#mike testing out the waters without seeming too obvious

[considermeadream12]

Was watching an edit of this scene today and the way Mike is saying "Friends... best friends" makes me wanna scream.

My boy is so nervous "I have no idea what's gonna happen next..." *proceeds to look away* *gulps* *stutters*. The way he puts emphasis on each word, pausing between "team" ... "friends" ... "best friends" ... - this little pause after "best friends", like he wants to continue because them being best friends is still NOT ENOUGH? He seems to wait for Will to read between the lines so bad, like he is testing how far he can go.

And Will? He seems so reassured, yet heartbroken about being pushed into the best friends category again. The tears in his eyes? This scene seems like a turning point - in which Mike tries to make a step towards Will, to test the waters. But I'm not sure if Will gets that - it almost seems as if he is manifesting his longing from afar even more. He doesn't get how desperate Mike wants him close.

How are they both so blind I can't do this anymore ok?!?! I need them to slowly realise their feelings for each other and confess SO BADLY!

[spacedikut]

the blessing of a blizzard ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: a blizzard leaves the team holed up in the bau office. spencer can’t stop thinking about your elusive boyfriend, mike, who might not be your boyfriend after all. 4.3k

a/n: festive fic! kind of! im too scared to do a final check so if there’s errors or i misuse pronouns just lemme know ily happy holidays ! thank you to the incredible @homoose for helping with dialogue :D

Mike. His name is Mike, and Spencer hates him.

Full name Michael, Spencer presumes, which comes from Hebrew meaning “who is like God?” A rhetorical question, implying there is no person like God, Michael was one of the archangels in Hebrew tradition and the only one identified as an archangel in the Bible.

What Michael should mean, however, is the guy that stole your heart and left Spencer thinking things very unlike him – that Mike, a man Spencer has never met and that clearly makes you very happy, has a really stupid name, for example.

There are three things Spencer knows about him:

1. Ever since you started deciding on his wardrobe, ladies love him. It makes you a little jealous, apparently.

2. You love baking him homemade treats whenever you can. Like a movie playing in his head, Spencer can perfectly remember you excitedly chatting with Garcia and Emily, animatedly explaining how excited Mike gets when he sees you’ve made something just for him.

3. Mike can be a bit of a dick, actually. There have been several mornings you’ve come in with a long face, leaning back in your desk chair far enough to view the world upside down and whining about how grumpy Mike was that morning, how you had to tip-toe around your apartment lest he get mad.

You’d called him your soulmate, added that he’s a light in your life you didn’t know you needed until you had him. You’re a person who chooses their words carefully, so when you’re walking around putting Mike and soulmate in the same sentence, you mean business.

That business is ripping Spencer’s heart out of his chest, apparently. Because you’re busy showing JJ pictures of him on your phone right now, blissfully unaware of the subconscious glare Spencer is lasering into your phone as he leans against the jet counter.

Spencer’s never had the honour of seeing Mike (a genuine word you used – honour) and you know what? Spencer doesn’t want to know what Mike looks like. Spencer doesn’t care. Mike’s probably ugly, anyway, and Spencer’s confidence within himself grows day by day and if there’s one thing he’s learnt recently it’s that comparison is the thief of joy and-

“Oh!” JJ exclaims, “He’s gorgeous!”

Fuck Mike. Really, fuck him.

+++

The floor is slippery beneath everyone’s feet, the surrounding area slowly losing its mixture of colours to blend into one coat of white.

It’s snowing.

Garcia greets the team, a steaming cup of tea in her bejewelled hands, and everyone gets to work right away. There’s whispers of the snow getting heavier and sticking and covering more and more ground with more and more depth; people are rushing against the proverbial clock to get done and get home before they’re all stuck.

But that won’t happen, right? If people were genuinely concerned about getting snowed in, surely everyone would’ve been sent home early as a precaution. Right? Right?

Wrong.

Rossi’s the one to notice it, calling out, “Check it out. Snow’s pretty bad.”

He says it like it’s nothing, like they’ll race to the windows then deflate with disappointment because you couldn’t even create a single snowball with that light coat, but holy hell people are walking around with snow up to their ankles and it’s still coming down thick. And then the lights are flickering and JJ is making frantic calls home to Will and Hotch is exiting his office, phone pressed to his ear, calling everyone to attention:

“There’s a blizzard incoming. It’s too dangerous for anyone to be on the roads, so we’re being told to sit tight. You should all try to call home, just in case; we don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

Some people still brave it, still try to head on home, and whether they make it or not is up to the Gods. The team glance around, varying expressions – Emily and Derek look pissed, JJ is worried, and you and Rossi are straight-faced. Penelope is bouncing in excitement.

“It’s like a sleepover!”

All Spencer can think about is how Mike will have to suffer another day without you. He bites back a smile.

+++

Spencer’s straining his neck, butt barely on his desk chair, in attempt to see around all the bustling people that stand between you and him. Through the glass BAU doors, on the phone, your shoulders are slumped and you kick your boot against the floor a few times to channel your multitude of emotions into something. He hopes Mike isn’t giving you a hard time for something that isn’t within your control.

Emily looks up from her monitor, where she’s doing Christmas shopping even though it’s Christmas Eve, and looks thoroughly amused by Spencer’s internal battle of wanting to watch you but not wanting it to be obvious.

“You good, Reid?”

Spencer flinches like Emily pinched him. “Yeah, good. Fine. Are you good?”

Emily makes a show of slowly turning to look at you, still on the phone, then slowly turning back to Spencer’s wide-eyed gaze. She smirks. “You think they’re talking to Mike?”

Yes, Spencer does think that, but he’d made a point to not fully acknowledge it. And there’s something about Emily’s smugness that tells Spencer she’s teasing him – she knows something he doesn’t and it makes his eyes narrow. “Probably. Why?”

Whatever the response is, Emily’s barely opened her mouth before she’s interrupted by Penelope Garcia gracefully clapping her hands, getting the attention of every BAU member. The team quiets and all eyes are on Penelope. Except Spencer, who watches with concern as you sneak back to your desk, a furrow to your brow and downward dips either side of your mouth.

“I know these are less-than-great circumstances, and we’re stuck in work of all places, but that shouldn’t mean we can’t have a little fun! So…”

She wildly gestures for Hotch to step forward, a cheesy grin on her face and a gleam in Hotch’s eye that tells everyone he’s also smiling but internally, and she takes the three large boxes he was carrying like the good sidekick he is.

“We’re building gingerbread houses!”

There’s exclamations of surprise and joy; Emily lights up at the idea of doing anything other than work or sitting at her desk, and JJ takes a box to look it over before asking, “Where did you get these?”

Hotch answers. “They were supposed to be for the kids,” He shrugs, holding back a smile, “However, I guess we can use them now.”

“Yes,” Penelope nods, “Yes, we can use them now. Get your game faces on, because this is a competition. Hotch and Rossi are the judges, because they’re grumpy old men, and the rest of us will be in teams of two fighting to build the best gingerbread house the BAU has ever seen.”

Derek speaks up for the first time, just to insult Spencer. “I refuse to be on a team with Reid. He has no creative skills.”

Members of the team laugh and Spencer reacts indignantly. He wants to reply, but you’re already speaking.

“Hey! I’ll take him! Spencer’s great.”

Many heads snap to you when you speak, Spencer’s surely got whiplash, but you’re looking at him and smiling at him and him alone. He’s breathless at the sight, how you chose him and have literal stars in your eyes, yet all he can think is how undeserving he is of such a beauty. How undeserving anyone is, mostly Mike, to exist in the same reality as someone who puts the definition of beautiful to shame.

Spencer’s about to make the best damn gingerbread house the world has ever seen.

+++

So, building a gingerbread house? A little more difficult than originally thought.

Maybe it’s the sticky icing, or the temptation to simply eat all the sweet decorative candy rather than use it for its intended purpose, or…

Maybe it’s the pretty teammate Spencer has that keeps brushing against him, keeps brushing against his hands, and like a virus to a computer you completely wipe Spencer of all thoughts other than: Y/N.

Spencer caught you watching him while he was rolling up his shirt sleeves, caught you staring at his hands and trailing your eyes up his forearms, following the sleeves as they moved inch by inch up to his elbows.

Then, when Spencer was holding two pieces of gingerbread together, you were too lost in thought to put the icing between the cracks and cement them together. Your eyes were trained on the fingers pressing the pieces together. Spencer had to call your name three times to wake you up.

Then, something weird happened (if the previous instances weren’t weird enough). You two had been in your own bubble of hushed tones and accidental touching, surrounded by bickering and collapsing houses and at one point Emily offered Rossi twenty bucks if he just votes for her and JJ without them making a house, and suddenly it’s silent. All he can hear is his heartbeat, his blood pumping in his ears, and all he can feel is the warmth of your breath on his ear because you’re right there, over his shoulder, joining him in hunching over your creation to decorate it with all kinds of shapes and colours.

The close proximity is too much. It’s too much.

You lean even closer, shoulder and arm pressed directly against Spencer’s, and lift another hand to place a miniature candy cane next to the gingerbread door. The action causes your hand to brush Spencer’s, and for the first time ever he’s not jolting away like he’s been electrocuted, no, his hand stays there, hovering, waiting and hoping for more.

Hoping for more of you.

And you seem to realise, too, that Spencer’s reaction is abnormal. He can’t decide if you’re testing the waters, or if it was a mere accident. But what are you testing the waters for? Why are you trying to touch him? Why do you want to touch him?

He takes a sharp intake of breath. From the corner of his eye, he sees you turn to look at him, and he almost doesn’t reciprocate. Almost.

You’re so close, face so close to his own. You take the softest breaths, in and out, sending the gentlest puffs of air onto Spencer’s lips.

He has no idea what the fuck is happening. He doesn’t want it to stop.

Your eyes, always shining and full of an emotion Spencer can’t decipher, dance around his face – his eyes, to his nose, stopping on each cheek, back and forth and up and down. Spencer’s captured by them, unable to tear himself away, which has become quite the habit since he’s known you.

Then you’re looking at his lips.

Spencer blinks, hoping to clear away the obvious hallucination he’s having, but no. Nothing changes. Your gaze remains, unwavered, making Spencer subconsciously open his mouth. The softest gasp leaves it when your pupils dilate.

This is the perfect moment to kiss, right? Right here, in front of the gingerbread house you made together, decorated together, and now begin the start of something else together. It makes sense, it’s almost poetic, and Spencer’s thought about you and him in a relationship enough times to consider this opportunity good and sweet enough to regale everyone with in the future.

Can you imagine it? “We had our first kiss in front of the gingerbread house we slaved over together. We won the competition, too.”

There’s a loud clang – Penelope found an actual gong from somewhere – and Rossi announces that the timer has gone off and it’s time for the judges to vote for the winner.

When you gently pick up yours and Spencer’s creation and take it to a cloth-covered table, where Rossi and Hotch ominously stand with their arms crossed, Spencer is frozen in place.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

There’s no way you wanted to kiss him. It isn’t possible. You’ve never looked at him like that before. It must’ve been a mistake.

But you were so close…

No. If Spencer made that move, it would’ve ruined everything – your friendship, the festive fun, the atmosphere of the entire evening. Everyone’s expected to be stuck here for at least another six hours, and making it tense and awkward was not something Spencer is willing to do.

But your eyes…

Spencer can’t think about that fact too much. That could mean anything – dilated pupils don’t necessarily mean you’re in love. You could’ve gotten a good whiff of the gingerbread and felt hungry, or a song you really liked started playing from the playlist Penelope created. Or, most likely, Spencer thinks, you were thinking about someone else.

Your boyfriend, for example.

You have a boyfriend. Mike.

Of course, you were probably thinking of Mike. Your boyfriend.

Spencer almost kissed someone in a relationship, and he’s pretty sure you almost kissed him too.

+++

Much to Derek’s chagrin, you and Spencer win the gingerbread house contest.

Penelope was baffled, frantically gesturing to the Jacuzzi she made with icing and- Derek made miniature weights? Somehow? It looked chaotic.

“Practicality, my dear,” Rossi told her. “Who, living in a gingerbread house, is worried about working out?”

Even though you and Spencer were the winners, Derek and Penelope and their pouting (and calls for a rematch) took the attention away from the obvious awkward tension between the winners. Spencer stayed at the desk you worked at while you took your house to the judges, stayed at the desk when you were crowned and stayed at the desk when you cheered.

You looked at him, wide grin and happy eyes, and all he could do was tightly smile back. Give a thumbs up.

He gave you a thumbs up. You nearly kissed less than ten minutes prior. And all he could do was give you a thumbs up.

The light in your eyes dimmed, but you seemed to understand.

Understand what, exactly? Spencer’s not so sure either. But something clicked in your head – you nodded to yourself as if confirming whatever you’ve concluded, and turned your back to him.

That was an hour ago. Now, the team has spread across everyone’s desks. Turns out, Hotch is a big fan of gingerbread - he’s consumed most of Derek and Penelope’s creation, icing and all, while Rossi has decided now is a good time to open one of the many bottles of whiskey he has in his office.

Spencer believes having that much alcohol in your work environment is breaking some kind of rule, but the snow isn’t letting up and it looks like a sleepover in the BAU office is likely. He deserves a little whiskey.

And where are you in all of this?

Spencer won’t lie and pretend he hasn’t had you in his line of sight the entire time, so he’ll recap what you’ve been doing: laughing at Derek’s jokes, plaiting Penelope’s hair, eating the candy Emily and JJ didn’t use on their house.

You’d left the room to call home and check up on things (check up on Mike, Spencer thinks bitterly) and now you stand in front of the large window by the BAU elevators, watching the snow fall.

Spencer has the perfect view of you through the glass doors. When the call ends and you stay there, he grabs a paper plate, grabs one of the walls from yours and his masterpiece and makes his way towards you.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say, or how he’ll even act, but he wants to talk to you. Things feel weird after the almost-kiss, and Spencer never wants things to be weird with you. He can’t have things weird with you. You hadn’t talked to him once since the competition, and he has a feeling you’re waiting for him to make the first move.

So he does. If that’s what you need, he’ll do it.

(He’s making this more dramatic than it needs to be, really, but he feels everything so deeply when it comes to you)

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice perfectly matches the snowy atmosphere. It makes you feel warm inside, like you’ve just taken a sip of hot cocoa, and so often he’s left goosebumps on your skin just from speaking.

Seeing the outstretched paper plate in his hand, you take it gratefully. “Hi there. Thanks.” You nod to the gingerbread that you begin breaking up.

You hand him the first piece even though he brought it for you, and it’s silent while you both chew thoughtfully and watch the pure white outside. It doesn’t feel weird, necessarily, standing here, shoulder-to-shoulder with you, but you’re certainly more in your head than usual. You’re thinking a lot and, as much as it hurts him, Spencer knows you’re likely preoccupied by your boyfriend and not what transpired between you earlier.

It’s that thought, that disappointment settling into his chest, that opens his mouth unconsciously: “How’s Mike? Does he know you’re not making it home tonight?”

He regrets it immediately, worsened by the way you stop mid-chew, eyes dimming like Spencer’s taken a baseball bat and shattered the lights inside.

This is unchartered territory – talking about Mike with you – and you know it. Who, in their right mind, willingly asks the person they have feelings for how their relationship with someone that isn’t you is going? Does Spencer enjoy pain?

Although this is the first time Spencer’s mentioned Mike to your face (he’s mentioned Mike plenty to a laughing Derek), he’s been so close to presenting the topic many times. He wants to know so badly – wants to know how well Mike treats you, really treats you (he will profile you), if you see a long-term future with him and if not, on average how long does it take you to get over your exes? Just an estimate?

You swallow the gingerbread you’re eating. “He’s okay. My roommate has to take care of him, but at least he’s got someone.”

Huh?

Since when do you have a roommate?

And why is your roommate taking care of your boyfriend?

Oh. Guilt blooms in Spencer when it registers that he’s been thinking ill of a person that might be sick. No wonder you dote on him so much and seemed devastated to make that phone call home earlier - Mike needs you, you can’t be there for him, and you feel horrible for it.

Spencer feels horrible for having the subject of his anger be someone you so clearly cherish, so deeply love. He’s embarrassed that if he was asked to explain why he hates Mike so much, he’d have to tell them it’s because Mike has you, and you’re what Spencer wants. What about what you want?

“Take care of him?” Spencer asks. The concern is genuine, which is an emotion he never thought he’d have in regards to Mike. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” You shrug. “He needs someone watching over him at all times, that’s all.”

That’s all?

You continue. “Make sure he eats – and only eats what he’s supposed to. Give him his meds. Make sure he poops. Those kinda things.”

What?

“Your… roommate makes sure your boyfriend poops?”

Now, Spencer knows what you look like when you’re confused. Honestly, he has every facial expression you’ve graced him with tucked away in a proverbial box he spends too much time thinking about. He knows that when you’re trying not to laugh, you bite the inside of your left cheek. When you’re frustrated but need to present a professional front, you bite the inside of your right cheek. Happiness fills your entire face, like every inch is consumed by it, and you’ve trained yourself to transport anger to your hands, where they twist into tight fists and leave fingernail marks in your palms.

Confusion is one of his favourites (second only to joy – for obvious reasons. Have you seen your smile?) because it takes many forms. You’ve pursed your lips, narrowed your eyes, tapped your foot on the floor. When you do them all, Spencer considers it a jackpot. There’s something about the way you look when you’re presented with something you can’t quite figure out yet, when you’re perplexed, that just-

You make it hard for him to concentrate. He can’t be a genius when you’re around because you’re so pretty. You’re a vision and he can never rattle off information to you specifically because he will trip up and divert to talking about the beauty that is you and that would be embarrassing for many reasons.

But this type of confusion? The way you’re looking at him right now? He’s never seen this before. Your jaw has dropped, your brows are furrowed so deeply they might fall off, and you look… horrified.

“My… my boyfriend?”

Spencer mirrors your expression. “Yeah, your boyfriend. Mike?” He looks around, waiting for cameramen to jump out and tell him he’s being pranked, because why don’t you know who your own boyfriend is?

You move slowly, placing the half-eaten plate on the windowsill before turning to face Spencer fully. You take a second to compose yourself.

“Mike is my cat.”

Mike is…

“And he’s having digestive issues, so he needs to be watched pretty much full-time.”

Silence. Tense, weird silence.

“…You thought Mike was my boyfriend?”

Spencer sputters, then, because of course he did! “Yes! The way you talk about him was… it was… it seemed…”

He flustered, oh so flustered, hands flailing and face enflamed and burning from the inside out. How had he not known?! How had… how had your wires gotten so convoluted, so mixed?

Does everyone know that Mike is a cat? Is Spencer the only one out of the loop? The look Emily gave him earlier, that knowing too-smug look, was that…

She was making fun of him. She knew he thought Mike was a person, not a pet, and was teasing him because of it.

All at once, the world seems lighter and dimmer – a contradiction that leaves Spencer’s chest heaving – because the past year feels like a lie. He’s spent so long seeing the way you come to life when talking about Mike, sitting opposite you on the jet as you awaken like a dying flower watered when home got closer and closer, and it was all for… a cat?

There’s a mist over Spencer’s eyes as he recalls every overheard declaration of love and coos of how handsome Mike is, and you’re laughing. Spencer’s having a crisis in front of your very eyes and you’re laughing. Hunched over, a single tear falling from your eye, clutching your stomach because it hurts from the ferocity of your giggles.

By the time you quieten, your hand is over your mouth to cover the big grin that grounds him, gives him something other than this revelation to focus on. Spencer’s still baffled, frazzled, but there’s the tiniest of smiles on his face because of how overjoyed you look. And he did that. Albeit his stupidity did it, but Spencer’s stupidity nonetheless.

You’re out of breath. “God I… I don’t even know what to say. You really thought my cat was my boyfriend?”

Spencer’s fighting a smile, lips wiggling. The way you’re looking at him now, all blinding smile and crinkled eyes, alleviates him of any anxiety he earlier had. Like you’ve wiped away his plate-full of worries, all the times it felt like he took an arrow to the heart, all the times he caught you smiling at your phone because you were looking at pictures of Mike, it’s all worth it. Because you’ve never looked like this while talking about Mike, and Mike is a cat. He isn’t a person, isn’t your boyfriend. Mike is a cat and Spencer has a chance.

Spencer has a chance.

“Does this… this means you’re single, right?”

A somewhat terrified look overtakes his face.

“Oh, shoot, you are single, right?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. “Yes, Spencer. I’m single.”

He lets out a breath. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad.” He repeats your nod, realises what he said could imply, and starts shaking his head. “Not-not good good. You’re incredible and need to be appreciated, but… good, because that means we could, you know…” He gestures vaguely. God, why can’t he get coherent words out? “If you wanted to, we could-“

“Are you trying to ask me out, Spencer?”

“Yes.”

Just to cause immense emotional distress, you raise an eyebrow, mischief clear on your face, and wait for him to continue.

“You want me to actually ask?” He winces.

“I’ve spent the last year convinced you didn’t like me, so, yes, I want you to actually ask.”

The new information sends ice down Spencer’s back because what? Since when? “You- what?“

“I’ve liked you for a while, Spencer,” You cross your arms over your body, slightly embarrassed. “But you always kept your distance so I did too, I guess.”

“I thought you were taken!” Spencer exclaims. “If I’d known I would’ve-we could’ve- I would-“

“You’d what, Reid?” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone, but there’s no denying you’re incandescently happy.

He takes a deep breath and asks what he’s wanted to for far too long. “When this is all over, would you like to go on a date with me, Y/N?”

Relief flashes in your eyes, like you didn’t fully believe what was happening until he finally asked, and words have never sounded as pretty as when you say: “Yes. Yes I would.”

Like lovesick idiots, you stand in front of the window with the snowfall as a backdrop, grinning at each other. You can’t help it – you lean up, press a kiss to his cheek that immediately sets his skin ablaze, and fall back onto your feet with a smile sweeter than all the sugar you’d consumed today.

“Merry Christmas, Spencer.”

Somehow, despite the nerves and the way his heart is trying to leap into your hands, he manages to tell you, “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

+++

(Three weeks later, Spencer meets the Mike. Turns out he’s a nice guy. Spencer takes the first opportunity he can to apologise for all the bad things he said about him behind his back. The purring tells Spencer he’s forgiven)

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @bitchyreids @roses-and-grasses @ta-ka-shi-ma @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @gublertoon @averyhotchner @prettyboy-reid @shadyladyperfection

[vampiredecay]

I Can Hear Your Heart Beat (Part 1)

A/N: heyo! this is the first part of a two parter, in celebration of hitting a little over 50 followers! this was a prompt/suggestion from @n3on-lights , thank you again so much!! originally this was going to be one part, but i realized i was at 3k words and only half way done with the story, lol. so part two will be out soon! in the mean time, hope you enjoy this first half!

rating: teen

wordcount: 3,139

warnings/notes: swearing, descriptions of being in pain, half vamp!michael, human!lost boys, the boys turn back to human, implied minor character death, goodbye max, poly!lost boys, lost boys x michael

summary: after convincing sam that he wasn't going to kill him, michael raced to the hotel to seek answers about what he was becoming. little does he know, sam has his own plans up his sleeve, leaving the boys human for the first time in years, and michael still stuck as half vampire.

--

“Sammy, please!” Michael cried out, hanging onto the phone cord for dear life, hoping to whatever god out there was merciful enough to put some sense into his little brother's head. Sam just stared, debating if he should really let his brother in or not. He was floating outside his bedroom window like a freak, and he tried to eat him! But when Sam looked at him, at his older brother, he could see that he looked terrified. He's hardly ever seen Michael genuinely afraid, and he looks so human, despite the obvious circumstances. So, Sam takes a deep breath and walks over to the window, unlocking it and opening it for Michael to crawl through.

Michael counts his blessings as he drops onto the floor, takes in huge amounts of air that he doesn't really need. Sam sinks down to the floor next to him, and Michael grabs hold of him, wrapping his arms around him like he'll start flying away again. Sam tries not to squirm too much.

"What's goin on, Mike?" Sam whispers, his voice refusing to go any higher. Michael is shaking slightly, breathing heavily, so Sam tries again, "What did those bikers do to you?"

That gets a reaction out of him, a low growling sound from deep in his throat. Michael can hear Sam's heartbeat quicken and he has to swallow thickly. "I don't know, Sam. But I'll sort it out, okay?"

"But what about mom-" Sam tries, but Michael cuts him off, frantic, "Just- just don't tell her anything, okay? You gotta trust me, Sammy."

Sam wants to argue, this was way bigger than getting a bad grade on a test, or getting into a fight in school. His gut reaction was to tell his mom, because he knew she would try and make it okay again. But he also trusted his brother. Plus, he had more experience with these guys, so Sam nodded, deciding Michael had it covered. “Okay. I trust you.”

Michael let out a sigh of relief, but it was short lived once they heard their moms car screeching to a halt outside of the house. The boys frantically got up, looking at each other with wide eyes. “I gotta go, Sam. Distract mom for me, yeah?” There wasn’t any time to debate, so Sam just nodded and sprinted down the stairs. He didn't know how Michael was going to sneak out, but at this rate, he didn’t want to know.

When he got down stairs, the blond teen could hear his mom calling his name, and when the front door opened, he could see his mom looking worried like crazy. “Oh, Sam!” she said once she saw him, she sounded exhausted. “You scared me half to death!”

Sam felt guilt start to stir in his chest, he didn’t mean to make his mom worry so much. And the fact that he had to lie now didn’t help matters at all. “I’m okay, mom. I was reading a horror comic and I thought I saw someone outside my window- but I just got carried away, that's all.”

Lucy stared at her son, trying to understand the excuse he was feeding her. She squinted her eyes at him. “You got carried away by a comic book?”

Sam tried not to flinch, he knew it sounded like bullshit, but it was the best he could come up with on the fly. “It was a scary comic mom. I’m sorry.”

The look on his mom's face made it clear she was frustrated. She couldn’t believe how her boys were acting, like she didn’t raise them better. “You know, I’ve just about had it with the both of you, you know that?” Sam nodded his head and looked down at his feet, and she almost forgave him then. But then her eyes landed on the kitchen, and her frustration flared up all over again. “What is this mess?”

Sam looked over to where his mom was talking about, and saw the spilt milk and open fridge door. God damnit, Mike. He tried telling her that it wasn’t his fault, but she wasn’t listening, not that he could blame her at this point. When he was done cleaning up the floor, Sam raced up to his room, pausing to see that Michael had long gone. Wasting no more time, he launched himself on his bed and called the Frog brothers again.

It took a few rings, but eventually, Edgar had answered the call. “What?” he asked, short and coarse. Sam rushed to answer, “Guys, it's me again.”

Edgar sighed from over the phone, “What, Sam? We told you to stake your brother, what more do you want?”

“Look guys, Michael and I talked, he’s going to try and talk to the vamps that got him, but there has to be something more that we can do!”

There was some vague conversation that Sam couldn’t hear, then Alan was speaking, “Do you know if he made his first kill? Can he still walk in sunlight?”

“No, he hasn’t killed anyone, and yes, he can still walk in sunlight.” Sam said, “That means he’s only half shit sucker, right?”

Alan grumbled into the phone, like he didn’t want to be entertaining this idea at all. “Yes, so technically, if you kill the head vampire, all half vampires would return to being human.” Sam was ready to celebrate, he was about to say something like “hell yeah!”, but then Alan asked something that made him cut the celebration short. “Does your brother know who the head vampire is?”

“Uh,” Sam mumbled, "No, I don't think so."

"We can't screw around anymore, Sam." Edgar said, taking the phone back. "Kill your brother, or we'll be forced to do it for you "

"Wait, no!" Sam shouted, desperate to think of something that would help. "We just gotta find the head vampire, right? We-" as he was talking, Sam suddenly thought of something. "Actually, I might know who the head vampire is."

"What?" Edgar asked, voice high and tight. "Well, this all started when my mom started working at Max's video store."

He could hear both the Frogs groaning. "Wait guys, hear me out! He doesn't come in till after dark, he has a dog that's always growling at people, and I read that vampires have hell hounds as companions!"

"Well duh, but-" Edgar started, but Sam cut him off. "If my mom is dating the head vampire, you guys can nail him and save Santa Carla!"

The Frogs were silent for a few seconds, so Sam tacked on "Truth, justice, and the American way triumphs, thanks to you two."

That seemed to convince them, because after a few more seconds, Edgar said "Alright, we'll check Max out. Tonight. Get ready, we'll come get you in ten minutes."

Sam froze, mouth open wide against the phone. "Tonight? Can't we wait until tomorrow?"

"This was your idea, Sam." Alan said, more rustling could be heard from the background. "If Max is clean, we're coming for your brother and his friends tomorrow. Be ready." Before Sam could say anything more, they hung up the phone.

--

When Michael got to the hotel, it was dark and quiet. There weren't as many candles lit, making shadows dance and flicker against the walls, and the only sounds Michael could hear were drops of water bouncing around the cave.

"David?" Michael called out, walking further into the hotel. The place was eerie now, without the boys there, dancing and laughing and joking around. "David? Anyone here?"

Where the hell were they? Michael was getting agitated, a hot irritation settling under his skin as he looked around the cave. If they weren't even here, he didn't know what he was going to do. Michael needed answers, he needed to know what the hell was happening to him.

"I'm not fucking around." The brunette said to the air. "I want answers, and I want them now!"

Silence. Michael snarled at nothing and turned around to stomp towards the exit, but then he heard an all too familiar voice echoing out the cave.

"I'm right here, Michael."

David was standing at the entrance, Dwayne, Paul and Marko lurking behind him. The platinum blond gave a wide smirk as he walked down into the cave, eyeing the angry halfling. “What’s going on?”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Michael demanded, walking right up to David and getting into his face. David cocked an eyebrow as the rest of the boys surrounded him, whispering and laughing. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Cut the bullshit! I’m hungry, I’m in pain, I was floating on the goddamn ceiling-”

“Woah,” Paul interrupted, sounding amazed, “You got there already? It took me a while-” Marko kicked Paul’s leg before he could continue, making the blond rocker yelp loudly. David cleared his throat and suddenly looked deadly serious. “You drank from the bottle, Michael. You’re one of us now.”

“But what the hell does that mean?” Michael was starting to feel drained, he was so tired of going around in circles, and it feels like he hasn’t gotten proper sleep in weeks. “What the fuck was in that bottle that makes me float off the ground and makes me want to eat my brother?”

The boys all looked at each other like they were having a silent conversation.

“Take it easy, man.” Dwayne said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He was smiling like nothing was off or weird about this situation at all. “You’ll get the hang of it. Just go with the flow.”

Michael was about to ask what he’d “get the hang of”, but Marko spoke before he could. “It’s getting late, you should probably go home.” The way he spoke and the look he gave had an air of finality, like fighting would get him nowhere. This had been a huge waste of time.

“Fine.” Michael spit, shoving past David roughly as he walked towards the entrance. He would have to find answers some other way. As much as he hated it, he might have to resort to Sam’s weird friends. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but they seemed to be the only other ones who knew anything about-

“Wait!” Paul called out, making Michael stop in his tracks. He turned around and looked at Paul, who had a weird look on his face. His eyebrows were scrunched down and he held a hand to his middle. “Do you guys feel that?”

The others looked confused, but soon their faces contorted into concern and agitation. Marko’s hand shot to Paul's arm, gripping like his life depended on it, while Dwayne and David held onto each other, as if keeping each other from falling. Marko was panting, “What the fu-”

Suddenly, Markos words were cut off by a loud screeching sound. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin as the boys started shouting and screaming, falling to the ground hard. The halfling stared at them in shock.

“What happened?! What's wrong?!” Michael asked frantically, panicked, running back over and crouching over the pile of writhing bodies. No one could answer, the only sounds coming from them were grunts and whimpers of pain. Michael could only stand and watch, horrified that he had no idea what was going on.

After what felt like an eternity, the screaming stopped. The boys stopped convulsing on the ground, completely still and silent, like they passed out. The silence was deafening now. Michael slowly walked over to David, breathing heavily, anxious out of his mind. He placed a gentle hand to his cheek, finding him surprisingly warm. He checked his pulse, then, and found a shallow, but steady heart beat. Michael then checked the other boys and found the same warmth and beat. The teen sighed in relief, they were all alive, at least. They seemed to be out cold, though, and Michael knew that he needed to move them from the cold hard ground.

One by one, he moved each of the boys to a chair or couch, trying to make them as comfortable as possible. Michael looked around, but didn’t find any stashed food or water, so he decided to hurry out and get them something to eat when they woke up. He didn’t know if they would be hungry or not, but it would be worth the try.

Michael sped on his bike to the nearest convenience store and grabbed a basket, stuffing it with random chips and snacks. He also grabbed a few bottles of water and threw it in the basket. When he went up to the counter to pay, the cashier gave him an odd look, but he just smiled awkwardly. The total almost drained his wallet, which hurt, but there were more important things to worry about right now.

The trip back to the hotel was a bit of a pain in the ass, but he managed to get there in one piece. He parked his bike and hauled the food and water down into the cave, and when he was in the main lobby, he was startled to see that the boys were awake. They were all huddled around each other, holding and touching in whatever way they could. All of them wore similar shocked, concerned and disturbed expressions on their faces. It almost felt wrong to intrude on them, but he accidentally made a noise and alerted the boys to his presence.

“Michael?” David called out, but his voice was smaller, less sure. Michael immediately walked over to them, setting the bag down as he squatted next to the couch they were all piled in.

“Hey, are you guys okay? What the hell happened?” As he talked, Michael pulled out bottles of water and handed them out to each of the boys. They snatched the bottles out of his hands and opened them like they haven’t drank water in years, guzzling down the liquid and getting it all over themselves in the process.

“Woah, guys, slow down-” But they didn’t listen, not even if they started choking and coughing. When the waters were drained, Paul crawled over everyone to grab the bag full of snacks and dig through it.

“Michael.” David said, looking intensely at his face, studying every inch he could look at. He grabbed at Michaels arm and pulled him closer. “Do you feel any different? Did you change back?”

The brunette stared at him, bewildered. “Change? No, I feel the same as before.”

David's eyes widened, and Paul stopped tearing into a bag of potato chips, mouth gaping. “Wait, he’s still half? How’s that possible?”

Marko and Dwayne gave each other a disbelieving look, and Michael scrunched up his face in confusion. “Half what? What are you guys talking about?”

No one said anything for a long moment. David sighed and ran his hands through his spiked hair. “I guess we have no choice but to tell you.”

Michael watched as David sat up straighter, a pained look on his face, like his whole body ached. He looked uncomfortable as he said, “We were vampires, Michael. And you’re one, too. Half, anyway. You still haven’t made your first kill.”

So many thoughts and questions flooded Michaels mind at that moment. His first reaction was to call David crazy, but he remembered what it felt like to fly out his bedroom window, how painfully hungry he was and how loud he could hear Sam's heartbeat, even from the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was fading and weak. Michael couldn’t fuckin believe this.

Michael stood up so fast he felt lightheaded. “So- you’re telling me,” He started, pacing in front of the couch. The rest of the boys were no longer paying attention, too busy devouring the snacks from the bag, but David was watching him walk back and forth. “That I’m a half vampire. An actual, honest to god vampire. That’s just fuckin great!” Michael shouted, and David winced at the sound.

“Wait.” The halfling stopped pacing and turned back to the platinum blond. “What do you mean you were a vampire?”

David blew air through his nose like an angry bull. He shifted around in his seat before answering, “We have a master. Or, I guess we did. If the vampire that turned you dies, you turn back into a human.”

“Which must be why Michael hasn’t turned back.” Dwayne chimed in suddenly, still chewing loudly on chips. Michael was lost at this point, which must have been clear on his face, cause Marko pitched in with, “You drank David’s blood from the bottle, not Max’s. David didn’t die, just turned back into a human. So, therefore, you can’t go back to being human.”

Michael didn’t know which fact he hated more, that his mom's dorky (now ex, he supposed) boyfriend was a head vampire, or that he drank actual blood. A lot of it, if he remembered properly. He groaned loudly and sank to the floor, head in his hands. “So you’re saying I'm stuck like this?”

“Well…” Paul started, but didn’t get to finish. David interrupted, irritation clear in his voice. “We don’t know. We don’t know jack shit.”

The tension was thick in the air. Michael had no idea what they were going to do now. Living in a sunken hotel may have been okay when they were vampires, but it’s not gonna fly being human. He knew he couldn’t just leave them here. Michael sighed and stood back up, walking over to the entrance. It was still dark out, but he figured it was going to be morning soon. He walked back down and stood in front of the boys.

“Look, we’ll figure out how to change me back,” David huffed at that, looking less than amused. Michael rolled his eyes. “But until then, you guys are basically homeless. Why don’t you come stay with me for a few days?”

The boys froze. They looked at each other, and they looked at Michael, wondering if this was some kind of joke. They had lived in that cave so long it felt like forever, they couldn’t imagine leaving what they considered their home.

“What about your mom? And your brother?” David asked, knowing that it couldn’t be that easy, right? Surely Michaels family would bitch about them being there. But Michael didn’t look bothered. “Sam can be an ass, but he’ll deal. And my mom wouldn’t kick you guys out.”

David was still hesitant. He still didn’t want to believe he was human again, after all these years. It hurts to even think about it. He felt a nudge against his shoulder, and when he looked over, he saw Marko, shrugging his shoulders.

“What do we have left to lose?”

[bates--boy]

          Even as Peter crossed the parking lot to get to the diner, his eyes were still glued to his phone’s screen, staring at the stats of the livestream. The numbers had stopped growing, of course, the number of likes settled and the viewership at a grating crawl, but it was all the same to Peter: a phenomenon that should not have occurred with his hip-hop prowess, or lack thereof according to everyone involved.

          Head down, he almost walked into the glass doors, but managed to catch himself when the bells rang as a group of university students ambled out. Inside the establishment, Peter spotted the familiar four heads of Mike, Adel, and Naseem, though he was positive that Tarsha was included in the group chat, too. He was about to ask about Tarsha’s whereabouts, and whether they should hold off on the all-important meeting of highest urgency until she can meet them, too, just as he noticed Tarsha’s salutatory smile from the tablet propped up in front of the salt and pepper rack. 

          “Aww, good to see you again, Fanboy!”

          Peter rolled his eyes and took a seat. “Hi-ho to you, too, Tarsha. Hey guys. Did I miss anything?”

          Naseem shook his head. “Nah, Mike was just about to deliver us his next greatest idea.”

          “Actually,” Mike said, nodding towards Naseem. “It’s your idea.”

           Naseem said to Peter, “Technically, it’s your idea, since you basically planted the seed in my head.”

          Peter furrowed his brow. “What?”

          “Let’s just cut to the chase,” Mike cut in. He leaned in, arms on the table, hands folded, a businessman about to make a deal none of them can refuse.

          “We should officially become a collective.”

          Peter didn’t know how to parse his own reaction to the suggestion. Though he sat up straighter and stared at Mike, even feeling his jaw threatening to drop open, it wasn’t like he was truly surprised; he still recalled playing around with the idea with Naseem on his living room floor. He might have called it glee if it weren’t for the lingering insecurity of his elementary skills tainting it, making him cautious about being wholeheartedly enthused.

          “Really?” Adel frowned. I don’t know, Mike, that doesn’t sound like something that could work out.”

        Mike returned the frown. “Why not? We’ve been in the scene for years, we’ve been making side projects on and off alone and with each other. We even have enough members right now to do it.” And here, he smiled at Peter, whom tried his best to not let his grin seem too overeager.

          “First, we’ve already had enough for a group if we wanted to,” Adel pointed out. “Second, Peter’s lyricism isn’t exactly... strong enough to get some proper songs going.”

          Speaking of elementary skills... 

          Peter had waited for some sort of “no offense” from Adel (the least he could do) but Mike had immediately argued, “Okay, I get that, but that’s why we help him work on his writing some more. He’s actually getting more decent.” Mike paused. “...You have seen the video we’ve posted, right?”

          Adel slightly lowered his head. “I, uh, had an article to write, so...”

          “So, watch the video. You’ll see.”

          “Okay, but what about our lives?” Adel said. “Our schedules? We can barely meet up as is with our jobs and families, and now you want us to drop everything to focus on this hobby?”

           “Nobody said anything like that! There are plenty of artists who started off writing and mixing while working the nine-to-five. And--” his voice cut off into a low scoff as he looked around the rest of the table, scrounging for support. 

        Peter drummed his fingers on the table, before slowly raising a hand halfway up. “I, uh, don’t really have much going on...” He knew even without the stares of everyone else that his input was weak, so he lowered his hand with a light shrug.

          Tarsha smacked her lips and sighed. “I’m so tempted to say yes --”

          “Then say yes!” Mike urged the tablet. 

          “But Adel’s right, man. I got too much legal shit going on--”

          “Which is perfect for rap songs,” Peter interjected. Again, the long-suffering stares. Again, Peter fell silent with another bob of his shoulder.

           “There’s so much going on and my head wouldn’t be in the game,” Tarsha went on.

           Adel gestured to the tablet. “See?”

          “Hell, I have a family, and I would still make time to write and record,” Naseem said. He angled his head so he would look at Tarsha. “And like Mike said, we don’t have to go into this full-time. Like what us three did yesterday with the livestream, we can just test the waters. Get together like we normally do and bounce ideas off each other. We’d just be trying to make actual songs this time.”

          “And who knows, you might need some rapping to get your head straight,” Mike suggested, a businessman closing in on the deal.

          As Tarsha’s gaze drifted as she thought the idea over, Adel snarked, “Nothing to help with parole and restraining orders like some good old verses.”

          “Adel, the fuck, man?!” Tarsha’s eyes shot from Adel, who pulled an “oopsie” face, to Peter, who made an awkward smile and raised his hands.

         “Uh... don’t worry, I’ve had my fair share of arrests.” Mike and Adel raised their eyebrows at him. “...I was a problem child.”

          Naseem slapped the table. “Okay, we’ve heard the arguments, everyone raised points, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor?”

          “Aye!” Mike said.

           “Aye!” Naseem said.

           “You know I’m in,” Peter said.

            It was already three yeses to one obvious no, but still, Adel looked towards Tarsha for support, to help him speak sense into these men.

         And possibly because he had spilled something so private in front of the new crew member, Tarsha closed her eyes serenely and tilted her head. “...I’m in.”

          “And the ayes have it!” Mike shook a fist in the air, sharing in the quick whoops of the other table occupants. 

          Adel slumped back in his chair, hands folded on the top of his head as he stared off into space. “Oh, my god, you guys cannot be serious,” he deadpanned.

          “Dead serious,” Mike stated. “Alright, now we’ll have to discuss some things. The schedules, like Addie here pointed out, and equipment. We have so much to set up. In the meantime.”

          Mile held his hand out towards Peter. “Lemme see your lyrics. If we’re gonna be a team, we might as well help you polish your work.”

[personalityarchive]

Mike Morton 7w6

[[28 August 2020

Originally written as a comment thread on PDB]]

I will admit that I did a double take seeing the consensus vote on Mike’s enneatype. I had thought it rather plain to see that he is a base type 7, but apparently that is not the case. Perhaps his career as a performer is what caused the mistype, but it’s still strange to imagine a type 3 Mike. (I also got a bit of a chuckle out of seeing Mike voted as chaotic good when he’s clearly a chaotic neutral character. More on that in its own thread.)

As a character with a full set of deduction targets, several costumes, and accessories, there is an abundance of information on Mike’s character that I feel is vital in discerning his true enneatype. From his deductions alone, it’s quite obvious that he cares less about personal image or professional success than he does about trying new things and having a good time. Especially the parts of the deduction tree written from Mike’s first person perspective, it’s obvious that image and career is a secondary consideration, tied more to the 7’s desire to be entertaining than from the 3’s desire to maintain a “good image”.

Mike’s second deduction target, entitled “The Secret of Juggling”, has this description line: “Throwing isn't just an interesting skill. It's what makes a juggler successful.” Now, if this was all it had to say about him, I would agree, a 3 interpretation wouldn’t be far-fetched at all. However, the deduction conclusion is what is truly significant here, as it is in fact a diary entry from Mike himself. The deduction tagline could be interpreted as a general statement on Mike’s career, or even as an opinion from Bernard himself. Meanwhile, the conclusion has this to say:

“Diary 1: Bernard said that the size and shape of the bag, as well as the type of filling, are critical. He refused my request to fill the bag with stones, stating that it was ‘hazardous’.”

We can see here that Mike is less interested in appealing to the expectations of others, and indeed, in maintaining a polished image, than Bernard is. What Mike is interested in is in fact trying out new things, even dangerous ones — his phrasing of Bernard’s response to his proposal shows that what he finds frustrating is feeling limited in his options. Mike doesn’t seem too convinced that his idea should have been rejected, and was less concerned with the practicality of it than he was in simply exploring the possibility. This is clearly far more indicative of a 7 than of a 3.

Now, based on what Bernard told Mike — namely, that he identified certain factors as “critical” to the bags used in juggling — we can infer that it is Bernard who is concerned about keeping up appearances, or doing things the “right way” (suggesting perhaps a base 1 or 3 for him). From this, we can further conclude that the tagline of this deduction target is indeed a reflection of Bernard’s thoughts rather than Mike’s.

This flows into the next deduction, “Artistic Acts”, with the description: “Creativity is what ensures that the stage performances continue to improve.” Again, this sounds like a statement from Bernard’s perspective, and perhaps offers us some insight into why Bernard treated Mike with the kind of leniency that permitted Mike’s later experimentation with acid and nitre. Since Bernard is the one in charge of the circus, he is the one concerned with constantly improving the show; because Mike’s creativity allows him to come up with new ideas (and gives him the natural charisma that propelled him into the position of audience favorite), Bernard is willing to let Mike get away with quite a bit.

Meanwhile, the conclusion for Artistic Acts gives us a summary for one of Mike’s own writings: “Notebook: The properties of Nitre and some ‘Test Records’ were recorded in detail.” The implication here is that Mike was not very concerned with how his experiments would directly benefit his performances; in fact, the notebook’s contents give a sense of unease, communicating a message in direct opposition to the deduction target summary. Not only is nitre entirely unnecessary in improving his performance as an acrobat, but Mike’s behavior seems rather secretive in nature. So, the purpose of this deduction target is to show a disconnect between the way Bernard perceived Mike and the activities that Mike was actually engaging in. Bernard saw Mike as an invaluable member of the Hullabaloo Circus, and assumed that the experiments and ideas Mike explored all went into augmenting said performances. Of course, by advancing along the deduction tree, it becomes increasingly clear that Mike’s area of interest had little to do with his professional success.

Taking a step back and analyzing the deduction targets for Mike from a more holistic standpoint, a certain pattern emerges. We can see that the first 5 deduction targets are separated from the last 5 in tone and perspective.

1) “Family: He's like a father; an ideal one.”

2) “The Secret of Juggling: Throwing isn't just an interesting skill. It's what makes a juggler successful.”

3) “Artistic Acts: Creativity is what ensures that the stage performances continue to improve.”

4) “A New Face: The circus is where people come and go. We always welcome new faces, and obviously, the beautiful ones.”

5) “ ‘Darling’: How people call each other often reflects the degree to which the relationship has developed.”

6) “Downcast: Watching a sad face can sometimes bring us some dark pleasure.”

7) “Carnival: Carnivals usually mean chaos, and chaos means opportunity.”

8) “The End: It's all over.”

9) “Encore: Audiences often say this hoping that the performer will continue performing on the stage.”

10) “Reappearance: Call their names and make them return to the stage once again.”

Laying them out side-by-side, it’s clear that the first five have summary lines that focus more on outward appearances, professional achievement, and success — all values of the 3. Key words can be picked out from each to support this conclusion: “ideal” from Family; “successful” from The Secret of Juggling; “improve” from Artistic Acts; “beautiful” from A New Face; “reflects” from “Darling”.

Meanwhile, the second half contain sentiments that are far more self-driven, or self-referential, yet less self-aware. Rather than seeking to appear a particular way in the eyes of others, there is an endogenously-generated drive based on the assessment of the appearances of those around the speaker. This way of approaching the self and others maps to the 7’s desire to forget the self through constant absorption in the external world. For the 7, there is a lack of consideration regarding professional success — real or perceived — and a greater emphasis on living in the moment. Plans for the future all funnel into goals that may not be practical or even fully fleshed-out, since stopping to examine their own thoughts and feelings can frighten the 7.

On top of this, the deduction targets undergo an overall shift in speaking style; while the first half of the deduction targets can be a bit longer, even bordering on long-winded, the second half are far more succinct but, again, less self-reflective. This displays the 7’s style of interacting with the world more than the 3, where focus can be more scattered in the search for instant gratification, although the analytical aspects of the mind center are still present.

What we see in the second set of deduction targets is the perspective of a more active, impatient person than the previous deduction summaries. There’s only one that contains a sentence with more than a single clause, and even then it’s to quickly connect two different concepts without having to go through the trouble of further explication. While indicative of a nimble mind, this cleverness manifests as an underlying impatience. Overall, the tendency in these deduction summaries is towards a more singularly outward-focused attention, with a desire to engage with the world without having to pause for self-reflection.

This pattern in turn suggests a split in the speaker for the first set of deduction target taglines versus the second set. While deductions one through four reflect Bernard’s perspective, six through ten are Mike’s. As for the fifth deduction, that’s the bridge; it’s where the speaker switches from one to the other, segueing into Mike being the deduction’s “voice” for both the summary and conclusion of each. Even more interesting, in fact, is the particular way the fifth deduction target implies an asymmetry in the perspective of the two speakers; the summary is a reflection of both Bernard and Mike’s understanding of the other, though the angle is skewed significantly when moving between the two.

While Bernard and Mike are simultaneously experiencing a shift in their relationship to one another, the directions of perceived development are not only incongruent, they’re fundamentally incompatible. The title and speaking style of this deduction further underline this imbalance; while the tone and pacing of the summary reads as Bernard’s voice, the conclusion and the name “darling” are clearly from Mike’s perspective.

The deduction conclusion is as follows: “Diary 2: I love Nitre! As long as it's mixed with water, even a hot summer's day can become refreshing! Bernard's reaction was hilarious, and he even called me ‘Dear Mr. Mike Morton’! Oh, Bernard, I want to hear it again. Next time, I'll make sure to put my cold hands down your collar.”

This casual and playful writing style is juxtaposed against the matter-of-fact — almost distant — statement on the nature of relationships in the summary, creating further dissonance within the deduction. It is implied, then, that Bernard’s opinion of his relationship to Mike has developed from one of paternal care (see the information given by the first deduction) to one of a more professional nature; Bernard is Mike’s boss, not his caretaker. Meanwhile, Mike has developed what appears to be homoerotic feelings towards Bernard, seeing the nickname “Dear Mr. Mike Morton” as a term of endearment rather than one of separation.

Referring back to the second deduction target, the subtle shift in Mike’s understanding of his and Bernard’s roles in their relationship can be further explored. While the contents of Diary 1 suggest that Mike does still see Bernard as a superior (one that he will listen to, if a bit begrudgingly), Diary 2 shows a significantly more excited response to what can be inferred to be reprimand from Bernard. Mike, it seems, has come to view Bernard and himself as interacting on equal terms, and thus, as eligible for developing a relationship outside the bounds of their previous connection. Similarly, Bernard no longer sees the power dynamic of their relationship as being defined by “guardian” and “child”; however, contrary to Mike’s interpretation, Bernard still very much sees himself as being the superior. In a sense, elevation from “child” to “employee” does put Mike on more equal footing with Bernard, but what Mike has failed to pick up on is the paradoxical increase in distance in their relationship, even as he is elevated to the status of “fellow adult”.

In these differing sets of expectations, we can see a clear conflict between a 7’s approach to relationships and that of a 1 (or a 3 with a strong connection to 1). While Bernard is concerned with the way the relationship is “supposed” to develop (e.g. the way a boss is supposed to treat an employee), the 7 is concerned with exploring possibilities and having fun. Further, the 7 is interested in relationships that are constantly changing, as a way of staving off boredom and maintaining investment in the other person. For many 7’s, the only way to preserve dedication to a single “other” is to NOT preserve some aspect of it. In other words, if he is to be limited in the individuals available for him to form attachments to, he must seek variety in the way the attachment functions.

Bernard seems to be interested in treating Mike as a proper adult now, one who has responsibilities and ought to know the proper way of behaving. His reaction to Mike’s experimentation with explosives is one of frustration, calling him “Dear Mr. Mike Morton” as a combination middle-naming of a misbehaving child, and a more professional way of addressing another adult. So, it can be said that Bernard appears to be straddling the line between criticism for a subordinate’s “improper” behavior, and a lingering fondness for his charge.

Mike, on the other hand, seems to have simply derived great amusement from the situation, whether or not he picked up on the remaining fondness Bernard held. His excited proclamation of love for nitre and his plans to put his cold hands down Bernard’s collar read solidly as a 7’s epicurean desire for pleasure and sensual enjoyment, rather than from any influence from type 3. In fact, it’s questionable if Mike was even consciously aware that Bernard was not as amused as he by the entire affair; indeed, his spin on being scolded is exactly the sort of reaction expected of the positive outlook of the 7.

Additionally, as opposed to the 3’s efforts to maintain a good image in the eyes of others, the 7 tries to hold onto a self-image of being okay through rationalization and positive reframing. As long as they don’t have to acknowledge negativity, they can feel comfortable and happy. At the same time, the 7’s rationalization goes towards thinking of what lies ahead, escaping from the limited present to a future with boundless possibility. What we can see Mike doing in his diary entry is just that: he chooses to see Bernard’s scolding as an expression of endearment, and has already skipped forward to thinking about fun or interesting plans for “next time”. Nowhere in this diary deduction is there even a whiff of the 3’s desire to appeal to the expectations of others, or appear competent and professional.

Following this split perspective, the deduction summaries fall squarely into the realm of Mike’s internal dialogue. Deduction six, Downcast, leads with the following: “Watching a sad face can sometimes bring us some dark pleasure.” When compared to some of the earlier deductions, the contrast is jarring. While the present or implied “others” were previously referenced in terms of interaction or as a source of expectations, here they exist solely as a source of entertainment. There is an absence of people-pleasing or even the sentiment that others are tools to be used; this falls far more in line with the 7’s desire to be entertained or to be entertaining, rather than the 3’s understanding of the give and take of unspoken social contracts. 

More than that, the conclusion of deduction six gives us another glimpse into the shifting dynamic between Mike and Bernard:

“Diary 3: Bernard sent his regards to my beloved little ones. He thought the wounds on Joker's face looked more like ‘corrosions’. His suspicions really hurt me! Of course, I did lose a bottle of strong acid. Maybe I'll have to get another bottle before Bernard finds out about this ‘mismanagement’.”

While I admit to being unsure who Mike is referring to as his “beloved little ones”, the rest of this diary entry is fairly straightforward. Again, we see Mike’s bubbly and enthusiastic character, brushing off what are clearly well-founded misgivings from Bernard. Like with the scolding he received in the second deduction target, Mike — in a very characteristically 7ish way — responds with a playful attitude: “His suspicions really hurt me!” is expressed in a manner completely foreign to the 3, especially one who is experiencing a threat to their image in the eyes of someone they feel close to.

While it may be true that Mike is wounded by Bernard’s ability to suspect him of such a crime, he covers it up with humor, rather than going to the 3’s tactic of trying to prove his integrity or good character. Rather than indicating a wounded ego, Mike shows an avoidance of the negative; he distracts from a situation that could be emotionally difficult by covering it up with a joke, then quickly moving onto something else.

Now, Mike does engage in willful deceit (planning to cover up anything that may further implicate him), the ego fixation of the 3. However, the tone he takes is still one of measured amusement; his cheeky admission of incriminating evidence paired with his word choice “mismanagement” indicates an almost facetious attitude towards Bernard’s accusation, and more broadly, his concern with professionalism and image. After all, “mismanagement” is a term likely employed by Bernard in the past, as previous deduction targets indicate that he is a man who takes his work seriously. By placing this word in quotation marks, Mike expresses two things: first, that he is using someone else’s word; and second, that he himself does not hold the same values.

The following deduction, Carnival, starts with: “Carnivals usually mean chaos, and chaos means opportunity.” Again, there is a clear expression of the 7’s unstructured energy, always looking for the next exciting thing, chasing that high. While a 3 takes a more structured approach to reaching their goals and seizing opportunities, it is the 7 who sees chaos itself as being opportunity. In chaos, anything is possible, and the 7 finds this stimulating, even considering it to be an ideal situation.

Of course, when figuring out one’s enneagram, it is also important to consider the lines of connection. If the core type is uncertain, figuring out just one line can be enough to create a compelling case for one enneatype over another. The final deduction targets and the rumor about Mike, therefore, offer some vital pieces of the puzzle.

Deduction 8, “The End: It's all over.” Short, sweet, to the point, but overall somewhat disappointing. There’s not enough substance to really determine much more about Mike than we already know. But, when including the slightly lengthier conclusion, necessary context is provided. The conclusion follows thusly:

“Newspaper Clipping: The carnival killer remains a mystery. The public feels that the local police did not do a good job and has called for further investigations.”

Despite not being directly from Mike’s own diary or journal, this is still following his perspective; the framing of this information is key in our understanding of its significance. Clearly, this conclusion functions to tell the audience what sort of tragedy occurred at the circus, but also to include Mike as being a member of the public who holds this belief. This hints at the start of a 7’s disintegration into 1, where the focus goes from what is “fun” to what is “right” and “wrong”, edging into the unhealthy territory of becoming critical and punitive.

When faced with the death of his circus family, Mike, in an attempt to distract himself from the painful reality, jumps into action, hoping to escape the fears nipping at his heels. After suffering such a devastating loss, he wastes no time with mourning; he immediately goes to enacting a plan to deal with the perpetrator of the crime. We see in his next deduction, Encore, the following: “Diary 4: I scoured the city's mortuary and found everyone except the strange new couple. They were scheduled for the grand finale and couldn't sneak out.”

We see immediately another massive tone shift in the speaker, though we know that rather than crossing over from one character to another, it is Mike who is undergoing the switch in tone. In stark contrast to the chipper, playful mood of his earlier entries, this one is very matter-of-fact, very controlled. The 1’s desire to be objective and principled has overshadowed the 7’s energetic distractibility. From the rumor on his page, we know that: “Mike Morton is the most popular guy in the traveling circus ‘Hullabaloo’. After surviving the disaster, Mike Morton's only goal is to find the real killer who destroyed his home."

This solidifies the interpretation of Mike disintegrating into a 1. As a 7, his natural instinct when faced with the threat of loss is to reach for more, trying to gather close that which he feels is important to his survival and comfort. Unfortunately, this option has been denied him completely; he cannot have “more” of “nothing”, which is precisely what he has now that his entire way of life, his home, his family, has been destroyed. Faced with this harsh reality, Mike has dedicated himself to the single-minded goal of hunting down the one who dared to steal everything from him. The 7’s impatience is magnified by the 1’s resentment and anger, leading to his overpowering pursuit of a quite 1ish crusade against the wrongdoings of others.

This understanding of the text is only further supported by alternate translations of the original text, which provide additional information and insight into both the tragedy itself, and Mike’s perspective:

1) “Blonde curls, a lively spirit and clear blue eyes forever full of joy, Mike Morton was the most popular guy in Hullabaloo, the travelling circus. Hullabaloo was Mike's entire world, a world where slaughter should never have existed. Having survived from the tragedy, Mike would stop at nothing until he finds the one responsible for shattering his world.”

2) “Now desperate and having lost the only things that mattered in his life, Mike's only goal in life is to find the true murderer of those he cherished.”

In all three translations, we see the overwhelming sense of loss, devastation and panic driving him over the edge. Having found the bodies of his comrades, and having discovered what in his mind is the suspicious departure of the circus’ newest members, the last hopes of employing his instinctive response (read: avoidance) are dashed. All at once, Mike is forced to contend with problems and pain he is unaccustomed to coping with. He dips immediately into the unhealthy emotions of the 1, the 1’s feeling of being the only one who is Right and Good; he alone can know the Truth.

This reading is supplemented by the correspondence we have from Mike to a man by the name of Arthur Russell. Thanks to being included as content for both Mike and Murro’s character days, we have not one but two samples of his writing post-Hullabaloo disaster. Following on the heels of the Encore deduction target, Mike’s drastic tonal shift while writing stands in stark contrast to his earlier, livelier musings. Mike’s birthday letter is as follows:

“Dear Mr. Arthur Russell,

The investigation report you've sent last time was of great assistance to me. In regard to the animal tamer Natalie, also known as Margaretha Zelle, I wish to acquire further information on her upbringing as well as her life before the circus. Starting next week, I will be out of town for a while, and your salary will be paid in the same payment method per usual. There is no need to send in your report this time. I will pick them up at your residence.

I look forward to your reply.

Yours Truly,

Mike Morton”

We can see that he has adopted a very formal voice, adhering to proper etiquette and expressing his thoughts in an impersonal, emotionally distant way. Without knowing whose signature adorns this letter, one could easily be convinced that this was penned by Bernard. In fact, my first time reading this letter caused me a moment of confusion; surely it was a mistake, a particularly egregious error similar to the mistranslation of Priestess’ name. After all, how could Mike have been the one to write in such a clipped, formal style? Yet, here is Murro’s birthday letter:

“Dear Mr. Russell,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, your mission objective has been "eliminated" prior to the engagement of your employee.

Therefore, I regret to inform you that the remaining payment is beyond my obligation, as stated in our agreement. After all, no one could possibly uncover a fully-intact cranial remains within that pile of ashes.

I wish you well.

Your loyal customer,

Mike Morton”

There is no denying it, Mike did in fact send these letters. His playful, somewhat childish persona is just that: an act. Underneath it, he is incredibly capable and self-sufficient, and the letters seem to place a great deal of emphasis on the matter of “should” or “shouldn’t”, whether something “ought to be” or not. He must do the right thing, in the right way; he expects others to do the same. To the reader, there is a feeling that beneath the carefully controlled surface lies a mass of ugly emotions. There is anger. There is resentment. There is a gradual movement towards a breaking point. It is precisely this which led people to initially believe that Mike himself could have been the circus killer. The details are obscure, the content sinister, the controlled tone reading as hiding something — some dark secret. Murro’s birthday letter seems to imply that Mike has hired a hitman to “eliminate” somebody — likely Murro — but an incident (perhaps even one of his own making) has prematurely killed that person off.

What these letters show us is the 1’s methodical approach; they bear a striking similarity to Mike’s early deduction summaries, as though Mike were subconsciously attempting to borrow from Bernard’s more structured, 1ish mannerisms. With a professionalism and formality that is unassailable in its dignity, but with the base 7’s falsely cheerful tone and the 6 wing’s suspicious nature, Mike sends letters to this “Arthur Russell” character.

Why wing 6 rather than wing 8? Especially when given his apparent embrace of violent means? Well, despite his vengeful rage, he does display the 6 wing’s avoidance of conflict, when possible; as far back as the second deduction target, this is made clear. Mike’s reaction to Bernard denying his request was not to lash out, or argue; he simply moped about it later, when he was alone. Then, when Bernard suspected Mike of disfiguring Joker’s face, Mike’s response was again one of disappointment, not aggression.

The mere fact that Mike would say that Bernard’s accusations “really hurt” falls in direct opposition to the 8’s unwillingness to display weakness of any kind. Even in jest, exposing one’s own emotional vulnerability is not something a 7 with a strong 8 wing would be comfortable doing. On the other hand, the 6 wing is far likelier to allow this; one defense mechanism of the 6, after all, is to appear vulnerable in an attempt to elicit protective feelings from an authority figure. Further evidence is supplied by Mike’s Deduction Star 2020 quotes.

Quote: "Don't think I'll trust you so easily, you cute little thing."

Here, Mike is speaking with the playfulness of his base, 7, while communicating a 6ish difficulty in trusting others. Especially when directed at someone (or something?) “little” and “cute”, this suspicion really does play to the 6’s anxiety and doubt. Where an 8 may feel powerful and confident in the presence of something that appears defenseless, a 6 will be wary; it can’t possibly be so simple, right? Surely it’s a trap?

A 7 with an 8 wing would be more likely to find this mixture of traits endearing, perhaps even themself feeling some twinge of protectiveness. The 8, in general, tends to champion the underdog, desiring to defend that which is innocent or tender. Besides which, the 7w8 is far more blunt and forceful; if there is doubt of a person’s trustworthiness, the problem will be dealt with head-on. It is the 7w6 who will communicate a lack of trust in the lighthearted manner used in the quote; after all, the 6 wing doesn’t want to escalate the situation unless it becomes absolutely necessary.

What of this Deduction Star quote: "I won't let go of the person that destroyed Hullabaloo’.”? Does this not embody the 8’s ego fixation, vengeance? Well yes, but actually no. It’s easy to mistake his actions as being driven by this, as both the 7 and the 8 share an assertive Hornevian type. However, the 8 experiences threats as a challenge, a call to battle; the 8 will make their presence known, and the subject of their wrath will be aware that they have a target painted on their back. By contrast, the 7’s aggression is more of an entitlement, and need not manifest itself overtly all of the time. The 6 wing is what allows the 7 to readily employ the dishonest, underhanded scheming that Mike happily does.

8’s “holy idea” is truth, meaning a life-long search for truth and justice. Mike does not show any interest in such a thing until after the slaughter. His 7’s harmonic pattern of optimistic outlook is twisted into the 1’s focus of attention on what’s imperfect and must be made better. His active nature is turned toward a need to do the “right thing” in the “right way”, with the 1’s ego fixation of resentment driving his actions. But what is it that separates the 8’s vengeance from the 1’s resentment, and how does Mike display one over the other?

The 8’s need for justice calls for the righting of all wrongs, notably towards those they feel protective of, while the 1’s resentment stems from needing to do the “good work” that others won’t notice, won’t care about, or won’t make a “strong enough effort” to do. Not only did Mike not feel protective of his fellow Hullabaloo performers, but we see from the newspaper clipping that “insufficient effort” on the part of law enforcement played a significant role in Mike’s outlook. His search for the “truth” behind the killings, then, is the 1ish excuse for his own actions. His goal is “noble”, therefore, his actions are “right” or “necessary”. The final deduction, “Reappearance”, further solidifies this view.

Summary: “Call their names and make them return to the stage once again.”

Conclusion: “Invitation: Enclosed is a photo of a dark-haired woman with a name on the back - Natalie.”

We find out what he was sent that brought him to Oletus: the knowledge that Natalie is at the manor. Remember, now, that he has been investigating Natalie under the suspicion that she was involved; he had no real evidence. Still, he insists that he is after the “truth”. This falls in line with the 1’s strong sense of purpose, coupled with the need to justify their actions to themselves (and sometimes others as well). He has convinced himself that he is following logic and perhaps objective truth, when in reality, he is allowing his own judgements and unsubstantiated convictions to guide his actions.

Driving this point home is one of his dislikes being listed as “violent and rude people”. Yet, somehow, Mike seemingly hired a hitman, and may have had some involvement in Murro’s death. This is the hypocrisy of the unhealthy 1: it is evil and bad when others do it, but the 1 is exempt, since they are acting for a good cause. (On the other hand, a stronger influence from the 8 would allow for the admittance of double standards, but with justification along the lines of “law of the jungle” or “the strong devour the weak”.)

Considering all of this, Mike’s childish persona seems to be a product of a 7 base with a 6 wing; his desire to enact retribution upon the circus killer comes from the 7’s disintegration to 1, not from an 8 wing. Following the tragedy at Hullabaloo, Mike undergoes a transformation: his spirited, ludic nature turns condemnatory, moralistic, and ultimately, vindictive.

[big-idiot-wolf-boys]

Nightfall: Twilight Reimagined -2-

-1-

Still feeling very much like canon here, and very much the day to day life of Bella Swan. Check out my fancast here if you want to know what I’m imagining these characters to look like as I’m writing them!

                                                          ****

    The next day wasn’t much worse than the first, I guess that had to count for something. The second day of school is easier than the first because you know what to expect. Like Mike sitting next to me in English and then escorting me to my next class. Eric glared at Mike the whole time. Thankfully, everyone outside of the group I had somehow been adopted into seemed to have forgotten about me already.

   The rain appeared to be gone for now, but the clouds were dark and dense-- it could always decide to make a comeback.

  We had a surprise test in Trig, and I didn’t even know the formulas we were supposed to be using. I made a mental note to hide my grades from Charlie, I couldn't manage to do much more than basic algebra. In Spanish, Jessica and I were paired together to translate recipes from Spanish to English. All morning, I worried about lunch. Not where to sit or what to eat; I was worried about having to endure those strange, hateful glares from Edward Cullen. If it were anyone else, I’d just ask what his damage was. Something about the Cullens struck me as strange, though. I remembered Edward’s coal-black eyes and shuddered.

    It turned out that I had nothing to worry about. When Jessica and I entered the cafeteria, Edward was nowhere in sight. A quick scan of the room proved the rest of the Cullen siblings were sitting at their usual table, but he was not with them.

   Mike spotted us and bounded up to lead us to the table. Jessica was thrilled, and the others from yesterday quickly joined us. Today, I picked up some of the names I hadn’t yesterday. Lauren, Tyler, and Ben rounded out this loose collective of friends. Lauren had long blonde hair, pale skin, and pretty green eyes. She hadn't spoken to me much, and I tried not to take it personally. Tyler was tall and athletic-looking, with dark skin, his hair and eyes were a matching brown. Ben was the shortest of the group, he had golden-brown skin and black hair that he wore with bangs swooped to one side, landing just above his glasses. I tried to focus on the conversations going on around me but my thoughts kept wandering back to Edward. I was dreading the moment he entered the room and turned his angry gaze on me.

   My anxiety only grew while I waited. My appetite never appeared, my muscles were tense, and my knee was shaking so much that the chair under me squeaked in protest. He never appeared, rendering all my anxious energy useless.

   After lunch came Biology. I approached the door with dread coiling in my stomach. Maybe he'd decided to get lunch somewhere else in town, which meant he would still be in class. I hesitated outside for as long as I dared, but the warning bell sounded. Classes were starting.

   Edward wasn’t in his seat when I entered, and the dread faded. Until about halfway through class when the realization hit me, it had merely transformed into a messy combination of guilt and irritation.

   How could I have pushed Edward away before I even had a chance to speak to him? How could he hate me so much he’d skip school to avoid me?

   I told myself repeatedly that  I couldn’t possibly be the problem. After all, Edward didn’t even know me. Still, the voice in the back of my mind that said it was all my fault just wouldn’t go away.

   The day took a turn towards terrible when we had soccer in gym. I tripped over my own feet several times, fell in the mud, scraped my palms, and even misaimed a kick so much that the ball hit one of my classmates in the face. After that, the teacher told me to stand in the corner of the field and watch. When school finally let out, I practically ran to my truck. I slammed the door in my hurry to get inside and cringed over it. Then I turned the key and put the heater on high, waiting for the warm air to come rushing out of the vents.

   I backed out of my space and into the line of people waiting to exit the parking lot. As I waited for my turn to leave, I saw the Cullens and the Hale twins getting into their car. A shiny Ford. Of course. Previously, I’d been too dazzled by the Cullens’ supernatural beauty to notice their clothing, but now it was obvious they came from money. I felt a brief stab of jealousy. It wasn’t enough that they were so pretty, they had to be well off, too?

   I yanked my gaze away from them but I could feel the group stare at me as I drove past them. Did they share the theory that I drove Edward away?

   This morning, Charlie had asked me to pick up a few things from the grocery store after school. It was only a few minutes away- but so was everything else. The bright lights and stocked shelves reminded me of doing the shopping back home. I fell into the familiar pattern with ease. It was practically second nature how I ghosted through the aisles, keeping track of Charlie's budget in my head.

   When I got back to the house, I shoved the groceries wherever they could fit and began to prep dinner. All it took was tossing some steaks in a marinade and throwing some potatoes in the oven. This was a meal that I knew Charlie would approve of, and the perfect way to introduce him to the idea of me doing the cooking.

   When I finished the prep, I took my backpack upstairs and threw on a pair of pjs, tying my hair up afterward. Glancing at my school bag again, I sighed. Most of the homework I’d been assigned today was covering things I’d already done back home-- and I wasn’t looking forward to repeating it.

    Instead, I put the effort into checking my email for the first time since my arrival. Charlie still had dial-up, and the laptop beeped and screeched at me as it connected. Renee had signed us both up for a service called NetMail through AOL so we could stay in touch through e-mail.

   Three unopened messages.

    Bella,

      Write to me as soon as you get time. I want to know everything about your flight! How is Charlie doing? Is it raining there? I’m sure it is.

      I miss you already. I’m almost finished packing for Florida, but I can’t find that pink floral shirt. Do you know where I put it?

      Phil says hi and good luck at school tomorrow. We love you!

      Mom

    That was sent about three hours into my five-hour flight to Seattle. I sighed and clicked the next one. It was sent eight hours after the first.

    Bella,

      Why haven’t you emailed me back? I’m waiting to hear from you.

      Mom

    The newest email was from this morning.

    Isabella Swan, if I haven’t heard from you by 5:30 pm, I will call Charlie.  

  My mom and I had always gotten along well, but Renee had leaned on me for a lot. I was sure that she was spiraling already. I glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. There was still an hour until mom’s deadline, but I had a feeling she would get antsy and call early.

    Mom,

      Everything is   fine.    Don’t worry. I was just waiting for something to write about.

      Bella.

    Send.

   Now that the danger of my mother interrupting Charlie’s workday was out of the way, I began a second email.

    Mom,

      Your blouse is at the dry cleaners, you were supposed to pick it up after dropping me off at the airport.  

      Of course it’s raining. I have to slosh through puddles to get to every single class I have. Speaking of, school is fine. Repetitive.   I’ve already done most of what we’re covering. Easy graduation credits, I guess!

      Charlie bought me a truck! I couldn’t believe it. It’s this old, sturdy thing. Which is good. You know. For me. I love it.

      I miss you too. I can’t check my email every five minutes, though. Breathe. It’ll be okay. I’ll write again when I have something interesting to talk about, I promise. I love you.

      Bella

    The novel we were studying in English was Wuthering Heights, which happened to be one of my favorites. My copy of the book was a well-worn hardback, the edges of the cover softened with age. It was easy to sink into the familiar fictional world; by the time Lockwood was having his first nightmare, the sounds of the world around me had blurred and faded into the background.

   “Bella?” My dad’s voice rumbled downstairs.

  Oh, crap, I had forgotten all about dinner! After hastily shoving a bookmark into place, the book was tossed onto my pillow. I rushed downstairs, tripping over my own feet at the bottom step, but Charlie was there to catch me by the shoulders.

   “Where’s the fire?” He asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

  “I forgot about dinner,” I explained sheepishly, leading the way to the kitchen to pull the potatoes out of the oven. I put the steak in to broil before turning around to look at Charlie with an apologetic smile. “I wanted to have it ready for when you got home.”

   “Bells, you don’t have to do that.” He said with a small frown. He must think I had the same bizarre food tastes as Renee. Her experiments in the kitchen often ended up in the trash, completely inedible.

    “It’s just steak and potatoes.” I shrugged dismissively, fluttering one hand. To balance out my mom’s wacky dinners, I had learned how to fend for myself and make it taste pretty good, too.

   “That’s not what I meant,” Charlie said, hanging his jacket on the back of his chair at the table.

  “What did you mean?” He set the table while I pulled the food out of the oven. I caught him sniffing appreciatively at the air.

   “I  mean,  I should be the one cooking dinner, not the other way around.” There was an unspoken  duh. As if nothing in the world made more sense than for Charlie to cook dinner for us. My throat tightened a little and my eyes watered. I turned to get myself a glass of water so I could collect myself without him seeing how something so simple had affected me.

   “Oh.”

   Charlie sat at the table, and I sat across from him.

  “It smells good, though. Thanks, Bell.”  He smiled warmly at me and I noticed how his eyes were beginning to crinkle at the corners. He was beginning to show signs of age now; lines in his face, salt and pepper flecked his scruff.

   We ate in silence for a while, which was more than fine by me. Charlie and I were quiet people and though I had misjudged my role here, we were good housemates.

   “How was school?” He asked, interrupting my thoughts, “Make any friends yet?”

  “Well…” I tapped some pepper onto my potatoes to stall for time. “Everyone’s really nice. I sit with a group of people at lunch, but I don’t know if I’d say we’re friends yet.”

   “Sitting with people at lunch is a good way to start making friends,” Charlie encouraged me. Was it that obvious how worried I was about being the new kid? And the reaction I’d gotten from certain classmates…

   “Do you know the Cullen family?” I asked suddenly, curiosity overtaking me before I could stop it.

   “Dr. Cullen’s family? Sure.”

   “The kids don’t seem to fit in.” I decided not to worry Charlie with Edward’s reaction to me.

  “Dr. Cullen has been a huge help to the community, you know,” Charlie said, more strongly than before. “We’re lucky to have him. He could have his pick of jobs all over the place. His wife wanted a small-town life, though. Sure, I was worried when they moved here with all those kids, but I haven't had one ounce of trouble from them.” He was really gathering steam now. “But just because they’re new to town and a little different, people just have to gossip about them.”

   I rethought my approach.

  “I just meant that they sort of stick to themselves.” I tucked my hair behind my ear before continuing. “They all seem pretty smart.” Or just pretty.

   Charlie shrugged one shoulder. “Guess there’s not much you can do in a town like this. People decided they were outsiders, so why should they try to make friends? Maybe you’ll have something in common with one of them.”

   I didn’t answer him, too busy thinking about what he’d said. We finished eating in silence, and he cleared the table before I had a chance to. I stood next to the table, feeling a little useless.

   “You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” I said, nodding to the pile of dirty dishes that Charlie had just finished stacking next to the sink.

   “That’s my job, Bells.” He kissed my forehead before retiring to the living room to put on the game of the night. I blinked quickly to counter the sudden wetness that sprung up in the corners of my eyes.

   Determined to help out around the house somehow, I turned back to the dishes. Charlie might want to take care of me, but that didn’t mean I had to be a freeloader. I washed the dishes by hand, and set them in the rack to dry. With no other preoccupations, there was nothing left to do but trudge upstairs to work on my math homework

   When I finally tumbled into bed, exhausted, I slept dreamlessly.

  The rest of the week flew by in an uneventful blur. I learned where all my classes were and how to get to them the fastest. I was also able to place most of my classmate’s names to their faces- and they knew not to pick me in gym class. Jessica was still happily chatting my ear off at every opportunity, and when I needed a reprieve from that- Angela Weber was there to quietly discuss Wuthering Heights.

   Edward Cullen didn’t return to school.

  The whole week, I shared my first class of the day with Rosalie, but I could never gather the courage to speak to her and ask what her brother’s problem was, or if he was coming back. Every day, I watched their table to confirm that he wasn’t there, then I could relax. Recently, Mike had really been pushing the idea of a weekend beach trip, and Jess and Angela always made sure to mention that I was welcome to come. I agreed to go, mostly out of a want to get to know my new friends. Whatever they called a beach here would only fall short of my expectations. By Friday, I confidently walked into Biology with the knowledge that Edward wouldn’t be there with his strange, hateful stare.

  My first weekend in Forks was, predictably, boring. Charlie, who had been working weekends for the last fifteen years, spent most of his time at the Sheriff’s Office. I spent my time cleaning the house, reading ahead for English class, and emailing with my mom.

   On Saturday, I went to the Forks Public Library but I was disappointed by their selection, and didn’t even bother to get a card. I looked at the local stores to see what their small selections had, but no dice. It seemed I was going to have to make a trip out of town if I wanted any new reading material. Would my truck be okay on the freeway?

   Thankfully, the rain remained a soft pattering and didn’t hinder my sleep too much.

  On Monday morning, people smiled and waved at me in the parking lot. I waved back, even at the people whose names escaped me. It was cold this morning, but the rain had taken a hiatus.

   In English, Mike sat next to me, reliable as ever. We had a surprise quiz on Wuthering Heights, no doubt I would get an excellent grade on it. I was more confident and comfortable in Forks High School than I had expected even a week ago. More comfortable than I had  ever expected to be in Forks.

  When English ended, the class streamed outside… and into a flurry of white tufts in the air. I could hear teenagers yelling gleefully from every direction. My nose twinged in the cold.

   “Snow!” Mike grinned.

   I shoved my hands into my pockets, surveying the sidewalk for ice. “Ew.” I wrinkled my nose.

   “You don’t like snow?” Mike asked, his gleeful look dampening significantly.

  “I guess it’s better than rain.” I conceded. “But I thought it was supposed to be prettier than this. Distinct flakes or whatever.”

   Mike looked at me with all the disbelief he could muster. “You’ve never  seen snow?”

   “Well, yeah. On TV.” I said defensively.

  Mike laughed, but the sound was cut short by a ball of slush hitting him in the back of the head. I anxiously looked in the direction it had come from, ready to use my backpack as a shield. Eric had his back to us, walking in the wrong direction for his next class. Mike knelt down to scoop up his own ball of mush.

   “You know what, I’ll just see you at lunch,” I said hurriedly, beginning to make my way towards the school. “Once people start throwing things, I get out of range.” I shot him an apologetic smile, but his eyes were trained on Eric’s back.

  The only thing anyone wanted to talk about was the snow’s sudden arrival. I bit my tongue, to not ruin everyone else’s excitement. It seemed like I was the only one who wasn’t fond of the cold, wet weather.

  When it came time for lunch, I hurried to the cafeteria with Jess. Snowballs were flying left and right, though they didn’t really stick together well enough to be qualified as a ball. Jessica thought that I was being dramatic about the whole thing, but she was nice enough to not pull me into the brief snowball fight between herself, Mike, Eric, Ben.

   The fight only lasted from building 3 to building 1, where the cafeteria was. Mike opened the door for us. They argued about who had won as we waited in line to pay for our food. Nothing but habit brought my eyes to the table that the four Cullens occupied every day. Only today there were five of them. I froze where I stood. It would be better to be back out in the snow.

   Jess tapped on my shoulder. “Earth to Bella! Hello?”

  I looked down, feeling the heat from my cheeks up to the tips of my ears when I blushed. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, though, I firmly reminded myself.

   “Are you alright?” Mike asked, leaning over Jessica’s shoulder to look at me.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled, tucking my hair back. I carelessly tossed an apple and milk crate onto my tray and followed my friends.

   “Are you sure you feel okay?” Ben pressed.

  “Actually, I feel kind of sick,” I admitted, sitting next to Jess and keeping my eyes down. Twice more during lunch, someone asked how I was feeling. For a fleeting moment, I considered playing it up so I could skip my next class. Biology with Edward. I almost shuddered at the thought but reminded myself that I’d done nothing wrong. Edward was the one with the problem. I steeled myself and looked at the Cullen’s table. If he still looked at me like I was some kind of loathsome monster, maybe I  would skip.

   At the end of the table, Mike laughed boisterously at something; this was my excuse to look in that direction, and then peer past him to the table where the otherworldly family was sitting. None of them looked at me. I sat up straighter. They were joking and laughing with each other. They appeared to have snow in their hair, though it was melting rapidly under the school’s heating system. Rosalie and Edward were leaning away as Jasper shook his head like a dog- causing icy water to fly at them. They were just enjoying the snow like everyone else, only they looked like movie stars.

   Besides how loud and happy they were compared to last week, there was something else that was amiss about the scene. I found myself staring at them individually as I tried to figure it out. I was the most familiar with Rosalie, since we shared a class, so I started with her. She looked the same as ever: stunningly beautiful. The others looked the same as always too, maybe the scene had seemed off because Edward had returned.

   I looked at him with the most attention. He was flushed, for one. Maybe from laughter, or the cold. It looked like he had finally gotten a good night’s sleep, the bags under his eyes were much less pronounced. There was still something, though…

   “Bella, what  are you staring at?” Jess asked me, pushier than usual. How long had I been spacing out?

   Her eyes followed my gaze.

  Edward looked our way as if we had called out to him, even though we were all the way across the room. I looked away quickly, but not quickly enough. Our eyes met for just a second. He wasn’t wearing that angry expression from last week, he looked curious again.

   What was this guy’s deal? Why couldn’t he make up his mind?

   “Edward Cullen is staring at you.” She said in a hushed voice.

  “Really?” I squeaked. “I don’t think he likes me.” I felt queasy, and offered to trade Eric my milk for his water bottle. He accepted and I took a large gulp of the refreshing liquid as soon as he passed it over.

   “It’s okay, Bella.” She said comfortingly. “The Cullen’s don’t usually like anyone. But he’s still looking at you.”

   “Stop looking!” I hissed.

   She giggled, but looked away. I took a smaller sip of water, focusing with all my might on not looking at the Cullens.

  Mike spoke up then, and I had never been more thankful for his interruption. He was planning a snowball fight after school, and announced it loud enough for everyone to hear. Jessica agreed enthusiastically, but I was starting to think she would agree to do anything as long as Mike was involved. I decidedly didn’t speak up, and began to plot where to hide until the fight was over and I could safely make it to my truck.

   When the bell rang, I made my way to the door quickly-- hoping to avoid walking to class with Mike, who seemed to be a large target for snowballs. But he and my other friends caught up to me in two long strides. When we got to the door, everyone groaned. The snow had pretty much stopped coming down, and what little snow had stuck to the ground was muddy and gross. I hid my pleased smile and tested the iciness of the sidewalk. As good a grip as any other day. Well, on a good day for me. Mike complained about the snow’s disappearance until we got to the door of the biology classroom.

  I was relieved to see my table was empty and rushed to it as if getting there first allowed me some kind of claim on the space. Of course, this wasn’t the case, but it made me feel better nonetheless.  I had been here all last week, after all.

  Mrs. Ramone began to hand out microscopes and slides, and my classmates chattered quietly among themselves. I doodled on the cover of my notebook, sketching out the sparrow I could see from the window next to my table.

   The chair next to me was pulled out with an unsettling screech, but I very carefully kept my eyes averted from my tablemate.

   “Hello,” Said a quiet, musical voice.

  This was the first time one of the Cullens had spoken directly to me, and something about the windchime quality of Edward's voice sent a shock through me. I sat rigidly and whipped my head around to face him.

  He was sitting at the furthest end of the desk, like last week, but his chair was turned so that he was facing me. It almost seemed casual but something was jarring about the whole thing. He seemed unnatural somehow, like he didn’t belong here. His expression was friendlier than I expected, a polite smile gracing his features, but his eyes were guarded.

   “I’m sure you’ve already gathered by now, but I’m Edward Cullen,” He continued, “And you’re Bella Swan, right?”

   My mind swam. Had I completely imagined Edward’s hostility? He was friendly now, if a little strange.

   “Why did you call me Bella?” I blurted.

   “Oh, is Bella for friends only? I just-” Edward faltered.

  “No, I prefer Bella. Everyone called me Isabella when I first got here… I guess Charlie- I mean, my dad- must call me that when I’m not around.” I explained, feeling even more out of my element than usual. I felt tongue-tied in front of this strange guy.

   Thankfully, Ms. Romane clapped her hands together to gather our attention. I was incredibly grateful for being saved from any more embarrassing small talk. Today, we were going to be identifying and sorting cells into the phases of mitosis without looking at our books. The teacher would be making rounds at the end of class to see who got it right.

   “Let’s get going everyone!” She clapped her hands together again.

  “Shall we?” Edward asked, smiling crookedly as he pushed the microscope towards me. I was once again struck by his dazzling beauty-- until his smile began to fade. “Or I can start,” He added. Shoot, I must have waited too long to answer him.

   “I can do it.” I shook my head a little to clear it from the fuzz that had momentarily clouded my mind. I hoped I wasn’t blushing.

   Okay, maybe I wanted to show off a little. My previous school had been more advanced than Forks High, and I had already done this before. It was easy. I slid the little glass slide into place and adjusted the microscope until it was properly focused. It only took me a few seconds for me to assess the slide.

   “Prophase.”

  I started to remove the slide, but Edward reached out to stop me. “Mind if I look?” His hand was freezing, as if he had just come in from playing with the snow. I couldn’t help but gasp and pull my hand away. Besides being cold, it was as though he had shocked me. I tried to chalk it up to static electricity he took the microscope.

   Curiously, I watched him examine the slide. He had barely looked at the thing before writing  prophase gracefully on our worksheet. He switched out the slides and glanced at the second one just as quickly as the first.

   “Anaphase,” He said, writing it down as he spoke.

   “Mind if I check?” I asked, sounding more courageous than I felt.

  Edward pushed the microscope my way, this time avoiding any contact between us. I tried to look as quickly as possible. I was disappointed, he was right.

   “The next one?” I asked, my competitive nature peeking out. He handed it to me, still careful to not let our skin touch.

   “Interphase,” I announced. He took the microscope from me with an amused smile.

  Despite our competition, we were the first team finished. Mike and his partner, a girl named Ali, were comparing two slides repeatedly. Another group seemed to have broken a slide and were trying to tape it back together. I tried to hide my own amused smile at that. Unfortunately, finishing first meant that we had nothing to do but wait for the end of class. I tried not to look at him, but that didn’t last long.

    When I glanced up, Edward was looking at me with intensity. Frustrated again, like he was trying to remember something. Suddenly, it clicked in my brain. Why his family looked so different.

   “Are you wearing contacts?” I asked. Oops. I hope that wasn’t being rude.

   Edward blinked in surprise. “No,” The way he said it, with a lilt towards the end, made it sound like a question.

   “Oh.” I mumbled. “I just thought there was something different about your eyes.”

   He shrugged. “They are kind of a weird color, right? I think it’s genetic.”

  I was sure that it was something other than a mutated brown color, though. I could distinctly remember the black color of his eyes the first time I had seen him. The stark contrast between his hateful stare and the pallor of his face. Only today, his eyes weren’t black. They were a dark butterscotch color, the golden tone that shone in them complimented his bronze hair. I couldn’t make sense of how that could be. Unless he was lying about the contacts. Maybe I had just imagined the darkness of his eyes in my anxiety.

   I glanced down. Edward’s hands were clenched into fists. Only for a moment. Then they smoothed out and he smiled at me. I almost forgot to be suspicious of him.

   Ms. Ramone came to check our work. She squinted at the paper then frowned at Edward. “You didn’t share with your partner, Edward?” She asked, looking at the worksheet holding only Edward’s elegant handwriting on it.

   “Bella actually identified three out of five of the slides, Ms. Ramone,” Edward said with a charming smile.

   She turned to me then. “Well done, Bella. Have you taken this class before?”

   “Not with onion root,” I admitted with a sheepish smile.

   “Whitefish?”

   “Yeah.”

   She nodded. “Were you an advanced placement student in your last school?”

   “Only in science and English.” I couldn’t help being a little proud.

  “I suppose it’s good that you and Edward are partnered, then.” She said with a small chuckle, moving on to check Mike and Ali’s work. I began to doodle on my notebook again, filling in little details to my drawing from before.

   “Too bad about the snow, huh?” Edward asked, his musical voice jarring me out of my thoughts. I hated small talk, and I had the feeling he was only forcing himself to be polite to me, anyway.

   “Not really.” I mumbled, past bothering to hide my irritation with the weather.

   “You don’t like the cold?”

   “Or the wet.”

   “It doesn’t sound like Forks is your kind of place, then.” He said, thoughtfully.

   “You have no idea,” I grumbled, glancing at the window and privately shooing the clouds away.

   He looked like I had said something incredibly profound. I impossibly tried not to be distracted by his expression.

  “So why’d you move here?” His voice was pure curiosity. He didn’t want to know because I was the shiny new toy, gossip for his friends. He seemed genuinely interested and no one had bothered to ask me that yet, especially so pointedly. It took me by surprise.

   “Um.”

   “You don’t have to tell me.” It looked like he couldn’t bear not knowing.

   I hesitated, but met his eyes. His golden gaze captivated me, and I blurted out an answer without even thinking about it.

   “My mom got married.”

   “Oh, and you didn’t like the guy?”

   “No, Phil’s great. Really.”

  “So why didn’t you stay with them?” Edward’s voice was still burning with curiosity, but there was an underlying kindness to it.

    It didn’t make any sense why he was so interested. He was staring at me like I was holding the answers to the universe. If he was always this intense, it was going to give me whiplash the next time he decided that he was going to be hostile.

   “Phil’s a minor league baseball player, so he travels a lot.” I smiled, remembering piling into his van with my mom to travel with them. It had been fun, for a while.

   “Is he famous?” Edward asked in a light tone.

   “I don’t think you’ll have heard of him.”

  “So your mother sent you here so that she could travel with her new husband?” Edward tried to untangle the threads of my story.

   I shook my head, almost insulted. “No,” I said indignantly, “I sent myself.”

   His brows furrowed. “I don’t get it.”

   I sighed. Why was I explaining this to him anyway?  Why did he care?

  “Well. She stayed home with me for a while, but she missed him. It made her unhappy, that didn’t work. So the three of us traveled together for a while. That was fun, but it wasn’t…” I struggled to find the right word, “Stable. So I decided that it was time that I came to be with my dad.” I tried not to sound glum about being stuck in Forks because the truth was that I really  was glad to spend time with Charlie. I just wished we got to spend time together somewhere else.

   “But you’re not happy.” He said simply.

   “So?” I raised an eyebrow.

   “It’s not fair,” He shrugged, but their eyes hadn’t lost their intensity. “It sucks.”

   “Why’s it matter to you anyway?” I demanded, resisting the urge to childishly stick my tongue out at him.

  “Good question.” He muttered, mostly to himself. That seemed like the only answer I was going to get. This was confirmed by Ms. Ramone interrupting us by calling for the class’s attention. I couldn’t understand how this bizarre, beautiful boy had gotten me to reveal more about my life to him than any of my new friends had. And there was still the mystery of whether or not he hated me. He had seemed friendly enough during our conversation, but I could see him leaning away from me now, hands curled into fists again.

   I tried to at least look like I was paying attention to Ms. Ramone’s debriefing.

   When the bell  finally rang, Edward swiftly took his leave. He moved gracefully, like a large cat on the prowl. I stared after him in amazement and Mike took this as an opportunity to hop to my side.

   “That sucked!” He groaned. “I couldn’t tell any of ‘em apart. You’re lucky you had Cullen to do it for you.”

  “I identified half of ours,” I snapped at Mike, stung by his comment and frustrated by Edward. Immediately, I regretted taking out my strange mood on him. It didn’t seem to dull Mike’s mood much.

   “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He said, holding his hands up in surrender.

  He changed the subject to the beach trip, lamenting that the snow from earlier indicated that it was still too cold to go. His chattering just couldn’t hold my attention as we walked to gym.  He was on my team today, and graciously let me sit out. I still managed to catch my toe on the lip of the doorway and almost tripped on my way out after class.

    A mist was gathering in the parking lot as I made my way to my truck. I idly thought about giving it a name, if it had enough personality to warrant giving it one. Time would tell on that. As per my new routine, I hopped into the cab and turned the heater on high. My cold hands warmed in front of the vents before fluffing up my damp hair so it would dry out on the short drive home.

   Before backing up, I looked around to make sure no one was behind me. I noticed a still, pale figure in my mirror and realized it was Edward Cullen. He was leaning against his Ford, staring right at me. My heart jolted in my chest, causing my foot to jump off the clutch too fast-- the engine stalled. I groaned and rolled my eyes. Turning the engine over again and cautiously pulling out, I stared ahead as I drove. As I passed, I could swear Edward was laughing at me.

[ohsweetflips]

share your mama thoughts!!!! (if you would like to)

you’re gonna look at these and, within 2.5 seconds, say “wow jords the self-projection is strong tn”

or more so “wow jords we really see the dynamics that u yearn for and yet cannot find so u project them onto fictional characters who u look up to in a way u can’t quite understand”

post-writing notes: this got way longer than i expected (the jords ohsweetflips story), so this is going under the cut, but enjoy my huge mama backstory headcanons!!!

first things first, i hc mama as a lesbian, bc i am a lesbian, and i feel very attached to mama, so i hc her as a lesbian (but also i believe that anyone can hc her to be anything that they damn well please)

and, forgive me, i don’t know shit abt west virginian geography, but i think she grew up in a town like aubrey’s? like i know we didn’t get a lot of description of aubrey’s younger life outside her home, but i kinda see mama as having this “old money” type homelife

and bc i, jords ohsweetflips, wish i had a group of lesbian friends so that i could’ve had some guidance in my teen years, i hc that, in her town, she found her way into the small yet secure lesbian “scene” that was just a couple girls around her age (i see her as 15 at this time, with others ranging 15-18) along with a couple who were, like, 19/20

and tbh, just the vibe i get from mama and how she seems much more inclined towards found family than blood relatives, i don’t think she had the nicest folks so, when she came out, that was it, you know?

and tbh i completely see mama (well, madeline at this point) as someone who is very like “i don’t need help, i can do things on my own,” even as a young teen, so i think for, like, a week or two, she did the whole “on her own” things

but bc her friends were absolute angels, and also found out that she had been essentially homeless, two of the girls who are 19 and 20 and have an apartment are like “fuck no, you’re staying with us”

and madeline is at first like “no, really, i’m fine” but the thought of an actually loving home is too tempting to ignore

so from the ages of 15 to 18, she lives with her friends!!! she was fairly good at art at this point so she was able to get some in to the local galleries and shops and make some money off of it, and then when she was around 17, her friends were able to get her a job bussing at the bar they worked in

she also liked to whittle a lot!!! she made a lot of ducks

she was 18 when she decided to move out, and that’s when she heard of kepler. or, more so, she heard of it from another one of her friends who dubbed it as “a place fit for you, mads”

so she managed to save up enough money for an apartment and she moved out of her hometown and absolutely the friends she lived with cried their eyes out when they were helping her move in and tbh even madeline got a bit teary eyed bc they were like family, you know?

and so basically, from the ages of 18-24, she lived in kepler and got her bearings and this was when she started to get really into wood carving!!! she was able to get some pieces out there and get some recognition and, by her mid20s, she was actually making decent money, or at least enough to not be living paycheck to paycheck

in this phase of living in kepler, i think she was in a very “people knew her but she didn’t know them that well” just bc i don’t see her as the type of person to be a “social butterfly”? i think she mostly, tho, became friendly with the man who ran kepler’s local coffee shop, and the wives who owned the little dipper back before it was the hornet’s nest. she’s also def met leo and thacker, but only in passing, mostly. i think, once she got closer to her late 20s/early 30s, she would have heard of duck and juno but, in her being 18-24, they were probably still kids/young teenagers.

WAIT I CAN’T FORGET 1980S MAMA AESTHETIC: whole lot of jackets. she did a lot of thrift shopping so she has so many huge jackets. lot of denim. and leather. work boots. flannel. patches. are you picking up on the self projection yet.

and then, in november of 1988, when she was 24, the gate went up. she encountered her first abomination by accident. she had been out in the woods, just trekking back to her apartment and deciding to take the scenic route, when all of a sudden.... one of the smaller trees started moving? and she was like “well that’s not what trees do” and then she saw that the tree had a jagged mouth dripping with sap and branches acting like long, clawed hands, and she was like “well that ain’t no normal tree”

i don’t have my Big Brave Madeline “Mama” Cobb Origin Battle Story yet but she definitely just chopped the shit out of the tree and it managed to work

i think it would be Very Funny if, very shortly after that, her first sylph was barclay. like, i have a feeling that age works a bit different for sylphs, and honestly i have no clue where they would get the disguises from? maybe heathcliff? but the thought of madeline running into Literal Bigfoot and barclay, maybe like 20yo in sylph age, being like “WAIT DON’T KILL ME” bc this young woman already looks ready for leather is very entertaining

and that’s when mama learns abt the sylphs, and how they’re not abominations, and barclay shows her the gate 

and also yes barclay absolutely stays in her apartment except he is So Hidden bc imagine the chaos of Literal Bigfoot being in her apartment! hysterical!

but, soon, mama crosses over into sylvain and figures out Everything that has gone on and knows abt the crystal shattering and the wars and she realizes that there have been sylphs exiled to earth and she’s like “well that ain’t gonna fly”

so she starts the pineguard and, for that first year, it’s mostly just her? and, at that point, it’s harder to locate sylphs, so she only has barclay and one or two others staying with her and it’s cramped but they’re safe so she’s happy

she meets thacker around... april 1989, i think? i know it was spring. so he helps out, and then they recruit another guy, mike (canonically mentioned in the water arc), and a couple others, and, suddenly, the pineguard is turning into an actual thing

and then, one of the ski lodges up on topside closes, now leaving a completely empty inn just... taking up space...... and it’s only a half mile from the gate........... and she has been making a decent amount of money from her sculptures

before the end of 1989, amnesty lodge is set up and running and, all of a sudden, it’s like she has another real home again. she loves the sylphs she meets and they can be safe with her!!

thacker absolutely has a bunch of “home videos” where, really, he’s just messing around with madeline. it’s almost like a “madeline cobb nature documentary” as she finishes up the lodge and treks through the woods. there’s also some of barclay and moira, and other pineguard members, and other sylphs that show up. he also has his journals and pictures and other books and, at one point, the cellar looks like thacker’s library

also the ballad of bigfoot is absolutely canonical and, after stephanie & griffin & C.M. leave the lodge, thacker has never seen madeline go off like she did on barclay that night. barclay still has some residual fear for hearing mama (who’s a big woman but he is Big Foot so he is definitely just Big) scream up at him “I WILL PUT YOU BACK IN THE WOODS WHERE I FOUND YOU, DON’T YOU TEST ME, BARCLAY”

even tho the two of them don’t talk abt it much, and might not even realize it that early on (picturing like late 20s/early 30s), thacker and mama really are best friends and, tbh, every sylph can see it in the way they bicker yet unconditionally care for each other

madeline almost kicked thacker out of the pineguard when she first found out what he put in his gorp

dani showed up in 2009 and, at the age of 12, she was the youngest sylph amnesty lodge had by a fucking landslide, and that made madeline so angry yet so sad bc this child had been exiled from her home and that was just a thing that could happen

(madeline never got along too well with woodbridge but, after that, knowing that he is the one in charge of the exiles, she could never even be civil with him)

she was immediately protective of dani and was ready to really step in as a parental figure bc she wasn’t abt to let this young girl be without guidance

and she gave dani handmedowns and took her shopping and would make sure that she felt safe and comfortable bc, really, she was the only sylph in the lodge who wasn’t an adult. and, fortunately, barclay was basically an older brother to her and moira looked out for her and i think dani coming into the lodge was what really gave everyone a very big reality check bc, like. she’s a kid

(is it obvious that i’m a bit attached to mama and dani)

and so it should come as no shock that, within a year of dani being in amnesty lodge, madeline became “mama”

and then, in 2011, jake, age 16, showed up, and by then mama was like “alright time to adopt him”

but also, real talk, mama looks out for all her sylphs so much, she’d lay down her life for any of them

when thacker leaves in 2013, she’s at first okay, doing just fine. he promised that he would come back, and she has faith in him. and then months pass. and then a year. and then two. and, all of a sudden, it’s the spring of 2016 and kepler expeditions is officially shut down and mama realizes just how much she misses her best friend.

and, not to mention, the waning of the pineguard.

by the time it gets to the summer of 2018, it’s just her and barclay, the both of them hoping things stay the same, but hope hasn’t gotten them too far

and then they have a fire magician, and a forest ranger with a talking sword, and ned fucking chicane

and now we have reached canon!!! thank u for coming to my ted talk!!!!

also tho, post-finale during the big reunion, thacker is just talking with aubrey and all of a sudden is like “holy shit, you really are like her, aren’t you?” and aubrey is just like “???” and thacker says, “don’t go tellin’ her, because she’ll kick my ass, but talkin’ to you is just like talkin’ to maddie when she was your age” and aubrey is a bit :’)

[7hyuns]

something new

mark lee x reader 

warnings; smut, the vaguest hints of angst if u squint a lot, degrading kink, rough kink, dom/sub themes, i don’t think protection is mentioned, bondage kink, swearing probably, a lil bit of bad aftercare 

word count: about 12.1k ish 

The room felt almost too hot to breathe in, even while you were uncovered completely and had every inch of your body on display to the drafts of cold night air filtering in from the open window. You wondered if you were allowed to just get up and leave immediately, or if it would be considered rude or even worse, if it would permanently damage his ego. Maybe if it was anyone else, you could have accepted that as a valid worry and let yourself over-analyse it, but it was him: you wouldn’t be able to dent his ego if you hit it with a sledgehammer. You played the conversation out over and over again in your head, thinking about each different direction it could head in, every single little development it could have, and it did nothing but give the effect of a burden against your chest.

You stopped to breathe, still lying there and staring blankly up at the ceiling of his bedroom and took a second to evaluate the situation you’d thrown myself into without thinking twice. It felt a little childish when you really thought about it; trying desperately to recreate a lingering daydream when you already knew the ending didn’t work out in my favour. Or maybe it was entirely normal to feel this empty after sleeping with someone, but that was another thing you wouldn’t know without asking someone else. And you already knew mentioning this to anyone else was off the table for you, and you hoped against logic that what had happened wouldn’t find its way back to any of your friends.

With all of that in mind, you realised that you should probably get out as soon as possible. You sat up, wondering what would happen if you just threw your legs over the side of the bed and made yourself stand up without hesitation, but that idea scared you. What would happen if you fell? Would he tell someone about that detail or leave it out when he recounted this to all of his friends as soon as the sun rose? You adjusted yourself so your legs were hanging off the bed, beginning to test the waters and see how far you could push myself before your body told you it was too tired to deal with this and gave up. You heard the light sound of shifting behind you, and you closed my eyes in a weak prayer that he’d just be turning in his sleep, but you knew it was a shout into the void when you felt his hand land on your hip.

“You leaving already?” He asked, deep voice light and teasing, and you tried as hard as you could to fight the slight flutter of your heart at him wanting me to stay. Ultimately, you failed, but you couldn’t let that stop you from getting away from this before you fell back into your position from earlier. You were pretty confident that whatever that was, it wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t what you wanted from him.

You let out a breathy laugh, more forced than anything, and glanced around the room quickly in an attempt to locate your clothes before you had to stand up and re-dress yourself in front of him. You saw your jeans first, thrown onto the desk chair by his bed, just as his arm wound itself back around your waist as tightly as it had been earlier; then your underwear, dropped right by the foot of the bed, awkwardly hanging off the edge and making you twitch in an urge to grab them straight away, and you felt his plump lips press a misplaced kiss to the back of your neck; your bra and shirt were tossed in a crumpled heap on the floor, and you began to move away from his touch as soon as you worked out an order to your next movements.

He groaned after you pulled myself away, and even as you felt a blush creeping up your neck at the feeling of his heavy eyes watching you, you kept your back turned to him as you rushed to pull every item of clothing back onto your body. “I thought we were gonna watch a movie, though,” he inquired, making something in you bubble in embarrassment. You wondered if this was normal for him, such a daily occurrence that he could just sit through a movie afterwards and not want to ask questions. A small pang of pain made itself prevalent in your stomach, making you close your eyes just as you finished untucking your hair from where it had caught in your shirt. You didn’t want to go, not really, and you really couldn’t stop the butterflies in your stomach at the idea of him wanting you to be something more to him than before. But you could already hear another voice, the same voice you’d had to listen to for years growing up, telling you that you were always too busy grasping for control over him when it was impossible for you to hold onto. The word ‘yes,’ was caught in your throat, almost painful as you tried to swallow the lump forming there.

“I should probably get back home, it’s kinda late.” You reasoned quietly, turning to face him again, seeing him slouched back with his messy hair and pretty eyes, reminding you why you even hurt yourself to upkeep your friendship every day. But that’s what it was – a friendship, nothing more, and if it was anything more, it wasn’t what you wanted. You watched as he nodded, stretching his arms out and not-so-subtly flexing his muscles before he smiled brightly over at you, seemingly unperturbed by everything that had just happened in such a short space of time.

For an extremely brief moment, it almost felt like a real daydream you’d had before; with him looking at you so softly and smiling so perfectly, and a slight buzz of optimism wound its way into your veins. Until he spoke, “Alright,” he paused, his grin turning into something more like a sickening smirk as he continued, “this was fun though, right? We should do it again sometime, babe.”

So, maybe it was normal for it to be like this after you sleep with someone, and maybe it was something you would get used to like everyone else did, but that didn’t stop you from being unable to shake the almost unsatisfied feeling in your stomach. You were sure that couldn’t be it, because the way everyone spoke about it made it sound like it felt so good, but you had barely felt anything over those tense few moments. The only thing you could vividly remember was it being uncomfortable: a pressure that never seemed to go away until it was done.

You nodded, just enough for you to feel as if you were convincing both him and yourself that you would actually want to repeat this. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow, then.” You finished, turning on your heel and walking into the hallway of his house, hearing him shout a ‘yeah, of course,’ behind you. Only when you shut the door on the dim room behind you did you let yourself breathe in properly, moving your hands up to rub your palms against your sleep-filled eyes. You remembered vaguely that you had makeup on, but you couldn’t bring any of yourself to care through the haze of strange emptiness that had begun to settle itself in your chest.

You stumbled out of his house as quickly as you possibly could, only feeling any type of relief when you finally reached the cold air in its completeness, breathing in and out heavily as you made a few failed attempts at regulating your thinking process. Your house wasn’t far from his, and you managed to stabilise yourself long enough to reach your front door.

///

Your automatic assumption was that Taeyong would be painfully angry that you had stayed out for so long and come home looking like a complete wreck; your makeup smudged on your face, your hair messed up slightly and your previously neat outfit untucked, making it painstakingly obvious that you had re-dressed yourself in a rush. But when you didn’t hear loud footsteps coming toward you as soon as you entered, you questioned his entire reaction, wondering whether or not he would even care that much that you’d been out all day and looked like you’d fallen down a hill.

You wondered through the hallway of your house, glancing into the two rooms on the bottom floor before beginning to walk as slowly and quietly as you possibly could to reach the second floor. Part of you debated calling out to Taeyong, but you imagined that would quite probably make the situation a lot worse, so you decided to keep yourself as silent as possible. When you went to move past his bedroom door, you noticed that it was cracked open slightly, the light on and music playing.

When your curiosity finally got the better of you, you worked up the courage to push the door open, knocking against the wood a couple times just in case. “Taeyong?” You questioned, seeing somebody sat on the bed with a notebook on his lap as he scrawled something onto the paper. It very clearly wasn’t Taeyong, the boy’s hair too plainly coloured and skin a little too tanned. It was even more obvious when he glanced up, eyebrows lifting in inquiry, making you shift slightly on the balls of your feet in nervousness. “Sorry, I didn’t realise he had someone over.” You immediately went to close the door, ignoring the nagging want to ask where Taeyong was.

A slightly bashful smile tugged at his lips, before his expression changed to a much softer one, and you felt yourself calm almost straight away. “It’s fine, he went out to grab something, said he’d be back soon,” he paused, observing you as you tried to be subtle with fawning over his accent, making a deep blush cover your cheeks, “he said you were with a friend, though?”

At the mention of Mike, you almost groaned aloud, fighting the urge to crawl under your duvet and sob until you fell asleep. “Yeah, well, I got tired, so I came home.”

He hummed slightly, looking you up and down before squinting at you with a small grin shaping his lips. “Right,” he let himself grin completely then, looking almost cocky as he took in your appearance. You remembered then what you looked like, making you wish you had avoided coming anywhere near his room in the first place. You wanted to laugh with him about how awkward that situation had very obviously been, but under the circumstances, you could almost cry when you re-evaluated it again.

When you looked down to focus your eyes on the ground completely, he shifted, placing the notebook down and looking toward you. “Are you okay?” He asked, and you made yourself nod right after, swallowing the lump down in your throat before looking back over at him.

“Yeah, I’m just, really tired.” He nodded a little in response, looking completely unconvinced and more than slightly curious. “Do you mind telling Taeyong I’m home and I’ve gone to bed?” You asked cautiously, hoping to switch the conversation topic before you found yourself asking questions you probably didn’t want the answer to.

His lips parted a little as he nodded, making himself smile at you in an attempt to soothe your evident nerves. “Of course.”

You took a minute to work up the nerve to ask him something else before you went to curl yourself up and sleep for as long as you possibly could before you had to face Mike again. “What’s your name?”

Another verging on smug smile placed itself on his features as he spoke again, “I’m Mark, nice to meet you.”

///

Mark was still in the house when you woke up in the morning, and it was clear on Taeyong’s face that Mark must have mentioned something about last night. You knew you were probably going to have to answer a large run of questions from him when you were left alone with one another. While you tried to eat as calmly as possible to distract yourself from how weird you’d felt as soon as  you’d woken up, Taeyong dragged the chair loudly along the floor to sit himself in. He then proceeded to drag it forward, not looking at Mark who was sat simply observing as Taeyong made his presence very well known. “Got any plans today?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at you and waiting for an answer, watching intently as you shook your head, keeping your eyes on your plate. You didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Mark, or even with Taeyong, because not only were you carrying around something that was crushing you emotionally, you’d done something embarrassingly dumb and you didn’t want to explain another one of your regrets to Taeyong.

Your phone went off next to you, a text from Mike that just said, ‘Come watch a movie with me, I miss you x.’ The flutter in your stomach was less noticeable than it had been before, and you almost sighed at how tired you were with this new situation, and it hadn’t even been an entire day yet. Taeyong looked down at your phone, but you could only feel Mark watching your reaction to the text that he could plainly see. “Is that Mike?” He pushed, staring over at you as you muted your phone and shook your head, deciding that you didn’t want to deal with what you were feeling today. For a single second, the tiniest of moments, Taeyong’s expression softened just a little, the cold exterior he was presenting to make you re-think your previous decisions melting away just a little. A phone ringing interrupted whatever he was preparing to say next, and you let yourself catch Mark’s stare, watching as he took in your appearance once again. The observance made you a little self-conscious, so you dropped the eye contact as soon as you had caught it.

You could vaguely hear Taeyong talking to someone on his phone, but you couldn’t focus enough to know what he was saying in the conversation. When he stood up from the table and grabbed at his jacket, making both Mark and you look at him with raised eyebrows. “I’m really sorry Mark, I completely forgot I had plans today.” Mark nodded, responding something about it being fine and he should probably go home anyway, and you shuffled in your seat. No matter how uncomfortable you were about to be in whatever talk you had to have with Taeyong, you didn’t want to carry it around with your for another day without getting someone else’s opinion.

Hearing the front door slamming invaded the room completely, and you stared at your plate before moving to leave the kitchen. Mark watched you as you continued to go about everything normally, but something felt different about the way he was looking at you today. “Do you feel any better today?” His voice seemed relaxed, a lot less timorous than it had been yesterday.

You realised for the first time that he probably knew a lot more about what happened last night than you had even let on to him. “I guess,” You decided to keep it as unattached as possible, hoping he would pick up the conversation so you could ask whatever questions you had bouncing around in your head.

Once again, he hummed in response, parting his lips in thought before he spoke again. He stayed silent for a few seconds, before he stood up and gestured to the living room, and you found yourself following before you could even think about what you were doing for yourself. When you had both sat down and Mark looked more confident, he opened his mouth to talk again, before pausing again and re-thinking his words and then continuing. “I’m gonna make a really big assumption, so correct me if I’m wrong,” he began, watching you the entire time so he could check to see if you looked uncomfortable. “But you had some seriously disappointing sex last night.”

When it was put like that, you couldn’t stop yourself laughing, and if you completely ignored the emotion behind it, it was an easier situation to deal with. But you knew you couldn’t answer that question, because you had nothing else to compare it to. You stopped gradually, watching as he slowed as well, staring at you as if a sign that you should continue, “I don’t know.” You answered simply, shifting in front of his intense gaze.

He raised his eyebrow again, and you felt that same timid feeling creeping back up on you as you struggled to answer his unspoken question. “It’s the only time I’ve ever done anything with anyone, so.” At this, he looked a little taken aback.

“Did you, like, enjoy it at all?” He asked, not moving uncomfortably but clearly not being entirely confident in the conversation.

You stopped yourself from rushing through an answer, thinking about everything that happened last night before responding properly. “It was a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t horrific. It would’ve been worse if it was anyone else.”

“Anyone else?” He pushed forward.

Your stomach flipped, realising you were going to have to delve into this part of what happened. “Yeah, Mike is…I guess I’ve kinda liked him for a while.”

Mark laughed, although it sounded more like a scoff, and you were almost offended. “You like him enough to have boring sex?” You wondered passingly if that was going to end up being the case, but you didn’t have anything else to work with, realistically.

“No, but, you know. I wouldn’t know how to change that, would I?” You responded, a little uncomfortably, watching as he looked as if was seriously debating it, although he looked almost disappointed.

His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second as he finally answered, “Try out new things, have fun with it.”

You tilted my head at him, “New things?”

“Yeah, look into kinks you wanna try out with someone else.” He said, looking at you intently, watching as you blushed slightly under his un-faltering eye contact.

“What kind do you think I should try?” You asked, wondering if it was a far too personal question to ask someone who you’d only known for a small amount of time.

At this, something in him seemed to click into place, making him look much more commanding than he’d seemed before. “I mean, take it easy at first because you’re still new to this, but – and I hope you don’t think I’m being invasive – Taeyong said you’re a bit of a control freak, so maybe try and let that go.”

A bubble of nerves made itself prevalent in your stomach, and you wondered what else Taeyong could have possibly mentioned. “How would I do that?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, looking briefly affected by my question. “Ask him to be dominant with you,” he took a small pause, looking as if he was testing the waters with something, “I know Mike, I’m sure he’ll know what you mean.”

You tried not to feel as if that was an insult, but you couldn’t see it as anything other than a personal warning. Mark adjusted himself slightly, huffing in an almost annoyed manner before standing up and turning to you, “It’s been really nice meeting you,” he said, picking up his keys and phone from the coffee table in front of you, “good luck with Mike.”

///

You weren’t sure that the word ‘sometime,’ was defined by an exact number of days or weeks, but you hadn’t imagined doing something ‘sometime,’ meant doing something again a couple weeks later. But you supposed everyone had different interpretations of it, and maybe Mike’s idea of it was a shorter span of time than you thought of it. Realistically, it didn’t matter, because it was going to happen anyway, you may as well get it out of the way, so you could stop thinking about it all the time.

And you realised in that moment, with his lips pressed harshly against yours and hands moving all over your body as he pulled at different items of clothing almost too fast, if the freeze-frame moments from movies were real, it would have happened right now for you. You pulled yourself away from his mouth for a moment, moving further back as his mouth chased after yours, “Mike, wait.”

He pulled back so he could fully see your face, but his hands continued their way up into your shirt, immediately going to map over every inch of your skin. “Can we try something out?” You asked, feeling a twinge of awkwardness in your stomach when he cupped your chest in an uncomfortable position.

Judging by the look plastered on his face, you could tell he’d already figured it out, but you wanted to know that you’d had the confidence to say it. “Can you be more, you know, dominant with me?” You asked, repeating what Mark had said almost word for word. 

Thinking of Mark took you out of the moment a little, knowing he’d been lightly teasing you and offering you advice about this for the past couple weeks, however hesitantly. It almost felt as if he was withholding specifics, ignoring Mike’s personality and just saying ‘Well, a good dom would do this.’ The last few weeks hadn’t been too bad, you supposed, and you’d managed to avoid the conversation with Taeyong completely by having Mark communicate the basics of it. Because as much as you loved how supportive Taeyong had been of you since you’d met when you were seven, he got a little overbearing a thousand times over the course of your friendship. Never enough to change anything, though, you accepted, considering there’d been no second thoughts about moving in with him when you got away from your hometown.

The sound of Mike repeating a question bought you back to the moment, although part of you wished it hadn’t and that you’d been allowed to continue thinking of all the times you had spent just being yourself with Taeyong. You already knew whatever you decided to do in these moments wasn’t an active decision on your end, because you were never really yourself when you were with Mike. “Babe?” He questioned, pushing you onto your back to catch your attention, and you felt yourself become fully present again. “I said, how hard do you want me to go?”

The question added to his overly-confident facial expression worried you to the point of considering backing down from the situation ahead of you. “You decide.” You finalised, thinking that Mark had told you to give up trying to control things, and that’s what you should try and do in the moment. You also remembered vaguely that he had told you to not throw yourself into it, and he’d reiterated nearly a thousand times that you would definitely need to come down from it afterwards. Although you chose to ignore this, because you couldn’t see anything bad enough happening to make you feel that bad.

Mike had moved onto kissing down your neck, one of his large hands moving to pin both of yours above your head as he continued his movements. He paused for a moment, moving to grab something from a drawer before placing your hands on the headboard and wrapping a belt so tight around your wrists you wondered vaguely if it would cut off your blood flow and you’d end up losing both hands over a split-second decision. He didn’t ask if they were too tight, and you were too nervous to say anything, so you decided to bear with it.

The next passing few moments were void of anything other than him undressing himself and then you, giving you room to imagine what could be happening if this was done properly. From how Mark had talked about it, it sounded interesting, intriguing enough to get you curious and wondering if you would ever have the opportunity to try it out efficiently with someone. You felt Mike’s hands grab at different bits of your body, but other than that, he seemed to be focusing pretty fully on the element of dominance you’d asked him to show.

When his hand came to tighten itself around your throat, you’d felt something you hadn’t felt last time with him, a genuine excitement for this to continue and go somewhere further. But the second he started pressing down, the excitement just turned to pain and discomfort, the pressure being directly on your throat and cutting off your breathing almost completely. You worried that this wasn’t supposed to happen, that he would end up actually choking you to death, but you didn’t really understand any of this, and Mark had said he could see Mike knowing what he was doing.

By the time he released his grip on your neck you were verging on passing out, your eyes fluttering closed in what he clearly perceived to be pleasure. “It’s disgusting how much you liked that,” he began, moving to accommodate himself between your legs. You knew this had been coming, and you tried to figure out why it didn’t make you feel anything but embarrassed and apprehensive. Mark had said it was supposed to be a mix of humiliating and exciting for the person on the receiving end, and you definitely felt the humiliation, but not in any kind of exciting form.

Your mind kept drifting back to Mark, even as Mike latched his hand to your throat and placed pressure on it again, his other hand going to slap the backs of your thighs and mouth biting down on my stomach and chest. You tried to get into it, tried to think of why it was supposed to be fun, but it just felt, mediocre in comparison to everything Mark had described doing to someone. When Mike’s pace got even more bruising and you still felt next to nothing enjoyable, you found yourself reverting to thinking of Mark in an almost desperate attempt to make yourself feel better.

You tried to picture what you would be feeling if Mark was the one doing this to you instead of Mike, what it would feel like to have his hands wrapped tightly around your throat and his mouth on your chest. You could already tell that Mark knew enough about this kind of thing to know he wouldn’t be choking you half to death like Mike was currently doing. It was strange, being so bored that you changed to simply thinking about the time spent with Mark instead of the years you’d spent around Mike.

All those times Mike and you had gotten so close you were almost kissing, all the things you’d told him while you sat on his lap and had his head in the crook of your neck, every single time his touches had been teetering on the edge of blatant teasing, and now this; lying here on his bed with him above you like you’d always imagined when you’d first started fancying him all those years ago. The feeling of his hands all over you and his lips following in their path was something you had basically chased after for so long, and now that it was actually happening, you were thinking about somebody else.

All the times you’d accidentally gaped at him with a look you could never place while he spoke about activities that were impossibly mundane to him, all the times you’d been hooked onto every single word that tumbled past his lips about things you would’ve considered filthy before. In the moment after, you knew you were probably going to regret your next action, but as much as you tried, you honestly couldn’t stop yourself. “Mark,” you moaned almost obscenely, and then panic tightened itself inside you, more over the fact that you’d done that than that you were genuinely about to pass out from how strong his hold on your throat was.

“Huh?” Mike asked, head pressed against your chest as he continued to leave little nips everywhere.

Panic overtook you as you stuttered through a believable lie. “Mark me,” you said, attempting to recreate the same moan you’d emitted earlier, doing a better job than you could have first seen yourself doing.

At your answer, Mike did nothing but bite down harder, although you didn’t have to put up with it for very much longer. When his hips finally slowed to a stop and he pulled out and away from you, you just wanted to leave, despite the burning pain you were experiencing both mentally and physically. You weren’t completely sure what was hurting most in an emotional sense, losing all feeling for Mike so quick you almost felt ridiculous for pining after him for such a long time in the first place, or the fact that he’d actually hurt your feelings tonight. Or maybe it was the weird headspace you were in, like you couldn’t do anything for yourself and wanted plain instructions to follow. Maybe you were getting delirious from the burning pains in every different part of your body, and you regretted choosing to walk here and not tell anyone but Mark your plans.

The thought of Mark was what finally made you move, the embarrassment of moaning his name instead of Mike’s and the natural impulse to go and find him so he would make you feel better pulling you away from your questions. Part of you hoped uselessly that Mike would do something, literally anything, to help you or at least explain to you what you were feeling. “Can you,” you went to ask, your voice dying in your throat at how sheepish you currently sounded.

Mike got the message, undoing the belt and letting your arms fall back down. As soon as you could, you pulled yourself to sit up, going immediately to your spread around clothes and almost hissing in discontent at the pain in so many different parts of your body you weren’t sure you had time to check them all. Your arm movements felt clumsy and unnatural, the ache falling through them as blood began to circulate properly into them both again. You didn’t even say goodbye to Mike, opting instead to awkwardly wave because you weren’t entirely sure you could use your voice, or even swallow properly anymore.

When you’d finally got out of his house, you followed your usual route home, your body screeching in protest as you walked until you reached your front door, hoping that Taeyong would be out so you could clean yourself up without trying to explain to him. Your mind still felt clouded and weird, and you couldn’t see yourself being able to speak efficiently to anyone, especially not in a way that didn’t make you completely and utterly embarrass yourself.

///

You fought against your aching arms to push the front door open, closing it behind you and the stopping to sit at the kitchen table and curl yourself up for a few moments of peace. You tucked your head into your arms and scrunched your eyes closed as tightly as you possibly could, hoping this would stop the swirling about in your head or the pain in each of your limbs.

You heard a patter of steps come down the stairs, and a scalding discomfiture made itself ultimately prevalent, alongside the heaviness of your mind currently. When you felt a hand lightly brush against your shoulder instead of a voice immediately demanding to know if there was something wrong, you shifted so you could look up. You immediately wondered why Mark was here again, especially since it didn’t seem Taeyong was home, but he quickly quieted you before you had a chance to struggle to ask him anything, “We had classes, he asked me to come back here and wait for him while he did the second one, said you wouldn’t mind.”

You didn’t mind, of course you didn’t, it was even more difficult to avoid Mark if you had even wanted to, considering Taeyong seemed to have decided he liked him enough to continue his attempts at setting you up with people who weren’t Mike. You just nodded, slumping your shoulders forward as you swallowed thickly, wincing as it stung against your bruised throat. “Is everything okay?” Mark asked, moving to touch your hands from where he was stood above you, watching as you pulled your wrist away a little too anxiously for him to drop his pestering. He slowly reached over to cup your covered wrist as he pushed the sleeve of your jumper up enough to see a light bruise forming there. “So, how was Mike?” He questioned, looking like you’d slapped him when he realised you’d gone ahead with his idea.

You realised for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to even think about Mike at the moment. At least you could definitively say that you tried to make whatever experiences you could class those as with him work, but he was just bad at it. You were sure you couldn’t fix that, and you were fairly certain it was supposed to feel better than that, because Mark made it feel better than that without even touching you.

You shrugged, feeling small under Mark’s glare, and you wished for once he was giving you that look in a different moment. “I don’t know.” You responded, feeling like a petulant child as you struggled to find a reasonable explanation for what had just happened. It was so awfully bad that it almost felt as if it had to be some big joke, but your mind was still slightly too foggy to work through the reasoning behind why Mike still had so many girls thrown all over him when it was over in two minutes.

“Did it feel good?” He pushed, and for a vague moment you had to swallow the need to say that it would have, if he would’ve done it, you could tell it would have. You wondered why he felt the need to ask these questions, if it was to check if he had been right, or if he had some kind of need to prove that Mike was the worst dom in existence. You supposed if he had that need, it would be something you could definitely fulfil.

You shook your head, hoping you could avoid speaking so he wouldn’t hear how choked up you were. Mark sighed, staring at you with a look in his eyes that he’d only ever used before when you’d burnt yourself trying to cook for him. You weren’t sure you liked that look, because it both intimidated you and interested you in something that felt so achingly untouchable: a cross between anger and something smouldering. “What did he use to tie your hands?”

You could stop this conversation at any point, you recognised, knowing you could probably make Mark back down if you told him you didn’t like it, but that would be a lie. You liked having Mark express the same interest in you that you did with him, it was a returned affection that you hadn’t ever been able to grasp before with anyone else, especially not Mike. “A belt.”

He nodded cautiously, chewing his lip lightly in the way he did before he pushed a boundary again. “What did he put on it afterwards?”

At this question, you automatically rose your eyebrows at him, almost in a disbelieving manner at the idea that Mike would care enough to even ask if you felt okay afterwards. You wanted to answer, but your throat hurt and it was clear judging by the way he looked practically disgusted that he understood perfectly.

“He did do some kind of aftercare, though, right?” He asked, completely aware that he was pushing the unspoken but clearly placed boundaries again when you had started speaking so openly about everything he was into and what he thought you should do with someone.

Mark never really talked about aftercare, he just repeated himself multiple times during those conversations that Mike would need to do something so you felt alright afterwards. You supposed it was shame on you for not thinking about it in the slightest, but you refused to accept blame for this, because you hadn’t known what you were expected to do or be afterwards. Again, you responded by shaking your head and staring almost mindlessly at Mark, understanding that you probably looked impossibly dumb in the moment; staring up at him with wide eyes and expecting him to fix everything.

You weren’t sure what was running through his mind, but he obviously had more questions before he did anything else. “He let you walk all the way home afterwards?” You nodded. “Did he ask if you felt alright?” You shook your head. “Do you feel alright?”

You wondered what your response should be; if you told him the truth and said you didn’t, he’d probably think you didn’t like the basis for what Mike and you did, which wasn’t the case; but if you told him you felt fine, you might be stuck in this weird, between headspace for an even longer time. You took a second to look down before shaking your head slightly, hoping he wouldn’t make you talk anymore.

He gently grabbed you to direct you to stand up, pulling you along behind him as if you were made of glass and about to shatter at any moment. You followed him up the stairs, even when your legs protested at the sensation, walking until you reached the bathroom and he sat you down on the closed toilet lid. He moved about for a few moments, leaving you to consider telling him everything that had happened and explaining yourself entirely before he made a set opinion of what he thought happened. When he returned in front of you, he seemed impossibly calm and soothing, rubbing cream onto your wrists and checking to make sure the skin hadn’t split. He looked back to you, observing you enough to make you shuffle in diffidence, “Does anything else hurt?”

Your brain immediately said, ‘He hurt my feelings,’ but you realised before it slipped that it was far too petty of a response to such a kind question. You gestured to your neck, making him move with a gentle haste as he tilted your chin up to better look at the bruise. He repeated the actions he’d used for your wrists on your throat, only this time he handed you a bottle of water and stopped everything until you’d drank a large portion of it. If he asked again, you would probably have to say that was it, because the others you couldn’t see him being able to do much about. What was he supposed to do about there being hickies and bite marks on your chest? Rub cream over them? Even when you didn’t feel fully in charge of yourself, you knew rationally you weren’t too into having that happen just yet.

When he’d finished his ministrations, you waited for him to tell you what to do next, sitting there patiently as you assumed he’d continue with something else. “How about, you know, emotionally?” You were always faintly intrigued to find out if he’d done something like this before, or if he’d done it loads of times, because he seemed a lot less inept with this than he came across when he scrambled to make small talk around other people.  

“My head feels, weird?” You offered, hoping he would take something away from that statement that made some form of logical sense in his mind. He nodded slowly, taking a few seconds to fully think about what he was going to do next, a small crease finding its way onto his forehead as he peered down at you with impossibly softening features, the bathroom light hitting his brown eyes and making them glow ever so slightly.

You felt an overwhelming urge pressed against your chest to tell him about what happened, having him in such a close proximity to you that you could barely breathe didn’t help you push back that impulse. “You know the whole boundary thing between us?” You asked hesitantly, attempting to do the same as he did when he was about to push a barrier down to better suit his needs. His eyes didn’t stray from yours for even a split second as he nodded his head, so slightly that it was barely visible. “I think I broke all of them today.”

He wasn’t struggling to maintain the eye contact, evidently, but he seemed to be finding difficulty in standing completely still and keeping his hands to himself. “What did you do?” He inquired, and you could feel the genuine wonder in his words, because you presumed, it would be a difficult thing to out-rightly guess.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I was with Mike,” you studied his stoic expression as you tried to get a reaction, tried to get him to react on an impulsive second of passion. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how good it would’ve felt if you were doing it to me instead.” You let yourself lean into the hand that was still resting faintly at the base of your throat, feeling a kind of self-assurance you were certain you’d never felt in your entire life. “Because I bet you really do know what you’re doing, right?” You questioned, more sarcastically than anything, because you both knew you could answer that yourself. He was still watching you, but something glinted in his eyes and you could feel whatever invisible boundary he’d tried to place between us – more so for your comfort than his, you imagined – snapped. He was looking at you like you were nothing more than prey, the tender stare he previously had fixed on you gone entirely.

“Did you say my name?” He spoke, and it was like you were finally getting some kind of relief, feeling his arms snake themselves around your waist in a manner you should have flinched away from in intimidation, but instead found yourself curling closer to. You nodded, watching as a smug smile pulled his lips upwards of their own accord, his eyes not leaving yours for a second as he proceeded. “No, use your words.”

Your breath was almost entirely too caught to form any words, but you spat out a quick, “Yes.”

“What lie did you tell him? Was he convinced you weren’t thinking about someone else’s hands on you?” His voice remained absolutely monotone as he spoke, giving away no hints to what he was feeling.

Your brain felt like it was kicking into overdrive, spinning out of control to the point where you almost couldn’t keep up with it. “I,” You were almost wholly forgetting how to speak, looking back into his darkening eyes as he stared you down. “I told him I wanted him to leave marks.”

Mark’s lips parted slightly again, a complacent appearance finding its way onto his features, giving him an overly-cocky air, but in a different way than Mike wore it. “Was he hurt? Did it burn a hole in his ego to know you were thinking about another guy?” His voice was so much more assertive than it had ever gotten with you before. You shook your head, temporarily speechless at how hot the bathroom had started to feel around you.

“He doesn’t know.” All you were able to make yourself do was feed into Mark’s behaviour, to be more open than you’d ever found yourself able to be with anyone before this minute with him.

It was like he couldn’t stop the inflation of his self-importance, and you didn’t sense any want inside of you for him to refrain from it, either. “I promised myself I wouldn’t spell it out for you, but you’re so oblivious it’s painful.” He turned you both to the side, in the direction of the closed door, walking you backwards until your back hit the wood. “You just never realise how good I can make you feel, how much better I can do everything I know you like than he could.” He wasn’t even holding you between him and the door, but you couldn’t find anything inside of you that told you that you could challenge the authority he was quite clearly holding above you.

Taeyong wasn’t good at keeping things to a strict plan, and he wasn’t good at detaching his emotions from situations that needed tough love. But you could never say he wasn’t absolutely right about everything he’d ever summarised from your personality, or that he didn’t know you better than you knew yourself sometimes. Control wasn’t something you would let go of again as quickly as you had for Mike, although the verging on alarm feeling that was making itself known inside your stomach made you doubt your ability to deny any of this. “Then prove it.” You tested, wanting to see how far you could push him when he was acting like this.

He was impossibly close to you; his hot breath fanning against you face, the smell of clean laundry blocking out all of your other rational thoughts. His eyes were heavy, thick and clouded with something you couldn’t see through as he made the space between you grow larger with every step back he took. You couldn’t stop the childish whine that tumbled past your lips as the burn of his touch was replaced with cold air. “You have to wait.” He settled, eyes flitting to the left-over marks from Mike as he pursed his lips in annoyance.

Hearing the front door open loudly and a deep voice announce that he was home, Mark went to pass you, tensing up in irritation when you gripped his forearm in the same manner he had done to you earlier. “I can wait.” You practically hissed, already knowing you were lying straight through your teeth.

At this, Mark laughed, shaking your hold off as if it was the gentlest grip he’d ever felt in his life. “You don’t have any other choice.”

///

After spending a little over a week fussing over your bruises to make them go away as fast as possible, you finally felt confident in them being dull enough that Mark wouldn’t care anymore. While explaining to Taeyong where the marks had come from was a trying task, he moved on when you finally gave in and told him the truth about Mike and everything you’d done with him. For the first time since you could remember, you were finally grateful for his parental lectures, because it really was the final nail in a coffin you should have buried years ago. But the only real thing that made the passing of the week physically painful was the lack of Mark’s presence in your company explicitly. He’d spent nearly every bit of his free time at the house, coming over on the grounds of spending time with Taeyong; watching movies with him while disappearing for bathroom breaks and coming into your room to make small talk and drop in every kind of teasing remark he could think of, ordering food and leaving touches that lingered far too long for them to be considered friendly against any bare skin he could find.

Once the Friday rolled around, you could barely contain my excitement at seeing Mark again, but your plans were thrown out into the night the second Taeyong walked through the front door. It hadn’t slipped your mind that he’d asked if it was okay for him to have friends over, but you hadn’t imagined there would be more than two. Now there were nearly seven different people sat downstairs while you pouted in your room, feeling like a grounded child. When Taeyong called for you to come downstairs, you dragged your feet with every step you took forward, wishing you could just get Mark alone for two seconds. “We’re gonna head out for the night,” He said when you reached the bottom of the stairs, the fabric of the shorter version of your pretty shorts you’d put on specifically to get Mark’s attention making you shift a little in discomfort. “What are your plans tonight?” It was bad to use a question he’d posed to check on you to get your own way, but in the end: what were best friends really for if not that exact thing?

“I might go watch a movie with Mike later.” You tested, more so for Taeyong’s immediate reaction than Mark’s, but you could feel something flip already.

Taeyong rolled his eyes, pouting his bottom lip out in disappointment as he glanced at the clock. “Take a jacket, be safe.” You softened a little, nodding at him as he proceeded to frown and glare at you as he pulled his shoes on, “We still have to talk about it later.”

As they all filed out the door, Mark looked at you like he wanted to say something, before he turned to Taeyong and said, “I think I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling too good.” You heard Taeyong ask about dropping him off, asking him if he was ill, but it all sounded as if was being said underwater. The feeling coursing through your veins couldn’t really be separated from either panic or exhilaration, but it didn’t feel bad.

Mark took one final glance at you before he slammed the door shut behind him, leaving you stood in the middle of the hallway alone. It was like you were glued to the spot, unable to find the permission you didn’t actually need to move, listening to the cars start and leave. Less than five minutes later, a knock sounded through the house, making you move slowly toward the door, hand gripping the key before turning it. The door swung open as soon as the lock clicked to signal he could walk in, and you found yourself being pushed back by the force of it. He repeated his earlier action of slamming it shut, only this time pausing to spin the key in the lock. When he turned back to you, you tried to see if this was genuine anger or not, but all you could sense was a kind of radiating dominance, the kind he’d spoken about you looking for in someone else.

“Just when I was about to say you’d been so good for me,” he spat, pacing toward you, “You go and act like a slut in front of everyone else.” Your head felt like it was spinning, a small tremble of anticipation moving throughout your whole body. The words that left Mark’s mouth in such a commanding way had made you cringe back to just a week ago, but it seemed different coming from him, like there was something more there. He had a way of leaving you unbearably curious for what his next motion would be, for whatever he decided to do. You could see yourself stepping back, denying his advance just to see what he would do in retaliation, but you were rooted to the spot, even more so when he roughly latched his hands onto both of your wrists, holding you in place. He tilted his head down until you could feel his lips against the shell of your ear, a shiver running down your spine, “You’re only supposed to act like that for me.”

It was unfamiliar, the way you found yourself immediately clambering to find some kind of excuse without even consciously being aware you were doing it. “You’ve been ignoring me, I, I miss you.”

He scoffed, “So, you run off to Mike?”

Something inside of you was boiling, you felt like you were being scolded for something that you could feel yourself rejecting any responsibility for. “At least he’d actually fuck me.” You snapped back at him, instantly feeling your heart speed up in expectation.

Mark seemed sincerely mad, his grip tightening as he shoved you in the direction of the stairs. He didn’t speak, but you knew that he wanted you to walk up them, but with every stair you climbed, his hold seemed to grow even tighter, until it felt almost painful. He continued to direct you in silence, pushing you along in front of him until you got into your bedroom, when he shut the door with as much force as he could muster, a slam bouncing off the walls as he wrapped his arms around you and pushed you up onto the wall. “Say it again.” You rapidly shook your head, not wanting to speak ever again unless you absolutely had to. He groaned in vexation, “Tell me again why you’re running back to Mike.”

You were realising what control really meant in this moment, and you weren’t entirely sure having any type of control like this was what you’d ever wanted. “Because,” you stopped again, losing your train of thought as you remembered how disappointing everything with Mike was. “Because he’d actually fuck me.”

Mark’s hand came to curl around your throat, not applying any pressure but making it direct that he could at any moment if he wanted to. “Could he make you feel good?” He disputed, barely moving an inch as he waited for you to fall down again.

“Can you?” Within milliseconds of the words passing your chapped lips, he had yanked you off the wall and had your back pressed tightly against his chest.

“You should be more worried about whether I let you feel good.” He responded, one of his hands winding its way into your hair and tugging it forcefully. Once he had your head dragged back so he could press his lips over the shell of your ear and drop them down comfortably to the space between your jaw and neck, he began speaking again.

“When we spoke about this, you sounded like such a good girl,” His lips trailed across the expanse of your neck, your hair secured in his grip so it wasn’t creating any sort of block. “But you’re such a little brat.”

There was something about his tone and the words he was using that made you melt, made you want to adhere to everything he wanted. “I didn’t mean to be,” You offered, hoping it would be enough to get you off the hook when you already knew that was impossible.

“No?” He inquired, his mouth pausing against the skin of your neck as he spun you around to face him. You shook my head again, straining to see what his next reaction would be. “Can you prove that for me?”

You tilted your head as much as his iron hold on you would allow, “How?”

His expression changed then, noticing you had completely relinquished any form of control you wrongly assumed you had a hold of. He turned you around again, this time opting to bend you over the foot of my bed for him, making you feel like you were on display for his eyes only. “When I ask questions, you’re supposed to answer.” You went to respond that you understood, but he slammed the palm of his hand down onto your ass, “Don’t make any noise unless I tell you to.” He repeated his previous actions, gaining in roughness as you bit your lip harshly to hold back any noises threatening to spill past your closed mouth. The little stimulation this was providing felt better than anything you’d done with Mike had, and you whined again when his hand slowed to smooth over the red skin. “Listen to me, princess.”

You nodded, not really thinking about it too much, just wanting him to do more. “I don’t know how much of this you’ve done, so you need to tell me if you don’t like anything.”

Somewhere in your mind you knew you couldn’t see that happening, but you wanted to entertain his build up so he’d get to it. “How?” You asked again, it seemed to be turning into the only word you could put into something that sounded coherent.

“If you want me to stop, say red and I will.” It sounded so simple and plain that you didn’t really need to respond with anything other than a nod. The moment of tenderness was short and ended just as quickly as they began. Mark didn’t delay getting back into it, already moving away from you entirely. “On the bed, on your back.”

You practically lurched forward in the fervour of your desperation, doing everything you could so you would finally be able to see his face again. He pulled his white shirt over his head before he moved back over to you, hands attaching themselves to your shorts as he tugged them down in a slightly eager manner, leaving your underwear on as he pulled your shirt up, waiting expectantly for you to accommodate him as he tore it a little in his haste to pull it over your head. He pulled back a second to scan your near-naked body, making you alter your positioning in slight unease. His hands moved collectedly to undo your bra, stopping again to stare as he tossed it across the room somewhere. You felt too bare in front of him, while he was still mainly clothed, but you attempted to focus on not doing something that would break one of his unstated rules. Every one of his actions seemed instinctive, as if his natural reflex was to press your hands above your head while he teased his mouth further down your body.

When he broke the skin on skin contact, you felt a growing need to groan in indignation, causing you to bite down as hard as you possibly could to stop yourself on your bottom lip. He just continued to observe you as he pulled his belt off, tugging his jeans down soon after, a glow of self-assurance hovering around him in a way you hadn’t envisioned as possible when you’d first met him. The only uncertainty you could see in his face was there when he moved to attach your wrists to the headboard with his belt, but when he didn’t hear you make any noise of discontent, he continued. After repeating the same action Mike had not so long ago, you felt the thing you’d been craving every time Mike touched you, the thing that swallowed you with its absence. It was the feeling of knowing nothing but Mark, not caring what happened afterwards, not thinking about anyone else, not being able to separate yourself from what was happening around you. You hoped he felt the same, you hoped he was regarding you in the same way you were with him right in the minute, as his hands curved in the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs at such a slow pace you could have cried right then.

This was when you started to concern yourself with the notion that this could get as inadequate as it was with Mike, that you would be left unsatisfied again after another painstakingly boring five minutes of your life. But you could feel the idea of that happening start to slide away as his hand slid between your legs, pushing every other thought you could even initiate distracting yourself with, away. Vaguely, you remembered that Mike hadn’t done this, even when that hadn’t felt half as fast-paced as this moment with Mark did. It was almost embarrassing how much of a mess you were becoming in front of Mark, especially when he was barely doing anything, skimming his fingertips over where you wanted him. A cold laugh passed through his lips as he examined your thirsting movements, bringing his other hand to press your hips flat down onto the mattress so you couldn’t move of your own accord anymore.

“Mark, please,” You whimpered, trying against rational logic to push harshly against his forearm that kept you steadily held down. If you were anywhere near your right mind, you would have considered the possibility that this was just getting him off more, you would have remembered the innumerable conversations that had you shifting in your seat at the idea of someone treating you like he said he would. It was hard to perceive him as anything other than complex, and you couldn’t find the mental strength to try and look into his reasoning behind his torturous actions, especially when it felt so definitive that he knew what he was doing.

The kind of relief he gave you then was unimaginable, better than anything you’d felt before, and it almost made guilt seep its way into my chest. You tried to remind yourself that you shouldn’t feel guilty, you had nothing to feel like that for, but you were quite literally giving all of yourself to Mark in a way you never even gave Mike a chance with. But the feeling of Mark dipping his head down between your legs made you remember why the circumstances were nothing alike.

Mark didn’t seem to slow himself at all, the pace he had set the second his hands had gripped your wrists in the bathroom that night still being upheld assuredly. Your stomach was turning into knots, tensing up as he didn’t give on his deliberate movements of his mouth and hands, making you tug on the belt fastened to your wrists. You wanted to run my hands through his brown hair, tug on it and grab at the hand that was currently situated across your hips. You wondered if that was still a boundary, or if was just something he was doing for fun, for the both of us.

The tightening in your stomach only got more prevalent, consuming your mind entirely, throwing every thought of anything but the way Mark’s mouth felt against your heat out the window. You knew he could tell, the dominance laced with his unhurried motions told you everything, and you trembled as he stopped after pushing you to every edge he could find. He stayed completely still except for moving his lips to press faint kisses to the flesh of the inside of your thighs, humming slightly in mock confusion when you whined and shuffled around under his grip again. “Did you want something?” He teased, barely glancing up at from where he begun to bite down on you skin, leaving large marks behind. 

With the sensation of his lips and hands no longer burning through your mind, you could feel a vague hint of embarrassment causing a flush to cover your cheeks. “You know what I want,” you complained, feeling him push your hips down cruelly onto the mattress, making you give up and lay there just staring down at him.

“I thought you would’ve realised already,” He spoke, voice holding the same authoritative tone as he’d been using all this time, but it felt thicker now, as if his voice had dropped several pitches since he’d started talking. “You don’t get what you want unless you deserve it.”

Immediately, you tried to think of what you’d done to not deserve everything he had almost given you, considering you hadn’t done anything that bad. “Do I not deserve it?” You questioned lightly, making him groan quietly before he could hold it back.

He adjusted again, hands moving back to teasing you and mouth trailing higher and higher up with every word he spoke. “Not until I’m sure you know I’m the only one who can ever make you feel this good.” He repeated his actions again then, not speaking another word or making much noise at all, making you move about in more desperation, hoping to gain some more of his attention, even if it was all currently placed on you anyway. He paused, cocking his head up at you as he licked his lips, “Stop moving or I’ll have to stop touching you.” You couldn’t even find the confidence to whine after that, chewing on your bottom lip so much you could feel blood begin to drop out after a few moments. When he drove you all the way to the edge and stopped again, you took the momentary clarity he’d allowed you to speak.

“Can I please make noise?” His head all but cracked upwards in your direction, a small noise sounding something between a groan and a hiss passing through his throat. In the less rushed atmosphere, he moved to hover above you, lips so close to yours that it burnt a blush onto your cheeks. His thumb swiped across your bottom lip, wiping away the blood on the surface before he crashed his lips onto yours. The only thing you could think or feel was his lips against yours, the taste of something you’d never had before pouring into your mouth: it was ultimately distracting, disallowing any other thought of Mike to get anywhere near you. His hand had moved to curl around your throat, only this time he pressed down on the sides of your neck so lightly you could almost beg for him to give you something more.

He pulled back, staring at you with a look you already knew you’d never be able to place. He seemed indecisive on whether he wanted to observe you or keep his lips to yours until you were both gasping for air again, but his face remained stoic as he spoke calmly again. “Make as much noise as you need to, angel.” You whimpered at the pet-name, watching as he seemed to grow impossibly more confident as he applied more pressure to your throat. Even as he started and set the pace, you knew you had the option to stop if this got too much, but it had been too much the moment he’d opened his mouth downstairs. He had you entirely wrapped around his finger, ready to throw anything away for him if he told me to. You should have been embarrassed of how loud you were being, but the only coherent thought you had in your mind was a need to repeat his name until nothing else seemed to exist. It wasn’t as if he seemed to mind, his head dropped into the crook of your neck as he bit down on the skin that wasn’t covered by his hand already. “Did he make you feel this good?” You hear him ask, voice slightly strained but otherwise as controlled as it was earlier.

“No,” You stammered, unable to think of anything else you could possibly in this moment.

Mark continued, the pace picking up as it felt bruising in the best way available, “Did you act like a slut for him, too?” He pushed, making you more than a little flustered, moving further into his grip on your throat as you desperately shook your head.

“Because you’d only act like this for me, wouldn’t you?” He wasn’t even asking questions for any reason anymore, he was just waiting and watching the flush on your face turn shades darker in excited humiliation. The nod was a natural instinct, like a lot of what Mark had done tonight, it happened because you knew it was what he wanted. “Why?”

Your mind felt almost too clouded and covered to form words, the knots forming in the pit of your stomach for the third time that night, when you hadn’t felt them ever before. The idea of not being allowed to fall off that edge this time made you let out an involuntary noise of a cross between pain and apprehension. “Only you can make me feel this good,” The hold on your throat loosened a little, as if he thought the choking sound you emitted was because of it being too tight. “It feels so good, Mark, please.” Again, the slight shame of how submissive and messy you sounded for him crept in, but it was completely devoured by the deep groan he released in response.

“It’s okay, let go,” He moaned, hips picking up the pace until everything felt like it had been thrown out of your control entirely. His hold on your throat dropped then, moving to grip your jaw and press your lips back together as you tipped over the edge. It made you understand why it was spoken about so much, why so many people did it regularly, messed with their own emotions for it. You briefly tried to wonder if other people felt so out of control for someone else when they finally reached their high, or if that was just a matter of circumstance, but you felt completely under Mark’s command, like you were nothing but his.

A slightly too painful sensitive feeling was starting to develop when Mark’s hips stuttered to a stop, head dropping back onto your shoulder as he caught his breath. You couldn’t tell how much time had passed before he was pulling out and away from you, making you whine in displeasure, unable to stop yourself the way you had when you were with Mike. You understood that Mark was probably to blame for how out of control and spiralled you felt, how absolutely powerless to stop yourself you were becoming. He was pulling his underwear back on and pressing a soft kiss to your temple, whispering a quick, “I’ll only be a minute.” Before he disappeared from the room.

You still couldn’t do anything but think about Mark and the way he made you feel, because your body was still shaking a little in the aftermath. You weren’t sure if this was a case of Mike being disappointing or Mark just being extremely good anymore, but you honestly couldn’t make yourself care if you wanted to when he re-entered the room. He undid your wrists, making you remember that you should be ashamed of how bare you were in front of him, but he didn’t seem to be bothered as he took both of your wrists into his larger hands. He smothered them both in the cream, turning his head to press it to his shoulder as he yawned, smoothing the cream over your throat and then your thighs. “Turn over for me,” he gently commanded, watching softly as you followed, wincing slightly as the cream made contact with the backs of your thighs. He gave you the water, moving around to the other side of your bed as you drank, slipping himself under the sheets after placing his shirt in front of you. You looked at him for permission before pulling his shirt over your head, liking the way it smelt of him and consumed your body shape entirely.

You flopped back onto your side then, taking to staring at Mark as he stared right back. You thought of all the questions you should ask, all the questions you didn’t ask Mike because you was too scared of the answers. You wondered if you would like any answer Mark gave you, because you were pretty sure you would accept anything he was willing to give you at this point. He reached his hand over to lazily link with yours, and you could feel yourself dropping back from wherever you were earlier. You wanted to ask if he ever dropped back down or if he was always like that, if he was just naturally that type of person. “What do we do now?” You asked dumbly, unsure of whether he would interpret that question the way you wanted him to.

“Sleep,” He groaned, pressing his face into the pillow as he tugged you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist sleepily. You fell into silence again, but it wasn’t long before you heard his voice invade it almost insecurely, “That thing between you and Mike, it’s over, right?”

You hadn’t really thought about where you stood with Mike, but you knew you wanted to stand somewhere further with Mark, and you supposed that answered any questions you had about lingering feelings. “If you want it to be.”

He smiled, closing his eyes again and nodding, “I want it to be.”

[hiyo-silver]

Behind Blindfolds

summary: Nobody expected the world to end the way it does until it starts. It was always thought to happen all in one go but instead it drags on for years of feigning really living when all they're doing is surviving. In this situation maybe, surviving is really losing.

taglist: @fuckboykaspbrak @thesquidliesthuman @rachi0964 @beepbeep-losers @bigbilliamdenbro @jalenrose11 @sleepygaybrough @itandstrangerthingsfanfic @boopboopbichie @peachywyatt @aizeninlefox @sockwantstodie @ahoybyeler @yooonbum @coffeekaspbrak @sedanleystanley

read it on ao3!

The end of the world is always expected to come sudden, unexpected, and uncontrollable. That much is true, but it doesn’t come with a bang, really just screams turning into strangled cries and the sounds of people dropping one after another. It came without warning at possibly the worst time. But isn’t any time a bad time for humanity to end?

Beverly had been in the car, another driver swerved at her, sending the car flying off to the side like it was weightless. Surreal. She has to climb out of the car when it’s turned upside down, gripping her pregnant stomach. She never felt much attachment to the fetus inside, now isn’t any different. It just makes it worse that she’s doing this on her own.

The baby has a father somewhere technically. Tom Rogan, the idea of him makes her goddamn blood boil. She could sometimes handle him when it was just the two of them, but she made the choice to up and leave the moment the pregnancy test revealed a cross to her on that dim night. He just can’t raise a child, he really thinks he could, but with how he treats her, like her own father, makes his lack of paternal instinct clear.

She reflects on all of this now, sitting on the wood floors of this unfamiliar home as she tries to catch her breath, tries to wrap her head around what she’d seen out there, some of the most unseeable things anyone could see. But it’s not over yet. She brushes a reddish strand of hair behind her ear with a scratched up hand, finally studying the faces of the people around her.

The one standing over her looks angry with her, showing his dominance, filling her with a hope that she’s not already on his bad side just being here. The next one is in the red vest she can only attribute to the local supermarket, she doesn’t recognize the man though. The next one she tries to read is standing near the stern looking dark-haired man, he has skin of a deep brown, his face set similarly, though more determined than angry, an undertone of warmth coming through. It’s hard for her gaze not to snap to the next one, an ashy blond man, gripping an inhaler and taking a puff from it, he’s thin and nervous, though he holds a similar determined energy.

What makes her most curious is a man in a bright pink button up, tossing a ball at the wall to catch it, over and over, like he’s just trying to keep his sanity. Suddenly one who wasn’t there before appears in the archway, crossing his arms over his chest, his hair having almost the same copper tones as Beverly’s own. “Another one? G-good, this thing doesn’t work as fast as we thought it did.”

Bev just nods to the group, “Who are you all? And who- who was that woman who tried to get me here?” she asks, having a habit to be automatically suspicious of people after all she’s been through, especially strange groups of men she’s never met before. She pulls herself to her feet, a bit difficult with her center of gravity so drastically changed by the child growing within her.

The intimidating man of the dark hair and olive-y toned skin looks her up and down before speaking. “I think considering this is my home I hold the right to ask that question first, who are you?” he asks, wrapping his arms across his chest. It’s obvious he’s trying to be an authoritative presence, but really he just seems bossy and largely insecure.

She nods and sighs out, she should have known she would be asked that. “I’m Beverly Marsh, I live a couple blocks down, now can I know who you and that woman are?” she asks, feeling unsafe and impatient, who could blame her?

“Call ourselves the survivors for now. I’m Stanley, the one in the red is Ben, not to be confused with Richie, the one in the eye bleeding bright pink. Eddie’s the one that looks like a shaking chihuahua. Bill is the blunt asshole in the archway there. The one next to me is Mike, he’s about the only other sane one here. And that woman who saved you? That was my wife. Patricia. Much rather her over you,” the last sentence is spit out bitterly like a stab to the chest. The man keeps his arms crossed across his chest, swiftly turning around to leave the foyer, it’s as if he can’t even look at her without thinking of Patty and making his green eyes swim with tears. Too fresh.

She looks at the others, her own green eyes pulling in everything around her, the room is dimly lit so it’s hard to catch all their features, but besides Stan they don’t seem too upset to have her around. The next one to talk is the one he’d gestured to calling him Richie. The man doesn’t look away from his game of ball, his eyes trained on the bouncing and the wall. “Don’t worry about the bitch boy, he’s just an elderly man in a young adult man’s body, but he couldn’t hurt a fly, bet he’s got the joints of one too,” the man runs a big hand through his brown hair, snorting at his own playful insult. Whatever keeps them sane, for Richie it’s quite obvious that it’s his humor.

Eddie isn’t so much entertained by Richie’s rudeness and vulgarity, he’s been dealing with it for more consecutive hours than the others, they’re sure to get fed up too. The two of them are in police training, they were in the same carpool at the time everything outside started to go awry. Richie would call them buddies, Eddie, not so much. He takes his inhaler and slips his backpack off his shoulders, hastily unzipping it and putting the asthma medicine away, not wanting to seem even weaker than their pregnant newbie. He’ll have to pretend he’s not wheezing every breath he takes out of sheer anxiety.

Bill seems the most stable of them all, standing taller than everyone except for Mike, he seems to be constantly scanning every bit of everything happening as it does. The observer, quite useful to have around, but maybe not in a situation plagued by a monster who can only hurt you once you’ve seen It. they haven’t come up with a name for it yet, so it’s simply It. Or the shadow, but once you’ve seen it you don’t call it anything, all you can do is cry for mercy.

“You w-want a glass of water?” he asks, also seemingly the warmest to the newbies. He’s cautious yes, but he’s not cold and uncaring by any means. She nods at his offer, trying not to be so timid. Be a big girl, Beverly, be strong, she tells herself, she’s been telling herself that since her childhood years. It’s sung by a harsher voice in her head now that she’s going to be a mother, she hopes that voice stays in there and never has the need to spring from her own mouth.

She follows him to the kitchen, sitting on a stool at the island in the center, looking around, it really is a nice home. The counters are marble, the chandelier is modern, the appliances all stainless steel. Stan maybe be an asshole, but either he or his wife are excellent interior decorators, or at least know how to hire one. “How long do you think this will last? Like how long do you think we’ll be stuck staying here?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the cold counter, she’s not sure if the shiver that goes down her spine is because the temperature or the grave look that Bill returns her with.

She’ll never forget the way he says it. “I’m n-not so sure, we don’t know exactly when it b-began. The news can’t p-pinpoint it. We aren’t s-sure what causes it either. It’s i-indefinite. Hopefully you can go home soon, though,” he talks with words on unconfidence but his tone is unwavering. “It always could be worse though, a-at least it hasn’t gotten you,” he says as he stops the tap and passes her the glass. A nice cool glass of water is about the only method he knows to calm people down, his own methods of self soothing are to ignore the problem, and he can’t exactly ignore people’s problems for them without being some level of rude.

She nods slowly. She doesn’t know how to respond, of course the idea of it terrifies her. She watched person after person on the street just fall dead. A glassy look grows in their eyes, they go bloodshot for a moment before anything else happens, a sign It’s hit. She’ll never forget the look. That woman, Patty, she had these beautiful golden brown eyes before they shifted. She had kind eyes, she can understand why Stan cared about her so deeply. She gave her life to help a stranger, there’s about no greater sacrifice than that.

“How’d you end up here?” she asks, her voice soft, he seems to be able to hold his own, she wonders why he hadn’t been hiding out at his own residence, he seems fully capable of it. His expression changes, a little less so sure, less full of determination and hope. One more of… grief.

“Was at the h-high school tennis team’s m-match at the park. S-supporting my brother, George. We were f-far from home, he got injured d-during the match, can’t run a-as fast as I can,” Bill says, chewing the inside of his cheek and letting his eyes trace discernable patterns in the swirls of the black and white marble. There it his, his reason to bottle this all up. He looks early ready to cry but instead looks up. “But it’s l-like all you are m-my siblings now. G-gonna protect you guys, if you’re o-okay with that,” he says, it’s like he can snap back into his role any time, like he’s had practice.

“Bill? You know it’s not your fault, right?” she asks, she doesn’t know him but she feels her heart pound with pain for him. She watched people die, but nobody she cares about. As morbid and evil as that may sound, she lives alone and she’s never cared much for anyone in this goddamn town. Derry is supposed to be a pit stop between her shitty life before and the greatness she knows she’s destined to become.

“Moving on,” he says, walking around the counter, “You’re gonna have a baby? Do y-you know where the dad is? M-maybe we can help find him for you i-if he’s still alive?” he asks, his God complex and need to save everyone around him becoming increasingly evident. It’s endearing.

“Oh God no I hope he’s dead, if he’s not could you do me a favor and make him look into the light? He could use a fucking lesson,” she grumbles, smacking her hand on the counter in front of her in emphasis. She may have loved him sometime, at some point, when he was someone else. But the man she left wasn’t the man she loved, she wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

“Understood,” he says, the conversation getting cut short with Ben coming in and settling himself on the couch with a beat up notebook, dozens of post-its sticking out, the frilly edges of paper sticking out at several angles from the spiral spine of it. Obviously well loved and constantly used, Bill knows what it is already, but Bev is curious.

“Whatcha got there, supermarket guy?” she asks, not even minding to check his nametag, still in his work clothes. She gets up and squats herself on the couch next to him, even eyeing coffee stains and ribs on the pages, it’s almost like he takes that ratty old thing everywhere with him.

“First draft of my novel” the man says distractedly, running his hand over the scruffy beard starting on his chin and jawline. If he were to even look over he knows he’d be intimidated by her beauty like he had been in the hall, so now he simply refuses. “It’s about the end of the world. Won’t market well now,” he jokes with bitterness in every undertone of his words.

She smiles just as dryly as his words had come out, “Good talk,” she says, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. She feels like a character in a video game, walking around the room and speaking to all the different people she’ll be stuck with. It’s for the best after all, probably. She sees Mike, she knows she hasn’t spoken to him yet, he seems to be another one of the quiet ones.

“Mike, that’s your name, right?” she asks as she taps him on the shoulder carefully. Not a good time and environment to sneak up on someone, but she doesn’t know how else to get his attention. Like Stan and Bill, he seems to be a leader, she likes that about him. He’s the quiet leader, not too stern and not too soft.

“Yeah, Beverly you said?” he says after his shoulder twitches and he whips around, sighing in relief at the sight of something actually human. “You know, I’m glad we saved you, the idea of a dead pregnant woman would haunt me forever if we hadn’t. My sister is pregnant, she’s up in Canada though, moved for college,” he says, revealing his own flaw, he rambles when he’s nervous.

Stan is the quick wit. Richie is the jokester. Eddie is the anxious one. Ben keeps to himself. Bill feigns a bravery he doesn’t truly have to make the others feel safer. Mike is the rambly handsome one who seems to know the place as well as Stan does. And Bev? Beverly is so far just here for the ride, but she’ll find her place.

[ontherockswithsalt]

OHMYGOODNESS THE FLUFF! I have no idea where this came from but I needed to write these boys being soft before I jump back into AMM and continue the depravity. Sooo.. enjoy this little treat about somewhere-in-the-not-so-distant-future Joble. 

“Damn, I can't believe you guys closed.”

“I was down to stay open,” Noble calls out from the living room. “But I had no staff once they called off schools and half the city buses weren’t running.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” There in the entryway, I pull off my coat, the snowflakes that covered it finally melting away, and unlace my boots. I’d managed to stomp off the slush down in the lobby of our apartment and up the flight of stairs.

Once I’ve shed all my wet outer layers, I make my way into the kitchen and he gets up to meet me.

“Hey,” he offers.

I exhale with a smile when I see him. “Hey.”

“I’m glad you’re home.” He tilts over to give me a kiss, then pulls away with a startled little moan. “Mm. Cold.”

“I know,” I murmur up at him, admittedly needy for a better kiss than that.

His lips touch mine one more time and the sensation helps warm the chill beneath my skin, especially when he grasps the sides of my face in his hands. Then he pulls away and scratches light fingertips in my hair. “Tired?”

“Yeah.” I deflate a little, glancing around the kitchen. I hadn’t expected to work almost fourteen hours, but once the much-hyped snow storm hit the city, it was all hands on deck and I stayed well past end of tour.

“I hit the store on the way home--” He informs me.

“Yes,” I exhale in relief and turn past him, squeezing loving fingers at his sides before I do.

“Like all those crazy people on the news. Only instead of bread, I raided the wine aisle.”

“Well sure,” I reason. “Those survival skills I fell in love with.”

His low chuckle makes me smile as I move to the cabinet for a water glass. “You have time to eat at work?”

“No.” I shake my head before I down a big gulp of ice water and start off in the other direction. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

“If I made creamy tortellini soup, would you eat it?” He calls after me.

I turn back to him, lifting hopeful eyebrows. “Uh yeah.”

“Twenty minutes. Go get your shower.”

Rumbling a spent but satisfied groan, I turn toward the bedroom. “You’re the man of my dreams, you know!” I announce as I go.

“I try!”

***

After a hot shower, and a change into loose grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, I make my way to the other side of the apartment and return to the kitchen. Nobles finishes up the quick dinner, but the television in the living room catches my attention.

“What… are you watching?” I wonder when I can’t ignore the din of howling women, strobe lights and fog across the screen.

“Oh dude.” He glances up and across the room. “It’s Magic Mike.”

“What’s that?”

He laughs, stirring the soup before he turns to the cabinet for a bowl. “It’s a movie about male strippers. Have you never seen it?”

I give him a look and spread my hands as if the answer to that is obvious. “No, I’ve never seen it.”

“Thank you.” He points at me as if he was just validated. “See? I was talking to Luke the other day at work, and somehow we got on this topic of hot celebrities. And he was going on about Channing Tatum and how he'd let him do whatever to him--”

“Wait, who's that?” I stop him in confusion as he passes me my bowl of soup. I get myself a spoon and lead him toward the living room so I can eat it on the couch.

“That guy--” Noble follows, gesturing to the actor front and center on the screen with his shirt off.

“Okay…”

“So anyway. I told him I'd never seen the movie. And Channing Tatum didn't really do anything for me. And Luke gets all outraged about it like oh my god, you're kicked off the team. Are you sure you're not straight? And all that shit--”

“Wait.” I laugh. “So this movie is some like, gay rite of passage? A true test of your alliance? That seems pretty narrow.”

“I don't know, but apparently I'm not gay enough for him.” He shrugs.

I set my glass of water on the tray that sits on the ottoman and lean back. “You're gay enough for me, babe.”

“Thanks, babe.” He drops a hard palm with a squeeze on my thigh.

“So what, you decided you need to watch it?”

“I saw it was on,” he explains.

I have to shift my gaze to him, raising an arched eyebrow as I chew my food.

“It was!” He lifts defensive shoulders and I laugh at him. “But I can change it.”

I slink further down in the couch and push my feet against the ottoman, trailing my spoon through my soup. “No, I don't care.”

“I'm still kind of indifferent about him,” he notes.

Studying the actor on the screen, I manage a thoughtful side-to-side tilt of my head. “Yeah,” I mutter, unsure.

“Like if he was in regular clothes and you passed him on the street, would you look?”

I squint one eye and try to decide. “Is he ever in regular clothes in this movie?”

“I think so.”

“I could do without the costumes and props and shit,” I note. “Is that how these clubs operate? Where it’s like, themed dance routines? Do they really need umbrellas?”

“I think it… y’know, creates a whole--” Then Noble traces his hands in front of him. “Fantasy for the audience.”

“I'm not into that. Just fucking get naked.”

He laughs and then considers it. “I like it a little.”

Cutting my gaze to him again, I smirk. “I know you do.” Knowing how he gets about my uniform, I'm not surprised. “So what have I missed? What's it about?”

“Channing Tatum is Magic Mike. And he meets this dude and like, recruits him into the strip club world. And… I think that's pretty much it.”

I nod over another bite of spinach tortellini. “He's alright,” I decide, scrutinizing the character, the curves of a well-formed upper body the more he tears his clothes off. “I wouldn't say I'm indifferent. His teres are pretty sweet.”

A laugh rumbles in Noble’s chest. “That’s such a bro thing of you to say.”

I smile with a shake of my head. “Am I not gay enough for Luke either?”

“There’s plenty we could do in front of him to prove it, but I respect you too much.”

“You’re a keeper.”

Noble sits back beside me and we let a little more of the movie play out. “So this is the new stripper. They call him The Kid.”

“He’s like the rookie stripper?”

“Yeah. Something tells me he’s gonna come face to face with the harsh realities of the greater Orlando area strip club underworld, or wherever the fuck this is.”

“But maybe he’ll prove himself,” I muse. “Maybe he’ll rise to the challenge, just when you’re ready to count him out.”

With a lazy chuckle, he props one arm behind his head on the couch. “I hope he does, but in like a montage of various costumes.”

“For your sake, I hope so,” I laugh.

“You know, it’s weird,” he starts. “This whole concept of I knew I was gay when… I saw Titanic or whatever and got a boner for Leonardo DiCaprio. Some people know their whole life, and for some people, it creeps up on you.”

With a thoughtful nod, I ponder it for a moment while I look over at him. Then I shrug as I lean forward to set my bowl down. “Titanic?”

“Or whatever,” Noble laughs. “Where some celebrity has an effect on you as a kid and you’re like, oh shit, I’m gay.”

“Maybe for some people. I mean you never know.”

“Who was your first celebrity crush?”

I think about it over a deep breath and settle back beside him. “I was really into Alyssa Milano on Who’s The Boss--”

Naturally, this makes him crack up, resting his head back on the couch. “Fuck, that’s cute. You’ve been into bossy Italians your whole life, then.”

“Ha.” I grin. “What about you?”

“Dude, Alicia Silverstone in those Aerosmith videos.”

“Oh damn.” I narrow my gaze as I recall the iconic MTV blonde from my adolescence. “Yeah, for sure.”

“What about guys?” He wonders. “I feel like if I was into one, I’d only realize it in hindsight.”

I reach for my glass and ease back. “Right. Not Leonardo DiCaprio, though.”

“No,” he agrees with a disapproving scrunch of his cheek. “I mean, I have a very distinct… memory of the volleyball scene from Top Gun, but I don’t know if--”

I nearly choke on my water before I manage to swallow down a surprised laugh.

“If I’d say I was aroused by it,” he finishes, sharing my amusement.

“You can rewatch it tomorrow while you’re snowed in and let me know how you feel now.”

“Maybe I will.” Reaching over, he drags his fingers through my hair and I rest back, appreciating the faint sensation. “So by the end of this movie, is Channing Tatum gonna up there on your list with Alyssa Milano?”

“Well I don’t know. He might win me over.”

“Oh jeez,” he groans. “I’ll just be out here on my own little gay island, not understanding what all the hype is about with the guy from Magic Mike.”

My shoulders lift as I explain, “I haven’t decided yet. I have to think about it.” I raise my arm to the back of the couch, a wordless cue for him to slide in against me. “But you’ve got me invested in this damn movie, so now we have to finish it.”

“God,” he whispers, scooting down to fit against my side, his arm closest to me draped across my thigh. “You’re such a slut for back muscles.”

My playful fingers dig into his shoulder and I turn to his hair, muttering, “I definitely am. Shh--” before I press a kiss there.

I can’t be sure if I always knew, or if it gradually crept up on me. All that matters is I’m certain this man I come home to every day is all I’ll ever need.

[richiestoziers]

seems like without tenderness there’s something missing

summary: richie takes a joke too far and he's got to make it up to eddie

warnings: angst to fluff, kissing, richie being hella inappropriate

read on ao3 here!!

the losers are hanging out in the barrens after getting something to eat, they’re all stuffed from burgers and fries and milkshakes that are way too big. they all agreed that walking around the barrens for a bit will be great after that, and it’s a throwback for when they were all kids and would spend all their days here. now they’re teenagers with cars and they can drive to bangor for the day if they want to have fun, or go see a movie at the aladdin or go to the new mall in the area.

“wanna go up to that new under eighteen bar in bangor? it’s supposed to be actually fun.” beverly offers up as they sit around the barrens, all but stan and eddie who didn’t want to get mud on their pants. 

most of them nodded in agreement, all liking the idea, especially of getting away from derry for the day. some were hesitant, ben, stan, and eddie were never a big fan of that lifestyle but typically went to hang out with the rest of the losers anyway. 

“we can go in my c-car.” bill spoke, he had been working on his stutter for years and it was almost obsolete, but it would still come up every once in a while.

they all got up, still having some money left from their meal to get a drink, but probably not much else. they would all have to squeeze into bill’s car, and even though richie and mike had their own cars it would be easier for them all to get into one car. 

richie was especially not complaining, because with all the seats taken and eddie still needing somewhere he knew what that meant. patting at his lap to eddie he almost missed eddie’s blushed cheeks, he always tried to hide it by looking at his feet, but richie almost always saw.

“come on eds, i got a nice seat for you right here. who knows, you might even get a fun ride from it.” he teased, winking at eddie with the crude comment that made eddie’s face flush and red as beverly’s hair.

“shut up richie. beep beep.” doubled the shut up, richie had successfully made eddie flustered. that didn’t stop him from sitting on richie’s lap, and now it was richie’s turn to be flustered. of course he had to play it cool, he was richie tozier, even though he had his crush of four years sitting on his lap.

richie didn’t know what to do with his hands, keep them on his side? wrap them around eddie? he wanted to do the latter, wrap his hands around eddie’s waist and nuzzle his head in eddie’s neck and give him a gentle kiss to remind him that he loved him. 

remind him, he could scoff, how can he remind him of something he didn’t know?

bangor wasn’t too far away, but it was still quite a drive, and everyone texted their parents where they would be and richie looked over eddie’s shoulder and onto his phone. texts to mommy were shown, and he was currently typing out i’m going to bangor with my friends for a bit, i’ll be home soon mommy. sorry! richie couldn’t help but laugh, and he squeezed eddie’s side to prepare for the joke. “hope mommy doesn’t get mad and spank you, that’s my job.”

eddie jumped at the squeezing received to the sides of his waist, something richie frequently done and eddie hated. it was almost tickling but not quite, and he hated it either way. he also hated richie’s next comment, somehow a mixture of a mom joke and sexual one. “shut up, or i’m going to move to bev’s lap instead. 

richie gave him a little pout, as if his plump lips needed to look anymore plump. “aw, don’t do that to me eddie. anyway, i thought you wanted to have a ride, and bev can’t give you that.” he bucked his hips up against eddie to make him move up as his ‘ride’.

eddie was so glad his face wasn’t in the direction of richie, because he had never been more red in his entire life. “you’re disgusting richie!”

richie rested his head on eddie’s shoulder, trying to look up and see his face. “you love it, eds.” 

“what i don’t love is you calling me eds.” eddie scoffed out, never having been so annoyed and flustered all at once. 

“so you admit to loving this?” richie asked, continuing to buck his hips and laugh hysterically. 

eddie used his hands to hit at richie behind him in attempt to get him to stop, and richie continued to laugh in his ear like a maniac.

“you are the bane of my existence, richie tozier!” eddie screamed at him.

“and you are my best friend, eddie kaspbrak.” richie smiled, kissing his cheek and leaning back against his seat with a smile.

eddie wiped the skin where richie’s lips had once been, feigning disgust, but his heart was beating out of his chest and he hated just how crazy in love with his best friend he was.

they all reached the club, some place called valencia, and eddie was quick to jump off richie’s lap and onto his own two feet. richie missed the feeling of eddie’s body on his, and the warmth that radiated off of him, but he couldn’t expect much else. 

he wasn’t supposed to be in love with eddie, he wasn’t supposed to be crazy about his best friend, so he had to hide it. he had to make comments and innuendos that were obvious but taken as jokes, he had to act like the real thought disgusted him, all because he couldn’t risk ruining the friendship.

sure, sometimes he thought eddie was into him, especially with how much he blushed around him, but he was afraid. what if they dated and broke up and he lost eddie forever? what if eddie didn’t actually like him and it was all apart of his imagination? he was always a flirt, except when it came to the one person who mattered. 

so they all waited in the line but quickly making it in. “why do they even need a line? they’re gonna let everyone in either way.”

“to seem cool and like a real club.” mike responded, smiling at himself and laughing. 

it was pretty boppin, fluorescent lights and typical club remixes. it was everything you could expect from an under eighteen club, a bunch of horny teens grinding on each other and either high or drunk off things from outside the club. 

“wish i had whatever they’re having.” richie said to eddie, poking him and pointing at an obviously drunk couple. 

“i’m glad you don’t, i much prefer you when you’re sober.” eddie rolled his eyes, having seen richie drunk more times than he’d like.

he would have replied, but the sight of beverly and bill waving him over to dance distracted him. “are you coming to dance, eds?” he questioned, hoping his best friend would say yes. 

he knew he wouldn’t though, and he was right. eddie shook his head and turned around to hang out with stan and ben, and richie could tell mike was already off with some girl.

“hey bitchies, richie is here to dance!” richie shouted with his hands up as he made it to his friends, the three of them dancing ridiculously and jokingly grinding on each other. 

eddie watched from a distance, eyes longing for his tall curly haired friend, currently bent over and rubbing his ass against beverly marsh. he would have laughed at the sight, if he wasn’t too busy self pitying himself for his crush on his best friend. richie never failed to get his heart racing, but he was used to accepting the fact that he had no chance with richie.

everyone knew of his crush on richie, and ben being the hopeless romantic he was was desperate to get them together, which is why he noticed eddie’s longing look. “come on, eddie, just tell him how you feel. if you don’t you’re going to regret it.”

ben could speak from experience, having had that with his crush on beverly. 

“no, he doesn’t like me like that.” eddie’s voice was sad and somber, taking a sip of the water he asked the ‘bar’ for. 

“you’ll never know until you try, which you should.” ben continued to bother him, and while eddie appreciated it he had already accepted the fact that it would never happen. 

eddie tried to give him a reassuring smile though all it showed was dejection, and ben knew when to give up.

eddie had been speaking to some guy for quite some while, much to richie’s dismay. he was an all american type of guy, blonde hair and broad shoulders, not very tall and too stereotypically attractive to be really attractive. he was sitting at the bar with eddie and they had been talking for who knows how long, and since richie noticed he couldn’t stop looking. 

he was trying to distract himself on the dance floor, he was in between beverly and bill, and while that usually would have been fun he was too busy looking at the guy so obviously flirting with eddie. it made his blood boil and his heart break, and there was almost nothing he could do about it. emphasis on the almost.

because now he was on his way to the two of them, leaving bill and bev in the dust as he made his way to the flirty relationship he loathed to see.

“well hey there eddie, eddie spaghetti, what are you doing?” he wrapped his arm around eddie’s smaller frame, not looking at his competition.

“um, hi richie.” eddie was obviously confused at richie’s current actions. “i’m just talking to justin here.” 

richie now looked at the all american boy, who he already hated. “oh, hi justin, i’m richie. i’m eddie’s bestest friend. so if you wanna be balls deep in this boys ass, you’re gonna have to test it out on me first. gotta make sure my home boy here only gets the best fucking.” he could feel the rage radiating off eddie.

justin was obviously uncomfortable at his comments, laughing them off. “oh, um, hi. well i should probably be looking for my friends, but i’ll see you around eddie?” it came out a question, and he thankfully moved away and left richie and eddie alone. 

richie gladly took justin’s seat and asked for a coke from the alcohol free bar. looking back at eddie in the horrible lighting of the bar he could see eddie’s face was red once more. this time it was red from anger, rather than what richie usually preferred. 

“you are such an asshole, richie.” eddie spoke with venom in his voice, and richie rolled his eyes at it. 

“why? did you actually like that guy?” he questioned, using his horrible sense of humor to hide from his true feelings. 

“well i don’t know, but he was flirting with me and i wanted to see if maybe i could like him!” he shouted towards richie. 

“you thought he was flirting with you? eddie, my dear, no one is trying to flirt with you. as if you could get someone to date you, much less flirt with you!” he joked, laughing his ass off until he saw the look on eddie’s face. it was a look that made him instantly regret every thing he had ever said to eddie, that look of utter shock and heartbreak playing on his baby face broke richie’s heart.

and it was all his fault. 

“eddie, i’m sorry.” he got up to speak, but eddie was already on his way out from the the club. 

“shut the fuck up richie. you’re such an asshole, i fucking hate you.” he hissed out, running out of the club and leaving richie to pull at his hair and curse at himself. 

“nice going, tozier.” he just got his coke, but he wasn’t able to drink it as he was out on his way chasing after the boy he loved.

running through the crowd of teens trying to recreate dirty dancing, and he couldn’t care less because god he really fucked up tonight. worse than usual. 

running out into the crisp maine air and into the streets only lit by the moon and street lights. he didn’t know where eddie had gone, walking around the street hoping he spotted the small boy he just wanted to hold in his arms and beg for forgiveness. 

spotting bill’s car he assumed that’s where eddie must have gone, it was the safest place the paranoid boy could have gone. making his way to the dark green truck that was parked he was right in his guess, the boy leaning against the car with his hands in his face. 

god, he was crying, richie really did fuck up. 

“eddie...eddie.” richie moved to him, trying to take him in his arms but eddie pushed him away. “i’m sorry, it was a joke and i took it too far. i’m really sorry.”

“just leave me alone, you dick. you’ve done enough damage tonight.” eddie’s eyes were red and his cheeks were stained with his tears, and his eyes were screaming with anger. 

“eddie, i’m really sorry. i didn’t mean it, i mean, are you kidding?” richie scoffed, feeling eddie’s tear filled eyes on him. “you’re adorable, and sexy, and extremely attractive. and i’m not just saying that, i mean god you drive everyone around you crazy with those big brown eyes and the way your hair gets wavy when it gets too long, and when you wear those red shorts that don’t fit you anymore but god that’s what makes it so great. not to mention you’re funny, you’re so hilarious, you never fail to give me some good chucks same with everyone else in the group. you’re so charming too, that guy was totally flirting with you in there, just like so many other guys have in the past. you can totally get someone to date you if you wanted them, and any of them would be lucky.”

looking down at eddie’s doe eyes richie’s heart was racing, he was bordering on a confession of his feelings with everything he said and now it was up to eddie and what he said next to decide what would happen next. 

“you really mean that?” eddie asks, his eyes looking up at him, filled with love rather than tears now.

richie gave him an upturned smile, slowly growing into more. “of course i do, eddie.”

eddie himself could feel a similar smile forming, along with his heart racing and his hands getting sweaty and god were his knees getting weak? “richie...” he didn’t know what to say, how to handle this, and he tried to turn it into a joke and hit his shoulder.

but apparently richie had moves, because with eddie’s hand hitting richie’s shoulder richie knew what to do. he grabbed eddie’s arm on him and pulls him in for a kiss, the feeling of their lips hitting something the both of them had been craving for years.

they didn’t even care that richie’s big teeth got in the way, or the lack of rhythm, because it was finally happening. their lips hastily touched and the two recklessly kissed the other back, and it was sweet and a requiem for their once seemingly unrequited crush, and most importantly it was tender. 

richie didn’t care if he ruined the friendship now, because the feeling of eddie’s lips on his made it worth it.

eddie pulled away before the kiss could become anymore heated, but richie kept his forehead pressed against his and his eyes closed, and he began to stroke that wavy hair atop eddie’s head. 

“i never thought i’d be so happy about you insulting me.” eddie laughed against him, and richie didn’t even need to open his eyes to see the smile on his face. 

“me neither, maybe i should insult you more.” he teased, finally opening his eyes and looking at his now lover.

“insult me again and no more of this, trashmouth.” eddie’s venom now had love in it, their bickering back to being kind.

“fine, because i’m never going to stop kissing you now that i’ve had a taste.” he flirted once more, going in for another kiss until eddie pushed him away once more. 

“oh no, i still need to recover from that last one.” eddie thought he was shaking just from that kiss. 

richie wiggled his eyebrows, squeezing eddie’s side once more. “that good?”

“that bad.” he teased, pushing his way out of him and walking back towards the club.

“where are you going?” richie asked, following from behind.

“where do you think? back to our friends, we did come here with them, idiot.” eddie teased to what he hoped was his now boyfriend. 

“after all this and you’re still mean to me.” richie grabbed his heart dramatically to seem hurt. 

“shut it, trashmouth, you’re still in the dog house.” he gave him a pointed finger as richie caught up.

“fine, as long as you love me baby.” richie put his arms around eddie as they walked, head in eddie’s neck. 

“aren’t you moving quickly?” eddie loved it.

“after four years of foreplay, i think i can move as quickly as i’d like.” richie teased. 

“fair.” eddie admitted, loving the feeling of being in richie’s arms, which ended up going away.

“come on, eds, i wanna dance with somebody who loves me!” he sings, running to the club. 

eddie shakes his head, smiling at the tall boy dancing in the street. “i can’t believe this is the boy i’ve loved for four years.” 

richie didn’t hear, but he didn’t need to.

they both knew it.

[thesportssoundoff]

“Short Notice PPVs are always wacky” The UFC 222 Preview

Joey

February whateverdaythisis

UFC 221 and UFC 222 sort of drink from the same bath water if we're being honest. The difference is that UFC 221 was an example of the worst of the worst case scenario short of cancelling a show. UFC 222 is the rarest example of doing the absolute best case scenario with the worst case scenario as the loss of a big time title fight somehow gave us a deeper card overall. UFC 222 has a very poor main event---but it's got a "star" and having a star is winning half the battle. The co-main event is a fantastic fight between two of the top 5 featherweights in the world with a title fight in the balance with a FRESH title challenger emerging for Max Holloway. You have big dudes Andrei Arlovski and Stefan Struve who add some size for those of us folks who like to see big dudes do big thangs. The rest of this card has a very distinct prospect feel as you have a heaping of good fights BUT a very clear direction where the fights that matter outside of those three are prospect building fights. For instance Sean O'Malley is the THIRD fight on the card, challenging a capable veteran test in Andre Soukhamthath in what should be a damn good fight. The top FS1 fight on the card is a fight designed entirely to get Mackenzie Dern over, drawing Ashley Yoder in a prospect tester fight. The one elite prospect at 135 lbs, Ketlen Vieira gets a massive step up in former title challenger Cat Zingano as well. Even Fight Pass has that kind of fight on it as prospect Jordan Johnson draws a HW dropping down to 205 in Adam Milstead. This isn't a great card but it is a card worthy of being on PPV, even if the main event isn't.

Fights: 12

Debuts: 3 (Yanit Kunitskaya, Mackenzie Dern, Alexander Hernandez)

Fight Changes/Injury Cancellations: 2 (Bobby Green OUT, Alexander Hernandez IN vs Beneil Dariush/Max Holloway OUT, Brian Ortega IN vs Frankie Edgar)

Headliners (fighters who have either main evented or co-main evented shows in the UFC): 8 (Frankie Edgar, Brian Ortega, Stefan Struve, Andrei Arlovski, John Dodson, Cyborg Santos, Bryan Caraway, Beneil Dariush)

Fighters On Losing Streaks in the UFC:  4 (Cat Zingano, Hector Lombard, Mike Pyle, Ashley Yoder)

Fighters On Winning Streaks in the UFC:  7 (Cyborg, Frankie Edgar, Brian Ortega, Bryan Caraway, Ketlen Vieira, Jordan Johnson, Cody Stamman)

Main Card Record Since Jan 1st 2016 (in the UFC): 18-11 Cyborg- 4-0 Yana Kunitskaya- 0-0 Frankie Edgar- 2-1 Brian Ortega- 4-0 Andre Soukhamtath- 1-2 Sean O'Malley- 1-0 Andrei Arlovski- 1-5 Stefan Struve- 2-1 Cat Zingano- 0-2 Ketlen Vieira- 3-0

Too High Up-  CB Dollaway vs Hector Lombard

A lot of people would point to Struve vs Arlovski and I can hear you out there. The problem with that argument though is that Struve/Arlovski on a card with two featherweight fights (one male, one female) and two bantamweight fights (one male, one female); you kind of need two big guys to entice people who only like big dudes. As stated before, there ARE fans who object to the lighter weight classes almost on principle and that in turn you probably could use a big boi fight for some much needed card variety. Instead I'll turn to Lombard vs Dollaway where both guys are in rough shape in their respective careers. Lombard is the ultimate example of the busted signing and since the start of 2015, he's 0-4-1 with 3 stoppage losses in the last 4 fights. On the other end of the coin, you have C.B Dollaway who is 2-3 in his last five fights and the last time he won at middleweight was in 2014 vs Francis Carmont. The last time Dollaway beat a dude coming off a win? The same year in March of 2014. Long story short, this fight being on the FS1 prelims just doesn't seem right.

Too Low- Bryan Caraway vs Cody Stamman

I know it's sort of done in by the fact that 7 of the 9 fights on the FS1 slate are at 155 lbs or lower BUT Stamman vs Caraway is a really intriguing fight. Since getting into the  UFC, Stamman showcased his wrestling en route to a big decision win over Terrion Ware and then followed that up by upsetting Tom Duquesnoy in a fight where dude pretty much did everything he wanted to do vs the more athletic Duquesnoy. Cody Stamman's overall game is about physicality and toughness complemented by some orthodox striking and top heavy wrestling and at this point, he's due a step up relative to divisional relevance. As such, this Caraway fight is a PERFECT clash between a good prospect and a good veteran----but it's basically buried as NOT EVEN THE FIGHT PASS HEADLINER. I disapprove.

Stat Monitor for 2018: Debuting Fighters (Current number: 4-8):  Yana Kunitskaya, Mackenzie Dern and Alex Hernandez

Short Notice Fighters (Current number: 4-2): Brian Ortega, Alex Hernandez

Second Fight (Current number: 7-9): Sean O'Malley

Cage Corrosion (Current number: 5-5):  Adam Milstead, Bryan Caraway, Mike Pyle, Cat Zingano

Undefeated Fighters (Current number: 6-8): Kelten Vieira, Sean O'Malley, Jordan Johnson, Brian Ortega, Mackenzie Dern

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- So why should we care about this main event? What necessarily is the appeal or the allure of this fight? I know there's a sizable segment of the audience that's gonna want to see this title fight but I gotta admit that this is the first title fight in a long time where there's really nothing I care about. I'm not one of those folks who thinks dudes are right to walk out before a main event they don't give a shit about and I find it pretty unfortunate that I'm on the fence about even watching this main event. It's just hard to see anything about this fight that I feel any sort of general emotion about.

2- Is it fair to say that Yana Kunitskaya is the worst UFC title challenger since Chris Cariaso back in 2014?

3- I know a lot of people think that Cyborg stepped up to save this show but it seems obvious to me she's just trying to fight her way through her contract as quickly as possible. Works out best for both parties!

4- Frankie Edgar vs Brian Ortega is going to test how many MMA fans actually follow prospects vs the ones who pretend to follow prospects. I've seen a few knuckledraggers do the whole "The Answer is gonna derail the hype train!" bit and I've seen enough "Ortega will get exposed!" talk to the point I'm left wondering when MMA fans stop considering a dude to be a prospect. Brian Ortega is not a prospect. He is 27 years old with wins over Clay Guida, Renato Moicano, Thiago Tavares and Cub Swanson without spending more than five seconds thinking about his resume. He has showcased every skill necessary to ensure that there isn't one significant area in his game that is such a glaring unproven untested area as to put a cap on his ceiling as a pro fighter. We've seen him tested and we've seen him face adversity. Ortega isn't a prospect! What he is is a young PROVEN in his prime 145er facing another proven 145 lber. The idea that Ortega is some prospect who will eventually get exposed is flawed because if that's the case, it would've happened by now. You're no longer a prospect if you're seven years into your MMA career, have had six fights in the UFC and have main evented an event. As much as people want Brian Ortega to NOT be a thing, he is a thing and will continue to be a thing no matter what happens between Edgar and Ortega.

5- NOW if you wanna talk a hype train in some danger; Andre Soukhamtath vs Sean O'Malley. Let's briefly point out why this is the right idea; O'Malley is fighting in a division where everybody is pretty good. This isn't a 155 or a 170 where there's a sizable underbelly of fluff that exists to sort of allow certain fighters a chance to eat up on the mediocres. A lot of those dudes have either retired or been cut, leaving a really thick division with a lot of fighters who can all beat one another. Soukhamthath is probably at the very bottom of that totem pole; a guy who looks good in spurts but can be outworked and hurt. Stylistically he's a bit what O'Malley wants; a guy who will come forward at him in a straight line, not exactly give you a ton of craft and ultimately can be taken down or hit at will. NOW for why it might be a bad idea; Andre Soukhamtath has three UFC fights but in those three fights he's lost two split decisions (Albert Morales and Alejandro Perez) and iced Luke Saunders in a fight he was losing up until that point. He has dropped all three opponents he's faced so you know he hits hard. O'Malley CAN be hit, giving us an imminent sense of danger right off the jump. Soukhamtath also works at such a slow pace that he's probably not going to tire out compared to O'Malley who was sucking wind in a frenetic second round before finding a big energy jump in the third. This is, in many ways, a sneaky tough fight for a flawed prospect.

6- Andrei Arlovski staved off retirement by upsetting Junior Albini in a showcase fight for the diaper wearing Brazilian in November and his reward is a more appeasing stylistic matchup with Stefan Struve. The weird thing about Arlovski's fights these days is that he's not entirely faded to the point where you'd say he's done (he gave Overeem some tense moments against the fence, had spurts of success vs Josh Barnett and almost finished Marcin Tybura) but those glimpses are becoming less and less frequent. The same could be said for Stefan Struve who battled back from a broken jaw and some serious heart related issues to resume his MMA career to modest success. Struve had success vs Alexander Volkov but couldn't keep it up and in what has become a Struve habit; faded when the pressure got too hot and he couldn't get the fight to the ground. I guess my question is whether this is less a test about who has more to offer the heavyweight division but rather which guy has the most left?

7- So what's going to be our fight that gets cancelled the week of? Bonus points if you with "the day of" and get it right!

8-Fun debate to be had; is the UFC rooting for Ketlen Vieira to win so they have a new 135 super contender OR are they hoping for Cat Zingano to win knowing that Cat coming off a win probably makes for the most appealing 145 lb title fight Cyborg can have outside of a Nunes/Cybrog clash?

9- John Dodson has never lost two fights in a row BUT it feels like his career is heading in a pretty precarious place now. He's 3-3 in his last 6 with just one finish in those six fights. His calling card was "the smiling guy who moves really fast and hits really hard" but that loses its luster when you stop putting people out with frequent regularity. Now he's just the smiling guy who moves really fast and loses split decisions. Dodson vs Pedro Munhoz is the perfect fight for both guys as Munhoz needs a really legitimate win and Dodson could really use a dynamic performance to get his career sorted out. Both guys have something to offer the other which creates for, on paper at least, a really compelling clash with high stakes involved.

10- Does a finish get Jordan Johnson any sort of attention at 205 lbs?

11- Beneil Dariush has one of MMA's low key elite resumes at 155 lbs with Edson Barboza, Michael Johnson, Evan Dunham, James Vick, Tony Martin and Rashid Magomedov all on the resume. He just lacks the chin (and the requisite consistent pop in his hands) to really be considered among the tops in his division.  I also think he probably earned the win over Dunham in hindsight.

12- Wonder if  Mackenzie Dern gets the strawweight division out of this prolonged funk it's been in.

Must Wins

1- Frankie Edgar

At 36 years old, Edgar really really needs this one. A loss to Brian Ortega and you almost have to close the book on Frankie Edgar ever getting the 145 lb crown. Edgar is a hall of famer but at some point he's going to wake up and fight like a 36 year old who is heavily reliant on timing, explosion and quickness. Ortega is a really big dude for 145 lbs in build and bulk. He's more reminiscent of former Edgar rival Benson Henderson than any opponent that Edgar has faced recently at 145 lbs. He's massive, deceptively slick, a frequent powerful kicker and blessed with a wide array and assortment of submission tricks that Edgar will need to be mindful of. This is a toss up fight for me but for Edgar, if he doesn't win, you're left realizing that the bar has been set at 145 lbs and he's no longer in the necessary class to compete with the elite.

2- Sean O'Malley

The first name out of Dana White's mouth when he talks about star building is Sean O'Malley. I'm not as on board. O'Malley is a really fun fighter who has good fights and does have a bit of that star power vibe in the package.  The problem is that conversely, I feel like O'Malley flaws are a lot tougher to get away with at 135 than it would be at 185 and up. Soukhamthath is basically bottom of the barrel and he's still pretty damn good. This is an unforgiving division to be learning on the fly but O'Malley's gotta do it.

3- Mackenzie Dern

The UFC Is trying to jolt some life into their WMMA rankings and so Dern who is in that "good enough to beat 99% of the regional chicks but still too raw to make serious noise soon" is being tasked with...well...making serious noise soon. Dern's striking looked better but is a ways away---but her ground game is absolutely the key to her success going forward. Dern's job is going to be to beat up the sort of women who make up the "nameless faceless opponent" rankings at 115 and 125 lbs. Let's just hope the UFC learns to take it slow.

Five Can't Miss Fights

1- Brian Ortega vs Frankie Edgar

2- Andre Soukhamtath vs Sean O'Malley

3- Pedro Munhoz vs John Dodson

4- Andrei Arlovski vs  Stefan Struve (even if it's bad, it'll still be fun enough to laugh at)

5- Cat Zingano vs Ketlen Vieira

[spideney]

Soma (It 2017) (Stan-centric)

Pairing: Stan & Bill, reddie mention

Word Count: 1,996

Rating: T

After It, Stan wants to be okay, for everyone to be okay. This proves difficult.

AO3 Link

Warning, this deals with intrusive thoughts.

~

“Ice cream again?”

Stan kept looking down as he nodded to Eddie’s question; he didn’t need to speak, a chorus of soft “yeah”’s already coming from the rest of their group. It was all instinctual by now. They got on their bikes after school, spring’s sudden heat baring down on their backs, and rode to whatever place they could safely be themselves without the threat of bullies or parents. This week’s sunniness denoted getting ice cream along the way.

Mike was already there when they arrived at the parlor, greeting as usual—half-hugging Bill, high-fiving Richie and Eddie, ruffling Ben’s hair. His high-five to Stan turned into a handshake halfway.

“You ace that math test Stan?”

For the first time that day, Stan smiled. How Mike remembered these minute details about his friends’ lives—math tests, doctors’ appointments, parents’ birthdays—he didn’t know, but it was something he appreciated. It made him feel important—God forbid.

“You know he did, Mike. When does he ever not,” Richie grumbled, coming back from the counter with his double-scoop of fudge chocolate whilst glaring at the cone as if it just became sentient and spat in his face.

Stan’s smile grew into a smirk as he detected the jealousy. “He’s just being pissy because he failed.”

Ben and Mike snickered while Eddie followed Bill up to the counter; they already knew where this was going. Richie met Stan’s eyes with a matching grin, gearing himself up.

“Incorrect. I got a 69. Mrs. McMillan’s sending me signals.”

Simultaneously, Ben and Mike groaned—Stan merely held himself back, quickly rolling his eyes. “Gross. And Richie, a 69 is technically failing.”

“Ever heard of rounding up?”

“Richie, you did not get that grade, shut up. Let’s go,” Eddie cut in sharply, he and Bill returning with cones in hand. Richie held his hands up in faux innocence, gazing pleadingly at the shorter boy as he passed him.

“What’s with the tone, Eds? I actually studied—”

Bill sidled up close, and Stan immediately tuned out the others’ conversation. “I th-think Eddie didn’t like that comment about Mrs. Mc-McMillan,” he whispered, just quiet enough that only Stan could hear.

Muffling his laughter with a hand to his mouth, Stan nudged his friend and gave him a glance in agreement. Eddie was pretty obvious, at least to Bill, Stan, and Mike. Cows would fly before Richie ever got a clue.

It was still strange without Beverly there—times like this, when they were all together, her absence was especially stark. But they managed. She’d already visited once since she moved away, and was planning another before the school year ended. Bill and Ben took a while longer to bounce back from the initial sadness of her departure, but writing regularly back and forth to her seemed to brighten their moods.

With the proper urging from Eddie, the remaining Losers got back on their bikes and started their downhill, 5-minute journey to the riverside. Stan thought they’d found a rather picturesque little clearing—not that Derry itself was anything close to picturesque, in his opinion. But it was reasonably far away from any clowns or sewers, which was a plus.

“Eddie!”

At Richie’s yell, the other four boys’ eyes immediately darted to Eddie, seeing him motionless on his bike and his ice cream dropped on the road. They all halted, Richie wheeling over to Eddie.

“You-You okay Eddie?” Bill asked, but he got no response. Stan followed Eddie’s line of vision, and his blood ran a notch colder as he spotted the bundle of red balloons tied down outside the post office.

Not that they were It’s balloons; he knew as soon as he saw them. They were shaped like hearts, a bit darker red, almost maroon. They weren’t unreal. But they still caused a shock to run through him.

After a few seconds of silence, understanding quickly dawning on everyone, Eddie turned around with a slightly embarrassed expression.

“Uh, sorry guys, uh…”

“It’s fine,” Ben quickly answered, and the rest of the group nodded.

“…Want to g-go back and get another?” Bill asked, wheeling closer and motioning to the ruined cone. Eddie shook his head, taking a deep breath. Stan felt a bit proud of him—the fanny pack wasn’t on today.

“Let’s, uh, go.”

Eddie sped off almost as soon as he said it, but they understood. Dwelling on the bad things didn’t tend to turn out well.

Mike swiftly curved around to the front of the group as they started riding again, clapping a hand on Eddie’s back. “Remember, we fucked that clown up!” He looked over his shoulder with a tooth-baring smile. “Right?”

“..Yeah! We fucked him up!” Ben shouted, and Bill and Richie laughed before shouting out their own victories, Richie’s a touch more vulgar. They all kept laughing, and eventually Eddie joined in. The sun’s rays beamed down slightly hotter.

  Their spot was situated between a few oak trees just so that Stan sat in the shade, a cool breeze bouncing off the river and hitting his cheeks every now and then. It was a good day; birds and squirrels were dancing in the branches above them, Ben and Bill were skipping rocks, Mike was trying and failing to catch fish with his bare hands, Richie was sharing his ice cream with Eddie—no explanation needed for that one. It made sense that now would be the time for Stan to feel uneasy. Of course, now was the time.

This won’t last forever.

He slowly let a sigh out of his mouth, over five seconds. Nope. Rummaging through his backpack, he quickly found his History notebook and opened to his doodles, continuing the ones that were now relevant to his surroundings—trees, animals. They weren’t good, certainly not as good as Bill’s, but it was something.

“Oh, can I borrow your English notes from today?” Richie asked, scooting closer and beginning to dig through Stan’s backpack.

“Only if you actually use them to study.”

They don’t actually like you.

Stan clenched his pencil as Richie looked up at him with a teasing grin, eyes big and marble-like behind his glasses. “What else would I use them for? What do you use them for? Jacking off to the symbolism found in The Raven? I knew it.”

Another eye-roll. “Just get them back to me tomorrow.”

You should stay home tomorrow. They wouldn’t miss you.

His shoulders tensed, and luckily Richie left the conversation there, turning back to Eddie with the same grin in place. Stan urged his fingers to relax as he shaded in his crow’s feathers.

It’s dangerous outside. Stay in your room. Go home. Never leave.

It’s dangerous in Derry. Leave.

Life is dangerous. You should’ve died.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the same pencil stroke, but at some point, Bill sat down next to him. Stan blinked in surprise, wetting his dry lips.

“You a-alright?” Bill asked nonchalantly, and Stan finally noticed that he’d been tapping his foot. He stopped.

“…Yeah. Drawing,” he croaked, and relaxed in relief when his voice came out calm.

Bill nodded and pointed to the page, giving the various animals he’d drawn names and personalities. A game they shared once Stan began doing it with Bill’s doodles. Stan chuckled at the especially creative ones, and felt his heartrate slowing.

His eyes caught sight of the notebook on Bill’s lap—the writing that he’d presumably sat down to work on—and he asked without thinking, “Letter to Beverly?”

Eyebrows raising, Bill looked down at it. “Ah, y-yeah! I’m not too far in…”

He risked his life for her. He’d never do that for you.

Stan’s breath got stuck in his throat, dread creeping up his body. It started at his stomach, making him feel sick, reaching his heart and making it race faster… Once it got to his face, he’d be screwed.

“…So, do you w-wanna write a section?”

His ears started working again, and his eyes refocused on his friend’s expectant face. It was routine—the other Losers would always write additions onto Ben and Bill’s letters. Stan enjoyed it; he and Beverly had a lot more in common than he thought. They liked some of the same music, same books…

They left you down there.

Sharply, he turned to look back down at his drawings, foot tapping. When had that started again? He’d thought he was over this.

“…No thanks.”

He didn’t see Bill’s face, but heard the surprise—and worry—in his voice. “O-Oh… Okay, you c-can later. If you want t-to.”

The only sound in Stan’s ears, for what felt like a few minutes, was the birds chirping, leaves rustling. Water splashing. Richie’s obnoxious laughter. Eddie’s clear voice, clear like a bell. He tried to focus on them, but his fingers only clenched his pencil harder.

Snap!

A hand touched his, and he reflexively relaxed his grip because it was Bill’s. The lead on his pencil was broken, and he swallowed—which took a surprising amount of effort—as Bill slowly unfolded his palm. The pencil fell onto the paper, and his hand followed Bill’s to the space between them.

Bill pulled his own sleeve down a bit further, and Stan latched onto it, rubbing small circles with his thumb into the cotton.

Clockwise. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Counter-clockwise. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

It continued, and his heartrate slowed enough, his tapping and breathing slowed enough, that he raised his head. Mike was now competing with Ben for farthest skipped stone. He took a deep breath.

For the next thirty minutes he kept at it, and slowly the others left, shouting goodbyes and nodding to Stan’s smiles. Only Bill knew how bad it got, and Stan wanted to keep it that way.

Then, it was just them. There was always the “Do you want to talk about it?”, and like most times, Stan shook his head. But he did finally look at Bill, hoping his eyes would say enough to convey his gratitude. Bill smiled assuredly at him, and his heart jumped in a different way—not that he appreciated it any more this time.

After a few more minutes, they opted to slowly bike home. As they neared the neighborhood, Stan noticed Bill’s tensing expression. It wasn’t too much of a mystery, how his parents could be.

“You know you can stay over at my house, if you want? My mom will call your mom,” Stan offered, hoping to bring back some semblance of normalcy to this day. His friends didn’t need any more bad things happening to them.

“…Y-Yeah, I’d like that.”

  Thankfully, as Stan hoped, the rest of their day—dinner, homework, video games—was normal. It wasn’t until early the next day, 2 AM early, did he feel that same dread, turning into outright terror as he awoke from his nightmare with a gasp, eyes darting around the pitch-blackness of his room.

He heard it and his blood froze—muffled, jerking sobs.

Someone’s in your room, oh God—

It was Bill, he remembered, and a portion of his fear dissipated, only to be replaced with worry. Though his own hands were shaking, caught in fright at the fading image of that thing, coming closer, he got out of bed and approached where Bill lay on the futon.

“B-Bill…” His voice wasn’t calm in the slightest, but he didn’t care. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and Bill quickly rose up, a hand over his face.

As soon as other hand reached out, Stan scooted close and brought him into his arms, clutching the back of his shirt. He heard Bill mumble into his neck, “nightmare,” and they didn’t say anything else.

The dread didn’t fully disappear—in this world, he doubted it ever would. But sitting there in the dark, their arms around each other, he started to feel better.

[richmegavideo]

A short history of brands pulling April Fools’ Day pranks

A brief history of large companies participating in April Fools’ Day for confusing reasons.

This year, on April Fools’ Day, brands have tried yet again to execute pranks.

Mr. Potato Head has been usurped by his “soon-to-be Insta-famous rival” Mr. Avo Head, an avocado. Fresh Direct is launching cauliflower milk called “caulk,” on a company web page with the search title “Introducing Caulk Cauliflower Milk | Fresh Direct April Fool’s Day.” McDonald’s is only pretending to launch several flavors of milkshake-flavored dipping sauce, which is rude mostly because that would be a very good idea. Mike’s Hard Lemonade bought a “landing page for positive news” overlaying the Washington Post website, redoing the nearly 150-year-old newspaper’s logo to read “The Happier Washington Post, Presented by Mike’s.” (The paper’s tagline “Democracy dies in darkness” was not touched.)

Each year, the branded jokes seem to get feebler and more exhausting

The New York City Police Department is not a brand, despite licensing its logo to Topshop, but it did engage in prank day by announcing a new “Feline Unit.” (Officer McFluff has, according to a tweet from the official Twitter account of the largest local law enforcement agency in the country, already sniffed out an “amazing” drug bust.) Virgil Abloh announced that his internet-first fashion brand Off-White would collaborate on a $1,500 Juul. I can’t even be bothered to ask if this last one is serious or not, since the entire world of “drops” and “cops” is essentially a prank.

Each year, the branded jokes seem to get feebler and more exhausting. PetCo is launching a pet wedding planning service, haha? The company that makes Swiss Army Knives is making eyeglasses now? Lol?

It invites the question: How long has this been happening, and why? No, absolutely: why?

Before social media, the incentive for a corporate April Fools’ Day hoax was limited

The first April Fool’s Day brand pranks weren’t that elaborate because they could basically only be fake print advertisements.

BMW started doing April Fool’s Day pranks in the 1980s, starting with the announcement of a “rain-deflecting open top car” in a fake magazine ad in 1983. Fake new features and cars were announced every year that decade, including road-warming lasers in 1989. The car company was an outlier, and April Fool’s Day was its signature.

Broadly speaking, pre-social media April Fools’ was more the purview of community newspapers and local radio stations than brands. There were lots of alien sightings and fake bank robberies. Pranks were regional, unless they were bizarre enough to attract a national audience. (Do not look up North Dakota Y94 radio station’s tattoo parlor for toddlers!) They were not seen as particularly big opportunities for businesses.

BMW

BMW’s 1983 April Fools’ Day prank was a print advertisement for a rain-deflecting convertible.

Then came YouTube and Facebook and the opportunity to go viral without spending a ton of money. In the beginning, the weirdest online brand pranks were, logically, the purview of internet companies. These pranks used to be good. Or at least, according to the Museum of Hoaxes (an incredible online resource), they used to be weird enough to count as real pranks.

YouTube’s 2008 prank was to rickroll everyone who came to the homepage, by making every video link redirect to Rick Astley singing “Never Gonna Give You Up.” In 2009, its prank was flipping all of its videos to display upside-down, and advised users who wanted to see them right-side-up to “move to Australia.” That same year, Qualcomm announced a plan to create stronger wireless coverage by “implanting tiny base-stations into wolf-pigeon hybrids that would fly around, but also be self-defensible, form packs when needed, and go out as ‘lone wolves’ to areas without coverage.”

(Google’s 2009 prank “Gmail Autopilot,” which could read and respond to emails using AI to mimic a user’s normal writing voice, basically exists now. As does BMW’s 2007 fake instant messaging feature.)

Marketing Week ran a report on brands getting “involved” in April Fool’s Day in 2009, and participation has only escalated from there. By 2013, toy companies, airlines, colleges, furniture stores, and even the White House were feeling the call to participate in April Fool’s Day. In 2016, Vice asked creative director and advertising expert Alex Holder to explain how brands come up with April Fool’s Day pranks, and she said that they were already becoming a “bit of an eye-roll,” but advertising agencies still get excited because their clients are asking them to “tell a joke rather than just sell a car.”

Asked why April Fool’s Day is important to brands, she said, “It’s a chance for them to prove to their customers that they can be funny and human.” (Note: Brands are not funny and human, they are attempting to stand out and capture human attention in order to capture your dollars.) “It’s also the only time of a year some brands feel safe telling a joke,” she added. “How sad is that? Waiting all year to be funny? It’s like only telling your husband you love him on Valentine’s Day.” (Note: It’s not sad. No matter how smart and funny the person hired to tweet in the first person from a brand’s Twitter account, a brand is not a person.)

Appearing human isn’t the only incentive for a joke. Sometimes it’s just obviously about money.

Low-lift product testing and cheap marketing are the more obvious incentives behind the April Fool’s Day prank. This year, Burger King “pranked” diners by replacing their hamburgers with the famous plant-based Impossible Burger, but it is actually going to start selling Impossible Burgers. The prank is a marketing boost, as is the confusion about whether it was a prank.

ThinkGeek, the novelty clothes and toy retailer, regularly makes its most popular April Fool’s Day prank products into actual products, using the day for free consumer research. T-Mobile made pink onesies last year to announce a fake new phone plan and “prank” tech journalists, but then actually sold the onesies for $40 a piece. These seem slightly less smarmy than the attempts to look human, in that they at least have something to do with the brand’s real reason for existing, which is to sell you things.

Meet #ShakeSauce — a sweet new way to dip. pic.twitter.com/0c5h8xJZg5

— McDonald's (@McDonalds) April 1, 2019

https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js

The risk of a prank is that it can easily backfire and the bad prank becomes what you are known for. Google did several April Fools’ Day jokes per year for a decade before its notorious misstep in 2016: That year, it added a button to Gmail that would allow you to reply to an email with a GIF of a Minion dropping a microphone and then mute the thread. The “Mic Drop” button was placed in the same spot as the normal “Send and Archive” button, which meant chaos. It was a huge disaster, and the company had to issue a multiple-part apology.

As writer Parker Molloy pointed out on Monday, it’s been 15 years since Google announced the launch of Gmail — which was not an April Fool’s joke but was perceived as one because of poor timing. (The ability to search your inbox by keyword seemed too good to be true!) Google plays it extremely safe now, and this year announced a new type of technology that allows you to talk to flowers.

Obviously, you’re free to laugh at a brand’s April Fools’ Day joke if you need a laugh. We are all doing our best. I laughed when, in 2017, Snapchat made a filter that looked like a fake Instagram grid. The joke there was that Facebook-owned Instagram had ripped off Snapchat’s most valuable feature to make Instagram Stories, effectively stealing its lunch and ruining its business, and that now it was going to kind of steal something too.

As my editor Meredith Haggerty wrote in Slack, “I guess a brand can punch up if they’ve been effectively decimated by another brand. So that means if you’re a brand with a good April Fools’ joke, you’re probably dead in the water.” It’s probably worth noting that fatigue around brand April Fools’ escalated in the age of “fake news” — there just doesn’t seem to be cause to add another layer of deception and uncertainty to our daily experience of the internet.

Arguably, the only real winner this year is Microsoft, which sent a company-wide email to its employees asking that they not participate in any public pranks. “Sometimes the outcomes [of April Fools’ Day stunts] are amusing and sometimes they’re not,” marketing chief Chris Capossela wrote. “Either way data tells us these stunts have limited positive impact and can actually result in unwanted news cycles.”

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On April 17, the state of Arkansas plans to kill Don Davis and Bruce Earl Ward, two men who have been on death row since the early 1990s. Neither has applied for clemency. Both will die on the same gurney, back to back, if all goes according to plan. Executioners will start by injecting them with a sedative called midazolam, never before used by the state, but which is supposed to render them unconscious for the two lethal drugs to follow. No one, apart from a handful of officials, knows where the drugs will come from, or who exactly will do the injecting. Those are secrets under the law. Most importantly, no one knows how well the midazolam will work, if it works at all. After nearly 12 years without a single execution, Arkansas is embarking on a kind of human experiment.

If there are risks to this plan, Arkansas Governor Asa Hutchison has wasted little time contemplating them. Three nights after the double execution, Ledelle Lee and Stacey Johnson are scheduled to die the same way, on April 20, followed by another two men, Marcel Williams and Jack Jones Jr., on April 24. Finally, if all goes according to plan, Kenneth Williams will be executed on the 27th. An eighth man, Jason McGehee, was supposed to die with him, but this week he was granted a reprieve. As it now stands, seven men will die in the Arkansas death house this month, over the course of 11 days.

The sudden rush to execute stems from a practical dilemma: Arkansas’s supply of midazolam is set to expire at the end of the month. If the governor lets that happen, officials will have to find a new supply of drugs for lethal injection, an increasingly challenging task that has kept executions on hold for years. In the years since the state’s last execution, officials seem to be getting rusty, even when it comes to basic PR. Facing a shortage of necessary witnesses for its upcoming executions, Department of Corrections Director Wendy Kelly asked startled members of a Little Rock rotary club last month if anyone would be willing to attend the executions. “It quickly became obvious that she was not kidding,” one man said.

If Arkansas officials now find themselves in uncharted waters, they are also reviving an old local tradition. It was not so long ago that prisoners were once executed two and three at a time, using techniques believed to be humane, even cutting edge, despite signs to the contrary. As in other death penalty states, generations of politicians in Arkansas have passed law after law mandating experimental new killing tools hastily borrowed from other states, while tasking others to implement them. Governors have ignored red flags, insisting they are bound by law to set execution dates, regardless of circumstance, then discovered things don’t go according to plan.

Part of this history can be found at the Arkansas Studies Institute in downtown Little Rock, a modern renovation of two historic buildings on President Clinton Avenue. The vast collection includes boxes of old materials belonging to the Arkansas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty: decades of prison mail, meeting minutes, and a handful of correspondence with Hutchison’s predecessors. In one letter, from 1989, Governor Bill Clinton responds to a prominent activist and longtime friend Freddie Nixon, who had urged him to intervene on behalf of a black man on death row named Barry Lee Fairchild, whom many believed to be innocent. “As you know our positions differ,” Clinton wrote back, “and I ask that you respect the prayer and deliberation on which mine is based.”

Clinton restarted executions in 1990, ending a 26-year stretch without any deaths in the Arkansas death chamber. A bloody era followed. In January 1994, the state executed two men in a single night — a first in the country’s so-called “modern” death penalty period. A few months later, Nixon and her husband sent a letter to Gov. Jim Guy Tucker, with another urgent appeal. “Once again we are writing to you to request that you grant clemency to persons on Arkansas’ Death Row,” they wrote in July 1994. “The situation this time is even more extraordinary than the last.” The double execution had been “gruesome enough,” they continued. “This time, three are scheduled to die and all for one crime. What kind of justice requires three deaths? Please do not let Arkansas become another ‘Killing Field.’ Grant clemency to Darryl Richley, Hoyt Clines and James Holmes.”

The Nixons were not alone in seeking to halt the triple execution. The ACLU decried “the horrifying and barbaric spectacle of Arkansas’ ‘final solution’ to crime.” The NAACP Legal Defense Fund called it “disturbingly paradigmatic of an era when African-Americans were too often the victims of mass lynchings.” Protests were held, and vigils organized at the governor’s mansion. Nevertheless, Governor Tucker denied clemency. Within a span of two and a half hours on the night of August 3, 1994, Richley, Clines, and Holmes were killed by lethal injection at the Cummins Unit, less than 80 miles southeast of Little Rock. Arkansas carried out another triple execution in 1997, under Governor Mike Huckabee.

This was the death penalty at its peak in the United States — it has been declining ever since. Arkansas has not executed anyone since 2005, and much has changed in meantime. While the U.S. Supreme Court has twice upheld lethal injection in the past ten years, a slew of botched executions across the country have shown it to be inherently unreliable — no matter what drugs are used. In 2014, Oklahoma made international headlines after the horrifying execution of Clayton Lockett; executioners had failed to properly insert the IV lines. In an open letter last month, a group of former prison officials reminded Governor Hutchison that a second man had been scheduled to die that same night using midazolam, before things went so horribly wrong. “We believe that performing so many executions in so little time will impose extraordinary and unnecessary stress and trauma on the staff responsible with carrying out the executions,” they wrote.

“We haven’t had an execution since this whole controversy over lethal injection controversy came up,” veteran Arkansas defense lawyer Jeff Rosenzweig told me in Little Rock last month. Attorneys for the condemned have raised particular alarm over the planned use of midazolam, which replaces a longtime anesthetic — sodium thiopental — that became unavailable years ago. Midazolam has a short but grisly track record; a complaint filed in federal court last month points to several executions where the sedative appeared to fail, most recently in Alabama, during the execution of Robert Bert Smith, who heaved and coughed as he died. Today Rosenzweig is increasingly convinced lethal injection never really worked as intended, even when sodium thiopental was in ample supply. “Now, they’re not even using that drug, but using a drug which has a history of not working,” he said.

Rosenzweig’s office is littered with legal files, his desk barely visible under his workload. On the day we met, one of his clients had just had his bid for clemency rejected by the parole board. Now racing against the clock, Rosenzweig is prepared to be a witness if the time comes. If something goes wrong, it will not be the first time he has seen a botched execution in Arkansas.

“We’re headed right for an iceberg with this,” Rosenzweig said. “It ain’t gonna work on some of them.”

“Like Going to Sleep”

Before Arkansas learned to love lethal injection, it first bought into the myth of electrocution as a civilized alternative to hangings. The electric chair would kill instantaneously, its promotors boasted in the late 1800s, with medical experts echoing the claim in the press. Although the country’s first electrocution — carried out in New York in 1890 — was a grisly ordeal, it was nonetheless seen as an advance, a reflection of a more enlightened age. Arguing for a new execution law in 1913, Arkansas lawmakers said the technology would discourage lynchings; executions would now be centralized, going from individual counties across the state to a single death chamber at the state penitentiary. “The substitution of the electric chair for the gallows in Arkansas meets with the very general approval by all citizens,” the St. Louis Dispatch reported in 1913, adding that state sheriffs were “especially pleased.” Hanging convicts had been among their more “undesirable duties,” the paper reported, “and it has never been a good advertisement for a community.

Arkansas prison officials were under immediate pressure to adopt the new technology. As the new law came closer to taking effect, the state attorney general pushed it as “an emergency that must be met.” Based in part on New York’s pioneering machinery, an electrician at the University of Arkansas built a homemade electric chair, which was “successfully tested” on a large steer, according to the Arkansas Democrat. A black man named Lee Simms, convicted of raping a white woman, would have “the honor of officially testing the home-made apparatus.”

In addition to bringing executions behind prison walls — avoiding the unseemly crowds that gathered at the gallows — Arkansas’ new execution law also made it a crime for newspapers to report on them. “No newspaper or person shall print or publish the details of the execution of criminals under this act,” it read. “Only the fact that the criminal was executed shall be printed or published.” Yet reporters flouted the law for the Simms execution, while taking some creative liberties. He was said to be unafraid, singing as his face was covered by a leather mask before a 2,300-volt current would be sent through his body. Assured he would die painlessly and with dignity, Simms supposedly expressed satisfaction that he was making history. “I’se glad I am the first niggah to be ‘lectrocuted,” he said, according to an account in the Gazette. Afterward, the paper approvingly reported that Simms had died “without the convulsions or twitchings” seen at the gallows. “There is no doubt that executions by electrocution are much less gruesome and horrible than those by hanging.”

It did not take long for this lie to be dramatically exposed. Nine years after killing Simms, Arkansas carried out one of the most grotesque executions the country had ever seen. Following the departure of the longtime warden at the state penitentiary, prison officials selected an unidentified “volunteer” executioner — an English car salesman who had taken a correspondence course in electricity, according to a 1922 article in the Arkansas Democrat — who flipped the switch to kill an 18-year-old black man named James Wells. To the horror of witnesses, most of whom fled minutes into the execution, Wells stayed alive over repeated attempts to send lethal currents through his body. On the twelfth try, the young man finally died.

Newspapers decried the spectacle. The Democrat’s editorial page called it a “horrible and revolting disgrace on the state of Arkansas,” calling for experts to carry out executions, and exhorting the governor to ensure that “there are no repetitions of this horrible human butchery.” Yet less than a year later, Arkansas carried out a quadruple execution, only to realize as officials prepared to bury the four men, that one of them was still alive. This time, the press was a bit more matter-of-fact. “He was taken from the coffin and again placed in the electric chair,” according to one report.

Despite such ghoulish mishaps, the electric chair prevailed for decades as the country’s preferred execution method, seen as reliable if used responsibly. Arkansas went on to kill 168 people in the chair, sometimes four in the same day. Courts provided legal legitimacy. In 1947, the U.S. Supreme Court considered the gruesome execution of a black teenager named Willie Francis in Louisiana, who had been removed from the electric chair after repeated unsuccessful attempts to kill him, then sent back a few days later to die. A majority found no violation of the 8th amendment prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment, calling the execution an “innocent misadventure.”

In Arkansas, the notion that the electric chair was mostly humane survived well into the 1990s. After the U.S. Supreme Court brought back the death penalty in Gregg v. Georgia in 1976, state officials hired an electrical engineer named Jay Wiechert to build a new and improved electric chair. “Of course, I didn’t know anything about how to do it at the time,” Wiechert later told the Arkansas Times, adding that he found the challenge “interesting.” A new death chamber was constructed from scratch, and a generator had to be installed at the prison, after the Arkansas Power & Light Company said it would prefer not to provide energy for electrocutions. After Bill Clinton set the execution date for John Edward Swindler in 1990, the Arkansas Democrat sought to reacquaint readers with the technology, quoting a university professor who said its effects would be “like going to sleep.”

Convicted before Arkansas officially adopted lethal injection, Swindler was given the choice between electrocution and the gurney. He refused to choose, and was electrocuted. It was the first and last time the state used Wiechert’s electric chair. The next man to die chose lethal injection.

Wiechert died last year, an obscure figure despite an auspicious legacy: the man whose ad hoc electric chair design was replicated from Ohio to Tennessee. In his last published interview, Wiechert recalled how he came to modernize the electric chair.

“Back in the ’70s, the state of Arkansas couldn’t find anybody to build an electric chair,” Wiechert said — a state of affairs with parallels to the difficulty states have obtaining the lethal injection cocktail these days. “They called me and I said, ‘Yeah! I’ll build you an electric chair. How difficult can that be?’ In my business, the hard part is not electrocuting somebody! Killing somebody is a piece of cake.”

“Clinical Death”

If lethal injection was supposed to launch executions into the modern age, in reality it was a similarly slapdash invention. Fordham law professor Deborah Denno, the foremost legal expert on the subject, has written extensively about its origins at the hands of Oklahoma medical examiner Jay Chapman, whose concoction spread swiftly despite old warnings against using lethal injection to carry out executions. Government-led commissions in the U.S. and UK had studied and rejected the method, over concerns that it could not be performed efficiently or painlessly. Yet politicians ignored these concerns, emphasizing that lethal injection “appeared more humane and visually palatable relative to other methods,” as Denno wrote in a 2007 article for the Fordham Law Review.

That the protocol be “visually palatable” was key. The Oklahoma state senator who first pushed lethal injection in the 1970s found electrocutions gruesome, telling the Tulsa World they were “kind of a combination of Barnum & Bailey and reform.” Showing graphic post-electrocution photos to fellow lawmakers, he unsuccessfully sought the help of his own physician, who was the head of the Oklahoma Medical Association, then turned to Chapman, asking if he might design a lethal injection formula. As Denno recounts, Chapman admitted he did not know much about how to kill people, although he had examined plenty of homicide victims. “To hell with them,” he said about members of the medical community who might disapprove. “Let’s do this.”

How to implement Chapman’s “three-drug cocktail” would be a matter largely decided by Texas Department of Corrections director W.J. Estelle, whose state was the first to adopt lethal injection. One AP report described how Estelle decided prisoners should be strapped down on a hospital gurney, rather than the old electric chair. (A prison chaplain who had seen 14 electrocutions wanted them “carried out in a nice clean room, something that doesn’t look like a prison.”) Guided by “unnamed consultants,” Estelle was also given the choice of three different drugs to kick off the three-drug protocol — one was a “muscle relaxant,” another a “contact poison.” Estelle chose sodium thiopental, a fast-acting barbiturate used for general anesthesia. A prison spokesman said death would come “within minutes.”

A 40-year-old man named Charlie Brooks Jr. was the first to die by lethal injection. One media witness described how he “gasped and wheezed,” but no one seemed to make much of it. The Texas model was replicated across the country: the first drug (generally sodium thiopental) anesthetized the prisoner. The second (pancuronium bromide) caused paralysis, including of the muscles used for respiration. And the third (potassium chloride) stopped the heart. The second drug was mostly cosmetic; Chapman had included it to conceal the effects of the fatal doses on bodies of the condemned. But it also introduced a fatal flaw that went undiscussed among prison officials, who had no grasp of the properties of the drugs they were administering: If the anesthetic didn’t work as intended, its effect was to suffocate the person on the gurney; once the third drug kicked in, the third drug would induce a heart attack. In all, the experience would be agonizing – yet the paralytic would prevent him or her from signaling their suffering.

It took Arkansas several years to implement lethal injection. In 1970, four years after the state’s last execution, Governor Winthrop Rockefeller had commuted the death sentences of all 15 men on death row. But by 1977, Arkansas lawmakers hoped to start killing again. Officials approved $75,000 to build a new execution chamber, designed to accommodate both electrocution and lethal injection, or “clinical death,” as some put it. It would be built by prisoners.

The Arkansas Coalition Against the Death Penalty explored a lawsuit to block the project, in part by arguing that the use of convict labor was unconstitutional, but were dissuaded by attorneys, who said it would be costly, and sure to fail. Even if a willing plaintiff were found, “prisoners under sentence can be required to work,” one lawyer wrote. Besides, those constructing the death chamber “are receiving benefit in the form of good time off of their sentence at a rate of one day off for each day served.”

In 1979, Thomas Carpenter of the Arkansas ACLU urged abolitionists to fight the new method, even if it seemed more humane. “At first blush it may seem that this is good legislation in that if the death penalty is to exist in this state, then the least barbarous method should be used,” he wrote. “However, if the horror of killing people is removed in this method, it will become much easier for most people to be complacent about killing people.”

“I’m Getting Dizzy”

In 1990, a week after Bill Clinton presided over the execution of John Edward Swindler in the electric chair, Ronald Gene Simmons became the first person in Arkansas to die by lethal injection. A serial killer who murdered 16 people — including more than a dozen members of his own family — Simmons was no poster child for abolition. But anti-death penalty activists protested, making arguments that remain familiar today. “Jeff Rosenzweig, a Little Rock lawyer who represents numerous death row inmates … said the death penalty is applied unfairly,” the Gazette reported prior to the Simmons execution, citing problems of racial bias, poverty, and poor lawyering.

The Simmons execution did not go well. In a 2006 lawsuit invoking the state’s history of botched executions, witness accounts describe how he appeared to “nod off” in the first couple minutes of his execution, but he then cried out “Oh! Oh! and began to cough sporadically as though he might have difficulty breathing.” The gurney shook as Simmons coughed and heaved, according to witnesses. He then became still, “after which his face and arm turned first blue and then purple.”

The next execution was worse. In 1992, Bill Clinton famously returned to Arkansas during his campaign for president to preside over the death of Ricky Ray Rector, a black man who was lobotomized after he shot himself in the head after killing of a police officer. Rector was severely brain damaged; The New Yorker would later recount how after eating his last meal of steak and fried chicken, “he carefully set aside his helping of pecan pie,” planning to finish it after his execution. Rosenzweig was among the witnesses that night. “It was obviously very political,” he said about Clinton’s decision to fly back to Little Rock. “He didn’t have to set the execution date then. But he did. And then, obviously, in the middle of the campaign he wasn’t going to back off. But Rector was clearly not competent, in my opinion.”

Rosenzweig recalled how staff struggled to inject Rector, due to his size and “all the Dilantin he was on,” referring to Rector’s antipsychotic medication. Rector moaned as prison staff were unable to find a suitable vein, puncturing his skin over and over again as the medical director looked on. Once Rector finally appeared to be unconscious, one witness heard him say, “I’m getting dizzy,” after which he appeared to draw rapid “shallow breaths,” according to the 2006 lawsuit.

Rosenzweig has seen five men die by lethal injection. Despite the obvious problems with Rector’s execution, the method remained mostly uncontroversial. “We didn’t understand the extent of the problem,” he says. But like many death penalty lawyers, Rosenzweig eventually realized that even when an IV was perfectly placed, it did not guarantee the drugs would work as planned. “They were using a substance which was understood at the time — sodium thiopental — to cause you to be insensate to pain. Whether it did or not, at least that was the understanding.” But soon witnesses would report seeing sounds and movement from the gurney that were not supposed to occur.

In 2005, The Lancet medical journal published a landmark research letter that confirmed what many feared: lethal injection was not working the way people thought. The authors had obtained records from Texas and Virginia — highly active death penalty states — and found that “executioners had no anesthesia training, drugs were administered remotely with no monitoring for anesthesia.” More alarming, “toxicology reports from Arizona, Georgia, North Carolina, and South Carolina showed that post-mortem concentrations of [sodium thiopental] in the blood were lower than that required for surgery in 43 of 49 executed inmates (88%); 21 (43%) inmates had concentrations consistent with awareness.” The conclusion was grim. “Without anesthesia, the condemned person would experience asphyxiation, a severe burning sensation, massive muscle cramping, and finally cardiac arrest.” The next year, California tried to assign medical monitors for the execution of Michael Morales, but the anesthesiologists backed out at the last minute. Executions have remained stalled in the state since.

The findings in The Lancet would help pave the way for Baze v. Rees, the 2008 U.S. Supreme Court ruling that ultimately upheld the three-drug protocol used across the country. Yet no sooner than the Court handed down Baze than the longtime protocol become virtually obsolete, with supplies of sodium thiopental drying up: the sole U.S. manufacturer ceased production and the activist group Reprieve launched a campaign to keep foreign pharmaceutical companies from sending drugs to be used in executions. In Arkansas, which carried out its last execution the same year the Lancet study was released, officials were unable to obtain a replacement for years, though they have certainly tried.

In 2011, Arkansas was forced to hand over a stash of sodium thiopental that had been shipped to the U.S. from Dream Pharma, a sketchy pharmaceutical company operated in the back of a London driving school. Not only was the shipment imported in violation of federal law, there was evidence some batches of drugs had expired, leading to botched executions in Georgia and Arizona. The Drug Enforcement Administration seized several states’ supplies. In Arkansas, then Deputy Director of Corrections Wendy Kelly later explained she had searched far and wide for drugs to carry out executions. “I went wherever they had them.”

Forced to tinker with its protocol depending on the availability of drugs, Arkansas ultimately adopted midazalom, first tested in Florida in 2013. Prison officials there promised “a humane and dignified death,” but its effectiveness was in doubt from the start: the first man executed under the new protocol died “in what seemed like a labored process,” according to a reporter for the Sun Sentinel. “At times his eyes fluttered, he swallowed hard, his head twitched, his chest heaved.” Nonetheless, in 2015 the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the drug in Glossip v. Gross. That same year, Arkansas revised its own protocol, passing a law that makes suppliers for lethal injection drugs a secret. With a new drug at its disposal, and after setting several execution dates only to be blocked by the courts, Governor Hutchison has been trying to move forward with executions ever since.

For all the insistence from states and the courts that the drug is appropriate for executions, the man who created midazolam is disturbed that his invention has been adopted for lethal injection. “I didn’t make it for that purpose,” he recently told the New York Times. Anesthesiologist David Lubarsky, one of the original authors of the 2005 Lancet study, warns that the drug is “a very poor choice” for lethal injection, since even its maximum effect falls short of rendering a person completely unconscious. While states have upped the dosages in an attempt to ensure its reliability, the drug’s ceiling effect means it will make no difference past a point. And in places where euthanasia is legal, Lubarsky wrote via email, people have woken up even after receiving lethal doses of midazolam. Finally, he stresses, as has been true since the invention of lethal injection, in a three-part execution protocol “the paralytic hides evidence of the insufficient anesthesia.”

Indeed, 40 years after inventing an execution method that transformed an act of killing into a kind of medical theater, Jay Chapman has long since disavowed his invention, admitting that the paralytic was probably a mistake. Besides, as he said in 2007, it has been carried out by “complete idiots.”

Whether this will be the case in Arkansas later this month in anybody’s guess. “It’s unclear who’s going to be doing what,” says Rosenzweig. “But our understanding is it’s basically a whole new crew.”