#ive got fluorescent yellow and green

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

sometimes, well. sometimes you try do dye your hair two colours but forget to cut it before dyeing. so ig i barely have green tips now. oh well. there will come another day of hair dyeing. probably too soon bc yellow will wash out fast i assume

[transsergio]

Emily's Top Surgery (Read on AO3)

Penemily / Gen / 4038 words

Emily has top surgery and their loving, perfect, beautiful girlfriend Penelope is their caretaker.

Notes: I refer to Emily as Penelope's girlfriend intentionally; Emily is a non-binary lesbian and in this particular story, is comfortable with the gendered term "girlfriend". However, if you see Emily referred to as she/her at any point, that's an editing mistake on my part and I mixed up their pronouns with Penelope's. I went through this a couple times to make sure I gendered them correctly, but one might have slipped through the cracks!

Also feels important to say that Dr. Dolan is a totally fictional doctor and not a reference to any real life surgeon

-

Surgery Day

Penelope has seen her team through too much already. Kidnappings, stab wounds, bullets – their jobs aren’t exactly arts and crafts. Yet, she thinks this might be the most nervous she has ever been. She’s been rapid-fire tapping her heel for the last hour and forty-five minutes, and trying to distract herself with her cell phone. Morgan texted a couple times to check in (once on behalf of Reid), but otherwise, radio silence. The few messages mean more than she can say; she is intimately familiar with how busy they are on a case. But she really wishes any of them were there to squeeze her hand right about now. She’d even take Strauss.

In the middle of Penelope’s billionth Candy Crush level, a doctor materializes in front of her. She startles and fumbles her phone trying to click it off. “Is it over? Can I see them now? How’d it go?”

As the doctor peels his surgical mask off, she sees he’s laughing at her. That’s good, right?

He says, “Everything went just fine, Ms. Garcia. Emily’s in the recovery room now, and we’ll let you back there about twenty minutes after they wake up. They’re going to be a little groggy and maybe nauseous. It all depends on how their body reacts to the anesthesia. They’ll most likely sleep for the rest of the day, but make sure to keep up with their medications, alright?”

Penelope nods fervently. “Absolutely, Dr. Dolan. Can do. Will do! And I’m sorry to ask this again but I really have to make sure, the whole operation was totally fine? Nothing went wrong? Everything…chopped off okay?”

The doctor stifles a chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Garcia. Everything went exactly as planned, no complications as of yet. We’ll see you tomorrow for Emily’s one day post-op appointment to check the surgery site and switch out the bandages for a binder, and then for their first week post-op. Okay?”

Penelope smiles back, still nodding along like Emily’s health depends on it.

The doctor shakes her hand and ducks back into the surgical ward, leaving Penelope to update the group chat.

“Emily’s out!!!!!! Doc says all good!!!!!! Will be with them soon 😍💖🥳”

She types almost as quickly as her heart is beating.

Penelope makes it through another few rounds of mobile games and desperately refreshing her Twitter feed before she risks checking the clock. It’s been half an hour. Shouldn’t Emily be awake by now? What if they never wake up? Could someone be permanently anesthetized? Reid would know. Maybe Penelope should call Reid. No, she can’t do that. They’re all off in Texas trying to catch a serial killer and she doesn’t need to distract them, not when they’re already down two team members. Kevin Lynch is pretty good, she hopes. She’s seen his work and it’s adequate. Nothing like the multi-tasking Penelope pulls off, but in the same ballpark. His boyfriend, Grant Anderson, vouched for him. It was unnecessary, and maybe Kevin shouldn’t have sent the person who got Elle shot to sing his praises, but at least they knew Grant. Kevin was a stranger from another department. A back-up.

“Penelope Garcia?” A nurse calls as she emerges from swinging double doors.

“Yes, right here!” Penelope chirps. She leaps to her feet and scurries over as quickly as her heels will allow.

The nurse walks her through the recovery ward and the steps to Emily’s post-op instructions. Emily has four different prescriptions already filled and two cannot be taken at the exact same time while one is an antibiotic and the other is just for nausea which they might not need and –

“This is all written down, right? Sorry, my head’s just like, woo, swimming right now,” Penelope says. Her eyes are wide and darting frantically between the curtained beds. She hates the fluorescent lights. Her skin is buzzing with all the sour electricity. The nurse assures her they’ll send them home with physical copies along with phone numbers in case of emergency.

They round the nurse’s station and finally, come to Emily. They’re shifting slightly in their bed, leaning forward and sipping at a dixie cup of water. They're groggy and slow, with the IV still in their arm. Penelope’s glad they don’t have a mirror – their bangs are scattered over their forehead in three wispy chunks, a way Penelope knows Emily hates.

“Hey sweetheart,” Penelope coos. She leans over the bed's plastic siding to kiss the top of Emily’s head, and run her fingers through their dark hair. Emily leans into the touch.

They croak, “Hey,” and cough to clear their throat, wincing all the while.

“That’d be because you were intubated,” the nurse says. “Take plenty of cough drops and you should feel much better.”

Penelope assures the nurse they will while Emily drifts in and out of focus.

“Did it work?” they ask.

“Did what, Em?”

“M’surgery.”

“Oh! Yeah, totally. You’ll see in a little bit. You’re just sleepy.”

“M’kay,” Emily says. Their head lolls back into their pillows as the muscles in their face tighten.

“Emily, what would you rate your pain out of ten?” the nurse asks, coming closer with her clipboard at the ready.

“Uh, five? Maybe six.”

Penelope looks to the nurse. “Is that bad? That sounds bad. I thought it wasn’t supposed to hurt right now.”

The nurse jots down a few notes before she answers. “It’s not unusual. We’ll up their pain killers before we remove the IV.”

Penelope plants herself firmly at Emily’s side in the meantime. They’ve redressed Emily in their own clothes, an oversized button-down and sweats. Well, Penelope assumes they put Emily’s bottoms back on. The blanket is still tucked tightly around their body like they’re some kind of soft, hot mummy. They stay like that for another fifteen minutes, Penelope working her nails through Emily’s scalp as they try to relax.

When Emily rates their pain at a four, then a three, Penelope helps the nurse settle them in a wheelchair. They roll a few feet into the hall before Emily claws for Penelope’s arm.

“Where’s the barf bag?” Penelope asks. She has her hand out and ready for the nurse to pass it over, and swings it into Emily’s face.

Emily, thankfully, does not puke. Their slow, steady breath crinkles the blue plastic bag, but all they fill it with is air. They keep a tight grip on the thing for safekeeping, even as they’re helped into the passenger’s seat of Penelope’s car.

“You ready to go home, lovebug?” Penelope keeps her voice low and sweet, like dark honey. Emily nods and Penelope grants her wish, starting the engine and turning out of the parking lot.

-❤-

One Day Post-Op

Penelope holds her breath as the nurse unwraps the medical bandages. She wonders if Em is doing the same. While she’s watching them, Emily’s eyes flit between her and the floor-length mirror fastened to the exam room wall.

The nurse is talking, and they’re both supposed to be listening, but who could expect them to? Emily has spent a couple grand (after insurance) and something like four years waiting for these next seconds. Penelope is just as invested, if not more, in Emily’s happiness. She’s not going to get the camera out, but wonders if she should just in case Emily cries.

Their eyes follow the final bandage as it unravels from Emily’s form.

And Emily’s mind goes quiet. They have two, deep red swoops where their chest used to bulge. Above and below, their body is nothing but smooth skin. They thought this would feel like shock. Like disbelief that they were finally here. Instead, it just feels right, as if this is the way it’s always been and some crappy daydream is over at last. They giggle, and Penelope glows like the sun has risen.

“Wow,” Penelope says, soft. She’s wrenched with admiration.

The nurse is smiling in the corner. She takes out a roll of Steri-Strips and measures them against Emily’s new scars. Scars! Emily finally has scars!

“Now the bruising should lessen in the next three to four weeks,” the nurse says. Oh, bruising. Emily almost hadn’t noticed. Their body is splotched with patches of yellow, green, and purple as if it’s trying to camouflage itself, but Emily’s not hiding from anything anymore.

They’re given more practical information, like how often Emily should be walking to avoid blood clots, how high they should lift their arms, how much they should be carrying – most of which tells them to stay reclined, arms down, to sleep as much as possible, but get in ten minutes of walking every few hours. Penelope hears more of this than Emily does, and again, they’re given written instructions just in case.

Emily takes one last look before the compression vest goes on. This will be the most uncomfortable part of the process, thank god. Emily chose a surgeon who used a tighter suture method rather than the typical drains intentionally. Still, the fit of the binder is exciting. Emily’s never had something lie flat on them before. Their body now falls in one fluid line without anything, even nipples, to interrupt.

“Em?”

Emily snaps to Penelope, who is standing and holding the door for them.

“Oh, right,” Emily says with half a laugh and a daze in their eyes. They thank the nurse, and the receptionist, and a passing surgeon that isn’t even Emily’s on the way out. This is the most gratitude Emily’s ever contained in their life, and they need to flush it through their system.

“And especially you,” Emily gushes as Penelope helps buckle their seatbelt. “You’re amazing. I can’t believe you’re taking time off for me, or that you’re not stir crazy already. Thank you.”

Penelope grins like she might burst, and can’t answer just yet. She gets them safely onto the highway for home first. “Of course I’m here for you, dumb-dumb! Not only because you literally can’t do anything for yourself right now, or because the hospital said you couldn’t have the surgery without having a caretaker, but, well – okay, maybe half for those reasons too. But because I love you. I’m so happy for you, and how happy you’re going to be, and that this is so good for you. I love you so much.” Penelope sniffles.

“Maybe you should have said all that before we left?” Emily asks. “You’re gonna cry the whole drive back, babe.”

Penelope swats at them. “I know, I know! But you’re on a strict schedule, my lovely angel, and you need your meds in like, thirty minutes.”

Emily laughs and catches Penelope’s hand in their own. They squeeze it tightly and press their lips to Penelope’s fingers. Emily only releases when Penelope tugs their grip toward the steering wheel.

“Next stop, Recoveryville,” Pen jokes.

-❤-

Five Days Post-Op

Emily is more or less comfortably laid on their couch. They have an arsenal of pillows stationed behind them, under their arms, and at the bend of their knees, and Penelope’s militant care routine keeping them afloat. For the last four days, they’ve done nothing but watch French art films together, eat ice cream, and order takeout. It’s been a nice break, Emily realizes. One they didn’t know they needed.

Penelope emerges from the kitchen with a bag of Doritos and a bright blue DVD in her hands.

“This looks like a bribe,” Emily says with a wry smile.

“That’s because it is. I am in no place to object to your choice of movies, especially after I promised I wouldn’t make fun of the accents anymore. But I was sorta hoping this would be a good opportunity to manhandle you into watching a real classic.” Penelope blocks the television in her pink pajama pants and Emily’s Yale hoodie. Penelope is well aware that Emily loves when she wears their clothes; she has to be doing this on purpose. And it’s working.

Emily bobs their head from side to side, considering the offer. “Alright, shoot. I’m willing to cut you a deal.”

Penelope slaps the movie cover over her face. Mamma Mia! (2008) Dir. Phyllida Lloyd.

“Oh, god.”

And Penelope reemerges, scowling. “Hey! I didn’t complain when you made me watch that sad movie about the woman with the dead family. This time, no one’s dead! And they’re in Greece! Okay, admittedly no one wants to hear Pierce Brosnan sing, but if you ignore him and focus on Meryl Streep the movie gets a lot better!”

This is not the first time Emily has heard argument on behalf of Mamma Mia! and it likely isn’t the last, either. Movie night in the Garcia-Prentiss household is in a state of constant debate and usually decided by a fair and unbiased coin toss. Emily considers it a miracle that Penelope’s lasted this long without putting up a fight, and considers it part of her generosity as their caretaker.

Emily scooches themself into a more upright position. “Trois coleurs: Bleu is a beautiful movie and you said you liked it, first of all. And I thought we were watching my movies because I’m the one healing.”

Penelope hesitates. “…Yes, but I may have also been doing a little eensy weensy bit of work at the same time because they’re also like, really slow and boring and Kevin needed the tiniest, tiniest bit of help on the Texas case.”

“Traitor!” Emily is aghast. “What about the deal?”

The deal, of course, was the promise they made each other after their third movie night. Emily was texting throughout The Muppets Take Manhattan and not entirely invested in Kermit and Miss Piggy’s wedding. Penelope was hurt, Emily was confused, and didn’t fully get it until Penelope fell asleep twenty minutes into Deux ou trois choses que je sais d'elle. From that point on, they agreed to compromise more on movie selection and to pay undivided attention to the films they did pick.

“You passed out! I thought the deal was void if you weren’t awake during your own movie!” Penelope said.

“Why didn't you wake me up?” Emily argued.

“Oh, yeah, I’m going to wake up the person who just had surgery so they can pay attention to the third sad foreign movie of the day. You need your rest, and Kevin has maybe half of my inimitable skills!” Penelope’s words were jumbling together as she went up an octave. “I know I’m on vacation but the team needed help and I didn’t want to abandon them with some computer monkey who doesn’t know the first thing about my system, much less the way the team works, and isn’t even a regular assist on cases like me and—”

Penelope is cut off by three short raps at their front door. A welcome escape.

“Pen!” Emily calls after her. “We’re not done here!”

“I think we are!” Penelope shouts back. She passes down the hall and peers through the peep hole, though, she really doesn’t need to. She recognizes the voices on the other side.

“We’re not too early, are we?”

“It’s two in the afternoon, genius.”

“I mean in days since Emily’s operation. They might not be up to company.”

“Then we’ll say hi to baby girl and head out, no big deal.”

Penelope swings the door wide open. “Definitely say hi to me, definitely do that!”

Morgan and Reid stand in their building’s hallway, Derek carrying bags of Chinese food, and Spencer juggling some sort of gift basket. Their eyes are tired and Derek’s stubble is looking rougher than usual, but they perk up in the light of their friend.

“Hey, there she is,” Morgan says. He comes in for a tight hug as he and Reid crowd themselves inside. “How’s everyone holdin’ up?”

“Peachy keen,” Penelope says. She squeezes Derek’s shoulder and leads them back to Emily by Reid’s hand. “Look who missed their favorite co-workers!”

“Hey, guys,” Emily says. Their heart warms at the sight of them. “What’re you doing here?”

“Now how’s that any way to greet a friend?” Morgan laughs. He lowers their takeout food to the coffee table and dives onto the couch beside Emily. “You been good to Garcia so far, or do we have to put the hurt on you?” He playfully punches Emily in their arm, and they cower in mock pain.

“Hey, no roughhousing!” Penelope scolds. “If anyone pulls any sort of muscle in the next twenty minutes, you’re all in timeout.”

Emily and Derek snicker in their seats and launch into the most recent case details. It’s a lot of the gory, icky stuff that Penelope doesn’t want to know unless she’s in her bat cave, so she takes Spencer and his basket into the kitchen.

“Doritos, huh?” he notices the bag Penelope drops on the counter. “You were trying to get something from them?”

Penelope answers with her head stuck in the fridge as she paws to the back for Spencer’s La Croix. “I may have wanted to watch one of my movies today, and I may have offered chips in payment.” She fishes a couple cans of LimonCello out, and huffs. “So what’s all this?”

“It’s from JJ. She wanted to come herself but didn’t think bringing Henry over was the best idea,” Spencer explains. He holds his drink gingerly with both hands and peers into the basket. It looks a lot like the one Penelope used for JJ’s baby shower, and is also definitely the same basket. Inside are a few bags of beef jerky, chocolate, a backscratcher with a little pink hand at its end, and an airline neck pillow with the Texas flag patterned over it.

“Awe. I’m definitely baking her cookies,” Penelope says. She leans back against the counter and eyes Spencer up and down. “Tough case?”

Spencer shifts from side to side and looks into the dark pit of his La Croix can. “Not much worse than usual. It was just… long. And Emily would’ve been a big help. None of us speak Spanish.”

“But you didn’t want to call right now,” Penelope guesses. “It’s all over though, right? All good? Everything wrapped up with a bow for good luck?”

Spencer nods and purses his lips. He looks over his shoulder to the living room, where Derek is describing something with his hands and Emily watches, wide-eyed and entertained. Spencer says, more to himself than Penelope, “It’s always good to be home.”

-❤-

Two Weeks Post-Op

“Emily Elizabeth Prentiss!”

Emily freezes with one arm reaching desperately above doctor-recommended height, and another gripping the cabinet door like their life depends on it. They press their forehead into the shelf, groaning, “That’s not my middle name.”

“I can make up whatever name I want! You know what Dr. Dolan said, and this is so far out of bounds!” Penelope stands in the kitchen threshold with her hands on her hips. She sighs and tugs Emily away from the cereal cabinet by their waist. When their arms are safely lowered to their sides, Penelope puts on her serious face, with her seriously furrowed eyebrows, and her serious frown on her lips. She asks, “Do you, like, want to injure yourself? Is this your new favorite hobby?”

Emily is petulant. “No, I want breakfast, and it’s on the third shelf. Let’s just pretend you got it for me, okay?”

Penelope grumbles her frustrations under her breath as she pulls down the family size box of Lucky Charms. She flurries around the space until she’s collected a bowl and spoon and settled them on the other side of the kitchen counter, where a bar stool and carton of milk wait for Emily.

“Sit,” Penelope orders. Emily complies with a glint in their eyes.

“Thank you,” they say, saturating their words with genuine love.

“Oh, stuff it.” Penelope pecks a kiss to their cheek regardless. She tries not to think about how cute Emily is when they’re smug, but it’s a losing battle. The way their nose scrunches, the smirk; not helping. Instead, Penelope picks a smidgeon of a fight.

“Your hair is greasy.”

And Emily’s face falls flat and exasperated. They let their spoon rest in the pool of marshmallows. “Can we do this after I eat?”

“Oh, lovebug. Absolutely not,” Penelope smiles knowingly. “You haven’t washed it in like, four days, which tells me that it’s not as easy as you said it was. Y’know, I was wondering who said washing your own hair was too much work immediately after having an operation? It would have to be someone super smart and beautiful and funny and—”

“It was you, Penelope. We all know it was you.”

“Funny; it was, wasn’t it?”

But Penelope lets them finish their cereal. She was about to eat her own Eggo waffles, after all. Once the dishes are rinsed and in the washer, she marches Emily straight into their bathroom. The tub thankfully doesn’t share a wall with the toilet, making it easier for Emily to scoot in next to the faucet. Penelope folds Emily’s towel (the towel that is dark purple, and not spring green, which Penelope keeps carefully out of the splash zone) (unlike Emily, who does not mind if their towel is damp long after it should be dry, and probably growing some type of mold) (okay, it’s not growing mold, but Penelope insists that it will eventually become mold-ridden if Emily doesn’t start hanging it up more consistently) along the side of the tub. Emily fits the towel under their neck, and Penelope guides them into position.

“Your hair is so thick,” Penelope comments.

Emily says, “You tell me that once a week.”

“Because it is. Now close your eyes.”

Penelope detaches the removable showerhead and lets the water warm her hand. When it’s a comfortable temperature, she douses Emily’s head. She maneuvers carefully around Emily’s forehead to avoid hitting their face, though Emily’s eyelids flutter when they worry the stream is near. Penelope thinks with their long eyelashes, they look like butterflies about to take flight.

She works the shampoo in with a gentle, but thorough touch. It’s when she rubs the lather into Emily’s scalp that Emily lets a soft moan break, and Penelope smiles. She takes pride in her work, whether she’s at her desk or in her soapy bathroom.

The shampoo swirls down the drain as Penelope rinses Emily free. Emily opens their eyes and tries to sit up, but Penelope pins their shoulders to the tub.

“Hold on! I haven’t conditioned yet.”

“Isn’t shampoo enough? We’re going to be here again in three days. It’s a hassle.”

Penelope does not think so. For the low price of two-thousand dollars and the risk of post-op complications, Penelope’s seen her girlfriend relax for the first time in, maybe ever. She’s going to drag it out as long as she can. Which, for right now, means dumping a handful of conditioner into her palm and rubbing it through the tips of Emily’s hair.

The final rinse is cleansing, like the weight falls from Emily’s shoulders. Penelope swipes the towel from Emily’s neck and cocoons their hair inside. She manages to keep their shirt dry, for the most part. Emily sits up with a pain in their shoulders, and does their best to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” Penelope prompts. Their best is not nearly good enough, not when Penelope has the analytical eye of someone who loves them. Penelope plants Emily on their shared bed for the first time since their surgery, already grateful to have a little of Emily’s smell in the room again. She sits behind them and overlaps their legs with hers. Penelope digs into the knots wound through their back as if she's torturing for information.

“It’s almost like you have a stressful job or something,” Penelope says.

Emily snorts. “Yeah, something like that.”

Penelope massages her way down until Emily feels looser under her fingers. She leans her head into the crook of Emily’s shoulder and presses a kiss to their skin. “We could ask for more time off,” she offers.

Emily slouches against Penelope’s body. “We could. But we have to go back at some point.”

“Let’s pretend we don’t.”

Emily exhales. “Sounds good to me.”

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (13)

CHAPTER 13: I Don't Want To Be Lonely    

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: Yeah...last time wasn’t good. This is...well...

Warnings: Blood. Blood. Blood?

Word count: Should I be really concerned about the fact that my colleagues think I have had enough ‘days off’ when I was trying to help my family make arrangement for the funeral and he wake? Because I feel like I would be needing a day or two off in the future. For an emotional break. And my boss’ attitude is clearly not making it easy. Anyways. I’m still trying to be positive every day. Music helps. My brothers and sister help too. Hopefully this’ll pass soon. *deep breath* *nods*

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

"Can you please change the music. It is burning my ears."

"No."

Loki turns to look at Heimdall with a simmering stare before letting his fingers change the track. The contemporary harps change to classics. While Loki seems satisfied with them, Heimdall rolls his eyes at it.

"Seriously? Could you not be any more of a boring personality?"

"Why? Watching me throughout the day isn't enough for you now?"

"Shut up, Loki."

"Don't even dare turn back that sloppy thing you call musi-"

The harps come back again.

"Is this why Odin sent you out of the country? He couldn't stand you doing whatever you wanted, right?"

Heimdall just sighs. The music is turned back to the classics. The next five minutes of the ride are spent in brooding silence that is diluted by the violin on the speakers.

"I don't even understand why you would consider sticking to me like a fly when you could've been guarding your golden boy," Loki murmurs.

Heimdall swerves through the traffic on the highway, looking at the raven-haired man from the corner of his eyes, wetting his lips, taking his time to answer that question. "Frigga made me promise to look after you."

Loki doesn't say it but the slow blink he does clearly shows all signs of internal shocks he is feeling right now.

"I have my allegiance to the queen way before I came under the wings of Odin. Or Thor. And I've never gone back on my word to her."

Silence.

"I'm sure you haven't. M-the queen knows well to use them wisely. Especially in front of the king."

"Alright. Okay. Stop being so passive-aggressive. Kira is just in being angry at us."

"I'm not-" Loki stops and sighs, letting his arm rest on his window's lower edge while he massages the bridge of his nose. "How did she even know?"

"You recruited her, Loki. She clearly can connect the dots even if it’s slower than you. You should've known it won't be long till she figured it out."

The lights from the small local shops and big hotels next to the highway are a blur to Loki's eyes. He tries to close them, hoping to remember the last time he saw you happy with him.

"I don't think she has it in her to avenge herself."

"She's not weak, Loki."

"She's too pure, Heimdall. She does not deserve that. No kid deserves that. And she does not deserve to be in this perilous world." The eyes aren't even trying to focus at the scenic dusk anymore. "She doesn't belong here," he whispers to himself.

Heimdall's hands grip on the steering a bit too hard. "She's stronger than she looks. I'm sure she can take care of herself. And when she can't...well, she has a lot of people lookin' out for her."

Loki smiles before furrowing his brows. "I think what you call looking out for is practically called being creepy, Heimdall."

Heimdall twists his jaw. "You better watch your mouth before I broadcast your live feed to the world."

"You'd be doing the world a favour."

The groan and chuckle are interrupted by Loki's phone ringing over the SUV's speaker with Robert's name flashing on the screen.

What did she do now, is all Loki can think when he swipes the green icon to take the call. "Robert."

"Loki-"

His name is but a broken sob escaping a set of aching lungs from the other end of the phone, pushing both Loki and Heimdall to the literal edge of their seats. The sobbing doesn't stop. Before Loki can even tell him, Heimdall is taking out the orbs from his pockets, picking up the one that glows vigorously and planting it in a slot right next to the wheel, calling out a screen over the dashboard to pin-point the location for him.

Loki's heart is beating fast, that usual raging ache being replaced by spasms of concern when Heimdall is putting the car in overspeed to reach where that little blimping yellow dot points on the screen.

.

The silence of the hospital is haunting to say the least. Even this early in the night just two people sit in the waiting area under the weak fluorescent lights- one of them flickering at nonperiodic intervals. The receptionist sits laid back with a mobile in their hand, playing a game. A family sits on the upper floor, the kids eating chips while the mother pats the smallest of the children to sleep in her lap. The other mother is preventing herself from nodding off to sleep, time and again removing the crease from the papers in her hands, sitting up whenever she sees a doctor walk by. The floor above that is empty. Most of the lights have been switched off and the janitor is cleaning the floors, making them ready for the crowd that will rush in first thing at the crack of dawn to consult the doctors. The topmost floor is the only one brightly lit. It too is fairly empty- no waiting patients or visiting crowds- but for the doctors and nurses going about. The corridors carry the smell of disinfectants. Two nurses are walking down, laughing and joking about something. The minimal sitting outside the ICU has just one figure sitting there, fingers gripping on to fingers, nails being dragged down the skin on the back of the hands to feel something other than that noise of the heart ripping out of the chest. Feet being unstable- tapped now then due to the restlessness. Eyes being wiped away time and again with the tissues one of the nurses were kind enough to hand out. Now even the little soft paper is crumpled to its last bits, wet and beyond recognition. The cold draft coming in through every open door and exit does not help the already shaken nerves, but it does keep them awake.

The door to the ICU opens and your trembling legs get up from the seat with a wobble, your bloodshot eyes looking behind the doctor before anxiously settling on her. She speaks. The words do not settle in the first time. Nor the second. It takes a couple of repeated loops to understand what she's saying. She's calling out your name really softly, asking you if you're okay. You simply nod. She directs you to the corridor and you watch Robert wheeled out to the same direction she's pointing. He's covered in bandages and respiratory-mask along with more than one IV drip. He's being taken somewhere else. You want to go too. Be with him. But your legs don't move. They can't. You do try taking a step, but it ends up hurting everything inside you.

Don't leave him, your inner voice says, pushing you to walk and stop again. This time your legs stop on seeing Heimdall and Loki standing at the end of the corridor, looking like they've seen a ghost. Or something worse.

One look into Loki's eyes and you can feel yourself wanting to rush towards him for comfort because your frail heart cannot take it anymore. But the mind wants to force every rational thought upon you, instead making you walk towards his figure that is also managing to close the distance between the two of you.

"Are you alright?"

The cracked heart is broken into smithereens at his concern. You just nod because speaking will take a toll on you, gesturing to the room where Robert's been taken.

Loki hasn't missed the red marring your blouse and pants, smearing your neck and hands. His relief in seeing you stand in one piece is diluting the shock he is feeling on speculating what all you have gone through these past two hours. He wants to straighten your hair and pull you in his embrace. He wants to let you know you're safe. But he doesn't know if he any longer has the authority to do so. And he would rather kill himself than cross another line that might end up hurting you.

"The doctor's allowed us to see him," Heimdall breaks the morbid trance between you two, forcing you to walk inside.

.

The beeps and hiss of the machines on the other side of the mirror fill the mute room where you and Loki sit- Heimdall stands, looking out the window, his hands in his pockets, the eyes sharp at any movement outside, his ears listening to the police officials trying to take your statement.

"You were facing the direction of the shooter and Robert was behind you," the officer named Gary breaks off, "but then you say Robert fell over you."

Gary's partner Sasha rolls her eyes.

"As I said," you try to keep your voice smooth, "Robert pushed me away, he tried to cover me and got...he got..."

Gary still isn't satisfied. "Again, was it a push or was it a cover?"

Loki tsks, rolling his eyes and looking at Gary with the will to choke him there and then. Sasha has seen that look way too many times for her partner.

"Gary," she begins, "she's in shock. I think we can give her the benefit of the doubt and carry on our investigation at the shooting point. Come on."

"But-"

"Gary...come on."

"Sasha, be a good officer for once and see this interrogation through. Shock or not, she's gotta recall the events and tell them for what they are. Otherwise, it all looks fabricated."

"Officer Gerald," Heimdall speaks from the window with the authority that the two uniforms are only used to in their office, "why don't we have a word outside?"

Heimdall turns and Sasha can see some wire inside Gary's system trip as his stance changes within seconds.

"Y-yeah. We were leaving anyways. To check out the uh that parking lot."

"Very well then."

Sasha would be lying if she says she isn't feeling something tingle between her legs on watching that man move the entire mood of the room with just his presence.

The officers make their exit and the silence tries to return again.

"I'll talk to Kol to amp up the security. You two should get some rest," Heimdall states before leaving the room.

"Come on," Loki gets up, "I'll drive you home."

"It's my fault."

You look up towards Loki. "He's here because of me." The last word breaks into broken chords.

Loki comes and sits down beside you. "Kira, it's not your fault. You did not know what was going to happen. Robert was there doing was he was supposed to do. And he clearly did his job well. Because you're here. Alive and breathing. If anyone is going to pay it'll be the person who did this to him. Who tried to-" he tries to keep his breath steady- "do this to you."

Loki can see the marks on the back of your fingers, redness painting your skin- a sign he's is quite familiar with.

"Are you okay?"

You bite your lips. pressing your hands against each other. "Russo asked me to come work with him."

Now, this wasn't something Loki was expecting to hear. 

He has to gulp down this information in order to keep his senses.

"Oh. So... you've thought about it?"

You turn your head to look at him, nearly scaring him with that look in your eyes followed by an offended scoff. "I'm not leaving you for him."

He tries to hide it but the positive swell in his chest brings an involuntary smile on his face.

"That man is shady."

"Why? Why do you think so?"

"The file Robert had made had the names of everyone working under Russo in Anvil Corp or for Anvil Corp. Donatella's name was in there."

Just when Loki thought that cliché of a man could not surprise him anymore.

"And him asking me to come away with him then clearly didn't sound like he was just doing it for personal interests."

Now Loki just wanted him dead.

"Miss Kira?" A nurse called out from the door.

"Yes?" You answered, both you and Loki wondering what it was about.

"Are you ready for the examination?"

You blink and sit there frozen for a few moments before nodding a confirmation and getting up, Loki mirroring you.

Both of you meet Heimdall in the waiting area on your way to the floor downstairs.

"Kol's all set up. Four men will be guarding Robert's room."

"Are they trustworthy, Heimdall? I don't want anything compromised for Robert."

Heimdall nods. "They're Robert's men. Believe me, they'll be doing more than we'd ask without us asking. For him."

"Make sure one of them brings him a hot cup of that Manali tea he likes. Along with croissants from The Irish Baker. That's a bakery cum cafe by the turn to Beverly Avenue."

Heimdall has to pause for a moment when he has to retake the moment in and realise the genuine concern in Loki's eyes.

"Yes, I'll make sure of it." He assures. "Come, I'll drive you home."

"No, you go ahead. Kira has her examination right now."

"Loki," you speak up, suddenly realising you've been calling your boss by his name, "I think you should go."

The change does not go unnoticed by the men either. But Heimdall rather not talk about it. Yet.

"No, I'm not leaving you h-"

"Kol can drive me home. Or David."

"She's right," Heimdall acknowledges, only earning Loki's judgmental glare, "for all we know this could be an attack on you. It's not like that hasn't happened before. Four men will be by Kira's side here. And you're coming home with me. Now."

"I'll be fine," you reassure your boss with a weak smile.

"Heimdall will wait here with you then."

"Will you just take him already?" You straightway talk to Heimdall, letting Loki take a very light but hurt gasp.

"Okay fine. I'm going," Loki agrees ultimately, "but you better get home soon."

And in that one soft moment when you're looking into those clouded green eyes, you want to take his face into your palms and assure him that you will. While Loki, at that very moment wants to take your face into his hands and beg you to let him stay and be there for you; for he doesn't want to let anything happen to you. He wants to make sure you're safe.

"I will. I promise."

Your words create an echo inside him. And he has to take that echo with him when he steps away from you to walk away and go home.

.

"So, what do you think?"

"My bet is on Andrews."

Heimdall brings the engine to life. Loki takes out his phone to dial Tez.

"That man never liked me anyway," Loki mutters ever so casually, "but I would not rule out a few other names."

"I'm tightening your security," Heimdall announces, "I hope that's enough for all the people who want you dead."

"Aw," Loki scrunches his nose a bit, "they'll only see me dead when I want to die, Heimdall. You should know that by now."

"Tez," Loki's attention is on the phone now, "I'm sure you've heard of the events by now. This is code sapphire. You know what needs to be taken care of, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Tez confirms.

"What's code sapphire?" The lines on Heimdall's forehead are somehow working really well for Loki's amusement.

"There are days when I wish you don't know what I am doing by every literal second." Loki fastens his seatbelt. "This is one of those days Heimdall."

.

The plates are cold over your bare skin and the air conditioning is really not helping at all.

"Is this really necessary?" You ask whoever is standing outside the x-ray room. "I just fell on the ground. That's actually pretty usual for me."

No answer.

You sigh and are about to slouch over when a flash works its way throughout the room.

"Anything else?" You- out and dressed up- ask the nurse who's been instructed by the doctor to carry out certain standard check-ups.

"Just a few more minutes," the nurse answers before picking up a pen a board with a checklist.

You groan internally and try to find the energy to go through the interrogation again.

"When was your last meal?"

"Uhh...it was...I don't know the time exactly. It was lunch on another continent so my guess is seventeen hours. Give or take a few." You simply shrug.

The nurse eyes you with a cocked brow and you cannot help but feel a flare of judgment lingering in those eyes.

"How's your eyesight?"

"I use glasses," you point at the ones you're wearing a bit too obviously. The nurse just sighs.

"Are you sexually active?"

"No."

"... I'd suggest you don't lie on your medical report."

The nurse is still moving her pen on the board when she makes that blunt remark that really rubs you the wrong way.

"Excuse me?"

An eye roll later the nurse is watching with a resting bitch face.

"I mean, come on, girl. I saw the man who was with you tonight. You don't need to hide that you're some big hotshot's lady."

"Okay," you raise your finger to address the frustration growing inside you, "it is none of your business who I do or do not sleep with. All you need to worry about is the information you're being provided."

She looks at you before exhaling a 'whatever' and going back to her sheet.

"You don't have to cry just 'cause you're his mistress."

Oh my God!

"Linda, I'd suggest you get out of the room before the patient sues you for harassment."

A sweet voice calls out from the door and you turn to watch another nurse standing there with her arms crossed across her chest, staring down at the other nurse.

"I was jus-"

"You should go," the blonde-haired nurse announces, bringing forward her hand to take charge, "I'll take care of the rest."

The former nurse clearly doesn't look happy but she lets go of the paperwork and walks out saying something snarky under her breath.

"I'm really sorry about that," the new one apologises, "the staff is usually really nice here. I'm Harleen."

"I'm Kira," you respond.

Harleen's presence somewhat lights up the room. And her smile only adds to the radiance she is emanating. She makes the effort to go through your chart and write what all reports are pending.

"We are all done here. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

You try to think of something that you might need to know. Your hand goes to your neck and the abnormality in touching it reminds you of something.

"Oh, I had a necklace I was wearing before I went in for the x-ray. I can't seem to find it. I kept it here on the table."

Harleen gestures you to wait and walks around the table to open a drawer and take out a little basket where you can see the pendant Tony had gifted you sitting in a silver loop.

"Thank you."

"No problem, Kira. Here," she takes out something from the drawer and hands it over to you, "take my card and call me if you are in need of any help."

Thanking her, you walk out of the room while closing the silver chain around your neck, nearly scared by Kol's uninformed greeting.

"Kol," you greet the man dressed in a black suit and smelling of a cologne that is surprisingly light to the senses.

"Ma'am," he greets back, so do the two men standing behind him, "this way, please."

You sense the presence of more of Kol's men behind you, curiosity getting the better of you and turning your neck around to watch two more men keeping a considerable distance. All of them are wearing an earpiece, keeping in touch by the second. Kol's auburn hair has been all moved back with a generous amount of gel, which reminds of something that Billy does.

The thought of him sends a shudder down your spine and you force your brain to think of something- anything- other than those dark, endless eyes.

The walk down the lift and towards the entrance is silent but it's made awkward by the foreign eyes looking at the men- and then decisively at you and your bloody clothes- wondering what is going on in the hospital at this time of the night. Your fluttering heartbeat does not help the meandering thoughts either but the chilly air fighting to touch your exposed skin as you step out does help dissipate the unwanted heat rising up inside you.

Before you can cover all the stairs to reach the footsteps of the building, another one of Robert's men is bringing Robert's SUV to a halt.

Kol steps in front to open the door for you before getting in from the other side. The rest of the security gets in another car save for one- who settles down in the passenger seat in your vehicle.

The cars are pulled out of the driveway and manoeuvred through small streets till they hit the road taking them to the highway. The dull yellow lights are the same shade as your heart right now, trying to grasp the reality of one of the closest person to you lying in the hospital. It is my fault, no matter how Loki sees it, you have convinced yourself.

"Robert will be fine, ma'am."

Kol seems to have read the tension on your face. Am I that transparent?

"We'll get the person who did this to him." He is making you a promise. He knows better than anyone- thanks to the years he's served- how it feels for the one who got away.

"Thanks, Kol." Your weak smile is the only gesture you can manage till you are looking back out the window at the lights passing you by. The smooth driving skills of whosoever is at the wheel are putting you to sleep. So, you close your eyes and try to see that which makes you feel safe. The darkness is filled with a lit-up corner where Loki stands smiling at you. "Come home, Kira," he says softly.

I'm coming home.

Eyes closed, the rest of the body is sensing the ups and downs and the turns of the car.

Whenever we are asleep, dreaming of falling- be it from the sky, a bridge, a car, a cliff- we do not feel the effect of that fall till we are reaching the surface, about to hit it with maximum velocity, which then jerks us awake, or sometimes changes the scene to something entirely different. That is what happens to you when the cargo truck hits the SUV from the other side, sending the vehicle to topple on itself and roll over multiple times. The seatbelt keeps you in place throughout as you watch the glass shatter and fly everywhere around you. Your hands are up and everywhere, not being able to find anything to hold on to. All this while Kol has you covered, shielding you from stray glass and gravel- besides anything deadly that could possibly be flying your way at any given moment. Everything registers inside you only when the car- or what is left of it- comes to a stop. Upside down.

First, the breaths go shallow. Next, the body registers the uncomfortable position it is stuck in. The eyes take in the surroundings- a disgruntled Kol freeing himself to fall down on the roof of the car, glass falling down from your hair, a bloodied hand lying hanging from the driver's seat. When that hand comes in view, your eyes do not leave the trail till they see the body hanging upside down with a broken neck.

The already shallow breaths are now turning into hyperventilating streaks. Kol registers the shock you're feeling right now and tries to move towards you. "David," he calls for the man in the passenger seat, "cover us."

The man is already out of the vehicle, up on his legs, disappearing somewhere ahead of the barrels on fire in the middle of the highway.

"Kira," he nearly eats up his groans and pains and when he takes your arms in his, "shh, shh, I'm here. Breathe. Breathe. Breeeathe."

His patient soft voice is readily obeyed by your teary eyes. Just as the third breath is taken in a shot goes off somewhere in the night. This time it is not that easy to be mistaken for a cracker.

"Kol," your cry is barely a squeak.

Two more shots go off.

"Shh, shh, I'm gonna get you out of here. Look at me. Do as I say. Here, fix your hands on the roof. Come on. Yes. You got it. Sure? Okay, I'll undo the belt now. Ready? Three, two-"

You are laying down on the roof, trying to feel your legs while Kol's hands are helping you get up and out from your side of the window.

The shards prick your palms. But the gunshots behind you are a horror that is shutting down every other pain response in your body. The throbbing of your veins is only adding to the understated panic.

Getting up you look behind to watch Kol standing by the wrecked car. You take a faltering step towards him and stop dead as you watch him go down on his knees before his upper body hits the hard road beneath him.

You do not know whether it's the shock of watching your one way to safety go down in one mean swing or the figure clad in black camo behind him, standing with its hands to either side- one of them holding a gun. The dark goggles shield the face beneath. But none of the shades of black can hide the blood dripping from the heel of the palm that holds the gun.

The figure just stands there. Frozen.

You wait for it to make a move. It waits for you to take one wrong step.

It doesn't even look like it's breathing. You are gasping for breaths.

It tilts its head just enough for you to notice. You take a step back into the embrace of foreign arms keeping you in place as a hand tries to cover your screams before netted darkness is thrown over your eyes and your writhing body is dragged away from the remnants of point of intentional disaster.

The goggles come off to let the ignited remnants of tonight’s catastrophe be reflected in dark boundless eyes.

[la-knight]

BOOKS I (RE)READ IN 2018: FURTHERMORE BY TAHEREH MAFI

"Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, 12, rates three things most important: Mother, who wouldn’t miss her; magic and color, which seem to elude her; and Father, who always loved her. Father disappeared from Ferenwood with only a ruler, almost three years ago. But she will have to travel through the mythical, dangerous land of Furthermore, where down can be up, paper is alive, and left can be both right and very, very wrong. Her only companion is Oliver whose own magic is based in lies and deceit. Alice must first find herself—and hold fast to the magic of love in the face of loss." "Red was ruby, green was fluorescent, yellow was simply incandescent. Color was life. Color was everything. Color, you see, was the universal sign of magic." "Love, it turned out, could both hurt and heal." "Narrow-mindedness will only get you as far as Nowhere, and once you're there, you're lost forever.” "Alice was an odd girl, even for Ferenwood, where the sun occasionally rained and the colors were brighter than usual and magic was as common as a frowning parent." "Making magic is far more interesting than making sense." So I actually read this book a few months ago and then recently reread it via audio so I could remember all the details for this review. I was first introduced to Tahereh Mafi’s work through her book Shatter Me, her debut novel. Ironically, it wasn’t through any of the ways I normally hear about books - Booktube, Goodreads, my best friend, Booklr - but from my husband’s aunt. She runs - or used to run, not sure if she’s still doing it - a book review blog. And she posted a review of Shatter Me and I was like, “What a weird, interesting writing style, lemme check this out.” At this point the entire Shatter Me Trilogy plus novellas had been published and I devoured all of them (still need to review those, too). So when I heard Tahereh Mafi was writing a middle grade book, I got super excited! Especially because this was during a time when I was too stressed out to read any YA, since most of the YA I like involves having to save the world and all the stress that entails. I need to lay out some trigger warnings real quick: the main character, Alice? Her mom is incredibly abusive, both emotionally and physically. It’s treated as not such a big deal in the book, which is honestly the story’s only real flaw, but it’s bad. It took me seven tries and resorting to an audiobook (and even with a fantastic narrator, that short audiobook took me almost a month to get through) because the abuse was so bad. So:

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE OF A CHILD BY THEIR PARENT

Let’s get started, yo! First of all, the setting. OMG. See, I love tthis thing called Victorian fairy tales, which is something you can find in books like Mary Poppins - these super fantastical bits of whimsy that just warm your heart and make you grin because they’re so creative and fun. In the Mary Poppins books, you can jump into chalk drawings and go to a circus amidst the stars and make friends with a woman who sells living candy-cane horses. In Catherynne Valente’s Fairyland series, there are shadow balls and talking phonographs. And in Furthermore, there’s light raining down from the sky in literal drops, sticks of magic you use like money, and forests full of invisible berries. The way the world is put together and described, so full of color and imagination, is awesome and beautiful and I could picture it perfectly. It reminded me in all the best ways of books like The Phantom Tollbooth (one of my favorites). But I wouldn’t want to live there, because Ferenwood is full of colorism and ick. Alice, the female lead, is an albino in a world where color is important and the darker you are, the more magical you’re considered to be. So Alice gets treated like garbage. 

Also I think Alice may be autistic, but I don’t know if she’s deliberately coded autistic or if Tahereh Mafi did it by accident while trying to make Alice eccentric, but she comes across as autistic. I’ve actually begun to pay more attention to that sort of the thing in recent years, being autistic myself, and I see it a lot - authors giving their characters autistic characteristics, often without meaning to. I just touch on it here because Alice is already treated badly for being albino, but she’s also considered a freak because of the way she behaves - like an autistic preteen. And I wonder if Tahereh Mafi did that on purpose as a sort of commentary or not, because while Alice is treated badly by the people of Ferenwood for her behavior, the Narrator (who is an actual character in the story; love when that happens) always sides with Alice in this regard. The storyline is sweet and I love it. Alice tries to compete in the magical testing all the preteens do on their twelfth birthday, and so she dances. And her dancing is magical but it’s not Magical, you know? So she fails the test. Well, turns out a boy who passed the test the year before, Oliver (the brat), needs Alice’s help fulfilling a quest - rescuing Alice’s missing dad. So they go on a quest together, although Alice hates Oliver (and rightly so, he’s rude). They go to a dozen different and cool places, all of which are dangerous and all of which are different. I wish we could’ve spent more time in those places but I understand why we didn’t. The only annoying thing is there’s an origami fox on the cover but it only pops up in one of the worlds for like two pages and then it’s gone and I thought we could spend more time both in that world and with that creature since it ended up on the cover. But alas, not. I understand why - middle grade is often cursed to be short, especially if it’s the author’s first MG novel ever. Once you get big and bad like Rick Riordan you can start tossing out gihugic tomes like Son of Neptune or Blood of Olympus on the regular. Oliver’s reason for needing Alice was one I didn’t see coming, nor was her magical talent - a talent they hint at throughout the book but never explain until near the end, at the perfect moment. I thought it was an interesting commentary on how young girls perceive themselves, that Alice hates this marvelous, amazing talent she has of bringing color into the world from nothing...because she can’t use it to change how she looks. Society has trained her already, by the age of twelve, to discount something incredible about herself because she can’t use it to make herself into what society wants her to be. That’s pretty impressive for a book this short. I loved some of the more deliberate messages in the work - the thing I mentioned about society’s pressures on young girls, and also that it’s okay to tell boys to screw off if they’re mean to you, and to have hope and to look for second chances (Alice thinks she only has one chance to pass the test and believes her life is over when she fails, only to find out she can try again the next year). I love all of that, and the lyrical and whimsical quality of the prose, and the world building is so creative and also makes me a bit hungry (people eat magic in this book, among other things; I wonder what it tastes like). Now...let’s talk about the abuse. That’s my biggest issue with the book. Alice’s mother is a total bitch. And not in a cool, kickass way like the lady in the show Empire. She’s vicious, she’s cruel, and she’s abusive. Alice knows - and the Narrator confirms - that she turned bad when her husband went missing, and apparently the worry for him and the strain of raising four kids on her own is making her hard and sad, but I don’t give a shit. I was hoping Tahereh Mafi would’ve gone all Hansel and Gretel on this lady and when Alice comes home with her dad, the wife’s dead or something. She beats Alice (at one point she beat Alice for chasing a boy out of the place where she was sleeping, even though he kept staring at her in her sleeping clothes, because apparently the boy - Oliver - had the right to break into their barn at 3AM and ogle Alice???), she verbally abuses Alice, she sends her to bed regularly without dinner, is constantly criticizing, won’t hug her or kiss her, and - this one really got me, for some reason - forces her to do illegal things. Those invisible berries I mentioned? Alice can find them and bring back whole baskets because of her magical gift, and so her mom sends her out to pick them all the time. If she brings home enough, her mom smiles. If she doesn’t, her mom yells and calls her names and sometimes beats her. Guess what? Picking those berries is illegal. We don’t find this out until much later in the book, but it is. The thing I didn’t like about the berries is that Oliver, who’s thirteen, is less concerned about Alice’s mother beating her for not picking enough contraband berries and instead focuses on how her ability to find the berries in the first place means Alice has really impressive magic. NOBODY seems to care how much Alice is being abused, not even the Narrator. The Narrator sympathizes with Alice’s hurt feelings and despair over her missing Father, but it’s never objectively stated that her mom is abusing her AND SHE IS. Yeah, her mom is sooo glad to have her back after Alice almost dies on her trip with Oliver, but so what? My roommate’s mom is so abusive that my roommate’s clergy leaders, doctors, and psychological therapist all said my roommate needed to cut ties with said mom, even though my roommate’s mom has also exhibited the same kind of “oh baby I’m so sorry, I love you so much” bullshit. That’s what abusers do. So I hate Alice’s mom. She literally makes her daughter feel like if she doesn’t risk her life numerous times AND bring her father back, there is no chance her mother will ever love her. And if she pulls that stuff off (which she does), then MAYBE her mother will love her. Nuh-uh. Nope. Hate that bitch. Other than that, I really loved this book. The characters felt real (Alice is me, but without my anger), Even the ones I didn’t like were still REAL, and well-drawn. The world building and word choice is fantastic. Basically, if you can get past the evil mom, read this book. World Building: 1 star Realism: 1 star Word Choice: 1 star Plot: 1 star Characterization: 1 star - ¼ star because Oliver Newbanks is an obnoxious little creep - 1 star because the mom is AN ABUSIVE EVIL BITCH - ¼ star because NOBODY DOES ANYTHING ABOUT THAT +½ star because Alice is amazing and has a genius brain and I love her Total score: 4/5 stars Would I Buy It: Yes! I own it and loved it enough I got the sequel for Christmas (in...2017...I've been sitting on this review for months...)! Would I Recommend: yes, but with trigger warnings. Again, highly abusive evil bitch mom who somehow doesn’t die.

[falsefocus]

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough || Sheith Serial Part One | Part Two

Liz got me going and now I can’t stop... The AU no one asked for but me.

The pounding in Shiro’s head began in earnest before he even opened his eyes, immediately followed by a warm rush of whatever drugs they had him on to numb the pain. Daring to crack his eyes against the bright white of the hospital room, his vision swam, making him feel like floating.

It was an odd, but not unwelcome sensation, given that the alternative was probably intense, burning pain in his muscles and head from his fall. The buzz of the medication gave Shiro a sense of contentment, and he found himself surveying his room with a smirk, trying to at least contain the ridiculous laughter he felt bubbling up inside him.

The TV hanging off the wall in the corner played a local news station on mute. Next to him stood his stand of various IV bags and a heart monitor, beeping steadily. The room was otherwise empty. Shiro had no way of telling how long he’d been out - or even where his rescuers had taken him once he’d been found.

Before his panic could dampen the mood his medication induced, the door to his room opened, and a familiar face stepped in.

“Keith!” Shiro blurted out the name before the still logical (and very exhausted) side of his brain could stop him. He scooted upright in the hospital bed with a dopey grin plastered across his face.

“Uh, hi,” Keith approached the bed with an amused twist to his lips. “Glad to see you awake.”

In the sanitary, fluorescent light of the hospital, to Shiro, Keith was stunning. The navy blue of his paramedic uniform contrasted perfectly with his jet black hair, and the ceiling light made it shimmer with the tilt of his head. No longer shrouded beneath his headlamp, Keith’s eyes were wide and deep - Shiro could stare into them all day.

Of course you could, the logical part of Shiro chided, you’re high out of your mind.

Trying to recover from that horrific first impression - or was it the second? - Shiro thought of something smart to say: “I fell off a cliff.”

Nice.

Keith laughed at that, but obviously restrained himself from commenting further. He shuffled his feet in a way that would make Shiro think he was almost embarrassed - at Shiro or himself, it wasn’t clear. “When we admitted you, we realized you’re not from here, so we figured you’d want some company when you came to.”

Keith grabbed Shiro’s chart off the wall next to his bed and gave it an appraising look. “How are you feeling?”

Shiro mulled that question over for about two seconds, and answered sincerely. “Fantastic.”

Keith fought back another laugh and rolled down a dial attached to one of the IVs, labelled MORPHINE. “So I see. Glad you remember me - you took a pretty nasty blow to the head out there.”

Re-remembering that he was, indeed, in the hospital for rolling down a mountain, Shiro reached up to feel the thick wrap of bandages around his head. “Ouch.”

Keith hummed in agreement. “You also had a bad case of hypothermia. No raincoat?” The judgemental quirk to Keith’s eyebrow just worked to make Shiro’s heart stutter.

“I’m… usually a faster hiker.” Shiro had meant that to be a boast, but for some reason it didn’t sound nearly as flattering when he was sitting banged-up in a hospital room high on morphine.

“Well, next time may I suggest a raincoat and some crampons?” Keith gave Shiro another pointed look before digging through the backpack slung over one shoulder. After a muttered curse and several papers shuffling out of the bag and onto the floor, Keith rose with one particular piece of paper in his hand and passed it to Shiro.

Too caught up in the honor of Keith handing him something to bother with reading what it was, Shiro gazed at him with reverence until Keith cleared his throat. Shiro shifted his doe-eyed glance to the paper instead.

He felt his euphoria drain away as his brain registered what the paper was. The stabbing pain in his head returned.

“This is…?”

“Your bill.” Keith leaned over to point to the total, so helpfully highlighted in yellow at the bottom of the page. “You picked one hell of a place to fall. Between the extraction, the on-site first aid, the helicopter - it wasn’t a cheap hike for you.” Keith ticked the breakdown of the cost out on his fingers matter of factly.

Shiro’s mouth felt dry. “I- I don’t-”

Before Shiro could string together a sentence, Keith interjected, “Don’t panic. We have ways to manage the cost. I know this isn’t what you want to hear right after you wake up, but...” He shrugged, “Just doing my job.”

While Keith rattled off the various payment plans and discussed working with Shiro’s insurance, Shiro’s mind blanked. It was so much money. He hadn’t paid for something this expensive since his last semester in college - and even that was with the generous help of his parents. Keith’s coy, friendly, little visit was just a sly cover for breaking the news, Shiro though ruefully. Though, the morphine-high part of him still grudgingly had to admit that staring at Keith for a bit longer was a nice consolation.

Keith finished speaking, and Shiro realized he was supposed to respond. When he didn’t answer, Keith supplied, “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll just leave you with some info pamphlets and let you think it over. You can email this address or call when you make a decision.”

Setting the bunch of papers gingerly on Shiro’s legs, Keith moved to leave the room. “Really, I am glad you’re okay. Wish we had met under better circumstances, Takashi.”

Shiro flopped back onto his bed, drained. The morphine wasn’t much help for financial woes, unfortunately. Taking a few deep breaths, he centered himself. It would be okay. He was alive, right? That’s what mattered here. Money was just something he needed to fly back home, to buy groceries, to feed his cat, to pay off his student loans… Pay off medical debt...

Shit.

He picked up one of the brochures, staring at the bright green cover with “Managing Your Medical Debt” embossed too cheerily across the top. Shiro couldn’t bring himself to open it. Instead, he picked up the other four pamphlets and sorted through them dejectedly. The last one - titled ominously - DEBT, seemed to capture his mood well enough, so he skimmed the first page.

A subheading gave him pause. Debt Freelancing? Shiro read through the paragraph, detailing how organizations sometimes offered debt forgiveness in exchange for volunteer work. He rolled the thought around in his head. He didn’t have to go home - Shiro was lucky enough to work as a digital copywriter at an advertising firm, able to work as long as he had his computer. He looked down at his one IV-riddled arm and his other prosthetic. He wasn’t exactly in the best shape for search and rescue work but…

Shiro shook himself out of the thought. No way. Who was even to say that Keith's company would accept something like that. Not to mention the training they’d have to put him through before he could work. It didn’t make sense.

Attempting to cast the thought out of his mind, he sulked, staring at his equally silent TV, now switched to a local baseball game. But the idea, once formed, had taken root.

What if they did let him volunteer? He had to at least ask. He grabbed the piece of paper with the email and phone number, noting the address of their headquarters listed below the contact information.

His mother’s voice chided in the back of his mind, Always better to apply for a job in person, Takashi!

He groaned inwardly. Okay, this was happening. As soon as they discharged him, he had a plan. Shiro hit his nurse’s call button and unmuted the TV.

[thesinglesurgeon]

Heme Onc is tough.

I wrote this after my first week in heme onc. The sadness on the floor is so pervasive, but it’s admirable how many people try to bring joy and carry on the best they can. I had to write down something to deal with the many thoughts and experiences that heme onc had generated in my mind...

I do not know what broke my heart first. Was it the yellowed man sitting up in bed, a stack of books next to him, a fruit basket crammed on the table. Next to that rests a water bottle labeled BOTTLE 2 FINISH BY NOON. A slender women, presumably his wife, is sitting in a chair next to the window. The blinds are pulled open to reveal a vast gray sky, an even drape of clouds creates a monochrome ceiling outside the fluorescent lit room. The wife is taking notes, vigorously, in a spiral notebook. The hair along the edge of her scalp is greasy enough to curl and stick to her face. She has a cardigan tied around her shoulders, she is wearing matching jewelry, but her eyes are wild and the pen in her hand is shaking. He thought he had a stomach bug 2 weeks ago at their New Years party. But he has metastatic lung cancer, clumped onto his pancreas and liver and with a haloed spot in his brain. He never smoked a cigarette.

Perhaps it was the sweet woman with dark hair and a sharp appearance, waiting outside her husbands door. “We need a family meeting today.” She too is polished, hands folded across her chest, nails done and pants with creases. But her eyes flicker too fast, she shoulders are too high. 

“Yes yes” says the attending with his bowed head and compassionate nod. “We will do that. Now let’s see the patient.” 

We walk into a room and are greeted by a man in restraints, his face is contorted and he growls at us. But my eyes can’t leave his neck, glittering with rows and rows of staples over scabbed gashes. As we move closer, I see the deep cuts across his neck, his arms. We lift his gown to check his abdomen where a checkered pattern of lacerations is sprawling to each corner of his torso, dappled with sutures and staples, glimmering at us while he writhes and grunts at us. The doctor gently pats the man, tells him he is doing better. The cuts are healing, but he has no white blood cells. He is psychotic, he cannot speak. The kind wife nods graciously as we leave, we will see them this afternoon to talk.

Maybe it was the man in bed, his breathing heavy, his eyes closed. A tube comes from his nose and green juice pours out of it, liters each day. He has conformed to his bed, hasn’t gotten up in days. His arms look red and puffy today. Under his gown is a similar redness, hot to the touch. It’s a new rash. It’s called as cellulitis, he is started on more medication. A plump women with freshly curled short hair sits next to him. She is enthusiastic to see us, bubbling with news to share. Her husband really wants to go home, she can tell. He also made a droplet of urine, she saw it in the bag. He doesn’t like when the nurses roll and rotate him, but oh boy he likes it when the TV is on! Her eyes glimmer. We shake his shoulders gently, we call his name. He slits open his eyes and groans at us, it’s a high pitched sound, his mouth doesn’t move and his eyes close again. “Oh he’s just a riot!” She laughs at her husbands humor, then looks at us suddenly. “He wasn’t like this at home. He never complained. I think this got him.” And tears pour out of her eyes, her forehead wrinkles and she sobs. We hand her tissues. The kind doctor tells her that her presence is indeed felt by him. He tells her we all hope for the best, but this will be a long recovery. We walk to the next one.

Or maybe it was the family hopeful that their father was stepped down from the ICU. He was breathing on his own, he was moved into his new room. But then his heart began racing, the beats were irregular, and he started to breath so fast. “Call the family” the attending ordered. He gasped for breath and the gurgles from within his chest were so loud. We all had to wear yellow gowns and gloves and masks since he was positive for a respiratory virus. We try to hold his hands with our latex hands, stroke his shoulder, but he is panicked and could only breath with all his might, fluid seeping into his lungs. He tried to pull out his cannulas, his tubes, his IV. We soothe him while holding down his arms. His eyes glaze over. We all watched the monitors, the oxygen saturation just went down and down. The family came in. They sobbed and told him it’s okay to go, it’s alright to leave them behind. He was DNR, we gave him morphine and lots of oxygen and unplugged his tubes and cords. We ripped off our gowns and gloves and masks as we left the room to see the next one. Later that day he died.

That was Day One.

[thesetacostastefunny]

If there ain’t no you

@thatrandomnerdygirl

Here’s your request! I hope you like it!! 

  Your name: submit What is this? document.getElementById("submit").addEventListener('click', function(){ walk(document.body, /\by\/n\b|\(y\/n\)/ig, document.getElementById("inputTxt").value); }); function walk(node, v, p){ var child, next; switch (node.nodeType){ case 1: // Element case 9: // Document case 11: // Document fragment child = node.firstChild; while (child){ next = child.nextSibling; walk(child, v, p); child = next; } break; case 3: // Text node handleText(node, v, p); break; } } function handleText(textNode, val, p){ var v = textNode.nodeValue; v = v.replace(val, p); textNode.nodeValue = v; } Your lungs were burning, legs aching as you ran. The uncomfortable achey feeling that usually accompanied such a furious sprint began to bloom in your lower side. You had to remember to try and breathe evenly as your feet pumped hard against the ground.   A werewolf was on your and Sam’s tail.

“I can’t keep this pace up much longer Sam!” You manage through heavy breaths as you jump over a protruding tree root.

“I got you y/n!” He calls back his hand wrapping around your wrist. You both continued on as Sam basically dragged you behind him like a ragdoll.  It felt as if an inferno was blazing where your lungs were supposed to be when Sam ducked down in an instant and began piggy backing you through the trees. He was taking pity on your much shorter legs which is a good thing because you were sure this was a life or death situation.  Piggybacking the human skyscraper must have worked because you could no longer hear the beast behind you anymore; this didn’t matter to Sam as he continued running at a pace you were sure would have killed you. You had tried to focus on your breathing and trying to calm your frantic heart that was beating like the wings of a frightened caged bird.  It was working until Sam’s foot caught on a tree root and grounded you both as the shout from Sam rang through the eerily silent landscape around you.

The sound of a low-pitched menacing growl reached your ears as you turned around the yellow eyes of the werewolf locked onto yours. You gasped and Sam tried to push you off of him so he could protect you but you had known it was too late. The wolf was only a yard away from you now there was no escaping him.

“Stop y/n!” Sam tried to protest as you pushed him into the dirt once more shielding him with your much smaller body. You were however shielding all of his vital organs with your own body.  You loved Sam, and you had adopted him as a brother. Sam and Dean were the people who meant the most to you in the entire world, of course Bobby, and Castiel were also included in that very short list. You would do anything for them.  The werewolf had advanced as you were lost in your thoughts deciding to make it known. The hot breath streamed down your neck from the wolf, and you cringed. You hunched your shoulders and focused on making yourself bigger to cover Sam’s head and his torso from the claws.

Your ears were ringing with a high pitched sound as the wolf’s claws sunk deep into the flesh of your back, skin tearing in jagged fashion, blood pooling and seeping, running freely from the cuts in a river of gore. It took you a moment to realize that the high pitched sound was your own scream as the werewolf swiped your back again. The chilly feeling on your skin was replaced with the warmth of the sticky blood coating your back. Your vision was blurring now, from blood loss or tears you weren’t sure. Inky black shadows were making themselves aware in the edges of your vision, the last thing you heard before it consumed you was a deep gravelly voice calling for you.

The mechanic wheezing and beeping of hospital machines began to sound distantly in the background as you groaned. The sounds only grew louder when your eyes snapped open. You were greeted by the sight of a painfully bright white sheet, fluorescent lighting and the distinct smell of disinfectant. Then came the tight feeling that radiated through your back along with a dull ache. You groaned wishing for the beeping to stop.

“y/n?” Dean’s gruff voice sounded from your left. You tried to turn to look at him, the bed railing didn’t permit that considering you were laying on your stomach.

“Dean?” You squeaked.

“You’re awake!” Dean breathed and suddenly you felt his hand in your hair, and a green eye peering at you between the bed railing. A watery green eye.

“I’m awake.” A cough tore its way through you suddenly when a jolt of pain shot through you.  Your throat was Sahara dry.

“I’ll go get the doctor.” He replied his voice sounding strained.

“Dean I’m..” You didn’t get to finish your sentence before the door slammed shut behind you.  Within a few minutes the door was opening again no doubt Dean and the Doctor.

“It’s nice to see you awake.” The doctor greeted. “You suffered many back lacerations and tears, it took us several hours but he managed to stitch up the worse of them, and bandaged the smaller ones. They have been cleaned, and within a few days we’ll have you out of here. Your husband here has promised to keep an extra good eye on you and to help clean your cuts and sores.” You heard some bustling around you and you felt a cold sensation run into your hand, ah a painkiller running through your IV.  Dean thanked the doctor and when doc left your room Dean plopped onto the seat next to you.  The room was painfully silent for a few minutes until the hunter broke the silence.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry.” You managed starting to cough again. Two strong hands very carefully helped you roll onto your side and held a cup to your lips. You gulped the cool water gratefully, until the cup was empty. Dean sighed and walked to the sink refilling it only for you to drain it again. You managed to tell him that you were okay now. He didn’t take no for an answer however, and refilled the cup a last time. You watched the muscle in his jaw clench a tale tell sign that he was pissed off.

“Don’t you tell me you’re sorry! We almost lost you!”  

“I was protecting Sa-“

“I almost lost you y/n.” Dean growled as he plopped into the chair. His voice gave the impression he was angry but his body language. His body language betrayed him. The tears were still welled in his eyes refusing to spill over. He was refusing to meet your gaze.

“Dean?”

“Do you know what would have happened if we lost you? Sam would be so lost, he wouldn’t have someone to research with, or watch those geek tv shows with him. He would have blamed himself, he would have been so numb.” He began. You felt the tears well up in your own eyes.

“And you?” You asked lip trembling. His eyes shot up to meet yours.

“I would be long gone.” He answered. A chill ran down your spine but you got the strange feeling that he didn’t exactly mean running away.

“What?”

“I love you y/n.” Dean closed his eyes. “I would have been long gone. I wouldn’t be me, okay? I would have drank myself into a stupor every night and become a shell of myself. Not even Sammy would be able to fix that.” Your tears spilled over at his words.

“I love you too Dean.” He came over to the side of your bed, leaning his head against yours.

“Please, please never do that again.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You breathe out a shaky sigh as Sam enters the room holding a gift shop teddy bear.

“You guys can’t get rid of me that easy.”

[iosihexa]

petals for your efforts

ao3 link

warnings: none

ship: dan / phil

wordcount: 1757

extra stuff: tiny trace of pastel dan, dreaded 2nd person POV but according to a few people i pull it off In A Manner That Is Readable, soft, high school setting (ish), i recommend reading on ao3

You catch your first glimpse of him – the real him, you think, or at least a part of him that is a little more raw – at the far end of an overground station platform. Granted, you’re perhaps a bit more than distracted given the dismal weather, everything feeling blurry and a little too bright against the glary pale grey of the clouds, but. He’s there. And he looks miserable, clutching what looks like a delicately wired flower crown with sad, wet petals between his fingers.

For a brief moment, you’re highly tempted to wax poetic about his hands, because they’re beautiful, but there are other issues at hand.

“Hey,” you begin, and wince because you absolutely did not think this through. “Dan, right? Doing alright?”

He stares back at you, hair curling slightly from the moisture – he must straighten it every day, you muse – and then promptly looks back down to his shoes. “Hello, Phil.”

The two of you aren’t really in the same friendship circles. You have been vaguely aware of Dan since the beginning of the school year, but it’s a whole new experience to see him out of uniform and wearing – well.

“That colour looks nice on you,” you comment, gesturing vaguely towards the pale pink jumper he’s wearing, and squint, leaning closer to the little design in the centre of the shirt. “Is that an egg?”

He looks at you again, and you’re satisfied to note that he looks happier now, if a little amused. “Yes. Sunny-side up, so the egg’s name has been delegated Sunny. Also, thanks,” he surveys your own attire carefully, “your, uh. Subtle selection of black clothing is pretty neat, I guess.”

A nervous laugh manages to escape you lips as you gesture towards the flower crown still grasped gently between his fingers. “Can I take that? Perhaps it’ll be good to have some colour on me for a little while. I’ll return it on Monday at school?”

He looks surprised, to say the least. You blame the general concept of toxic masculinity and also the fact that he probably thinks you are the strangest, most uncouth person to have ever interacted with him.

Nonetheless, reaches up and places the flowers in your hair, and studies you evenly. “Looking good,” he says, and winks, and you think that you like him a bit.

DAN: look im just saying but you have to get your priorities straight WATCH THE CLASSICS FIRST god I cant believe you havent even watched fmab yet PHIL: Ok, ok, but sometimes I can’t help but go into the weird obscure things my friends recommend me, you know? PHIL: like it’s not like I know any better PHIL: anyways fine!!! I’ll watch your weird animes. But you have to read that novel I recommended to you. DAN: if it’s along the same lines as a john green novel phil i swear to god i’m never trusting your recs again PHIL: hey! John green’s books aren’t that bad. romance isn’t as bad as you make it out to be. PHIL: and it’s a good book, I promise. It’s exactly the kind of hipstery thing you’d like DAN: what on earth are you insinuating DAN: ok one of the protags isn’t straight I can get behind this PHIL: I can’t believe I managed to peg your interests just like that. DAN: hey, now. PHIL: Just read it. Tell me if you cry at the end :D DAN: i wont DAN: we must discuss this book when ive finished reading on saturday

Your mother is probably extremely glad that you’re getting out of the house of your own accord to meet up with friends for once. Or just a friend. Singular. You’re not about to admit it, but you’re very ready to see Dan in soft, colourful, non-school related clothing again.

He’s sitting in the very corner of the café you agreed to meet at, hunched away over what looks like a milkshake, and you take the opportunity to admire the robin’s egg blue of his shirt, and the demeanour of calmness he seems to have cast over himself, still reading the book you lent him. It’s just starting to sprinkle as you make your way into the shop and order.

“Hello,” you say, and he looks up and his smile stretches across his face languidly, dark eyes making contact with yours – he seemed awkward with eye contact the first time you talked to him at the station those few weeks back, but now it’s fine.

You curse the existence of involuntary physical responses as you heart beats a tiny bit faster, because it’s only been a few weeks, but you do like him. You’re not in denial, just frustrated and perhaps wishing that you could have a highschool romance story like any silly romcom film you’ve watched.

“Thought you were going to abandon me, like the terrible person you are,” he says, still grinning as he pats the seat next to him. “Sit down. We have some important themes and subtextual information from within this book we need to discuss.”

He slides the novel over to you, finger tracing a few lines. “Here, see this? And,” he flips a few pages over, “this? They only talk twice in the whole book – yes, I’ve been rereading – and yet everyone is convinced they’re in love. Remind me why, again?”

You smile back, and push his hand off the book. “You’re reading into it wrong,” and from the way his gaze challenges you, you’re willing to bet you’ll have a fun discussion.

Dan leans his head back on your blanket, somehow already at ease. The late afternoon light is filtering in through the windows, casting hazy, shattered beams of sun onto the bed.

“Your room is exactly as nerdy as I thought it would be,” he laughs a bit, and reaches over to examine the cactus you have placed on your desk. “You’re absolutely the type to name your plants, aren’t you? What’s this one’s name?”

You glance over. “Alistaire the Second,” you say. He lets out his soft, quiet laugh, the one that makes you feel a little bit more intimate and as if he trusts you.

“Of course,” he mutters quietly, then stares at you, not for the first time today. “Let’s paint our nails.”

“Our- what?”

He seems almost disappointed. Almost. “My sister let me take her collection of polishes, and I figured since I’m sleeping over, we should do cliche teenager sleepover things. And, since all the stuff boys are probably supposed to do during sleepovers are a lot less interesting than, say, gossiping about dudes and painting nails, we should do this.” He looks nervous for a moment. “Unless you don’t want to. We can put on a movie whilst we do it though, that’d be cool.”

Nodding vigorously, you set up your laptop and he brings out a suspicious number of glass bottles from his bag, looking a little relieved. You examine his array of colours, laughing a little bit. “Fluorescent yellow, a dodgy shade of mauve, this awful olive colour - this is quite a selection.”

He just does his grin again, and holds up a nice, bright, RGB colour wheel-worthy shade of blue. “This one for you. Actually,” he says, pushing another few bottles forwards, “you can have a rainbow.”

You end up playing Mulan in the background (Disney never fails), and he paints each nail on your left hand a different, horribly bright colour. In turn, you paint all his nails a wobbly black, except his pinkies, which he insists are painted a nice, glossy white. He wiggles his hands in front of your face. You have the urge to lick his hand, just because it’d be gross and maybe annoy him a little bit.

“Piano hands, Philly,” he says, and you look down at your own nails, which have very wobbly jobs as well.

“Uh. Vaporwave unicorn hands, Danny,” you reply, and he does his soft laugh again. Your gut clenches, and you decide you have to tell him before you regret staying quiet for months and months.

“Listen, D-”

“Oh yeah, heck,” he interrupts, jumping off the bed. “Look here, I got you a flower crown, I nearly forgot. We don’t talk about my favour for pastel clothing much, but you seemed to like the one I gave you at the train station a few months back, so you can have this.” He’s holding out a different crown, with slightly smaller roses on it, petals stained pink and orange and looping neatly with a few small leaves. “You don’t wear enough warm colours. Look, even your room is just blues, greens, black and white.”

“Thanks, Dan,” you say, almost whisper, and slot the flowers on your head. There’s a wash of fizzling happiness that rushes over you, and then you steel your nerves, pausing the film. “Listen, Dan,” you start again, and he looks ridiculously concerned for you, a tenebrous expression that you want to wipe off his face and replace with warmth again.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing super terrible. Although I guess it depends on how you take it, but…”

“Oh, come on, Phil, you’re not allowed to keep me in suspense like this,” he jokes, wavering.

Your brain just a one-eighty and you collapse back onto your pillow. The flower crown is dislodged slightly, flipping back and resting against the headboard. “I can’t do this,” you groan, and stretch out your hand. “Here, take it.”

“What?”

“My hand. hold it.”

Silently, he acquiesces. “Um, Phil-”

“Look,” you say, staring at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazy circles above you, “I kind of fancy you. In, yeah, that kind of way. I don’t know, but I like you a lot, so I guess that’s that. I mean,” you mumble, beginning to ramble, “I know you’re my friend and you probably don’t- ah.” You’re cut off by Dan flopping down next to you, lacing his fingers with yours.

“It’s alright, Phil.” he says, flicking your head. “I think you’re pretty neat too,” and he gives your hand a squeeze. You think about how nice you thought his hands were when you first saw him at the station. Outside, the summery orange tint of sunset has darkened into a shadowy navy, and the sky flashes white and blue with lightning, a thunderstorm carving patterns of rain down the window. “No kissing till the third date, though,” he teases.

You can accept that.

[overboss]

Ryder Tag | MEA

tagged by the wonderful @louminx <3 Name: Lennox Ryder Gender: Female Ethnicity: Half Scottish, Half Spanish Eye Color: a hazel-greenish-brownish colour with gold specks Hair Color/Description: She has long wavy hair that reaches just above her belly button. Lennox loves dying her hair different colours and has tried bright green and fluorescent orange before but her favourite hair colour is blue! Skin ( Colour, blemishes, tattoos, scars etc) : Lennox doesnt have any scars or blemishes. Since she spent the last 600 years or so in cryo, it hasnt given her many opportunities to get a scar yet. Maybe once ive played the main storyline i'll give her a scar or two, because if theres one thing i love its kickass battle ladies with scars :0 Lennox has fairly pale skin compared to the test of her family but she is still fairly tanned. She also has a couple of pretty large freckles underneath her left eye - and a tattoo of several planets on her chest. Misc physical: Aaah Lennox has two lines shaved into both of her eyebrows! This came about because her brother, Lukas, thiught it would be hilarious if he shaved part of her eyebrow off when they were 12. Lennox woke up after he made the first couple of marks with the razor and decided to shave the other one the same way so it didnt look too weird. She grew to love them and has had her eyebrows shaved ever since. Lennox also has a septum ring and has a cyber bites piercing on her lip. She usually wears white jewley but she isnt too fussy. Preferred romance option: PeeBee! Pls bioware let my daughter smooch her! If not maybe Cora? If not, i'll just have to see who she gets along with best. Relationship with Alec & Sibling (Do they get along? ect.): Both of the twins are quite 'meh' on Alec, they were held at an arms length from their father during their teen years and now he expects them to be the new pathfinders and take on whatever roles that comes with. Despite this, they still love their Dad and they do have those cute family moments. Lennox and Lukas though, are as thick as thieves and get along really really well. They can be found doing the occasional prank on their teammates around the tempest. Projected BFF (The squad mate who isn’t bae but you still take everywhere) Hmm probably Liam! I think Lennox would really want him to teach her how to use dual Omni blades and i also think she would really get along with Peebee (if she doesnt end up romancing her theyd definitely be bffs) Dreams/Hobbies/Likes: She is OBSESSED with animal crackers to the point were she hoards them in her cabin. The team tried to hold an intervention but to no avail. Lennox is also the more adventurous one out of the twins and managed to convince her brother to sign up for the initiative. As for Dreams? She always wanted to explore space and learn more about the cukture of the other alien species. Fears/Dislikes: She HATES tomatoes and getting up early. She is the definition of a night owl and can be found sitting with her brother watching stupid cat videos in the kitchen at 3am Other (What else should we know about your Ryder): Lennox is a pretty laid-back individual and will take everything in her step. She's really good at improvising on the spot and can make the best out of any situation. Lennox can seem fairly cold and distant at first but when she opens up she never shuts up. The girl loves puns and harasses the crew with dad jokes (the alien crew-members were confused at first but now they hate them as much as the humans do.) After every mission Lennox can be seen lounging around the tempest in fluffy reaper socks. -------------- Name: Lukas Ryder Gender: Male Ethnicity: Half Scottish/ Half Spanish Eye Color: Yellow Hair Color/Description: Dyed White/ Ash blonde, quite short on the sides but slightly longer at the top Skin ( Colour, blemishes, tattoos, scars etc) He's quite tanned and makes his sister look like a ghost in comparison. Lukas has freckles that dust the bridge of his nose and a long, jagged scar that goes from the bottom of his left thumb all the way to around his elbow. (He got this from accidentally missing a piece of metal he was tinkering with and cutting himself instead. Misc physical attributes: N/A Preferred romance option: I really dont know for him, guess we'll have to see Relationship with Alec & Sibling (Do they get along? ect.) As mentioned above, he and his sister, Lennox are quite distant to their father. Lukas and Lennox are partners in crime though and were attached at the hip for most of their childhood/teen years. Projected BFF (The squad mate who isn’t bae but you still take everywhere) Hmm Drack! Lukas would love the grouchy Uncle. Dreams/Hobbies/Likes: Lukas loves loves loves tech! He spends hours upon hours tinkering with ways to improve weapons and armour or the Tempest in general. He signed onto the initiative hoping to have a more tech role than the pathfinder role. Fears/Dislikes: the poor boy occasionally gets travel sick - especially when they go at light-speed. Other (What else should we know about your Ryder): Lukas is dyslexic and needs special tinted yellow glasses to help him read! These glasses also help him when he's building stuff/ spending a lot of time around screens as the yellow lenses helps combat against the blue light. Face Claims: Lennox = Alejandra Alonso Lukas = Xavier Serrano (might change in the future *shrugs* )

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Slip Up|Part Two|Mace

Grace's arm tightened around Mamrie's mid-section as she continued to use the red head as her crutch. Trying to stand up on her own had proven fruitless, as thick dizzy spells would wash over her with a small warmth that came with taking as many pain killers as they administered.

"Mamrie?" Grace whispered, her head resting on the girls warm chest, hearing the loud thumping of her heart against her rib cage "Why is your heart so freaking loud?"

Mamrie grunted under Grace's weight as she pushed the elevator button, breathing in the sterile air of the hospital hallway. She was starting to regret the refusal of the wheelchair as her arms ached and burned from the extra weight. "Because I am carrying your ass down to the car."

"You have a nice ass," Grace mumbled into the girls shoulder, causing Mamrie to glance over accusingly, shock on her lips as Grace seemed to stand up straight at her own words, her head quickly pounding in response.

Mamrie shook her head, wishing the warmth would return, but thankful Grace could stand on her own two feet now, even if she was leaning back to get a better look at Mamrie's backside, a goofy grin on her lips.

Usually, they wouldn't administer any type of morphine, but Grace fought teeth and nail until one of the doctors got a chance to stab the top of her hand with an IV. After a few minutes of fighting to get the needle from her skin- she immediately calmed down, looking at the lights on the ceiling as the nurse stitched up the cut that ran across her forehead.

"Nice butt." Grace reiterated her statement as she cockily crossed her arms over her chest.

"You've mentioned," Mamrie chuckled as the elevator doors sprung open with a loud beep, making Graces eyes widen as the taller girl put her hand back around Grace's waist, leading her into the small space.

"I hate elevators."

"I hate the thought of dragging your ass down three flights of stairs."

Grace raised an eyebrow as the red head pushed the button for the ground floor, Grace rocking back and forth on her feet as she hummed along to the song- even if she was a few beats off.

"What the fuck." She mumbled, looking down at her hands in the fluorescent lights of the elevator. Mamrie glanced over at the girl, an amused grin on her lips.

"What is it Grace?"

"I'm gay."

"Huh?" Mamrie crossed her arms over her chest, curious to see where this was going. She never really questioned Grace's sexual preferences, just assuming if Grace brought home a guy, or a girl, she'd be okay with it. But neither of them had brought anyone home.

"I'm so fucking gay, I think." She looked over at Mamrie "I wouldn't like your butt so much if I wasn't."

"Grace," Mamrie chuckled as the doors opened again, the delirious Grace strutting out into the lobby like it was her job "for your information, everyone likes my ass. Not just a drugged up you."

"Yeah, well." Grace shrugged walking slightly ahead of Mamrie. The red head would be worried about her running off, but everyone and everything started to distract her. The lights on one of the trees, the door to the staircase, hell, she even focused on the security guards badge for a good five minutes before Mamrie got a chance to drag her out to the parking lot.

The ride back to the dorms was even more of an adventure to Grace- her wanting to read every road sign that passed in a whirl. She wanted to stop for fries- and frankly, Mamrie was tempted to as well, seeing as neither of them had eaten since breakfast that morning.

Mamrie decided quickly against it, knowing that it was better to just get her roommate back up to bed- which she did after a lot of struggle, even snapping at Grace to get her attention at some points.

She closed the door to the dorm behind them, completely forgetting about the bug, or the bloodied floor that was covered in water and dirt. The area still smelled like soap, the pixie lights still illuminating the space.

Mamrie moved Grace over to her bed, peeling back the girls grey comforter. She directed Grace to lay down in the bed, the girl finally cooperating as she snuggled deep into the mattress, hugging her pillow tightly into her chest.

Mamrie started to make her way over to her own bed, exhaustion washing over her. She pulled her bra off through her shirt sleeve, her eyes growing heavy.

"Mames."

"Grace,"

"I'm lonely."

"You're drugged."

"Come over here." Grace made a lot of noise as she scooted close to the brick wall, leaving a space for Mamrie. The red head turned around carefully, letting out a sigh. "Please Mames, I'm cold."

"You are absolutely relentless." Mamrie responded.

"I don't know what that word means." Grace grumbled as Mamrie smiled.

Despite her conscience telling her differently, every cell in her body practically begged her to get into that bed with Grace. Mamrie was cold, Mamrie wanted to be close to someone, even if that someone was captivated by a string of Christmas lights nailed to the wall.

She climbed into the bed next to Grace, pulling the covers over her cold mostly bare legs, her sweat pants rolled up to her knees as she still kept quite a distance from Grace, not really breathing out fully as she felt hot air on her collarbone.

Grace cleared her throat dramatically as Mamrie stared at a few little plastic stars that were glued to the ceiling, a green neon glow coming from them. She glance over at the blonde.

"What?"

"you're still far away," Grace pouted "and I'm still cold."

"Alright, alright," Mamrie mumbled scooting a few inches closer, her legs feeling the heat of Grace's. She didn't say a word as Grace snaked her hand around Mamrie's mid section , snuggling deep into the girls' side as she breathed in the scent of lavender and different spices she couldn't comprehend.

Mamrie stiffened, but eventually faded into the warm touch as Grace dug her head into the nave of Mamrie's neck, her hair ticking the girls' collarbone once more. Mamrie breathed in, listening to Grace's soft snoring as the blonde finally fell into a deep sleep.

The sun streamed through the one small window that was carved into the dorm room wall, it's warm rays shining into Mamrie's eyes as she snuggled herself closer into Grace's shoulder, her arm draped lazily over the girl as her palm rested on the small strip of skin that was near Grace's raised t-shirt.

"I broke my face," the blonde finally grumbled, her whole body seeming to creak as she turned around to face Mamrie. There was a thick bruise around the stitches in her eyebrow, the purple and black fading to a sickly yellow color as it got to the edge of her hairline. "And got into bed with you,"

She shook her head as Mamrie just stared, blinking at her a few times "I'm sorry, Mamrie, I don't really know what came over me."

"Morphine." Mamrie yawned, but didn't bother moving away from her roommate.

"Oh," Grace replied "I don't remember..."

"You said a lot of things." Mamrie smirked slightly "Like how fucking gay you were. And how good my ass looks."

"Oh." Grace repeated, "oh, oh my god." She raised her hand to her eyes, flinching as her fingers brushed across the stitches. "Oh my god I'm mortified."

She sat up on her elbow, shaking her head as she avoided eye contact with Mamrie, knowing that the girl was grinning as she chuckled loudly, sitting up as she crossed her legs in front of her. She pressed her back against the headboard, Grace's eyes shyly moving towards Mamrie as her arm started to lose feeling from balancing her weight on it.

"Don't worry about it," Mamrie smirked, "It was nice being complimented."

"Still mortified." Grace sat up herself, scooting up next to Mamrie as she rested her hands in her lap. A few seconds of silence crept by "I really said I was gay?"

"Audibly." Mamrie nodded "to anyone that would listen. I'm pretty sure you broke the security guards heart in two when you flirted with him, only to shout out how gay you were on the way out the doors."

"I can never show my face there again," Grace put her head against the surface behind her. "Are you shocked?"

"Hm" Mamrie turned her head to the side, her eyes soft. "That you're gay, or that you're so good in bed."

Grace's eyes widened as she sat up straight, "Did we sleep together?"

Mamrie stayed quiet, her face hard.

"Mamrie Lillian Hart, did I take my clothes off in front of you last night?"

Mamrie broke into a smile, letting out a small laugh as Grace sighed in relief, slumping her shoulders "Grace, no offense, but you couldn't even walk into the room without staring at the lights and talking about how each one was special."

"hey, they're like snowflakes," Grace shook her head "besides, if we ever did sleep together, I'd like to remember it."

This caught Mamrie's attention, but the blonde seemed to turn her gaze away, a slight blush filling her cheeks. For the first time in a while, Mamrie felt the absolutely overwhelming sensation of needing someone in her arms. Needing someone to press her lips against.

Mamrie needed Grace.

She moved her hand up towards Grace's jaw line, tracing her finger across the stone cut feature as she turned the blondes gaze towards her "You what?" she whispered.

"I'd like to remember it," Grace responded in the same hushed manor. "If that's okay with you."

Mamrie glanced at Grace's pale lips, knowing that she wanted them all to herself as her warm thumb moved across Grace's flushed cheek. She moved forward, crashing her lips onto Graces as the blonde drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening before she folded into the embrace, her hands running through Mamrie's long red hair as she deepened the encounter.

She was the first to pull away, her lungs screaming for air as she pressed her forehead against Mamrie's both girls panting after the sudden and willed contact.

"How do you feel?" Mamrie breathed out, her air hot on Grace's neck.

"Like I could remember everything."

[esthermeronobaro]

I <3 SLC: Beautiful Godzilla Out

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 21.

Hey guys, this is my last Beautiful Godzilla column. I’m moving to New York City to dedicate my life to pizza.  

I’ve thought a lot about what I wanted to write here, in this space, for the very last time—something smart and meaningful and funny, of course, but all I could think about was how much I’m gonna miss this city.  

So, those of you who claim your home elsewhere (even if you only lived in California for six months back when you were two years old), pick up a trusty ole beater from the Bicycle Collective, sign up for some volunteer hours while you’re there, and let me lead you through a verbal tour of Salt Lake City as a precursor to your next bike adventure. The next time someone asks you where you’re from, I hope you’ll jump up and down screaming “SLC!” after proving you’re not hiding a Mormon demon tail.  

Everybody’s Salt Lake is a little different, waxing and waning as you meet new people, get a good tip on a restaurant you’ve never been to, or fall asleep on TRAX one day and end up adopted by juggalos. 

Mine runs the square area between 2100 South to about 4th Ave (too lazy to ride up that hill any farther), 900 West to 900 East (ditto). The mountains sure are pretty to look at, but there’s fucking snow up there, you crazy bastards! 

I felt like an outsider for a long time in this town—not ’cause I had anywhere else to call home, but because I felt a disconnect with my surroundings, especially living in the bubble that is university life (one in every four college students has an STD, FYI). That all changed the first time I hopped on a road bike (I did get saddle sores, though …). Cycling makes a city feel like it belongs to you, like you know and understand it in a way that maybe you didn’t before. I’m sure that there are other things that can contribute to a true sense of residence, like fireworks and an inbred pioneer heritage, but there’s nothing like the bicycle—the perfect machine.  

Salt Lake City became mine the first Midnight Mass I ever attended, about six years ago in the middle of a dry winter day. We rode all the way out to Sugar House, bombing hills on our way back as I gripped the handlebars in silent terror, thinking I was sure to fly over them if I were to hit the smallest scar in the asphalt. 

Chris Ginzton practiced his Spanish on me the whole ride, and as the adrenaline numbed my fear, I thought, “This is beautiful.” Or maybe it was, “He is beautiful … ” 

As I attended more and more events, I felt my confidence grow, and not just in my cycling abilities. Critical Mass, as chaotic as it seemed at times, provided an outlet for the peaceful protester inside of me that I had been too scared to express before then, because you know that prison bitches would go apeshit over my butt—just ask my lil’ lesbo sis, Carla, who shares my “jeans” and is practically rolling in vaginas. I always looked forward to riding through the Gateway, a tall bike at my side, Zed’s boombox spitting cheesy ’90s rap, and bike bells ringing like a hundred wind chimes in a maddening gust as pedestrians gawked at us and cars honked impatiently. Those days, rides would often end at the top of the Walker Center as the sun set, with anyone we hadn’t dropped off at a bar passing around flasks of wine and whiskey, taking turns testing out the freak bikes among us. The view alone—an eyeful of historic buildings and dirty alleyways juxtaposed with contemporary architecture and modern street art, tinged by this city’s many Instagram-worthy sunsets—makes you feel like you’re doing something right.  

Then there was the afternoon I came face to face—or perhaps frame to door—with my mortality. It was one of those days when the air hits your face like ice water, but the sun’s so bright it reaches under your skin to warm you from the inside out—the only appropriate outfit for that weather is one of those fluorescent green, full-body suits. Had I been wearing mine that day, perhaps things would’ve turned out a little different, but I was conveniently wearing a helmet, otherwise this column would just be a slobber smear. I hit the ground hard on my back, facing a car whose door was cracked wide open, gasping for breath as pedestrians rushed to my side. I’ve always been a careful cyclist—though perhaps a bit insane riding two years without brakes—but always aware of my surroundings, and that experience shook me even more than when I found out Santa was my parents, and they were broke. Riding hasn’t been the same since, and sometimes my back seizes up, but that motherfucker had to replace his entire windshield, and the spooked look on his face makes me believe he’ll be glancing at his side-view mirror before he gets out of his car for the rest of his life.  

I’m excited and nervous about riding in NYC. I think my FBG status will go over well with the cabbies, but I’ve heard the pedestrians are a nightmare—a plague of pede-philes, so to speak. 

Still, when it comes to cycling, this city will always be home, whether I see it again or not—whether, at the end of my life, I’ve spent more years in other places that aren’t here. The bicycle community here has raised me into adulthood, supported me and helped me turn a life that would’ve felt like I was holding my breath for eternity into one where I breathe real deep and make that “refreshed” sound as I breathe out. So annoying. 

I’ll be cruisin’ with Bike Snob soon, and won’t be around to push you down the hill, but there are plenty of fine people in this community who can help you out. In addition to the obvious, the adventurous James Miska is out to start Salt Lake Bicycle Tours, with the mission to show residents and visitors around this city and its magical spots. “My inspiration for it came from having consistently biked around this town for the past nine years, always going to cool places, and wanting to show those cool places to cool people,” he says. Hit him up over at saltlakebicycletours.com. 

The SLCo Bicycle Ambassadors Program is another relatively new way to stick your toe into cycling, providing one-on-one mentorships that are like commuter training wheels, and you can find them at facebook.com/slcobike. Jack Lasley, the BA’s Program Coordinator, summed it all up real nice, saying: 

“When you ride a bike, you fully inhabit the city. Everything becomes familiar as you begin to notice the details... 

You might avoid the same daily pothole as you did in your car, but on your bike, you notice that it has a yellow lighter inside and you have time to wonder how it got there. You learn that certain blocks have distinct smells and sounds. That every street and intersection feels differently. You start to navigate by names and faces, rather than by numbers and distance. You begin to develop rewarding relationships with strangers, even though most only last seconds or minutes. You have time to wave and smile as you pass another bicyclist or have a quick chat as you both wait at the traffic light. You start to feel like you have friends you haven’t even met yet.”  

Come send me off in style on May 17, celebrating Velo City Bags’ grand reopening with the Clue Cat IV, some Blue Copper coffee, live music and the world premiere of Salty Spokes’ Bad Girls. See details at facebook.com/velocitybags.slc. It’s been real. #FBG4LYFE