#i shared this before and deleted it for reasons

[dyrewrites]

Pale Blood - panic in the pretty lights

Odea bounced. Up and down she bounced, squeaking like an excited mouse. She had kept quiet from the cab to the ticket booth, eyes firmly on the ground until they reached the synth that ran it. There she refused to let Delmas show his ID, shoving her own hand up to the screen and confirming him and Den as her ‘guests’.

Then she rushed into the cab in a flurry of giggles and started to bounce. Little bounces on the balls of her feet, as she hummed a familiar tune. And that tune bothered a sigh from Delmas, but delighted a smirk from Den.

“That big a fan?” Delmas asked her bounces.

The louder squeak was not an answer, but it’s what she gave him.

Den chimed in, fighting another smirk, “Isn’t there something we have to attend to before we meet Mr. Perfect?”

Odea did stop then, to grin up at Delmas, “You told him!”

“I told him,” he repeated, scooting away from the tiny woman’s glee–unfortunately, the cab did not allow him much wiggle room and so this resulted in smashing into the metal siding.

Giggles preceded Den’s remark, “It did take some work.”

“He is so closed off,” Odea told him.

And he nodded before stepping over, to face her, where he rested his chin on the back of his hand, “Like a vault.”

“Did you hear him trying to justify not telling you?” She returned, holding her own chin and nodding dramatically.

“I did,” Den answered, in an equally dramatic fashion.

“I tell ya,” Delmas cut through their gossiping tones, “on the list of things expected today, the two of you bondin’ over my want for privacy wasn’t on it.”

“Privacy,” Odea scoffed, all the playful drama puffing with it as the full extent of what she’d lost of him–and every whispered command–swelled, “Fangs who go digging around in other people’s minds and making them forget do not deserve privacy.”

Den shoved against Delmas’ chest, not moving him an inch, and all but shouted, “You did not!”

“No, I didn’t,” he assured them both before trying to recall what Odea was talking about. But nothing recent included mind games.

The dogs, the thought popped, and the image on Bosch’s screen flickered after, I saved her from the dogs…did I mess with her head then? And his own words played for him–though he hadn’t asked and had no memory of speaking them–‘tell Ron, Del says he's sorry for keeping me.’ But I can’t make anyone forget–correct, he couldn’t, but it was necessary at the time–And that was a week out, at least, why she mad about it now?

They were staring, both of them. He’d been quiet too long and they were staring. So he tried to explain, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t even really remember doing it. I only know I was even there because of Bosch’s fucking cameras.”

Den checked out right about then, as he and Delmas already had the conversation that appeared to be repeating.

He had been to Upper Dolor fewer times than he had fingers and, despite all the hot air everyone blew about it, he didn’t mind much. He didn’t find it all that appealing. But the trip up, soaring straight up in a tight metal box with the whole city stretching out below him...that he enjoyed. And he marveled at the sight, as he had the few times he’d seen it before; picking out all the brightest lights in the rainbow of flashing–and quickly blurring–color that speckled the rough grays and shining blacks of the slums.

A single finger firm on the hardlight–which kept the harsh winds of the ludicrous speed they traveled from turning everyone inside into a spray of blood outside–he thought he had picked out the glaring neon sign that hung near Delmas’ apartment...when Odea groaned so loud he decided to care about the other passengers again.

 “You still went poking when you had no right to,” She tapped Delmas’ chest, hard and added, “so I don’t want to hear any of your faeshit about privacy.”

“Fine,” he had no room to throw his arms up, so they made it about halfway, “but you should know that I didn’t poke, I didn’t need to,” and, if he had looked at his more astute boyfriend just then, Delmas would not have said what he was about to say. But he did not, instead he leaned to Odea’s eye level–which shoved her up against the other side of the cab–and said, “you’re just loud.”

Den slapped himself on the forehead–despite a deep desire to slap Delmas–then shielded his ears from what he anticipated would be a shriek.

But no shriek came.

Even as the cab breeched the smog, pouring hotter, brighter sunlight through its tall windows, all Delmas received from Odea was a quiet, smoldering glare–which may have been weakened by her thick glasses, tinted as they had become in the brighter light.

The remainder of their trip–all fifteen minutes of it–came and went with naught but the soft grind of metal on wire and the drone of wind moving faster than it ought around the oblong surface of the cab.

“Number in party,” a smooth, mechanically sweetened voice sang as all of the wind stopped dead and the cab’s door slid open with a satisfying woosh–do not deny me my wooshes, one only gets so many.

Odea hopped out of the skycab’s perfectly still cabin–held tight and sturdy on thick metal beams and hidden cables, the thing would not budge no matter how much one desired kicking it into the suns.

The synth that spoke with so smooth a voice waited just outside the door. Their artificially tanned skin glistened beneath a layer of perfumed dew–spritzed from above every skycab as they landed, to ensure no one fouled the air–but that was not what marked them synthetic. Nor was it the gold and white striped hair, or the matching uniform; an angular cut pantsuit of pristine white and gold, its starched pant-legs tucked into shin-high boots–the heels of which should have been registered as weapons.

No, the scream of their mechanical origins came from their eyes.

Their irises glared, shrinking, turning–and audibly whirring for the one with ears sharp enough to hear them–in glittering gold from the center of shining black eyeballs.

Their too-smooth voice sang again, without a hint of intonation, inflection, or warmth, “Number in party.”

“See, that, that’s what I don’t like about being up here,” Den said to no one as he kept behind Delmas and tried again to put his hands into his pockets.

Delmas slapped him away, smiling, “We’ve got synths below too.”

“Yeah, but ours are more...awake,” Den tried again. Pressing his chest against Delmas’ back–and a little around his side–he pulled the flaps of the big coat he wore out of the way and slipped his hands into the front pockets of Delmas’ jeans.

“Well, some of them maybe,” Delmas said, sighing at the hands wriggling around in his pockets. But, as they wouldn’t be moving anytime soon, he didn’t remove them.

“Three,” Odea said, shuffling from one leg to the other in front of the slim podium, her eyes twitching to every new face that flowed from neighboring skycabs.

“Purpose,” the synth said, not asked–those models did not have the ability to truly inquire, they could only relay and obey.

“Um,” She had something for that, but she was there for more than witch duties, I can’t say I’m here because of blood, shit, how do I phrase it?

“Someone forgot her title,” Den told Delmas’ side, adding louder, “you’re a blood-letter, remember...witch?”

“Two in one, not bad,” Delmas chuckled–more from the very warm hand tickling his thigh, but also the words, those were funny too, in a way.

“Right, right,” Odea closed her eyes, focusing on the why they were there and not the that. More skycabs were landing on either side of theirs–in a great big circle they could only see a fraction of–and visitors were filing out in numbers Odea was the opposite of comfortable with. “Uh, witching duties and...um, blood-le,” shooting a glare behind her she muttered, “damnit, Den,” before turning back to the ever-patient synth, “phlebotomist duties.”

Witch outranked phlebotomist and, though Odea had forgotten in the anxious bubble her breath had become, witches needed no reasons for witching.

“Coven and Designation please,” The synth intoned, and in their ever-so-slight change of tone, Den found himself curious.

“...that one male or female?” He asked Delmas.

“Neither,” He answered too quickly, voice hitching at the end.

Den giggled before asking, “How d’you know?”

Delmas pointed as he wiggled away from another gripping hand, “There’s a marker, on their temple, brands ‘em for customer service. And all customer service synths are andro.”

The last wriggle had pulled Den’s hands away and he pouted before snuggling in the offered coat, “Why do you know that and I don’t?”

“Ever work with synths,” it wasn’t a question–Delmas knew he hadn’t, well, he was pretty sure...and correct.

Den thought about it, came to the realization that he had only seen them in clubs, or cabs, or brothels and decided not to answer.

That earned him a grin and a tighter squeeze.

“Alright,” Odea said, rushing up a bit too close to them as all of the people began to jitter in her veins, “we’re good to go. So let’s go. Right now. Move.”

Though she was shorter than every other visitor crowding the station–barring a few gnomes and a wreck of faeries–Delmas and Den found it all too easy to follow Odea through the hot rush and murmur of the crowd. The bright auburn of her short-cropped hair, bouncing and snaking through all manner of brighter and duller colors, stood out like a beacon.

Neither were too certain how that worked, exactly, nor were they aware of how much focus it took Odea to do it.

Until they reached the gaping arches of the station–now, ‘gaping’ may not seem like the best word for a big door, but bear with me here...because it was a very big door–and Odea heaved her guts into a glittery gold trash bin.

Den froze before the arches, enduring the shove of bodies passing–which jostled him even as Delmas kept him safe in his arms.

He did not enjoy those arches, not in any capacity, but he especially disliked walking through them.

They yawned overhead, towering high above even the ogres that barreled past them. So high that one could only tell they were arches by the way they bent the light, and what light they bent; the yellows of Som’s bright shimmered on the golden metal of the arches–a gold that you may notice coats everything, there were few areas of Upper Dolor that did not glitter.

And those damnable arches brought his attention to the ceiling of the station, or lack thereof, as there were no ceilings. There were layers upon layers of wide bridges connecting the skycabs to the exits and a terrible endless chasm below. Every single bridge bore more bodies than he imagined them capable, and he didn’t care for that either.

Even on the lowest layer of Upper Dolor’s disc-like island structure, the station bore no flooring. Beneath the bridge Den stood on were metal beams, thick and webbed, holding the bridges and the outer walls of the station...but between those beams waited empty air and a haze of black smog far, far below.

And none of it sparkled like the dazzling lights and wonder that the slums did on the trip up. The view from that bridge was one of hollow terror, and the more he stared the further it seemed to stretch and the louder it seemed to whisper, jump.

He gripped Delmas’ coat tighter, whispering, “I hate this place,” but he managed to force his feet to move and they passed beneath the arches.

And Delmas groaned and dug out his sunglasses.

Upper Dolor always made him doubt his immunity to the suns; if not for the bright, then for the heat. But neither of those are what drew the muttered, “Shit,” from his lips.

That came from looking out into all that bright...and not seeing Odea.

[altogetherx]

apartment <3

[tantumuna]

what's crazy to me is multiple times i've received encouragement to start drawing again, even when i mention that the only reason i've considered drawing again is as a desperate ploy for attention

but whenever i talk about my writing i either get ignored or told to "write for yourself"

like just tell me you don't value writing as an art form. it'll be easier than having to dance through whatever the fuck this is

[ssruis]

Going through a straight up comical amount of irritating situations to get the stupid 4* guaranteed ticket from the welcome to sekai campaign. It Will Be Mine.

[maulfucker]

having a rejects doc is great because I can delete and redo whole scenes without losing anything. and also because I can keep pet paragraphs like this one until I find a scene willing to adopt them

[tea-of-destiny]

american professor layton drinks bottled iced teas and plays the bassoon. i know this because i was there.

(he/him)

[rorsry]

i made the other account so i'm queue'ing posts from myself then i see it in my activity page and go who the fuck is this asshole spamming me

[nexus-nebulae]

found my ancient mp3 player recently. finally found a charger for it and plugged it in. and remembered i found a yt playlist of the whole httyd movie chopped up into like 20 videos and i downloaded the mp3s of all of them to listen to on the school bus. which is why i can effortlessly quote the whole first movie now

[insertsickusername13]

Promises Made on October 30th

title is the concept and summary bc i thought of the title before the concept of the fic. whoops.

warnings: implied abuse, alcohol is referenced and consumed but not in like a bad way (most of the time), no smut but there's one scene where they kiss and i describe it in a gross way for some reason and sex is talked about once or twice

word count: 3.6k

 Jake spent most nights alone. He had friends, sure, and plans most evenings. Dates with girls, parties to attend, and though he’d like to spend the rest of his life swimming in a fuzzy unconsciousness where he was only just aware of his existence, half passed out on someone else’s couch, dawn always sunk her rosy fingers into the horizon and one hostess or another was forced to give Jake a pitying look as they showed him to the door.

 My parents will be home soon, some would say, and Jake would leave with a bitter laugh. If he was lucky, he’d get to stay and help clean up. On the best days, he could sometimes sneak in a quick fuck with whatever girl was still around. 

 Most nights, though, he left before anyone had the chance to kick him out. He spent hours sitting on the floor of his living room, staring at the front door and waiting for them to come home. If he pretended hard enough, the pictures on the walls weren’t the most terrifying thing he had ever faced. Photographs from family weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, and award ceremonies all taunted him. His parents’ faces stared at him, scrutinizing every move as he trembled, cried, and broke down. Every sob echoed back like a bullet ricocheted off metal. He was sitting expressionless in the middle of a war zone watching soldiers (read: dreams) and civilians (read: his future) bleed out and die on the floor around him. 

 Despite holding onto the childish hope that things would get better, that the future held something more than loneliness for Jake Dillinger, there was still the undeniable truth that it wouldn’t. Jake was doomed. Life wasn’t going to be anything special for him—he was going to suffer and he was going to have to get used to it young. He hated his parents, himself, his girlfriend, his life, and his house. He wasn’t going to kill himself, he wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t going to wake up every morning and fight to be okay. He was resigned to his sadness.

 Until Rich Goranski knocked on his door at 10 pm on September 17th and showed Jake that silence wasn’t the only thing that could exist in his house. 

 He didn’t wait for an invitation inside. The second Jake had opened the door, Rich pushed past him and into the kitchen. He wasn’t quite fast enough for Jake to miss the bruises on his cheekbones or the way he favored his right leg over his left. Jake cataloged the injuries and promised himself he’d ask about them later. 

 “The hell are you doing here?” Jake called after him, his tone tipping over the border between annoyed and concerned.

 Rich shrugged and settled on the kitchen counter. He seemed to only be slightly aware of Jake’s presence, more focused on the empty floor in front of him. His eyes were glassy in a way that suggested he’d already been crying and was done with it. Jake studied him, searching for his next move in Rich’s body language. If Rich looked like he was going to cry again, Jake could probably swoop in for a hug without being called gay. If he didn’t, Jake would probably offer a drink. Or a movie?

 “Stop looking at me like that,” Rich snapped. He was looking up at Jake, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, almost like he was challenging him. Jake flinched back, unsure of what he’d done to deserve such treatment. 

 “Like what?”

 “Like I’m a fucking math problem or some shit. I’m not. Just fucking talk to me.”

 Jake considered him. Though it was invisible to Rich, Jake could still see bullets and spears flying through the air as people screamed out war cries and fought with everything in them for land or oil or their families. Metaphorical war didn’t end just because a friend had shown up. Jake was always surrounded by imagined violence; always on the verge of fleeing. 

 “I don’t know what you want from me,” Jake answered. His voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of a bomb going off in the distance.

 Rich forced out a bitter laugh and hid his face behind his hands. 

 “God, fuck, me either. I don’t know why I’m here. Just fucking distract me. Do whatever the hell you want.”

 Jake found his parents’ record player in the living room and hit play. It was the only thing he could think to do—why, he wasn’t sure. But Rich had said anything, so Jake did anything. Some song by The Police (god, the irony) drifted through the room, a byproduct of his parents’ last anniversary together in the house. Jake had long since stopped caring—it didn’t even hurt to know they’d danced in this room, laughed in this room, raised him in this room. 

 He turned back to Rich and was met with a small, borderline amused, “What the hell, Jake?”

 “You said I could do whatever I wanted.”

 “This is what you want?”

 “I dunno.”

 Rich laughed as he hopped off the counter. The sound was so pure Jake watched the blood-soaked carpets go from crimson to pink as the rain washed away the worst of it. A white flag waved in the distance. Rich swayed to the music mindlessly, still favoring his right leg. 

 “Dancing?” Jake asked, the single word enough to get across his message. Rich nodded as he took Jake’s hand in his own and pulled him in close. 

 “Why not? We’ve got nothing better to do.”

 So Jake learned about music and dancing and how small Rich could feel when Jake had his hands on his hips, fingers digging into his skin just to convince himself Rich was real instead of some fantasy made up as a coping mechanism for his parents’ leering memory. Silence wasn’t the worst thing to exist. Jake knew how to make it go away.

 Still, that did nothing to dispel the obvious and ever-painful emptiness. Jake could play record after record as loud as he wanted until he had every song memorized and could sing it from any room in the house, but it was still empty.

He stumbled into the kitchen, drunk and disoriented, his feet dragging across the tile floor. Each step was like wading through the ocean, sea monsters grabbing at his ankles and trying to drag him under. He gripped counters and walls to keep himself afloat just long enough for Rich to knock on his door and saunter in, his presence a song in and of itself. 

 Jake followed his every movement with every sense: his ears, listening to the sound of Rich’s footsteps. Taste: kissing the corner of Rich’s mouth—never his lips, Jake wasn’t gay, but close enough that he could convince himself there was something like love brewing between them. Touch: holding onto Rich’s hand, his clothes, his hair, latching onto the warmth of him to convince himself the air conditioner wasn’t too cold or the empty spaces too vacant. 

 Sight: looking at Rich and only Rich. If he only looked at his hazel eyes and dyed-red hair and, on the days when Jake was weak and scared, his lips, then the shadows in the corners of the room lightened into something manageable and the photos on the walls that functioned as the closest thing Jake had to family faded into… well, photos. Just photos. 

 Rich helped, but he wasn’t enough to make the emptiness go away until October 15th.

 He showed up in the same way he had before. Glassy-eyed, hurt, and willing to do whatever Jake wanted to make everything slightly okay for a little while. 

 Tonight, Jake chose balloons. 

 “You can’t be serious,” Rich groaned. He was on Jake’s couch, a glass of white wine in hand. Something imported from Italy, or maybe France? All Jake knew was that it cost four hundred dollars.

 Jake shrugged. “Isn’t Brooke’s birthday coming up? It could be for her party.”

 “This is literally just a fucked up coping mechanism, don’t pretend it’s anything else.”

 Jake sighed disappointedly and leaned back against the couch. He was on the floor in front of it, a pack of two hundred balloons in his hand. They were all different colors—some neon, some pastel, some black, and others white. He’d bought them on a whim at a Walgreens for twenty bucks with no particular plan. Faced with his barren living room, the only signs of human existence the expensive vases on the end tables and the overstuffed throw pillows, he’d decided he’d blow them up and throw them around just to add a splash of color. 

 Jake looked up at Rich. He was half asleep but tense, his face scrunched up and hands clenched. It’d been bad this time around. It hadn’t just been Rich’s existence that pissed his dad off—he’d done something. Probably something minuscule, like broken a glass or clogged the toilet, but it was enough that what was usually a couple of light bruises and a limp had turned to black and blue blemishes over his right eye and up his chest. His lip was busted and every breath seemed labored and painful. Jake, unsure of what else to do, ran his thumb over Rich’s pulse and whispered, “Please?”

 Rich opened one eye to look down at Jake. Amongst the annoyance and pain, Jake saw a flash of pity. Rich shifted uncomfortably. 

 “Fine, but I have at least two broken ribs so you’re going to have to accept the fact I’m only blowing up one or two of these.”

 “Of course,” Jake rushed out, his hands already fumbling with the packaging of the balloons. “I wouldn’t—if it hurts, you don’t have to. Obviously. Just—”

 Rich thoughtlessly threaded his fingers through Jake’s hair. Jake’s voice gave out. 

 “I don’t understand you,” Rich whispered, not even bothering to look at Jake. “You’re confident all day, and then the second it gets dark you freak out. I’m the same person I am all the time. I know you don’t want to hurt me. Calm down.”

 It was, of course, a trend Jake had noticed as well. At school, he could control his tone and inflections to the point he sometimes wondered if he was accidentally manipulating the people around him into loving him. Then at night, when his defenses were already broken down by hours of facing the empty, stormy seas that were his house, he could barely find it in himself to get out a sentence without stuttering. 

 He blamed it on the one lie Rich had told in his claim: that he was the same person. He wasn’t. There was something different about nighttime Rich that had Jake’s face feeling too hot and the silence turning into the sound of his heart beating circles in his chest. 

 “Sorry,” Jake replied softly, “I dunno why it happens. You make me nervous.”

 Rich raised an eyebrow. Jake shoved a purple balloon in his face and hoped that would be enough for the topic to be dropped. It was still too sensitive, still too in the early stages of development, for Jake to be prepared enough to vocalize the worst of it. Someday, maybe. Probably. Once he didn’t have Christine to distract him or Jeremy’s constant insults to scare him into suppressing every urge that didn’t perfectly line up with the picture everyone else had of him in their minds. 

 Rich took the balloon and started to blow it up. For Jake, the process was effortless. Rich struggled through it tediously, taking small breaths and wincing after almost every one. Jake hated to say that he’d originally interpreted Rich’s complaints as a joke, but his worry hadn’t really spiked until Rich choked out an awkward, muffled cough and pained groan. 

 “Do you need—”

 “No,” Rich breathed, “No, I’m fine. Shut up, Jake.”

 Jake turned back to his neon green balloon without a word. He’d blown up almost twenty by now, enough to coat half the living room in a thin layer of color. He thoughtlessly kicked one with his foot and smiled as he watched it hit a picture of his mother and uselessly bounce off. Smiling, he kicked another one. It hit a picture of himself as a child. 

 He turned to Rich to tell him—about what, he wasn’t sure. Kicking balloons? Hitting pictures of himself and his family? His coping mechanisms were getting more fucked up by the second—and was almost immediately paralyzed by… fuck, by Rich. Just Rich. 

 He was sitting crisscross on the couch, a balloon in his lap. He’d spent the last four and a half minutes blowing it up to just a little bigger than Jake’s head. It was still smaller than it was supposed to be but Jake wasn’t going to complain. It was physically impossible when he could barely get enough oxygen in his lungs to speak. It wasn’t that there was a crushing panic on his chest stopping him from breathing, it was something much brighter. There were so many butterflies in his stomach they were flying into his chest and choking off every inhale. 

 Rich’s lips were wet. That was really what doomed Jake. He’d previously been unaware that every time Rich removed the balloon from his mouth he felt the need to lick his lips, but now that Rich was focused purely on tying the balloon off and was giving Jake ample time to stare, Jake was forced to acknowledge the way his vision tunneled at the sight. The way his whole body seemed to go warm. 

 Jake turned fully to face Rich, the balloon in his hand completely abandoned in lieu of watching Rich stick his tongue out in frustration as he struggled to keep the balloon inflated while tying the knot. When he finally succeeded, he burst into a smile louder than any record Jake had played over the past month.

 Rich looked up, eyes bright, and faltered when he found Jake already staring at him. He cleared his throat as his face flushed red. 

 “Uh, hi,” he squeaked out. Jake wanted to scream. This was one of the differences that left him speechless. Daytime Rich would smirk and call him gay. This Rich just looked flustered. 

 “Hi,” Jake whispered back. 

 “Whatcha doin’?”

 Jake considered his response carefully. One song or another was playing softly in the background, the balloons were filling up the emptiness. Everything was kind of okay. Jake had nothing left to cope with. He just… 

 “I really want to kiss you right now,” he answered. Rich froze. 

 “What?”

 Jake got up just enough so he was kneeling, purple and green and red balloons gathered around his knees and feet and the coffee table his back was pressed up against. He leaned up so he was close enough to run his pointer finger down Rich’s jawline and nudge his nose against Rich’s.

 “You heard me. You can tell me to stop.”

 Rich remained silent. Jake thought he felt ocean waters rising around his waist, drowning his balloons and pictures in stormy salt water. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He kissed Rich like his life depended on it, because it did, and felt his heart start beating again for the first time in months when Rich kissed him back just as desperate and soft and messily. 

 Hands tangled in Rich’s hair, mouth open and his tongue practically shoved in Rich’s mouth, licking at teeth like they were nectar or ambrosia, he scrambled onto the couch, limbs slow and unsteady as he climbed over Rich and forced him back against the couch. He tried to get himself closer to his paradise, his respite, his island in the middle of the ocean, but all he got was a wretched screeching sound and the feeling of air-filled plastic against his chest. 

 He pulled away just enough for Rich to let out a small whine as they lost contact with each other.

 “Rich.”

 “Yeah?” Rich asked breathlessly, already trying to lean up and kiss him again. 

 “Get rid of the fucking balloon.”

 Rich’s eyes widened, almost comically so. Jake wanted to cry at the way that sent his heart into overdrive.

 “Yeah, yeah, right, hold on—”

 He threw it across the room. Jake found the balloons kind of useless now. He was so filled with giddiness and hope that he couldn’t even comprehend how anything could ever be empty. 

 Until October 30th. 

 Rich didn’t need to knock on Jake’s door or let himself in. Jake was at Rich’s house, banging on the door repeatedly, each knock echoing and panicked. He didn’t stop until Rich swung the door open, rumpled and half asleep. 

 “What the fuck?” 

 “I need to talk to you.”

 Rich glanced back inside—presumably at his dad—before nodding. 

 “Yeah, okay, lemme get changed and put on my shoes, then we can go.”

 Jake nodded rapidly. His mind was racing beyond what he could understand, landing on panicked responses before he even knew what had triggered his fight or flight. He didn’t stop moving even as Rich disappeared back into his house. His foot tapped against the concrete. His fingers picked at his nails and the fabric of his shirt and his hair. Curses ran through his mind like a broken record, repeated until the sound was imprinted on Jake’s brain. 

 Rich appeared and suddenly everything in Jake’s mind went silent. 

 “So… are we doing this here or…?”

 “My house. Not uh—” Jake glanced back behind Rich. Not near your father was the implied statement. Rich sagged with relief.

 “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

 Jake could feel Rich’s concern in his gaze. He was watching Jake’s every move as if preparing for something, like Jake was going to swerve the car off the road and into a ditch or shoot himself. It made Jake want to laugh. Or scream. Or cry. He was going to die. 

 He didn’t even make it back to his own house. It was only a six-minute drive and he only made it four minutes in before he pulled over on the side of the road and stormed out of the car, his whole body trembling. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed an escape from the cramped driver’s seat of his car. He needed the autumn air to stop him from overheating and the wide expanse of stars to talk him down from an anxiety attack. 

 Rich fumbled after him, too confused to be panicked and too disoriented to be calm. 

 “What the hell?! Slow down—”

 Jake halted and spun on his heel, eyes wide. They were by a pond with benches and a dock and a parking lot only twenty feet away. There were grills along the beach and a football in the grass. Jake almost screamed. Every sign of humanity felt like too much. If he was going to do this, he needed it to be in the middle of the desert or the empty expanse of space with no one but Rich around to hear his confession.

 No. Fuck it. He needed to do this now. 

 “I’m gay.”

 Rich seized up. He was only a foot away from Jake, close enough so when he finally regained control of his muscles, he was able to reach out and take Jake’s hands. 

 “Really?” he whispered, looking up at Jake with eyes that literally shone like gold or diamonds. Jake wanted to drown in it.

 He swallowed his shame, not caring that it burned at his throat, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Not all the way. I like girls. But I like kissing you and I like boys and I… I just like you. All of you. All the way. I like you. I’m really sorry.”

 Rich broke out into a grin. 

 “Yeah?” he asked just for confirmation. Jake nodded again. 

 Rich jumped up into Jake’s arms, fully committed to getting as physically close as he could. He wrapped his legs around Jake’s waist and his arms around his neck and fingers in his hair and kissed him hard on the lips. Jake felt like he was at home for the first time in years.

 “Me too,” Rich said between kisses, “Me too. So much. So fucking much.”

 Jake smiled into every kiss, so ecstatic he could barely keep himself standing. He fell back into the grass whispering, “Run away with me. Forever. It’s terrible here. It’s so terrible.”

 Rich nodded in agreement and pressed a gentle kiss on Jake’s neck. 

 “They hate us and we’re gonna find someplace better. I have enough money. Just run away with me, please. We can go anywhere you want.”

 “Anywhere?” Rich asked. He sounded pained, like the word burned as it came out. Jake nodded and propped himself up on his elbows. 

 “Anywhere. Just promise me you won’t leave.”

 Rich smiled and kissed him again. 

 “I promise,” he murmured, “I promise you’re beautiful, I promise I’ll run away with you, I promise I won’t leave, I—”

 He paused. Dread burrowed itself like a bullet in Jake’s chest. He searched Rich’s expression for answers before Rich had the chance to start speaking again. 

 “Not… not tonight, though, okay? There’s something I gotta do first.”

 “Is it—?”

 “Don’t worry about it, Jake. It’s nothing. How about Sunday? Give me tomorrow to take care of things, then we’re gone.”

 November first. The day after tomorrow. 

 Jake could handle it. He’d host his Halloween party, break up with Christine, and tie up any loose ends he had left. He’d be gone before he ever had to clean up the hell of a mess his friends were sure to leave behind in his parents' house.

 “Promise?” he whispered.

 Rich nodded. 

 “Promise. I just need tomorrow.”

[crush3dmary]

Sad posting in the tags, you're free to ignore. Just need to get it out of my system and twit circle isn't sufficing.

[pepprs]

i will shut up abt this i promise but like. the concept of being in a stable safe mutually loving whatever relationship is INSANE . like how can you ever feel bad about yourself or wounded or whatever again. it’s like a superpower or somethi ng. <- doesn’t know what she’s taking abt bc she’s never experienced it or the absence of it after having it merely the negative space of it and is filling in the gaps w logic or something. but it’s INSANE to me. like of course i feel like shit about myself i am catcrumb unloved.jpg!

[gregmarriage]

rant incoming:

i’ve known my sister doesn’t think of me as her sister or really give a shit about me since i was like seven years old. nor does my other sister, but at least she actually tried to be a sister and played dolls with me when i was little. the other one never really tried at all. she’s older, sure, but what does that matter? are you too grown up now you’re 13 to play with your little sister? now we’re all adults, it feels like we’ve lost something. maybe we never had it in the first place. my sister basically saying me and my brother are nothing to her because we’re only a half sibling. probably explains why me and my brother are closer. my sisters have always lived away from us, but that doesn’t necessarily have to affect your closeness. my brother could eventually move out and it wouldn’t change anything between us. my sisters complain i don’t talk to them. but what do i say? you don’t think of me as a real person. as your real sibling. i’m just a person you go through the motions with. you just deal with me, because we share the same dad. what do we talk about? the fact that i don’t have kids or a boyfriend? a fact i felt you always looked down on me for, long before i came out. i can’t relate to you, i can’t go out for drinks and talk about guys. i have no babies to talk about, and even if i did, you’d treat them the same, and i wouldn’t wish that on an innocent child. i can’t talk about being autistic or mentally ill or my physical health issues, because i know you don’t take me seriously. you talk about me behind my back, but you won’t say anything to my face and that’s somehow worse. if you’re going to be cruel, at least be brave about it. i have absolutely nothing in common with you and i never did. you never care to know my interests. if i actually talked about any relationships, it wouldn’t be the same, you’d probably pretend i’m talking about a boy. you think i’m confused all these years later. i can’t get pregnant ‘the natural way’ like you did, so i don’t matter. any children i do have won’t matter to you. you won’t come to my wedding, i didn’t come to yours, not because i didn’t care, but because i physically couldn’t. i couldn’t do the normal wedding things and you’d get annoyed and it’s probably better i stayed home, otherwise i’d have ruined your wedding. my dad may not be the most tolerant person in the world, but at least he’d probably make an effort. you claim to be tolerant but i really don’t think you are. you say i don’t try to talk to you? why make an effort for someone who doesn’t care? who i don’t matter to? your son is half siblings with his sisters? he’s full blood to you. your other half sister is your full blood? your half niece is more of a sister to you than me? that’s nice for her, i can’t resent her, she’s a nice girl with not very good parents. i can’t hate her for anything. it’s not her fault she’s the better me in my sister’s eyes. not gay, not disabled in any way. so totally perfect. the little sister they’ve always wanted. i wish her the best in dealing with women who’s affections change at the drop of a hat. i hope she enjoys being the me i always used to wish i was.

[longagoitwastuesday]

This is the piece (and the sketch) I was talking about yesterday in the tags of that one other drawing in my previous reblog

[bunnyb34r]

I wish we could rearrange the order of our sideblogs bc I keep accidently almost posting shit that's SUPPOSED to go on my secret sideblog to my SHARED side blog bc they're right by each other and it's like

[samerpal]

"First, I would like to thank everyone who supported me.🙏🌹

This is my new platform, friends, after my old platform was deleted for reasons unknown to me.

I ask for your help in sharing my story again to keep hope alive for me and my family, friends.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.♥️

My family and I appreciate your cooperation and hope to reach the desired goal and save us.🙏

Attached are the verification links for the old account from the supporters.

Link vetted by @ibtisams

Link vetted by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi

Link vetted by @sar-soor

My approved number by the families in need and endorsed by the supervisors is 196."

@90-ghost @ibtisams @nabulsi @aces-and-angels @sar-soor @sayruq @fairuzfan @palestinegenocide @vakarians-babe @northgazaupdates @northgazaupdates2

Trapped Family in Gaza Appeals for Help to Survive 🕊️🇵🇸🙏

I Samer Abu Ras, am reaching out to you with a heartfelt humanitarian appeal, after the ongoing war in Gaza has cast its dark shadow over my life and the lives of my family. Our lives were once filled with peace and stability before the onset of this catastrophe, but now, we find ourselves living in a situation described as nothing short of tragic.

My wife, Shurooq, our three children, and I are now homeless, without a source of income, and without hope for the future. My family and I have lost our businesses and our home due to the war, and we now have nothing left but the cold streets and troubled hearts.

My children are suffering greatly as a result of these horrific events. They have lost the security and stability they once enjoyed and are now facing new health and psychological challenges that threaten their lives. As a father and husband, I feel powerless in my ability to provide adequate protection and care for them.

My child, who is a year and a half old, is experiencing hardships far beyond his tender age. Since the war broke out, we had to flee our home and seek refuge in a tent in a displacement camp. My child lives in extremely difficult conditions, deprived of safety and stability. The tent does not provide adequate protection from harsh weather, and food and medicine are scarce. My child suffers from malnutrition and illness, lacking basic healthcare. He cannot play or grow in a healthy and suitable environment. My only dream is to see him grow up in a safe place full of opportunities

In the face of difficult circumstances, Samer Abu Ras and his family find themselves facing serious challenges in their daily lives. They reside in a modest tent lacking comfort and security, suffering from a shortage of clean water and food, and encountering difficulties in accessing necessary healthcare. Despite these challenges, they continue to express hope and resilience in confronting adversity, holding onto hope for a better tomorrow and a return to a more stable and secure life.

I appeal to you today, dear friends, to extend to me a helping hand in escaping this hell. Regardless of the size of the donation, every drop of generosity will contribute to alleviating our suffering and rebuilding our lives anew.

We need your help to secure the funds necessary to travel away from these destructive wars and seek a safe and stable environment where we can build a better future for our children

Let us stand together in these difficult times and let hope triumph over despair by providing support and assistance to those in dire need. Let us be part of the solution and build a better future for ourselves and future generations.

Thank you for listening and for the potential generosity of your giving, and for your generous donations that will change the lives of my family for the better.

With sincere gratitude and appreciation

‏Samer Abu Ras and family.

@heba-20 @soon-palestine @marnota @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl @nabulsi @sayruq @communistchilchuck @palipunk @palestinecharitycommissionsassoc @faggotfungus @ghost-and-a-half @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @three-croissants @interfacefox @appsa @akajustmerry @feluka @flower-tea-fairies @90-ghost @victoriawhimsey @ficsforgaza @aria-ashryver @mangocheesecakes @humanvoicebox @plomegranate @queerstudiesnatural @commissions4aid-international @palestinegenocide @ghost-and-a-half @bibyebae @heritageposts @norrriey 🍉🌹🍉✍️

🌹🍉🇵🇸❤️🌹🍉🇵🇸❤️🌹🍉

[arsen1cs4ng0]

tbh i kinda hate how vosim's overtaken a lot of my life + identity and shit, and it hurts for me to say this