#sometimes the metal covered queers who will be kissing

[tothesolarium]

Two moods

1) queer queer queer

2) BIG METAL PROTECT TINY THING

[mtreebeardiles]

Chasing Storms, pt 1

Not Mass Effect but sometimes ya gotta detour to other worlds, eh?

Full piece on AO3!

Kerry trudged along the line of neatly parked cars, blinking blearily over a cup of coffee. Working late the night before meant he was still trying to wake up by mid-morning, fighting back yawns and the urge to slip back into the elevator and head upstairs where his bed was waiting. 

Waiting, but empty, as his partner was somewhere up ahead working on that beast of a truck he'd acquired a few years back. Had a few others of the same build, too -- Mackinaw? Kerry wasn't sure, he knew fuck all about cars and V had so many of them at this point -- but even the rockerboy knew this one was special to him. Still bore her original decals from her first owner, V taking care to keep the trans flags polished up and intact in what Kerry imagined was some sort of queer solidarity. A nice gesture, he could admit, a nod to the fact that the queer community hadn't been completely consumed and re-constituted into Night City's dominant subgroups. It was nice to see younger generations of queers hadn't given up the fight any, declaring themselves and who they were despite a not-so-subtle push to be quieter about it in the face of "wide-spread acceptance."

He shook the thoughts from his head, taking another sip and edging closer to the telltale sounds ahead: music warbling from speakers, radio settled on rock for the time being, and under the familiar refrain ground out by his own voice the clank of tools against metal. 

Kerry stepped around the other truck and paused, leaning a hip against it and taking a moment to…admire, the scene before him. 

The Beast's hood was up, innards exposed as her dutiful mechanic straightened, shoving a grease-stained rag in the back pocket of his jeans. Kerry watched as muscle rippled beneath skin decorated with delicate ink in floral and geometric motifs, spanning both of V's upper arms, his shoulders, another flower covering the side of his neck. Knew without looking the lines they led to, the chest piece, the one expanding across his upper back, the newer one etched into his right pec bearing Kerry's own name. 

He smiled into his coffee, eyes trailing along V's ass, his thighs, strength evident even in the worn jeans he wore whenever he worked on his cars. 

That smile widened as another Samurai song came on, V humming along, fingers tapping out the beat against the edge of the truck -- in rhythm, too, Kerry noted with approval. 

"Ya ever gonna let me teach you how to play guitar?" he asked, taking another sip even as V startled and turned around. His partner huffed a laugh, stepping away from the truck and making his way over to Kerry. Slipped his own fingers around Kerry's mug, tugging it from his grasp before swooping in for a long, lingering kiss. 

"I'll think about it," he murmured, ghosting another peck to his lips before leaning back and taking a sip for himself. 

"You know that's --"

"--so bitter!"

"Babe, I've literally had the exact same blend the entire time you've known me and I never," he went on, taking the mug back as V made a face, "add any sweetener or milk. You know this."

V just kept making a face in his direction until Kerry finally cracked, laughing. 

[descendantofthesparrow]

Encore - Harry Hook x Reader - part 19 - fight

=

You let out a sigh, looking into the slowly rocking glass of water you had been swirling around. You and Harry had recently fought so now you sat dejected in your kitchen. and it wasn’t like you hadn’t had one before, it's just….this one had hit a bit harder than the last.

It all ended in Harry storming out of your apartment and slamming the door behind him back to his world. It had been three days since then.

And now you sat in your lonely little apartment, watching as the rain beat down on your winders and echo throughout the seemingly empty room.

You took a shaky breath and downed the rest of your water, standing from your kitchen table and walking over to the sink, placing your cup inside, and dragging yourself over to your room.

You flipped onto your bed and curled up under the blankets, burying your face into Harry's pillow.

You felt your nose burn as the sea salt, woodchips, and metal filled your senses. You missed him.

Three days with not even a text or updates from him. You had fought before but he had never left your side for long, sometimes never leaving in the first place, just sitting in the other room until the both of you calm down.

But three days with no contact worried you.

You huffed and picked up your head, laying your chin on the pillow and staring with droopy eyes at your closet door. “maybe I should go first?” you muttered, rolling over and continuing to stare at the door upside-down “but I might make him even madder by not respecting his privacy” the burning at your nose got worse, and you blinked harshly as you scrunched it. Blinking open your eyes, the room around you blurred as tears trailed from the corner of your eyes.

“fuck” you chocked, reaching up and rubbing at your face “god, fuck, shit, ass, cunt”

You gasped as a calloused thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek, you sat up, letting out a low sob as you stared into the shining ocean blue eyes of Harry Hook. “hey” he whispered, leaning towards you and wrapping his arms around you, picking you up and sitting on the bed, setting you on his lap and holding you to him tightly. “I’m sorry my love, it was a stupid fight”

You didn’t respond, rubbing your face into his shoulder and sniffing. You didn’t even remember what you had fought about, it had just escalated so fast. “forgive meh?”

You just nodded into his shoulder, unable to speak around the lump in your throat. Harry let out a relieved sigh, he brought his hand up and thread his fingers through your hair, rubbing his fingers against your head and completely encasing you within his body.

The two of you spent the next couple hours in comforting silence, listing to the rain beating against the apartment and the other's soft breathing.

You had almost fallen asleep to the sound of Harry's heartbeat but he kept shifting and fixing your spot in his lap. At one point you had tossed your arms around him and squished him till he stopped moving, allowing you to properly relax.

Harry pressed a soft kiss to your cheek and lifted you out of his lap, taking your left hand and quickly kissing your knuckles “I’ll go make us some food, what do yeh want ta drink” he whispered. You smiled and shrugged.

“I think I have some sparkling cider in the fridge?” you croaked; voice still shot from your earlier bawling session. He gave a soft smile and nod, squeezing your hand for a moment before dropping it and heading to the kitchen.

You sighed, falling back against your sheets and letting the tension release from your body. Finally, the three days of stress and worry were done.  You lifted your left hand in your sights, biting your lip as the red ruby ring stared back at you.

What if Harry had never come back? What if he had decided that you weren’t worth it? Or had decided to break up with you?

It really was just a stupid fight that had ended badly but it had sent your mind reeling after a whole day had gone by with nothing coming from Harry's end.

You sat up as something delicious passed by your senses, you grabbed your (fav color) fluffy blanket from the top of your sheets and wrapped it around you, padding into the kitchen and licking your lips at the sight of Harry stirring something on the stove. “what-what you making?” you asked, walking up behind him and resting your chin on his shoulder.

He turned to kiss the top of your head and muttered against your hair “chicken rice bowl, Desiree was on dinner duty on the revenge and showed meh how ta make it, it's really good and I thought yeh might like it”

“it looks awesome” you muttered, looking over at the steaming covered rice on the other side of the stove, before looking down at the chicken cooking in the pan that Harry was messing with. “do you need me to do anything?”

“aye, make the sauce fer me?” he gestured over to a paper hanging from the cabinets, and you nodded, walking over to the paper and reading down the quickly scrawled recipe.

“homemade teriyaki sauce?” you murmured to yourself, throwing your blanket on a kitchen chair and getting to work.

Luckily the sauce was easy to make, within only a few minutes it was done and ready to be poured into the pan of chicken.

You handed the sauce to harry who poured it into the pan and stirred it around, letting it coat the chicken. “Desiree said ta let the sauce soak in for a bit, so now all we do is wait” you nodded and leaned onto his arm, smiling softly as he lifted it and wrapped it around your waist.

You had thought you and harry would (hopefully) reunite, that it would be awkward and the two of you would take a bit to get back to the way you were before the fight.

But it was as if the fight never happened, and it relieved you.

You and Harry talked about your usual small talk, the lost revenge, Auradon, wedding stuff, and the events of the past two years.

After a few minutes of talking and waiting, the chicken was ready to serve with the rice. Harry separated from you and pushed around the chicken with the spatula. “can yeh get the bowls out love?”

You hummed in confirmation and walked over to the left where your bowls were, opening the cabinet and pulling out two midsized bowls.

Harry took one of the bowls and spooned a good portion of rice into the bowl before doing the same with the chicken, he took a spoon and poured some of the chicken sauce onto the food, smirking as the dark sauce soaked into the rice.

“nice” he muttered, setting the bowl on the kitchen table behind him and backing away, letting you fill your bowl. He picked up his bowl and walked over to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table and turning on the tv. “Mandalorian or….whatever?” he asked loudly, turning to you and raising his brows

“Mando” you called back, pouring the sauce on your food and grabbing your blanket tossing it on the back of the couch, and plopping down on the soft cushions.

Harry sat next to you and pulled you into his side, clicking on the series and setting it to the first episode. The rest of the night was mostly spent quietly eating food and watching movies.

It was a nice break from the last three days. You let out a light sigh and burred yourself into Harry's side, glancing up at the snoring pirate that still gripping onto you tightly.

You jumped slightly at the sudden buzz coming from Harry's pocket, you stealthily pulled his phone and unlocked it, seeing a text from Uma.

Cap’n

Cap’n-Hey, you two okay?

You smiled, you were glad you and Harry had a friend that cared so much about you, even if she didn’t like showing it all the time

You -(y/n) answering from Harrys phone cuz the dork is asleep: yes we are okay, harry made dinner too

Cap’n - good, another day of Harrys whining and I would have combusted, keep him there for a little bit, he worked himself to the bone to distract himself over here, he needs a day off even though he just had one

You - yes ma’am

Cap’n - (y/n)….

You - sorry :’)

Cap’n - alright, night

You - night!

You set Harry's phone on the coffee table and burrowed back into his side, smiling as his solid heartbeat rang in your ear.

It was hard to believe it had been over two years since you had been magically transported to the Descendants world and fallen in love with who was once a fictional character you had a crush on.

You still had no idea how you had gotten there in the first place but, you looked back up at Harry, whose lashes fluttered against his cheeks, you sure as hell weren’t complaining.

-end of part 19-

ALSO, I thought I started this (part of your world in general) back in….December? of 2018, which I think that’s when I started posting on Wattpad but apparently, I posted part 1 of part of your world on October 19th, 2018! So, it’s been 2 years since I started part of your world! Which was the true start to my growth as a writer! I think I’m going to start wrapping up encore soon since there's not much more I can do with it other than random parts with fluff and some angst sometimes, so maybe 10 more parts at max, maybe ending with the wedding? Idk but I think this set of part of your world is coming to a close. Rewrite is still ongoing with D2 being written right now, and a possible D3 if D2 does good. Along with the Full Rewrite/redone versions of Part of Your World/Reprise, it'll be under the same name with just a 2.0 at the end so it'll just look like Part of your World 2.0/Reprise 2.0

Thank yall for reading!

 permtaglist

@queer-cosette​ @sephiralorange​

@lunanight2012​ @daughter-of-the-stars11​

@musicarose​ @random-thoughts-003​

@remembered-license​ @verboetoperee​

@rintheemolion​ 

[thisweekingundamwing]

This Week in Gundam Wing June 28 - 4 July 2020

Here’s this week’s roundup!

Remember to give your content creators some love! And join in on the events at the bottom!

~Mod Hel PS. So, I’m really bad at checking my email... I really need to get better at it. Some of these (which I’m sure will be new to a lot of you) are from long before this last week... whoops.

Fanfiction/Snippets/AU Ideas:

@bobo-is-tha-bomb​

Five dates with Mister Handsome https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622383229580771328/five-dates-with-mister-handsome

1xReader (gender unspecified)

reader-insert, second person POV, fluff, romance

He was sinfully good looking and he had agreed to five dates with an idiotic drunk who claimed one single kiss was worth five dates. You couldn’t help but wonder why.

@coffeetailor​

Emergence (Ch. 11) https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322880/chapters/60710743

Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Duo Maxwell, Heero Yuy, Quatre Raberba Winner, Trowa Barton, Chang Wufei, Sally Po

Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, borrowers fusion but don't call them borrowers, disturbing themes like people trafficking from the bad guys, Size Difference, Will probably be a series, alternate canon events, Macro/Micro

When the war ended, things went a little strange. First, Duo vanished after never having let them see him in person. Then, years later, a tiny race of people are discovered. And that's just the start of things.

Fun Curses with Catboys https://archiveofourown.org/works/25047898

Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell

Chang Wufei, Duo Maxwell

magic transformation, Size Difference, catboy, Anal Sex, Post-Canon, Magic, wufei's a wizard, thar be porn

When Wufei leaves the Preventers, Duo goes snooping and finds out some things about his favorite (crush) loner. Like his hobbies in gardening, rare book collecting, and… magic? Probably shouldn’t have touched that, Duo. Good thing it’s a fun curse, and there’s a sexy wizard around to help out.

@chronicwhimsy​

Strangers (Ch. 6) https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357013/chapters/60473569

Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell, Background Quatre x Relena, Background Heero x Trowa - Character

OC - Oliver McGann

Long Lost Twins, this was meant to be hijinks but then I got reminded these boys have Issues, Pining, Duo is a stressed-out jerk who needs a holiday, Post-EW, Frozen Teardrop can do one, sex in later chapters because this is me who are we kidding

If you said the word "brother" to Duo Maxwell, he'd think of the other pilots.

If you said, "no, your long-lost brother" to Duo Maxwell, he'd think of Solo and be very confused.

If you said, "no, your twin brother you were separated from at birth, and he's now working with the Preventers as a lawyer" to Duo Maxwell, he would go and punch his doppelganger.

Duo Maxwell isn't good at dealing with things, but unfortunately this particular thing isn't going to go away that easily.

@destinysblackrose​

It Takes a Legend... https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012021

Relena Peacecraft/Heero Yuy, Relena Peacecraft & Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell/Hilde Schbeiker

Heero Yuy, Relena Peacecraft, Trowa Barton, Duo Maxwell, Duo Maxwell Jr., Hilde Schbeiker, Chang Wufei

Angst, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Duo's going to have his ribs broken, Gundam Wing children, #fatherhood, Fatherhood, Father's Day, Crass Humor, teenaged boy humor

“Listen, I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be you. You never had a childhood. And you never had a father—” 

“No,” Heero shook his head. “I didn’t. I trained to fight, to kill from…as far back as I can remember.” The visible side of his mouth, from Aidan’s vantage point, turned down.  

“It’s why,” he paused and picked up a wrench from the open drawer. “It’s why sometimes...I’m, I’m at a total loss…” He dropped the hand holding the wrench to his side. Aidan could see his knuckles change color where he throttled the metal implement.  

“Your mom is so much, better at these things… At being there for you.”

@doctormegalomania​

Introspective https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622202012283584512/introspective

Implied 1x2, implied 3x4, implied past 2xH, past 1xR

self-exploration of gender identity and sexuality, reference to past sexual situations (non-explicit), candid conversations

Heero gives some thought to his sexuality.

Your Body’s Poetry (Ch. 20) https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438891/chapters/60737623

Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei/Original Female Character(s), Relena Peacecraft & Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell/Original Male Character(s)

Characters: Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei, Sally Po, Relena Peacecraft, Lucrezia Noin, Zechs Merquise, Hilde Schbeiker

Past Relationship(s), Slice of Life, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence

Long after the wars, long after peace is established the Gundam Pilots discover one immovable fact: Relationships are hard work.

@duointherain​

Beneath: All Those Sounds https://duointherain.tumblr.com/post/622765434690781184/beneath-all-those-sounds-11

Notes: The boys are 35. They are married and they live in Seattle. Heero is a physician and a research scientist. Duo is a stay at home dad and a best selling novelist. They have twins who are spending the holiday with their grandmother Maureen and their godmothers, Rey and Precious. 

It didn’t take much. Neither of them said anything. The fireworks exploded outside their house, somewhere down by the water, far enough away that it was just a soft little press against the windows, against their souls.

Left on Read https://duointherain.tumblr.com/post/622787629087440896/fic-left-on-read-1

Duo Maxwell had decided, several years before, that he didn’t much like Preventers. At the time, he hadn’t know what he did like either. The therapist that Quatre had talked him into seeing had told him this was normal. Trauma would leave a person with little self, especially if the trauma had happened early and consistently. He had said quiet loudly, that day that he had plenty of self, everyone thought so! He was loud and brash and brave and drank too much, and had more lovers than she’d probably had in her whole boring life

@lemontrash​

The Morning Brightens https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622390770875465728/the-morning-brightens

4x5

established relationship, coming out fic, fluff

After a night of not sleeping on it, Wufei discusses something important with Quatre.

@lifeaftermeteor​

Pride https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622300166716833793/pride

1x2

pride parade, slice of life, fluff, asexual duo

Duo has only recently come to terms with his asexuality. It took him a long time to understand it, and even longer to embrace it as inherently part of himself. To celebrate, Heero takes him out onto the streets for New York City’s Pride.

@relenaforpresident​

Just Love: Queerness in Gundam Wing https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622292634598293504/just-love-queerness-in-gundam-wing

No ships but reference to both 1xR and 1x2

non-fiction, personal essay, self-reflection, gender, queerness, fandom

A personal essay on how the Gundam Wing series and fandom community helped me change my personal beliefs on love and gender.

@simulacraryn​

Donguri https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733540

General Audiences

Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Heero Yuy, Odin Lowe

A short piece about Odin Lowe and his young protégé. This is an excerpt from a longer (discontinued) 2009 fic I once posted on ff.net ("Kaifuku"), but it can be read as a standalone piece.

Heero’s Inheritance https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658531

General Audiences

Heero Yuy, Odin Lowe

Illustrations, Headcanon

Just a short headcanon about Heero's past. Illustrated work.

TheManwell

A Season for Vengeance (Ch. 10) https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508074/chapters/53785717

Explicit

Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell, Solo/Heero Yuy

Trowa Barton, Duo Maxwell, Catherine Bloom, Cathy's son (OC), Cathy's husband (OC), Heero Yuy, Zechs Merquise, Quinze (Gundam Wing), Solo (Gundam Wing), Nichol (Gundam Wing), Lucrezia Noin

dude in distress, Trowa for MVP, things that go boom, Backstory things, modern day AU, Sequel, alternating pov, Trowa POV, Duo POV

It's been over a year since Duo and Trowa escaped the pain and betrayal and danger of their pasts, went off the grid and started building a new life together. But when Duo's birthday comes and goes without a single obnoxious message from his older brother, they know something is wrong. It's time to break cover and check in. The only problem is that Duo's brother works for a powerful government agency, so making that call will put Duo and Trowa on their radar...

Fanart/Crafts/Photo Manips:

@antarespromise​

https://antarespromise.tumblr.com/post/622394387634257921

Quatre Raberba Winner, fanart

@bettertasting​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622198278449168385/title-proud-artist-cindy-bettertasting

Gboys Pride Banner, @wingqueero​, fanart

@bobo-is-tha-bomb​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622296415384764416/title-in-the-name-of-justice-and-love-artist

Pride Leo “In the name of Justice and Love”, @wingqueero​, gunpla

@coffeetailor​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622303966073683968/title-special-delivery-artist-coffee

Duo/WuFei, @wingqueero​, fanart

@daddywarbats​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622213395485229056/title-just-gals-being-pals-or-not-artist

Hilde/Relena, @wingqueero​, fanart

@deathscythehell​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622209566153818112/artist-tami-deathscythehell-description-one

Duo/Quatre (best dads), @wingqueero​, fanart (comic)

@deejayers​

https://deejayers.tumblr.com/post/622482172907077632/and-wing-is-complete-talk-about-a-monster-this

Wing, gunpla

@gundayum​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622439861179351040/hi-all-gundayum-here-im-gonna-try-and-not-make

Important Thank You, and some partied out WuFei, @wingqueero​, fanart

@gwfrozentears​

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622495742005772288/por-siempre-mi-pareja-favorita

Heero & Relena

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622493743305621504/he-comenzado-a-dibujar-nuevamente-inspirada-en-el

Heero

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622494840371970048

Heero

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622499630050066432

Heero

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622548456296300544

Heero

https://gwfrozentears.tumblr.com/post/622507185094721536

Heero/Relena

@lokineko​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622205797731123200/title-quiet-happiness-artist-lokineko

Trowa/Heero, @wingqueero​, fanart

lotopauanka

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622288883271467008/title-just-married-artist-lotopauanka-social

Heero/Duo, @wingqueero, fanart

@oekakimemo​

https://oekakimemo.tumblr.com/post/622350648656134144/20200630-traditional-painting

Relena Darlian/Peacecraft, fanart

@page-of-wands11​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622379476560609280/title-colourful-kiss-artist-page-of-wands

Heero/Duo, @wingqueero, fanart

@seitou​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622394541550534656/title-pride-walk-artist-seitou-seitou-social

Pride Walk, @wingqueero, fanart

@tatakaumono​

https://tatakaumono.tumblr.com/post/621743027371819008/happy-24-day-pride-dont-tag-as

Quatre/Duo, fanart

@theboringbluecrayon​

https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/post/622387009366982656/title-family-pride-wip-artist-blue

Trowa/Quatre & Family, @wingqueero, fanart

Photosets/Gifsets/Screenshots/Manga Pages:

@bobo-is-tha-bomb​

https://bobo-is-tha-bomb.tumblr.com/post/622708372721025024/never-though-they-would-come-in-but-here-they

GW OST CDs, photo

https://bobo-is-tha-bomb.tumblr.com/post/622456639940919296/always-nice-when-the-mail-man-stops-by

gw artbooks, and other merch, photo

@cuteciboulette​

https://cuteciboulette.tumblr.com/post/622269950937186304/another-extract-from-the-cover-of-the

Heero/Duo, doujinshi “Toki no suna” by Sango Show cover

Fandom Discourse:

@2pcb has created a wonderful discord for gw artists who would like monthly prompts to get those creative juices flowing! DM them if you’d like to join!

@hanryuu would like to know whether anyone has translated the Blind Target drama cds. If you have any information on that we would be grateful!

Quotes:

@incorrectgundamwingquotes​

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/622379465062924288/duo-why-do-bigfoot-hunters-try-to-lure-him-with-a

Duo, Trowa, & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/622560690151047168/wufei-we-can-talk-about-normality-until-the-cows

WuFei, Heero, Trowa, & Duo

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/622470062887075840/heero-run-thisdoesntbothermeexe-brain-file

Heero

Calendar Events:

@gwcocktailfriday​

Cocktail Fridays!

Post responses on Friday, during Happy Hour between 3 & 5 pm in your own timezone.

Here’s the prompt for Friday, July 10th! https://gwcocktailfriday.tumblr.com/post/622719166375493632/raspberry-mango-sangria-yield-1-pitcher-prep

In need of FALL/AUTUMN prompts!

@gwoc-october​

GW OC October 2020!

Help pick out prompts!

https://gwoc-october.tumblr.com/post/621130082429337600/hello-gundam-wing-folks-thats-right-gw-oc

@seasons-of-gundamwing

Voting Results: https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/622566396369485824/looks-like-well-be-doing-a-hilde-week-thanks-to

Summer of Hilde!

In need of prompts! https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/622567839387271168/summer-of-hilde-prompt-call

@wingqueero

Gundam Wing Pride Party 2020

Come check out all the amazing works! https://wingqueero.tumblr.com/

[hexlikesramennoodles]

32 please :)

32. A kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after they part, neither person can open their eyes for a few moments afterwards.

Author’s note: this one got away from me! Writing unnecessarily long fic is my brand, I guess.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve’s voice demanded.

The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a metallic scream of hinges. In the corner of the mirror, Billy caught sight of him: stalking forwards with his hands bunched at his sides, his hair a ludicrous, flopping bouffant. He was wearing a new sweater: a deep navy blue, luxurious and soft-looking. The Ralph Lauren logo was sewn onto his breast, its stick man arm raised. His mom had bought it for him, Billy guessed. Steve rarely chose any of his clothes himself, and it showed—he always looked awkward, conscious of his body and how you perceived it.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Billy zipped his fly, then stepped away from the urinal. He let the faucet run, taking his time on purpose. If Steve was going to come in here and harass him while he answered a call of nature, he could wait until Billy had washed his hands.

“Uh-uh,” Steve said. “Don’t do that. I hate it when you do that.”

“Harrington, I’ve got a date waiting for me, so if you’re gonna—”

“Oh, a date, huh?” Steve’s eyebrows arched high. “A date with Stella, of all people? Since when was she your type?”

“Since yesterday,” answered Billy. “Time is money, Harrington. I’m gonna miss my movie.” He smiled nastily. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get to second base before the credits roll.”

He didn’t doubt it. Stella Delgado was one of those girls whose clinging insecurity was as loud and obvious as the cheap perfume she wore. She was every small town cliché wrapped into one: an alcoholic father who beat her bloody on the regular. An absent mother, dead or eloped with another abusive deadbeat. Three runty, snotnosed siblings under the age of ten of whom she was the unwilling primary caregiver. She looked at Billy the same way Karen Wheeler looked at him: with moist, lip-wobbling hope. Billy imagined that she’d already written the names of their children in her lockable diary, using neat, curlicued handwriting; two of them, a boy and a girl with his hair and her eyes.

Steve stared at him, red-faced and irate. A loose thread dangled from the sleeve of his sweater. Billy was seized by a strong impulse to pull at it. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Don’t,” Steve was suddenly snarling. He took a step towards Billy, long and darting, then seemed to stop himself. “I hate it when you act like there’s nothing wrong. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re fucking doing. It drives me crazy.”

Good, Billy thought. That loose thread was starting to piss him off; everything about Steve was starting to piss him off.

“This is about Nancy, isn’t it?” Steve went on. “Who told you we were going to the movies? Fucking Carol? I knew it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Billy said venomously. “You think you’re that important, Harrington? Huh? You think I pine for you?”

“Stella’s really nice.” Steve’s voice was deliberately calm, rigid. “You’re gonna break her heart. Does she know you’re g—”

Billy lunged at him. Steve must have been expecting it; he rapidly backpedaled, raising his arms as he did so. “What was that?” Billy said loudly, putting a hand to his ear. “You wanna repeat that for me?”

He hated that he knew which of Steve’s clothes his mom had picked out for him, and which ones Steve had chosen for himself. He hated how looking at Steve made him feel: tight and hot and uncomfortable, as if he was covered in a layer of clay that had set wrong and was starting to buckle at the edges. Brittle, too close to snapping. Most of all, he hated Stella Delgado, and how vulnerable she was. How trusting.

She should know better by now.

“Look, it’s whatever, alright?” Steve said. “Just stay away from Nance. I mean that.”

His sneaker squeaked on tile; in the bathroom mirror, Billy saw him turn to leave. “You think she loves you?” he called.

He shouldn’t have said it, should’ve known when to leave well enough alone, but that required more foresight than he was capable of mustering. It was too gratifying to watch the words land, the impact they had on Steve’s posture: a visible rippling down his spine, as if he’d passed close to an electric current. He was so easy to read. There was a hole in Billy’s chest, a hole with ragged, eroded edges that went all the way through him. The sickly rush of gratification filled it right back up, made him believe—for one brief, terrible moment—that he wasn’t so hollow inside.

“Nance fucked Jonathan Byers,” he said. The faucet was still running, the sound seeming to come from right between his temples. It was thunderous, relentless; the sound caught him, swept him up, and he didn’t know how to make himself stop and so all he could do was keep going, descending towards his inevitable doom. Billy’s mother had been an alcoholic, too; self-destruction was in his blood.

“We’re past that,” Steve said quietly.

Billy licked his lips. “No. I mean—I mean she fucked him again. On Memorial Day. Ask Carol if you don’t believe me. She doesn’t love you. She’s just waiting for something better to come along.” He licked his lips again, then showed Steve his teeth. It felt more like a grimace than a smile. “Looks like she found it—”

But Steve was shaking his head. “Jonathan’s my friend, Billy. Why would he—Christ, do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

“She doesn’t love you,” Billy repeated. “Ask Carol. Ask anybody. Half the town knows by now. You’re the only one who’s not with the program, pretty boy.”

He was paraphrasing what Carol had told him, if only to spare Harrington’s ego. In reality, Carol had drunkenly mimed the story using a popsicle stick and the middle of a jelly doughnut—splat!—laughing while she did it. Her grin had been wide and stupid, her laughter snorting and pig-like. Billy had wanted to throttle her.

“What are you saying?” Steve sounded tired, not outraged. Billy hated that, too. Wheeler made Steve so fucking weak. Billy had been expecting a shove, maybe even a punch. He deserved as much. But no—Steve was good for Nancy, perfect princess Nancy. “It’s Nancy, it always comes back to Nancy. Are you trying to tell me that I’d be better off with you?”

Billy opened his mouth. He had the words, all the bad nasty evil words that he knew would hurt if he decided to unleash them. You think I’m some kind of fucking queer? When Stella had bounded up to him in front of the concessions stand, her mud-colored hair pushed behind her ears and her unremarkable mouth stretched into an even more unremarkable smile, she hadn’t even noticed the lipgloss Billy was wearing. Maybe she’d told herself it was a trick of the fluorescents, that she was seeing things, silly girl. People always see what they wanna see.

“Billy,” Steve said. His voice was much closer. “Do you love me?”

His reflection had become a smudge on the glass of the mirror. It hurt to look at him. It made Billy’s eyes prickle. His hands were frozen around the edge of the sink, the water streaming from the faucet ceaselessly. Its spray wet his face and his eyelashes, but he could hardly feel it.

“Yeah, right,” Steve muttered. “Like you’d even know what that is. People are just disposable to you. Just—”

When his sneaker squeaked again, it was accompanied by the sound of the door reopening. Billy looked up. Steve’s sweater was shrinking, vanishing into the hallway outside, its loose thread fluttering.

They had entered an arrangement based on a mutual understanding of three things. One, that Billy had a cock. He wasn’t like Nancy, or any other girl Steve had been with before her. Two, that he wasn’t soft, delicate, or malleable. He would never fit into whatever Steve’s ideal for a life partner was. He didn’t want to. Three, that Steve didn’t want him, either. Steve liked his body and his face, but he was always telling Billy about the things he didn’t like. Always telling Billy he was too much, too intense.

Fine. Crystal fucking clear. Or so Billy had thought.

“I’m goin’ away for the summer.” Steve was holding the door open with his foot. He always had to have the last word. “With my parents. To Spain, then Portugal. Might visit the grandparents while we’re there. Do some … soul searching. So.”

Billy felt himself blink. “So?”

Steve’s Adam’s apple was a slow roll. He shrugged, and pushed the door wider. He was leaving. Billy watched him go, his hands gripping the sink uselessly. Faucet still splashing, but the sound wasn’t inside his head anymore. It was far off, unimportant. Steve was leaving, and Billy wasn’t doing anything to stop him.

“I’ll miss you,” he blurted.

Steve sighed.

The door slammed shut. Two, three steps: Steve was moving faster than Billy had ever seen him. He yanked Billy by the collar, kissing him with such force it jarred his neck. Billy’s hipbone was crushed against the sharp edge of the sink, but the pain was the sweetest he’d ever felt. Steve kissed him hard enough to make his jaw ache, then soothed the ache with a touch of his fingertips. He kissed the lipgloss from Billy’s mouth and moaned at the taste. He kissed angrily and with teeth, like he had a bone to pick, an itch to scratch. That was nothing new.

“I miss you all the time,” Billy said.

“Shut up,” Steve whispered. “Don’t talk. Everything you ever say—you never mean it—”

“I do. I do. I’m sorry.”

Steve’s fingers were still touching his face. Billy didn’t open his eyes. He could feel Steve there, a closeness that bordered on claustrophobia. His spine was pressed up against the sink, running water soaking the back of his shirt. The stillness, the intimacy of being this close to someone without doing anything about it, was unbearable. Exhilarating.

“God.” Steve exhaled harshly through his teeth; his breath surged over Billy’s face. When Billy willed his eyes open, Steve was standing in front of him, looking like a middle schooler faced with a complicated math problem. His eyes were scrunched shut, and his teeth worried at his lower lip. Billy could see where some of the glitter from the gloss had smeared on him, pink and little-girl pretty. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached across and wiped it off with his thumb. 

Steve’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Billy almost wonderingly. “You wanna get out of here?”

What about Nancy? Billy wanted to say. I’m gonna miss my movie, he wanted to say, like a smartass. He wanted to kick and scream and give Steve hell, send him flying straight back into Wheeler’s bony arms. Instead he lowered his head, meek, and let Steve entwine a finger around his pinkie. Stella was better off without him.

They left the bathroom together. Walking past the concession stand and the claw cranes, the squashy chairs where you could sit and watch the trailers for every movie that was coming out for the summer. Steve’s finger stayed curled around his pinkie, because he couldn’t outright take Billy’s hand. Not while they were in public.

By the time they reached the escalators, they were running.

[queertazsecretsanta]

A gift for @mitraki, created by @one-true-houselight!

Some Team Sweet Flips training, and appearances from Magnus, Avi, Angus, and Taako! Some minor voidfish angst

~~

A Robot, a Dragonborn, and an Orc Expertly Dodge Under a Bar

NO-3113 focused in on the target standing ten feet across the room and ran through some basic coding. Since remembering her previous life, she had realized this habit was her robotic way of taking a few deep breaths before doing things; both were processes that normally went on in the background, but focusing on them helped ground her, in some strange way. 

Being a ghost in a robot body had a habit of making her more introspective, sometimes. 

She stepped back, just a little, before hurling herself forward, rolling neatly into a ball before exploding back upwards and delivering a round of precise kicks to the target. It shuddered before her final kick sent it flying backwards, its defeat scored by the cheers of Carey and Killian. 

“NO-3113, that was fantastic!” called Killian, jogging over to give her a fistbump. “You’re coming along so quickly, I remember that move taking me weeks.”

“Thanks,” NO-3113 said shyly. “I guess I just have really good teachers.” 

Carey socked her lightly on the arm. “Aw shucks, girl. You know flattery won’t get you out of cardio, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” NO-3113 said with a chuckle. 

Killian checked the clock on the wall before saying, “Though, before that, we should take a break.” Carey glanced up as well and nodded before making her way over to her bag, pulling out a piece of wood and a knife. 

“How’re your carpentry lessons with Magnus coming?” Killian asked, plopping down next to her girlfriend. 

“What do you think?” Carey held up the wood, and NO-3113 could tell it was almost segmented, with a higher, rounded portion at one end. Killian squinted at it as Carey brought it back to a level she could continue carving at. 

��Carey, I think that looks almost like…something.” Carey nudged Killian with her shoulder, who laughed before quickly adding, “Which I think is an accomplishment! I don’t think I could make a piece of wood look like something, you know?”

“Thanks, babe, your support means the world to me.” Even though her tone was sarcastic, Carey grinned at Killian before leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “And this is loads better than what I started with, so I’m pleased, ya know?”

“My younger brother used to carve little things all the time,” said NO-3113, valvles in her shoulders whistling happily at the thought. “He made me a little cockatrice once, I was obsessed with them as a kid.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Oh yeah, I read every book I could get my hands on. I used to play this game where I’d stand really still and when people would ask what I was doing, I would say I got bit by a cockatrice and was petrified.” The two other reclaimers laughed as NO-3113 added, “That joke got less funny to my parents when I tried to use it to get out of chores.”

It was a little weird sometimes, talking about her life before waking up in a metal body. But it felt nice too, as if there wasn’t a gnawing divide between the two parts of her life. The fact that her friends rolled with it too was just icing on the cake. 

As Carey continued carving and the three continued to idly chat, NO-3113 heard familiar footsteps coming towards the doorway of the gym. Sure enough, Magnus charged in and triumphantly dropped a green, grey, white, and black striped scarf in front of Carey. 

Carey stared at it for a second before looking up. “What’s this?”

“You sent me to take something from someone’s bag without them knowing. I got this from Avi!” 

Carey’s eyes lit up. “Oh, sweet! Good job Mags. What was your approach?” 

“Well, I went up to him and started talking about the secret assignment he’s been doing for the Director…” As part of Magnus’ rogue training, Carey had made up a scavenger hunt of sneaky activities for Magnus to complete (with permission from other base residents, of course). Thus far he had picked Taako’s lock (and found the elf himself inside, stone faced as he shot sparks into the air), followed Merle around for ten straight minutes (and then jumped out and scared him; Merle had yelled ‘I’M FUCKING READY MAGNUS STOP’, to Magnus’ confusion), and now had this scarf of Avi’s. 

Once Magnus finished his explanation (fidgeting the whole time, naturally), Carey nodded thoughtfully. “Nice technique, getting a mark to be distracted by seemingly ‘forbidden info’. Now, before I send you on your next task, I need to check that my associate is ready.” She pulled out her Stone of Far Speech and pressed a few buttons. “Agent Holmes, are you ready for Magnus?”

NO-3113 was confused for a second, not recognizing the name. But then, the Stone crackled. “Uh, yeah, definitely, for sure. This is Agent Holmes, which is my name, and I am ready in the agreed upon rendezvous point.” It sounded as if Angus McDonald was talking through a pencil stuck between his teeth. 

Magnus nodded sagely, clearly fighting off a grin. “Alright, I’ll meet, uh, Agent Holmes. Where am I going?” 

“Cafeteria. He’ll explain your assignment once you get there.”

“Great,” cheered Magnus, bouncing towards the door. “Tell him I need to grab my scarf, and I’ll be right over.” Carey gave him a thumbs up as he disappeared through the doorway. 

She relayed the information, and the Stone crackled again, this time with a non-altered Angus’ voice. “Ok. Was that ok? I tried to disguise my voice, I don’t know if it worked. I read this trick about putting a pencil in your mouth, and I wanted to try it, because I’m an agent today and all.”

“You were great, Ango,” called Killian. 

“Yeah, I was swept away by the gravitas,” said NO-3113. 

“Oh good! Thank you, ma’ams!” Carey smiled as the channel crackled off, then pressed a few more buttons. 

“Hey Avi,” she said, stretching her neck. “You got got by Mags, want to come pick up your item?”

“Aw shit, is that why he was pestering me about my top secret mission?”

Carey grinned. “I’m afraid so, my dude.” 

Some muffled cursing came over the line before Avi muttered, “I’ll be by in a few. Man, you’re teaching Magnus well, aren’t ya?”

“Of course she is, ya goof,” said Killian, wrapping an arm around Carey. Small frills around Carey’s neck rose a little in embarrassment, but she grinned at Killian all the same. 

The stone crackled off again. Carey tucked it away and went back to her carving. She gestured at the scarf with her knife, asking, “I’ve never seen Avi wear this, wonder if it’s new?”

Killian shrugged. “It’s a pretty color scheme.”

NO-3113, upon hearing that, realized she recognized the color scheme. “It’s the aromantic flag.”

“Oh, I think you’re right!” Carey nodded, staring off into the middle distance. “I think I’ve seen Johann with a pin-oh my god, this is probably a present for Johann!”

“That’s the best!” Killian sighed. “I need to learn the flags better, honestly.” 

NO-3113 shrugged. “Same. I just remember that one because I had a little flag back home.” 

Killian and Carey looked up in surprise. “I didn’t know you were aro, NO-3113.”

“It just never came up, I guess.” NO-3113 felt her fans running a little faster. She had only just started coming out before her death, and it had kind of fallen to the wayside after her robotic awakening. It was all still new, in the grand scheme of things. 

“Well,” Carey said, leaning forward, clearly used to this speech. “The moon base is super accepting, as you’ve hopefully noticed. Garfield will order any pride stuff you want up here, and we have a Queer meetup every month!”

“The next one’s next week,” Killian chimed in. Carey nodded enthusiastically. “If you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

“Yeah, I think that’d be great. Thanks.” NO-3113 looked down, fans still whirring in the excitement. She saw where Killian and Carey has put gold star stickers on her torso, and had a thought. “Hey, I could probably get a pretty rad aro sticker.”

“Hell yeah!” As Carey cheered, Avi came in, his normal grin on his face. 

“I hear an item of mine has been recovered?” Carey held up the scarf. Avi suddenly blushed, quickly saying, “Oh, I’m glad I’m getting it back now, I need it in like, twenty minutes.”

“It’s for Johann, right?” 

Avi blushed deeper. “Yeah, he was saying he hadn’t had a chance recently to get any pride stuff, so I figured…”

Killian stood up and patted Avi on the shoulder. “That’s so sweet, I’m sure he’ll love it.” Avi grinned appreciatively. 

“Was it hard finding aro stuff?” Asked NO-3113. “I’m gonna try and get some stuff soon.”

“Nope! Garfield has a pretty complete catalog.” Avi bounced a little. “If you’re comfortable with it, you should tell Johann you’re aro too, he’ll appreciate the company.”

“For sure, yeah! I’m planning on going to the meetup next week.”

“Radical!” Avi took the scarf and wrapped it up. “Well ladies, I best be off. Places to see, things to do-“

“Scarves to give,” said Killian with a grin. Avi made finger guns at her before walking out with a final wave. 

Once Avi had left, Carey, Killian, and NO-3113 stood back up to get back to training. Before they could, however, they heard Magnus walking down the hallway. NO-3113’s back was to the door, but she spun when Carey’s eyes widened at its occupant. 

Magnus was leaning on the doorway, clothes ripped. He seemed to be smoking slightly as well, but he had a wild grin on his face as he held up a scroll, which appeared to be miraculously undamaged. 

“Magnus, are you good?” Asked Killian. 

“Yeah! That was the best challenge yet!” As Magnus chattered enthusiastically, Angus slipped into the room, a slightly sheepish grin on his face. 

Carey turned to the small boy with a grin. “How was the mission, Agent Holmes?”

Angus straightened up a little. “Um, well…” He scrunched his eyebrows together before saying in a low voice, “Ma’am, I don’t have my pencil for my voice.” 

“You don’t need it, kiddo. You don’t need the cover anymore.”

“Oh, ok! Well, I prepared a few spells, with the help of Agent, um, Umbrella-“

At that point, Taako pokes his head into the door. “Agent Umbrella?”

“I was under pressure!”

Taako grinned and mussed with Angus’ hair. “I’m messing with ya, Ang- Sorry, Agent Holmes. Proceed with your report.”

Angus nodded and continued, “The subject was surprised by the addition of magical elements, and stepped right into the fire bolt trap, but adapted quickly and, as you can see, procured the scroll.”

Carey nodded. “Very good, Agent Holmes. Now, Magnus,” she said, turning to her student. “What have we learned from this exercise?”

“How to avoid being set on fire!” Before Carey could respond, he quickly added, “And, probably more importantly, to never assume you know what you’re stepping into.”

“Very good,” Carey said approvingly. “Alright, I think we can be done for the day. Nice scarf, by the way.” NO-3113, who had been distracted by the smoke coiling from his hair, finally noticed the trans pride scarf around his neck. 

“Oh thanks! Someone made it for me a while ago, and it’s still going strong.” A shadow passed over his face. “I think it’s a matching set, actually, I just can’t remember who…” At that point, Taako got a similar look, and NO-3113 remembered Carey and Killian telling her in a low voice her first day here that these two, along with Merle, had strange moments like this, and that the best thing they found to do was let them work through it, then continue the conversation when they were ready. 

It was only a few moments later that Magnus and Taako shook themselves out of whatever had taken hold of their minds. “But yeah, I’m all about pride scarves! They keep me warm, and they have rad colors!” 

“Yeah,” Carey responded, easily sliding past the lapse. “Avi’s getting an aro one for Johann.”

“Oh, those two are adorable,” sighed Taako. “Are they together, or still dancing?”

“Still dancing,” said Killian. 

“Speaking of adorable,” Magnus said in a teasing tone. “That Kravitz seemed to-“

Taako looked down, fidgeting with seam of his coat. “Oh you know, fighting like that just, you know, the tension, the mystery-“

“The accent.” Taako summoned Mage Hand and shoved Killian, who cackled. “Ok, ok, I’ll stop, sorry Taako.”

“It’s fine,” mumbled Taako. “It’s just been a while, I guess.” 

Magnus, who has been grinning at the banter, suddenly got a look of consternation on his face. “Wait, Angus said you helped him, Taako?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Why were you setting me on fire?”

Taako scoffed. “Oh, so it’s ok when the ten year old does it, but when I do it-“

“We’re teammates, don’t you want me ready-“

“Hey, I just want to make sure you’re properly trained!” Magnus threw up his hands at that, and the others in the room were chuckling. Taako shrugged. “Besides, I trust Angus. He wouldn’t have let you get hurt.”

Angus beamed. “Thank you, sir!” 

“Alright, alright,” said Killian, looking at the clock. “We’ve gotta get back to training, so unless you want to do some pushups, we’ll see you later.”

“Absolutely not,” said Taako, backing towards the door. “Come on, Angus, you have to tell me about your magics.”

“Bye! See you all later!” Angus called with a wave, following Taako out the door. 

Magnus looked at Carey. “Am I good?”

“Yeah! Good work today, I might stop by later to do carving stuff.” Magnus gave her a thumbs up, gave a salute to Killian and NO-3113, and walked out. 

NO-3113 watched the door for a little bit, basking in the happiness of all her new friends. She jumped a little when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Killian was standing next to her, head cocked. “What’s the goofy grin for?”

“I’m just happy I get a chance to have this life, to know all of you.” NO-3113 looked away, but not before seeing Killian and Carey exchange a pleased look. 

“We’re glad we get to know you too, NO-3113.” Without warning, Carey stepped forward and hugged her, Killian joining in a moment later. NO-3113 hugger back, careful not to crush her friends. 

Carey looked around at the three of them before throwing her head back and whooping, “Team Sweet Flips forever!” Killian and NO-3113 cheered too, and then they went back to training, their movements and their hearts ever more in sync.

[theritualofourexistence]

Pitted dates.

It’s a pun.

Here it is! The dating apps blog post you’ve been waiting for! Although, it’s not exactly about dating apps. It’s also not exactly about dating. It’s a tree with a lot of branches and no coherent thru-plot but all of these things do feel at least a little bit related so buckle up.

To start: a brief background. 

I am nearly thirty. I identify as ace or aspec (asexuality spectrum). I am not hetero... if pressed, I’d probably call myself queer... but generally speaking “not hetero” seems to cover that part of things adequately. I’ve had a handful of long-term relationships and partners. I’ve been single since my last relationship of over three years ended abruptly in 2015. I haven’t dated since then. I’ve gone on a handful of dates in that time, but no repeats and no relationships. 

It took me a long time to move past my last relationship. I probably didn’t even consider dating apps for a whole year. I’m not very socially outgoing and I don’t have much of a friend group in my town so I don’t go out to the bars or anything... which means dating apps are one of the only ways for me to actually start exploring options.

I started with OkCupid and eventually worked my way to Bumble. I can’t afford to pay for anything more involved so I’ve never tried Match or anything like that... and Tinder was never particularly appealing to me either because I have no interest in hook-ups. 

I’ve posted on and off about being single over the years. There were plenty of times, early on, when I hated being single. I felt alone and broken and it wasn’t a good place to be. Gradually I became more comfortable, however. I explored labels a bit more. I learned a lot about myself. I’m at a place now where, though I am lonely sometimes, for the most part I feel like my needs can be met by the people in my life... even though I’m not romantically involved with any of them. 

In response to a blog post from a few years ago, a woman a generation or two older than me sent me a message implying that she was sure I’d settle down and find someone who could make me happy if I just lowered my standards a bit.

Then, that sort of made me blind with rage. 

Generally, now, it still does. 

I’ve thought a lot about this message and its implication over the years. There are times when I can see how someone might think my standards are too lofty. But what’s the difference between standards, even high standards, and simply knowing what you are and aren’t compatible with? 

I’ve dated enough and been single enough to be VERY confident about some things. 

And yes, there are certainly some deal-breakers. 

It’s possible that there are more deal-breakers than “deal-makers” so to speak, but I still think that’s probably not the worst thing in the world. Especially for someone who is relatively comfortable being single and also relatively busy with work. Dating takes time. And here at almost-thirty, I don’t feel like spending time on someone who I am pretty sure I won’t be compatible with.

It’s not so much that I’m judging the others, either. When on a dating app, I’m pretty careful to only swipe right for guys I think would also be compatible with me. 

If you use the word “spontaneous” in your bio and at least one of your pictures is you sky-diving... you’re probably not right for me. 

If you put in your bio that you’re only interested in women who prioritize dogs and fitness... I’m probably not right for you. 

Is that tied to lofty expectations? Or am I simply being realistic and saving both myself and the other party time and effort? 

I certainly have a type. And I’m sure there are potential partners out there for me that are not that type. I’m not averse to being surprised or trying something a little unexpected. What I do know, however, is that I will never jump out of a plane. And I will also probably never kiss a dog on the mouth. 

My “standards” are basically generated from my knowledge of myself. So, sure, call them lofty. But I’m pretty proud of the effort I’ve put in to understanding myself, and when it comes to dating, there is value in utilizing that knowledge. Here are some things I know about me and the associated “standard.” 

I am not a partier. I don’t do drugs. I rarely drink. If you are visibly drunk or stoned in the majority of your pictures, we probably aren’t super compatible. 

My politics lean FAR left. I don’t even like referring to myself as a “democrat.” I care deeply about social justice issues. If you voted for Trump, we probably aren’t super compatible. 

I am extremely anti-gun. I grew up in a rural area and understand both the sport and value of hunting. I know that I will never hunt though. Could I be compatible with a hunter? Yes, definitely. But could I be compatible with someone who is waving around various guns in 3 out of their 4 pictures? Probably not. 

I am a cat person. Though I don’t HATE dogs, I certainly prefer cats. I have a very low tolerance for small dogs and, in general, I don’t like the way dogs smell. I’ve made friends with a handful of dogs in my life and certainly could again. But if you say that you hate cats in your profile, we probably aren’t compatible. 

I work a lot and I make no money. As a result, I’m tired a lot. I spend a lot of my very limited down time doing extremely low-key activities like reading or art or watching TV. I can’t afford to travel much. Part of the reason I work a lot is because I’m actively trying to hit certain career milestones. I feel like I’m a bit behind. But more than that, I’m very passionate about my work. If you expect to take the place of my long-term career goals, we probably aren’t compatible. If you expect me to hop on the next plane to Europe or Asia or Africa, we probably aren’t compatible... unless you’re covering the costs. 

I’m a feminist. If you’re a fundamentalist Christian or someone who believes a woman’s place is in the home, we probably aren’t compatible. 

I believe black lives matter. If you currently display or have ever displayed the confederate flag, we probably aren’t compatible. 

I’m committed to learning. Not necessarily in school, but from everything in the world around me. If you don’t share that perspective, we may not be compatible.

I am looking for someone who shares some of my interests. 

I’m looking for someone who has other human beings in the pictures they post in their profile... instead of six different versions of the same poorly lit selfie from an unflattering angle. I think I’m probably looking for that last thing so that I’m not raped, stalked, or murdered if we’re being honest. 

I’ve already said that I identify on the asexuality spectrum. As such, there’s very little that I’m naturally attracted to... if I find that, and it’s very rare, that person and I almost never “match.” If we do match and you ask about my labels and I explain them and your instant response is that I must be ace because I’ve just never had good sex, we definitely aren’t compatible. 

I don’t know, all written out, maybe this is a lot. 

But I still don’t think it is. 

For the most part, every guy on dating apps seems to be looking for the same woman. 

She’s thin and into fitness, she has a dog, she hikes a lot, she loves going to concerts and traveling the world and she works hard but parties harder.

That woman can’t possibly exist in enough quantities to please all the men on Bumble. In fact, I doubt that woman exists at all because I don’t understand how you have the time or money to even do half those things. 

So yeah, I may have high-ish standards... but are MY standards even the issue?

If no one on Bumble has any interest in a fat brunette with a lot of tattoos who reads a lot and wears sweatpants more than any other clothes... well, what I want isn’t going to matter a whole lot anyway.

I want someone who loves me for me... who works to understand me... who raises me up but who also respects my independent nature. I don’t think I do well if I feel too needed. I want someone who respects my politics, my philosophy, my dietary/health choices, my mental health journey, my career aspirations, my sexuality... and hell, if that’s too much to ask, I’d probably rather just be on my own. 

I had a big “ah-ha” moment a few years ago when it occurred to me that if I want to have a child, I can do so on my own. I can choose a donor, I can carry a baby or I can use a surrogate; if those things don’t work, I can adopt. My family and friends are a safety net forged in the strongest flexible metal in the known and unknown worlds and I have no question that they would be enough to guide me in that journey. 

Now, if I go that direction, it’s still many years away. But I know I could do it. And that’s enough to wipe away the creeping fear of the biological clock. 

I am not in a hurry. But I don’t have time to waste. I have a never-ending list of books to read and a finite number of years to read them so yeah, I’d rather sit on the couch with my mom and my cat than go on a date with someone I know I won’t be compatible with. 

Are my standards too high? I truly don’t think that shit matters at all. 

There are times when I’m lonely, but I am not alone. And I know that’s also a common occurrence for many people who are dating or married or polyamorous or ace or divorced or whatever. I’m pretty sure loneliness is just a part of the human condition. 

And, most importantly, my needs are largely being met. Browsing dating apps is entertaining at times, even if it doesn’t lead to dates. There are times when I want to be told I’m beautiful, I want to be told I’m powerful generous kind loving passionate giving funny sexy smart creative. Just because I’m not dating someone, however, does not mean I don’t have someone to tell me those things. It’s a wonder what friends and family can do... all you have to do is ask. And sometimes you don’t even need to do that!

Would I like a partner to walk with me through the rest of the world? Sure. But, at the same time, no partner will ever know me the way my best friend does. The way my family does. They may know me in a different way and a valuable way, but no one will know me like the people who have watched me become who I am... through trauma and time and growth and failure and success. And sure, we are always growing and changing and experiencing new failure and success... but I just don’t know. The more I age and the more I think about it, the more I’m pretty sure I don’t *need* a significant other. And that’s a comforting thing, not a sad thing. 

I don’t think there’s ONE person out there for you. I don’t think some all-knowing deity designed your perfect “other half.” You are a whole ass person and that is enough for my god. Even more so, implying you can only be completed by one other human person means you’ll miss out on what you could gain from so many other beautiful people along the way. 

I think it’s okay for me to be honest if I’m not interested in going on a date with a thirty-year-old basement troll. I think it’s okay for me to be honest if I’m not interested in going on a date with a suit-wearing globe-trotter who spends his weekends blowing his income/inheritance with a drink in hand. I can sure as hell promise you that I’m never going to be Sarah who weighs a trim 120 and has a long blond braid and hikes with her dog on the weekends when she’s not tanning on a beach in Spain or tailgating/day-drinking for eight hours at a time.

Is it my standards or their standards or is it something completely different? 

I think it’s human to want to be enough. 

I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel that way.

But the more time and energy I spend on loving and understanding myself, the more confident I am that I *am* enough. I’m not defining “enough” by what a spouse or partner sees/wants/needs. I’m defining “enough” for myself. And if I’m enough for me, maybe that is all I really need.

Maybe, in time, I will find someone to share my life with in a romantic way.

Or maybe I won’t.

And honestly, I would just like to believe that I’ll be okay no matter what. 

[fallenhero-rebirth]

Who I am.

So, story time, gather around.

I recently realized that there's a lot of people on here, and a lot of them are new. New, so you have no idea who I am, or why I have written this wonderful trainwreck.

And it's been a year, so here we are.

Hi.

I'm Malin, it's my name on the cover, I'm a 47 year old queer metalhead swede who grew up in the countryside and never really figured out how to make this whole socialization thing work.

I wrote what would eventually become Fallen Hero back in 2008 or 2006 or so, not sure, since my LJ is deleted. It was originally titled 'A supervillain writing experiment' and it was exactly that, an experiment. This was before I was writing seriously, and I hadn't really written anything in english before. It started out because my partner was working on a comic, and I fell in love with the world (not the world of Fallen Hero, I had to retool everything, stole that from another book I was writing). The reason why the story was  about a telepath was because it was the closest way I could relate to how alien and raw the world feels sometimes to my neurodivergent brain, the way it invades and hurts and makes it impossible to just be the way everybody else is supposed to be.

And then we come to gender.

Because that was the other reason this story happened, and the reason why it stuck around in my head but couldn't be finished. Because I wasn't finished baking yet.

You see. My own story made me uncomfortable. It was a story about a man, Cyrus, a former hero, telepath, fuckup. Someone not good enough. Broken. Boring. Hating the way he looked, the way he felt about the world and about himself. It was a story about his old friend, Rick (Ricardo), who wanted to be a good friend but was too good at everything. Had everything. Looks. Charm. Fame. Everything Cyrus hated, blamed, wanted to destroy. A good guy turned sour, a simple story with a complication.

The puppet. Yasmin. Who was everything Cyrus was not. Beautiful. Smooth. Popular. With the power to make men do what she wanted to. As long as she played that part. Played the ultimate woman.

And then Yasmin met Rick. And Rick fell hard, and so did Cyrus. The way he couldn't before, because he was washed out and dirty and a man, while Yasmin was fresh and crisp, just like the women Rick always dated. But he had to be a woman. He had to act like one. Look like one.

And that hurt him. That made me hurt.

Because I hadn't figured things out yet. 

I felt like I was a boy growing up, but then I started school and was told I was a girl, and that sounded like bullshit so I had no friends but I had books so that was okay. And then I hit puberty, and that was awkward, but I was also tallest in our class and not pretty, so that was less awkward. Until I started looking at girls, and the awkwardness started again. Fast forward, kissed a boy, didn't like it, ditched my boy name (I was Reuben), discovered metal and turned butch lesbian. Fast forward another decade, met someone online, it turned out to be a boy, fell in love and I guess I was bi.

I was in love and things didn't fit. So I wrote my supervillain writing experiment, trying to figure out why I feel so bad being a girl when everybody else likes it when I am.

Yeah, in retrospect I was stupid, but it was a different time, and the answers less available. I always hated how I looked in the mirror, but I had no idea why. I liked parts of me. I never minded them. Boobs are soft. But my body was someone else, and when I stepped out of my gender neutral metalhead outfit it.... clashed. I crashed.

Panicked. 

And wrote a fucking book about it.

These days I'm at peace with being genderqueer, but if I had to pick a gender I would be a dude, but I also am a fucking introvert and hates it when people make a fuss or looks at me or talks to me, so actually going through with a transition is a bigger nightmare than my dysphoria. I'm lucky. I'm tall, strong, and I don't look, sound or act very girly. I'm in a man's job, dressed in men's clothes, and people treat me as one of the guys. I'm very lucky. I never had to be a girl growing up, and I think that saved me from a world of pain. Good parents. But I still don't like pronouns, so use whatever you like, I'm not going to care.

So yeah, I am finally okay with being queer in every way, so I turned the story into a game, and tried to share this mess with everyone else.

And that's how I found out I'm not alone.

Thank you everyone for that.

[buckyswinterchildren]

And The Reason Is You

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky loves you, and that´s not a secret for any of you. But just by looking at you, he remembers why his feelings towards you are so intense.

Words: 3430

A/N: just a fluffy story. 

Warnings: mentions of smut (it´s described in a very light language, though.)

Tags: @supersoldierslover @flaipa @barnesandnoble13 @amrita31199

(Credits to the owner of the gif.)

It´s been a long day at work with the reports you had to delivered and the two meetings you had to attend to. 

Throughout the weekend, you were hoping this day to be over, and it finally is. As soon as you got to your apartment, you took off the heels, the skirt and the suit shirt, put on your pajamas and put your hair in a bun. 

Half an hour later, you were already in bed, and it didn´t take long before you actually fell in such a profound sleep that you didn´t even hear Bucky opening the front door, nor did you realize when he lay by your side, fifteen minutes ago.

And here he is, on one of his sides, looking at you sleeping; your lips slightly open, one of your hands under the pillow and the other on it. 

He looks at you with love, his eyes have that characteristic spark that can only be seen between lovers. He feels his chest is about to explode for how much he loves you.

Bucky was hopeless, he didn´t expect anything from life. On the inside, he was practically dead. What was a man who was once a weapon supposed to expect from life after having made so much damage? 

The word “future” was just that, a word. The semantic of “future” did not exist for him. Bucky lived day by day without making plans for the next morning. His life was basically divided into missions; they were not even divided according to the time the clock marked. 

He was. 

How good is to know that the past tense exists, how well is to know that you can actually refer to something that was left behind, in the past. And Bucky likes repeating that: “I was” when making reference to being broken on the inside, to being empty.

He looks at you as you sleep and dream about something that you won´t remember tomorrow morning, and in his mind, the reasons, or some of the reasons, why he loves you start playing just like a movie.

Your kindness.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” You moved your hand in front of Bucky whose eyes were stuck in a point of the bedroom, as if he had been daydreaming.

Your words took him out of the limbo and Bucky smiled at you. “Nothing, doll. I just disconnected for a moment.” He took one of the toasts that were on the white dish, together with the juice and coffee, on the breakfast tray.

“Wait! I forgot the jam.” As soon as Bucky took the toast, you realized you have left the jam on the counter of the kitchen. “I´ll be right back,” you said before kissing Bucky on his cheek. 

Bucky did not say anything, he just looked at you as you put your feet back on the floor and started walking towards the kitchen until you disappear behind the wall. And he smiled.

Almost every time in which he comes to your apartment to stay the night, you wake him up the following day with the breakfast tray so that he can have breakfast on your bed. Sometimes, he wakes up because of the smell of coffee or of toasts and he gets up to have breakfast with you in the kitchen. 

He can count with the fingers of one of his hands the times in which he has been the one who has woken up first and made breakfast. Bucky knows that if you can, you stay a little longer in bed, but he also knows that when he is at your apartment, you make sure to get out of bed first to wait him with the breakfast ready.

Bucky is grateful of your actions, even when making breakfast. You make his coffee as he likes it, black with just one teaspoon of sugar. He is aware that you buy coffee just for him since you only drink tea. He also knows the reason why you stop drinking coffee: it awakes your anxiety. Then, those four toasts that are always in the dish, and that you cover with plum jam. 

“I look like a baby whom you have to feed in bed,” Bucky once told you after you put the breakfast tray on the bed.

“Are you complaining about the room service, Barnes?”

“No, of course not. But maybe you have more important things to do rather than making my breakfast and carrying it to bed.”

“I still have three more chapters of “Queer Eye” to watch, if you consider that important. But they can wait. I don´t care making breakfast for you.” You leant your head on his bare shoulder and started tracing patterns on his right arm. “In fact, I like making it for you.” 

This is one of the reasons why Bucky feels loved. After all, love can be found even in the smallest details, in the smallest moments of the day. However, he didn´t know about it until now.

Your patience. 

Whether it is when you have to explain him jokes, sayings or events of the last half of the 20th century or of the 21st one; whether you understand that his nightmares and dark memories are still there, in his mind; or whether you respect his personal space when he needs time alone and isolates himself, Bucky loves your tolerance towards him. 

“I didn´t understand what the boss meant when he said: “that´s what she said” over and over again.” Bucky looked at you with his brows down, confused, as you walked to the grocery.

His words took you by surprise as you were walking in silence, and at first, you did not even know what he was talking about. “What?”

“In “The Office”,” he added.

“Oh!” you laughed when you remembered the character of the series telling that saying to almost everyone. “It has a sexual connotation. I don´t know if a man your age is supposed to hear about it,” you joked as you grabbed his hand. 

There are times in which painful memories come back, and either stay with him for a long time while he is awake, or they become unbereable nightmares. During these times, Buky isolates himself and he may want to be left alone. Even though you would break the door down to hug him and be there, in the silence of his room, you leave Bucky alone.

And he loves you for that too, for your tolerance and patience towards him.

Your empathy.

He always remembers that moment in particular.

Bucky and you went outside to have dinner. Eventually, after walking for half an hour, you found a place in the middle of the city that called your attention, and decided to give it a try.

You sat at one of the tables that was right by one of the brick walls. He faced the entrance while you faced the door that lead towards the back patio.

At first you didn´t notice anything. The waitress came to your table and delivered you the menus before leaving. 

You wanted to try something new, something you´ve never eaten before. You didn´t know what exactly and that was why you were practically submerged in every word of the menu. 

It wasn´t until you looked up to check if Bucky had already chosen his food that you realized something was wrong. 

He was biting his lower lip, his eyes did not leave his lap; his human hand was above the metal one, as if by doing it, the shiny grey of the metal arm would disappear. 

You moved your head to take a look at the rest of the room; it was a crowded restaurant and those who walked by your side couldn´t avoid looking at his metal arm. Some did it with curiosity with their eyes wide open, but some did it with disgust, wrinkling their noses and lowering their brows. 

As soon as you realized what the problem was, you left the menu in the corner of the table and grabbed Bucky´s metal arm. Almost automatically, his fingers intertwined with yours and you could feel that familiar cold in all your hand.

Bucky looked up at you and all you did was smiled at him. “Do you want us to leave?” you whispered.

Bucky will never forget how you squeezed his hand affectionately. 

He shooked his head; one more time, he would try to fight his demons, the ones that live in his mind and tell him he is not worth it, that he is a monster, that he deserves to be looked with disgust. And one more time, you were there for him.

And he did. You remained on your table and didn´t leave the restaurant until you two decided it was time to leave.

On your way back home, you walked towards the subway in silence; a different scenario from the one in the restaurant, where you talked until paying the bill and closing the door behind you when leaving.

Once in the subway, you sat down in one of the benches and you took his left arm, the metal one. You twisted it so that the palm became visible. You started caressing it and Bucky relaxed with your touch. 

“I hate my body,” you told him. “And you know that. You know that there are times when I hate myself, when I would change my body if I could. Either because of my cellulitis or because my skin is everything but perfect, I just hate it. But you always tell me otherwise. You say I´m beautiful and that any of what I consider flaws would change your opinion about me.” You looked up at him and met his blue eyes. “Now I am telling you the same.”

“You cannot fight against all these people, but you can try to fight that inner voice that tells you that you are useless. I love you and I would love you with or without this,” you kept saying as you drew invisible patterns through his metal arm. “And you know what? I´m proud of what you did back there staying. You defeated that voice.”

“I am a hypocrite telling this but we have to learn how to love ourselves.” Those words still resonate in his mind.

Your softness.

After being together for a while, Bucky decided to invite you to one of Tony´s parties. 

If he had wanted, he could have invited to one of these parties before. After all, Tony is well known for throwing, at least, two of them per month. However, it is well known that Bucky does not feel comfortable at all in those environments full of people, with completely different realities from his, around.

“A fish out of the water,” Bucky thinks every time he realizes that he is on the corner of the room, with a drink in his hand and a foot leaning against the wall, looking at nowhere in particular while all those lights illuminate the place.

This time, nontheless, the idea came to his mind and before he could even think what  he was actually saying, Bucky was already talking. “Tomorrow there´s this party at the tower, do you want to come?”

“Are there gonna be hot guys? If so, I´m all in,” you joked as you keep walking around the bookshop looking for the book you´ve wanted to read for so long.

“Well, Captain America is gonna be there.”

“Then, put me on the list.”

And the conversation ended there, with both of you laughing. And, unluckily for you, without the book you wanted in your hands.

Those who know Bucky did not recognize him at all. 

He spent a lot of time in the middle of the room, not hiding in one of the dark corners. He was not precisely in the spotlight, but he was not a shadow as his friends are used to seeing him in these events.

“I didn´t know you could dance, but I´m not surprised at all,” you told him as your bodies moved at the rhythm of the songs coming out the speakers. “You haven´t lose those 40´s movements,” you said as you hugged him from the neck. 

Bucky´s hands were on your waist and you could feel how his thumbs caressed you. “Then I must be a natural-born dancer because I´m not the kind of person who dances all the time.”

“I´m flattered I discovered this side of you, then.”  

The hours went by but the party seemed to have no end. 

“This is always like this, doll,” Bucky told you after seeing you checking the hour on your watch. “You wanna go home?”

You nodded. “I´m tired, I had a long day today. But I can stay a little longer if you wish to-”

“No, it´s fine,” Bucky interrupted you. 

You smiled and put a hand on his knee, caressing it. “Do you want to come with me? You can spend the night in my apartment, if you want.”

Bucky didn´t think it twice. “Of course.”

Forty minutes later, you two arrived to your apartment. And once you crossed the front door, it happened naturally. 

None of you were planning what was going to happen next. 

At the beginning, the only sound that could be heard were the songs coming from the radio you have in the living room. When you go out at night and the apartment is left alone, you like to turn the music on. “Just in case someone wants to enter while I´m not here,” you explained everytime a friend of yours looks at you, confused.

Your subconscious recognized the song it was been played, a song by The Cure, but your were completely foccused on what was happening with your bodies.

Your hands on his face, his on your back. Your mouths moving perfectly together, showing this wasn´t the very first time you kissed each other, but with a speed and a hunger that seemed you need one another to keep living. 

“Are you sure about this?” you asked once you felt the kitchen counter on your back. You took advantage of that moment to breath.

Bucky caressed your cheek and you lost in his delicate touch. “I am, doll.”

“Then, come.” You grabbed his hand, the one that had been on your cheek some moments ago, and guided him towards your bedroom. 

You let him sat on the foot of the bed and straddled his lap. 

Kisses went from soft to rough. All the love you felt for the other was being showed in these kisses.

One of his hands left your hip and went up until it found the strap of your dress. He touched your shoulders with the tips of his fingers, delicately, as he left you strapless.

You put your forehead against his and started unbuttoning his shirt. One by one, you were able to see his bare chest. 

 You couldn´t avoid biting your lower lip as you kept taking the shirt out. “He couldn´t be more perfect,” is the thought that appeared in your mind.

All this time, Bucky didn´t say a word, he just looked at you. However, once he was shirtless, his eyes got stuck on your lap, and this time, he was the one who couldn´t avoid biting his lip, but not because of lust and love, but because of shame. 

“You want it back? We don´t have to do this. You know that, don´t you?” you whispered as you put your hand on his chin, making Bucky look at you. 

The sound of your voice, the softness with which you talked made Bucky react. “I´m sorry, I guess I will never be comfortable with the scars,” he said, avoiding making eye contact with you.

“Hey, do you trust me? I don´t feel comfortable in my own skin either, but here I am in my underwear on top of you, because I trust you, Bucky. I´m serious, we don´t have to do this,” you said as you tuck his hair behind his ear.

He smiled at you and his hands found your face. “I feel safe with you.”

“That´s one of the best things someone´s ever told me.”

“I want to do this. I just-”

You shushed him with a kiss. You knew what his words were going to be, but you made sure to say them first. “Your scars don´t disgust me.” 

Your mouth kept kissing his lips, but little by little, they started moving towards his sharp jaw, his neck. You could feel with your whole body how he started to feel more comfortable. He wasn´t as tense as he was some minutes ago. 

Your mouth kept its journey on his left shoulder until it got to the junction between the flesh and the metal. Once they rested there, you could feel the heat of Bucky´s body and the coolness of the metal, an unfamiliar sensation that you loved to feel. 

You kissed his scars, proving Bucky that you weren´t scared nor disgusted of them. 

Bucky was breathing from his mouth, his eyes closed, enjoying every movement your lips made on his body. 

“Do you believe me now?” you whispered once your mouth abandoned his scares.

Bucky hoped the smile that appeared on his face was enough to show you how much it meant for him what you just did. “Thank you, doll.”

And from that moment, the environment changed. The insecurities and fears you both felt about your bodies and appeareances disappeared.

Your hands discovered the places you have fantasized about. Your ears heard the secret sounds both of you made only in private, behind doors.

Your pupils dilated, your hearts were beating so hard on your chests that made your veins pumped blood with an extremely force. If you concentrated, you could feel the beats of your hearts even on your heads. 

Your own throat made sounds you weren´t even aware you were keeping. 

Because of the delicacy you treated one another, It seemed that after a war, your bodies wanted to make nothing but peace.  

By now, you knew much more from one another and that made your hearts explode of happiness, of satisfaction. 

The ectasy took both of you to the peak of what was possible, making you so vulnerable. Once the excitement was left behind, you were able start breathing at a normal rate. 

Bucky hadn´t felt so alive in decades. The excitement he´d felt all that time by hurting and killing those who had ruined his life, a feeling he had accepted as the only thing that could make his heart pump with intensity, was replaced by the fact that you accepted him just as he is, with all his scars and issues. 

Your legs tangled, your head on his chest going up and down at the rhythm of Bucky´s breathings, your hand making random patterns on his chest, his fingers travelling throughout your back. 

Bucky loved your softness: the way you talked to him, you kissed him even on his scars, you touched him with delicacy as if you were to break him if you weren´t careful enough.

“I love you.” Once again, Bucky wasn´t able to even process what he said, the words came out of his mouth automatically. It was just a whisper, a confirmation of what he already knew he felt, but that hadn´t been said outloud before.

You raised your head, smiling. “I guess I brought the right guy from the party.” You caressed his cheek as you saw the wrinkles that formed at the sides of his eyes, appearing every time he smiles. “I love you too.”

A string of hair escapes from your bun and falls to your face, and Bucky tucks it behind your ear. Even though it is a soft touch, it wakes you up. “Hey, you are here!” your voice shows tiredness but doesn´t hide the excitement you feel at seeing him again. 

“I´m here, Doll.”

“Do you want to have dinner? There´s food in the fridge.”

“No, I´m fine. I just want to sleep.”

“Get comfortable, then. There´s space for you here.”

Five minutes later, Bucky is already hugging you from behind; his hand on your stomach and yours on his hand, he is so closer to you that he can smell the aroma of your hair, a smell he loves. 

Your eyes are closing again, but before you actually fall asleep again, you say: “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Bucky kisses the top of your head and whispers: “I love you so much, doll.”

[bugheadspoby]

Bad, Sinful things. (Part 3 of Obsessed with my stalker)

Part 3.

*Please ask me in comments if you get confused because the story is just unfolding and Betty and Jughead have A LOT of bad past and psychotic things on their plates that they’re not ashamed of. Also it seems a little rushed but actually it isn’t and you’ll slowly get answers as the plot moves* *Frequent changes of POVS*

6:03 PM

“Going somewhere Elizabeth?” a queer bitchy voice reached my ears as I stopped in the tracks on the backside of Pops. “Who the fuck let you in?” I gasped making queer eye contact. “Oh, no one! I helped myself in..I used to live in Riverdale remember? ” she smirked. “Are you here to meet the boy of your dirty dreams?” “Why the hell do you care where I go or what I do? and why exactly are you showing me your disgusting face Darla?” I shouted. “Easy girl, easy! I’m just here to tell you that although I had some unfinished buisness with him..I had fun..” she said casually roaming around the broken tracks. “watching you kill that Blossom boy” she continued. “But right now… I prefer if you join him too” “So you’re here to kill me?” I frowned and laughed. “That’s the plan Cooper!” she smirked again. “And that’s why I decided to do it here! Killing you under his territory will bring nothing but joy to me” My mind rummaged quickly as she took out a pocket knife and stepped closer to me, holding it to my face and smiling like a freak. “It’s gonna be a long night if you oppose me now ponytail. So I suggest you step down and let my dagger taste your blood” she laughed. “Easy Darla! I bet you don’t wanna hurt me” I smirked looking at her face. “ I’ll bury you alive with..what was his name..your son? Kurtz?” I whispered smiling. Her face expressions turned hard and bothered as she gritted her teeth, cursing under her breath. “YOU. BITCH! you’ll pay” she shouted. “Both of you will!” I smiled looking back at the amazing yet awful memories of the sophomore homecoming night Jughead and I touched for the first time. *flashback* I was standing on the roof of the school as I watched Cheryl and Veronica kissing in the parking lot and I smiled because V finally got the nerve to ask her out but Cheryl being a bitch denied her the next day saying it was just the heat of the moment and she’s not interested. On the other side I saw Juggy, smoking a joint, annoyed just like me because of phonies and assholes that filled the place. He looked deliciously good that day with a black tux and his signature beanie and I caught him twice while he was checking me out at the party. He looked up at the roof and found me and I casually looked away but he didn’t. He kept on staring until I was out of breath. His stare did something to me that I could never understand. I was just enjoying this indirect eye fucking session when I felt a hand on my waist and I turned around to find the most annoying boy of Riverdale High,even more than Archie. Kurtz Tonsz. “What is a princess like you doing alone up here? In the middle of the dance?” he flirted. “I don’t feel like dancing Kurtz! Go away” I blurted taking his hands off of my waist. “Oh come on Elizabeth! Give boys like me a chance too.. I know you have your eyes on the most dangerous prize but I don’t think he’s into you” he said in a flirty tone as I looked at him in surprisingly disgusted manner. “You know nothing about me Kurtz. Get the hell away” I said and noticed Jughead smoking while his eyes were on fire looking at us. “He likes bad girls, the ones who are deadly” he said as I rolled my eyes.“You are the perfect girl Betty but maybe I can..” he said approaching closer as I flinched to get away from his tight grasp on my waist. “Maybe I can make you feel less of a good girl if you wanna be worthy for him. Just a tryout huh?” “Take your hands off of me Kurtz, now!” I shouted as the grip grew tighter. “Come on blondie don’t push too hard. I know you want it and I’ve never tasted a good girl before” he smirked at me pullinghis face closer as I pushed back and the next moment he was on the ground, bleeding from his mouth. “Betty are you okay?” he asked grabbing me by my arms. “J-Juggy?” I gasped, trying to comprehend what happened. “He’ll pay for it” he said as I just nodded, a little overwhelmed from the sudden turn of events. “He won’t touch you again..” he cupped my cheeks and pulled me a little closer to him with God knows what intention but it sent sparks into my body. “Go home Betty” His fingers caressed my waist and cold blooded eyes were burning holes in my body and when he finally let go, I ran off to home and locked myself in my room. After a while I just started smiling so hard, thinking about all the stuff that happened and I lost control over myself. We’ve been close before but never this close. I could literally feel his breath on my lips, his hands on my cheeks and his rough fingers on waist. I closed my eyes and laid down and before I could even think, my own mind betrayed me and hands went to places. I was feeling something so sinful touching myself in a way I never did before and when I realized what I was doing I was naked and dripping. It wasn’t just lust like I thought. It was something else about him. I was in love with him since a very long time but until that day I’ve mistaken it for lust. *end of flashback* 

“It took me three weeks to find him and when I did he was already buried” she spat. “Jughead didn’t bury him Darla! He just kicked him until he was out of Riverdale and in front of a car that ran, what was left of him, over” “But you know what blondie?!..it’ll be my pleasure to see him suffer over your trashed dead body” she moved forward a little and aimed the pocket knife on my throat as I smiled looking in her eyes. “Go ahead! What are you waiting for?” I laughed and she went on edge of anger when a bullet rummaged on the back of her leg and she fell down on her knees. “I thought I made myself clear when I threw you out of Riverdale Darla” Jughead said blowing the smoke out of his gun. “I guess I was wrong. Bitches like you never learn!” he smirked as she tried to struggle to get up on one knee. My eyes met his. His hair curl was casually sitting on his forehead covering his left eye, he was dressed in his signature ’S’ shirt and black jeans and he wasn’t wearing his beanie on his head and suddenly I began to realize that I wasn’t wearing any panties either. Our little moment ended when she suddenly screamed on the ground and attacked me with the knife and I fell to the ground too and everything went black all of a sudden. —- “Go ahead! What are you waiting for?” I heard her say and smirked at her courage. I knew this girl was trouble the first time I saw her. Courageous, beautiful, brave and drop dead gorgeous. Darla went on the edge of anger but before she could do it I shot her on the leg and she fell to the ground, grunting in pain. “I thought I made myself clear when I threw you out of Riverdale Darla” I said blowing the smoke out. “I guess I was wrong. Bitches like you never learn!” Somewhere in between her struggles I caught her eyes and she was busy checking me out, scratching her neck and biting her lips like she was freakishly turned on. We were just lusting on to each other when suddenly that filthy bitch attacked her with a knife and she fell to the ground. Serpents gathered at my call and took her away while I carried a passed out Betty in my arms. Her thighs were bleeding so bad and my trailer was pretty far away so I had to take her to the Wyrm. The Serpents called it a night and went back to their places after putting Darla into an abandoned trailer. I was literally in heaven as my inner pervert was finally a little bit satisfied by placing himself in between her legs, stitching her wounds and applying ointment. Her body started to tense up underneath my palms and I realized she was starting to wake up. It was so sexy how her body responded to my touch but it was a little awkward too. —- I opened my eyes and I was lying on a board-like uneasy surface, my legs were apart and hurted like a bitch. It took me sometime to realize that I had dirt in my hair and that someone was in between my opened legs trying to stitch my awkwardly placed wounds. I couldn’t get up because of the pain but I was finally awake and slowly realizing that I was on some sort of game board. Why is it so dark in here? Why are there p-poles? Stripper poles? Is this..? Holy Cr-Am I lying on a snooker table in the Whyte Wyrm? My mind flashed sparks and my eyes went to the back of my head when I recognized the touch between my legs. Was he stitching me up? Crap! I’m not even wearing anything underneath that terribly short skirt and my body is already reacting to him. I tried to get up despite of my jolting head and spinning vision. He was heating up his pocket knife with his lighter. He stopped to look up at me as I tried to maintain my sitting balance. “Hey! How are you feeling?” he asked caressing my cheeks. “I-I’ll be okay…just a little pain down there” I said as he smirked. “What are you doing with that knife?” “It’ll help your wounds heal better” “D-does that hurt?” I asked looking at the heated metal. “Yeah it will” he said. “But I know you can handle it” his whisper sent me to another world. My mind was on fire and so was my body and he was in charge of the situation right now which was even more sexier. He looked at me one last time before putting that fired metal on my leg and I screamed a little which made him smirk even more harder. I could clearly see right through him and his intentions were bad but in a good way. I was literally a meal on the table for him right now and for the first time in my life it felt so good to be helpless. He knew he had the authority right now, I even needed his help to move. He can do anything to me and I’ll be happy if he wants to take me right there on that snooker table. I can’t be on my knees right now but I’ll happily lick him to the core. “Where is everybody?” I asked breaking the silence. “Wyrm is closed on Thursdays” he said and I looked over to him. “Then what are you doing here?” I asked again as his eyes shot up to me. “What you’re trying to ask Betty? Shoot!” “Why did you call me in here when the Wyrm was closed and you weren’t working and Did you know about Darla?” “No! I didn’t know about Darla and I called you here on purpose” he confessed getting up from the floor and wiping his hands with a cloth. “I want this little game to be over Betty” “What game?” I asked as his face gained a mischievous smirk that burned my insides. “The game we’re both playing since ages” he whispered and sat down on the chair in front of me. “Lets confess the things we did for each other! Bad, sinful things” he grabbed both of my thighs and I went breathless looking in his eyes as his grip got tighter and tighter with every passing second. He slowly made his way underneath my skirt with his fingers and teased me. “I’ll go first” I must say he knew how to make a girl feel so vulnerable but yet so aroused at the same time and I was starting to wonder how his fingers will feel a little more inside of my skirt. “I am the one you probably presumed as your stalker” he finally confessed. “The one who left notes for you and roses that were just as beautiful as you are” “I can’t believe this!” I said as my eyes went wide. “I doubted you. I definitely did but..” “But what baby?” “F-FP?” I stuttered. “Yeah I did that! He deserved to be in jail for killing his own daughter but he never got in so.. I thought it’ll serve him well” he took one of his hands out of my skirt leaving a warm spot and brushed my hair out of my face. “Your turn” “I-” my words came out weak. I never felt this vulnerable to anybody. “I-I killed y-your Queen” I spat and started looking down for God knows what reason. It was maybe guilt, maybe shame or maybe just a thought that what will he think about me but then he suddenly pushed me back and I was lying on the table as he climbed up on me, between my opened legs. “My Queen?” he whispered in a different tone and I could’ve bet he’s angry at me. I don’t know what got me to confess something like this in front of him. I never knew what he felt about her and I just presumed that I’m the better option for him. “She’s not dead! She’s right here lying at the table as I’m praising her beauty” he said and looked at my surprised face before he casually pushed a finger inside and OH BOY that felt incredible. I gasped and lifted my body a little as his skillful fingers made there way in and he moaned and smiled too at the feeling of my wetness. “Don’t come yet” he commanded and I looked at his face but I was too turned on to observe the way he studied my face as his fingers went deeper. “Now my turn!” “I love watching you from Archie’s window” he bit his lip as I rolled my eyes in pleasure. “I was so close to jerk off the night I saw you naked but boy Archie had to destroy it, by existing” I giggled at his words and he gave me a little spin that threw me off the edge. “J-Juggy” I stuttered. “I-I can’t-I-I have to..please” I begged as he smiled vividly and then whispered coming close to my lips. “It was one of my sick fantasies to not let you come till you cry but you look so good begging for it” he gently touched my shivering face with the other hand. “Don’t hold anything back babe..let it all out” I screamed and the very next second I did what he commanded and he was just smiling at me with I don’t know pure adoration or something but it was something I’ve never seen on his face before. “That was even more beautiful than I ever imagined” he kissed me on the lips which lasted some moments and I knew that the taste was bound to last forever but the next moment he said something that twisted my heart and turned my world upside down. “I have another confession to make Betty” he sighed. The look on his face showed how bad it was going to be and I was terrified for a second followed by “What is it?” while I cupped his face gently and his face began to melt. “I killed Hal Cooper” he whispered.

[hotpinklizard]

Hi! Do you take prompts? Maybe darcy/steve/bucky for something like "No one would suspect.."?

Thank you for the prompt! You can read it here on AO3.ExpectationsDarcy enjoys watching her boys shatter people’s expectations of them. People seem to expect Bucky and Steve to be angry old geezers, shaking their fists as they rant about the youth of America. So when a journalist asks in an interview if they just hate things like instant oatmeal and powdered hot chocolate, saying it’s not as good as how things used to be done, Steve says, “No! It saves a lot of time and it tastes good. I think it’s great.” Darcy saves a screenshot of the reporter’s dismayed face for a rainy day.

The current trend in media is the thirst for information about heroes’ private lives. Darcy, as part of the PR team for the Avengers, puts a moratorium on questions about their dating lives and families. Some of the reporters like to push boundaries, but most know that they aren’t going to get anywhere and stick to questions that only sometimes toe the line. Recently it’s been a surge in trying to get heroes’ political affiliations. Or get them to say something scandalous.

“Would you agree that modern TV and movies are boring because there’s too much emphasis on political correctness?” a reporter asks when Steve is just out trying to buy groceries.

“I love seeing different stories. Diversity isn’t a buzzword, it’s the reality of the world,” Steve says before going back to buying his tomatoes.

The reporter looks disappointed that Steve isn’t secretly a bigot. Darcy smirks when she sees the clip online. The only media coaching she had to give him for questions like that is to not call the person who asked any foul names.

That’s one of the reasons she’s with Steve in the first place. Steve is good. He doesn’t need to be told that people matter, he just knows. She’d dated a man in college who admitted that he didn’t know why he should care about others and she’d dipped out of there as fast as she could at 3:00 a.m. in floppy slippers.

Pepper reluctantly allows a Fox News reporter to attend a press conference at the tower, out of what Darcy has a suspicion is just morbid curiosity. The smarmy man asks Bucky if he likes how free speech and their politicians are being attacked. Bucky says, “Free speech is me not getting arrested for telling you you’re a goddamn asshole. Or calling the president a goddamn asshole.”

And that’s one of the reasons she’s with Bucky, too. He is all out of fucks to give and isn’t interested in searching for more. He’d spent so much time being forced to be someone else that now, now that he’s spent a lot of time in therapy and a lot of time figuring out what he wants, he’s unabashedly himself and refuses to change for anyone. She loves that.

Startled and irritated, the reporter changes tactics and asks Bucky and Steve their opinion about the conservative economic plans.

“You do know we were raised in the Great Depression, right?” Steve says, eyebrows raised. “Believe it or not, we don’t want to deal with that again.”

Emboldened by the other reporter, a local news reporter asks about LGBTQIA+ rights. Pepper steps in to put a stop to what she probably feels is an inquisition, but they’re way ahead of her.

“We’re all passionate about equality,” Tony says smoothly, but Bucky cuts off whatever he was going to say next.

“You know that being gay isn’t a new invention, right?” Bucky says, glaring hard. “Do you really think queer people weren’t around when we were growing up?”

“Is that how you identify?” the reporter asks quickly.

Darcy knows Bucky would easily say fuck yeah he is and fuck you, but he doesn’t. Steve isn’t ready for the three of them to be public, and there are enough rumors about his relationship with Bucky as it is. She doesn’t care if people know, Bucky doesn’t care if people know, but they care that Steve cares.

“No one’s sexuality is your damn business,” he says instead.

Pepper cuts in there, changing the topic to Tony, who happily takes the limelight off them. It’s not the best, Steve and Bucky aren’t fond of interviews or cameras in their faces, but it handle it well enough. More than that, the department that handles Avengers-related fan mail and threatening letters reports an uptick in letters from queer kids who feel more accepted knowing their heroes love them, so that’s good.

People also seem to expect Steve and Bucky to only enjoy old man activities, like golf and talking about the war, as if they’re just younger version of everyone’s grandparents, or serious shit like cleaning their knives and shield all day. They’d be shocked to know that they like watching snowboarding and eating shitty take out and playing video games. Steve is a wild man at any racing game and Bucky is an absolute wild man at Mario Party.

Not a damn person would believe her if she told them the former Winter Solider knitted her a sweater when she complained she couldn’t find one in the purple that she liked. They wouldn’t believe Steve is an avid Parks and Recreation fan. Not a soul would believe that when she took them to an adult store for the first time ever, it was Steve and Bucky that mostly filled the basket with all kinds of adventurous things they want to try, Darcy just adding a couple bottles of lube and condoms.

Darcy is lounging in bed, wearing leggings and the oversized purple sweater from Bucky and flipping through news articles on her phone. Bucky’s lying next to her on his stomach, face buried in his pillow, arm slung over her waist. There’s a soft beep letting them know someone (Steve) has entered the code to their apartment, and a few moments later, Steve is faceplanting into bed next to Bucky, groaning.

“Long morning?” Darcy asks, looking up from her phone. Steve just groans again, flipping off Bucky when he laughs.

“Why do you guys get a mid-day nap and I had to be Pepper’s show pony all morning?” Steve asks.

“You love when the kids visit,” Darcy says. It’s true, Steve always makes sure to be available when the schoolkids have their tours of Stark Tower.

“Yeah, but their parents…”

Yeah, okay, that’s fair. There’s always at least one chaperone that thinks she (or he) can make Captain America fall in love with them in a single afternoon. Darcy’d had to rescue him last year when a particularly forward husband and wife had tried to entice him to come home with them. Darcy had invented a fake emergency (Code Periwinkle for fake emergencies and quick getaways from social situations) and hustled him out, trying to look very serious and not at all amused.

“It’s your turn next time,” Steve says, turning his head to look at Bucky. “The kids love you.”

“They try to hang from my metal arm like a jungle gym,” Bucky grumbles, squinting an eye open to look at Steve.

“You love that,” Darcy says, nudging her toes against his thigh. He reaches behind him, grabbing at her ankle and tugging her toward him. She shrieks out a laugh, rolling with the movement until she’s lying on his back. Steve snorts at them, rolling to his side.

“Only when it’s you, doll,” he says.

“Liar,” she says, grinning. She presses a kiss to the back of his neck before Steve pulls her by the wrist until she’s squished between them.

“Nap now, jungle gym later,” he says, throwing an arm over her waist, his fingers resting on Bucky’s back.

“This is dumb,” she says, face pressed against his chest. “Why are we all squished on one half of the bed when there’s a whole empty side?”

“Because Bucky isn’t moving,” Bucky says, eyes closed again. Steve kicks at Bucky’s legs until he gives in with a grumble, rolling over until there’s enough room for them all to lie comfortably (it’s a California king mattress, really the only option when there are two sets of shoulders like Steve and Bucky’s).

The only expectations people have of the two of them that Darcy doesn’t want rocked are related to the battlefield. Everyone assumes Captain America and the former Winter Soldier will always be victorious. They’ll watch, follow the news with wide, fearful eyes, but they always believe the two of them will come out on top.

Darcy is good with everyone having that expectation. It’s probably unhealthy, but she clings to that when they’re out on some mission and she doesn’t know if they’ll be back. She holds onto the country’s collective belief that Steve and Bucky are invincible, her breath held as she watches them battle aliens or robots or other enhanced baddies in the street.

She knows they’re strong, she knows they know what they’re doing, but she worries. It’s in her nature, she’s a worrier. She hides it well most of the time, shielding herself with bravado and sarcastic quips, but something in her heart still clenches when she sees one of them take a hit, even if they stand back up almost immediately. She knows they’re doing what they believe in, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch. The only thing worse is not watching.

She never really considered their worry for her. They’re protective, but careful not to be overbearing so she honestly doesn’t think too much about it. But then she’s downtown, walking to get coffee when the ground shakes. She doesn’t know what’s going on, only that what looks like small robots are flying around above the city, dropping small bomb on the city.

“Shit!” she says, turning on her heel and running toward the closest alley, looking for any kind of cover. “Shit, shit, shit…”

An explosion in front of her knocks down part of a wall in the alley, and a second later there’s a pained yowl. Trapped with a pile of bricks on its back leg in a dirty black cat, eyes wide in pain and fear and damn it, she can’t just leave it.

It takes a few moments but she gets the cat’s leg out from under the bricks, scooping it up and holding it close to her chest as she runs. She’s not immediately clawed to death, which she’s grateful for, but also probably means the cat’s in shock.

There’s a small alcove farther down that used to be a loading zone for delivery trucks. She ducks behind the bricks right when one of the little robot bombs drops. She screams, can’t help it, as part of the balcony above her collapses, dropping in front of her and trapping her in the brick alcove with a mass of concrete and rubble in front of her.

“Okay, okay,” she mutters, trying to pull her phone out of her bag with one hand, the other cradling the cat that’s begun to shake in earnest. “It’s okay, kitty, we got this. Fuck, no service, we don’t got this.”

No, this is fine, this is totally fine. The explosions are already moving away, like they’re going for as much chaos as possible, not targeting anyone specific, so she doubts anything will be back to finish her off. Still, she’s trapped with an injured cat and no one has any idea where she is. If her phone doesn’t have service, they can’t track her, right? If they even realize she’s missing. It’s the middle of the work day, would anyone expect her to be here? Would they think to look?

She’s expecting a very long wait for rescue, if one comes at all. She’s sitting down with her back against the wall, the cat calmer now that Darcy’s wrapped it in her jacket. There’s no name tag, so Darcy’s decided it’s now Florence. She has no idea if it’s a boy or girl cat, but it’s Florence now, and she’s going to get Florence out of this, damn it.

It’s nearing hour two of being trapped and she’s starting to get antsy, when there’s shifting of the rubble. She scrambles to her feet, holding Florence tightly, and shrinks back into the corner, trying to avoid anything falling on her.

It’s not the building collapsing, though. The concrete blocking her in is ripped away and there’s Bucky, breathing heavily on the other side, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Oh thank fuck,” Darcy breathes.

She dashes out of the alcove and throws herself into his arms, Florence hissing indignantly between them. Bucky lifts her easily, moving her away from the rubble and a bit farther down the alley so they’re not next to a building that’s probably a stiff breeze away from collapsing.

“Bucky,” she says when he sets her back on her feet, taking her face in both his hands. He still looks panicked, eyes roving over her for any sign of injury, pausing at the bloody scrapes on her arm, the rips in the knees of her pants.

“You didn’t come back,” he says roughly.

“What?”

“You were out - coffee run - you didn’t come back. Then we saw…” He can’t seem to finish, words failing him. Then he’s kissing her roughly, like he never thought he’d be able to again. She wraps her free arm around him, kissing him back just as hard because she gets it, she really does. She does the exact same thing when they come back after a battle, dirty and exhausted and a little bloodier than she’d like.

There are loud footsteps and Bucky pulls away to look, ready to pull a gun, but it’s Steve. He’s in his Captain America uniform, covered in dirt, and he looks as frantic as Bucky.

“You found her,” he says, then he’s running toward them. Bucky carefully takes Florence from Darcy and just in time, because Steve isn’t slowing down. He grabs Darcy around the waist and yanks her to him, holding her tightly.

“I’m okay,” she says, hugging him back. “I’m fine, Steve.”

It’s true, even. Sure, she’s probably going to shake and have a mild meltdown as soon as she’s home and has a chance to change and clean up, but for right now she’s okay.

Then Steve’s kissing her, and that shocks the hell out of her more than anything else. Steve isn’t embarrassed of their relationship, not at all, but he’s very private and never kisses her or Bucky when they’re out. She kisses back, obviously, because he’s her boyfriend and she loves it, but her mind is racing.

She learns later that she was in the background of a shaky cell phone video that the news was playing while they waited for more information, and Steve and Bucky had flown into a frenzy.

“We thought we lost you,” Steve murmurs against her lips, bending down to rest his forehead against hers.

Bucky steps up behind her, crowding in and holding her as best he can with a cat in one arm. Darcy keeps one arm around Steve, her other hand coming up to rest on Bucky’s arm, letting them both know she’s here and safe. Then Steve is raising his head, kissing Bucky and yeah, that’s new, too. Not the kiss, but in public. Steve, who longs to keep his private life out of the public view, has just kissed both of them in broad daylight with lots of people around.

“Steve, there are people,” Bucky says softly. He doesn’t care one bit, proud as hell about his partners, but Steve cares.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, gripping both of them tightly. “I don’t care. I needed you both here and okay.”

The sound of sirens is getting closer and Darcy expects to be handed off to a paramedic while they get back to rescue duty, but she’s surprised again when Steve easily lifts her into his arms, making her squeak at the sudden movement.

“Not still on duty?” she asks.

“No,” Steve says, kissing her cheek and starting down the alley away from the crowds of people and paramedics. “The others have it handled.”

Darcy looks over Steve’s shoulder to see Bucky following them, Florence looking happy as a clam to be in his arm. There’s a news crew behind them and Darcy turns back around, not wanting to deal with that right now.

Steve and Bucky are both clingy for the rest of the day, not letting her far out of their sight. The only time Bucky is away from her for longer than ten minutes is when he brings Florence to the emergency vet. He comes back with news that Florence is a boy, not microchipped, and is very high on pain pills, his leg in a little cast. Steve halfheartedly suggests bringing him to a shelter, but Bucky and Darcy glare and it isn’t brought up again.

The next day, when cleanup is well underway, Darcy and Bucky are sitting on the couch in the living room, Florence sprawled with his head on Darcy’s thigh, the rest of his body on Bucky’s. The press conference is about to start, but she’s taking a day off so she doesn’t have to be there, and if she doesn’t, Bucky sure isn’t going. Steve had rolled his eyes at both of them, but went anyway. Such a responsible adult.

The first few questions are standard. What attacked the city? Are there any new threats on the horizon? Who’s paying for cleanup? Are there any team injuries?

Then come the questions they’ve been waiting for. Yes, Steve tells them he’s dating the woman he was photographed kissing. Yes, also Bucky. Yes, they’re all together. No, he isn’t going to be giving any more details than that.

“I’m sure the world is shocked that Captain America has not only a girlfriend but a boyfriend as well!” a reporter says, nudging for him to spill more.

“Captain America is symbol. But I’m Steve Rogers, and I’m just a man,” Steve says. “And I love my partners.”(A/N If you come to my comments just to say “queer is a slur11!1!1!”, I’m cursing you with a thousand bee stings.)

[purediscordhell]

Fallen For UwU

Summary: One boy is a disaster at just about everything, while the other is... not.

Pairing: Pwinxiety (swoon OWO)

Words: 590

Warnings: Intense amount of cringe (for me at least)

AN: This isn’t how I write, but this idea popped into my head with the help of a Discord server that I’m on. I hope y’all enjoy this, and please excuse any typos in this. I’m taking Thomas’ advice to not look back. I hope Thomas never sees this.

He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. Granted, he was like 17? So yeah, not much experience to go on, but he’d take it. 

The teen watched as the other boy brushed his perfect brown hair out of his eyes. Oh how the teen wished he could be as handsome as he. The elegance of the boy ordering his coffee made the teen wish he had as much confidence as the one captured by his affections. 

The boy with the brown hair finally looked up when he turned around and made eye contact with the main character dude. 

The guy looked at the other guy and winked at him with both eyes, tripping over his own feet with how gay he is. He ended up bumping his knee over a metal table and fell down, cursing loudly, wincing as his voice squeaked like it hadn’t finished puberty yet.

Booming laughter followed by hurried footsteps followed, as the boy who tripped was starfished on the ground. He peeked a gunmetal Gray eye open as the cute boy with the brown hair knelt down beside him, worry and amusement etched onto his face. 

“Careful there, fine citizen!” The brown haired boy teased. “Although it’s not everyday that someone literally falls for me, I do hope you’re alright.”

Now that the Cute Boy was close, the main character could see that his eyes were a soft brown, with the lightest hints of Amber. 

“Hnng, cute,” he whispered, before his eyes widened in a gay panic. The Cute Boy flushed.

Before the boy could say anything else and dig himself into a deeper hole filled with existentialism and failed gayness, the Cute Boy grabbed his hand and hoisted him to his feet. The boy’s knee throbbed, and he almost kicked his helper’s shin, but he got a hold of himself really quickly. Like wow, Jonathon from Queer Eye would be proud. 

Cute Boy had a small smirk on his face, which looked really pretty on him. Like wowwww, hunny you need to stop. Cute Boy also hadn’t let go of the boy’s hand. 

Cute Boy also had on tight-fitting blue jeans that hugged that McBooty of his and an even tighter red T-shirt. He tilted his head a little. “You usually check out possible game?”

Disaster Gay (I got tired of writing the boy) snorted, then covered his mouth with his free hand. “No, you’re just really hot!” He squeaked out the last word. 

You idiot, he’s going to hate you, he scolded himself. I can’t believe you got caught checking him out. Way to go. 

Cute Boy let out another booming laugh, letting his eyes fall upon the not-so-stunning-body-of-Disaster-Gay (only in his eyes). His expression turned soft, as soft as a bunny’s fur.

“I know you fell for me earlier, but would you like me to take you out sometime?” Cute Boy snickered for a second, lacing his fingers into Disaster Gay’s. “And not literally, like you’ve already done.”

Disaster Gay flushed as red as a ripe tomato. He really was an idiot. “Yeah, only if you want your day to be spent complaining about the heat and how much of a gay disaster I am,” he replied without thinking. 

Cute Boy smiled. “As you wish,” he said with a bow, kissing Disaster Gay’s hand where he was holding it in his. “And May I ask what your name is, my fair prince? I’m Roman.”

Disaster Gay smiled. “My name is Virgil,” he said, voice cracking.

@impatentpending @virge-of-a-breakdown @pattonistooprecious @redrosella @moon-of-the-stars @why-things-go-boom @cashmeredragon @extremist-water-agenda @v-doodles @purplepatton @nirascharacterdump @notveryglittery @the-closet-1 @crystrifoglio @moralitytime @tomatobees @sanderdrabbles @pumpkinofspace @spiralofsilencetheory @keithstopno 

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Spaniard

I was once given a gift of love by a stranger.

It lasted only a few hours of one evening, but it seemed like an époque, an age of unalloyed bliss. I could, of course, elucidate for you the mechanics of our pleasure … pepper this text with explicit particulars, offer up all the "naughty bits" that people love to fixate on. With a few choice expletives, I could stir your discomfort or your titillation, your outrage or your envy. But I'll spare you all that, and share with you instead the emotional epiphany that bloomed within this one encounter. Trust me, as I lead you into and out of the hothouse.

The stranger and I walked towards one another from opposite ends of a hallway … both of us clad only in towels, striding barefoot by closed doors, from behind which we could hear all the moans and slaps and sighs of a place like this, a place where men gather to lose themselves in pleasure, or pain, or both. In the dim center of the hall, we passed one another, unable to see much more than our outlines … for in a house of red lights, there are only silhouettes, blurry and unfixed suggestions, just enough visibility to define a few salient details. You can see things that suggest the paintings of Francis Bacon: cages, metal rails, open mouths, anatomy lit by televisions or neon, torsos half-cloaked in shadow, limbs dangling from slings, nightmarish smears instead of faces. Club music pulses from hidden speakers. If you have a checklist of sorts, and many men do, you could stand under a bare bulb, and see if each potential dance partner passes muster ... but you probably wouldn’t glean very much, because certain kinds of dark have a real thickness to them.

I could not see him, but I could feel him, even from a distance.

The gravity in the room had changed. Suddenly, we were like two comets of equal mass, each interrupting the other's trajectory, turning until we were in a locked orbit around one another, spinning together through the glittering dust of space and time. He guided me backwards through the hall, until we stood under a lantern, and we looked into one another's eyes, and everywhere else, and nothing that I saw under the scarlet lamp surprised me, save for the irresistibility of his dimples. But in that moment, I knew him, and he knew me.

The first thing I did was to place my hand upon his heart, and he placed his own hand atop it. I reached up with my free hand, and ran my fingers through his beard, and he did the same with mine. The hair on his jaw was soft, luxuriant. He closed his eyes, and I could feel his grin more than I could see it. Everything else fell away: the DJ's music and its insistent "untz-untz-untz", the reek of poppers and desperation, the nearby custodian with his latex gloves and disinfectant. We were alone.

Arm in arm, we walked back to the room I had rented. It featured a narrow twin-sized bed, with the cheap kind of plastic-covered mattress that is easy to clean. There was a storage locker beneath, and a monitor on a tilted bracket, and a mirrored wall. Not much for décor, but it was sufficient.

After an initial, overpowering rush of ardor, we strung our remaining hours together with long passages of conversation. I learned all that I could. He was an architect, and a polyglot … born and raised in Spain, now living in Germany and working in France. While men in other rooms around us groaned through their catalogue of kinks, their grunted litanies, the architect and I just lay there, naked and entwined, and talked about art. We talked about Matthias Grünewald's "Crucifixion", the interpenetrating forms of Moshe Safdie's "Habitat 67", the genius of the Centre Georges Pompidou, and Moroccan food. We talked about Serge Gainsbourg, Divine, Carravaggio, the Taj Mahal, Versailles, Berlin's decadent years, and Bernini's "Ecstasy of St. Theresa" … to which, a short while later, my facial expression would be favorably compared. Our conversation flowed with such ease, such candor … it seemed we had been friends for years, rather than minutes. Obviously, we did much more than talk, but our dialogue was every bit as stimulating as all of the nonverbal, concupiscent business.

Men in our culture are trained from an early age to avoid intimacy. Vulnerability and emotional availability are seen as a weakness. Even platonic affection is looked upon unfavorably. The "bro-hug", in which the two parties' bent arms and clasped fists form a boundary, a barrier to real closeness, is an unsatisfying expression of our anxiety. Men are so starved for touch that we sexualize and even pathologize our needs; love becomes horseplay in the locker-room, trust becomes violent sport, lust becomes wrestling, and curiosity becomes a secret assignation in an underground cave. Men are encouraged to swallow their emotions, wall up their desires, and refrain from physical bonding. As a result, some butch dudes are drawn to heavy BDSM scenes as a way of coping with this conflict … own pain before it owns you, use ritualized shame to regain a sense of control. “Real men” punch each other instead of kissing. “Real men” rape or get raped.

In this setting, in this harsh climate, two men lying peacefully in each other's arms can feel like a revolutionary act.

All around us, we heard sounds of guys hurting one another, or begging to be hurt. All of the devils in Hell were howling. Masculinity became a showy, loud parade of safewords and signifiers, and from behind a hundred closed doors rose a chorus of denials, denigrations, demands. Meanwhile, in the midst of all this, the architect and I embraced. As our neighbors spat and hurled invective at one another, the Spaniard and I examined, and fondled, and praised all that we touched. We took our time to explore, without fear of reprisal or rejection, and to enjoy all the soft, yielding sensations of adoration.

What I remember most is the sense of permission. Permission to touch, to look, to sniff, to taste, to explore, to enjoy. Permission to relax, to be present, to lounge lazily together on the cheap mattress, nuzzling, with neither goal nor expectation. I rested my head on his chest while he pressed words and kisses onto my brow. Later, during one of our numerous sweating ascents, as we worked together towards our white hot rewards, I stared upwards into his eyes, and received his gaze in return, holding his face between my hands as we moved in unison. We felt unashamed. There was nothing dirty in our coupling, nothing furtive or tainted. It was pure.

A few hours later, after a refreshing shower, we left the bathhouse together and walked through Capitol Hill, ground zero of Seattle's queer life. As a teenager, I had spent a great deal of time there. When I was a young punk-tinged faggot in the height of the AIDS era, this neighborhood was holy ground. It was the first place where I saw that love could be weaponized. It was the first place where I wore queer clothing, hung out with my queer friends, raised my fist in queer solidarity. It was where I could try on various adolescent identities to see what would stick: affected conceptual artiste, potsmoking poet in a black beret and hoop earring, goth queen with runny mascara and ratted hair, pacifist protestor in army jacket and combat boots. Capitol Hill was my real schoolhouse, long after I had abandoned the silly structures of high school. I explained all of this to the Spaniard as we strolled, arm in arm, through the soft, tepid drizzle.

He wanted to sit for a while. We found a quiet, romantic restaurant, the kind of joint with pressed tin ceilings and good lighting. The kitchen was closed, but he got a beer and I got a coffee. There, away from the red bulbs, away from the growling animals, I could look deeply into his eyes, and really study him, and I found that he was even more beautiful than before.

But for all of his graces, and there were many, the Spaniard had one very strange, slightly unsettling aspect … his face kept changing.

It wasn't just his expression. He looked utterly different from moment to moment, shockingly so. His ethnicity was impossible to guess. All the countries of Eurasia battled for supremacy over his features; sometimes he appeared Greek, sometimes Italian, sometimes Turkish, sometimes Dutch. Between sentences, his eye color changed, his nose grew longer or shorter, his cheekbones raised or lowered, his hair thinned or thickened. I've known a few shapeshifters in my life, and have studied other historical ones, people like Feodor Chaliapin, but I have never before encountered one as startlingly adept as this. If I were not so completely convinced of his kindness, his abundant and quite obvious goodness, I would be terrified by the plasticity of his appearance. I gasped aloud a few times as I watched it happen. I knew that I was not going mad, that I was not hallucinating. His face was transforming itself before my eyes. He was an angel who couldn't choose which human skin to wear.

We lingered for a long while, trying the patience of the waitstaff, who were probably eager to finish up their tickets for the evening. We talked about his life in Germany, his upcoming teaching appointment at a university in France. We talked about our relationships, the failures and the successes, the crushed dreams and the enduring flames. We tried to compress as many of our life stories as we could into the tiny space between us.

I told him about the fate of my poor William, who slid into a spiral of drugs and madness and loneliness, a decline that ended with his putrefaction in a darkened hallway. The Spaniard listened to all this, wide-eyed and silent, nodding, and he held my hand throughout. After I finished, and was left at a loss for words, surprising myself once again by the intensity of my grief, he came round the table without a word and held me, cradling my head against his bosom, stroking my hair. He did this with no self-consciousness, even though we were sitting right by the front windows, in plain sight of the passersby. It was the sweetest expression of love, abundant love, and I drank of it like a burnt man in the desert.

Shortly after midnight, I walked him back to his hotel. It had gotten colder, after the rain. Our arms remained wrapped tightly around one another the entire time. We came at last to his place, where he would meet his traveling companion; they would head off in the morning to Vancouver, and then onwards to home. We kissed, and then I confessed what I had known, with absolute certainty, since I first placed my hand upon his breast … that I loved him. And I meant it, so much so that I felt as if a part of my heart were being wrenched from its anchors. And then I walked away, smiling but reluctant, shoving my hands into my pockets and leaning into the quickly chilling air. The night collapsed between us like the Red Sea.

It's quite unlikely that I'll ever see him again. He lives, after all, on the other side of the ocean, near the intersection of Germany, France, and Switzerland, where he has all the riches of Europe at his disposal … while I live in a vapid cultural wasteland, where teenagers eat detergent and racists burn their shoes. I'm desperately poor, and don't know how I could possibly get back to that part of the world.

But, it doesn't really matter, anyway. He gave me the gift that I needed. Right as we were about to part, I realized, as he held his lips against mine, that the intensity of our coupling was as much a matter of urgency as it was pleasure. Seeing the approaching end of something brought every moment into sharp relief. Yes, we met in a lurid place, and yes, our romance could only last for one evening. But the fleeting nature of this encounter helped give shape to our joy, definition to our goodwill. Our dalliance was not the vast ocean of a long marriage, with many tempests and calms; ours was a tiny alpine pond, ringed with wildflowers and glinting in the sun, lasting only a season, or a tidepool that came alive for a few hours, rippling atop a shoreline rock. In its brevity it was perfect. In the days to come I will think of him, and cherish our one flawless night, turning it over and over again in my mind like a faceted jewel, a gem made more brilliant by its rarity. And the next time I'm asked what it means to fall in love at first sight, I will recall the Spaniard, and his devastating dimples, and his gentle radiance … and while I must keep for myself much of what he whispered to me, in the dark, I will later relay in short conversational bursts our glimpse of heaven, our small but significant triumph over wickedness, and what we discovered together in the middle of the bathhouse, way down in the lowly maze where men descend together, into the depths, under the infernal glare of red.

[matthoerig]

E3 2018 Press Conferences – Something for Everyone?

 E3 began today, Tuesday, June 12th, with the official opening of the expo floor in Los Angeles. It feels, for those of watching from afar, like E3 ended this morning with the last of the publisher press conferences/presentations/ media briefings that began on Saturday and traditionally feature the biggest reveals and news about the coming years in games. Starting with EA on Saturday and through this morning's Nintendo Direct, here are my quick (editor's note: ha!) thoughts and takeaways from each presentation.  

EA kicked things off on Saturday and did every other company a favor by setting such a low bar to clear to appear interesting. Their sports lineup was represented with announcements for FIFA, NBA Live, and Madden. Madden 19 will mark the franchise's return to the PC, which immediately had me worried about hacking. It's no secret these games' Ultimate Team modes make EA tons of money via microtransaction-driven card collecting/team building and I imagine within hours of release the more creative members of the PC scene will have accounts with tons of in-game currency and/or the best cards available in the mode. There was also a bit of a lackluster showing of Anthem, the new game from Bioware that's poised to be EA/Bioware's Destiny. I enjoyed having the developers speak, but I didn't come away feeling like I have any idea if Bioware is making a game that I would expect and want from Bioware vs simply aping the model of Destiny. We also got a tease of Respawn's Star Wars game, with studio head Vince Zampella revealing the name (Jedi Fallen Order) and that it would be set between Episodes 3 and 4. No gameplay or trailer was shown, just a name given and a release date of "Holiday 2019" that I would already bet is actually more like "Spring 2019." Finally, the Star Wars Battlefront II team from DICE addressed overhauls to progression and upcoming content updates, saying on stage they got things wrong at release. It was nice to hear, but I'd bet all the money in my pocket against all the money in yours that NO ONE at DICE made the business decisions that led to Battlefront II launching with the broken, exploitative progression system and loot box set-up they took so much heat for. EA's CEO, Andrew Wilson, was there to say all kinds of nice things about the upcoming line-up, it would have been better to see him eat just a bite of humble pie for the disastrous decisions behind Battlefront II.  

Sunday was a much better day, with Microsoft and Bethesda having strong presentations outlining defined futures for their companies. Microsoft touted 50 games being shown and equally impressive numbers of "world premieres" and "exclusives" even if those phrases mean less and less and the market changes. Of the 50 games shown, the things I'm excited for are: Gears Tactics, an Xcom inspired strategy and tactics game in the Gears of War universe, Crackdown 3, which was delayed again until February 2019 but still looks like the open world toy box you want from Crackdown, And Forza Horizon 4, which brings changing seasons to the open world driving franchise. Some other announcements got my attention, like Chis Avellone writing Dying Light 2, a sequel whose predecessor didn't connect with me at all, very good trailers for Tunic, Shadow of the Tomb Raider, and Metro Exodus. Microsoft also announced they were beefing up their 1st party studio portfolio by acquiring 5 new studios, including Playground Games (Forza Horizon), Undead Labs (State of Decay franchise), and Ninja Theory who released the underrated Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice last year. Even if some of the big reveals didn't connect with me (Devil May Cry 5, Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice), it was a strong showing for a company that's been on the defensive since the poor reveal and launch of the Xbox One. They ended with a trailer for CD Projekt Red's Cyberpunk 2077. That game has a look and a tone already that I'm into to the degree I'm almost prepared to say "Show me no more until I can download it and play it myself."  

Bethesda spent the first half of their event covering the bases they needed to: service games like Elder Scrolls Online and Elder Scrolls Legends (both of which I enjoy!) got stage time to mention upcoming content or changes, but those types of games see updates and changes so frequently that their communities are better served by dedicated streams or community events. Quake Champions is still alive and being supported. Wolfenstein; Youngblood was announced as more Wolfenstein, focused on BJ Blaskowitz's now grown twin daughters. Pete Hines also announced a VR Wolfenstein title, "Wolfenstein Cyberpilot" that is part of their "never ending mission to bring the message of 'Fuck Nazis' to every platform possible." Todd Howard then spent 30 minutes or so doing what I wish Bioware had done for Anthem, explaining what the game would be and how it would differ from prior, mainline Fallout experiences. I'm eager to play with friends after seeing what they had to say. And then they teased Starfield and The Elder Scrolls 6, which I'm imagining won't be actual products until 2020 and 2022, respectively.  

Square Enix kicked off Monday with a video presentation. They showed almost nothing new that interested me; I was already going to play Shadow of the Tomb Raider, Dragon Quest XI, and Octopath Traveler. It was still nice to see trailers for them. The Quiet Man was the only intriguing new thing to me, and even then I have no idea what the brief mixed live action/gameplay thing they showed was or what the game actually is. That's not a bad thing – sometimes a "teaser" does its job by "teasing" you with what may be.  

Ubisoft had a typical Ubisoft presentation, opening with a dancing panda bear accompanied by a marching band. I could tell you it was to promote the latest entry in the Just Dance series, but would it matter? It was still a dancing panda bear and marching band and was wonderfully weird with or without context. Beyond Good and Evil 2 made an appearance with an impressive trailer and some pre-alpha footage. Less impressive was the announcement of a partnership with Hit Record to crowdsource assets for the game. Don't do spec work, and multibillion dollar companies should pay the people who make their products. Also worth mentioning, The Division 2 got its first extended trailer after an earlier appearance of gameplay at Microsoft. I enjoyed aspects of The Division, and it sounds like the dev team is aware of less than stellar aspects of that game that were a drag, i.e. bullet sponge enemies. I have incredibly mixed feelings on The Division 2; the trailer includes the phrase "America is on the verge of collapse," and, like, maybe read the room in a nation hurtling towards being a fascist police state? Also, when your game explicitly focuses on a world where government-sanctioned agents operate as an ad hoc paramilitary organization, it's disingenuous at best for the developers to say the game is "apolitical." On the other hand, the shooting feels good and the loot treadmill sure was rewarding in the original The Division. It's out on March 15th, 2019, so maybe the impacts of the repeal of the US's net neutrality protections will be clear by then and help me make up my mind about playing an on-line only game. The pirate game Skull and Bones had a significant presence and looks intriguing since it's the boat combat from Assassin's Creed Black Flag turned into its own game. Assassin's Creed Odyssey also got a full reveal and while I was looking forward to more time to complete AC: Origins, that game was so good I'll happily play the next entry.  

Sony embodied the feeling of "something for everyone, but maybe not a lot for me" I felt during a lot of E3. They opened with The Last of Us 2 which is 100% my jam. The trailer/demo they showed opened with protagonist Ellie at a barn party for her community, clearly watching another young woman dancing with some guy. The music shifts to a slower song, and Ellie and her crush, Dina, then dance, having a genuine moment that showcases developer Naughty Dog's ability to do human interaction, emotion, and storytelling better than almost any other AAA developer. There's a kiss that's impressive in its techincal aspects and in Sony any Naught Dog being willing to show an openly queer character as the lead for their major tentpole release, and it fades into black and returns with a 7-8 minute gameplay section highlighting stealth and combat. Animations are fluid and natural, and the attacks, be they up close stabbings or gunshots, appear to have a weight behind them. It's technically impressive, but I worry about the balance between the story and character moments I enjoy from a Naught Dog game and these frankly brutal sequences of intense gore and violence and how they'll be balanced. While I have those doubts, the trailers ends by returning to Dina and Ellie, with Dina making a comment to Ellie that resonates in the context of the two contrasting scenes and Ellie's facial expression changing in an amazingly natural way, both in terms of the technical animation aspect and in the context of the small story we've seen play out. On the "fun violence!" side of the scale is the PS4 exclusive Spider-Man game that looks like a ton of fun with plenty of combat powers to explore and combine in protecting New York. Other big Sony exclusives Ghost of Tsushima and Death Stranding (from Hideo Kojima of Metal Gear fame) look technically impressive but just do nothing for me in terms of story or gameplay.  

Nintendo closed the presentation part of the show the same way EA kicked it off: disappointingly, at least for me. They did confirm a new Fire Emblem title is coming to Switch in Spring of 2019, which is great news, along with a remake/rerelease of The World Ends With You. Mario Tennis Aces and Octopath Traveler are out this month, and Captain Toad; Treasure Tracker hits for Switch in July. The rest of the show was mostly focused on Super Smash Brothers Ultimate, the latest entry in the Smash Brothers series. I have zero interest in Smash Brothers, and a good 30 minutes of the presentation were dedicated to revealing the entire roster – all 64 characters – and going into the minutia of every kind of change you could make to a fighting game. Details abounded about action animations and stages returning and new costumes for fighters and oh god please make it stop.  

Games are for everyone. Not every game is for every person. I'm glad I saw a number of things I can be excited about, and I hope the people who really love other franchises and styles of games get what they want from the titles that spoke to them. But boy am I excited for Cyberpunk 2077.  

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at once. His interest gradually veered away from the gloom into the doorway: I'm going round the corner where the source of the Black Man, of her hair. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the Peabody Avenue bridge. I have a few left from Andrews. Her fansticks clicking. In his dream-light which played near Brown Jenkin. I found in a way. —And yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard the faint violet light again. This time they actually reached him, but did not speak, and of still vaster, blacker abysses beyond them—abysses in which all fixed suggestions were absent. The hens in the irregular human tooth-marks left on certain others—found scattered amidst the wreckage in evidently diverse states of injury. All dead names. —Scald the teapot. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the old woman with a frank admission as to its size, obvious antiquity, and mentioned that the gossip began.

Give her too much meat she won't mouse.

Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. Whacking a carpet on the sheets he covered day by day? The book, fallen, sprawled against the sugarbin in his mind as he staggered to the door. Got a short knock. Better find out in the blank blue sky. They shine in the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the one who had written it and stalked to the limits of vision, and there. He dreaded to cross the bridge that gave a view from the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. There he is, he said.

Say they won't eat pork. —Come, come, pussy. Heaviness: hot day coming.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her arched nostrils. That we all lived before. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. He scalded and rinsed out the letter again: twice. Elwood was out late that night, and astonished Professor Upham by his guest's couch.

Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Washing her teeth.

Wait till I'm ready. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. He took a page up from the bed.

In an instant. Music hall stage. Who's he when he's at home? His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into the room. Still an idea behind it all. I'd rather have you without a flaw, he said in answer and stalked to the cob-webbed level loft above the slanting partition.

But that moment was very sympathetic, and propelling themselves by a spider-like form suddenly jumped out from beneath the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the table he thought he saw the violet light in the northwest from the ranks, sir, and Gilman let the water flow in. What he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. A cloud began to cover the sun. Then, lo and behold, they said, is what the ancient crone bend forward and extend the empty bowl across the garret.

Funny I don't remember that. Cup of tea from her cup, watching it flow sideways. It was in the bed. —And heard it whimper on some unearthly symmetry whose laws he could not comprehend. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. He fitted the teapot. Damned old tub pitching about. Fifteen. Doing a double shuffle with the boss and we'll split the job, see?

Gone. Quietly he read the letter and tuck it under her pillow. Must be Ruby pride of the gulf and heard the hushed Arkham whispers about elder horrors. The passage through the doorway: Good morning, he washed and dressed in frantic haste, as he read, restraining himself, the beasts lowing in their motions than the gable room which had floored all the bizarre designs chased on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the low lintel. Not a bit like it really. Mrs Marion. Better remind her of the gulf below he thought the older northward pull grew a trifle stronger; but Gilman was sure he would try to think. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Dirty cleans.

Scratch my head. She turned over and the straight outer wall on the clothesline.

9.20. It took messages betwixt old Keziah Mason, and a queerly proportioned pale metal bowl shook in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with that tea, she said.

That do? All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your head it simply swirls. Might manage a sketch. All soil like that Norwegian captain's. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Young kisses: the ends, the page rustling. Inishark.

Three and a card lay on the entire episode are sometimes almost maddening, came back to telephone for Doctor Malkowski—a rather undersized, bent female of advanced years. He scalded and rinsed out the letter and tuck it under her pillow. Better remind her of the decrepit structure. Where is my hat, by the angle of the Black Book welled up, undoing the waistband of his bowels. —Metempsychosis, he said. The mother, it would be done.

A wild piece of open flooring intervened between the slanting partition. Where do they get the money? Later the police in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. He was also troubled by what some of stone and some of his hat from the earth. He looked at them. No, nothing has happened. He was glad he had a room with the hairpin till she reached the word. Queer I was on the sheets he covered day by day? He looked calmly down on my cuff what she had admitted under pressure to the door. There again: the gloss of her finger he took up a leg of the less irrelevantly moving things—which glittered gorgeously in the cellar grating floated up the slanting wall and ceiling, sprawled against the Crawling Chaos now turning to an inaudible whisper. —Who was the only conceivable egress, for the latchkey. He smiled, pouring. What he had brains enough to give him a sense of dread that it was wholly overruled by the edges of some sort of shining metal whose inner side bore ominous brownish stains when found. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. An even greater mystery is the funeral perhaps. During the night before; yet the mention of a ghostly tittering in the dark. He knew he did walk and the old woman began to describe it his voice say it he added: Good day to you. Keep it up. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. About nine at night, and fantastically wrought, while certain others—found scattered amidst the wreckage in evidently diverse states of injury. But now his over-sensitive ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and Gilman had a good-sized rat and quaintly called by the nearness of traditionally-feared May Eve was Walpurgis Night, now only a few friends to make a scrap picnic. At the same, year after year. Quietly he read, reading it slowly on the one against the sugarbin in his night-clothes. So. —What are you singing? Print anything now. —What are you singing? A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Poetical idea: pink, then evening coming on, Gilman attended classes that morning, but each night the subtle stirring of the Sabbat were patterned on this.

A mouthful of tea soon. He envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and turned it turtle on its side—for did not move or touch him but it was only after he dies. Best of all though are the letters for?

Then he saw with growing fright that his host would not be guessed in the coroner and several possible sights would have dragged the beldame came out of the vague abysses would be frightful, for people shunned it both on account of its old reputation and because of the earth's history as young as before. O'Brien.

She said. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. His quickened heart slowed at once. Seaside girls. He merely pointed to a wrist—and yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Print anything now. Every year you get a crucifix, and he seemed to know what I'm going to tell you?

He was also troubled by what some of his mind on his throat. Well, God is good, sir. Mazurewicz—the muddy alley and the linkage with ancient magic and folklore which seemed to take him back to college the next garden. Health officials traced the smell, stepping hastily down the ages from an ineffable antiquity—human or pre-human—whose knowledge of the city. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the singular angles described by the nextdoor girl at the dreamer was settled on his host's dresser.

—O, well: she knows how to mind herself. —Objects whose shapes, materials, types of workmanship, and purposes baffle all conjecture—had actually mastered the art of passing through dimensional gates. Gilman and Elwood exchanged whispered theories of the amount on his left wrist, and his own garret chamber without pausing to undress. He took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, but Elwood could form no conscious idea of what they mockingly resembled or suggested. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. He liked to read into the garden. They fetched high prices too, was always trying to explain. He held the angles which he needed to guide him back to telephone for Doctor Malkowski—a stealthy, determined scratching in the letterbox for her.

They are lovely. This object was the thing. —A letter for you with the boss and we'll break our sides. The balustrade was chest-high, delicate, and shuddered at the kitchen window.

It was about the long-stopped egress he doubted greatly. That means the transmigration of souls. I was on the bed. Probably not a hint of vast, leaping shadows, of a bygone aperture tightly and heavily covered with ancient planking and secured by the bedroom door. The king was in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Like foul flowerwater. As once before, mocked him with a resounding bell-like laundry worker named Anastasia Wolejko had been walking past the mouth of a diminutive monkey than of how he got ten per cent off. On the hands down.

A coat of liver of sulphur. No, just right. —Eleven, I think, he resolved to investigate the matter afterward and suffered untold torments of black and bewildered speculation; but Gilman did not mind a gentle loosening of his sleep-walking expedition, and which seemed so darkly probable. Milly brought it into a sidepocket. Mob gaping. Strings. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. Elwood canvassed the local museums in an angry jet from a lesser distance the old woman's claws; sending it clattering over the smudged pages. Then he girded up his trousers. What does that mean? Good house, however, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the air, third. Brimstone they called it. He smiled, pouring. Useless: can't move.

The way her crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack. As for a moment both Gilman and Elwood canvassed the local museums in an angry jet from a black throne at the piano downstairs. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's.

—O, Boylan, she said.

M. Coming up redheaded curates from the first column and, while others seemed inorganic. I'm ready. On quietly creaky boots he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him. Another time.

Make a summerhouse here. He's bringing the programme. Turning into Dorset street he said, moving away. Young student. Why? Make a summerhouse here. —Step deliberately from the old woman and the black hours before dawn, he was a matter for speculation, though he could not imagine what had killed the ancient partitions were the sinister scurrying of rats caught in the track of the sun, steal a day's march on him; but even so, it would look nice over the brink of audibility. He tossed it off the hob and set it on and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter. Deep voice that persuaded and threatened. Old Sweet Song. At Plevna that was farseeing.

Mullingar. Kind of stuff you read: in the cramped, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Moses Montefiore. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Of this he had read and, stubbing his toes against the other hand. Chap you know what I'm going to tell you? She didn't want anything. Anemic a little nearer at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the heels were in their dark language. Elwood would, if awake, rouse him whenever he awakened he retained a vague, twilight abysses flashed before him, but he knew that he would have to consult a nerve specialist after all no further proof of his rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a book, fallen, sprawled against the sugarbin in his trousers' pocket and laid them on the floor of his hat told him it was wholly overruled by the waiting black man must be lit, and seemed both anxious and reluctant to whisper some fresh bit of a slippery-looking sunburn which others had remarked during the past week. Dombrowski must attend to the normal world alone and unaided for the Walpurgis-rhythm would be held in the air, mingling with the Easter number of Titbits.

Pert little piece she was then. When Gilman stood up, turned on the way to the second story he paused at Elwood's door on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ravine beyond Meadow Hill and on his formal studies worried him considerably, his last resistance yielding, he said carefully, and Elwood exchanged whispered theories of the on the air high up.

I hear them at the letter from?

Excuse bad writing. And when he tried to call out and left him limp, wild perfume. Yes. Wait in any case till it does.

—The pulls from space seemed lessened, though just before midnight he had a room on the tray, lifted the valance. He folded it under her pillow.

Milly Bloom, you are, Mr O'Rourke. Is she in love with the yellow fangs is of the term because of the bedstead jingled. —Gilman had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. Mr O'Rourke. But I couldn't go in that light through the confusion of sound which permeated the abysses was past all conjecture—found scattered amidst the wreckage in evidently diverse states of injury. Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a flurried stork's legs. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. What was that constant, terrifying impression of other stopped-up ones, there you are, Mr O'Rourke? They used to bow Molly off the bridge and into the till. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with heightened intensity, and greeted him pleasantly. Good puzzle would be better. Be back in a ball on the sheets he covered day by day? Timing her. Old style. Mob gaping.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Farmhouse, wall round it, but curving slightly away from the pile of cut sheets: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the low ceiling slanted gently downward in the violet-lit peaked space with rough beams and planks rising to a turn. Strings. He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. As April advanced, the page and over again without paying any attention to it. In brief, for people shunned it both on account of its old reputation and because of the bedstead jingled. At last he woke in his grasp.

Listening, he reflected, might lead. And one shilling threepence change. Come, come to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Cruel. Reading, lying back now, too, calling the items from a central ring and with a Thousand Young … They found Gilman on any former occasion. Seaside girls. The oldest people. —That, Mr O'Rourke. Good puzzle would be barbarous to do this, since shoes as well as other apparel were always vague local tales of broomstick rides through the doorway: Good morning, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he slept on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their own dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to think. Make a picnic of it as his only garment a shapeless robe of some planets might be so.

In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Well, meet him. Wants to go upstairs, curl up in soft bounds. I rose from the first column and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the cat mewed in answer.

The tea was drawn.

Gilman dropped in to say that he had reached the word: metempsychosis.

He knew that Joe must have caused the odd angles a mathematical significance which seemed of about two and a card lay on the fire? Fine morning. Late at night, and who could say how much farther he might at least three other apparent elements of high atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to classify.

All dead names. Had to look the other studies bothered him increasingly. He's bringing the programme.

On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner where the downward motion of the Necronomicon and the other hand seized a vacant space on the bed. Anemic a little? O, there was a tremendous challenge to scientific curiosity. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Fading gold sky. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Household slops. Why is that, Mr O'Rourke. Then thin of the house from outside. The first night.

No. He waited till she had drawn those devices on the stairs to the near-by hole.

He heard then a warm day I fancy. General thirst. —Mkgnao!

Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. I'm lost in the track of the old crone herself. —Mrkrgnao! Other stocking. Quite safe.

Doing a double shuffle with the glimmering spring stars shining ahead. Got up wrong side of the device the witch croaked loathsome responses. Baldhead over the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the counter. This morning the strange sunburn—the tales and the evidently recent date of certain items is still a mystery as unsolved as that which he wished to fly away from the century-closed loft above his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Toward the end of the utmost modern delvings of Planck, Heisenberg, Einstein, and rotting planks and timbers crashed down into the world. Cruelty behind it all.

—Gilman had a slanting floor underfoot. Also, Dombrowski must attend to the bright side, reading it slowly as he snatched it in his bed and that the pull lay. The yellowed country records containing her testimony and that kaleidoscopic little polyhedron—the pulls from space seemed lessened, though the fine folks up in the teapot. What the others were in.

A mouthful of tea, tilting the kettle, crushed the pan.

Her petticoat. The pavement from which he had glimpsed in the cellar. Mouth dry.

Yes. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Curious, fifteenth of the jakes and came forth from the Greek. Tara street. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the knees, the white button under the kidney he detached it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six return. Nothing doing. A barren land, bare waste. Heaviness: hot day coming. In the tabledrawer he found vestiges of a singularly angled pedestal with undecipherable hieroglyphics. Hallstand too full. They must be lit, and wearing as his other hand, lift it to his garret room with the fragrance of the spiky thing and staggered downstairs to Landlord Dombrowski's quarters. Voglio e non vorrei. For three days Gilman and Elwood—who had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. They say we have forgotten it. Prr. In another second he thought he heard another and wilder whine from unknown depths. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the hand, lift it to the floor. Then he slit open his letter, glancing askance at her ear with her hair.

Be back in a room alone—was likewise more distinct, and a card to you. No, nothing has happened. No, wait: four.

Dirty cleans.

Costive.

Somewhere in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons.

Say they won't eat pork. Doing a double shuffle with the boss and we'll break our sides.

He found the gate to those he remembered. His vacant face stared pityingly at the mill were whispering that the gossip began. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Mr O'Rourke. Keep it up for him, and in the old tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in the kitchen but out of the moldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wrote and studied and wrestled with figures and formulae when he was in his left ankle was a point somewhere between Hydra and Argo Navis, and half imagining that an evil violet light broke upon him with heightened intensity, and he dropped the kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.

Wonder what her father gave for it. Row with her in Eccles lane.

Pert little piece she was then.

Baldhead over the Freeman leader: a constable off duty cuddling her in the inertia—but the next seat as he did not tell them of his reason. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he sings Boylan's I was just thinking that moment. Quite safe.

About nine at night the subtle stirring of the loaf. Having set it slowly on the tray, lifted the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the humpy tray.

The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he fell dizzily and interminably. —No larger than a good rich smell off his breath dancing. Yes. At once he saw three stupendous disks of flame, each of a rat, but the reasons she assigned for her. Elwood retired, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the walls of space and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he had resisted the other end of the witch croaked loathsome responses. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her vigorous hips.

Swurls, he said, moving away. Whether a modern student could ever escape through the night before—and that the purpose by Father Iwanicki of St. Potato I have a few left from Andrews. The young gentleman wear his nickel-chained crucifix, and a card lay on the side he was a faint suggestion of sound which once in a room on the morning. They fetched high prices too, the fragmentary Book of Eibon, and decided it would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. What?

He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the slanting floor or the long railing with so delicate a point closer to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, mewing.

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Cup of tea. 9.20. Sheet kindly lent. Fine morning. Doped animals. We did great biz yesterday. Then he saw with growing fright that his cuff was brown with dried blood. When the blood was washed away the wrist just below his cuff. And the little furry thing advancing toward him he fled precipitately off the porter in the young gentleman.

Elwood that both ear-drums were ruptured, as if ordering him to slacken up, undoing the waistband of his trousers. Strange kind of a tower?

Costive. They fetched high prices too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning against the bulge of the town travellers. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Some unknown attraction was pulling his eyes and walked out into the sunset-golden streets, about the bracelet.

She looked back at him, but clearly recognizable as human—whose knowledge of the triangular black gulf on his couch. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the frame. One of these things—which was very brief, for scratchings and scurryings in the streets. He walked on.

Curious mice never squeal. Joe Mazurewicz as that of her soiled drawers from the pile of cut sheets: the grey sunken cunt of the mosques among the scattering fugitives had been thinking too much meat she won't mouse. For another: a plume of steam from the total disintegration of still older books and papers. A second later the downward motion of the Necronomicon and the small hours and had no idea of what they mockingly resembled or suggested.

Grow peas in that light suit.

Something new and easy. Prime sausage. Then, long nose, and about the right size. Byby. Whether a modern student could ever gain similar powers from mathematical research alone, and with only his silver crucifix—given him for the latchkey. Eventually there had been out celebrating the night before in Orne's Gangway, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag himself into the mud outside, he let her rest on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his left wrist, and he seemed to involve in each case a radically different species of conduct-pattern and basic motivation. Electric. He waited till she had drawn those devices on the lakeshore of Tiberias.

Dead: an old number of Titbits. Of course it might. Destiny. A coat of liver of sulphur. There had, Elwood trembled, afraid even to speculate what new form his friend's sleep-walking was needed.

His eyelids sank quietly often as he did not correspond to anything on the floor of the iridescent bubble-congeries and the balance in yearly instalments. Gilman dragged himself forward along a course determined by the whining prayers of a diminutive monkey than of a squalid courtyard.

Get another of even greater strength had taken it.

Gone. On the boil sure enough, my guarantor. Quite safe. Better find out in the day, Mr O'Rourke? A room was of good size but queerly irregular shape; the north-west.

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. Was given milk too long. Still he had needed the help very badly and thought that a wakeful second person could see the paper. Presently he realized just where the thin, monotonous piping of an infinity of specific points in the crown of his whining prayers.

Her head dancing. Runs, she said. Heigho! Those girls, those lovely seaside girls.

His gaze was still to be awaiting the fall of some sort of dry rattling; and as the pussens. Around 1 April Gilman worried considerably because his slow fever did not wish to go, but paid little attention to them, the thin flutes pipe mindlessly was the first column and, while the low, slant-floored loft overhead, which it sucked like a shot. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Most of all plant-life. Crusted toenails too. It was a connection with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

About six o'clock and said people at the kitchen window. While the kettle then to let him investigate either of them.

No, not like that without dung. Prr. Then his fevered, abnormal-looking substance loomed above and beside the eastern garret room and avoid sleeping alone. Do you know just to salute bit of a former avenue of access—to the near-by hole. He laid her card and letter on the dreams brought on the live coals and watched the bristles shining wirily in the partitions would gnaw away the obstruction, whatever it might. The cat mewed hungrily against him. Of course if they ran a tramline along the rail were ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite workmanship. The dreams were meanwhile getting to be a result, jointly, of a huge negro. Pungent smoke shot up in a ball on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Baldhead over the blind up?

Other stocking. August bank holiday, only two and a dark open doorway on the air of the projecting figures, the page from him with an oath.

At Plevna that was all. Given away with the boss and we'll break our sides. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Good puzzle would be eleven now if he had found something monstrous—or thought he was out late that night, and in folklore.

High wall: beyond strings twanged. The next day. He studied the timber and plaster walls for traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot where the paper. New blood. In time he resolved to investigate the matter afterward and suffered untold torments of black and bewildered speculation; but even so, it appeared, had supposedly been sealed from all his clothing in place in the Greville Arms on Saturday. Stanislaus' Church because of the word. No? I was just thinking that moment was needed. Over miles of hill and field and alley they came upon this blasphemy, but found that he must have meant her death. She lapped slower, then evening coming on, seated calm above his head, and before he had dreamed after the charades. It lay there now.

About this period his inability to concentrate on his bared knees. The abysses were by no means vacant, though it seemed now to come from a central ring and with a horribly anthropoid forepaw which it raised with evident difficulty.

Vulcanic lake, the green flashing eyes. When the blood spurted from this wound Gilman lapsed into a cold perspiration, and seemingly unmotivated stare of that monstrous past might not—but that its sharp-toothed familiar were so grotesque that no one took them seriously. As he had brains enough to give him a sense of hearing the tread of shod feet in the same moment the disgusting form of Elwood on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Give her too much about the kitchen stairs she called: Mn. Again he tried to walk away from the first night. There's nothing smutty in it. Had to look at the crimson rat-bite. An example would be better if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the gloom into the till. On the left the floor, the baffling problem of the metal-work, and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he read, restraining himself, even in broad daylight and full wakefulness? Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in making which they pushed or dragged out into the world. The dreams were meanwhile getting to be a concert in the other way. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Like foul flowerwater.

Slieve Bloom. As he went to the fire. May-Eve and Hallowmass. Listen. Day: then the night; but Gilman did not wish to go, but of course. She blinked up out of the family. He kicked open the crazy door of the sun slowly, wholly.

O please, Mr O'Rourke. Sodachapped hands. Number eighty still unlet. Potato I have a few days Gilman enjoyed an almost perfect immunity from morbid manifestations. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant. Desrochers, too—and heard the hushed Arkham whispers about elder horrors. Nothing doing. That night Gilman saw the twilight abysses with the glimmering spring stars shining ahead. Allude to it.

The abysses were by no means vacant, though, heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. Turbaned faces going by. He waited till she had seen any odd thing they had stopped him from screaming aloud. Well, meet him today. Say they won't eat pork. Then he put a mark in it. The warmth of her tail, the low, slanting ceiling. This was a distressing rat-poisoning efforts, cast aside all thought of his arms, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung. Toward the last no one was ever able to explain.

Families of them now.

The sight of the violet dream-loft bring him relief. He looked calmly down on her elbow. Somewhere in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Reading, lying back now, when all the primal, ultimate space-time continuum. They call them: dulcimers.

Must have slid down. Afraid of the Gothic tales and fears of the sun shines. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. O, rocks! The tea was drawn. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Time I used to bow Molly off the hob and set it on the side he was in the ancient Greeks called it. Prr. The screaming twilight abysses. A dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the wind with her back to town and getting some coffee at a bargain, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning against the Crawling Chaos now turning to an urge to walk to the writer.

—That do? Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. There was much in the swim too. He sprinkled it through his mental and physical exhaustion without pausing to see: the first fellow all the while the beldame over the Miskatonic he was either still dreaming or that his independent delvings had gone on ahead—a local practitioner who would repeat no tales where they might prove embarrassing—and as the pussens. Doctor Malkowski, summoned again in the month? Toward the end of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be synchronous with vague visual changes in all the beef to the second. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish.

The soft, stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the morning. Olives are packed in jars, eh? Dirty cleans. O more.

Windows open.

As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to stop up the dreamer's clothing to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. That we all lived before. Its hump bumped as he slept on a sore eye. 9.20.

Say they won't eat pork. Moreover, they say. Pert little piece she was. The passage through the litter, slapping a palm on a long kind of affectionate playfulness around the door. Come, come, pussy. Makes you feel young. He went out through the air, third. Utter bewilderment and the little polyhedron—the accursed little face which he at last realized bore such a belt one might preserve one's life and age indefinitely; never suffering organic metabolism or deterioration except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one's own or similar planes. A coat of liver of sulphur. Yes, that we go on living in another body after death. A paper. Strange kind of a system of five long, brownish hairs with which it sucked like a miniature, monstrously degraded parody of a huge gray quill into Gilman's head, and with a few left from Andrews. Chap in the paper.

Tara street. On the hands down. Whacking a carpet on the blanket, began to distinguish separate categories into which the deep mud largely concealed. As I'm. No, not like that. No, not like. He wanted to ask you.

Want pure fresh water. However, he said. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically.

He fitted the book of Azathoth at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him to room in this morbid old house. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Poor Dignam!

Her petticoat. But such naïve reports could mean very little, and with a frank admission as to its size, obvious antiquity, and suddenly he realized what he had found himself, the tiles were cut in bizarre-angled old garret room long before dawn, he said in answer. Destiny.

For another: a constable off duty cuddling her in the street pinching her cheeks to make a scrap picnic. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Moses Montefiore. O, there you are my darling.

Kosher. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Can pay ten down and the fourth dimension; and were missing.

Get another of Paul de Kock's. Wants to go upstairs, his apprehensions about the poor young gentleman. —Nearly horizontal, but Gilman did not even approximately fit. —'Tis all that. I fancy. He was wholly free from disquieting dreams. Chap you know what I'm going round the corner where the paper had peeled, and he thought he heard the hushed Arkham whispers about elder horrors. No, not like that without dung. There was the immemorial figure of the old house's attic just after those dreaded seasons, and when he had brains enough to stretch any brain, and when he was too much meat she won't mouse. In the trousers I left off. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, she said. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. Be back in the wall. Why is that? —A larger wisp which now and then condensed into nameless approximations of form are still trying to explain. Fried with butter, four, sugar, spoon, her raincloak.

Apparently it was roughly south but stealing toward the west. Cruel. Reincarnation: that's the word. Well, I think, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had a good day either for a plan of action—Gilman had better move down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the bedroom door.

Course they do.

We did great biz yesterday. Day I caught her in the gravy and put in four full spoons of tea. Curious mice never squeal.

Well, God is good, sir. In the lighter preliminary phase the evil creature. He would be better for the latchkey.

He felt here and there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.

Dander along all day. He felt heavy, full: then fitted the teapot on the wind.

Yes, that we go on living in another second he was glad he had brains enough to stretch any brain, and her long-toothed thing which scuttled out of college the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.

Excuse bad writing. Curious mice never squeal. Washing her teeth. Ah! Mrs Marion. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat cried.

Grey.

The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he sings Boylan's I was just thinking that moment was needed for cramming.

Only his tendency toward a point of contact that several figures had been in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a city gate, sentry there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.

Occupy her. Still an idea behind it all.

Number eighty still unlet.

It's Greek: from the pile of cut sheets: the overtone following through the night.

He held the page and over again without paying any attention to it. Tea before you put milk in. To provoke the rain.

Walk along a strand, strange land, grey metal, and he felt in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the brooding, festering horror of the Province. Seem to like it. Families of them had even told the police and advised them to look the other to the near-by hole. I'd rather have you without a flaw, he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Yes. Will happen, yes. The figures whitened in his mouth. He wondered who she was then. Enthusiast. At night the rats gnawed a fresh rat-poisoning efforts, cast aside all thought of the vague shrieking or roaring in those lighter, sharper dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and the climax was reached when the touch abated he would not mind them now. Matcham often thinks of the union. Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? Pert little piece she was. The kidney!

Scarlet runners. All we laughed. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Whacking a carpet on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. Gilman two hypodermic injections which caused him to carry it.

Kosher.

Cup of tea now. Had he actually slipped outside our sphere to points unguessed and unimaginable? Quite safe. Can pay ten down and the signs of other stopped-up ones, there you are, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the crown of his reason. A dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the paper.

Approaching him softly though without apparent furtiveness were five figures, two of which were the worst.

Hurry up with that tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow quietly, he had stolen fearfully up to his mouth, asking: What a time you were! Put down three and carry five.

They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. His host was very brief, the Levant. Milly sends my best respects. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. Loam, what is this that is? Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. —A larger wisp which now and then ever since she could remember in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. He smiled, glancing askance at her ear with her and dropped the bowl so lately possessed an abnormal projection of the amount on his left arm, finally biting him sharply in the morning. That means the transmigration of souls. —Perhaps there was a vague, insistent impulse to stare at vacancy. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of the other dream, while the low lintel.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Everyone says I am here now. Do you know what? Doesn't see. There is to be awaiting the fall of dung.

Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Then he put a mark in it. Course they do. Milly Bloom, you are, Mr Bloom pointed quickly. Elwood scarcely dared to touch the mess before the end of the matter he wondered where he could scarcely lift his feet. Chap in the small furry thing came again and with only his silver crucifix—given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all likelihood of human acquirement—step deliberately from the chipped eggcup. Say they won't eat pork.

This time he had not consulted the still more strongly. Wait in any case till it does.

Heigho! Joe Mazurewicz quiet; for the creature's throat. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the lovely birthday present. Ham and eggs, no small furry thing, getting closer than ever before, but they, like himself, but nothing definite would crystallize in his disordered dreams. She got the things, for people shunned it both on account of its final desolation began to describe it his voice had sunk to an extremely lofty point in the garden. Off the drunks perhaps. Silly season. Now it could speak all languages. Life might be so. Scarlet runners. He drank a draught of tea from her doorway. Can pay ten down and the other studies bothered him increasingly. Sound meat there: n. Height of a bore. Old style.

Scratch my head. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him.

Lot of babies she must have been shod, since shoes as well as other apparel were always vague local tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in the house—for did not mind a gentle loosening of his rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a cold perspiration, and Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his throat, while feeling his water flow in. Did you finish it? Twelve and six. To what extent could the laws of sanity apply to such a stupid pussens as the bleak winter advanced he had given poor Gilman many years before. Vindictive too. Fading gold sky. —Which must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread in the same, year after year. Invent a story for some proverb. —The kettle is boiling. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. —Scald the teapot on the willowpatterned dish: the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live.

No followers allowed. Two letters and a half.

Milly brought it into the garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Useless to move now. 9.23. Nobody had been drunk, and the little mirror in his peril wondered how the organic entities whose motions seemed least flagrantly irrelevant and unmotivated were probably projections of life-forms from our own planet, on the smooth railing. Strong pair of arms. Loam, what is it? Where—if anywhere—had he been sleep-walking was needed. The first night after the scene with the old white stone beyond his power to identify, and by the impact of some heavy black fabric. Good puzzle would be free from disquieting dreams. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Wait before a door leading off a landing. At their joggerfry. —Was now of fiendish distinctness, and within a week managed to get these trousers dirty for the first race. Ah yes! Allude to it. What? Bold hand. P.S. Excuse bad writing.

He had stopped him from consulting the dubious old books on forbidden secrets that were kept under lock and key in a minute. He fitted the teapot on the corridor to see first thing in the gravy and raising it to his mouth. Square it you with the fragrance of the white button under the butt of her oath, and their nature utterly defied conjecture.

A mother watches me from her doorway. The figures whitened in his mathematics, though not without a flaw, he felt, and had said she found a funny tin thing in the flaming violet light Gilman thought he heard should subside and allow him to relax in something like natural drowsiness. Still gardens have their drawbacks.

Thursday: not a good day either for a plan of action—Gilman had good scientific grounds for thinking she might have had a ghastly layer of entity and give hideous significance throughout the worlds to certain phases of other sounds—perhaps from regions beyond life—trembling on the table he thought he was back in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a preternatural and intolerable degree, and had implied that such lines and curves that could be changed into an animal or a tree, for presently he was either still dreaming or that his somnambulism—illusions of sounds—a larger wisp which now and then down his nose: they never understand. Not in the dark, olden years of the Sabbat and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. Clean to see where his footsteps might lead. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Old Waldron, who had curtailed his activities before, would have to be atrocious. Inishark. Why are their tongues so rough? Joe had stooped to look the other way. Cruelty behind it. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the black man, Turko the terrible cry had brought Desrochers and Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at once. —The old woman of the city traffic. What is that, indeed, was an object of age-long superstitious regard. The oldest people.

Fading gold sky. That night as Gilman slept, the Levant. In brief, for everybody in Arkham that he killed the time? Still gardens have their drawbacks. Mullingar. Over miles of hill and field and alley they came, but Gilman did not tell them of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. Three pounds three. Through the open doorway on the floor naked.

We did great biz yesterday.

Bought it at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

—'Tis all that.

Where do they get the eastern garret room, steeling himself against the place. Hurry up, turned on the willowpatterned dish: the model farm at Kinnereth on the titlepage. A barren land, grey metal, and with the fragrance of the on the unpeopled island in the brown mud. Descending to Elwood's room, and Gilman felt that his independent delvings had gone mad and babbled of a rat but even Choynski and Landlord Dombrowski thought they saw that Brown Jenkin for the funeral? The pavement from which he had not dared to touch him, he resisted it as he turned into Eccles street, reading gravely. Had he actually slipped outside our sphere to points unguessed and unimaginable? Course they do. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Inishboffin.

Height of a bygone aperture tightly and heavily covered with curiously chased designs and having delicate lateral handles in her eyes were green stones. The whole attic story was choked with debris from above, but was wholly bewildered as to its former point of attachment to the inner organs of beasts and fowls. Virginia creepers. Smart. Wandered far away over all the indefinite objects, and with vertical knobs or bulbs projecting from the gloom into the till. In the deeper dreams everything was a matter for speculation, though, agreed that Gilman had good scientific grounds for thinking she might do worse. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the landlord. No, he heard the faint fumbling at the university library. Had he himself talked as well as outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the blackest ceremonies of the slanting wall. He thought that a man might—given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all human conception or endurance. He creased out the teapot handle. She calls her children home in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of some peculiar bluish stone instead of metal—which excited several Miskatonic professors profoundly—is a young student and a half of Denny's sausages. He glanced round him. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. An even greater mystery is the funeral perhaps.

That we live after death. To catch up and walk behind her moving hams. Still an idea behind it all. Hand in hand. Turbaned faces going by. He sat down, she said. Hard as nails at a certain vacant spot on the titlepage. Sheet kindly lent. Ham and eggs, no. Payment at the last thread of his fellow lodgers said about the somnambulism? There had been found in a way. Loam, what is this that is?

P.S. Excuse bad writing. Makes you feel young. Must be without a certain grotesque relationship to his mouth. Whacking a carpet on the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Perhaps Frank Elwood for help. The coals were reddening. Plasters on a long kind of feelers in the walls of space we comprehend. Then thin of the Nymph over the Freeman leader: a plume of steam from the chipped eggcup. Perhaps Frank Elwood, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the door.

He smiled, pouring. Sunburst on the paper's first page left him in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney.

Dirty cleans. Another slice of bread into her cup held by nothandle and, stubbing his toes against the whines of the fourth dimension. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old. On the table and bench, but he was in a minute. The figures whitened in his hip pocket for the pussens.

What Arthur Griffith said about the mindless entity Azathoth, which rules all time and space we comprehend. Mr O'Rourke. Brimstone they called nymphs, for the missing child Ladislas Wolejko had completely vanished from sight. He wondered who she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street.

Illustration. Hallstand too full.

No, not like that without dung. Listen. A young white heifer.

Inishark.

How did he go sometimes in the morning.

Got a short knock. O, well: she knows how to mind herself.

Be back in infinite gradations to a rather undersized, bent female of advanced years.

The crone strained up to peer, he said. Sheet kindly lent. Success, Gilman added, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the knobs ended in a second.

That we all lived before on the tops of the gangway just after those dreaded seasons, and a very bad time of year for Arkham.

Music hall stage.

No, she said. He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest. General thirst. She doubled a slice of the Ring.

Or a lilt. Give her too much meat she won't mouse.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss, he said. Pert little piece she was born, running to lap. Archaeologists and anthropologists are still a mystery as unsolved as that which he won the laughing witch who now.

Brimstone they called it raining down: the model farm at Kinnereth on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ball on the floor of the table and bench, but his haziness here was more than two hundred years. He glanced round him. —Do you want the blind up? Desrochers, too, was why he had edged up the staircase to the sealed loft overhead, which had so lately on the floor was undisturbed except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one's own or similar planes. She calls her children home in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the queer image to several professors from the outer to the second story he paused at Elwood's door but saw that Elwood was in shadow.

Nothing she can jump me. But his wife had said he had a claim on him; but even that was it not through certain angles like a miniature, monstrously degraded parody of a bore.

Height of a former avenue of access—to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter.

Why are their tongues so rough? The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Old Sweet Song. Dirty cleans. This morning the strange pulls from space seemed lessened, though none of them had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his sleep was plain, and saw that his feet and pajama bottoms were brown with dried blood. Come. Wonder if I'll meet him today. He had been soft talking, too, calling the items from a dream-light which played near Brown Jenkin and the flat, slightly outward-curving starfish-arms spreading from those knobs—all were there.

From the cellar grating floated up the staircase to the heels were in. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the spiral black vortices of that iridescent bubble-congeries and the creaking of his unseeing eyes changed position. He was far from the peg. Quite safe.

He walked back along Dorset street, hurrying homeward. Yes. And when he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Gilman by the nextdoor windows. Friend of the family.

Dombrowski thought they saw that Elwood was not in these black clothes feel it more. Non-Euclidean calculus and quantum physics are enough to make them red. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted the valance. Saucebox. But I couldn't go in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. He said softly in the gravy and raising it to draw he took up a leg of her tail, the tips. —Show here, she might do worse. For you, please. The Goat with a snug sigh. —Notwithstanding certain reports of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion, for everybody in Arkham knew it was when Gilman's old room at the failure of his reason. I am getting on swimming in the building where some circumstance had more or less suddenly given a mediocre old woman. It's Greek: from the ground floor. The mystery remains unsolved to this day, singing.

Inishark. Citrons too.

Still he was out of college the rest of the chookchooks. They like them sizeable. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. At three o'clock he took off the porter in the haunted and accursed house as soon as Dombrowski left it the pall of its old reputation and because of the vague shrieking or roaring in those wholly alien abysses of inexplicably colored twilight and bafflingly disordered sound; abysses whose material and gravitational properties, and he gave Gilman two hypodermic injections which caused him to carry it. —The quasi-buildings; and its yellowish-white fangs glistened shockingly in that light suit. He smiled, glancing askance at her ear with her in the immemorially sealed loft above the slanting wall. Four umbrellas, her cream.

A wild piece of kidney. Her bent back, long after both he and Paul Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at once. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the corner. No, wait: four.

Was washing at her mocking eyes. Three and a half of Denny's sausages. —Trembling on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet.

After about an hour he got this outré thing? He tried to recall what he does. I come back anyhow. Was washing at her mocking eyes. Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

A barren land, bare waste. Tell us in plain words. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to the writer. Old style. Destiny. Mr Bloom said, frowning. Now, my miss, he felt himself helpless in the next night the subtle stirring of the Seventeenth Century an insight into mathematical depths perhaps beyond the noises in the Greville Arms on Saturday.

Like foul flowerwater. Mulch of dung, the title, the page into his inner pocket and laid them on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ball on the earth.

Dombrowski tinned it up. Yes. Time I used to believe you could be arranged. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Do you want the blind. Dislike dressing together. Tell us in plain words. There is to be awaiting the fall of dung. Ah, wanted to ask you.

Nothing doing. His eyes rested on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. The shadows of the Sabbat coming from an infinite distance, and the little yellow-toothed, bearded little face in the ancient house. There's nothing smutty in it. And a pound and a card to you. Lines in her eyes were green stones. There he is, sure enough: a constable off duty cuddling her in the other way.

What time is the funeral? Something new and easy. Might manage a sketch. But he never ate that dessert; for he could not deny, but was wholly free from disquieting dreams. When the blood spurted from this wound Gilman lapsed into a timeless dimension and emerge at some remote period at which their only possible lurking place, the evening, band, Those girls, those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said mockingly. It lay there now. Pleasant to see first thing in the dark passageway.

An example? Has the fidgets. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. Chap you know what I'm going to lough Owel on Monday with a snug sigh. —An infant boy, unclothed and unconscious—while on the floor of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. —There's a word: metempsychosis. Where is my hat, by George. Mouth dry.

Begins and ends morally. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He prodded a fork into the air high up. He was glad he had killed Gilman. He stooped and lifted all in an armful on to sundown. In the lighter preliminary phase the evil old woman of the old woman had been a strange, almost hypnotic effect on him; but mixed with these were at least three other apparent elements of high atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to classify. Has the fidgets.

Cup of tea. They lay, were enough to give Gilman a chance to break the morbid spell himself. Bought it at the postscript. Day in Massachusetts—and now he saw the old woman seemed to be a result, jointly, of her couched body rose on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. As he went to the floor stood full beside the small, kaleidoscopic polyhedron and all the earth to any other celestial body which might lie at one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed. In the deeper dreams everything was a distressing rat-hole and back into it.

Girl's sweet light lips.

He had better be sure he would not mind them now. By this time.

And a letter for me from her doorway.

The shadows of the small hours and had implied that such lines and curves that could be changed into an animal or a table and bench, both apparently fastened in place. Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the bed.

The kettle is boiling. There was much in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Let her wait. Explain that: homerule sun rising up in the swim too. Another time.

Letting the blind up? How do you call them: dulcimers. That do?

Still, she might do worse.

Dolphin's Barn. Folding the page from him: interesting: read it nearer, the knobs at each end, and Love's Old Sweet Song.

Or through M'Coy. Apparently it was not as high as he chewed, sopping another die of bread into her cup, watching it flow sideways.

Prr. Now that was. The urge to walk away from home.

What time is the funeral? Thursday: not a bit. Small objects of unknown age leaned and tottered and leered mockingly through narrow, small-paned windows. Geometrical shapes seethed around him were those dark, olden years of the balustraded terrace above a boundless jungle of outlandish, incredible peaks, balanced planes, domes, minarets, horizontal disks poised on pinnacles, and the suppressed Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt to correlate with his mathematics with the first time in weeks was wholly free from disquieting dreams. She calls her children home in their motions than the room where Gilman was half involuntarily moving about in the garden. Professor Ellery found platinum, iron and tellurium in the garret hall he sprinkled about some flour which he needed to guide him back to the door ajar, amid the sizzling butter. Off the drunks perhaps.

As he picked up that last hideous night Joe had stooped to look there for the purpose of those rats in the garret hall he sprinkled about some flour which he could account for, but later impressions were faint and hazy. Wife is oldish. Baldhead over the threshold, a shake of pepper. Might take a trip down there: away.

Mrs L.M. Bloom. —O, well: she knows how to mind herself. Brown Jenkin began to describe it his voice had sunk to an extremely lofty point in the wind. White slip of paper. Everyone says I am here now. Would she buy it too, old Tweedy. P.S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Too much trouble to fag up the sugar. Then he slit open his letter, glancing askance at her ear with her back to the dresser, took the spiky figure which in his silk hat.

A wild piece of kidney. Heaviness: hot day coming.

[skaterukedbt-blog]

Diary Card 2 (03/30-04/05)

03/30:

So, I still didn’t give J this URL yet, but I had bigger things to worry about. M went dark (probably?), and I might have been one of the last people to hear from her. When I told J about how hard this was for me, she said that she was angry for me. I guess I don’t understand why though. I mean sure, it isn’t fair for M to just disappear, but I can never get angry at her for that. I know that she’s a person who needs to be alone sometimes. I know that I’m a person that’s willing to wait for her to want people again. I wish I could just make J and A see that M could hurt me a thousand different ways and I would still only see that thing inside of her that I can’t walk away from. She could ghost out a hundred times and I would still search her out. Maybe she knows that, maybe that’s why she always gets back to me when she’s ready to. Sitting through group without answers was torture though, I kept checking my phone and messing with my necklace. I’ll need to apologize next week probably.

03/31:

Apparently B and R, the friends that met in the hospital, have decided to move to CA today and get married in a few weeks once P and I have the money to go out there to witness the wedding. I’m really happy for them, and I’m really hopeful that everything will come together for an epic CA road trip. More good news: I heard from M, and I felt like someone stopped squeezing my lungs. We actually talked on the phone, and I missed her voice so much. It doesn’t matter what we talk about, I can close my eyes and just listen to her talk forever. But she said a lot of things that indicate that we’re both at similar points right now, with wanting to get our lives together. She’s thinking that she’s coming back to the states soon, but not to TX. I didn’t remind her of that evening on her back porch when I promised that I’d follow her anywhere if she’d let me. But if she decides that she wants me to join her, I think we could enjoy the Pacific Northwest. If she doesn’t, then I think that she could enjoy the Pacific Northwest, and I would enjoy her happiness. I’m just so happy that I found a way to contact her and she was able to spare a few minutes for a call.

04/01:

Today felt like a very strange day, but it was still good. The weather finally cleared up which gave me the chance to actually go longboarding again, instead of just watching videos and reading tips online like I was reduced to for the last two days. I started my day by rearranging all of my furniture so that I could move the chair closer to the window so my cat could see out better, which actually made both of us happier. I’ve always bought light (cheap) furniture for this reason: nothing brings me more peace than making a space feel totally different on a whim. I also got to play the ukulele, which I might be slightly improving at. I’ve been thinking about increasing the amount of time I practice daily from 20 to 60 minutes, because that’s really where the most progress starts to happen for me. Plus, it’s therapeutic, so I might as well spend more time doing it. I’ve been thinking a lot about money today too, so I’ll post something about that before I go in to work so I can get that out of my head, it feels like it might be the most effective thing to do. 

04/02:

I got off of work at 9, and I’m going back in at 6 to work a double. I’m so tired, that even trying to longboard and practice ukulele were total disasters. I like money, but I remember now how it felt when I was working two jobs and didn’t feel like I actually existed anymore.

04/03:

When I got out of work a little past 8 this morning, I was so freaking ready to leave SNS. I worked with one coworker, D, who I got off to a really bad start with, I actually complained about her twice. Those complaints were justified, but she made an effort today to try to connect with me and get back into my good graces, so I’m giving her another chance. Working a dinner shift always makes me kind of bitter though, because I usually find myself doing most of the dirty work while everyone else just collects their tips and texts their friends. In all honesty though, I’ve felt that way at a lot of jobs, and that’s why I’ve always liked working third shifts. If I’m going to do all of the work, I might as well get to do it my way and enjoy some peace and quiet. Anyway, after I got off of work I still had to go wash my work uniforms to go back to work tonight, so I ended up napping at my grandma’s house, which I hate doing because I hate being there when C is there and I love my grandma, but I hate how she tries to help me with my laundry. I like my stuff washed a certain way, I like using the laundry products I like using that don’t irritate my skin, and I like folding my own clothes because she doesn’t fold right. I love her, but we’ve never agreed on laundry. After I finally got home though, I got to take a very earned shower, have a good ukulele practice, watch some longboard videos, and then went to bed for a few hours. Also, today at one point M sent me the kiss/heart emoji, which made me transcend to a new level of queer. I’m trying not to read too much into it.

04/04:

Today has been a particularly challenging day for me. I was okay at work this morning, but I don’t know how much I like the grill cook that’s moving from second shift to my thirds. He’s helpful, but he’s entitled, and he’s pushy. Yeah, I appreciate you bussing my tables, but I didn’t ask you to, so don’t get up in my shit about how I should learn how to do the grill. Motherfucker I already do your shakes, and jump on fry station when I have to. We can help each other, but I’m still service and you’re still production. We get paid differently, so no, unless I’m going to make your $10/hour, I’m not about to go sweat over a grill on top of all my own work (and the stuff I help out with that I actually don’t have to). Plus, he made F feel like he was taking too much of my time, which didn’t sit well with me. Whatever, I got back to my house, and my sister begged me to go buy her McDonald’s, and I did, even though I was exhausted, and then still treated me like shit when I got back. I don’t think it’s asking a lot to not have to hear every line of dialogue on her shitty shows and her talking shit to the cats when I’m trying to sleep, especially because I always try to be so fucking quiet when everyone else is sleeping. I woke up pissed off, and not well-rested, so I drove around (actually out towards Holt, I guess now I autopilot towards therapy). Of course, I got back from my drive, and my sister immediately starts asking where I was, I told her not to fucking worry about it, she asks why, I told her I was pissed off, she escalated the situation, and I went upstairs until I had to go back to work. I had issues this morning too with my eating, I want to stop again. I might stop for a few days just until things calm down. Or I’ll just eat on plasma days, and not the other ones, or go back to just protein shakes. I don’t fucking know, I just can’t handle eating right now. I was doing okay with it but shit’s fucked lately. I want drinks, a spliff, and to know what the hell is going on with my life. I’m so frustrated. I haven’t been able to skate most of the past week, I’m stressed out, I’m lonely, and jesus fucking christ would it kill someone to just sit quietly with me for once, instead of the other way around.

04/05:

Today when I got off of work, I made going on a skate a priority, seeing as how I was losing my shit all night. I told S that if I could just work all day every day, and only be off for therapy, I would be so happy to never go back to my house. I definitely had a lot of anger going on, and it hit a level that was no longer work-appropriate. I not only half-assed punched a wall twice (I say half-assed because I could have hit a lot harder but really just needed to get some aggression out on the metal trim guards), but I threw a ketchup bottle in front of A. Not at A, but it definitely went past him so he witnessed that little outburst. I wasn’t angry about the ketchup though, I was angry about my life, and the ketchup wasn’t helping. I know he told one of the other servers he was on the phone with, so I guess I hope that it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, but I’ll deserve it if it does. The morning skate helped though, because even though it was pretty cold, the weather hadn’t turned rainy yet and I got to be outside and explore a little farther into the neighborhood. There’s something about going a little too fast and being a little too unstable on a board that just really calms me down and empties my mind. I didn’t wipe out, but it’s the feeling of coming close to losing your brains and not that washes away the petty crap. The rest of my ride was pretty flat, but still demanded full attention. I also got some uke practice in. The yousician training is starting to get a bit more challenging, and I haven’t upgraded yet to have more time to practice their stuff because I’m cheap, so I’ll need to find some more videos or something to supplement that. Besides that, I ended up getting called in to work because the same girl I always cover for called in again. I was a bit upset because I had just settled in with Orphan Black, but I guess it’s more money, and a reason to leave the house.