#why is the coffee everywhere so abysmal

[hotgirlmanifesto]

i want tim hortons so fucking bad

[yundk]

(Click on the date to read full story). The quintessential image of Cuba is its classic cars, bright pastel colored American Ford Chevrolets from the 1950s that line its streets. Many say it’s as if Cuba is stuck in the past, that walking down the cobblestone streets takes you back in time. Time here is a paradox. Cuba feels incomplete, as if it’s waiting for something to happen. And there is a lot of waiting. Hours long wait to get your monthly food rations, lines to fill gasoline rounding the block, huddling around the scarce public wifi spots for abysmally slow internet. Life is slow, and while all the Cubans I’ve met take pride in this leisure approach to life, they are wickedly quick in jumping at any opportunity to make a living. Like the rubble that scatter the dilapidated buildings of the city, they are just waiting for a chance to be of service, to lend a helping hand to a neighbor, or to show the next tourist around their glorious city for a few dollars. The people of Cuba epitomize the complexity of the country. Trapped in limbo, yet ready to spark at any moment.

The hustle is real. The scarcity is real. I’ve never been to a place that’s as hard to find basic goods, even food, as here. Supermarkets are virtually nonexistent. Corner bodegas empty out as soon as they are stocked. Cubans receive a monthly ration, a scant package consisting of a few pounds of meat, several pounds of rice and beans, a liter of cooking oil, and some bars of soap and basic necessities. Any extra needs to be purchased at the government owned stores that only take foreign currency and charge exorbitant prices. $4.50 for a can of tuna when the average monthly stipend is roughly $20! This is why everywhere I go, people are asking, change money? Cubans hoard foreign currency, because simply put, their survival depends on it. As does the country. Cuban pesos can’t be used even in their own grocery stores, and no country does business with Cuban pesos. I witness first hand the impact of the US embargo on the Cuban people. The situation is dire. The shelves are empty, no food, no medicine, no toilet paper (we kind of know what that’s like). All import and distribution is tightly controlled by the government, and this has created the black market, which all Cubans have a hand in.

To any outsider, the black market doesn't look so different to any regular transaction that occurs in everyday life. It’s not trading goods in dark alleys. It’s not quick hand offs that only those looking for it would notice. Rather, it’s half open doorways of people’s homes selling beer and cigarettes. It’s a WhatsApp group for chicken legs, shoes, medicine, house appliances, pencils, clothes, cloves of garlic, internet access, whatever you can think of. It’s a complex system of bribes and separate record keeping that employees of both state- and private-run businesses partner in. Restaurants, the most common of private businesses, are only recently becoming more legalized under the country’s reluctant permitting to increased free enterprise. They have to compete in both the government market, with its heavy restrictions, and in the black market, where higher bids seal the deal. Although they are granted special authorization to stock a certain more amount of food, they frequently will have available only a limited portion of their menu, because they can’t gather all the ingredients. They are also essentially all for tourists, meaning that the food is supposed to be reserved for us visitors. Tourism has become the lifeline of country, as the country’s main exports, sugar, rum, tobacco, coffee, are confined by sanctions and have consequently undergone severe disinvestment. Tourists are catered to, as people’s livelihood depends on us, more so here than anywhere else I’ve been. It gives me perspective on why so many are extra pushy when they see us in the streets. It’s the price of a tourist, but an incomparably small one compared to that of Cubans’.

Guanabacoa. The book I read before this trip, The Cubans: Ordinary Lives in Extraordinary Times, is based here. This is the cradle of AfroCuban culture, and where I had the blessing of being welcomed into the home of a babalao and partaking in a ritual to receive the protection of the Gods and the warriors of Santeria. Santeria is strikingly Cuban: Catholicism, imposed by Spanish conquest, molded by the resistance of African slaves, who understood God and saw His image through their African tradition. Cuban identity is inextricably intertwined with African identity, and Santeria is a proud testament to this history. It is a surreal feeling to walk the grounds of a place I only read about in books, that until just today was limited to my imagination. I came to Cuba to see, if only to catch a glimpse, of what life is like under a different political system in a specific time period. I am getting that, and more. No book could have prepared me for this.

After a few days, I needed respite from the chaos of Havana. I found solace in Trinidad, with its quaint, pebbled streets nestled in the hills of the Cuban countryside. In the road to the town, cows and horses frolick the grassy, unpaved sidewalks, and every several miles, a person all by their lonesome is standing with an outstretched hand hoping to sell a bag of mangos or a stalk of garlic. I always wonder how long they wait there, toasting in the sun with nothing to look at but miles of green fields and the occasional car that speeds by. From Havana, I took a colectivo with a fellow traveler from Finland, Maiju. We had been staying at the same hostel but had not crossed paths until today. She was joining in Trinidad some other friends she had met at the hostel, and I was soon integrated into their group. I love meeting other solo backpackers. They are some of the most open, free spirited people I know, with a passion for life that is wonderfully contagious. One night, we were all walking from dinner to our next compulsory destination, a salsa club, and I was talking to another traveler from Holland, Lief. She shared with me how she had dreamt of this exact moment: strolling down the streets, dimly lit by orange hued lights hanging from the doors of colonial style houses, people gathered around the main square singing and dancing, the rhythm of salsa buzzing in the air. I vividly remember one particular day, I was thirteen, and I told myself that one day I will go travel to another land, somewhere far enough that I would have to take a plane. I will see another place, live a life larger than what I had experienced so far. Today, like Lief, I am living my dream.

Here in Cuba, rum flows freely and the city comes alive with music when the sun goes down. The night, with the help of alcohol of course, liberates the spirit, and the difficulties of the day are put to rest. The expression music heals rings true here like nothing else. Dancing is catharsis from the struggles of everyday life, and people stay up hours past midnight like there’s no tomorrow. It is one of the purest expressions of living in the moment that I have witnessed. This is probably the most significant lesson I have learned throughout my years of traveling. I never know when I will have the opportunity to come back to this place, if ever. Maybe this is the last time I will get to walk these streets, see the sweat drops forming on my arms from this humid air, dance way past my bedtime. Right now is the only time I am this age, at this particular chapter of my life. Each moment is to savor, because there may not be another. In Cuba, in the States, wherever I am, be present and exist in every experience without expectation that there will be a next time. Enjoy it as if it were my last.

What was supposed to be a couple days in Trinidad became a week. The friends I made here convinced me more than once to extend my stay. We all became enamored with this place, with its surrounding nature, slow living during the day, and  riveting energy at night. We chased waterfalls, rode horses through remote villages, took hours long lunches, dipped in beaches that were uncomfortably warm, and danced from one venue to another. We shared conversations about life and about how traveling has changed our lives, how it has opened our minds and our hearts to embracing all that this world has to offer, to accepting its ups and downs, to appreciating all people’s stories. Zoe from Australia described the one word she would use to describe her experience in Cuba: surrender. Things rarely go according to plan. You scramble to get dollars and Euros from departing travelers because cards don’t work and many websites can’t be accessed without a VPN. Your bike gets a flat tire on a remote dirt road, and you need to find a hitchhike. Taxis fall through at the last minute, or you sit on the side of the road blasting house music with your taxi driver, waiting for the storm to pass because the windshield wipers don’t work. You decide to stay another day then another day when you had planned only a few days here. Once you surrender and lean into the faith that at the end, things will all work out, you can truly appreciate the Cuban experience.

The best about traveling is the people you meet along the way. The worst part of traveling is not food poisoning, losing your money or passport, or getting stranded in the middle of nowhere hoping for a kind pickup truck to give you a hitchhike. It’s the inevitable goodbye that comes with finding each other in a different land, bonding over this experience that is uniquely ours to share, and at the end of it all, each of us returning back to our own, different countries. We wish we could prolong this moment, have a little more time to create more memories, but time doesn’t stop. So we enjoy our time together as much as we can, because we don’t know when we’ll next see each other, if ever.

Cuba is a place of wonder. I’ve seen a mechanic use the aluminum of a Sprite can to conduct heat for vulcanizing rubber. Motorcycles turned into mini pick ups, guitar strings pulled from spare electric wires, a tuner adjusted by a bar and screws. Rice bags refashioned into handbags or advertising signs, beer cans as sieves for making jam, canons reused as road blockers. In Cuba, “hay que inventar,” and the ingenuity of making something out of nothing exemplifies the vitality of the Cuban spirit. No matter the situation, Cubans will always find a way. It may take some waiting, but what emerges is nothing short of miraculous.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Why I don’t leave the apartment often, part 6,873...

Hopefully y’all will chuckle.  After I finished having my reactive-panic attack in my truck, I laughed, too.

I said I didn’t wanna go out today, and I meant it.

But I *had to* go out, and do errands I don’t take pleasure in:  Depositing cash I’d hoped to hang onto into my credit union account so that the automatic withdrawal of Farmer’s insurance doesn’t overdraw me and garner another $28 fee.  Such fun! I know, right?

After that, since it was in the same part of the shopping center I put the ebay pkg in the post office drop...there were people lined up everywhere.  I just ran back to the truck, and headed to the Safeway gas pumps, where I had calculated I could put $11 in without overdrawing my account, which might be a gallon and a half, and find it completely doubled up and overflowing into the main thoroughfare of the parking lot.

After finally getting up to the pumps, I saw why:  they had half of the 12 pumps completely shuttered, so only half as many people could get in there at a time.  I didn’t see the rubber cone in front of every other fucking pump and had to go around and do it twice (it’s a one-way hell hole).

And BEHOLD, finally after sitting for about ten minutes, idling, Buffy in front of me gets done, and I pull up to find that AT LAST, gas is under $5/gallon.  Cash or debit price today was $3.99!  Another reason for the clusterfuck.

So yeah, I was telling myself after THAT to just go home.  Shoulda.  Instead went on to GroceOut, because, well, i need coffee beans or else we risk bad things.  Got there, parking lot full, just figured I’d gird my loins and suck it up and brave the horde.

Right off the bat, I’m standing at the produce outside the door, INCONVENIENTLY PLACED so that you stand there with a basket, you block the exit for someone else.  I get right up to the grapes there and Tah-DAH! Angry annoyed woman waving me in when I just wanted to look at the grapes instead. 

Things aren’t lookin’ good already.  All the berries that used to be $2.99/pkg are now $4.99.  Bananas twice what they were.  The groceout it so packed, and so tightly set up that you can’t even take the barest moment to just look and see what the fuck they actually have, without someone getting snitty and you having to move.

Dairy and meat sections are the worst.  They have crowded the aisles until a basket barely pushes through.  One more annoyed woman thought I took too long at the eggs.  Calculate in head best route.  Escape that labyrinth with the goal:  cheese.  Then I make a beeline for the coffee beans, and am pleasantly surprised to find them stocked.  The meat looked abysmal, at least the sacred beans were there. 

So another trip around to try and find shit and then I go up to the checkout and am just about to unload the basket and a woman comes up to me saying “Sir, sir, SIR!  You have my basket!” 

Jumped outa my skin and panicked.  Like wtf?  Where was MY basket?  The last time I’d left it, I’d parked mine by an island in the produce to go scout out the bread and chips, and didn’t really look at it when I went back, just grabbed the handles and tried to navigate the horde up to the checkout. The woman who’s basket I had grabbed was (rightfully) pissed.  She just kinda snarled over her shoulder when I asked where was mine, and she said “By the Vegetables!”

So I run back and it was in the same position as the basket I’d grabbed, so that’s what had happened.  Of course, I’m fucking rattled outa my goddamn skin by the time I get through the checkout and out to the truck.  Just sat there having my little asthma/panic attack, sucked a couple of inhaler shots, calmed down enough to drive, said fuck it, even tho’ I needed to go to Lucky to get what GroceOut didn’t have, and just made it back to the apartment as fast as I could.

I didn’t WANNA go out to begin with, and I knew it was gonna be crazy, but I didn’t know just HOW crazy.  The sheer volume of people out at 3 in the afternoon on a Monday was waaaay beyond what I was prepared to deal with.  I’ll do the rest of the shit tomorrow before I have kiddo over tomorrow night for dinner, then she takes off for the frozen north to see her cousins and uncle (her dad’s brother) for the rest of winter break.

Now I have to find something else to sell by Jan 1:  I still need at least $200 to pay everything I’m gonna hafta pay.  I hate the goddamn holidays.  

[ninzied]

that which we call a rose

based on the prompt: a hello/goodbye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

happy valentine’s day, kastle fam!

On the second Thursday of every month, Karen can’t help the extra spring in her step. There’s no point in trying to hide it—she does have an office adjacent to Matt’s, after all—but until she knows what it even is, she’ll let her friends draw their own conclusions.

This month is no exception.

“So…hot date tonight?” asks Foggy, precisely ten minutes after Matt’s said goodbye. Though Foggy’s doing his best to sound nonchalant, he’s clearly been waiting all day to spring the question on her. “You haven’t stopped smiling since you walked in this morning. And that was before we even had coffee. What gives?”

“Not a date,” says Karen lightly. “But a something.”

“Wait.” Foggy looks up from his briefcase, dropping every pretense now. “Yeah? That’s great! I’m so happy for you, Karen.”

She looks a little bemusedly at him. “Thanks, Foggy, but it’s not a big deal. Just takeout and whatever’s on TV tonight, probably.”

“Hey,” says Foggy. “Not gonna lie, but that sounds pretty appealing right now.”

Karen lets out a laugh. “Why? What’s stopping you and Marci?”

“You know how she gets about this kind of thing.” Foggy glances at his watch, and groans. “Shoot. I still have to pick up flowers. I can’t afford to be late—literally. This place had like a five-month wait list for tonight, and I think there’s a surcharge if we hold up one of their tables.” He throws her a rueful smile. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” says Karen, in a tone that she hopes will come across as commiserating rather than slightly confused. Was there some memo about today that she missed?

“And you have a good ‘not a date but a something,’” says Foggy, practically beaming at her. “You can”—he gives a comical wag of his eyebrow—”not tell me all about it tomorrow, sound good?”

“Sure,” says Karen, smiling distractedly. She waits until Foggy has gone, the door closed securely behind him. And then she picks up her tiny desk calendar, which she’d forgotten to flip over to February, and looks down at today’s date.

Oh. God.

…

The signs are everywhere, on her walk home from the subway.

For the life of her, Karen doesn’t know how she could’ve missed them before. Paper hearts plastered on storefront windows. Floral shops spilling out onto the sidewalks. Restaurants boasting their two-for-one specials. And the couples. All the couples, wherever she turns.

By the time she’s at her apartment, Karen is nearing levels of genuine panic.

She hangs up her work clothes as if on autopilot. She pulls on a worn pair of leggings and a soft, oversized sweater before pausing to reconsider, and then she changes out of that too. This isn’t just any second Thursday of the month anymore.

She checks her phone, in case Frank has canceled.

She does have a text from him, but all it says is that he’s running about a half hour late—his latest demolition site is all the way up in the Bronx, and traffic is a bitch right now—but how does she feel about Vietnamese for dinner?

There’s no doubt in her mind that the day has not occurred to him either.

Perfect. I’ll be ready with the wine, she sends back, and immediately wonders what has come over her. Beer would’ve been the more appropriate choice for this very much not-a-date, and besides that, they never drink wine together. Whiskey, sometimes, but they’d finished off her last bottle of Maker’s the last time he was here.

Wine is different. Wine means something. Right?

What was she thinking?

And what on earth is she supposed to wear?

…

Karen answers the door an hour later, back in her sweater and leggings. She breathes a small sigh of relief to find Frank there in his typical attire—jeans, with a faded black henley, and a crooked half-grin as he steps over the threshold into her apartment.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says back, like it’s just another day. Like this is just another dinner for them to catch up. He holds up a bag and says, “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She reaches for the food so he can get out of his coat, but he waves her gently off.

“’S’okay, I got it.” He looks at her, his gaze going warm. “Think you said there’d be wine?”

And just like that, the rest of her anxiety melts away. There’s still a light flutter of nerves in her stomach, but that’s something else.

Something that she’s always going to feel whenever she’s around him, whether it’s Valentine’s Day or not.

…

Despite how casually Frank is dressed, there’s always a sense of formality to the way he moves around in her place. Like he’s not quite sure whether he’s intruding or not.

He carefully folds his jacket over the back of her couch before taking the food to her kitchen, unpacking each dish as she pulls out the wine.

She tells him about work—minus Foggy’s theories on how she planned to spend her evening—and Frank doesn’t say much, but she knows that he’s listening, attentive to her as ever.

Somewhere between the first and second glass of wine is when he starts to loosen a little, leaning his elbows onto the counter, swiping the last bite of spring roll from her plate.

He tells her small stories about how work has been going for him, and each time she laughs he ducks his head down, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

They end up eating half the food before realizing they’re still standing in her kitchen.

Frank takes their wine to the couch, and she turns the TV on at low volume, flipping aimlessly through the channels.

They settle on a cooking show, which would’ve surprised her one year ago, before these Thursday night dinners. Before he teased her for the one frying pan that she owned and resigned himself to eating takeout from then on. Before they learned to laugh about things like what Matt said at work that day, or the fact that Frank hasn’t had to kill anyone with a sledgehammer. Not recently, anyway.

“All right,” he says, pointing at the pasta on her TV screen. “Next month, we’re doing this at my place for a change, and I’m making you that.”

She doesn’t know why she does it.

Maybe it’s his casual reference to next times. Maybe it’s how closely they’ve wound up sitting together, with her thigh snug against his, the arm he’s draped warmly over the back of the couch right behind her.

Maybe it’s the way this not-so-random Thursday in February feels as though it could become something like every day, for them.

“Deal.” She puts a hand on his knee without even thinking about it, smiling as she tells him, “All right, I’m going to go to the bathroom real quick.”

“Okay,” says Frank, turning to smile back at her.

It happens so fast, so instinctively that before she knows what she’s doing, she’s leaning in, and pressing her mouth briefly to his as she stands from the couch.

Like this is an everyday kind of thing for them too, kissing each other before one of them’s about to leave the room.

Karen makes it down the hall without any memory of how her legs have carried her there. Oh God. Oh God.

Her cheeks are flaming when she shuts the bathroom door behind her.

…

After splashing water on her face, and dabbing it dry with shaky hands, she looks in the mirror and wills every last part of her being to get a freaking grip. This is Frank, and she can be honest with him. Even if it means being honest with herself.

She knows what this is. She knows what she wants it to be. And she’s done letting either of them think that anything less is going to be enough for her.

Karen takes a deep breath and steps out of the bathroom.

…

She hadn’t been gone long, but apparently it was long enough.

The TV’s shut off, their wine glasses cleared from the coffee table. He’s not on the couch.

He’s not—anywhere in her living room.

But as she moves closer, she sees his coat still folded there, and then she hears the sound of movement in the kitchen. She doesn’t know whether she’s more relieved or apprehensive at the prospect of facing him right now, but she supposes she’s grateful she even has the option to decide between the two.

Frank’s clearing the counter, so she can’t get a good read on his face. He’s quiet, though, brows creased together even more somberly than usual, and the fact that he won’t meet her eye should tell her everything he’s not saying out loud.

Their leftovers are stacked neatly next to the takeout bag. He slides the bag out of her way as she picks up the food containers, storing them in her fridge. There’s a six-pack of beer on one of the lower shelves, the bottles clinking together as she closes the door.

“Frank,” she says, careful not to look over at him, “I think we should talk about what we’re doing here.”

He swallows audibly. And then he says, “Yeah. I know.”

She glances at him, wishing she weren’t as surprised as she feels. She’d expected more resistance from him, if not outright denial. It’s unfair of her, she knows; Frank’s abysmal track record notwithstanding, he’s still here, despite the fact that she’d just snuck a kiss out of him without his permission. That has to mean something.

Right?

God love him, though, but he can’t seem to keep his hands still. He grips the edge of the counter, and then reaches into the takeout bag, a rustle of paper and plastic that echoes overloudly in the silence between them.

Karen presses her lips together, biting back a refrain about how now is probably not the time for dessert.

Instead, Frank pulls out a small bouquet of white roses.

She stares as he sets them down on the counter. When he looks up at her, it’s with an intensity that nearly knocks her off her feet, and she grips the counter edge too in order to steady herself.

His gaze is unwavering on hers. “I’ve been thinking about this day for a while.”

She blinks at him, a part of her still wondering if it’s wrong of her to hope. “You have?”

“More than anything.” He shifts closer, and now she can see the last of the fear in him too, how he’s finally reached past it for something—for more. The edge of her own fear starts to soften, giving way to that fluttering lightness only Frank can make her feel.

Karen steps forward, marveling at the shared heat between them without their bodies actually touching. “And what, exactly, have you been thinking?”

Frank brings his hand up to the back of her neck, and she closes her eyes as he pulls her in.

He kisses her, and it’s everything Karen has wanted, everything she could only pretend that she hadn’t been waiting for all this time. He kisses her, and she knows how long he’s been wanting, and how hard he’s been waiting for this too.

He draws in a hoarse breath when they part. “I wanted to get this right,” he murmurs.

“Well,” says Karen, trying—failing—not to smile, “you want to know what I think?”

He tightens his arms around her. “What?”

“I think this is a good place to start,” she says, and leans in to kiss him again.

[mdawritings]

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 3

I.III

Masterlist

Content warning: smut

"Most of your essays were… well, to put it bluntly, they were abysmal," Hotch paces at the front of the classroom the stack of essays piled in his arms. Your eyes remain focused on those arms of his, just slightly exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. You can’t stop thinking about how it felt, his fingers on your skin. The way he was so close. The way his lips just lightly brushed yours. Even now as he occasionally strolls past your desk you can swear you smell his cologne.

"Unless clearly stated on your paper, please don’t show up unannounced to my office. You can get on your knees and beg me, but I won’t change your grade." At that, your mind floods with images of you on your knees in front of your professor, his hands tangled in your hair, holding it away from your face. Hotch slides the paper onto your desk, pulling you out of your daydreaming. You glance up at him and you can see the smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.

You try your best to reciprocate a small smile, but you get the impression that he can read your mind and knows exactly what you were so focused on. You flip the paper over and your heart drops into your stomach. A big red C is circled at the top of the page with a note at the bottom that says ‘Come see me. Immediately.’

You feel Katie leaning over your shoulder to look at your paper and she lets out a small noise of surprise, "Wait… Did I do better than you?"

"I’m telling you, he hates me," Your grip on the paper tightens, the edges crinkling in your hands. This whole hot and cold thing is starting to piss you off. You busted your ass over this paper and you got a C? You don’t get Cs. You flip to your schedule, looking for when Hotchner’s office hours are: this afternoon. Great.

You block out the rest of class, unable to focus on anything but your horrible grade. You flip through the pages of your essay, seeing minimal markings on the nearly 12-page essay you slaved over for hours. With every minute your anger grows. By the time Hotchner is dismissing the class, you feel like a cartoon character with steam coming out of your ears.

"Hey, kid," Katie nudges your arm as she packs her bag, "It’s just one paper. You’ll recover."

"I hate him," You mutter through your clenched jaw. You shoot the professor one last hate-filled glare but he barely catches your eye-line as students swarm his desk, holding their papers out, already begging for grade changes and explanations.

"Come on, let’s get you out of here," Katie grabs your upper arm and pulls you towards the door, "You got time to get lunch with me?"

"Yeah, his office hours aren’t until 2:00." You nod glumly.

"Hey," She smiles and stops for a second to stand in front of you. She reaches forward and tilts your chin up with a smile, "Keep your chin up."

"That was terribly cheesy," You tease but can’t resist returning her smile.

"He’s being an asshole. But you’re going to go into his office and you’re going to be confident, prepared, and tell him that you worked hard. You want to do well in his class," She grinned, "You’re going to kiss his ass like you always do, teacher’s pet."

You roll your eyes, "He said he wouldn’t change the grade though."

"Who knows?" She shrugs before resuming walking and you hurry to catch back up with her, "Maybe you’ll be the exception to that rule. Maybe you can change his mind. Melt that cold dead heart of his just a little bit."

Katie drags you to get lunch but you can’t stomach anything but another coffee which just makes you more jittery and on edge about your meeting with Hotch. Honestly, you’re terrified to be alone with him. He’s intimidating and cruel and cold and purely mean, but there’s something so attractive about him to you. You want to hate him, you do hate him, but every time you think of him, you think of the way his hand felt under your chin, pulling your face up to look at him. You think of the way you get sucked into those warm brown eyes.

"I have to run but you’re strong and smart and capable," Katie stands up from your table, ruffles your hair a little bit before giving your arm a supportive squeeze.

You furrow your brows and attempt to fix the mess she’s made of your hair. "Thanks, Katie."

"See you at home," She grins before walking across the quad towards your apartment building. You let out a small shaky breath and look over the essay you’ve had clutched in your hands for the past hour. The edges are crumpled, the text is a little smudged from you running your fingertips over it, reading and re-reading your work, and there’s a small coffee stain on the third page. You stand up, throw out your hardly-touched lunch, and start back towards the law building.

Your heart is pounding up in your ears as you walk down the quiet hallway of offices on the third floor. Your eyes fall on the nameplate you’re looking for:

#335

Aaron Hotchner, J.D.

Criminal Law

You see the door is closed and you can hear two voices coming from inside. You resign yourself to leaning against the wall just outside the office and start to read your paper for what feels like the hundredth time.

The conversation inside his office grows louder in volume and you can faintly hear two distinct voices: the deep voice of Professor Hotchner and another, higher-pitched female one. You lean in a little closer, unable to help your curiosity when the door swings open and you stumble backward out of the way of a young girl storming out of his office, tears streaming down her face.

Just as you watch the girl hurry down the hallway and you turn to walk into the office, practically colliding with Professor Hotchner who stands in the doorway. He has his hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled up sloppily, and he leans a little against the doorframe, "Miss Y/L/N." He nods at you.

"Professor Hotchner—"

"Hotch," He cuts you off, "Come on inside, we have a lot to talk about." He steps out of the way, leaving just barely enough room for you to make it through the door frame so that when you walk through, your body brushes up against his. You take a few steps into his office and take a look around.

You hear the door shut behind you but you can’t turn around to face Hotch just yet. Your eyes are running over the massive wall of books. The entirety of one wall of Hotchner’s office is shelves upon shelves of books. Your eyes scan the wall, noticing that, surprisingly, most of the books aren’t law textbooks or any titles that you recognize that relate to law in any way whatsoever. You look around at the rest of the office. For such a strict, harsh, professor, there are papers everywhere.

The entirety of his desk is covered in loose-leaf pages of paper, pens tossed around haphazardly. There are crumpled balls of paper around the trashcan. You notice a small antique typewriter on the edge of his desk. The blinds are closed, making the office dark, the only light comes from his desk lamp.

Hotch clears his throat behind you, finally pulling your attention back to the reason you’re standing in the middle of his office. "Miss Y/L/N? I assume you didn’t just come here to ogle at my books or judge my mess."

You while back around, embarrassment filling you and your entire demeanor, "I’m sorry Professor, I’ve just never seen so many books." Your anger and frustration has disappeared as you’re so entranced by his collection.

"You’re here because of your essay? I’m not in the habit of changing grades if that’s why you’re here,"

"Sir," You furrow your brows, growing confused at his actions. He’s always fucking confusing, "You’re the one who wanted to see me."

"Oh yes," He nods and moves past you to lean against his desk. He places his hands firmly gripping the edge of the wood. Sitting against the desk has lowered him to your height, his eyes directly at your eye line. "But not really about the essay."

"But sir–" You hold out your paper.

Hotch takes it from you, "Hotch. Remember? I don’t think you were that drunk that you can’t remember."

You stumble over your words a little before starting again, "Hotch. I worked really hard on this essay and I know I deserve better than a C. I don’t mean to sound stuck up but for christ’s sake, Katie started her essay the night before, I’m sure mine is better than hers. If you just look," You take a few steps towards him and lean forward to point out a few places in your essay. Just as you lean forward you see his eyes dart up off the paper, first glancing at your chest and then at your eyes. You pause before continuing, "If you just look again you’ll see–"

"You’re right." He puts the paper on the desk beside him, "Your essay is better than everyone else’s. But you can do better than this. This?" He places a hand on the paper next to him, "This is C work for you."

"Professor" You start and you see him raise a brow at you, "Hotch… that’s entirely unfair."

He suddenly stands up and moves past you, looking over his bookshelf, pulling out a book before turning to you, "You said it yourself, you’re smarter than every one of those fucking morons kissing my ass every day."

You’re slightly taken aback by his language and glance down at the book in his hands. He gives a subtle nod before continuing, "You have the potential to be a great lawyer. I want to give you the knowledge you get with years and years of interning experience." He holds out the book and you take it from his hands.

You flip it over, noticing it has no title, no name on the spine but once you open it, it’s filled with practically illegible scribbling. You finger through the pages quickly, "Sir, is this yours?"

"They’re notes from some of my most prominent cases," He takes a step closer and points down into the page you’re on, "That was one of my first cases as a federal prosecutor."

Now you’re really confused, "So you gave me a C on my paper to tell me I’m smart and capable?" You look up, his face much closer than expected and your eyes dart down to his lips.

"I gave you a C because your work should be way better than what you handed in,"

"You have to grade me against the same criteria as everyone else." You shake your head. You’re definitely not as angry as you were when you stormed in here, and maybe it’s the way that his whole office smells like his cologne, or how close he’s standing to you right now. He notices you staring at his lips for a second too long before smirking. That urges you to force your focus back on the book in your hand.

"Do you want to be great or do you want to be like everyone else?" He crosses his arms across his chest.

"I’m just confused–,"

"I want to tutor you, once a week," He doesn’t let you finish your thought.

"I really am grateful, Sir, but this book is… I can’t take—"

Hotch reaches down, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him, "As much as I love hearing the word ‘Sir’ come out of that pretty little mouth of yours, I mean it. Call me Hotch."

You stumble over your words a little, feeling the heat both rising in your cheeks and throughout your whole body. His fingers are still under your jaw, his thumb gently stroking your chin lazily. You know exactly what he means. He wants to tutor you and sleep with you. And God, do you want to sleep with him. You know it’s a bad idea. You know he’s manipulating you. He’s taking advantage of your aspirations for success. You pull out of his grip and hold the book tightly against your chest, moving to lean against his desk.

It feels as if he can read your mind because the next words out of his mouth are, "You don’t have to have sex with me for the lessons." He clarifies.

Your eyes shoot up to his, widening slightly at his blunt phrasing, "I didn’t think that—"

"I’m offering you a chance at greatness here," He walks closer to you again. "No matter what, I want to help you reach your fullest potential." He reaches his hand up to cup your cheek but you sense him pause, closing his fist before lowering it a little. He’s waiting. He might be an asshole, but he’s waiting to get a sign from you that it’s okay to keep touching you.

You put the book down on the desk, standing up straighter. Your body close to his, "When do we start?"

"Every Wednesday, 2 pm," He nods, a smile spreading across his face. He lifts his hand, cupping your face, thumb rubbing your cheek gently, "I’m going to push you to your limits, think you can handle that?"

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch and you let out a soft ‘mhm’ in response.

"Look at me," Hotch commands and you feel him jerk your head up, so that when you open your eyes you’re looking up at him.

"What I wouldn’t do," His fingers slip through your cardigan, gently brushing the bare skin of your shoulder, "To tear these clothes off your irresistible little body," His voice is hoarse and low and you immediately regret looking up into his eyes.

His lips are on yours in an instant. Every time he pulls away from the kiss for a second, you feel his hot breath fan over your face. You quickly slip off your cardigan, leaving you just in your tank top.

"You had some dirty thoughts today in class," He groans against your lips.

You mumble in agreement as his hands run up to rest on your waist. He gives a tight, bruising squeeze to your hips before roughly lifting you up onto the edge of his desk.

"Wanted to get on your knees like a little slut, didn’t you," He growls out, kissing under your jaw, nipping your skin roughly.

"Yes," You moan out.

"Tell me what you want," He reaches for the strap of your tank top and yanks it down, revealing the silky cups of your bra. He palms your breast fiercely, your skin and hot and pliable in his hands.

"To pleasure you," Then you realize what he wants. You can read him perfectly. You know exactly the kind of man he is, "Sir." You purr out the last word and he growls into your mouth.

You open your legs so he can stand between them. His hands are rough and the pace the two of you are moving at is wild, uncontrollable because you don’t want him, you need him.

He presses his firm form against you, his hands splayed, groping and exploring your flesh. Your skin is warm in his hands. Your kisses are frantic, his mouth warm and wet on yours. It’s chaos. It’s wild, animalistic. You grip the collar of his shirt tightly in your fists, his hot breath fanning over your neck, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He pulls your tank top up over your head. You attempt to pull him closer, wanting to grind your hips against his.

"Look at you," He drawls out against your bare shoulder, his long fingers ghosting over your ribcage and then down to the top of your pants. He slowly works to unbutton them. "A moaning, squirming mess and I haven’t even begun to touch you."

"Please, I’m sick of you teasing me," You let out impatiently. At that his hand comes to your throat, his thumb jutting under your chin harshly. He brings his face close, eyes searching yours.

"If you can’t handle this," He tuts disapprovingly, the same tone he takes when you get something wrong in class, "What I have planned for us will absolutely ruin you." You find yourself clenching your pussy around absolutely nothing at that. Just his words manage to make you unbearably aroused.

He releases your neck, fingers hooking into your pants and underwear at the same time to rip them down off your legs. "What do you want from me?" He groans his hand slipping between your bodies, two fingers lazily stroking your clit.

"Please," You whine and jump at his touch, "Please sir." You’re begging. You need more.

"Please, sir." He mocks you, taunting you, trying to sound bored, "Please, sir… what?"

You moan in response as his fingers circle your clit harder. "Well?" He grips the nape of your neck, forcing your face close to his, your noses pressed against one another but he keeps you at a distance so you can’t kiss him. "Remember I said you have to learn to use. Your. Words." At that last word, he gives a small smack to your clit before resuming his slow but harsh circles.

"Please," You grip the edge of the desk tightly, "I want to fuck your mouth." You stumble over your words through the moans. Hotch released your head forcibly, placing his hands on your thighs, pushing you further onto the desk. You place your feet on the edge, spreading your legs to give him full access.

He releases a small moan in response, eyes focusing on the view between your legs right now. Then he’s sinking to his knees in front of you, burying his head between your thighs and absolutely devouring you with his tongue.

You knot a hand into his hair, messing it up and tugging slightly at the roots. Your moans are loud and unrestrained. His tongue laps against you, exploring you and sucking lightly on your clit. As he works you over, you let out a string of curses and chants, ‘Fuck just like that! Please, sir more! Professor!’ He seems to like the names you’re calling him instead of Hotch now.

You’re melting under his touch. The way his tongue smoothly laps against your heated skin, the way he pays attention to what makes you moan louder and then proceeds to make your eyes roll back in your head. He’s not just good, he’s amazing. Your stomach tightens and you feel the familiar tingle of pleasure working its way through your body.

Your breathing stutters as you attempt to form any sense of coherent thought as the powerful rush of pleasure fills your whole body. You hear yourself chanting ‘Yes sir’ over and over as your orgasm rocks your body wildly. Hotch’s mouth and tongue are unrelenting, stroking, licking, and sucking throughout your whole orgasm.

He pulls away as your heart rate slows down. You let your eyes close for a second as you catch your breath and he steps between your legs again, reaching for your cheek to kiss you again. Once you catch your breath and open your eyes you settle on the growing bulge in his slacks. You reach in between the two of you, palming him through the fabric, tracing the outline of his hard cock. He hisses response but soon grips your hands tightly stopping you.

"Did I say you could do that?" He wrenches your hands away.

"I just want to return the favor, sir," You pout up at him and he forces your hands back to your sides.

"Oh you will," He nods, stepping away to walk around and sit at his desk chair behind you. He pulls out a paper and you scrunch up your face. You crane your head around to look at him. "Just not now." He gives a small nod, "See you on Wednesday."

You hop off the desk rushing to get dressed and gather up your things. He holds out the notebook from earlier and you take it from him, your hands brushing against his, sending sparks up your arm. You’re not even quite sure what to say to him. You can sense he’s getting impatient as you linger there longer. You turn to the office door and when you place your hand on the knob he calls out from behind you, "Miss Y/L/N."

"Next meeting… wear a skirt," Hotch gives you a small wink and you nod, quite honestly still reeling from the events of the past hour.

Chapter 4: I.IV →

[hushnow-hun]

light up my world

For shinkamiweek2020. Day 1: soulmates.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240696

---

In all the years he’s lived, Shinsou’s life stays pretty much the same. Same apartment, same appearance, same circle of friends (if he counts the people Midoriya has him tag along with when he drags Shinsou with him to night-outs).

It’s not a big deal. He’s made a routine and he’s sticking to it. There’s comfort, he finds, in going through the same motions, in knowing how the day ends when he gets out of bed first thing in the morning. It’s cool.

Alright, so maybe he wants a little more. Maybe he lies awake at night sometimes, with nothing but the dull, whitish light creeping in from his window for company, and thinks about just how empty his apartment really is. Thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad having someone with him, someone to come home to at the end of the day.

A soulmate. He’s talking about a soulmate. His soulmate.

God.

It’s not like he doesn’t believe in it. He totally does— he’s seen it happen a dozen times now. Two people touch (even if it’s just the barest graze of hand against skin), and then that pause of awe and shock, that caught breath, that quiet gasp. They say it’s like your whole world just lights up, the colors seeping into everything like paint onto canvas.

It sounds so wonderful, but Shinsou’s not sure if it’s for him.

It’s like— how can he explain it? He doesn’t think he’s ready for it. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be, if truth be told. Having a soulmate is one thing but being with them is another, and Shinsou doesn’t want to fuck it up. He doesn’t want to face disappointment, or worse, fear. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his supposed other half wouldn’t want to be with him.

So it’s fine. He keeps to himself, tries to keep the touching to a minimum. He throws himself into his routine and tries to make the best of things. Same old, same old.

-

For the most part, it’s still dark out, but that doesn’t bother him. Shinsou knows this trail like the back of his hands. Usually, the only people he’d encounter on his morning run are other joggers, plus that one old man a few blocks down who always waters his plants first thing.

This time though there’s a boy in the park. He’s out there in the field all by himself playing, of all things, baseball. Why someone would think it’s a good idea to play baseball by themselves before the sun’s even come up is beyond Shinsou, but he’s not here to judge.

He tries to keep his staring inconspicuous as he jogs steadily past the boy, and watches quietly as he sent the ball sailing into the net. There isn’t much force behind it, but it’s not like he’s playing a real game anyway.

Shaking his head, Shinsou focuses once more on the path before him, on the familiar rhythm of feet pounding against dirt. The air is cool against his skin, and Shinsou breathes it in deeply, the scent of trees and local flora soothing him down to the bone.

He had felt particularly restless when he woke up this morning for no reason at all. Eventually, he grew tired of turning and shifting in his sheets and decided to start the day a little earlier than usual. It was a good call. Just being out here by himself has already washed out the pent-up ener—

Something blunt hits him right in the back of his head and Shinsou, caught off guard, stumbles over a tree root and hits the ground with an emphatic, “Fuck!”

He stays sprawled there, feeling the dull, barely-there ache in his head and a stinging on his right palm. For a second, he tries to think whether or not he was being mugged, when a baseball rolls innocuously into view.

Sighing his heaviest sigh today (and it’s not even 6:00 yet) he turns to see Baseball Guy stumbling out of the shrubs, looking panicked. When he sees Shinsou on the ground, his face falls even more.

“I— shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He reaches out with a hand, but Shinsou waves him off, moving into a sitting position.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes on the ground. After checking that his earphones were fine, he pockets them and looks up at Baseball Guy, who had not calmed down in the slightest.

“Are you sure? I really am so sorry! I didn’t think I’d hit it that hard. And I don’t know how it just veered off course like that!”

Shinsou was about to say something biting about his clearly abysmal aiming when he actually got a good look at Baseball Guy. He’s hunched over Shinsou, his light-colored hair hanging over brows pulled into a worried frown, pulling at his lip with his teeth. His hand, still hanging hesitantly between them, twitches like he wants to help Shinsou up, or maybe to touch the spot where the ball hit his head.

He’s, dare he say, kinda cute.

Slowly, Shinsou reaches behind him to feel his head. There’s still that dull ache, but that’s all it is. Nonetheless, Shinsou makes a big show of wincing.

“Well,” he says lowly, moving his hand down to rub the back of his neck. “That was a solid hit. Good to know you can play.” His lips quirk when the guy drops fully down to his level, looking even more frantic.

“Oh god, you— you don’t have a concussion, do you?”

Baseball Guy just looks so worried. Shinsou has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face. If he works it up a little, he could get this guy to buy him coffee, he muses. And then froze, because his brain was suddenly bombarding him with, Date? Like a date? Coffee for a date?

(It’s really not. Nope nope nope nope. No.)

(No!)

Suddenly thrown off-balance by his own train of thought, Shinsou just nods absently at whatever Baseball Guy was saying. It wasn’t until the boy leaned closer and held his hands out towards Shinsou’s head expectantly that he realized what was being asked.

“Er,” he says, but when he saw the guy hesitate, Shinsou curses himself and tilts his head down obligingly, determined to get this over with. Baseball Guy was wearing a plain black t-shirt, not too fit nor too loose, and Shinsou tries not to think about how close he was to his chest. The guy sifts his fingers into Shinsou’s hair with surprising gentleness, prodding at the spot where the dull ache is. Damn my traitor brain, Shinsou thinks as he wills a blush to disappear. Forget the coffee not-date because he is gonna book it out of here once Baseball Guy is done.

But he’s been still and quiet for a while now.

“Shit,” Shinsou mumbles. ”Don’t tell me it’s bleeding.” He looks up and sucks in a sharp breath.

Because there are colors. Everywhere, the black and white and washed-out gray fading away slowly.

And his soulmate. He looks exactly how Shinsou feels, his jaw slack with awe and disbelief as he stares at the sun peeking out over the roofs, the day’s colors starting to spread across the sky.

His soulmate’s hair looks a lot like the sun, but… brighter somehow, even in the pale morning light. Bright and vibrant and alive, like his eyes, like the flush in his cheeks.

“Shit,” Shinsou breathes out, his chest tight. It feels too much even though it’s not. He can’t imagine ever getting enough of this.

The boy’s gaze snaps back to him, like he’s suddenly remembered he was there, and Shinsou just stares back with wide eyes, feeling caught. He can’t put a name to the emotions flitting so rapidly across his soulmate’s face, even if his life depends on it.

“I…” The guy trailed off. The smallest hum of electricity skids across his bare arm, crackling—his quirk, Shinsou realizes. His soulmate runs a hand over it almost absentmindedly and doesn’t stop looking at Shinsou, his lips parted a fraction. Shinsou swallows, and his bright eyes follow the movement.

His jolts suddenly, startling both of them. “Oh god, I just hit you. I just hit my soulmate with a baseball to the head.”

Before Shinsou could react, his soulmate takes his head in his hands and tilts it down, raising himself up on his knees to take a better look at it. He was already rambling. “I— no, I think you’re good? You’re not bleeding or anything. I don’t even feel any swelling. Gah, this is just so embarrassing,” he added the last bit under his breath.

He let go of his head only to grab Shinsou by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “Does it still hurt? Sorry, I’m not really good at this kind of stuff. Do you want to get it checked out or something?”

Shinsou stared wide-eyed at his soulmate, who was looking back at him with such an earnest and worried—and nervous—expression. He couldn’t help it. He laughed, something light settling into his chest and filling him with sudden exhiliration.

When the guy’s eyebrows shot up, Shinsou rushed to clarify, grabbing the hand still placed on his shoulder. He gave it a small squeeze. “I feel fine. It doesn’t even hurt that much,” he admitted.

But this only made his soulmate frown more. “But you looked in pain earlier.”

“That’s… I… was just teasing you?”

The guy blinks and huffs out a startled laugh, throwing his head back. Shinsou eased back on his sitting position and just gazed at him, at the way the early morning light played on his features, drawing Shinsou in even more. My soulmate, he thinks, half giddily and half still in disbelief. The feeling in his chest hasn’t gone away.

The guy releases a breath and stares back at him. “My name’s Denki. Kaminari Denki, but feel free to call me Denki,” he says, a crooked grin in place.

Shinsou could feel his own lips tug into a smile. “Shinsou Hitoshi, but feel free to call me Hitoshi.”

“Hitoshi,” Denki whispers, sounding out the name. He grins.

Denki stands up and brushes himself off, offering a hand and pulling Shinsou to his feet. He lets go after a second too long. “You know, this didn’t go how I thought it would,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No?” Shinsou says, amused.

Denki shakes his head softly. “Nah.” He spots something on top of Shinsou’s head and, as he makes to reach towards him again, he hesitates. “You have a…” He gestures to his own hair.

Shinsou tilts his head down just a bit (he’s taller by a few inches) and Denki plucks a leaf from it. “How’d that get there?” Shinsou mumbles, still looking at Denki.

As he tosses the leaf away with a flick of the wrist, Denki says, in his best casual tone, “I feel like I should make it up to you. You know, for the terrible first impression.”

“What about the almost head injury?” Shinsou raises a brow.

Denki scoffs. “Thought you said you were fine.” He punches him in the shoulder jokingly. When Shinsou raises the same brow again, he flushed and ducked his head away, mumbling something under his breath.

“So I was thinking,” he began, rubbing his neck. “My place is nearby. You could come over and I could patch that up.” He nods at Shinsou’s hand. He’d almost forgotten the scrape he’d gotten earlier when he fell. “Plus, I could cook us both breakfast. I’ll make the Kaminari Denki special! What do you say?”

Shinsou hums and pretends to think on it just to watch Denki squirm. “I don’t know,” he drawled. “Is there a chaperone?”

Denki’s eyes goes wide. “No! I mean, my roommate should be there, yeah, but that’s not what I meant! I just— I thought I could maybe make you breakfast as an apology, or something,” he stammers.

“Or something?” Shinsou repeats, his smile broadening.

Denki hides his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

Shinsou laughs. “Relax, Denki. I’m kidding,” he says, enjoying the blush spreading to the tips of the bright-haired boy’s ears. “Yeah,” he adds softly. “Yes, I’ll go.”

Denki’s answering grin is bright and fills him head to toe with warmth. “Great!”

The sun has risen higher in the span of time they spent standing there in the middle of a dirt trail. Shinsou could see so much more colors now and it only feels a tad bit disorienting. Mostly he’s still drunk on happiness and exhilaration, and he laps up the way the light shines on all the new colors. But even more so, he can’t keep his eyes away from Denki too long, who was now pulling him along and asking what he wanted for breakfast and talking about his disaster-riddled, self-taught journey on learning to cook.

The sunlight looks better on him than on anything else.

[just-another-thundermans-blog]

All Alone - Chapter 2 Part I

Beginning - Previous

[A/N: This chapter deals with the aftermath of Chapter 1 and so, it will be more heavy than its predecessor! I hope you like it!]

---

TRIGGER WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH AND SUBSEQUENT FUNERAL, SHOCK, ANXIETY ATTACK, AND MENTAL BREAKDOWNS! IF ALL OF THIS TRIGGERS YOU THEN DON'T READ!

---

The Hero League didn't take long to arrive. 15 minutes had barely passed since he had called them but, soon enough, the door was being broken down and heroes were swarming into the house like ants on a piece of candy.

Max didn't react to any of that, far too lost in grief and shock to respond to anything. He was sure that President Kickbutt was trying to talk to him, but he couldn't discern anything she was saying from the buzz of static in his ears. 

He wasn't sure what was actually happening outside of his consciousness. His hands felt clammy but that's about all he can currently, consciously, feel. His mind was suddenly having trouble processing everything and anything, and he felt like he was floating on some unknown planet. 

Images of his family kept replaying in his mind like a twisted version of one of those stupid PowerPoint Presentations that the teachers in Hiddenville (Metroburg uses holograms) use. The images kept flashing between past and present. Phoebe laughing with Cherry, Phoebe dead on the floor of her room, Mom and Dad joking and teasing each other, Mom and Dad dead in the living room, Billy and Nora running around the house playing, Billy and Nora broken and bleeding behind Phoebe.

He wasn't sure what he was even feeling anymore. Sometimes the fog clears up and he feels vestiges of something- something that hurts and burns and leaves him breathless with its intensity, but most of the time it's simply nothing but a blurred perception of everything and flashing images of his loved ones. 

He wasn't sure where he even was anymore. At times, he gets moments of clarity where he's in a bare room with nothing but white everywhere (why is it all white though? It was dark in his house and the walls weren't that white so where was he-), but soon enough they all blend back into the blur of static and confusion that he unwittingly found himself in. 

He just felt so heavy and so weightless at the same time, and his head felt like it was full of cotton wool. Then as suddenly as that sensation developed, he abruptly felt his surroundings sharpen and his sense of perception clear up. It was as though a switch had been flipped, and it was so disorienting, he felt like his very soul was being jarred from its place. 

Feeling his heart rate increasing as his breathing got faster and faster, Max took quick stock of his surroundings. Heart monitor, I.V. drip, soft white sheets, and an overbearing smell of antiseptic- oh shoot he was in a hospital room (which explained all the whiteness). 

Suddenly, doctors and nurses swarmed into the room, increasing his anxiety and making him panic even more. He was in a hospital- he couldn't be in a hospital- what about their secret, it'll all be revealed and his parents would be so mad and disappointed-

His chest burned with the lack of oxygen and he felt his heart hammering in his chest. He tried to take deep, even, breaths (just like Dr. Colosso always said-) and calm down enough to think the situation through. It didn't work. Panic had already consumed him in its powerful dark grip, and his throat was beginning to feel clogged and he couldn't breathe properly-

A sensation of cool calmness invaded his frenzied senses and calmed his frazzled nerves as he felt his eyes droop in sudden exhaustion. Soon after, his vision went black and all thoughts of the material world fled his head.

-0-

President Kickbutt was not having a good week. Between the endless mountains of paperwork and Max's call, the Hero League was at an all-time worst. There wasn't a hero in Metroburg that hasn't heard of the Thunderman tragedy and most were shocked, frightened even, that such a prominent superhero family was so easily killed. 

Hank Thunderman was known for his abnormal strength and his ability to conquer even the toughest of opponents (as his fight with the Green Ghoul 20 years prior proved-) and his death had brought about a sudden instability that hadn't been in the hero community since before his debut as a hero. 

His son, Max, was another can of worms entirely. Ever since he was in Middle School, the boy wanted nothing more than to be a supervillain. He kept telling everyone and anyone that would listen to him that he's going to be the 'greatest supervillain' and surpass even Dark Mayhem. He always punctuated his statements with outrageous pranks and remarks and (according to his teachers) he was an absolute terror with abysmal marks. From what she had seen though, Max Thunderman was nothing if not confident and witty, and when she found him at what remained of the Thunderman home in Hiddenville, she was shaken to her core.

He looked so lost, and he wouldn't respond to anyone or anything. He just kept staring into thin air with glazed over eyes and ragged breathing, looking for all the world like someone who had died on the inside. Remembering the look in his eyes, as he was carted away by the Metroburg ambulance team, made her cringe and shudder every time. Poor boy didn't deserve what was happening to him.

A week had passed since the incident and yet Max wasn't showing any sign of recovery. Blobbin had already requested that the boy be transferred into his care immediately but she wanted to give Max a chance to choose his new guardian. She wouldn't take his right to choose, he had lost too much already and (by the look of things) Blobbin agreed. 

It was all a big mess and Kickbutt was in the process of drinking some afternoon coffee (trying to unwind a bit-) when the Metroburg City Hospital called. Apparently, Max had responded to something but-

"We had to sedate him," Said the Doctor over the phone.

"What?" Kickbutt gritted out as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Gosh, the kid just woke up why-

"He was showing signs of an Anxiety Attack," The doctor, whose name she can't remember for the life of her, responded, "It could've set back his recovery, and we had to act quickly."

Kickbutt exhaled through her nostrils and set down the phone for a moment. This was all such a royal mess, wasn't it?

"President Kickbutt?" A hesitant voice sounded from the speaker of her phone.

Kickbutt felt her eye twitch as she bit her lip in frustration. Yup, it was a huge mess.

-0-

When Max came to, almost 12 hours later, the first thing he noticed was the stark white ceiling. Strange, that wasn't how his ceiling looked. He blinked again as his memories started to trickle in slowly. He was in… a hospital. He closed his eyes a bit in frustration. Why was he in a hospital- where was his family? Just- what happened???

A soft knock sounded on the door. Max just had the time to incline his head towards it when a nurse invited herself in. She looked… plain, to say the least. Her brown hair, dark eyes, and peachy complexion did not make her stand out much.

The lady was holding something in her hand, something sharp and pointy- oh God that was a syringe-. He took a sharp intake of breath and fought the urge to scream. He felt his body tense involuntarily and, apparently, he inhaled too loudly because the nurse suddenly noticed him. 

"Oh! You're awake!" She crowed and immediately started buzzing a strange button by his bed. 

Max didn't reply though, too focused on the object in her hand to really consider talking. She turned to him, brandishing the syringe in her hand (the urge to scream strengthened), and smiled sweetly, "The doctor will be here shortly." She said and then raised the syringe. 

Max eyed the thing with slight fear, but as the nurse stabbed the I.V. drip next to his bed with it, he felt the tension bleed from his shoulders and relief settle in his bones. Thank Goodness that thing wasn't being stabbed into his arm instead!

His thought process was interrupted when three polite knocks sounded on the door. This time, a man with salt and pepper hair and a rather friendly face invited himself into the room. He smiled serenely at Max as the boy pushed himself upright. The 15-year-old staunchly ignored the slight (almost unnoticeable) weakness in his arms, and began to wonder just how long was he asleep for? 

"Good evening, Max. I'm Doctor Kevin," The doctor said as he adjusted the file in his hands, "How are you feeling today?" He asked with a friendly smile.

Max blinked at the harmless question (that the doctor was probably hoping would put him at ease) and licked his chapped lips. He tried to talk but his throat protested the action vehemently. Wincing, he pointed at his throat and hoped that the doctor would get the memo.

The doctor (now known as Dr. Kevin) nodded sheepishly and turned to the plain nurse, "Please, pour him a cup of water."

The nurse nodded (looking more dignified than she had when she barged into the room) and proceeded to fiddle with a closed bottle of water that had been sitting on the table next to him. Max blinked and turned back to the doctor.

Doctor Kevin smiled evenly, "I'm sure you have a lot of questions right now," He said kindly as the nurse handed Max the cup of water. The 15-year-old nodded a bit absently as he stared at the paper cup in his hand.p

The doctor nodded patiently and pointed at him with a pen that he got from… somewhere, "We'll answer them all in due time, but for now, you should probably drink some water."

Max nodded, still not entirely there, and took a slow sip before he gulped the whole thing down. Gosh, he didn't know he was so thirsty until now. He nodded at the nurse gratefully and handed her the paper cup.

Looking at the doctor, Max tilted his head, "What-" He paused, cleared his throat (his voice sounded so scratchy-), and then tried again, "What happened? Why am I here?" He, despite his best efforts, rasped out.

The doctor looked at him critically for a few moments, "You truly don't remember, do you?"

Max wrinkled his nose in frustration, "Remember what? The last thing I remember was being stuck in detention," -and feeling an acute sense of danger.

"...I see," Murmured the doctor looking suddenly uncomfortable.

"You didn't answer me though," Max deadpanned, fisting his sheets, "What happened- why am I here- I- Where's my family?" 

The doctor ceased all action before he gently closed the file. He peered at Max through sad eyes full of pity, and Max found himself growing angry. He hated pity.

"Don't just stand there!" Max snarled, "Tell me what's wrong- what happened?! Where is everyone?!" He could feel his breathing elevate as his anxiety skyrocketed all of a sudden. He had a feeling he won't like the answer.

The doctor looked at him with a strange look, "Max," The man said slowly, "I need you to calm down."

"Calm down?!" Max laughed a bit hysterically, hating the way his voice cracked, "How do you want me to calm down when you won't tell me what the hell is going on?!?" He wasn't shouting- not quite at least.

The doctor looked the epitome of calmness as he cautiously approached his bedside, "I understand," He replied evenly, "I just need you to calm down before you launch yourself into an anxiety attack."

"But-"

"Calm down, breathe evenly," The doctor paused, looking like he was considering his options, "And I'll tell you everything. Does that sound good?"

Max glared at the man but jerkily nodded as he averted his gaze to his fisted hands. He tried his best to even out his breathing through the breathing exercises that Colosso had taught him. It was a lot of work, but he managed a semi-calm state.

The doctor, who at some point pulled up a chair to his bedside, studied him critically, "Are you feeling better?"

Max bit his lip at the surge of irrational anger that flooded his veins and sighed in frustration, "Less angry, I guess," He mumbled out, his brows furrowed slightly.

"Good," The doctor nodded, "Now, I need you to focus with me because what I'm about to say isn't going to be easy to hear."

Max looked at him as slight anxiety prickled at his chest, "Something bad happened." He stated anxiously.

The doctor pursed his lips, "Unfortunately, yes."

"And I can't remember...?"

"Not at the moment, no."

Max clenched his eyes briefly and fought the urge to yell again, "Why?" He gritted out instead, fisting the sheets of his hospital bed.

The doctor barely reacted to his tone, "I can only assume it's a defense mechanism that your brain activated," The man said, his tone even, "It is not unheard of for victims of trauma to block out unpleasant memories, especially if said memories cause them grief."

Max licked his lips as slow, venomous, panic clawed at his very heart, "What-" He swallowed and cleared his throat as his voice broke slightly, "What… what happened?" He asked hesitantly.

Doctor Kevin looked at him with a pained expression, "Brace yourself," He said quietly. 

Just then, with that one little statement, all of Max's alarm bells blared to life. 

"Are you ready?" The man inquired gently, and Max could literally feel his heart plummet.

The truth is, he really didn't want to hear this because- what could have possibly been so traumatic and horrifying that his brain had to block it out as a defense mechanism? 

(he already had a few ideas but none that he particularly wanted to entertain.)

Max closed his eyes and worried his lip. He really needed to know, but he didn't want to. 

Coming to a decision, Max nodded jerkily and braced himself mentally (preparing for the worst.)

"Today is Thursday, June 16th, 2015" The doctor started heavily; carefully avoiding Max's confused gaze, "About a week ago, the Thunderman house in Hiddenville received an attack by a villain not yet identified,"

Max felt his eyes widen as memories began to trickle in. Mom, Dad, Phoebe, Billy, and Nora- all- all-

"The unknown villain has succeeded in…" The doctor paused to collect his words, noticing the slowly growing look of horrified realization on Max's face, "assassinating," The man tactfully ignored the choked noise that escaped Max's lips, "almost the entire family. Only one person remains now, and.." Here, the doctor hesitated.

Max, who had gone so pale his complexion almost matched the hospital sheets, carefully looked at the doctor, "And what?" He murmured hoarsely, barely keeping it together.

"You're the only person that survived the attack, Max. I'm so sorry."

Max didn't respond after that. He felt a familiar sting behind his eyes and the stupid lump in his throat that could only be the result of incoming tears. He tried to rub his eyes to ward off the stupid burning sensation behind his retinas though judging by slight wetness he felt on his cheeks, he wasn't quite successful.

The doctor gently patted his shoulder and stood up, "I'm so sorry for your loss," The man stated quite sadly, "I'll give you a moment alone." And with that, the man left the room.

It was only when he was truly, finally, alone that Max allowed his sobs to escape him in the form of heartwrenching wails of anguish and sorrow.

-0-

It feels surreal, Max thought idly not really paying attention to his surroundings. He was dressed in all black and while that normally wouldn't have made a difference, it seemed especially prominent on the day of his family's funeral.

A lot of.. people actually came. He had known that his family was prominent (his father was one of the most celebrated superheroes in the country for God's sake-) but it still felt… unnatural.

Many people had come to him before the beginning of the service to wish him condolences. Some were sympathetic, others looked like they didn't particularly care as long as they made themselves look good.

Personally, he just wanted to be done with it and just go… somewhere (Blobbin was hovering nearby maybe he'd actually take him up on his offer-). The whole thing felt out of place.

The ceremony itself passed in a blur and he didn't pay attention (too lost in his own dark thoughts and grief) until it was time for his eulogy. He hadn't come with a pre-prepared speech like most of the others did, so he had to come up with something on the fly. 

He wasn't known for his quick wit for nothing, though. Quickly and in less than 5 minutes, Max successfully composed a 25-minute eulogy celebrating the lives of Hank, Barb, Phoebe, Billy, and Nora Thunderman. He told stories of the family chilling under the sun and basking in the summer heat on the many picnics they used to hold. He told the mourners of the achievements of each and every one of them, he celebrated his kin for the little things that made them, well, them, and he made sure that every member of his late family would be remembered for who they were and not what they were thought to be. 

By the end of his speech, he was left feeling exhausted and raw. He hated crying in public and, considering who had just died and his state of affairs, he shed quite a few tears, but (he kept reminding himself over and over) this was for Mom and Dad and Phoebe and Billy and Nora. They deserved this and he would give nothing less. 

Even if he felt disconnected from himself. Even if it hurt him and his heart felt like it was being ripped to little pieces. It didn't matter. It was for them.

Everything was for them.

-0-

Next

[naomixhill]

13 February 2020

And so our sales leader is speaking to all of us in a hotel conference room that costs more than a year of rent. All around me, there are hungover financial services professionals from the night before, surrounded by ornate decor, magical florals everywhere, chandeliers, and beautiful white clothed tables supplied with endless amounts of snacks, coffee, and legal pads. Our leader is talking about production numbers, and yelling at the crowd for another year of abysmal results. Then he pauses, steps back, and tells us his favorite Warren Buffet quote.  “You know,” he says, “the true measure of success, though, aren’t these results.” A long pause, deep breaths. “It’s that the people you want to love you actually love you.”  And right here, in this conference room surrounded by a hundred people, the tears fall uncontrollably. I wipe them away, frantically, but they just keep coming. The measure of your life’s success is that the people you want to love you actually love you.  I stumble out of the room, and run to the bathroom. Inside a stall, I fall down, sobbing uncontrollably. My head hits the cold floor. So much for waterproof mascara, so much for this pale winter white bodycon dress. I want to fix all of this, but sometimes, I feel the memories so strongly that there is no room for reason at all. 

I run out of the hotel in unrecognizable distraught, and find myself getting into my valeted car, and headed to the free way. 

His last words crowd my head. Naomi, we broke the plate too many times. Sometimes you can’t glue it back to gather. I speed down the interstate, making it to my apartment twenty miles away in just under twelve minutes. I burst through the door, fall to the carpet, and an inhumane shriek ruptures from my lips. It is the type of pain where you feel waves of anguish all around your heart, stomach, and genitals. 

I run to the kitchen and smash the dishes. And then I cry and cry and cry. 

And then when it’s seemingly over, I am left with a mess of glass shards all around me. I find a hot glue gun, and I begin trying to piece the brokenness back together. But, sometimes you can’t glue it back together. And so, I pick up the pieces, bleeding in the process, dripping all along the new carpets. I lay the shards out at the kitchen table. I look at the old flower vase that is still here. I remember that night well. My husband divorced me, and you brought me pretty pink flowers and told me to stay strong, that my future would be better than my past, that my heart was safe with you. Was it ever safe with you? One by one, I glue every last piece to the vase. The plate will never exist again, but in this moment, I wonder why life can’t imitate art. Full of curiosity, I look at the vase and think you can still make something beautiful from the wreckage. And then the all consuming sadness takes ahold of me again. 

I hit a bottom that I didn’t even know existed. 

[klymilark]

Sore: Chapter 1

CW: Swearing

Word Count: 2007

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Shit, that was a long drive” Kaye says, as she closes the door to the box truck she rented.  Her waist length reddish-brown hair is braided off to the side.  

“Yeah.  I remember when I made it a few years back.  15 hours, if memory serves?” Don replies.  It looks like he’s finally shaved his head.  He’s been balding since he was 20, well before Kaye met him, but she’s seen the pictures.  He looked almost like he could’ve been a teacher in his graduation photo.

“19.  I spent 19 hours behind the wheel of that thing.  Only stopped to sleep.  Why is this country so big, anyway?” Kaye responded, standing up straight after cracking what feels like every joint in her body, her chin coming up to the bottom of the window of the truck.

“Eminent domain.  Wait, only to sle-” Don starts

“Yep.  Only to sleep. Packed enough food for the trip, so I didn’t need to stop for that.”  Kaye says, cutting him off.

“But what did you do about the ba-”  Don starts, once again.  Kaye really hasn’t changed much since they last spoke in person.

“Drank it.  Wanna stop in for some coffee?”  Kaye asks.

She really hasn’t changed.  Don can never tell if she’s joking, and sometimes he just doesn’t want to know.  This is definitely one of those times.

They walk into the coffee shop, and Kaye orders a breakfast sandwich with tea.  Don’s already eaten, since he kind of forgot until Kaye texted him 30 minutes ago, so he just gets coffee.  They sit down, and Kaye groans in pleasure from sitting down in a decent chair for the first time in what feels like years.  Kaye stuffs the sandwich into her face, downs the tea, then gets a refill.  She’s been living off of bologna sandwiches, soda, energy drinks, and a single sports drink for the past two days. A hot meal was much appreciated, given the circumstances.

“So,” Don asks, “how was the trip?”

“Well, I finally caught up on the podcasts I’ve been putting off listening to for far too long.  Besides that, I stared at asphalt for 19 hours.  I’m kind of bored.” Kaye responds, like Don should have already known.

Don chuckles, “I see you still haven’t learned that people mostly want to hear ‘Good’ in response to that question.”

“No, I have.  I always have.  I’ve just never cared.”  She says, putting emphasis on the word cared.

“Right.  I forgot that social norms have never been your thing” Don responds with a smile.

“I mean, given my life, why would they be?” She responds

They spend another hour or so catching up.  She asks how he and his wife are doing, and everything’s fine on his front.  A couple of waves here and there, especially since the move.  They miss their families, and it’s kind of a strain, but it’s nothing they can’t work through.  The usual thing for a couple that’s getting into their thirties.  He’s made new friends, got a promotion at work, and has his own life now.  Kaye says she’s happy for him, and they go over to his place so she can crash for the night.

This is the first time Kaye’s seen his place in person.  It’s a rather duplex in a decent part of town.  Very much a red brick home in the middle of town that the right type of person would say is to die for.  Kaye’s not that right type of person, but she can definitely appreciate the look of it.  Don walks in while Kaye is grabbing her overnight bag.

Kaye walks in, and is assaulted by family pictures on the wall.  Definitely a traditional family home; all white walls, popcorn ceilings, a computer off to the right hand side next to the dining room, but still in the living room.  She plops her bag down on the gray sofa up against the front picture window, and waltzes into the kitchen where Don is chatting with his wife.

“Kaye. Carmela. Barker! How have you been?!”  Amie says immediately after noticing her high school buddy at her front door.

“Amie.  Cornelia. Simmons.  I’ve been great!” Kaye responds, very sarcastically. Amie’s been one of her better supporters during the past year or so.  It’s been abysmal, but Kaye’s been able to keep her head up, largely thanks to this lady right here.

“Wow, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.  The years have definitely done you well.” Amie says, commenting on the appearance she knows Kaye is rather sensitive towards.  It’s very much appreciated.

“Thanks!  I really like your style now.  Makes me feel bad that I’m just standing here in my sweats, and a worn out t-shirt.”  Kaye responds with a chuckle.

“Oh, sure, now your social instincts kick in.  Now that my wife is in the room.  Why can’t you be that way wi-” Don starts

“Because fuck you is why.” Kaye responds. Amie can barely contain a laugh at the sudden shift in tone.

“Ouch.  That stung.” Don responds with a very overly dramatic hurt tone to his voice.

“You’ll live.  You’re a strong independent man, don’t need no woman, after all”

“Gee, thanks.  Guess I’ll just leave, then,” Amie says.

“Suppose that makes two of us,” Kaye responds.

“Shall we?” Amie says as she motions to the door.

“Let’s.” Kaye says, and they both head towards the door.

“Hey!  No fair!” Don says from the couch.

Amie turns around, and smiles slyly.  As she walks to the couch, a look of concern and excitement comes onto Don’s face.  She straddles him, her legs either side of his, and puts her hands on the side of his neck.  As she does, she leans in, and kisses him directly on the lips, the left cheek, then the right.  She then clamps her teeth down onto the right side of his neck.

“We’ll finish this later,” she whispers, just loud enough for Kaye to catch what she says, “Kaye and I have some catching up to do, and we’d like some privacy.”

“Okay, sweetheart.  Take your time,” he says, then snaps his teeth.

Amie giggles, and climbs off of the couch.  They walk to the master bedroom, Don sitting on the couch.

“Things never really change, do they,” Kaye asks with a smile, plopping down onto the bed.

“Not really.  Now, tell me, how much do you have in terms of clothes?” Amie asks.

“Well, I have a few hoodies, some pants, an-” Kaye starts.

“You know full well what I meant.” Amie finishes.

“Oh.  Right.  That.” Kaye says, realizing that this was going to be a less than comfortable conversation, “I have a couple of night shirts, and some underwear.  That’s about all I could keep usefully.  I didn’t see much use in buying ultra-femme clothing I wouldn’t be able to wear.”

“I’m sorry to hear, but we’re going to fix that.” Amie says, smiling like a kid in a candy store, “What style did you want to go for?”

“I was thinking more butc-” Kaye starts.

“No.  What style do you want to go for?” Amie interjects, correcting a misunderstanding.

Kaye sits on the bed, staring into the full-length mirror that Amie has set up in her room. She turns on the bed to look at herself directly.  She imagines herself in a black mid-calf dress with ruffles on the sleeves.  No, that’s not quite it.  She imagines herself full butch, and while the thought is appealing, it’s only so because of comfort.  She racks her brain trying to think of how she wants to look.

“I don’t know!” She says, rather loudly, as she bursts into tears.

Crying has never been her strong suit, and speaking while doing it was even less so.  Amie sits on the bed next to Kaye, lays down, and pulls her down.  They lay there like that for a while, just like they did when they were in high school.  Amie just sort of had an instinct on calming her down, and Kaye definitely appreciated that.  After ten, fifteen, maybe thirty minutes, Amie speaks up.

“Are you alright now?” She asks, a slight concern in her voice.

“I think so,” Kaye responds, still slightly sniffling.

“Good.  I know this is a sensitive time for you, but let’s get you in some clothes that fit.” Amie says.

“Thank you,” Kaye says as she sits up.

“That’s what I’m here for” She responds, standing to grab a dress.

It’s a black dress with orange flowers printed everywhere on it.  The dress has been fashioned out of 8 pieces of fabric, and is rather stretchy.  The skirt looks like it would stop just past Kaye’s finger tips when she stood upright.  She marveled at it; she hadn’t been able to try something on that looked so right in a long time.

“Do you have a bra on you?” Amie asks.

“Yeah.  It’s in my bag.”  She responds, reaching for the bag.

Kaye unzips her overnight bag, which had a few essentials in it.  Toothbrush, hair brush, comb, and the bra that Amie said to bring in when she came over for the night.  She pulls it out, and it’s a rather basic thing; underwire, lace wings on the back, slightly padded cups, and it fit about as well as she wanted to shop for, given the anxiety.

“Good.  Now, put the dress on.” Amie says.

“Okay.” Kaye responds nervously.

Kaye takes her shirt off, and puts her bra on.  Amie’s seen a lot of her, so it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.  Kaye then removes her sweatpants, revealing legs which look like they’ve never been shaved.  At least her leg hair is light.  Kaye sits there, staring at the dress.  Her brain is screaming at her to put it on, that she’ll be happier, but her body is doing nothing but disagreeing.  Now that what she wants is well within her grasp, she can’t even move her arms.

“Come on, Kaye.  It’s not the first time you’ve done this.  Remember when we were kids?” Amie says, patiently.

“Yeah, I do, but it’s been a while.  I haven’t worn a dress since well before you moved here.” Kaye responds.

“I know, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you like I used to these past few years.  But, now that you’re here, I can be here for you just like I was before.” Amie says, smiling.

Kaye chuckles, “Thank you.  Everything you’ve done is very much appreciated.” Kaye says, smiling back.

“Now, would it help if I put the dress on for you, or do you want to do it yourself?” Amie asks.

“I’ll do it myself, it’ll just take me a minute.” Kaye responds, while moving to sit on the bed.

“Alright.” Amie says, sitting beside her.

Kaye grabs the dress, and pulls it to her lap.  As she feels the material, she realizes she likes it.  It’s a very soft, knit material.  She picks it up, opens the bottom, and puts it on.  She adjusts the front seam so it’s straight down the front, and as she looks down, it feels odd.  Odd in the good way, though; a feeling of joy she hasn’t felt in years sinks in.  She stands up, and twists around so Amie can see.

“You’re so pretty!” Amie says, standing up, and holding her arms out for a hug.

Kaye, barely being able to stand at this point, just collapses in her arms.  Amie leaned back onto the bed, where they laid for a few minutes.

“Let’s go in the living room.” Amie says

“If you insist” Kaye responds.

They walk into the living room, and Don comments on the dress.  Kaye gives a simple thanks before collapsing on the couch, more exhausted than she’s ever been.  Amie joins, sitting between Don and Kaye.  After a short time of watching TV, and cuddling, Kaye passes out, and the other two head for the room to call it a night.

Chapter 2

Search sbbl on my blog to find the rest of the chapters, as well!

[hewwoes-moved]

(smacks ☕ so hard on your desk the ceramic cracks just a little and coffee gets fucking everywhere) homestuck.

fhfjgdjdgdj ok shelby this got rly long winded and personal u_u theres just a lot for me 2 say

just speaking in terms of the comic itself it honestly didnt do much for me by just reading it . like yeah vriska helped me come to terms with being a lesbian but highkey that was more thanks to the fandom for being so vehemently for or against it (which resulted in me having to align myself with a VERY passionate group of people either way. god im glad i stanned vriska nd got to hear the right voices). the same thing goes for lgbthsa too, that group was only made in response to shitty fans, not the comic. 

but yknow like. embracing my sexuality and finding a wonderful longterm friend group are HUGE deals for me and regardless of whether or not i like it the homestuck fandom (and thus homestuck itself) WAS a factor in building that.

thinking about it now thats probably why the epilogue felt so fucking maliciously bad; it told a "story" of how this closely knit friend group fell to shit so quickly and how love/sexuality is at best meaningless and at worst destructive. idk about you shelby but that was the worst betrayal ive ever experienced in my life.

id rather not get into the whole blame game of whether or not repeatedly putting my faith in homestuck was a stupid idea bc it usually just makes me depressed. the critical part of me says i shouldve seen it coming, considering all the bullshit that stemmed from troll call/friendsim (mainly talking about lanque but also marvus and elwurd lole), whatpumpkins abysmal communication, and to an extent even act 1 of hiveswap misleading us with xefros and dammeks relationship. the part of me that happens to enjoy enjoying things says that i should just give it a chance and just let the questionable parts fly. basically i have two wolves inside me and im a poor gay mentally ill minor that they keep bullying.

like . im not gonna get on my moral high horse nd say shit like "oh homestuck is so bad bc its horribly racist/ableist and vaguely lgbtphobic if you squint" bc lets be real half the shit im into is NOT any better  . that being said the bad parts of it are just so fucking exhausting and it just seems like theyre always getting more and more concentrated with shittiness and its fucking ALWAYS intentional for the sake of "irony" or "tragedy" or whatever excuse the writers wanna pull out of their ass for being sadistic.

idk if youre a masochist or just REALLY invested in your kins but i cant keep up on a regular basis nd sometimes i feel guilty abt it which just ADDS ON to all the shittiness re: homestuck agdjdjdgskdg,. on that topic shelby this has all been on my mind for MONTHSSS and im so thankful that you let me vent abt it (and get whatever residual homestuck im feeling out through replies to ur posts lol) :crylove: 

[dalekofchaos]

How TFA and TLJ failed Finn

I love Finn, he’s one of my favorite characters in Star Wars. But  I strongly feel like his character has been sabotaged and derailed and we have to lay some of the blame for his character derailment with JJ Abrams. We CANNOT solely blame Rian Johnson when the damage was already there in TFA, but TLJ damaged his character even worse.

He was advertised as the first black lead in Star Wars, a rising hero with a dark past he has to wrestle with. He had all this promo material with him heroically carrying the legendary lightsaber, and looked like he'd be the most serious part of TFA. His past as a Stormtrooper is barely mentioned and is hardly relevant, his character is still enjoyable and endearing as he learned to face his fears and fight his oppressors and Kylo Ren. Then they fuck us over by this stupid bait and switch tactic and Rey basically steals all of his thunder by the end without having to work for it, while he ends up in a coma for his troubles. Finn had almost zero agency, even his fucking name was given to him by a character with five minutes of screen time. Finn could’ve just decided that since FN is in his number, he could’ve called himself Finn. 

We have Finn, who has been a child soldier, has been abducted as a baby and his family and childhood stolen from him. In what way does it make ANY sense to turn a character like this into comic relief?

Finn still had the makings of a traditional hero's journey. He has great chemistry with Rey and Poe and a nice dynamic with Han. He could still be Force sensitive alongside Rey. There were multiple signs throughout the movie that Finn was Force Sensitive. There could’ve even been great character development about Finn and his injuries in the next movie.

Then TLJ came along. Finn awakens from his coma. Does he struggle to come to terms with his near-death experience? Is he fearful that Rey is dead and he failed her? Is he scared, in pain? Nope. He falls on his face and squirts juice everywhere. The medics on-duty were on a coffee break and allowed their patient to wander the fucking halls unattended. And with that, his duel with Kylo is worthless and made a joke to laugh at.

Finn is then reduced to a side character when he was one of the main heroes from the last movie. He goes on a meaningless side story, a second joke is made about him being a janitor, and is separated from Rey and Poe for the entirety of the film. Finn and Rose’s quest is made to fail because some edgelord wanted a grimdark ending with the Resistance in tatters. While Finn’s attempted sacrifice wouldn’t have worked, he still did it with the intentions to save what he loved. And Rose wanted to stop that. No one knew Luke would buy the Resistance time to escape, for all we knew The FO would storm the base and kill everyone. Rose had good intentions in saving Finn, but so did Finn. He wanted to save what he loved.

Meanwhile, the person who maimed Finn, Kylo Ren gets absolutely showered with sympathy and attention both on and off the screen and his injuries are recognized.

Kylo Ren gets sympathy. Finn is mocked. What the fuck?

Rian Johnson rejected any and every possible character arc for Finn. Rian squandered a proactive, clearly-defined character from TFA, trying to make him fit moment after moment because he had no real big-picture idea what to do with this guy. And in light of Rian presenting himself as a progressive voice, he deserves to be challenged on why he failed a complex, heroic black character so abysmally while giving clear focus and dignity to the white male villain of the piece. (And this isn't to say I want Kylo Ren's character development to be worse, it's saying I want Finn's to be better.) But he shouldn't just have treated Finn with care and dignity because it would've been more "progressive" - he should've done it because it would've made a better MOVIE.

Finn's defection could've been a great story but it is never brought up again. What was life like in the First Order? But instead, his Stormtrooper past is never brought up again. When he throws away his armor on Jakku is when any exciting character development is thrown away, too. Instead, we get comedic relief: he drinks dirty water made for animals, and he acts funny, which is fine. But what truly sealed away his fate was the moment he uttered the word “sanitation” We know most FO do Sanitation as jobs, but the way JJ wrote the movie made everyone think that’s all Finn did and only did it as a joke. There are some serious racial undertones with writing Finn as a janitor. I have a feeling JJ wanted to make Finn a Stormtrooper who just realized what he was doing was wrong and be a strong character, but KK did not want Finn to be the hero of this trilogy and put a stop to Finn’s character. 

Finn could’ve been greater. Finn is brainwashed by an evil empire, but through sheer will he deprograms himself and learns to make decisions based on strong principles and morals. Joins the fight with a group of scrappy rebels and helps to bring down this evil empire that enslaved him and his fellow stolen child soldiers. Finn as a character could have had some serious Big Dick Energy, but instead was written as yet another black minstrel. What a disgrace.

Finn had great potential as a character, but no one wanted to give him a chance. Stolen from parents he's never known, raised as a slave to be a soldier, indoctrinated in a military industrial machine to be just another cog, another piece of meat to throw into the grinder to serve at the whims of a powerful wizard that's known decadence beyond imagination. Facing a crisis of conscience, he was awakened to the horrors of war at his first battle. The illusions he was raised with throughout his life were shattered in an instant, and yet his well drilled mind is capable of improvising a daring escape. And none of this mattered a wit to RJ. JJ didn't delve too deeply with him either, but he did get him started, having him overcome his fear, allowing him to wield the weapon of a hero. JJ started him on the path, and in good faith great things could have been built off that beginning. RJ completely shat all over it. 

I hope Finn will FINALLY be treated with respect and dignity for TROS. But given how little promotional material is out there and how little the teasers show Finn as a character of any importance. There does not seem to be any hope left for Finn. I hope that we’ll get Finn being Force Sensitive and becoming a Jedi and leading the Stormtrooper Rebellion, but there doesn’t seem to be any hope that his character will be treated well at all.

[theother-will-grayson]

I’ll Kill Her

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Drarry, minor Severitus

Warnings: Blood

Word Count: 3187

Also on AO3 and FFN

Summary: Draco can't be friends with the Golden Trio. It's too dangerous, with Draco's family, and the way things are. So they're not friends. At least not publicly. But when someone hurts a not-friend, you do anything to help and defend them. HPDM (minor). Severitus (really minor) 

“RON!”

He started, immediately holding his hands up as a white flag. “What the bloody hell did I do now?”

Hermione shook the parchment in his face. “This is literally the most abysmal handwriting I’ve ever seen.” She threw up her hands, sinking into her chair in defeat. “And I’ve graded Harry’s essays.”

“Hey!”

Ron flushed red, whether from embarrassment or annoyance, Harry couldn’t tell. “Sorry ‘Mione,” Ron mumbled, refusing to look at her. “I just wrote a little fast.”

“Wow, mate,” Harry smirked, looking up from his own quill and parchment pair. “You made Hermione misuse the word ‘literally.’ Must be really bad.”

Hermione huffed, glaring at Harry for mentioning her mistake. She picked up the parchment filled with Ron’s indescribably unreadable chicken scratch. “I’m not exactly making a habit of it. I’m merely stretched thin from grading all your damn essays and of course frustrated by the general existence of the fucking Toad.”

The boys gaped at Hermione’s language, but she ignored them completely, scratching restlessly at her eyebrow with her worried and cracked nails. “My vocabulary is slipping.”

Ron met Harry’s eyes, then made a face as if he wished he hadn’t, reading the cue from the far more empathetic boy to quit being an arse and do something. He grimaced before sighing and dragging his body up to Hermione. “Here, give me my essay. I’ll just make Malfoy grade it or something.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione sighed, waving him off. “Really, it’s a welcome distraction. I’m just sick of having to sneak around to the Room of bloody Requirement simply to enjoy the presence of the fourth member of our group.”

“Speaking of whom,” Harry mused. “Where is Draco?”

Hermione frowned, setting down Ron’s parchment. “Good question. He’s late. He’s never late.”

“Damn, you think he’s not coming? I was going to beat him in chess again.” Ron and Draco had a healthy rivalry going on, and Ron always enjoyed their games, even if he lost. It made Harry exceedingly happy because of how wary the two had been of one another for a time. Now, neither Draco nor Ron ever missed a session, jumping at the opportunity to test their skills against one another.

Hermione was always grateful for the battle of wits that Draco brought to their little nook in the Room. The two would sit across the coffee table and do nothing more than debate, or bounce facts off one another, just waiting for the other to slip up. It was always Draco of course, but that was more of an issue of arrogance than of intelligence. But when Ron or Harry was being ignorant, Draco was always the first to back Hermione up in an argument.

And Harry...well Harry just liked having him around. He hated that they had to meet here, in the Room of Requirement just to say hello before curfew, but with the Toad prowling about and tensions so high with Death Eaters everywhere and the Malfoys dragged into the center of it as usual, Harry and Draco couldn’t risk being seen together for Draco’s safety, no matter how many times Lucius shook Harry’s hand and smiled at him genuinely.

All that aside, it wasn’t like Draco to not show up to what he liked to call his “daily dose of Gryffindor.”

“Don’t worry, mate.” Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’s just off giving some innocent first year detention to show off to the Toad.”

As if on cue, the door to the Room opened slowly, and then all at once, and Draco stumbled in, clutching something in his hands. His unfocused eyes locked on the Golden Trio, who stood to greet him with hesitation in their step. Ron’s essay lay forgotten on the floor as Hermione’s sharp, motherly gaze zeroed in on Draco’s gaunt, sickly face. Draco swayed on the spot, and with a cry of fright, Hermione rushed to his side, ignoring how he shied and curled his fists and whatever was in them closer to his body. In fact, only Harry seemed to notice. Hermione cradled Draco’s cheeks, fussing and fretting over his state. Ron looked uncomfortable, but worried all the same, his body poised towards Draco as if he wanted to help, but didn’t know how. Harry stared at Draco’s hands.

“I’m fine, ‘Mione.” The nickname stuck out like a sore thumb in Harry’s ears. Draco minced words rarely, and the slurred abbreviation meant something was really wrong.

His hand. What was in his hand?

Hermione guided Draco to a soft armchair, muttering to him encouragingly and supporting his weak body.

Harry knelt on the rug at Draco’s feet. A sheen of sweat glittered on Draco’s brow, his body draped over the chair like a wet towel, positively melting into the cushions, weak, prostrate. But his fists still gripped something, a piece of cloth, Harry saw now, wrapped around his hand. Draco’s wet eyes met Harry’s own and Harry gently placed his gentle hands over Draco’s tense, shaking ones, peeling fingers from red skin. He pulled Draco’s hand into his own, palm to palm, and removed the handkerchief.

Letters, drowning in a river of blood that flowed freely when exposed to the stinging air. Draco hissed through his teeth when Harry quickly replaced the handkerchief. “The Toad,” Ron spat.

Harry seethed. “I’ll kill her.”

“I’ll join you.”

“He needs Pomfrey,” Hermione cut in.

“No,” Draco spoke up for the first time, grimacing.

“Draco, you need something, Murtlap, probably-”

“Believe me, I know,” Harry told him seriously.

“Snape,” Draco gasped, his lips tight, from pain or effort to stay awake, Harry couldn’t tell.

Harry searched his eyes, then turned and told Ron, “Go get Snape.”

“Why?”

“Umbridge has too much power. We can’t go to Pomfrey about this, she’ll catch wind.”

Ron nodded, eyes wide. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Hermione. “We can’t.”

Harry’s anger rose in the tension. “Why the hell not? Look at him!”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione soothed. “But these meetings are secret for a reason. Snape’s loyalties are debatable, but either way, he can’t find out. We’d only put Draco in danger in the long run.”

Harry looked away, calculating, his jaw and one fist clenched, the other wrapped around Draco’s. “So what do we do?

“We say we found him in the hall like this. We were walking back from the library and we found him in the corridor and we brought him to Snape because he didn’t want to go to Pomfrey.” Hermione knew her logic was sound and they were doing things her way, but she still looked to Harry for the final go-ahead.

Finally, Harry said, “Alright. Help him up.”

The transition from the chair to the hallway was arduous at best, filled with grunting and swearing and apologizing and sweat. Draco’s face was in a near-constant state of suppressed pain, scrunched up and shining with exertion. Finally they figured out a rhythm and walked down the corridor at what Harry thought was too slow a pace based on the obvious urgency of Draco’s condition, and too fast based on the shortness of Draco’s breaths.

Harry supported Draco at his shoulders, Hermione’s hand on the small of his back herding him along. Sweat matted Draco’s hair to his forehead, blond locks darkened with salty dampness. Ron, who held up Draco’s other side, kept looking at Harry worriedly, as if trying to get a signal across. Harry knew exactly what Ron was thinking.

Mine wasn’t this bad.

The handkerchief was soaked through, sticking wet and useless to Draco’s skin. Why wasn’t it healing? It was supposed to heal. Harry’s had healed immediately. The first time at least. After a while…

Harry had to ask. He had to. “Draco, how many times?”

Ron and Hermione watched him expectantly as he huffed with the effort of descending the stairs. “236.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. “Oh, Draco…” Ron breathed, “Merlin.” Harry simply clenched his jaw, new waves of worry washing over him. No wonder Draco looked like death. That many, all at once…

Draco just looked grateful they didn’t ask what it said.

After too long a struggle, they arrived at the door to the potions classroom. An uneasy silence descended upon them. The door had been locked after the last class hours ago, but Snape was in his quarters, adjacent to the classroom. Or at least, they hoped he was. No. He was. He had to be. “Well I’m not knocking,” Ron said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped forward. “Honestly.” She rapped her knuckles against the door, looking perhaps more hesitant than she liked.

The arrival of the exasperated wrath came too quickly for them to comprehend or prepare for. Snape burst through the door, still in robes thankfully, but nonetheless looking positively furious, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “What.”

And with that, Draco’s knees buckled. Startled and unprepared, Harry and Ron lost their grip on him, and his limp body pitched forward and fell into Snape’s arms.

Snape glanced at Harry, gripping Draco’s shoulders, but needed little prompting before he hoisted the boy into his arms with surprising strength and stepped backwards into the classroom.

“What happened?” Snape didn’t look back as he strode past the workstations and through the door which they knew led to his office and quarters. The trio followed, unsure about the invasion of privacy, but taking the fact that he kept talking to him as their cue that it was fine.

“Well, sir, we found him in the corridor on the way back from-”

“I don't care where you found him, Granger. I care what happened!” Snape paused long enough to bite back at Hermione.

“His hand,” she said.

Professor Snape laid Draco down on a small sofa and took the boy’s hand in his own. He dropped the soaked handkerchief to the side, cradling the injury with a softness Harry had never seen from his professor before. They heard the Professor suck in a breath at the sight of it. “A black quill?” Snape’s voice held little emotion, but Harry could see in his eyes that he was shaken.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not healing,” Snape muttered to himself.

“He said he did 236 lines, sir.”

Harry saw the muscle in Snape’s jaw tense and work, but the man hid the emotion well. “Weasley, take a washcloth from by the sink and wet it with cold water. Keep another one dry and bring it to me. Granger, go into my private stores and get me blood replenisher and Murtlap essence. Potter, behind my desk in the classroom is a first aid kit. Bring it to me. Go.”

They all snapped into action, scrambling off to find what they needed. Harry hesitated only momentarily, wary of leaving Draco’s side, but a stern look from Snape sent him going.

The wet rag went to Draco’s feverish forehead, the dry one to staunch the bleeding on his hand, which was thankfully beginning to slow. Harry dutifully held it tight while Snape fed Draco the blood replenisher, saving the pepper-up for later. He then took Draco’s hand from Harry’s and began cleaning the wound gently with the Murtlap and the dry rag.

Five minutes later, Harry was watching Snape carefully wind a bandage around Draco’s hand, mesmerised by the repetitive movement. Ron and Hermione had been sent back to the Gryffindor common room, only relenting with the promise of news in the morning. Though Harry had no doubt they would be waiting for him in the common room. Draco slept peacefully on Snape’s sofa, a pillow beneath his head. Snape sat on the edge of the coffee table next to the sofa as he worked, while Harry sat on the arm and carded his fingers through Draco’s hair, working the words over in his head again. Snape’s coffee table, Snape’s sofa. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around where he was.

“Why did you bring him here?” Snape pulled Harry out of his thoughts. Instead of to Pomfrey, he meant.

“He didn’t want word spreading that he was in the hospital wing. This whole thing, it’s a little humiliating.”

“You would know?” Snape’s eyes cut into him, too perceptive for Harry to deny. He held up the back of his own hand for Snape to see.

“I must not tell lies,” Snape read, his eyes flicking up to meet Harry’s, then flicking away just as quickly. “Who did this?”

“The Toad. Err...Umbridge. I mean Professor Umbridge.”

The ghost of a smirk crossed Snape’s lips.

“The point is, he trusts you more than Pomfrey, being his godfather and all.”

“How do you know that?” Snape paused his work and frowned at Harry. “We try to keep that fact quiet to curb suspicion of favoritism.”

Harry cursed his flushing cheeks. He shrugged, looking at Draco, his lap, his feet, anything other than Snape’s piercing black eyes.

Snape watched him for a moment, his gaze lingering on Harry’s left hand, then his right, which still carded through Draco’s damp hair. “Do not lie to me, Potter. You didn’t find him on the way back from the library. Your affection for him is obvious and your friends were far too concerned for his well-being for a couple of old enemies.” Snape resumed his bandage winding, infuriatingly passive. “I would chalk it up to Gryffindor righteousness, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

His gaze was too perceptive for Harry’s liking, and he shifted under the stare, saying nothing. He couldn’t keep denying, but telling the truth was still dangerous. After all, he must not tell lies.

Then Snape surprised him. “Would you like to see it? His wound.”

Harry stilled, then nodded, dropping to his feet and suddenly feeling very nervous.

Snape tugged at the edge of the bandage, just enough for Harry to read inside as he stepped closer. A white-hot rage bubbled up in Harry’s core. Unbelievable.

I must not kiss boys.

Wordlessly, Snape replaced the bandage and tied it off securely. “Do you know anything about this phrase?”

Harry let his return to Draco’s side and his absent minded touches answer for him. Snape smirked. “I thought so.” He paused. “What do know about Black Quills, Potter?”

Way too much. “Nothing, sir.” Harry spoke through gritted teeth, bitter from the memories and angry at the red spots just barely soaking into the bandage. “Other than my own experience, of course.”

“They are an invention of Umbridge herself. About eight years ago, she attempted to get them standardized as punishment in all schools. She was unsuccessful obviously, but apparently she has found a loophole.”

Harry snorted, unable to help himself. “Really. The Toad breaking her precious law.”

Snape smirked ever so slightly again, and Harry felt an accord of peace shakily beginning to bridge the chasm-wide gap between them. “Harry that quill is filled with dark magic, which may affect the victim more than they realize. He may have been affected so strongly by its magic because he felt so strongly in the opposite. A sexuality is, in essence, an identity, a solid part, if not a whole of a person. That quill’s magic tried to eradicate piece of Draco’s very soul.”

“Did it succeed?” Harry’s voice betrayed the part of him that wished to hide his emotions. Though Snape was currently not acting like his most hated professor, Harry still felt wary around him, not quite ready to remove all barriers between them.

“I do not believe so,” Snape replied, a fond note in his voice as he glanced at his godson. “Our Draco is strong.”

Our Draco. Did Snape even realize how he was talking? Harry smiled nonetheless, then frowned. “So what about me? I don’t feel any different.”

Snape trained his gaze on Harry. “Harry Potter, when was the last time you told a lie?”

Harry thought back. He wanted to say just today, earlier, but that had been all Hermione. He remembered times in the last few weeks when he had wanted to lie even a tiny bit, but his conscience had shoved him forward, refusing to let him fib. His only lies had been of omission. “Merlin,” he breathed, looking at Draco’s peaceful form. “He’s stronger than I am.”

“He’s stronger than all of us,” Snape murmured so softly Harry thought for a second that he had heard wrong.

A groan cut through the thick silence, and Harry’s ponderings. “Draco.” Snape stood immediately. “Draco, can you hear me? Wake up.” Harry stepped back uncertainly until Snape told him firmly, “Get him a glass of water.” He pointed towards the kitchenette in the corner where Ron had grabbed the rags. Harry wrenched open the cabinet and grabbed the first glass he found, trying not to drop it as he held it under the faucet or as he carried it back to the sofa.

Draco gulped the water, obviously dehydrated from all the sweating and healing. He pulled himself into a sitting position with a grimace and Harry gripped his good hand, his thumb worrying across Draco’s smooth knuckles.

“I’ll kill her.”

Draco hummed into his glass, preparing to swallow the last of it. “I’m sure you’ll try. I assume you’ve both seen the wound then.” He tried to throw it out casually, but Harry knew him. He could see the shame in Draco’s eyes, in his shifting lower half. Harry just squeezed his hand all the harder. It’s okay, he willed Draco to understand. It’s okay.

“How do you feel?” Snape asked.

Draco sighed and moved as if to run his fingers through his hair, but thought better of it when he realized that one hand was injured and the other was trapped by his protective boyfriend. “Not all that dizzy anymore. Mostly just...drained. And gay as ever, fortunately.”

Harry grinned. Draco squeezed back.

“Well, then I believe some bed rest is in order. Potter, you must be on your way to your common room. I will write a note to Professor McGonagall explaining your absence at curfew in the morning.” The look Snape gave him was stern enough that Harry didn’t even try to protest. “I will also excuse you from your classes and we will see the headmaster to ensure that action is taken.” That stern look was directed towards both of them. It seemed their pride was the pawn they would have to sacrifice in order to win the game.

Harry gave Draco a chaste farewell kiss, then turned to leave. He was halfway out the door when Snape’s voice paused him.

“And Potter?” Harry turned. Snape’s gaze seemed to go through him again. “I have no knowledge of anything of the sort, but if you and your friends wished to maintain any sort of relationship with Mr. Malfoy, then I would understand why you would want to keep such a relationship secret, and would assist you in protecting all four members of this theoretical group.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you, Professor. Truly.” With one last look at Draco, he let the door the classroom click closed behind him.

[gamemaster26]

Darker Sides, Worlds Collide: Chapter 1

(This is gonna be a roller coaster...)

Logan awoke. He was in his room, no surprise here but as he sat up and looked around for a brief moment, he noticed some things out of the ordinary. The room seemed darker, and why were there so many empty tubes of gel in the trash? Why was there a big huge mirror on his dresser? He was never one for vanity, in the literal or metaphorical sence so needless to say he was very confused.

He got dressed for the day and opened the door of his room. He was shocked at how cold and empty and dark the hallway felt. “Strange...” He muttered. He looked up and down the hall before making his way to the kitchen to grab breakfast. He couldn��t hear the telltale signs of Patton cooking like usual. But at this point that didn’t surprise him.

As he entered the commons he sighed at the emptiness of it. He frowned deeply at the mess of the room and the alcohol bottles littering the floor. He grew nervous. He didn’t know what would happen to Thomas if one of the sides got drunk, as he nor the others ever drank, well, Roman occasionally had wine in the imagination. But he never got drunk.

Logan had lost most of his appetite so he entered the kitchen with the intent to grab a cup of coffee then figure out what was going on.

Once he entered the kitchen he frowned deeply at the abysmal state of it. It was dirty and had bottles of alcohol everywhere. A long with pieces of moldy food. Logan tried to stay as far away from the mold and dirt as possible. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch in the living room to attempt to process everything.

Clearly he wasn’t in the normal mindscape. But where was he? Well, wherever he was, he knew he wanted to leave as soon as possible. He wasn’t even a hundred percent sure how he even got there. The last he remembered he was examining some strange anomalies. He frowned. He must’ve fallen asleep while walking and that anomaly had sent him here.

He took a long sip of his coffee. He was so engrossed in thought he hadn’t heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Logic...?” Came a voice. Logan looked over and was shocked to see Patton, looking like he hadn’t showered in days.

“Patton?” Logan asked. “Are you alright?” He asked, worry evident in his voice.

Patton nodded. “Yeah... Just a hang over...” He paused a second. “Wait- why did you call me Patton? You’re always going on about how ‘we should use our professional titles only so we can preform our jobs in the most efficient manner and not have inefficient interpersonal connections’ and bla bla bla.” Morality said, clearly not caring enough to quote exact words.

Logan paled slightly but thought quickly. “Ah- yes. My mistake Morality. I haven’t had my coffee yet, this is my first cup and it just got cool enough to drink.” He quickly explained.

Morality seemed to buy it and went to the kitchen. The clinking of glass was heard and Logan frowned. It was far to early for alcohol but Logan assumed Morality was a very bad alcoholic, if the sheer number of bottles were anything to go by. This made Logan sad on many different levels. But he had to remind himself that this Patton wasn’t his Patton and he shouldn’t be worried about him. But that pitiful look on Morality’s face made his heart ache.

Logan took another long sip of his coffee. He had to figure out how to get back home as soon as possible. He feared this worlds version of him would be dangerous to his family. But he knew that asking the others in this world for help would perhaps be ill advised. He knew nothing of how Morality behaved when drunk nor how the Roman of this world acted. Neither could be anything good.

Logan’s hands began to shake as fear gripped him by the chest and refused to let go. He took another sip of coffee, now figuring tea would’ve been a much better drink for the stress of the situation.

He heard a loud thud from the kitchen followed by a long string of curses from Morality’s mouth. Logan quickly stood from his chair and went upstairs. He had to think and stay as far away from these other sides as possible.

He wasn’t looking where he was going and so as soon as he got to the top of the stairs he slammed into something... someone.

Logan looked up at the tall, broad shouldered figure in front of him, Roman... Creativity. The prince looked darker and even more tuned into the royal aesthetic. Creativity looked very angry and Logan quickly saw why. On his chest was a large coffee stain.

Logan gulped. “My apologies. I didn’t see you. I-I was in a hurry.” He quickly explained.

Creativity growled, a low, angry sound from deep in the back of his throat. He grabbed Logan by the front of the shirt and threw him backwards back down the stairs with one arm.

Logan screamed as he was launched backwards, coffee cup flying out of his hands, smashing somewhere, and everything seemed to go in slow motion until he hit his head on one of the lower steps and was knocked out like a light.

===O===

Logic awoke. He was in a room similar to his own but not quite the same. It was almost sickeningly bright. He kicked the surprisingly warm covers off and went to the window. He forcefully shut the dark blue curtains. He looked around and saw that his vanity mirror was missing along with his hair gel. He growled to himself. Creativity must've taken it while he was asleep!

He didn't like how bright and warm everything was. Whatever joke Creativity was playing was growing old fast.

He smelled something. It smelled like food. Odd, no one usually cooked, let alone enough to stink up the entire house. Logic sighed and opened the door of the room. He cringed at the brightness of the rest of the house. He growled and made his way down stairs.

What he saw in the commons made him pause and stare, mouth agape. The others were all in the dinning, even Deceit, though he seemed to be slightly less welcome. Patton was in the kitchen making a huge breakfast. Logic was silent as he walked to the table. Everyone looked strange to him. Everything looked so bright.

Logic growled to himself but sat down. Clearly something strange was going on but he would play along as long as he got food.

“Good morning Microsoft Nerd.” Roman teased with a smile. Logic rolled his eyes and glared but didn’t dignify the childishness with a response.

Patton came out with a plate of pancakes and set it down on the table, sitting down himself. “What? Not even a good morning for your famILY?” Patton asked, pouting a bit.

Logic snorted. “We are most certainly not family? We’re scarcely even friends.” He said with noticeable distain. He now realized that perhaps he wasn’t in the mindscape anymore. At least not the correct one.

Deceit and Roman both looked a bit shocked. Patton looked about ready to cry. Virgil glared at Logic with the white hot furry of a thousand suns. “How fucking dare you!” He yelled.

Logic just looked over with aloofness and boredom. He wasn’t scared of Anxiety but he did note the aggressiveness. “Well I’m glad you finally grew a spine Anxiety.” He said with an eyeroll.

It only took half a second for Virgil to launch himself at Logic and punch him right in the nose. Logic screamed and held his now bleeding and possibly broken nose.

Deceit looked at Patton who gave him a nod. Deceit grabbed Logic by the tie and led him upstairs. “You have a lot to think about...” He growled as he took Logic into Logan’s room. He shoved him in and shut the door.

[crowsent]

lets recap shall we

first. traffic jam. actually no thats the second the FIRST is the youngest nephew kickin me in the arm while we were gettin in the car and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the lil motherfucker will never be my favourite. so were in the car. the ac is broken. i almost pass out bc texas has this nasty habit of killin you if you have low heat tolerance and no ac bc god hates you ig not her fault. then theres the traffic jam. and then the brother in law who i still have not forgiven parks us 10 minutes away from where were supposed to go and we walk. with bags. heavy bags. up stairs. so that was fun

THEN comes this woman who i guess got her cat run over, her dog shot, her kid failin every subject at once, her husband cheatin, her mother ferretin all her money like a lil squirrel and her sister sellin her house bc holy FUCK did she stare me down like i desecrated the grave of her ancestors. oh and she jus tells me “whenever youre ready” without tellin me what the FUCK im supposed to do so we jus stand there. awkwardly. me lookin at her with increasin nervousness and confusion and her lookin at me with murder in her eyes and homicide in her hands and if someone else hadnt told me to take off my mask so she can confirm my id i would have NO FUCKIN IDEA what the HELL she wanted like. bro. use your goddamn words. i dont read minds

yalld think that was the worst. right? nah. NAH. the worst is this fuckin woman who is more than old enough to know better but apparently shoved her attitude along with her professionalism in the same bag and threw it into the sea bc this bitch just. fuckin. let her hands wander in places where they should not. and she was very fuckin creepy. so. yay. great. wonderful. amazin.

then i have an anxiety attack which is completely understandable bc. i mean. bitch

uhhhhh the coffee was bad, the plane was bad, the organisation of the boardin process was abysmal, there were TWO thats right TWO FUCKIN CHILDREN behind my seat that thought they were hotshot drummers and also coincidentally thought their feet were hands and my seat were drums. oh and of course the light is brighter than the sun bc of course i should be rendered blind in this trip

so we land. the arrival process is even worse. there were signs everywhere that lead to nowhere and nothin and quite possibly THE worst drivers i have ever had the misfortune of layin my eyes upon

but then youd think “ah salt, the worst has come to pass. you can now rest at a nice room and forget you have problems and also nearly passed out in an airport bc you hyperventilated so much you blacked out for a few seconds” and i happily inform you that youre wrong

the hotel is a hot mess thrown in a flamin dumpster thrown into a compactor that is ALSO on fire. the bottom floor is just casino. i call it “if i had epilepsy i would have fuckin died” like. i know casinos are meant to be flashy but. are red/green flashes that alternate so quickly i felt nauseous jus lookin in its general direction REALLY the best colour choice here? the parkin is 2 continents away. the check in process so laborious it would have been possible for me to resurrect a fuckin dinosaur from a puddle of oil before the receptionist got their shit together

worst of all i think is the air

from the moment we landed

all i smell is cigarette smoke

[mia-cooper]

2, 7, and 17, please!

@ailtara! babe!

2 - Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to? 

Fake Married/Fake Dating/Accidentally Sharing a Bed. OMG it kills me. Ilove it. And yet, so far I haven’t found a way to write it that hasn’t beendone 87 million times before. Then again, is originality really all it’scracked up to be?

7 - Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

(This is really hard today because I pretty much hate everything I’ve ever written right now, but here goes...)

The server brings coffee, and Kathryn busies herself withpouring it, with bringing the cup to her lips and closing her eyes to inhalethe fragrance.He can’t watch this. Even now, a decade since the last time he watched her makelove to her coffee, it packs the same visceral punch. It makes him feelunfaithful, and so he picks up his own cup and accepts the scalding of histongue as penance.“Tell me about your new perspective,” he requests, wrestling his fury into thepit of his stomach, where it has lurked since the moment she died, and was reawakenedthe moment she was born again.

Kathryn draws small patterns on the grained wood of the tabletop,and he watches surreptitiously as she gathers her thoughts. Finally, she looksup and says simply, “My death is a fixed point in time.”If she’d punched him, it would have shocked him less.“I’m not supposed to have survived assimilation,” she clarifies. “In everyuniverse, in every reality, every version of me that was still alive died thatday. At that very moment when the cube absorbed my consciousness into theCollective, I ceased to exist everywhere.”“Why?” is all he can manage.She heaves in a breath. “It’s a long story, but – suffice to say my death wasthe multiverse trying to right a wrong I caused, or will cause, in a futurethat will now never come to be. And my life was a gift that I don’t want towaste.”He watches the myriad emotions that cross her beautiful face. Her eyes, thathe’s always thought expressive, are luminous with secrets he can’t help wantingto explore. But therein lies danger of the kind he must resist, and so Marklooks away. 

Why am Ipleased with myself over these lines of prose? Well, to be honest, the storythey belong to is probably my favourite thing I’ve produced in some time. Totell the tale I wanted to tell, I had to semi-invent a school of philosophicalthought (and a LOT of research and a LOT of speculation went into thatbackstory, though the story itself contains only a few lines of it). I had toflesh out a character who’s very important to my heroine yet has receivedabysmally little development in canon or beta-canon. And I had to bring himfrom the place his head lives in the clouds, through his smashed-up heart, allthe way down to his basest, simplest, most instinctual self. Because that’swhat she does to him. And I really hope this story – and this passage inparticular – showed some of that.

17 - Do you write yourstory from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

I always usedto be a linear writer – it felt like cheating to skip ahead and write thescenes I really wanted to get to – but the more I write, the more I jumparound. Often I’ll write what I think is the beginning but then it turns out tobe the middle, or vice versa. I’m prone to writing stories that jump back andforth in time too. Prologues are awesome. Mostly, I start with a rough sketchand start writing what I expect to be the first sections, then flesh out theplot/timeline a bit more, then write sections and piece them together as I seefit.

more more more

[samuelfields]

[Video] 80/20 Rule: Making Your Dream Job a Reality

Imagine landing your dream job with all the unnecessary doubt, indecision, and effort removed from the process. 

Imagine making it happen in just one-fifth of the time it might normally take.

Nope, we’re not suggesting a miracle cognition drug, cybernetic brain implants, or an aggressive juice cleanse. Instead, we want to draw your attention to a simple idea known as the Pareto Principle, or the 80/20 Rule. This odd quirk of human experience posits that roughly 80% of a given activity’s meaningful consequences come from just 20% of the causes. 

So, imagine sitting in a movie theater (remember when that was a thing?). The 80/20 Rule suggests that around four-fifths of your enjoyment will come from just one-fifth of the movie — all those climactic scenes most of the story builds up to. The rule applies to bad stuff too. Think of all those annoying candy wrapper crinklers chowing down on Junior Mints during those same memorable scenes. Again, this rule would tell us that around 80% of that annoying noise was caused by just 20% of the movie-watchers.  

It’s a generalization of course, but it sounds about right doesn’t it? 

We don’t live in a neat universe where results always happen in a straight line. More often than not, just a few critical factors make all the difference, whether for good or bad. If you geek out on efficiency theory you can grab a coffee along with your cookie of choice and learn all about the 80/20 rule here and how it applies to all manner of corners of industry and productivity science.

In Ramit’s video, ‘The 80/20 Guide to Finding a Job You Love,’ he’ll grab on to this concept and zero in on you, your career, and one pointily practical question… 

Can the 80/20 rule help you land your dream job?

Or let’s put it another way. Can we just get rid of the 80% of largely unimportant stuff, and focus right in on those few critical turning points that can land you a richer working life? 

We’re convinced the answer is yes … if you’re willing to ditch unhelpful mindsets that lurk in the 80% unproductive zone. Let’s look at a few examples of how just a few changes can make a huge difference as you look for your dream job. 

1. Ignore broad and vague career advice: Get specific

We’ve all had that person in our lives who offers pointless encouragement because they’re trying to help. 

“You can do it!” Gee, thanks. How?

“Get well soon!” Great idea! My plan was to get well slowly.

These people mean well, but platitudes like this come from those who want to help but have no clue how. Unfortunately, conventional career guidance is littered with the same vague solutions. These fuzzy directions mean next to nothing and get you next to nowhere. 

You know the deal: 

Find your passion! Cool. But what does that process actually look like?

Renegotiate your salary! Genius plan. How?

These are time-wasters that’ll consign your approach to the unproductive 80% of the 80/20 equation. 

Watch for these broad statements, and recognize them for what they are: a well-meaning impulse. What they’re decidedly not is a blueprint. You can waste a lot of time flailing about, trying to interpret, and act on these career advice equivalents of a “get well soon” card or an awkwardly executed fist bump. 

Here’s the important part though. Don’t just reject broad and unhelpful advice when it comes from someone else. That’s the easy part. The tricky part is to systematically reject a cookie-cutter mindset. 

So, how do you approach career-hunting focusing on the critical 20%?

Commit to defining exactly what you want

Conventional career-hunting advice is to send your resume to every job opportunity you see — and that might actually make sense if you’d be happy taking any job. But that’s not your goal. Your goal is to get up in the morning eager to clock-in and do your thing.

To find your dream job you’ll need to get specific: 

What job do you want? Name it. Have the courage to exclude the ones you don’t.

What size company? Where is it located? Be grittily granular.

… And here’s the really important one … 

What kinds of skills and experience do you need to land it? Quantify how you get there.

Everything in your resume and pitch should be hyper-focused on the answers you give to these questions. If you can do that, two things happen. First, you save time by no longer applying for dodgy jobs you don’t want anyway. Second, you make yourself look like a better employment prospect to the companies that actually count.

Get started in 15 minutes or less

Here are a couple of things you can do right now to get specific:

Grab a sheet of paper and split it into 2 columns. In the first column list everything you know about what your dream job looks like. In column 2, bullet out the key characteristics of the kinds of jobs you don’t want. Stick this paper somewhere prominent as a daily reminder. 

Grab a red pen (OK purple will do if red ink is scary). Go through every line of your current resume and scratch out generic, hedging, or vague statements. If it isn’t about the job you actually want, ditch it. 

Congratulations. You just shifted your energy to that critical 20%. 

2. Discard self-sabotage: Believe you’re right for the role

This might sound a bit “Dr. Phil” at first glance, but hear us out. We’re not suggesting something quite so asinine and patronizing as the idea that great self-esteem and chutzpah is all you need to land you a dream job. That’s dumb. Also, see point 1.

What we are saying though is that many job-seekers accidentally absorb a defeatist mindset. In fact, it happens to the best of us. Here’s the kind of self-sabotaging thoughts we’re talking about:

“I’m not qualified. Before I can even think about a new job I need to go back to school.”

“I’m lucky to have any job in this economy.”

“I should wait until COVID-19 and murder hornets go away before any big life changes.”

Don’t get us wrong. These thoughts aren’t stupid.

Skilling up is good! And of course, macroeconomics and other unpredictable variables are all real things that affect how your dream job search will play out. But none of these considerations (along with the myriad other excuses out there) need stop you from taking meaningful steps in the right direction … right now.

These ideas all have one thing in common. They push you to reflect on all the reasons why now isn’t a good time; why you’re not ready yet; why the world is just too scary a place to do something bold and daring like pursuing your dream.

Believe change is possible

OK, OK, we’ll throw the obvious mind shift out there first. 

You do need to believe in yourself to make good stuff happen. There. Satisfied, Dr. Phil? It’s on a billion fridge magnets for good reason. Whatever you need to do to get inspired that you can and should pursue a career that’d make you happy and enriched, go out and get that thing, stick a magnet on it, and slap it on your fridge. 

Life’s too short. 

But don’t just get inspired; get aspirational. 

Time constraints, economic downturns, and yes, even venom-spitting murder hornets will always be out there. Either you aspire to find a job you love despite these and a plethora of equally sucky things, or you resign yourself to a permanent state of waiting. 

At least door one goes somewhere. Door two leads to the eternal thought-muzak of life’s waiting room. That serendipitous 20% zone can only happen when you abandon a resignation mindset.

Get started in 15 minutes or less

So you want to stop polluting your brain and your approach with self-defeating ideas? Got any spare paper lying around? Grab it!

Jot down every excuse or statement of resignation the self-defeatist side of your psyche (we all have one!) can muster. 

Now write a response to each of these naysaying urges. Where you feel an obstacle is real, write down how you can overcome it. Start making tangible plans.  

3. Reject passivity: Pursue crucial situations and people

This all circles around to the absolute importance of kicking passivity to the curb. 

Think back to the 80/20 Rule for a moment: The idea that most of the biggest changes that’ll happen in your life boil down to a relatively slim sliver of critical crux points. 

If you buy into this particular quirk of the universe, being awake for those moments suddenly becomes vitally important, right? 

Yet the vast majority of people that are searching for their dream job hand the responsibility for delivering those all-or-nothing flash-points to someone else. Career-hunting passivity is everywhere, and takes many forms, like:

Trusting a job search algorithm to guide your job search.

Sending out a resume and desperately hoping the HR team gets back to you one day.

Relying on a recruiter to convince your dream company to give you a shot.

Laziness of this ilk squanders not one, but two of your most valuable resources. 

One: Obviously, you’re wasting your time. We probably don’t need to offer too much exposition here on why metaphorically cramming filet mignon into a Mcdonald’s meat-grinder is unlikely to produce optimal results.

But you can’t overlook the negative knock-on effects on your motivation. You’re spinning headlong into a negative spiral here — where a perfect storm of rejection emails, lack of actionable data, and no real clue about what to do differently next time robs you of any desire to continue.

Why do this to yourself?

Passivity breeds failure, which in turn leads to the slow and abysmal process of … well … just giving up. The “80-percenter-zone” is a gray realm of mental laziness — of endlessly doing the same thing while expecting suddenly different results to miraculously manifest from miasmic mundanity. No.

So, what does “different” look like?

Zig when they zag

An active and engaged process of finding your dream job isn’t just about being smart — although, no big surprises here — smart people are generally better at finding useful shortcuts. It’s also about using your creativity and your passion to zig when other folks zag. 

What do we mean by that?

Testing your approach: So you threw your metaphorical filet mignon into the algorithmic meat grinder and you got a dry and tasteless meat patty and an unconvincing dill pickle for your pains. If you’re switched on, you’ll chalk that up as a failed experiment and learn from it. Testing your approaches and efficiently learning from mistakes will help you avoid wasting a “rare” opportunity. 

Looking beyond the low hanging fruit: The best jobs aren’t advertised. They’re made and won behind the scenes, far beyond your reach if you’re confining your hunt to generic online search tools. Like Poirot (or Angela Lansbury if you’re seeking employment in the Cabot Cove metropolitan area), dig deeper. Keen detective work may be in order. 

Get started in 15 minutes or less

Recognize you have a bit of a passive streak as a job hunter? Good news: no red pens are required for this one.

Can you find employees and HR managers of places you’d love to work on LinkedIn? The best time to begin assembling information about how your dream employer operates is right now — yep, before an interview is even a glimmer on the horizon. 

Think of three companies where you’d love to work and follow them on social media. Do some online detective work to learn their lingo and build a clear picture of who they’re recruiting for and why. Make Angela proud. 

“Why should we hire you?”

That’s exactly the question we intend to help you answer when you find yourself sitting in the interview hot seat for your shot at the career you’ve always wanted. 

At this moment, when that crucial question hits, the next few words out of your mouth will need to show (not tell) your interviewer why you’re ideal for their company. These words will need to prove (not plead) your case. These words have to be steeped in the company’s language and be rich with strategy, foresight, and seasoned introspection. 

Imagine feeling calm, the perfect answer spilling out of your mouth as you seal the deal on a career path you were made for. 

We can help you shine in that pivotal, all-or-nothing moment.   

        [Video] 80/20 Rule: Making Your Dream Job a Reality is a post from: I Will Teach You To Be Rich.

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