#this may be the stupidest thing i’ve drawn yet

[dailykeiji]

what are your thoughts on gashu x mr chidouin x keiji

today’s keiji is: k……. keishu…………..

bonus:

[crazymecjc]

✨ justice ✨

persona 5 (spoiler!) shitpost below the cut!!

[hamliet]

hi hamliet! i just finished dostoyevsky's demons! i was wondering if you could write a little about kirillov, stepan, and stavrogin: it seems like kirillov's thinking and stepan's final speech are the two messages the novel really wants to impart to the reader, but i felt like they were somewhat at odds with one another? kirillov was all about the will of man, while stepan was about God. which one is "right"? and what's stavrogin's final death and overall arc about? thank you so much!

Hello Anon!! Thank you for the ask about my favorite novel, and such an exciting ask too! *breaks into a happy dance*

So I would caution against the interpretation that Dostoyevsky wanted to endorse Kirillov’s message, because I think the opposite is the case. Dostoyevsky is fundamentally existentialist; however, he despised nihilism (as each of his major works take it apart that is present in each of his major works), and that is thus reflected in the framing of Kirillov’s ideas, which were born out of bitter despair. Kirillov, you see, did not want to die.

He simply wanted to matter. 

However, he was not convinced he did, despite how kind and genuinely good he was. He begs before his death:

“Let it be comfort. God is necessary and so must exist… But I know He doesn’t and can’t… Surely you must understand that a man with two such ideas can’t go on living?”

For Kirillov, God is the Russian Orthodox version, the one Dostoyevsky very much believed in (in his later years anyways, including when he wrote his major works) as well. Thus, what Kirillov is saying here is that he wants to believe in some kind of sense in this world, a divine maker who is watching over them, who cares about them--but when he looks at the world and how terrible it is, when he sees little children being insulted, when he sees people killing innocents like Shatov, he does not have a way of comprising that with the existence of a loving God. It’s a well known conundrum in theology: the problem of evil. 

Demons is entirely about the evil humans beings are capable of when they become possessed by ideologies--yet, Demons also implies that people need to believe in something. Look at Stavrogin and his despair and aimless actions. Look at Pyotr and how his selfishness literally destroys an entire town, including a good man (Shatov) who had forgiven his wife and loved her despite what she had done to him. As Kirillov says:

“Man has done nothing but invent God so as to go on living, and not kill himself; that’s the whole of universal history up till now. I am the first one in the whole history of mankind who would not invent God. Let them know it once for all…

“I am awfully unhappy, for I’m awfully afraid. Terror is the curse of man.… But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that I don’t believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the door, and will save. That’s the only thing that will save mankind and will re-create the next generation physically; for with his present physical nature man can’t get on without his former God, I believe. For three years I’ve been seeking for the attribute of my godhead and I’ve found it; the attribute of my godhead is self-will! That’s all I can do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible freedom. For it is very terrible. I am killing myself to prove my independence and my new terrible freedom.”

Kirillov is terrified to be alone and to be worthless. If there is no God, he believes he is both. However, if he can be brought to utterly control his own life, setting a precedent, that will “save” people by showing them freedom. It’s not a sane theory (Kirillov is decidedly unstable), but it reflects his desperate desire to grasp at meaning in his life, to make himself count. It’s why he even agrees to die and write a note that will help his friends when he does (without knowing Pyotr’s evil schemes). 

But the thing is, Kirillov killing himself is an act of nihilism. He does not want to die, as evidenced by how terrified he is during that scene, how he literally bites down on Pyotr’s finger and nearly severs it, because he is so desperately angry that Pyotr is forcing him to do this. And his death accomplishes nothing. There is no freedom and no salvation that comes from him killing himself; not for Pyotr, not for Liza, not for Nikolai, not for anyone. 

His death was empty. But his life, his very human fears and need to live, to be worth something, his stunning kindness in a novel that is fundamentally cruel--that is what matters to the reader. His death can’t be regarded as anything other than a tragedy, which is why I’d say that Dostoyevesky is showing the faults in his ideas (while exploring them with empathy) rather than endorsing them. 

So, onto Stepan. Remember when I said it was Russian Orthodox Christianity? The faith element is present in all of Dostoyevsky’s works, and is integral to them. I do think Dostoyevsky is endorsing Stepan’s final speech:

“My friends,” he said, “God is necessary to me, if only because He is the only being whom one can love eternally.”...“My immortality is necessary if only because God will not be guilty of injustice and extinguish altogether the flame of love for Him once kindled in my heart. And what is more precious than love? Love is higher than existence, love is the crown of existence; and how is it possible that existence should not be under its dominance? If I have once loved Him and rejoiced in my love, is it possible that He should extinguish me and my joy and bring me to nothingness again? If there is a God, then I am immortal..”

“There is a God, Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you there is,” Varvara Petrovna implored him. “Give it up, drop all your foolishness for once in your life!” 

...

“Oh, I should dearly like to live again!” he exclaimed with an extraordinary rush of energy. “Every minute, every instant of life ought to be a blessing to man … they ought to be, they certainly ought to be! It’s the duty of man to make it so; that’s the law of his nature, which always exists even if hidden.… Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha … and all of them …"...

“The mere fact of the ever present idea that there exists something infinitely more just and more happy than I am fills me through and through with tender ecstasy—and glorifies me—oh, whoever I may be, whatever I have done! What is far more essential for man than personal happiness is to know and to believe at every instant that there is somewhere a perfect and serene happiness for all men and for everything.… The one essential condition of human existence is that man should always be able to bow down before something infinitely great. If men are deprived of the infinitely great they will not go on living and will die of despair. The Infinite and the Eternal are as essential for man as the little planet on which he dwells. My friends, all, all: hail to the Great Idea! The Eternal, Infinite Idea! It is essential to every man, whoever he may be, to bow down before what is the Great Idea. Even the stupidest man needs something great. Petrusha … oh, how I want to see them all again! They don’t know, they don’t know that that same Eternal, Grand Idea lies in them all!”

Stepan’s ideas are repeated in The Brothers Karamazov and in The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (a fantastic short story!). Dostoyevsky was very much not just an existentialist and a Christian, but a humanist: he believed this life on earth was incomparably valuable, but also the next life was, as well (in contrast to assuming this life is worthless in light of the next, as many theologies in Christianity will proclaim). Stepan is expressing now that the purpose of life is to live and to love--which is meaningful for Stepan’s character and the novel as a whole in two ways: firstly, because Stepan’s denial of his love for Varvara led to a lot of pain and suffering for both of them (as Varvara setting him up with Dasha is what provoked Stepan to beg his son to visit him), and secondly, Stepan’s abandonment of Pyotr as a child is a direct catalyst of the person Pyotr has become. His failure to love his son well is what led to all this tragedy. He now sees it, but it is too late for him to remedy in this life. However, not all is lost: he has a second life he anticipates, and he dies with his love, Varvara, with him, assuring him that there is a hereafter. 

On the subject of failure to parent and messed-up children: Stavrogin. He is one of Dostoyevsky’s most complex and disturbing characters. On the one hand, Stavrogin knows right and wrong better than most in the cast; on the other hand, he acts contrary to it because Stavrogin wants to believe that there is no right and wrong, and hence he does more and more ‘wrong’ things in an almost subconscious way to... well, prove his philosophy, like Kirillov, but also to punish himself because much like Kirillov’s beliefs were founded on a contradiction, so are Stavrogin’s. (Shatov says that Stavrogin lives to morally torment himself, and notably he’s the first character who loses his enamorment with Stavorigin, hence I trust his viewpoint.) Also, Stavrogin tells Tikhon that his philosophy is that there is “neither good nor evil,” yet he proves this by acting on things that torment him. 

The whole reason people project onto Stavrogin and are drawn to his charisma is because he is empty inside, making him ripe for projection. He is capable of much good and has done some good, but he also is capable of evil (as all characters and people are). Keep in mind that most of the evil Stavrogin is responsible for is through passive means (he foils Stepan here): what he doesn’t do is perhaps more devastating than what he does do. He allows evil to reign and to draw to its tragic conclusions. He sleeps with Liza knowing it will destroy her, but Liza pursued him heavily. He allows Matryosha to commit suicide after he assaults her. He allows Shatov’s death, his wife’s murder, Kirillov’s suicide. He could take action and prevent any of these things, could have even taken responsibility for his evil treatment of Matryosha, but he does not. Instead, he allows her to punish herself because it allows him to continue in his complacent, passively nihilistic philosophy--in fact, it reinforces his philosophy. Good and evil are thus pointless and only lead to ruin, right? These ideas about morality lead to tragedy! He can thus do whatever he wants! (For example, he cites Matryosha believing she has sinned against God--when he’s the one who hurt her--as her reason for her suicide; ie it’s her belief that is the culprit more so than he himself.) 

Except, Stavrogin’s moral nihilism fails him. Because in the end, Stavrogin cannot out run his conscience, and commits suicide. Good and evil might just be ideas, or they might not be, but he cannot escape how he feels about them. His feelings are real, and through hurting others he hurts himself, and he cannot live on with such feelings. Society may shape our ideas of what’s right and wrong and it may be twisted and hurt us (for example, Dostoyevsky surely felt society treated women unfairly, especially in matters of sexuality, as we see in how society ruins Liza and Matryosha), but we also cannot heal without each other (for example, Shatov forgiving his wife, and Stepan being able to die with Varvara; in contrast, Stavrogin isolates himself and dies). 

So, yeah. I hope that was helpful and not too rambly. Feel free to ask any more questions on the novel/for clarification! 

[moonstruckbucky]

Fool for You [one-shot]

Summary: You want Bucky, but Bucky wants somebody else.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst. Lots of angst. Some self-deprecating thoughts, insecurity. Language because my potty mouth. Bucky’s a dick. Not a happy ending. You’ve been warned.

Notes: Inspired by Linger by the Cranberries, but keep in mind it’s not a song fic! I’ve been in such a writing funk lately. I hope this doesn’t totally suck. Enjoy! x

She’s funny. Her joke has Sam wheezing, Steve snorting, and Bucky chuckling. Even Nat has quirked a small grin. They’re so busy recovering their breath that no one sees the absolutely moon-eyed look Bucky directs at her.

Nobody but you.

It’s hard to ignore the rising bitterness in your throat as you sit on the couch, once ensconced in your novel until Sam began hooting like a broken trumpet, a result of her well-timed joke. Of course she’s funny. She has just about everything else going for her, including Widow’s respect, which is a national treasure all on its own.

She isn’t an Avenger, but she may as well be since she’s in the tower so much. It makes your stomach curdle. The super soldier at her side curls a loving arm around her shoulders, drops a kiss onto her hair, and the gesture has her beaming.

And Bucky looks about the same way you feel.

Because Bucky had to go and catch feelings for his best friend’s girl.

He thinks no one knows, but you’re his best friend. Of course you know. You know because he looks at her the same way you do him. You scoff quietly.

Cliches suck.

A weight drops onto the couch cushion beside you.

Careful, Y/N. Green isn’t really your color.

Wanda. Normally you take issue with the fact that Wanda sometimes implants herself in your head, but other times, like now, you’re thankful for it. Explaining it to anyone else makes shame bubble up in your gut.

You give Wanda a single, meaningful glance before your gaze is ultimately drawn back over your shoulder. She, Cassandra, is in the middle of telling a story that has everyone’s rapt attention, Steve looking down at her fondly while it goes unnoticed that Bucky is doing the same. You’re not sure if he realizes he’s doing it, but considering he’s doing it in front of Widow tells you he isn’t.

A quick glance at Nat shows her eyes bouncing between Bucky and Cassandra. Ah, so it wasn’t missed by the scarily-observant super spy. She catches your eye next, an entire conversation being wordlessly spoken. You avert your gaze with a sigh and miss the quizzical little head tilt Nat gives.

When Cassandra’s laughter bubbles up again, you can’t stand it anymore. Wanda frowns up at you as you stand, finger tucked into your book to save your place. You leave the room, wincing as the laughter picks up again.

Inside the confines of your room, you abandon your book to sit on the floor at the foot of your bed, your back against the mattress and box spring. You never meant to be part of probably the stupidest cliche to ever exist, yet here you are. And like that stupid cliche, you have no idea how it even happened.

Somewhere along the path of Bucky’s re-self-discovery, you fell for the man he’d become. Not the Soldier, not the smooth talking ladies’ man of the 40s, but someone somewhere in between. More self-assured than he’s ever been, though not without his faults or his setbacks. Really, though, how could you not have seen this coming?

You sigh into the dark, knees propped up and elbows resting upon them so you can drop your head into your hands. It’s stupid—pathetic, really—how your mind automatically begins to compare you to Cassandra, regardless of the fact that she’s taken. It’s more so because she has Bucky’s full attention, that moon-eyed look solely meant for her that you so wish was directed at you.

You’re a teammate, his close friend, and it seems that’s all you’ll ever be to him. It hurts, coming to that conclusion, knowing you’re one of those girls unfortunately and unfairly destined to experience unrequited love. You laugh mirthlessly to yourself and shake your head, tangle your fingers in your hair and tug, just a little, just enough to ground you before your mind sucks you into a maelstrom of self-pity.

You know sooner or later you’ll have to come clean to Nat, if the perceptive redhead hasn’t already put it together. Wanda is your closest friend aside from Bucky, but Natasha’s scary wisdom beyond her years comes in handy, especially in the tough situations.

You can’t imagine a situation any tougher than this.

So it comes as no surprise as, the next morning, the Black Widow corners you in the kitchen. You don’t bother to hide; stubbornness is one of Nat’s lesser, but more prominent, qualities, and she’s patient as all get out. Instead, you lead her back to your bedroom and spill. She doesn’t interrupt, only listens intently with her head tilted in that feline manner she has.

“Well, that’s quite a predicament,” she notes when you finish. Grumbling unintelligibly, you suck down your coffee. She leans back on her hands beside you. “So I take it there is zero chance of you talking to Bucky about it?”

“Why would I?” you retort, but Nat isn’t offended. “The only thing that’ll accomplish is ensuring our friendship is toast. Burnt as fuck, crispy toast. Plus, I’m not really in the mood to be humiliated when he says he doesn’t return my feelings.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t?”

“Uh, hello, I know you of all people didn’t miss the absolute head-over-heels look he gave her yesterday.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like he’s going to act on that. Steve would pummel him, and it would probably end their friendship.”

“Regardless, I’m not having that conversation with him. I’m just gonna...keep a lid on it and act as if nothing’s off.”

Nat scoffs and you shoot her a look. “Honey, even if I wasn’t me I wouldn’t miss the looks you give him when someone’s not looking.”

You open your mouth and then promptly shut it. Releasing a sigh, you rub your temples. “Okay, so then what do I do? If I pull away he’s going to know something’s up. He’s far too much like you.”

Nat, for once, is rendered clueless on how to proceed. Then, with an actual physical shake of her body, she says, “Okay, so you pretty much have three options. Option one, continue as normal, hide your feelings, be his best friend,  and ultimately, probably spontaneously combust because you’re keeping them down instead of letting them out. Option two, tell him, risk the chance that your friendship might change or Bucky will decide to pull his head out of his ass and not make moon-eyes at a taken woman, thus eventually falling in love with you and the two of you live happily ever after. Option three, you start dating. Outside the Tower. Run the risk that you’ll find someone who completes you instead of pining for a guy who might not.”

“That’s it, huh?” you deadpan. Truthfully, none of those options sounds appealing, but more than likely you’re going for option one.

Option one, it turns out, is a goddamn pain in the ass to stick to. In order to throw off Nat’s, and even Sam’s, suspicions that he’s into his best friend’s girl, Bucky has latched himself onto you. Normally, this would be, well, normal. Now? It’s downright impossible to bite your tongue from telling him what’s been cooking up in your head, damn near inconceivable to not lean into him when he sits a little closer to you at movie night. 

The little niggling feeling in the back of your head tells you he has tricks up his sleeve, but you brush it off for now and bask in the slightly spice scent of his cologne.

Some weeks later, you’re faring no better. It’s growing even more difficult to bottle your feelings up and stow them in the back of your mind, especially when Bucky’s clinginess seems to multiply tenfold. You aren’t dumb, or naive for that matter, when you realize the only time he’s right on top of you is when Steve and Cassandra are present. When you first put it together, no words in the English dictionary are sufficient enough to describe the painful pang in your heart.

Yet you let it continue.

Nat criticizes you more than once, as does Wanda (who’s admittedly a bit gentler with her approach, but Nat was never one for beating around a bush). You promise both of them you’ll confront him soon, draw a line in the sand that he can’t use you to make his best friend’s girl jealous. 

Plus, his plan isn’t working anyways. Cassandra remains both in the dark and unaffected by what he’s doing, and she merely smiles genuinely when she notices Bucky’s arm around your shoulder or waist. As soon as she and Steve leave the room, his arm drops and his shoulders droop. It makes you angry, and it’s why you suddenly begin to dodge his advances. You stop playing along to his chagrin and befuddlement, and the fact that he’s even confused by your refusal to go along with it reignites your ire.

How dare he abuse your friendship, wordlessly expect you to go along with a pointless attempt to make Cassandra jealous? It’s callous and a little cruel of him; you thought you were friends. Friends didn’t treat each other like toys or tools to just use at one’s convenience. Even more than that, with Bucky’s sudden attention on you all the time, as superficial as it is, it only intensifies your feelings for him—both the positive and the negative.

On the one hand, a large, secret part of you revels in being pressed up against him so often, absorbing his warmth and being able to pretend, for just a little while, that his feelings for you aren’t a scheme, that they’re genuine. The smaller, more logical part of you knows you can’t let this continue, and it finally all comes to a head when Bucky asks of you something so unbelievably selfish that you snap.

“I’m sorry, you want to what?” you ask, turning your ear to him as if you hadn’t heard him correctly.

“We should sleep together,” he repeats with a careless shrug. He seems surprised when your gaze hardens and ignites all at once.

“Why? So you can continue your pointless scheme of trying to make Cassandra jealous? Is that why?” you accuse icily. Bucky takes a small step back, mouth opening and closing similar to a fish as he searches for something to say. You beat him to it. “No, Bucky, I won’t sleep with you to go along with your stupid fucking plan of pursuing a taken woman, much less the woman who’s dating your best fucking friend. I’m not stupid; I know what you’ve been doing, and I can’t even believe you would abuse our friendship like that, use me the way you have, without a second thought. Do my feelings mean absolutely nothing to you? Do you know how hard it’s been coming to grips with the fact that, while I struggle with my feelings, for you, you only see me as something to use, something to exploit?”

Bucky’s face continues to fall as you rant, unleashing every pent up thought and emotion. Your voice covers a range of emotion—anger, sadness, hurt—all in a matter of seconds that he nearly has whiplash. Bucky’s always had a strong poker face, but even he can’t hide the feelings rolling through him. The one he settles on is shame. Good.

“You...you have feelings for me?” he questions, quiet and meek.

You scoff. “Right now, I really wish I fucking didn’t. You aren’t who I thought you were, Bucky. Not even close. I was willing to let it go that you wouldn’t feel the same way for me, I’ve accepted that. What I won’t accept is being used as if our friendship means absolute shit to you.”

“No, honey, that’s not—” He stops when you shake your head, teeth clenched tightly and jaw wobbling as you fight to hold back your tears of hurt and heartbreak.

“It was what you were doing, Bucky, and I want no part of it. In fact, I think it’s better you and I don’t speak.”

Bucky looks crestfallen, regret and agony and the will to plead for your forgiveness swimming in his eyes. Bucky’s poker face was ace, but his eyes gave him away and you’d become an expert at reading them. Even if it’s not what he’d intended when he began this hairbrained plan, it’s what happened, and you had been caught in the crossfire.

“Ever?” he asks, a sob ripping from his throat while those pale eyes brim with tears. You glance away for a moment, but then you bravely meet his gaze, holding it.

“Ever,” you confirm. Your face remains stoic but inside your chest your heart splinters and cracks. It’s so painful to break off your most treasured friendship, but Bucky had taken advantage of you, whether or not he had been aware of your feelings. You voice this aloud. “I can accept you not returning my feelings, but I can’t forgive you for taking advantage of me. That’s not what friends do. Goodbye Bucky.”

The door closes softly in his face and Bucky leans his head against the wood, face crumbling as he lets himself go. How could he have been so stupid?

[sailorshadzter]

Yay more Jonsa fics! Can you pls write one about Sansa sending Jon ravens every month asking him to come home, with no replies, and only Bran/Tormund sending her messages that tells her Jon received them. One day Sansa gets the flu and is unable to send the letter. Then she gets overwhelmed by her queenly duties and the letter is put off. A few weeks later Jon arrives, ready to protect her

ahhhh! okay so i loved this idea so much but i did tweak it very slightly to fit my idea of a very worried, protective jon.thanks for the request! 

send me prompts

“Another letter, your grace.”

Tormund’s vocals are like music, his laughter floating along after. Things never seem to change, Jon supposes, including Tormund. Though he’s asked the man to stop calling him your grace dozens of times now, it seems likely it’ll never cease. Jon imagines he does it now to annoy him, rather than out of his respect. “Thank you,” he says as he takes the scroll, unrolling it while Tormund warms himself before the roaring fire.

The small, neat script is as familiar as always and Jon sighs.

“You should write her back.” Tormund says without turning back, his hands still yet outstretched towards the fire. Jon raises his gaze to the red head’s back but doesn’t reply, rather he turns his attention back to the words written on the page.

Jon, 

I’ve heard you’ve been chosen as the King Beyond the Wall. I hope it makes you happy. Things are well here at home, aside from the usual winter ailments that plague us every year. It’s especially bad this year, I’ve already lost a maid and a guard, and Lord Royce’s youngest son died just yesterday. I hope no sickness has reached you at Castle Black, nor the wall, where ever you are. I miss you terribly. Please… Write me back. Even just to see my name written on a slip of parchment will do. Please Jon, I miss you. 

Sansa.

Her letters come weekly, as they have since the moment they had separated back at King’s Landing. The first one had been waiting for him at Castle Black the very first day he’d arrived. Jon folds the parchment up and tucks it into his doublet. He recalls the sickness she speaks of from childhood- he himself had nearly died of it and plenty of others had. Fear turns his stomach and he abruptly rises from his chair, its legs scraping against the stone floor in the most awful of ways. This catches Tormund’s attention and the man turns to face him. “I forgot I said I would oversee the building today,” he says, though he’s made no such promise and Tormund knows this.

Jon is gone before he can respond and the man heaves a sigh, shaking his head as he instead sits down at the desk Jon once occupied. And it’s there that he pens his usual note to the Queen in the North, letting her know Jon has read her letter and is still the stupidest man alive, though he’s well and certainly misses her as much as she misses him. It’s the least he could do for the lonely Queen.

[ x x x ]

When the raven comes, it’s Tormund’s handwriting yet again on the scroll.

Sansa sighs as she sits back against her chair, tossing the parchment away among all the others upon her desk. She’s been working tirelessly these last few days- between preparing small funerals for those who had died of illness thus far and ensuring her people were well stocked for the remaining winter… It felt never ending. A cough escapes her and she leans over her desk, sweating beneath her heavy gray gown. When had it become so very hot?

“Your grace?”

It is Lord Royce in her doorway and she tries to smile for him as he enters the room, knowing this is a man that has stood by her all this time. “Lord Royce,” she greets with a tired smile, noticing only then the rawness of her throat, of the tightness in her bones. “It is as I said, you should be with your family… I can manage without you for a few days.”

Lord Royce offers his queen a small smile and shakes his head. “I feel better knowing I am at your service, my queen.” He says as he steps further into the room, squinting as he peers down at her behind her desk. She is pale and drawn, looking quite unwell now that he looks closer. “You must rest,” he says without hesitation, coming to stand before her desk that’s littered with letters from all across Westeros. “With all the sickness around, it is imperative that you remain healthy. Please, allow me to escort you back to your chamber so you may rest.”

“You are kind to worry after me, my lord, but I assure you I am well,” she says, though the cough that suddenly escapes her says otherwise. “But perhaps I will allow you to walk with me back to my rooms. It is late, isn’t it?” It’s as she rises to her feet that Sansa realizes something isn’t right with her. The tightness in her chest is suddenly overwhelming and she stumbles, darkness closing in around her. She can hear Lord Royce’s voice calling out to her as if from beneath water, chanting your grace, over and over again until finally… She hears nothing at all.

[ x x x ]

Jon is surprised when there’s no letter.

He inquires with a few of his men, all of whom shake their heads that no letter had arrived for him from anywhere. Jon can’t shake the feeling inside him as he strides through the courtyard and up the stairs into his chambers, where Ghost is dozing on the floor before a dying fire. The wolf raises his head from his great big paws as he enters, looking at his master as if he’s causing him an inconvenience by waking him. “She always writes me,” Jon says aloud as he paces back and forth, forcing Ghost to sit up with a yawn. “Always.” His mind is racing, wondering if the beautiful queen had finally let him go. He wouldn’t blame her of course, it’s what he wanted her to do… Wasn’t it?

After several more moments of pacing, he stops at his desk and catches sight of her last letter, folded up there on top of all the others. He reaches for it and the moment he begins to read, a cold realization settles in the pit of his stomach. “No…” He mumbles, tossing the letter back down, shaking his head.

“Go to her.”

Jon turns at the sound of a voice, only to find Tormund standing in the door. “Go,” he urges with a nod of his head, knowing Jon would never rest if he didn’t. For no letter to have come from the Queen in the North meant something and it couldn’t be good. “I’ll look after things here… So go.” Jon came up to stand before him and it was a moment later that they were embracing. When Jon pulled back, it was to grab his old fur cloak and flee into the corridor, Ghost trotting along behind him.

It takes him only ten minutes to secure a few provisions for the road and  saddle up his horse. And then he’s off, rushing back to home, back to her.

[ x x x ]

As she drifts back to the world of the living, Sansa realizes she can’t move her legs.

A rush of fear wakens her completely and she forces herself up in bed, though it proves a great feat indeed. She begins coughing a moment after she realizes someone is draped over her lower half; Jon is awake the moment she begins to cough and he’s surging towards the head of her bed, gently pushing her back down against her pillows. “You’re here,” she whispers when she’s finished coughing, her throat dry and aching though she smiles as he leans over her, brushing hair from her forehead.

“You didn’t write me,” he murmurs back and his words elicit a soft chuckle from her trembling lips.

“You never write back,” she quips, sick but still fierce.

“There was too much to say,” he says and she raises her sapphire gaze to meet his. “Besides.. You know I was always poor at letters,” she’s reminded of their childhood, when her mother had punished him and Robb both for their lackluster writing. “Can I stay?” He asks then, gesturing back to the chair he’d once been sleeping in. Sansa regards him for one single moment before she nods, sinking back against her pillows as he drags the chair to where he stood and settles himself into it. And then they begin to talk.

He doesn’t tell her that he’s been there at her side for days, but rather they talk about the family they both miss. They talk about the childhood left behind and the present they have come to know. They talk and talk until she falls asleep, drained from days of illness, and he can’t stop himself from leaning over her to softly kiss her forehead. There at her bedside, he wonders how he ever was able to separate himself from her… For now that he was here he was certain he would never leave her again.

[angelcatsiel]

I reblogged an ask game thing the other day but no one sent any asks so I just fuckin answered them all because I was bored and I am learning to not give a fuck what anyone thinks of me and it was fun

1. What is your favorite childhood story of yourself?

This is a hard one. I want to think of a funny one but my childhood wasn’t great. My dad has told me that when I was a toddler, before I can remember, he used to play AC/DC and I used to put clothes pegs in my hair for some unknown reason, stand on the sofa and violently headbang.

2. What is the stupidest way you have ever gotten hurt?

When I was about 11, I was swinging on a swing in the garden, and got curious about what would happen if I put my hands right at the very bottom of the chains while I was swinging. The answer was that I fell off backwards and hit my head. I went in to my dad crying, calmed down, and went back on the swing again. I tried to work out what exactly I had done to cause myself to fall off. I remember thinking, I think I held the chains near the bottom like this... and tested the theory, and fell off again, and hit my head again.

This is one of many stupid injuries. Other considerations were the time I climbed up a slide and hit my head on the bar at the top and knocked myself out, or the time I got kicked by a horse in a field and grabbed onto the electric fence to hold myself up.

3. What was the first PG-13 movie you watched?

Literally no idea.

4. What was the first R rated movie you watched?

I think it may have been the first Deadpool? Haven’t seen that many tbh

5. When was the moment you felt most badass?

When I was about 8, I was at the park with my brother, and this much older kid (maybe about 16 or 17, hardly a kid) with an aggressive dog stole my brother’s ice cream money. I marched up to him and demanded he give it back. He let his dog off the lead and it sniffed around my ankles and growled, and he told me it would bite me if I ran. I stood there and stared him down for a good 20 seconds or so before he called back the dog and walked away. I didn’t get the money back.

6. What is a band you can reliably always love?

Marillion. Favourite band, always.

7. What is your favorite form of self expression?

Probably singing even though I’m very bad at it.

8. What is something from your childhood you wish you still had?

My stuffed rabbit Hoppy. I haven’t been able to find him in several years. Can’t think about it too hard or I’ll cry.

9. Where is your favorite place on earth?

The Isle of Wight. My dad used to take me and my brother there for holidays every few years. It’s beautiful and full of memories, the most precious memories being the time we saved up vouchers in the newspaper to go the year after my dad left his abusive wife and ended up homeless. We were so poor but with the vouchers we could just afford to go, and it was the first time I saw my dad happy in a long time.

10. What is the longest friendship you have ever had?

My best friend @van-helsa124 who I have known since literally nursery and I love her so much.

11. Is there anyone is your life you wish you had met sooner than you did?

Maybe my friend Luce who I only met a couple of years ago, but we’ve grown close pretty quick.

12. Do you believe in ghosts?

Yep definitely. Pretty sure I was visited by my gran after she died and I’ve had a few creepy experiences.

13. What is the coldest water you have ever swam in?

No idea tbh, I don’t swim much

14. How old were you when you learned how to swim?

Maybe 8 or 9? I had lessons in primary school.

15.  What song do you listen to when you’re sad?

Never Grow Up by Taylor Swift. It’s my cry song.

16. Are you an adrenaline junky?

Yep! Love roller coasters and stuff like that, and would love to do something extreme like jump out of a plane or something.

17. What is a song that takes you back to childhood?

I have a few but the main ones are probably Man on the Moon by REM, and You Were Right by Badly Drawn Boy.

18. What is your favorite word?

Not sure I have one. For some reason the only one coming to mind is a place not too far from where my family live called Biggleswade, and I have to say it every time we drive past because I love saying it. I also love saying tiddies at every opportunity.

19. What is your least favorite word?

Don’t think I have a least favourite either, the usual infamous ones (e.g. moist) don’t really bother me.

20. What scent reminds you of childhood?

Cherryade. I drank some several years ago and the smell before I tasted it transported me immediately back to my childhood and a memory I’d completely forgotten, which was my gran constantly buying me a shit ton of cherryade every time I stayed over her house.

21. Were you sad when you found out clouds weren’t like pillows, or did you never think that?

I don’t think I was sad, I think I was just curious and interested to learn, and I tried to come up with new interesting ways of describing the feeling of clouds in my head, since even as a kid I loved to write.

22. When in life did you laugh the hardest?

A few times come to mind and they all involve @van-helsa124. A lot would make absolutely no sense, no matter how much I tried to explain. They’re now ‘friendship memes’. The only one that might be explainable is the first time we ever got drunk, to celebrate achieving ultimate friendship, after we found out that her mum had believed me and her were in a relationship for a year and a half. We even created our own drink, named the year and a half, which was literally just a mix of vodka, koppaberg, rose wine and cloudy lemonade. Tasted better than it sounds. Got me drunk in about 0.5 seconds. Ended the night hugging her trash can trying not to throw up while she read me a destiel fanfic to take my mind off feeling sick

23. What makes you laugh when you don’t feel like laughing?

Old yogscast videos.

24. Do you come from a big family?

Fairly big, lots of aunts and uncles and cousins.

25. What is your favorite part of yourself?

My positivity and the inner strength that I have, that helps me find happiness and courage even when my mental health is low.

26. What is the worst pain you have ever felt?

Trigeminal neuralgia pain (facial nerve pain). Spent 90% of January this year constantly crying and even screaming in pain. Hospital couldn’t do anything for me. I get occasional flare ups now but nothing that severe, but it’s probably going to come back. Feels like someone trying to rip out my cheekbone and jawbone or like someone is literally drilling into the bones in my face, and that’s the milder part. Every so often that pain is interrupted by stabs of sharper pain like electric shocks which have caused me to collapse to the floor screaming. 0/10 do not recommend

27. Do you swear often?

Not super often out loud but very often in my head.

28. Do you get confused for being older or younger than you are?

People always assume I’m younger than I am. I get asked for ID for everything.

29. What is your favorite way to eat a potato?

Probably roast potatoes, but they’ve gotta be done right. Soft inside, crispy outside, and obviously with herbs and spices.

30. What is the best compliment you have ever received?

Honestly no idea.

31. Describe yourself in 6 words?

Slightly unstable yet somehow happy weirdo

32. What is the worst insult you have ever received?

Can’t think of any major insults either lmao no one talks to me apparently

33. Have you ever taken in any media that changed your life?

The Good Place and Supernatural. With supernatural it wasn’t the actual show so much as the friendships it made me and the confidence and happiness the conventions gave me, at a time when my mental health was at its worst, although the show helped massively too. Idc if it’s cringey, it kept me alive. The Good Place changed my entire worldview and actually made me less afraid of death.

34. Have you ever collected anything?

My model horses! I have at least 10 at this point

35. Strangest thing you have ever broken?

As in bones or objects? Can’t think of any objects and the only time I ever broke a bone was when I broke my toe at like 12:01am on new year’s day when I got up to pour myself another drink and tripped over the table

36. Weirdest food you have ever eaten?

I’m not that adventurous with food so nothing that weird

37. Childhood nickname?

My dad would call me Flo. Not sure why.

38. Most people you have shared a bed with in a non sexual manner?

Two. Shared a bed with my best friend and my other friend Josh, once at a convention, once at Josh’s birthday. Birthday one is a bit blurry as I was drunk but at the convention I got to be in the middle and spooned Josh while my best friend spooned me and it was very cosy

39. What is something that makes you fall asleep?

The Marillion song Angelina, or this one ASMR video that’s supposed to be the sound of being in the Impala with the Winchesters. Laugh all you want, I like it.

40. Did your parents ever accidentally lose or forget you?

No but my teacher did once, can’t remember the context, I think she had to drive me and some other girls somewhere for some club event and when we got back to the school she forgot me in the car because I was so quiet lmao

41. If you were a superhero what would your weakness be?

I would be a terrible superhero and have many weaknesses. Loud noises would immediately put me out of action. Someone makes eye contact with me and I disintegrate immediately

42. What food reminds you of home?

Tuna pasta! With this one specific sauce that my mum used to make it with

43. What is your comfort food?

Probably also that tuna pasta. And chocolate. A shit ton of chocolate.

44. Cold room with lots of blankets or hot room with no blankets?

Cold room with lots of blankets, no question.

45. No shoes without socks or no shoes with socks?

No shoes without socks

46. Do you run hot your cold?

I am presuming this means ‘do you run hot or cold’ and the answer is, usually, both simultaneously. My body has no idea what temperature regulation is. Catch me out for a walk in short sleeves in the snow, sweating profusely while violently shivering bc I’m feeling extremely hot internally but my skin is freezing (and yes, I have actually done this). Do I have some sort of legit medical issue? No one knows, least of all my doctors!

47. Favorite condiment?

Probably ketchup. Though I also love garlic dip. Does that count as a condiment?

48. What utensil do you use the most?

Probably my tongs for turning chicken and stuff

49. When are you most comfortable?

Any time I’m home alone, just doing my own thing

50. If you could be really good at one thing, what would it be?

Singing! I would love to be an amazing singer but sadly I am a terrible singer though I do practice every day in the vain hope that maybe my voice will improve. If the neighbours could hear me they would have killed me by now

[earwaxinggibbous]

Top 10 Worst Hit Songs of 2019

So 2019 was kind of a weird year, wasn’t it? Not just for like, life, though it was weird in that aspect, but in music.

I can’t tell if 2019 was an incredibly strong year for music or a weak one. This, to me, is a sign that we’re transitioning into a new era of popular music. The youth are once again taking the reigns of the music scene as did the punks of the 70′s and the grunge kids of the 90′s. Meanwhile, the oldheads flounder for relevance in the face of this new adversity. “Nobody could’ve expected this!”, said no-one ever.

There was a lot of great pop this year, which I will get to, but there was also a lot of bad pop. All of it was either by shitty new artists who have no talent or previous hitmakers swimming around in their own piss. Regardless, it was all interesting to look at. You won’t see any “this entry is short because this song is boring” sections. I also won’t have to rant and rave constantly about the reprehensibility of certain artists, though it will come up. So I guess 2019 was a better year to talk about bad music.

Less do dis.

10. Senorita - Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes

I can’t explain why I hate Camila Cabello so much. I didn’t even realize I hated her until, like... now.

I thought Havana was okay, and her work with Fifth Harmony was tolerable, but every other single she’s dropped has been fucking excruciating. Bad Things sucked, that one song where she can’t pronounce the word “heroin” properly sucked, and this song sucks.

Much like Selena Gomez above, Camila Cabello is yet another female singer who lacks the ability to display any chemistry with anybody, even her actual real friend Shawn Mendes. As well, like sister Gomez, she fills the chart niche of sexy Latina women for men to drool over. “I love it when you call me senorita” is one of the corniest and stupidest lines ever written. She may as well have said “it gets me hot when you call me Ms. Cabello” because that’s essentially the equivalent. 

There’s nothing sexy about the airy whimpering or the obnoxious “ooh-la-la”s or the way Shawn harmonizes, which implies he also loves it when you call him senorita. Nobody actually bothered to think any part of this song through because nobody ever thinks very hard about writing Camila’s songs. Otherwise Bad Things wouldn’t have accidentally sounded like an abuse anthem when it was supposed to be kinky and sexy. And it’s how creepy lyrics like this got by in Senorita.

If he says you’re just friends then you’re JUST FRIENDS. Did we learn nothing from Ann-Marie and Marshmello last year?

This is just yet another lame, plotless, meandering love/sex song by Camila Cabello who has a good voice, but only ever performs these god-awful sex jams with no sex and no jam. And it’s unfortunate because this is sort of the lot dealt to most Latinx artists. Pop-friendly artists like Camila are divvied up into racial categories without anyone even noticing, and most likely she will only ever write and perform sex jams because that’s what a Latina woman in pop is pushed into. Not that I think she has any problem with it, it’s more indicative of a bigger problem than specifically one with Camila herself.

People have been sexualizing the Latinx community since the dawn of time, and while the new movement of Spanish music might change this, it sure as hell hasn’t started yet.

At least it isn’t seven minutes long like Te Bote.

9. Money in the Grave - Drake and Rick Ross

Drake had 25 hits last year, and only one of them was a song I might say I actually like. I remember I said there’d be no boring songs, but... Drake hasn’t been interesting in a long time. Even when I found out about his secret son, or the fact that he was with a significantly younger woman, I just kinda shrugged and said “oh”. Drake has to be on his way out. How much longer are people going to stand this?

Money in the Grave isn’t as turgid as 2018’s Nonstop, or as audibly inept as the 2017(?)’s Pop Style, but God. At this point, every Drake song sounds the same. The man is incapable of bringing forth any kind of emotions, his beats are pathetic drum loops, nothing he writes has any personality. It’s almost funny how boring his music is.

Rick Ross, if you remember him, was known in his time for writing shouty drug dealer anthems. He yelled a lot, and I was sitting with bated breath waiting for him to fucking 6ix9ine scream over this track, only to be disappointed when he lowered into a calmer register for this tune. Drake even made Rick Ross boring, and Rick Ross is one of the funniest bad rappers I can think of, aside from like, Soulja Boy.

I no longer understand what niche Drake fills. You can’t dance to this, you can’t get high to it, nobody’s gonna think you’re cool if you enjoy it, the lyrics aren’t even passably interesting. It’s the same rap cliches as always, perhaps with a new coat of paint, but said paint is the same color as it already was previously, and makes no change. 

No wonder Drake endorsed Lil Baby. Nobody else can equal his talent at sounding bored.

8. Bad Guy - Billie Eilish

So here’s an unpopular music critic opinion: I don’t like Billie Eilish.

I’ve known of her for a long time, and never once has she drawn my intrigue. I’ve gone all over asking people why they like her, and I’ve heard all sorts of answers. Her voice is good, her lyrics are good, her production is interesting, her subject matter is deep... whatever it actually is, I couldn’t tell you. But in the end, I basically feel the same way about her as I do about Twenty-One Pilots. She’s an artist in an oversaturated micro-genre who, despite being of lower quality than her contemporaries, managed to do something different enough that she rose up in the latter part of the genre’s life. In Billie’s case, it’s the trend of female alt-pop singer-songwriters who write about things like politics, feminism, and ESPECIALLY mental health.

Lorde was the original, but we also have Lana Del Rey, the more pop-friendly Halsey, Marina and the Diamonds, the dreaded Melanie Martinez, to some extent even Alessia Cara, just a whole bunch of them. They all had their own unique personality. Billie Eilish’s personality is that she has none.

Okay, I’m being a little mean. I do think that Billie’s music videos are actually very interesting, but good music videos does not a good musician make. Her voice is more of a phlegmy whisper than people let on, and her lyrics... like, what, what makes them so special? And why didn’t wish you were gay get ANY backlash when it’s basically just a backwards version of Little Big Town’s Girl Crush?

Bad Guy is the worst of her singles without question. Its beat, much like most of her songs, sounds like two people accidentally banged on top of the Cassio and somebody pressed record. Her voice continues to be boring and flat, for some reason she has to whisper everything, and the lyrics are some of the most mind-numbing shit I’ve ever heard. Which moron at corporate told the 17-YEAR-OLD to write a “steal yo man” song where she threatens to seduce my dad? Like, ignoring my own personal history with my dad, you are literally a CHILD.

Generally speaking, the song sounds like someone gargling mouthwash in my ear for a minute or two, but like, very quietly. Which is kind of pathetic for a song called Bad Guy. You sound like a pretty average guy to me.

It’s obvious from the music video that Billie’s main inspiration is grunge, and if that isn’t the case I’ll be surprised. The weird imagery and intentionally dressing like a homeless person to every public thing she does gives off big Nirvana energy. One could argue that Billie Eilish is a good segway into teaching the youthsters about the ghosts of music’s past. There’s just a few problems with that.

One: Bad Guy sounds nothing like a grunge song.

Two: Billie Eilish does not have a grunge voice.

Three: Billie Eilish just... isn’t doing it right.

Billie Eilish’s parents are two wealthy actors and she was basically born with the ability to get into the business easier than other people. I’m not saying that you can’t be a grunge artist if you’re wealthy and have a decent family life, but I am saying that Billie’s music doesn’t convey any kind of grunge appeal. There’s no roughness or rawness to it because she could immediately walk into a producer’s studio with a wad of fifties and ask for a sick beat. Her music displays no emotion, and emotion is the main draw of grunge. Like, Kurt Cobain wasn’t a very good singer, but he knew how to perfectly channel how he was feeling. Grunge music is about feelings, not polish. And Billie Eilish is all polish.

I’m not gonna get all angry because grunge is being gentrified by a tiny girl when it was originally started by broke heroin addicts and lesbians, but I am gonna get angry because her music sounds worse than albums made on a budget of 600 dollars by a guy who has had one voice lesson his whole life.

She should just go into modern art.

7. Worth It - YK Osiris

Originally I was gonna give this spot to a different song. Worth It was so immediately bad that it rescued Lil Baby from my list this year.

Don’t expect to be this lucky next year, bitch.

But we’re not talking about that squealing douchebag, we’re talking about THIS squealing douchebag:

YK Osiris. I have no idea where he came from, I think he was part of last year’s XXL Freshman Class? He’s more of a singer than a rapper, so I’m not sure why he was, other than the predetermined idea that all black artists in pop are rappers. I wouldn’t even call him a singer, because the man cannot sing.

At the beginning of the music video, you see dozens of paparazzi swarming around YK Osiris’ car as he exits with a girl. This is the set-up for the song’s impressive amount of self-fellating narcissism, as YK Osiris assumes he has fans. Who the fuck listens to YK Osiris? I mean, clearly someone, because he charted, but like... what does a YK Osiris fan look like? Do women actually like hearing him wheeze into their ear? Like BEES?

NO MORE BEES!

Hearing this fucking chicken nugget talk about whether or not I’m worth eet is the lamest thing. Why does she have to be worth it? Are YOU worth HER time? Who the fuck are you? The attitude is very, I guess, mid-70′s Paul Anka-esque. And now I’ve made you imagine a YK Osiris cover of You’re Having My Baby. I also remember Todd in the Shadows compared this song to Earned It by The Weeknd, but I dunno if I get that vibe.

I mean, Earned It is a song about like... BDSM sex, presumably. So that’s more of an “if you’re good master will make you squart” kind of thing. This is more some sentient dildo insisting that you prove his worth to him before you’re even DATING. That’s a red flag on the same level as meeting a guy who lives alone and still puts a lock on his fridge. Like, what’s in there? What’s in the fridge? Is it human meat?

The guitar solo in this song is the only thing about it that’s... worth it. ZING!

6. ZEZE - Kodak Black ft.Travis Scott and Offset

ZEZE is a bad song. Plain and simple. It’s the essence of bad.

It feels like... it wasn’t even finished. Like everyone involved came in the next day to finish tweaking it only to find out that it was already sent out to be published and sold. I feel like there are things missing. Like yeah, the steel drums are nice, but where’s the rest of the instrumentation? There’s a drum and a steel drum and then nothing. Why does this song feel so naked?

Kodak Black sure doesn’t help, still sounding like he’s half-man half-screaming rubber chicken and mumbling like an actual infant still figuring out the whole “talking” deal. It’s not like Travis Scott or Offset add anything. I can’t remember what they did. ZEZE sounds the way I imagine taking ketamine and cocaine would feel. This song is so amateurish, I almost have good will for it.

If this was made by, say, a couple of high school kids dinking around with a Garageband, I might find it a little cute. The problem is that this song was made by several Whole Ass Adult People who have enough money to not make shit that sounds like ZEZE. It’s cute until you remember that Travis Scott produced big sexy SICKO MODE and yet somehow his presence couldn’t make ZEZE sound like it was made on a higher budget than 20 bucks. Someone even put an echo on Kodak’s voice, like that’d make him ANY BETTER.

It doesn’t help that I have continuing ill will towards Kodak Black because he’s a sex offender and nobody seems all too pressed about it. (Some rappers even congratulate him for having a rough past, like yeah, I guess some of those serial killers really did deserve better, huh?) I won’t be satisfied until he’s wearing orange pajamas on an island far away, and until then my feelings stand.

As it is, ZEZE is a song so chintzy-sounding and lame that I can’t imagine who would enjoy it. This song has the same energy as one of those hula girls you put on the dashboard of your car: Cheap and ugly.

5. The Git Up - Blanco Brown

Whenever something new is created, there’s always a leech.

I probably don’t need to tell you about the monstrous year Old Town Road had on the pop charts. For weeks and weeks, Lil Nas X was blocking people from his throne at the top of the Billboard Hot 100, bumping off new faces like Billie Eilish and oldheads like Taylor Swift. Old Town Road knew no mercy. This is the year that a gay black kid singing about horses ruled the world.

And Blanco Brown wanted a piece.

Blanco Brown is one of those artists who started out producing and writing for other hitmakers. He worked on some song by 2Chainz, a couple by some woman named Demetria McKinney, he produced that accursed MILF song by Fergie, a lot of relatively famous people. But he looked at Old Town Road and realized that he, being a black man from the lovely state of Georgia, could also do that.

He could not do that.

The Git Up is a husk of a song, only validated by the fact that it achieved what it was aiming for: TikTok memes. It’s as shameless as Watch Me, but doesn’t even have the small sense of excitement Silento gives off. Blanco Brown’s The Git Up and the “challenge” that it’s attached to are pathetic. The only reason Blanco isn’t too ashamed to go outside after writing this is because he knows plenty of people have fallen into his trap, and that they’re bigger fools than he is.

I started off hating Old Town Road, but over time I’ve sort of come to love it. There’s innocence in it. Lil Nas X didn’t mean for it to be a number one hit, it just happened. A lot of artists were trying too hard this past year, and I suspect it’s why Old Town Road made the pop charts its bitch. It didn’t have to try.

A lot of people will point at rock bands for being “fake”. If they draw inspiration from grunge or punk, and they don’t have the proper edge, many will point and laugh. But just because something is fun and hip doesn’t mean it’s easier to make. In fact, I feel it’s a lot easier to tell if someone’s making a shitty pop song for any reason other than themselves. A lot of people thought Lil Peep was faking, and he really, really wasn’t. There’s grey area in topics like depression, but Blanco Brown (and anyone like him) is as transparent as a window. I see through his mock-excitement, his cute little dance challenge, his “innocent” song. We all do.

I believe Tyler Durden put it best:

“Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”

4. I Don’t Care - Ed Sheeran ft. Justin Bieber

Speaking of being fake...

I don’t know if Ed Sheeran realizes how embarrassing this song is. More than any other song he’s been involved in. More than Shape Of You, or that one song on Revival, more than anything. I Don’t Care is an exercise in humiliation.

Generally speaking, I don’t like Ed Sheeran’s music. I think he’s had a couple good songs, we all like Sing and Castle on the Hill, it’s not like he’s untalented. But every time he’s gotten a big hit these past few years it’s been so shitty or mediocre that I wanted to scream. I’m not sure why, but all of his fans seem to flock towards his worst songs. And of all of them, I hate I Don’t Care the most.

Usually the problems with Ed Sheeran’s music just revolve around his meek, tiny personality and his weird style of lyricism. The level of detail he gets into can be both an asset and a detriment. I remember I basically described Shape Of You as a virgin anthem, because Ed Sheeran exudes dorkiness. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and when it comes to nerd music I’d rather take Thomas Dolby, but he definitely had a style.

I Don’t Care is Ed’s Intuition.

As in, the Jewel song. The blown-up pop song released by Jewel, a previously sincere folk singer who played acoustic guitar and sang about break-ups and The Media(TM) and stuff like that. Ed Sheeran is a lot like Jewel, if you think about it. Both of them are skilled lyricists who play acoustic guitar and sing about personal topics, and both of them suddenly decided to throw that away and make a sell-out pop hit. If this kills Ed’s career, they’ll have had basically the same musical trajectory.

Ed Sheeran opens the song by saying he’s at a party he doesn’t wanna be at, and that’s how the song feels. You, the listener, are at a party you don’t wanna be at. What good did adding Justin Bieber to this song do? Oh, right, that’s what made it a hit. I Don’t Care goes far beyond Blanco Brown’s brand of shamelessness. Blanco Brown specifically wanted a dance challenge hit. Ed Sheeran just wanted a hit. Any hit will do. He brought in guaranteed hitmaker Justin Bieber, tossed out his acoustic guitar for fully electronic production, and sang about something vague and already done. And the worst part is that it WORKED.

I imagine this was almost entirely through radio play, because this song is so radio-friendly and milktoast it’s unreal. With a stupid music video greenscreening Ed’s face onto shit and “ooh ooh”s and all, this song exists to pander. It wasn’t created for humans, rather, it was created for the pop music algorithm that’ll shove it into people’s laps without them asking. There’s no artistic integrity, nothing worth thinking about for longer than its runtime. It made it to the Hot 100 because it can be played in grocery stores and clothing stores and really any kind of store. Ed Sheeran is a God of nothing, and I can’t imagine he’s proud.

3. No Guidance - Chris Brown ft. Drake

This song is bad on every possible level. Starting off with the fact that it’s nine minutes long. It out-lengths last year’s overly long garbage fire that was Te Bote. 

And then you look at the credits and know exactly who’s to blame for all this:

I don’t know if Lil Dicky anticipated giving Chris Brown’s career a second wind with Freaky Friday, but I think that’s what he did. I defended Lil Dicky last year, and I’m still not clear on how much he actually wanted to work with Chris Brown since that’s not really the kind of thing famous people are honest about, but this wasn’t Lil Dicky’s hit. This was a springboard to launch Chris Brown back into the limelight. Earth didn’t even chart. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the last gasp of Lil Dicky’s career in the spotlight.

But I’d take Freaky Friday over No Guidance any day.

No Guidance is the formal beef-squash between Chris Brown and Drake. Apparently they both dated Rihanna at some point and allegedly had an actual literal bar fight. Despite Drake claiming he still loves Rihanna, he’s also choosing to publicly make up with and work with the man who got her hospitalized at 19 years old. Then again, Rihanna also wants nothing to do with Drake.

(source)

Over time, Drake has proven himself to be his own flavor of scumbag, a weirdo who dates younger women and pretended not to have a son. Perhaps this is his way of getting back at Rihanna. Or he’s simply using Chris Brown’s new power to bolster his own career. Regardless of why it is, it’s gross, especially when he’s dropping bars like this:

Someone else here is looking a little violent, no?

On pure quality, it sounds like every other Chris Brown song, just with Drake tossed into the mix haphazardly. It’s a lame song about hitting on some girl where both artists drop references to their old songs because that’s the easiest way for a failing artist to feign relevance. Assuming nobody features Chris Brown on another massive hit next year, there’s a fair chance he’s done for, and after years of oversaturation, the public finally tires of Drake. No Guidance is a nothing song with scummy shit going on behind the scenes.

RIP Lil Dicky.

2. 7 Rings - Ariana Grande

I never really understood the hype around Ariana Grande. She has a few songs that I enjoy, and her voice is very good, but nothing by her really stands out to me as an amazing song. Ariana stans are relentless. When I posted my review of the thank u, next album some complete stranger replied to it with “Uhhh ok sis”. Like barring the fact that I’m not a girl and we’re not related... it’s an opinion, calm yourself.

Frankly I don’t know how people enjoyed this song. Her stans are insane, but surely not that insane, right? I mean... this isn’t a song. It’s a MISTAKE.

Between Gwen Stefani and Ariana Grande, sampling The Sound Of Music for your pop song is a dangerous game. And really, she should’ve sampled like, anything else. Because nothing says “wealthy, savage girl” like a cute song about your favorite things, I guess!

I’ve never felt quite so immediately gross and uncomfortable as I did when listening to 7 Rings. I have no problem with women flexing, of course I don’t, but this isn’t flexing, it’s mocking. 7 Rings makes me feel like I’m being bullied.

Ari had a horrible 2018, and she’s more than allowed to flex a little, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to essentially play the villain of a high school movie. She’s not Cher Horowitz or Regina George, because then at least she’d be entertainingly bitchy. I judge a flex anthem based on how much I get excited for the person being wealthy and cool. This song makes me want to commit a robbery.

The lyrical content isn’t the only bad element. It also sounds like shit! 

Ariana Grande is a belter. Everyone knows she’s here to sing and not... rap. Which is exactly what she does on this song. The filters she puts over her voice during the rapping sections are just... gross. When she drags out certain words it hurts my ears. That and apparently multiple people have accused her of stealing their flows, though that’s really hard to say since it’s an incredibly generic rap flow. Also, she samples Gimme The Loot by Biggie Smalls, a song about robbing people. Which makes sense because if you bought Ariana’s album, you were robbed! Congrats!

But in the end, the most damning thing about this song is its lyrics. Why should I be excited about this absolute bitch having tons of money? Why should I care when she has the gall to say shit like this?

There were ten writers on this song and nobody thought of saying “hey, maybe the phrase ‘happiness is the same price as red-bottoms’ is a little fucking shallow!” 

And I’m not making any judgments on Ariana’s character in real life. I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice person, but if this song was supposed to project some sense of camaraderie and a “we did it!” attitude, it fails. What it does project is a snide, rich girl looking down on you for not just buying yourself out of depression. Never write a song like this again.

Honorable Mentions

Happier - Marshmello and Bastille

I’m not gonna be the first to say every Marshmello beat sounds exactly the same, but every Marshmello beat sounds the same. I picked this one because it charted highest, but really it makes no difference which Marshmello song I pick on.

Sweet But Psycho - Ava Max

This song reads like a 12-year-old’s deviantART journal.

Drip Too Hard - Lil Baby and Gunna

Like I said, this song almost got on the list proper. It’s a slow burn. At first you feel like the beat is solid, and Lil Baby rides it decently enough, but then it keeps going and the flows never switch and Gunna basically sounds the same as Lil Baby and you begin feeling like you’re losing your mind.

Thotiana - Blueface

People kept memeing about this. I thought it’d be fun. I hate you guys.

God’s Country - Blake Shelton

Namedropping The Devil Went Down To Georgia does not make you Primus. Because you are not creative or interesting.

Trampoline - Shaed

I wouldn’t have even given this song a second thought except apparently it’s hit the alt-rock charts? Where is this rock? Like I get we’re pushing the boundaries of genre but I think the bare minimum of a rock song would be a GUITAR.

Knockin’ Boots - Luke Bryan

This song is dumb. But I’m oddly amused by how dumb it is, so it may live.

Baby - Lil Baby and DaBaby

Sometimes things sound like a good idea, and then they’re not. This didn’t even sound like a good idea and it proved to be an even worse idea. Something definitely could’ve been done with this, but Lil Baby is essentially a creative void that consumes all it sees.

Someone You Loved - Lewis Capaldi

Another song that’s too dumb for me to really get mad at. God knows, Capaldi is putting a hell of a lot of effort into something. What it is, I’m not sure, but he’s doing his best.

With those out of the way, we move onto

Number One:

You Need To Calm Down - Taylor Swift

"I AM LAID LOW BY THE HUMAN RACE. ME, AN INNOCENT WOMAN, MUST DEAL WITH ‘HATERS’ EVERY SINGLE DAY. MY HEART HAS BECOME WEAK WITH ALL OF THE UNKIND WORDS. DARE I SAY... I AM OPPRESSED?”

It’s ironic hearing Taylor Swift tell me to calm down. She hasn’t been calm for a long time. She sure as hell isn’t calm in this song. It’s basically the equivalent of someone screaming “I AM NOT ANGRY!”

Like, you’re... still mad about the snake thing? It’s been a few years now and you’re still bothered enough by an emoji that you referenced it in a song about how not-bothered you are? I mean, apparently this song (as well as ME!) is about celebrating individuality. It definitely is celebrating an individual: Taylor Swift.

I think a big theme of this year was “embarrassing”. The Git Up was embarrassing, I Don’t Care was embarrassing, but none of them are more embarrassing than this. You could probably do a list of the ten worst Taylor Swift lyrics and it’d be mostly this song. And if the lyrics aren’t terrible enough, it also blatantly copies the beat from Sunflower, the second-biggest hit of the year and a personal favorite. Like, a fellow critic remixed them together and the backing track is essentially unchanged.

And then we get to the gay stuff.

I’m not the first to point out that the underlying message of this song is pathetic at best and offensive at worst: “I have haters, and gays have haters, so we’re basically the same.” This is essentially Taylor Swift hoping she’ll get an invite to judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race.

There’s just kind of an eensy weensy problem.

Gay “haters” are like... ACTUALLY DANGEROUS.

They’re not just the goofy, protest-sign waving boomers she depicts in her music video. An internet comment is harmless. Homophobia isn’t. Homophobia leads to suicide, gets teens kicked out of their homes, causes hate crimes, it can cause incredibly serious harm. Someone sending you a fucking snake emoji isn’t the same as years and years of systematic oppression!

Does Taylor Swift have to worry about her safety when she tours in more conservative areas? Does she have to fear the possibility of losing friends and family ties when opening up about herself? Does she have to worry about letting the public see who she dates, beyond the usual celebrity drama? Do people shout slurs at her on the street? Do churches and politicians campaign against her right to marry?

Of course not.

Taylor Swift has always made everything about herself. She’s lied and been petty for years and years in her music. Imagine lying about KANYE. You don’t need to lie about fucking Kanye to make him look bad! He does it himself! She was the victim that time, and every time. But at no point until now did she stoop low enough to openly compare herself to oppressed groups because people are mean to her on the internet.

Like this isn’t even about articles or tabloids or anything, it’s about people being nasty online. The phrase “shade never made anybody less gay” is basically a crackhead way of diminishing our suffering. It’s not “shade” we’re worried about, Taylor, it’s having our fucking legal rights taken away. Your biggest worry is “haters”. Haters aren’t going to ban you from being married.

This song is phony, it’s a rip-off of a much better song that literally came out in the same year, it’s repetitive, it’s petty, and most of all, it tries to diminish the oppression of the LGBT+ community by boiling down all of our pain and suffering to simple “shade”.

I will not calm down.

Woo-ee. That was something alright. We’ll be moving onto the best list soon, if I don’t get caught up in my other quarantine activities.

[homiegeesus]

The Year of Magical Thinking, Ch.1

Summary:  Francis Sinclair believed Arthur Morgan had not finished living. In a second chance at life, Arthur discovers what it means to love himself.

At the edge of a precipice and nowhere to run, Arthur concedes defeat. In an extraordinary turn of events, he is sent through the ether to another time where his path crosses with a group not too unlike his own family. After discovering the fate of those he loved before, he races to find a way back. But what if he realizes that there is something worth staying for in this new world? Can two people separated by nearly a hundred and twenty years of living find their happily ever after?

________________________________________________________

So…Super nervous posting this. It’s the first time in a few years that I’ve written anything (the first fandom-centered work I’ve written since like 2005 lmao; Gilmore Girls anybody?) and it shows. But, alas, I’ve been incredibly inspired by RDR2’s story and the way other authors on Tumblr & AO3 have expanded on it. Shit guys, dunno if anybody is even going to read this, but I’ll push it out of the nest and into the world regardless. This may be the stupidest idea ever, but whatever, I’ll let y’all decide. A warning: This is not beta'd, but I reread it like 50 times. Still, I apologize for my terrible grammar. And, yes, I have shamelessly lifted the title from Joan Didion’s fantastic book. It just fit. So. Well. I’m terribly uncreative, so please forgive me Joan. Also, my only knowledge of 1920s-speak comes from F. Scott Fitzgerald, Clara Bow movies and Googling. I don’t know if anybody ever really said ‘old sport’, but what the hell. On another note, there will be a few things taken from the GTA universe, but it's minimal (San Andreas/Liberty City do not exist). I'll be explaining through a secondary character how states in RDR became the modern states that we know. And finally, constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated!! Anyway, here's Wonderwall...

AO3 Link

Warning: This is me working through my “stuff” vicariously through Arthur Morgan and co.

The Year of Magical Thinking

Chapter 1 - Prologue (or A Dream of Arthur Morgan)

Roanoke Valley - 1899 Peace settled over Arthur Morgan like a warm embrace; the rattle in his lungs that had invaded his every waking moment these past few months now a distant feeling. With each labored rise and fall of his chest, drowning in his own blood, he spared but one final thought.

It’s over. It’s finally over and death would soon come for him.

This wasn’t how Arthur had envisioned his death. No, he had always thought he would die with a bullet in his chest and cordite in his lungs. Not at the behest of disease and treachery. Such a shame that wisdom should only come to him on his deathbed. If only…

That’s what it came down to, that’s what it always comes down to. If only, if only, if only, his mind repeated nonstop. Regrets, Arthur had plenty of them. For months, he had been sinking so far in regrets, he could scarcely breathe. What could he have done differently that would have given a better outcome? How had he not seen Dutch’s descent into mania? Arthur supposed that maybe he had seen but chose to ignore, because when had Dutch ever led them astray.

Micah. Arthur had so many regrets about that goddamn snake. Micah had attached to Dutch like a leech and sucked every drop of the very lifeblood of the gang. He had played on all of Dutch’s insecurities and weaknesses. Arthur’s eyes were finally open, for all the good it did him now. But that rat was only one of the last in a long line of regrets he would have in his life. Arthur’s craving for penance started long before Micah came along.

Maybe Arthur himself was the leech, a disease – an infection. Death and pestilence followed him around like an acrid smell. It was something that seeped into his skin, clawed its way inside like a cancer until it reached his soul, the very center of him. Not happy with just him, it carried through the air and infected everything he had ever cared for or loved. His mother, Hosea, Mary, Eliza and –

Isaac. Arthur still had trouble even saying his name, so wrapped up in guilt as he was. During the rare times he found himself alone, thoughts of the little towheaded boy would invade his mind. Being rightly familiar with cowardice, he would press the tips of his fingers to his skull until they felt like ten dull knives, as if to physically rid himself of the painful memories. Of course, this rarely worked and he was resigned to suffer through the punishment he subconsciously forced upon himself. And now, as he laid on the jagged gravel of this cliff, he finally welcomed the comforting mental images of his son.

Feeling the weight of a life lived recklessly lift slowly from his mind, Arthur turned his head towards the setting sun, his final thought being: I gave it all I had.

___________________________________________________________

Francis Sinclair had one rule:

Don’t mess with the timeline.

It had seemed so easy in its simplicity. In the beginning, that is, until it wasn’t. He hadn’t counted on Arthur Morgan. For a bad man, he sure did a lot of good. Probably more than he realized. When Francis had asked the outlaw to find the futuristic rock carvings, he hadn’t expected Mr. Morgan to deliver. Especially not in a matter of months. Chronos himself probably would have found the task trying.

So, in 1932, when Francis had read about the fate of the Van der Linde Gang in a new hit novel by J. R. Miller, he learned that the coppers had closed in on his ole friend, and well, that just wouldn’t do. He understood that he wouldn’t be able to find Mr. Morgan in the time needed to prevent the most unfortunate aspects of his fate, but he could prevent the ultimate one. What he didn’t expect was to find the man with one arm in a Chicago Overcoat.

Francis pulled the horse-drawn buckboard to a stop in a clearing next to the crag and hopped down. The air was calm and filled with the late evening chatter of the local fauna. He jogged the incline of the rock until a recumbent figure came into his field of view. It wasn’t until he was a few feet away that he noticed the extent of the man’s injuries. His blue shirt stained brown, gone was the desperado’s worn black leather hat, in its place a matte of blood and dirt in his previously honeyed blonde hair. His once handsome face gaunt, his ashen skin a mess of bruises and cuts. One eye was swollen shut, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. Was he even breathing? Francis was running out of time.

“You’ve a lot more living yet, old sport,” the red-head crouched down and placed two fingers against the outlaw’s throat finding a slow, but steady pulse. “Yes, a lot more.”

Mr. Morgan groaned.

“Come on, we gotta find a way to get ya on your gams, ya follow?” Francis grabbed the man’s arm and tried to pull him into a sitting position. Morgan was having none of that.

“Let me– let me die, damn you,” he wheezed on an exhale.

“No, no you poor little bunny. Can’t do that. Now up you go,” Francis pulled once more, this time succeeding.

In a broken voice, Arthur pleaded, “Goddamnit, jus’ let me alone. ‘M so damn tired.” When he finally raised his head and opened his good eye, a look of recognition passed over his face. “You– “

“Yes, me. Now, let’s scoot. You don’t have much time, Mr. Morgan.” Francis placed the man’s arm over his own shoulders, Arthur allowing himself to be hauled into standing.

Arthur weakly protested, “’M dyin’, Mr. Sinclair. I’m a dead man. Ain’t no use in helpin’ a dead man.”

Francis just laughed and replied with the strain of half-carrying a grown man in his voice, “No, Mr. Morgan. As I said before, you’ve a lot more living left to do. Now, conserve your strength.”

Likely out of exhaustion, the outlaw did not say another word. They barely made it to the buckboard before Arthur collapsed. Just before Morgan would have fallen to his knees, Francis used the momentum to haul the man into the back of the wagon. As Francis grabbed each of the larger man’s legs to swing into the bed, Arthur’s breath rasped in his throat, “Why you doin’ this?”

Francis regarded him for a moment before saying, “Because you helped me get outta a pretty big pickle.” He paused, then smiled, “And because you’re terribly important to a lot of people, baby.” And with that, Francis climbed back up to the seat and flicked the reigns.

___________________________________________________________

Well, shit.

Arthur’s plan to die in peace had been upended by a curious red-haired fellow in a blue sweater. With no energy to ruminate further, he resolved to die in the bed of this damn wagon. As the cart trudged backed to the main road, Arthur’s worn body felt every mound and stone the wheels rolled over. Finally, on a relatively smooth surface, he allowed himself to observe his surroundings. Tall pines and hemlock blurred into each other passing in his periphery as he stared at the spattering of stars visible through dark clouds. The sun had officially set in the last thirty minutes and all that remained a reddish orange hue near the horizon. Above him though, what a sight indeed. Bright stars twinkled along the Milky Way, like God himself spread them with a paintbrush across the sky.

Why had he taken all this for granted? So many nights spent under these same stars, but Arthur never really paid them any mind except for navigation. How many years before the artificial lights of the cities overpowered their natural beauty? Unable to ponder any longer and continue the fight to stay conscious, Arthur resigned to close his eyes and place complete trust in the relative stranger.

What felt like moments later, or hours Arthur was unsure, cold droplets of water forced his good eye open once again. A murmur of thunder rolled in the distance. Mr. Sinclair finally turned around, his voice deafened by the creaking of the wagon and heavy breathing of the horses.

“We are just a minute away. I think we’ll make it before the worst of the storm hits.”

But like an omen fitting of this night, Sinclair was wrong. What began as random drops here and there crescendoed into a torrential downpour. The red-haired fellow should have known that hitching his wagon to the outlaw would herald an abundance of bad luck. Unable to shield himself and too tired to care, Arthur welcomed the deluge as if it would wash him away.

Mr. Sinclair halted the horses and hopped down from the buckboard once more. He appeared in Arthur’s line of sight as he unlatched the tailgate, setting down a lantern and grabbing the larger man’s arms in another tug-of-war to get him sitting. Water poured down his face and converged at his chin.

“We just have to ankle about ten feet to the opening,” Sinclair hollered over the rain. “You ready?”

At this point, Arthur would have conjured up his most intimidating mien but there was no energy for that. “No,” he answered defeated.

Unperturbed, the younger man smiled, “That’s the spirit.”

Grabbing Arthur’s arms, Mr. Sinclair placed one across his shoulders. When he hauled the outlaw into standing position, Arthur’s world tilted. Feeling unable to breathe and so lightheaded, he launched into a series of hacking coughs. Blood splattered against his hand and mixed with the rain, diluting until it turned into a river of pink down his arm. He looked to Sinclair. Wet hair plastered to his forehead; the cold of the rain made the strange man’s curious birthmark stand out all the more against pale skin.

“When you gonna see that I’m already dead?” His weakened voice barely heard above the storm.

The redhead looked at him, “Please, just trust me.”

They began their short journey to wherever it was they were going, walking only yards but feeling like miles. By the time they reached what appeared to be a cave entrance, Arthur’s knees buckled and his vision went black. He would have felt hitting the ground, if he’d been conscious. Coming to seconds later, he became aware of his arms being tugged above his head. Mr. Sinclair was apparently dragging him. Deep down, Arthur briefly admired the man’s grit. However, the sentiment was soon replaced by annoyance and near-agony as the sensation of what felt like an elephant settled atop his chest. In and out of consciousness, Arthur realized they had stopped when Sinclair crossed the threshold to grab the lantern at the mouth of the cave. The red-haired man set the lantern between the outlaw and the cave wall and then perched above his head, grabbing both of his arms by the wrists. Arthur could see the younger man’s mouth moving but could not discern the words, only comprehending ‘listen’ and ‘your hands’.

Sinclair then placed Arthur’s large hands against the cool stone wall. Even in his delirious state, he recognized the carvings he had previously found for the peculiar fellow. He could feel the vibrations of the man’s voice behind him in what felt like a chant, but he still could not determine the words. To Arthur’s astonishment, the outlines in the rock began glowing a mute bluish color. What began as a slight tingling in his fingertips turn into full body experience. Reality dissolved into nothingness and became a pure void. And then –

Everything.

Every single moment in his hard life experienced again but in hundred times the speed. This must be it, Arthur thought. God must be forcing him to relive every chapter of his rotten existence before He banished him to the fiery pits of Hell. Familiar faces began to permeate his view. Arthur tried in vain to reach out at the image of his mother. Beatrice Morgan may have been alive for only a small portion of his life, but he would carry her memory with him forever in the form of a flower at his bedside. Unpleasant memories began to flash as Lyle Morgan pervaded his vision. The son of a bitch had been a vile presence in his young days, a man who Arthur would live in fear of until the moment they finally hanged him. Arrested for larceny, his death hadn’t come soon enough.

And then Hosea appeared, someone Arthur had thought of as more of a father than even Dutch. The man had been convinced by the raven-haired outlaw to take a chance on a scared gangly boy who had just tried to rob their room. Starved and desperate for family, Arthur had latched onto the men soaking up anything they would teach him. And teach him they had.

More memories raced by, and Arthur caught sight of a beautiful brown-haired girl. Mary Gillis, the visage of her still enough to stir his pulse, laughed and blushed like a young woman in love. Even in the inevitability of their parting, Arthur had still carried the hope that they’d one day reunite and ride off into the sunset together. If not for Guarma and the mess that had come from the robbery in St. Denis, that may have been his future. Not the hellfire that awaited his damned soul.

And then, Eliza. A young girl of nineteen, Arthur had found comfort in her embrace in the wake of heartbreak. Intent on forgetting Mary, he foolishly took advantage of a girl’s infatuation and followed her to a room above the saloon where she worked. What had come from the union was a beautiful gift but more a curse. Isaac had his mother’s hair and his father’s eyes. A happy baby from what Eliza had told him. Until a group of transients killed them both over ten dollars. Arthur had just whipped up a tidy sum from some cattle rustling and had set his compass to visit his secret family, fully intent on giving Eliza all of the hard-earned money. What greeted him would harden his heart and set him on a path of wickedness. All he had to see were the two graves to understand what had happened.

Like a moving picture, the entirety of his life played before him. If this was what the devil had in mind for his punishment, it would be a hellish eternity. Forced to relive every mistake and misstep he’d ever made; it was what he deserved. But as the memories neared their end, he began to feel a weightlessness. Every atrocity and sin that had weighed heavy on his shoulders suddenly lifted. Again, everything went black.

But then –

Stars. Billions of them. Clearer than any night sky he’d ever seen. Galaxies and distant worlds powdered his vision like puffs of freshly picked cotton. No longer held under the burden of sickness, he took a deep and easy breath. He hadn’t felt this well in months – no, years. Was this heaven? Could God forgive a lifetime of misdeeds? Arthur may have never been a good man, but he did try to be better – in the end. But, no. He was irredeemable. This was a final punishment. A peek at the peace and serenity that redemption would have gifted, before God cast him from the light.

The answer was seemingly given when an unnatural force dragged him back through the ether. Again, hundreds of images flashed in his sight, but this time the memories didn’t belong to him. Too fast to discern individual frames, he could only pick out one reoccurring subject. A woman with dark blonde hair and a bright smile that formed two apple cheeks. Strangely familiar, his memory told him he didn’t know her, but his subconscious shouted in recognition. Then she was gone and with her the remainder of his vision.

Everything turned to black once more.

[ewutai]

Space Between Us | JAEHYUN

⨯ summary: being just classmates is not enough for him, but you only get to understand that after his lips had reached yours. 

⨯ Genre: frat boy!au | smut  | a wave of fluffiness at the end

⨯ Pairing: Jaehyun / Reader

⨯ Word count: 9 575

⨯ a/n: lowkey inspired—and enlightened—by study sessions from @honeytaeyong though mine is not as good as hers (god bless you and your writing). Special thanks to my pumpkin @suhsexual for  endure endless requests for help. There may be some grammatical mistakes left so I apologise in advance. Oh, yes, there may be a part 2 ;)

⨯ warnings: mature content, language (not actually dirty talking)

You’d been first, it was a relief. The number one exposed in that piece of sheet made your heart flutter little by little, and then you smiled. How sincere and truthful was it, the small grin drawn on your face, transforming your previous anxious expression in something completely lighted and amused. After broken hearts and desperate tears, being ranked as first place was one of the few things that could possibly turn out to be great in your eyes. You blinked. It was there, the one.

The elder woman in front of you—an old professor in the university; someone with an enviable knowledge—rested her hand on your shoulder. She had an odd aura around her; something completely comforting, which was not expectable from someone extremely rigorous. The professor took a deep breath and twinkled.

“You did great, again.” She said. Her voice tone was apathetic, but she managed to show some kind of happiness after a smirk. “If you keep doing like this, you may get in the rank of all courses.” Then she clapped her hands. “It’s something to think about.” And touched her own head with an index finger.

That hadn’t been your main focus, however. The ranks were just something to fulfil the emptiness you felt inside your being, as something really important was missing. At first you concluded it could be all about the end of you three-year relationship; you really had loved him, and that was something you didn’t doubt about. It was crystal clear you’d felt the most intense of all feelings, because you’d wished him well, you’d wished him to be close to you, and you’d wished—and deeply wished—for him to like you back in the same level. Although in the end of all, he didn’t. And that’s when you’d felt on the surface of a limitless ocean, slowly drifting away from the only land that held you—and your emotions—still. He had left you in the farthest blind spot possible, without a plausible reason. Were you supposed to be fine? In the very beginning you had even thought it could work out: you could deal with the situation. Oh, but you had been wrong.

And then you had cried for hours. An intense pain burning inside you for days—afterward days became weeks, and weeks became months. In the end of the third month, after the breakup, you’d realised he wasn’t what filled your soul. The guy whom you dated, and eventually developed feelings for, was just a part of a puzzle you hadn’t had the chance to complete yet. Something bigger was missing; finally you’d gotten to the point when your vision had become clear again and the monochromatic colours of life had turned out to be, actually, the colours of the rainbow. You were free of angst. You were mature enough to understand that the only person you needed was you—but you also knew that it did not mean you forgot your past experiences, it meant you could love yourself entirely. From that moment, what could possibly make you feel satisfied was your own success, so you’d looked for it. And you’d achieved your goals.

You looked down to the paper again. The #1 on the top made you feel ease. You folded the note and gathered the rest of your things, packed them up inside you backpack and calmly walked out of the enormous auditorium. The semester ended in the best way possible, and you were happy with what you obtained. The professor politely asked you to close the door behind you, but before you could do so, someone held it. The blond haired boy gave you a small smile and waited for you to exit the ambient so he could shut the entryway. You nodded, as an acknowledgement, and turned on your heels so you could finally go home, yet a hand touched your free shoulder obligating you to shift back and face the person.

“Congratulations.” The boy said. “You got first place again.”

“Thank you,” you’d begun, searching in your memory for the name of the guy in front of you. The information you had was his physical appearance and his voice, which didn’t sound so familiar. So it took you more effort, causing you to look deep inside his eyes and drive you gaze to his smile. You suddenly knew who he was and the sort of fame he had. You smirked at the thought that he was talking to you. “Hum, Jaehyun.”

“This time we were close, though.” He shrugged. “You are just one percent in front of me.”

“Well,” you took a deep breath “it’s nice of you to say that. For the next semester I’ll be sure to be five percent up.”

“I wish you the best of luck as I intend to be first too. You know, I’ve seen you as a great competitor, but you should be ready for a break.” He blinked and you felt a bitter taste filling your saliva, just as his actions and words were poison.

You were ready to answer; the words scratching your throat, wishing to get out of your mouth. The perfect sentence formed up in the tip of your tongue and you felt prepared to throw the letters at his confident posture, but someone called your name. Instead of being alleviated, you didn’t want the conversation to die in that type of limbo; to be forgotten and Jaehyun just think of you like some kind of unprepared nerd. You were prepared, and you wanted to confront him, but why?

He sighed. “I am sure you—”

“I have to go.” You said; your voice weak and barely audible. You cleared your throat and repeated; he grinned, only. “I believe we will see each other often, then.” The words came out soft and friendly. You even found it awkward, but didn’t bother waiting for his response. Turning to where your name was being called, you followed your way.

Still it was quite out of context someone like him comes, promptly, and talks to you in a – almost – casual manner. It was funny, too, how you felt the atmosphere serene and pleasant with Jaehyun’s presence, and that’s adding his accusative tone. All of that, and you didn’t know him; what you knew, actually, was his repulsive reputation of being rude and extremely self-confident. He didn’t seem, though, like that. His voice was velvety, his brown-caramel eyes were refreshing, and if it wasn’t already enough to be involving, his smile was full and blinding. He looked gorgeous, that was a fact. But what caught you out off guard was his gentle and cordial way to talk and direct his words even if he was trying to intimidate you. Is he, you thought, really an asshole like they say?

“…and he was talking to you?” You were cut off of your thoughts when your friend had slapped a hand on your back.

“Jaehyun?”  You’d presumed she was talking about the scene before, even though you didn’t actually pay attention to her words. The girl nodded and you gave her a small grin. “He wanted to congratulate me.”

“Congratulate?” She seemed deeply confused. “He is not the kind of guy who simply congratulates people, you know.”

“That’s why I got first again.” You had raised your index finger meaning a number one and your girlfriend perfectly understood what you meant. She yelled the loudest ‘yeah’ you have ever heard in your life and jumped really high, commemorating your achievement. She was happier than you were thirty minutes ago.

Suddenly she’d stopped and: “You should remember your promise.”

“I do.” You laughed. Of course, how could you forget about the stupidest decision you have ever made? She examined you from head to toes and sighed.

“See, we can stay home too.” She shrugged. “If you don’t feel comfortable—”

“If it is because of him” you cut her off “don’t worry. And it’s your chance with Yuta.” You’d touched her cheeks in an affectionate way.

“I’ll have other chances, though.” She softly hit your hands, moving them away from her face. Her protection and preoccupation was clear and touching, yet you didn’t think it was necessary. With smart words and a well-toned voice, you convinced the poor girl you were fine with the situation; after all, you promised and promises are meant to be kept.

The truth, although, was that you needed to see your ex-boyfriend and be completely confident about your feelings; be certain you were over it and the affection for him died long ago. What you fear, nevertheless, was the little fire still burning inside your chest—if it was either due to the imminent encounter, or if it was something new. The ultimate reality should hit you, deep inside. And it had to happen that day, that night.

—

The music was explicit and the lyrics, dirty and invasive. Few of the melodies could actually make you move your body (slightly) and enjoy the moment. Shots and shots of vodka had become some sort of time-killer when your girlfriend left you sitting alone to hook up with the guy named Nakamoto Yuta. She said they would be inside a room, but didn’t say which one it was. So you decided to wait; sooner or later she would be back – and you hoped it was sooner.

An ambient that didn’t actually match with your idea of having a good time was a house party. People drunk and wasted, while some of those who still were conscious had to take care of the boys and girls throwing up everywhere; there were always couples kissing and this annoying smell of rough and unplanned sex. Like it was casual, but you knew people fooled around just because they thought it was natural to have relations with anyone, anywhere.

You’d rather be at home, sleeping, than be where you were and seeing what you saw.

To make it worst, you’d been squeezed between pairs of young-adults that constantly changed into other pairs. It was a warm-up before the couples decide if they would or wouldn’t feed their libido. You sighed when the sofa became empty. In the past thirty minutes your body had been hit, punched and kicked unintentionally, and all you did was nod in acceptance. Now your form was the only thing occupying the fluffy furniture; you’d rested your neck on the couch’s pillow and closed your eyes in a vain attempt to filter some nice sounds in the surroundings.

Someone sat beside you and: “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

You knew the voice; oh, and how you wished you didn’t. He was there and right by your side; your heart raced a little, but not enough to convince you that you could possibly be emotive. Slowly you opened your eyelids, not bothering if took you long to pick up the correct words to say. Indeed, it took you an enormous time to gather sufficient courage to speak.

“I gambled.” You shrugged. “And lost. I am just paying the bill.”

“I see.” He said and you were sure he smiled too. “I am glad you came, it’s been a while.”

“Youngho,” you finally stared at him. He was softly different from when you two ended up your relationship; his hair was shorter and he became thinner. Maybe he grew muscles too, you’d pondered. “I didn’t come because of you.”

“I am not saying you did.” He ignored your gaze, shifting positions and looking away. “Anyway, both of us should move on, right?” Youngho found someone—a black-haired girl, you saw—and smiled. “I still consider you very important, we dated for three—”

“I need to go after Yuta and a friend of mine, if you don’t bother.” You stood up, stopping Youngho to say any other word. He took a deep breath and nodded, although his eyes were begging you to stay.

It didn’t matter, though, what your ex-boyfriend said. When he sat down and his voice echoed in your ears it was a mixture of emotions, but none of them were related to love. Something close to anger and heartburn, you would say. Youngho’s posture was light and concrete, while you were still broken into small pieces and trying to pick up from the ground parts of your soul that you were sure you lost. He was completely bright and you were totally stormy.

Going up, your steps slow and heavy, you gained time to think about why you still had this burning sensation in your stomach. Not because you weren’t over your recent ended love, but because you hated how injured you were – and he wasn’t. You felt all of that was unfair, because you’d suffered for days and days, so in the end your sentiments collapsed and you’d felt nothing; for some time you became immune of pleasure and sadness. You felt nothing. And it wasn’t good either.

You leaned your back in the first wall in front of you. It was a really long hallway and you were only some steps away from the stairs, but it felt good. Good to have no one but you standing; even if you recognized that all the rooms on the floor were populated, at least the corridor was desert.

For some reason you were holding a bottle of beer, and you didn’t realise that until you felt your left hand cold and hurting. You smiled at your own misperception; you’d been so overwhelmed with love life that you forgot how much you’d been drinking and even when you had gotten that bottle. With nothing to lose, you took a long sip from the liquid; your throat burning with the astringent taste of the alcohol. You let a short ‘ah’ come out of your mouth after you’d finished the drink and put the jar on the ground.

“What if I had bet something with someone?” A voice startled you, causing your body to tremble entirely. It was Jung Jaehyun.

“Where did you come from?” You inquired; your eyes widened. He was holding a glass with a transparent liquid and you presumed it was soju because of the strong smell. Jaehyun shook the glass, moving the drink a little bit, as it was a combination of all kinds of liquors; with his free hand he sent you a ‘wait’ sign and you rolled your eyes. Like everybody else he should be just playing around.

His expression, although, was peacefully. Jaehyun had his hair straight and his clothes on place; it looked like he just arrived to the party and that cup of alcohol was his first. You asked yourself, while you read him, how he could possibly have such a controlled aura. Jaehyun didn’t seem lost, but also didn’t seem immersed in the environment. He was in the same position as you: leaned on a wall; his pupils dilated due to the booze he just ingested and his breath slow and paced.

Suddenly a girl exited the bathroom close to where Jaehyun was, and you acknowledged what possibly happened. Her eyes showed concern when she saw you standing in front of the blond haired boy and you thought that she was afraid you would tell someone about what perhaps occurred in the small lavatory. You grinned at the thought of being mean enough to start walking around and telling everyone that Jung Jaehyun just had had sex in a toilet, but you put yourself on the girl’s place and decided that from all of those people fucking around, why would punish only that poor girl?

With fast steps she left the floor and went all the way down to reach the real party. You smirked, ironically.

“Unbelievable.” Your words came out as a whisper.

But you had been wrong. Right after the girl vanished, a guy came out from the same bathroom as her, with the same concerned expression she had and the same speed on his steps. That boy had fun, not Jung Jaehyun.

Jaehyun cleared his throat calling your attention back to him. “What if I bet something with someone?” He repeated his first words.

“What do I have to do with that?” You shrugged; cleaning the scene about the girl, the boy and the bathroom from your mind.

“What if I say it has to do with you?” He came two steps closer.

You snorted. “Why would you?”

“See, I was sure you would get second place.” He stepped back, leaning on the wall again.

“So it’s all about the rank?” You inquired, not believing at his words. “That’s why it involves me?”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “The thing is: if you got first” Jaehyun laughed before continuing: “I’d have to kiss you.”

You sarcastically grinned. “Otherwise?”

He seemed surprised with your question, so it took him some seconds to ratiocinate. “I’ll have to shave every single hair of my body.”

“Eyebrows too?”

“Eyebrows too.” He assured.

You laughed, loudly. It’d been a while since you sincerely laughed like that and it made Jaehyun smile for a moment. “Good luck on that. I’d recommend hot wax.”

Turning on your heels you took your way down again, but you stopped on the top of the stair as soon as you witnessed a scene you’d rather not see. Youngho had his hands over a girl’s body, drawing her curves with the tip of his fingers while his lips touched the skin of her face and then her mouth. You felt disgusted; the will to throw up rising inside you. You shifted, looking back to Jaehyun who had eyes glued on your form.

“Look.” He said. “I don’t really want to hurt my balls.”

“Don’t you–” you began asking, but he cut you off.

“It’s not the main topic if it’s a forest down there or not.” Jaehyun stepped closer once again and you let a ‘gross’ out of your mouth. “I am not that bad and it is just a kiss.”

“What do you get if you kiss me?” You asked, some sort of interest growing on your bowels.

He smirked. “Two hundred bucks.”

You nodded. “We split. And then I am in.”

Jaehyun had been caught out off guard; the boy really didn’t believe you would accept his proposal. “So it’s a deal.”

“And I think I have the right to know who the person who made this bet with you was.” You pointed out.

“Ah” he said. “A friend of mine; Chittaphon.”

“The Art and Dance major?” It was funny to think that the small thin guy, known all over the University for his pure personality, had done that kind of wager. Jaehyun said a low ‘yes’ and you just shrugged. “All right, so we do this here or?”

“Well, you know” he began, coming closer and closer. “It has to be, hum, public.”

“You mean you have to do this in front of everyone so your friend can see and you won’t be shaved from head to toes.” You spilled out so fast that Jaehyun took a moment to understand every word. In the end he positively shook his head. You touched the boy’s shoulder and muttered a ‘let’s do it then’.

Jaehyun pointed to the stair, as a mention for you to lead him. You were not sure about his intentions – it could be Youngho trying to outwit you or your friend, trying to stay longer with her toy-boy Yuta –, although it looked like the blond haired boy was being extremely honest. He could just had tried attacking you and wining the bet without wasting time talking, but Jaehyun opt to be truthful. Your heart raced a bit and you smiled at the thought of you two becoming friends; it was equal those cliché romances, where the girl and the boy hate each other yet end up liking one another—of course, you did not expect to get to that kind of point.

With slow steps you went down, feeling a shadow behind you and a hand touching your shoulder. His skin was warm, but not hot. It had a pleasant temperature, causing your body to react positively to his small gesture of kindness—if you could consider a ‘touching my shoulder’ a gesture of kindness.

Despite your laziness to walk, you’d been able to easily feel the adrenaline being launched on your blood, as your body impatiently waited for an action. Increasing heartbeats turned out to heavy breaths and shaking hands. You stopped as soon as you both arrived to the first floor; pondering about it, you had no reason to be nervous. Your eyes instinctively reached Jaehyun’s and the fire inside your chest got stronger, grew bigger. You had no reason to be nervous unless you let that blond boy mess up with your psyche.

He noticed your hesitancy. “If it’s too much for you, I can negotiate the part of shaving eyebrows.” Jaehyun shrugged.

“No, that’s not it.” You smiled. “I was just thinking.” Your voice came out strong and it surprised you. Sounding brave wasn’t what you expected.

Jaehyun laughed. “You are interesting.”

What words can do, you contemplated. His voice was so soft and addicting, you felt like diving into something deep, dark, with no way back to the surface. Clearly Jaehyun was playing, so you cogitated if you should or not do the same. Was it even something you should worry about? You shook your head; that kind of thought should be far away from your mind.

The blond haired boy said something about getting a drink and you just nodded, not really absorbing his words. You’d been too immersed in your own world that he disappeared in the crowd and you didn’t realise until you felt something missing by your side. You’d felt the need for his presence; it made you sick and you felt a strong vertigo hitting you at once. It was disgusting that you had never spoken to Jaehyun before and he made you feel this way; it was disgusting you wanted him, yet it was just about a stupid bet. Were you that easy?

You walked some feet and rested your body on a wall. From where you were, you could easily see a lot of people having, what you supposed, ‘the time of their lives’. It sounded futile, ridiculous and humiliating. Persons unconsciously doing whatever others told them to do so, wasted bodies wandering from one side of the room to the other, drinks poured on the ground and that annoying smell of marijuana filling your lungs and making you feel even sicker. As a plus, you’d met Youngho’s eyes again; this time he didn’t seem very aware of the ambient and just sent you an insignificant grin. His eyes were glued on your form, but all you felt was anger. And anger. And an immense hate.

“So he’s your ex.” The velvety voice close to your ear was enough to tell that Jaehyun was back. He gave an ironic emphasis on the word ex, like it was toxic.

You smiled, weakly. “My taste for guys is not the best one, you know.”

He literally dragged his body onto the wall and killed the distance between your physiques; his shoulder touching yours. “If you stay with me we can probably change that assumption.”

You laughed, loudly. He didn’t say a word about it, however the true was: he loved that sound; the sound of genuine happiness. It didn’t mean, though, he loved specifically your laugh. Jaehyun unravelled from the concrete divider and positioned himself in front of you; a hand holding the cup of vodka and the other still planted on the wall not so far from your face.

He sighed. “Stop looking at him.”

You shrugged. “I am not.”

“Stop thinking about him.” Jaehyun asked; his voice tone disturbed.

“I am not.” You repeated yourself. He leaned closer, and closer. So close that you felt his sent.

“I want you to look at me.” He said. “Look at me.” Jaehyun demanded and your body responded without your will. He was hypnotic; you were two polos of a magnet—completely different personalities, different conceptions, different in every single way, yet you completed each other because plus and minus are parts of the same electromagnetic field. Your minds may fight against one another, but the necessities of your bodies were more intense.

You stared at him; Jaehyun’s caramel eyes were magnificent, completely mesmerizing. You’d felt anaesthesia spreading all over your veins and you knew it was because the only thing you could possibly feel in that exact moment was the smell from his skin; mint and chocolate, a mixture you usually hated, still on him suited well—it wasn’t cloying, it was addicting.

He stepped back, put the glass on the ground and stood up without taking his eyes off you. Jaehyun’s gaze was passionate, even though you two were nothing but colleagues—and not even that, if you ponder. The space between you and him began to vanish; he approached step by step until there was no gap amid you two. You grinned; he blinked. You’d passed your tongue over your lips, wetting them; he smirked. You’d raised your arms and rested them around his neck while your hands pended one on top of the other; he run his hands over your waist, one of them softly clutching your abdomen and the other involving you completely on his embrace. By this time, his lips were less than centimetres away.

Jaehyun blinked twice before speaking: “I’m kissing you right now. Do you see Chittaphon?”

You got disappointed, but did not show it to him. Your eyes had run around the place searching for some guy with black hair and, finally, you found him. Chittaphon was watching the scene fascinated, waiting for his friend’s next step. “He is here.” You said; your voice smooth.

The blond haired boy smirked, again. “Thanks God. I wouldn’t endure much longer.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Jaehyun had his lips pressed contra yours; the mint scent feeling your lungs and the taste of chocolate feeling your mouth. It suited him; sweet smell, sweet flavour. The way he kissed you was not desperate, yet you could feel the fervour growing and the only thing holding the boy back was you. He wanted you to allow a continuation; he wanted you to tell it was okay to go further. You bit his lower lip causing Jaehyun to groan. Provocation wasn’t your best skill, but you knew Jaehyun wasn’t your ideal type either, so risking should be the first thing to do in that case. You rubbed your lips across his own, as a sign you were ready for him to go deeper than just a soft kiss.

He smirked, acknowledging what you meant. With your mouth still connected, Jaehyun grabbed your wrists and placed your hands on his torso; he held your face in the midst of his palms, gracefully caressing your jawline. With your permission, he let his tongue reach out for yours.

It wasn’t forced. You’d feel the heat intensify among you two while the boy kissed your lips in a completely ardent manner; he wanted it, you knew. Jaehyun managed to make your lips match completely; your hands running over his chest while he squeezed your body’s boundaries and activated some sensitive points you didn’t even know existed. He pressed his frame closer, and closer.

And then someone interrupted the kiss. “That’s enough.” You opened your eyes and recognized the person.

Jaehyun gave you an apologetic look and turned to face his friend. “I was just—”

Chittaphon cut him off. “Yeah, I know. But everybody is looking, so you either get a room or stop.”

“Rooms are just for a second time.” You shrugged and Jaehyun smiled.

“You won.” Chittaphon said, taking out of his back pocket the money he owned and gave to the blond boy. “And you are fire, girl.” He laughed.

You chuckled. “Should I thank you?”

“It was a compliment.” Chittaphon assured.

Jaehyun hit him in the back and turned to you. “Can we go upstairs, just for a second?”

“I am not sleep—”

“I am not sleeping with you either.” He said. “I just need to say something.”

You looked at him, trying to read Jaehyun and be sure he wasn’t just joking. He had a serious expression on his face and as Chittaphon had already walked all the way back to the dance floor, you thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea leave that crowded environment. Because you just exposed yourself, it was indeed a good idea.

You nodded and Jaehyun smiled. Before following him, you looked around to find the only and one soul you were interested in see suffering: Youngho. The boy was gazing you, angrily. And instead of getting upset about it, you were pleased.

Your feet hurt because you were not very familiar with heels, and walking up and down wasn’t helping either. You had kept your steps in the same speed as Jaehyun was moving, but at some point you just had to anchor yourself in some bathroom door and throw the pair of shoes away. You literally had opened the basket with rubbish and send it right inside; after all you didn’t want them back to your feet anyway. Only then you’d grasped how tired you were, so you sat down on top of the toilet bowl and sighed. Who cares if Jaehyun had to talk to you? You were exhausted.

He showed up on the entryway of the toilet. “You should just use flip-flops.”

“I wish I could.” You shrugged. “But the society’s beauty padrones just won’t let me.”

He closed the door and locked it. “Here.” Jaehyun handed your part of the money. “A deal is a deal.”

You held the cash. “I thought you were bluffing.”

“I never bluff.” He assured you. Jaehyun sat on the sink and ran his eyes over the small space. “Feeling claustrophobic?”

You denied with your head. “I like staying here, away from the crowd.”

“Do you bother if I stay with you?” He politely asked and you laughed; again the amazing sound of authentic euphoria.

“We just kissed in front of the entire University.” You pointed out. “I don’t really bother with your presence.”

“Good.” It was the last thing he said before the silence hovered.

At first you had felt claustrophobic, but that was before the blond haired boy entered and killed you few seconds of solitude. It was, actually, a cubicle. You were sitting apart from Jaehyun, but you still felt your bodies so close due to the restricted space. You gave it another look and concluded you’d be much more comfortable inside the bathtub.

Laying down you tried to make yourself comfy even though the material of the object was stiff and cold. You stared at the ceiling and permitted your imagination to run wild, wondering what would have happened if you hadn’t dated Seo Youngho, if you had said no to Jaehyun and if you hadn’t ignored your sixth sent about what course you should major in. So many decisions to make and none of them seemed real; so many decisions made and none of them seemed correct. You sighed, feeling the angst corroding your organs. Why would you think about such things? In your mind you should just sleep over there and go back home in the morning. Your thoughts had been cut off when Jaehyun came closer.

“I am tired too.” He said and sat down by the bathtub’s border.

“I bet.” You smiled sarcastically.

He turned his body to you. “I assure you don’t want to bet things with me.”

You imitated his facial expression. “I assure you don’t want to bet things with me.”

Jaehyun laughed. Now was your turn to feel the vibration of his laugh, feel how melodic it sounded. He placed a hand over your exposed cheek and gently massaged it. Again, the sensation was warm and pleasurable. You began to think if every girl he hooked up was the same thing, the same attention, the same furore.

He appeared to notice doubt pairing in the ar. “I’ve been looking for an opportunity to talk to you.” The boy said.

“And why is that?” You, somehow, managed to say.

“I found you amusing.” He confessed. Jaehyun was looking to your lips, making it clear he desired them.

“This is what you wanted to say?” The question came out strict. Jaehyun nodded and you took his hand off you. “I am a friendly person. We could have been friends earlier.”

He sat up. “I know, right?” You felt some nervousness on his voice. “But I wanted to give your part of the money without Chittaphon’s presence; he could argue with me, you know?

“Well, I assume he could.  Anyway” you stood up. “I should leave.”

Jaehyun suddenly hesitated; his eyes glued on your form and: “Honestly, I didn’t care about the money or the bet at all. I just wanted to stay with you a bit, because since I first saw you I knew I was already into you.” He said fast, the blond boy followed you out of the bathtub, cautiously examining your movements and anticipating your actions.

No answer came from your mouth, however. You stretched your body, moving your head to the right and to the left and arching your backs as much as you could in an attempt to relieve the stress from your muscles. It’s clear that a pair of eyes kept staring your form, analysing all you were doing and waiting for a concrete reply, though you still had remained in silence.

Withal, something burnt inside your chest and an excruciating ache ran through your bones—similar to an abstinence crisis. It’d been obvious to you what you needed, but you were too much stubborn to admit it; in any circumstance you would become one of those people who just have fun inside a bathroom while sustaining your lust. And you’d felt the stiffness in the air as you and he wonder the same thing and contemplated the same option. There was nothing really plausible to justify the tension between you and Jung Jaehyun; two strangers completely attracted to each other, with no reason behind that if not your physical necessities. You needed him and he needed you, but none of you could actually find an explanation or a motive.

You’d turned your body, so you could face Jaehyun. His gaze was so deep and intense, you felt your persona melting under his eyes and the new supplement of adrenalin already filling your veins and possessing your organs. He needn’t an answer, you concluded, because his hands reached your shoulders and pushed your figure against the bathroom’s door, squeezing your physique contra his. For a moment you forgot how to breathe, the lack of oxygen making you feel dizzy. The boy smirked; he was starting to feel satisfied with the reactions you provided on him. He wanted you, and you wanted him; with no hesitation he approached and picked your lips once and twice before diving into the real kiss.

Your mouths moved in the same velocity, perfectly matching the intensity of the moment. You’d allowed him to go further; the boy knew your body better than you did, his hands correctly touching parts of you that seemed hidden until that moment. His lips ventured into your skin, leaving your mouth —consequently causing you to softly moan some nonsense—and landing on your jawline; affectionately he sucked the area between you collarbones and your neck, clearly marking you down with large hickeys. You had been unaware of it, but Jaehyun wanted everyone else to know that you had someone to pleasure you and you no longer needed the ex-boyfriend of yours (and he’d never nominate your ex because it’s nearly toxic).

Your fingertips clumsily tangled within his hair strands, utterly messing his hairdo. All the same, he had his hands contouring your boundaries, just like you were a piece of art and he was the artist. The path of his kisses would go from your cheeks to your neck, and then from your collarbones to the exposed skin of your breasts; he passionately rubbed his lips on your body, making you shiver and quiver a bit from head to toes. The boy embraced you and lifted your body, gently placing you down on top of the sink causing your legs to wrap around his torso digging him closer, and closer.  Jaehyun had pulled up your shirt exposing just a little bit of your figure; he clutched your back and slightly ran his nails on it, scratching your skin and certainly giving temporary blemishes as a present.

Suddenly he had frozen up and glared at you. His eyes locked with yours as he asked for permission; you giggled, not even believing he’d be so polite about it.

He smiled. “Shit, you’re so pretty.”

Words weren’t able to come out of your, although. Jaehyun kissed you once again but this time much more fervently, holding you tightly and then—when your bodies were already close enough, with no space between you—pressing parts of your inner thighs causing your entire figure to quiver in desire. He caressed your legs, exploring all parts of them and soon reached the fabric of your underwear. Jaehyun played with it, pulling it and dragging the undergarment down and up while his lips were still attached to yours. You wanted to protest, tell him to give you what you wanted, but the provocation was too electrifying to be stopped.

You had to make things even so one of your hands left his neck, dropped to his jeans and searched for his member. Your small palm moved up and down, massaging his cock above his pants and you felt his breath become heavier. You’d done nothing and he was already hard under your touch.

Both of you maintained the movements for a while until Jaehyun slightly pushed part of your panties, holding it glued on your groin and then slid his index finger inside you. Interim his finger motioned in and out of your sex his thumb would rub your clitoris interchanging the speed of his actions. You’d moaned, he grinned. Another finger was added and his motions would constantly variate, sometimes reaching your sweet spot, sometimes just stimulating a possible orgasm.

“Fuck.” Was the only word that came out from you; the endless groans stuck on your throat craving for a release.

“You have to say it.” The blond boy whispered on your ear and kissed your neck.

A snort of pleasure left your lips and you gathered as much air as you could and: “I have to or you need to hear?”

Your words amidst heavy breaths sounded like melody to his ears. “I need to” he distanced himself from you and calmly watched your frustrated expression “because I want you. But do you want me?”

There were uncountable manners to respond to his question, but you found a very literal way to do it. You took your lingerie off of you, threw it on the ground and opened your legs. “Isn’t it obvious?” You crocked you head.

He denied. “I don’t think so.”  

You sighed. “Well, sweetheart, I want you.”

Forthwith, he unzipped his jeans letting them fall to his feet and stripped the black underpants down. Jaehyun latched onto you and eagerly connected your lips one more time; you, notwithstanding, held his cock between your palms and moved them forward and backward, masturbating him. The pre-cum dripped out from his tip and seeped on your fingers; Jaehyun whined—the fact that you were only inciting him, making his member throb, was not enough. He roughly took your hands off of it and placed them on his shoulders. He wanted a break because that small pleasure wasn’t what he really needed. To say the least: he wanted to extinguish the last drop of stamina on his body. With this on his mind, he had directly slid two fingers inside your core, moving them fast and rhythmically, causing you to moan and cry out his name in a desperate attempt to free your satisfaction.

With one hand still free, Jaehyun glided under your shirt. His touch was soft, but you could certainly say he was hungry for something else – and soon he gripped one of your breasts, variating the pressure of his hold. You’d cursed and it sounded so marvellous to him; dirty words leaving you lips turned him on more than he’d ever imagined. He accelerated his moves, making you twitch under his triggering. However, with a sudden movement, he stepped back, breathless, and stared at you. Again, you felt utterly irked with his unexpected action.

“I need” he attempted to say, trying to control his unusual gasp “I…”

You cut him off. “Jesus Christ, just fuck me.”

He smirks, glad you said first. “Don’t ask twice.”

Jaehyun slotted himself in between your legs, causing you to spread them wide open for him. He’d lined his body perfectly with your own and slowly – still doing his best to provoke you – pushed in until his hips were completely flushed with yours.

“Holy shit,” you said, completely glee.

He shoved in and out, feeling your walls compressing his cock while the pleasure amidst you two only grew bigger. Jaehyun placed his arms around your waist and pulled you closer, putting your body on the edge of the sink—and like this, being completely able to harshly thrust into you. His pelvis moved up and down, filling your womanhood and then stimulating your G-spot, allowing you to sense the greatest of all delights.

“Fuck, this is so good” you whispered.

Your chest blew in enjoyment, like you had hundreds of fireworks exploding and colouring the precious darkness of your aura. You felt just like a blossom that flourish in spring, or the first snowflake that falls from the sky in a winter night. It’s indeed the best sensation and words could never describe it perfectly.

The boy patiently had waited for you to recover from the first orgasm, moving very softly so he wouldn’t overstimulate you yet. When you’re ready again, he squeezed your ass and increased the rhythm of his momentum. You let you mouth touch the skin of his neck and sucked some spots, leaving the same hickeys he left on you moments before; you bit his earlobe and pulled his hair softly, making a small grin leave his mouth. Jaehyun responded your little incitement by touching your clit whilst his member was still inside you, boosting the speed of his flow.

“I am so close, shit.” He cried out, clutching even deeper on your skin. “You are so fucking good.”

He regretted, though, of not feeling your taste on his mouth and not allowing he to sense how wonderful it’d be the scene of his cock inside your mouth, while you sucked it.  Being able to have you, no matter if just for a moment, was already astonishing to him. He didn’t lie, he really felt attracted to you, but sexual pleasure is something out of the boundaries and he’d always need more and more of it – and of you. The boy found you stunning—not only beautiful, but stunning at all; everything about you was so fascinating, and that’s why he felt the urge to be with you.

And even though you didn’t feel that at first, from now on you definitely would.

You’d moved your body up and down a little, so the blond boy could dig himself deeper inside you. Also, you knew he was close to the ultimate apogee and with the best of your skills you stimulated him to the boundaries—by kissing his neck, whispering on his year and moving your pelvis frenetically.

As one, you came undone together.

Jaehyun let his head fall down on your shoulder, resting it while he tried to recover some air. You’d embraced him, allowing yourself to breath in his scent so you could keep it in your memory for a while. He separated himself from you, wore his underpants and jeans back and handed your undergarment that was on the ground; you put the lingerie on and waited till the boy placed you down again, finally standing up. You stretched again, now your bones produced a low sound of cracking.

You glanced to the sink you were previously sitting on. “How did I fit here?”

“It looks tiny, but actually isn’t.” Jaehyun shrugged and unlocked the bathroom’s door. “By the way, we could’ve done this in my room; it’s in the end of the corridor anyway.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“I live here,” he pointed out. “I am part of this fraternity.”

“Oh,” you whispered; the small drop of remorse growing inside your chest. Your gaze dropped down to your feet and Jaehyun noticed an odd aura around you.

“Are you already regretting?” He asked with a refreshing voice tone. You looked back at him.

“It’s not actually like that,” you breathed deep “I am not very familiar with… hooking up like this.”

He laughed; the melodious sound reaching your eardrums and inundating your hearing. “Don’t be like this,” Jaehyun hugged you; his arms surrounded your form completely “I wasn’t that bad and neither were you. Also, I’ve had my eyes on your for some time now; you’re a beautiful girl and I may even fall for you.”

“Don’t be gross.” You shrugged him off. “Jaehyun, why are you acting so sweet? I mean” you pointed a finger to his face “you are known for being extremely selfish, aren’t you?”

“I am not selfish, I am ambitious.” He said and you chuckled. “And I am not acting sweet, darling; I am just treating you how you should be treated.”

Then you stared at each other. It was a long, intense glare like it’d be the last time you’d see his face and he’d see yours. His words floated in the air for a second before you absorbed them inside your intellect; though it was hard to ingest such a sugary sentence. You shivered, afraid of a possible sudden confession—and oh, how you wished he’d kept his thoughts inside his head, because after a moment of complete desire, all you could feel was the imminent fear of falling in love again.

“Can you spend the night?” He asked, innocently.

You managed to hide your surprise by giving him a dulcet smile. “I am tired, I should go home.”

“I don’t mean we should repeat what just happened,” he came closer and kissed your forehead “I wanted to just sleep with you.”

“This is so odd, you know” you pouted “We just fucked and you want to sleep with me?”

“Let’s say spend the night.” He points and then: “And you said ‘rooms are just for a second time’.”

Before you could answer, Jaehyun took you in his arms in bridal style and ran throughout the hallway with you holding onto him for dear life. He managed to open one door and entered the room; the blond boy closed the entryway with one foot, put you on top of the mattress and suspended his body on top of you by placing his hands by your side. His lips picked yours ninth times before he kissed you soft and passionately. You closed your eyes, already aware it’d not be just cuddle and sleep, and allowed yourself to ignore the sixth sense inside your soul—telling you to stop— burning like a huge flame and enjoy the moment once again. Jaehyun aroused sentiments in you that no one ever did, not even Youngho, and you didn’t feel like letting that sensation go away—not in that exact moment.

For the night, you had the time of your life twice.  

—

You found very incorrect to call it sneaking out.

In your terms, you wrote a small note for Jaehyun containing your phone number and went back to your dorm at four o’clock in the morning. That was not sneaking out, that was leaving him sleep peacefully while you were fulfilled with complaint and guilt.

At least it sounded less terrible inside your mind.

Your best friend slapped the table making everyone inside the cafeteria to look at both of you. “You slept with him.”

You smiled shyly. “Yes, but that does not mean—”

“You cannot just leave him,” she yelled and raised her arms, trying to show how bothered she was with the situation “because he didn’t leave you.”

“He didn’t leave me,” you pouted “because we were at his room, at his fraternity.”

And you had your conscience pretty clean; after all you promptly gave Jaehyun your number—even though you deep wished he would neither call nor text you. The girl in front of you just rolled her eyes; she’d been trying to convince you to go back and tell him any sort of excuse to why you left without a plausible explanation, but it’s so much in vain. You’d not go back; you’d not give a justification for you actions.

Actually, you’d had enough of apologies for a while.  

It’s not the fact that he did you wrong or even had taken you for granted that made you consciously stand up and leave part of his bed empty; to say the least, you were truly afraid.

People spill out empty words and grow meaningless feelings, not always being fully aware of the poison it all can create. You’d been there; you’d felt it entirely—when Youngho broke up with you, when you were left alone crying your sorrows into the void. When Jaehyun gave you the tiny hand of comfort, you felt good; when he offered you the complete graciousness, you took two steps back. How could you possibly trust someone you did not even know properly? The fact that you spent the night with him was nothing, not to you. It’d not been enough to persuade you to open yourself from the bottom of your heart.

Because when you first did it, all you had was pain.

“…answer it? It’s buzzing. And it annoys me.” Your best friend’s voice came out to your perception.

“I am sorry, I was just daydreaming.” You said; your voice low. The mobile phone buzzed again, telling you a message had arrived and you’d not seen it. You held it in your palm and unlocked the screen, soon you opened the message’s app and then, by the words you were reading, surprise reached out to you.

[UNKNOWN] 2:16 PM: You could’ve waited for me, we could’ve had breakfast together.

Your eyes widened and your heart ponded faster. Although the number wasn’t on your contacts list, you knew who it was. Jaehyun did text you and now you had to answer. What a great moment, you thought, considering your friend’s gaze examining you and trying to read your expression. She smiled and said

“It’s is him, isn’t it?”

You ignored her and rapidly typed some letters and sent him a reply, not bothering if he would text back or not­—because you’d be ignoring him for the rest of your life.

[YOU] 2:18 PM: I am sorry, I just felt like leaving earlier. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Sorry.

Your friend wheezed and sarcastically smiled at you. She stood up, still maintaining her eyes locked with your figure, and gathered her notebook and phone on top of the table. You did not realise she was leaving until she whistled and then waved a hand. You sighed; finally you were left alone with your thoughts and complex sentiments.

But before you could pack and go away too, your phone vibrated. An answer had come.

[UNKNOWN] 2:22 PM: Yeah, it’s fine. But I did not joke with you yesterday, I like you and I’d love to go out with you sometime. Like, just me and you and maybe a movie?

You swallowed your saliva like it was acid; it burning your throat so hard that you thought you were dying. You stared at your mobile, reading and re-reading the words written there for long five minutes, and then you locked the screen again and left the coffee shop.

Yes, it was so rude of you to just pretend Jaehyun didn’t exist but also yes, you were too much frightened by the flame inside your heart, ponding it and ponding it faster. You knew it was not correct, and you really wanted to just go running to him and confess what was happening to you and to your thoughts, yet it was also so embarrassing to feel what you felt, to want what you wanted.

Few were the things you’d familiarity when it came to Jung Jaehyun. The main point was that he’s a classmate, and that both of you had a magnetic attraction—you needed each other like a living being needs oxygen to live—however, you’d no idea if his words were really sincere. Or maybe you desired them to be just a joke between new-born friends.

If you even could nominate your relationship as friendship.

Suddenly your body clashed with someone else’s and all of the papers that once were resting on your hands now were flying throughout the wind. You puffed and looked to the person in front of you.

“Hey, pay attention—” you words dissipated as soon as you saw the pair of eyes in front of you.

He puffed back, imitating you. “Those weren’t important, were they?”

You cleared you throat. “It’s actually none of your business.”

Jaehyun laughed. “Will you just ignore me?”

“I am not. I just answered you.”

He sighed. “I am talking about the message I just sent you.”

You blink once and then twice, not sure of how you could put everything that had come to your mind into words. But the peculiar appearance; his presence out of the blue… That was much more intriguing to you.

You put a hand on your waist and pointed a finger to his face. “How did you know I was here?”

“I told you,” he smiled and the pair of dimples showed up “I’ve interest on you and a friend of mine told me you and your bestie love this cafeteria.” He shrugged.

“Yuta should keep his mouth shut.” You pouted, already scheming on your mind on how would you reprehend Nakamoto Yuta for telling people what you liked or disliked.

“He was just helping a needy man.” He blinked one eye. “And you did not answer me.”

You pondered and pondered, but there was nothing much to be said if not the truth. You filled your lungs with a great amount of air before you said “I am not ready for feelings. I’ve been deep hurt and I need time.”

Jaehyun gave you a weak smile. “I see.”

“I know you don’t like me that much.”

“You know nothing, sweetie.” He said.

And then silent hovered for a moment, caused by your rough words. You expected him to just turn his back and leave, but he did not. Jaehyun kept staring at you, his mouth still drawn in a tiny grin while your spirit was collapsing inside your persona. You wanted him to say something, anything, even hurtful phrases if necessary. The silence was killing you, piece by piece.

Jaehyun shrugged and looked away. “I’ll give you a week.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you a week,” he repeated himself “so you’ll have enough time to organize your feelings and giving me space to show how much of a boyfriend material I can be.”

You giggled. “Don’t be”

“Gross, I know” he completed your sentence “I won’t even look at you for the next week—and trust me this will be very, very hard.”

You were ready to respond, but Jaehyun’s words kept coming out from his mouth.

“It’s hard for me to be apart from you,” he pointed to your feet and then pointed to his own. “This space between us is killing me.”

“So what?” You inquired when he finally gave you the opportunity to speak. “What happens after this week?”

“I’ll text you.” He said.

As before, he was nothing like you thought. You’d been constantly closed for the world for a long time, only being able to pleasure yourself with success—not even your friends would manage to make you smile so hard compared to when you were the first at a subject. The #1 on a sheet was enough for you.

Until you’d met Jaehyun.

You watched him leave with no other words added. He didn’t gave you any other sign, and you were still slightly unsure of his true wishes, but despite all of that something bigger and stronger flew through your veins. Jaehyun vanished in the crowd and soon you had your eyes on nothing but the wind. You smiled, your phone buzzed.

[UNKNOWN] 2:47 PM: (This is the last one today, I swear) Don’t forget, I’ll text you within a week, so be prepared for the greatest boyfriend material: me.

You laughed loudly, the genuine happiness reaching out for you.

And then you saved his number, just in case he text you again (and he will).

[thegenludwigvondrake]

Attention Everyone!

So since I’ve hit the mark of about a 100 followers on here right now (and a little bit more, don’t think I didn’t forget you all), I’m going to make a survey/quiz for people to participate in to win prizes!!!

So this survey isn’t really hard at all ( the reason why I’ll explain in a second), and it’s just a way to see how much people know about me and my Ludwig here! It’ll be general information and about things I’ve already shared with you all. I won’t pull no stunts like asking you how does Ludwig perceives a certain person or like me inquiring you to know the character I hate the most is (because I haven’t gotten around to that yet).

I’ll do one of these every 100 followers and I’ll give a notification around every 50 as a sign of appreciation and gratitude.

Now, onto the good stuff! The prizes. So, I’ll have there be a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place for all of this, and whenever there is a tie, whoever tied will get the same prize (Because I’m not starting no discourse over someone being left out or feeling butthurt.) 3rd place prize is an inked drawing from me of whatever you want me to draw! (IM/DM for specifics). 2nd place is a flat color drawing and 50 icons of a character or several characters (This applies if you are a RP blog and want icons. They can either be drawn or screenshotted, but drawn ones will take longer than screenshot. Total amount of icons must add up to 50. IM/DM me for specifics).  And lastly, 1st place gets a shaded and highlighted drawing from me, and 100 icons that have the same rules apply to them as the 2nd place prize. 

The time for when this ends is May 31, so you all should have ample time with sending these in or putting in new ones if you wish to retry.

Some quick rules about this survey/quiz:

No making/using alternate accounts for nabbing two prize places (That results as an immediate forfeit if I find out about it.).

No trying to pressure other people into taking the survey/quiz so you can get what they rightfully won (If you ask nicely or they wish to share or give up their prize to you, then contact me through IM/DM).

This is in NO way mandatory, it’s just for fun.

If people are having trouble submitting the survey/quiz or anything around issues in general LET ME KNOW.

I will not take this quiz just to win a prize for myself, as that is one of the most STUPIDEST things for anyone to do to themselves.

I HIGHLY encourage you to look at headcanons, bios, and stuff like that for Ludwig. (I have things for him I assume no one else does.)

If you see any characters that have no relation or not in the same universe as Ludwig, then those are questions from me about me.

Everyone has an infinite amount of retries for participating in this!

HAVE FUN!!!

That’s all, and I’ll put up a link to the quiz when it’s finished!

Here’s the link! https://goo.gl/forms/lQUhXvyFUw4R3nio1

[rpmusingsnstuff]

‘KHONJIN HOUSE’ ASK MEME.

SEASON ONE.

“ I think it’s time to order a pepperoni pizza! ” “ Alright, let’s try this again. ” “ Why did you hang up on me?! ” “ Do you know the toll my fucking brain has taken from you calling nonstop? ” “ I can’t fucking use my dick anymore because of you. ” “ I want you dead, you little prick. ” “ This is just a plate of spaghetti. ” “ You can’t leave like this! ” “ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to ‘Guess the Answer You Fucking Idiot!’ ” “ Your prize for winning is: full legal authority to burn my house down and kill my family-- WHAT? ” “ I think I swallowed a bottle cap. ” “ I’ve never burned down a house before! ” “ What?! What do you want?! ” “ Do you want this? It’s my most prized possession. ” “ That’s the STUPIDEST thing I’ve ever heard. ” “ Get in the back! Right now! ” “ God have mercy on all of us. But-- but mostly me. ” “ Are you American? ” “ Who are you? Wait! Don’t tell me. ” “ Whaaat is this? ” “ It’s just a little scooty. Don’t fuck with it. ” “ Ladies and gentlemen... FUCK! ” “ So it’s come to this. You’re not winning this fight. ” “ You’re not as big as you think, broseph. ” “ The only rock you’re gonna feel is the pavement. ” “ You’re gonna foot the bill of a check your body can’t cash! ” “ The bill? The food hasn’t even come yet! ” “ Maybe if you paid your bills, your wife wouldn’t have left ya. ” “ My wife and I have a beautiful marriage! ” “ They couldn’t cheat on a math test, much less cheat on me. ” “ You’ll kill us both! ” “ Don’t worry, I know how to disable bombs. ” “ You may already be a winner. ” “ Get the fuck out. Right now. ” “ You are not the legal owner of that package. ” “ I wanna play my Gamecube. ” “ That’s not a question. ” “ Where’s my Xbox? ” “ How about you get me a PSpiece of pizza, or you can Nintendo Sixty-forget about ever surviving! ” “ Can we get pizza? ” “ Um, so anyway, uh. Call me back. ” “ That’s a lot of of people they’ve gotta fight. ” “ I just had the greatest idea ever. We should write a Broadway play. ”

SEASON TWO.

“ Hey, you! You like pizza? ” “ Can I have a refill? ” “ Get out of here, you little scumbag. ” “ I make the best pizza around. ” “ No! They’re a fraud! They’re a fucking fraud! ” “ Is it true your pizzeria has passed the local health inspections? ” “ You gotta help me, doc. ” “ I got more degrees than a thermometer. ” “ That’s a wrench. ” “ Gotta hand it to you. My dick, that is. Hehehehe... ” “ You idiot! I’ll tear your degree to pieces! ” “ I’m a Youtube celebrity! 1,000 subscribers! ” “ You are garbage. ” “ Why are these names so god damn long? ” “ If you’re such a celebrity, why don’t you go off and be famous? And never come back. ” “ What the hell are you doing?! ” “ You are contractually obligated to as a Youtube superstar. ” “ Reinforce the gate! Don’t let any of them through! ” “ Who dares trespass? ” “ You’re dead! I killed you myself! ” “ I disposed of you before, and I can do it again! ” “ How easily you forget... ” “ For your grievous error you will perish. ” “ This is true. Though I have died before, once is enough. Spread the word to every corner of this earth. This house won’t be so easi-- this is so fucking dumb. ” “ Call me immediately! I wanna know. ” “ So what do you think? ” “ How do you plead guilty? ” “ I don’t know. I’ve never been guilty before. ” “ Are we really going to believe a man who publicly admitted to killing his wife and children? ” “ What a wonderful day to be the king. ” “ It wasn’t yesterday, but that’s how it felt. ” “ I don’t live in Sacramento! ” “ I’m not looking for women, I’m looking for pizza! ” “ It’s kind of mesmerizing, really. ” “ Ah, what a wonderful day to make the pizza. ” “ You. Guard. The door. Don’t move. ” “ I despise every fibre of your being. ” “ Who the fuck is this person? ” “ Also, Wreck it Ralph is a terrible movie. ” “ What’s that? ” “ I’m not involving myself with you. At all. ” “ Any of you guys see my Chia Pet? ” “ Holy shit. What the hell happened? ” “ I feel like liquid. ” “ Hey, I found something! ” “ What the hell is that? ” “ Do I look like someone who knows what the hell that is? Because I am. What was your question? ” “ I wanna know how to get the hell out of here! ” “ I will staple your face to a beehive. ” “ How about-- a high five?” “ Oh my god. They just exploded. How is that even possible? ” “ Science dictates you can’t burst into fire like that. ”

SEASON THREE.

“ The footage was doctored! You idiot! ” “ Give me the gun. Just... give me the gun. ” “ You can’t trust anyone. Except for the one man I can trust with my whole life! ” “ Words lack the parameters to accurately describe how I feel about you. ” “ Every night, I have reoccurring dream. It's you, sleeping in your bed. And it's me, with a pair or gardening shears. And I tear that stupid-ass nose right off your face, and I put it on top of my fireplace. When your dumbass daddy comes over trying to get it back, 43 trucks fall out of the sky and land exactly where he's standing. Killing him instantly. One day, it'll happen. ” “ Turn that fucking music off! ” “ I get it! You’re famous! When are you leaving?! ” “ They’re all... gone. ” “ You must follow my lead. ” “ Welcome back everybody, my wife is a bitch, we’re here at the beautiful Nickville Square Country Club. ” “ Much like my grandfather is one stroke away from having me inherit the family fortune. Yes indeed, he procured millions of dollars as a conman. ” “ I don’t know. They’re not finished. ” “ I forgot to give them food. ” “ Take a seat under my Christmas tree! There’s NOTHING there! ” “ What are you doing here, hotshot? Get out. ” “ Shut the fuck up! ” “ You ever hear a joke about the kid who dissipated into the tides of time?! ” “ And I was an undercover cop the whole time, which is what I would have said if I was a cop, I’m a murderer. ” “ What a wonderful day not to have any Christmas money. ” “ I was looking to play cards, but you can go fish. ” “ As in, like, money? But I ain’t gonna play cards with some bitchy fishy who’s trying to swim with the sharks. So how about you grab yourself a towel, and get out of the pool. ” “ Let’s play some cards! ” “ What I’m saying is I’m going to have sex. ” “ As of three hours ago, I own the copyright on playing cards. ” “ Christmas isn’t about making money! Christmas is about making a shit ton of money! ” “ The night... had just begun. ” “ Don’t trust the streets. ” “ Hey! Could you please shut up? ” “ Crisis averted. ” “ The next moment he’s coming out from behind the counter with a baseball bat. ” “ Basically, I have no idea how to solve the case. ” “ Like a man with a credit card debt of over two hundred dollars worth of OKCupid subscriptions, I was getting nowhere fast. ” “ I found the perfect guy for the job. ” “ I knew you would return. ” “ You don’t recognize your own sibling? ” “ Just thought i’d pay you a visit... ” “ Why didn’t you call before you showed up? ” “ The fuck are you doing? ” “ Where the hell have you been?! ” “ Who the hell is that? ” “ What the hell is going on? ” “ Don’t pretend like you’re not here. I know you’re here! ” “ Come and get it! ” “ Come on. Tell me I’m stupid. Tell me I’ll lose. ” “ Show me that you’ll walk away! ” “ But you can’t. ”

SEASON FOUR.

“ Alright, everybody in the car. ” “ Can I be in the front? ” “ So, how far away is Six Flags? ” “ We’re not going to Six Flags. We’re going on a hit. ” “ That’s... strange. I could have sworn we were going to Six Flags, considering I’m already in the car, and we’re going to Six Flags. ” “ If I were a target, where would I hide? ” “ Block off all the exits! Now! ” “ I’ve got the net! ” “ Finally! I can return! ” “ So you’re telling me, if I scream once, I’m dead. ” “ Well, I am a doctor, after all. ” “ That doesn’t answer my question. ” “ Come on. This is America. You can’t just point a gun at someone. ” “ The doc says if I blow a gasket, I kick the bucket. So today, you’re not gonna piss me off. ” “ Call off the whole fucking funeral. ” “ Undertale is a shitty game. ” “ Excuse me. Move. ” “ The town’s not in the budget. ” “ You can’t spell wall without balls. ” “ That sounds expensive. ” “ No. Nevermind. Refund. Discount. ” “ I like to make it the gay way. ” “ Whaddya think? ” “ Where’s my money. ” “ Do I owe you something? ” “ Look, I’ve had a rough day. I’m not looking for trouble. ” “ You know it’s illegal to feet exotic birds. ” “ There’s no way you could possibly know that. ” “ Dear diary: today I have decided to stop wasting my time with habits that just are fucking dumb. ” “ Undertale is a great game. ” “ I don’t have your money! Now get the fuck-- ” “ Do you know why I hate Undertale? Because it’s the best game ever made. ” “ The graphics look like they were drawn by a four-year-old, with the talents of Pablo Picasso in his prime. Which is what I would have said, if I liked the graphics. Which I do. Not. ” “ It’s so quiet. ” “ And I’ll be right here, at ground zero. ” “ Um, excuse me? ” “ The prodigal son... of a bitch, returns! ” “ What the hell is your problem? ” “ I wanna kill you on the principle of that stupid-ass question alone! ” “ I don’t even know who you are! ” “ I’m sorry, but there’s an irony to be appreciated here. I know it’ll be lost on you, but... would you believe you’re not the only one who wants me dead? ” “ The next time I show up will be the last. ” “ If they’re anywhere here, and you haven’t told me, I will drag this world into the depths. ” “ You’ve wanted me dead since the beginning. ” “ Die. ” “ I’m kinda sleepy. ” “ I’m kinda pissed. Probably don’t have to tell you why, either. ” “ I’ll even put on some music for ya. ” “ Oh my god, are they snoring? What the fuck is that sound? ” “ I was having a dream about this girl with really big thighs. ” “ You are so full of shit. ” “ No, I mean it! What kind of lying scumbag-- ” “ What a wonderful day to experience an unabashedly horrifying piece of ribbon. ” “ You know what? I’m gonna turn lemon into lemonade, here. I’m going to go to the mall, and buy a purse. And then I’ll fill that purse with a copper brick, and use it to beat the ever-loving shit out of you! ” “ Don’t worry, I can fix this. Which is what I would have said if I knew how. ” “ You don’t work here! I fired you a year ago! ” “ You’re fired again. ” “ I know what I want, and I know what I deserve. ” “ I don’t know what a Gamecube is. ” “ Look, these three words are non-negotiable: Super. Monkey. Ball. ” “ I am from America. ” “ That sounds like a load of shit, I don’t really believe you. ” “ Don’t tell anyone what you saw. ”

SEASON FIVE.

“ Boy, am I hungry. ” “ My greatest wish is for you to be castrated by a scorpion. ” “ Who the hell’s throwing lamps out here?! ” “ I’ll do a tap dance on your ribcage! ” “ I love this. ” “ What a beautiful day! ” “ You gotta catch that cab! ” “ With this horse? My horse? That’s a horse. ” “ It seems like you thought I was asking for a second opinion. ” “ That’s a frisbee. ” “ That’s what I thought. ” “ I would rather die at the hands of a frisbee than chase after whatever Crazy Taxi it is you want me to go get. ” “ I’m calling your bluff, asshole. ” “ There’s still time! Let’s go! ” “ You wanna know so bad? The baby stole my gun. Okay? ” “ Shut the hell up. ” “ What a wonderful day to travel back in time. ” “ That’s a mug. ” “ Why do you care about a mug? ” “ Wait! I can save everyone! ” “ I’m not playing with you! ” “ What the hell is that thing. ” “ You’re frightening the dog. ” “ What is it? ” “ It’s a date. ” “ Wow! Our first date! ” “ Why are you wearing a blindfold? ” “ So... what do you like best about me? ” “ I really admire your dedication. ” “ It is pretty funny, isn’t it? ” “ I’m breaking up with you. Get out. ” “ ... Surpriiiise. ” “ This is a rescue operation. ” “ Who else is gay? ” “ I have... two... two mushrooms. So I’m doing pretty good over here. ” “ I’m gonna blow you away. ” “ Who is this? ” “ So that means you’re the villain. ” “ If you swear allegiance to my cause, this pepperoni pizza is all yours. ” “ Look at you. All high and mighty. Big man on campus. ” “ You need to leave, I’m doing something very serious-- ” “ Like I give a shit what your name is! You are nothing. ” “ Excuse me! The men are talking. ” “ It’s finally mine! ” “ Get out here, come on, we’re on a schedule here-- ” “ I’m looking for a man between two and three hundred pounds. A man with most of his teeth, or all of them. ” “ How could that possibly help me? ” “ Oh shit. Okay, somebody call an ambulance. ” “ If you want to be ruled by someone you hate, give them this piece. If you want to be ruled by someone who hates you, don’t. ” “ I’ve decided, since you’ve kept bothering me all this time, I’ll give you that slice of pizza. ” “ You know damn well what I want. ” “ Where the hell are we? ” “ Well, I can tell you where we’re not. ” “ What have you DONE?! ” “ No bullets? ” “ I fucking knew it. ” “ You. Should not. Have done this. ” “ Looks like you’re just gonna have to kill me. ” “ So you know where you are? ” “ You don’t belong here. ” “ Okay, so you don’t know where you are. ” “ I made here! I made these people! The only person who doesn’t belong here is you! ” “ I’ll prove it. ” “ The power that was once upon you is no longer yours. ” “ This existence doesn’t need you anymore. But ours does. ” “ Just because you lost someone doesn’t mean everyone else has to! ” “ That’s enough. ” “ Get 'em outta here! ” “ Did you just SAVE everyone?! ” “ I’ll race you there! ”

KHONJIN.

“ What a wonderful day to be at the sun. ” “ After all these years, it’s finally time for your return-- ” “ I’m getting the psychic vision! ” “ You also have the gift? ” “ How much do you know? ” “ How easily we forget: I’m a psychic. ” “ Perhaps we can work out some sort of deal-- ” “ You didn’t tell me the crab crab was a crab! ” “ Alright. You asked for this. ” “ It’s just like they say: life’s a beach, and I’m the dune who can’t sand to watch our crustacean comrades go unprotected by the long beach island arm of the claw. ” “ I’m going to die. ” “ I’m going to need to examine that bag. ” “ Man! You sure do complain a lot! But you’re never wrong! ” “ I hate it! I really hate it! ” “ And that’s basically my commercial idea. ” “ You degenerate ape-- ” “ Dear pesky plumbers, if you enter EVO, you will win ten billion dollars?! ” “ Who are you? ” “ Wait a second, EVO is basketball? ” “ Have you ever seen moves like this?! ” “ I’ll be declared guilty of being a total slow-mo. ” “ Holy shit! ” “ What am I supposed to do now?! A man with something to prove has just lost... ” “ Hi, I’d like to be the bad cop? ” “ You really saved my skin there. ” “ I see myself in you, is what I’m trying to say. ” “ Coast is clear, buddy. ” “ Officers, come on, it’s just a prank! ” “ God, this sucks. ” “ How did you end up in here?! ” “ I’d give your money back, but I spent it on this frisbee. ” “ Man... someone’s gonna have to pick up that body. ” “ We could just travel back in time. ” “ I thought you’d never ask! ” “ Gentlemen, the heist is simple. ” “ Just say yes, you dipshit. ” “ We needed Kool-Aid, and this is a three man operation. ” “ So shut your ass up, and get in gear. ” “ I’m dead, you see. ” “ If your dad believes in himself, isn’t that all that matters? ”  “ So, uh, what’s your favourite dinosaur? ”

[xtruss]

Covid-19 Patients Sharing Ventilators Is Possible—But Not Ideal

The science of coventilation for coronavirus cases illustrates a complicated dilemma.

— By Alissa Greenberg | Tuesday May 12, 2020 | NOVA

Less-invasive ventilators use a mask rather than a tube inserted into the patient's throat.

On March 20, as severe cases of COVID-19 spiked in northern Italy, emergency medicine doctor Marco Garrone paused during a chaotic shift to tweet a photo: two patients, next to each other in hospital beds, with arcs of tubing connecting them to the same ventilator. “This is what we are down to,” he wrote. “Splitting ventilators, and facing serious dilemmas like choosing who will be actually ventilated when everybody should Take This Seriously”

A month later, as caseloads skyrocketed across the pond in New York City, Columbia Presbyterian Hospital hurried to draft protocols for ventilator sharing. And around the same time, an emergency medicine doctor in Michigan named Charlene Babcock posted a YouTube tutorial featuring step-by-step directions on how to modify a ventilator so it can accommodate multiple patients. That video racked up nearly a million views in the ensuing weeks.

“Here’s my disclaimer,” Babcock says to the camera. “This is off-label use of the ventilator.” But, she adds, extreme circumstances may call for measures that otherwise would be deemed too risky. “If it was me, and I had four patients—and they all needed intubation, and I only had one ventilator—I would simply have a shared discussion with all four families and say: ‘I can pick one to live, or we can try to have all four live.’”

The appearance of ventilator sharing (or “coventilating”) this spring in places where the novel coronavirus has hit the most severely prompts a number of questions: How does a ventilator work? Why is it possible for more than one patient to use a ventilator at once? And if it’s possible, why aren’t more doctors in hard-hit areas doing it? Good news: This is the first in a NOVA series answering burning coronavirus questions just like these.

How Do Ventilators Work?

Treating a patient in extreme respiratory distress is “like staring out the window and seeing people free fall,” says Albert Kwon, an anesthesiologist at New York Medical College. Doctors don’t know how long their patients have been “falling” or how long they’ll continue to fall without intervention; they must make an on-the-spot assessment about whether a parachute is necessary.

In that case, they can choose from several options, ranging from less to more invasive. All ventilators provide oxygen and promote its absorption in the bloodstream while also helping rid the body of the resulting carbon dioxide. The ones you’ve probably heard the most about during the COVID-19 pandemic provide a stream of air into the lungs via a tube inserted into a patient’s throat.

This stream of air exerts positive pressure, which is the opposite of how breathing usually works. When we breathe in on our own, our diaphragm muscles move down in our chests, increasing available space and creating an area of negative pressure that causes air to rush in. (There is one ventilator that works on negative pressure, which you’ve probably heard of: the iron lung.)

High-magnification images show the surface of alveoli in healthy mouse lungs (left) and lungs with ventilator-induced damage (right). Image Credit: Kate Hamlington Smith, University of Colorado School of Medicine

One reason COVID-19 patients need to use ventilators is because their lungs become so stiff that the diaphragm isn’t strong enough to complete its normal movement, causing breathing to slow or stop. Ventilation also keeps the lungs inflated while they heal. That’s important because inflamed capillaries in sick lungs can leak a protein-rich fluid, increasing surface tension in the liquid that normally coats the lungs and making them vulnerable to collapse.

But even healthy lungs are at risk during this process, because their tissues are not usually subject to positive pressure. That means that getting pressure levels wrong during ventilation can be dangerous. Too low, and a patient doesn’t get enough oxygen. Too high, and the lungs can become overinflated, causing their tissue to tear.

At first glance, the ventilator used in the most severe COVID-19 cases looks fairly simple: a tube that goes down the patient’s throat, two hoses that connect the tube to the machine itself (one for pushing air into the lungs and one for bringing carbon dioxide back out of the body); seals, valves, and filters to keep gases moving in the right direction; and a central case. But inside that case lives a much more complicated device, replete with pressure, flow, and oxygen sensors, and sets of circuitry and alarms associated with each element. A standard hospital ventilator has 1,500 parts, features several layers of fail-safes, and can cost around $30,000.

“The number of safeties that have to be on a medical device like this is amazing,” says Nevan Hanumara, a research scientist in MIT’s Precision Engineering Research Group. “This is second only to aerospace.”

A medical ventilator.

Why Isn’t Ventilator Sharing More Common?

Ventilators have such complicated inner workings in part because ventilation is much more involved than just turning on a hose. The process requires doctors to consider myriad disease factors and patient measurements, making it almost an art rather than a science. "Tidal volume," for example, refers to the amount of air in each breath, "resistance" to the ease with which air moves through the lungs, and "compliance" to how stiff or flexible the lung tissue itself is. Clinicians can also adjust how fast patients breathe and regulate air pressure at each stage of those breaths.

All this means that while setting up coventilation is relatively simple—in her YouTube video, Babcock simply uses a cheap plastic adaptor to make space for more hoses—that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s safe. The first problem, Hanumara points out, is that coventilating requires using the same pressure with two very different sets of lungs. The healthier lungs receive more air because they inflate more easily, while the sicker, less flexible lungs won’t get as much.

Secondly, he adds, sensors calibrated for one person’s measurements may not work for two, meaning the appropriate alarms might not be triggered if there is an emergency. Some COVID-19 patients, for example, experience sudden, catastrophic changes in their lung health; without alarms, it’s much more difficult to catch these changes in time. And finally there’s the matter of cross-contamination. Although two coronavirus patients sharing a ventilator can’t give each other their infections, they might still swap pneumonia microbes, or even tuberculosis.

Given these risks, research on coventilation has divided the respiratory care community. Among the more recent studies, Assistant Director of Research at SUNY Downstate Department of Emergency Medicine Lorenzo Paladino successfully coventilated four sheep for 12 hours in 2008. (Garrone, the Italian doctor, looked to that study when setting up his coventilated patients in March.) Paladino and his coauthors chose sheep for their study because adults have similar respiratory physiology and weight as humans, and aimed for 12 hours because emergency protocols allow for delivery of equipment from the Strategic National Stockpile anywhere in the continental US within that time.

The study was prompted by the 2001 anthrax attacks and 2003 SARS outbreak, Paladino says, and was meant to provide a stopgap “bridge” measure for emergency physicians with inadequate supplies waiting for backup in a disaster situation—not to replace single ventilation in the long term. Before COVID-19, the technique was most famously used after the 2017 Las Vegas concert shooting, when a single ER saw a huge surge of gunshot patients and coventilated them to keep them alive while they waited for surgery.

Paladino compares the technique to a life vest. “We don’t condone crossing the Atlantic in a life vest,” he says. “But if I’m in the middle of the Atlantic, I would rather have a life vest than not. And I would hope that a boat is coming to pick me up soon.”

The Future of Coventilation

Not every patient is a good candidate for coventilating, Paladino stresses. Patients with active asthma should be excluded, as should those who tend to “fight” the ventilator, trying to draw a breath when the machine is expelling air, or vice versa. But even with these caveats in place, in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, six major organizations—including heavyweights like the Society of Critical Care Medicine and the American Society of Anesthesiologists—have made statements against coventilating, judging it too risky and ethically questionable to be worth considering. “There’s a very legitimate concern that instead of saving two people, you just highly increased the risk of mortality for two people,” says Bradford Smith, a biomedical engineer at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus.

These serious risks point to the urgency of the recent situations in Italy and New York that have led doctors to try coventilation. Smith, who recently published a “preprint” (a not-yet-peer-reviewed preliminary study) suggesting an algorithm to match patients for safer coventilation, runs down the list of options he would try before resorting to the technique: fixing old, broken ventilators; using available machines normally used for surgical anesthesia; attaching endotracheal tubes to similar but less-invasive machines used for sleep apnea. “This is so rife with problems that the first time I heard about it, I thought, 'This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’” Smith says. “But people are taking steps to mitigate all those issues.”

Coventilating practitioners can use filters between patients to help prevent cross-contamination, for example. And protocols drawn up by Columbia Presbyterian and the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) this spring suggest workarounds to allow for some adjustment of ventilator settings, better monitoring of both patients, and use of some built-in alarms.

As in Paladino’s case, most research on coventilation stems from a drive to prepare for the worst. Smith says he was initially inspired to work on his algorithms because he was afraid he would have to use them. (“With the news coming out of Italy, I was on these chain emails of critical care physicians, and things sounded pretty dire,” he says.) And the fact that HHS thought it necessary to convene a taskforce in Washington D.C.—which included Paladino and Babcock—to produce coventilation guidelines for future use speaks to the severity of both the pandemic and predictions for global health over the next two years.

Smith hasn’t had to use his algorithms, but he fears fall flu season may provide another opportunity. He also wonders if they may be of use in other places around the world where ventilator supplies are meager, to give physicians and respiratory therapists valuable context about how different types of patients may react to coventilation.

“This is not how nations, or even states, deal with a ventilator problem,” Paladino says. Instead, he sees coventilation playing an important role for communities that are rural or isolated, or lack access to medical care. Imagine a small hospital that owns just three ventilators and then receives six desperately sick COVID-19 patients in one night. Then what? “One night you see a spike, and you ask for help from the neighbors,” he says. In the meantime, coventilating just might keep those patients alive.

[thatgirlonstage]

Summary: Lance wakes up in a hospital on Earth to discover he has been missing for four months, with no memory of Voltron or the Galra. Drawn inexplicably to the desert where they found him, he discovers a hut full of research and notes that may provide the key to his missing memories. With secrets and conspiracies surrounding him, and the Garrison potentially hiding far more than he could ever have imagined, Lance grows to trust the notes in the desert - but he may not believe the person who claims he wrote them.

Chapter Five:

Lance pulled himself hesitantly onto the massive red hoverbike. He’d turned it on briefly yesterday to check that it still worked, but he had yet to actually try and ride it. Towing it back to the outskirts of town had been a pain in the neck and it would really have made more sense to switch out – ride Kent’s bike, tow the rental – but Lance was intimidated. It was almost twice the size of the bikes he was used to.

           Still, he didn’t exactly have the money to rent out a hoverbike every day, and eventually someone would get suspicious of where he was going. So he’d remembered an abandoned parking garage on the edge of town, no longer in use since the Garrison moved their bullet train station, and hidden the bike there. He couldn’t very well bring it to an actual parking lot, especially since it confirmed another of his suspicions about Kent: some of his Garrison technojunk was definitely stolen. At the very least, the bike was. Unlike the older model rentals that still used keys, the Garrison hoverbikes functioned on handprint pads programmed to specific people. Clearly, Kent had hacked the handprint pad and, lacking the finesse to reprogram it for his own print, had just made it accessible to everyone, because it woke right up when Lance touched it.

           The solar powered engine was inaudible but he could feel the bike humming with energy underneath him. He took a deep breath. “Alright, Lance, c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?” He paused, one hand gripping the brake. “Stupidest question to ask,” he berated himself. He loosened his hold on the brake, twisted the gear, and the bike shot forward.

           He nearly went flying at least five times and by the end he was cursing the bike as a sentient, volatile thing that was definitely trying to throw him off, but he reached the shack without any major incidents and sighed in relief as he slid off the bike. It was easier to reenter this time, as certain as he was that Kent had been gone for a long time.

           “No reason he’d come back now. You’re not here, are you, Kent?” Lance called. “No aliens in the attic, right?” Anxiety made him tense for a second as the wood creaked in the wind, but the shack otherwise remained silent as ever. “Right,” he said, shaking it off with a nervous laugh. “Okay, time to get to work.”

           He rubbed his hands, turning to the piles of paper that he’d been pulling from yesterday. Some lingering fear of leaving evidence of his presence had made him replace all the papers he’d already read, so he pulled them off first, setting them out on the table. Then he slowly started to pull apart the rest of the piles, sorting them into smaller groups of pages as he followed long calculations and pages of speculation and brainstorming, trying to find a chronology or any kind of method to follow.

           The table filled up fast, until the only space left was a hole in the center around a couple sheets of paper – one with a map, one with some kind of mathematical graph, and one with that damning date – the empty water bottle, and that gross can that had once had beans. Lance considered it for a moment.

           “Yeah that’s gonna have to go,” he decided. Reaching out, he pinched the sides between his thumb and index finger, unwilling to touch any more of it than he had to, and only then realized he didn’t see a trashcan anywhere. Holding the can out in front of him, he walked through to the kitchen. Still not seeing evidence of a trashcan, he pulled open the cabinet door under the sink, and was immediately assaulted by the grossly sweet smell of rot and the listless buzzing of a near-dead fly. He pulled back, clapping his free hand over his nose, and carefully dropped the can into the trashcan. Then he kicked the cabinet door closed.

           “Okay,” he muttered, breathing slowly through mouth. “This is… This is not gonna work.” He glanced back down at the cabinet, groaned, reached down, careful to keep his face distant, and pulled it open again. He gingerly pulled out the trash bag, tied it at the top, and marched it out of the house. It might smell even worse for baking in the sun for a few hours but at least he could air out the hut.

           With the offending trash bag gone, he knelt down and investigated what else was underneath the sink. It was just as sparse on amenities as the rest of the house, with one old empty grocery bag bunched into a ball in the corner, a half-used roll of paper towels, an empty bottle of dish soap, a dried up sponge, and nothing else. Lance sighed, pulled out the grocery bag, pulled it open, and set it inside the trashcan, which he pulled out from under the sink.

           “Please tell me you at least have…?” he muttered, and spotted an old wooden broom leaning in a corner behind the ladder to the attic. “Oh good, one point for Kent, he owns a broom,” he sighed in relief. Ducking under the ladder, he pulled it out, breaking several cobwebs in the process and trying to shake them off where they got stuck to his hands. The bottom of the broom was a messy glomp of sand, dust, and hair. Lance made a face, grabbing a paper towel to try and pull off some of the mess.

           The hut may have been tiny, but it took him almost two hours before the whole ground floor felt decently swept. Lance leaned on his broom, grinning at his handiwork. “You have a floor, Kent! Not just piles of sand! Who knew?” His fingers tapped against the handle. “I bet this place even looks halfway decent when it’s clean. I mean, you’re still a weirdo hermit conspiracy theorist in the middle of the desert, but you could be a weirdo hermit conspiracy theorist with neatly swept floors and a home that is welcoming to guests.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll need some supplies, though.” He put the broom back into its corner, picked up the grocery bag now full of dirt and dust, hesitated at all the papers still spread across the table, and then shook his head. They’d be there when he got back.

           He collected the other trash bag from outside, carefully dropping it inside the second one, and slung it across the handlebar of the bike. He’d drop it in a dumpster on the edge of the city. He glanced back at the shack and gave a short wave. “See ya tomorrow, Kent!”

           The bike sped off into the desert, still just barely under his control, kicking up a trail of dust and sand in his wake.

*

           “Keeeeeent! I’ve brought preeeeeesents!” Lance let the duffel bag drop with a heavy thunk, rolling his shoulder and neck. “God that was heavy to carry all the way here. Alright, want to see what I’ve brought?” He knelt down, unzipped the bag, and started pulling out its contents. “Okay let’s see – trash bags, first of all, because I have a feeling we’re going to go through a lot of these supplies, then we’ve got more paper towels, some all-purpose cleaning sprays, some Clorox wipes, a toilet brush and some toilet bowl cleaner fluid because I am going to have to use that thing eventually, some reusable rags, rubber gloves, oh! Here’s Cal’s Swiffer, this I’m going to have to take back at the end of the day before he knows it’s gone – God knows how I’d explain having to borrow his Swiffer – but I got some wet pads for it so I can get the rest of the sand up off the floor. And I bought some Febreze, both the air freshener kind and that stuff you use on fabric, because I have a feeling that sofa and that rug have not gotten any attention in a long time.” Lance sat back on his heels, grinning. “This place is going to be spotless before you know it! Oh, and of course– the most important thing–” He rummaged in the front pocket of the duffel and triumphantly pulled out his headphones. “Can’t have a cleaning day without some music,” he said. “Let’s start with something traditional, don’t you think? I downloaded this specially, I haven’t seen this movie since I was three.” He snapped the headphones over his ears, tapped his ear to bring up the screen, and clicked his selection. He chuckled to himself as a woman’s sweet voice, fuzzy with the age of the recording, drifted through his ears.

           “Just whistle while you work…” Lance hummed inexpertly along to the half-forgotten tune as he snapped open a trash bag, grabbed the all-purpose cleaning spray and a handful of paper towels, and attacked the thick layer of grime and dust covering Kent’s home.

           He sorted papers as he went, finding an unused stack of Sticky-Notes that he used to label the neat piles he set up on the table. After his Disney princess beginning he switched over to more modern and upbeat songs, a mix of English and Spanish that kept him dancing and moving around, singing along with them. It was a little scary the way the rags and towels turned black with dirt within seconds, but the longer he cleaned the less the decrepit and depressing the shack looked. He couldn’t do much for the paint peeling off the walls or the ragged threads on the edge of the rug, but after a few minutes of scrubbing the windows clean the sunlight flooded in with twice the strength it had before, brightening the room so much it felt positively cheerful. In fact, after about an hour, the sunlight coming through the windows had gotten so hot Lance understood why Kent had sheets pinned up like curtains over them. He glanced critically at them, rubbing at the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

           “I don’t have any kind of detergent with me. I wonder how Kent washed his clothes?” He paused, and grimaced. “I wonder if Kent washed his clothes,” he amended. “Kent, the more I think about this place the more you distress me, do you know that?” He worried the inside of his cheek, considering. “If I just rinse them out in the sink it’ll be better than nothing,” he decided. “Shouldn’t be any sweat or anything to get out of them, anyway, just dust.”

           He left the sheets outside to dry, hanging them over the back of the doors into the hut and the concrete attachment with the generator. Leaving the rapidly heating main room behind for the moment, he moved to the bathroom, scrubbing viciously at the floor, the sink, and the toilet until they gleamed. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves to clean the hair and gunk off the top of the shower drain in the floor and paused, examining what he was pinching between his fingers.

           “You really have pretty long hair, don’t you, Kent? You’re not a girl, are you? No, those were definitely boxers I saw on your bed upstairs. Well, I guess haircuts aren’t exactly easy to come by out here. Or maybe you just like long hair.” Lance shrugged. “There was this guy at the Garrison, Keith, he had a mullet, if you can believe it. I know, what century is he living in? See, normally I think long hair on guys is super attractive, but a mullet? That’s just weird, man. You don’t have a mullet, do you, Kent? As long as you don’t have a mullet we’re good.” He dropped his handful of hair and congealed soap gunk into the trash bag. “I’m gonna go see if those sheets are dry yet,” he said.

           The sheets had dried rapidly, if a little stiffly, in the heat of the desert sun, so Lance took them back in and pinned them back up over all the windows but one, cooling the room considerably. He went back to work, dusting and rubbing clean all the electronics, careful not to get anything wet. Who knew how well insulated some of this stuff might be? He sang along to his music as he went, the sound of salsa sinking him into the memory of a warm Cuban night, with the stars sparkling overhead and dancers in tight red dresses and white shirts that glowed in the flickering lights of the clubs. He and Louisa and Cal, all home for the summer, had gone out to celebrate Lance’s acceptance into the pilot program at the Garrison. It wasn’t his first taste of alcohol, but it was the first time he’d drunk enough that the world settled into something soft yet vibrant around him. His veins buzzed and everything was colorful and whirling. Perhaps that’s what had given him the courage to grab the hand of the boy with slender fingers and eyes the color of teak and wavy dark hair that fell in sweaty strands to his shoulders. Their feet kept time with the lilting salsa music, hips and legs and chests pressed close by the crowd of dancers around them. Lance’s fingers tangled in the boy’s hair as he pushed their foreheads together. Nothing but his first real flight, the first time he’d been allowed in a real hovercraft rather than the simulator, quite compared to the rush of tingling adrenaline that ran through his entire body when they kissed. His hand knotted into a fist around the thick, soft strands of hair, moving across the boy’s head down to the back of his neck. He was warm and pliant and exhilarating and his lips were sweet and sticky with alcohol.

           The loud beat drop of an English rap song jerked him back to the present and he realized he’d been absentmindedly polishing the same spot on the holoscreen projector over and over for the last few minutes. He moved on to the 3-D printer next to it, pausing to take a swig from his water bottle.

           “You know, Kent, I’ve always found flirting with girls easy. Well, I mean, maybe not so easy considering my track record of actual success,” Lance laughed awkwardly, “but I’ve never had trouble coming up with the words, you know? But guys have always turned me into a shy mess. Why is that, do you think?” The house creaked around him in the wind. The rapper spat words at a hundred miles an hour in his ear. “Yeah, I don’t know either,” he said easily, giving the 3-D printer a last once-over with his rag.

           By the time Lance glanced up and saw the sun starting to sink toward the horizon, the bathroom was spotless, the main room was clean as a whistle and the papers and books were beginning, however slowly, to sort themselves into manageable groups, and the kitchen was done except for the stove and the fridge. The stove had some old rust and food stains that were proving painfully stubborn, and Lance was going to have to consider if it was worth it coming back with steel wool to attack it with. The fridge he took one glance at and came to same conclusion he had the other day: the rotten mess inside the fridge was Kent’s problem if he ever chose to come back and deal with it. Fortunately, the only edible things in the cupboard were non-perishables: a couple cans of soup, an unopened packet of ramen noodles, and a box of cereal. The cereal was only a month past its expiration date, but Lance threw it out anyway, just to be safe. He also discovered that Kent owned a grand total of one pot, one pan, three plates, one bowl, one spoon, two forks, and four knives, two of which were the bigger and sharper kind that could be used for cutting vegetables or meat. He had run through three entire rolls of paper towels, most of the Clorox wipes, all but one of the Swiffer pads, and filled two trash bags to bursting. His clothes clung to him with sweat and grime, but he was grinning as he pulled off the headphones and put the remaining cleaning supplies under the sink – all except for the Swiffer, which he stuck back in the duffel.

           “I’ll come back tomorrow and do the attic and the little concrete shed, just to be thorough,” he decided. “Then… then we’ll see what I can find.” He slung the duffel back over his shoulder, giving one last glance through the shack. “See ya tomorrow, Kent,” he called.

*

           Lance hesitated at the top of the ladder. Even though he’d already been through everything else in the house and this was by far the barest room of the lot, it was still clearly Kent’s bedroom, and something about that seemed like a privacy barrier he shouldn’t break. On the other hand, it was going to drive him crazy knowing that the rest of the house was spotless while this room sat dusty and unkempt with piles of dirty boxers. Plus, he was desperate to see if he could get a clue about who Kent was or where he had gone. If it meant unravelling the mystery of how he’d even found this shack in the first place, he was willing to invade somebody’s privacy at least a little.

           “Here goes nothing,” he sighed, tossing his cleaning supplies up into the room.

           It was uncomfortable, sweaty work, with the slanted roof forcing him to hunch over and reach the broom awkwardly into corners to beat away the cobwebs so thick he could grab handfuls of them. He tossed the sheets, the pillow sham, and the dirty clothes down the ladder, washed them in the sink and hung them over the backs of the kitchen chairs to dry. He briefly puzzled over what, if anything, to do with the mattress, and ultimately just decided to spray it with Febreze. That left only the box.

           He dicked around for a few minutes, picking errant hairs and dust motes out of the bottom of the broom, trying to decide whether he ought to actually open the box or just leave it be, but there was really nothing else to do. He’d already dusted out the concrete shed that morning – the generator was clearly built to be self-sustaining so he just brushed the dust away and didn’t mess with it – and everything else in the shack was spotless now. It was open the box or get to work on that intimidating mass of papers downstairs, and he still didn’t have a clue where he was supposed to start with that.

           “If I can learn anything about who you are it will help me figure out what you were trying to study out here,” he told Kent. “It might even help me find you so that I could ask you myself. On the other hand…” He glanced at the box. “You might have something seriously personal in there that isn’t any of my business.” He sighed. “What am I even doing here?” he asked. “I shouldn’t ever have walked in that door. I mean, this is somebody’s home, clearly, or at least it used to be.” He fiddled with a piece of tape peeling off the edge of the box, trying to guess what was in it and if it might help him. “But Pidge and Hunk are still missing, and this is the only lead I’ve got,” he murmured. He opened the box.

           There was a book sitting on top, bound with faux leather, its edges tattered and worn, some of the pages ripped, and a pen stuffed into the middle where the writing stopped. Lance set it carefully aside.

           The rest of the box was mostly clothes, dark pants and t-shirts and a well-worn brown raincoat folded haphazardly or just stuffed in. There were also, for some reason, three pairs of black fingerless gloves. An old pair of boots with a hole over the big left toe was stuffed down at the bottom. Besides that, there were a few odds and ends: a rusty Swiss Army knife, a half-empty pack of batteries, a wallet with about $20 stuffed inside, and down at the very bottom, a picture so faded and fuzzy and tattered Lance had to crab-walk over to the little circular window at the end of the room to look at it in better light.

           It looked like it was from a vintage polaroid camera, the kind of thing people only bought for novelty’s sake these days. It was clearly a selfie, the little four- or five-year-old boy in the foreground holding the camera out in front of him at arm’s length, grinning widely, eyes round and alight with happiness behind messy bangs. He was sitting on a man’s lap, who was bending down so their faces were side by side, holding the little boy’s shoulders, smiling tolerantly at the camera, his eyes fond and peaceful.

           “Is one of these you, Kent?” Lance wondered softly. His fingers grazed over the image. “No one keeps a picture like this unless it’s the only one they have.”

           He set the picture down carefully and repacked the box, folding up Kent’s clothes and setting them neatly back inside. He placed the picture on top carefully and closed the box. Finally, he turned to the book. Wetting his lips, he opened it to the first page. The entire thing was full of dated entries, like a diary. The first few lines were viciously scribbled through as he tried to start several times.

So S is gone

The Garrison are liars they’re all fucking liars

Maybe if I’d listened to my gut I could have convinced S taking that mission was a bad idea but I wanted

Dad was

I

Finally, it restarted, much more cut and dried.

Shack is still here. Generator was off but it still works once I brushed off the solar panels. Most of the tech in here still works too, if painfully slowly. Will see if I can reconfigure anything to update it some. Will have to do grocery hauls from time to time. Not sure how long I’m going to be here. Not sure how long I can be here. Kind of shocked they never found this place.

That was the entirety of the first entry. The next entry was dated almost two months later, and all it said was FOUND SOMETHING. The one from the day after read:

Went back out to same area as yesterday. The carvings are everywhere, at least four separate caves that I just glanced into. Will make a map marking out area. I can’t explain what it is but this is what’s been pulling at me. This is what I’ve been searching for, somehow without knowing it.

Lance stiffened, clenching the book between his hands. Searching for something, somehow without knowing it, sounded a hell of a lot like what had led him to this shack in the first place. Had Kent found whatever he was searching for and brought it here? Was it now attracting Lance? Could it be calling out to anyone else? What if someone else turned up?

           Out of reflex, he glanced at the trap, but nobody leapt out of it like a horror film jumpscare. He took a deep breath. “Okay, Sanchez, chill out. No one’s been here for months, there’s no reason to believe someone would suddenly turn up now,” he said. “Better to focus on what you’ve got in front of you.” He looked back down at the next entry.

Went back out to caves with map of the area and started marking out where there are carvings. Also started sketching some of the carvings. They’re all either a lion or these symbols that I don’t recognize as any kind of language or code that I know. Will have to see if I can find a way of searching the symbols online if I don’t turn up anything in my books, but need to make sure no one traces it. I have a feeling that if the Garrison knows about these carvings, they don’t want anyone else to. Their property lines must be publicly available information; will see if I can find it. Gee I wonder if they’ll match up.

On a whim, Lance took the pen from the center of the books and wrote quickly in the margin, “Do you ever stop with the conspiracies? How do you live like this? It must be exhausting,” before looking down to the next entry, from a few days later.

Took a break from mapping the carvings to go into town because the only food I had left was a frozen pizza and a jar of mustard and I didn’t feel like frozen pizza. Anyway, took the opportunity to go to the public library where they actually have property maps of the area on paper still – hey, I’m not complaining – and made copies. Also checked out a couple books on obscure languages and symbols. Didn’t do an internet search for the images I found in the caves yet. Will save that as a last resort.

I did log into my old email on a whim. Nice to see I was right about foster family number Istoppedcounting not giving a rat’s ass about me. Not one single message from them. And I wasn’t reported missing, either. I checked.

Well, doesn’t matter. Less than a year now till I’m 18 anyway.

Lance let out a slow whistle between his teeth, setting the book down. “Kent…” he said. “What… happened to you?”

           It wasn’t the first time he considered that he could be sitting in a dead man’s house. Perhaps one of these caves he’d been studying had collapsed on his head. Or maybe he got stuck out in the desert and died. Or maybe he went into the city to get groceries and got hit by a bus. It had never occurred to him, though, that Kent might be young. He’d been picturing someone like the telescope man. But Kent was his age. Kent was still a kid with his life ahead of him, a life that should have been better than living as a conspiracy hermit.

           “How does a teenager end up living in an illegal shack in the middle of the desert?” he exploded. “Kent, what the hell went wrong in your life?” Lance felt anger bubbling under the surface of his skin. His protective big brother instincts reared like a cobra, ready to strike out at whoever had callously left this kid to fend for himself, whoever had failed him so badly that he ended up out here. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Louisa, or Cal, or his cousin Elena, or God forbid Beatriz or one of his youngest siblings, feeling so lost and abandoned that they ended up in a place like this. Whoever Kent was, he deserved better. He grabbed the pen and scribbled furiously in the margin, “I’m sorry everyone failed you so badly, Kent. I wish I could have been there for you.”

           He sat back, a little surprised by his own words. He had never even met this guy. Yet the fury that churned in his stomach burned hot and real. He couldn’t conceive of a life without his family. No matter how near or far, they were a constant, they were his rock, they were the thing he could always return to if he needed to. He knew he was lucky, but everyone deserved to have someone or something that anchored them to stability. No one should just be cut off to float in the world totally alone.

           He glanced up and scrambled to his feet with a yelp. He’d lost track of time, and while the hoverbike theoretically had enough battery life to last several hours into the night, he didn’t particularly care to test that. He scrambled back down the ladder, bringing the book with him and leaving it on the table so it could be the first thing he looked at when he came back.

           “Ah, dammit, I missed my appointment with the therapist,” he groaned, looking at the clock. “Well, whatever. She wasn’t helping anyway.” He paused on the way out the door, glancing back into the shack. “Cal stays home on the weekends and I don’t want to risk him finding out what I’ve been doing, plus Louisa’s coming over, so I won’t be back until Monday,” he said. “See you… See you then, Kent.” He yanked the door shut behind him, jumped onto the hoverbike, and took off into the setting sun.

*

           “Scooch up,” Louisa said, nudging Lance with her knee. He shuffled sideways on the couch, trying to leave room for Cal on his right.

           “How come I’m always in the center?” he complained.

           “Because you’re the youngest, and you know this, and you know complaining about it changes nothing.” She plopped into Cal’s sagging couch with a sigh. “Cal, don’t forget extra salt for that popcorn!” she called, leaning over the armrest to try and see the kitchen. Cal didn’t respond, probably giving her a thumbs up. She sat back, clicking through the previews. “God, it’s been ages since I watched Star Wars,” she mused. “You’d think that would be something the Garrison would show, as like a movie night thing.” Lance raised his eyebrows.

           “You want to ask Iverson for approval for a movie night?” he asked. She laughed.

           “True enough. Still, they’re classics.” Lance frowned and folded his arms.

           “I still like the originals better,” he grumbled. “They’re the real classics.”

           “Those special effects are painful, little bro. They are physically painful for me to watch.”

           “I’m less than a year younger than you, and it’s Star Wars. It’s nostalgic. You’re not watching it for the special effects. Besides, Harrison Ford is Han Solo. Robert Vic’s performance doesn’t hold a candle to him.”

           “True, but come on. Slave Leia? Ewoks? You have to admit that the rebooted Return of the Jedi is better.”

           “First of all, ewoks are adorable, but I will still grant you that on the basis of slave Leia and the admittedly pointless Threepio subplot if you will concede that the original Empire is still the best film out of all of them. Prequels, sequels, and reboots.”

           “Can’t we all just agree to hate Phantom Menace in any incarnation?” Cal asked, edging in front of the coffee table around to the far side of the sofa. He set the popcorn in Lance’s lap and plopped down next to him. “You two have this debate every single time.”

           “I am defending the integrity of the original stories that brought us all this joy and beauty to begin with,” Lance sniffed. “No one appreciates old movies anymore. They just want them remade newer and shinier.”

           “Hey, who watched every single Spider-Man movie with you growing up?” Louisa said, elbowing him. Lance clutched at the popcorn bowl, its warmth seeping into his arms and lap.

            “And you insist you hate every minute of the Tobey Maguire films.”

           “Just start the movie,” Cal groaned, snagging a handful of popcorn. Louisa rolled her eyes but pressed play.

           For all that he needled Louisa about the originals, Lance would admit to himself he still unabashedly loved the reboots. They’d all watched them enough times not only to recite the entire script along with the actors, but also to know the jokes and comments the other two would make throughout the film. Their watch party devolved into lighthearted banter and commentary (“Is he… going to ask him why the Imperial droids do whatever Obi-Wan says? No? We’re just cool with this?” “See, in the original, Luke did ask—” “SHUT UP LANCE”) that occasionally sunk into silence and popcorn munching at a favorite scene (“Oh shush shush, it’s Vader and Leia next”). Louisa groaned and slapped a $5 bill into a smug Lance’s hand when Cal went on his inevitable tirade about the impossible physics in the structure of the Millenium Falcon four scenes earlier than she had bet on. Lance felt himself relaxing, tension easing out of his muscles in the comforting heat of his siblings pressed on either side of him and in the wash of familiar dialogue and characters. He could practically imagine he was eight years old and back in Cuba, their mamá hushing them because Beatriz was already asleep upstairs.

           They’d planned a marathon for the evening, so they went straight into Empire Strikes Back with just a brief pause for a bathroom break. As the films rolled on, Lance felt his eyes growing heavy with sleepiness. He was sore and pleasantly worn out from his three days of cleaning up Kent’s hut, and perhaps calmer than he had been since he woke up in the hospital. He let himself slide down the couch cushion until he could rest his head against the back of the sofa, the near-empty popcorn bowl still loosely cradled on his lap, and let his eyes drift closed. All three of them had grown quieter as they grew tired, only making the occasional murmured comment. Lance felt himself slipping into sleep, making an effort to pry his eyes back open for some of his favorite bits, but he started losing seconds, and then minutes as he drifted in and out of consciousness, pleasantly suspended in secure contentment.

           The sound of an explosion sent a burst of adrenaline jolting through him. He snapped out of sleep with terrified urgency, legs and arms flailing as he surged to his feet, shouting, “QUIZNAK!” There was danger, he had to get– somewhere, had to find out who had attacked them–

           He blinked, confused and disoriented by the flashes and explosions on the television in front of him, uncomfortably bright in the mostly darkened room. Louisa had grabbed his forearm and he turned back to see her looking up at him in alarm. Cal was sitting up straight, frowning, mouth slightly parted. The plastic bowl had been upended onto Lance’s feet, popcorn kernels scattered onto the rug.

           “Lance?” Louisa asked, reaching out and pausing the movie. “Are you okay?”

           “I…” Lance stuttered, at a loss for words. “I must’ve fallen asleep and… and started dreaming. Sorry, I… I think the movie startled me.” He ran a hand awkwardly through his hair and sat back down on the sofa, bending over to pick up the fallen bowl.

           “What did you say?” Cal asked. “Quiz… What was that?” Lance faltered.

           “I… don’t know?” he said. “I’m… Um… What did I say?”

           “Quiz-something, I didn’t quite hear it,” Louisa said, suddenly realizing she was still gripping Lance’s arm and releasing him.

           “Maybe I was dreaming about taking a quiz?” Cal and Louisa glanced at each other across him.

           “It didn’t sound like that,” Louisa said.

           “I dunno, probably just sleep gibberish then,” Lance shrugged uneasily. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened. But I’m fine, Louisa, you can stop looking at me like that. Let’s just keep watching the movie.” She watched him for a few more seconds as he stubbornly refused to look at her, concentrating carefully on picking up all the leftover popcorn kernels, but finally she sighed and pressed play again. He sat back and watched the film, an odd edge on his nerves that hadn’t been there before.

*

           He always dreamt of flying these days. He dreamt of sailing through the stars, past galaxies, spinning around black holes, passing planets hanging like Christmas ornaments in the sky, shining in every color imaginable. In his dreams he was light and free. He flew without a ship, without controls, without a spacesuit, with no need to think. He simply slid unhindered through the universe, eyes wide with wonder.

           He came awake staring at the ceiling, his headphones askew. He could hear Louisa breathing slowly, asleep on the couch. He sat up, the air mattress shifting under his weight. He’d need to top up the air tomorrow, he thought absently. He tapped his headphones silent, pulled them off, and dropped them on his pillow. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring into the dark apartment. He hadn’t heard anything from Hopkins since he went to see him, which probably meant what he had told him hadn’t been that useful. Still, aside from the shack in the desert that he still couldn’t prove was connected to his disappearance, he only had one lead.

           He bit his lip before tossing off the blanket and rolling over to grab his phone. He opened his email, hesitated, and then typed in “Keith Kogane.”

           Keith wouldn’t still have his Garrison email, Lance knew that, but in a fit of desire for petty revenge after Keith had sneered at his failings in survival training he had stalked him – just a little bit – and found out his personal email address back at the Garrison. Just to sign him up for a few particularly annoying spam email lists.

           He sincerely hoped Keith hadn’t deleted his email as a result of the influx of spam. It was the only way he might be able to contact him. He chewed his lip nervously as he began to type.

To: Keith Kogane

From: Lance Sanchez

Subject:  PLEASE DON’T DELETE THIS PEOPLE ARE IN DANGER

Keith–

PLEASE READ THIS. Look, I know we didn’t get along at the Garrison, and I’m not asking you to care about me now. But I and two of my friends went missing almost five months ago now. They found me in the desert a month ago but my friends are still missing and I have no memories of what happened, except I think I have one very brief memory of seeing you.

It’s totally possible I’m mistaken, but please, I’m begging you, if you know anything about anything that’s happened to me in the last five months, if you’ve even seen me at all, please tell me or tell the police. I wouldn’t ask if Hunk and Pidge weren’t still missing. It might be the only way we have to find them. Please.

Please.

–Lance

He agonized for a moment before pressing the send button and dropping the phone before he could change his mind, running his hands over his face.

           “Talking to someone special?”

           He jumped a mile at Louisa’s voice over his shoulder, whipping around with hands up as if to defend himself. She gave a small, amused smile.

           “You okay there, little bro?” she asked. Lance sucked in a deep breath.

           “You just startled me,” he said. Louisa nodded, crouching down and pulling her feet out from under her so she was sitting on the air mattress with him.

           “Have you remembered anything else, Lance?” she asked him softly. He glowered at the bedsheets, suddenly too reminiscent of the hospital.

           “If I had, you’d know about it.”

           “Has the therapist been any help?” she pressed. He shifted away from her, a pang of guilt hitting his chest for his missed appointment yesterday.

           “No,” he said. “Do we have to have this discussion now? It’s late.”

           “I’m just trying to help.”

           “You’re trying to help, Cal’s trying to help, Mamá and Papá are trying to help, maybe it might help if you all just gave me some time and space,” he snapped, and then sighed. “Sorry, I don’t mean it like that, I just… I’m frustrated.” Louisa rubbed circles on his back.

           “I know,” she murmured. “Just… remember if you want to talk, we’re all here, okay? And I’m your big sister, so I’m going to keep pestering you at least a little. It’s my job.” Lance sighed, drooping.

           “I did remember one thing. Sort of. I’m not even certain it was a memory. It might have been a dream.” Louisa’s hand clenched his shoulder.

           “What is it?” she asked.

           “Do you remember Keith Kogane?” She frowned.

           “That guy who got expelled after he beat up a professor? Sort of, why?”

           “I remember seeing his face. I think I was with him at some point during those months. I was hurt and he was helping me.” In the unlit apartment, the frown deepening into Louisa’s face seemed to carve shadows into her skin.

           “Did you tell Detective Hopkins?”

           “That was the first thing I did. I didn’t tell Cal. I didn’t want to go through a whole speculation session with him,” Lance admitted. “It was barely a glimpse and I wasn’t even entirely convinced it was real. It just seemed like too much to… But anyway, that’s who I was sending a message to. I have his email but that’s it. Now I just have to… hope he says something, I guess.” Louisa’s hand resumed her circles on Lance’s back.

           “I still believe we’ll find Hunk and Pidge, little bro. Don’t lose hope just yet.” She shoved at his shoulder. “But right now you should get sleep. Your memory certainly won’t come back with you dead on your feet.” He sighed, patting her arm in a goodnight gesture, and grabbed the headphones off his pillow. He pulled them back over his ears, shutting the outside world into silence again, lay on his back, and stared up at the ceiling, breathing slowly in the calm night. Louisa padded back to the couch and dropped onto it. He could still see his vision of Keith’s face, dancing before his eyes, its clarity unnerving.

*

           “Dammit!” Detective Hopkins slammed the phone down in frustration and rubbed his temples. That had been the last person on his list. No one knew where Keith Kogane was, or even who to ask. No one seemed to have spoken to him since he got booted from the Garrison over a year ago, including his damn foster family. From the sound of it, they hadn’t even tried to contact him after hearing the news, and he had never asked them for so much as a few nickels to do his laundry.

           “Bad news?” Cho asked, sidling up to his desk. Hopkins groaned.

           “We might have another missing kid on our hands. Except this one’s been gone for over a year and no one’s tried to find him in all that time.”

           “Keith Kogane?” she asked, leaning over to look at the mugshot on Hopkins’ computer. He nodded, taking a gulp of coffee and making a face at the tepid temperature.

           “Optimistic option: he got kicked out of the Garrison, had no interest in going back to a foster family that clearly has no interest in him, found himself some apartment and a job at a carwash and is living a perfectly normal life somewhere.”

           “You’re not that much of an optimist,” Cho said, spinning a pencil in her fingers. Hopkins sighed, leaning forward on the desk.

           “You got that right,” he said. “I don’t know if I should issue an APB or what.”

           “Well, I can’t help you much with Kogane, but I do have some good news.”

           “What is it?” Hopkins asked, sitting straight up. “It’ll be a first since I heard that Sanchez was alive.”

           “So you remember how we couldn’t find a single person to contact for Gunderson? Parents out of the country and unreachable, at least according to the forms he filled out?”

           “Yeah?” Cho slapped a picture down on the table in front of Hopkins of a boy in a Garrison uniform. He frowned. “Yeah, that’s Gunderson’s picture. What about it?”

           “It’s not, though,” Cho said, grinning mischievously. “That’s Matthew Holt’s picture.” Hopkins peered suspiciously at his partner.

           “Matthew Holt, the guy who died in the Kerberos mission?” Cho nodded. “Why does he look like Pidge Gunderson?”

           “Because,” Cho said, “Pidge Gunderson isn’t a real person.” She paused for effect and Hopkins sighed, leaning back in his chair.

           “Cho, just explain,” he said. “What do you mean ‘Pidge Gunderson isn’t a real person’?” Cho chuckled.

           “I’m so glad you asked,” she said. “I am almost certain that Pidge Gunderson is really Katie Holt, Matt Holt’s little sister.”

           “But… why? And how?” Hopkins asked, shaking his head. She held up a finger to stop him.

           “Let me explain. We were so much more focused on Sanchez and Garrett the first time around because we had their families here asking frantic questions. There were people we could talk to who knew them, who could help us figure out where they might have gone or how we might find them. God knows Sanchez’s older siblings had plenty of their own ideas about how we should be running the investigation. We barely even looked at Gunderson because there was so little that we could do with so little information. But I always thought it was weird that there was no one trying to find him, except the Garrison.

           “But when Sanchez brought up Kogane, I started looking back at what little we knew about the Kogane case and anything else going on at the Garrison around that time. The only thing I could find was that it happened less than a month after the Kerberos mission crashed and everyone on board died. I have no idea if that’s connected or not, but I saw Matt Holt’s picture and thought it looked too similar to just be a coincidence. So I looked up his family.

           “Now, here’s where it gets interesting. According to her mother, a couple months after the Kerberos mission, Katie suddenly accepted a scholarship from Skilton, that one they have for like kid geniuses since Katie was only fourteen. Her mother completely believed it, according to her Katie knew more about computers than anyone. So Katie, apparently, went off to Skilton, called her mother on the phone or sent her a message every couple weeks letting her know everything was going well. Except, the messages suddenly stopped coming. After she’d been trying to get through for a week or so with no success, she called Skilton, and Skilton tells her they’ve never heard of her daughter. So then she calls the police. As far as anyone could figure out, Katie Holt never set foot on Skilton’s campus or even applied for a scholarship.

           “But, Katie’s departure for Skilton lines up exactly with Pidge Gunderson’s arrival at the Garrison, and she sent her last message to her mother three days before Gunderson and the others vanished.” Cho folded her arms, looking pleased with herself. Hopkins scratched his head and the back of his neck absently, mulling it over.

           “I still don’t understand why. Why lie to her mother? Why lie to the Garrison? None of us ever suspected Gunderson’s documents of being phony, would she really have the hacking skills necessary to forge herself a new identity? At fourteen?” Cho threw up her hands.

           “Beats me. But come on, Todd, look at this.” She pulled up a missing poster for Katie Holt on his screen, next to a picture of Pidge Gunderson and a picture of Matthew Holt. “They’re dead ringers for each other. Bad choice of words. But look. What are the chances that this girl goes missing and some guy with no real trace of his life story that looks exactly like her also goes missing at the same time? Maybe she had help with the hacking. Maybe she didn’t think her mother would let her go to the Garrison after what happened to her father and brother. But this is a lead.” Hopkins ran a hand over his face.

           “Alright, let’s go talk to Katie’s mother and—”

           “Excuse me, am I interrupting?” Both Cho and Hopkins jumped and turned to see a woman in a Garrison uniform, double gold stripes on her shoulders indicating her rank.

           “Um… no,” Cho said. “Sorry… who are you?”

           “My name is Captain Marietta Seitz. I am here to help with your questions in regard to our missing students.” Cho and Hopkins glanced at each other.

           “Where’s Lieutenant Meyers?” Cho asked. “He’s normally the person who does this.” Captain Seitz’s expression did not shift a muscle.

           “He’s unavailable this week, and the Garrison wants to see Garrett and Gunderson found as quickly as possible, just as you do.” Cho and Hopkins glanced at each other. Cho gave him just the slightest shake of her head. “How can I be of assistance?”

           “We were actually hoping to ask you about a different student,” Hopkins said, shutting off his computer screen and pulling out a chair for Captain Seitz, who sat in it stiffly. “Keith Kogane. There’s a chance he’s mixed up in this somehow.” The slightest frown creased Captain Seitz’s forehead.

           “Keith Kogane was expelled over a year ago now. He’s no longer affiliated with the Garrison.”

           “Yes, but do you know where he went after that?” Captain Seitz shrugged.

           “Home, I assume.”

           “He did not,” Cho said. “In fact, we have no idea where he is. He might be missing along with the rest of them. We were hoping you might tell us a bit more about what happened that got Kogane expelled.” Captain Seitz’s face betrayed no expression, but she sat silently for a moment, mulling it over.

           “I believe that is privileged information,” she said. “However, given the current circumstances, I suppose I can tell you a little. Takashi Shirogane, the pilot on the Kerberos mission, was a mentor to Keith. Keith took his death exceptionally hard. He became violent and unreasonable, lashing out at everyone around him. When he landed someone in the hospital it became clear he could not be allowed to stay on at Galaxy Garrison. We expelled him and as far as I know no one from the Garrison has spoken to him since.” Cho’s eyes narrowed.

           “Do you have any suggestions for how to get in touch with him?” Hopkins asked. “Anything at all?” Captain Seitz turned towards him.

           “I’m sorry, Detective. We don’t keep contact information for students no longer at the Garrison, let alone someone we’ve expelled.” The slight crease reappeared between her eyebrows. “If I may ask, what reason do you have to suspect that he is in any way connected to the other three?” Hopkins saw Cho stiffen in his peripheral vision and tried to shrug nonchalantly.

           “Lance came in a few days ago to tell us he thought he remembered Keith being with him at some point, but that’s the only piece of his memory he seems to have recovered,” he said. The frown on Captain Seitz’s face smoothed over.

           “Lance is still in town?” she asked. Hopkins nodded. “We assumed he’d gone back to Cuba with his parents. Hopefully this means he’ll be returning as a student in the near future.” She stood. “If that will be all?”

           They shook hands and parted ways, leaving Cho and Hopkins standing by his desk, watching until they were sure she had left the building before Cho turned to him.

           “Seems a hell of a coincidence that both Kogane and Gunderson are connected to the Kerberos mission, doesn’t it?” she asked. Hopkins hummed noncommittally.

           “We’ll talk to Mrs. Holt on Monday. Meanwhile, why do you think the Garrison sent us her?” Cho shook her head.

           “Who knows why the Garrison does anything?” she said. “Working with them feels like stepping into an episode of X-Files.”

*

           Lance felt his heart jolt into his mouth when he woke up to an email notification on his phone. Louisa was snoring softly on the couch still, and even Cal was taking the morning to sleep in after their late night movie marathon, so the apartment was still and quiet, grey with soft morning light, as he pressed a shaking finger to his email app.

           His spirits plummeted when he saw it wasn’t from Keith, but someone with a Garrison email address. He opened the email anyway, scanning through it, and then stopped, frowned, and read it over again more closely.

To: Lance Sanchez

From: Akemi Ito

Subject: Memory Therapy

Dear Mr. Sanchez,

I don’t believe we met during your time at Galaxy Garrison. I am Dr. Ito, one of the psychologists employed by the Garrison in order to help mentally prepare our students for the rigors of space flight, as well as provide any mental health advice or therapist referrals that may be necessary to the general student body. I studied memory loss extensively back in medical school as it was a particular interest of mine, and I may have some ideas about how to help with your situation. Even though you are not currently enrolled as a student of the Garrison, I would be happy to offer my assistance, if you feel it would be useful. Please use the link below to schedule an appointment.

Sincerely,

Dr. Ito

           Louisa’s snoring had gone silent behind him, and Lance looked over his shoulder to see her propped up on the armrest of the couch and watching him. He silently held the phone out and let her read the message.

           “Why would he only send this to me now?” he asked. “I mean, I was on the news, I feel like most people know what happened.” Louisa shrugged.

           “Beats me,” she said. “You going to make an appointment?” Lance chewed his lip.

           “I guess? I mean… what do I have to lose?”

           “Sounds good to me,” she said, holding the phone back out to him. “Just let me know when you’re coming up.”

           “Yeah, sure,” he replied absently. His finger hovered over the date selection for a moment before he scrolled down and selected a date a week from Monday. He wanted a chance to take a look at those documents in Kent’s shack first. Then he’d go see what Dr. Ito had to say.

[biofunmy]

The Dress Code at Goop May Not Surprise You

SANTA MONICA, Calif. — “I’m buying that shirt,” the publicist said to her boss. It was an everyday office compliment, except the boss in question was Gwyneth Paltrow (“G.P.,” as she’s known at the office), the founder and lifestyle guru behind Goop, which sells crystals, cashmere and much more.

“What tends to happen is I’ll be wearing something and they’ll say, ‘I almost bought that,’” Ms. Paltrow said. “And then they’ll buy it.” Indeed, a recent visit to Goop’s new 57,000-square-foot offices in Santa Monica, Calif., revealed that many of its 250 employees were not just living and breathing Goop, but wearing it, too.

Gwyneth Paltrow

Age: 46

Occupation: founder and chief executive of Goop (and “sometime actress”)

How many Goop products are on you, or in you, right now?

An embarrassing amount. GoopGlow, ingestible. I drink one every single morning. It’s skin care from the inside. And I take my vitamins of course. I’m on the Madame Ovary, the premenopausal, I say without any shame.

The shorts are yours?

They’re G. Label. They’re mine, I made them. And this is a G. Label shirt.

You like a high collar.

I do. A lot of our G. Label has turtleneck or high collar. Some of my friends are like, “Enough already with the high neck.”

Well, forget them. What’s on your wrist?

This is a fitness tracker device. My trainer is a big proponent of walking. So I track my steps, and then three times a day I take loops around the office just to make sure I’m not sitting too much.

How are you doing today?

Today shouldn’t be too bad because I did cardio this morning. I’m already at 7,800 steps.

Amazing.

My goal is 10,000 per day, so I’m good. Yesterday I only did 3,500.

Micere Johnson

Age: 27

Occupation: editorial assistant

I hope you won’t find it terribly insulting if I call your jacket “oversized.”

It’s definitely oversized. I think it’s a laid-back-but-official feeling. This is G. Label.

What is the punishment if you don’t wear G. Label to the office?

I don’t know.

Does the skirt make it into a suit?

Yeah. I like these super-big pockets. I always have my hands in them. And I love the fit. It’s hard for me to find a skirt that sits on my body. They’re always puffing up.

Gucci loafers?

I borrowed these from a friend.

Good friend. What’s around your neck?

This is a chain that I got from Satya. It’s a carnation, and then this is a piece of quartz.

Caitlin O’Malley

Age: 29

Occupation: food editor

Is this what you cook in?

No. This is the new Goop HQ, and the kitchen isn’t ready yet.

Your clogs are not your everyday kitchen clogs.

I used to be in the Dansko family. But I’m also an editor. I’m in meetings. I can wear these with a pair of jeans. I can go out to dinner after work and not feel dorky.

The chambray shirt is also very work oriented.

I’ve had some version of this shirt for 15 years. This is Nili Lotan. They did a collaboration with Goop a while ago.

Your skirt is similarly business-meets-kitchen. No nonsense.

It’s apron-y, which is why I was drawn to it. Utilitarian piece. G. Label.

Jesus, you’re all Goop.

Well I get that good-good Goop discount. We stan for G. Label big time.

Danielle Pergament

Age: 45

Occupation: editor in chief of Goop

You have a very heavy wrist game.

It’s like a garbage dump.

It’s not! It looks really good.

My husband gave me a Rolex Submariner on my 40th. It can’t stand alone, so I have a viking bracelet. The beads are a volcanic stone. Then hair ties because my daughter is always running out of them.

I like your dress, a little bit prairie. On trend.

I feel like I really thrived in the ’90s — this reminds me of that. It’s Brock Collection.

And then a warrior sandal.

Paul Andrew. I’m trying to get into sneaker culture. It’s not my jam.

It’s not my jam, either. I think it’s stupid.

It’s the stupidest thing in the world. I’ve adapted to the vibe at Goop. There’s a uniform no matter where you work, but I’m more of a sandal person.

Erica Moore

Age: 39

Occupation: chief financial officer

The Off-White sweatshirt! The tennies!

I’m the street Goop.

What do you like about Virgil Abloh’s designs?

It’s one of the few sweatshirts I can pair with this skirt and have it be an appropriate outfit for work.

How does your look compare to your colleagues?

I think we all have our individual spin on the Goop look. Very California chic. Understated.

Has “G.P.” ever commented on your sweatshirt?

Probably.

Eric Martin

Age: 33

Occupation: accounting manager

You have very fitted jeans.

I don’t like baggy jeans at all. This is an everyday thing.

Isn’t it hot in the L.A. sun?

I wear shorts in the summer. They are typically tight, too.

Is your polo terry cloth?

It’s teal, and I picked it because of the color choice. And it breathes. It’s Zara.

Are you a glasses collector?

No, I only have two pairs. I only wear them when I get tired of wearing my contacts.

Does where you work influence how you dress?

It does. I don’t want to come in looking like a slob.

Elise Loehnen

Age: 39

Occupation: chief content officer

How do you dress for work?

I’ve gravitated to jumpsuits, dresses that don’t wrinkle. I have two small boys. It’s messy work being the mother of dragons.

Is that a signet ring?

It’s by Kim Dunham. One of my spirit animals is a horse, and the other is a black leopard. Inside there’s a quote: “Encounters are planned by the soul.”

Tell me about the dress.

This is La Double J. I like that they’re high-necked or collared. It’s the most flattering look for me, with my haircut.

Those are the whitest white sneakers I’ve ever seen.

You can use a Magic Eraser on your shoes.

Elgin Wright

Age: “old enough”

Occupation: stylist at Goop Lab

Goop Lab sounds like the kind of place where Dr Pepper might work.

It’s the retail establishment for Goop. It’s where all our products are sold.

What do you think about when you’re dressing for work?

It’s about how I feel in what I’m wearing.

How do you feel?

Fabulous.

Oh, good. Tell me about these high-waisted Frame Denim jeans.

Goop x Frame denim from last summer. Totally in my wheelhouse. Classic with an edge. Jeans every day.

You’re wearing your blazer as a cape.

It’s extra fashion, and I can do all sorts of things with my arms.

Kelly Egarian

Age: 33

Occupation: head of V.I.P.

Tell me about your shoes.

These are by Yuul Yie. I have heels in the car.

What about your top?

It’s actually a bodysuit by Khaite. She did her first show in New York this fall. I wear her religiously.

Very classic watch.

My sweet boyfriend gave it to me for my 33rd birthday. Black band. I wear a lot of black. I drive black cars. I’m from Jersey so I’m a little hood sometimes.

Ann Hazel Pascual

Age: 32

Occupation: retail operations assistant

Is it intimidating to get dressed for Goop?

I dress for comfort and for fun.

Is your dress linen?

It’s silk and linen. For a long time I used to just use neutrals. Now I’ll do a pop of color just to keep it fun. It’s Tuesday. Why not? And it’s not holding me in like a sausage.

It has a nice big shoulder.

I like a puff sleeve.

You’ve got the Veja sneakers.

I like that they’re Velcro. Makes everything easier. Even when I wear my Converse I don’t lace them properly. I do bunny ears.

I do bunny ears, too!

Sahred From Source link Fashion and Style

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[daily-apocalypse]

Excuse me, I’ve been drinking.

Personal growth-wise, this week kind of sucked.  I was weak.  I was distracted.  I let things come between me and my learnin’ stuffs, like socialization and shopping for necessities.  I’m losing sight of the end game, and I know it.  I need that, though, the idea of being something greater than I am now, if I’m going to get through this.

I did finally get a hair cut and no one noticed, so that’s upsetting in its own right, but I also got different colored pens and post its and notebooks and, despite no sleep going from Wednesday into Thursday, leaving me, at 9am, telling my dependents to do what they like in regard to working out so I could sleep since someone decided ‘sweltering’ was a good temperature for the thermostat, I ended this week on a strong note.

Come Friday afternoon, after diligently working out and dedicating more time than usual to understanding wtf code was being thrown at me, I wasn’t a floppy Spock come 4pm.

Due to this, I’ve come to learn that exhaustion isn’t the sole reason I don’t log into game anymore.  Perfectly energized, there’s this restlessness inside of me once I stop working out or coding that just can’t be filled by throwing myself at useless pixel challenges.

In matters of my heart, however, I was settled.  That may not seem like a big thing to some people, but it’s a pretty big thing, I promise.  I don’t tend to have heart issues, so when they happen, it may as well be declared some kind of miracle.  The TLDR is that I’m better off and happier without them.

In fact, the moment my life faced upheaval and my bestie suggested alternatives to despair, he also sent me pics of this guy... this guy I was pleasantly surprised I remembered from 2 halloweens ago.

And I panicked at the prospect of being set up on a date with a stranger.

I’m in no state to devote myself to a relationship where heartbits are involved.  Not that I ever am, but most especially right now.  I lack funds, I lack energy (for the most part), I lack courage, and relationships take time and attention and courage and energy, above all else.

I’d be a wreck.  I’d barely have those qualities, at the best of times, but now...?

And I’m obviously saving myself for Antoni from Queer Eye, so I’m clearly not into relationships that can possibly happen or work.  Please, remove all sensible nonsense and prospects from my sight asap.

And my heart is still broke.  Settled, but broke.

It was a break I learned from.  A break where I had to face the guy daily afterwards.  How to cope?  My MO has been to run, in the past, but not this time.  So, instead, I cut him out of everything.  I simply stopped acknowledging his existence for my own survival.

Outside of tonight.

Long before I began drinking for the evening, I made out a list of all the things I aspire to be, for future reference and general guidance when I forget myself:

1.) Fit 2.) Generous 3.) Compassionate 4.) Kind 5.) Courageous 6.) To look for what I have in common with another person, rather than how I’m different from that person.

And the night ended with this person talking to me and messaging me, leaving me feeling like I’ve legitimately been missed, asking for a second chance.

It seemed unreal, them asking for another chance.  They hadn’t really done anything wrong, and yet, here they were.  And I felt missed.  It’s been a couple of months since we’ve spoken.  He believed I hated him.  I didn’t hate him.  I just couldn’t cope with him.

It only seemed right to say that, yeah, being friends again would be nice... given what I’d only a few hours ago carved into a post-it note and adhered to my desk as a reminder of just what sort of person I wanted to be.  Acquiescing to this request for friendship seemed to fit with 2-5, and maybe 6.

To be clear, I don’t want anything from him.  But I enjoyed him so much, and life is just easier without him in it because I don’t have to daily lament what I can’t have.  It was a rare joy to feel like myself with someone.  There’s been a few times since we stopped talking to each other, even tonight, where we either say or laugh at the same thing, because we’re saying or feeling or enjoying something the same way, and it’s like, “get out of my head.  You’re not welcome here.”  But that was the beauty of our friendship... the absolute nonsense that we could revel in together.

And sharing stupid parts of our lives.

Him getting the wrong couscous in a vain attempt to prove a point and failing miserably in unforeseen ways.  Sharing his blizzard.  Him having avocado toast for breakfast while I try out some pancakes in some completely unplanned and undiscussed freaky friday exchanging of lifestyles.

I made banana pancakes the other day and couldn’t get his voice out of my head, taunting me about it.  I wanted so badly to tell him, to take pics and show him... this after he admitted some sort of netherlands waffle cookie was good to our group.  I’d never made pancakes of any sort before, and these were beauties to the eye and to the tastebuds.

We were very very anti each other’s preferred breakfast pastry, you see.  I was team waffles, he was team pancakes.  We argued for at least two weeks straight over which was superior.  I’m not even exaggerating.

It’s insane and a little unfair how people can follow you around without even being there; how the stupidest things can remind you of them, or what they might think, feel, or say... so that, in these few months we haven’t been speaking, he’s been gone, but still somewhere in my head, there’s occasionally this little voice giving its unwanted opinion.

In a way, it’s a relief -- of course it is -- that he said anything, that the alcohol left him brave or sleepy or *whatever* enough to address our silence and how it came to be.  I wonder if he’s heard some version of me in his head, too, commenting on food or the weather or some other random thing.  Surely, he must have. If so, this must be why he said something.  If not, he missed it and this must be why he said something.  Right?  Maybe?  Maybe, though I’ve been alone, I haven’t been alone.  Or maybe it was him extending an olive branch, making amends and reparations for some completely unrelated resolution, some list to be a better person, like I have posted to my desk now.

In another way, it’s utterly the worst ever.  It’s dangerous finding someone like him, because then I want someone like him, so I can be me in every way I am with him, and the abject sadness of that not existing is too much for me to deal with.  Because of the proximity.  Because it’s right there.  It’s so easy to want.  Even when it’s not something I should want.  And then I fear it can’t be found anywhere else.

It’s also a bit of a relief that I’m drawn to the food and wine guy on Queer Eye. We were passionate about food, this guy and I.  Don’t get me wrong, it sucks that neither are available, but at least I’m pointed in a direction and kind of know it’s not just him.  It’s me.  I’m DTF: down to food.

And I appreciate ridiculous shit.

I used to own that shower cap.  Not even lying.  Pack of 3: leopard print, green, and white.  The print flaked off the leopard and the elastic bands went gummy on all three.  Sad. Face.  Regardless, I was always that kid at lunch who’d eat whatever exotically awful combination of foods and condiments others could come up with.

I’ve never owned a sweat band, car shirt, or questionable doll person, but I’d be so about that life if it were suddenly presented to me.

1.) I don’t know how to upload my own gifs to tumblr.  2.) I actually have a photo of myself from a few years ago, in Target, wearing that same unicorn bike helmet while holding up my soon-to-be Ninja Turtle panties.

I originally enjoyed Queer Eye for its message and the feels and didn’t think too much of Antoni until I noticed he was usually the one exploring the unknown while others were helping out the hero, and then the show was elevated to a whole new level and worth watching again just to see wtf was going on in the background.

How hard can it possibly be to find a person with these qualities who can also worship me as hard as I’d worship them?  That’s my night.  That’s my life.  That’s why it’s so hard to cope with this guy, because he’s so close to my vision of perfect.