#like there’s a reason i spent so much of my life talking shit about portland

[knees-bees]

ill say it. i hate portland

[gnosk]

I mean, it's not surprising at all that the most populous regions of the country are the ones with the most cultural significance — there are more people in big urban centers and more stuff going on, that just tracks. But it doesn't mean that it doesn't bother me, right? I've whined before about how all of California gets reduced to just Los Angeles, and this is really the same thing, on a larger scale... Frankly, I'm sure if I lived in New York, I'd have the same things to say about it being reduced to only New York City.

It peeves me, as someone who loves and has spent a lot of time in rural places, when people assume that Arizona is just Texas 2 or when the only thing they know about Maine is a vague association with lobster. I have met people who are shocked to learn that there's a state in the Union named (New) "Mexico" — USAmericans have never been known for their geography skills, but come on, we should at least have a passing familiarity with the names of the states, right? It's no fucking surprise that we don't know shit about the rest of the world when a lot of us apparently don't even know anything about our own country!

For a lot of people I've talked to — bear in mind that I have lived in large, left-leaning cities for most of my life — the more sparsely populated states are only relevant during elections, when they paint large swaths of political maps red. When they show up in the news, it's because they're trying to pass some new, shitty law. These are backwater places full of bigoted people and no cultural relevance, so they can just be written off, right? And... to a certain extent that's true; there are certainly parts of the country that I am wary of visiting, muchtheless living in for any significant amount of time, as a trans person, and I'm at least white; I can't imagine what it's like for POC.

But those attitudes are far from universal across entire states — I've found plenty of cool, lefty cultural pockets in "Trump states" and honestly the assumption of low population density = bigoted hellhole doesn't track 1:1 (look at New Mexico). Even Arizona, which has its fair share of both traditional snowbird boomer types and a prominent strain of culty, super-fundy Mormonism so radically alt-right that the main Mormon church fully disavowed them, has enough sane people that it's a swing state rather than a solid red one, and cities like Flagstaff are as blue as those of the Pacific coast, in their own way.

There's a lot more you could dig into here, about the disenfranchisement of rural communities and the appeals of right-wing ideologies and whatnot, but as a 20-something city slicker art student I'm not sure I could really add much insight without making a fool of myself, so I won't. I dunno. There are so many interesting pockets of this country that get totally written off (and I'm guilty of it too; I've never been deeply interested in the Plains states or the South). The US is so huge and so diverse that it's really difficult to have a decent understanding of all of it... the only reason it's a single nation at all is its imperialist, expansionist history.

Anyway, if you ever get a chance to visit Portland, Maine, it's lovely.

Listen, rationally I Know that Portland, OR is a bigger city than Portland, ME and that people Not From Maine just aren't really aware of Maine as a place, like, in general, but every time I encounter someone referring to "Portland" (OR) without specifying the state it deals me x2 psychic damage

[ravenluvsppnbc]

BECHLOE WEEK DAY SIX

alright, today was two different prompt options (maybe unless i’m just stupid?) and i chose the “neighbors au” because i enjoy a good friends to lovers storyline. so. here’s this. v fluff and get to know you type shit. but there are hints of homosexual activity. i didn’t have the energy to write anything too hardcore today. hope you don’t mind.

“Beca Mitchell sighed, exhausted, sitting down on a box in what was supposed to be her new living room. After the move, she didn’t have the energy to fully unpack anything or put her furniture back together. She only did what was absolutely necessary—like set up her cat’s temporary food and litter box situation, throw her mattress on the floor and unpack her toothbrush. 

Atticus was running around like crazy, sniffing and meowing at everything in the house. Beca laughed. She loved how silly Atticus was. He always kept her life interesting. She thought she might as well unpack some of her clothes, which she had just begun to do when there was a knock at the door. 

Beca opened the door to a redheaded woman and a little girl. “Hi?” 

“Hi,” The woman said, gazing at Beca. The woman had never seen someone as beautiful. “Oh my gosh you're so pretty. My name is Chloe, Beale. And this is my daughter, Rory. We live next door. Not to sound completely crazy, but she heard your cat meowing.” Beca smiled immediately, also widening her eyes a bit. Atticus was that loud? “She was wondering if she could meet your cat? Totes cool if that’s not okay, she just loves animals.”

“I’m Beca.” Beca says, looking down at the girl. “Of course you can meet my cat. His name is Atticus. He’s not shy at all. Come on in, it’s a huge mess but don’t be alarmed by it.”

“Oh no worries, we’re used to messes.” Chloe says, stepping inside the house. Beca smiles, tiptoeing around the house in search for the cat. Chloe and Rory wait in the very unfurnished living room. “So where are you moving here from?”

“So embarrassing to say. Ohio.” Beca says from the other room.

“Ah. That makes sense. You seem cool.”

“Yeah. Old dudes, farmers and republicans aren’t really my speed. New York suburbs seems more like it. Plus I liked the look of this place. Good vibes were emanating from it.” Beca says, remembering when she first saw the exterior of the house. It was painted black and had white scallop trim and shutters. She felt so connected to it.

“Why Ohio?”

“Don’t ask me. I didn’t even want to be there in the- OH!” Beca exclaims, picking up Atticus, who had been hiding in the shower. “Here he is. Little jokester. He was hiding. So sorry about that!” 

“Aww. He’s so cute!” Chloe exclaimed, immediately reaching her hand out for him to sniff.

“Can I pet it?” Rory asked, smiling so big.

“Of course!” Beca said, placing him on the floor in front of Rory. Beca and Chloe watch as Atticus warms right up. Atticus and Rory are already best friends.

“So, Ohio?” Chloe asked again. For some reason, she felt herself being connected to this girl, or wanting to be, at least. She wanted to know more.

“Right. I was born there and then we moved to a small town, where I spent most of my life, and that’s when I decided that I absolutely had to get out of there.” Beca explains, remembering her old houses and schools. “Even with college. I really tried to go out of state. Everything was just so, not me, in Ohio. I don’t know how my parents lived there so long. And my grandparents. Tons of Ohio family shit. Oh my gosh I’m so sorry. I’m not around kids much.”

“It’s all good. I struggle watching my mouth too. And I think she’s too distracted by the cat.” Chloe says, drawing both of their attention to Rory who was still playing with the cat.

“I think he gets bored of me. So where’d you move here from?” Beca asks.

“I was bored in Portland. I went to college in Atlanta. Way to move across the country. Twice. Yeah. Don’t know why I did that but it was totes worth it.”

“Sounds like it.” Beca says, admiring and also wishing for the nomadic life that Chloe has had. She wished she could be spontaneous.

“Yeah, just a few years after college I got pregnant with this little thing,” Chloe says, shifting her vision to her daughter. “Weirdest day ever. But also the greatest. Sometimes weird days are your best ones, right?”

“Definitely.” Beca liked the way this girl thought about things.

“And then when she was born, the whole gas station milk thing happened with her dad. But that’s whatever. I decided that maybe we should settle. Decent neighborhood. Good schools. She’s only five but dude, I have to plan ahead for that shit.”

“So sorry about her dad-” Beca says, somehow feeling like she’d overstepped.

“Don’t be. Nobody needs people who don’t want to be there.”

“Word.” Beca said. “But if you ever need help or someone to talk to, I’m literally always doing nothing. and I know we just met, so don’t feel bad turning down the offer-”

“Oh no absolutely,” Chloe interrupted. “I feel like we’re gonna be really fast friends.” Chloe felt weird. The new girl living beside her will be a big part of her life. She can feel it already.”

[mourntheantagonist]

Chapter 5

Read on AO3

1988: P.I.R. Day 1

“Bill, it’s raining.”

Billy looks over to his boyfriend who sits in the passenger seat with a pout on his face. The rain is coming down as barely even a sprinkle. More like a mist. Windshield wipers only useful every five minute.

“Someone’s observant.”

Steve scoffs and crosses his arms. He’s been in a mood since they got up this morning. Steve was all packed and ready for a long weekend trip only to find out that the track was only a whopping ten minute drive from their house.

“Where else did you think the Portland International Raceway was located?”

Steve just dropped his duffle to the ground and walked out the front door and jumped into the Camaro. Leaving the cup of coffee Billy had poured him sitting on the counter to grow cold.

Billy knew not to look too much into things like this with Steve. He was by no means a morning person and even though the droplets were small, rain always put him in a bad mood.

It reminded him too much of Hawkins. Not memories of good days out with friends or at parties getting shitfaced. It reminded him of the days spent inside by himself as he watched raindrops drip on the window pane. Alone in his huge house. Nothing to do but stare at the puddles forming in potholes and being heavily reminded of his loneliness.

Rain put him in a bad mood. It really didn’t help that they lived in the Pacific Northwest, where rain was almost an everyday thing. But today it was a little more than just the rain. It was that Billy would be racing in the rain. Steve didn’t like that at all.

Billy oh so regrets telling Steve about the guy who spun out and crashed into a wall just two races ago. Because of the rain he hydroplaned and couldn’t stop himself. But Steve won’t listen to the rest of the story. Won’t listen to the fact that the guy has a history of pulling shit like this. Doesn’t take the road conditions into account ever. And he was fine! The car barely even sustained enough damage to warrant repair. Just a dent that was easily pulled out and a couple chips off the paint.

Steve wants nothing more than for Billy to turn the car right around. Drive out to Peet’s and fuel him with some caffeine, considering he’d abandoned the one at home in an attempt to make a point to Billy.

But he’s not going to ask him to do that. But he’s definitely not going to let Billy think he’s okay with what he’s doing.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll go slow.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “For you, slow is five over.”

“I’ll turn around if you’re really that upset about it.”

Steve wants to scream ‘Yes! Please turn around’, but he doesn’t want to be the reason for that. Doesn’t want to be the wall standing in between Billy doing what he wants to do. He wants Billy to put up those walls himself, for himself. Value his own safety and livelihood just a little bit.

Was Steve being overdramatic? Probably. But cut him some slack. It’s eight in the morning, rain is coming down, Billy refuses to run the heat in the car, and he’s tired. Should have just drank the damn coffee.

They pull into the venue and it is absolutely nothing like the last race. Trees are replaced by buildings. The hum of traffic on the interstate is deafening. They are unmistakably still smack dab in the middle of the city, and not in Nowheresville, Washington. There’s people standing around engaged in conversation. Easily able to differentiate between locals and tourists by whether or not they’re standing under the canopy. True Oregonians don’t even own umbrellas.

Sure, they’re technically locals, but Steve still rushed from the safety of the car to one of the covered areas, pulling his flannel up and over his head. Have to protect the hair.

Billy followed shortly after, Steve’s raincoat in hand because Billy remembered to grab it. Steve always forgets. Steve begrudgingly takes it from Billy’s hands and puts it on. It’s hard to stay mad at someone when they keep being so considerate. But Steve does have a special talent for that.

“Come on you big fucking baby, let’s go get you some coffee. They’re selling some at concessions.”

Steve’s head jerks around quick enough to cause minor whiplash.

“Wait, there's concessions?”

“Yes. Not every race is just a bunch of dudes in a parking lot.”

“Is there food?”

Billy just huffs out a laugh and pulls Steve by the collar of his jacket out into the rain and towards the little concession stand by the bleachers. If there’s one way to get Steve out of a bad mood, it’s directly through his stomach.

Billy bought him a cup of coffee with extra creamer – he was still working on that – and a croissant. Steve didn’t need to know that they weren’t freshly made and came directly out of a Costco container. As his stomach filled and his body warmed up from the hot drink in his hand, his bad mood started to fade. And just like Steve, the earth had a mood change as well. Clouds parting, letting in a glimpse of sun as the rain halted.

“Look Steve, no more rain.”

“The ground is still wet.”

Billy just dramatically threw his hands in the air. “Barely!” He exclaimed. “Just relax and finish your croissant. I’m gonna go register.”

Steve nods and watches Billy walk away, leaving him there by himself. Coffee in one hand, half of a croissant in the other. Left to his own thoughts. His weird intrusive thoughts. Like if someone were to push him over, which would he save? The coffee or the croissant? He should just finish the croissant so he doesn’t have to ponder that question. He never liked the trolley problem.

He looks to the sky, watching the clouds continue to part revealing bright blue skies and the bright sun overhead. It was nice, but they lived here long enough to know not to hold their breath. Portland rain was indecisive. It would be pouring buckets one minute, and sunny clear skies the next.

It’s why you would never catch a local with an umbrella. It’s pointless unless you plan to lug it around with you all year long. It’s better to learn to accept and even appreciate damp clothes and damp hair. That last part was definitely taking Steve some time to come to grips with.

The line Billy’s in was long. And he didn’t appear to be anywhere close to the front. That’s the reason the sudden hand on his shoulder startled him. Was he actually going to have to decide which to save?

But he turns around to see Gerry. Five foot three and a hundred and ten pounds of pure bullishness. Steve would be lying through his teeth if he were to say he wasn’t absolutely terrified of the old woman.

“Good to see ya here kid. Thought you’d been scared off after the first race.”

Steve’s mouth hangs open just slightly. It’s too early for him to talk to people. Luckily he realizes he’s been just standing there like an idiot after just a few seconds.

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. I just have a crazy work schedule. This was the first time I could have the weekend off.”

“That’s good. Was startin’ to worry the two of you had broke it off. Glad to see ya didn’t.” She pats his shoulder a little hard. Not really expecting it he stumbles slightly.

He momentarily freaks at the comment. Forgetting for a second that Billy had told her. He allows himself to smile when it comes back to him. Enjoying the acceptance from the old woman. Ahead of her time. Reminding himself why he said he liked her.

“Okay. Since I have you alone, I have to ask. I have a theory and I need you to confirm it.” Steve throws her a quizzical look and takes a sip of his coffee. “What’s Hargrove like in the sack?”

Steve nearly does a spit take.

He manages to swallow the coffee in one aggressive gulp before actually bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“I’m sorry. Uh. Could you maybe elaborate? Are you asking about our... positions?”

“Oh god. No. Please don’t tell me that.”

Steve never thought he’d see that lady blush. But she was. Blushing. Cherry red all over her cheeks.

“My theory is that his little tough guy act don’t make it past the bedroom door.”

“Oh! Okay. Umm.” Steve was slightly uncomfortable. Discussing not his sex life with a woman be barely knew, but Billy’s sex life. But Steve was still hanging on to that grudge and thought, what harm is there? “He’s definitely not as aggressive, but I wouldn’t go as far to say he’s entirely submissive.”

“So he’s not a pillow princess?”

Steve raises his eyebrows and chuckles.

“Sometimes.”

Now Gerry has burst into laughter. Almost tearing up. Steve never would have thought this is the kind of conversation he’d be having at eight thirty in the morning in the middle of a parking lot surrounded by conservative men in their forties and fifties.

And then there’s someone else standing next to them. Long dirty blond hair. Unmistakably Billy.

“What are you guys laughing at?” Billy asks. Not at all amused.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, princess.” Gerry says before slapping a hand two times against his cheek and walking off without another word.

Billy looks completely dumbfounded. Steve is desperately trying to hold in another laugh.

“Did she just call me princess?”

“Hey shouldn’t we be walking the course right about now?”

Billy takes the half eaten croissant from Steve’s hand and takes a bite before handing it back.

And with a mouthful of bread he points a finger. “This conversation is not over.”

- : -

They only had the time to walk the course just once. Billy was nervous. Steve could tell. Not just because of that. But because it had started to rain again.

Steve doesn’t like seeing Billy nervous about the rain. He was already nervous enough himself when Billy was all confident with his “it’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing”’s, but if Billy’s nervous, that can’t be good.

By the time they get back to the Camaro, Billy falls into the driver seat with his legs hanging out the open door. His head in his hands breathing slightly chaotic. Something was wrong. More than just the rain.

Steve lays a tentative hand onto Billy’s thigh, but Billy quickly and swiftly slaps the hand away.

“Don’t touch me. We’re in public!”

Okay. Something was really wrong.

Because not ten minutes ago they were just fine being touchy. Sure they were very PG and platonic. But Billy seemed to be okay with it so long as it was nothing too suspicious. A hand on a thigh might seem a little too suggestive if you don’t counter in the fact that there was literally nobody near and the car door shielded the act entirely from view.

But Steve chose not to take it personally. Because something happened in that little head of his as soon as the rain started. Something Steve was not yet privy to.

“Billy. Relax. I’m gonna get in and we’re gonna talk it out, okay?”

Billy nodded his head. Breaths still shaky with a hint of anger as he tossed his legs into the vehicle and slammed his door shut. Okay maybe a little more than a hint.

Once Steve was inside he took a tight hold of Billy’s hand. Trying to calm his erratic breathing. It seems to help slightly. Enough for Billy to actually hear the words coming out of Steve’s mouth.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Billy looks at him. His eyes stone cold. “It’s fucking raining.”

“Someone’s observant.”

“Shut up.”

Steve pulls their clasped hands to where they are now resting on Steve’s thigh. Wrapping a second hand around the two so Billy’s is fully encompassed.

“That didn’t seem to bother you an hour ago. Why now?”

Billy tosses his head back against the headrest. Shutting his eyes tightly and inhaling sharply through his nose.

“You! You made me fucking nervous, Steve. I have never given the rain a second thought until you. And now I can barely remember the course, and I have to run on street tires, and it’s fucking raining! And you’re here to watch and now I’m nervous.”

Steve’s look at Billy softens. Because it makes sense. And god Steve feels awful because it was his grumpy attitude that caused all of this.

“Bills, if I thought your life was actually in danger I would have had you turn the car around when you asked. I was just in a pissy mood, okay?” Steve squeezes tighter. “I believe in you, princess.”

That pulls Billy out of his haze for just a moment. “Okay what the fuck inside joke is this?”

“If you do well today, maybe, I’ll tell you.”

“Bribery huh? Didn’t think that was your style.”

Aw. There’s the Billy he knows and unfortunately loves.

“Come on, let’s get those brand new numbers on your car.”

“Kiss me first, shithead.”

So Steve does. Leaning over the stick shift, planting a quick and wet kiss straight to Billy’s lips. Not the kiss Billy wants. But that’s all Steve’s going to give.

- : -

To both of their surprise, Billy doesn’t spin. Actually, he’s one of the only drivers who didn’t spin.

And fortunately, nobody crashed today. Not even Dwight.

Steve didn’t ride with Billy today. Not wanting to add to the stress. Even if it wasn’t a timed run.

And Billy came in first. Even if he drove slower than his liking. All of the DNF’s, missed gates, and hit cones playing in his own favor. And shit, Steve owes him some information, and maybe a better kiss.

The second run group was on course straight away, giving Billy and him absolutely zero time to even speak before Billy was being summoned to his work assignment. So Steve just parked himself at one of the picnic tables in the covered area. Ignoring the fact that his boyfriend was putting himself in front of reckless drivers on wet pavement. Shoving down the thought of “what could go wrong” as far as it would fucking go.

No. No. No. The only car Billy would be going home in would be the Camaro. Not an ambulance.

The sounds of screeching tires against wet asphalt did not cure the thought. Painstakingly resisting every urge to turn his head every time he heard so much as an “ooh” from an onlooker.

He sat there. Sipping on his now lukewarm coffee and searching the wooden planks of the picnic table for hidden shapes. Just like he would with the clouds if they weren’t just one gray blob.

And time manages to pass by quickly with just that to occupy his time. He hears the engines shut off and the announcer call something over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t know what, but the tone of his voice made it sound like a finale.

He’s tossing his nearly empty coffee cup in the garbage can when Billy comes up from behind him.

“Hey, before we go, wanna feel like you’re in high school again?” Billy asks, discreetly pulling at his sleeve.

“Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Just trust me.”

Steve gives him a weird look but follows Billy under the bleachers that face the real racetrack. The one people actually come here for. Not a parking lot.

You can barely see anything but rusted metal from where they’re standing. Steve pieces it together fairly quickly.

“You bring me under here to kill me?”

“Just shut up and fucking kiss me.”

Billy was right. It totally does feel like high school. The good parts. Sneaking girls under the bleachers on the football field. But this felt ten times better. Because it was Billy. Not just some girl he only got with to prove something to Tommy H.

It’s like they were in their own little corner of the world. Perfectly concealed and able to love one another publicly but privately at the same time.

Steve’s tugging at Billy’s hair and Billy’s tugging at his. He’d be upset if it hadn’t already been messed up by the rain earlier.

Their hands are moving haphazardly but their lips and tongues have found a rhythm. Slowly interlocking and fulfilling their every need.

“God I love you.” Steve breathes against Billy’s mouth.

“Tell me what princess means.”

Steve had nearly forgotten.

“Something relating to your pillow.”

Billy stalls for a second before completely stepping away from Steve.

“You did not tell her that.”

Steve doesn’t respond. Just raises his eyebrows and stands his ground. The look says I sure did.

“I fucking hate you.”

“You love me.”

And Billy just moves back in, pulling him by the collar, and kisses him. Inhaling sharply. Breathing in all that is Steve.

“You know you love it when I just lay there.”

“Yeah. I do.”

[rapunzel-withthegoodhair]

everythingsheclaimed asked you: Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments :)

PUT “TOP 5” ANYTHING IN MY ASK AND I WILL ANSWER OK GO

Top 5 Daimon Helstrom moments...according to CJ Wingrave 

                  (listen while reading) // (google doc link for easier viewing)

I.

The air across Portland shifts firmly, as if a warm front just pushed its way in across the frigid morning cold. Not slowly, but all at once. For a moment, the friction crackles in the air. As Daimon glances up from his office desk, a flash of lightning splices through the campus. Roaring thunder soon follows and the rain that he wouldn’t know how to live without begins to splash heavily across the windows. 

Storms in the pacific northwest aren’t unusual. On average, it rains 164 days out of every year in Portland alone. But it wasn’t supposed to today. Just moments ago, the sky was clear. 

Across campus, students are already chattering about how typical it is for Oregon to flip moods on a dime. But Daimon knows the truth. The change in energy across the city is undeniable. 

After seven whole months...CJ is back. 

~~~

The circle of candles in her room flickers to life just as her body appears within it. Rings of salt and iron guard the flames, ensuring nothing crosses over with the young witch. Blonde hair covers her face and for a few long moments, CJ just lays on the hardwood. Every muscle feels like rusted metal. As if her body was burned to ashes and then baked back together all over again. 

It’s never The Fade itself that fucks with her. It’s the process of travelling between dimensions. The process of ripping open the dense fabric of space-time and shoving herself through. It’s gotten a bit easier over the years. But her body is still made of simpler things than magic. Flesh and blood and bone is never meant for a thousand rebirths in one life. 

Everything inside of her wants to get up and stagger towards her phone right this very moment. But there’s simply no way. She needs rest. 

Eleven hours later, she wakes with a start. The candles have burned themselves out. And her mind is narrowed to one thought: Daimon. 

Her legs wobble like jelly beneath her as she leans heavily against her queen-sized bed. All she wants is a shower and some food and him. 

He answers on the first ring (he always does, for her). Sitting in his home office grading papers, he’d been fighting to focus on anything that wasn’t her return home. 

“How long was I gone?” She can never tell. CJ can’t stand to be away from Daimon for longer than a week. But traveling through the fabric of space-time warps everything. The farther she travels between dimensions, the longer she’s gone, even if it only feels like a few days for her. 

Immediately his laptop is closed. Rubbing at his tired eyes, Daimon pushes himself up. His spine screams in protest, neck stiff from staring down at a computer screen all day. Wincing, he pushes stubbornly through the pain. 

“Seven months.” The words are heavy. With relief. With exhaustion. He’d wait the rest of his life to see her again if he had to. But damn if the waiting doesn’t take its toll. After all, abandonment was all he really knew before her. “Can I come see you?” 

The rain that began earlier begins to pound harder outside. Tugging his coat on, he grabs his keys without even looking for an umbrella. Nothing can keep him out of her gravitational pull. Even if she says no he’d be content to sleep in his car in the looming shadow of her apartment building. To feel what tiny seeds of her energy he can soak up now that she’s back in his atmosphere. 

“Yeah…” Gripping the doorframe to her bathroom, CJ barely makes it to the bathtub without injury. Their connection is so intense, she swears she can feel him all over her already. Strong chest pressed to the skin of her back. His delicate fingers tracing her throat. His cold nose along the back of her ear, drinking in the milk and honey scent that lingers strong after a trip to The Fade. “Yeah, I need you.” 

For the first time in seven months, a smile pulls at his stoney features and light flickers back into his stormy blue eyes. 

II.

She appears without warning.

One moment, the classroom desk in the far corner of the back row is empty. Next, CJ is soaking in the beam of sunlight falling through the windows. Sunlight is hard to come by in Portland. But CJ likes to play with the weather to fit her mood. Apparently, she’s feeling bright today. Playful.

Eyes falling on her for just a moment, Daimon doesn’t allow his lecture to skip a beat. Though a tiny smirk tugs at his mouth.

“The Greeks believed that goodness and beauty were interwoven. They were inextricable. And hey, maybe they were right. Isn’t beauty just chaos given order? Isn’t order what allows us to survive?”

“Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves to justify hitting on the same girl every one else is eyeing at the bar.”

The class turns to glance at her. No one has the spine to ask where the hell she came from or what her name is. But they’re all thinking it. Particularly the boys.

Arching an eyebrow, Daimon’s posture straightens slightly. He pushes away from his desk, eyes locked on her own as he responds carefully. Few students have ever dared to interrupt him during lectures. If she were anyone else, they’d be sorry for trying. But CJ’s mischievous side is his greatest weakness.

“It’s interesting...we’re always so arrogant to assume beauty is about us. Isn’t...a neatly pruned orchard beautiful? A well built house?” Glancing casually across the sea of students, he shrugs. “Do we not crave order? Is this not what keeps us alive?”

“Keeps us alive for what? If not to enjoy the chaos of passion. If beauty is the key to passion, how does the argument stand? How can beauty be both order and bring chaos at the same time?” A smirk twitches over her pretty mouth, eyes dancing with his as their mental waltz dizzies the rest of the class.

For a moment, Daimon allows her words to hang in the air. He mulls them over, then ultimately shrugs.

“Clearly Miss Wingrave isn’t Greek.” A low rumble of laughter disperses the tension in the room and the two of them exchange amused smiles.

After class, she waits patiently for the other girls to finish coming up with excuses to talk to him. Stupid questions and cliché compliments, their bouncy curls twisted around manicured fingers as they giggle while he isn’t even trying to be funny. But his eyes have trouble staying away from the long legs CJ has crossed at the knees while perched on a desk in the front row. He can feel her eyes dragging over his skin, as hungry as her teeth when they’re in bed.

With a flick of her wrist, the door locks behind the last girl to leave.

He closes the space between them with purposeful steps, slowly tugging her thighs apart so as to stand between them. Cold hands hooking under her knees, he pulls her closer. Nuzzles over her forehead, into the warmth of her hair.

“You’re a  brat.” His words are a breathy laugh against her skin as a gentle kiss is dropped to hairline. Feeling her this close is to him, the same sort of relief a morphine addict feels as they finally get a needle to the arm. “And you’re so full of shit. I know you don’t believe a word you said.”

“Of course, I do.” Smirking softly, her fingers brush through his short hair, then down his shoulder. “I’m my own best evidence that beautiful doesn’t always mean good.”

“You’re plenty good.” He shakes his head in disbelief, amusement twitching at his lips. Slowly his fingers tug her ponytail undone so he can have the luxury of feeling her long, silky hair fill the spaces between his fingers.

“Only to you.” She has to admit, she’s softer with him. Softer than she even knew she could be. Anyone who only saw the side of her that Daimon brings out would never guess what she gets up to in The Fade. Or how rebelliously outspoken and impatiently abrupt she can be here.  

“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs through a soft mumble over her skin, nuzzling into her neck, searching out the pocket of warmth there. “You can be a little bit of a monster. Like when you apparate into my classroom mid-lecture just to interrupt me.”

His words pull a laugh out of the girl as she drags a hand up and down along his spine. “I just like to watch you teach. It’s what I miss the most when I’m gone.”

Carefully, Daimon untangles himself to pull back. His brows knit together in a disbelieving (and slightly offended) look. He works hard to keep her satisfied in bed. Very hard.

CJ’s head tips back as she gives up a theatrical sigh. “Okay, the second most.”

“Better.” Playfully nipping at her lower lip, he gently curls his fingers into her hair and tugs just firmly enough to fit their mouths together in a deep kiss.

III.

It’s late when he knocks at her door. But CJ feels him the moment he enters her apartment building. His energy is low, dialed down with exhaustion after a night spent fighting and ultimately descending a particularly nasty demon. But the connection between them is like a tethered cord. The slightest tug always ripples through her body.

Reaching up on her toes, she pulls him into a warm hug. His body is colder than usual in her arms as it fights to heal from expending so much energy. She loves Louise, but this bullshit is going to get him killed. Why the woman insists her replacement be a powerless human so completely out of touch with their world of witchcraft and demonology, CJ will never understand. She’d be lying if she said being passed over for the position hadn’t stung. Though in fairness to the older woman, she’d never given Louise much reason to hope that Daimon could always rely on her presence in this realm. A month or two at home and CJ is always back to flitting between worlds.  

Pushing the troubling reminder of Gabriella away, her thoughts narrow to the simple task of making him tea. She turns to head into the kitchen and Daimon trails after her quietly, like a stray puppy in want of a home.

She cups his cheek as they stand by the stove, dragging in a slow deep breath while waiting for the kettle to warm. There are fresh lines on his face, a map of  all the stress he keeps balanced on his shoulders. Guilt tries to knock at her heart. If you wouldn’t leave him to bear the earth alone like Atlas, maybe it wouldn’t weigh so much. But she knows it’s bullshit.

She loves him. But she can’t cure Victoria or bring Ana home or turn back time on what his father did to him. Worse than any of these, she’ll never convince Louise to send Gabriella back to The Vatican. Tracing the pad of her thumb over the dark circles beneath his left eye, her features soften.

“You need sleep, baby.”

A wrinkle finds his nose. He can’t stomach the thought of wasting time sleeping while she’s home. When she may leave again tomorrow and take ten months to return. Or ten years. Or ten centuries.

“I’ll sleep when you’re gone.” His voice is soft and stubborn, but so vulnerable. The cold tip of his nose nudges into her shoulder as he curls against her. CJ’s slender arms wrap around his larger body and she tries so hard to push away the guilt his words dredge up. She tries to just hold him and love him and be here and let that be enough.

IV.

She’s the only one who ever gets his coffee order right. Double brewed, black with cinnamon stirred in. 

When he comes back to his office after class and finds the cup of Starbucks waiting on his desk next to a wax paper bag of fresh apple fritters, he knows she’s gone again. 

Leaving gifts behind like Santa is the only way she knows to stomach a goodbye. She’s never looked him in his eyes and said it. He almost wishes she would, even though he knows it would rip his heart out to hear the words aloud. At least he’d be able to see her eyes and know without a doubt that leaving hurts her too. 

V.

The water around them swirls with CBD oil, hot enough to steam up the windows of her bathroom. Her clawfoot tub easily fits both of them and a smile pulls at his mouth as he rests back against her. No one else ever lets him be the little spoon and it never fails to take the weight off of his shoulders in seconds. 

Slowly, CJ scoops up handfuls of warm water, pouring each one down over his shoulders and chest. She rubs the back of his neck carefully, thumb massaging at the tight muscles there. The candles lighting up the room flicker lightly as she pulses healing magic through his skin and down into his bones. He’s not even injured right now, and even if he were, his demon blood allows him to heal faster than her magic could ever knit muscle tissue. 

But he hasn’t been able to reach Victoria in over a month and he’s broken from the effort. She can feel it hanging heavy in his skin, making each breath feel like he’s trying to kick to the surface with rocks tied to his ankles.  

He’s tired of being alone. He’s tired of shouldering Victoria’s demons alone. He’s tired of fighting demons alone. He’s tired of dealing with family trauma that isn’t his cross to bear alone (since Gabriella seems to think it’s morally abject of him to turn those he’s helped over to her for counseling). And he’s tired of waking up in an empty bed, alone. 

Brushing a hand along her thigh, he tries to find the words. To beg her to stay. To convince her that he needs her more than any Fae or Spirit or Goddess. 

Carefully, he drags in a breath, summoning his courage. 

“I’m going to stay.” Her words are soft but clear. “I want to stay here, with you. If you’ll have me. If you promise you won't grow sick of me.” 

Her arm wraps across his shoulders and she holds him close. 

“Careful...” Slowly, a tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “ I may not let you go again. Ever.” 

He’s trying so hard not to have real hope. He trusts CJ with every fiber of his being. To catch him when he falls. To fight on his side. To hold her ground when hell comes knocking. But the part of him that’s been left behind too many times is never sure if this is the last time she’ll come home. Still, he wants to believe it so badly it aches in his bones. 

“Good…” She smiles into his neck, pressing a soft kiss there, words down to a whisper. “I won’t let you go again either.”

[imaginingsoftly]

Home Videos - Tyson Jost

Type: childhood friends to lovers, Y/N insert shorts

Requested: Yes

Warnings: swearing

(Y/N = Your name)

A/N: From prompt list, #59 (“How is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time?”)

You hated summertime. For 9 months out of the year you could go about your life in Edmonton completely unbothered, minus the couple of trips Tyson made to play the Oilers, but those three months always came too soon. When Tyson had been drafted and everyone else had moved away for college or to start their careers you had all agreed to meet up at least once a year for a week of catching up, a promise that no one had broken in the three years since. For the third time that week, you were holding your finger over the green button to call Tyson and tell him you were busy and wouldn’t make it to the cabin. It wasn’t necessarily a lie; you were an ER nurse, and getting a week off wasn’t easy if you were to have tried to get it on short notice, but Tyson knew you. He knew that you wouldn’t have forgotten that week, and that something else was happening. 

You’d already told Syd you wouldn’t be there. She had yelled at you over the course of the last week for being an idiot, that you just needed to tell Tyson you were in love with him, but you knew better. He was bringing a girl home with him this year. He’d called you after their first date over the moon, raving about how much you’d love her and how he couldn’t wait to bring her around. Syd had talked to you for hours that night as you’d cried. It was irrational, and you knew that, but that knowledge didn’t make hearing about Tyson kissing another girl any easier. You also felt guilty. This was your best friend, your oldest friend, and he really wanted you to meet this girl. You wanted to be happy for him, to welcome her into the friend group with a smile and the multitude of embarrassing stories you had about Tyson from your years living next door to each other, but you didn’t think you could do it. Honestly, just thinking about it had you almost in tears. 

You clicked out of Tyson’s contact. 

Not tonight. 

Two days later, you were staring down at your phone screen as Tyson’s contact photo again lit up your face in the darkness of your living room. You were sitting alone in a small pity party, watching an old home video, a hockey game between all of the neighborhood kids from when you and Tyson were eight or nine. You mom had been in a home video phase then, and you had some great footage of yours and Tyson’s shenanigans over the years. Somewhere there was a video of the time Tyson decided to shovel the snow off of his roof by himself, and had gotten himself stuck in the snow headfirst when he fell off of the roof. You had run over there laughing, and the video captured the hilarity of the two of you as he had yelled for help and you had grabbed his ankles and pulled ineffectively. Your dad had eventually gone out there to help, clearing out the snow enough for Tyson to get himself upright again. It was one your parents never failed to pull out every winter, to which Tyson would declare it his proudest moment. 

Your phone lit up again with a voicemail, and you turned it facedown and snuggled deeper into your blanket. The pickup game was still happening, and you and Tyson were dominating the game. It had always been like that; Tyson had been the only one of you to go pro, but he had done his best to convince you to play as well. You were good, and you knew that when you could keep up with and even beat a lot of the boys as you guys got older. Tyson was your favorite centerman. He knew where you were going to be, and you knew the same about him. It was probably because your dad had taught the two of you how to play, but you liked to think it was some kind of special connection forged over all that time spent together dreaming and skating around whatever ice surface you could find.

A knock at your door almost made you fall off your couch. It was almost one am, and there was no one in Edmonton who would be knocking on your door at that time of night. You crept off the couch cautiously, and another knock, louder this time, made you jump again. “Y/N come on! I know you’re in there.” Tyson’s voice sounded through the door, and you stopped short before hurrying to open the door. “Tys? What’re you doing here?” His curls flopped in his eyes as he stared down at you tiredly. “Well Syd told me you couldn’t get the time off to come visit, but I know that’s bullshit, so spill.” He shoved past you as he spoke, closing the door and pulling you into him in one motion. You sighed into the soft cotton of his shirt, and his arms wrapped around you a little tighter. This was what made lying so hard. Besides how familiar his hugs were, Tyson had a knack for getting under your guard without you even realizing it. If he asked you right now why you weren’t in St. Albert you knew you’d probably tell him without much thought. “I missed you,” he whispered, “and there was no way in hell I wasn’t gonna see you, even if I have to smother the truth out of you.” You pulled back to look at him incredulously. “Smother it out of me?” He smirked at you, nodding. “I know you’re lying, and I want to know why. Who is he?” 

Tyson was heading for your kitchen as he spoke, and you knew he was looking for the Oreos you always had on hand. “Top left cabinet. What do you mean who is he? You’re the one with the relationship, not me.” You tried not to sound too upset, but Tyson saw right through you. Oreo fell out of Tyson’s mouth as he spoke, and he waved the Oreo in his left hand dismissively. “Yeah we didn’t last. She wanted me to change my phone background after like the third date. Got pissed when I wouldn’t do it.” He held up his phone, and you smiled. It was a picture of the two of you from last summer, when you’d made a trip out to Maine to enjoy the New England coast and Tyson had convinced you to go to every lobster shack in Portland, of which there were many. The two of you were standing on one of the rocky beaches in Portland, in front of an old lighthouse that Tyson had loved. “You know, Tys, she probably didn’t like the fact that she was dating someone who had another girl on his lockscreen.” Tyson shrugged, putting his phone back in his pocket and shoving another Oreo in his mouth. “My lockscreen is for pictures that are important to me. That picture is one of my favorite recent memories of us. Katie and I didn’t have any photos together that were worth a lockscreen.” You cringed a little bit. Hopefully he didn’t word it to her that way, because otherwise he was deserving of a smack, not just a breakup. 

It was hard to come up with a response to that, so you stared into your living room instead. Tyson looked out there too, and visibly brightened when he saw what was on the TV. “You’re watching that? I have to see this.” He ran into the living room and fell back onto the couch, gesturing at you. “C’mon shorty, reminisce with me!” Tyson pulled you into him when you sat on the couch, and you rested your head on his shoulder. It was nice to sit and watch these videos alone, but watching them with Tyson was even better. This was your shared history, and getting to chirp him for all of the stupid shit he did was so nice it was almost like high school again. The video ended and you started to get up to play another one when Tyson tightened his arm around your waist. “Why did you decide not to come out, Y/N?” 

“Tys,” 

“No, Y/N,” he interrupted, “don’t call me that and then give me some bullshit excuse. We never get to see each other all at once anymore, except this one week out of an entire year, and you bailed for no good reason. I know you could’ve gotten the time off, so stop lying to me and tell me the damn truth!”

Tyson’s eyes were lit up in anger, something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. He never looked at you like this, except maybe that time you’d walked home by yourself after his game one night and one of his teammates saw you and called him. He’d shown up at your parents house that night so mad he was shaking, and he was getting close to that point right now. You stood, and this time he let you. His eyes tracked your movements as you walked to the window, staring out at the city rather than looking at him. “I thought you were bringing Katie. I know you wanted me to meet her, Tys, but I couldn’t do it.” 

You paused, trying to decide how you were going to do this. It was probably going to put a ton of strain on a lifelong friendship, but he deserved the truth. Tyson stood, coming to stand behind you. He grabbed your shoulder gently to turn you around, and his eyes had become impossibly soft. “How is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time?” You smacked his shoulder, an instant reaction after a lifetime of chirps. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He cupped your cheeks. 

“I’m in love with you, dumbass. Why do you think girls never last? Do you know how many of them tell me to choose between you and them? Like I’m gonna give up my person for a girl I’ve known for like two months.” He cocked his head, shaking his head at you. “I need my emotional support Y/N in my life. I’ve been trying to man up enough to tell you, and EJ has started threatening bodily harm. He’s tired of me pining and circling our Edmonton trip on my calendar.” That definitely sounded like EJ. 

The two of you stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. It had been years since you two had really laughed like this, definitely since before Tyson had been drafted. You hit his shoulder again. “I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me.” 

“Me?! What about you?” Fair enough. “Well how about I tell you now? I love you and I’m gonna be really pissed if the next girl you take out isn’t me.” Tyson rubbed his thumb across your cheek before leaning down to kiss you gently. It felt right, like the piece of you that left with him three years ago was back in place. “I love you too,” he whispered against your lips. You pulled him in close for a hug, and breathed in his cologne. “I guess I owe everybody an apology, eh?” Tyson nodded against your head. “We’ll head out there tomorrow. They’ll be happy when they know why.” 

Tomorrow sounded good. Tyson walked over to your pile of home videos, shuffling through them until he saw one that made him laugh. The two of you settled into the couch again, and you laughed as well when you saw what he had put on. There was a summer where you and Tyson and the others had decided you were going to be a band, and had gotten hold of Syd’s older brother’s instruments. The sound was awful, Syd the only one who could play any instruments, and Tyson’s singing voice had been enough for Syd’s cranky old neighbor to call the cops because she thought somebody was getting murdered. The concert you’d recorded was perfectly horrible, the kind of thing you considered sending to EJ so that he could give it to the Avs video people for their jumbotron. 

This was the kind of scene you had been hoping was in your future, and you were glad it was finally happening for real.

[amysmarch]

~how i’m feeling~ | rp sentence starter

drugs & the internet

“another life, another story, ( she ) walked out, said i was boring.” 

“shit, i said i'm never trying.“

“'til the bitter end, but every now and then, i wonder what it feels like to be more than i am.”

“i traded all my friends for drugs and the internet.“

“ah shit, am i a winner yet?“

“and i don't wanna base my actions, on reactions or the things they say.”

“so now i'm laying in my bed, and i can't get out my head.”

fuck, i’m lonely

“call you one time, two time, three time, i can't wait no more.”

“i know its been a minute since you walked right through that door, but i still think about you all the time.” 

“i don't know, i don't know how i'm gonna make it out.”

“fuck, i'm lonely.”

“fuck, come hold me.”

“yeah i still watch the shows you showed me, i still drink that wine but these days it tastes more bitter than sweet.”

“and all my friends are way too drunk to save me from my phone, so sorry if i say some things i mean.”

“miss those nights when you would come over, spent all night just tryin' to get closer.”

lonely eyes

“i don't mean to be rude, there's things in myself that i see in you.”

“she had those lonely eyes, i only know 'cause i have them too.”

“no, you don't have to hide, the things you feel inside, i feel too.”

“'cause i'm lonely just like you.“

“we might speak different languages, and we might have differences. but where you are, i'm right there too.”

“stay the night, stay the week.“

“when you're gone, i don't sleep.”

“when you're gone, i feel weak.“

sims

“i wish that you and i lived in the sims.”

“we could build a house and plant some flowers and have kids.”

“i'll probably never see you again.”

“i wish that we lived on a vhs. i’d erase the things i said and that i'll probably say again, hit rewind on all the times i got lost in my head.”

“goddamn, i wish we would've met on another night, baby.”

“i wish that we met walkin' round the moma.” 

“yeah, i'd say nice to meet you, 'stead of saying nice to know you.”

“i'd try to impress you with some bullshit 'bout monet.”

believed

“almost got a place out in midtown, instead i took a plane out of this town.“

“wasted, and all of my regret, i can taste it. if i had a time machine i would take it and make it back to us.”

“now i'm reminiscing 'round the clock, wish that i could make it stop.”

“shoulda believed in us, while we existed. 'cause now the whole thing's fucked, and just a figment of my imagination.” 

“and i wish i would've been patient, instead i let in all the emotions.”

billy

“nobody told ( him ) the world was mean.”

“nobody thought ( he ) could amount to anything.” 

feelings

“is my love too much, or is it just enough, for you?”

“'cause it's getting late, would you like to stay?”

“we could cross that line, know we've been friends.”

“and love only knows broken ends. yeah, that's what you said.”

“'cause feelings are hard to find.“

canada

“waking up in your bed, it's almost like i've been here forever.”

“i'm obsessed with your brain.”

“what if we move to canada?“

“buy some things we don't need, bring your mother's dog, your paintbrush and some candy.”

“how you talk with your hands, and how you sigh like a movie.”

“and we got luck so bad, we have to laugh. i guess we're lucky that, we don't need much outside of us, do we?“

“and when they talk about those, people who up and leave? that could be us.” 

for now

“i keep you right here in my brain, even when we're waking up in different cities.” 

“i know it's hard to feel so close to someone that's so far away.“

“for now, i'll love you through the phone.”

“for now, our friends will fill this home.” 

“in the shadow of the moon, found the memory of that night we were in portland.”

“the moment i told you, that no matter where we are, you're still my best friend.”

“and if i had a candle i would wish you back to me.”

mean it

“i can't tell what you're thinkin', please tell me what you're thinkin'.” 

“but you text me when you feel like, when it feels right to you.” 

“i'm fallin' faster.” 

“don't tell me that you need me.” 

“don't tell me you're falling, with your feet still on the ledge.”

“don't kiss me, no, don't kiss me.”

“you know you got me in the palm of your hand, but i love those hands.”

“but you only let me hold you when ( he ) can't.”

“you've been staring at me with a heart of doubt.”

tell my mama

“i been thinking that life's too short, so many friends got their life cut short.” 

“now i'm standing here doing lines in the bathroom.”

“i hate myself.”

“i been hiding pain, it's underneath.”

“and i been up so long i'm scared to sleep.”

“tell my mama that i love her, and i'm sorry for the pain.“

“and everybody says that i've been manic. i think they might be right, but i still manage.”

“lately, i been so annoyed. ‘cause they think that i'm just paranoid.”

sweatpants

“coffee with a little bit of alcohol.”

“oh no, no, don't judge me, just 'cause i do anything to get by.”

“said you don't wanna know who i am anymore, you don't care anymore. yeah, i can't really blame you.” 

“and i don't wanna know, who you're with when you leave.” 

“swear i still feel you on my skin.”

“i really miss you.”

“but, baby, that's not the issue, the issue is coming back.” 

“we've been through this, we both know. we'll fight, fuck then let it go.“

who

“sometimes, i swear i think you hate me like.”

“i need to get outta here.”

“'cause you're not the ( girl ) i fell in love with, baby.” 

“'cause something has changed, you're not the same, i hate it.”

“feelin' hypnotized by the words that you said.”

i’m so tired...

“i'm so tired of love songs.”

“party, trying my best to meet somebody. but everybody around me is falling in love to our song.” 

“strangers, killing my lonely nights with strangers.”

“hurts like heaven, lost in the sound.”

“buzzcut season like you're still around.”

“can't unmiss you and i need you now.”

el tejano

“i met a ( girl ) at el tejano.“

“i'm from wherever you're going tonight."

“i always find myself in random situations.“

“do you wanna have a little bit of fun tonight?“

tattoos together

“i'd never fall but then i fell for you.“

“one weekend in portland, you weren't even my ( girl )friend. we were walkin' and talkin' then somebody said, let's get tattoos together.” 

“if it's way too soon, fuck it, whatever.”

“if it's not forever, then at least we'll have tattoos together.”

“'cause i love you.”

“knew it from the moment, from the moment that i saw you naked, could never love nobody else, the way i loved you baby.” 

“yeah, your cherry earrings are my favourite.“

“i've been hopin', prayin' we last forever, 'cause there's nothing better than you and i.” 

changes

“i'm getting rid of all my clothes i don't wear, i think i'm gonna cut my hair cause these days i don't feel like me.”

“i think i'm gonna take a break from alcohol, probably won't last that long, but lord knows i could use some sleep.”

“changes. they might drive you half insane but it's killing you to stay the same.” 

“living with your eyes half open.”

“it's all gonna work out.” 

“i think I'm gonna take some pills to fix my brain, i've tried it every other way. some things you can't fix yourself.”

sad forever

“life feels like a daydream.”

“voices always keeping me up, telling me that i should give up.”

“'cause lately i've been in the backseat to my own life.” 

“i don't wanna be sad forever.”

“i don't wanna wake up and wonder, what the hell am i doing this for?”

“i'll make it through to tomorrow, 'cause that's all i can do today.” 

invisible things

“do you still remember the way that we felt when we were kids?“

“yeah, we built castles out of couches. felt fire without matches.” 

“made promises without fear of getting burned.”

“we think happy is expensive.”

“it's the invisible things that i, that i love the most.”

“so let me hold you close.”

julia

“when we met i wasn't me, i was so numb.” 

“i was so lonely.”

“out on the run i wasn't free, and you came along but you couldn't save me.”

“my hesitation and holding my breath, i led you in to the garden of my loneliness.”

“wish that you left, before it all burned down.”

“i'm sorry what i do to you.”

“i push and pull and mess with your head, then get in your bed 'cause i'm weak, deep down.” 

“i wish i never lied to you.”

“i never meant to hurt you like that, and if i could go back i'd leave you alone.”

“when i left, i wasn't sure that i could love.“

“i won't lie to you no more, 'cause i know i did before hope you find what you looking for.” 

modern loneliness

“i've been thinkin' 'bout my father lately, the person that he made me, the person i've become.” 

“and i've been tryna fill all of this empty. but, fuck, i'm still so empty.”

“yeah, i could use some love.”

“i've been trying to find a reason to get up.”

“the baggage in my heart is still so dark.”

“modern loneliness. we're never alone, but always depressed.” 

“love my friends to death, but i never call and i never text 'em.”

“yeah, you get what you give and you give what you get.”

“we love to get high, but we don't know how to come down.”

“if i could break my dna to pieces, rid of all my demons.”

“if i could cleanse my soul, then i could fill the world with all my problems.”

“we're never alone, but always depressed.”

[destiny-smasher]

(Music by Samantha Pena, soudncloud user spena1989) Not gonna lie, I'm at a point with All Wounds where I'm like...oof, I wasn't able to envision everything I wanted to a few years back (by a long shot) but I'm kinda...wanting to be done with it. Even though I don't want to be done with it. 😅All Wounds was created from the get-go to be a visual novel - that's why the initial demo released so early into the project's life. My original intent was to go back and forth between fic and VN. But my original intent was also to end the story during the Portland road trip (Chapter 7). And while you could certainly make a case that the story is technically stronger up until that point, and becomes less potent and more dragged out for it's post-time-skip stuff, the latter stuff was also just...a lot more fun to write. And when I look back, if I had committed to the visual novel as intended, we'd not have gotten, like, ANY of that post-time-skip stuff, which includes Other Max being as fully fleshed out as she became. She'd have been stuck being a ghost in Max's head, pretty much. At this point, though, it's been so long, the fic I made INSTEAD of working on the visual novel is SO long, interest in the project peaked back while it was being written, working on this by myself is DAMN exhausting in terms of time spent, emotion and mentality drained, etc. Whenever I go back and listen to all of the amazing music made by people in the LiS it reinspires me to keep working on All Wounds but that's had diminishing returns as my life has changed drastically this past year. I love Max and Chloe. But, tbh, I just moved to a new country and got married, and I love my wife more than Max and Chloe? ^_^;; I’m not depressed and stuck in retail hell anymore, relying on staying up late working on a LiS fan project to channel that depression. I don't wanna completely shut the door on the visual novel and there's a chance I may still try to keep pushing to at least get to that road trip and maybe fudge it a bit. After all, a LOT of work has been done to the project that isn’t apparently or accessible in the public version; and I was able to add pretty well presented versions of Chapters 3 and 4 recently. So it’s entirely possible I could at least push it a little bit further if I end up inspired to do so. Either way, regardless, I still want to try some kind of epilogue, end-cap, etc, maybe even in VN form (Jenny and I had envisioned an epilogue where the characters play DnD). Max and Chloe mean the world to me, and exploring a version of events where both endings of the original game are expanded and tied together felt very cathartic. I'd rather that exist in SOME form (fic) than none at all; I think I'd still have done things this way a second time. But All Wounds inherently was a story about processing pain and grief and trauma and figuring out how to cope with it and heal and move on. And when I was at such low points, that made sense to write and steep myself in. But now? It just kinda doesn't. More than anything, though, is the fact that it's still a fan project - one that has had a lot of its interest evaporated for multiple reasons. The game’s ending is over four years old now; a prequel AND a sequel have both come out, further fragmenting the fandom; people have moved on. And it’s easy for outsiders to not realize how emotionally exhausting and sometimes painful All Wounds was, has been, and can still be for me to work on. Even things like pieces of music or art made by people who hurt me, who I hurt, that shit isn’t easy to work with. I could be spending all of this effort and energy on something less emotionally painful that isn't complete in ANY form AND is original. It feels bad to seriously consider dropping it when I'm sure there are still SOME people out there waiting for it, but I have other stories that I really need to work on. I can't keep myself locked in this cage forever when the work is such an unreasonable mountain to surpass. What I HAVE created is a fleshed out and substantial story and a chunk of it imagined in VN format which all kind of acts as a love letter to PriceField as well as an ultimately cathartic way to leave that original game to rest, I hope. Going forward I really think I'd like for Arcadian Rhythms to function as my one sole fanfic project I do inbetween original works, with one-shots or other bits (like the Butterfly Soup fic) just being other, far less intensive ways of working out those kinds of inspiration. It would probably do me better to also not talk about what I'm working on (aside from AR I suppose) in much depth or detail until I have something finished to really show for it. 😓 So if you want to see what I’ve been able to make of the visual novel so far, you can find that here.If you want to read the prose fic version of the story, which was finished quite some time ago (and which is where I want to update with an epilogue eventually), you can find that here. My newer fandom project, Arcadian Rhythms, which actually does feature Life is Strange characters, can be checked out here. You can follow our Patreon over here - we’ve been on hiatus as we deal with immigration but that should be all sorted soon. Regardless, any major updates to projects will be getting posted there once we’re back up and running. And you can follow me on Twitter over here; or just check back on my personal Tumblr here as I’m sure any meaningful thing I complete, fanfic or otherwise, will get posted here. So to clarify, current creative plans for the future on my own time: - original fiction projects (I’ve actually started work on an original VN for ex.) - Arcadian Rhythms for fun - some kind of epilogue for All Wounds - some kind of conclusion to Runners at the Corners (Butterfly Soup)

Interest in AW severely declined after the fic was done, no one else seems interested in working on it, either, it'd be SO MUCH work still. Sunken cost fallacy is a thing and tbh that’s part of why I even pushed myself to finish the update I did a few weeks ago. I am sorry to anyone who’s been waiting all this time for it - what I managed to produce is still a multi-hour visual novel, and I am still contemplating trying to at least get it to the end of the pre-time-skip. At the very least, there is still a complete story that can be read in fic form, the project just floated up and away from a reasonable grasp for one person, mainly because I just...wrote way more than I originally intended to. When I started work on this prokect, I also didn’t expect to fall in love, struggle to make ends meet, move across an ocean, and get married. And as important as All Wounds has been to me, I did at least finish telling the story I started, and the story it became, but I’ve learned all I can from it at this point and am so tired of trying to drag it out on my own. In the same way All Wounds sees Max and Chloe needing to accept their losses and let themselves move forward despite not everything going how they wanted, I guess I have to do the same with this project. Max and Chloe start a new future together, and it’s that time in my life where I probably should start doing the same. I need to start focusing on telling my own stories with my own characters more than I have been, as well as making more space for this new future with my new wife. And to All Wounds, the most difficult project I’ve worked on to date, as someone I once knew once sang, "I know, I know I made so many promises I know I left you such a mess; Gotta let go, gotta let go, and move on Been walking in a circle for too long"

And as another musician put it,

���Come and see the light of day out in the open It’s like I’m waking from a dream, oh Many days since I have seen the end unfolded Many times that I’ve looked back on all the times that we have had”

[charmingturkeysandwich]

fireworks (that went off too soon)

Hey there! This is a CS one shot. An AU in which Killian is the lead singer and songwriter in a band that sounds suspiciously like Fall Out Boy...

Summary: Emma and Killian were friends in college, but haven’t spoken in 9 years. Killian’s band’s new single changes everything.

Words: 4400ish

Rating: Teen? (Swearing, References to Sex)

Also on AO3

Big thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball​ for reading this over, correcting all my dumbass mistakes, and helping me polish this up pretty :) (The title comes from my favorite Fall Out Boy song, Fourth of July. It’s heavily featured in the story sung by Killian’s band.)

---

It was 3pm on Friday the 13th – also a Full Moon – when Emma Swan finally had the meltdown she’d pressed “pause” on about nine years earlier.

(Nine years, three months, more accurately, but who was counting?)

The work week was winding down. The get this done today or be fired tasks had been completed and all the emails had been answered and it was about time to start doing the bare minimum to run down the clock to 5:01 when she could, without regret, run screaming from the building and put her god forsaken job out of her mind for two days of rest, relaxation, and rum.

(Definitely the rum. Or maybe it had been upgraded to a tequila weekend.)

It was Pandora’s fault, really. (A fitting name for opening up an emotional box inside her soul that had been sealed for quite a long time and with very good fucking reason.)

Usually Emma listened to wordless music – movie scores, Vitamin String Quartet and the like – so as to keep the creative juices flowing without breaking her train of concentration. But having reached the procrastination part of the afternoon, she thought, what harm could there be in listening to a little regular music?

Emma had always had a soft spot for pop/punk/emo music. It brought her joy even when it wasn’t joyful, which is either a sentiment only shared by lonely foster girls or perhaps all emo kids, but did it matter? It was her kind of music. Long before she met Killian Jones.

But then she met him. He was an insufferable ass at least 2/3 of the time, but for the other third of his life, he was sweet, funny, and musically a goddamn genius. His voice was smooth and warm, he could play guitar like it was in his DNA, and his lyrics were both relatable and completely original. She was half in love from the start, so of course she pushed him as far away as possible.

(Love is patient; love is kind. Love is slowly losing my mind)

He was aloof. At best. They were college kids who shared a dorm building and not much else, not until their roommates fell in love with each other. That’s around the time they started spending an inordinate amount of time together. He was fucking anything with brown eyes and tits and she absolutely did not care and everything was fine. They were friends, kind of. She was a fan of his band, but not in the groupie way. She had no intention of being just a notch in his bedpost or a line in his song.

(As it turned out, she ended up becoming both. Eventually.)

When he wasn’t playing shows in dive bars (or fucking freshmen girls in a shower stall of their dorm hall’s shared bathroom), he spent a lot of time in Emma’s room. Mostly to avoid Mary Margaret and David in his room who were, as he called it, “the most sickly sweet love story this side of the Atlantic” and “a complete buzzkill to complex song-writing.” And she was OK with it. She loved when he would compose while she read. And they had the best conversations. They challenged each other on everything from politics to pie flavors and she’d never been so stimulated by someone of the opposite sex in her life.

Intellectually stimulated. In the brain.

By junior year, the two pairs of roommates had moved off-campus, opting to share a three bedroom house while they finished up school. Killian’s band was starting to actually make something of themselves, but he vowed to get his degree (this pretty face won’t last forever), and Emma played tutor for him when he skipped class for weeks on end so he could play some gigs on the west coast.

They were friends. They were equals. They meant so much more to each other than “just” friends or study buddies or housemates or anything, because the past three years had been the most stable years in either of their lives and it was all because of the support they received from each other in the darkest nights and the brightest days and seriously.

Fuck Pandora.

It had distracted her when she was in the middle of perfectly pleasant procrastinating. Now she was getting off track. Frazzled. Fucking pissed.

With her work mostly finished, she had decided to listen to Panic! At the Disco’s station. It was a safe zone – the best of two different genres: emo and pop. She bopped along to Blink 182 and “the Ballad of Mona Lisa.” She swayed and swooned a little when “Secrets” by One Republic played. And she got a good laugh at “I’m Not OK (I Promise),” remembering the days she’d scream “I’m not o-fucking kay! [trust me]” every time she got into a fight with the foster mother she now loved so very much.

But then there was a dramatic twist and a cinematic sweep and that voice and before she could switch the station, some warning popped up at her, removing all the buttons and controls and displaying the error message of SOMETHING WENT WRONG and all she could think was no shit, Sherlock.

Killian’s band got big when they were 21. And stayed big. The band broke up once, briefly, but they’d been dancing around the American Top 40 for at least 6 of the last 9 years and as much as it hurt her to hear his voice through a radio and not through a wall of their shared house, at least the lyrics of the songs never stung her before.

Because they’d never been about her before.

It was the summer before senior year, late that June, and Killian had just returned from a little pop-punk festival in Seattle. She’d picked him up at the airport in Portland (Maine) and had been chatting his ear off about how much better “our” Portland was from “theirs” (Oregon), but Killian had been largely silent.

Which was out of character to the extreme, his little creative writing/song composer mind always racing and his far too pleasing voice always spilling from his stupidly attractive lips.

“What is up with you, Jones? I just said that they have better lobster in Oregon and you didn’t even react.”

From the passenger seat, he played with the window controller, the air whooshing in and stopping to the rhythm of Seven Nation Army AKA the world’s most overplayed song that wasn’t sung by Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, Swan. A problem for a different day, to be sure.”

His voice had been quiet, unsure. That wasn’t him either. This was the asshole who could start a trend with a typo and who claimed to have made a girl come with nothing but his voice. His level of confidence was infuriating, but unshakeable.

(He made forgetting the words to his own songs look attractive. And that was an eventual Buzzfeed headline, not Emma’s own assessment. Obviously.)

“Killian, what’s up? Did the festival not go as well as you wanted? From what I saw on YouTube, it seemed awfully successful.”

“Aye, love.” He perked up just a bit, finally turning toward her and smiling. “It was grand.”

“And you’re brooding because, what, you’re worried that feeling happy for too long will sap you of your emo energy or something?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood didn’t seem to take, though, and Killian turned back out the window like he was practicing for his very own music video.

When they got back to their house, Emma grabbed his clothes and Killian lugged the musical equipment and neither of them said a word.

Fog had rolled in, or maybe it was on its way out, and if it weren’t for the green leaves, it might have felt like October. But there was something about his expression that was a hell of a lot more December. Something ending.

They were lingering almost awkwardly in their kitchen, Emma trying to casually wrack her brain for how to pull Killian out of his little funk, when he interrupted her with an overdramatic clearing of his throat.

“Ahem! Fancy a drink, Swan?” Killian extended a shot glass to her, a dark liquid inside that couldn’t be anything but spiced rum.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked hesitantly.

“Perhaps… perhaps it’s a celebration.”

“…of?”

“Your business sense, of course!” He lifted his glass toward hers for a clink and then downed the shot faster than she could even raise hers to her lips.

“What kind of business are we talking here? I’m not sure if this is the setup for an idiot joke or a reference to lyrics you swear you told me you wrote but never actually did.”

“Ah, love, no. Not that, this time anyway. Actually – actually, it’s about the band. And ‘Grand Theft Autumn.’ They loved it like you said they would.”

“They being?”

“The record company. They loved it. And they want it. And us.”

Holy shit! She knew it. They were going to be famous. Killian deserved it so much and they were going to be huge and everyone was going to love him just like she did and –

Wait.

“When you say they want you… do you mean, like, deferred acceptance so you can finish college or…”

“No, love. The boys and I … we’re packing up and moving to LA.”

She was dumbfounded.

“LA?”

“Aye.”

“When?”

“Monday.”

That’s right about the time her stomach dropped to her heels and the rum threatened its way back up her throat and perhaps onto Killian’s perfectly rumpled white shirt.

She just – wasn’t ready to let him go.

She could hear his honey-smooth voice drift through her head, his own lyrics seeming oddly relevant to this dramatic turn in her life.

Maybe he won’t find out what I know; you were the last good thing about this part of town.

So they drank. And drank. And drank some more. They were more honest with each other than they’d been in three years. She told him how much she hated that he thought setting his clocks early would keep him from being late. And he told her that he didn’t truly think that… it just had fit as a song lyrics and he felt like he needed to “make it authentic by living it.”

She called him pretentious and he called her painfully adorable and neither were true and yet somehow they felt like the perfect identifiers for the characters they were trying to be when they weren’t with each other.

So of course she fell into bed with him that night. Her bed. The twinkly lights hung around her ceiling were flickering as he kissed a trail down her neck and she tugged off his way-too-tight jeans and dear fucking lord if she thought the only thing he could do with his tongue was sing, she was officially wrong.

But come morning she was officially gone. As the sun rose on a rainy June Sunday morning, she slipped out of her bed, slid into whatever clothes she could reach without making noise, and jogged all the way to David’s brother’s frat house to hide until Monday came and went and when exactly did her life turn into an emo song?

When I wake up I’m willing to take my chances on the hope I forget

September. Friday the 13th. Pandora malfunction. Her brain was reeling and her heart was shattering all over again, because the song pumping through her pathetic tinny Dell speakers was, on first blush, just another of his melodramatic fictions, a series of sentiments that sounded good together but that he’d never actually experienced (he’d admitted the best songs were much like Hey There Delilah… a lovely story and 0% real).  But she could hear something genuine in that still so attractive voice. And then… a few familiar thoughts.

I’ll be as honest as you let me

I miss your early morning company

If you get me

You are my favorite ‘what if’

You are my best ‘I’ll never know’

She’d turned off her phone the morning she’d left him in her bed. Kept it off until Tuesday. And blocked his number the minute she turned it back on.

Goodbyes were bad enough. To have been reduced to his very last college-one-night-stand? She couldn’t face it.

(Especially because she’d realized mid-fuck she’d kind of always wanted to be his forever, or whatever overly-romantic hyperbole he’d scoff at before writing it down in his notes.)

She hadn’t let herself think of him for longer than the span of one of his songs since that day. Even then, she’d usually change the channel. It was just too hard.

But could this one actually be about her? And if so, what the fuck was she supposed to do with that? Cry? Scream? Sue his sorry ass for slander?

(Not that one.)

She’d made a lot of mistakes in her life. He’d never been one of them, not until the end. Is it possible that didn’t need to be the end at all?

My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars

Again and again til I’m stuck in your head

He’d probably had a lot of almosts. Maybe he’d just gotten better at faking genuine emotion in his songs. There’s no way he still thought about her. Even for lyrical dramatics.

I wish I’d known how much you loved me

I wish I’d cared enough to know

I’m sorry every song’s about you

The torture of small talk

With someone you used to love

Well there you had it. Small talk? They hadn’t talked in years. And she already knew every song was total bullshit, made up longing. Some of his best lovelorn pandering (that she admittedly loved) had been written when he claimed to be incapable of actual love. When he would only sleep with dark-haired, dark-eyed girls who didn’t want anything more than a good breakfast the next morning.

(I’m not looking for a soulmate, darling, just a beauty without a gag reflex, he’d repeated on many occasions. Sometimes literally to the women he was hitting on. And yes, they did usually blow him afterward and he would inexplicably tell her and she Did. Not. Care.)

(Until the day she realized she always had.)

A week after he’d moved to Los Angeles had been the 4th of July. It being summer and most of her friends working various jobs, she didn’t think there would be a huge party. James had insisted, though, that they needed to celebrate the fact that their friends were getting famous. David had pointed out the irony that the band – Killian, Will, Robin, and Graham – were all from outside of the USA. And yet they were being celebrated on America’s birthday.

“Stealing things from others is the American way. Now drink, little brother!” James had shouted just before his frat brothers lifted him into keg stand position and he chugged.

Emma wasn’t one for keg stands, so she’d opted for drinking straight liquor instead, and from what she could extrapolate from the massive headache the next morning (in addition to the vomit in her bedside garbage can), she had likely drank that bottle in its entirety.

After the opening of Pandora’s box that fateful Friday the 13th, Emma couldn’t think of much else but her almost-maybe-something Killian Jones. Suddenly his stupid band was everywhere and that stupid song was everywhere and she was feeling a deep longing to connect with that girl who had two whole albums by two different bands written about her to see how the fuck she coped with old wounds being opened every fucking visit to the grocery store.

(Then again, Brand New and Taking Back Sunday weren’t quite so mainstream. Maybe that’s how she survived.)

(Is that what you call a getaway? Tell me what you got away with, cause I’ve seen more spine in jellyfish; I’ve seen more guts in 11 year old kids.)

She’d taken to keeping the radio off at all times, and humming the Star Spangled Banner when she couldn’t escape Killian’s stupidly attractive and all-too-familiar voice gracing the airwaves.

Ruby asked her out for drinks, and alcohol was exactly the cure for her current tumult, so she agreed on the very specific request that they hit the country bar downtown instead of their usual Rabbit Hole escapades. Which worked out great for avoiding song-specific reminders, but sadly didn’t keep all Killian talk at bay.

“By the way, how have you been holding up?” Ruby asked, probably in response to Emma’s downing two shots – one of which that had been intended for Ruby – in the first minute or so at the table.

“What do you mean, holding up?” She wasn’t that transparent, right?

“Well the song… the one Killian wrote about you. It’s, like… huge. Weird how he waited this long. Did he warn you first or anything?”

… what? It wasn’t about her. Sure, it kind of, a little bit, had some moments that seemed like they could be inspired by her. But it had been nine fucking years and she hadn’t seen him since the morning she slinked away from their house and it’s not like he’d ever reached out or anything (or at least he didn’t try very hard, because blocking a cell phone number wasn’t like blocking a whole-ass person),  hence her nine years of denial and shoving down her feelings like the very opposite of the emo kid she once was.

She probably looked like that stupid meme of the lady thinking about math and her heart was beating nearly out of her chest, but somehow the only sound that made it out of her mouth was, “huh?”

Ruby, bless her heart, was much better at dealing with, you know, life than Emma was. And sorting through feelings and coping with unprecedented situations that Emma had so far only seen odd iterations of in Hallmark movies or … emo music videos, probably.

“The song. Fourth of July. It’s been a while since he wrote a song about you and I mean usually they were about pining for you, which is a little more tolerable, probably. But this one… I don’t know. I just figured you probably didn’t appreciate it, and that’s why you were drinking my shots.”

Another lame, dumbfounded response: “What? Killian’s never written a song about me.”

Ruby’s eyebrow shot up to her hairline (the way Killian’s always had when she said something silly). “So all that shit in college was…?”

“Made up! Ruby, he was a creative writing major. He just made up characters and then wrote songs as if he were them. He never actually wanted to date anyone. Just fuck anything that resembled Megan Fox.”

Ruby didn’t say a word. She stood, walked to the bar, ordered two drinks, and sat back down with Emma a few minutes later.

“Sweetheart. You sure are dumb for a smart girl.”

And that’s how Emma’s Enlightenment began.

As it turns out, Killian’s creative writing skills were great, but not quite as great as his love for his best friend.

Yep, love. Apparently he’d loved her.

There was a reason he’d really only fucked girls that looked nothing like Emma.

There was a reason he had valued her input so much in his music.

There was a reason he’d hung out with her so often and it had nothing to do with Mary Margaret and David’s grossness.

Keep quiet; nothing comes as easy as you. Can I lay in your bed all day?

Fuck.

“Why didn’t he tell me?!”

Ruby laughed at her, which was totally uncalled for, but also kind of made a lot of sense if she had the ability to think of any of this objectively.

“Oh, honey. He told you every goddamn day in those songs. And how he acted. You’d have to be blind to not realize how much that boy loved you. So he assumed it was a ‘no’ from your side. And then after you slept with him and then he poured his heart out to you and still nothing? That was kinda it for him. But I mean, it’s been so long. I can’t believe he released a song about that now.”

At that, Emma’s jaw dropped. Hard. There was an audible pop and damnit, she was going to have to ice that later, probably.

“How do you know I slept with him?!”

“… because you had a fight about it literally in front of every person you knew?”

HUH?

The buzz of the alcohol was nothing compared to the stinging behind her eyes and the pain in her gut and seriously had the past decade actually been a very different reality from what she’d been living?

And how had Mary Margaret, AKA the Secret Spiller, never told her that A) Killian loved her or B) that Emma had apparently had a blacked-out fight with him in front of everyone?

Emma’s Enlightment continued.

Apparently no one spilled the secret because no one knew it was a secret to start. Much like Killian had, everyone thought that Emma knew his feelings, but that she just wanted to be friends.

And after the blow up on the Fourth of July, they just assumed she didn’t want to talk about it.

While David and James and a bunch of their friends were playing beer pong and Mary Margaret and Regina were trying to find another pair to play cornhole, Emma had been nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the roof of the frat house. She’d crawled out of Jefferson’s window, much to his annoyance (he worked in the morning and needed to sleep), and she just watched. Everyone was having a good time. The best days of their lives were now or even tomorrow.

But hers were yesterday.

So she drank and she drank and she drank until the boys were lighting off fireworks and Belle had started a chant of USA! USA! And out of nowhere she saw the floppy brown hair and scuffed-up leather jacket she’d been wishing for every minute of the last week.

“Swan! I need to speak with you!” he’d called up at her, perched on the Lion statue at the front entrance.

But, of course, he’d been pulled in a thousand different directions as soon as everyone else saw their about-to-be-famous friend. So Emma drank and drank and drank some more, not prepared to actually have to say goodbye this time.

Ruby wasn’t sure how long it took until Killian made it onto the roof with her. She did know they’d only been talking a few minutes when Emma started screaming at the top of her lungs about thanks for the memories, even though they weren’t so great. That seemed to have really upset him, because then he started screaming about why the bloody hell did you sleep with me then and Emma had cried but ultimately said she didn’t mean to and he needed to just leave because that’s what he was going to do anyway and there was no reason to feel sorry for her.

There had been more screaming that wasn’t quite intelligible (thank goodness), but when all was said and done, Killian had told Ruby that he laid it all down on the line, how much he loved her, how he wanted her to go with him to LA, how he really would burn down the whole city just to show her the light, but she’d said no. Emphatically.

Before crying so hard in Jefferson’s closet that he threatened to take her to the ER.  When Emma passed out, Killian had carried her to his car (the only sober one) and carried her into her room when they got to his now-former house, leaving her with a kiss on the cheek and his later assurance to Ruby that at least he had tried.

And Emma didn’t remember.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Emma muttered to Ruby.

Was there anything worse than finding out something that could have changed your life nine fucking years too late? She had never loved anyone like she’d loved Killian. It had been the easiest relationship of her existence. She’d never felt more safe, more valued, more… loved. But she’d thought it was friend-love.

(Even after the amazing sex.)

What a fucking dumbass she was.

Ruby left her to gather her thoughts/sulk in the corner for at least three line dances before she came back over to their table, bringing Emma a nice tall water as she cleared the un-drunk Long Island Iced Tea from next to Emma’s slumped head.

“I don’t think I can ever un-fuck this up,” Emma whined into her elbow before sitting up to chug the glass of water.

“I do have his number,” Ruby offered.

Hey um Ruby gave me your number and apparently I have a lot to apologize for

Congratulations on the fame also by the way I loved you every minute of every day

This is Emma, remember me? Apparently your song about me is doing really well

Hey Killian, I was wondering if you ever made it to this side of the country any more

I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry

After about 15 failed attempts to send him a message that would convey the depth of her regret, she nearly gave up. Hands shaking, legs bouncing, lunch threatening to make an encore appearance, she pulled up the lyrics to his new song, took a screenshot,

And all my thoughts of you

They could heat or cool the room

And now don’t tell me you’re fine

Oh, honey, you don’t have to lie

And added:

I’m not fine.

It was a very painful 26 hours before she received a response, a screenshot with an addition as well.

I said I’d never miss you, but I guess you’ll never know

Where the bridges I have burned never really led home

Can I come home?

They met outside the old frat house (now shut down) a week later, staying awake until sunrise just catching up on all that had happened since they last saw each other (and a little bit of what happened when they did). She brought sparklers and he brought nine years of unreleased song lyrics.

And when his band’s next single was called Opening Pandora’s Box on Friday the Thirteenth, well, everyone but Emma just thought they were being their usual melodramatic selves.

Yeah, songs about her weren’t all that awful after all.

[yeswritingsandwritings]

COVID Diaries; Pennies

It is March 2020 and I’ve channeled the spirit of Paul Revere. As Los Angeles erupts into rioting and mass fentanyl suicide, I dive headfirst into the cabin of the Mazda, and gun the packed ship upwards along the vacant I5 corridor. Every smouldering city under Gavin Newsom looks further gone than the last. The navigation takes me on some perverse fantasy detour thru post-apocalyptic San Francisco. It’s been a long time coming but now it’s solidified. The mayor and her delegates have chomped their cyanide pills and now the streets and bridges offer rotting cars beside silent, beautiful Victorian manors. Still in full color, the sky is blue and the sun is yellow, gleaming indifferently. I am nervous about San Franscisco County. The shelter in place order says no one shall be out on the street without proper reason. And, proper reason or not, I have a pharmacy of drugs in the trunk of my car. Will it be enough to wait out the pandemic in my mother’s house? Enough to keep me sane tucked in the basement of the compound on Cougar Mountain, Issaquah, Washington, for GodKnowsHowLong? My very own Bavarian Alps.

For years in LA I have lived for high speed and hard sex in a blackout frenzy which no young American could denigrate without looking like a nerd. In our culture of excess I sought the most insane, unexplored corridors. Chavionistic romps through the bitter forests of lust, contamination, too-young suicide, too-good blowjobs that leave explosions on this cast of characters flown from every corner of the globe, all with the same indelible fever. I come to now, in this chaotic month handed down by God, March 2020, and I’m withdrawing from all of it in the penthouse on the side of the mountain.

In this moment the fantasy is fading fast, like being jolted from a wet dream by a home invasion. For a lot of people the American dream was already a flickering ember in the distance, a relic of some stupid pilgrimgrage for egoic glory, a blind propaganda puzzle piece with no jigsaw to belong to. But I had formed my own relationship with the concept, and, until now, had believed wholeheartedly in the myth in America; or at least that myth’s capacity to spur significant action, which could abolish hunger and pain, mistreatment and misunderstanding, which could deliver us from evil and unto the kingdom of heaven.

I am not, to many of her 300 million pairs of eyes, a portrait of traditional American success. I am the starving artist archetype. I’ve lived in abandoned buildings and shot cocaine into my veins in the speeding bathroom of many an Amtrak carriage. These may be my most definitive traits, save for the music I somehow manage to draw out of all of this. Albums worth of potential answers to the impossible questions. Sometimes I think I’ve reached the peak, with the LSD and the naked festival girls. I am 26 years old and feel incompetent. I go to pay a traffic ticket or am electric bill and find myself paralyzed at the entrance to the website. In a moment of otherworldly strength I call the bank and my debit card has been cancelled. I stare at the parking ticket in my pod, which has been rented from a company called Up(Start), and is arranged in a row with twenty others. At least I’ve made it to Los Angeles.

Up(Start) is a strange place. I find most people don’t last very long in this community. They leave back to their hometowns or find apartments. The ones who stay haunt this place like ghosts, with no discernible goals and mysterious incomes. I’ve learned not to ask how these life-longers pay the rent. The answer is not translatable.

Willow is one of these life-longers. She always talks about moving out; sometimes to an apartment in LA, most recently about some nebulous palace in France. She says her grandmother died and left her everything. She shows me a suitcase full of watches and rings that still can’t fully convince me of her story. She drinks vodka when she wakes up and convinces me to fuck her when Jesse leaves us in his room alone.

Jesse found his way out to a beautiful house in Silver Lake. He had been at Up(Start) for a year before that. He is the nicest guy I know, offering the coat off his back for nothing but a swig of your vodka in return.

I left these characters behind, keeping a steady 65 on the interstate and stopping only to black out in a hotel room in Redding, CA. Summer, inspirational barista and blowjob queen, dared me to stop and see her in Portland, but my body was crawling from scabies from Lucy, (who was also in Portland and, I would later learn, infected with the virus) and I sped right through.

My younger brother Jon was at the house and had been awaiting my arrival. I instantly understood why. My mother had become a figurehead for the national panic, and shoulder-hugged me with her mask on. She is, as we speak, sterilizing the place.

I’ve gotten to spend a good amount of time with Jon, and am somewhat surprised to find that he faces the same existential torment as I do. This is not something we talk about, but I can feel it on him. He is super into Xanax, and orders pressed bars off the darknet. I share the drugs I’ve brought with him. Kratom, weed, and, —most enticing— Flubromazolam. I learn that he has been kicked out of UW on academic probation. I ask him about it in front of my mother and stepdad. With a casualness that shocks me he says he just didn’t care about any of his classes. But he’s got reaccepted to the school and he says he’s going to make it this time.

I show him how I order my drugs online. I show him the designer benzodiazepines on the clearnet, pennies per dose. We place an order for O-DSMT. It’s an insane solution to our problems, but I guarantee you it works.

I tell Jon about my life in LA with the stuff. Taking it and driving weed deliveries all day. I don’t tell him about the long nights with Lucy, telling her the love I feel from the opiate is sourced from her, then failing to get hard.

Jon, for his part, tells me about the peak of his Oxycontin habit, poppin 7 OC30’s a day with his buddies at Rolling Loud. I was just a few blocks away. I didn’t know he was in town.

We order the O-DSMT to his apartment in the U District, stopping to and snag it on our sole vacation to Dad’s for dinner. Two packages have been delivered. We have the save pavlov response. We carry the packages to his apartment on the top floor and split the bubble wrap with a butterfly knife. Out of a manilla envelope comes 100 green Xanax bars. From a bent UPS envelope comes a gram of O-DSMT and 250mg of 4-ACO-DMT, a bonus for me (Jon says he hates psychedelics).

We set to the scale and split the gram, dosing 50mg then and there to get through dinner. The next day he visits me in the basement, saying “Yo, this O-DSMT shit… it’s dope.”

I say “I’m with you.”

My days are spent deep in the dream flow, recording songs for a hopeful fourth album. The third one is still far from complete, but I can’t go back and meddle with those songs now. Wouldn’t dare touch their Los Angeles essence with the hand of the evergreen state. They will go to Rob and Twon and Andy as they are.

I’m back to guitars for the new album. Cardinal sin AC/DC type songs. I think it may be a double album, quarantine permitting. I want an exploratory, unstructured, throw paint at the wall and see what sticks, White album/Life of Pablo situation. I want solo piano pieces and Aphex Twin-esque 808 excursions. I want the label to release it on white vinyl with extensive liner notes. Indulgence. I want this album to be the one where I say “indulge me.”

If Rob is vehimently opposed to the idea I had the fantasy of making an easy album. Taking songs like Parade Owl, See You Tomorrow, Miss Can’t Sleep and putting out a whole album of them. Good rock music. Take a step back from the frontlines; the cutting edge. We’ll see what sticks to the wall after this quarantine is over.

Weeks drift by. There’s a trade route for all the beer that gets brought into the house. It goes from the garage fridge to the basement fridge to my eager hand, to my mouth, to my blood. Night by night the ritual recurs, til my mom takes out the downstairs trash and finds all the empties. She makes some subtle comment. I tell her to buy more White Claw.

Despite the drug flow my inspiration seems to be drying up. Rob took a listen to the twenty five songs I’d completed since arriving in Issaquah and said they sounded like Dogs. The old band. The old rock and roll band we’ve been trying to move away from. I was disappointed to hear him say it. I was disappointed he wasn’t excited about the songs. “Fuck it, should I scrap them all?” I asked myself. Then I started to look around the house and understand that if nothing came of these songs… I must be insane. I must be losing it. The stupid research chemical stimulants don’t help. I thought they would. Productivity and all… but I’m just jittery, texting strangers on Instagram for hours, all the while feeling like I should be doing something else. And the television is on in the background, and I told myself I was going to do so much to day. And I did it. And people on Instagram say “you seem busy.” They’ve always said I seem this and I seem that. I never agreed with any of it, but they probably know me better than I do. How could I see myself? I look for myself through a fog and it’s only a ripple of a shadow. A microcosm a million miles away through a hellscape with no up or down, no east or west. They say I’m social. They say I’m a socialite. Really I just get drunk and unleash all my nervous energy on the party or, nowadays, the Zoom meeting.

Today I drink Modello. Ma and Chuck went to the Seattle waterfront for a picnic or something. I didn’t get the details. But the sun should be going down now, and she’s texting me asking if I want to play a board game when they get back. I say yeah sure I do. My temper when I’m off these amphetamines analogues, though… I worry I’ll flip the Pictionary board. Slam dunk the wine glass onto the wood floor. Now the cliffhanger; will this Modello calm my nerves?

This morning I went with mom to buy plants for the garden. I thought we were going to get seeds but she wanted the already grown ones. She was ready to be angry. Nothing made her happy. We went to three different garden store. I think she got some tomatos. How the hell am I going to get out of this one? Feels like the walls are closing in. I feel like I’m in the freezer in the back of McDonalds. I feel so sad for her, but I also feel so sad for myself. I feel cut off. I feel short of breath. I feel terror. It is Friday, April 17, 2020. Dread, terror, paranoia… I’m sure it’s been felt a million times by a million people, but here’s my version of it. In this McMansion on the side of the mountain, feeling less like I have a mission than ever. Calling nobody. Freezing. Yeah I’m freezing.

My brother and I both have drugs to get through this crisis but I’m planning to get off them. I sold him half of my etizolam and half of another shipment of O-DSMT the other day. He wasn’t at all interested in the 2-FDCK, an analogue of the dissociative Ketamine. I am still not really sure what dissociatives do to consciousness. They can move you into states profound darkness. You feel like your life is a black and white film and it is raining outside. And it drips off the palm trees and you sit in traffic on the way back from the Boy’s and Girl’s Club, where the boys and girls wouldn’t listen, they’d just go off into their own worlds. I wonder how they’re all doing now, tucked into their parents houses in Calabasas.

Anyway, I said to Jon “I’m getting off the stuff.” And I intended to. This journal finds me at a crossroads between fantasy and reality. What is my life going to be for? Where do I cast this fishing pole? Well the pole’s been cast. It’s out there in the middle of the ocean. But at the same time it’s in my hand, in this very moment, and I can chose where to dip it. I’m not trying to catch a fish in this scenario, I just like the serenity of the bay.

The question on everyone’s mind is: “If not drugs, then what!?” That’s a great question and I’d be bullshitting if I said I could answer it. I don’t know what lies on the other side of this life. I want to find out. Do I truly? I have to truly. Love, sex, work, victory… I’ve seen all these things before. And I keep turning to these substances. They fill up my days and my hours and all the music is informed by them. They move my hands to play the guitar and my voice is scratchy when it comes out. I’ve formed an identity around these drugs to a certain extent. That idea of me has to die. It does. I’ll have to mourn it. I’ll have to mourn a lot. I guess I don’t know what to be afraid of. I know a lot of stuff is going to come up through this process. The drugs numb it all out. People say that but it’s really really true. Bad news doesn’t don’t hit you as hard. Most things don’t hit you at all. You’re in your world. You’re off in a cloud. You’re unaware of the world around you. You’re afraid to engage. Why?

It’s easier not to ask why. It’s easier to get the immediate relief of a squirt of etizolam tincture. Or a gross tossing of O-DSMT powder into your mouth and a quick washdown with water. In this way you don’t have to answer any questions. In this way nothing hits you. And guess what else? All your heroes did the same thing.

But a lot of them died doing it. And you don’t want to die. You really really don’t want to die. You want to live a long life, with kids and grandkids, and see what happens to America and what music turns into. You don’t want to die, but what do you have to live for? You know you can make things up. Everyone’s always making shit up. All of this is made up. The culture, the value of a dollar, the value of a Benz. We just decide on it. And that takes a lot. But you know what takes a lot less? Deciding how you want to react to each moment. This one and this one and this one. Do you know what I mean? They say a lot of stuff about the world. The world’s fucked. They say the world’s burning to the ground. They say we can’t leave our houses. They say America won’t be a super power by the end of all of this. But they’re making shit up. And I’m making shit up too. I’m whipping up like a chef. Throwing dishes out from the kitchen, but the dishes are words and actions and the kitchen is my mind. What kind of food am I throwing out? What kind of food am I serving the world? Let me serve love and hope. But for that to happen, let me cultivate it in myself first. Let me nurture it like a child. Let me see it sober. Let me take the steps in the right direction. It’s simple. It’s simpler than you think it is. What are you going to do right now, after reading this? Or while reading this? How are you going to face the world?

Jon told me he got into Xanax from the Famous Dex song “Japan.”

“Baby girl, what you doing, where your man? I just popped a xan, fifty thousand in Japan”

He told me his friends heard the song and picked up some Xanax because of it. They liked it and reached out to him “You’ve got to try this,” they said. My little brother, in the throes of this batshit demon force that will bury him. It might bury me too. The jury’s still out. Mom, just let me withdraw in peace. She brings down a space heater. I grow to love it. I lay down on the wood floor that the spiders sometimes dash across. The space heater comes close to burning me, but I’m ok. I stand up, dizzy from all I’ve done to try to combat the withdrawls. Way too much etizolam, way to much kratom, getting to the point of way too much weed and alcohol. But hopefully it’ll all be over soon, and I can call my friends in peace and not want to slam down the phone whenever there is the tiny threat of silence, or whenever I speak, or whenever they speak. I can’t any of it sober, that’s what I think. Life is hard sober; it’s a breeze when you’re floating thru it. A good dream. So why get sober? They say it’ll kill me. Well, I said that. In this very same paragraph. And maybe it will. But when you’re withdrawing like this… all you want is a moment of peace.

Oh God, at dinner tonight I started to go off about my own mental state to the family. I should have known it was a big mistaken, but on my way home from Doordashing a rainy Issaquah I stopped at QFC and got a bottle of True Eagle American Spirits, Kentucky manufactured vodka. And, helping myself to serving of kimchi,  I said to them “I think I’m losing it.” And the conversation spiraled until my mother asked me “Are you suicidal?” And “Are you struggling with drugs?” Jon, between us, must have felt betrayed, but I just wanted to feel understood. I feel Chuck does not want to understand. I understand what he’s sacrificed for the life he has, but what value does that life has to him? He has a tumor in his jawbone, and it’s eating away at him, and no one can do anything. And they can’t get out to the specialists on the East Coast, and they won’t do the invasive surgery. He’s too busy. I know, in some capacity, he understands. Because he blows these things off like they don’t matter at all, when anyday he could have a stroke like Grandma had, fall to the floor of the kitchen while dishing up his kimchi, or pulling a slice of pizza out of the carton. I feel the same way. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I know that I am mentally unwell. And I avoid the questions about my drug use and about my suicidality. I miss girls, ma. I miss pussy and parties and not giving a fuck. The way I don’t give a fuck now is in these terrifying sound collages drafted on the latest of nights, in the deep dark depths of quaratine. What was I saying in the last one? Something about how I didn’t wanna kill the crabs on the beach on Whidbey Island as a kid. Holy shit I’m losing my mind. But it’s all fine, isn’t it? As long as the music comes out fine.

What could I possibly do to get healthy? I feel so far off the deep end. You have no idea; I feel like crying. My best friend, living with the girl I thought I could always go back to. We don’t talk. I mix these ketamine analogues in with that cheap cheap vodka (plus etizolam) and cry tears onto this plastic table. It’s pointless to keep up the tinder courtships. I feel like this will never end. And it started with such a bang. I was such a part of history. Now I’m a nobody; I’m a junkie, holding on by the thinnest thread. No energy to pray. I feel like Cobain, and I know so many people do… but I really do. I can only imagine. But I’m only listening to Mingus, Lana Del Rey and Radiohead (Kid A thru Hail to The Thief).

Should I throw weed in the mix? Lord knows I have enough of it. It’s my number one priority. I’ve made enough songs now that we could workshop what I’ve come up with years. What else is there to do? Mingus ripped the piano strings out of some pianist’s instrument in front of a live audience, then stormed off the stage. Where the fuck is that in my life? I’m in front of the computer, weeping because America has come to a close. You know they sent jazz to the Soviet Union as a WEAPON? A weapon of freedom and democracy and individualism. What the fuck happened? It all makes me want to cry. It’s all too much; this world. These people I’ve known and loved and lost. This music I’ve made that they promise me will be something, but I don’t know if I believe them. I don’t know if I want anything to do with this life. I can’t engage with my culture anymore… my history. I feel like I’m not a part of it. I feel so disconnected. Who’s rippin the strings out of MY piano? Or who’s piano am I ripping the strings out of? We’ve lost so much… I mean… I’ll do my best to work with what we still have, but we’ve been so fractured. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was the end. Of America. Of our culture. Of our music and our hustle and bustle and industry and lover’s lanes and rites of passage. I feel like I’m mourning it now. Mourning my culture. Maybe mourning the illusion that was sold to us. Believe me, I was first in line to buy. That’s why it destroys me so deeply to see it collapse.

I guess we’re all one people. I’m crying writing this. Weeping, weeping, weeping. Grieving. You know what grieving is. I remember what’s-her-name in the pool. We went to every hot tub, each a different temperature, in the Desert Hot Springs Resort. Then Lucy’s friend’s new boyfriend told us Bernie Sanders had stayed there when he had visited DHS. I laughed so hard. Lucy ordered me another drink. She didn’t mind the cost. She liked me to be on her level. And I didn’t mind. I was proud to sip. We went back to the hotel and did god knows what. Feels a million lifetimes away.

This was back when anything could happen. When America was a blank slate and no one could predict anything. When you could go outside and say “What the fuck is up?” and get in adventures. I mourn the loss of that. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe that’s still there. But I’ve emotionally severed my ties to it. And I wish I didn’t. Because I love it. I love it so much. It’s not a myth. I swear to god it’s not a myrh. It was a reality… until all this happened. You have no idea. I mean, if you’re reading this and weren’t around before. You have no idea. I mean… I don’t know what things are going to be like after this. But not the same. There’s no way they could be the same.

You know I hope I get this shit. I hope I contract COVID-19. Lay in this guest bedroom bed with the scabies I may or may not have gotten from Upstart Creative Living… and which wouldn’t die off. I hope I can’t breathe. I hope I’m immune. I want to walk the world. Maybe I should go out, get it, isolate, heal, be immune… if that’s even possible. At this point we don’t even know if immunity is a thing that happens with COVID. But even if I could walk the earth without fear of it… everyone else is cowering, and they pull away from, seeing I’m not wearing a mask or gloves, or even if I am… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would all end this way. I would have done so much more. Focused so much more on each kiss. Even every note. I did my best, I guess. It feels like it’s all coming to an end. It’s Thursday, April 23, but that doesn’t mean anything. You have to understand how little dates mean in this time. It’s like we’re living in one of those time capsules buried beneath the walkway at WWU. Stagnant… yeah we write songs and poems and do our work and keep the economy from faltering completely… but there’s a different angle to look at it all now. The world is over. I mean, aha, to use the words of Rem… “It’s the End of the World As We Know It.” Key words: “As we know it.” I had no idea this would happen in my lifetime… I couldn’t even conceive it. If you would have told me this would have happened six months ago I wouldn’t have believed it. America seemed so stable. And now it feels like it’s in shambles. It really did feel stable. You may think I’m insane for saying America in September, 2019 seemed stable… but shit, we were free. And we were headed where we were headed. This throws a wrench in all of this. And it could be the end. And I thought this was the greatest country on earth. Happiness is a buttery, try to catch it like every night.

I’ve been fascinated in American history since I could understand it. Most specifically, I’ve been fascinated about how history is still happening. The closer you get you the current day, the harder it is to get a straight story. FDR did what he did and we won. That’s fact. That’s cement. Nixon? Everyone agrees he was a crook. But what about Reagan? What about Bush Sr? What about Clinton? The closer you get to the modern day, the more difficult it becomes to discern what is real and what is fake.

[kenzie-ann27]

can i get a uuhh fake dating au for steve and richie pls... ;)))

Dude you went through my WIPs because I totally have one in progress with Steve and Richie (we have to come up with a ship name for them lol), but here is something else! :)

"So let me get this straight, Rich. You don't want me to leave, even though you know I am really busy today, and you want me to just stand here, backstage, and do... what? Nothing?"

"I know it sounds crazy, I know. Just trust me, please?"

"You're not going to bring me out to make fun of me again, are you? That was not cool. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back to Detroit."

"Detroit sucks anyway, Steve. You're not missing much. I'm not going to make fun of you. Just stay back here and wait for my cue, okay?"

The shorter man crossed his arms, staring back at the fidgeting man in front of him.

"Are you sure you're doing okay? You look like you're about to puke. I told you that you shouldn't write your own material if you're not going to even tell anyone what you're going to say."

"It's just my first show back, of course I'm going to be nervous."

"You make it sound like your little vacation up in Maine was the worst thing in the world. Thanks for getting me nothing, by the way."

Richie chuckled, mostly at the first part of Steve's statement. It's been a month since he got back home, but it feels as if it all happened yesterday. He took the water bottle that Steve offered, taking a small drink as he waited for the announcer to call his name.

"You sure you can do this? I can tell them-"

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be, really. Just stay right here. It's important."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve's question went unanswered, as the familiar voice rang out over the speakers, calling Richie out to the stage.

"Okay, fine. I trust you."

Taking a deep breath, Richie nodded and made his way onto the stage. He didn't miss the audience, being alone on stage, knowing that every person was listening fully to every word he said. Sure, comedy has its perks, but certainly not right now.

"Oh, I've missed you guys, too. Vacation sucks, like I haven't been on vacation since college, so this last one felt like murder, you know? Plane tickets, luggage, finding all the weird places to go. People on vacations are always in such a rush, like isn't the whole point of vacation to just not do anything? So, to me, I'm always on vacation until I actually go on vacation. That shit is the hardest work I've done in years."

Richie paused to take a drink of water, somewhat relieved by the warm, laughter-filled welcome but also unsure of where to go from here. He did write this routine, but he never did account for the large crowd of people in front of him.

"Yeah, but vacations aren't all bad, you know? Sometimes you get to learn stuff about yourself, like- you know those vacations that you randomly just take? A spur-of-the-moment thing, like those are great. So I drop everything, go to Maine, of all places, and just have a killer time. I did a lot of surfing, which was really cool. Channel surfing, of course, but it was still cool."

Looking off backstage, Richie noticed Steve having a coughing fit; he had been drinking some water during one of Richie's jokes, not realizing that it really was a joke.

"So, uh... yeah, Maine sucks. Like the only reason you'd probably end up there is if you wanted to go to Portland and you went to Maine instead of Oregon. Breathe... breathing is hard up there, mostly because the smell is so bad. I had a friend who could barely breathe and for a while I honestly thought it was because he didn't want to breathe in that gross-ass air."

Looking back towards Steve and seeing that he was missing from his usual spot, Richie fidgeted with the microphone and tried to remember the next joke.

"He was... he had pretend asthma, which was the dumbest thing. As a kid I didn't know, like I really did think he couldn't breathe but that was just because his elephant of a mom just could never let him go. It makes you think, right? Like how different your life would be if just one thing was different- better. He'd probably be a doctor, like he wouldn't have... he'd be right there, front row. Making me feel like a jackass with that dumb face he would make."

With that, he pulled a very stoic face, Richie biting the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing along with the audience. He looked over and saw that Steve had reappeared, half-listening as he was talking on his phone.

"So like, vacations make you learn shit about yourself. With me, I learned that I'm not as cool as I think I am. I'm actually a giant nerd. I spent my summer vacations in the arcade, playing whatever new game they had. This one summer there was this rumor, you know how those go around," he waved his hand in a circle to emphasize his point. "That this kid, he was the absolute best at Street Fighter. Of course, being me, I was going to practice until I could beat him. Then, there was this one day in July, where I actually run into the kid at the arcade. He's this... he was sort of a punk, I guess. And he, uh... I won, of course... and that's the end of that story. That was not funny at all."

The audience grew silent, awaiting the next joke. Feeling flustered, Richie's hands shook as he held onto the microphone.

"I guess what I'm trying to say about learning about you is that like sometimes you think one thing is better when you don't know what you're missing. Like you live your life one way and then one thing happens and you're like 'oh shit, I can't believe I've been forcing myself to eat broccoli when apples are so much better,' you know? Basically, my whole life I've been told that broccoli is the only way to go. And broccoli is fine, sure. But I hate broccoli. Those kids... the pretend asthma kid, the punk gamer kid, they were apples. But after a while, the apples go bad or they go away. What I'm trying to say... like..."

He looked into the crowd and noticed a few people standing up to leave, bored with this routine that was supposed to be funny and lighthearted and better than this. Richie waved over at Steve without looking, and smiled as he heard the familiar footsteps approaching him.

"You better know what you're doing, you're dying out here."

"This is my manager, Steve- you don't have to give him applause, really, he's terrible. But like he comes to every show here in Chicago, even though managers don't usually do that sort of thing."

"What I've been trying to say here is that like... I haven't been very honest with you guys. This is my first time writing my own shit, and obviously it's not going very well. My best friend told me that you shouldn't have to hide who you are, like be proud and all that shit. He was the best, honestly. Super weird, like he laughed at the dumbest shit- of course, he hated my jokes because they're fucking brilliant- but he made me realize that you can't go your whole life forcing yourself to be someone you're not."

Richie blindly grabbed for Steve, taking hold of his hand tightly. He was whispering his name, trying to get Richie's attention, but they went ignored.

"I know... I know this set has been the worst, but like I've been trying to say some important shit. Steve here is really the whole operation, the reason I'm here where I am."

Richie looked at him, who was giving him a look that screamed "what the fuck are you doing?"

"I've been avoiding the words my whole life, honestly. Even now I can't say them, and it's obvious. But like... this is Steve, and he's just... we..."

Steve's face softened, realizing the words that Richie was trying to force himself to say. Taking the microphone out of his hand, he looks into the audience while trying to come up with the best words to say.

"I think what Richie's trying to say is that he's a really shitty boyfriend. Just say it already, dude."

He laughed as he passed the microphone back to Richie, prying his hand away and walking back to his regular spot backstage. For the second time that night, the crowd went silent. No one seemed to know what to say, and Richie wasn't sure whether he should leave or come up with more to say.

"I... uh... he's a real charmer, isn't he? Now you know why he's always back there."

Richie looked back at the audience, who was laughing at his halfhearted jab at the man who was smiling at him backstage, giving Richie a proud nod as he walked off to answer his phone.

"Yeah... so obviously I'm the worst at choosing a good type. There's the hypochondriac, the obsessive neat-freak, the shitty gamer, and that little guy who acts tough but he cried after seeing Titanic. Like I spoiled the ending for him and he still cried about it. He's ridiculous, so you're welcome for taking him off the market. No, no. He's great. Or maybe I could just be saying that because he's the reason I'm getting paid tonight, you'll never know. Just kidding, I'm not getting paid at all. So, thanks for coming to whatever this has been. For what it's worth, you guys have been a really cool audience tonight. I know this whole thing was all over the place, but yeah. Thank you."

[mikexfaisty]

My first IT fic and it’s finally reddie! Terrible pun but please go review! I’m going to be posting more IT related stuff on my AOA account. I have a couple ideas in mind. Send me prompts! I’ll write about any of the losers! 

 https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanderrpanderr

Title: Forever

Summary:  Eddie reveals to Richie he's leaving Derry. Takes place after IT Chapter 1.

"My mom's selling the house".

It had came rather abruptly and for once, the loudmouth Richie Tozier was too stunned to speak. He turned to look over at Eddie, who was looking away from him. Maybe he had misheard his best friend. Eddie had his scarf so tightly round his neck, it was covering his mouth. He looked like the little brother from A Christmas Story. Perhaps Richie had just misheard him.

"I'm sorry did I hear you correctly? Your mother is selling your house?" Richie asked when he was finally able to find his voice. Eddie nodded, refusing to look at him.

Richie should have known something was up since earlier that morning. Eddie had been oddly quiet, not quite himself. It was the first week back since winter break. February had been a harsh winter for Derry. This past weekend had brought a lot of snow. It was Thursday and the pair were doing what they had always done, walked home from school together. Usually, they would have taken their bikes but that was hard to do in the winter. It was easier, and safer, to walk in the snow. Lucky for them, the sidewalks were neatly paved. Though it hadn't been that way on Monday. Derry high school didn't close for shit and Richie had spent the whole walk listening to Eddie freak out about how they were going to get frostbite. Though he had played off being annoyed, he secretly liked Eddie's little rants. God, for once he wished it was still Monday.

"Fuck," Richie muttered, before getting louder, "Fucking christ this sucks the rot Eds! First Bev, now you" He kicked angrily at a rock that was in their pathway, watching as it sunk into the snow, "Maybe no one will take it," he added quickly. His mind coming up with a million reasons on why and how this move was not going to happen, "I mean, who in their right mind would move to this shit-hole anyway".

At first, Eddie didn't say anything. He didn't even object to his hated nickname. But then Eddie had stopped walking, which in turn caused Richie too as well. Eddie looked nervous, his eyes darting everywhere except at Richie, "She already sold it," he mumbled softly, twiddling with the zipper on his jacket, "We leave for New York right after school ends..."

Richie was dumbfounded, "Are you fucking serious?! That's only like...four months from now". This was all happening way to fast. He had been to Eddie's house nearly everyday the past few months. Not once did he see a for sale sign or any other indication that Sonia had been trying to sell, "I guess property value goes up when the child eating clown gets killed! Who the fuck knew!" It had been several months since the defeat of Pennywise and nearly as long since they lost Beverly to Portland. The once seven members would soon be down to five.

Eddie had always knew his future laid outside Derry. After all the shit he had been through in Derry, he knew he couldn't stay here for the rest of his life. It was being separated from his friends that was going to be the hard part. He thought he had three years till they would all go off to college. Now he would have to start high school all over again at a new school... with no friends. Eddie shook his head, "She sold it pretty quickly. I didn't know until she had already done it".

"I can't believe we had to spend our last summer together nearly getting eaten by that shape shifting fuckface," Richie said angrily, "What's so great about New York anyway?"

The smaller boy was looking a little green, "My mom's sister lives there. She's got cancer and mom wants to be closer to her. We're the only family she's got," Eddie sighed, "Plus what had happened this summer".

Sonia Kaspbrak had always disliked his friends, that was abundantly clear. After his arm accident on Neibolt, she had sworn that he would never be allowed around them. Hell, if she had had it her way, he probably would have never left the house unless it was to pick up his medicine. Oddly enough it had been Gretta who had freed him from his mother's lies. After he confronted his mother about his medication, it had been a whirlwind. The night he had returned after the defeat of Pennywise had been particularly rough. Unsurprisingly, she had freaked out when he had come home covered in filth and shit. After he had taken a shower and convinced his mother he was physically alright, they had continued their talk from earlier that day. She had once again denied making up his illnesses and was quick to blame his friends for his problems. Eddie had been firm. It took a lot of convincing, and mild threats that he'd never speak to her again, for her to back down. Their relationship was far from perfect, but he had hoped this would set them in the right direction. Although, there was no convincing his mother to at least hold out till he graduated. The house was sold. There was no going back now.

"And the others? Do they know?"

Eddie shook his head, "No. I-I want to but..." he was shaking a little now. His left hand was deep in his coat pocket, digging, "I was thinking maybe tomorrow bu-but,"

Richie stared at the inhaler which Eddie had removed from his pocket. He frowned, "I thought you got rid of that thing," Richie grabbed it, much to Eddie's protest. He shook it and sprayed, holding it out of Eddie's reach, "Gazebos remember?"

"Yeah I know just..." and Eddie continued in his attempt to grab the inhaler, "Stop you're wasting it!"

"You don't need this stuff," Richie said firmly. He had stopped spraying but still help it above Eddie's head, "Not anymore,"

The inhaler had sat on the nightstand in his room since the day they defeated Pennywise. Eddie hadn't thought he would ever need to use it, not since the confrontation with his mother. The day she had revealed they would be moving, he had felt drawn to use it. He had lasted about a week, before he had slipped it on his coat early this morning. It had sat there all day. As soon as he had announced the move, he could feel it weighing down in his pocket. Eddie knew Richie was right. He didn't need it. But there was still a part of him missed the comfort the inhaler once gave him. He stopped reaching, "Fine I wont use it,". Richie didn't look to convinced, "I wont", he insisted again, "Just give it back. Please". At first, Eddie wasn't sure Richie would. But after a beat, Richie had capped it and placed it in Eddie's open hand.

"Fine," Richie said shortly. He watched as Eddie hesitated, before it was slipped back in his coat.

They continued to walk for another two blocks. Neither of them spoke until they had reached Eddie's house. There was no car in the driveway indicating Sonia was still at work. The two stood in silence, as if waiting for the other to speak first. The person ended up being Eddie. He was shifting back and forth in his spot, his bottom lip quivering, "Remember what Stan asked in the club house awhile back?" he began, once again refusing to meet Richie's eyes, "He asked if we'd all remain friends....if we'd still remember each other"

"No way I could forget that ugly mug of yours".

Eddie's eye twitched, but he once again ignored the jest, "We'll still be friends right?"

Forget the losers? Forget Eddie? Richie wasn't sure it was possible to forget them. They weren't just his friends, they were family. The thought of losing touch with any of them was scary to Richie. And he could tell Eddie had similar feelings. But after all they had been through, they were worth fighting for. Richie had to believe their friendship could withstand distance.

"Forever," Richie said, trying to sound as confident as he could. Eddie nodded but the worried look on his face stayed the same. Richie gripped Eddie's arm, "I mean it Eddie. Derry, New York, wherever. You'll never be able to get rid of me," he said teasingly. He let go of Eddie's arm before adding, "No way I'm letting any of you guys go," and for a moment, Richie could feel a twinge of pain on his hand where Bill had sliced it.

"Forever," Eddie echoed back.

Richie could see Eddie was relaxing a bit. He nodded "We'll make sure to do everything," he promised. As he gazed at Eddie's house, he felt a bit uneasy. The thought that by this time next year, some other people would be living there crossed his mind. He pushed those thoughts away, putting on his best smile, "We'll see ever movie the Aladdin has to offer, the arcade, sleepovers with the other guys, panty raids, finally getting someone to touch your dick beside your right ha-"

"Bee-beep, asshole," Eddie interrupted, shoving Richie lightly. He tried to sound annoyed but Richie could tell he was trying not to smile.

"I'm serious spaghetti man! Make me a list of all the stuff you wanna do and we'll do it," Richie was already coming up with a million other ideas, "And...and I can visit New York,". Fuck his parents better let him. Even if he had to do extra chores all year. Hell, he'd hitchhike to New York if he'd have to. Although, he'd probably have more of a problem convincing Eddie's mom.

For the first time of the afternoon, Eddie smiled, "Thanks Richie,". He then made to turn towards the path that led to his house. But suddenly, Eddie stopped himself. He turned back, slamming his body into Richie's and wrapping his arms tightly around him. The hug had took him by surprise, though definitely not unwanted, causing Richie to fumble back a few steps. Then sudden warmth had brought a tint of red to his cheeks and caused his glasses to began to fog up. When he got his bearings, Richie returned the hug. After what seemed like forever, Eddie finally pulled away and headed up to the house.

Before Eddie made it inside, Richie called out to him, "Give your mom a kiss for me!"

He watched as his friend paused at the door. Not bothering to turn around, Eddie slipped Richie the finger. Richie laughed and watched as Eddie went inside.

No way I'm letting you go...

[newbienewby]

Task 1: Character Questionnaire

A character questionnaire answered in-character by Cooper Newby.

What is your full name; if you have any nicknames, how did you get them?

Cooper James Newby. Uh, my grandfather’s name was James and apparently my Mom got Cooper from a book. Most people call me Coop and my friends in college called me CJ or Newby, kind of a frat thing. I prefer Coop mostly, or Cooper. If I hear Cooper James then I know I’m in trouble, that’s usually something my Mom uses on me.;

When were you born? Have you always lived in Hawkins? What would you call home?

I was born on the 18th January 1962 in Boston Massachusetts. At the age of five I moved to Portland, Maine and spent the rest of my childhood there. I visited Hawkins a lot as my grandparents and Uncle lived there. We’d often come to Hawkins for Christmas but my Uncle would sometimes make the drive up to Maine. He and my Mom were rather close and he helped out a lot. I don’t know what I’d call home, I guess I’m still trying to settle and find it.

Describe yourself; hair colour, eye colour?

Physical description? Dark brown hair, brown eyes, strong jawline, fluffy hair. Uh, this is a little weird, I don’t like talking about myself like this. Personality is also tricky, I guess ambitious, kind, trusting, cheeky. I try and be good, do what’s best and all that but I can’t help being me. I love to wind people up. If they’ve given me good reason to then I’ll find every way possible to irritate them. Most people don’t see that side if we’re just doing pleasantries.

Do you have any distinguishing facial features?

I have a scar in my eyebrow where I face planted the floor after falling out of a tree. It’s healed but if you look close enough you can see a sort of diagonal line in my eyebrow; I think it’s my right, your left. Besides from that, I guess I have prominent cheek bones and jaw lines. I don’t know, let’s move on, this whole topic is just unpleasant.

Who are your friends and family? Who are the people you are or wish you are closest to?

Okay, let’s start from the bottom. There’s me, my Mom is Pamela Newby. Then if we go to my Uncle Bob and my Grandma and Grandpa. I have a friend in Boston that I’ve been friends with all my life, a handful of good friends in Maine and some college pals. Hawkins, I don’t really know many people as the time I did spend here was with family. I’m, I mean I was definitely closest to my Uncle Bob, he was always on my side against my Mom and then I am fairly close to my Mom, even though we’re apart now. I would like to find my father, I’ve never asked for his name and sometimes I wonder if I should. I don’t know, it’s a question I’m not sure I want answering. Kinda like the movies, getting your hopes up for disappointment?

Where do you go when you’re angry?

Anywhere away from what made me angry. I’m a classic case of storming out of the house when angry. I need to just leave or escape whatever is causing that distress. I like knowing where my exits are, just walk away from it all. That usually helps or I get quite heated. I have a hot-head, quite a quick temper. I’m not afraid to get into a fight so it’s best I just go.

Biggest fear? Have you told this to anyone?

Bugs and dirt. I mean, I don’t mind getting muddy and being outdoors, if I am expecting it. There’s nothing worse that getting muddy when you don’t want to be. I wouldn’t say it’s a fear just something I actively avoid. I need to wash my hands if I feel unclean. Bugs I can’t stand, they’re disgusting and tiny and just in your face all the time. Spiders are the worst. My friends know I’m scared of ‘stupid shit’ as they like to put it. They’ve seen me freak out over a fly enough times. Like, dude, just get out of my grill; leave me in my own personal space.

Do you have any secrets?

Anyone who says they don’t are clearly lying. Everyone has secrets. What makes you think I’m going to tell you them? They’re called secrets for a reason, dummy.

Have you ever been in love? Or had a broken heart?

Um, yes. My Uncle always used to say it’s part of growing up.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, what are you doing?

Sunday? Movie day. That’s always been a movie day for me. My Mom used to take me when I was young. Or even like a jazz bar. It would be a day for entertainment. Theatre is also something I’ve loved watching as a kid. So yeah, I’m usually watching movies.

Do you have a strong childhood memory?

I would have to go with the Moon Landing. Damn that was the coolest shit ever for a seven year old, space nerd. I watched it on the television with my family and I was obsessed with rockets. We went to the local bar because we couldn’t afford a television. It was certainly something to witness. I’m envious, I’d love to be an astronaut. The radio communication between the astronauts and Huston were partly what sparked my interest in radio.

Whats your ideal night out? Where are you going? With who?

Oof, good question. Okay... ready? Going to see Queen in concert with my best-friend, Ellie. The one from Boston? Oh man that would be a trip. It’d have to be London too. Apparently nothing is as good as a band in their hometown. Plus, it’s London, man!

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Completing university and surviving three years of independent living. Besides from that it’d probably be the piano recital I did in seventh grade. I worked forever on that song.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Wife, kids, dog.....maybe a cat? I don’t know, it’d just be nice to settle down.

Most treasured possession?

My father’s pocket watch. It’s always been in the family and my mother gifted it to me when I was twelve. Kind of always kept it and it’s been through a lot. I’d be besides myself if I lost it.

What/who is it that you most dislike?

I really dislike idiocy in people. That’s what I like to call it anyway. When people mistreat others or disrespect others for no reason. If you want to be a bully, then I have no time for you. I’d rather call you an idiot and hope that you’re just uneducated enough to make stupid remarks and comments like that, rather than it be intentional. I just can’t tolerate it.

Who do I dislike? I can’t really say that I dislike anyone. Y’know, your general douchebags, people who are arrogant assholes, the usual. I guess I do have a bad taste in my mouth about Joyce Byers, I just- I don’t know. My Uncle was so devoted to her and then suddenly he’s just gone of a heart attack and I’m at his funeral. I just, something doesn’t feel right.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

How much time do you have? Haha! I run my mouth off a lot of times. I suppose my most used word would be ‘dude’ though in the right company I’m terrible for swearing. I swear far too much and often get told off by my mother for it. I just ramble too much. Sorry in advance!

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Ouch, tough question. It’s always the last question. I guess I’d like to give less of a damn about other people. Maybe without them I’d be on to bigger and better things. I’d take more risks, I’d care more about myself and my prospects. That damn Newby gene has me pinned.

[basicccbitchhh101]

You didn’t just break the law, you broke my heart

Ever since you were a child who was old enough to understand what a lawyer was, you had wanted to be one. The idea fascinated you and you worked your ass off in school to get to where you were now. You had held off relationships, social events, pretty much your whole outside life, to study and become the best lawyer you could.

At only 26 years of age, you were nearly one of America’s top lawyers, earning more money than you knew what to do with. So when it came to a certain case, you got particularly interested.

“Two brothers, credit card fraud, assaulting officers, grave robbing, many account of murder and much much more” your boss threw the file to you from behind his desk.

You took it and opened it up, Sam and Dean Winchester, they sounded familiar.

“They sound familiar” you voiced.

“Turns our someone was onto then a while back, however a certain FBI agent, who happens to be dead now, covered for the brothers and said they were dead” he huffed.

“Well, this is...going to be a hard one” you said, only for him to him in agreement.

Right this second, you wished you were working to prosecute the two, becuase this is going to be one tough cookie to crack.

“Which one do you want?” Your boss asks.

“Hmmm, I’ll take that one, Dean” you told him.

“Okay, he’s waiting for you at the prison when you have a minute”

“Okay, thank your sir” standing up and picking up your brief case.

You made your way over to the prison, one that intimidated you slightly from the outside, it always had. Maximum security prison was where you spent most of your time with the clients, you were one of the best.

Flashing your badge, ID and walking through multiple security systems, you were finally lead to the room in which you could speak with your client.

“Mr Winchester?” You asked, walking through the door and shutting it behind you.

“Who’s asking?”

“Your lawyer” you said, sitting down, not really having properly looked at him yet. When you did look up you had a sense of familiarity wash over you when you took in his features.

“I didn’t ask for a lawyer” he said, leaning back cockily with a grin in his face.

“Well, I’m not sure how much I’m going to be able to help you to be entirely sure, you pretty much looking at guaranteed life in prison, Mr Winchester”

“Please call me Dean, but I’m gonna get out of the prison anyway” he told you.

“Mr Winchester, making comments such as those are sure to get you into trouble if you make them in the wrong places”

“Hey, you might be a very pretty lady, but I can handle my own” he said snarkily.

“Now, Mr Winchester-“

“I said call me Dean” he interrupted.

“Dean, you were born in Lawrence, Kansas, where unfortunately your mother died, your farther then continued to take you around the country where he committed the same crimes as you and your brother have, only he never got caught. You then continued to make the same mistakes whilst hopping from town to town, not trying to hard to stay hidden and eventually, at the age of 26, you have ended up in a maximum security prison, now tell me Dean, why would you do this?” You huffed, a little out of breath from reading all the information.

“Monsters” his answer came plain and simple.

Once again, a flash of familiarity and deja vu went through you causing you too look at him, only for him to catch your eyes.

“Mr Winchester, have we met before?” You asked tentatively.

“Ms Lawyer Woman, What is your name?” He asked

“My name is y/n y/l/n, and I am here to help you with your case, I am very sorry I got distracted” you said, turning back to the files in your hand.

“Wait, y/n? Is that you? As in the girl who was my girlfriend when I was 14, the girl who went to Portland High?” He asked, face turning solemn.

“Dean?” You asked, memories from your first boyfriend back when you was 14 years old suddenly flooding your brain.

“It’s me baby, in the flesh” he said, grin returning,

“Yes, it’s you” you said, shutting out slightly.

“And I broke the law, and here you are, Persuing the same dream you were 12 years ago” he said.

“You broke more than just the law Dean” you said in a stern tone, the sweet memories being replaced by the ones of heartbreak and upset.

“Listen y/n I-“

“Mr Winchester, we are here to talk about the fact we need to work on keeping you out of jail, nothing else” you said, returning to your working demeanour.

“But y/n I can-“

“Now, Mr Winchester, can you start from the beginning?” You asked, cutting him off once more.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, Dean wasn’t going to talk about the things he’d done, he knew better.

“Mr Winchester, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. There are many counts of murder, torture, grave robbing, breaking and entering, robbing, assaulting officers, assaulting the public, impersonating government officers, identity fraud and credit card fraud, and to be honest, even if I could help you with all of the other things, like was there witnesses as such, the impersonating government officers would land you 𝐋ife time in prison as it is” you explained.

“Look, go talk to Sammys lawyer afterwards, I’m sure Sam would even like to see you after all these years to be honest, although he was ten, but even then he wouldn’t be saying shit either” he said, rambling a bit.

“Look Dean, if this is all I’m getting from you I have nothing better to do than leave”

“Y/n, you were the best thing that happened to me, the reason I left you was-“ you cut him off again, you didn’t want to hear the reasons or exscuses.

“Dean, you didn’t just break the law, you broke my heart” and with that, you got up from your seat and left him there.

In fact, you did go to speak to Sam’s lawyer afterwards, to find out the information. It turns out Sam had been just as stubborn and had let no information about anything past his lips, only making small talk. You decided you would visit Sam after all.

You could remeber when Sam was ten years old, he was small yet lanky, with floppy hair that framed his face. He had loved you, always jumping for joy when you came to his house to visit Dean, only leaving your side when Dean told him to leave the two of you alone. You had adored Sam too, he would draw you pictures and show you his latest projects, only for him to flash his gappy grin when you said how much you liked them.

But when you walked into the room, nothing was preparing you for what you saw. Sam was a man now, at 22, he had shot right up, muscles beginning to form under his jumpsuit, still the Sam shaggy hair though.

“Can I help?” He asked, confused.

“Hi, I’m Miss y/l/n, and I’m Dean’s lawyer” you said, offering your hand.

He took your small one in his large one and shook it.

“So if your Dean’s lawyer, why are you here?” He asked.

“Now Sammy, you don’t remeber me?” You asked, knowing fully well he wouldn’t know who you were.

“No?”

“Think back to twelve years ago, Portland?” You asked him.

You could see some bells start to ring in his head but not fully remembering.

“I was your brothers girlfriend from Portland High?” You prompted.

“Who? Wait, is that you y/n?” He asked, smile beginning to form.

“It sure is, I’m taking that whole thing with you wanting to be a lawyer didn’t go to well?” You asked, nodding towards his jumpsuit.

You had wanted to be a lawyer way before you met Dean, but when Sam asked you what you wanted to be he became obsessed with the idea too.

“Well, I was at Stanford for a couple of years” he admitted.

“Wow, pretty impressive” you said.

“If it weren’t for my jerk of a brother I would still be persuing it, but you have clearly done well”

“Yeah, one of the best” you chuckled lightly.

“Well, I better get going before they get suspicious, it was nice seeing you again Sam” you said, shaking his hand again.

“You too y/n” he said.

Sam’s lawyer was waiting for you outside the room, wandering what had been said inside.

“Well?”

“Nothing, he’s just as cocky as his brother” you lied.

You hated doing that, it made you feel so unprofessional but this one was the last time, you swore.

By the day the trial came around, you had nothing to work with and he was immediately convicted, even your lawyer skills couldn’t get past Dean, why would they want to go to prison so bad?

At the end of the trial, you were allowed a few words with Dean, he told you things you didn’t want to hear, like it broke his heart too and that he missed your for months following. You wished him luck and called him an idiot, before he was finally sent back to prison...for the rest of his life.

Only when you saw they two of them get into the back of the truck did you realise the brutality of their crimes and the men they had become. First degree murder? Torture? Grave robbing? You didn’t want to believe that they had done those things, yet they had, some caught on surveillance, others just accused them, no matter the reason, it was as wrong as you could go.

Dean Winchester hadn’t only broken the law, he had broken your heart, and his mental state too.

Original content by @basicccbitchhh101 (me)

[askullinajar]

A Little Help From Your Friends (Part 3)

T/W: Suicide Mention.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Fic Info: Takes place around 2 years before the events of A Merry Little Christmas. Rating: Mature. Pairings: Lucy/Lockwood, Holly/Rani, others if you squint. Ao3 link: here

Stuck in a jar, longing to get out, longing to live again, the skull never thought there’d be a future where he wished he had just stayed dead.

But maybe all he needed was a helping hand from the people who somehow, against their better judgement, cared. A helping hand from each of them. In turn.

Part 3: Lucy

The hospital allowed Skully to be discharged early, under the promise that he was not to be left alone.

The drive home was short and quiet. Lucy still hadn’t uttered a word. Skully sat in the back and stared out of the window, watching the buildings pass by but not really seeing them. The whole world seemed out of focus. A grey haze.

Lockwood tried to persuade him to go back to Portland Row, but Skully just wanted to be back at his flat, as empty as it was.

The whole place stank of disinfectant when they got there. And hydrogen peroxide. Perfect for mopping up blood.

George, Quill and Holly were there. They had obviously done the cleaning, though it seemed George hadn’t had time to change his shirt; the sleeves were stained red, the rest covered in spatters. Remnants of having to haul Skully out of the tub.

Lucy and Lockwood had gone in ahead of Skully and were now talking in hushed undertones to the others. They glanced up as Skully walked in. He didn’t bother to say hello.

He walked over to the bathroom where the tiles had been bleached white and the bathtub was probably cleaner than it had been in weeks. Idly, he opened the medicine cabinet. It had been cleared of everything but extra toothpaste. The razors were gone, too. How was he going to shave?

The others were still busy whispering rapidly, so he wandered over to the kitchen, and then to his bedroom. Most cutlery and kitchen utensils had been cleared out, as well as the cleaning products usually tucked beneath the sink. The two sharp daggers he kept hidden in his room were gone. Those had been expensive, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much.

He moved back into the living room and stood, staring at the others until they quit their muttering and looked up.

Lockwood cleared his throat. “Look, Skull, we can’t exactly leave you on your own for a while, so Lucy and I are gonna stay here, okay?”

Skully just shrugged.

“Right,” said Holly, gathering her coat. “We’ll just… go.”

Quill and George followed her lead. As they passed Skully, Holly paused, then leaned up and kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his upper arm before making to leave with the boys.

Skully watched them go for a moment. He told himself not to say anything. His mouth disobeyed.

“Hey, Cubbins?” George stopped and turned back to him. Skully smiled at him. “Let me die next time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy flinch. Why was he like this?

George’s expression had turned dark. When he spoke, his voice was soft and cold as ice, the mark that he was truly angry. “There better not be a next time.”

Skully gave him a loose grin this time, giving no reaction to George’s tone. He couldn’t stop himself. Why did he have such an incessant need to make everyone hate him?  “What ya gonna do? Kill me?”

George looked like he was about to say something else, but Holly put a hand on his arm.

“Let’s just go,” said Quill, softly.

The door shut behind them. Skully walked back to his room and collapsed on his bed.

The bedroom door opened a few moments later, and Lucy walked in. Just Lucy. She walked over and lay on the bed next to him.

“Any reason you’re not talking to me?” Skully said though he knew the answer.

Lucy remained silent for a moment, then, “I’m kinda pissed at you, actually.”

Skully tilted his head towards her and raised an eyebrow. That hadn’t quite been the answer he’d expected. He thought she’d go all sad and sympathetic on him. Somehow, he was glad she didn’t.

“Remember years ago,” said Lucy, “when I said if you did anything suicidal I’d kill you?”

“Don’t take it back now,” said Skully. “I’m counting on you to finish the job.”

She turned her head to him and scowled. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I’m always saying things like that.”

“It’s not the same!” Lucy stressed. “You were never being serious! I never thought you were, at least.”

“I wasn’t,” said Skully.

“And now?”

He didn’t answer.

“Look,” said Lucy. “I’m not gonna sugar-coat it. The world is just one big shit-hole. And the ghost-hunting generation is the generation of mental illness, high suicide rates, and drug-abuse.” She turned to look at him again. “But you don’t have to be like that. I know your mental health isn’t something you can choose, trust me I know. But you have so many people who are here for you. We love you so much.”

And maybe that hit a soft spot in his chest, just a little bit.

“I love you, too,” he said. “No hetero.”

She snorted at that. Her first genuine smile all day. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Hey! I just tried to kill myself, you’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“Nah, that’s just physically impossible.” She picked at her nails for a moment, then, “You used to want to live so much you refused to move on. You came back as a Type 3. What happened?”

Skully sighed. He was still so tired, and there were so many things jumbled together in his mess of a head that it was hard to come up with just one explanation, but Lucy deserved something at least.

“I’ve told you once before,” he started, “when you’re dead you sort of lose a part of who you are. Things become hazy. I really did forget my name for a while. I forgot a lot of things. Like why I wanted to hang onto life in the first place. But I knew I had a good reason, so I kept going. I figured it’d come back to me eventually, and it’d all be worth it.

“Then I got what I wanted. I got brought back to life. And I remembered everything. I remembered why I hung on.” He stopped for a moment. Swallowed. His mouth felt so dry. “My family,” he continued. “My siblings… they needed me. But, they were already dead and gone by the time I got my life back. And everything just seemed so… pointless. Everything I held on for, my entire reason for living, long gone.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“I’m so sorry, Skully,” Lucy said, at last.

“No worries,” he said, attempting to give her a smile. “Annoying you kept me going for quite a while.”

“I’m glad,” said Lucy. “I’m just sad it didn’t keep you going a little longer.”

There was a pause, then suddenly she grasped his hand and held it tightly. “This might be the worst you’ve ever felt, but it’ll get better. And maybe it’ll get worse before then, but it will always get better. You just have to keep trying until then, okay? Promise me you’ll keep trying.”

He stared at her. Her furrowed brow, her wide, pleading eyes, and the huge dark bags beneath them.

He could hear Lockwood clanging about in the kitchen, attempting to make dinner without any utensils and all the while being exhausted from jet lag; he and Lucy had taken the first flight home as soon as they heard.

He could still smell disinfectant wafting from the bathroom, where George, Holly and Quill had spent all day scrubbing the surfaces, so he wouldn’t have to come home to blood stains. And then they’d painstakingly searched the flat, ridding it of anything he could do himself harm with.

A lot of what kept people going was a fear of the unknown. Of what awaited them after death. But Skully wasn’t afraid. He’d already seen it once. And he missed it.

But there was no coming back after that. Not a second time, anyway. And these people he had unwittingly befriended, the fact of the matter was that they’d be distraught if he died. And maybe once he wouldn’t have cared, but all that had changed. All thanks to a girl who could talk to the dead.

“Okay,” he said, at last. “I’ll keep trying.”

For them.

For her.

Previous Next

[theaccidentalstepmom]

Breakups suck. I’ve had a few- less than most but more than many. After a breakup my feelings for the other person lie somewhere between heartbroken, totally ready to move on and hoping the other person’s fingers grow fishhooks and that they also develop a strong itch in their genitals. Somewhere in there...

There are those select humans that can somehow remain friends with their exes and genuinely support them. I admire those people and I hope to be one of those people when I grow up. That said it does take two to make that work. But in general I think those people are on a different plane and there probably don’t need to read this blog. Actually no one needs to read this blog... who reads blogs anymore? Let’s be honest this is just a glorified online journal for me to unpack the crazy making in my life. But I digress...

Breakups happen. Wish them fortune or ill but eventually you move on. Right? Sure... assuming you CAN actually make a clean break. Assuming you don’t live/work/go to school together. Assuming you’re not married (because divorcing someone is a undoing a legal contract and that doesn’t happen in a vacuum). Also assuming there’s not a child involved because then that person that you’d much happier never having to see again EVER is someone you are forced to continue interacting with for the next 18 (minus your youngest child’s age) years longer.

We have a triple threat and that’s where our story begins...

This isn’t our love story (or is it?). Well okay... a quick background. It’s 1995, Wilson high school, Portland Oregon: I’m a Senior he’s a Junior. We didn’t date but we both liked one another- but I had a boyfriend and having a crush on two boys was too much for me to handle!! I graduated, went to college, loved my life. No idea what happened to him. 12 years later years and I’d just moved to SF and who do I see on the bus? What?? Still cute, he just moved to SF from DC after a few years living in Iowa... with his wife. He’s married. Of course he is. Cool let’s be Facebook friends and I’ll see you never. Berceuse WTF would I say if I ever met your wife? “Nice to meet you I had a big crush on your husband in high school”. That’s just awkward.

But we did exchange numbers. He was a chef and I was a waitress so when he got a new job he might text me and tell me to stop by (I never did) or if we needed a new line cook I’d reach out to him (he never replied). At some point on Facebook I saw that they had a kid. Cute little thing with a buttload of hair.

Fast forward 2.5 years. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m showing a couple friends who aregg bet single how Tinder works: “Oh no... he’s no good. See you just swipe left- hard left!”. He was like the 3rd guy that pulled up. We chatted back and forth through the app a couple times then I just texted him because I had his number and I’m paranoid about conversations through apps. (I just imagine people who work for Tinder reading them and laughing their asses off at my attempts to play it cool.) Anyways, a week later we went on our first date and it was pretty much game over for me.

He was 8 months out of a 10 year relationship and had a toddler why am I not running the other direction? That’s a great question and I have no good answer. Or at least not a sexy one... I’m attracted to vulnerable men? They’re like my catnip: “Come here kitty- Mama like”!

His son was 2.5 when we started dating. I knew I was dating a man with a child and I knew exactly what that meant. I babysat A LOT and I was a nanny for 5 years. It’s not the same thing as being a parent by any means. But compared to an average childless woman I did have a better understanding of what I was getting into and what spending hours with a toddler was like. I knew that if we were going to be in a relationship the kid comes first, I’m replaceable the child is not.

His ex was trying to move to Hawaii to live with her new boyfriend and wanted to take their son. That’s a hard no. Absolutely not. R had already filed for divorce but that got sidelined by custody. She hired a more aggressive attorney and insisted she would be taking their son. When describing his ex and her behavior R was throwing around with like crazy and narcissist and borderline.

Okay, okay... this situation is really stressful. I’m sure she’s not that bad- you married her right? Stress does not bring out the best in people’s personalities- quite the opposite. It’s hard to think straight. This is probably situational- I’m sure she’ll calm down soon. Maybe try phrasing your text this way so she doesn’t get defensive- I’m sure she’ll be reasonable if you just explain it really clearly...

Bahahaha.

I spent months empathizing with her and trying to help R better communicate with her. All in vain- it toa long time to realize she doesn’t want to communicate or compromise she just wants her way. And any attempt to have an open honest discussion is just ammunition for her to use against you in a future conversation.

If she asks R for a favor and his answer is no she’ll twist the conversation into her being victimized.

If she asks R for a favor and his answer is yes she’ll twist the situation and say that she actually did him a favor.

If R asks her for a favor she ignores him, calls him names and/or tells R he’s harassing her.

To be clear, most of the time she doesn’t ASK- she demands.

If R agrees to something once he has to agree in the future it or he’s a hypocrit.

She flat out remembers things wrong and when R shows her the screenshots of the text she wrote proving she’s m wrong she says he’s being petty.

When R asks her to discuss child related issues directly with him rather than asking their 4 year old son to communicate the message to him she tells R he’s being difficult.

When it’s her custodial time and R has a scheduled FT she bribed their son with candy or ice cream to end the call early. (He can have it after he’s done).

I feel like we’re in an alternate reality. She’s constantly coming after R legally with baseless claims. She projects all the shit she does to R and accuses him of doing it to her!! We read her motions and were like “What’s is she talking about? R didn’t do that to her she’s doing that to R!”. And no is not a misinterpretation and they’re both doing it- she’s doing it and accusing him of doing it. It’s crazy making.

Claim: R refuses to communicate with her and insists on going through attorneys.

False. She has ZERO emails or texts to back this up- they agreed to communicate via text and email. She hasn’t sent a single email or text to R to “discuss” anything so how is he refusing to communicate? R has written numerous long and detailed emails to her for years and even more over the past 10 months of Covid trying to communicate and co-parent with her, share information and get schedules finalized without the courts involvement and her responses are dismissive and often only one sentence. His attorney and her attorney even tried to resolve issues without the court but she refused to comply and court was the last resort.

Claim: wasn’t even a claim really, mores demand that both parents needing to be flexible about scheduled FaceTimes in their child is swimming or playing during that time and also be accommodating if the other parent wants to do an unscheduled call they can.

Reality: Totally... R has never denied her a FT, has been flexible when she’s asked to reschedule and he’s sent MULTIPLE emails to her saying she can do an unscheduled FT anytime she wants (just give him a heads up). She’s done maybe 4 unscheduled FaceTimes in 2 years. We don’t plan any activities during her scheduled call time because it’s her scheduled time... so her calls don’t ever “interrupt” anything. Please, I beg you, show any evidence to the contrary.

Oh and while she’s looking for evidence that doesn’t exist I’d like to show the email she just sent from December 2020 telling R that when their son was with her during Christmas he was ONLY allowed to FaceTime during his scheduled time of 6:40-8. No “bullshit” unscheduled FaceTimes calls like he did last summer when he called their son “every day” it was “harassment”.

(Calling every day would have been excessive, but not harassment. But he didn’t call every day. He had 2 scheduled FaceTimes per week by court order and in addition he called 1 extra day a week (so three calls a week). Also, important to point out is that their son, who primarily lives with his father, was going to not see his father for three months because of conflicting language in the ruling and delays in getting it clarified due to COVID and Jennie’s refusal to discuss shortening the time to what they’d agreed to.

He always texted her before his scheduled FaceTime to confirm the time would work and it wouldn’t conflict with activities they’d planned. But even though it was a scheduled call it always seemed to interrupt something fun that their son was doing: swimming, hiking, skateboarding. Funny how when she asked him to push back his call 2 hours he STILL was interrupting fun plans. It’s his SCHEDUKED time- plan your shit on a different day OR if you can’t contact R ahead of time to reschedule the FaceTime so it doesn’t conflict or interrupt your plans.

As for unscheduled FaceTimes he’d text in the morning asking to do a FaceTime in the afternoon (so giving her at least 3 or 4 hours notice so she can pick a time that works for her). She wouldn’t reply, instead he’d just immediately get a FaceTime call. To her credit she doesn’t refuse the calls and conveniently their son is often immediately available.

But it’s funny how if she knows R’s gonna call she seem to have plans, but when she doesn’t know he’s going to call she’s just sitting around the house doing jack shit.

She is bananas.