cut off by the loud sounds of beeping. It was the smoke detector, the eggs have burnt in their distraction.

*“THE EGGS!” they both shout, frantically trying to save it.

Later in the evening, Yumi had returned from work. As she opens the door, she immediately smells a strange sent that mildly resembles... cigarettes. She rushes inside and heads to the living room. As expected, G was smoking, sitting casually on the sofa-bed.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?” she shouts to him. *Ah, sorry... I should’ve asked. he says, clearly regretting it. “You can smoke, but not IN the house!” *Sorry, sorry... “Just- go to the balcony while i remove the smell...” she orders pointing the direction to the balcony.

After frantically opening every other window and spraying the house with Frebreeze(tm), Yumi headed outside to the balcony to join him, a few minutes later.

“Hey.” *...? I thought you didn’t like the smell. he says, a bit confused. “I mean... the smell is not the best but...” *But...? “I don’t personally mind all that much?” *... w h a t ? he asks, even more confused. “Hold on- let me explain... It’s... because of my brother.” *...? “He’s kind of... allergic to it. He gets migraines from just the smell.” *... Does he live with you or...? he asks, puffing in his cigarette. “No... He just visits often.”  *... Oh. he says, puffing out some smoke.

There was a small pause before she continued the conversation.

“Actually, we’re twins!” she says enthusiastically. *Seriously? ... Hard to picture. “H-what? Why?” she asks, almost chuckling. *I dunno... it’s a bit weird to imagine someone that looks exactly like you, I guess. he shrugs. “Well, I guess... but we don’t look THAT alike.” *Oh, really? he questions jokingly. “Yeah, like... he’s paler than me, he has green eyes, his hair USED to be blond but... Ah, I forget the term, it’s--” *Pffheheh, I was joking. I believe you. he cuts her, chuckling. “... Oh.” she says, a bit embarrassed that she didn’t get it.

There was another pause as she was trying to dissipate her embarrassment.

“A-anyway, G...” she continues. *Hm? he puffs in his cigarette again. “Do you... have any siblings?” she asks a bit carefully.

There was a long pause as he silently slowly exhales out all of the smoke he was keeping in his non-existent lungs. Clearly, it was a difficult question, weirdly so or not, as his previous mocking yet still serious expression slowly changed into a more almost melancholic expression. She almost regrets asking that question, as confused as she is as to why he reacted that way.

No matter how much he believed the opposite, it wasn’t just “them” that knew that hat he was about to say was a complete lie. It was the first and, hopefully, only lie he’d ever tell someone and himself. 

*No.

[of-another-broken-heart]

Today had a real shitty start

So, as predicted, I didn’t get much sleep. Optimistically five hours, but probably more like 4. The bites on my neck are even more angry and visible. My lymph node even more swollen than before I got to sleep. So, that all automatically sucks. 

Mom woke me up just before my alarm went off, to ask if I was going to try to walk in the parade or just watch. I had no plans to walk in it, so I told her so as my alarm went off and I snoozed it for a 15 minute pause. I was immediately hyper-aware of how sore my neck was where the lymph node is swollen, and of how goddamn loud the tv was in the living room. I had no chance of getting back to sleep, but I was still so tired I stayed in bed anyway. I had to pee - as I always do immediately upon regaining consciousness - but I was pretty sure I heard lil sis traipsing in and out of the bathroom, likely doing her hair and makeup in every mirror in the house. 

I went up when I thought I heard the bathroom empty out. As usual, I got halfway up the stairs before I heard the door click shut again, so I waddled myself back down stairs to wait some more and try to get ready. I slapped an outfit together that I later hated. (My khaki/olive green skinny jeans, a teal long-sleeved shirt, and my green flannel over that) It took 20 minutes for me to actually GET to the bathroom door, convinced I could finally piss, only to be met with the damn thing shut again. I literally fell to my goddamn knees outside the fucking bathroom, I had to pee so fucking bad. 

I almost started crying, and I blurted out “I have to pee so bad, this is my third time coming upstairs!” while I blinked back tears. My mom knocked on the wall to get the kids’ father out of the bathroom, and tried to reassure me, but I’d already made up my mind as I struggled back to my feet. “I’m going to McDonald’s again,” I grated against my clenched teeth. I was halfway down the stairs by the time the kids’ father vacated the bathroom. (Not like he wasn’t going to have the WHOLE FUCKING HOUSE TO HIMSELF FOR 2-3 HOURS NOPE, HE DEFINITELY NEEDED TO GET IN AND HOG UP THE BATHROOM FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE IN THE TIME BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE WAS PREPARING FOR THE PARADE). Mom called after me to let me know the bathroom was finally open, but I was already done. ANOTHER trip with my thighs clenched together, down the stairs I went. The third goddamn time this morning. I struggled to put my boots on (ever tried to bend over AND keep your legs together AND keep your bladder from hydro-pumping piss down your legs while zipping up a knee-high boot? HAHAHAHAHA). Then I grabbed my fistful of loose cards/IDs, my makeup, my tablet, and my plain green zip-up hoodie. Then I lurched myself back up the stairs and went to my car. It took some tear-jerking, dangerous wiggling to get into my car with my legs smashed together. Can’t exactly step up into your SUV driver’s seat when both legs are otherwise engaged in damming up your bladder floodwaters. 

It was another I-had-to-go-to-McDonald’s-to-use-the-fucking-toilet morning. 

Oh but wait!! I couldn’t even DO THAT nicely! Because my bladder was ready to erupt as if the entire Atlantic was being channeled through my puny wimpy flesh vessel, so OBVIOUSLY there had to be a freak string of traffic all coming down the otherwise-dead street at EXACTLY the moment that I reached the end of the driveway!! I had to wait for three or four cars to get the fuck out of the way, and then the one I got stuck behind WAS HELLBENT ON DOING 2/3 THE SPEED LIMIT. AND I WAS STUCK BEHIND THAT CAR THE. WHOLE. FUCKING. WAY. TO. MCDONALD’S. 

By then I guess the universe had met it’s morning quota of tormenting me, because two small miracles happened. First, as I pulled in, a parking space opened up right next to the restaurant doors. And it was mine. Second, in this PUBLIC ESTABLISHMENT with easily TWENTY PEOPLE IN IT AT ANY GIVEN TIME, the fucking BATHROOM WAS NOT OCCUPIED HOLY SHIT. It still absolutely blows my fucking mind that I can more reliably use a public toilet than the one at home. I guess that second one isn’t much of a miracle - it’s just the way of things in my tragic bathroom story. Still, with the way this morning was going, it certainly seems miraculous. As I washed my hands and looked in the bathroom mirror, I decided I absolutely hated the way my flannel shirt looked with my outfit, and made the decision to take it off and just wear my zip-up hoodie in the car, instead. 

Obviously since I spent every waking moment of my morning up to that point just trying to empty my bladder, I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink. So I blew eight bucks on a shitty fast food breakfast sandwich and an overpriced subpar latte. I didn’t touch any of it at first - now that my urine emergency was finally fucking dealt with (it only took a fucking HALF HOUR to be able to PISS) I still had every intention of finding mom and watching the parade. 

I went to 7-Eleven. It’s a bit past the halfway point of the parade, still had parking available, and access to it was not preemptively blocked off for parade prep. I figured mom might’ve gone there, too - but even if she didn’t, it was a decent mid-point, so I could walk and look for her pretty easily. 

But first. I wanted to green my face up. I was a little excited! Normally I’m stuck in my shit-ass basement lighting. I could use natural daylight today!! Hooray!

Except... I didn’t bring my compact mirror. My visor mirror would have been fine, except the plastic cover (the one you flip open to access the mirror and turn on the little side lights for it) acted like a bumper, keeping me too far away and unable to see what I was doing very well. 

(REMINDER: GLASSES ARE ACCESSIBILITY DEVICES AND NOT FUCKING FASHION STATEMENTS AND THIS IS JUST ONE OF MANY MANY THINGS I CANNOT DO BECAUSE OF MY IMPAIRMENT AND YES I AM STILL PISSED THAT PEOPLE COO ABOUT HOW ~THEY WISH THEY WORE GLASSES~ NO! FUCK OFF! MY STRUGGLE IS NOT SOME CUTESY FUCKING FASHION ACCESSORY FOR YOU TO PUT ON AND TAKE OFF AS YOU PLEASE. I CAN’T FUCKING SEE. SURE I’M WHINING ABOUT SOMETHING FRIVOLOUS LIKE APPLYING MAKEUP RIGHT NOW BUT FUCK YOU?? IF YOU THINK THAT CAN’T BE IMPORTANT??? OK)

I tried anyway. I even did foundation and pressed powder, since I was feeling pretty grimy. But the eye shadow part was... a fucking mess. I wanted to use the Shiro green samples (Surprise! and Lingered in Twilight - from when SomSom bought me Basic Witch) and wanted to do a more refined version of my color explosion fun-times. 

It didn’t work out so well. I didn’t have the visibility or maneuverability to get shit where I wanted it. And despite prepping with foundation and pressed powder, parts of my eyelids just plain didn’t want to hold onto any powder or pigment, either. Without my glasses on, and looking 2 inches from the mirror directly into my own eyeball? My right one turned out pretty sweet. But after blinking 2.5 times and putting my glasses on, the illusion faded. My usual eyeshadow-as-eyeliner turned out abysmal and lopsided. My application was patchy. I tried to blend, but the shadows and my skin would not cooperate. I accidentally-on-purpose gave myself some wings?? I actually kinda liked that? But they were uneven as hell and super faded. 

Look at this mess. Look at how fucking terrible this is! 

My eyes were watering like hell, too. The whole time. In small part because it was windy and cold, but mostly because I ended up getting shit in my eyes again. I legitimately cannot understand how anyone can apply makeup on their waterline. Zero chance of that ever working out for me. 

My only consolation is a fact that usually pisses me off. My glasses really minimize my eyes and hide my eye makeup. So, despite my spectacular failure, the overall Look wasn’t a flaming grease fire. 

I ended up going with NYX Wicked Risque instead of Crystal Ball or Out of this World, purely because it was the smallest one to tuck in my pocket in case I needed to reapply. 

By the time I finally finished fingerpainting my face, the parade had already been going on for 20 minutes. I hadn’t even heard it start, since I’d left my car running (for heat) and the radio on. I almost went home when I realized that. But I didn’t. I was out, I was gonna see the fucking parade, damn it.

I initially left my car with just my keys, tablet, and pocket full of cards/IDs. I went walking, on the lookout for mom. I walked about 80% the length of the whole parade path - twice - and didn’t find her. 

Welp. That just... I should have expected that, to be honest. Why would literally anything go well this morning? Hahahaha... 

The whole swollen-lymph-node situation made it painful to keep turning my head to the right, to scour the crowd for mom, or one of the sibs. About halfway through one pass of walking, I realized how fucking stupid it was to have brought my tablet. My original thought was “Oh, I’ll take pictures!” Fucking stupid - that would have required finding mom and being able to sit a while. That clearly wasn’t fucking happening. 

My feet started to hurt after I turned back from one extreme of my search path. The boots I’d chosen to wear were great for casual comfort and keeping not just my feet, but also my calves kinda warm. But they were not so great for continuous brisk walking on uneven ground, dodging milling parade-goers. 

I ended up walking back to my car to stash my tablet and grab my collapsible chair. I got to the side of the road and set it up in time to see the last... four parade elements do their thing. One of them had a gaggle of children handing out plastic bead necklaces, and a little boy gave one to me. He was super adorable and I thanked him before he scampered back to the middle of the street. That was the only parade goodie I got. I found an abandoned dollar store glitter shamrock antenna headband on the sidewalk after some of the crowd cleared, and adopted that for my own. 

I was pretty fucking miserable, but hey. At least my angry face was slathered and framed with festivity. 

During my search for mom, I had stumbled across the local Girl Scout cookie table. I knew mom usually bought some cookies on parade day because it was one of the only reliable times for her to find the Scouts. I had no idea if she’d found them this year or not, so I went back and picked up some cookies to be safe. 

Then I went back to my car for the final time. 

Looked at my tablet, found out mom had tried calling me to tell me where she parked. But I didn’t bring my phone (the piece of shit is dead on my desk, so it was useless anyway) and I didn’t get the voice mail alert until pretty much two hours after the fact. 

She’d been literally like... twenty feet further than I’d walked. And she’d been in the 7-Eleven parking lot while I was doing my makeup, before she went where she ultimately parked. 

Sigh. 

I finished my latte. I’d let it sit and cool in the car this whole time - also spared my lipstick since I knew the lid would steal most of it away. Glanced at my gas meter and saw I was at a quarter tank. Figured I’d better do something about that, so I went to the cheapest nearby gas station on the edge of town and put my last twenty cash bucks in Jenny’s tank. 

Then I went home. 

Caught up with mom a bit, updated her on my lymph node fuckery and bug bites. At this point she noticed I have yet another bite that’s become visible, literally right on top of the lymph node swelling. So. :) Great. Maybe my neck will just rot away and I’ll self-decapitate and never have to worry about bug bites ever again. Wouldn’t that be grand. 

[ceaselessly-into-the-past]

the return

 It’s been a while since I last posted – mostly because school had gotten too busy for being too miserable, partially because I’ve managed to lock down drinking as an effective tool for handling seriously shitty times, e.g. every time I had to speak to my mother on the phone, rather than drowning in self-pity on a blog that to my knowledge only about one to two people actively read, neither of whom can do much of anything besides say ‘well that fucking sucks’. 

I’m now at a summer camp – Perlman Music Program. Thankfully alone for the most part – we’re on Shelter Island in Long Island, so my parents plan to come over once each of the following three weeks. And being alone, at this camp, I suppose that it’s an optimum time to revive the blog and give myself something to do aside from all the chamber music that I’ll be doing. 

I suppose that I’ll start, in a perhaps unusual way, with whatever comes to mind first. I don’t have a particular grievance or strong emotion that I’m dealing with tonight, for reasons which I might arrive to if it comes organically.

Going back to the drinking - an alcoholic highlight that I recall not fondly, but I suppose I could say with interest, was a night in April a few weeks before finals had begun where an hour-long, ultimately pointless conversation with my mother had left me feeling particularly destructive. (I realize now that my writing has gotten god awful and it reads like a pretentious young adult novel marketed towards impressionable 13 year old girls. Whatever. I hope it gets better). So, with that goal in mind, I went out at around 5 pm, neglecting all of my short-term responsibilities, and headed up to Heights Wines and Liquors on West 140th Street. It’s a really solid store that doesn’t card - I remember I found some decent sake there on a couple of occasions. In this case, though, I picked up a small-size bottle of Ketel One, and then a few blocks down a can of RedBull, and then a few stations down the 1 line a small mason jar.

Snap open can – empty RedBull in jar – add vodka – shake and mix – let it sit for a minute.

Three chugs down. The entire fucking world suddenly comes into focus. The freedom of the downer and the awareness of the upper combine to set my goddamn brain on fire. I am a god. I have the simple superpower of autonomy. I alone control my fate. 

I took a pleasant jog around Central Park with my mason jar of liquid fucknuts sloshing around in my hand. I waved HI to the Chinese girl two years above me at Juilliard – I remembered I once had a dream where she’d asked me out and I couldn’t believe it. She, like literally fucking everyone, was way out of my league, but fuck that, my heart is edging on insanity and I don’t give a shit – I can’t give a shit now – I’ll let my soul clench about it when I’m sober and vaguely suicidal again in 3PM ear training.

Hitting home runs in my brain. I could almost cry from how little I cared about my body, about how I looked and sounded. It didn’t matter. I was not beautiful but that instant was beautiful. 

I sat on a bench and watched the sun go down on the lake and sipped some more. I was about a quarter through.

I miss Hanna. I hope she’s well. She’s a good soul.

Holy shit that movie, that movie, what did I wanna watch, I KNOW there was something out then that I was looking forward to that I didn’t have time for. But I’d smashed a giant fucking baseball bat into the skull of my schedule - fucking buried that thing right in the brain matter of it - so I was free to do whatever. Flipping through my phone - the lights zipped by way goddamn quicker than usual like the fucking Stargate in 2001: A Space Odyssey - 

Yes - You Were Never Really Here. Starring Joaquin Phoenix of Her, of The Master, of Inherent Vice, of Signs - ha, of Brother Bear. Written and directed by Lynne Ramsay - I remembered We Need To Talk About Kevin fondly. 

(A small part of my flashing mind was annoyed that the movie, created largely by a woman, was flying so under the radar just because it wasn’t a fucking blockbuster superhero / Disney property movie. ‘More women in film’ my fucking ass - Alex Garland’s Annihilation starring almost all women, depicted as intelligent and capable scientists and totally unbound by their gender, passed with little fanfare because it was ‘too slow’ for general audiences. ‘Feminism’ in movies doesn’t count unless it’s Wonder Woman deflecting a hundred bullets with her sword or dropping down from the sky to punch a god in the face. But whatever, this is a useless tangent. Jumping this ship now.)

You Were Never Really Here is playing down at the Anjelika Film Center on West Hudson Street. Let’s fucking go. Jump on that fuckin express 3 train. Sit a little ways away from everyone - somehow I had the sense to keep my disgusting substance consumption away from innocent bysitters.

I felt a mad rush and, between 28th and 23rd, dumped about half the jar into my body. 

I stumbled out on the 18th street platform, my eyes were lasers, my blood was oil, my bones were stainless steel, my soul was the vivid sheen of a budding porn star.

I ran to the Anjelika Film Center. I could only run now - I was stuck firmly in GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO. I sat on the steps, drank some ice-cold water from the thermos I had the sense to carry. Settling myself. I remembered that I’d seen The Florida Project here in the beginning of the year - what a charming film, what a touching performance. That Willem Dafoe.

Hanna would like that movie.

I go inside - a little push from the jar before the film starts, but I put it away. I need to focus on the art before me.

Yes, You Were Never Really Here was fantastic. Such a lowdown, subtle, sparse story of vengeance. 

Rundown: An ex soldier in Afghanistan breaks up a child trafficking ring. Has PTSD. Becomes a private investigator and dedicates his life to rescuing missing children from child traffickers and shitbag pedophiles. His signature is purchasing a hammer from the convenience store every job and smashing their skulls in. Pushing the girl behind him. ‘Close your eyes.’ God, Joaquin Phoenix was a miracle in that movie. 

And the most vivid and accurate depiction of panic attacks, intrusive thoughts, and anxiety I’ve ever seen in a film. It was gratifying to see my moments be understood and played out by Lynne Ramsay.

I left. Wandered around in the in betweens between Tribeca and Greenwich Village. Ended up in Madison Square Park. Chucked the jar at a brick wall to see the million pieces soar through the night like magic somewhere on the way. Took a power nap on a bench. Somehow got back to Juilliard before 1 am. Crashed. Got up at 8 am the next morning. I felt refreshed.

It was spectacular

I learned after the fact that the Vodka RedBull cocktail has a similar effect on the mind to cocaine. 

It was spectacular.

I’ve also developed a taste for Evan Williams bourbon. 

I’ve been remembering my two friends often the past few months. Wishing they could see that thing, hear what someone said in the other room. Wishing they were nearer.

One of them visited my parent’s place yesterday with one of her parents. Those three sat us all down for a dinner that turned out to be a misery of inanity - as I expected, but I feel like it was to my friend’s surprise. We shared some time alone beforehand, and it was a golden moment that I hadn’t felt since the last time I’d seen her a year previous.

I gave her some gifts I had picked out over the course of the school year. About an hour later, the dinner conversation came around to how I’m more decisive than my older brother - a topic that, much like every other topic, seemed to drag on far beyond its welcome despite its meaninglessness. I mentioned offhand how I’m more careful and deliberate with gifts and I noticed she smiled a bit from across the table. Her heart shows when she smiles. It’s warm and it glows gently.

It was a perfectly pleasant, pleasantly perfect night when all was said and done.

[canaryatlaw]

Well, today was kind of blah, mostly because I'm still in the same shitty mood from yesterday. And now that I'm back here even though I have a handle on most of my things I still feel ridiculously stressed out and can't stop my mind from racing and I could really use some fucking Xanax right now (I only say that because I'm awaiting my prescription for it from the company, I don't normally throw around comments like that). Ugh. But anyway. My alarm went off at 9:45 and I got up, got my things together and got ready, then ate some breakfast and my dad took me to the airport. I made it through all my goodbyes okay, despite having the feeling in my chest that tears were lurking right below the surface, waiting to be set off at the smallest trigger, but it somehow subsided and I was okay. The airport is small, so I made it through security and to the gate in no time. The first flight was fine, nothing spectacular. I mostly worked on my appellate brief, fixing citations and breaking up sentences (because I have a habit of making 4 line sentences, grammatically proper but I know my prof won't appreciate it) and just generally trying to get my word count up. We landed in Baltimore pretty soon and my next flight was in an hour, with the gate pretty close by to where I was. So I grabbed some sushi that looked appetizing from one of the places then sat at the gate and took advantage of the free wifi I finally managed to hack into without actually paying (it's not actual hacking, it's just knowing how to navigate the system). And with that wifi I looked up and downloaded the rest of the cases mentioned in the trial court fake opinion so I could use them for the second section of my paper. Flight boarded soon, and when we were in the air I started reading cases and working on them, and made a solid amount of progress. Landed after not too long, took for-fucking-ever for our bags to come, and then my uber app flipped out on me and kept saying my request wouldn't go through so I'm like fine whatever I'll use Lyft, so I do and the driver gets there a lot quicker than they usually do since the airport makes them wait in a special lot until they get a pick up. So I get in the car and we started chatting, apparently they had been leaving the airport after another pick up planning on going home but had their app on to see if they'd get anything going north towards where they lives and they got me haha so they turned around and so we went. And then I get a notification saying my uber driver was arriving now and I'm like ????? I bring up the app and it doesn't even have a trip going, so I'm like wtf....and then a few minutes later the poor guy calls wanting to know where I am and I'm just like....I didn't order an uber?? Haha it was strange. But my driver and I established pretty early on that we're both tumblr people, so that kind of set the level of understanding of each other for the rest of the conversation haha. So we talked about a lot of things, they talked about figuring out that they were non-binary and picking a new name, and of course we eventually got into religion and it's social effects and I was happy to hear that they were still actually a Christian even after having grown up in a crappy conservative Christian environment and dealing with all that shit. So they were telling me how much they love their church and I in turn told them how much I love my church, and yeah, it was nice. Got home soon enough, and as expected my white canary boots had arrived, so I had to try on my whole costume to make sure they work of course, haha (I'll post a photo when I'm down here). They fit, thankfully, and they match the costume pretty well- they're a little darker than the actual suit, but the jacket is a darker gray so with them together they just look awesome, so I'm very happy about that. So I settled in and started catching up on my tv shows, which I'll try to comment on if I can remember what I watched, lol. But I kept working on my appellate brief until I had about 4700 words (out of the maximum 5000). I had one more case I was gonna cover but the opinion was so confusing and its relevance to our case really tenuous, so I said ah screw it and called it there. Hopefully I can make up the last 300 or so words in final edits and adding transitory and other necessary things. I'm not worried though, which is good. I've said this a million times before, and I fucking hate it so much, but every single time I have to write something I get scared I won't be able to write as much as needed, even though I pretty much always exceed the word count and being too short is almost never an issue, and while knowing this, I still think it, and 5000 words was looming over me this whole week as some unattainable goal, so now that I'm a lot closer to it I'm feeling better about it. So yeah, tv. I initially picked out my recording of powerless, only to find out the dvr had actually recorded the premiere of trial and error. Okay, well I wanted to watch this anyway, so I might as well keep watching, and holy Jesus this show is amazing haha I already love it so much, although I know the legal inaccuracies are gonna kill me even when I'm telling myself it's a comedy ffs (but in the episode they were pulling shit like "oh homosexuality as a crime was never repealed here" and I'm like uh bullshit Lawrence v. Texas much???? Lol). But I enjoyed that a lot. I think I went to Designated Survivor next, which was a thoroughly epic episode, fairly major spoilers ahead (you've been warned) but ahhh I can't believe just like that MacLeish is dead??? The Vice President is dead?? And how that's just gonna look so much worse for president Kirkman and not just that MacLeish was a dirty traitor....ugh. I was glad to at least see my girl Hannah FINALLY getting vindicated cuz I was like ahh yes you go girl cuz I've hardcore been pulling for her this whole time, lol, so that was cool. But yeah, really intense and awesome episode, I liked it a lot. Riverdale next I think, and holy shit that episode was so sad???? Like dang man, Jughead's life is really fucking depressing. I was of course calling major bs when the sheriff supposedly took him in on literally no evidence and then had his school record because that's not fucking illegal or anything?????? Ugh. I'm glad he's at least living with Archie now though. Veronica continues to be awesome, and with the whole Betty and Polly situation I was thinking the whole time yo do not trust the Blossoms they evil AF so of course I was right there. Good episode though. Then I started last week's episode of Time After Time, which I managed to start in time to finish right before this week's episode started without actually meaning to at all haha so I watched the two episodes back to back. Continues to be an intriguing show, I think it's still finding its footing a bit, but the twists have been very interesting so far. I'm not sure how sustainable it is in the long run, like I'm not sure I can see it going more than one season really, which is unfortunate because it's clever, the plot just doesn't really allow for it. They also love killing people off haha I guess that's what happens when you have a show featuring Jack the Ripper. HG Wells continues to be an gem ("he came over right after world war 2" ".....there was more than 1???????") and the rest of cast does well too. So when that was over I knew I had just missed the live episode of Chicago justice, but I didn't really have much else to watch at this point so I watched the second episode. It wasn't bad, annoyed me less than the first, though that's likely just because they spent less time in the courtroom, lol. They're not quite mastering the time jump thing yet, where they go from crime to investigation to trial in one episode, without any real inference to time passing, which makes it feel like it all happened over like 3 days, which isn't just unrealistic, it's confusing, because they're like "oh who are we gonna bring to the grand jury?" and then the next scene is "the grand jury returned an indictment!" and you're just like da fuck?? Lol. The episode itself was interesting though, I wish they tied in their twist a little sooner, it seemed like too much of an afterthought with the entire plot they had come up with, but it was a well-thought out and well-played twist for sure. It kind of annoyed me that through the entire episode everyone was like "oh you know any cop who gets put on trial is gonna be found guilty" when that's pretty much categorically false, as cops are almost never convicted for officer involved behavior?? Lol, like I get that they're connected to Chicago PD or whatever but they gotta get that down a bit better. And yeah, when that was over I let the news play for a bit while I finished up the queue for the week on the company tumblr. Throughout the night I also wrote my "speech" (it's like a paragraph and a half) for the PAD election speeches tomorrow- so needless to say I decided that I would run. I had kind of come to that decision last night and was gonna text the justice (president) but I was already falling asleep, then I woke up and started doubting it again, but then came back to that conclusion and went for it. I'm not running for justice though because I know that would be too much, so I'm running for service chair (my current position) and vice justice. I don't know the current state of people running, but I have to imagine it's not gonna be all that many. I guess we'll see tomorrow though. And yeah, that's about it. Tired and about ready to fall asleep, back to real life tomorrow. So goodnight friends of mine. Hope you had a relaxing weekend.