#ive had to essentially pin him a couple times for his own good to give him eye drops for an eye infection

[coloursofaparadox]

lil rant about dog training oops

[whump-me]

Whumptober Day 25: Buried Alive

This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: male whumpee, claustrophobia, isolation, surveillance, thoughts of death, panic attack

Words: 2200

---

Joaquin might have thought they had mistaken him for dead and stuck him in a coffin, if not for the air softly hissing in from vents near the top of the rectangular box. The dead didn't have much use for fresh air.

Or for light, come to think of it. The walls, made of some hard plastic that was cool to the touch, all gave off an eye-searing glow. The light came from all directions, making shadows impossible. It seemed like a mercy right now—the one thing worse than being buried alive would be being buried alive in the dark. He doubted it would feel like such a mercy when a couple of days had gone by and he needed to sleep.

If he could bring himself to sleep in what was essentially a high-tech coffin. Light or no, air or no, it was hard to think of it as anything else.

The space was small enough that if he stretched to his full height, his head hit one end and his bare feet the other. They must have stripped him while he was unconscious. He was bare naked now, without so much as a pair of boxers.

He sure hoped no one had cameras in here.

Well, at least his lack of clothes would be make cleanup easier for them if once they left him in here long enough for him to piss himself. Come to think of it, that was probably why they’d stripped him. Either that, or they just liked seeing him squirm.

They intend to leave him in here a good long time. He knew because of the IV line in the crook of his elbow. The thin tube disappeared through a small hole in the wall. When he had first woken up, he had almost ripped it out.

He had thought better of it at the last minute. Whatever was in there, it wasn't a sedative, or he wouldn't have woken up at all. And PERI didn’t have a power-suppressing drug, despite decades of trying to create one, which meant it wasn’t that either.

So it was probably meant to keep him alive. And if he took it out, who knew if anyone would come along to replace it? He was guessing his captors were deathly afraid of getting close to him—that had to be why they had stuck him in here in the first place.

They already knew what he could do. They knew what would happen if they got too close.

If the IV came out, they might not want to risk getting close enough to put it back in—and who could blame them? So he left it in, because he didn't much feel like dying of dehydration in here.

Not yet, at least. Give it a few days, and he might feel differently.

The air smelled like grave dirt. That was how he knew he was underground. Whatever high-tech materials they had put between him and the cold earth, it wasn't enough to keep out the smell. It smelled like rotting things. It smelled like his grandfather's funeral.

He wondered how long it would take for his friends to hold a funeral for him.

No. He wouldn't let it get that far. He'd be out of here before then. He swallowed down a surge of panic—it wouldn't help him any. All it would do was use up his air—maybe faster than the vents could replace it. Despite the constant hissing of the ventilation system, his brain told him air was in short supply down here.

He reached out with his mind. All he needed was one other mind within reach. Just one. If he could slip into their gray matter, if he could make his thoughts their own, they would become his ally, his worker ant. They could get him out of here.

And then he could go home.

But he found nothing but dead air. There was no one within reach. That meant he had to be at least fifty feet down. Maybe further.

His breathing quickened. The slick plastic under him grew damp with sweat.

He wasn't asking much. Just to get free; just to go home. Revenge could come later. Or not at all, for all he cared.

If he was right about who had done this to him, then he’d be going up against them soon enough once he got out of here—but only because that was the cause he had devoted his life to. If he never found the specific facility that was holding him right now, if he never found the people who had jabbed the needle full of sedative into his neck, it didn't matter. He didn't care about vengeance.

He just wanted to go home.

Please, just let me go home.

He was bargaining, he realized. One of the five stages of grief. He had skipped right past denial—hard to deny what's happening to you when you hit your head on the ceiling trying to sit up. And he had passed through anger already, slamming his fists uselessly against the ceiling. He had the bruises to show for it.

What was next? Depression? And then acceptance.

Fuck that.

His breathing grew faster and more ragged. He quested out with his mind again. Maybe if he reached just a little further—maybe if he stretched just a little harder—

Nothing.

He had never been this alone in his life.

Ever since he could remember, he had sensed the minds around him, like a steady stream of traffic. He had learned quickly enough not to slip behind the driver's seat of any of those cars unless he was invited. His father had been Enhanced too, with the same ability as him—a genetic rarity, for an identical ability to be inherited like that. It meant his father had understood the risk of Joaquin getting an early taste of the kind of power he could command.

So his father had taught him the rules and made sure he never strayed from them. Joaquin had resented his uncompromising code at first. Now that it was too late to tell him, he appreciated that early instruction.

He only made exceptions for PERI.

And it was PERI who had him. He knew it as surely as he knew his captors wanted him alive. The Psi Enhancement Research Initiative was the government-funded initiative that used people like him for their own purposes, whether that meant black ops or genetic research… and killed them outright when they couldn't be controlled. Joaquin had learned about them the day they’d come around with a job offer for his father. He had been hiding in a closet five feet away when his father had refused the offer and they had killed him on the spot.

He'd been a kid then, still, although he had thought he was all grown up.

The people who would become his friends had found him only a couple of hours later, in the closet where he was shivering in his wet pants. They had gotten a tip about the next Enhanced the PERI recruiters were after. They had been just a little too late.

Maybe Joaquin should have been mad that they hadn't gotten there sooner. But he had just been grateful they didn't want him dead.

They had given him a choice. He could go into hiding, take a new name, keep his power hidden as best he could. Or he could join them, and devote his life and his ability to fighting PERI with them, so that someday the Enhanced could come out of hiding without fear of being used or murdered.

Back then, that goal had still sounded within reach. Back then, he had disregarded their warnings about how joining them would likely lead to a short life with a brutal end.

But he didn't regret his choice, even now. All he regretted was that they hadn't killed him like his father. That they had trapped him in here instead. That he looked useful enough for them to take the risk.

Maybe dying of dehydration wouldn't be so bad after all.

But he didn't rip the IV out.

He didn’t know why. Maybe because he was weak. Because he wanted to go home. Because some part of him was still that naive and hopeful kid, and he hadn't given up hope yet.

I just want to go home.

Just let me go home.

And then he was slamming his bruised knuckles against the ceiling again. A scream echoed off the close walls, hoarse and desperate. His own scream.

The ceiling didn't budge. Only silence answered him.

But he couldn't stop. Even when he felt something in his hand crack. Even when his voice broke.

His screams turned into words. "What’s the point of this?" he yelled in a broken voice. "Are you going to leave me in this box forever?"

He paused. With effort, he lowered his hand back down to his side.

His heart slammed against his rib cage like it, too, wanted its freedom.

The echoes faded. Nobody answered him.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. That unexpected burst of frantic energy had faded, leaving quiet emptiness in its wake. The beginning of despair, maybe. A hint at what was to come.

"What good will I do you under here?" he asked. "You can't recruit me if you won’t talk to me. You can't cut me up in one of your labs and figure out how to make more of me if no one is brave enough to get close."

No answer.

"You're all a bunch of cowards." His voice was almost a whisper. "You don't even have the guts to kill me."

No answer. He hadn't expected one. They were too cowardly even for that.

The bottom wall pressed against his feet. The top seemed to squeeze his head, compressing his neck. Was the box getting smaller?

No. The walls weren’t actually closing in on him. It was an illusion. Otherwise, his he would have had to bend his knees by now.

But it felt real. Just like it felt like his air was running out all of a sudden—like he couldn't draw a full breath. His breathing quickened. He took short, shallow gasps, like a fish.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His heartbeat didn't slow down.

"If you're that afraid of me," he said, each word growing louder until his voice became a shout, "you might as well kill me now!"

No answer.

The frantic energy came over him again. His fist swung at the ceiling over and over—slam, slam, slam. A sharp burst of pain reverberated all the way to his wrist with every useless hit. But he couldn't stop.

He was trapped. He was alone. He was buried alive. He had to get out of here, he had to get out…

The frantic energy overtook him, and his spiraling thoughts scattered into nothing.

Up above, in the small PERI satellite facility purpose-built for difficult prisoners, no one was aware of Joaquin’s screams or his useless flailing. They didn't have the cameras on, or the speakers, either. There wasn't any point yet—they already knew how he would react.

For now, they only monitored his vital signs. Currently, he showed elevated levels of anxiety, entirely within expected parameters. The first phase was proceeding as planned.

One of the watchers flipped the speaker on, purely out of curiosity. He winced and turned down the volume.

The prisoner wasn't begging for death. Not yet. In a few days, he would be. Maybe a week. Maybe slightly less.

Once the begging started, they would know he was one step closer to ready.

If their models held true, then once he stopped begging for death, he would start begging to work with them, if only because it would mean an end to his isolation. At first, he wouldn't mean it—he would plan to double-cross them at the first opportunity. After a day or two—not that he would be able to keep track of time by then—his offer would be genuine.

He still wouldn't be ready to release. Not yet. But he would be close.

Once he was incoherent, then they would know he was ready. Then they could mold him into the weapon they needed.

From what they knew of his childhood, he already had practice at following strict rules for his ability. That was good. All they had to do was replace his father's rules with their own.

And all they had to do for that was to break down his will until nothing remained.

Through the watcher’s speakers, Joaquin’s rough voice vowed, "I don't know what you want from me, but I'll never give it to you."

Not yet.

But he would.

The watcher flicked the speaker off again.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoidd @gala1981

Ask to be added or removed from my Whumptober 2023 taglist.

[morganaspendragonss]

holly's august extravaganza day 26: slowly becoming lovers

for sonia (@pragmaticoptimist34)! i have to confess something - i got so caught up in writing this that i actually forgot to include either of the other two prompts you sent me 🙈 i hope you like it anyway!

second confession - it was supposed to be longer and then it kind of got away from me so i had to draw a line somewhere oops

thanks to @ravens-words, @cosmiicmalex, @halsteadmarchs and liz (sorry, i don't know your tumblr!) for enabling me and to @noxsoulmate for beta'ing!

ao3 | 2.9k | falling in love, fluff, tiny, tiny hint of hurt/comfort, soft tarlos, set between s1 and s2

Things don’t get fixed overnight. They agree to give them a shot, but that doesn’t change the fact that TK is still reeling from his break-up and overdose, nor that Carlos is still hesitant and afraid of pushing too hard at once.

But, slowly, they get to know each other. And, slowly, they start to fall in love.

i. food preferences

“You have to be joking.”

“It tastes like soap, Carlos!”

Carlos groans and drops his head into his hands, shaking his head at this latest revelation from his boyfriend. His boyfriend, who has just made his life—or at least his cooking—a hell of a lot more complicated. “My mamá would have a fit if she could hear you now.”

He almost regrets the words as TK’s eyes alight with interest; he’s been dancing around the topic of his parents for a while now, but it’s not like he can deny what he said. His mom would be having a fit, or possibly attempting to kill TK with a wooden spoon, if she found out that Carlos’s boyfriend was not only a gringo, but one who hates coriander.

“I swear, you won’t even taste it when it’s mixed into the food,” he tries, because coriander is a staple of his cooking, and he can’t even fathom not using it.

But TK just levels him with a firm look. “Yes, I will, Carlos. I’ll always taste it.”

Carlos rolls his eyes at his boyfriend’s theatrics, but sighs, relenting. “Fine. I suppose I can—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as TK throws his arms around him and plants a noisy kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, grinning cheekily.

“Yeah, yeah,” Carlos grumbles, but he can’t help but smile.

There’s very little, he’s finding, that he wouldn’t do for TK.

ii. nicknames

It slips out by accident one day.

“TK,” Carlos groans, followed by a gasp as TK moves just right, sending sparks of pleasure down his spine. “TK, Ty—”

TK instantly freezes on top of him and Carlos’s eyes open, concern rising in him as he takes in the pensive look on his boyfriend’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…” TK shakes his head and forces a smile. “It’s nothing. I’m good, I promise.” He ducks down to kiss Carlos again, but the mood is all wrong, and Carlos gently pushes him back, raising an eyebrow. TK holds out a moment longer, then sighs and rolls away, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s stupid.”

Carlos tuts, reaching over to brush a hand through TK’s hair. “Bet you $20 it’s not.”

“Hope you have $20 then, Reyes,” TK says wryly. He looks over at Carlos and sighs again, biting his lip. “It’s just… You called me Ty.”

“Oh.” Carlos’s eyes widen and he props himself up on an elbow. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking; it won’t happen again—”

TK presses a finger against his lips, cutting him off abruptly. He smiles softly, then removes his finger and caresses Carlos’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he says. “More than okay, actually. I… I’ve always hated my name, but, I don’t know, I guess it sounded right? Like, when you said it? I think I’d kill anyone else who tried, but I really liked it coming from you.”

“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that because—”

Carlos is again cut off, this time by TK’s lips on his. TK moves so that he’s straddling Carlos again, hands pressed against his chest. “I’m sure,” he whispers, a grin playing at his mouth. “Now, weren’t we in the middle of something?”

iii. religion

Christmas sneaks up on him that year. Between helping the city recovering from the solar storm, work in general, the pandemic, and building his relationship with TK, Carlos has completely lost track of the months, until it’s a week before the date and he has nothing planned.

Really, it’s never been a big deal for him; he and his family used to attend mass and make an event out of it when he was a kid, but now he’s an adult, he’s often working, and he hasn’t been to church regularly since he was a teenager. But this year is different. This year, he’ll be spending it with TK, their first Christmas together, and he wants to make it special.

But he’s left it too late—nothing he orders online will arrive in time, the shops are becoming a nightmare, and he honestly has no clue where to even start. So Carlos resigns himself to another quiet Christmas, frustration and disappointment welling in him at the thought of telling his boyfriend.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out one night over dinner, the thought having been gnawing at him for days.

TK raises a brow. “For?”

“Christmas,” Carlos sighs, looking down into his stew. “It’s our first one together and I had all these plans, and then I just sort of… I didn’t forget! But things have been so crazy, and—”

He’s cut off when TK lays a hand on his. When Carlos looks up at him, TK seems to be fighting back laughter, which is confusing at best and potentially mildly insulting at worst.

“Babe,” TK says, grinning, “it’s okay. You might not believe me, but I forgot too. Christmas wasn’t really a thing growing up—my mom’s Jewish, so I used to celebrate Hanukkah on the years I stayed with her, and Dad was working more often than not. I don’t care, I promise.”

Carlos blinks. “You’re Jewish?” Surely he would know if… But they’ve never discussed religion before, and Carlos had kind of assumed TK had the same ideals as him about the church. In hindsight that was stupid and presumptuous, and Carlos can’t quite believe he’d do something like that. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but TK just shrugs, going back to his stew.

“Half,” he says. “I don’t really practice anymore but I still keep the beliefs with me, if that makes sense?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

TK smiles at him, and Carlos suddenly realises that this holiday season will be special after all, even if they don’t celebrate anything. Because he’s with TK, which is the most special thing in the world.

iv. how they sleep

Carlos has been sleeping alone for a long time. He’s had a couple of short-term boyfriends and the odd hook-up here and there, but he’s never had someone else in his bed regularly—certainly not regularly enough to get used to it.

TK was hesitant at first to stay over, but once he started to be more comfortable, it was almost a given that they’d be sleeping together whenever their shifts allowed.

And it had been an adjustment.

TK had warned him he tended to move around and be clingy in his sleep, but Carlos hadn’t quite understood what that meant, until now. He is, essentially, trapped under TK, his arms pinned to his sides and one leg thrown over his hip. TK’s head is pillowed on Carlos’s shoulder and his breath is fanning in soft puffs over his skin.

The only way he can move is if he wakes TK up, and there’s no way Carlos is going to do that. His boyfriend looks so peaceful, and Carlos is more than happy to be clung onto like a koala to a branch if it keeps that expression on his face.

In fact, he thinks he can get used to this very easily.

v. pda

In private, their days are filled with gentle touches and stolen kisses. Carlos will be cooking breakfast and TK will slip his arms around him, kissing the back of his neck. TK will be doing one chore or another and Carlos will brush a hand over his back or gently nudge him as he walks past.

But in public, it’s a whole other story.

It’s almost reflexive, the way TK reaches for Carlos’s hand as they’re walking down the street. It’s something they do all the time at home, and even with their friends, but this time, Carlos immediately tenses, seemingly automatically pulling his hand away.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning.

Carlos takes a deep breath, then obviously plasters on a smile, retaking TK’s hand—and TK can feel the tension in the gesture. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” TK gently lets go of Carlos and smiles reassuringly up at him. “It’s okay if you’re not comfortable with touching in public.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. This is all on me; I should have asked.”

“But—”

“But, nothing.” He carefully bumps their soldiers together. “You’re entitled to your boundaries, I’m just sorry for overstepping. Tell me next time, please?”

Carlos hesitates, but nods, a gentle press of their arms a silent acknowledgment of agreement and understanding.

vi. scars

Carlos, TK has noticed, likes to pay extra attention to his bullet scar. Whether it’s pressing a gentle kiss over it when they’re in bed, or brushing it with his fingers when wrapping an arm around him, it happens too often for TK to believe it’s anything but intentional.

He doesn’t understand it at first.

Then he discovers Carlos’s own scars.

“What’s this?” he asks, tracing over the thick raised scarring on Carlos’s side. It stretches along the curve of his waist and round his back, and TK has no idea how he hasn’t noticed it before.

Carlos cranes his neck, letting out a hum when he sees what TK’s looking at. His head flops back down on the pillow and he closes his eyes, absently stroking up and down TK’s sides.

“It was...three years ago, maybe?” he says. “I got stabbed on a call. They told me it was pretty touch-and-go for a while, but they fixed me up and I was back at work in a month.”

His eyes are still closed, body completely relaxed, but TK can’t take his eyes off the scar. He reaches up to his own scar, and he gets it.

Carlos’s eyes crack open. “TK?”

“I’m good,” TK murmurs. He breaks his gaze from Carlos’s abdomen and smiles at him. “We both are.”

And if, after that day, Carlos notices him paying more attention to that scar, he doesn’t say anything.

vii. penguin or panda

“You’re out of your mind!”

In Carlos’s defence, a zoo date had seemed like a good idea. He knows TK loves animals, and he himself grew up around them, so in theory, a trip to Austin Zoo should have been the perfect time to get to know each other better while enjoying the day.

Turns out, TK has some very strong opinions on animals, and is willing to budge for absolutely no-one.

“I can’t believe you think penguins are cuter than pandas! I mean, look at them, Carlos!” He gestures emphatically to the panda enclosure, where one is napping on a log. It’s pretty cute, Carlos has to admit, but…

He shrugs. “But remember when the penguins were all huddling together?”

TK makes a noise of outrage, and Carlos has to laugh, then some more at the wounded pout he gets for it. “Is this really a thing for you?” he asks. “Like, is this going to be the dealbreaker for us?”

TK folds his arms and levels him with a stern look. “That depends,” he says. “Meerkats or koalas?”

And, just because he knows it will rile TK up more, Carlos grins and answers, “Meerkats.”

(They don’t break-up over it, but Carlos isn’t so sure that TK will be forgiving him any time soon.)

viii. special interests

“Say you could go back to a moment in history, but only once,” TK says, out of the blue, breaking the comfortable silence of the front room. Carlos stops carding his fingers through TK’s hair and looks down at him, curious. “Where would you go?”

Carlos opens his mouth, but TK doesn’t give him a second to answer. “Is it cliché if I said I’d go to Stonewall? I mean, I’d really like to see dinosaurs in the flesh, or—oh! I was, like, obsessed with pirates as a kid; I thought they were the coolest things ever, and I pretty much idolised Anne Bonny. But I’m pretty sure I’d die immediately if I went to either of those places, so…”

He trails off, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Sorry, I’m boring you.”

“No!” Carlos rushes to say. “No, you’re not. I love history, I just… What makes you ask?”

“It’s something we got into at the station earlier. Mateo brought it up first, I think?”

Carlos hums, pursing his lips in thought. “I guess…” He sighs and shakes his head. “It’s too hard. There’s so many places I’d want to go and people I’d want to meet.”

“But if you had to pick?” TK pushes, sitting upright and looking at Carlos with interest.

“I really want to meet Eleanor of Aquitaine, but if I could only go to one place…” He hesitates and thinks it over some more, but then his eyes catch on the masks hanging along the stairway, and he’s sure. “Tenochtitlan, but before Cortés arrived. It was a whole society, and I just think it would be so cool to see it up close and to know what it was like first-hand. I mean, I’ve read a lot of books, but we don’t have much from the Mexica people, a lot is from the conquerors, and—”

Carlos stops and huffs a laugh. “Now I’m the one boring you,” he says, but TK shakes his head, eyes bright.

“Tell me more.”

ix. coffee order

TK accepts the coffee without even thinking about it, even taking a sip before he realises he never told Carlos what his order was. He curses himself but resolves to drink it anyway; TK isn’t too much of a coffee snob, and he’s certainly not going to reject anything his boyfriend brings him.

He takes a second sip, and he’s so caught up in making a mental note to tell Carlos next time that it takes a minute for the taste to register. And…

It’s his order.

He looks sharply up at Carlos, who is smiling into his own coffee—therefore dispelling any notion of this being an insanely good guess. “How did you know?” he asks, bewildered.

The tips of Carlos’s ears turn pink, but the smile doesn’t leave his face as he looks up at TK. “Our first real date,” he says. “You mentioned that this was your go-to order.”

And TK can’t do anything but stare, because their first date was weeks ago, and Carlos still remembered, and it’s just…

He thinks—no, he knows—he’s falling in love.

x. fears

“Weirdest fears, go.”

TK has to laugh at the perplexed look Carlos sends him at the question, the straw of his boba hanging out of his mouth. Now that they’ve figured a sort of rhythm out between them, they decided to try the boba place again—there have been no emergencies or disasters so far, so TK is counting it as a win.

“Come on,” he continues. “Last time we were here, you said we barely knew each other—which was true—so now we’re going to fix it.”

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “By telling each other our weirdest fears?”

“Exactly!” TK grins. “I’ll go first if you’re too chicken. Mine is slicing my hands open or cutting some fingers off with ice skates.”

“What?” Carlos breathes, disbelief all over his face. “I’ve never been ice skating but I’m pretty sure your hands aren’t supposed to go anywhere near the blades.”

“I didn’t say it was rational.” TK sips his boba, raising an eyebrow at Carlos. “Your turn.”

Carlos swallows, suddenly very interested in the table. “I, uh. When I was a kid, my Tía Lucy had a snake get into her pipes. She only discovered it when she went to the toilet one morning and it was just...sitting there in the bowl. I was terrified for years that the same would happen to us, and it’s kind of become a reflex to check.”

“Oh my god.” TK can’t help but burst out laughing, even though he feels bad for it as Carlos covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a real thing for you, I just…”

But Carlos’s shoulders are shaking too and, bizarrely, TK really does feel closer to him now.

It’s a good feeling.

xi. long-term commitments

Carlos is surprised when TK is the one to bring it up first.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks one day, head in Carlos’s lap, staring up at the ceiling.

Carlos pauses the show he’s technically supposed to be watching and quirks an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Sure,” he says. “What about the future exactly?”

TK hesitates, and his voice comes out a lot quieter when he next speaks. “Like…” He sighs, a small flush rising on his cheeks. “The future. Our future. Us. Maybe...marriage, or…”

He trails off, practically whispering by the end of it. His gaze has shifted from the ceiling to the frozen TV screen and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, body stiff with tension. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Forget about it.”

But Carlos is learning to read TK, and he knows he was looking for reassurance. “I mean, yeah,” he says. “I think about it. Do you?”

TK stares up at him, wonder in his eyes. “After New York, I thought… But yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They share a smile as they lock eyes, and Carlos knows that they’re on the same page here. That, distant though they may be, both of them can hear wedding bells in their future.

[lehcarrose]

10 and 18 for EVERYOOOOOOONE

ok ive been staring at this for ages here’s the whole magical dork squad

Georgia

10: their fashion sense

While Georgia’s an emo nightmare, she’s far from the biggest emo nightmare of the group, and she goes for function over form. Comfort is king! She does sometimes wear skinny jeans but only the super stretchy, super comfy kind. With pockets. She doesn’t own a single pair of pants/shorts without pockets. You have to have pockets, it’s mission critical

Nearly everything she owns is black, black and white, black and red etc. Lots of band-merch armbands, pins etc.

Dyes her (naturally brown) hair black but is pretty casual about maintaining it so she’s usually got roots showing. Doesn’t give even half a fuck about this.

She really likes how a lot of musicians she listen to dress, but acknowledges that would take too much effort to do in every day life so she doesn’t really try to emulate them.

18: how they sleep

Limbs everywhere, taking up as much space as possible, tossing and turning and fidgeting endlessly until she finally falls asleep. Does wake too easily, and can be a grumbly morning person, but she can wake up quickly if she needs to.

Everyone else under the cut bc this post is going to be very long

Tiff

10: their fashion sense

Tiff really likes long, flowy skirts! They aren’t really the best thing to wear for adventuring so she ends up in comfy jeans more often than not. In the summer she’ll wear them with tank tops, in the winter with sweaters. Doesn’t really like shorter skirts, or shorts for that matter.

Likes to wear her extremely curly hair down. In the summer that’s a bit warm so she’ll wear it up. Her hair is one of her favourite things about herself, so she likes to do it nicely, if simply.

18: how they sleep

She often lies there grumbling to herself because she can’t turn the brain off, so she ends up going over and re-going over conversations that didn’t go the right way, getting into arguments with her own imagination and so on. Usually sleeps on her side. Tends to get to sleep eventually - she’s better at not picking up the damned phone than some of her friends!

Leto

10: their fashion sense

Leto favours lighter colours and simpler designs. There are some fabrics she Just Can’t Stand, she just likes soft and comfy clothes, the textures of things like stiff polyester are just Hell to her.

She technically owns a lot of clothes because her adoptive father used to buy her so many things because he figured she’d like something, but she picked out her favourites and just wears them. Has a small collection of soft tees, a couple of jackets, and some pants in her room.

Does Not Like skirts or dresses. They Do Not Feel Right. She’ll wear shorts when it’s warm, as long as they’re inch-above-the-knee length or longer.

Usually wears her hair up in a simple ponytail.

18: how they sleep

Constantly shifting to find Optimal Pillow Temperature and Proper Sheet Texture. Some nights it takes her forever to even begin to contemplate falling asleep because she has to keep tweaking her position and making changes in pursuit of acceptable relaxing conditions.

Once she actually gets comfy she’s fine and falls asleep easily, but she can’t try to sleep if it’s wrong.

Lucas

10: their fashion sense

The true emo nightmare. The Aesthetic is all that matters. Black skinny jeans (rips strictly optional but often looked upon favourably), black band tees, hoodies, black Converses, even black eyeliner (which he is better at applying than Georgia, even though he just smudges it on).

He goes to the effort of straightening his hair, because he feels like his naturally wavy hair doesn’t fit into The Aesthetic and isn’t the Right Look (he is being an idiot about this). He dyed his hair black (he’s light blonde) when he was like, twelve, but it looked Awful TM. He’s learned. Also he ended up with a dyed hairline for like, a week? And Lachlan wouldn’t let it go? Not going through that again.

18: how they sleep

Usually, curled up in a tiny ball. Is a Big Dumb Idiot about his sleeping schedule so he’s often up on his phone until stupid o’clock in the morning.

Lachlan

10: their fashion sense

Hey you know how we all have that one friend with the somewhat concerning collection of goofy socks? Lachlan’s the sock friend.

Comfort is paramount. Memes are secondary. He has a lot of stupid shirts.

He has quite a few accessories he bought just because they made him laugh. He usually buys them in twos and tries to give them to Lucas but for some reason Lucas doesn’t want to wear Barbie: Life In The Dreamhouse hats and Hello Kitty watches.

That’s okay, Lachlan figures, he has other friends. (Georgia ends up with a lot of these things. So does Nina. Leto used to but Lachlan did notice Leto never wore them).

18: how they sleep

While he’s like Georgia in that his limbs will go anywhere and everywhere, Lachlan just goes completely dead weight.

Nina

10: their fashion sense

Bright colours with a slight pop-punk edge! Doesn’t usually care about pockets as she’s almost always got her neato bag of holding with her anyway.

Has some bleached streaks through her (naturally black) hair, and switches up the colours on them every couple of months. Favours purple and sunflower yellow.

Wears bright, loud makeup. Is dying to put makeup on her friends but most of them won’t let her. Keeps offering anyway. Lachlan JUMPS at the chance because that sounds like so much fun.

18: how they sleep

Hey Nina get off your phone and go to sleep.

Antonio

10: their fashion sense

He’s almost always wearing his long khaki jacket. He just. He likes it. He likes midwash blue straight-cut jeans. He likes comfy tees, usually in white. He has a few graphic tees related to things he likes, but he doesn’t like being asked about them by well-meaning strangers so he doesn’t often wear them.

18: how they sleep

Yeah if there’s more than like two or three people around, he doesn’t. AJ’s a light sleeper at the best of times. He’s Always Tired.

Dillon

10: their fashion sense

Tank tops ripped jeans runners DONE

Is it chilly? Add a flannel shirt and a beanie. Maybe a hoodie if Nina keeps bugging her about catching a cold.

18: how they sleep

Dillon’s a drooler. Flops face down on the bed, goes dead-to-the-world in three seconds, and snores and drools her way through the night.

Han-jae

10: their fashion sense

Han-jae takes pride in his style. He knows his colours - he looks great in muted navy, thank you. All his clothes fit well. They’re flattering. They’re well made and the fabrics are nice. Every item is well-maintained. He rocks his jeans.

He generally looks pretty understated but put-together! And he’s put a lot of effort into achieving that.

18: how they sleep

Yeah no he’s a dhampir,,

Kevin

10: their fashion sense

Likes things like light coloured loose tank tops with screen printed palm trees. Generally wears some sort of necklace. Beyond that he doesn’t really care and usually defaults to jeans/cotton shorts and runners/thongs (flip-flops) depending on the weather.

18: how they sleep

Look he knows that lucas never sleeps because he’s the person online chatting to him until three in the got damn morning

But kevin is that lucky asshole who can function perfectly on two hours of sleep and a pocket of dreams

He is a cryptid

And an important couple of folks who show up in book four but I’m including them anyway bc they become irreplacable members of The Squad

Finian

10: their fashion sense

Okay uh. Look. Finian’s style is a mess. He hasn’t had time to get used to what’s normal in terms of surface-dweller clothes. He’s new to being able to pick out his own.

Usually he runs around in big comfy hoodies in bright colours, and shorts with garish patterns. He’s still not sold on jeans. Track pants are nice, though.

Georgia will have harsh words with anyone who tries to make him feel bad about it

(Lucas and Sabina will eviscerate anyone who tries to make him feel bad about it)

18: how they sleep

Not… well……. He’s an extremely light sleeper, he’s twitchy, he has nightmares more often than not. Feels more secure in closed-in areas.

Sabina

10: their fashion sense

In terms of casual clothes, a well-fitting tee and a nice pair of jeans is good in her book.

But given she’s essentially a Magical Girl by night she is not afraid of the extravagant. When her outfits are made of magic she favours pink and gold and flowing ribbons and drapery. She’s not going to trip on it. Who do you think she is?

18: how they sleep

She doesn’t need to. That suits her fine.

[viralhottopics]

Sergio Garca shines at Masters to raise hopes of end to major drought

Sergio Garcas great talent was on display with birdies at Augustas first three holes in his second round: I want to make sure I keep riding that wave

If the weight of experience lurking with intent did not pose such a threat, this Masters could be characterised as a weekend chase for major number one.

Charley Hoffman, Sergio Garca, Thomas Pieters and Rickie Fowler head the event at half way on four under par. At differing ages, positions in world ranking and career victory levels, their combined major haul? Zero. Hoffman is the surprise package, Pieters the surly young pretender, Garca the routine bridesmaid and Fowler the form horse. Cases can be made for each of them but, crucially, for another 25 competitors, too.

The cavalry in pursuit includes Phil Mickelson, Jordan Spieth, Rory McIlroy, Justin Rose and Adam Scott. The leaders are not likely to enter relaxation mode.

Garcas case, in his 71st consecutive major, is without question the most fascinating. The late, great Seve Ballesteros, who lit up Augusta National when claiming two Green Jackets and triggering a European stampede on the Masters, should be celebrating his 60th birthday on Sunday. If Garca, forever linked to Ballesteros not only on grounds of Spanish nationality but the level of mesmerising talent as demonstrated from his youth, were to prevail here, one of the great golf storylines of our time would have unfolded. The Masters does have a habit of throwing them up.

Garca returned a terrific run, of 21 opening tournament holes without dropping a shot. On Friday he birdied Augustas first three for the first time. At the 12th he conjured up a bunker shot from a plugged lie that he considered hands down, the best of my career. So far, so good.

One must, nonetheless, give strong consideration to an alternative outcome, the sort Garca has become ominously accustomed to. Garca has never made much secret of his indifference towards Augusta National as a venue despite, it must be stressed, always insisting he tries his best to win here. Essentially Garca believes the Augusta set-up means even good shots are occasionally not properly rewarded.

Matters seemed to be conspiring against him on Friday as a scoreboard error meant he was awarded a seven rather than the five he did produce at the 10th. The most important thing is I knew where I stood, he said. I knew I wasnt one under for the tournament, I knew I was three.

Shane Lowry hit two balls to the left and we were looking for one, we couldnt find it, we found the second one. We are all dressed light coloured pants and blue sweater, so I can see why they might have made the mistake. But it was fine.

The number was duly amended, Garcia later signing for 69. It should have been better but for a lame birdie attempt from all of 4ft on the 18th.

Further bad news arrives for Garca from a key statistic. His third-round scoring average at the Masters is the worst of anyone in three decades, at close to 75. Perhaps if he can get through Saturday, when conditions are predicted to be far more favourable than days one and two, even Garca himself will take his Augusta challenge seriously. Part of the intrigue around the 37-year-old is that, for one so gifted, he never appears fully confident in his own ability.

In a lot of these shots theres such a thin line between a good shot being next to the hole and a good shot being 40 feet away and then having a very difficult two putt, Garca explained. You try to not think about those and try to be as positive as possible.

Things are happening at the moment. I want to make sure that I keep riding that wave and go out there tomorrow and be positive, be like Ive been the first two days.

There is a parallel for Garca to draw on. Danny Willett, last years Masters champion, had claimed the Dubai Desert Classic two months earlier. It was Garca who lifted that trophy in the Middle East a matter of weeks ago. Garca is not carrying the Spanish flag alone. Jon Rahms outstanding 2017 shows no sign of slowing down, the PGA Tour rookie signing for a 70 to sit at one under par.

McIlroy was the victim of dreadful misfortune on the closing hole. An apparently perfect approach shot from 140 yards hit the pin, causing the ball to bound back down the fairway. McIlroy could understandably barely conceal his rage at making a bogey from there, meaning a 73 and plus one aggregate.

The Northern Irishman has not fully kicked into gear, a fact that should give him confidence given a position within touching distance of the lead with half of the Masters to play.

McIlroy has his mind set on a big Saturday move. Im a little disappointed with what happened at the last but these things happen and, if I can get off to a fast start tomorrow, a couple under through three, Ill be right there, he said.

There are still 36 more holes left to go, a long way in this tournament. I know what can happen, good and bad, around this golf course.

Willett was among those to encounter the negative, with a defence that ended on Friday at plus seven. A quadruple eight on the 1st fatally impacted on his cause.

A year ago Ian Woosnam insisted his Masters playing days were over on what marked the 25th anniversary of his victoryhere.

The Welshman, now 59, duly returned for 36 holes, his Friday 78 meaning a missed cut at 10 over par. My wife made me come back, Woosnam said. But will he or she do so again? I havent ruled it out. Wonderfully confusing.

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