#rabbi was edging off to the side towards his car

[ofshivelight]

this morning i started rambling about monolatry and roman religion at the end of torah study and had to harness my full willpower to make myself shut up and stop holding everybody hostage in the temple parking lot

[kylo-wrecked]

@silverjetsystm ://

Somewhere in the world today, pigs prepare for flight. 

"You asking?" Ben calls back, throwing an arch glance over a leather shoulder. Clock of recognition. Plumes a mouthful of smoke with his tongue. "Yeah, you are." 

Perhaps the pigs don't take off just yet; however, as Ben bends back toward the Hudson, where clusters of hydrangea dry to rose dust in the pier-side greens, and women with faces like Capybaras's and matching puppies take selfies on the walkway, buoying in some other world while a capsized shopping cart gives new homes to mussels, and piles of cinderblocks rot in front of the rod railings that separate Ben from the water. Tips of his steel-toes facing West. 

"I was going for a walk," Ben says, adding with some sympathy, "You may not be familiar with that concept." 

Now, when the 9 to 5-ers, the Fi-Di Fidos with the dumb good drugs, their bigger and dumber dogs, are at PJ Clark's, when the city college students are on break, is the only time Ben doesn't get swamped, and now would be the time to go. Take the walk. Just do it. Get it over with before someone notices him gone. Judging by the orange sun swung at half-mast, Ben's window of opportunity is diminishing, but then—

"Jake, I have a couch bigger than your entire life."

Funny-haha is how he finds his way back, how each syllable in his scathing words only brings him closer. No breeze, like Battery Park, and everything in the district, except Ben and the skull on Jake's dashboard (*and maybe Jake*), goes dyspneic.

 "Joking. Just joking." Ben interlaces his fingers above his head, a pretty gesture of surrender with the coiling tobacco smoke. "'I contain multitudes.’ Your Rabbi ever read you that?" 

He edges nearer. Wrought iron stare falls on the cap, misses the eyes. Plucks the cigarillo from Jake's fingers and 'butt-fucks' it. Hands it back to him lit. 

"Come out of there, you're pissing me off." 

There's a monumental slip underway, kicked off by Ben's instantly detectable perk when the car door clicks, slams, and Lockley emerges from his noble steed. Ben's eyes follow his walk, cut right to any contour that strains under his pants, and that's intentional. The little lip bite is a slip, but Ben's too tired to flex any angles. Without any powder to cover him, the tiredness on his face is a slip, too, revealing austere features and eyes with no shine. Bottomless, like he is, but so what? Jake, just so happening to park on his block, is a hell of a slip, too.

Ben studies him. 

"You look like shit," he announces, glare softening in the dragon's smog curling through his nostrils. "You should come up." 

@kylo-wrecked

Reality is shiny and fragile as a soap bubble. Sobriety -- or close to it -- on Ben Solo is the least real part of this encounter. Sharp angles softened beyond a trick of the light. Sharp tongue smoothed into teasing where it would tear.

Scrubs his face, eyes bloodshot amber bottles, head pounding in time with his heart. Slower. Slower. One cigarillo tucked behind his ear, the other held in a trembling hand, tracking the rise and fall of hips like the tide. Fog of a ghost blanketing his thoughts. Wherever he'd been going is out.

Grant had contingencies for moments like this. Addresses logged in the phone, Lockley's tired wallet, the journal in the glovebox. It's a gamble if they start driving whether they'd get to that glass cage container home in the sky or if they'd circle and circle till the coin lands on one of them. Heads or tails, Grant or Lockley. His luck would come up sideways.

"Hah. Actually have furniture, y'know." What does he know, he's never stepped foot past the lobby. They're intruders in Grant's picture perfect life.

"Your corner?" the question floating out tired rather than his usual punchy amused surprise towards leather-clad back. Grey cap is retrieved from the floor, near the brake. Brushed off and set tilted. Bit of a pirate.

Fine. Message received. G-d laughs, bird skull rattling on his dash. "You offering?" he calls, arm and head out the window. Bright smile dazzling in the dark. Joking unless-- "Gotta have a couch at least."

[babbushka]

Eight Candles

Mob!Kylo Ren x Reader ; 2k

Eight candles

On a plain afternoon

On a cold windowsill looking out

At December

You and Kylo are sitting among your family at the beautifully decorated venue. A stranger passing by would have thought it was a wedding, not the Hanukkah party your family threw every year. You and Kylo’s families had always been the best of friends, and the annual Hanukkah party was merely an excuse for everyone to get together. You hadn’t seen so many mobsters in one room in ages, everyone in their finest suits and dresses, shoes and heels shiny and sparkly and all gussied up for the occasion.

It was held at a ballroom in the Plaza Hotel, the entire space rented out for this, the first of an eight-night family get-together. The Plaza had done the space up beautifully, a silver wonderland with accents of navy blue. The lights are golden and soft, chandeliers dimmed low so that the huge hanukkiah garners the most attention.

It’s an heirloom of your family’s, the very same hanukkiah that your great-grandfather brought to America from the old country, passed down from generation to generation. Kylo’s uncle, Rabbi Luke was the one to light it, to lead you all in prayer, and now that the wicks were lit and the wax was slowly melting, dinner had been served.

You and Kylo are seated among the family, but at your own special table, a table fit for only the heads of the family, the big bosses. You, Kylo, Gwen, and Rey are with Kylo’s Uncle Lando, who isn’t really his uncle. Well, he’s everyone’s Uncle, isn’t he? Aren’t they all?

Waitresses and waiters bring the food and take it away, and there’s a happy quiet chatter as two hundred people from all sides of the family combined catch up from not seeing one another all year.

You aren’t in the mood to talk, not tonight. Tonight you’re here with Kylo, and once he’s cleared his second helping of dinner, he holds his hand out to you, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the dance floor.

Where they’re waiting

Waiting for the sun to give up

Till the passions of red are below the horizon

All at once

 You smile, take his warm hand eagerly. The music is his favorite kind, like something out of a bond film, or the old 60s soft rock scene. It’s echoey and far away, dreamy, but all together modern at the same time. Like it could be elevator music, or the soundtrack to your life, depending on the life you decide to live.

It’s too fast for a waltz, so you ballroom instead, many other couples in the family joining in with you. You laugh as your young cousins run around in their kippahs and bows, and Kylo does his best not to scowl when they dart between you for a moment – your aunt apologizing profusely.

There’s no rush tonight, nothing to worry about, nothing to be bothered with.

Well.

There is one thing, one person, someone who has attended the party who isn’t exactly welcome. One person who had slighted you a month or so ago, had gone behind Gwen’s back – had gone behind all your backs. What was the expression, a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

What do you call it when the room is full of wolves?

You look at Kylo, give him a raise of your eyebrow, and he only takes your hand in his, kisses the knuckles there.  

He had promised, earlier, that the wayward cousin would be made an example of, but he hadn’t told you how. You trust him, trust that he won’t let the rat go free. So while he kisses your knuckles, a silent answer to an unspoken question, you let yourself relax against him, in his embrace.

You’re proud of him, for being this social. He hasn’t spoken a single word all evening, but then again, he doesn’t have to. He has you to speak for him, has you to catch up and mingle, has you to smile and toast glasses, has you to carry the conversations he doesn’t have any patience for.

You’re proud of him, for agreeing to come at all. He isn’t that big a fan of these parties, of any parties for that matter. He’s self-conscious about the scar which splits his face, only barely healed and still emotionally raw. He’s worried the children will laugh and point, but they do no such thing – instead they keep telling him how cool it makes him look, like a proper gangster. He had cracked a small smile at that.

  They’re a-light and the window’s aglow

Teasing shadows with nowhere to go

So they watch at the curtain with you

Eight candles

 He’s so handsome, you think. He’s wearing the new suit, the one you managed to have tailored just in time, tailored to fit his broad broad broad shoulders. It’s from the 60s, that clean and classic look that Kylo fancies so much. It’s black wool, because of course it is, but you’ve folded a navy blue satin kerchief into his breast-pocket, a silver tie tucked into the waist-coat.

He’s careful to not step on your feet, careful not to scuff your loubitons with his, red bottoms unscathed from never being worn.

His eyes are so brown, sparkling in the low light, candles all around you, lining the dance floor. You know that in the real world, you’re in a sea of family members all dancing, but in your head, in your eyes, it’s just the two of you. No one else exists, and you smile when he’s just as lost in your gaze as you are in his.

He leans down for a soft kiss, and you meet him more than halfway. You let out a pleased, happy sigh at the peace of the evening, your stomach pleasantly warmed from the hearty meal. Kylo steals one of his hands away from your waist for a moment to fish out a cigarette and light it. Technically smoking wasn’t allowed inside, but this was Kylo Ren – he could do whatever he wanted.

You watch him fondly as he puffs plumes into the air, leans down to kiss you again.

He tastes like ash, but then again, when doesn’t he? Ash and wine and honey all mixed into one, your man. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against yours, rubs your noses together. You’re so close, breathing in each other’s air, candles just on the edge of the dance floor turned into a sprinkling of twinkling halos.

 Eight candles

Watch us holding our hands

See us moving our lips in a chorus of silence

And they burn on

 As you dance, you notice something, someone, walking around on the upper balcony. It’s one of the Knights of Ren, Kylo’s personal squad of bodyguards. You catch one of their eyes, give them a smile. They don’t smile back, but they do nod, give you an acknowledging wave.

You follow their movement with your eyes, watch as they walk walk walk around the upper balcony. They descend the stairs, stay hidden in the comforting darkness behind the stone pillars which support the ornate ceiling.

Two of them slip out the back door, and no one notices but you, because why would they? With the Manischewitz flowing, lips stained ruddy red from the sticky sweet wine, why would anyone bother to pay attention to a bodyguard leaving out the back door?

You raise an eyebrow at Kylo again, and he only exhales up into the air. Warm circles glow around the candles on the hanukkiah, and in the low light, you and Kylo are entranced with one another as the flame flickers and crackles and dips, dancing dancing dancing on the wick.

You wondered the implications of everything, how angry those who didn’t know, would be. But like with most things, you find out eventually, you always find out. Gwen and Rey dance next to you, give you questioning glances and looks, which Kylo pointedly ignores.  

 They’re alive and the window’s aglow

Teasing shadows with nowhere to go

So they watch at the curtain

With you

 You know then that he’s done something, or at the very least, is going to. Kylo didn’t take rats lightly, the last person to go against the family, to feed information to the hungry pigs always on your heel, had been stabbed through the heart and tossed off a bridge.

Your husband wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety.

He spins you gently, twirls you only enough so that your dress flutters as it wraps around your legs. You wonder what it’s going to be, how it’s all going to go down. It wouldn’t do to kill him here, so clearly if the Knights are up to anything, it’s nothing deadly.

Perhaps an abduction? The KoR storming in with their big guns drawn, storming in with your cousin in sight, storming in with cuffs and ties and a bag to throw over his head?

Or perhaps a warning shot to the stomach?

Or maybe even still, a slicing of the throat, removal of an ear? Just a little something to show Kylo means business – you all mean business. You shift your glance back to the cousin, schmoozing and wining and dining like he doesn’t know what’s coming. And maybe, maybe he doesn’t.  

But maybe he does, because suddenly he’s reaching into his pocket for his car keys, twirling them around and around his finger, much the same way Kylo’s twirling you.

The cousin can sense something is wrong, he can sense it. Maybe it’s the way you’re looking at him, glaring. Maybe it’s the way he can tell he’s been found out, as more and more eyes turn. Not all the eyes, but enough, enough to tell him to leave. So he does the right thing and goes.

You follow his movements just as you had the KoR, as he says his goodbyes and slips out the very same back door, the very same one that the KoR are returning through. Kylo turns his gaze to meet his bodyguards expectantly, and they make their way down through the dance floor, assume their positions around the both of you.

 Eight candles

Disappearing for good

And your eyes lose the light till it comes back tomorrow

Eight more candles

Till the shadows have reached the horizon

 When the explosion outside goes off, and the car is engulfed in flames of bright yellow red orange from a pipe hidden in the engine, or strapped underneath the frame, or or or, you and Kylo can only look at one another, quiet smirks exchanged as he leans down to kiss you.

You kiss and dance, your hands in hand, wrapped around his shoulder and your waist. The screams and sounds of shock from the rest of the family fade into the background. In the soft light of the ballroom, with all the kids running to the window to try and get a glimpse at the limo that’s no more, it’s all you can do to stare into each other’s eyes lovingly.

No words exchanged, nothing but teasing smiles and knowing grins, those rare dimples of his making a special holiday appearance, nose rubbing gently against yours, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette delicately, clouding the air only for a moment before it disappears. You lean in to kiss him once more, a silent thanks and declaration of love for all to see, not that anyone had any doubts.

Outside the traitor burns to a crisp, blown to pieces along with the shattering glass of his windows and doors. But inside, you and Kylo are safe and warm. And when the song drifts to an end, as people run in slow motion all around you, you lean your head on Kylo’s chest and close your eyes, stepping round and round to the beat of the soft music.

 Eight candles

Eight more candles

Eight more candles

Eight more candles…

                                            --------------------------

Tagging some mob kylo lovin’ friends! <3   Tagging some mob loving pals! As always, if you’d like to be on the list or taken off, please just let me know <3  @adamsnackdriver​​ @dreamboatdriver​​ @kyloxfem​​ @heldcaptivebychaos​​ @kylo-renne​​ @callmehopeless​​ @solotriplets​​ @formerly-anonhamster​​ @lookinsidemyhead​​ @candycanes19​​ @adamsnacc-kler​​ @the-wayward-rose​​ @taylovren-types​​  magikevalynn  tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov​​  romancedeldiablo @elfieboxcat​ @scheherazades-horcrux​ @whiskey-bumblebee​

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

Scars That Heal || Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader Series

• Ch. 2: Thriller •

A/n: I apologize for the possible spelling errors from the Torah scene. They didn't have it in the subtitles so I borrowed from the original script for authenticity, so I apologize for any incorrect information or spelling. Reader's scene is inspired by a scene from the conjuring cause I am unoriginal af and I am a fool for making myself do this since I hated that movie and how it stressed and scared it made me but hey it was writing inspiration so yeah. Anyways, spooky chapter ahead :( Eddie + reader content coming soon!

     "He thrusts his fists against the p-posts,"

     Anyone who knew Bill well knew of his pride in his bike, Silver. Countless times had he been found barreling down the streets on his pride and joy at impossible speeds, crying out in joy.

     "Hi-yo Silver, away!"

     Now was not one of those times. Currently, Bill was descending Jackson St. wheeling Silver alongside him as he practiced the tongue twister his mother taught him, as an exercise for his stuttering. He was never quite able to make it all the way through, but that never stopped him from trying.

     "The thrusts his fist against the p-po-" He shook his head angrily, licking his lips. "Shit!"

     At that moment, he had reached the familiar scene of his driveway. One of the garage doors, he noticed, was open. His dad must be woodworking, he presumed. Sure enough, when he parked his bike in the usual spot, his dad was waiting for him. He took his eye goggles off and turned around, facing away from his current woodworking project.

     "Need some help?" He offered, walking into the garage. "I-I-"

     "I thought we agreed." His father sighed.

     Bill's stomach dropped. He looked to his makeshift model of the sewer system he had created. It was made from borrowed parts of his hamster's tunnels, with two accompanying bins representing different areas of the town.

     "Before you say anything-"

     "Bill,"

     "Just let me show you something first." He insisted, walking towards the model. 

     He eagerly picked up the little green toy soldier, dropping it into the tube labeled Witcham. He grabbed the hose that was still in place from his last attempt and stuck it in the tube, turning it on. The little army man clinked and thunked down the tubes, finally popping out into the other end and into the bin labeled THE BARRENS.

     His father watched unimpressed.

     "The Barrens," Bill urged. "I-I-It's the only place th-that Georgie could have ended up."

     "He's gone, Bill."

     "But if the storm swept Ge-Georgie in, we should have gone--"

     His father snapped, standing to his feet suddenly and his voice grew in volume.

     "He's gone! He's dead!"

     Bill swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and failed to meet his father's eye as he was scolded.

     "He's dead! There is nothing we can do! Nothing!"

     Bill was feeling his hope and happiness being torn down all over again, and his father's voice lowered into a spiteful venom.

     "Now take this down before your mother sees it," He walks over to the blueprints of Derry tacked to the wall, and angrily takes it down. "Next time you want to take something from my office..."

     He fitfully folds the poster, refusing to look his son in the eye, and storms out of the garage.

     "ask."

     Bill looked sadly at his hamster, who was climbing the walls of the cage.

     "Guess you get your t-tunnels back,"

×××

     Mike Hanlon speeds down the road on his bike and into the edge of town. He was making his usual delivery to the butcher, one of his many jobs on his grandparents' farm. It was a warm evening, which made for a nice trip into town. He sped along the main streets, making his way through the familiar turns to the butcher.

     He reached the butcher's and he dismounted his bike, ready to unload the packages of meat for his delivery. That was until he heard the hoots and hollers of the familiar Bowers gang cruising down the street.

     His nerves spiked and Mike sprang into action, quickly grabbing his bike and running him and the bike into the safety of the alley. Bowers always had a knack for finding Mike on his trips through town, and every time he would terrorize the poor boy, spitting racial slurs at him, or worse. Sometimes he would have to come home to his grandparents with injuries he would have to explain. Bowers was as bad as they come and his grandfather was right about people like him.

     As he hid himself and his bike behind a junk pile in the alley, watching the car cruise by slowly on the street, he was brought back to the conversation he and his grandfather had had.

     "There are two places you can be in this world," He said. "You can be out here like us, or you can be in there, like them,"

     He was pointing to the pen stocked with sheep, and Mike felt queasy from the fate of the animals, but knowing truth rang in his grandfather's words.

     "You waste time hemming and hawing, and someone else is gonna make that choice for you. Except you won't know it until you feel that bolt between your eyes."

     Mike saw the blue Trans Am pass the outer street and he exhales in relief.

     "Oh, Jesus."

     Still panting heavily, trying to calm his racing heart, he walks his bike to the end of the alley. He leans his bike against a nearby dumpster, back facing the door of the butcher's, and begins unloading packages of meat.

     He hears a soft growl accompanied the rattling of chains behind him. Quickly, he turns to face the door, curious. He sees the old dirty - or was it singed? - door attempting to swing open. It only opens a crack, the chains on the handle preventing it from opening. And did Mike smell smoke?

     Nevertheless, his eyes never left the door, and his breathing never slowed. He was appalled and horrified to suddenly hear the voice of his mother, or at least who he thought sounded like his mother.

     "Mike!" She screamed.

     Mike flinched, his heart pounding horribly fast. It ached to see the familiar scene before him, just as vivid as he had remembered. Charred hands slipped out from behind the door, clawing at the pavement desperately.

     "Hurry, son!" His father.

     "Help! It burns!"

     Still frozen in terror, Mike steps forward hesitantly, ready to reach the door. Hands are still clawing at the brick wall, scratching the charred door.

     Smoke unfurled from the cracks of the door, the hands retreated. Mike took a step back and the door swung open suddenly. He could hear the rattling of chains once more, and the boy frowned at what he saw. Behind the door was a dark room, the only source of light came from behind the freezer strips to the meat cooler. He could see the outlines of the meat hangers and the many figures of the deceased animals.

     Mike heard the bleating of sheep and metal clanging. Suddenly, a figure hanging in the freezer moved, looking up at him. It was a long lanky figure, everything but it's head limp. It was a distorted figure of a man. He could have sworn it looked almost like a clown.

     The figure twirled around on the chains it hung from. It was now facing Mike, who watched frozen in fear, shaking violently. It stared at Mike, two glowing yellow lights emitted from where its eyes should be. It waved its long slender arm, it's movements stiff and forced, like a marionette puppet.

     The loud and sudden revving of an engine brought Mike out of his daze. Mike jumped frantically, barely missing the Trans Am by inches. Unable to catch his footing, he landed on a pile of cardboard near the dumpster. The car came to a sudden stop, rock music blaring from the radio. In the front seat was Belch Huggins, and a livid Henry Bowers stood on the passenger's seat and popping out of the open sunroof.

     "Stay the fuck outta my town!" He roared, veins bulging from his forehead neck, spit flying.

     He flicked his cigarette at Mike who flinched, and the car roared to life and sped away. Mike stayed on the ground, still panting heavily from the intense encounters. 

     "Mike?"

     He looked up to the open door, the familiar face of the butcher stepping through the side of the building where the clown once was. He was cleaning his knife, blood stained his apron. He looked at Mike in concern.

     "Are you okay?"

×××

     Inside the Derry Synagogue, Stan Uris reads from the Torah, rehearsing. His father, the rabbi, is pacing above him, waiting for a screw up.

     "Baruk atah Adonai, eloheynu meleek,"

     "Melehk. Start again"

     "Baruk atah Adonai, eloheynu malehk... malehk... "

     "Ha'olam..."

     "Ha'olam, Asher bahkar Mikal..."

     "Banu Mikal! You're not studying Stanley. How's it gonna look? The rabbi's son can't finish his own Torah reading. Take the book to my office. Obviously, you're not using it" he spits.

     Stanley closed the book, sighing. He timidly made his way to his father's office and opened the door. With the book clutched to his side, he brought his other hand up to the side of his face, blinding himself from the painting that always made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

     And yet Stan was still able to see the crooked frame on the wall, just as crooked as the woman in the painting itself. Everything about the woman in the painting made him uneasy. Her unnatural elongated neck, and her claw-like fingers that wrapped around the flute. Her eyes were uneven and they were a blank milky white.

     It's silly, Stan told himself, it's just a painting. Just a stupid painting. He stepped forward, trying to calm his racing heart. He exhaled, placing the book under his arm and straightened the painting. See? Nothing bad happened.

     He gladly walked away to the bookshelf at the end of the room, though he couldn't shake the adrenaline that had accumulated in his system. He placed the book on the shelf, and-

     SMACK!

     Stan could hear his blood pumping in his ears and he slowly turned around. The painting face down on the floor. The lights flickered with an obnoxious buzz, matching the rapid beat of his heart. Stan gulped, picking up the large frame and hung it carefully back in place on the wall. He stared at the painting, his heart in his throat and his stomach churned.

     He took a few frightened steps back, panting heavily as he tried to comprehend the now blank painting before him. The woman was gone.

     His breathing picked up, he couldn't believe his eyes. Stan whirled around when he heard the office door creak open. But it had stopped moving. Suddenly, Stan felt as if he was being watched.

     Stan felt chills run down his spine and his skin pricked. It's too quiet, he thought. Right on cue, something dropped to the ground suddenly, and a dark looming figure unknowingly behind him. A figure with a long unnatural elongated neck, and long talon-like fingers. His lungs constricted, he gasped for breath that struggled to enter his lungs, he shakily turned around.

     Out of the shadows came the woman, towering over him, smiling an unnaturally large smile, showing rows of several sharp teeth. A shaky scream erupted from Stan's throat and he fled, slamming the door to the office and never looked back.

×××

     Night had fallen and Beverly and Y/n lay passed out next to one another in front of the Y/n's television set. They were both snuggled up under a shared blanket in the middle of Y/n's living room. The room was silent, apart from the soft and muffled voices coming from the TV. The alternating hues and shades casting from the TV and onto the sleeping form of the girls was the only source of light.

     Laughter from the on-screen audiences echoed in the otherwise silent living room, and Y/n stirred awake. She didn't have to open her eyes to know the TV screen was bright. Soft hues were peeking through her eyelids and she sighed quietly, knowing she had to get up from her spot and turn it off. She sat up slowly, cautious not to move too much and wake Beverly.

     She gently pulled the blanket off her form and it wasn't until her legs were exposed had she realized how hot she had become. Her apartment didn't have the best air conditioning, and summer nights like these made getting comfortable no easy feat. She tiptoed across the room and bent down to switch off the TV. The room was now eerily silent, and she could hear a slight ringing in her ears. She froze when she heard a soft rustling come from Beverly, who stirred in her sleep.

     A brief moment passed as Y/n prayed silently that she hadn't woken Bev up. When nothing happened, she visibly relaxed. Her eyes were still very much heavy from sleep, she trudged back to her spot on the floor, and laid down underneath the blankets.

     She breathed contently at the feeling of her chilled pillow as it met her heated cheeks. Her feet wiggled their way out from under the blanket subconsciously for air, the thin blanket clinging to her sweaty legs. She mentally thanked her past self for opting for her shorts over her long pajama pants. She nuzzled her head gently into the plump cushion and felt sleep blanket her conscious.

     Y/n was eased in and out of sleep like the tide wading up the sand before slinking back out. She was unaware of how much time had passed, but at one point she became aware of Beverly kicking her leg. She frowned, ignoring it, figuring she had done it accidentally.

     She felt the groggy fog of sleep wash over her brain once more. Until she felt a tug on her exposed foot. She frowned, moving her leg away, growing cranky.

     Y/n groaned in protest, a pouty look contorting her face, her eyes still glued shut.

     Another tug.

     "Knock it off, Bev," she whined into her pillow.

     Another tug.

     "Jesus, Bev, I mean it! I'm trying to sleep" she groaned louder.

     No reply. That's when Y/n realized there hadn't been any reply from Beverly the first two times. Not even a breathy chuckle or any sign that Bev had acknowledged her. Or even heard her. She opened her eyes slowly. Soft white slats of light that were creeping through the window was the only source of light.

     Beverly was right next to her, under the blanket, her back to Y/n. And snoring. She was fast asleep. She couldn't have done it. She frowned and propped herself up slightly to get a better look at Bev and she stared in confusion. She looked around the room, but she saw nothing unusual. Her eyes landed on Beverly again, her racking her brain for any possible solution.

     The next thing she knew, she was flung back as she was pulled violently forward across the carpet. Her head smacked into the floor rather harshly, and she temporarily lost her senses. She felt her stomach plummet and she gasped when she made herself peer up. Standing there, towering over her was an impossibly tall, slender figure with disheveled tufts of red hair poking out on all sides and a ghostly white face. Its large bulbous head was cracked and dry, like chipped paint and it was smiling down at her hungrily. It was a clown.

     She would have screamed but nothing came, she had no voice. She trembled violently in terror and she felt hot tears stream down her cheeks, she was begging her limbs to move but they all failed her. His arms were impossibly long, and they were twig thin. No thicker than a paper towel roll and they stretched down all the way to her leg, and he hardly had to bend down to reach. Her left ankle was captured in his thin gloved hand.

     The clown smiled, forming an anatomically impossible U shape, showing rows upon rows of teeth. Its eyes were completely black, save for two glowing yellow irises in the center. Y/n felt her leg grow damp and she realized he-it- whatever the hell this thing was, was now drooling on her, it's fingers still coiled around her leg.

     Y/n hadn't realized she was in pain until she heard herself whimper. Long sharp claws that ripped through his white gloves were now hooked into her ankle tearing her skin to shreds as he pulled. She realized she was slowly being pulled towards the clown inch by terrifying inch. Y/n flinched when she heard a scream until she realized it had been her own. 

     Beverly jumped awake in a frightened panic, looked everywhere around the room, but she found nothing but her traumatized friend.

     She saw her friend sitting up straight, slightly farther down from her pillow, shaking violently. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were wide and bloodshot, silent sobs shook her body and her gaze was focused a million miles away.

     "Jesus Y/n, what happened?" She brought herself forward and wrapped her arms around the girl.

     "C-Clo-" But she was never able to finish her sentence.

     She collapsed into sobs, still shaking with fear. Beverly's heart broke as she cradled her. She gently swayed her, rubbing her hand up and down Y/n's arms soothingly.

     Beverly felt her shoulder grow damp from Y/n's tears but she didn't care. She just continued to try and soothe her best friend. Y/n flinched at just about every move Bev made, and her heart broke more, understanding more than anyone, and Bev tried not to move too much.

     Beverly sat comforting her friend for the better half of an hour. Finally, her sobs had died down, but her eyes were still wide, still very much alert form the horrifying encounter. She sniffled, nuzzled into her friend's arms, and occasionally Bev's long red hair tickled her nose and she'd sniffle.

     Beverly finally spoke up in a gentle whisper. "Do you want to talk about it?"

     She felt Y/n shake her head no, and she felt her shoulder grow damp once more.

     Finally, Y/n spoke, her voice came out in a harsh whisper, it cracked ever so slightly. Either her screaming or lack of words or some combination of the two had taken a toll on her voice.

     "Y-you wouldn't believe me,"

     "Of course I would, Y/n." She assured.

     It was quiet again, and tears silently streamed down her cheeks.

     "I can't..."

Bev sighed, hugging her Y/n tighter if that was even possible.

     "It's okay. I'm not gonna force you. Here," she gently pulled herself away to look her friend in the eye. "Why don't we turn on the lights and grab some midnight snacks from the kitchen and just talk, okay? I have a feeling you're not going to want to go back to sleep. Am I wrong?"

     Y/n shook her head no, and Bev smiled. "Okay, sounds like a plan."

     Bev rose to her feet and walked over beside the couch to the lamp on the side table and switched it on. Soft yellow light lit up the room. Both girls squinted from the bright light, both of them having gotten used to the dark. And Beverly tiptoed to the cent of the room.

     "Must have been some nightmare, huh?"

     Y/n went pale, her eyes fixed on something. She had tried to tell herself that everything she just saw was a figment of her imagination. She would have loved nothing more than that horror show to be just a twisted nightmare. And as Beverly had soothed her, calmed her and comforted her, she had almost begun to believe it. That was until she shifted her foot slightly and felt pain flare up on her ankle.

      Beverly was unaware of her friend's rising panic. Her back to her friend as she rose slightly on her tiptoes to reach the dangling metal chain for the fanlight on the ceiling.

     "Now, let's get some comfort food in you. I myself am craving some..." she trailed off, her eyes bulging out when she saw Y/n.

In the dark, neither of them had seen it. And Y/n had still been in such a state of shock, she forgot all about the pain.

     Y/n's sad and panicked eyes were fixed on her ankle. Another defeated whimper escaped her throat as she stared at the three long and deep gashes that trailed down her left leg, blood staining her [s/c] and the carpet beneath her.

+++

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[har-rison-s]

heaven: one

call

request: Stan x Reader where they were together back in Derry and kind of forgot about each other after moving away but they always had a void in their lives. And then when Stan is just about to do it after Mikes call his phone rings and it’s you and you’re crying after just getting off the phone with Mike to come to Derry. You both end up going back and seeing each other at the restaurant and you guys just catch up after all these years that passed and old feelings come back.

A/N: Hello. This request is amazing, and the anon should be a writer themselves! This has potential, seriously. I am currently in my favourite coffee house, my clothes are wet, I'm stressed out of my mind about moving and I'm gonna write. I changed the povs, sorry about that, but I needed to. So, I hope I meet your standards with this. As always, I try my best. And, this is long. Happy reading!

main masterlist

IT masterlist

heaven masterlist

next part

warnings: you might get very sad or feel a void inside your chest, I'm sorry about that. Grab a tissue, maybe.

word count: 3.1k

gif credit goes to owner, which isn't me!

my baby ://///

The name Mike Hanlon said to you over the phone brought back so much memories you can't remember forgetting. He said many names, but one caught your ear best. They were all names of your childhood best friends, all meant the greatest deal to you. The meaning lasted until you moved out of Derry, and forgot each of their names, stories and significance to you. Including Stanley Uris.

And you knew then exactly what was missing through your whole life. That one person who holds a whole world inside of him, a whole little universe. He was always the tug backwards, the something that discouraged you from making any big decision, that one thing you always saved all the good stuff for. All precious experiences, usable polaroid film, your life-long savings, your best dresses and blouses and skirts, your empty sketchbooks.

Now it was crystal clear who you were saving it all for. This person you thought you'd save everything that was ever dear and worth saving for. This person you didn't know most of your life, you had forgot knowing. Stanley. Bird boy. The Rabbi's son. Your classmate, your friend. Your best friend.

And, alas, the boy you liked as a little girl, and as a teenager. Truth be told, if you'd never moved away after high school, the feelings would have progressed and continued on, they would only be stronger than ever. But you wouldn't know. Nor you, nor Stanley wouldn't know how your lives would turn out if you'd both stayed in Derry.

His moving away was a huge heartbreak for you both. The teenage couple everyone loved, including their best friends, parents and even teachers. The day was the most despised of all days by you, by Stanley. He hated leaving you, but it was not his choice, but his parents. And “...as long as you live under my roof, as long as you are my son, you obey my wishes!”. What an unpleasant man his father was. You had always been afraid of him, never dared to breath more than needed in his presence. And staying in Derry wasn't your choice, either. It was your parents' idea and decision. They wouldn't let you go because of Stanley.

That was the last day you saw Stanley Uris. Your last glance at him was through tears, Stan was waving at you through the car window, his own tears streaming down his face. He didn't want his last appearance in your mind to be a sad one, but he couldn't hide his feelings. He wanted you to see him smile at the last second. But he just couldn't move his lips to smile.

He had kissed you good-bye many, many times, telling you each kiss was the last so you'd have less to long for. It didn't work, of course. Tearful kisses, they were. Promises of meeting each other soon, promises of running away together then and there. Remembering the best moments together, the funniest moments together. You were tied together like two vines that usually decorate forgotten houses or fences, inseperable at your last moments together.

You promised Mike to return to Derry, Maine, tomorrow. You weren't sure of your decision, but you knew you made an oath. You remembered it, Mike helped you to. You remembered how big of a mile-stone it was in your life. The day at Neibolt and the oath made in the meadow by the river was life-changing. It meant more to you than anything you had promised or decided in your life, before and after. That's why you had to go back.

Ending the call, you burst into tears, and almost dropped your device on the floor. Your hands held your head as you collapsed on the sofa with your back first. You wheezed and you cried and practically screamed. All the memories--good and bad--had come back to touch your soul and your heart and your mind. It was an overwhelming feeling. As if you're getting too much information at once, as if you're being slapped in the face with a brick. It's too sudden and it's too much.

You decided you had to call Stan. You texted Mike to send his number, and he did--quite quickly, too. You had to hear the voice of your childhood crush, your best friend. And you were hoping he'd pick up, that you'd hear his voice. That he was actually alive still. Anything might have happened and the fact that Mike has his phone number doesn't mean anything. Stanley Uris could be in any state and situation right now, you could only guess. And you're guessing it's a good one he's in, a happy life, but pessimistic thoughts starting with “what if” invade your mind as well as the good ones do. You're scared.

Stanley is scared, too. He's scared for his life. He's scared for all their lives. Stanley's most scared of what it means to meet his fears again. He's afraid of what he'll see. Afraid he won't save his friends if they need saving. He's afraid to lose any of them. What happens if he lets them die because he's trapped between his own worst fears? What if he has to watch his friends die?

And Y/N. What if he sees her… No, it's too horrible to think about. He can't bear the thought of losing her. Who knows which time in order it would be now. He's lost her countless times. He's been lost without her his whole life, and only now does he understand she's been the one to fill this empty spot inside him everywhere he goes. The love of his life. His first real love, his first girl.

She has to survive. She has to live further. And Stanley can't risk endangering that. He's going to be the downfall of this whole mission if he goes back. He'll endanger his friends because he can't face his fears, he can't deal with them like he should. He's too afraid.

So he gets in the bath, stark naked, and with only one thing on his mind. He's written the letters to each of his friends already, and it took him a while. But the words to say he always had in his mind, so the only problem was how fast his hand could write them on pieces of paper. Then the envelopes and he was done.

The bath water is comforting and as Stanley lay under it, he can't help but remember the Blood Oath. The look of determination in Bill Denbrough's eyes as he cut Stanley's wrist with a piece of glass. The promise Stanley gave to him with spoken words and with his eyes, and his heart. The promise he thought would shape the rest of his life, but what shaped his whole life was actually what made the Losers Club make their blood oath.

His phone rings again. It alarms Stanley and due to his little jump, the water in the bath moves in sudden waves and spills over the edges. He turns his head towards where his phone, his wedding ring and his clothes lay, the chair in the corner of the bathroom. He sighs and contemplates whether to answer or not to.

Stanley's eyes glance at the blade laying on the side of the bath. It brings terror to his heart and mind. The pain he would cause himself with it. The sight of the blade gives his body a fearful shiver. He looks back at the still ringing phone. Who could be calling him? Mike again? Or someone from work?

He decides to rise from the bath and answer the phone. Stanley almost slips on his way over to the phone, but catches himself before he can. He wraps his dark blue robe around himself and ties the knot, and finally reaches for the phone. His hands are shaking.

It's an unknown number calling. Still calling, might he add. He slides the answer button to the right and lifts the phone to his ear. He's doing the right thing, he tells himself, and tries to convince his fears with the same sentence.

“S-Stanley Uris speaking.” His shiver impacts his voice and he stutters. He waits for the caller to introduce themselves, but he only hears a cry and sobs on the other end. Is this another trick from… IT? Has IT actually called him?

“Stanley?” A feminine voice asks. “Is it really you?” And Stanley knows immediately who it is. It's Y/N. It's her calling him. She's actually on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, yes, this is me.” He confirms and takes a seat on his bathroom floor carpet. He nods with his head, despite that his childhood best friend can't see him right now. “Is this Y/N?”

Y/N nods, too. “It is me, Stan.” She tells him, and there's another cry on her end. “God, I'm so glad to hear your voice. I thought… You know, with all these years that have passed, anything could have happened. Who knows if you were… If any of you would still be here!” Y/N admits to him, and there's even a sad chuckle after her words. Stanley does the same, a small smile on his face despite the dreadful situation he's in.

“God… I don't even know what to say.” Stanley says and pulls his knees closer to his chest. Little does he know, Y/N makes the same pose on her living room couch.

“Me neither.” She replies.

“Well, I could start with don't cry.” Stanley tells her, and it makes both of them mutter a quiet chuckle. Y/N's voice sounds dry, hoarse, and it's only because of her previous and current weeping.

“Did you get the call from Mike?” She asks then, and tears sting her eyes again. Only the thought of her friends and Derry and everything that comes with it can push her to such an emotionally high level… It's hard. It's even hard for her to talk.

“I did.” Stanley says very quietly. The thought of what he was about to do terrifies him now, and it terrified him when he was in the bath. He's still not sure about going back. He's never been this afraid, he thinks, but he could be wrong. “Are you going?” He asks Y/N in a whisper, and the question brings tears out to wet his cheeks and chin. He's so scared to think about going back. Stanley's terrified of the thought of all of them in the sewers again.

Y/N breaks down. Her fingers squeeze her nose and she tries not to cry, pressing her eyes shut tightly. But the tears do come, and the sobs come, too. She cries into the phone, and Stanley can hear the dispair and obvious dislike of the question and the thoughts surrounding it in just her sobs. “We have to.” She says after a short while. She wipes her tears and looks up at her white ceiling, taking a deep breath and breathing out again. “I will go back. We made a promise.” She finally says. A silent prayer that Stanley is coming can be heard in these words from her. She waits for his answer.

Stanley sighs deeply and lets a few tears fall down his cheeks, watching them make darker spots on his robe. He's surrounded by fear. By fear, by doubts, by options, by chances, by memories. And Y/N's voice. Not what she sounds like now. What her voice was like when they were both little. Her giggles, her cheers, her squeals, her voice. The memories make him smile. They shine brightly through the cloud around his mind.

“Stanley?” She now asks, and brings him out of dwelling on the past. It's not all bad, though, and he sees that now. There's still light. There's still hope. Y/N sniffs and looks down at her feet. “Are you still here?” She questions still.

“I'm coming, too.” Stanley finally tells her. He wants to say 'i'm coming, too, then', because it's really only her that he's going back to Derry for. To prevent the risk of losing her, to prevent the risk of IT taking over her life. “Mike said I need to be there tomorrow.” He says. Y/N nods.

“Yeah, he told me that, too.” She says. “I guess I'll… see you then.” She then says. Stanley yearns to tell her 'don't hang up!', but there's the certainty of them meeting in maybe less than twenty-four hours. The thought excites and scares him at the same time. What if something goes wrong and he doesn't make it? What if something happens to Y/N and she doesn't go? “Home.” Y/N mutters.

“Home” Stanley repeats in a whisper. “I--I'm looking forward to it.” Stanley tells her, his head nodding as if a visual confirmation of his words. Y/N's lips can't help but curl into a small grin. He's looking forward to meeting her.

“Me, too.” She tells him in response. “I'm gonna pack now, so I'll see you… tomorrow.” Y/N informs. It still takes a bit of time to process and actually say the words, they seem to describe something unreal. Something out of a dream. Is Y/N sure she's not dreaming now? Maybe she's not talking to Stanley at all… She sure hopes not.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Stanley nods. “Tomorrow.”

Y/N closes her eyes. “Bye, Stanley.” She says and waits for him to say the same.

“Bye-bye, Y/N.” He bids goodbye in the same way he did and has always done. Y/N smiles once recognising it. Her finger presses the red button at the bottom of her phone screen, ending the all, and puts her phone down on the coffee table in front of her. She runs her hands over her face, trying to wipe every trace of a tear off and get some energy into herself. She sighs. This won't be easy.

“Stanley? Honey, what's going on?” Patty asks and she knocks on the Uris' bathroom door for the hundredth time. But Stanley hears her knocks and her questions for the first time and he looks at the door in front of him. “Will you let me in?” His wife asks carefully. She almost asked him 'do you want to let me in?', but that would be silly to ask.

Stanley's eyes immediately fall upon the razor on the tub's edge. He panics. Shit. Where is he gonna put it? Stanley rises to his feet, takes the razor in one hand, walks over to the bathroom window, opens it a tiny slit--very quietly so--and throws the razor out.

With it, gone is his terror and fears. At least for now. That razor was a beacon for all things bad and traumatic and fear-inticing. He breathes a deep breath and puts his phone down on his pile of clothes. He hesitates to put on his ring, staring at it for a while. But then he puts it back on his left ring finger and goes to open the door to face Patty.

He's met with her face twisted by worry and anxiety. Almost tears in her eyes. Stanley offers her a hug when she comes into the bathroom, eyes examining everything they fall upon, and he hugs her tightly, comfortingly.

“Stanley, what's going on? You're acting very strange.” Patty says once she looks at her husband and inspects his face. Her palm touches his cheek, and she notices how he's leaning into her hand a little less than he does usually. That's weird. “Has something happened? Who called you?”

Stanley's eyes are calm, and he takes a breath before he speaks, trying to keep himself content. “An old friend of mine from Derry, Maine. I don't think I've ever told you about him or my other friends… Frankly, I didn't remember so much that I could tell you.” He tells Patty, and she waits for more. “But that's not so important. The thing is, I have to go back there, and I have to go now.” Stanley finally gets to the main part. “There's a thing we have to fix, because we made an oath when we were… younger. And if we don't fix it now, then… No one ever will.”

Patty's face is puzzled, just like Stanley expected. She wonders why her husband is so secretive and runs her thumb over his stubbled cheek once more.

“That's about as much as I can tell you, baby-love.” He tells her and places a kiss on her forehead. “Please trust me.” Stanley begs her when he looks into Patty's eyes again. He's never done that before, except the first time they ever made love, and the begging for trust was not verbal, it was through his eyes. Something's really off.

Patty nods. “I trust you, honey.” She assures him and Stanley gives her a relieved smile. “I can help you with anything you need, but you need to tell me why you were taking a bath.” Patty asks of him. “You rarely take baths so late in the evening.”

Stanley sighs. He really doesn't want to lie to Patty, not after everything. Not while he loves her and not when she promised to trust him. Not when she has trusted him for all this time. But she can't know the truth. It'd be very harmful for her, to say the least. “I needed to put some things in place. Figured a bath would help me do that.” He tells her. It's not exactly a lie, it's a generalisation of what he did.

Patty's eyes still show some sort of reluctance, because she does find his behavior after the call very out-of-the-ordinary. But she lets it go. If there's something her husband needs to do, he will and she won't stop him. It's clearly very important to him, why else would he be acting so strange?

“How long will you be gone for?” Patty asks Stanley as they're both folding clothes he'd take with him back to his hometown.

“I really don't know.” He tells her in response. “But I don't think it'll be more than four to five days. So I…” won't be gone for that long. But he doesn't know that. He can't promise her what he's not sure of. He may even never return. Or, rather, he may not return to her as a husband. No, he mustn't think that way. But what if it happens? He meets Y/N and everything changes. “So I'll call you, okay? I will let you know, whatever happens.” Stanley stops folding and looks at her with a serious look glazing over his brown orbs.

Patty nods. “I trust you, Stanley. Everything will be alright.” She tells him, and even offers him a smile. Stanley returns one and kisses the top of her palm. It still makes Patty blush.

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There will be a part two.

[catsee]

Bringer of Death

Chapter 1/?

“So, let me get this straight.” Levi shifted in the seat, denim rubbing against leather upholstery. “You can’t actually turn me into a demon?!”

Alastor sighed exasperatedly. “I can! It’s just I have my reasons.”

“Reasons.” Levi scoffed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, how am I supposed to trust you when you go around making promises you can’t keep?!”

Al’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” He slung his arm over the shoulder of his seat, staring straight into his partner’s soul. “I’m a demon of mischief, for fuck’s sake! It’s in the job description. If you knew the first thing about being a demon, you’d understand that you can’t go around willy-nilly giving away stuff for free. You always have to pay some sort of price—”

The car suddenly lurched as something struck the front bumper. Alastor slammed on the brakes and the vehicle abruptly halted.

“....You hit something.”

“No, I didn’t,” Al argued. “Something hit me.” He hastily got out of the car. “Stay in the car, I’m gonna check on it.”

“Make sure you didn’t kill it!”

Alastor slammed the door, peering through the open window.

“How could I have killed it? It was only a bump. Couldn’t even knock out the engine pipe.”

Levi knitted his brow. “....What are we talking about?”

“The car! What did you think?” Alastor asked incredulously, lifting up the hood.

Levi groaned. Typical Al, always thinking about himself. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten stuck in this situation. But at least the politicians were less corrupt on this side.

A small “heh” made him jump. He looked out of his window and came face to face with a large black dog. It was either the biggest Great Dane he’d ever seen or some kind of deformed, shaved bear. It sat back on its haunches and wagged it’s tail.

“Raff-ruff.”

He gasped. “You said my name! Either that or ‘rabbi’. Did you say ‘Levi’ or ‘rabbi’?”

“Raff-ruff.”

He inhaled so deeply his heart almost exploded.

Alastor slammed the hood back down. “She looks alright to me, Lee. Let’s get back on the—“

He peered inside Talbot-Lago to find the passenger seat empty.

“Levi? Kid!!”

He circled the car three times, failing to hide the worried look on his face. He even checked under the car and was beginning to become frantic.

“Levi Nathans, where the Archangel are you?!”

A deep groan grumbled from some nearby brush. Al searched the area for something to use as a weapon, but settled on the spare tire hooked to the rear bumper. Cautiously, he edged closer to the brush, tire tucked under his arm. He gathered his stamina, clenched his fists, raised the tire over his head, and ran headlong into the brush—He stopped.

Levi laid on the ground, crying out and laughing while the giant dog on top of him licked his face.

“KID!!”

Al dropped the spare tire and dragged Levi out from under the dog. He looked up at him, perturbed.

“What’d you do that for?!”

“Saving your life! That thing could have eaten your face off!” He gestured towards the dog. It chewed on its hind leg.

Levi glanced up annoyed. “Come on, Al. She’s just a big old sweetheart.”

The Dane trotted up to the human again whom happily began ruffling her wrinkled neck.

“Kid, that is a hellhound! A herald of death! It’s like a banshee that sheds.”

“Oh come on. Look at this face~” he smushed up her drooping face. “Does that look like the face of a monster?”

The dog stuck out her tongue and licked his palms. Alastor could only stare. His human, so naive.

“Can’t we keep her?”

“No!” His answer was immediate. “Absolutely not! Out of the question!”

Levi stood up to his full height. “Alastor—“

“Lee, you don’t know how this world works. You can’t just take in animals off the streets. You don’t know what’s dangerous here.”

“I don’t know, but how am I going to know if I don’t ‘expand my horizons’ a little?”

He smirked, watching Alastor’s face go red. Using his own quote against him. Clever human.

“Besides, you did hit her with your car and negligent injury to an animal is punishable by flogging, if I’m not mistaken.”

Al groaned furiously. Why did he have to be so cunning?! He’d make a perfect demon.

“Look, even if we could keep her, there’s no room in the Talbot-Lago.”

Levi chuckled. “I think there is.” He snapped his fingers.

At the sound of creaking metal, Alastor’s head whipped around. He peeked out of the brush and his face drained of color as he saw his beloved Talbot-Lago stretched to accommodate a backseat.

Meanwhile, Levi led the giant canine into the car, securing her in the back.

“Come on, Al. Don’t want to hit something else out here.”

He hexed his car. He hadn’t even taught him how to do that and he chose to do it to his CAR!!!

“Alastor! Come on!”

[donutpwns]

Stanuary - Love

When his father had demanded Stan come with him, he'd expected the worst. The feeling of dread had grown when he'd forbid Ford from coming with them, pointing his brother to the stairs. He'd exchanged looks with his brother and knew they were both thinking the same thing: what had Stan done now? The thought followed him to his father's car, anxiety cranked up when an old shoebox was placed in his lap.

His grades were in the toilet as usual, barely passing thanks to copying Ford's homework. He'd stolen a few candy bars from the local store but he was sure no one had seen him. He'd long since broken his last pair of glasses so it couldn't be that and it wasn't like he could really break his braces, not for lack of effort on Crampelter's part though. Maybe old man Samson had finally figured out that he'd been filching tools and stuff to fix the boat from his beat down old hardware store? Oh Moses, was that it?

His fingers tighten on the edges of the shoebox as they drive to park in a sandy parking lot on the beach; he can count the steps to where the Stan O War is sunk into the sand. Oh god, it was finally going to happen. Their dad was going to destroy their boat and they'd never get out of here. Shit, why had he stolen those tools? Shit shit shit.

“Stanley, there's a reason I brought you here.” His dad's deadpan voice cuts through his thoughts. He grips the steering wheel, the sunbaked leather giving out a muffled creak. “You're fourteen now and it's time you start acting like a man. That's why we're here.” And with that he's getting out of the car.

Stan gets out too, hugging the shoebox to his chest; whatever is in it feels heavy. “Is this about my bar mitzvah again?” He knows his dad was mad about the Groucho glasses but he'd still passed. Technically. And with very little cheating, thank you very much; just the occasional look at Ford who'd been mouthing the words. “I told Rabbi Bachman I was sorry.”

He can see a muscle twitch in his dad's cheek. “No. Give me the box.” He opens it once it's in his hands and sets it on the hood of the car. “This stays under the counter at all times; it's not a toy for you to show off to your little friends, you hear me?”

Stan doesn't have friends to show things off to, aside from Ford of course. But he doesn't correct him, especially when he finally sees what's sitting in the bottom of the box. It looks like a pistol from the westerns Ma likes to watch with a box of bullets next to it. Stan swallows, something heavy and wriggling climbing up the back of his throat. “Dad?”

His father picks the gun up and puts it in Stan's hands like it's just something one does. “My dad taught me how to shoot when I was your age and I taught Sherman how when he was your age. Now it's your turn to learn.” He taps the chamber, “We’re not leaving here until you are a decent shot.”

It's heavy and the metal is cold, it nearly slips in his sweat-slick hands. Stan doesn't like the weight of it; all he can picture is the way the cowboys fell from their horses with a bang and a puff of smoke. He knows they got up when the filming stopped but in the movies they’re dead. “Sh-shouldn't Ford be here too then?” Maybe he can postpone this forever. At the moment he can't think of anything he wants less than to be shooting a gun alone with his dad.

“This isn't about Ford. Your brother is brilliant but he can't even throw a punch, Stan. He's better off focusing on something important he can actually do. This is a man's weapon.” He grabs the back of Stan's neck with one hand and scoops up the box of bullets with the other. He guides them just a fair distance from where the parking lot ends and points to a mostly broken wooden fence that is supposed to mark the end of the asphalt and the start of the sand, though the sand has long blown past it. “Aim for the middle post and pull the trigger.”

It takes effort to not let the gun shake as he steps up, carefully aiming the gun towards said post. There’s a bump at the end of the barrel, is that what he’s supposed to aim with? He guesses so and lines it up with the top of the post. The trigger is firmer than he imagined it would be and it seems to fight him when he pulls it.

There’s no puff of smoke but there’s definitely a bang, so much louder than Stan was expecting and it nearly makes him drop the gun when it jerks in his grip. He fumbles and hugs it to his chest on habit. “Shit!” he yells.

He flinches when his father’s palm finds the back of his head with an audible smack.

His dad grunts, “Aim again and don’t drop it this time.”

He hates the weight of the gun in his hand and his ears are ringing slightly from the bang. “Dad, I don’t—”

“Do what I said, Stanley. We’re not leaving until you hit that post.” He says it with the finality he always uses to threaten them and Stan knows that he’ll be standing here until dawn if he doesn’t do what he’s told.

BANG

Miss.

BANG

Miss.

BANG

He clips the very top of the post three to the left of the middle with that one and lets his hands fall in front of him. The ringing in his ears is louder and his hand is starting to ache a bit from how the trigger resists being pulled. Frustration is bubbling up to fight the unease of the whole situation. “Dad, c’mon, do I have to do this?”

His father has taken an unimpressed stance with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched his youngest fail to make a single shot. “Yes. Aim again.”

“Dad, I don’t want to do this.” He tries with a huff.

“Aim again, Stanley. That’s an order.”

Stan grits his teeth and tightens his hold on the gun if just so he doesn’t throw it like he wants to. Instead he lifts it back up once more and tries to aim to the right since his one hit was so far to the left. He pulls the trigger and this one hits two to the left, a little further down but still not the target. He takes another shot and hits that same post, the wood splintering and cracking from the second bullet.

His dad lets out a bland sort of noise and extends the box of bullets to Stan. “Reload and do it again.”

“What’s the point? Just add this as another thing I’m bad at!” he tries to shove the box back to his dad. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to learn how to shoot. “I don’t like it and I’m not gonna get it so let’s just go home!” it feels like he keeps getting called on to give an answer he doesn’t have just so the rest of the class can snicker at him.

“Stanley, I gave you an order.” There’s a dangerous tone creeping into his father’s voice.

Stan’s face burns, heat digging into his cheeks and the back of his neck. “Why are you even doing this? Who cares if I know how to shoot? I’m not even allowed in the shop half the time so what does it matter if there’s a gun in there?”

There's a hesitation, an awkward stretch of silence where Stan is almost entirely sure he’s going to get his hide tanned, and then his father reaches a hand towards him and he clenches his eyes shut for the blow. Instead his father’s hand closes on Stan's shoulder. “Listen, Stanley. You're...hell, you're a screw-up.” He looks up but his dad is impossible to read, though he at least doesn’t seem angry. “Most of the time it seems like all you can do is lie and leech off those around you. The direction you're going, you're not going to make anything of yourself.”

The words are nothing new but they still dig in, little barbs that drag Stan's shoulders down. “Thanks, Dad.” He bites out as his only defense. He can't punch those words away, not like what people say about Ford. “I’m a good-for-nothing, I know.”

“Let me finish.” The hand on his shoulder cuffs him on the side of the head. “You're not good at much but you are good at fighting and I know you care about this family. No matter what, you’re still a Pines. That's what this gun is for: protecting our family. So that's why you have to learn this. So I can trust you to keep your mother and brother safe if I'm not around. You understand that?”

His gaze goes back down to the gun in his hand then to the splintered post then back to his father. The idea of actually shooting anyone twists his stomach but the knot eases just a bit if he adds his ma or Ford to the equation. “Dad, I can just use my boxing—”

His dad holds up a hand. “Sometimes you can’t fix things with a punch or a pretty word, Stanley. Sherman is out of the house and I’m getting older. Ford’s smart but he’s not a fighter.” he takes the gun from Stan’s hands, effortlessly popping the barrel out and slotting bullets into the chambers. He spins the barrel and puts it back in place with a snap of his wrist. It’s held out to Stan then, his father frowning. “Can I trust you to be a Pines man and protect them? Because if not then there’s no point in you coming back home with me.”

Stan stares at the gun for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. You can trust me, Dad.” He takes the gun and takes aim once more. He’ll get some knuckledusters, like the gangsters in the movies. He’ll get better at lying. He knows he can protect everyone with that but if he has to, he can shoot. If his dad trusts him to be the protector, Stan can do that. He never wants a gun to be the answer but he’ll do it. For Ma, for Ford, for Dad.

BANG

Miss.

“Aim again.”

[180abroad]

Day 140 - Isle of Skye (For One)

Today we enjoyed our last Rabbie's tour of the trip--a 12-hour excursion to the Isle of Skye and back. After an early breakfast of coffee and cereal, we headed down to the meeting point in town. Jessica still wasn't feeling well, but she was determined to make it.

Sadly, she didn't make it far.

As we rode along the gently winding freeway along the side of Loch Ness, it soon became clear that things weren’t going to go very well. In addition to its other lovely gifts, Jessica's cold seemed to have lowered her threshold for car sickness to a dangerous level.

After making the bus pull over for fresh air half-way down to Urquhart Castle–then barely making it to the castle from there–we both knew that it was a losing battle. There were still eleven and a half hours to go, and it was only going to get rougher from there on in. So, as much as we hated to do so, we asked our guide Emily to arrange a taxi to take Jessica home. Having been assured by Jessica that she would be fine, I stayed on the bus with the promise to take all the pictures I could.

12 hours and 1,306 pictures later, I think I kept my promise.

While Jessica waited for her very expensive taxi to drive all the way out from Inverness and take her back into town on a Sunday morning, I rode on through an increasingly twisting and ruggedly beautiful stretch of the Highlands. And after an hour or so, we stopped at Eilean Donan Castle.

Sitting at the nexus of three lochs near the western coast of Scotland, Eilean Donan is one of the most stunningly picturesque castles I saw during the entire trip. And the views from the castle were just as amazing as the views of the castle.

As I learned inside the castle, however, the building that stands today is a modern recreation. The original castle was blown up by the British in 1719 during the Jacobite uprisings. 200 years later, a descendant of the Jacobite owners reclaimed the ruins and poured his fortune into rebuilding it as it was.

The results are stunning and well worth a visit. But mostly just for the views.

After spending most of our allotted hour taking pictures outside the castle, I decided I should make the most of my 10-pound ticket and actually go inside. In retrospect, that might have been a mistake. The interior of the castle is a cramped shrine to the owner's family history. There's a display case dedicated to the Bonnie Prince, including a lock of his hair and a letter penned in his hand.

It was so crowded inside that we had to use the stairs in shifts. Once I got upstairs, there was a ten-minute wait before I was allowed to go back down.

As we were leaving, we saw a crazy German camping tour truck in the parking lot.

As we drove onward, Emily dispelled some common myths about Highland culture. The first was the idea of clan tartans. In Edinburgh, we saw shops filled with tartan patterns associated with one clan or another. It's a popular souvenir for Americans with Scottish heritage to come and buy a scarf or cap printed with their supposed family pattern.  But this is another artifact of Victorian romanticism.

When Queen Victoria was touring the Highlands, she noticed that when she stayed with a family, their family portraits would all feature similar tartan patterns. Coming from a perspective of English royalty, she assumed that the patterns were the Highland equivalent of family colors or coats of arms. In reality, they were just the patterns and colors that the local seamstresses were familiar with. If anything, tartan patterns were simply indicators of who made the fabric, not of who wore it.

Emily also talked about the Scottish clan system and how American tourists tend to misunderstand the significance of clan names. Clans were political units, not family units, and clan names were not family names. Some clans were named after their chiefs, but many were named for legendary or historical warriors with no actual relation to the clan.

Having the last name MacDonald doesn’t necessarily mean you are descended from the MacDonald clan. It probably just means that you are descended from some guy whose father’s name was Donald. And even if you can trace your genealogy back to the Clan MacDonald, which one? There were tons of rival clans that went by the same name.

Finally, we crossed the bridge onto the Isle of Skye. The bridge is fairly new. Before it opened in 1995, people had to take a ferry from the mainland. According to Emily, the bridge was a controversial project. Being able to drive on and off the island at will was a boon to the economy, and tourism on the island has exploded. But at the same time, Skye has lost some of the mystique and cultural insulation that it had previously enjoyed.

Our first stop was at the Cuillin Mountains, which dominate the southern end of Skye. The range is divided into the Red Cuillins and the Black Cuillins. The Red Cuillins are rounded and grassy–perfect for grazing. The Black Cuillins are steep and craggy–perfect for climbing. Legend says that they were formed when two giants fought for days on end to determine which was stronger.

It looked like the Shire and Mount Doom had been smooshed together into a single frame.

Our next stop was Portree, the largest village on Skye. The name is a corruption of Port Righ, a Gaelic name meaning King's Port. According to legend, it was named after King James V visited the island in 1540. The two main clans of Skye--the MacDonalds and the MacLeods--were in the grip of brutal feud. The savagery got so out of hand that it was becoming a national embarrassment, reinforcing the negative stereotype of the savage Scots throughout Europe.

Determined to reestablish order in the outskirts of his realm, James sailed over Skye to tell the clan leaders in person to knock it off. He chose to land his fleet at a neutral fishing village in the middle of the island, and that village was thereafter known as the King's Port.

Trying to save a bit of time and money, I picked up a sandwich from a nearby Co-Op. I wandered up the hill to find a place to sit with a view, but there was no seating to be found. I eventually turned back and wandered down to the pier, where I finally found a bench perched precariously close to the edge.

After lunch, I headed up another hill to see the so-called Apothecary's Tower. Emily had recommended it to us for having great views and being virtually deserted no matter how many tourist buses were in town.

On my way up, I got sidetracked and ended up following a long trail around the side of the hill. The views were spectacular, though, so I didn’t bother to turn around.

And I did make it to the tower in the end.

Just like Emily said, the place was deserted and offered a great view of the city. It was built in the 1800s and served briefly as a medical dispensary for local sailors, hence the name Apothecary's Tower.

I also spotted a wild raspberry bush.

Back in town, I had just enough time to peek into a few craft shops and pick up a souvenir for Jessica--a tiny handmade glass puffin.

Back in the bus, we continued northward along some amazingly blue water toward the Storr, a jagged hill with spiky stone formations sticking out at otherworldly angles. One spike in particular stands out, on its own about halfway down the slope. It's known as the Old Man of Storr, and from a distance, it looks like the silhouette of a stooped man walking down a gentle slope.

One legend says that long ago, an amorous young couple was wandering the hillsides north of Portree. Among the crags and crannies of the Storr, they stumbled across a gathering of fairies. Fairies do not like being disturbed, and the couple ran away as fast as they could. The woman made it to safety, but the man was caught by fairy magic and turned to stone--cursed to spend the rest of time as a morality tale against sneaking off at night.

Emily praised the remarkably clear day, and as we pressed further north we could see the distant isles of Raasay and Rona and the Scottish mainland beyond.

Our next stop was Kilt Rock, a long coastal cliff made of columnar basalt that resembles the pleats of a kilt. The views are spectacular, and there is ample parking for the hordes of tourists competing to see them.

Our last big stop of the day was a mountainous region of northern Skye called the Quiraing. It goes on for miles, but there's one view in particular that seems purpose-built to make a spectacular photo.

We had about twenty minutes to wander around, and I must admit that this was a stop where I was one of those annoying people who lose track of time and hold everyone up an extra few minutes. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Skye is one of the most dramatic and beautiful places I saw on our trip, but it felt more like a chain of tourist-filled photo ops than a living place. That's probably an unfair assessment given the whistle-stop format of the tour, and I'm still entirely glad that I went. I'd happily return and spend a week hiking around all these gorgeous places that I was only able to glimpse. But more than anything else, it made me nostalgic for our time on Islay, which I hope is never tied to the mainland by a bridge.

Leaving the Quiraing, we circled around the northern reaches of Skye. The landscape was wide, wild, and full of sheep--some of which made us stop and wait for them to cross the road.

The rest of the trip was a quiet, slightly sleepy ride home, with comfort stops in the northwestern port town of Uig--where you can catch ferries to the remote Outer Hebrides--and the southeastern former ferry town of Kyleakin.

As we approached Inverness, we found the gloomy rain we'd managed to outrun in Skye.

Along the way, Emily told us one last story. It was about how the landscape of the Highlands has changed over the centuries and how Highlanders see their home quite differently than tourists. To us, the Highlands seem romantically desolate–empty windswept hillsides where the forces of nature still hold strong. But that isn't really true.

For one, these areas used to be much more populated. Today, Skye has about ten thousand people on it, but it once had five times that number. And instead of being concentrated in a few towns, those people were spread evenly across the entire island. Four hundred years ago, you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere in Scotland where there wasn’t a farmhouse or two nearby.

The lands were more-or-less free for the people to use as they needed–as long as they made enough to pay their rents. The clan chiefs would collect rents from anyone who lived on their lands, and they would have unquestioned authority to set rules and settle disputes on their land. In exchange, the common folk could focus all their energy on pulling what little sustenance they could from the unyielding land so that they could survive the next winter. Which was hardly a sure thing.

It was a good system for a harsh landscape where raiding and pillaging were the rule rather than the exception.

But that all changed after the Battle of Culloden. The clan system was abolished, and the Highlands were finally folded into the British legal and political system.

In exchange for their lordly authority, the clan chiefs were converted into landlords. That meant that instead of just overseeing their territories, they actually owned them. Which meant that they could do whatever they wanted with it. And what they wanted to do was make money.

They drove their former clansmen off their lands to make room for more profitable English sheep farmers. Without land to feed themselves from, the peasants had no choice but to move into towns, doing harder work for less pay in the budding industrial factories--which the clan chiefs also owned. Some left to seek their fortune in North America instead, but a law from Parliament banning emigration put a stop to that.

It was only after an economic downturn--when factories shut down and tens of thousands of Highlanders were on the brink of starving to death–that the former chiefs finally relented and allowed their captive laborers to be shipped off to Canada and Australia, where they could start new lives in a new land.

And now the Highlands consist of one small city, a few small towns and villages, and miles upon miles of empty space between them.

The second difference between Scotland today and the Scotland of yore is the forests. Two thousand years ago, virtually all of Scotland was covered in dense forests. Over the centuries, the forests were cut down for lumber and to make room for farms and cattle. By the start of the modern era, the proportion of forested to non-forested land had been reversed.

When the Highlands were cleared and the peasants corralled into towns, the land might have started reverting to its original wooded state--if not for the vast herds of commercial sheep and wild deer that continuously strip the land of any budding foliage.

Actually, there are some forests dotting the Highlands. You can spot them pretty easily. They're always near the highways, stand in suspiciously square patches. They're all tree farms filled with non-native species and destined for chopping.

As beautiful and dramatic as the Highlands of today are, they are also a sad reminder to every true Highlander of just how far and how fundamentally they have been cut off from their traditional ways of life.

Back in rainy Inverness, I picked up a feel-better pizza for Jessica, and we watched another episode or two of Outlander before going to sleep.

Next Post: Resting Up (Markets, Museums, and More Pizza)

Last Post: Inverness and the Highlands

[k-hiphopshit]

Relationship Milenstones For Workaholics (Gray x Reader)

Requested by anon. Inspired by the song “ride”. Enjoy!

Your relationship with Seonghwa did not start right away, it was like a slow burning. You were a bit different that what he was looking for in a partner, well that's what he thought.

You were a beautiful woman no doubt, but your attitude towards life and others caught him off guard. You were established at what you did, a full time job, a house, car, luxury brands at your closet, life was good, being a photographer had you living the best life. Jay managed to get you to do a photo shoot for the members, that's when he realized you meant business, being used to people treating them very kindly and like V.I.P, your strictly business approach made him be a bit of intimidated, since you had no problem shutting down a girl at the shoot that giggled at a small mistake caused by your different accent. - Jay on the other hand knew you were one of the coolest and kindest people so he made you hang around the others more often. There was an attraction towards Seonghwa from your side but you didn't want to act on it, thinking that he already had a relationship or he was just not interested. 

And you were stood corrected. It took a few months to realize that this feeling of happiness and  intimacy was not just friendly.

"Do you want to go for dinner after me and Jay finish?"

He asked you turning his chair from the keyboard to you. You smiled reached over for his hair

"Sure, what do you want to eat tonight?"

you carefully run your fingers through his hair pushing it away from his face, to you it was a normal act now, to others they could 100% tell they were feelings there. 

Seonghwa just enjoyed the feeling of your soft fingers on his scalp, he closed his eyes for a few seconds and a smirk appeared on his lips.

"Are you serious? Right in front of me? Stop flirting. Don't say you don't look at you guys, just get a room and go at it"

You were stressed, 100% stressed and you could barely function at this point. You have been spending day and night at the studio, watching every detail, perfecting every flaw, judging every angle, it was a big project and it had to be exactly like you wanted it to be and that means perfect. You were getting less sleep and more caffeine every day, you didn't even like coffee, now it was mandatory.

Seonghwa could see that your body was at edge of exhaustion. Your face was sickly pale, except the bags under your eyes which were just getting darker, your hands were getting shaky, your stomach has gotten so sucked in that he was scared of being able to see all your organs. 

"I have to do something"

He whispered more to himself as he read your last message 

-i'm working, can't make it today-

It was never like you to cancel plans, you were the exact opposite you would go to extremes to keep a date or a meeting on time and if someone canceled they would be backlash. 

"Overworking? (y/n) is a workaholic and a perfectionist you know how that feels, how many times we had to drag you out of the studio?"

Kiseok reminded him. He smiled at the thought.... wait, drag him out.... what if he did that? Yes, yes that could work.

"You are a genius"

Seonghwa jumped out of his seat and reached for his stuff faster than the speed of life, before Kiseok could process what was going on his friend and colleague was out the door.

He walked in your studio and as usual found you hovering over the computer with all the lights open, probably to keep you awake.

"(y/n)"

His voice snapped you out of concentration, making you jump out of your seat and your breath to hitch at your throat out of fright. You turned your chair towards him, your eyes fully open and  your hand over your heart.

"Seonghwa! you scared me"

"I'm sorry, let me take a look at you"

He placed your hand on your cheek and took a deep scanning look at your features. Your cheeks were sunk in, your eye bags dark and big, your lips chapped and dehydrated, your skin as pale as a peace of paper.

"Just like I thought, come here"

You didn't have a moment to protest, in a blink of an eye Seonghwa swiped  you off your feet and had securely in his arms.

"Seonghwa!"

"No talking. Save your work, grab your bag and let's go"

You groaned but did what you had to do, a part of you was happy that someone pretty much forced you to get out of the studio, your pride might not let you admit it but this needs to happen now, before you go further in this Rabbi thole called work.

"Good, now off to Neverland"

He screamed and started running outside, making you laugh hysterically. You knew where this phrase came from, when Seonghwa had mentioned he had never watched the disney movies you took it upon yourself and made him watch them with you in one night, with no sleep breaks what so ever. At the end of course he fell in love with them and thanked you.

He sat you in his car and got in the car himself, driving on to the big roads of Seoul. 

"Where are we going?"

"Nowhere and everywhere. You have to take some air kid"

He always teased you for being younger, although he liked it, it might not be a decade but he saw that your youth showed sometimes and was always adorable.

You ended up at a random hill, eating chips and other unhealthy stuff he bought at the 24 hour shop. You could barely hear anything, but the view was breathtaking.

"Thank you for this, I really needed it"

"Don't mention it, I know how stress works, you had to drag me out and force me to take a shower on the first month, I had to force you to eat and get out on the first year."

"Relationship milestone for workaholics"

You whispered with a sweet smile on your face. You loved Seonghwa and you knew he loved you but you have never said it to each other. Was today the day?

"Kiss me while I have Cheetos dust all over"

He demanded. You cackled but did give him a kiss on those dusty oily lips.

Maybe it was not today, but the ride showed the way to your love.

[howthcastleenvirons]

“Come Here”

It’s raining. She would’ve hated that. I can only think of her in terms of her “likes” and “dislikes” now. Anything deeper and I’ll lose it again.  She would’ve hated this rain, but loved the bagels and vegetable cream cheese I’ll bring to her parents’ house when they start sitting shiva. The rabbi finishes the Mourner’s Kaddish and picks up the shovel. I don’t want to do it, but I have to. I get in line, and when it’s my turn, I scoop a bit of earth and tip it over the hole. I can’t look down. The dirt lands on the casket with a thud and my whole body shudders. I can’t stop the sobbing now. I step aside and wobble into her sister’s arms, squeezing my eyes shut as the tears stream down my cheeks. Her sister and I are supporting each other; if one were to let go, the other would crumple to the ground. I open my eyes and, looking over her sister’s shoulder, I notice a man.  He’s apart from the group, partially hidden by a tall gravestone, a few yards away. He’s standing very stiffly with his arms down in front of him and his fingers laced together. He has no umbrella and no raincoat, and the rain has matted his hair. He’s staring straight ahead at the hole, not making eye contact with anyone. He looks so familiar. I know that I’ve never talked to this man, but I know him. Then, I realize. She had shown me his photo. Finally the last of the dirt is piled on. She’s gone and there’s no getting around that. The edges of umbrellas catch on each other as everyone shuffles towards their cars. People are still offering their condolences, but I have to get away. I catch him as he fumbles to get his key slick with rainwater into the driver’s side door of his beat up car. “What’s your name?” He looks up. He had gotten the key into the lock, but he hadn’t turned it. “No one. I’m sorry for your loss.” He turns the key and opens the door. “I’m no one.” He gets in, closes the door, and turns on the key in the ignition, but I come around and bang my fist on the window. “What’s your name?” I demand. He hesitates for a minute and then meets my eye. I am not giving up. He exhales and leans over to unlock the passenger side door. He motions me around and I make my way back to the other side of the car and climb inside. He turns off the engine and the wiper blades stop in mid-swipe on the windshield. Other cars drive away, departing for the buffet that awaits them at her parents’ home. “I know who you are, but I forget your name,” I say, “What’s your name?” “You know who I am?” “Best friends tell each other everything.” He fidgets, running his fingers through his sopping wet hair. The dark strands now stick up at odd angles. It suits him more than the matted look. He looks older than he did in her photo. “Do you want to know what her favorite thing about you is?” “I’m surprised she found something to like.” “Do you want to know or not?” He looks down at his lap and flicks the button at the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “Yes, I want to know.” “It’s the way you say, ‘Come here.’” “‘Come here’?” he asks. “You would say, ‘Come here,’ and she would go to you and you would wrap your arms around her. She said she had never met another person who could make a single phrase sound so commanding and so tender at the same time.” He watches droplets of rain streak across the windshield. “That was her favorite thing about me.” “What?” I ask. “You said that is her favorite thing about me. It was her favorite thing.” My cheeks flush. “I don’t want you at the house.” “I wasn’t planning to go.” We sit in silence. I should get out of the car but I can’t seem to make my legs move. “Jack. My name’s Jack,” he mumbles, “Do you want a ride to your car?” “No, thank you,” I say as I open the car door, “I’m soaked through anyway.”

[de-somnium]

B o r d e r l i n e

What did your mom do when your goldfish died? a man of dreams from the dreams of a man a heartbreak manifestation everlasting sleep, boundary of death watered down adaptation stars for eyes and constellation cheeks an escapade movie feature non mortem, somni fratrem She replaced it. --- Though he was merely a copy of his former, d e a d self, Cato still had most of his memories. Especially the freshest, most recent one. . . Still, he could recall the manic grin Rabbi wore as he lifted his chrome gun towards his best friend, the barrel making eye contact with him. Still, he could feel the reverberations of the impact the bullet made when it hit his chest, tearing through flesh and bone and severing important aorta chambers. S t i l l, Cato was able to relive each second it took for him to drown in his own blood on his father’s living room floor while Rabbi crouched over him, murmuring how it was going to be alright. Comforting him with rare, gentle affection in the shape of tender kisses to his brow. With a cranium full of fog except for the scarlet ribbons of the macabre remains portraying the last few moments of his former life, Cato rolled his lips together, surprised to find them clean of congealed blood. Instead he found them dry and instinctively he slipped his tongue between tiers to dampen them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to swallow, becoming annoyingly aware of how much his mouth felt like a fucking desert. Like tacks were sticking to the back of his throat with sandpaper for a tongue. This caused him to emit a groan, wondering how the fuck he allowed this poor excuse for cottonmouth to happen -- usually he was good at preventing it from happening. Little did he know that it really wasn’t his fault. The vibrations of the noise he exhumed made him cough, soon sending him into a fit as if his body was testing the expansion of his lungs and how much oxygen he could retain without taking a proper breath. Everything was connected. A chain reaction setting off yet another and another. And another. Cato rolled onto his side as he attempted to inhale without triggering that tickle with a pounding forehead from hell. All this movement made it feel like every vein in his brain was expanding and pulsing with each elevated heartbeat. With his brow resting on the hard surface he lounged on, he continued to convulse until he could finally breathe again, becoming still as to sate the angry throb constricting the inside of his skull. It made his eyes feel like they were going to pop out of his skeleton. Speaking of. . . despite the dryness of his mouth, his eyes seemed to be the opposite, as if they were covered in sticky dew. Thick lashes were coated with moisture that made it hard to open his eyes, but he’d managed it with slow, methodical blinks to reveal gold-green hues. His vision was blurry, framed by a disorienting darkness coveting the edges of his peripheral view. To his ignorance it was all temporary, but it still filled him with dread. Not only did he feel hungover, or better yet, still drunk, Cato felt the nausea that came with drinking copious amounts of alcohol. Except, he was pretty sure he didn’t participate in anything remotely related to such a thing. The cold pit in his stomach was frozen solid -- in fact it was so cold, that it kind of felt like it was burning a hole inside of him. To which he realized that it wasn’t the only emptiness he endured. There was something flat about the way his body felt, something internally and integrally missing. He was like a car hotwired to start without the key. An electronic that didn’t need to be plugged in or require batteries. He stared blankly at. . . well he couldn’t see that far yet, and simply breathed, heavy-lidded with his mouth agape. If there was a sign that could represent the boy, it’d be one of those neon signs over a dingy hotel flashing: V A C A N C Y

@ohohdeath