#I had to sneak on between power outages to post this

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

Happy Gondorian New Year and Anniversary of the Destruction of the One Ring!

[phillippadgettwrites]

Blackout

Rated X / 3724 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

When the power cuts out, they’re sitting on the floor in her living room with a fully loaded Monopoly board on the coffee table between them, plus two open beers. The wind has been howling for hours, sideways rain pelting the windows with each mighty gust, but they hadn’t had the forethought to prepare flashlights or candles.

The evening so far feels a bit like a date, at least compared to how they typically spend their time together. Mulder hadn’t even used the excuse of some exciting new case or research to invite himself over, he just asked if she wanted to hang out. Most people would have evenings like this before getting to the point of sleeping together, but they aren’t most people. And while it only happened the one time, they’ve been working their way back to that point in a more typical fashion, including a few hot and heavy makeout sessions. She had hoped that might be the direction they were headed this evening, but when her apartment goes dark she turns her focus to more pressing issues.

It’s well after 10:00pm, and with the moon obscured by heavy rain clouds and not a drop of ambient light, they both slowly stand and carefully make their way towards the kitchen.

“There’s a flashlight in the drawer to the left of the oven,” she tells him, moving her hands in an arc in front of her and sweeping her feet back and forth before each step to avoid tripping. “And there are some candles and matches in the bathroom.”

She heads toward the bathroom, operating off her mental map of her apartment to guide her way, and she’s so caught off guard when Mulder crashes into her from the side that she falls without any attempt to catch herself. Her shoulder hits the hardwood and within milliseconds Mulder’s weight is on top of her, squeezing the air from her lungs.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he sputters, rolling to the side and pawing her all over as he tries to figure out how her body is oriented. She turns onto her back and his palm lands squarely on her breast, giving it a squeeze before he snatches it away and adds another, much more contrite, “Sorry,” to his extended apology.

Scully laughs, though she’s probably going to have a bruise on her shoulder tomorrow.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him as she sits up.

“Do you want to feel my breast? Even the score?” he asks, and she knows that the joke is his way of managing his embarrassment.

“Maybe later,” she says, then slowly gets to her feet.

They find the flashlight, as well as the candles, all of which have mere inches of wick left at most. They light one and attempt to resume their game, but the strain on their eyes makes them decide not to light another when the flame flickers and dies out.

“How new are these batteries?” Mulder asks, and she hears the rattle of him shaking the flashlight.

“I’m not sure, I haven’t used it in a while,” she tells him, and he sighs.

“I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t judging you for your lack of preparedness, Scully,” he says in a lecturing tone.

“You don’t have toilet paper at your apartment half the time, Mulder,” she shoots back.

“Touché.”

They decide not to use the flashlight save for lighting their way to the bathroom, or to sneak another beer from the fridge. Mulder suggests heading home, but Scully suspects that it’s nothing more than an attempt to be sure he isn’t overstaying his welcome, and she insists that it would be unsafe for him to drive across town with all the traffic signals out and low visibility.

“Are you cold?” she asks as she pulls the blanket off the back of the couch to cover herself. Based on the sound of his voice, Mulder is still sitting on the floor across the coffee table.

“Nope, I’m good,” he says.

They talk about other power outages they’ve experienced, comparing notes to determine that three days is the longest either of them have gone without. Scully tells Mulder about an occasion where Ahab made them eat all the ice cream in the fridge so it wouldn’t go to waste, and then Maggie had to clean the bathroom in the dark with no hot water after Charlie gave himself a stomach ache and didn’t quite make it to the toilet.

“It really makes you think about how dependent we are on electricity, doesn’t it?” Mulder remarks. “I don’t think I could accomplish three-quarters of the things I do in an average day without it.”

“True, but you have to consider the fact that we’re only so dependent on it because we’ve built modern life around it,” Scully says, stretching out on the couch. “You could accomplish many, if not most, of the things you do in an average day without it—you’d just have to accomplish them in a different way.”

“Indoor plumbing doesn’t require electricity,” he says. “I could heat water over an open fire to make my coffee. Use a straight razor to shave. I think I could get as far as needing to drive before things would get tricky.”

“Work itself would be practically impossible,” Scully says. “Without phone or email, I’m not sure we could do anything at all.”

They’re quiet for a bit, and the complete lack of mechanical hum in the building makes the intermittent rumble of car engines and the spray of the rain sound like thunder.

“It’s wild to think about how much time and energy used to go towards just trying to survive,” Mulder says suddenly, startling her.

“The four F’s of evolution,” Scully replies, sitting up a little only to realize how much the beer has gone to her head. “Fight, flee, feed, and fornicate. We’ve always had the same needs, we just meet them in different ways depending on the resources available to us.”

“Clubs, swords, muskets, atom bombs,” Mulder lists off.

“Feet, horses, cars, airplanes,” Scully continues.

“Hunt and gather, farm, supermarket, McDonald’s,” he adds.

There’s an awkward silence when the fourth “F” hangs in the air.

“I suppose the last “F” is the only one that hasn’t changed much,” she finally says, feeling silly for feeling embarrassed.

“I don’t know, there have been quite a few modern advancements,” Mulder offers, and she hears in his voice that he’s changing position. She imagines him lying on his side, his head propped up on a fist. “Where would feminism be if not for the advent of the Hitachi Magic Wand?”

Her cheeks flush, and she’s grateful for the cover of darkness. It makes it all feel pretend somehow, like they’re talking on the phone. Like he isn’t sitting just a few feet away from her.

“I didn’t realize you were so knowledgeable about vibrators, Mulder,” she teases.

“Eh, I read a lot of magazines,” he says casually. “And it’s a personal massager, Scully. For the record.”

“I stand corrected,” she says with a smile. She feels warm and giddy. “Gratefully, a lack of electricity would have no impact on me in that respect. I suppose that makes me old fashioned.”

There’s another silence, and as it stretches on she realizes that she just disclosed her masturbatory preferences to him. She presses her cold hands to her flaming-hot cheeks and hopes that he somehow didn’t pick up on it.

“Well, that’s gotta be handy,” he finally says, and his voice sounds rough. “I’ve heard that mysterious vibrating suitcases are a common occurrence for the baggage handlers at Reagan International.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. If she agrees with him, she’s further disclosing that she masturbates when they’re on assignment. Apparently he takes her silence as offense, because before she can think of something to say he speaks again.

“Sorry, that was a bit presumptuous,” he says. “I forget that women aren’t prone to the same…fixation as men are in that particular vein.”

The lack of accuracy in his supposition bothers her enough that she doesn’t let it slide.

“That’s not true,” she says, looking in his direction even though her pupils are filled with only vacant darkness. “It’s a puritanical myth that women experience less sexual desire than men do. The difference is that men are celebrated for their libido while women are shamed for it. Repeat that for hundreds of years, and people start to believe that it’s by design.”

“Hm,” is all Mulder offers in response at first. He seems to be giving what she said quite a bit of consideration. “Not to be invasive, and you can feel free not to answer this if you aren’t comfortable, but are you suggesting that women think about sex just as often as men do?”

“They’ve done studies on the subject,” she answers confidently, feeling much more secure speaking in terms of scientific fact than personal experience. “There are numerous variables at play, but when you account for them and compare apples to apples, yes.”

“Hm,” he says again, sounding genuinely surprised. “But you don’t—” he starts, then pauses to reconsider his words. “It can’t be the same in terms of masturbation. I just find that hard to believe. No pun intended.”

That, of course, makes her think about his dick. She squeezes her thighs together when her clit jumps, alerting her to the fact that it, too, is thinking about his dick.

“What do you mean?” she asks, unwilling to risk a misunderstanding.

He laughs a little and she wonders if he is also drunk.

“I don’t know how to clarify without asking you an extremely personal question,” he admits.

She’s still thinking about his dick. She didn’t get a good look at it, but she did cop quite a feel as she helped guide him inside her. She’s glad she did, or she would have been more caught off guard by the pain.

“Try me,” she says, feeling bold.

“How often do you…?” he asks, letting the rest of the question hang in the air.

She probably shouldn’t answer that, but none of this feels real.

“Most days,” she says plainly, like she’s telling him how often she showers. “Not quite every day, but almost.” The silence that follows is so loud her ears ring. She feels a sudden surge of panic, a blast of reality that makes her nauseous. Maybe she should pretend she misunderstood the question. “Mulder?” she finally says, just to make sure he’s still there. As though he could have somehow left without her noticing.

He clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Are you…okay?”

“Yeah.” More silence. She feels a little bit angry at him for doing this to her. For leaving her hanging after such an admission. “Every day?” he says with astonishment, emphasizing both words.

“Not every day,” she corrects him. “I said most days.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, and his voice sounds closer.

“What do you mean, what does it mean? It means exactly what I said.”

“You do more days than you don’t?” he asks, and his urgency confuses her.

“I believe that was indicated by my use of the word most,” she says, a bit more tartly than she intended.

“Wow,” he says, and then is quiet again.

“And you?” she shoots back. “I think it’s only fair that you answer the same question.”

If he’s bothered, he doesn’t let on.

“The same, actually,” he says. “Most days. Not every day, but most.”

“Hm,” she says, injecting as much sarcasm as possible into a single syllable and with no body language to support it. “And what does that mean, Mulder?”

“It means that I typically do, unless I’m too tired or not in a situation to procure the necessary privacy,” he answers. “For example, on occasions where we’ve needed to share a motel room, or currently when I’m stuck at your apartment.”

“My apologies for ruining your evening,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks incredulously.

“I just don’t appreciate being made to feel like a sexual deviant,” she tells him.

“What did I say that made you feel that way?”

“I don’t know, Mulder, between the multiple ‘hms’ and the ‘wow,’ I got the distinct impression that you think I’m some kind of…perverted nymphomaniac.”

“A—what?” he asks, now incredulous for different reasons. “I apologize if my brief responses gave you that impression, but honestly I was just trying not to say any of the thoughts I was having out loud so I didn’t make you more uncomfortable than you clearly already are.”

“And which thoughts were those?” she asks, intending to make a point. She expects to hear him express surprise that someone like her would do something as uncouth as touch her own damn body for no purpose other than pleasure.

He doesn’t answer right away, which only makes her seethe. If he hadn’t been drinking she would tell him to leave.

“I’m not sure you realize what you’re asking me to say, Scully,” he says carefully, which gets her attention. “But I assure you, the thoughts are complimentary in nature. I’m not judging you.”

“Tell me one,” she requests. “Just as a point of reference.”

He sighs, and she can practically feel the gears turning in his head as he works out what to say. Which thought to share.

“Well, we travel a lot,” he begins. “So when you said most days, my immediate thought—or question, more accurately—was whether you…indulge when we’re on assignment.” She feels her entire body flush. “I’m not asking you a question,” he quickly clarifies, “I’m just sharing that as an example of the type of thought that I had. Nothing derogatory, scout’s honor.”

“Hm,” she says, not intentionally, and Mulder huffs a little uncomfortable laugh.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Now it is she who lets the silence stretch on, leaving him wondering what she’s thinking. The spike in adrenaline set off by her anger wanes, leaving her feeling sleepy and unguarded.

“Sometimes,” she says.

“Sometimes what?” he clarifies.

“I do when we’re on assignment sometimes, depending on how close your room is to mine.”

She no longer reads his silence as judgment.

“Is proximity a deterrent or an incentive?” he asks, and she can tell that he’s choosing his words carefully.

“If we share a wall I don’t—I worry that you’ll hear me,” she says. It’s the honest answer.

“You worry?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“...That you’ll hear me,” she repeats, confused.

“And that would be…bad?”

She hesitates, challenged to explain something that seems so straightforward it doesn’t require explanation.

“It’s private, Mulder,” she finally says.

“Well,” he offers, “for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t be bothered by overhearing.”

“No?”

“No. I…um…At the risk of sounding like a perverted nymphomaniac, that might be the most erotic thing imaginable, actually.”

She’s never really considered it from his perspective. She’s only ever thought about how she would feel knowing that he had heard her. She’s imagined him making an offhand joke at breakfast, or giving her a round of applause when she finishes. She’s imagined him poking fun at her, making her feel silly. She never imagined, even after it became clear that he was attracted to her, that he would get off on it.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to say.

“Have you, um…Have you ever heard anything from my side of the wall?” he asks awkwardly.

She feels so embarrassed for him that she considers lying.

“I think so,” she says, allowing it to sound like she isn’t 100% sure. Like she hasn’t pressed her ear to the wall so hard she could hear his fist slapping against his lap and feel the vibrations of his voice when he moaned through his orgasm. Like she hasn’t touched herself while listening to him do the same. “But it didn’t bother me, you don’t need to apologize,” she adds.

“Wow,” he says. “So much for being discreet.”

“Difficult to do when the walls may as well be made of cardboard.”

She’s marginally aware of the fact that she’s wet. If he were with her on the couch, it would be easy to initiate something. But she’s not sure exactly where he is or how he’s laying, and she can only imagine herself tripping over his legs and quashing her own confidence, so she stays put. But the more she thinks about all of it—him wanting to hear her touching herself, the times she’s listened to him through the wall, their one, harried fuck on his couch that they’ve barely spoken about—the more aroused she feels herself becoming. Her clit gives off a few little flutters, and she knows that Mulder can’t see his own hand in front of his own face, much less her form against the backdrop of the couch. She can hear him breathing, and she keeps her eyes trained in the direction of his breaths as she slowly inches one hand under the waist of her cotton lounge pants.

When her middle finger slides over her clit, she involuntarily sucks in a breath that’s louder than she anticipated.

“You okay?” Mulder asks, and it sounds like he’s sitting up.

“Yeah,” she says tightly, shaking her head at her lack of self control.

She should stop, but she doesn’t. She’s so ungodly wet, and it feels so damn good. One finger circling her clit, dipping just inside her opening to gather wetness before making another loop, has her cunt clutching and her mouth open in a silent scream. She wants to come so badly, but there’s no way she can stay completely quiet. There’s no way that Mulder won’t hear her.

“Scully?” he says in a voice entire octaves deeper than normal.

“Yes,” she breathes out.

Somehow, a question was asked and answered in only those two words. She hears him swallow and shift around on the floor. She imagines that he’s touching himself. It’s possible that he is.

“Do you want me to talk, or stay quiet?” he asks.

A tiny moan escapes her throat, and she morphs it into an, “Ohhh–I don’t care.”

“Okay,” he says, and then nothing. She becomes too aware of how intently he’s listening to her.

“I changed my mind. Talk,” she tells him.

“About anything in particular?”

“Oh my god, Mulder, just talk,” she admonishes him.

“Okay, um…” She slows while she waits for him to find a topic. “Can I confess something?”

“...Okay.”

“The times when you heard me through the wall, when we were on assignment?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“I hoped that you would. I wasn’t trying to be discreet. I wanted you to hear me,” he says with a kind of syrupy vulnerability in his voice.

She gasps as a surge of pleasure rushes through her, bringing her close to the edge.

“Really?” she keens, slipping two fingers inside. She’s so wet it’s audible, and she hears a strangled moan from Mulder’s side of the room.

“Yes,” he says tightly. ���I know that’s wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“Ohhhh, don’t be sorry,” she whimpers, pressing the heel of her hand into her clit. “I liked it.”

“Fuck, you did?”

“Yes.”

She’s so close. So. Close.

“I’m glad. Because I was thinking about you. That’s what I’m always thinking about.”

Her voice is so loud she startles herself. A piercing cry is followed by wave after wave of descending groans as she comes so hard she sees stars behind her eyes. For a moment she loses touch with reality, forgetting that Mulder is in the room and the circumstances of what she’s doing. She rides it out, wailing without restraint, until it begins to fade. The stars behind her eyes burst into a wash of bright light, and to her horror she realizes that the power has come back on.

The first thing she does is open her eyes, with pulling her hand out of her pants being a close second. Her head snaps over to where Mulder was sitting and she finds him lying on his back, looking straight up at the ceiling. There’s a pronounced tent at the front of his pants.

“Excuse me,” she says, then makes a beeline for the bathroom.

She uses the toilet and washes her hands, but she can’t bring herself to look at her own reflection in the mirror. After a handful of minutes, Mulder knocks.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she tells him, wishing he would just leave.

When she can’t reasonably stay in there any longer, she turns off the bathroom light and opens the door to find the apartment submerged in relative darkness. Not the complete opaque dark from when the power was out, but all the blinds are drawn and he’s thrown a blanket over the window that allows the most streetlight in.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching her by the elbows before she can walk past him.

“You can stay if you want. I don’t want you driving home if you’re not sober,” she says, all business.

He quiets her with his palms on her cheeks, and two thumbs brushing across her lips.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and she feels like she could melt from the concurrent conflicting emotions rushing through her body. She can’t find her voice, but he feels it when she nods.

He kisses her so sweetly, considering what she just did. Long, lingering pecks that slow her heart rate and ease her nerves.

“That was incredible,” he whispers with his mouth still hovering over hers. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I am, but thank you,” she replies.

He takes one of her hands and guides it down, under the waist of his pants. Her eyes widen as he wraps their joined hands around his erection and pumps slowly.

“Would it make you feel better if I jerk off in front of you?” he asks, then adds, “Those are not words I ever thought I’d say to you,” in a jovial tone.

She laughs and leans into him, and his hand falls away as she strokes him firmly.

“It would, actually,” she says with a smile. “But maybe this time we can leave the lights on.”

[hyunlixsbbygirl]

♡︎ True Soulmates

He had pining over his younger member for years; never once daring to do something about it, assuming he already liked someone else. However, when they get locked in the dance studio due to a snow storm - everything changes.

──❥ pairing: bangchan x felix

──❥ length: 2k

──❥ warnings: idol au, mutual pining, crying, getting caught, snow storm, power outage, suggestive dancing

──❥ note: the character don't represent real idols; this is a work of fiction intended for entertainment purposes only. this in no way represents nor reflects real life. this work has been cross posted to ao3 under the username thishippie kid.

© hyunlixbbygirl do not copy, translate or repost my works

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"It doesn't look like the snow is going ease up anytime soon. We should have left hours ago as JYP told us." Lee Know whined from the only window in the waiting area that sat between three dance studios. Outside the snow was only getting thicker; piles of white powder lined the streets and covered everything in sight, it was too deep for anyone to walk through, and judging by how many cars drove by, it was too difficult to even do that. Jisung sighed; he usually loved the snow but now they were all stranded at the company with no way to get back to the dorms. The other members really didn't seem all that bothered though; the two youngest wanted to use this time to sneak into Got7's personal practice room just to see how much better it was than theirs. Changbin was already tapping his fingers against his thigh as he came up with a beat for a new song. Hyunjin was basically asleep on the large couch that lined the back wall of the room; the phone laying on his chest while the same TikTok video played on repeat. Lee Know was furiously texting with their manager who had escaped the blizzard hours ago; most likely trying to decide what to do. BangChan was sitting in one of the recliners reading through the bubble community posts; one arm wrapped around Felix's waist who was sitting on his lap editing a photo of Hyunjin sleeping. "Manager said we should just practice as much as we can while he tries to find a reliable car to come to get us; the streets are getting dangerous so he doesn't know how long it'll be before we can leave." Lee Know announced as he flopped down on Jisung's lap, the younger instinctively wrapping his arms around his waist. 

"We're going to go explore the other dance rooms; maybe work on a little secret project" Seungmin announced as he pulled I.N along with him down the hall to the elevators. "Hannie, can you come with me to the studio to play around with this beat I have?" Changbin asked. Lee Know let the younger get up and watched as the two producers left down the hall together; Changbin tapping out the beat against Jisung's shoulder. "I'm going to take Hyunjin to the theatre upstairs; he'll probably sleep better in the darkened room than down here." Lee Know tugged Hyunjin up from the couch and led him to the elevators leaving Chan and Felix alone; he did this on purpose. The last few weeks Chan had been acting strangely; getting jealous whenever Felix was cuddled by one of the members, staring at him whenever they were prepping for a show, singing random song lyrics about love at any given time. It was pretty obvious that the leader had developed feelings for the younger boy but knowing how Chan was; he was oblivious to his own feelings. Felix on the other hand was the opposite; never giving up that he had feelings for the older. Acted completely normal around him even though deep inside he just wanted to be held by the older; to feel his plump lips move against his own. None of the members even knew Felix also had feelings for Chan; though Lee Know had a suspicion ever since he found Felix squirming in his sleep letting the elder's name fall from his lips lightly. Friends typically didn't moan out each other's names in their sleep after all. 

"Hey Lix, you wanna dance for a little while more? We could practice one of the covers we do or even learn a new one if you want" Locking his phone and letting it slip into the cushions of the chair he tapped Felix's hip lightly indicating the younger one to stand up. "Okay, oh can we practice that one WayV routine? The Love Talk one?" Felix asks as he opens the dance studio door, holding it open for Chan. The older's breath hitches slightly; Love Talk was incredibly intimate in lyrics and movement, the original choreography had two members basically grinding on each other midway through the song and had a moment where they leaned in to kiss each other only to pull away at the last minute. The younger skipped over to the counter on the other side of the room and plugged his phone into the speakers as he scrolled through his playlist for the English version of the song; unaware that the older was attempting to gain control of his wandering thoughts. "You okay Channie?" he finally asked, looking up and noticing the older hadn't moved from the door. "Uh yeah, just going over the routine in my head" they both walked over to the mirror as the song began; first blocking out their movements and figuring out the spacing before attempting a full run-through of the routine on the second play. They both made some mistakes on the first run-through; Felix forgot to slide his hand down Chan's chest and then Chan forgot the teasing kiss move, both boys giggling at their mistakes when the song ended. 

They were on their fifth run-through of the routine when the room went dark; the music started playing through the phone speakers instead of the main studio speakers. "Did we just lose power?" Felix asked through heavy pants as he stopped his movements. Chan walked over to the phone and hit pause; the little wifi signal on the top of the screen was gone and the symbol for their service now stated SOS instead of bars. "It appears so. Did you want to keep practicing? We can still use your phone's speakers for the music." Felix motioned Chan over to him and got into position for the couples' movements, "I just want to practice that one part, I can't seem to block it right." Chan tensed every muscle in his body the second he felt Felix's hand slide down his chest; he knew the younger was just mimicking the choreography but it was so intimate he couldn't help his heart from racing. Attempting to act like everything was okay; Chan went through the movements on his own as well, staring at Felix in the mirror and pulling him closer to roll his hips into Felix's ass when the choreography called for it. "I think your hand is too high up, you have to have more on my waist. Like this" Chan's hand was lowered to the younger's hip as they re-did the dance move; Felix really grinding back against Chan before turning around and attempting the kiss tease moment. "What if he didn't tease though, what if we kept moving in closer instead of pulling away at the last second?" Chan thought as Felix leaned in. 

Before they could even get close enough though Felix pulled back; a light blush forming over his cheeks. "Let's uh, take a break," he whispered, sitting cross-legged on the floor and rubbing the back of his neck; he was nervous. Chan sat down behind the younger, pulling him between his legs and down onto his chest; "Something wrong Lix?" Felix's heart fluttered. This wasn't abnormal for them, they usually cuddled like this, but it was different this time. They were in the dimly lighted dance room; alone, they had just done a pretty intimate dance routine, and now that the power was out; a cold chill began to intrude the room. The older moved his arms to wrap around the younger's waist; his head leaning down to rest his chin on his shoulder. Felix could feel the warmth of his breath against his neck; his heart beginning to pound, could Chan feel how hard his heart was beating? "Why are you nervous? We always cuddle like this right?" Oh, Chan felt the younger's heartbeat; it was loud and fast, either Felix was flustered or he was nervous. Considering Chan didn't know Felix had feelings for him; he assumed the younger was nervous. "Channie... would you ever um... like date one of the members?" Chan's breath hitched for a second time that day; when did the younger get so bold? "I uh..." he couldn't speak. 

Felix turned around; straddling the older's legs; he laid his head against Chan's chest finding that the older's heart was beating just as fast as his own. "You don't have to answer; I was just letting my intrusive thoughts win for a second" Chan pulled Felix closer to him and ran his fingertips over his back; Felix sighing out happily. "When you cuddle the other members..." Chan started speaking before he could stop "Do you ever think about, maybe kissing them?" Felix pulled away and looked Chan in the eyes and then looked at his lips and then back up to his eyes. "I mean, I dreamt that I kissed you all so the thought has been there but uh... not really" Chan placed his hand on Felix's cheek; thumb sweeping over the freckles that glittered his skin like stars. "Can I?" Chan asked breathily, his eyes switching between Felix's eyes and his lips. Felix tilted his head in confusion; his eyes big and puppy-like. Chan leaned in closer to the younger, hearing the way Felix sucked in his breath and pull his bottom lip between his teeth. "Can I kiss you?" Felix held his breath and leaned into the older; their lips barely brushing against each other, they both hesitated at first but Chan removed the space between them quickly and pressed his lips against the younger's. 

Felix felt exactly like he imagined; soft and warm. There was a slight cherry flavor to them from the chapstick he religiously wore during the winter. Chan was the first to move his lips against Felix's; it was slow and cautious, just observing the feeling for a moment before the kiss became more urgent. Chan's breath hitched when Felix swiped his tongue against his lips, seeking permission; he parted them and then they were exploring each other deeply. Hands sliding over backs and abs and through hair; little whines coming from the younger as he shifted his weight on Chan's hips. "What's wrong baby?" Chan whispered when he felt Felix pull away and heard him sniffle. Tears ran down the younger's cheek; "You're not teasing me right?" Chan looked confused, "What do you mean teasing you? Baby... I" "That! The pet name, is not to tease me right? You're not just kissing me because you're touch-deprived right? You actually want me?" Chan wiped the tears away with his thumbs and he gently forced the younger to look at him. "Lix, I love you okay? I wanted to kiss you because I... because I've wanted you for so long." The two just looked at each other; Felix was unsure if the words he was hearing were real or not. "You.. love me?" Chan nodded and pecked his lips as if to prove it. "I've always loved you Lix. It just took me a while to realize that it wasn't just brotherly love but something deeper." Felix's heart skipped a beat as he buried his face into the older's neck to hide the blush that was inevitably creeping onto his cheeks and ears. 

"You want me to right? I mean you kissed back so..." Felix's lips were back on Chan's; the kiss quickly becoming needy. "I love you too Channie" the younger spoke against his lips, not wanting to disconnect them. The lights began to flicker back on and the sound of the door opening and someone entering the room flooded the room, "Hey the manager is he...oh?" they were caught by Jisung; the younger standing in the doorway smiling brightly. "It's about damn time!" Lee Know yelled from behind Jisung. Chan giggled as he pulled away; Felix stood up and helped Chan up along the way. "What's about time?" Hyunjin asked as the other members trailed behind him. "They were kissing," Jisung said as if it was no big deal. Hyunjin squealed; "You so owe me, Binnie! Pay up" Changbin rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet, shoving a few bills into the older's hand. "You two really couldn't have held out until the concert? I almost won the bet" Felix shrugged and looked up at Chan again, not giving a single care about the others. 

"Let's head home... boyfriend" Chan said nudging the younger gently as they all made their way out of the building. "Boyfriend... I love that" 

© hyunlixbbygirl do not copy, translate or repost my works

[shurisneakers]

shut in [1]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Gender Neutral Reader)

Warnings: cursing, violence, guns, death

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: greetings. i have returned with a series that i have actually finished writing beforehand so i just have to post the chapters and yes this means i will not let this go incomplete  shoutout to my bitch @midnightsunfae​ for putting up w me mwah lov u if i’ve completely butchered sam’s character, tell me so i can delete my entire account pls and thanks 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Shut In Masterlist || Main Masterlist

“Alexander Pierce.” The file fell on the table with a resounding thud.

“What about him?”

“I want him dead.”

The house stood tall; obnoxious, almost, with loud embellishments of gold. It screamed wealth spent lavishly and without any reasonable thought.

Also it was ugly.

You scaled the gate, landing on the gravel silently. There were no security measures that you could see beyond the automated entry and CCTV whose light wasn’t blinking. Must have been a power outage. An unlikely coincidence, but it just made your job easier.

You made a move towards the side of the house, staying close to the trees that lined the driveway, out of the direct line of sight of the house’s front door. 

His car was parked outside; a swanky looking race car kept outside just for show. He was definitely at home.

A window at the side of the mansion was left slightly ajar. A quick sweep up the side of the house proved that the rest of them were shut.

Your eyebrow quirked up in suspicion, quickly taking a look around to see if you were being watched. For a few seconds the world didn’t seem to move, eerily silent other than the rustling of leaves.

Pierce was clearly the flagbearer of home security.

You stuffed your gun into the waistband of your pants, freeing both your hands to tug yourself into the room.

Your gun found its way into your hand once more as you scanned the room. He wasn’t on the bed. You deemed the silence as an indicator to safely to move ahead. 

So far it seemed easy.

Too easy?

Ransone’s body was spread across his chair, leisurely stroking at his stubble. His other hand thrummed rhythmically at the timber in front of him. His eyes were glazed over; physically present but mind wandering elsewhere.

You waited for him to explain further, knowing better than to interrupt his train of thought.

He had the strangest penchant for drama and theatre. From what you could gather of the dim light in the room and his stance, he had just watched The Godfather. Again.

“Do you know how long it took me to build this business?” His words sounded like a musing, akin to a private thought he was letting you in on. “This empire, Y/N?”

“Twenty three years.” Your arms were crossed behind you, a sign of discipline he demanded from all members of the organisation. 

“And I haven’t gotten there by being the neighbourhood church boy.” He gestured to one of the two men beside him, a rifle strung across their back at the ready. One of them-- Rumlow--  stepped forward, lighting a cigar and handing it to him.

He took a long drag, taking his time to exhale, flicking at the cigar to get rid of the loose ash. If he just got to the point, you could have left about twenty minutes ago.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he admitted, “but you know? I won’t be blamed for them. A bit of collateral damage was inevitable.”

His chair swayed from side to side as his feet thumped at the table. It annoyed you endlessly. You never told him.

“And you know how I feel about collateral damage, right?”

“Show no mercy.”

The house was silent, except for the faint sound of the television some distance away. You wouldn’t have been able to see if not for the moonlight that illuminated the space through the large windows.

Your gun pressed tightly to your side, you made your way down the open hallway. As you passed by the kitchen, the ticking of the timer on the oven made you pause. The oven itself wasn’t on but the clock was still ticking.

A bowl was kept on the marble island separating the rest of the hall from the kitchen. A pair of car keys lay mangled among a couple of dollar bills and loose change like he threw it in carelessly. 

Continuing further down the hall, you came to the realisation that it culminated in a room that faced his backyard. Only a single glass sheet acted as a barrier between him and the outdoors.

You could hear the show getting louder, hidden from your line of sight by the couch in front of it.

Pierce’s head faced away from you and towards the only light source in the room. He hadn’t heard you come in.

From what you could see, he was asleep. Head slumped slightly, arm slinked over the backrest and no other movement.

It wasn’t actually a TV, just an iPad on its loudest setting with Netflix playing what looked like Horrible Bosses. A man with exquisite taste, obviously.

You took one step at a time, slowly making your way towards the couch until you were just a step or two behind him. You raised your arm, pressing your gun to the back of his head.

“Show no mercy,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth turning upward as he looked at you.

You wanted to shift under his stare. Your muscles were beginning to feel a dull burn, a sign that you had been standing still for too long. 

“So tell me, after all my effort-” he stuck his bottom lip out mockingly- “should I let my fucking company get destroyed by one person?”

His hand harshly slammed down on the table as he lurched forward in his chair, eyes seething.

You nearly jumped at his sudden change in demeanour, knuckles tightening in anticipation.

“Tell me, boys, how far do I tolerate liars?” His stare didn’t waver, looking straight into your eyes.

“You don’t.” Their voices were eerily synchronised. You wondered if they ever rehearsed together. Probably did.

“Lovely.” Ransone smiled, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t.”

“Liars?” Your voice had risen by an octave or two, your surprise catching you off guard.

“Someone has been sneaking information to Serpentine for nearly two years.” A chill ran down your spine, the muscles in your jaw tightening. “They’ve been growing exponentially and someone’s been helpin’ them do it.”

Only someone didn’t fear death would turn their back on him. Someone who had nothing to lose.

“We have reason to believe it’s Pierce.”

A moment passed where you expected him to wake up, turn around and look at you so that you could deliver Ransone’s message to him, a quippy one liner about betrayal or something.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his head shifted under the pressure of your gun, falling over as if it was weightless.

Your face pulled into a frown as you made your way to the front of the couch swiftly, gun still held tightly in front of you.

Your shadow dimmed the light that fell on him from the iPad, but it was impossible to deny.

A single gunshot to the front of his head. Eyes wide open, red from the lack of moisture. The blood around him painted a gory scene that was impossible to notice from behind.

“What the-” you murmured, lowering your arm.

“I can tolerate one mistake. Everyone deserves that.” Ransone shrugged offhandedly. “But this isn’t the first one he’s made.”

“So you want him gone.”

“That would be lovely, yes.” He relaxed into his chair once again, taking another hit from his cigar.

“Why do you want me to do it?” you asked, eyebrows knitted together. Generally he would send you for something more high-profile. Raids, infiltrations. These kinds of hits were what you left behind years ago.

“A spy has security from the ones they’re working for. It’s possibly more dangerous.” His feet found its way onto the table, one over the other as he stretched back. “And I’m not sure my other agent can make it.”

“Thanks,” you spoke monotonously. “Glad to know I’m your first choice.”

“Don’t take it personally.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “He probably won’t show.” 

His sleeve fell slightly to reveal a sliver of his tattoo. A spider, the symbol of his authority.

Each of his employees had a web inked on their skin that grew with each passing year of their service. It was how you identified each other in passing.

“You have an opening on Friday. His house help leaves at 8 sharp and he’s alone.”

You nodded, picking up the file in front of him, avoiding his fingers that had returned to thrumming on the tabletop. You acknowledged the two men beside him before making your way toward the door.

This house was all the way across the country. No wonder he gave you a bit more time as compared to usual to prepare.

“It’ll be done.”

The sound of a gun clicking away from you made the hair on your neck stand up.

You sprung up, arms extended in front of you instinctively towards the sound.

Even in the dim light of the room, you could see a man standing a few feet away from you. His hand held a glock, aimed towards you.

Neither of you said a word. Time stood still for all you cared. The only indication that it didn’t was that Horrible Bosses was still playing.

“Who the fuck are you?” you finally asked, voice surprisingly calm for the adrenaline that was spiking through your body.

“Who are you?” he questioned in retaliation, tone curt.

“I asked first.” You wondered if he could see you roll your eyes.

He didn’t reply, obviously.

A beat passed and you almost forgot the dead body that lay near your knees. Almost. It didn’t help that his fingers were nearly touching your leg like some kind of pervert; not that you could blame him for it this time.

“Did you kill him?” he finally relented, mentioning towards him quickly with a tug of his shoulder.

“What-” You recoiled, head slightly jerking back in disbelief. “No. Didn’t you?”

“He was like this when I got here.” He paused, and you let him speak. “And then you came in; thought you were comin’ back to check.”

“I just got here.”

“I can’t confirm that.” His answer was instantaneous, almost cutting you off before you finished.

“And I can’t confirm you didn’t kill him.” You took a step away from Pierce, never breaking his gaze. “The odds are kinda against you here.”

“I didn’t kill him.” He only took a step toward you, making you stop where you were. He wasn’t going to let you get out of this.

“What a compelling argument,” you drawled sarcastically. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Cookin’ him dinner,” he snapped back quickly in a manner that would usually make you smile if it weren’t for the situation you were in presently. “What do you think?”

“Who sent you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why did they send you?”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

“Then give me a reason why I shouldn’t pull this trigger right now.”

“You first.”

It was a shame you had to kill him. You found his resilience fun.

“Well, it was pleasant-” You were cut off by the sound of a bullet whizzing past your head. It struck the vase next to the couch, instantly exploding into hundreds of shards.

“Did you just fucking shoot at me?” you yelled, swiftly raising your gun so that it was pointed at his forehead.

But he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at the large glass, too distracted to pay heed to what you were saying.

You slowly followed his line of sight to the window.

A large fracture in the glass surrounded a small hole, nearly invisible from your distance if you weren’t looking hard enough.

You looked back at him to find him staring at you.

A split second later the glass sheet shattered, sending the pieces all over the room. You launched yourself behind the couch heavily, avoiding the barrage of bullets being shot your way.

From the corner of your eye you could see the man dive to take cover behind the couch with you.

“What the fuck?” you asked loudly, back pressed against the backrest as various items shattered around you. “Who the hell are these guys?”

“The shittiest bodyguards ever.” He looked over his shoulder but slid back down again when a shot nearly missed his face.

You didn’t even know where to shoot; the bullets just seemed to be coming from the shadows of the trees.

Taking a moment to assess the man breathing hard next to you. He was tall and muscular, a tight fighting shirt stretching across his chest. His hair was cropped, eyes dark with what looked like irritation more than anger. Hot.

Your attention was drawn to a trail of blood left on his forehead as he wiped at it with his forearm, him seemingly unaware of it.

“Dude, I think you got grazed.”

He looked at you questioningly. You pointed at his arm with your shoulder. His eyes dropped to it, letting out a string of curses as he tugged his sleeve back to look at the wound.

He didn’t have to pull it back much before the sight of a familiar design greeted you.

A spider web. Drawn intricately with the lines stretching delicately across his skin like lace.

A tattoo.

“You work for Ransone?” None of this made sense. Why were there two of you on the same mission? Who was this guy? Was he supposed to be here?

You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your sleeve back to reveal the same tattoo, smaller in size, but indicative enough.

He took a second to process. You could almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Great,” he finally said as a bullet lodged itself in the wall you were facing, bitterness lacing his words. “It’s a set up.”

“Oh, one more thing, Y/N.”

You spun on your heel to look at him. A devilish smile grew on his face.

“Remember- we don’t tolerate liars.”

You stared at him, not uttering a word, waiting for him to make his point.

“So make sure you let him know that.” His smile only grew as you turned around and walked out the door, letting it shut behind you.

The crunching of feet over glass made you look over your shoulder, only to quickly retract before your head was blown off.

They were wearing ski masks and all black tactical suits, leaving not even an inch of their skin uncovered.

“I count four or five. There may be more,” the man next to you said slowly.

“You take the ones on the left, I’ll take right,” you instructed, seeing him nod his head. You didn’t even know his name but apparently you were working together now. 

You gave a small countdown before pivoting on your knee to face them, eyes already set on your target.

Firing off two shots, you saw the first one fall to the floor, soon accompanied by his teammate as you shot a round at his forehead.

Four were down, counting the bodies next to them on the floor, but the bullets didn’t stop firing at you. They clearly were in a much larger number than you anticipated.

You weren’t sure how many more bullets the couch could absorb. The both of you were basically sitting ducks; who knew how many more were out there. You had limited ammo because you didn’t expect a fucking SWAT team when you came to kill one man.

“We need to go,” he voiced your exact concern.

“Yep,” you grunted, shifting to reload your gun from the spare ammo in your pocket.

You didn’t know how to get out of here considering that you didn’t bring your own-

“I got a plan,” you said. He looked at you inquisitively. “You know the window in the west bedroom, hall dead-end?”

He nodded. Perhaps he was the one who left it open when he arrived.

“On the count of three, make a run for it.” You winced as a bullet tore through the fabric of the couch, right near where your shoulder was a second ago.

“We can’t outrun them,” he hissed, quickly shooting behind him before rejoining you on the floor.

“Trust me.” Bold ask. You wondered if he would.

“I don’t.”

“Do it anyway.”

You didn’t really care if he didn’t. At least you’d get out.

“One.” You shifted to sit on your knee. You could see him sit still, not joining you.

“Two.” Your gun was pressed to your side, at the ready.

“Three.” Like an athlete in a race you took off, not daring to look behind you even once as shots rode the air, narrowly missing your body.

You almost didn’t hear his groan and a small “Fuckin’ hell” before heavy footsteps ran behind you.

You smiled triumphantly, until you remembered the both of you were being followed, at least four more shooters hot on your heels.

You shot a single shot behind you, hearing someone wheeze before a loud thump of a body hitting the floor. Hopefully it wasn’t the guy you were with, but you couldn’t find it in your to care much if it was.

You raced past the numerous rooms you passed on the way here before it suddenly widened into the open kitchen.

Your body moved in autopilot, a detour in the form of a quick skip as you reached over and grabbed the contents of the bowl on the counter, fumbling to hold onto the car keys as loose change fell to the floor.

The oven timer went off, not for long before you heard its door splinter into pieces as someone shot at it in annoyance.

You took a sharp right into the room, followed by the man who took the time to kick the door shut behind him, buying you maybe a second or two of time.

You nearly flung yourself out of the window, the gravel not exactly providing the softest landing as you scrambled to open the door of the car.

“Get in!” you yelled at him as he obliged, yanking the door and jumping into the passenger seat. You threw the few dollars you had caught hold of by mistake on the floor of the car.

You could hear the door of the room being kicked open, and what seemed like angry shouting as the window cracked, leaving nothing in its wake.

You revved the engine, slamming the accelerator with as much power as you could. The car lurched backwards, and you cursed, switching gears to go forward. 

The harsh sound of metal on metal followed you as they shot at whatever they could. You prayed they wouldn’t accidentally hit the wheel or gas tank. They didn’t exactly seem like the best in the business, having missed most of their shots. 

“Go go go!” The guy beside you was holding on to his seat tightly for support.

The car broke through the rusty gates. You cringed at the dent on the hood, but didn’t slow down even for a second as you wove through trees of the estate, not losing speed even as you got onto the highway.

Silence befell the both of you for a good amount of time, but not enough time to process what had just happened. Your adrenaline was still high as you drove well above the speed limit. 

Your next step was unclear.

You were in a car with a complete stranger. You weren’t sure if you were injured somewhere. You didn’t even know where you were driving to.

“Alright,” he cleared his throat. “What the hell was that?

Part 2

[tickly-trashcan]

Kisses {TodoDeku}

A/N: Two more for Tododeku! Decided to combine these two as well, hope you guys don’t mind! Aahh it’s been a while since I last posted, really sorry about that everyone! School got really busy since it’s the end of the semester and then we had a power outage! It’s been a little bit crazy around here but! I’m back in it and I’m super motivated right now so hopefully I’ll get all the prompts out very soon! Thank you all so much for sticking with me!

P.S.: This fic is pretty SFW, but there’s a lot of kisses at the beginning and towards the end, so if that’s not you’re thing you’re welcome to skip past this one!

Summary: A kiss between Todoroki and Midoriya escalates, and soon Midoriya’s accidentally tickling Todoroki. What happens when he finds out?

Word Count: 1k (under the cut)’

Todoroki’s face felt hot and he didn’t know where to put his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so flustered as he sat on his dorm floor.

He had invited Midoriya so that they could study, something that even they needed to do in spite of their intelligence. After they finished up, they didn’t have anything else to do, so Midoriya was about to leave and went to kiss Todoroki goodbye, but that kiss… escalated.

Midoriya now sat in front of him on his knees, their lips touching gently as they kissed, Midoriya cupping Todoroki’s face. His lips felt tired, but he didn’t want to stop either. He awkwardly reached out and placed his hands on Midoriya’s hip, steadying himself more than anything as Midoriya finally pulled away, blushing red.

Todoroki almost sighed in relief, he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He let go of Midoriya’s hips and was about to stand up when suddenly Midoriya kissed his cheek. He froze, unable to do anything as Midoriya kissed his jawline, then his neck… 

Todoroki chuckled softly when Midoriya kissed his neck, it felt tingly. Midoriya grinned against Todoroki’s skin, kissing his clavicle next when Todoroki chuckled again, scrunching up his shoulders. Midoriya giggled.

“Is something funny, Shoto?” The breath that escaped with those words brushed against Todoroki’s neck and he could only chuckle more as he shook his head, Midoriya continuing. He kissed his neck over and over again, until finally…

“Stop kissing me there, it tickles!” Todoroki said quickly, scrunching up his shoulders again, Midoriya pulling away this time.

He looked down at Todoroki, smiling softly as he wiggled his fingers against Todoroki’s neck, making him squeak again. 

“So it tickles, hmm?” Midoriya asked in a sickly sweet tone. Todoroki gulped.

“I-Izuku, please no, anything but that,” Todoroki started, scooting away from Midoriya who only raised his hands and wiggled his fingers.

“I’ll be nice, don’t you worry~” Midoriya smirked, shooting his hands down as Todoroki let out a yelp of surprise before Midoriya’s fingers made contact with Todoroki’s sides, making him squeak again as he slapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing out loud. Midoriya whined.

“Aww, don’t cover your face Shoto, I wanna hear you laugh!” Midoriya teased, sneaking a hand under Todoroki’s arm, making him shriek as his hand immediately retracted, giggles escaping his lips as he shook his head back and forth.

“I-Izukuhuhu! Stohohop!” He squealed uncharacteristically, making Midoriya giggle. It was always so fun to tickle his boyfriend, he gave the funniest reactions compared to his normal cool demeanor.

“It’s hard to stop when your laugh is so cute though~” Midoriya teased, making Todoroki’s face go almost as red as half his hair. Midoriya giggled. It was also fun to tease him.

Midoriya scribbled his fingers along Todoroki’s ribs, dancing along the sensitive area as Todoroki squirmed, falling backwards against the floor as Midoriya followed him, hands never parting from his ticklish boyfriend. Midoriya loomed over him now, his knees on either side of Todoroki’s thighs as Todoroki grabbed at Midoriya’s hands, trying to pull them off.

“Izuku! P-Plehehease, I cahahahan’t!”

“Can’t what? Can’t laugh more? Oh, I doubt that~”

Todoroki flushed more. Midoriya was an evil, evil tickle monster, and a teasy one at that! Todoroki gripped Midoriya’s wrists quickly when they made contact with his waist, throwing his head back as he shrieked, more deep laughter pouring from his mouth.

“Oh? Is this a bad spot? Or do you like it here, hmm?”

“I dohohohohoooon’t!” Todoroki yelled, wriggling beneath Midoriya as he laughed his head off, making Midoriya chuckle as well.

“Don’t lie to me, I know you like this~”

Todoroki was a bright red at this point, almost more than his own hair color. Midoriya was teasy sure, but it had never been to this point before. Todoroki could handle the tickling, sure, but the teasing was making it difficult to keep his mind straight.

Midoriya squeezed Todoroki’s hips, making him yelp as he squirmed, cackling.

Midoriya smirked, leaning down as he continued to squeeze Todoroki’s hips, now nipping at his neck. Todoroki shrieked and immediately scrunched up his shoulders as Midoriya giggled as well.

“You’re very ticklish here, hmm, Shoto?”

Todoroki shook his head, shrieking again when Midoriya kept kissing his neck ticklishly, even throwing in a raspberry here and there. Todoroki squeaked with each nip and tickle on his neck, yelling again when Midoriya dug his hands under Todoroki’s arms at the same time. His face still felt warm, but at this point he couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or just from laughing as much as he had.

As Todoroki continued to laugh and cackle, eventually even snorting through his laughter as Midoriya barked out a quick laugh.

“Did you just snort?” 

Todoroki would’ve covered his face in embarrassment, but his hands were focused on pushing Midoriya’s head away from his neck while trying to clamp down to keep Midoriya’s hands out from under his arms. Needless to say, it was more than difficult with the current sensations overwhelming him. 

Midoriya’s fingers slowed as Todoroki’s laughter went silent, all that was escaping his lips were snorts and gasps. He gingerly pulled his head away from Todoroki’s neck and his hands from under Todoroki’s arms as he breathed heavily, almost gasping for air from the intense tickling that he had just experienced.

Midoriya smiled sheepishly, rubbing his hand behind his neck. “Guess I went a bit too far, huh?”

Todoroki’s chest heaved as he panted, shaking his head. He couldn’t speak yet, he was using all of the energy he had to just get his breathing right again. Midoriya chuckled, leaning down towards Todoroki again, who flinched, expecting to be tickle-kissed again.

Instead, Midoriya gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling away. 

Todoroki blushed, turning his head to look away from Midoriya, making him chuckle again.

“Shy now, are we?”

Todoroki shook his head and Midoriya laughed, standing up from the floor, reaching down to help Todoroki back up on his feet as well. Their hands entwined for a few moments, Todoroki gently rubbing his thumb across the top of Midoriya’s hand.

“I’m gonna get you back for that…” Todoroki muttered, staring into Midoriya’s eyes. Midoriya laughed.

“I don’t doubt it.”

[badacts]

eyes on me (pt.1)

this is a fic about Gotham’s revenant problem. set post-under the red hood but pre-death of the family

Tim’s language is information. The collection and the translation and the piecing together of the millions of fragments that make their way into his net each day. Tim’s not Oracle, but he’s no slouch - he can make the internet work for him, on top of the people he talks to and the whispers he catches from the air above alleyways at night. And then, once he has the data, he puts it together. He’s a detective.

He finds things he isn’t strictly looking for all the time. But it’s rare that one of those things makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

- boy, 15, found -

His comm hisses to life in his ear. “Red Robin. I have your position outside of your planned patrol route.”

Tim had been expecting Babs, not Batman, but he doesn’t reply. After all, it wasn’t a question. 

He wipes some rain from his forehead and keeps moving, flashlight aimed low. He’s out of costume - too conspicuous - but still, the last thing he needs is to attract attention. On the downside, his civvies are a long way from waterproof. By the time he gets home, he’ll be soaked to the skin.

“Are you working?” Bruce asks into the silence.

“Yes,” Tim says, which is mostly true. With them, the line between business and personal has always been exceptionally thin. 

Daniel de Silva...Mary Wolyncewicz...David Peter Andrews...Rachael and Lewis Therault…

Beloved, beloved, beloved. Rest in peace. And Tim’s personal favourite, devoted. 

He smells it before he sees it - under the scent of the rain, there’s dark earth, turning mud. He slows down, careful where he steps. 

The headstone lurches out of the dark, white as bone in the torchlight. Marc Rand, beloved son, apparently taken too soon. The dates confirm it - fifteen is very young to die.

It’s the ground before the headstone that Tim is interested in, though. The sod is folded backwards, dirt scattered in heavy clods on top of the grass. In the middle of it is a yawning hole, roughly made and already slumping back in on itself. 

In the bottom, Tim can see shattered wood and scarlet satin and no trace of a body.

That’s not much of a surprise to him. After all, that body was just checked into a hospital ten blocks away, complete with a pulse.

Tim hadn’t been looking. Instead, he’d heard that the Memorial Hospital had a sudden power outage that plunged the entire facility into darkness and silence for just under two minutes, when the electricity returned just as suddenly. The back-up generators had never come on. Three emergency surgeries had been interrupted and the intensive care ward had come back to life in a cacophony of alarms, but no one has died.

When Tim checked the revived CCTV cameras to find out whether the outage was intentional, he’d found one lone bed in the hallway of the emergency department, apparently abandoned in favour of people who could still be saved as ventilators sputtered out and vital monitoring equipment went dark.

The bed contained one John Doe, found with severe injuries and pronounced dead on the scene, according to the hastily-entered details in the records. Except, as Tim watched, the dead Doe sat up. And then the lights came back on.

Facial recognition had led him here, to a gravesite and a boy who’d died six months back, and a body that had either been forcibly dragged from the casket or climbed free under its own power. A body, or a boy, who’d apparently been walking into the middle of the street when a car hit him, killing him instantly. A body that had been transported to the hospital, forgotten on the way to the morgue, until it - he? - sat up and gave a passing nurse the fright of her life by asking for his mother.

Either Gotham EMTs are getting worse at telling a dead kid from a live one, or this is something in defiance of medical explanation. 

And this is Gotham. Anything can happen here. But something like this? Tim, with all of his experience with the crazy and the strange, can admit that the sight of a boy with half of his skull crumpled inwards, still wearing a mud-covered suit but sitting up under his own power, is fucking creepy.

So Tim’s here in the rain next to an empty grave, knowing there’s another empty grave a few rows over, and wondering if those two things are related.

Behind him, there’s a whisper of sound.

There’s a time and a place for a carefully maintained air of civilian reaction. A graveyard where the occupants seem to have trouble staying dead isn’t it. Tim spins, loosing the knife from its sheath on his forearm with a twist that drops the hilt into his palm, his flashlight going flying and flickering out as it hits the ground.

With it dead, the only source of light is the streetlight refraction from the clouds overhead. All Tim can see is a big, black shape behind him, and he strikes out and -

- stops.

It’s only many hours of blindfolded training in the cave that has him pausing in trying to push his knife through half an inch of woven kevlar into Batman’s throat underneath. That, and the span of Bruce’s hand, unmovable around Tim’s forearm.

For a moment, they’re both frozen. Then Bruce says, “A knife?”

Tim huffs a little, shaking the grip off his wrist and sliding the weapon back out of sight. “Sneaking up on me in a graveyard in the middle of the night?”

“It’s a fine piece,” Bruce notes, because he has a one-track mind and the advantage of the nightvision in his mask to actually see.

“I have expensive tastes,” Tim says automatically, which is actually only true in regards to clothes and cars. The knife, hilt detailed in delicate gold and green enamel and blade showing the ripples of quality steel, was a gift. It has the mark of the League of Shadows etched into the underside of the crosstree. “Why are you here?”

Bruce is silent, presumably because the answer is obviously I was concerned about you. He moves away briefly, and then returns to put something muddy into Tim’s hand that resolves into the flashlight after a moment of confusion. 

Tim flicks it back on, and as he does so the beam of light falls over the disturbed grave. Bruce, almost imperceptibly, stiffens.

“What is this?” he growls.

“I’m not sure yet,” Tim says, “But I’m going to find out.”

[izzy-b-hands]

Rock/Queentober 2020, Oct. 7th: Candle

Randomly assigned lad for this day: Freddie

Thus far, this is the only one I ended up having to completely rewrite. I didn’t dislike the first or second version I had, but those plot ideas were far too ambitious for this challenge lol. I might yet finish and post the first and second versions of this prompt at a later date though!

Also, am I still pissy about the power outage that took out some of my work equipment a few days back, hence why I keep writing about power outages? ....yeah I am lol. 

Synopsis: Poly!Queen with a personal dash of my fave poly!Queen headcanon, that in some version of it John is bi and splits his time between the lads and Veronica and his kids. Set in the early days of Queen. Their shared flat once again has no power, but they’ll manage just fine.

And hopefully also manage not to set anything on fire. 

TW for all the dick jokes. Why did this turn into that...

I don’t have a good explanation, aside from me being very tired and silly as I write this prompt for the third time now. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“Here you go,” Freddie said as Brian walked into the front door of their shared flat. “Everyone gets one, until the lights come back.” 

“Not again,” Brian sighed, taking the lit candle carefully from Freddie. “How long has it been out?” 

“You know how you left for your teaching job at about half past seven?” Freddie asked.

Brian nodded. 

“Five minutes after that, give or take a few,” Freddie said. “You lucky sod. Getting ready with something other than candlelight to light your bath, your wardrobe...” 

“Not nearly lighting the wardrobe on fire...” Roger added with a teasing grin.

“Hush,” Freddie said. “It was fine, only a bit of wax on a shirt. Nothing actually got lit up.” 

“Someone’s looking over us, obviously,” John said. “Because otherwise it’s pure luck we haven’t burnt anything, wandering around with these.” 

“I keep saying we need a candelabra,” Freddie sighed. “But it’s always, ‘no Freddie, what would we even do with it? When would we use it?’ Well, don’t you see those answers now!” 

“Do we have anything to set them in?” Brian asked, moving the candle as wax dripped down, nearly hitting his hand. 

“We have one candle holder,” Roger said, and plunked it from out of the end table drawer onto the coffee table. 

“That looks like a...” Brian cleared his throat. 

“Big fat dick?” Roger, Freddie, and John completed his thought in one voice. 

“I made it as a kid,” Roger said. “Mum insisted I take it with me wherever I go.” 

“I can’t possibly guess why,” Brian remarked dryly. 

“I was an inspired young artiste,” Roger sniffed.

“Inspired by something,” Freddie giggled, and set his candle on it, wincing as a bit of wax hit his hand before he could fully set it down. “Is there a set of clay milk jugs with nipples you made as well?” 

“Laugh it up,” Roger said, and stuck his tongue out at Freddie, then blushed. “Well...Mum did mention some that she couldn’t put out...oh...” 

“Aww,” John teased. “Picture of a young artist, hand down his pants-” 

“And with a strong memory of being breastfed, apparently,” Freddie interjected, as Roger blushed harder and dropped his head to the coffee table. “Oh, don’t be like that. It’s cute, you were only little.” 

“God I don’t want to know what else I made,” Roger muttered. “Why didn’t anyone stop me?” 

“I mean...it is a good dick,” Brian admitted as he carefully set down his things, moving the candle from hand to hand as he did. “Anatomically correct, for a little kid.” 

“That’s not a good thing!” Roger cried as he lifted his head from the table.

“I’m sure you probably saw a picture in a textbook or something,” Freddie said. “Or maybe...I mean, children are curious about those things, right? That’s what my mum says, or bemoans, rather.” 

Roger snickered. “Somewhere there’s a set of phallus obsessed drawings from Baby Fred?” 

“I could draw you that now, if you truly wanted,” Freddie replied with a wink. “But no, nothing like that. I think I just...asked a lot of questions.” 

“Every kid does,” John said. “All perfectly normal.” 

“And if you have kids that ask all about that?” Brian asked. “What’ll you tell them?” 

John blushed. “Christ, I don’t know. I’ll need some prep time. All the time before they can talk, to prepare for that.” 

Brian stepped into the kitchen to grab some small plates to use as extra candle holders, and called out to John. “What if their first word is dick?” 

“Oh, there’s a pickle,” Roger said. “Literally.” 

“How did we end up here?” John groaned with a laugh. 

“All thanks to me,” Roger grinned, and held up the candle holder. 

“I don’t know, I guess,” John said. “I...would maybe record their second word in the baby book instead?” 

“Got it,” Freddie said. “Make sure any kids you have learn the word dick first, then tits second. We can do that.” 

“Thank you,” John replied sarcastically, taking a plate from Brian as he handed them out and joined them on the floor of the sitting room. “You’ll all be wonderful uncles to any kids I have.” 

“Yes, we will,” Brian said. “Does it help if I’ll teach them maths?” 

“They can’t learn maths from you,” John scoffed. “They need to learn that from me.” 

“Think school usually handles maths,” Freddie added. “In my experience. Don’t think either of you have to worry about it too much.” 

“Supplemental maths learning,” Brian said. “And it’s the principle of the thing.” 

John nodded.

Freddie shook his head. “Supplemental maths...what fun Saturdays those will be.” 

“I’ll make up for it,” Roger said. “They spend the mornings teaching these poor kids maths, and then I’ll bring clay over and they can sculpt all the weirdly cock-like things they want!” 

“I was going to ask if this was the best use of our time,” John sighed. “But with the lights out...could be worse. And I’m invested now, for the sake of any future children.” 

“Ah, we’re all kidding,” Roger said. “Mostly, at least. You’ll have well-behaved kids anyways.” 

“We don’t know that,” John said. “Might be troublemakers like you. Sneaking sci-fi books into their anatomy classes...” 

Roger blushed. He’d been caught doing that exactly once, but they simply couldn’t let him live down how his lecturer had fully scolded him like a naughty child sneaking biscuits before dinner. 

“That’s good trouble,” Freddie said, to cover for Roger. “I think if I was the type for kids, I’d be happy with kids like that. There’s so much worse they could do, you know?” 

“Like nearly light their own hair on fire?” Brian asked, and moved around the table to jump behind Freddie and pull his hair away from one of the candles. 

It was Freddie’s turn to blush. “Yes, like that, I suppose. I didn’t notice...” 

“I know,” Brian said, and snagged the hair tie he kept on his own wrist for the rare occasions he wanted his curls pulled out of the way, and pulled Freddie’s hair gently into a low ponytail. “There. Now at least we can keep you from going up.” 

“Thank you,” Freddie said, a hand lingering over his hair as Brian moved back to his original seat on the other side of the coffee table. “What now?” 

“We could make dinner, if we could see better,” Roger sighed. “But that seems dangerous, and frankly, I’m not hungry enough to attempt it right now.” 

Nods all around. 

“Place bets on if we’ll run out of candles?” John asked. 

“You say that like these are the only ones we have left,” Brian giggled, then frowned. “Oh no.” 

Freddie nodded with a wince. “We’ve had a lot of outages lately...” 

“And after these are gone, what’s our plan?” Brian asked.

“I have about fifteen lighters, not all used up,” Roger grinned. 

“That helps,” Brian smiled. “But, a very serious question about them...” 

Roger nodded. 

“...How many look like cocks?” 

They all broke into laughter, and though the lights weren’t any more likely to come back on, the flat seemed lighter for it all the same. 

[evilasiangenius]

Still alive but between power outages and getting sick, writing progress has been very slow. Now holidays are getting in the way, but I promise I'm still working.

I'd post some kind of a sneak preview if I had power. :p

[erisgregory]

Satellite Call Chapter 8

cross posted to AO3

or start with chapter one

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Relationship: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Characters: Michael Guerin, Alex Manes, Maria DeLuca, Isabel Evans, Max Evans Additional Tags: Michael is an Escort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Summary: Alex is home from the air force but finds he is as lonely as ever. He engages an escort one night under a pseudonym and when the escort arrives it’s his high school love, Michael Guerin. Thankfully for both of them Michael is a professional. However one night couldn’t possibly make up for all they’ve missed. Can they keep an ongoing relationship professional? Can they learn to trust that there is something more than this transaction between them?

The first thing Michael does is send a quick email to the escort company that he won’t be expecting payment from “Rick”, the balance should stay at zero. He knows now that he only asked for payment out of anger. They’d had such a great night together, one that Michael thought was hopeful, and then that hope had been dashed to the ground. Alex was still in the closet, and as of last night wanted nothing to do with him. The least he could do was cut ties as cleanly as possible and not accept money for something he’d considered serious.

The next thing he does that morning is answer Isobel’s call. He thumbs open the phone to answer. “Hey.” He says.

“We have to check on Max. I have a feeling he’s behind the blackout.” Isobel tells him. She sighs into the phone, clearly concerned.

“I have a feeling you may be right.” He agrees. Max’s troubles have been building and this may be some kind of pressure release, though Michael wouldn’t know until they saw him. “I’ll come pick you up, we can drive over together.

“Thank you, Michael.” She says. Michael doesn’t get very many thank yous so he accepts this one as best he can.

“See you soon.” Then he thumbs the phone back off.

If Max was behind the power outage then they were going to have to figure out some things and fast.

He drives to Isobel’s house and she’s already outside waiting for him when he gets there. Isobel hops in, buckles in, and they are off. Going the speed limit, but only just. Michael has a bad feeling and if Isobel does too, well then, something is definitely up.

When they pull up to Max’s house, Max is outside loading some water bottles into his jeep. He looks tired and worn out and not in the good kind of way. More like he hadn’t slept all night.

“Whew, you going on the run deputy?” Michael teases trying to diffuse the tension of the moment. Max already looks like his guard is up.

“Gonna bring these supplies into town. It’s just water, food.” Max starts, clearly avoiding the obvious.

Michael isn’t going to let him get away with that. “Yeah, we assume you’re the reason every transformer in town’s blown. Did you rage out again?”

Max huffs. “Yeah. But, it’s gone now. I’ve been raging out for days and I caused all this destruction and I feel better.”

Isobel is looking through the contents of Max’s jeep. “So you’re, uh, donating Catcher in the Rye to assuage your guilt?” She looks at him skeptically.

“TVs are down, figured the hospital could use a few book.” Max says.

“Yeah, well, when you resurrected Liz or healed her or whatever, you must have absorbed some kind of destructive energy. Now that you released it…,” Michael drops his voice to a whisper, “You’re better.”

Max doesn’t look amused, but then Michael isn’t joking.

“So, what happened? To piss you off again. She didn’t like your mixtape?” Michael asked.

“Wait you guys, you guys didn’t get my voicemail?” Max asked, taking off his sunglasses and looking at both of them.

Isobel shakes her head. “Cell service is down.”

“Liz confronted me last night. I don’t know how she found out, but she knows. She knows that rosa was killed by an alien.” Max tells them.

“Dammit!” Michael says, kicking at the ground. It causes a short burst of energy that lifts the back end of the jeep off the ground several inches.

“Okay,” Isobel says, holding up her hands, “Alright, so what’s the plan?”

“Look, this blackout is my fault, okay? So let me drop these off and then I will find Liz and I’ll confess.” Max throws his hands up in defeat. “Look, she already thinks I did it. And if she keeps digging, eventually she’s going to learn everything. I am out of options here.”

“Well, I’m not.” Isobel says. “I can use my abilities to influence her to go.”

They look at each other for a moment in silence wondering if that is the right move, if it can be done.

“We should talk about this.” Max says. “Let’s sit.” He offers. The three of them go to sit on his patio and it’s tense. No one says anything at first and all Michael can think is that they need to get Liz out of town soon before the truth really does come out, about Rosa’s death.-

“So what is it like exactly? When you get into someone’s head?” Max is the first to speak, directing his question at Isobel. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.

“No it-it doesn’t hurt. It’s umm… It’s a place where I have ultimate power. I make a suggestion and someone else’s thought or memory just kind of floats to the surface. If I’m strong enough, I can change it. Influence it.” Isobel explains.

“I don’t know if I want you to violate Liz like that.” Max says, cencern clear in his voice.

Michael and Isobel share a glance. “Maybe it’ll help her. Remind her what exists outside Roswell. Make her stop pressing an old bruise.” Michael suggests.

Max sighs at that and looks away. “Will she forget me?” He asks quietly.

“No.” Isobel shakes her head. “Just how she feels about you.”

“Well, she feels like I’m a murderer, so…” Max tells them.

They all stop talking as Cam pulls up in a patrol car. “Playin’ hookie Evans? Been covering for you with Valenti all morning.”

“Sorry.” Max says. “Was a rough night.”

“Yeah, well, when people are denied AC and cold beer in this town, they start committing crimes for fun, so grab your boots and your badge.” She doesn’t wait for his answer, but rolls up her window and pulls away.

“What do you want to do about Liz?” Isobel asks him once it’s safe.

“What I wanted stopped mattering a long time ago. Do it. Get inside her head. Send her away.” Max says and then he turns to head into his house. He does exactly as Cam asked him to do, because he comes back out in uniform a few minutes later and hops into his jeep with just a backward glance at Michael and Isobel.

Once he’s gone, Michael leans back with a sigh and looks at Isobel. “I thought you weren’t strong enough to change Liz’s mind last night.

“That’s why we’re going to the Wild Pony. So I can practice.” Isobel explains as she stands.

Michael stands up too. “You didn’t tell Max how Liz really feels about him.” He says.

Isobel looks off into the distance down the road where Max just drove away. “It’ll hurt less if he doesn’t know.”

Michael rubs a hand over his face. He’s not so sure about that, but he trusts her judgement more than his own right now. He’s not been making the best decisions lately as it is.

The drive to the bar is mostly quiet. He lets Isobel pick a radio station because he knows it makes her happy and he doesn’t mind her music so much. Not that he would admit to that under any circumstances. Though the sly little satisfied smile she gives him says she already knows he doesn’t mind.

Driving gives Michael time to think and lately that hasn’t been the best idea. He thinks a lot about the danger they are in with Liz. He thinks a lot about Alex and what a mess he’s made. If only he’d refused the money to begin with then he wouldn’t be in the situation his in now.

Somehow he needed to reach out to Alex, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Alex had made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Michael. And that hurt. He believed the very worst about Michael and Michael let him. How do you come back from something like that?

When they get to the bar they are pleased to see it really is still open despite the blackout. The parking lot is already full. Michael parks and gives Isobel one last look.

“Don’t worry.” She says. “I have everything under control.”

“Fine, but if we’re going to do this, then we’re drinking.” He says.

“You can, but I need to keep my wits about me.” She tells him.

“Fine.” He agrees.

The bar is lit with candles all over the inside and Isobel hangs back as Michael walks to the bar. Maria is serving another customer so Michael tries to sneak a bottle of liquor while Maria’s back is turned. It’s only a half hearted theft and she catches him at it anyway.

“Hey, that’s a health code violation.” She calls out from the other end of the bar.

“Ohhhh, yup. Thought it would go well with your disregard for the fire code.” Michael says as he takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“Didn’t I ban you for life?” Maria asks, wiping down the bar.

“Mm, you did, about twice a week.” Michael reminds her.

“You enjoy that?” She asks, motioning to the bottle in his hands.

“So good.” He tells her.

“Good.” She smiles at him. “You owe me eighty four dollars. You think I don’t know your game? You come in here when you’ve drunk enough to kill that dramatic cowboy angst, you start a fight, so you get kicked out before you pay. You can’t swindle a mercenary Guerin. I keep a tab.”

She says all of this leaning closer and closer as though telling him a secret. “But I got one thing you can do for me to pay off your debt.” Maria tells him.

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks.

“Get Regina George out of here, and make sure she never comes back.”

Michael turns to look at Isobel who appears to be deep in conversation with Hank of all people. She must have begun her practice already.

“Wow. I’m jealous DeLuca. I thought I was your least favorite customer.” He says turning back around.

“You know. Stiff competition.” Maria says with a grin.

Hank comes up to order then and Michael pours himself a glass from the bottle he’s still holding.

“Another beer, Hank? Maria asks.

“Raspberry Cosmopolitan with a twist for me and a water for the lady.” He said and Michael has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He shoots Isobel a quick glance before turning back to Maria.

“Right. Coming up.” Maria looks skeptical, but turns to make the drink all the same.

Once Hank has his drink in hand, Isobel steps out from where she’s been sitting and sways a bit on her feet. Maria goes to her and Michael lets her. He watches from a safe distance wondering just what Isobel plans to look for in Maria’s mind. Apparently she’s already got Hank making charitable donations over the phone, so there’s no telling what she has planned for Maria. In the meantime he drinks and tries not to think about the way Alex sounds when he’s being thoroughly kissed.

Michael is deep into this train of thought when he realizes things might be getting out of hand with Maria and Isobel.

Isobel is laughing humorlessly. “Real? You’re a bar psychic.”

Michael gets up from his seat and heads toward them. “Okay, hey, let’s all just…”

“If you say, calm down, I will remove your liver and sell it for pennies.” Maria tells him in no uncertain terms. “I gotta make Hank a daiquiri. When I get back, be gone.”

When she leaves, Michael turns to Isobel. She still isn’t looking very steady on her feet. “You alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just… I don’t get it. It’s like she can make nice with Mr. All Lives Matter over there, but she thinks I’m the devil?”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t do this. Don’t get distracted.” Michael tries to get her back on task. They were here for one thing.

“No.” She says. “I’m completely on mission here. I just need a more complicated target than Hank. Maria DeLuca will do. She’s hiding the truth about why she doesn’t like me. Let’s see if I’m strong enough to pull it out of her.” Isobel gives him a twisted smile.

So Michael leaves her to it and goes to set up a game of pool with his bottle of whiskey. He’s going to keep an eye on them though, make sure Isobel doesn’t need him to step in again. The game keeps his mind off of Alex but it only lasts a few minutes because Isobel passes right out behind him.

“Isobel!” He runs to her, cradling her head and checking to see if she’s okay. “Izzie,” He says, shaking her ever so slightly. Her nose is bleeding, she’s clearly overextended herself.

“Alright, I think she’s had enough, Michael.” Maria says helpfully.

“Okay, come on.” He says when she opens her eyes and looks at him. He’s so relieved that he doesn’t even say anything to Maria as he takes her out of there.

Isobel is unsteady on her feet so Michael keeps his arm around her on the way to the truck. He gets her into the passenger side and buckled in, then goes around to the driver’s side. By the time he climbs in, Isobel is back out. She stays that way all the way to Max’s place. So he carries her in and lays her on the little sofa, covering her with a blanket. Michael checks her breathing and her pulse before going to find a bottle of nail polish remover for her to drink.

Then he begins to careful wipe away the blood from under her nose. She comes around and looks up at him.

“Why did she hate me?” She asks, her voice sounding strained and sad.

“Here, drink this.” He says, retrieving the bottle of acetone and holding it out for her.

“No.” She says, pushing it away.

“Drink it.” He tries but she shakes her head.

“I need to know why she hated me. Rosa Ortecho. She was avoiding me on the day she died and I don’t know why.”

“You can’t get inside the mind of a dead girl, Isobel.” He tells her. “Besides, we made a deal remember? We never talk about that night. We never ask questions.” He adds in a whisper.

Isobel doesn’t answer him, but closes her eyes and slips back out, asleep. It takes about thirty minutes, but when she wakes up again she drinks the bottle of nail polish remover and is more herself.

“I could use some air.” She tells him. So they go together and sit on the back of his truck and look at the night sky, waiting for Max, but not really knowing when he’d be there.

“I used to look in the sky, when we were kids and hope something up there would save me.” He admitted, leaning back.

“I used to look around at the people of this town and hope for the same thing.” Isobel says.

“We have each other.” Max tells them as he walks up. “That’s it.” He looks down at the ground for a moment. “Kyle knows about me. Never should have told Liz the truth. Now our secret is gonna spread.

Michael runs a hand over his face and Isobel stands, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to change Liz’s mind, Max. And we tried, I just, uh… I think we need more time.”

“We don’t have more time.” Michael says sadly as he shakes his head.

“We’ll figure something out.” Max says.

“No.” Michael tells them. “We’re not gonna do anything. Kyle, Liz, Grant frigging Green. They all want the same thing, a little green man that they can put in a cage.”

“You’re right.” Max agrees. “I’ll tell Liz it was me.”

“No, but thank you. I’m not going to let you martyr yourself. You got a good life, Max.”

“Yeah.” Max scoffs.

“You do.” Michael says. “Isobel, you got Noah. I got nothing besides some old scrap metal and an escort service that's just as empty as you both believe it is. There is no point in all three of us going down when only one of us did the deed.”

Isobel kneels before him, the worry clear on her face. “No, Michael, we stick together.”

He shakes his head at her. “Liz Ortecho’s looking for a murderer. Let’s give her one. I’m gonna confess. After all… I’m the one that killed those girls.”

In the distance the lights of roswell blink on like a sign.

When no one has anything to say, Michael hops up. “Come on.” he says to Isobel. “Let’s get you home.”

Isobel goes with him willingly, still shocked at his words, he thinks and Max tells them they can talk about it again tomorrow. Michael doesn’t plan on continuing the conversation. He’s got a plan and he’s going to stick to it. It’s the best thing for all of them.

The drive to Isobel’s house is silent. They don’t talk and they don’t bother with the radio. He waits outside her house until she’s in then drives back to the junkyard alone. It’s late when he gets back and he’s tired, but there’s an email alert on his phone so he pulls it up as he’s laying down in bed. It’s from the service.

Rick/Alex has gone ahead and put money on his account, even though Michael said there was no balance. That means Michael now owes him and it gives him a weird feeling to be in that position. Maybe they could just refund the money, refuse to take it, but Michael knows the company doesn’t really work like that. They would rather see a repeat customer than one taking his money and going elsewhere.

So Michael takes a few breaths that are meant to be relaxing and pulls up a new email.

Alex,

You really didn’t owe me that money for the other night. I was being cruel when I said you did.

A new email comes in ten minutes later.

Michael,

I want things to be even between us.

Michael didn’t have an answer to that. Things weren’t even between them. Things were totally unbalanced. That’s what happened when one person pays another for sex. Michael is used to it, though, and really, soon enough none of this was going to matter. He was going to go to prison for killing those girls, probably for life. Things like who owes who money for sex weren’t going to matter any more.

Alex,

Let’s just say I owe you and leave it at that.

Michael turned off his phone after that. It was a stupid thing to say because it wasn’t clear if he was going to try and pay Alex back or if he owed him sex, but that’s how Michael felt anyway. He felt unclear and uncertain and mostly like he wished he could turn to Alex during all of this bullshit going on. What would Alex really think if he knew the truth about Michael. Would he be among the first to line up and study the freak? Michael liked to think he wouldn’t, but the truth was, he didn’t know Alex as well as he’d thought or they wouldn’t be having such a major miscommunication now.

He couldn’t sleep that night, but lay in his bed thinking of all the ways he’d fucked up his life and how now, at the end of it all, he was going to do the only right thing he could do, and turn himself in to save Isobel and Max. He had one good thing, he could give himself up for them, for the people he cared about. That was all he had.

[jilyarchive]

heyyy, LOVE the blog!! I was wondering if you guys know any ones explicitly set in the 70s with all the references and what not, could be a muggle au like Ms & Misunderstood or not. Thanks a lot!! :))

Here you go!

Title: RodgerAuthor: Untiltheveryend7Rating: TGenre(s): Humour, RomanceChapters: 1Word Count: 3,419Summary: What are James Potter and Sirius Black to do one hot summer afternoon, if not to irresponsibly ride magically altered vehicles? And what is Lily Evans to do when she’s enlisted to help the idiots?

Title:PepperUp, PeppermintAuthor:fyeahjamesandlilyRating: KGenre(s):Romance,Humour, AngstChapters:1WordCount: ~Summary: Thejolly chime of the doorbell cut through Lily’s medicine-induced fog, rousingher. Even after the last echoes died away, she made no move from her nest onthe sofa. She was closest to the door, sure, but she was also closest to death.

Title: FascinationAuthor: Suzie’s QRating: GGenre(s): Fluff, Hurt, ComfortChapters: 1Word Count: 1,316Summary: Even in their younger years, she had always been fascinating to him.

Title: When In ManchesterAuthor: Random-MusingsRating: TGenre(s): Drama, RomanceChapters: 1Word Count: 3,549Summary: A power outage in the Evans’ home leaves Lily and James in the dark over Christmas holiday.

Title: How James Potter Learned to Love Telly, Built a TARDIS and Won LilyAuthor: EmceeRating: General AudiencesGenre(s): HumorChapters: 1Word Count: 2,232Summary: How James Potter Learned to Love Telly, Built a TARDIS and Won Lily Evans. Exactly what it says on the tin.

Title: Doctor Who, Chess, and Bad Wedding FoodAuthor: thejilyshipRating: TGenre(s): Friendship, DramaChapters: 1Word Count: 8.906Summary: I was starting to think he was just going to stand in my garden talking me in circles forever. I couldn’t have that, Mum and Dad would ask some awkward questions. I could walk away from the window, but who knows what Potter would do then? “If I let you in,” I said slowly. “You have to leave in an hour.” “Alright,” He said. “I’ll leave in an hour.”

Title: StayAuthor: GmariamRating: TGenre(s): Romance, HumourChapters: 1 Word Count: 5,523Summary: Based on a popular holiday song, in which James and Lily find themselves thrown together when a winter storm outside forces Lily to stay a bit later than she expected after a holiday party at the Potter’s house.

Title: CopilotAuthor: sevenperseidsRating: MGenre(s): Romance, SmutChapters: 1Word Count: 8,373Summary: Coming into this trip, she’d been a tense, agitated mess. Surely unfit to be driving at such reckless and giddy speeds. Now she’s flat on her back with a huge, wide sky above her, a storybook meadow all around her, likely at least one police car within ten kilometers of her, and James Potter fiddling with her skirt. There’s no way this can end badly. LE/JP, July 1978. Smut.

Title: What A Beautiful WeddingAuthor: a_lrightevansRating: General AudiencesGenre(s): FluffChapters: 1Word Count: 4,212Summary: ‘Sneaking away… from your sister’s wedding… for a snog…’ said James breathlessly between kisses. ‘Classy, Evans—’ She shut him up by kissing him harder, knocking his glasses askew and tangling her hands in his hair.  ‘Psh …’ she muttered as his lips moved to her neck. ‘This is what weddings were invented for.’

Title: Sheep Riding and Freefalling Author: cgnerRating: MGenre(s): Romance, FriendshipChapters: 1Word Count: 8,219Summary: It does not take five people to drive a car across the country, and yet somehow Lily’s ended up with four boys heading down the A702.

Title: A Flower Child & a Marauder Author: refallenRating: KGenre(s): RomanceChapters: 11Word Count: 22,726 Summary: Complete. .Lily is a beautiful witch in the 1970’s.  Her 6th year has just ended, and she’s looking forward to her fun, peaceful summer in her muggle home town. James Potter and a certain magic camp CHANGE this.

Title: The White AlbumAuthor: cgnerRating: MGenre(s): RomanceChapters: 11Word Count: 63,083Summary: James poses as an advice charm in Lily’s diary. He’s really got to start thinking through his shenanigans.

Title: beautiful contradictionsAuthor: drowning goldfishRating: TGenre(s): Romance, HumourChapters: 18Word Count: 205,589 Summary: Looking for an in-character, realistic, original, canon, post-OotP LilyJames fic from 6-7th year with attention to character development and interaction? With no mary sues, set in 1970’s Britain, with correct spelling and grammar? Well this is it!

Title: Black Liquorice Author: prongsyouignoramusRating: GGenre(s): Friendship, HumourChapters: 7Word Count: 12,248Summary: Being separated from Severus on the first day of school is not ideal, but Lily manages. Its surprisingly easy to make friends with the other students of 7Gryff, although she’s not sure about that runty kid called Potter.

Title: Fate Works in a Funny WayAuthor: gxldentrio Rating: TGenre(s): Romance, DramaChapters: 22Word Count: 69,833Summary: Lily despised James and all of his mannerisms. James hated how she was always so uptight. But with head duties, common friends, and a curious Divination seminar, neither of them is ready to look at each other the same way again.

Title: BoyfriendAuthor: Molly Raesly Rating: TGenre(s): Romance, HumourChapters: 17Word Count: 136,472 Summary: Potter was going to say that he wasn’t my boyfriend. I couldn’t let him do that. For the love of Merlin, I could not let him do that. I had to stop him. He couldn’t tell her the truth. So I did the only conceivable thing I could think of. I kissed him.

Title: All Right, Evans?Author: CokeBottleK   Rating: MGenre(s): Romance, HumourChapters: 30Word Count: 177,798 Summary: The thing about being Lily Evans and James Potter was that you couldn’t do anything without everybody else saying something about it.

Title: Turning TablesAuthor: scaredofcloudsRating: TGenre(s): Romance, DramaChapters: 37Word Count: ~205,000Summary:Lily Evans and James Potter has always been a complicated story; its just never been quite this complicated before. But everything happens in its own time, and the eventual outcome of things was always more obvious to anyone who wasn’t Lily Evans or James Potter. They might not know each other well, but they’re about to know each other a lot better.

Title: Fool Me TwiceAuthor: DawnieS Rating: TGenre(s): Romance, MysteryChapters: 22Word Count: 105,380Summary: Lily Evans is pretty, intelligent, vivacious… and accused of murder. James Potter is privileged, arrogant, and conceited… and her best chance at avoiding Azkaban. If only he wasn’t convinced of her guilt.

Title: Dare YouAuthor: madiconRating: TGenre(s): Drama, AdventureChapters: 14 [WIP]Word Count: 118,563Summary: Jily fanfic::: The year is 1977. Lily, and all her friends, are in their final year of Hogwarts. She saw her seventh year as being the best yet but she was wrong. Her world got turned upside down by the power of love and loss in this one part of her life story.

Title: Bloody ShangrilaAuthor: fabiansgoldwatch Rating: MGenre(s): Romance, FriendshipChapters: 26Word Count: 132,926 Summary: “The way she babbled on about the place made it seem like some sort of promise land, but James knew full well that is was nothing of the sort. Sowsworth was a wasteland that comprised of seven shops, a pub, and the incredibly bored shadows of lonely people. It was not bloody Shangri-la.“

Title: ScrimmageAuthor: gryffindormischiefRating: TGenre(s): Romance, Humour, FluffChapters: 1Word Count: 1,604Summary: James wonders if he and Lily are in a rut.

Title: Sheep Riding and Freefalling Author: cgnerRating: MGenre(s): Romance, FriendshipChapters: 1Word Count: 8,219Summary: It does not take five people to drive a car across the country, and yet somehow Lily’s ended up with four boys heading down the A702.

[katherinehorn]

The Old Harbour

I contemplated just posting this essay without context, but it just didn't feel right. I wrote this two weeks ago and although it was a creative writing assignment for my English Literature course, it meant a lot more to me than that. The task was to write roughly 2000 words on a specific place or hour of the day or night. We were instructed to create a story by showing the reader our world rather than simply telling them about it. I think I really needed to write about how I was feeling in constructive way and this assignment definitely gave me the space to do that. But anyway, here it is:

The Old Harbour

I hate Gordon's Bay, I always have. Yes, the harbour may have a stunning view of the sea and it may lead to one of the most beautiful coastal drives in the world. But the town itself has very little aesthetic appeal. The houses are all built with strange, flat iron roofs to withstand the perpetual winds and the architecture looks as though it were designed by an unimaginative twelve year old boy. Most of the shopping centres are run down and have an appearance similar to that of a kitchen floor that had never been scrubbed clean. Even the roads take on a kind of dustiness that only just misses the notion of a charming dirt road.

The civilians here are no beauties either. The town's eclectic mix of people might seem quirky to someone else, but I have found no love for the conservative, bored or sheltered people that roam through the area. For starters, there always seemed to be too much drama over nothing. I frequently heard stories of people having children too young, or teenagers trying to run away from home, or people getting into toxic and violent relationships. Being in Gordon’s Bay was like being in a cliché soapie such as7de Laan. The adults I have met here are the kind of people who read everything in Huis Genoot, obtained all their political views from Facebook posts and lived for Saturday braais and impractical manicures. The teenagers, on the other hand, either have a nauseating resemblance to their parents or a rebellious boredom that usually lead to an interest in hard drugs that I could never quite relate to. I will admit I do not live here and I am sure there are many people who do not fall into these stereotypes. But you see, I have only ever met five people from Gordon's Bay that I actively like.

My dislike for the town, I suppose, stems from the fact that I have never met anyone who lives there, who isn’t unhappy.

However, at the same time I am deeply fascinated by this town. I love hearing stories about the group of kids who used to climb underneath the restaurants in Harbour Island to break into the hotel and about how on one occasion they were caught in the swimming pool and chased all the way to the closest suburb. Or about the woman who lived near the old harbour who used to burn herbs and perform tarot card readings. Or even the sad stories about the woman who had been beaten by her husband and left bleeding on the side of the main road where she was ignored by all passersby with the exception of two teenage boys.

The saving grace of Gordon's Bay is its beachfront. When walking along it I felt like a child, excited by each new thing and constantly finding a fresh thrill whenever I stepped inside Aladdin’s Cave or climbed down Bikini Beach wall to reach the tidal pool. The coastline was an adventure of warm water bottles, crisps and wind that smothers your face like a blind person feeling out the shape of your nose. It was a freedom that skipped over the rock pools until the coastline faded into raging waters beneath Faure Marine Drive. It was kissing a curly haired boy with a mouth dried from the sun and the salt. I spent many summer days jumping from those rocks and winding through crowds of every type of person.

Now, looking back, I wonder if I loved those days so much because of the great love I had for that curly haired boy.

My most treasured memory of the town, however, took place long after the warmth of  December had dwindled away. It was the 16th of June and it had been a lazy day of unwinding at the end of the semester in front of a TV screen while my miniature schnauzer lay stretched out beside me. I was restless. I needed company and had driven for half an hour to obtain it.

My best friend lived in a glass house that lay in the very centre of Gordon's Bay. He was my only connection to the town, without him I would never have been there in June. In fact I would only have visited the town once, when I slept over at friend in 2016.

When the lights went off  that day I had been sitting on his bed fiddling with his hair and trying desperately to convince him that he'd done enough studying for the day. And although I had not yet convinced him, it seemed I had convinced the universe. The power outage was a gift that nudged us to return to our coastline that I longed for so earnestly.

We decided to join our friends at the pub on Beach Road and so, with a rustle of keys and scarves, we jumped into his old Hyundai Getz and it wheezed us down the mountainside. As we turned into the usually bustling Sir Lowry Lane, a cold darkness greeted us. Much like the rest of the town, it was a street I never normally felt comfortable in. But the new darkness of the town comforted me. The sharp architecture retreated into the gloom and the noises that so often overwhelmed me scurried back to their homes. I felt my worries cease their bubbling and nestle themselves at the bottom of my stomach as I nestled into the car chair.

We stared at the pub for at least fifteen minutes when we arrived, neither one of us talking. The sign that usually flashed the words "The Dock" hung damply and barely noticeable above the small glass panes that hid the interior. We could see the dim lights of candles and cellphones dancing across the glass and hear the laughter that trickled out onto the street. With the usual blare of karaoke night missing, an eeriness trapped us inside the parking lot. It was as though we were seeing the town for the first time, as though the darkness were unveiling all the complexities that every day life glossed over. We had no wish to explore it.

Thankfully the coastline had not lost its familiarity and thus we chose to wonder down to the sand and leave the tired pub behind us. We skirted around the sea, playing between the lines the tide created as it swept in and out. But still the distractions of the world seemed too close to us and we slid back into the car and meandered further up beach road.

We parked outside the navy base and skipped down to the old harbour. Despite its strange comfort I still felt scared in the dark, there were too many shadows lurking behind empty cars and fences. So I clung to my guide, for he knew the area like the back of his hand. I trusted him wholeheartedly, for better or for worse.

He lead me round the back of the yacht club and hid me in his shadow when we noticed how it stood open. There were voices inside, Afrikaans ones, and they echoed out indistinguishably to my ears. I heard someone flipping switches irritably. We pressed on.

On the other side of the building we reached a large iron gate  that was chained loosely shut. I'd never seen it before and was so irritated with its sudden appearance that I stepped out from my hiding place. They had fenced off the pier for the construction of the new desalination plant. I thought about how I had crawled through one of the construction pipes in January and about how peculiar the world had seemed inside there. The wind had funnelled so strangely through the pipe that I had thought I was going to cry at the other-worldly sound it created. It was what I'd imagined it would be like to be trapped in a void and I was terrified.

I shook the memory off and looked to my guide for a plan of action. He chuckled quietly and slid the gate open wide enough for us to sneak through. It was like the uncovering of Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

We giggled as we raced the wind across the concrete, leaping over pipes and twirling around abandoned equipment. For a while we explored the narrow landscape, crawling in between the nesting dolosse and investigating the way that the moonlight glittered over the yachts. I don't remember us talking during this time, although I'm sure we did. We always do. But that night I felt particularly connected to him in our near silence. It felt good to have someone I could be quiet around; someone with whom I could share the world but still experience it separately. I was suddenly glad for the gate; it had kept the rest of the world out.

Eventually we reached the lighthouse at the tip of the pier. It was darkest and windiest here. Not even the brightest car light could reach us. I stood silently at the edge of it, my feet slipping across the damp moss in slow motion. I watched the way the sea tumbled and rolled against the harbour and traced the path that the moon illuminated across it. I marvelled at the black and silver liquid and thought about how never-ending it was. I felt rooted to the earth in a way that I had never felt before. It was as though the slime had grown through my feet and torn out my soul so that it could be buried beneath the bellowing of the tide. Not even the winds could move me.

Even in remembering that moment it feels as though I am still staring at that water, as though I had never stopped and would never be able surrender that feeling of empty peace. But the truth is I did stop staring, I had turned around in search of the boy I love. But as I did I realised how a part of the landscape he was, he sunk into it, tumbled beneath the waves and burst into air like the chill that flew through my hair. His own wild curls echoed the endless movement of the coastline, the dryness of its summer and the uncertainty of its adventures. He could never be separated from that place; it would follow him wherever he went.

As we walked back to the car, the lights switched on and the humming of the world began again. I knew that I was slowly losing a dream that I would never be able to return to. But still, I climbed back into the car and drove towards the inevitable future. That choice will always be a mistake, for now Gordon's Bay will remain an impossible past that I will never reach and never fail to love.

✬✮✭

[centaurrential]

“The Spice Jar”

“Let me live the lie, So long as it gets me through the day.”

For a long time it baffled me why activists would choose to devote so much energy to a cause that always seemed like overkill to me: free speech. I suppose the reason for that is because I grew up in a fairly liberal environment in one of the most liberal countries in the world. My feelings of security in the realm of free speech were a result of direct contact with a family that, more often than not, found itself on the right side of political privilege. Juxtaposed by the harsh realities experienced by another portion of my family (but not by me) under dictatorship in Yugoslavia, it seemed like the threat to free expression was a dead issue, a thing left in another world, in the past and locked in a strait jacket, never to seriously perpetrate again. How naive.

I see now that the cause is not overkill at all, but rather in need of periodic resuscitation, with the medics on stand-by; and the best medics would be those who excel in “aspect perception”. Like evil, issues needing that particular kind of attention crop up in unexpected places, and so much vigilance in monitoring the sneaks is due. And a simple mandate of “free expression for all” is stupid and insufficient, because as we always see, static gaming rules can produce matches with vastly different phenotypes. (The existence of “language games” was originally observed by the Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, so I give him his due credit here.)

I spoke of ideology in my last posting, and wherever one wishes to locate (and I don’t use that term accidentally) themselves on the grid of political persuasions, there will always be conceptual pockets that are purposely left unfilled, often because no one has the guts to touch them for fear of being labelled too politically incorrect, or undiplomatic. But even more radical are those ideas that don’t even find themselves on that grid, because they lie so far outside of the limitations imposed by the prevailing paradigm. A person brave enough to attempt to give validity to those ideas is not only denigrated for being “uneducated” but crucified for being a downright dumbass, and possibly psychotic, if the definition of psychosis is a “detachment from ‘reality’.” But what we think of as reality is merely an idea that has been agreed-upon by people who happen to have sufficient charisma and power to persuade others.

I’ll give you an example: I have, I believe, collected enough evidence that demonstrates astrology is true. Because of this passing interest, I once mentioned to a relative that I was reading a book on the influence of astrology in history, political and otherwise. She asked who the author was and what his credentials were. Nothing “noteworthy” there, and because of that, she actually insulted me and declared it preposterous that I, a usually intelligent person, would consider an argument not backed by the mainstream meritocracy. It’s crucial to note that she has a doctorate in history. I didn’t even have to ask her why she was so appalled, because her answer would have been the same dished to me, on a silver platter, out of fucking Buckingham Palace, that is given to me by every other lazy asshole who considers astrology to be archaic and an immediate write-off. She would have said that “all the studies” performed on astrology show CLEARLY that the “daily horoscope” and the “sun signs” are all bullshit and believers suffer from a case of confirmation bias. Academics believe that mythology and established archetypes have value and are therefore worth studying. And there is a tight link between them and the representational entities found in astrology. But none of “The Educated” give enough of a damn to investigate its complex grammar (see last posting), and the precision required of any astrologer worth their salt.

My little rant about astrology isn’t meant to be a full-scale defence of the practice, but I am trying to demonstrate something. The shallowness displayed in these disses to astrology is indicative of the fact that things already thought to be errant are not even encompassed in the span of that “grid of persuasions” I mentioned earlier. (The grid may be two- or three-dimensional, but who cares?) Those who are already convinced something is “wrong” simply won’t go to great lengths to play the devil’s advocate and explore why there may be a teensy-weensy chance it is RIGHT.

In my mind, if it’s been spoken of, then you should do your homework and read between the lines.

They say, if you can’t find yourself anywhere on that grid, there must be something fundamentally wrong with you. You’re crazed, you’re spacey, out to lunch, et cetera. The grid seems to offer a menu of choices, various combinations of platitudes you are free to choose from. So my point is this: if enough people, with enough influence, tell you that something is off the table, they’re telling you that not even the ingredients are available to conjure something worthy of bringing to the table. Therefore, to those who still hunger: you must look elsewhere.

I can’t say with certainty whether or not there was some grand agenda to marginalize and persecute people who can see outside of things (*cough*lust*cough), but if there is (I use the present tense cause...duh) it’s DEFINITELY ideological. And the reason it’s so fucking scary is because, if your wild ideas reach a certain density, the majority won’t even listen to you. And by ‘majority’ I don’t mean 50.1% of the population, I mean the people you interact with who possess a disproportionate amount of power. And further, by ‘power’ I mean the capacity to effect significant change in something, or to neutralize a challenge to a pre-existing situation. Anyway, never mind disagreement--you might as well not have a mouth at all. Even if your ‘kooky’ ideas are not that dense, the introduction of even one idea that doesn’t fall within the rules of the prevailing paradigm leads to others viewing you with suspicion and the belief that there is a crack in the philosophical foundation of your life.

To give you a visual: think of the scene in The Matrix when the Agents cause Neo’s mouth to grow over with skin, and he freaks right the fuck out. He falls backwards into the wall, as if to put physical distance between himself and this monstrosity. Speaking--expression--is so innate to us as humans with personalities. To add insult to injury, many of us find some things in this world that utterly compel us--that which ignites our “fire”, that which we cannot ignore no matter how detrimental we are told it can be, no matter how hard we try to resist.

...Who am I kidding?! I’m on a roll (!!!), so I’d like my readers to consider the following: We believe that the past and present both exist, yet we have enough trouble interpreting them. Why should interpreting what the future holds be any different? I think we all know why people are so vehemently opposed to that idea...it’s kind of the elephant in the room.

~~~

Now, I work in a grocery store. For a moment during the COVID-19 pandemic, we were all the rage, with people touting us as ‘heroes’ and heaping thanks on us because we’re “essential workers”. Or at least, we were. That died fast. But we’ve always been heroes. I don’t mean to insult my customers, the majority of whom I love interacting with. But I sense that some people just need to be put in their place.

The supermarket is an interesting one because it’s like a little laboratory for human behaviour studies--but it’s better, because it’s not artificial. Virtually every person on this planet leads a life that revolves around food, and when we don’t have good food, we are sad or grumpy. I understand the feeling of having one’s heart set on something and the disappointment experienced when our expectations aren’t met. But I plead with you: try thanking your lucky stars every now and then for all the options you have, as a result of lowly grocery workers.

Everyday, everything is splayed out for us to pick and choose from. And for that benefit, producers apply their intelligence to generate AND to coordinate, so that things are always “in stock”. Luckily all the food waste that’s generated in the name of “looking nice” (I’m serious) now goes to the food bank. If that didn’t happen, some of us would have to force ourselves to ignore the fact that the only final utility of some of that product was to ensure our shelves were pleasing to the consumer eye.  An understudy, if you will: an immensely complex thing, formed for the sole purpose of “just in case”.

Our lives consist of an economy that’s so sophisticated we really do not have to think twice about having SOME kind of satisfying meal. If not our first choice, then our second or third. Show some bloody respect. Right now, we’re all able to shop in relative luxury, but when shit hits the fan--like for example, perhaps, a prolonged power outage occurs--we’ll be yearning for the days when we had to settle for spinach because the all the kale was gone.

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the janitors, custodians, cleaning staff, and the specialized COVID sanitizers of the world. The mundane reality is so backwards sometimes. It’s like evil took all that was good and pure and turned it on its head. There is a premium placed on orderliness and cleanliness. Wash your hands for 20 seconds, apply hand sanitizer, kill those bacteria and kill ‘em dead. Ok, you don’t want to get sick--fine. But large-scale operations that exploit people who help you reach the “godliness” that is cleanliness, yet rob them of respect, appropriate compensation, and appreciation--you are grotesque.

So, money. I’m not well-versed in economics, but I call it like I see it. The nice thing about money, and the reason it’s so widely used, is because it’s an easy tool that supposedly ‘justly’ facilitates exchanges of goods and services between people. If something is expensive enough to the point at which you pass the threshold between “justifiable” and “unjustifiable”, that’s the only reason a person needs to not buy something. And the immediate source of justification is the psychology of the individual. Of course, there are many factors that contribute to the rationalization process.

Money may be easy, but money doesn’t reflect the true value of things, and it’s because money doesn’t reflect the true value of things that it is easy. Imagine you bartering spices for someone else’s dairy cow. In order to save time, you’d better hope that your bartering partner and you agree quickly what amounts and what types of spices are justifiable in trading for a cow. The processes that allow the accessibility of both types of goods are different. You and your bartering partner may not agree: they may want more, you think they should get less. BUT, this person you’re engaging with is the only source of a cow for you! Now imagine a plumber, for instance, trading a repair for a haircut. You help me, I help you, and we apply our respective skills toward that symbiosis. Is the haircut important enough to the plumber that they are willing to provide a service in return, sans money? Is the hairstylist appreciative enough of the plumber’s work to design and make them look good for free? A haircut and plumbing services are similar in some ways, but entirely different in others. The function and utility of each is different, and the consequences they generate permeate lives differently. Consequences may be far-reaching, or they may occupy less space in the progression of your life. A tree compared to a blade of grass. That is the nature of choice in this life. And when money leaves the equation, it’s like a dark sheath has been torn away from the true values of things, which are realistically very complicated.

People generally do act rationally, but it’s not in the way neoliberal economists think. The mistake they’ve made is assuming that a ‘rational choice’ is the same for everyone, across the board. Or maybe that’s what they want you to think. Liar, liar, pants on fire. What is rational to one person is not always rational to another. Much of it is subjective, at least if a person is true to themselves. And people’s inherent personalities are different, and therefore their specific motives are different. It’s not clear that there’s an absolute benefit that should be maximized (other than the obvious quest for happiness and avoidance of pain), because the true value of things isn’t strictly definable.

Think in these terms: What fuels our economy is consumerism. When there’s a recession, people have less money and therefore will purchase less, and so the goal to rejuvenate the economy is to get people buying things again. It doesn’t matter too much what, just as long as they’re spending money.

Now consider the resurgence in the ‘minimalist’ ideal. People are starting to wake up and see that having all sorts of shit just because you have the capability to buy it (and because money doesn’t reflect consequences) is destructive, and not only to the environment and the oppressed, but also to the soul. There are plenty of people in this world who absolutely cannot, in good conscience, own a lot of shit and be okay with themselves. This is a thing that I know for certain compels people. To deny this is to deny peace of mind. So, what place does a passion for minimalism have in neoliberal theory?

In what some like to call a post-modern world (a scary thought in itself; does that imply the end of history?) we increasingly find ourselves detached from the larger picture, and that is NOT good. What we see “in front” bears few clues into what happens behind the scenes. People don’t farm, we go to grocery stores. People don’t weave and knit, we shop at the mall. Things are presented in such a refined way that it actually takes some mental work and introspection to develop gratitude for the people working to make us comfortable, often at their own expense, and often not because they are at liberty to do so. Coercion and rationality have a love-hate relationship.

To tie things up, please pay attention to the source of your information. I don’t mean “Angelfire websites” and all that shit, I mean the individuals and groups of individuals in charge of disseminating  information. Karl Marx developed Marxist/communist theory because of his situation in life. He had motives, like everyone else. Motives can come from a place of genuine compassion, sympathy for the meek, and a belief that everyone deserves kindness and less pain in their lives. But motives can also be positively diabolical, and when such motives inhabit the hearts of people with influence, evil spreads insidiously, like a metastasized cancer gone undetected.

[mividaeslimones]

Day 01: start of the process...

I think this is one of the more unnerving days I’ve had in a while. I checked in at 1:30 pm and it’s now 3:00 pm and there’s still no sign of the provider... I split my time between Michelle Obama’s book, Spanish lessons, and some recipes I found on Pinterest. Driving to the appointment had been the usual level of Albuquerque fuckery, so I can’t complain too much there (I should be used to it), checking in had been a breeze, but this waiting... I almost want to get up and leave I’m so anxious. But I’ll stay positive and keep my ass parked in this chair as other patients are roomed and seen quickly.

I’m moved to another room at 3:05 and this does absolutely nothing for my nerves. But I smile and follow the nurse without complaint anyway. I remind myself I’m not leaving without progress at the very least. I’ve waited too long and have come too far. Just breathe in, breathe out, and repeat. Smile as more patients and clinical staff pass in the hall. There’s a damn good reason the appointment was so delayed which I’ll address later.

It’s now 3:05 pm, I’m ready to climb out of my skin. The provider moseys in and things are...odd? Both of us are actively trying to feel out the other, and I imagine the fly on the wall is tickled pink. When we finally start I’m in tears, in all my 32 years of being on this planet I can fit the number of people who have actively tried to make sure my pronouns were as they should be. It’s a weird and uncomfortably visceral feeling. I cried, she cried, and then she cracked a joke this will be easier, because crying will literally be harder after testosterone.

We chat for a bit and I lean into the conversation with my overly tired and rehearsed, “so I know it varies from state to state, and clinic to clinic, but will I need a diagnosis of dysphoria to make this happen?” Yes, yes I will; insurance companies will outright deny it. She dances around “the question”, I know she’s trying to be delicate with me so I cut in with a wild move.

“When did I know?” She looks relieved and says “yes.” I think for a minute, not because I’m inventing answer, but because I’ve literally never given it a second thought since I’ve pushed it down. It is one of a million neat and tidily wrapped boxes (in a mellowed robin egg blue) I’ve kept locked away inside. “I tell her I feel cliched for saying this, but I think it was kindergarten...” I go on about the rips in the perfect discount tights from Nordstrom and the filthy dresses. I also mention how hilarious I must have looked to the adults who watched the kindergartners. I was the most careful child, but in spite of my best efforts I came home a mess. Can you imagine some poor child comically stepping over puddles and trying to ascend a tree with the tenacity of a sloth? And I would later have the dreaded conversation with my mother on the subject... One day I just decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore and I caved. I stopped the rough play, then resigned to quieter and less messy activities.

But I still tried on some level... I wanted the reprieve. So I’d slyly sneak over to the boy’s racks of some department store to try toss in a shirt or a pair of pants. And when I was inevitably caught I would be taken by the arm, before I was abrasively whispered something along the lines of, “it will look like no one loves you if you dress like a boy.” It was another weird little box to unwrap... Honestly, it didn’t feel like something that belonged to me anymore. Kind of like when you step into a house that was converted into a museum. You see the remnants of a life lived by someone eons ago, and it’s sad to some extent, but it’s not real, or tangible. After having context for some of this I think I sort of understand her reasoning... As awful as some of her behavior was, I think it came from a good place, which I’ll get into later.

Woo! Anyway! The provider went on to ask a few more things before we finished up the brief questionnaire. I honestly mean it was brief, like the Spanish Inquisition could have laughed at it. I was asked about the surgery portion and I said I wasn’t ready, not out of fear, but out of an understanding of how the procedure works. If a person wants a something like a subcutaneous mastectomy (boob removal) with chest contouring (shaping of your moobs), you need something to be there, if you’re particular about the outcome. If you’re not, you’re amazing and more power to you. But for the rest of us (who avoided the gym) we will need to work building up that area as much as we can. The question came up of if I wanted to keep my current primary provider and I said yes. My doctor is more enthusiastic about this whole thing than I am, like she sounded ready to jump on anyone who dared tell me no to any of this. I did mention it was weird that my current health system (outside of UNM) didn’t have a way to look up the endocrinologist who helps trans patients. I even called when I couldn’t find anything online. I said it was kind of my deciding factor to keep this part of my care with UNM, since that seemed very sketch to me. She also seemed to think it was a little odd, and quietly brought the rest of my concern up... Which was this endocrinologist may treat trans patients frequently, but he may not be the gentlest or versed, and we moved along...

It was weird, she was willing to give me a script that day, but she was hesitant to bring up the blood panel. Which I was completely fine with by the way! I would much rather be safe than sorry, your health is nothing to take for granted. Shoot I even requested to tack on another for peace of mind (STI check). I’m going to be checked to see where my glucose is at, along with my cholesterol, if my cells are clumping or if it looks like I might have something like macrocytosis (puffy/large cells), and I’m getting a pregnancy test. I’d be shocked if the last one turned up anything, I haven’t done the horizontal tango since the beginning of the year, I think, it’s been a long time okay.

I did kick myself when I realized I broke my own cardinal rule before the appointment. DON’T EAT. I always shoot for the earliest appointment available so I can eat immediately after, this wasn’t an option, so I ate on accident... You never know when your provider will want to order blood work. Which means this could completely screw up a blood panel. It’s the equivalent of crossing your legs when you’re getting your blood pressure taken. Now I have to get up at the ass crack of dawn and get a draw... Which would have meant waiting to take the testosterone, because yes you guessed it, that too would skew the results.

In all honesty, I’d have to wait on taking the script anyway, my insurance has to approve it and get something from my doctor. I had suspected this from the get go, because nothing in life if ever this easy for me. Haha. And it was confirmed when the pharmacy technician looked over the sheet of paper. I could see it in his eyes there was an issue, still he optimistically told me twenty minutes. He was super nice and apologetic about the whole thing, and he even urged me to call everyone and their mother if I hadn’t heard anything in a week, so this didn’t fall through the cracks. Like the man was so adamant about it, the whole thing threw me off.

So if you’re still wanting to know why the appointment was so late, there was a power outage yesterday. With everything being digital this can take some clinics or organizations days or weeks to catch up on (if there was extensive damage). And if you’re wondering about the mother thing, well, she had a cousin who died of HIV/aids. He was the sweetest and kindest man, with the most rotten luck in the world. Some would say he would have no luck at all if it weren’t for all the bad luck. He was also gay. I’m not going to name him, I didn’t know him, and it might upset my great aunt to know I posted this. I adore her, so I won’t do that. My point is, I genuinely think she still fears the maybes, the might bes, or the definites of living outside of what society has deemed as acceptable. Which is probably problematic, but I don’t think there is anything anyone could do or say to sway her at this point. Personally? I don’t care. Since I’ve lived in New Mexico I’ve had random men try to solicit me on a jog, I’ve been groped at my place of employment, I’ve had a gun pointed in my face, I’ve had people put me in headlocks, people have laid hands on my property with the intent to damage it, some have even succeeded in damaging it, and I’ve had my life threatened. I think I’m over the worst case scenario. I also think I need to dial things back a notch. After living here for over ten years I recognize that I’ve become harder and colder; I am absolutely ready to pop off on someone who’s clearly in the wrong. But today has taught me, that things are indeed easier than they used to be, and they’re continuing to improve.

[laughingatmynightmare]

How To Survive Snowstorm Stella

First of all, the new trend of naming every single weather event is just plain stupid. There was a slight breeze last weekend and the local news claimed “SUPERSTORM VORTEX BERTHA FAILS TO MAKE IMPACT.”

Anyway, hi, Shane here. Just had to get that out of my system before we began.

If you live anywhere on the east coast between Maine and North Carolina, you’ve probably heard that Snowstorm Stella is on her way to destroy you. There’s not much hope for any of us, but I figured I’d share a few Blizzard Survival Tips that I’ve gathered in my 24 years of blizzard surviving. These won’t help much. Stella is an unstoppable monster and resistance is futile, but you can enjoy these tips while watching your house and everyone you love get buried in 8-12 inches of frozen death.

1. Panic.

This situation demands round-the-clock worrying in the days and weeks leading up to Stella’s arrival. The best way to achieve constant panic is watching any local news or weather station. Weather reporters are currently chomping at the bit over this golden opportunity to whip out their most sensational doomsday phrases.

Keep your windows open to monitor weather conditions on your own, as well. I’ve been hearing horrifying predictions of “locally higher amounts,” and the only true way to know if your amounts have become locally higher is by monitoring the area around your home with vigilance. Don’t sleep. That’s when those inches will sneak up on you.

2. Go to the grocery store.

Don’t expect to buy much, though. The milk, bread, and eggs have been sold out since last Friday. Still, it can be helpful to walk through the store sharing with strangers the snowfall predictions that you heard on the same news station they watched that morning. Also, don’t forget that honey never goes bad. Get a few gallons in case the plows never make it to your road and you’re stuck inside forever.

3. Practice your shoveling.

Your only (slim, basically nonexistent) chance for survival requires that you dig yourself out from the depths once Stella has made her ravaging pass. What happens if you get outside and realize you don’t know which end of the shovel to use? You could end up digging yourself right into an icy grave.

It’s vital to practice now. Fill your bathtub with small rocks and use your shovel to remove them onto the bathroom floor. Then refill the tub and repeat. Remember: short, jerking motions are most effective. Bend at the waist and heave with an explosive twist of your lower back.

4. Donate to Laughing At My Nightmare, Inc.

I wasn’t allowed to write this piece unless I promoted our work. If we do miraculously make it through this behemoth of a storm, we’ll be back to work the next day here at LAMN! There are thousands of people living with muscular dystrophy who don’t have access to the equipment they need to thrive. We are changing that. Your donations allow us to provide life-changing equipment to help people live more healthy, comfortable, and productive lives.

You are all incredibly supportive, and your donations mean so much to me: http://www.laughingatmynightmare.com/donate

5. Consider purchasing a flare gun.

I can’t really fathom a practical use for a flare gun, but it sounds like something important to have in your survival kit.

6. Call your grandparents/friends.

On a serious note, power outages and cold conditions can be serious for the elderly and people living with disabilities. For instance, my feeding tube has a battery backup, but it only lasts for about eight hours, so after that, I have to start thinking about my calorie intake. Luckily, I have 48 loaves of bread and six thousand eggs to get me through this storm. But for real, play it safe and give your friends and family a call tomorrow to make sure they have everything they need. Worst case scenario, your grandma tells you about her cats for 45 minutes.

7. Post pictures on social media.

This might be the most important tip. You must post a picture of your front or back lawn with estimations of how much snow you received. If enough of us share the same blindingly white, painfully boring picture, we can collectively weaken Stella by making her just another temporary, overblown social media spectacle.

Good luck.

[torentialtribute]

Rangers 6-1 Hibernian: Jermain Defoe hat-trick and helps visitors to crushing victory

Switching between the unplayable and the unstoppable is a situation for Steven Gerrard to enjoy.

praised Alfredo Morelos with the first of those reviews after his barnstorming performance in the Europa League victory over Midtjylland FC, Gerrard began with the Colombian on the bench for this resumption of domestic duties.

That meant a start for Jermain Defoe. And what a reaction he gave. A first hat trick for Rangers was skillfully wrapped before he made way for Morelos to deliver two of the last three hits in a search of 10-man Hibernian.

This sharing of striking power will be vital as the Ibrox outfit expands its ambitions at home and abroad in the coming weeks and months.

MATCH FACTS

[1945902] RANGERS: McGregor, Tavernier, Goldson, Katic, Flanagan (Halliday 80), Jack, Davis, Aribo, Jones ( Stewart 76), Ojo, Defoe (Morelos 76).

UNUSED SUBS: Edmundson, Foderingham, Docherty, Arfield.

OBJECTIVES: Defoe 9, 15, 74, Morelos 77, 89 Ojo 90 + 2

YELLOW CARDS: Katic, Ojo

HIBERNIAN: Martian, Whittaker, McGregor, Hanlon, Mackie, Mallan, Vela, Allan (Kamberi 67), Horgan (Gray 57), Doidge, Newell (Murray 45).

UNUSED SUBS: Slivka, Jackson, Maxwell, Shaw.

PURPOSE: Horgan 40

YELLOW CARDS: McGregor, Candle, Doidge

SHIPPED FROM: Mackie

REFEREE: John Beaton (Scotland)

]

Defoe could have hit five or six because the Easter Road Defense was completely tormented by its movement. At the age of 36, the Bournemouth borrower has lost little instinct and intelligence, making him one of the leading snipers of all time in the English Premier League.

After a start of full dominance, Gerrards side wobbled briefly when he held on to 2 -1 by Daryl Horgan & # 39; s goal late in the first half

However, the 54th minute dismissal of Sean Mackie for a second booking put an end to the hope that the Leith party would compete. The locks, fitting the weather, were properly opened for 15 minutes at the end, with Sheyi Ojo in the scoring act to the end.

The opening of 40 minutes was an attack. A relentless stream of Rangers who attacked with only sporadic resistance.

Closing the first half with only 2-1 must have felt for a lottery win for Paul Heckingbottom and his players. For Rangers, the five-minute nerves they went through were less pleasant.

Some of you wanted to admire the ambition behind Heckingbottom's willingness to put men on the ball, with Horgan, Scott Allan and Joe Newell all supporting Christian Doidge. But the outcome was initially an exposed framework that was all too easily taken apart by self-confident opponents. Keeping possession was equally problematic for those in green-white shirts.

It was an indication of what would happen when, after three minutes, Defoe jumped forward on a spear ball from Connor Goldson and only prevented a less than perfect first touch from scoring.

Rangers boss Steven Gerrard tries to pass instructions to his players in soaked conditions

Defoe opened the score on Ibrox after only nine minutes by jumping on a rebound

As it was, he only had to wait six minutes. Ofir Martian will be less than happy about how he dealt with a 25-meter left foot attack from Ojo. Apparently cheated, the Israeli goalkeeper made a clumsy rescue to his left and Defoe made an effort to polish up the rebound.

The lead was doubled after fifteen minutes with a stylish movement that made its way through the swaying right side of the visitors.

Steven Whittaker, formerly of this parish, was eliminated by Jordan Jones who sneaked the ball around before sending Ojo into the area.

The former England international then went home to end up close to the post for his second

The cutback of the Liverpool borrower on the slide was perfectly measured before the run of Defoe, with an almost-near-finish finish to the job despite the desperate outage of Paul Hanlon.

At that time, it seemed only a case of how much – in terms of both Ranger's goals and bookings.

Referee John Beaton had enclosed himself with early yellow cards for Darren McGregor – who defeated Jones – and Ojo, who caught Mackie on the slide.

The soaked field was not conducive to perfectly controlled challenges and the cards kept coming. Christian Doidge, Niko Katic, Josh Vela and Mackie got half a dozen from Beaton – split 2-4 – before the interval brought rest.

The errors were partly a reflection of what stretched Hibs looked like. The header of Connor Goldson from Jones's cross was overthrown by Marciano before the Hibs No. 1 was refused in the same way by James Tavernier free kick

Defoe buried in the Joe Aribo penalty area, whose shot caused short, misplaced celebrations in the stands by wrinkling the side mesh. The experienced attacker saw Martian blocking well after being released by Ojo, with another possibility that was widely played out.

A third Rangers goal seemed almost inevitable prior to the break. But it didn't arrive. Instead, a small break appeared in the home setup.

Jon Flanagan gave the ball away before the danger was repelled by Katic. Then, almost out of the blue, a fantastic piece of creativity from Allan briefly brought the men of Heckingbottom back into battle.

A Rangers fan of boys who signed for Celtic, Allan was chased from the start. His riposte was a beautifully disguised, inch-perfect passing ball that Horgan brought out for a clear finish beyond McGregor.

Hibernian hoped when Daryl Horgan came home from Scott Allan's pass

Rangers looked astonished, lost their previous insurance for the small remainder of the first half. The challenge for Hibs, of course, was to try to expand that uncertainty after the restart.

Horgan sent a bent head over from an early set piece to offer a promising start, but their cause soon ran out. This never looked like a competition that was destined to end 11 v 11.

Mackie & # 39; s first half had been careful about sending Ojo stretched out. His resignation was confirmed when he clumsily raised an arm to block a withered pass from Ojo.

Sean Mackie received a yellow card after committing a deliberate handball

The full-back optimistically claimed it had hit his shoulder. The officials disagreed.

Heckingbottom responded by withdrawing scorer Horgan to bring defensive reinforcement to club captain David Gray.

Defoe and Jones had both been close to counting numerical superiority before Ojo danced his way along the 18-yard line.

Another powerful thump through his left boot was kept out by an excellent, sweeping Martian rescue.

Then Jack drove in from the right flank to choose Tavernier. The Ibrox skipper really should have done better than skipping a powerful ride.

The contest was decided when Defoe got the highest out of it head rose from the cross of Steven Davis

Gerrard yearned for a settling third goal. And finally it arrived with another 15 minutes.

Steven Davis was the maker with a beautiful weaving run deep in the area before he hung a cross on the far post. Defoe's downward header did the rest

It was the Englishman's last involvement when Morelos was summoned to make a mark within three minutes of his introduction.

. Just minutes after he got off the bench, Morelos was able to add the fourth of his team

The Colombian was ready to fire his second of the game the game from the pass of Greg Stewart

A nutmeg on Hanlon allowed him to speed up, sail past sails and squeeze in a low shot near the post. [194599003]

He wasn't ready there either.

In the 89th minute he grabbed a nice little pass from fellow substitute Greg Stewart and finished firmly past the besieged Martian.

The deflected disc of Ojo in stopping time completed a route

Liverpool loanne Sheyi Ojo hammered into the sixth and final goal by a crowd of bodies

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[alexrodriguespage]

Revealing Our Cave of Wonders with Chamberlain

This post is in partnership with Chamberlain

One of the first projects that we did when we bought the Merc, even before renovations began, was updating the detached garage.

If you’ve ever wondered if pinky beige and forest green look great together, let me just permanently sear this image into your mind.

Sorry not sorry.

We attacked it with all of the love and Mandi White paint we could get our hands on and it turned out SIGNIFICANTLY better. To this day, every time my father in law comes over he asks if we’re sure we didnt replace the garage doors because he cant believe how much better they look. (You can see more of the process here)

So even though the outside was spruced up and looking fly (yes, I just said that, I’m also embarrassed for myself) the inside was rough. We’re talking raw cinderblock, wires, and 2 of these ancient relic garage door openers.

That we of course didnt have remotes for. In fact, I dont even know if they made remotes. I’m pretty sure that the way you opened them remotely was to throw a rock at a dinosaur that then started walking in a circle around a huge wooden gear-Flintstones style.

Do you think I’m joking? The garage doors didnt even lock! We had to use a metal rod that Court stole off of one of my hoards to keep them secure. #primitive

When Chamberlain reached out about installing one of their new Chamberlain B1381 Corner to Corner Lighting™ LED Wi-Fi Garage Door Opener, the thought of being able to park in the garage brought tears to my eyes! All of you Southwest-ites can attest to the indescribable pain of trying to drive with a steering wheel that will take your fingerprints off because it’s so hot.  We also (obviously) use the garage as our workshop so functional doors and new lighting is just helpful all around.

The Biggest Difference: Lighting

Just for funsies, look at the difference between the lighting with our old opener and the new Chamberlain. (I know it’s a different spot, Court very enthusiastically took down one of the old openers when I told him we were getting a new one before I could get a proper before and after. I’m pretty sure that means I get an automatic fail on my blogger card.)

This is our old one. I SWEAR on my whole life that this is not one of those magic photoshopped pictures.

It is the exact same conditions in both pictures.

I’m not entirely convinced that if I pulled into the garage with the old light on that I would be able to make out if there was someone there trying to steal all of our wood scraps! I’m also not entirely convinced that it wouldn’t spark and catch the whole dang place on fire. It’s like the Cave of Wonders in there!!

BUT LOOK AT THIS MAGIC!

With the new Chamberlain LED opener, we could go into full on project mode at 2 am! Get excited neighbors!! Most garage lights use standard bulbs that put out between 450-1100 lumens depending on the wattage (lumens is the way that the amount of light output is measured. The higher the number the brighter the light.)

In comparison Chamberlain’s built-in Corner to Corner lighting system puts out a whopping 3,100 lumens-0evenly distributing daylight-like lighting to fill the entire garage! The diodes are also extremely long lasting, so you’ll likely never have to replace them!

Smart Home Tech Standard

We LOVE smart home tech at the Merc, and this garage door opener is no exception. It has a built in Wi-Fi powered by myQ technology that allows you to open and close your garage door from anywhere. Great if you’re like us and always lending out tools.

Other smart home features:

Receive real-time alerts when your garage door opens and close. Know when the kids are home from school, when your husband is hiding from the family, or when your teenager tries to sneak the car out.

Set daily schedules for the garage door to close. I love the idea of having it automatically close every evening at sundown. Just to be sure that everything is locked up tight. How many times have you walked outside in the morning to find that when your kids parked their bikes they didnt close the garage door?

Customize how your myQ-connected garage door opener and lights interact with your other favorite smart devices and home automation platforms. Get enhanced features such as voice control, location-based closing or being able to control myQ via a partner app.

Chamberlain Group and Amazon recently teamed up to offer In-Garage Delivery in 37 cities. I’ve never wanted to live in a large city more.

Aside from its smart home capabilities, we’ll also enjoy the convenience of a built-in battery backup system that enables our opener to work during power outages, so we can still get in and out in case of emergency.

Install was easy and almost entirely a one man job, as evidenced below. When Court started pulling all of the parts out of the box he said “Welp, this is going to be an instruction reading project” and we all know how he feels about following instructions. But it was super easy to follow and he had it done in about an hour.

If you are sick of living in the dark ages of garage doors (hahaha get it!??) you have got to check out Chamberlain’s LED garage door opener with Corner to Corner lighting. You can find where they are available in your area and online by checking out their website here!

And just because I cant believe it myself, let’s have another before and after…

Don’t you just want to break into the chorus of “You light up my life”? I think we’ll need to get Court on that. Learn where to get your own here!

      The post Revealing Our Cave of Wonders with Chamberlain appeared first on Vintage Revivals.

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