mileygoneblogger

[mileygoneblogger]

ben miller, the little dork you are I LOVE HIM

here's ben's music taste!!

his voice claim is warren graham btw SORRYYY I DONT MAKE THE RULESSS

also don't look at his shirt for too long i'm so bad at wrinkles/fabrics SIGHH 💔💔 and YES that IS how he writes his name!!! his handwriting is so cutie i love it

he is one of jack's closest friends, as well as meg's coworker AND friend ^_^ he's one of the line cooks at lou's diner

p.s — chapter 3 coming very soon!!! just doing some final touch-ups and add-ins, and i'll be posting it very shortly alongside other silly little drawings of my silly little characters and of course my rendition of jack marston if y'all want it TEEHEE

[mileygoneblogger]

they should give the cowboys youtube

[mileygoneblogger]

IM FINALLY DOWNLOADING RDR1 I AM LITERALLY JUMPING FOR JOY. DAAAARLIIIINGGGG GUESS WHOS BACK FROM JAIIIILLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!

[mileygoneblogger]

♱⃓ 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 ♱⃓

word count: (2.3k)

warnings: mild language use, anxiety/overthinking, brief mention of past family conflict (light, implied)

⚝ return to masterlist ⚝

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

i had just finished a lecture on the psychological effects of chronic stress, which felt a little too on-the-nose for a tuesday afternoon. by the time i left the classroom, my back hurt, my coffee had gone cold, and my social battery was in the negatives.

i had twenty minutes to kill before my next class, so i did what any normal person would do: i found the quietest corner on campus, sat on the cold stone ledge beneath the psychology department’s sad excuse for a tree, and stared at my phone like it owed me something. it's been a week by now. a little more than, actually. maybe it's time for me to just suck it up and maybe get a second job or something. my thumb hovered over the "delete post" button, and then...

that’s when i saw it.

a text.

from a number i didn’t recognize. which normally meant: scam, stalker, or maybe even an unsolicited dick pic if they so please. but this one?

this one was… weirdly normal.

[unknown contact]

2:23PM

💬❔: Hey, this is the number for that roommate posting, right?

💬: yeah, this is it. looking for a place, i assume?

💬❔: Yeah lol, your ad caught my eye. You seem fun to be around. Tolerable, even.

💬: tolerable? damn, that's high praise from a stranger, lol. if you wouldn't mind telling me a little about yourself, that'd be great. you know, just to make sure you're not gonna sacrifice me in some weird roommate ritual

💬❔: No promises. I'm Jack Marston. I'm 19, a major in Criminal Justice, and I work as a clerk at Vinyl Vault (Normal part-time hours). I'd make sure to pay rent on time, I mainly keep to myself but I also don't mind hanging out. Not a small-talker. And no, I'm not a serial killer, lol.

he texts back too fast. or maybe i read too much into it. god, he hasn’t even moved in yet and i’m already looking for signs—some hidden way he’s gonna disappoint me.

💬: hm, alright then jack. i'm megan harper. 19 as well, psych major. i'm a waitress at that old diner downtown, and i work part-time hours as well. we can set up an apartment tour sometime this week if you're available, and we could get to know each other a little more. i'm available tuesday, thursday, and sunday. whatever works for you, man.

💬❔: Huh, I think maybe Sunday could work best for me. About what time do you think?

💬: how does 3:30 sound? :p

💬❔: Works just fine for me. I'll see you Sunday, then.

💬: sure, sounds great. cya then.

immediately after this conversation, i found myself taking a deep breath. what the fuck am i doing? i was already starting to get cold feet at the idea of another person being in my space. i mean, i've been a hermit for so long, what's going to happen when a new person comes along and moves in? it's a disruption of peace. my peace. should i just block his number already? shit. shit. SHIT.

i mean, he doesn't seem that bad... at least not over text, anyway. let's just hope it stays that way.

later that day, i found myself alone in my apartment as usual. i decided to take out my laptop and chip away at the assignments my professor had posted at the beginning of this week. i took solace in my living room, on my favourite spot on the couch: right in my corner that i could nestle into just right.

i placed my laptop on the table in front of me before i put some music on, and proceeded to walk into my kitchen to make myself a mug of tea. as i waited for my electric kettle to boil the water, i drummed my fingers in rhythm to the music against the counter i was leaning on. i was lost in my thoughts as the soft acoustics of alice in chains' MTV unplugged performance played in the background.

"—down in a hole, and i don't know if i can be saved..—"

as layne staley's vocals reverberated through the room, the low hum of an acoustic guitar rattling my bones, i was deep in thought about the whole interaction with this jack guy, if that was even his real name. i've never heard of him around campus, or at least i've never noticed him, but that could also be on account of our different majors. was he real?

so, i did what any sane girl would do: pulled out my phone, and scoured the internet for him. i pulled up instagram and gingerly typed 'jack marston' in the search bar. 10 minutes and far too many dead ends later, i finally found something that matched: a private account under his name. the profile picture showed a group of guys my age in what looked to be some garage.

screenshot. zoom.

five men. three of whom i've seen around campus, one familiar face—ben. weird, they must be close. and then... one i didn't recognize.

tall. dark-eyed. long-haired. scruffy facial hair. a little unkempt, but not in a bad way. more like... the kind of messy that was intentional. wait, is that... is he wearing guy-liner? seriously?

of course he is.

he looks like the type who’d ask me to name three songs in the middle of a walmart because god forbid i decided to wear a band tee that day. the type who thinks he's all misunderstood and mysterious, all sarcasm and eye rolls.

ugh. no. here i am, already trying to psychoanalyze this guy i've texted once. one time. liza would say, "give him a chance, meg! you never know!" and give me those big blue puppy eyes she has that i hate to admit work every time because i love her too much.

this was a mistake. inviting some stranger into my home just because rent’s getting too hard to handle? letting a guy like that into my space? i've seen movies like this before. never liked the endings.

i just can't help but think that this whole thing feels so off. because letting someone in—really in—feels like setting the table for disappointment with your finest, fucked up china. it's like saying, “here’s everything i am, just so you can decide it’s not enough.”

at the end of the day, people really are disappointing, aren’t they?

and okay, yeah. maybe i do have some trust issues. maybe my gut reaction to connection is to run the other way. maybe i do still flinch at the thought of someone knowing me too well. maybe it’s easier to be alone than to be let down.

he had one arm around ben's shoulder, the other flipping off the camera. yeah, real charming. nothing screams "trustworthy roommate" more than a middle finger and a smirk. my eyes drifted over his outfit: an alice in chains band tee, and baggy black jeans that looked like they've seen far too many dive bars.

weird coincidence. i turned down the volume of my stereo just a little bit.

i caught myself wondering what music i’d play when he came over. something obscure but not pretentious. something to test the waters. maybe—

jesus, meg. get a grip.

you’ve texted him once. one time. you don’t know anything about this guy except that he owns a band tee and knows how to form a coherent sentence. that’s a low bar, even for you.

what if he smelled good?

fuck. what if he smelled good?

i bet he wears some woodsy cologne, something that lingers too long. no. stop it. you’re not doing this again.

i don’t care what he smells like. or what his voice sounds like. or whether he takes his coffee black or drowns it in cream. i don’t care. i'm not making it weird, you're making it weird.

after mentally facepalming myself for staring at the picture for 3 minutes, my kettle let out a small click to signify the water was done boiling. i put my phone down on the counter, reaching up to my cupboards and pulling out my favourite mug: a mug that was a gag gift from my childhood bestfriend, sarah, before i moved here for college.

it was a white mug with a black handle that said "cunt" in black text. i chuckled to myself as i remembered that day we were in my childhood home, sat on my bed, and she passed me a gift bag full of candy, snacks, and of course, this mug. sarah was actually the one who recommended i post an ad for a roommate in the first place. damn you.

i moved on autopilot, pouring the steaming water into my mug, watching as the tea leaves swirl and darken in the cup. my laptop remained open on the couch, schoolwork half-finished, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for me to snap out of my thoughts. instead, my eyes drifted back to my phone's screen.

jack marston. 62 followers. 1 post. no bio, no hints. just that blurry group photo and a username that looks like it hasn't been changed since highschool. i tapped the screen. the "follow" button stared back at me. my finger hovered over it. for one second. then another. i exhaled sharply and grabbed my tea, and closed my phone with a snap.

fuck— no, i'm not doing that.

i flopped back onto the couch, laptop on my lap, textbook open on the cushion beside me. i told myself i was going to focus—that this was just another ordinary night, nothing worth spiraling over. no reason to feel like the walls were caving in just because some guy with decent fashion choices and great music taste was coming over on sunday.

but my brain had other plans.

the cursor on my document blinked like it was judging me. a passive-aggressive little reminder that i hadn’t typed a single word of the reflection essay that was due in… shit. two days.

“analyze the psychological impact of chronic stress on the human nervous system,” i read aloud under my breath. i scoffed. oh, how cute. how poetic. maybe i should just turn in a picture of myself and call it a day.

i tried to write. i really did. i stared at the question. typed a sentence. deleted it. typed another. deleted that too. because all i could think about was him.

jack marston.

who the hell does he think he is, making me spiral like this? just some guy. not even in my life yet and already taking up real estate in my overworked brain. typical.

i closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a stack of bricks labeled “responsibilities you’re currently failing at". i had school, bills, my job, deadlines, and now… this.

a stranger.

possibly moving into my apartment.

sharing my kitchen. my bathroom. my living room. my quiet. my peace.

and yeah, maybe i am being dramatic. maybe he’s totally normal. maybe he’ll move in and keep to himself and we’ll coexist peacefully, like two passing ships with rent payments and bad habits. but the thing is… i’ve been let down before. by people who were supposed to be safe. by people who should’ve known better.

thanks, dad.

god. what is wrong with me?

i leaned back into the couch and stared at the ceiling, letting the music and the steam from my tea blur everything at the edges.

this is fine. it’s totally fine. people get roommates all the time and they don’t have existential crises about it. they don’t spiral over a blurry instagram photo like it’s some bad omen.

besides, it’s not like i care. realistically, he’s probably an asshole. he looks like the kind of guy who plays devil’s advocate just to feel something. the type who listens to alice in chains and pretends it’s a personality trait.

…okay, that was harsh.

also, he does have good taste.

ugh.

this is exactly why i keep people at arm’s length—because the minute i let them in, i start trying to map out every possible way it could go wrong. and it always does.

i’m just being cautious. not cold, just… realistic. except it doesn’t feel like realism. it feels like fear.

i don’t want to care. i really don’t. but if i didn’t care, would i be sitting here trying to guess what kind of tea he’d like? or wondering if he’d recognize the song playing right now?

jesus christ. i’m so annoying.

it’s one guy, meg. he’s not special.

and even if he was, that would only make it worse.

he’s just a potential roommate. just someone to split rent with. someone who’ll leave his dishes in the sink and probably hog the bathroom.

not someone to get attached to.

not someone to lose sleep over.

…then why does it already feel like i’m bracing for something?

i rubbed my temples and took another sip of tea, scalding my tongue in the process. i tried to swallow the heat down anyway.

i let out a small sigh, trying my best to shake the thought of jack away before returning my attention to my neglected schoolwork. i had work to do. a life to live. a stranger to not obsess over.

the guitar riff of nutshell played solemnly, humming throughout the room as i took a sip of my tea, ignoring the way my mind kept drifting back to him anyway.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

i will preach and preach that jack marston is somewhat alt in modern au I DON'T CAREEE ARGUE WITH THE WALL!!!!!!!!!! anywayss thank you guys sm for the support on chapter 1! i'm so glad people are enjoying this as much as i am! chapter three is in the works as i type this.... mwahaha >:)

[mileygoneblogger]

the american dream is where hope comes to die

[mileygoneblogger]

modern au stuff

[mileygoneblogger]

Jack got a lil too drunk at the saloon.

[mileygoneblogger]

[mileygoneblogger]

[mileygoneblogger]

♱⃓ 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 ♱⃓

word count: (2.7k)

warnings: mild language use, mentions of weird/uncomfortable texts

⚝ return to masterlist ⚝

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐲!

damn the economy. honestly? let's just abolish capitalism itself at this point.

i glared at my bills spread across my table they had personally wronged me. rent. utilities. student loans. grocery reciepts. they all sneered at me, the numbers mocking my rapidly depleting bank account. the numbers didn’t even feel real anymore—just abstract threats in black ink.

i sighed to myself as i stabbed the calculator buttons like it had something to prove, finding the total of my costs for the month. i was hunched over the calculator, paper, and pen in front of me, sat down in my apartment's living room, slumping further into my couch as i saw the number on the small screen: $1,220 total. for one month.

i slumped further into my couch like it might swallow me whole. how was i even alive? no, seriously. i’m a nineteen year old college student with a part-time waitressing job that pays in crumbs and kind-of-okay tips if i smile enough. and somehow, that’s supposed to cover rent, tuition, food, and the occasional mental breakdown? it’s criminal. i should sue.

my mug of tea had gone cold an hour ago, abandoned on my coffee table as i spiraled into financial crisis. my laptop screen had dimmed, buried under a flood of passive-aggressive reminder emails from my professor and unread discussion posts. i was mid-rant to one of my friends from back home—something about capitalism, and student loans. as i was considering the idea of taking on stripping as a night job, she gave me an almost painfully logical answer: a roommate.

why didn't i think of it before? i mean, sure, i'm not exactly the most social person, but, if someone is just kinda in my apartment doing their own thing, and we split rent... hey, doesn't sound that bad to me. after i took a while to think about it, i set up an ad online:

[ad]

🏡 roomie wanted: cheap rent, good times (i hope)🏡

hey stranger :p i’m currently looking for a roommate to split rent with because, well… life is expensive and i’d rather not sell my kidney to afford groceries.

the apartment is decent—small, but cozy. there’s one available bedroom, a shared bathroom, and a living space that’s great for collapsing in after pretending to have your life together all day. rent is reasonable, utilities are split, and i’m close to campus (like a 15-minute walk if you’re aggressively late to class).

about me:

- 19, employed, college student

- primarily introverted, but i’ll talk your ear off about weird dreams and conspiracy theories if you let me

- i mind my business. you mind yours. just peace and harmony.

about you:

- preferably not a serial killer (non-negotiable)

- pays rent on time

- doesn’t force awkward small talk while i’m microwaving leftovers at 2am

general info:

rent: $900/mo (your half = $450) + utilities

available: november 5th

if you’re interested, shoot me a txt: (812) 789-4989

if this turns out to be a disaster, hey, at least we'll have a good story right?

[end of ad]

in all honesty, i wasn’t expecting anyone sane to respond. i mean, have you seen the internet? it’s like craigslist and tinder had a cursed lovechild. but hey, it was worth a shot, right?

a few hours later, the responses started rolling in. and let me tell you—nightmare fuel.

some highlights:

- one man asked if he could bring his pet rats. plural.

- a girl wanted to know if i was okay with “frequent overnight visitors” (translation: random hookups).

- guy who seemed halfway decent casually dropped on me that he was on house arrest for the next six months. i'd be lying if i said i wasn't interested in his backstory.

- one message just said “u up?” at 2am. spiritually? i wasn't.

don't even get me started on the degenerates. i didn't realize how low some people's self-respect can be until now.

my phone buzzed against the counter—here we go, another text. another stranger responding to my roommate ad like it was some kind of dating profile on plenty o' creeps.

seriously, i was two seconds away from tossing the damn thing into the garbage disposal, even though it would probably survive just to spite me. the thing had survived being dropped down three flights of stairs and left out in the rain once. a little white iphone 3g with not a single crack, the screen only covered by a veil of scratches and scuffs. i'll take whatever the hell steve jobs was on when he was making these things.

this text was... interesting, to say the least. here it is:

[unknown number]

7:26PM

💬👀: hey baby. not only can i bring you cheaper rent, but i can also bring you some romance, and a good time. a real good time. ;)

i blinked.

this wasn’t craigslist personals. it was a roommate ad. for housing.

what part of 'quiet, clean, non-creepy individual' translated to 'yes, please sext me'?

before i could even mentally formulate an insult, more messages popped up.

💬👀: just give me a chance. please.

💬👀: i just can't be alone anymore. i can't.

the screen stayed lit in my hand, thumb frozen. i stared, slack-jawed, while the next one rolled in:

💬👀: ...i'm a feminist? if that's your thing?

my first instinct was to throw my phone before this guy sends me something else i would want eye bleach over. second instinct was to screenshot it.

then, after a full minute of silence from me:

💬👀: fine then. you don't have to be such a bitch about it.

blocked.

that was my cue. so long, cassanova.

i felt like i needed to move. i definitely needed some fresh air after... whatever that was.

that was my first thought after blocking that number. not scream, not laugh, not dramatically throw my phone into traffic—just move. sitting still felt like suffocating. and when i felt like that, chores were my go-to. repetitive, mindless. today, it was laundry day. warm machines. detergent that smelled like fake lavender and something mundane.

i tossed my laundry basket in the backseat and drove with the windows down. the air was sharp and cold in that familiar indiana way—like it was daring me to roll them back up. it smelled like smoke, dry leaves, and someone’s horrible idea of pumpkin spice.

bloomington in the fall sometimes made me feel like a background character in someone else’s coming-of-age film. the trees were loud in color. people wore scarves and uggs unironically. there was laughter somewhere in the distance and it wasn’t mine.

i passed my work, lou’s diner on kirkwood—ben’s car was there. i could spot that rusted-out chevy anywhere. i remember he briefly told me it was his uncle's way back when, and it definitely shows. might as well stop in and say hi, right? not like i have much better to do on a sunday besides mope in the laundromat all by myself.

the bell above the door jingled as i stepped inside, dragging a gust of cold air with me. the smell of coffee and grease hit me instantly—familiar and comforting, like old flannel. the place was half-full, locals mostly, all hunched over pancakes and toast like it was a sacred ritual.

i spotted ben almost immediately—i mean, it's impossible not to with that firey head of his. he sat at a booth by the window, hunched over a plate of fries he probably didn’t even order, wearing that same faded brown flannel he always wore when he didn’t know what else to wear. he was halfway through doodling something in the margins of a notepad—little stars, planets, and constellations. he truly was a dork at heart. i casually slid into the booth across from him.

"y'know, it should be illegal to park something that ugly so close to a food establishment. think it'll start making the regulars vomit uncontrollably." i said sarcastically with a smug grin as i looked over at him.

his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. he was still looking down at his notebook with tired brown eyes, his wild ginger curls a mess. "y'know, if you insult her again, she'll get pissed off at you. maybe your airbag won't go off."

“excuse me?” i blinked. “her? oh my god. you named the van.”

"she's earned it," he finally looked at me, with that usual boyish smile he had on his face. "and for the record, i didn’t name her. the previous owner did."

i tilted my head slightly. “let me guess. your weird uncle.”

“yep, that's doug. toured with a pink floyd cover band in the eighties.”

i stared at him for a long beat. “that explains so much.”

he grinned and popped a couple of lukewarm fries into his mouth. "so, what brings you here anyway? you're not on shift." he says, his voice slightly muffled on account of the soggy mash of potato in his mouth.

"well, looks like you aren't either." i quipped, a trace of a chuckle in my voice as i spoke. "i saw your shaggin' wagon out front and decided to stop in. was on the way to the old laundromat."

"meg," ben groaned. "don't call it that ever again, i beg of you. besides, her name is betty."

i snorted. "betty?"

"betty," he confirmed with a nod, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "as in white walls, brown vinyl, smells vaguely like cigarettes and broken dreams betty."

"oh, so she’s a classy woman?" i chuckled, as i pictured the ugly-as-sin van i've come to know and love as some deeply troubled, esoteric woman chainsmoking and sadly sipping on some prestigious martini.

he shrugged, smirking. "of course she is. she’s got character. spunk."

i leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. "you’re one flat tire away from becoming a cautionary tale, you know that?"

"oh meg, you wound me," he said, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "i’ll have you know she passed inspection last spring."

"right. and i’m the queen of england."

ben just laughed, low and easy, and went back to doodling in the corner of his notepad. he’d already drawn a little spaceship abducting what looked suspiciously like a cow grazing in the grass.

“so, laundry. you heading to that creepy laundromat on walnut?” he asked without looking up.

i nodded, pulling my sleeves over my hands. “yeah. figured i’d be productive. maybe stare into the industrial dryers and reflect on my many life choices.”

he glanced up again, that smile softening. “sounds cozy.”

“it’s something.”

we lingered in that weird, comfortable quiet for a few seconds—the kind that only ever came with ben. no pressure to fill the silence. no awkwardness. just the hum of the old diner lights, the jukebox, and the soft clink of silverware in the background.

i glanced out the window. the sky was starting to go gray, that muted indiana kind of gray where you couldn’t tell if it was 4pm or 9 in the morning. leaves scraped along the pavement like they were trying to get out of town before winter hit.

"i should get going," i said finally, sliding out of the booth. "before someone tries to use the good washers."

ben nodded. "tell betty i said hi."

i raised an eyebrow. "you want me to talk to your van?"

"i want you to respect her."

"not happening, ben."

he grinned. "drive safe, meg."

"you too, cowboy."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the laundromat was quiet when i got there. not dead, just sleepy. a kid was sliding around on the tile floors in socks while his mom tried to feed quarters into a jammed machine. some guy in the corner was reading the book of psalms like he’d read it a thousand times already—softly mouthing along, underlining a verse with a yellow highlighter that looked like it was running out of ink.

i shook off the memory of kokomo. my bible-belt hometown, all fire and brimstone and well-rehearsed smiles. sunday school stained glass and whispering women in floral skirts.

nope. not today.

i made my way toward a machine in the far back corner, the one with the dent in the side that nobody ever seemed to want. it was cheap and barely functional—perfect.

i dropped my laundry basket down beside it and started sorting through the pile. hoodies, socks, jeans.

i wonder how mom’s doing.

the thought came and went before i could stop it. i tried to stuff it down like the rest of the dirty laundry.

meg, you should really call her more. my hand hovered over the detergent for a second too long.

i hadn’t called her since the beginning of this school year. it wasn’t that i didn’t want to—it was just that hearing her voice always brought everything back, and i wasn’t sure i could face that again. i guess i just hadn’t wanted to hear that soft, tired voice laced with all the things she didn’t say. she always sounded like she was waiting for me to come home. not in a clingy way—just… like she still held space for me, waiting for me with open arms. sorry, mom.

the washer beeped. i snapped back into the room.

coins in. start button. spin cycle. move on.

the hum of the dryers filled the air like static. i sat on the little wooden bench by the window and watched the red leaves outside twist in the wind like they were trying to dance their way off the branches.

it was always like this.

bloomington in october. beautiful. lonely. loud in the ways that didn’t matter.

i stared into the washer drum as it spun, letting it hypnotize me. socks and hoodies and pillowcases tumbled like they didn’t have a care in the world.

must be nice, i thought. somewhere between the suds and spin cycles, i let myself breathe once again.

after reloading my clothes into a different machine, the dryer hummed behind me, its rumble rattling gently through the old laundromat floor. i sat on the cold bench by the wall, thumb absently tracing the edge of my phone, mind somewhere else entirely.

across the room, the kid in socks had finally tired himself out. he now sat curled up beside his mom, watching the dryers spin with the kind of wide-eyed wonder you only get before the world fucks you up.

i kept glancing at my phone, not because i was expecting anything, but because hope’s a stupid little habit you can’t quite quit.

i thought back to earlier today, being hunched over my coffee table, feeling the dollars in my bank account withering away with each number i punched into that damn calculator.

the hours at the diner weren’t cutting it, and neither were the uncomfortable couch sleeps at liza’s. i needed a roommate, and soon.

preferably one who didn’t sext me immediately or try to convert me to pyramid schemes.

a heavy sigh left my chest before i could stop it.

this wasn’t what i pictured when i thought about college. i thought i’d be in some dorm room with a cork board full of polaroids and twinkly lights, having the time of my life. not... whatever this is.

i reached for my laundry basket just as the dryer clicked off with a soft thunk.

the kid smiled at me as he left.

i smiled back.

i looked at my phone once again, skimming through the notifications i've recieved from the puddle of unsaved numbers of strangers i didn't even know the names of.

maybe this was all just a big mistake on my end.

okay, fuck it. a week. i’d give it one more week.

and if no one normal showed up by then, i’d delete the damn ad, burn my phone, and move into a cave somewhere. become the next small town urban legend or something.

and at that point, maybe i’d even start enjoying being the joke.

and if the universe had a sense of humor? it was about to make me its favourite punchline.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

next chapter coming soon! thank you for reading, xoxo <3

[mileygoneblogger]

♱⃓ 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 — 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♱⃓

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

bloomington, indiana. 2009.

it all started with an ad megan harper posted on the internet in a fit of financial desperation, looking for someone—anyone—to split rent with.

what she got in return was jack marston: a stubborn, oddly charming, walking disaster in flannel with too many cds and a dry, sarcastic sense of humor.

now they’re stuck sharing an apartment and figuring out how to coexist without killing each other while tiptoeing around something neither of them is ready to name.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:

⚝ chapter 1: damn the economy!

⚝ chapter 2: social calls

⚝ chapter 3: thirty seconds to sunday [currently being revised!]

⚝ more to come! :)

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬:

roommates to lovers, friends to lovers, slowburn, mutual pining, modern!au, college!au, jack marston, jack marston x self insert, original characters, red dead redemption, jack is an idiot, meg is oblivious

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞:

hello my loves! first of all, thank you so much to anybody taking their time to check out my fic <3 i’m so excited to share this messy, slowburn story about two idiots who are too dumb to see what’s right in front of them (and, of course, all the chaos surrounding them). just a quick note: meg is a self-insert, and liza and ben are original characters i’ve created for this little world! be nice to them. i love them dearly.

updates may be a bit slow because i’m a perfectionist, but i promise i’ll make it worth the wait! i hope you enjoy reading as much as i’ve enjoyed writing—please feel free to leave comments, reblogs, or any thoughts, i’d love to hear from you! 💕

thank you for being here!

xoxo,

miley

[mileygoneblogger]

Welcome to my blog!

hi everyone:) it has just occured to me that i haven't made an intro post yet so here i am hehe

★ ABOUT ME ★

i'm miley!

- she/her

- new fic writer!

- currently writing: domestic disturbances

★ INTERESTS ★

- red dead redemption 1 & 2

- life is strange

- silent hill

- cry of fear

- alt music! (deftones, pierce the veil, and many others. i love metal, rock and emo music ^_^)

- poetry as well as film

★ DNI LIST ★

i mean, just don't be a dick i guess? i will not tolerate any kind of bigotry, harassment or bullying on my page. plain and simple.

★ TAGS I WILL USE ★

- #miley rambles (random posting)

- #miley writes (my fic writing! obviously)

- #domestic disturbances (navigational purposes)

★ ASKS ARE OPEN! ★

my asks will always be open, my loves:) feel free to talk to me about absolutely anything and everything, could be about writing, my characters, anything!! i'm always down for some brainrot and i'm here to listen ^_^

[mileygoneblogger]

unfortunately this would work on me

creep

[mileygoneblogger]

fuck this fic i'm writing is going to take the life out of me in the best way possible

y'all ever get pissed off at what your characters do even though you're the one who made them do that LMFAOOOOO

[mileygoneblogger]

writing is hard but coming up with a cunty title and catchy summary will slay even god's strongest soldier

[mileygoneblogger]

"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

[mileygoneblogger]

I feel like a lot of people forget that the Van Dir Linde gang was actually famous in their universe- Dutch Van Dir Linde was as famous as the real life Butch Cassidy. The gang had as much infamy as the Wild Bunch or the Dalton gang. Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Bill Williamson, Javier Esculla, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith, Sean McGuire and more were probably as famous as the real life Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Black Bart, Rufus Buck, Ike Clanton, the Sundance Kid, Wild Bill Hickock, and more.

Sadie Adler would've been just as famous. She was a gunslinger like the real life Calamity Jane and Anne Oakley and she was an outlaw at one point like Laura Bullion, Pearl Hart, Belle Star, The Cassidy Sisters, and more.

The other women of the camp would've probably been less popular but still very intriguing figures to people in the future.

In the newspapers, we see that there are songs about Dutch's boys and books too. Trelawny mentions them being on dime novels. In the future, the pieced together story of the Van Dir Linde gang might've gotten adapted into a movie, similar to "Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid" or "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford". They could've gotten biopics, documentaries, and more.

Historians and fans of the wild West era would dig up records, find pictures, and maybe even track down people who were apart of the gang, accomplices to the gang, or victims of the gang. They would try to piece together stories to figure out the mystery of what actually happened to the gang.

People would argue over things that happened in the gang and have their evidence to back it up. Letters written by gang members would become so valuable. If they ever someone come across Arthur's journal, it would probably be considered one of the most valuable pieces of documentation to ever exist for that time period.

The guns of the gang would probably be kept in museums if found. Albert Mason's portrait of Arthur Morgan would be found in history books, same as other pictures.

Dutch would probably be a very controversial figure in history- some would hail him as a failed hero and others would condemn his violence no matter the reason- they wouldn't know what the people in the gang knew- especially in the end. Same with the rest of the gang members.

They'd probably all get romanticized. Hosea and Dutch's friendship, the raising of the boys, Dutch and Annabelle and his fued with Colm, Mary and Arthur, John and his family, Javier being a revolutionary- no one would know the full story.

And then there is Jack- he may live to see the 1960s and 70s and 80s. He may have grandchildren who'd pull him into a theater to watch a retelling of the gang that he was a part of at one point. He'd be amused. He'd think that the actor playing his father was too clean looking, too pretty. He'd think that the movie Arthur was too skinny. He'd think that the man playing Dutch had a funny voice as he tried to mimic the accent. He'd laugh and make notes in his head of the historical accuracy. He'd feel sorrowful at the deaths of the characters- he knew them at some point. And no one at the theater would know that the old man with the rowdy bright eyed boys who brought him there was Jack Marston, the last of the Van Dir Linde gang.

Jack might talk about it to the public. He might do interviews. He might even write a book about his father, the infamous John Marston. Those would be priceless. Even Beecher's Hope might be kept around and visited as a historical site for history goers.

And honestly? It is such a bittersweet thing.