#even if her name sounds like generic xanax

[pluckedanarchist]

We're watching Nimona now that we have Netflix again (thanks tmobile) and I just.

"Alamzapam."

Stares in pharmacy tech

[rhys-rambles]

FIGHT CLUB | 1999

I was introduced to the movie Fight Club around 3 years ago. It wasn’t until recently I’ve become interested in it. So here’s my Fight Club breakdown :) WARNING FOR SPOILERS!!

For those who don’t know, Fight Club is a cult favorite novel that was later adapted into a film released in 1999, directed by David Fincher. Starring Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter.

The story of Fight Club revolves around three main characters. It’s told from a first-person perspective by a nameless character that’s commonly called ‘the narrator’, who has a dead-end white-collar job at a major car company and has fallen prey to what he calls the ‘Ikea-nesting instinct’. Dictated by social norms he walks perfectly in line like a docile sheep, which translates into an inauthentic, repetitive and empty life.

He suffers from a bad case of insomnia, which causes him to be neither fully awake, nor fully asleep. Sometimes, he entertains self-destructive thoughts: as he flies around from state to state for his job, he prays for a crash or mid-air collision every time the plane bankes too sharply on takeoff or landing.

During a flight, he meets an eccentric and hypermasculine character named Tyler Durden.

Tyler seems to be the direct opposite of the narrator. He’s a wolf rather than a sheep, disentangled from society, and impervious to social norms. He takes what he wants, without asking, and whenever he pleases. He’s self-sufficient, has no superiors, and doesn’t care about material possessions.

The movie later reveals that Tyler and the narrator are the same person, as Tyler is a product of the narrator’s imagination, that’s probably induced by severe insomnia combined with dissatisfaction with a dull, meaningless existence and a lifetime of repressed urges.

The narrator is addicted to going to support groups for specific illnesses because these give him the opportunity to cry, which seems to be a remedy for his insomnia. The downside of his behavior is that he isn’t genuine; he has no testicular cancer, or blood parasites, yet acts as if he does, so he can reap the benefits of these sessions.

But these benefits come to an end when another non-genuine visitor starts to join the sessions as well. This is a woman named Marla Singer, and her motive for joining these sessions is, and I quote: “It’s cheaper than a movie and there’s free coffee.”

Marla is a self-destructive, chain-smoking fatalist, who’s expecting to die at any moment, but finds it tragic that it never happens. She steals food and clothes for a living and attempts suicide by overdosing Xanax.

Even though the narrator, Tyler, and Marla are totally different personalities, they all live their lives accompanied by a nihilistic undercurrent.

Tyler seems to have figured out what causes this emptiness, and during the course of the story, his solution unfolds. Unfortunately, his character slides from a sage-like father figure to an anarchist terrorist, who’s out to destroy modern civilization. Nevertheless, he exposes a series of harsh realities about modern life that are worth contemplating.

Anti-consumerism

The anti-consumerist stance of Tyler Durden becomes obvious when he verbalizes his concern about the modern way of life. Shortly after the narrator meets Tyler, he discovers that his apartment went up in flames. After this unfortunate event, realizing that he has no friends to call, he calls Tyler. The two meet, and the narrator complains about losing his furniture, and his respectable and almost complete wardrobe. Tyler responds rather indifferently and slightly sarcastically before he begins to express his views on the matter. Quote:

“We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra…”

It becomes clear that Tyler has quite an unconventional view of what’s good and bad. Murder, crime, and poverty are generally considered bad things, while consumer goods like televisions, clothing from a certain brand, products that help to hide aging, enhance bedroom performance, and help us with weight loss, are considered preferable.

Tyler has a contempt for the artificial, as opposed to elements that have been a natural part of the human condition, probably as long we exist. This way of thinking touches upon an ancient Cynic philosopher named Diogenes of Sinope, who believed that modern, civilized life hinders our natural state.

At the end of the movie, it appears that the narrator has destroyed his apartment himself when he was taken over by his alter ego, Tyler Durden. This deed was the first step onto the road of detachment from his property, into a more authentic way of life and to (how Tyler puts it): “reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.”

The narrator moves in with Tyler, who lives in a dilapidated house with ongoing leaks, power failures, and no Ikea furniture. Slowly but surely, the narrator indeed detaches from his previously destroyed property. “Things you own end up owning you,” Tyler tells him. And this simple piece of wisdom probably hits home, when the narrator realizes that he doesn’t need all these worldly goods, and is actually much happier without them.

Non-conformity

Tyler Durden is a non-conformist, and shows, again, similarities with Diogenes, who not only purposefully lived in poverty, but also rejected social norms. For him, social constructs are nothing more than a superficial layer of culture that represses our true nature.

Diogenes lived in a barrel, Tyler lives in an abandoned building. Diogenes urinated in public, Tyler urinates in the soup of a restaurant.

The narrator, on the other hand, seems to be the embodiment of conformity, as he adapts his lifestyle completely to societal expectations. The problem with this behavior is that we dedicate our existence walking the paths that people other than ourselves have laid out for us. This need to conform, the fear of falling by the wayside, this sickly preoccupation by what others think of us, this necessity to keep up with the Joneses: what an exhausting way of life, just to feel ‘accepted’.

So, what if we stop caring? What if we reject the generally accepted norms, and choose our own values, elect our own leaders, determine our own goals, regardless of the social expectations? This is a fundamental difference between the narrator and Tyler Durden, who puts it like this: “I am free in all the ways that you are not.”

Ironically, later on in the story, Project Mayhem, a terrorist organization led by Tyler that grows out of Fight Club, is a textbook example of conformity, as it’s members wear the same clothes, are absolutely equal, abolish their names, and are referred to as space monkeys that sacrifice their lives for a greater cause. We could say that by rejecting one doctrine in order to be ‘non-conformist’, we often imprison ourselves in another one.

Fighting and masculinity

Fighting and the experience of pain play a significant role in Fight Club. At the beginning of the story, Tyler asks the narrator to hit him as hard as he can. He explains his strange wish by saying: “How can you know yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? I don’t want to die without any scars.”

So, the narrator hits him. Tyler hits him back, and the two engage in a fistfight. Both seem to feel surprisingly pleasant afterward and decide to do it again. Their nightly activities on a parking lot attract the attention of other men, that are also interested in joining these non-hostile fistfights. And thus, Fight Club is born.

It’s widely known that voluntary exposure to certain forms of pain makes us stronger in the face of adversity, which could be a legit reason to partake in these fights. As the narrator states: “After fighting everything else in your life got the volume turned down.”

However, Fight Club is more than just a metaphor for dealing with hardship through exposure: a physical fight, and the violence and aggression that goes with it, resonates with the primal part of our being.

Not only the men in the story are attracted to the violence of fighting; Fight Club as a movie and novel was so impactful on its audience, that real-life Fight Clubs started to emerge.

The story shows an experiment in which the members of Fight Club pick fights with random strangers (and are supposed to lose), which isn’t as easy as it sounds; most people do everything to avoid physical conflict.

But Fight Club makes us wonder if it’s a good thing that we’ve lost touch with these primal tendencies. Should we repress this part of human nature? Or, perhaps, integrate it in healthy and constructive ways?

Self-destruction

When the story progresses, Tyler and the narrator begin to see the world through a different lens. Tyler criticizes the modern self-improvement hype by saying: “Self-improvement is masturbation. Now self-destruction… ”

This statement is slightly confusing, as the increasingly destructive nature of Fight Club, in which faces are permanently mutilated and teeth are knocked out of people’s heads, doesn’t seem to be a sustainable way to live.

But Tyler might be onto something when we look at self-destruction as the destruction of a false self.

‘Self-improvement’ often points to the accumulation of external goods: a better house, a better job, a better body, more money. But why should we endlessly want to improve ourselves? Why can’t we just be happy with how things are, and take life as it comes? Or as Tyler states:

“I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”

We create an identity through material wealth, and social status. And as far as Tyler is concerned, this false sense of self must be destroyed, before we are free to do anything we want. Therefore, the ‘space monkeys’ of Project Mayhem live by a mantra which goes like this:

“You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler makes a so-called human sacrifice, namely a man called Raymond who works a dead-end job in a convenience store. Raymond wanted to be a veterinarian, but didn’t make it because it was “too much studying.” Tyler threatens Raymond, saying that if he doesn’t start studying within six weeks, he’ll kill him.

In this scene, Tyler points to another aspect of self-destruction: the act of letting go of fears, negative self-talk, and all distractions, so we can fully focus on our purpose. It’s the destruction of everything within ourselves that holds us back from living life on our own terms.

A near-life experience

Many people go great lengths when it comes to pain avoidance. The problem is that running from pain means running from an inevitable part of life.

The prospect of incurring pain makes us anxious, and often leads to self-indulgent decisions. That is: choosing the less painful path, even if a more painful path guarantees more success and pleasure in the future.

Tyler Durden deals with this by inflicting a chemical wound on the narrator’s hand using lye.

As expected, the narrator does everything to escape the pain: he uses visualization techniques he learned at a seminar, and retreating in his cave to find his ‘power animal’. But Tyler slaps him in the face, forcing him to stay with the pain, saying: “This is the greatest moment of your life, man. And you’re off somewhere missing it.”

For the narrator, Tyler has one central goal: he must reach bottom. After putting him through suffering, and destroying his false identity, there’s yet another aspect that must be crushed: hope. Losing all hope is freedom. And, therefore, he must reject what has rejected him: his father, and God. I quote:

“Consider the possibility that God does not like you. In all probability, he hates you.” - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Tyler states that we don’t need God. That we shouldn’t care about redemption and damnation. And if we’re God’s unwanted children, so be it. Thereby, we lose all hope, but are also liberated from religious doctrine and fatherly authority.

Now we’re truly free. Now we can create our own meaning, and live how we want to live.

Tyler emphasizes the importance of knowing what we want in life. To achieve this, we must be willing to get out of our comfort zone and jump into the unknown without safety brackets.

The narrator, however, has difficulties letting go of security. He begs Tyler to not mess around when he lets go of the steering wheel in a driving car while hitting the gas. Tyler calls the narrator ‘pathetic’, and yells: “hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go!”

After an inevitable car crash, Tyler states that they just had a ‘near-life experience’.

Wrap up

Fight Club is a story about rebellion against the status quo and a plea for the simple life. It criticizes the ways in which we are so hung up on security, and material possessions, and how people let social norms dictate their lives.

‘Stuff’ has become our religion. The idols we worship are Ikea and Starbucks. And the more we immerse ourselves in such an empty and unfulfilling existence, the more we start to resemble the things that we produce: manufactured products rather than authentic human beings.

Tyler shows us a way out. And even though his insights are profound, the execution is questionable. Fight Club, and its terrorist branch Project Mayhem, show us how easy it is to oppose one ideology, in order to fall into another, and how a cult-like echo chamber built on rigid beliefs could become very destructive.

Nevertheless, Tyler challenges us to be self-sufficient and disobedient to the authorities that let us down, to live authentically and in the moment, to confront our fears, to boldly step out of our comfort zones, and let the things that don’t matter truly slide.

[asteriismos]

time to pretend - bill denbrough

warning(s) : college! losers, smut,

summary : basically friends with benefits who fall for each other

words : 4.1k

people always told bill that college was good for a lot of things. despite the obvious purpose of it to earn a degree to get a job, there were more lessons to be learned the second you stepped onto campus and began your new life. richie said that the two good things about college were drugs and sex, which bill disagreed with because he was a scholar, and in the beginning of the year he hadn’t been exposed to such things.

he wasn’t really into drugs all that much, except the occasional weed that he would smoke when he hung out with richie or sometimes stan when his curly haired friend needed to chill out a little bit. but he wasn’t into LSD or xanax, so he didn’t experiment there.

sex, on the other hand, was something that bill ended up getting very familiar with. it wasn’t something that he had been actively pursuing because well, he always believed that sex came with a relationship. and a relationship takes time. time that bill believed he really wouldn’t have.

then he met you.

bill needed another elective to fill his schedule and stanley basically begged him to take introduction to physchology with him, and it’s not like bill was really interested in taking any more math or science classes than he had to, and psych seemed fun. him and stanley got there early and sat closer to the back of the classroom together, him looking over the course itenerary that had been passed out by the professor, while bill scanned the room as more students entered.

you walked in and bill instantly felt like a little, blushing kid again. you were radiant, beautiful . . . perfect in bill’s eyes and he swore that you weren’t even fucking real. you were alone, sitting a few rows below him and to the left, just seated perfectly enough for him to see the side of your face. you were dressed in a flowy black blouse with jean shorts and bill knew that if he kept staring at you that someone would notice and think that he was just some kind of pervert. 

the rest of the lecture was dedicated to him half listening to what the professor was saying and half glancing at you. he learned that your name was y/n during attendance. bill liked your name, it sounded like it fit you perfectly. 

days went by and class came again ( only being twice a week for two hours ) and you came in wearing a yellow sundress and bill felt weak in the knees. he was staring at you so intently that he noticed that you weren’t wearing a bra, which flustered him and he had to move around his seat to settle himself down. 

stop staring at her idiot, horny bastard.

bill finally took his chance to talk to you when there was a partner assignment. originally stan turned to him and asked if bill wanted to be partners with him, but bill was already practically jumping out of his seat to walk over to where you were sitting. the other students were figuring out partners, though you still sat there alone. 

“hey,” bill greeted you, taking you away from your distant daydreaming. you looked up at the voice and you swore you felt your breath hitch in your throat. bill’s auburn hair, falling onto his forehead a little bit was the first thing that caught your attention. it took all of your restraint to stop you from reaching up and lacing your fingers in the strands. or even better, to feel it tickling against your inner thighs . . .

you gave him a smile, “hey.” 

oh god. your voice sounded like honey to his ears. 

bill asked you to be his partner for the project and of course you said yes. after all you didn’t have anyone in the class that you knew and he was very cute. at least now you could get his number to work on the project outside of class. 

you two hadn’t meant to sleep with each other. really. it wasn’t either of your intentions and even though both of you thought of each other as crazily attractive, neither of you thought that you would get the guts to initiate anything. bill wasn’t the type of person to put himself out there and neither were you. 

you were sitting at the desk he had for himself in his empty dormroom, roomate out for the night with some other friends when somehow both of you got on the topic of college relationships. 

“people always think that they’ve found the one, ya know?” you said to him, flipping the page of your textbook. you two were supposed to doing a project presentation on the psychology of relationships between people. “how do you just know if you’ve found the right person for you? especially in college. i’m too stressed to even think about love.” instinctually, your hand came to rub at the knot on your left shoulder. you had been so stressed recently that the tension was starting to take a toll on your shoulders. 

bill walked back to the desk, setting down his laptop with unfinished slides on the screen. he took notice of you rubbing your shoulders and he swatted your hands away, giving you a look as if asking if he could help. you nodded, shrugging then going back to looking into the textbook for information to use. 

and then he was touching you. it was a friendly touch, bill’s fingers pressing into your tense shoulders and moving around a little bit. it felt good, though you weren’t sure if it was because he was relieving the tension or because he was touching you in general. you groaned from the feeling, tilting your head to the side to let him get a better angle to massage. 

it was eerily quiet, his soft breathing behind you sending shivers down your back. you turned one last page and blurted out the first thing that you saw, trying to get your mind off of him and instead on the project that you needed to finish soon. “it takes less than half a second to figure out if a potential partner is attractive enough for people,” you said, eyes blinking slowly. 

bill’s hands stopped and you heard him grin, “is that so?” he leaned over your shoulder so his face was close to yours, scanning the page that you had been reading. while he was looking, you took that moment to scan over the side of his face, taking in some of the freckles that laid on his soft skin. a feeling erupted in your stomach when you took note of his lips, that looked so devilishly tantalizing you thought that you were going to explode 

“look here,” bill pointed at the words. “sex is one of the best ways to alleviate stress, lowering blood pressure.” 

without even realizing what you were about to say, you said, “damn. maybe that’s what i need.” 

bill turned to look at you, his face only inches away from yours. there was a moment of hesitation in his movements and you feared that you said the wrong thing to him. but the hand that was previously on your shoulder was now at the back of your neck, pulling your face towards his own. your lips clashed together, each of your hands fumbling at the sudden movement. 

you two were in his bed in less than three minutes after that, and right after each of you finished, both of you two went back to working on the project like it hadn’t even happened. despite the fact that each of you were fucked out beyond belief, you got pretty far in your project. 

the next day, you asked if he wanted to work at your dorm this time to work and he agreed, flashing you that same beautiful smile. 

the same thing happened again, sex and work. 

neither of you two really commented on it, other than the casual dirty talk that started coming out after the fifth time or so. 

you two would experiment with each other, enjoying each others bodies and learning what felt good and what felt really good. it was exciting for each of you. you trusted each other, bill came to realize this despite no talk of it. you trusted him a lot. you trusted him so much that you had sex with him with no second thoughts. one time you even urged him to tie your wrists together to his wooden bed frame, all because you trusted him. 

bill felt a lot more happy, surprisingly enough. his friends started to take notice and when they asked him about it, all he said was that he picked up this new workout routine. no one questioned anything, which only made it hotter for both of you that no one knew. you two weren’t a couple, you don’t go on dates, it was just sex. sex between two very attractive people. 

the more this happened, the more you two felt more close with each other. months passed by and you got him a book for his birthday, telling him that it reminded you of him. bill started to feel butterflies in his stomach every time that you gave him a smile in class and he knew that he was absolutely, immensely fucked. 

he had feelings for you. 

he should’ve known that what goes around always comes back around. 

bill sat in his dorm room, tapping his foot on the ground while looking at the clock on the wall across from it. three minutes until six, when you were supposed to come over and study. he hasn’t seen you in a while, since for the past two weeks you were stuck with the flu and was trying your best to stay afloat in your classes. he saw you for a brief moment after you texted him asking to bring the absent packet that your psych professor created with the lecture slides. you were dressed up in grey yoga pants and a large black t shirt, hair in a messy ponytail when you answered the door. despite your sick appearance, bill still thought that you looked beautiful. 

the clock ticked, almost echoing in the silent room. bill sighed to himself, trying to distract himself from just sitting there and waiting. right as he was going to pick up the book that you had bought him and scan over your happy birthday message in the inside over with your cute little handwriting, he heard a soft knock on his door. 

he scared himself at how quickly he sprung up to his feet and started towards the door. if richie was here to see him like this, he would tell bill to stop being so in his head about things and voice his feelings for you. you can’t live in your head mushmouth, you look so creepy waiting for her like this.

bill opened the door, being met with your gleaming face. it was a giant contrast from your sick state, your skin looking less pale and overall appearance put together again. you gave him a soft smile, “hey.”

“hey, you l-look better,” bill greeted you. realizing that came out a little wrong, he shook his head, laughing to himself. “i-i mean like not s-sick anymore, you know w-what i-im just-”

he stopped talking when you laughed, shaking your head. “i get it bill, thanks. i’m sorry you had to see me like that, not my best look i have to admit.” bill moved out of the way as you walked into his dorm room, knowing it so well from being here so many times before. in regards to your words, bill wanted to tell you that you always looked good. when you had your concentrating face, when you shoved your face with late night microwave mac n cheese, when you were under him with your face contorting with the waves of pleasure. he liked it all, no, he loved it all. 

bill turned on his heel, closing the door behind him and sitting back down. you looked through your bag, finding your laptop to go over what you had missed for the past couple of classes. 

only deep down, you knew that wasn’t the real reason that you were here. you knew the course material perfectly, studying every time you woke up from your various fever naps for the past couple weeks. you were here to see bill. not even to sleep with him, just to see him. you lived for every moment with him. your feelings more than just platonic to the point where your roommate was starting to get annoyed with how much you talked about bill. 

your life was slowly becoming consumed with bill denbrough.

“so w-what do you want to w-work on?” bill asked, making you turn and look at him from your previous gaze on the black screen of your laptop. you looked deep in thought, which made bill grow even more anxious with every passing second.

you flashed him a smile, your bottom lip coming in between your teeth. you scanned his face, your eyes meeting his green ones and feeling your cheeks heat up. with no hesitation, you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. bill was shocked, but he wasn’t going to object, instead pulling you by the waist into his lap horizontally.

he kissed back hungrily, a diffrent tone setting in the room as each of you kissed with such force it nearly knocked each of your breaths away. you were just about to sneak your tongue into his mouth when bill pulled away, forehead pressed against your own. “s-shouldn’t we study? i don’t w-want you to get more b-behind.”

your heart practically melted right then and there, hearing the genuine worry for you in his soft voice. you shook your head, “no, i just wanted to see you. i’m not behind.” you pushed your lips on his again, maneuvering so you were straddling him. a few minutes of kissing passed by and he was grabbing you by your thighs, standing up with you in his arms and setting you down on the bed.

you crawled backwards until your head hit the pillows at the top, laying against them and humming at how comfortable they felt. your hair splayed out like a halo around your head and bill felt his heart skip a beat as he moved above you.

“you’re so . . .” bill trailed off upon seeing you fiddle with your own buttons of your blouse. he didn’t know why he felt so flustered at the moment, he’s seen you naked multiple times. but this time felt different, this time felt more intimate and bill couldn’t help but feel breathless. he was lost for words.

you felt his eyes on every inch of skin that you revealed as each button popped open, goosebumps erupting the second that his hands brushed against you and finished undoing the rest. “bill?” you asked, eyes fluttering closed and open with a shuddering breath. “can you - can you make love to me?”

bill denbrough has never been in this situation before. he feels like a little kid again, trying to voice what he was thinking without a single stutter. but it was impossibly hard, especially with a gorgeous girl below him, staring at him with gleaming ( and slightly nervous ) eyes. bill didn’t feel afraid anymore, all he needed to do was show you how much he loved you, how much he cared.

“yes,” bill muttered, eyes reaching your own. “i’ll m-make love t-to you-you.”

and with that, he was kissing at your chest, hands sliding down your waist then up again, taking his time to appreciate the curves of your body. he wanted to touch all of you, to kiss every inch of skin over and over again. your hands fell to his shirt, pulling him away for just a moment to pull it off.

the line of glistening spit showed on your abdomen as he kissed around, shimmying you out of your leggings. he kissed along the line of your undies, then all the way back up until he was mouthing along your throat. you whimpered, hands grabbing onto his strong shoulders. every touch that he left on you made you reeling for more, keeping him close enough to where his chest was laying on yours. the skin on skin contact made you smile, closer to him than you’ve ever felt before. 

“please touch me,” you whispered, desperation in your voice while he made a painting of marks along your neck and collarbones. “please bill, i need it.” you were begging at this point, and who was bill to leave you hanging?

his hand reached down and cupped you through your underwear, causing you to gasp a little bit into his mouth that was coming up to kiss you again. his hips lazily rolled against your own, a low groan from him filling the room. the sound made you more aroused, soaking through your panties enough for him to feel the wet spot that was beginning to form. his thumb pressed up to your clothed clit and you pushed your hips up, trying to relieve the growing feeling in your stomach. 

bill chuckled at your attempts and gave you what you wanted, pushing away the seat of your panties and pushing one long finger in. you gasped in relief, his thumb still rubbing along your slicked folds. your head fell back against the grey pillow, eyes falling shut as he pushed the finger in again and again, adding another after a few more pumps. 

he watched your face, the same feeling of butterflies coming back to his stomach. bill truly believed that if he could stay in this moment forever, he would. the look of your face contorting with the amount of pleasure that he was giving you, back arching a small bit to push his fingers farther in, chest heaving up and down with gasping breaths passing through your pretty pink lips. it was enough to have him straining against his jeans, pressing his own hips down against you. 

you were in a state of bliss, feelings of love and pleasure mixed together to create a deadly combination that had you unable to think. bill’s fingers fucked you at just the right speed to make your toes curl, his other hand pushing down your hips to keep them from moving too much. he kissed tenderly across your face, pressing kisses to your nose, cheeks, and forehead. it was a sweet gesture that made your heart soar. 

your hands reached down and started palming him through his pants, his fingers stalling for a moment at the feeling. you started to unzip his jeans, pulling them down as much as you could to slip your hand into his boxers and take him into your hand. 

you pumped a small bit, his head falling into the crevice of your neck, fingers pulling out of you and grabbing your hand, setting it to the side of you. bill stood up and walked over to his dresser, grabbing a golden package. you watched as he pulled the rest of his pants off, along with his boxers, teeth pulling the package open and putting the condom on. his fingers were still slightly wet from fingering you only a couple seconds ago. 

before you knew it he was kneeling in between your legs again, settling so that his hips were against yours and so was his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist and you bit your lip in anticipation. 

bill pushed into you all at once, hearing you hiss at the feeling. he was big, they really didn’t call him big bill for nothing. you used to joke about that nickname with him when you heard his friend stanley say it, since both of you knew that the statement was more than true. he pushed until he stilled, base of his cock pressing against your clit, the pleasure starting to mask the pain. 

you gave him a nod that he could continue, and he wasted no time to pull out and push all the way back in, eliciting a series of moans that could’ve easily been yours or his. you were so tightly clenched around him that the feeling was more than euphoric, and with the passionate feelings coming into play, neither of you could even begin to describe how you were feeling. 

your hands went to his back, gripping him with such intensity, enticing him to go faster. and he did, rolling his hips with every thrust that left you needing more, more, more. you were certain that you would never get enough of bill denbrough, no matter how many seconds you spent with him. he kissed you, tongues clashing against each other desperately chasing that high that each of you have gotten to that point together before so many times before. this time would be filled with love and gratitude. 

bill filled you up in just the perfect way that made your legs tighten around his waist, hips rolling up against his own. for a moment his hand came to the back of your thigh and lifted up one of your legs, hitting a different angle that send each of you into a gasping mess. he hit deeper into you, hand gripping hard enough to cause a bruise.

he looked so good like this, hair falling into his face, chest and arm muscles flexing with every rut of his hips. 

you pulled away from him so that you could see his face fully and whispered, “i think i love you.” your heart raced even faster than it already was, and you watched his face, green eyes never leaving yours. they were filled with lust, desire, and you could see the love. the way his face softened every time that he looked at you, or the way that he held you like you were an intricately carved statue of a goddess he marveled at.

“i l-love you too,” bill whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. his hand fell down to press circles against your clit, thrusts speeding up. your moans were getting more high pitched and he knew from experience that meant that you were getting close. 

with an assurance that he loved you, and the feeling of him filling you up beyond belief, you clenched around him. hips pressing up to meet his own, you came, yelling his name like a mantra that you couldn’t get out of your head. his thrusts continued, pulling your leg up again and hitting that same angle, your hips meeting his. not even two thrusts he was cumming with a “y/n” and a soft “f-fuck.” 

you grabbed him by the back of his neck, giving him a small kiss while he stilled in you. bill gave you a smile and pulled out, the feeling making you wince a tiny bit, which he tried to help with a kiss to your cheek. bill got off the bed and threw the condom away, pulling on his boxers. you looked towards him, motioning to the shirt of his that you threw across the room. “give me,” you said in a childish way. he laughed and obliged, handing you it plus your undies and watching you put them on. 

you looked so pretty in his clothes that he wanted to always see you like this. you could take all his shirts if you looked this good in them. and then it occurred to him that there was still a giant elephant in the room, one that each of you couldn’t ignore any longer since you confessed to your feelings mid fuck. 

“will you-”

“w-would you-”

each of you had spoken at the same time, making each of you laugh at the dysfunction of it all. bill got back onto the bed and laid on his back, grabbing you and pulling you into his chest. “w-what i was going to say is, w-will you b-be my girlfriend?” he asked, his heart rate picking up. 

you blushed, nodding. “yes. a million times yes.” 

a few minutes of silence passed by until you said, “who would’ve known that the second you talked to me in class we would’ve ended up together.”

bill smiled to himself, which you couldn’t see. thinking back to that moment, him getting the courage to talk to you and ask to be his partner. how he had felt the moment you walked into class and he saw you for the first time. his heart warmed at the thought. 

in a soft voice, without even stuttering, he said, “i did.”

[mercuryislove]

Just barely made it in time for FQF 😩 happy Friday lynn!

1 for Yixing

25 for Ciaran

28 for Anwei

35 for Andhira

45 for Vera

46 for Robin

50 for Wren

happy funny question friday which is now technically sunday! I hope your weekend is going well :3c

1. What is their full name? Why was that name chosen? Does it mean anything?

Is this asking why I the author picked his name? Because mostly I just picked it because I liked the way it sounds lol. It wasn't until like almost a year after the fact that I was like. bitch. Yixing is one of the guys in Exo (and um apparently he has a solo music career as well but oh my god is it lackluster to me but oh well). It's also a place! It's the city/county where all the clay for those really neat teapots come from lol BUT if you mean in the context of the story, then there's like. a little more reason other than it just sounds cool.

Liao Yixing is his full name and no he doesn't have a middle name. People think that's weird. Middle names aren't very common where he's from, and they're usually just the mother's maiden name anyway (which is his case would be Sheng). Naming conventions in his neck of the woods are such that a child shares a part of at least one parent's name (which can become a problem for people that have a lot of children lmao), and for some reason his father was really gunning for them to have the same name, which is Yiwei. BUT his mother said it would be too complicated for other family members to use (thanks mom I guess), so they compromised with the one syllable instead. Also the -xing part of his name comes from his mother whose first name is Xinyu. For what it's worth, even though he hates literally everything his parents ever gave him, he does really like his own name! When he left home at fifteen (!!! smalltown_boy.mp3) he considered changing it just to have a totally clean break, but he liked it too much. I think it suits him.

--

25. What do they find funny? Do they have a good sense of humor? Are they funny themselves?

Ciaran laughs at every fucking thing because he takes virtually nothing seriously, and people get upset with him because of it at times. He has to laugh because like. what else are you supposed to do? Take the world seriously when you've been living on it for a thousand years against your will? Fuck no! He loves morbid humor and dry humor, but he also isn't above laughing at like. poop jokes. And yes, he can be fucking hilarious. He loves to be the butt of a joke and happily makes fun of himself (frankly the only person that isn't allowed to make fun of him is his dad), and he will do and say all kinds of stupid shit to get people to laugh. He's also REALLY good at telling funny stories, probably because he has so many to choose from, but also because he's good at exaggerating things for the sake of humor. And when he's around Go-Eun and they start drinking, he will tell the most hilarious but batshit insane stories of their hijinks together. And everyone loves them. Basically he likes to be the center of attention lol

--

28. What is their biggest fear? What in general scares them? How do they act when they're scared?

Um, existentially? Anwei's biggest fear is that none of anything fucking matters at all. That none of the horrible things she's lived through happened for any reason and that the world ended one day but shit kept going on forever just because some stupid gods got BORED one time. But physically? She hates closed in spaces and deep water. She's the kind of person that has to get loaded up on xanax to fly overseas because it involves the two things she's most afraid of. She also is kind of afraid of bears. Even if you don't stay dead, getting mauled to death by a bear fucking sucks. Generally speaking, she's very good at hiding her emotions and is the master of a poker face, so even if she's about to have a whole meltdown, nobody will know it until she just snaps. She goes completely quiet and most people will assume she's in a bad mood or something, but then she EXPLODES into a full-blown panic attack and everyone is like “Why didn't you say something sooner?!?!”

--

35. What's their guilty pleasure? What's their totally unguilty pleasure?

Andhira has lived long enough to know that calling any pleasure guilty is a waste of time and effort. But she definitely considers her occasional affection for humans a guilty pleasure lol. She kind of pities them because they don't live very long and they're generally quite weak and they make so many stupid decisions and spend so much time trying to fuck each other over, but at the same time... they're more often than not kind, they love to care for each other in times of need, they laugh and cry with each other over shared meals, they don't know any better about the worlds that exist beyond their own. She thinks it's all very charming in its own way. She likes to watch them from afar (study them like a mad scientist lol) but sometimes she gets roped into their short lives, and she tries to make the most of it. Sometimes humans make great lovers, which brings me to her UNguilty pleasure: pussy. It speaks for itself lol

--

45. How do other people see them? Is it similar to how they see themselves?

UM Vera sees herself as a failure, a waste of space, damaged goods, and a pathetic has-been who thought she could do good things and only made everything worse for everyone that has ever had the displeasure of knowing her. MEANWHILE, other people see her as a woman who has lived through hell and back ten times over. They know she has, um, issues, but she is still kind and generous and caring beneath her cold facade. Generally speaking, people really like her. Her neighbors come to her for help with simple fixes (like leaky faucets and such) and she never turns them down even if she frowns and doesn't speak the entire time she's offering a hand. They think she's kind of weird because she sits on the roof of the building at weird hours and regularly falls asleep up there, but they know she works weird hours so nobody thinks twice about it. Strangers are a little afraid of her because she doesn't have much to say and rarely smiles, but she always smells nice and she cleans up after people in the grocery store despite not working there. Her family loves her dearly. They wish they could help her more but she refuses it at every turn (sometimes very RUDELY lol). They know she only acts that way because she's embarrassed that they have to see her at her worst. They know she's trying to make things easier for them by keeping everyone she cares about at arm's length. Mostly they just wish they could ease her pain even a little bit because she's suffered so much and keeps it all to herself.

--

46. Do they make a good first impression? Does their first impression reflect them accurately? How do they introduce themselves?

Robin has a reputation. Is it good or bad? It depends on who you ask. There was a time when he competed that he was notorious for his overinflated ego because people just could not touch the dude. He never had a bad day of climbing, and he sure as shit wanted people to know it. (I made a post about it recently because um his and Ciaran's personalities would clash so fucking hard lmao) So to a lot of fellow competitors (especially international ones), they hear his name and grimace. Because he sucks. But since he retired, he's become a completely different person and does not give a single fuck about winning or losing or performing better than someone else. Like what the fuck is a climbing grade? Idk bro I'm just here to pull on some rock. To people that don't know him from climbing, he is an angel at first meeting. Unbelievably friendly, always the first to tell a joke, will buy you a meal and take you on a walking tour of Atlanta if you need one, would give you the shirt off his back, etc etc etc. And that's how he comes across to climbing people that don't know him too, but then they hear the rumors of how he was such a shithead that his coach quit mid-season one time and he almost lost his sponsorships, and they think, “This can't possibly be the same guy,” but it is! Time really mellows a guy out.

If he was introducing himself to a person the climbing world, he would say something like, “Hi, I'm Robin. You know, Delarosa? Yeah, you might've heard of me. Do you want to see pictures of all my medals? I have 57 of them and more than half of them are gold. Do you want my advice as a professional climber? Quit while you're ahead. And if you're in Chongqing for world's, do not eat at that hot pot restaurant by the hotel. It's way overpriced and I got food poisoning there once.” And for a non-climbing person, he would say, “Hi, I'm Robin and I'm really looking forward to working with you. Have you ever been to Atlanta? Oh, you'll love it here. Yeah, the traffic sucks but everything else is so nice. The aquarium has puffins now. If you have the time you should go see them!"

--

50. If they could only take one bag of stuff somewhere with them: what would they pack? What do they consider essentials?

NO MATTER THE SITUATION, Wren must ALWAYS have a pair of climbing shoes. Her shoe of choice is the Scarpa Chimera, and she basically carries a pair of them with her at all times lol. That also raises the question of how big is this bag? Because a reusable grocery bag is way different than a ziploc sandwich bag which is way different than a duffel bag. Either way, she would basically bring the same things because she doesn't need much. Climbing shoes of course (you NEVER know when you'll go to the gym or to the crag or wherever and nobody wants to use the rentals if they don't have to), her WALLET lol, her phone, a portable charger, deodorant, eye drops, chapstick, a granola bar, one of those weird little nutrition gels (I tried one once and um. How do people stomach them?), and a little portable utensil case. She has survived 20-hour layovers in airports with less! Those are her essentials, and that's what's in the backpack she carries with her everywhere (though there's a cycle of spare socks, journals with all her training and nutrition plans in them, pens, soy sauce packets, and the stacks of punch cards from the froyo place she goes to with Robin like twice a week. She tells herself she's saving the free cup for a rainy day, but she has like six full punch cards at this point.) If she got to pack a little more, she'd throw in a chalk bag, MAYBE a harness, a change of clothes, and those little biodegradable body wipes. She's used to packing light for the ten million or so climbing trips she's been on and also living in a fucking van with her family for the first seven years of her life. She doesn't need much to be content. HOWEVER, packing for competitions overseas? Well, let's just say she needs a thousand pairs of underwear. Just in case. You never know.

Here's what Wren's climbing shoe of choice looks like if you're interested. These clown shoes cost $200 a pop ._. (technically this is the older version and the updated chimera is black, grey, and blue but that's boring lol)

[kyle-valenti]

highschool milucho au drabble for @laufire

Lunch period arrives what feels like all too late after a hectic morning where Michael Guerin had punched Wyatt Long in the face for Maria. While she still thought he was an idiot for having done it, she downs a brownie for sustenance and brings Rosa along outside with her to go check on him. Unsurprisingly he was in the spot she had expected, clearly having ditched at least one class prior, and Rosa skipped over to him and roughly grabbed his hand to check on the bruise. Rosa scoffed, putting her hand to her chest with what was only half-kidding offense. “You fought him without me there? En serio? How dare you!”

Sitting up a little more against the metal bleacher column he had been leaning against, Michael gave a casual shrug. There’s still a smirk on his face as he does so. “Can’t help it if you’re always late to wake up, Ortecho.”

“He was dumb.” Maria said, a scolding look on her face that didn’t quite match her eyes. Both sat down without caring about chairs, Rosa too lazy and Maria liking to feel the earth underneath her. The shade provided overhead was just enough and while the teachers usually checked underneath here, the school was luckily short staffed due to a field trip. Also lucky was the lack of campus security in a small town. 

“No, he was right.” Rosa huffed. “Fuck Wyatt Long.”

“Thank you,” said Michael, turning to Maria with a smug look in response. Maria rolled her eyes, but Rosa still looked angry and displeased at the idea of Wyatt Long being within feet of Maria, because she continued, “Are you gonna hate me if I run over and slap him?”

“Yes!” Maria exclaimed. “Stop with the violence, you two! He’s not worth it.”

Rosa made a disgruntled sound, muttering, “Pacifist.”

“I am a lover, yes.” Maria replied with a teasing tone; one that Michael couldn’t help but use to flirt with a sultry, “Tell me more.”

She hit his arm and although the other girl rolled her eyes, Rosa was still distinctly smiling as Michael winked Maria’s way.

“Gross, stop.” She huffed, no meanness in her voice. “Even Kyle Valenti thinks we’re dating.”

“Kyle?” Rosa laughed. “Kyle’s not remotely observant enough to think that.”

Michael made a noise at that. “He was just being an ass because I commented on how he was clearly in love with Alex Manes.”

Maria glared now. “Be nice to my favorite gay and the clearly repressed football jock.”

“Here I thought you were about to pick a favorite bi.” Michael joked.

“Why would she?” Rosa challenged with a smirk. “I’m right here.”

“Right,” Michael drawled sarcastically. “Just because you two have sleepovers--,”

“Oh my god, you two.” Maria snapped, but that was the wrong decision because the two mischievous partners-in-crime looked at her with sudden interest. Michael was the first to pounce. “We making you uncomfortable, Deluca?”

He’s all but grinning, not even hiding behind a smirk, eyes alive. Even Rosa is clearly amused and holding onto laughter.

“Why the hell did everyone have to go on that museum trip?” Maria huffed, trying to ignore both of them and the feelings that rose up when the direct attention of two people who hated the world but liked her was suddenly her way. She definitely needed more friends, or at least less nerdy ones. “I need Liz.”

“You’d really use my baby sister to get out of flirting?” Rosa asked, letting out the laughter now.

Maria could feel her cheeks heat and she folded her arms stubbornly. “I’m about to use Kyle to get out of this. Luckily I have tests to study for.”

“What test?” Rosa replied, one eyebrow arched. “We have all the same classes.”

“And you suddenly pay attention?”

Rosa gave in with a playfully exasperated expression. “Okay, okay, mi vida; we’ll stop.” Then, amending as she looked conspiratorially at Michael, she said, “Well. I’ll stop.”

“I’ll try.” Michael shrugged, pretending to look as thought it would be heavy work. “I have considerably less self-control.”

Quirking her head, Rosa retorted. “Challenge accepted.”

Michael raised his eyebrows in response, before laughing. “Yeah okay.”

“Why am I always babysitting you two?” Maria sighed. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re the one who brought the pot brownies to school.” Rosa pointed out.

She couldn’t say much to that. Home had been stressful with her mother’s sudden memory lapses when it came to finances and worrying about colleges after SAT scores was even more anxiety inducing. If she was rich and privileged like Isobel Evans, maybe she could afford some xanax, but in the meantime her anxiety attacks would have to be treated herbally. Childishly, she pointed at Michael. “He’s the one who brought the flask.”

Definitely unapologetic, he shrugged. “Less teachers, more fun.”

“Fun?” Rosa asked. “We haven’t had fun in a while.”

“True.” Michael added, lighting up even further. Maria groaned. “Is this another ‘steal the principal’s desk’ situation?”

“No, but that was fun.” Rosa said thoughtfully. “We should have more… teenage fun. We have the drugs, the alcohol, now--,”

“I am not having sex under the Roswell High bleachers!”

Rosa gasped before laughing awkwardly, and Michael’s grin took an even brighter turn. “Wow, Deluca, I see where your mind’s really at.” Then he turned to Rosa, who noticeably looked pinker, and paused. Slowly, he inquired. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” Rosa replied. It wasn’t like she and Maria belonged to each other, true, but something about the mischievous Michael Guerin staying around after Maria’s slip seemed to create palpable tension. Fumbling, the beautiful brunette added, “I mean we’ve all kissed before forever ago, right? Why don’t you pick your favorite bi, Maria.”

“I’m not sure choosing favorites qualifies as fun.” She retorted, trying not to withdraw into herself. She was safe with them, she knew that, but it still felt dangerous somehow. She looked at Michael. “No sudden objections?”

Michael scoffed. “You actually think I’m going to object to being kissed by two hot girls? I’m only human, Deluca.”

Biting her lip after rolling her eyes, Maria tried not to think about how attractive her last name was every time he said it, because that was such a ridiculous thing to find attractive. Rosa had picked up on the habit, although used it far more rarely, and now she was stuck in between them.

“We don’t have to--,” Rosa began. Shaking her head, Maria came to an abrupt decision. “You decide who goes first.”

“Ladies first.” Michael declared congenially.

When Rosa turned to Maria she looked hesitant and unsure. Charged moments weren’t exactly new to them, but they didn’t exactly kiss outside of spin-the-bottle or seven-minutes-in-heaven games. Any heterosexual excuse to be made, somewhere between Rosa’s Catholicism and Maria’s fear of being vulnerable to someone. 

Only two seconds pass before the hesitation is over and then Rosa’s lips are soft and inviting like Maria remembered, tasting of cinnamon gum and tajin mango suckers. It’s an addictive flavor, especially with the flood of emotions it foretells every time. At first it’s closer to chaste than not, given the company, but like many times before it deepens until they hear Michael shift and quickly break apart. 

Maria expects some dumbass comment about not needing to stop for his sake, but either he’s too turned on to make it or he simply knows better for the moment. Shockingly, it seems like the second choice with the almost exposed look he has on his face now. For whatever reason, maybe because of his general outward mask, she had thought that while she’d be safe this would still be a fun game to him and not something where his eyes would be soft and his body language almost nervous.

More than anything else, that makes her choose to kiss him first. 

With Michael she can only taste the cheap whiskey he’s been drinking all afternoon, but his skin smells like desert rain, and it’s quite possibly the most confusing contradiction for him she could ever conceive. The shape of his lips might be a contrast to Rosa’s but he still uses them quite well and by the time she pulls back out of mindfulness for Rosa, she’s breathless yet again. 

 “Obviously I’m not actually choosing.” Maria said primly, trying to cover the fact that she had to clear her throat.

“Well I feel used.” Michael teased, but a miracle had happened because it looked like he was blushing too. Michael Guerin. Blushing.

Rosa made an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “As if you’re not getting off to this tonight.”

“Rosa!” Maria snapped, actual hurt rising. It was silly to be upset about offhand humor from either of these two, she knew that. They both felt more than they would ever let on and jokes and sarcasm were their defense for almost everything. Rosa went to apologize, but the overwhelming feeling in her chest was too much. “Don’t. I’m just—I’m going to go sober up.”

They both called after her, but she ignored them both.

“I should really avoid weed, huh?” Rosa deadpanned sadly.

He raised his flask. “I can’t say anything. You gonna follow her?”

“You?” she asked without an answer.

“You’re her best friend.” Michael countered, and while it wasn’t technically sexist she still narrowed her eyes at the ‘you’re both girls’ vibe it gave off. Either way, it was still a painful statement and she muttered, “Yeah. Friend.” Michael went to say something—either an apology or a lecture—but Rosa shook her head. “I’ll give her a head start. You should check on her later too, though.”

Michael scoffed. “Come on, Rosa, she doesn’t want me. I’m just a guy she can use to pretend she’s straighter than she is.”

“Ay, you’re dumb.”

“And if she did want both of us?” Michael demanded, turning things back into their normalcy of confrontation and stubbornness.

“At least you’re not ugly.”

That seemed to take the wind out of his sails at least, but he did give her a look. “Glowing endorsement, Ortecho.”

She smirked. “And I guess you know how to kiss for a white boy.”

“That I’ll take.” He replied, chuckling despite himself and looking annoyed about it.

Rosa gave him a two finger salute as she got up to go after Maria.

[anywhozits]

All I Really Want Chapter 7

Rating: M

Pairing: Kristanna eventuallyyy

Verse: 90s High School AU / frozen retelling

Chapter Summary: Anna celebrates her 15th birthday.

Notes: Thank you for reading!!! Also there is some language, underage drinking, and homophobia in this chapter - be warned! (also tw emotional abuse)

Read on Ao3 here!

June twenty-fucking-first.

Another year. Fifteen, now.

And… Anna was excited, objectively, sure. At her very core, she felt excited because she knew she should be excited. But still, the very nature of this date always left her with a huge pit in her stomach.

There was just so much pressure. So much hope and want and desire for the love she craved to fill her first moments of fifteen.

Anna used to think she loved her birthday. The attention… the entire day naturally being about her—like, she knew she was supposed to enjoy it. She loved attention. She’d never deny that.

But…

In reality, her birthday stressed her out. There were all these expectations. Wanting people to acknowledge her, surprise her, and do all these special things to show they care. And yeah, this was probably way too much to ask on her 15th birthday but she wanted to feel … desired.

And yet she worried that wouldn’t happen this year.

Because her birthday was and had always been so full of disappointment.

Elsa forgot. Her parents forgot. Over the years one or two or all three of them forgot. They would ignore her the whole dumb day and then Anna would end up sobbing alone in her huge stupid room that had no reason to be so huge when it felt so lonely.

So far today, not one member of her family had acknowledged her. Her mother was definitely taking a nap or something. Who the hell knew where her dad was… and Elsa hadn’t called (yet, Anna thought, maybe too optimistically), but she was busy at this pre-college academic program at Pomona. So she had an okay excuse.

At least this year Anna got to spend her birthday with Hans. With Hans, maybe it’d be different. He already made the prom milestone so special that she had no doubt he’d do the same for her birthday.

No disappointments this year. Fingers crossed.

And how could she forget? She had Kristoff, too. And Kristoff never forgot. Kristoff always tried his best to make it special.

In fact, he’d already done something for her—he’d left her a card and a mixtape. This had to be her 37th Kristoff Bjorgman mixtape. And every new tape was better than the last.

He... well, um—that gesture alone made her feel desired.

She was officially on her third listen of the mixtape, and the sweet sweet tunes of Modest Mouse’s Dramamine filled her room.

In the past, he tended to include recordings of Pissed Off Kids, but Kristoff had made it extra special this time—the final song of the tape was instead a solo of Kristoff’s smooth tenor singing Better Man by Pearl Jam. Naturally he also hit all of the epic guitar riffs.

Anna loved it.

This lovely thought paired with the swelling sounds of Dramamine put her in a trance. Deep in her emotions, Anna swayed to the beat, instantly craving something more.

Traveling swallowing Dramamine

Look at your face like you're killed in a dream

She crawled on the floor and under her bed, pulling out a blue plastic box that housed her entire stash. The stash was once discovered by the family’s housekeeper, Anna (pronounced A-nuh not Ah-nuh), who subsequently revealed it to Agnarr and Iduna. Obviously, they did nothing about it. Duh. They gave zero shits. Zero. And it had devastated her, somehow. To not be yelled at or grounded… to not have her entire stash confiscated.

And you think you've figured out everything

I think I know my geography pretty damn well

Clearly, Anna had no reason to hide it anymore but leaving it out in the open took most of the fun away. So here it was back in the blue plastic box under her bed. Various bottles of alcohol, rolling paper, a pipe, a lighter, some weed, and an unopened bottle of Xanax with Iduna Larsen’s name on the label.

You say what you need so you'll get more

If you could just milk it for everything

Actually, come to think of it—Anna’s entire stash had been collected from her parent’s room.

I've said what I said, and you know what I mean

But I can't still focus on anything

Looking squarely at the box and its contents, Anna bit her lip. She needed this. And, why? Well, it was a combination of her baseline birthday nerves and the aftermath of the intense sob-fest she had when the oh-so-topical So Unsexy by Alanis Morrissette played on Kristoff’s mixtape. Oh, and of course the fact that her parents probably fucking forgot her birthday yet again… So, she took out the rolling paper and the Ziploc baggie that contained a few grams of weed.

Then, some weird crashing sound echoed from her window, which made her gasp and spook slightly.

Walking over to the window, drawing the curtains, and emerging onto her Juliet balcony, she noticed Hans and his goofy grin, standing in the driveway like he was a regular John Cusack.

When she saw that he had a bunch of tiny pebbles in his hand, it all made sense.

Anna’s heart fluttered. She loved it. She, like, literally loved it. So romantic.

“Can I come up?” He shouted, and Anna blushed. She was basically real-life Juliet at this point.

“Of course!” Anna called, and Hans started off in a sprint toward the rose trellis that led up the side of the house and into her window. “You don’t have to sneak in, you know!”

But he smiled devilishly and yelled, “I want to!”

Anna laughed and rolled her eyes at his definitely not-necessary efforts, but her stomach also did a few backflips. It was literally 500 times more romantic for him to climb up the trellis than it was for him to simply walk through the unlocked front door.

He pulled himself onto the balcony and Anna kissed him deeply. She couldn’t help but sigh—she was so, unbelievably happy to see him today.

“Happy birthday, babe,” he cooed in between kisses.

“Aww, thank you! I’m so happy you’re here.” After kissing a few more times, they ended up back in her bedroom where Kristoff’s singing now boomed through the room. Anna’s eyes fell to the blue plastic box—right. She had plans. “I was gonna do a little something to, uh, match the general vibe of this mixtape Kristoff made for me if you maybe wanted to join?” Anna gestured to the rolling paper and Ziploc bag.

Hans shook his head but then did a double-take. “Kristoff made you a mixtape?”

“Yep! He’s made me, like, tons of them.”

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man.

“Who’s this? Pearl Jam or some shit?”

“Yeah, but not—"

“Damn, he really thinks he’s emo, huh?”

“—because it’s Kristoff who’s singing. Pearl Jam cover, yeah, but…”

She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man.

Hans laughed, heartily. “He’s pathetic.”

…huh?

“What?”

“You’re telling me he specifically chose this song to sing for you, recorded it, and then actually had the balls to give it to you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Another robust chuckle from Hans.

Anna furrowed her eyebrows. “What’s the big deal?”

“Are you even listening to these lyrics?”

“Um, yes, I—"

Hans laughed again. “You have no idea, do you?”

Anna pouted. She hated feeling naïve. Especially now that she was such a woman. Fifteen and a woman. Not naïve, not anywhere near naïve.

“No, I ... I know. Duh. I totally know what you’re talking about.” But she really didn’t. She had no idea what the hell he meant.

“So fucking pathetic,” Hans said, shaking his head. “But whatever. He’s not even a little bit threatening, is he?”

Threatening?

Oh.

Ohohohoh.

Hans thought… no way.

Kristoff wasn’t pathetic. He wasn’t pining after Anna or whatever. No duh he wasn’t. Absolutely no way.

They were just friends.

And, besides, Kristoff chose these songs because he knew Anna would like them. There was no connection between the themes or lyrics of the songs and how he felt about Anna. None at all… there couldn’t be a connection, because if there were, then… the whole sister thing was bullshit. But it wasn’t. No way in hell. Like, it couldn’t be.

Then why was Hans so convinced?

Before Anna could give this another thought, her bedroom door flew open.

She reflexively ran to the plastic box stash and kicked it back under her bed. For no real reason beyond wanting to keep some kind of classic-teenage air of mystery about herself.

Not that she had any earthly idea who the hell was coming barging into her room on this particular day at this particular hour.

But then when she saw the hint of blonde hair zooming past her and then engulfing her in a huge hug, she beamed. Elsa. Exactly who she wanted to come barging into her room.

“Anna!” She exclaimed as she hugged and hugged and hugged her sister. “Happy happy happy birthday! Fifteen—wow. I’m absolutely thrilled that I get to celebrate with you today.”

Anna didn’t want to pull away. So she didn’t. She held on tighter, savoring this moment she thought would never in a million years come to pass. “I’m really happy too, Els. I thought… weren’t you at school? How’d you even get here?”

“Mom and dad picked me up.”

“…really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“So I could be here for your birthday.”

“They should really just get you a car or something so they don’t have—” And then the pin dropped. “Wait, what?”

Anna finally pulled away from her sister and stared at her incredulously.

“Yeah—they picked me up so we could have a proper celebration.”

“But…wait. You’re saying…a proper celebration for… for my birthday? Our parents wanted to do this? For me?”

“At Hans’s insistence, actually.”

“Hans?” Anna’s eyes darted to her not-boyfriend. “You… did this?”

“Only took a couple phone calls with your parents, a few with Elsa. And then magic was made.”

“I can’t believe you did this for me.”

“Of course I did, babe. I love you.”

Anna’s heart fluttered the most it had ever fluttered. It fluttered so much she honestly worried it might fly away out of her chest and off the balcony or something totally wild like that.

Hans was perfect. She was so lucky to have Hans. The perfect not-boyfriend who made her birthday okay again. More than okay, rather. Magical, wonderful. Perfect.

She didn’t even notice as Kristoff’s next selection, All Over You, started playing in the background.

And then the door swung open again and the two essential strangers she called parents walked in to also swarm Anna with massive hugs.

It felt… strange. Uncharacteristic. Almost like… almost like seeing a teacher at the movie theater, sitting down to watch the same movie you’re seeing with friends.

That level of weird.

But at the same time, it was a type of weird that Anna embraced more than anything else.

Because her parents were hugging her… they were acknowledging her.

They hadn’t forgotten her birthday.

“I rented us a Duffy boat for the afternoon,” Agnarr explained. “Kai set it all up for us—stocked with the best Cristal and naturally Anna’s favorite charcuterie board.”

“Ooh cured meats. A birthday delight.” Shit Anna had no idea how to interact with her parents anymore. Who even was this person—cured meats? Like yeah, she loved cured meats of course but damn this felt awkward.

“Actually, we should consider heading out soon. Don’t want to find ourselves on the blacklist at the Yacht Club, you know.”

That may sound like a joke but their close family friends actually did get blacklisted from the Yacht Club. Well, it had much more to do with some kind of scandalous drug and prostitute type situation than it did with being late, but… the fear was there.

“Should we bring your stereo?”

“Oh, yeah! Yes. Great idea. Kristoff actually made me a mixtape for my birthday, so—yeah. I’d love to have that along for the celebration too!”

They brought the speaker. They brought the Cristal and the charcuterie. Anna brought her now sunny and enthused birthday disposition.

Her family. And Hans. All together. Right now. On her birthday. Like, shit.

It felt like something out of her absolute favorite dream of all time.

And, yes, this whole Duffy boat thing was the most freaking Orange County plan of all time. But that meant her dad had to have planned ahead, since Duffy boats booked up ahead of time.

She felt so loved. So loved.

Once they arranged themselves in the boat, Anna turned on the stereo. So Unsexy played again, but Alanis didn’t get to her this time. Nobody had forgotten her birthday. She wasn’t alone. She felt, like, confident for once… damn. This was nice.

Hans moved to sit next to Agnarr, looking for a lesson about driving the boat, and Iduna sat close to the two of them, smiling. It was a Good Day. Anna could already tell.

“Aww, Alanis?” Elsa asked.

“Yeah!”

“Wouldn’t’ve expected Kristoff to put this on his mixtape.”

“Well, I mean, it’s because of you.”

“What? Really?

“Mmhmm. Because he, um, he knows how much Alanis means to you and because Alanis means so much to you she means so much to me. I really—”

“That’s so sweet.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.” Elsa leaned in to give her sister a huge hug. “I’m happy I get to spend more time with you.”

Anna relaxed into Elsa’s hold. She would thank the stars every day for this magnificent change. “Me, too.”

“Did you know the song You Oughta Know is about Uncle Joey?”

“Shut up. Really? For real?”

“For real for real.”

“No shit,” Anna laughed. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Yeah!” Hans chimed in. “No pull for Uncle Joey.”

“But, wow, yeah. Um,” Anna’s cheeks flushed red and she locked her eyes with Hans. “Guess he must’ve been pretty mind-blowing in bed.”

Hans winked at her and Anna all but shivered on the spot. Hold it together, Anna. Hold it together.

But Elsa entertained them zero, shaking her head. “He took advantage of her,” Elsa explained, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s fifteen years older than her. And they’d already broken up when she was 21, so who knows how old she was when they started…”

Anna bit her lip, worrying this was getting a little personal. Hans was only two years older than her, so. Different story, right?

Eh. Maybe not according to Elsa.

She needed to change the subject and impulsively blurted out, “I wanna get blackout. Right now.”

Elsa shook her head again. “Anna…”

“Yeah! I mean it! You too, right? You’ll do it with me? Let’s blackout on this Cristal. Yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Oh, come on. Ms. Boring! I didn’t ask for your judgmental-as-shit opinion. Do you wanna blackout or do you wanna blackout?”

“Uh—neither?”

Anna pouted. “Boo. Boring.” She looked to Hans for more support, but he’d turned his attention back to Agnarr and the steering wheel.

“I’ll drink with you, but I don’t want to blackout. I wanna remember you turning 15.”

Anna chewed on her bottom lip. “Oh… yeah. Well, I guess I do too. Since it’s so great and all.”

“I’m not boring,” Elsa smirked.

“Prove it.”

Elsa grabbed the bottle of champagne and twisted the cap a little hesitantly but still enthusiastically. It made a loud popping sound and a little bit of the liquid spilled from the top, but both Anna and Elsa cheered when the champagne was deemed officially free.

Elsa poured them both tall glasses, and then she poured three more, remembering there were other people on this Duffy Boat and not just the two sisters.

All five raised their glasses.

To Anna. Who was now officially fifteen. Old enough to legally drink Cristal on a Duffy Boat, right? Totally.

And then Agnarr perked up, suddenly remembering his eldest daughter was also on this boat. “So, Elsa… can you tell me again why you chose Pomona over Harvard?” The way he said both school names made it more than clear how he felt about Elsa’s decision. Pomona sounded like he smelled the sweet stench of vomit infested garbage. In contrast, Harvard sounded like a choir of angels sang at the gates of heaven.

“I needed a change of pace.”

Agnarr laughed. A literally massive guffaw. “Harvard could’ve been a change of pace.”

“I don’t really—”

“But, at the end of the day, fine, you’re majoring in what—finance? Which means that your classes at this bullshit liberal arts doohickey will be miniscule. And you’ll get more time with the professors, get better letters of rec, and then end up at the Stanford GSB like your old man. That’ll really seal that fucking deal, you know? You’ll be in tip-top shape to take over The Company. Harvard or not.”

“I’m not gonna major in finance, dad.”

“Oh? So what’s the plan, then?”

“I don’t know. I like Anthropology, or maybe something like PoliSci?”

“Politics? Really?”

“Yeah,” Elsa said, her jaw clenched. “I’d love to clean up some of the damage you’ve done to this country.”

A tense silence filled the air. Elsa crossed her arms over her chest and took a nice long sip of champagne.

Until Iduna piped up, “Well, if you want my opinion—”

“I don—" Elsa started.

“—a pretty young thing like you can’t work around Bill right now.”

Agnarr guffawed again. Profoundly. He raised his glass and cheered, “Oh ho ho!” Like he won some kind of stupid battle he wasn’t even in.

Anna was utterly lost. She’d already downed one whole glass of Cristal and poured herself an entire new one without anybody noticing. Hah. Classic.

She didn’t really want to admit she was, like, this stupid or politically unaware or whatever but she also wanted to feel like part of the conversation, so she said, “Wait, what? Has something happened?”

Hans gave Anna the benefit of the doubt. “Nah, but he’s known for being a pussy hound.”

“Okay! Enough! That’s not why I said I wanted to major in PoliSci. We don’t need to get into—"

“No, no, no. This is important, Elsa. You better watch out,” Agnarr said, ignoring her plea entirely. “Listen, I don’t know how a man like Bill gets it up for a woman like Hillary. She looks like such a dyke. Not that I respect the bastard that much, but he could have any broad he wants. Any broad like you.”

“No—” Elsa raised her voice, but Iduna chuckled.

“Since she’s got my cheekbones!”

Elsa’s entire face had turned a cherry red. She was mad. Fuming, really. “—you can’t say that.”

“I can say whatever the hell I want.”

“You can’t say that,” she repeated.

“Why not? You think you’re some holier-than-thou judge of character?”

Elsa’s jaw was still insatiably clenched. “I want to go home.”

“Els?” Anna reached out her hand to touch Elsa’s shoulder in a way she hoped brought at least a marginal amount of comfort.

“Seriously,” Elsa begged, her eyes glistening with what looked like fresh tears. “Can we turn this boat around? Please?”

A lump formed in Anna’s throat and she swallowed it down. She didn’t want today to end like this, so she tried to redirect. “Um… but—we’re having fun, aren’t we? You… how about we drink more champagne?”

Anna knew Elsa was mad. She knew that their parents had upset her beyond belief, but this was the only time she’d spent with all of them in the same place in… literally forever. She didn’t want it to end prematurely. No matter how mad Elsa was. Besides, Anna had been there, too. She’d been on the receiving end of comments like that countless times.

It stung, sure. But it wasn’t unexpected. That was just what happened when you spent time with Agnarr and Iduna. They were like parasites.

But the kind of parasite Anna still yearned to have in her life… if that made any sense at all?

Thankfully Elsa seemed to snap out of it a bit and turned back to Anna. “I’m sorry, yeah. You’re right. I…” She added in a whisper, “I shouldn’t let them get to me.”

“Yeah—no. Never!” Anna beamed. Crisis averted. “Drink more!”

Elsa took one big gulp of the champagne. “Maybe now’s as good a time as any. Um… I have something for you.”

“Oooh for me?!” Anna squealed when Elsa pulled out an envelope from her back pocket.

“Open it.”

It was the cutest handmade card ever. What Anna recognized instantly as something they would exchange as kids. Classic white printer paper, cut out into the shape of an A. And inside was the sweetest note of all time. Not long. Never long. Elsa wasn’t the most feelings-y. Or not so much that she wasn’t feelings-y, but she didn’t really have a knack for expressing all of the feelings that brewed deep inside her soul.

Inside this note of absolutely wonderfully sweet words was the fact that Elsa had decided to get her the most fun gift of all time—a night at the local roller rink. A disco roller rink night, too, which sounded five hundred million times more fun than any old roller rink night.

So, Anna squealed again. “Oh my God! Elsa! This sounds so, so, so fun! I’m so excited I can’t wait I’m, like, literally the most excited ever for real I’m, like, oh snap I’m rambling but that just means you know how excited I am!”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Like it? I love it!”

“You can choose whenever you want to go. I can find a way to get here.”

“Okay! I can’t wait!”

Anna had always considered herself forever an experience over a material present person. And an experience present from Elsa of all people only made it all the more special. Quality time with her sister. Shit, she was so excited.

Honestly, ‘so excited’ hardly began to cover it. Anna was ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic.

It felt almost like… everything was going perfectly. Kristoff’s music played in the background. Hans and her dad had started laughing and carrying on what seemed like meaningful conversation… Iduna was smiling to herself as she usually did on a Good Day. And here Elsa and Anna were. Together. For the first time in forever.

“I’m so happy!” Anna yelled this loud enough that everybody snapped to attention, expecting a speech or something of the like. “This has to be the best birthday I’ve ever had in my whole life. I… thank you for not forgetting. I know—that’s happened before, but—"

Iduna clicked her tongue. “What are you talking about? We’ve never forgotten your birthday. We’re your parents.”

…what?

Was Anna wrong? Had she made it up? She thought she remembered several birthdays in a row her parents had forgotten… since… probably since Elsa had been shipped off to boarding school. It happened at least every other year.

But.

Her mother seemed to think differently. And Anna knew she could be a bit dramatic sometimes.

So…

Maybe that was all a load of BS and Anna was actually absolutely bonkers.

Shit.

“Anna, dear, your mother’s right. We’d never forget your birthday,” Agnarr explained.

Okay, yeah. All right. So then she was literally bonkers. Batshit crazy. Living in some kind of crazy dream world?

“Okay,” was all Anna said, in a tiny voice. She didn’t know what to think.

Except that maybe she really was crazy after all.

But she tried to push that aside. Something to unpack a bit more later.

She needed to enjoy this moment.

And due to this decision, from that point on, the Duffy boat ride went smoothly. They drank their champagne. They finished a few bottles. More than any of them would care to admit, especially because Agnarr and Iduna served the alcohol to minors and whatever. But regardless, they had a great time. In the end.

Sure, Elsa refused to speak to their parents, but thankfully she was never put on the spot again so that really didn’t put a damper on anything.

Hans kept Agnarr company, Iduna kept to herself, and Anna and Elsa spent the entire time talking each other’s ear off about literally everything.

Anna made sure to include all of the dirty details of her own life. Her chest puffed out when she talked about Hans and everything they’d done to celebrate their not-relationship that Anna still continued to make Elsa believe was a real relationship.

But eventually, it came to an end.

The end of an era. The end of this somewhat happy family dynamic Anna wanted to have 100% of the time.

Agnarr and Iduna hugged the girls goodbye. They were getting dinner with some friends and had to dash.

Which left Elsa, Anna, and Hans to fend for themselves.

Anna was a little bit disappointed that her parents had left them alone, but after what she considered such a great afternoon, she didn’t want to dwell on it.

Focus on the positives, Anna! Keep those in mind!

So, she turned to Hans. The orchestrator. The one who made it all happen.

“Oooh, Hans!” Anna jumped up to give him a peck on the lips. “That was awesomesauce! Like, hands down the best birthday—I totally, totally loved it, thank you!”

“Hold that thought, babe,” he smiled, snaking one hand around her waist and using the other to cup her chin. “I’ve still got one more thing planned.”

“Really, really? You do?”

“To the beach house!”

Anna giggled. She loved him. She now officially loved her birthday. She couldn’t wait.

[undoundue]

a season in hellsite - chapter 1

chapter 1. in which horatio and bacchus play chess

now the tale tells that darkness gave way to light, or else light filled a space where light had not recently been. the issue is theologically contentious, and at the time no one could be sure.

the light played an important role in the events that were to come. first it hit bacchus’s eyes. then it hit horatio’s eyes. then it hit bacchus’s eyes again, then it hit horatio’s eyes again, and this process repeated several thousand times in the next few seconds, until the light took a break.

the light did not hit the same spot each time, because of angles. it hit a narrow circle very well, and then a wider circle less well, and then an even wider circle far worse than that, because light is by nature a specialist.

now individually, these halos were not exciting, though everyone had his or her preference: but the width of the aureoles varied intriguingly, unlike the areas the light had not touched, which were all the same shade of black. so the boys ascended their subjectivities, refracting the light from their convex lenses as it bustled to describe the scene.

we may morbidly wonder how horatio and bacchus felt in this moment as the red sun dawned and with it their damnation. however, it took them a minute to realize what they were looking at, and in the interim they did not have interiority, so we cannot truthfully comment upon their thoughts or feelings, though we can surmise that in a certain qualialess way they too felt the soul-crushing dread of existential freedom—this being the onus upon all souls who wander the afterlife accurst, unguided by the voice of instinct that, after all, is only borrowed from God.

but what the tale says with confidence is this: one day horatio and bacchus looked up and noticed that they were in hell. neither of them remembered how they had gotten there, but neither of them were surprised.

“—,” horatio said, and he moved as if to speak, but then he saw bacchus starting to speak, so he stopped.

“—,” bacchus said, and then stopped for similar reasons.

“—,” horatio said, starting up again, but then he saw horatio starting up again, so he stopped, and then bacchus stopped as well.

“your move,” bacchus said.

“sorry, i was developing interiority,” horatio said.

“it’s ok,” bacchus said.

“yeah it’s okay,” horatio said: and he played 1. e4.

now when it was bacchus’s turn he did not blithely reach for 1…e5, nor the sicilian. oh no. instead he conjured two quartz goblets and poured in blood-red wine.

horatio said, “where did you get the wine?”

bacchus said, “i can infinitely generate wine, it’s one of my god powers.”

(note at this juncture that bacchus is class DYING-AND-RISING GOD, level 1, while horatio is class GEOMETRICA FRAUDULENTUS, level 1.)

“what the fuck,” horatio said.

“yeah, it owns,” bacchus said. “except it doesn’t really affect me because my blood is like 30% GABA at baseline? but it’s cool at weddings and such.”

so they drank. and bacchus made like he was going to move 1…e5, but instead he just grazed it and said “j’adoube.” horatio gave him a look.

and bacchus said, in a voice of ambiguous irony: “if i did move that piece, we would be much akin to those frozen center pawns: stuck in the zugzwang of existential freedom.”

“and also we can only capture on our diagonals,” horatio said.

“yeah,” bacchus said, “or, i don’t know, man. i suspect it's my history of epub piracy—that, or sometimes i've said something that sounded like it was nice, but by adhering too close to the letter of the law, i was actually deconstructing that niceness, mocking it, and God knew. that, or it was a sin of omission. that, or—and here's what's most likely—every decision i’ve ever made has been five degrees off-course. i trusted my instincts, and my instincts were good, but then i ran into the error margin, and unfortunately, i was too consistent, too kantian, too tragically good, perhaps, which—and i’m not trying to exculpate myself here, because if i did something wrong i would be the first to admit it—which could happen to anyone.”

now bacchus drank. and he stood and dusted the knees of his toga, and looked up at the heavens, and down at the earth, as if the two had been briefly confused.

“look,” horatio said sagely.

“yeah?” bacchus said.

“in the field of anthropology, it has been found that nearly every system of morality prohibits acute angles,” horatio said.

“yeah?” said bacchus.

horatio said: “so i suspect i went wrong in a similar way.”

now horatio took a drink. and from whence he was prone, he rolled supine, and felt the wind move over him: west, then east, then west, then east, a little weaker with each breath, folding in on itself like a blanket.

“also, my only charitable cause was wikipedia,” horatio said.

“same, of course,” bacchus said.

“dude, seriously,” horatio said, “it’s your move.”

but bacchus did not want to move. and so a long time passed in which they were kind of bored and did not know what to do. every few days one of them would feel the urge to eat or sleep, and so they would do

that, though the summoned pad thai got samey after a while and sleep was a time-skip without rest or even a recuperative panel of black, and their ghostly eidolons didn’t have to eat or sleep or perform any other bodily function for that matter, but it was a distraction. even so, now and then they looked up and noticed they were in hell: and neither of them were surprised.

“okay,” horatio finally said, “do you want to play a chess variant?”

so they played:

courier chess (german chess)

fortress chess (russian chess)

xiangqi (chinese)

jangqi (korean)

scottish chess (white moves once, then black moves twice, then white moves three times, and so on)

senterej (ethiopan; both sides start playing at the same time and make as many moves as they like until the first capture)

shatranj (persian)

shatar (mongolian; in which the king cannot castle, and the knight cannot deliver mate),

and then they briefly played connect 4. they thought about but did not play scrabble. they played checkers. and then they played:

turkish checkers

canadian checkers,

and then they dropped canadian checkers like so many rules and played go: go was fun, but lacked a certain je ne sais quoi; they switched to blue-red hackenbush. then they played chess. they played:

shogi (japanese chess), including but not limited to: micro-shogi, whale shogi (pieces with variant movesets, named after whales), tori shogi (birds), hasami shogi, trishogi, hexshogi, masonic shogi, space shogi (nine 9x9 shogi boards stacked vertically), and taikyoku shogi (402 pieces of 209 types on a 36x36 board)

atomic chess, kamikaze chess, avalanche chess, dunsany’s chess, and hexagonal chess (variants: brusky’s, de vasa’s, mccooey’s, shafran’s, gliński’s);

meanwhile bacchus kept them amped on high-tannin wine—tossing aside used goblets and summoning new ones—it was a cantrip that cost him not a soul point (SP), the class equivalent to horatio’s knack for summoning abstract games.

"do you think tannins are funny?" bacchus asked shyly. then, hearing his voice and finding it mellifluous, he became bold: “yeah…i'm thinking tannins are funny.”

“tannins are kinda funny, yeah,” horatio said.

name prime numbers (basically, they competed at naming large prime numbers, but eventually horatio named the biggest one and they had to stop)

but they felt like they were running out of steam. so they played all the games listed above, but as drinking games, wherein every time one spotted a pattern one had to take a drink. as a consequence of this behavior they became quite drunk.

“i don't know…….” bacchus said dysarthrically, “i feel like i messed up….…”

“what is this! i thought you didn’t get drunk!” horatio exclaimed.

“no!…i said, wine didn’t affect me,” bacchus countered, “but my ebriety [vocab word] can still be perpetuated by the endogenous, xanax-like molecule that floats in my ichor, i.e. the blood of the gods…!"

bacchus tripped and then caught himself. he smiled at gravity with the warm antagonism one holds for a cartoon villain, then turned his 18 charisma on horatio. but horatio, whose alignment was lawful neutral, was unimpressed.

“well, you did mess up,” horatio said, “you’re in hell.”

“yeah, but i don’t think i should have to feel guilty on top of that,” bacchus said, “guilt is un-dionysian! it’s bluepilled!”

“okay, so then don’t,” horatio said.

“okay,” bacchus said, “then i won’t!”

“okay!” horatio said.

“okay!” bacchus said.

they both felt better after this interaction. soon bacchus was puking into an ink-black river.

"yeah, i'm feeling it," bacchus said.

"you're feeling it?" horatio said.

"yeah, i'm feeling this is dionysian as fuck," bacchus said.

now the river was utterly opaque to light, so one would expect it to have the consistency of tar, but the boys were surprised to observe that to the touch it was thin as water. so they went uphill and upstream to a slow-moving pool and rinsed their hands and splashed their faces and hair. in the pool, dark nymphs with sporty swimsuits swam until they became silly with paresthesias; and the satyrs leapt in chortling menacingly like hoo hoo hoo and ho ho ho and the nymphs would giggle with elusive allusive illusive knowledge, and within a few minutes both had forgotten lifetimes, staring at each other like babies in a warm and curious fog.

by the time the boys had looked up from the river that did not show their image, they had forgotten most of the engrams their souls had contained.

“word,” bacchus said; though this should have come earlier.

“yo,” horatio said, “i’m pretty drunk.”

“yeah,” bacchus started to say, but for some reason he stopped and instead stared blankly.

“yeah,” horatio thought about saying; but he was too tired, so instead he stared blankly too.

the next one hundred years were spent in a hangover.

some of the games they played during the hangover include:

moving their hip flexors

moving their knee extensors

moving the plantar-flexing muscles of the feet

moving their hip extensors (meta-breaking)

moving their knee flexors

moving the dorsi-flexing muscles of their feet

by this point their enthusiasm for the lower extremities had dimmed—horatio bored when he had solved the path to the game’s solution, bacchus discouraged when the flapping of the map recalled to him the territory—and the psoas and quadratus lumborum muscles were given only a cursory trial.

their attention moved superior (we are skipping over the reflex arcs and smooth muscle contractions that took place automatically, such as laughter, sneezing, and vasodilation, though the boys became skilled at those too) as the boys practiced other forms of iterated narrowing choice: the brash trapezius giving way to the stoic biceps, the careful flexors, the presumptuous precision of fingers and thumb closing three pixels away from the yearned-for dimensionless point. they considered past encounters with such discrepancy: ah yes, these were the angles who ached to lose themselves in intersection. three pixels. electricity clenched efference on no choice at all.

“we could play chess,” horatio attempted to say.

but he had forgotten how to speak. horatio gestured with his hand (though not in a way that was interesting or original or which had semantic meaning) and briefly he felt good (due to dopamine) because he had moved (which felt like an accomplishment) but soon he stopped moving (and the dopamine faded) and then he was still.

“uhn,” bacchus said.

to explain these profound deficits is difficult. we must note that, in addition to the known amnestic effects of alcohol and the river lethe, their circadian rhythms were off. managing the boar-driven chariot that drew the sun across the sky was not a highly-sought position: the black sun rose during the day, and the red sun rose at night; but the red sun did not rise every night, and though the black sun was more timely it was directionally impaired: rising in the south and setting in the north, rising in the northwest and setting in the northeast, or rising in the north and taking a strange zig-zag pattern to the south and back—possibly an attempt to draw a “cool S”. we can also say with confidence that the grayish vapors disseminated from the cracked obsidian of the forsaken earth did not have a salubrious effect. finally, we must note that the boys’ amnesia could have resulted from the omnipresent rule of demonic soul magic, in which what is attended to becomes real, and what is not attended to, does not.

now at this time horatio and bacchus girded themselves with determination, even though it caused them sadness, and tried to recall language. it started with a sharp inspiration and then a slow expiration, “ooooooo”; which got a laugh, and with pursed lips they varied the number of oo’s for a while before settling upon 6 to 8 as the optimal (i.e. funniest) range. then they widened the distance between their lateral commissures to make eeeeee, and they dropped their mandibles and flattened their tongues to make aaaaaah, and these too were amusing, if admittedly juvenile in the way of all unperturbed air. hence the consonants: one would lead off with a gggggggg and the other would breathe the metronome of expectation and listen to gggggggggggggggggggggggg continuing past all semantic purpose until with some internal wrenching of sockets this noise would give way to eeeeee, and they would laugh.

various orderings of consonants and vowels were tried as the sophistication of their humor increased. now with words they recalled meanings, and with meanings they became capable of irony, and shortly thereafter they were back to their old ways.

“1…e5,” bacchus said.

“holy shit,” horatio said.

and so the boys continued to game systematically, but not as systematically as they once had; and they continued to drink, but sometimes in moderation.

“do you think there's a psychological typology of chess openings?" bacchus asked, “like, certain types of people prefer certain openings, to clarify?”

“yes,” horatio said.

“yeah, i think so too,” bacchus said.

2. Bc4 Nc6

3. Qh5 Nf6??

4. Qxf7#

now by this time horatio fundamentally understood bacchus, and bacchus fundamentally understood horatio, but not in the way that allowed them to make predictions about individual actions, so they kept being surprised. for it was evident that the light that limned them had exhausted innumerable other options before settling upon this one, because the scene had purpose and harmonious proportion. and even though the light vacillated across moments of perception, in each moment, it seemed that it could be no other way.

“yeah man,” horatio eventually said, “my take is, you can be in a bad place, and still make a good thing of it.”

horatio tilted the white queen and rolled her base across the fatal square.

“in fact, maybe it's better to have a good time in a bad place, on your own terms, than to be in a good place, conditional upon doing what you’re told,” he said.

“well,” bacchus said, spinning the board, “maybe.”

and with a desultory sweep, horatio brought pawns and knights errant to the frontier of their steady-state, while bacchus, kneeling, with three arcs of divine manumission lifted pawn, queen, and bishop directly to their native squares.

chapter 1 - END

[sasspiria]

Guiltless - Chapter One

Fandom: Borderlands / Tales From The Borderlands

Ship: Rhys/Handsome Jack (Rhack)

Summary: In which, Jack is a transient serial killer who believes himself to be a hero. While he's on the road he runs into his emotionally damaged and fragile soul mate, Rhys. Jack is surprised that someone like him would have a soul mate, even someone trapped in such a shady situation as Rhys is. Rhys is surprised that someone like Jack could be so kind to someone like him.

Tags/Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Human Trafficking, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Murder

Read it below the cut or on Ao3 Here!

For nearly all of his life, Rhys had been made to suffer. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t spending his nights, crying himself to sleep and chewing on Xanax just to get through the day. He was nearly twenty now and at this point he was convinced that there had never been a time where this wasn’t “normal” for him. It had been so long since he had had a life that could even be considered somewhat ordinary.

When he was six years old, his mother had taken him to a dilapidated house in a neighborhood that he had never been before and told him that he would be living here from then out. He didn’t understand why, and she never explained why. She just screamed in his face like she always did – told him that he was terrible and stupid and too much trouble.

He hadn’t known how to not be too much trouble, she had never told him how. Then there was a group of men, big and intimidating looking men that gave him, even at an age where he was so young and naive, a terrible feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. His mother had urged him towards them, promising Rhys that they would take care of him from now on.

He couldn’t bring himself to believe her. Before they could pull him all the way into the house, he had broken away from the men and tried to run back towards his mother. Rhys had screamed and screamed for her, begged her to come back, offered to do anything – he would be the best son ever, he would never cry or complain or ask for anything, if she would only turn around and take him back home. She never did. She didn’t look at him as the men pulled him back, throwing him on the ground, hard enough that he was left disoriented, with spotty vision and bruising all over his face.

Once he was in their care, Rhys had been put to work nearly immediately. Some of it wasn’t so bad; cooking and cleaning, simple stuff. Then there was the other work, work that involved him going into a dark room and having his clothing torn from him, having pictures taken of him, being hurt in ways that he had been too young to understand just how wrong it was.

As he grew older, he had been moved from place to place, being forced to kneel on dirty floors and lay on his back or stomach as countless men did whatever they wanted with him every single day. He never got used to how degraded he felt by all of the things that he was made to do.

Every morning, when he woke up – when the bleariness of sleep and the euphoria of his dreams had him confused, he would be convinced that the life he had in his dreams was the real one. It only made it all that much more miserable when he realized which world was the dream and which was reality.

He sat up in the motel bed and let himself come to terms with the reality of his situation. Who he was and what he was. He tried not to lurch and curl up in despair and he had to put forth an incredible amount of effort to pull himself to his feet, mentally preparing himself to get ready for another day.

Once he was in the shower, with the water running loud enough to blot out any sounds he made, Rhys let out a muffled sound of frustration and rested his forehead against the aluminum tiled wall and let himself cry – ugly, reeling sobs tore from his throat in a primal sort of way. He had learned a long time ago, that he would need to let his emotions out at the right time or he would be punished.

No one liked a cry baby. He had been told that time and time again, had it beat into him until he finally understood.

He washed himself in between each sudden out pour of emotion as he prepared himself for the day. Once he decided that he looked the part and he was dressed and pretty enough, he walked out into the hall. Usually someone would be there at the front, with a card for him filled out with his daily clients and information. It was all very professional, he thought with some humor.

As soon as he walked down into the hall, he was stopped by – of all the people – Hugo Vasquez. Ever since he had known Vasquez, the man had had it out for him. Rhys had no idea why. Maybe it was because he had denied his advances, but he could never really be sure.

The first words out of Rhys’ mouth were, “Where’s Henderson?” And he had regretted them almost immediately. Vasquez curled his lips in distaste, looking down at Rhys like he was something disgusting and diseased. Strangely, it mirrored how Rhys felt about himself.

“Hello to you too, Rhys.” Vasquez replied smugly, “Henderson’s gone.” And Rhys opened his mouth, nearly asked what Vasquez did to him – he did something terrible, Rhys just knew it – but he managed to stop himself, just barely. Vasquez smiled at him, “You’re gonna be answering to me now.” He explained, voice easy and smooth.

“Okay…”

“No card tonight.” Vasquez explained, putting a hand up to Rhys from speaking. “I’ve booked you with a group of businessmen. Maliwan guys. They want to spend the weekend with you. And they’ve paid extra to film you. So you’re free until they come for you.”

Rhys shook his head just a little, “I don’t think I should be doing something like that.” He had no idea why he kept on speaking out, but he didn’t stop himself. He wasn’t really sure if he even could. “That sounds-” He was about to say, “Dangerous” but he didn’t get to finish his sentence because Vasquez grabbed him by the throat and threw him into the wall. Rhys cried out in pain as his head hit the wall,  his vision spotted a bit and he became disoriented.

“Just do what I say Rhys.” Vasquez sneered down at him as he cowered against the banister. His demeanor softened a bit, like he didn’t want to come off as the bad guy here. “I’ll come back for you in a few hours. Think of it as a half-day.” Rhys felt sick at the implication. Having to whore himself out to multiple men in one night was one thing, but having to be filmed while he did them all felt even worse.

He didn’t say anything more to Vasquez, though, he kept his mouth tight shut because he didn’t want to be hit again. Vasquez walked off, leaving him be finally. Rhys sighed, knowing he was sure to be bruised. He walked back in to his room and looked around for some makeup to cover them up suitably.

No one would want to spend any time with him if he looked like he had already been roughed up. It took ten minutes of smearing and smearing foundation and cover up all over his face and down his neck until he was satisfied that he didn’t look like garbage.

Rhys walked out and decided to go into the motels restaurant and bar. He needed a stiff drink, or seven, and something hearty to eat. He figured that he probably wouldn’t be able to eat the entire time that he was with those businessmen that were gonna gang bang him, so he might as well eat while he could.

There wasn’t anyone in the restaurant, not even the usual bartender. The only one there was a man that he had never seen before. The man looked out of place. That was the first thing that Rhys had noticed about him, that he looked like he should be literally anywhere else but in the restaurant of this shoddy little motel. But here he was, in the flesh. He was tall and athletic looking, well dressed, with well coiffed brown hair and lightly tanned skin. As soon as the two of them locked eyes, Rhys felt like it was all over for him. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, a fluttery feeling came over him that had him feeling weak and dizzy.

He ushered Rhys over with a wave of his hand and Rhys barely noticed that he was walking over to him without a word of complaint until he was right near the bar. “Hi.” Rhys said awkwardly, waving his hand lazily in greeting. “I guess the bar’s closed.” He grumbled. That was a shame. He was hungry.

The other man just grinned at him with a starry expression on his face, like he thought that Rhys was being cute. Like he thought that Rhys was cute in general. He didn’t know how he should feel about that. “Sit down.” He ordered and Rhys quickly obeyed, “What’s your name, kitten?” He asked and, before he could speak, decided to give Rhys his own. “I’m Jack.” He said, offering Rhys his hand.

“Rhys.” He replied, never looking him in the eye. He shook Jack’s hand, hoping that it came off as polite instead of awkward as he felt. He felt something like a spark when they touched. It was pleasant and a little thrilling. He never got attention like this. He got a lot of sexual attention. He got more than enough of that, but he was never flirted with, never looked at like he was beautiful and special.

He kept his hand on the other man’s, not wanting to stop the innocent contact they were having with each other. But he didn’t notice his skin being marked. Jack was the first to notice it.

He let out a soft, nearly breathless laugh as he saw it. The mark began to warp and wrap around Rhys’ wrist, and his own – tying them together with a red string etched across both of their skins. Jack never believed that he would have a soulmate. He had a lot of reasons to believe that he wasn’t the type and honestly, he hadn’t ever seen the appeal before. In his mind, he had a higher purpose.

But looking at Rhys now, with his pleading and expressive eyes, with his pretty face, with his slim frame and those long legs – Well, he could definitely see the appeal now. Jack let out a low whistle, “Well, would you look at that…” He purred in a low, dulcet tone.

Rhys looked at Jack with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. He wasn’t sure what to make of him. The whole time that he’d been in here, he had been pea-cocking his way around the space they were in, the energy about him big and bombastic. Usually that sort of attitude set Rhys on edge, because he’d come to realize in his years trapped on this strip of concrete and pavement that people like that were likely to be erratic and unpredictable, especially in the bedroom. Sometimes, they were nice decent people but other times… it didn’t end well for him.

For some reason, he didn’t mind that sort of attitude with Jack though. It suited him, came across as charming, charismatic and lovely. Rhys supposed that it didn’t hurt that Jack was nice to look at. Handsome. He didn’t realize why he was so at ease though, until he looked down at the mans finger, drumming gently against his bare thigh, that he understood it. Jack was… he was – Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but found himself at a complete and utter loss for words. He would have never thought that someone like him would be permitted that sort of happiness. “You- you’re my…” He stuttered.

Jack’s smile grew into a grin, “It’s okay baby,” He soothed, taking one of Rhys’ hands in his own. The action was more intimate than anything that had ever been done to Rhys in his life. There was more tenderness and affection in that one simple touch than anything that he could ever remember his parents or anyone touching him. He still didn’t understand it. “Take your time.”

“Soulmate? Soulmate…” He blurted out, voice still quiet and broken. He sounded less like someone who had the innocent ripped from him and more like a church mouse. He was surprised, even with their proximity, that Jack had been able to hear him. “You’re my soulmate.” He repeated, firmer this time. “I didn’t think that something like that was possible for me.” But those last words were spoken with a deathly quiet to them. He was surprised to find out that Jack heard him, loud and clear.

“You?” Jack exclaimed, looking bemusedly over Rhys like he was inspecting him for any sort of defects or reasons why he wouldn’t be entitled to a happy life with a soulmate. “Why wouldn’t you have a soulmate?” He asked, genuinely curious about why he would think such a thing about himself.

Rhys went quiet for a moment, trying to find the way to explain himself. It was much easier having a conversation when he pretended to be someone else, when he was himself he just floundered. “I’m too dirty.” He finally explained, after a few moments of looking at his hands, a hopeless expression on his face. He thought that he was filthy and disgusting, rotting from the inside out – like his soul had been corrupted by everything that he’d been made to do. Everything that he had done. He hated himself.

Jack made a chiding noise, putting Rhys’ face in his hands and pulling him towards him. He stroked over Rhys’ cheekbones and let his fingers trail down the line of his long neck, until they were tracing absentmindedly over his collarbones. Rhys felt heat rising to his cheeks, giddy at the attention in a way that he never had been before. “Aw, kitten, you could never be too dirty for me.” He teased.

Rhys was about to say something back to that, but he quickly noticed that the middle aged woman at the front desk. Her name was Emily Goode and she was a long faced, unpleasant person that he had more than a few run ins with – was giving him and Jack a pointed look that said, “Get him to take you to a room and make us some money or send him away already.”

She was nearly as bad as Vasquez with how much she hated him for the crime of existing too loudly. At least she never got physical with him, which couldn’t be said for Vasquez. Rhys just hoped that she hadn’t heard any of his and Jack’s conversation. Things could only end badly for them, if she had. People would be called, and Jack could be hurt. He would be… removed. Taken to a new motel. Or killed. Probably both.

So, Rhys needed to rectify this quickly and he did his best. “Hey,” He said, in a voice that he hoped came across as sultry and secretive. Jack was moved to full attention, interested in whatever his soulmate might have to say. “Why don’t we take this somewhere… private? I have a room.” He urged, with pleading eyes that he hoped conveyed the desperation that he was feeling.

Luckily, Jack was smart enough that he noticed the change in Rhys’ tone and got the message right quick.  Rhys grabbed the older mans’ hand and led him up some stairs and down a few hallways, until they were in his room.

Rhys kept his hold on Jack’s hand, a firm grip that belied how much his palms were sweating and his fingers were trembling against Jacks’ own, until they were sitting on the crisply pressed sheets of one of the motels beds. “They’re keeping me here, the uh, people who run this motel I guess?” Rhys said, doing his best to keep his voice low as he spoke, “I’m not- this isn’t- I was supposed to-” He sighed, not wanting to say it out loud. It was stupid, he thought, but the shame kept him tongue tied. “They make me work here. In the bedrooms. On my back, or on my knees.”

He was sure that Jack understood what he meant. The hints were clear enough. Rhys kept on going, he had never been permitted to speak so long without interruption. “I want to leave with you though, wherever you’re going I want to go too, if it’s possible.” Rhys said, looking at him with something like hope in his eyes. “I’m sorry it’s like this, I wish it wasn’t. But I don’t know what I can do about any of it.”

He tried not to cry, tried with all his might – because he barely knew Jack, whether they were soulmates or not and he didn’t know how he might react if Rhys just burst into tears like he wanted to – but it got harder and harder with every second that he sat there next to his soul mate, so close to freedom yet still trapped and rooted like he had always been.

There was something dangerous in Jack’s eyes, “They’re keeping you here, huh?” He muttered, less speaking to Rhys than he was to himself. “Okay…” He said, “I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry you’re pretty little head Pumpkin, I’ll have ya out of here by tonight.” His tone was somewhere in the middle between gentle and deadly. Then he grinned, all perfect teeth and intentions that couldn’t be good. “Matter of fact, I’m sure that I can get you out of here by the end of the hour.”

Rhys wanted that so badly, Jack had no idea how much he wanted that, but soulmate or no, he couldn’t expect Jack to put himself into danger on his behalf. They barely knew each other. “What are you going to do?” He asked, suddenly afraid for Jack. “Jack, these people, they’re dangerous. You don’t know what will happen.” He said. Secretly, Rhys didn’t believe that he was worth the trouble that Jack was going to for him – he was worthless and Jack would be better off forgetting about him entirely. He was just about to open his mouth and say that when his soulmate began to speak.

“Aw, Rhysie, are you worried about me?” Jack replied, grinning like a kid in a candy shop. “That’s cute. Real cute, but- uh, I can take care of myself.” He scoffed, like the idea that he wouldn’t be able to handle any situation was just ridiculous to him, “I mean, come on, look at me.”

“Jack, I’m serious!” Rhys snapped back, aghast. He didn’t know what he could say to make Jack understand – preferably without humiliating himself. “They took me when I was a child, I’ve seen what they can do.” Some of it, he thought, but what little he was enough to scare him into submission.

“So. Am. I.” There was something hard in Jack’s gaze, but it was quickly masked with tenderness. “I’ll take care of it.” Jack promised again, speaking in a low and soothing tone of voice. Rhys almost believed him. He pulled Rhys in for a quick and gentle kiss before he got up, “Stay here.” He ordered in a tone of voice that brook no arguments from the younger man. “I won’t be gone long.” And then he was out the door, leaving Rhys with a lot more questions than answers.

***************************************************************************

Jack walked out of the room and took a breath, preparing himself for the inevitable. It hadn’t been too long since his last kill. A few weeks. But he was always in the mood for a kill – so long as his victims deserved it, because then they weren’t really victims. They would be villains and it was a heroes job to get rid of them. And Jack Lawrence was nothing, if not a hero.

From what little that Rhys had told him before he’d left, these people were definitely villains. They deserved whatever they got coming to them, whatever Jack was willing to dish out as punishment for their crimes. They had hurt so many people, caused so much pain and ruined the lives of so many children. And, if all that wasn’t bad enough on its face, they had the audacity to hurt his soulmate. His.  Nobody could just hurt what was his and get away with it. No. These people needed to suffer.

Jack went back into his car and took out some tools; a bowie knife, a nail gun and a pistol, loaded with ammo and modified with a silencer and last but not least, his clean-up supplies. He looked around the parking lot, the place was desolate with only a few cars in sight that night. That was a good thing. It meant that there wouldn’t be any chance at witnesses. He walked back into the motel with a pep in his step.

He looked around the front room and smiled as he realized it was just him and the woman who manned the front desk. She was complicit in whatever they were doing here, he thought, the look that she gave Rhys told him so. Still, she put on a nice display of ignorance and pretended to be friendly.

She smiled at him, grinning with at teeth. He noticed a bit of lipstick on one of them. “Are you having a good time, sir?” She asked, “Is there anything you need?” Jack chuckled to himself, amused by the misplaced display of kindness from her. Then an amusing thought crossed his mind.

She was trying to flirt. It was funny, pathetic, but funny. And it worked for his purposes. Jack took purposeful steps as he walked closer to her, close enough that she was nearly pressed right up against his chest. She didn’t try to push him away and it made him grin. Too easy. “Actually,” He said, wrapping one arm around her. “You know what? There is something you can do for me.”

“O-oh?” She replied, utterly charmed. “What’s that, then?”

He pulled the knife out from his back pocket, still she didn’t notice it. “You can die.” He said, in a nonchalant sort of way – the same tone that someone might use to speak about the weather.

All that she got out was, “What-” before he impaled the back of her neck with the bowie knife, twisting it inside of her. She collapsed against him and he held her tight while she weakly struggled. There was no use to it. She was gonna choke on her own blood in a matter of seconds. He doubted that it was even a conscious decision that she was making.

“Thaaaaaaaat’s it.” He cooed to her as she gurgled and cried out in pain. Blood poured from her mouth. He grimaced at that, he would have to do a lot of cleaning once this was over. Hopefully, he could get his Rhys out of the motel before he saw all of the bloodshed. “Go easy, pumpkin. Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be.”

And then she was gone. He dropped her like she was a piece of trash, used a long, thick coat that was hanging on the wall behind her – it was probably hers, he realized with a bit of humor – to cover her up, but not before he took the managers keys out of her pockets. He’d need those for later.

He looked through the books at the table, until he found an “Employee’s Roster” hidden underneath a lot of documents. There weren’t many people employed at the motel. There was this Emily Goode woman – but he had already taken care of her. Then there was Hugo Vasquez and Saul Henderson.

Then he decided to go through to the back rooms – there had to be some enforcer there – and sure enough, there was a man there, a tall and stocky looking man. Hugo Vasquez, he realized quickly. Vasquez spoke with an incredibly deep voice. “Sir, are you lost?” He asked, “This is… it’s an employees only area.”

He was obviously trying to be polite, but it looked like that facade was wearing down by the second. He was scared. Angry too. But the fear was more potent, he could practically smell it on the man. Jack tried not to crack a smile, or say something that would give the game away. “You work here?” He asked, even though he knew the answer. Jack put his hands in his pockets, both so he could dig out the nail gun and to make himself appear meek and unassuming. And as soon as the man gave a slight nod he pulled the nail gun out and shot him in the forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Then he set to work on taking care of the bodies. He dragged the two of them into a bathroom. He kept his clean-up supplies in a satchel. It was all very standard fair.

Jack wiped the sweat from his brow, then he looked up and noticed Rhys… standing there with a frightened expression marring his pretty face. That couldn’t be good. He expected him to scream or start running, maybe even for him to shout at him and call him a monster.

But instead of any of the expected reactions, Rhys just watched him work on the bodies, making them tiny and disposable. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, but other than that his aura was incredibly muted and he was completely motionless and wordless. Jack found that incredibly interesting, but he didn’t have the time just then to ask him questions about it. He would later, he promised himself, he needed to know just what his soulmate was all about.

Rhys watched with a placid expression as he watched the bloodbath in front of him, he knew in an objective sense that it was horrifying but he couldn’t bring himself to be horrified by the sight of some of the people that had abused and manipulated him for years finally gone. No, it felt… freeing and that was what really had him feeling horrified. What kind of person was he, what kind of monster was he, if he felt so damn relieved at the sight of such gore and destruction?

Jack moved so casually, it was damn near graceful. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that he was enjoying himself. He didn’t acknowledge Rhys’ existence for a few minutes as he worked, but it was obvious to Rhys that Jack knew he was there. It wasn’t until both Vasquez and Emily were hacked up into tiny bits and stuffed into bags that Jack locked eyes with Rhys again.

Jack looked at Rhys with an indescribable expression, “Rhys.” He said, his voice coming out as barely more than a breath. As he got up, moving to walk towards him, but stopped as he noticed his soulmate backing up a few steps. Rhys didn’t run though, he didn’t even leave the room, he just kept his distance from the older man. A few steps between them, to ensure that he had some control here.

“Is it over?” Rhys asked, having a distant thought that he might be in shock. He could barely formulate a coherent thought in his head, let alone putting all his disjointed feelings into words. “Are you- are they all gone?” He asked, looking at Jack with wide, questioning eyes. “They’re all…they’re dead?”

“Almost.” Jack replied, “There’s one more. Henderson. You know him?”

Rhys nodded minutely. “Henderson’s dead.” He blurted out, “Vasquez killed him… I don’t know why.” Probably to get a leg up in this trafficking business. He’d always been disgustingly opportunistic, even for a man in this sort of business. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed in on himself.

“Are you scared?” Jack asked. ‘Of me.’ was left unsaid, but they could both feel it hanging in the air heavy and tense. He would understand, even if he hated it, if Rhys wanted nothing more than to be away from him. He thought that what he was doing was right – he was taking out the bad guys, being a hero without so much as a thank you – but he knew that no one else would see it that way.

That was something that he was willing to accept. That he would never get the recognition and praise that he deserved, for getting rid of all of the criminals and monsters that he could get his hands on. Still, that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

Rhys nodded minutely, “A little.” he admitted, he let out a shaky sigh. “N-no matter how scared I am right now, it’s nothing compared to how much I was afraid being…” his face screwed up into a disgusted, pained expression. “In this fucking place.” He gestured vaguely around the space.

Jack walked towards Rhys purposefully, until they were so close that they were nearly touching hip to hip. Rhys practically stumbled into the older mans’ chest and Jack ran his fingers through his hair, soothing down the auburn locks with love and adoration in his touch. “What did they do to you?”

Rhys didn’t answer, he just pressed tighter against Jack and took comfort in his chest. He didn’t want to talk about that – not right now. No, he couldn’t do this right now. He decided to change the subject to something more comfortable. “Do you do this a lot?” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

“Define a lot.” Jack countered, with a smile as he took a baby step towards Rhys. He didn’t want to scare the younger man any more than he already had. He wanted Rhys to feel safe with him always, even now, as crazy as that might be.

Rhys let out a quiet huff, “Okay…” He replied suspiciously, his morbid curiosity taking over for him in moments. “Why do you do it, then?” He asked.

“There’s so much scum out there.” Jack explained in a wistful sort of way. “Bandits, rapists, people who hurt people. Someone’s gotta take care of ‘em, right? That’s where I come in.” The way that Jack framed it made him come off as some kind of hero. Despite knowing that it was wrong, that what he had just done was wrong, Rhys couldn’t help but be drawn in by his words.

Rhys didn’t say anything for a moment, too floored to speak. “I guess that makes sense.” He admitted. Then a strange thought crossed his mind,“Did you know about what they’re doing here? Before I told you about what they’ve done to me?” He asked, wondering if he had been coming for them the whole time.

Jack laughed at that, “Ah, cupcake, you are overestimatin’ me.” He replied, his tone good humored and pleasant. “Not that I don’t love it! it’s cute. But, uh, no, I was just-” He kept laughing, but it petered down a bit until it was quieter. “I’m on the road a lot. I end up in places like this a lot. Usually, it’s a lot more boring than this.”

“Sorry.” Rhys mumbled so quietly that Jack could barely hear him. He looked down at the ground, in shame. He felt like he had done something terribly wrong – just by existing and inconveniencing everyone with his dirtiness. His wrongness.

Jack couldn’t understand what he meant. “What do you have to be sorry for?” He asked. Rhys didn’t reply, he just trembled in his arms. He felt rage deep in his bones, at what had been done to his soulmate. They would get what was coming to them. But for now, they needed to get out of here and onto the road. “Come on,” He said, finally, with a gentle smile on his face. “Let’s get out of here. You’re too good for this place, Rhysie. You always were.” Rhys shook his head. There was no way that he’d believe that if he knew him better, he thought.

“Wait… I need to do something first.” Rhys explained. “Give me, like, five minutes.” He added quickly, before he was running down the hall. There were others here, but they wouldn’t be able to here everything that went on – the walls were soundproofed, when they were in those rooms they couldn’t hear a thing that was going on outside their doors.

Rhys walked into each and every one of the rooms that he knew were filled with the girls and boys he had worked with for years – he told each and every one of them, personally that they were free to go now, but they had to leave before anyone more important than Vasquez came to check on them. He knew that none of them would miss the chance to ransack the place and run as soon as possible.

Then they were on their way out. The next thing that Rhys knew, he was laying on a bed in an incredibly luxurious caravan as Jack drove him away from everything that he ever knew. He fell asleep faster than he ever had before. For the first time in his life, Rhys slept well without the aid of anything but the feeling of strong arms wrapped around his waist. For the first time in his life, he felt well and truly safe. For the first time in his life, he felt loved and protected.

There had been a lot of firsts that day. There were bound to be a lot more for them, in their future.

[geewithluv]

ESOTERIC [three]

ESOTERIC: intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest.

The ins and outs of the prominent gang, Bangtan, can seem esoteric to the general population that is most affected by their actions.

Ｓｙｎｏｐｓｉｓ： ❝ Jimin is going to take over Bangtan after Hitman falls ill. Not feeling confident that Jimin is ready, Hitman pulls in the pacifistic daughter of a (now deceased) close associate. Kit hasn’t been around Bangtan for years, but now she’s forced to in order to help the remaining members of her family. ❞ Ｐａｉｒｉｎｇ：Jimin x Female OC (ft. the rest of BTS) Ｇｅｎｒｅ：mafia!au, kinda angst? diet angst Ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ： cursing, a tiny smut scene, mentions of drug addiction Ｗｏｒｄ Ｃｏｕｎｔ：4k

Ｒａｔｉｎｇ：18+

ｍａｓｔｅｒｌｉｓｔ [part one] [part two]

“Does 23 need more fluids? Or is 22 crying for pain meds?” Kit walked behind the desk of the nurses' station to speak to the charge nurse that paged her.

 “Personal call, line 3.” Elaine spoke bluntly as she took a couple of purple folders.

 “Personal call?” Kit asked as she moved toward the phone. There are hardly ever personal calls for the staff, and especially not for Kit...

 “That’s all they said, honey.” Elaine informed her before she slipped into a patient's room, Kit’s eyebrows furrowed as she picked up the phone.

 “Kit Briar.” She said as the phone connected.

 “Miss Briar, this is Dr. Stephenson from Smooth Sailing Rehab in Ph--”

 “I’m aware,” she cut the man off, there was no time for his spiel, “did something happen to Oliver?” Kit wrapped her fingers around the neckline of her scrubs, tugging slightly. The therapist she had when she was 15 pops into her mind as she begins to control her breathing.

 “As I’m sure you’re aware, Smooth Sailing has very intricate security measures in place to ensure the optimal amount of safety for all of our patients.” The man spoke as if he was trying to remain calm, but the slight waver sent Kit’s mind wondering how hard it would be to grab some Xanax from the hospital pharmacy. “We are afraid that your brother has left the premises.”

 “He’s not dead.” Kit let out a breath. Relief flows through her body.

 “No, he’s not.”

 “Well that’s -- what the hell do you mean ‘left the premises’?!” Kit practically yelled into the phone as the words settled in.

 “We tried to get in contact with you as soon as we noticed he was missing, we left a message with the other emergency contact.” Kit paced as far as the phone cord would let her. 

 “The other emergency contact? What other emergency contact do you have for him? Everyone he knows probably should have checked into your ‘top of the line’ establishment with him! Our mother has been bedridden for years so she’s not answering the phone for anyone. Who the hell did you talk to?!”

 “Uh…” The doctor trails off, Kit can hear him moving papers around. “His name was...Jimmy? I think.”

 “Jimmy?” Kit almost lost the remaining composure she had left. Who was Jimmy? And why was he an emergency contact… wait... “Jimin! That little--” She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. “You guys have cameras, right. Please tell me you’ve got cameras.” She practically begs at this point. Hitman wouldn’t have sent her brother to a borderline functioning rehab, at least she thought. Now she doesn’t know what to think.

“He only appears on one security camera leaving the premises on foot, we have police searching the area.”

 “How in God's name did you lose a detoxing addict! He couldn’t have possibly been fully out of withdrawal yet! He’s tall ethnically-ambiguous looking dumbass with tattoos that only emphasize his ongoing drug problem. He’s hard to miss!” Kit has drawn the attention of a couple of patients at this point.

 “It’s harder than you think.” The man mutters. “I assure you that we are trying to figure out how this has happened, we are certain he couldn’t have gone far. He said he doesn’t know anyone in Arizona at all and was without a car. We still have his personal belongings including his ID.”

 “You better hope with everything you’ve got that he’s found safe and sound. Thanks for calling Dr. Stephenson.” Kit hangs up before the doctor can speak again. 

  “You need to go home, this is a family emergency.” Elaine followed Kit back to the nurses' station as she pulled her greying hair into a clip.

 “I’m fine, Elaine. My brother is just stupid. They’ll find him and bring him back or they’ll arrest him.” Kit shrugged it off. Work was a distraction, it could be aggravating. But it was a distraction nevertheless.

 “I don’t think you’re fine.” Elaine scoffed. “You damn near stabbed a hole into a bag of saline trying to hang it up.”

 “The hole for the hook isn’t large enough.” She grumbled, balling her fists to keep from raking her fingers through her already heavily disheveled hair.

 “I’ve never seen someone so angrily push morphine.”

 “Who makes a pain killer you have to administer slowly or else the patient will get sick! I’ve got other people to treat and I have to spend 5 minutes pushing a dose of morphine.” The younger woman shot back.

 “Go home, Kit. It’s not a suggestion anymore, it’s an order.” At the woman’s stern words, Kit groaned and leaned against the desk. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

 “Okay.” She said softly, taking her pager off and making her way to the locker room.

  5 missed calls, 3 voicemails, and 17 text messages flood Kit’s notifications as she turned her phone back on. 2 calls from the rehab along with a voice mail, the rest of the notifications come from Jimin. She doesn’t listen to any of the voicemails, opting to read the automated transcript and filling in the blanks that her phone couldn’t decipher. Technology has come so far, but not far enough. She didn’t know if she was honestly upset that Jimin was another emergency contact for her brother, or if she just needed more people to be mad at besides Oliver.

 Kit sat in her car for 10 minutes only calling Oliver’s phone. Leaving a voicemail every other call. She knew, deep in her mind, that he didn’t even have his phone on him. But she hoped that maybe he’d be able to sense she was freaking out.

 “I cannot believe this idiot!” She yelled to no one as she pulled out of the garage.

  “Maybe you should just leave her be.” Namjoon suggested to Jimin as he grabbed a jacket.

 “She’s probably losing her mind.” Jimin picked up his car keys, not in the mood to argue.

 “And? Her brother just went MIA from rehab in a state he’d never been to before. She’s understandably worried.” Namjoon continued to be a voice of reason, but Jimin, as always, refused to understand that. He glared at the taller man.

 “Which is why I need to make sure she’s okay.” He said before walking out of the house.

  “You keep a key under the doormat? Are you trying to get robbed?” Jimin scoffed as he entered Kit’s apartment, ignoring how she was standing, clearly scared of whoever was entering her home uninvited.

 “What the fuck are you doing in my house?!” Kit shouted as Jimin shrugged his coat off and threw it on the coffee table. He ignored the anger he had hardly seen from her before.

 “You didn’t respond to me.” He set the spare key on the table.

 “For a reason, Jimin! You can’t just walk into my home uninvited because I didn’t text you back!” She sat back down on the sofa.

 “Uh, yeah, I can. I wouldn’t be able too if you kept a spare key somewhere less obvious.”

 “You’d just break the door down.” She rolled her eyes as she brought her legs up to her chest.

 “Maybe, anyway, I was worried someone killed you or something, you should've just answered your phone. I can tell you’re not doing well, so it’s good that I’m here.” He smiled as if he had done her a favor.

 “You’re ridiculous.” She scoffed. “Of course I’m not doing well, my brother is gone and somehow bypassed a whole crew of security guards. How could I be calm?” Her feet hit the floor with a noise louder than she would usually allow, having often scolding Jimin for stomping.

 Jimin crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe he just didn’t want to be there, I don’t blame him.”

 “He wouldn’t just leave, Jimin. He wouldn’t. He knew he needed to get clean. I just--” she sniffled, “I just talked to him yesterday and he was so excited to finally be sober.” She held down her desire to cry. Jimin’s jaw tensed seeing her try so hard to not break, he realized he hadn’t understood how this was really impacting her. He sat down beside her, pulling her into his side.

 “It’s going to be fine, he’ll be just fine. You know I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.” His voice softened as he started threading his hand in her hair, softly detangling her curls. He wasn’t actually sure, but he knew she needed to hear it, even if that meant she’d yell at him later for lying.

 “I know.” She whispered. “He kept me safe for so long, I want to do the same for him.”

 “It’s not your job to keep him safe, Oliver made the decision to start popping pills by himself. That’s on him. Not you. I know it’s hard, because he’s your brother, and you love him. But you can’t blame yourself and I can see it in your eyes that you’re blaming yourself. You have nothing to do with it. Oliver can handle himself, you know that, and even I know that. He’s fine, he’s just being really stupid and reckless right now.”

 “I hope you’re right…” Kit shifted her body to face him. “The Oliver I know wouldn’t…” she pulled on the loose string from her tank top, “wouldn’t leave me here wondering where he was and if he was okay.” She hiccupped softly as a few tears roll down her cheeks. “Even though we’ve been distant since mom got sick and he got...sick. We’ve always checked in. Always.”

 “He’s not in his right mind.” Jimin tried to explain. “If he was then he wouldn’t have left, and he wouldn’t have let you worry.” He bit his inner cheek and tried to choose words carefully. “The rehab is in a fairly secluded place, he won’t get far so they’ll find him. He might even come to his senses and go back on his own. He’s scared.”

 “Of what?” Kit looked at him through tears. “Scared to get clean? Scared to have a life that doesn’t revolve around drugs? Why would he be scared of that?”

 “It’s...” Jimin sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He blew out his cheeks before speaking again. “It’s just scary to accept that your life has gone wrong. You just think about the bad place you were in that made you turn to drugs. Or maybe you don’t even remember life before drugs. So maybe you’re afraid of getting back to normal life and normal life is shit and you can’t get high anymore to avoid how shitty it is.” Jimin rants before shaking his head, looking up at the ceiling. “There are lots of reasons it’s scary for lots of different people.” 

 “Oh.” Kit was surprised to hear his answer, she wanted to ask how he knew so well, but she refrained from what would probably be a personal and upsetting answer.

 “Do you want me to make you some tea?” He asked after a moment of quiet.

 “You don’t know how I like it.”

 “Yeah, I do.” He said, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “Way too sweet. You don’t need 3 spoonfuls of sugar in your tea. And especially not 4. 2 is more than enough. You also hardly get the water steaming because you want to drink it as soon as it’s done instead of waiting for it to cool down. You don’t steep your tea for 5 minutes like you’re supposed to because you're impatient so you only wait 3 minutes. But sometimes you hardly wait at all like a heathen--”

 “I get it, I get it.” She stopped him with a wave of her hand.

 He smiled, bringing his face close to hers. “I know how you like your tea, kitten.” He softly pecked her lips before standing and quickly making his way to her kitchen leaving her to wonder if he had actually just kissed her or her she imagined it in her panicked state of mind. Kit pulls Netflix up on the television and after some fiddling, Ellen Pompeo’s voice fills the apartment. “You’ve been watching Grey’s Anatomy without me?” Jimin asked in shock.

 “I was mad at you.” Kit said, a teasing smile on her face.

 “What did I do to earn this betrayal?” He comes back into the living room with her cup of tea, just the way she likes it.

 “You’re my brother’s emergency contact.” She said. “Also you’re too cute to be so mean.” Kit pouted and Jimin swore his heart melted.

 “Mean!” He said as if he had never been called such a thing before, to be fair the things he was usually called were a lot harsher. “I’ll ignore that if we get back to the cute part. I’ll have you know I am a very sexy man. Not cute.” Kit shook her head.

 “You’re adorable, but also mean.” She laughed.

 “Oh! I’ll show you mean!” Jimin said before reaching out to tickle her sides. Her giggles fill his ears. 

 “Jimin!” She squealed trying to push him off of her. “Jimin! You asshole!”

 “Take it back!” He laughed along with her.

 “I take it back! I take it back!”

 “See, was that so hard?” He pulls off of her, still hovering over her on the sofa. Kit doesn’t respond, instead, he gets lost in his eyes. “What?” He said softly.

 “Nothing.” Kit whispered, a hint of a smile on her face.

 “Would it be a bad idea to kiss you right now?” Kit quickly shakes her head in response. In less than a second, his lips are on hers, tasting the sugary sweet tea on her tongue.

 “Would it be a bad idea,” Kit started when they break the kiss, “to do more than just kiss you right now?” Jimin thought he stopped breathing for a moment.

 “What would you…” He gives her a small kiss. “...want to do?” His hands move delicately along her sides.

 “Don’t make me say it.” Kit mumbled, closing her eyes.

 “Tell me what you want, babygirl. Wanna hear you say it.” He starts dusting his lips over her jawline.

 “I want you to… to… fuck me.” She clenches her eyes tight as she feels embarrassment run through her body.

 “That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” he teased. “Let’s go to your bedroom so I can give you what you want.” Before Kit can fully register what he said, he’s already leaving the living room. She looks over at him shocked. “You coming?” He smirked looking back at her. Kit nodded before stumbling off the sofa and following him to her bedroom. By the time she enters, Jimin is already pulling his shirt over his head. “Sit down on the bed.” Jimin commanded and she quietly obeyed. Jimin walks over to her, kneeling on the floor to kiss her. He pulled her tank top off, tossing it onto the floor beside them. Kit watches every move he makes wide-eyed. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

 “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Kit nodded, steadying her breath.

 “Just checking.” He hummed. “Lay back, kitten.” He said while gently pushing her. Jimin yanks her bottoms and underwear off of her in one smooth motion. “Can already see how wet you are. Just for me?” Kit hums a ‘yes’. He moves her legs onto his shoulders, moving his arms over them and locking his hands just below her navel. He starts kissing her inner thighs. “Bet you taste so good. Want me to taste you, babygirl?” Jimin saw her nod and heard her soft moan. “Use your words.” He demands, lightly biting her thigh. 

 “Yes… yes please, Jimin.” 

 “Good girl.” He praised her before licking a smooth stripe from her hole to her pulsing clit. Kit let out an exasperated moan. “Taste even better than I could’ve imagined.” He said before sucking her clit into his mouth. Kit tries to arch her back up to him but he stops her, holding her down on the bed, forcing her to fall victim to his tongue.

 After what feels like an eternity or even longer, Jimin releases her clit from his attack, he licks up her folds again before concentrating on her hole, tongue-fucking her and groaning while he tastes her juices flowing into his mouth. Jimin noticed her moans grow more frequent and louder in volume and used it as motivation. He puts his attention back on her clit and moves to grab her hips, pulling her core closer to his mouth. 

 “Jimin, I’m...I’m gonna cum…” She stumbles, her hands clench the sheets as he sucks the tiny ball of nerves. His nails lightly digging into her skin as she starts trembling and involuntarily moving away from him. Kit lets out a cry as she cums and Jimin starts to slow, not completely stopping as he helps her ride out her orgasm.

 “Goddamn, kitten.” Is all he says, a big smile on his face as he climbs back on the bed, rubbing the remnants of her orgasm off on the back of his hand. Jimin kissed her passionately, his tongue swirling on hers making her taste herself on him. He started pushing his own pants off. “Move up.” Jimin directed, tossing his pants and boxer briefs aside as he watches an already worn-out Kit move up to the head of the bed, slightly perched up against the pillows.

 “I want you.” Fell from her lips. “Want you in me.” It comes out almost a cry.

 “Hold on, kitten. Gonna give you what you want.” He moved over her, spreading her legs with one hand. “Look at me when I fill you up.” Jimin commanded, dark hair falling into his face as the leaking head of his cock brushes up against her hole. Kit’s eyes met his, silently pleading before closing shut when he pushes in her. “Look at me.” Jimin’s voice was harsher, he grips her jaw, staring deep into her eyes. “Good girl.” He hummed as he moves more. A cry of satisfaction melds with his own grunts as he fully fills her.

 “Feel so good in me.” Kit sputtered as Jimin started moving. Slowly pulling out before powerfully thrusting into her. Jimin praises her, tells her how good she’s doing, how good she feels, as fucks her. The sound of her moans and the feeling of her clenching around him as she gets close to another wave has him with his head in the crook of her neck. 

 “Gonna make me cum, kitten. Gonna cum for you.” He rambles, holding on long enough for her to cum around him before he pulls out, cumming onto her stomach. “Holy shit…” Jimin breathed out.

 “Yeah.” Kit mutters what can be considered a response, too out of breath and in a daze to figure out something else. He captured her lips in a quick kiss. 

 “Let me clean you off.” He said as he stood, making his way to her bathroom. With a warm damp washcloth, he comes back over to her. “You’re so good to me.” He told her as he cleaned her up. 

 “You say as you clean me.” She softly giggles, her voice sleepy, as he runs the washcloth over her thighs. “You’re so good to me.”

 “We can be good to each other, then.” He smiled, kissing her cheek and rushing off to put the washcloth back in her bathroom.

  Kit and Jimin spend an hour cuddled in her bed, naked, with yet another episode of Grey’s Anatomy playing despite being focused more on each other than whatever drama was happening in the fictional hospital. Kit was finally about to work up the strength to ask Jimin about their relationship when the unfamiliar sound of her doorbell ringing startled both of them. 

 “Who the--” Jimin gets up first, fishing for his pocket knife somewhere in his discarded jeans, his heart rate quickly increasing.

 “Probably my landlord. Maybe those girl scouts from down the hall. Just stay here.” Kit grabbed her robe, wrapping it around herself as she went towards her door. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looks out the peephole and no one is there.

 “Who is it?” Jimin comes out to the living room, now with his jeans back on but still shirtless. His pocket knife is now in his hand.

 “I dunno, there’s no one out there.” She looked over at him briefly.

 “They might be hiding.” He moved in front of her, unlocking the door carefully. Kit watched him look out into the hall.

 “Jimin…” He murmured acknowledgment, still on guard. “There’s a package.”

 “Wh-- oh.” He bends down to pick it up. Jimin walked back into the apartment, the door automatically closing behind him. He took a deep breath, unsure if any of his rivals are interested in making explosives, and opened the box. Nothing. Well, nothing bomb-related. But there is something.

 “Who sent me a gun?” Kit exclaimed as she peered into the box.

 “No one sent it. There’s no mailing label. They dropped it off here.” Jimin’s jaw tightened as he took it out. He knew precisely whose gun it was. “A phone?” He picked it up, holding it out to her. 

 “Oh my god…” Kit gasped, yanking the cell phone from him.

 “What the fuck is wrong with you! It could be a--”

 “It’s Oliver’s phone.” She cried. Her mind now running a mile a minute. As she turns the device on. “Olly...what did they do with Olly?” Her eyes start watering as she looks between the phone and the gun.

 “Are you sure it’s his phone?” Jimin sighed as he stared down at the gold-accented gun. ‘This is not good’ is all Jimin could think.

 “Yes! Of course, I’m sure! This is his case, it’s custom-made. You can’t buy it anywhere.” She sniffled, the phone now lights up. The lock screen is an old family photo of Oliver, Kit, and their parents. 

 “Fuck.” Jimin said to himself as Kit starts sobbing. He ran his fingers through his hair wondering how to connect Jin’s gun to Oliver’s phone. Ignoring Kit, Jimin grabs his phone. He tries to relax his muscles as he calls Jin.

 “Hey, man. Thought you were with Kit wha--”

 “She just got a box dropped off.” Jimin said bluntly.

 “Oh? Oh!  That’s very bad. That means someone knows where she lives, but what are you calling me for?”

 “I know what that means dumbass! I’m calling you because the only things in the box were her brother’s cell phone and that damn prized gun of yours.”

 “My gun? The one with the gold plated design that I got for my 21st birthday? That gun?”

 “Yes, that gun.”

 “I thought it was lost in the fire, I kept it at the restaurant--”

 “I know. So why was it given to Kit?” Talking to Jin was never calming for Jimin.

 “I dunno, man. Maybe the fire and her brother going MIA are connected.”

 “Oliver wouldn’t set the restaurant on fire, would he?” Jimin asked, Kit perks up, face filled with worry. She wanted to scream at Jimin for even thinking such a thing about her brother but she couldn’t form words fast enough.

 “No? I don’t think so. I mean he was waiting for the supply to come in so he could buy some more molly, maybe coke. I don’t remember. I don’t think he’d burn it. Especially not before buying anything.”

 Jimin sighed. “There’s a reason. Someone had both these items Jin, there aren’t many solutions.”

 “I know, I know. I’ll talk to the guys. You coming back tonight?”

 “Yeah, I’m bringing Kit. She can’t stay here.” He glanced over at her.

 Kit scoffed. “You can’t just take me!” She tried to argue as Jimin ended the call.

 “It’s not safe here, whoever the hell sent this shit knows where you live. I can’t protect you alone. This building isn’t secure.”

 “I’ll be fine!” Kit stood from her dining table. She knew it wasn’t worth arguing about. Jimin made up his mind.

 “Get dressed, we’re going back to the house.” Jimin said, pressing his lips to hers before she could protest.

FIN part 3. Okay so my life got really crazy so sorry for not updating. I moved suddenly and got a job so I’m a little more settled now. Hope to update soon.

[mohini-musing]

Given with the best intentions

Getting Steve drunk seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do with their Friday night. The only snag was that he wasn’t the one Steve asked to get him there. That would be Tasha. Hell on wheels, all the high, all the drunk, all the fucking time Tasha. She assured him that she had a plan. That might have been the right time to back out of any involvement with the flying circus, but no, James doesn’t learn from experience. He needs to learn his lessons on repeat.

Case in point, the current plan. Steve is a cuddly drunk. It’s not a thing that surprises James, but the really cuddly, draping himself over Tasha’s shoulder as though he doesn’t outweigh her by a hundred pounds, asking why the floor keeps moving version is a bit much. Even Tasha is looking a bit unnerved by it, and she’s been known to be vicious when she hits the end of how much touch she can tolerate.

“Steve? You wanna go outside for a bit?” James tries, a hand on Steve’s shoulder and thumb rubbing circles in attempt to distract him from his current obsession with petting Tasha’s hair. If she’s popping pills while she’s allegedly in charge of operation get Steve toasted it’s going to end well. Really, really well. Bit like most of her good ideas, really.

“I like it here,” he shoots back, and he nuzzles Tasha while he does it. She looks murderous. Also a bit like she needs more of whatever she’s popping if Steve’s going to survive the night.

“I think Tash likes it less than you do,” James tries again, this time wrapping his hand around Steve’s shoulder and tugging him upright. That leads to a stumbling step backwards and both James and Tasha grabbing for him to keep him on his feet.

Steve looks at him, confused, and drops his head to James’ shoulder.

“S’ry,” he mumbles. It’s not exactly slurring, more just missing pieces. James looks at Tasha with eyebrows raised. Drunk is one thing, but this does not sound like drunk.

“Xanax,” she says, as though that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

“You dosed my boyfriend with Xanax?” James sputters. Seriously, he left the pair of them unsupervised for all of a ten-minute period while he went to feed the meter. Hazard of downtown bars. No parking and overenthusiastic towing companies.

“He was sad.”

That, at least, makes sense. Tasha’s response to any emotion on either end of the spectrum is a pill, a powder, or a bottle of something vodka scented. He’s been on the receiving end of her helpful efforts. Not that he minds. Nothing wrong with a little chemical assistance once in a while. But throwing benzos into the mix for Steve’s maiden voyage into the land of really drunk might be a touch more than was strictly necessary.

“Sad?” Steve asks, picking up on the exchange a little on the late end. James tries to add of the drinks he’s seen him down and comes up blank. Tasha was giving him something in the car on the way into town, explaining the concept of pre-gaming to him like he was in need of a basic tutorial on how to be a person. Maybe he was, since James is also coming up blank on the number of times he’s seen Steve anything more than slightly tipsy. He knows there have been several mixed drinks, including something called Nightmare Fuel because why not. It’s a favorite of Tasha’s, a lethal combination of vodka and something sugary.

“You’re not sad now, right love?” Tasha prompts, her voice shooting up to a pitch generally employed by preschool teachers.

“Feel nice,” Steve replies, nodding emphatically to illustrate exactly how fucked they are all going to be in the hopefully distant future. He’s 200 pounds of near solid muscle and James is willing to pray to gods who haven’t been worshipped since the fall of Rome if it will get them home before whatever is in his system takes full effect.

“I think we should go home,” Tasha suggests, picking up on the vibe of things heading downhill soon. “Watch a movie? It’s getting crowded in here.” She glances around at the darkened space, bodies crowding the room and music reverberating off the walls. It’s a club. They’re crowded by design, but she employs her very best get her way from everyone expression and Steve smiles a bright, blitzed grin.

“Wh’tever you want, sweetheart.”

Tasha blanches. That’s James’s name for her. And only his. Steve’s too far gone to notice, and Tasha takes a long, slow breath before biting her lower lip. It’s reassuring proof that she’s a little high but still present enough to stay grounded. James has a feeling he’s going to need her help before the night’s up. She takes Steve’s hand and tugs him along beside her, reaching back to grab James’s hand as well.

They’re out of the club and into the cool night air of early springtime when the first snag in operation get home before things go wrong hits. Steve stumbles over an uneven bit of concrete and since he’s on the other side of Tasha it’s not possible to grab him before he yanks her off balance and into a bike rack. The pair of them bounce against metal with a resounding clang. Tasha’s back on her feet almost immediately, but Steve hits the sidewalk in a heap of uncoordinated limbs.

“I fell down,” he tells them, smiling like an idiot.

“Fuck,” Tasha mutters.

“That you did,” James says, shaking his head as he hauls Steve back to his feet. He gauges the distance to the car, hoping the two remaining blocks are manageable. Retrieving the car and coming back for them is an option, but no one he wants to use. Steve’s much bigger than Tasha and though she’s unlikely to spook with him, it’s still not a risk James wants to take.

He loops his arm around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close enough to keep him on his feet in case of further sidewalk issues. Two blocks aren’t that long. He can definitely haul his drunk boyfriend that far. He glances at Tasha to check on her and finds that she’s pulling something out of a pocket and putting it to her lips. Being yanked down by mister uncoordinated couldn’t possibly have been fun. Tasha can hold her chemicals. So it’s fine. Probably. Hopefully.

Two blocks make a very long distance when navigating them with Steve forgetting how his feet work. The third time he stumbles, Tasha grabs one of his arms and slings it over her shoulders before proceeding to tell him which foot to move in succession for the remainder of the walk. It’s ridiculous, and would be hilarious if not for Steve’s increasing distress at his loss of control over his body. Tasha picks up on the issue immediately, and adds in a stream of reassurances that everything is fine, that this is normal, and that he needs to relax and let himself drift. That last bit doesn’t seem to register, and if it does, it doesn’t sit well at all.

Steve mumbles something about not being his fucking father and that’s when James remembers that he’s only ever heard of old man Rogers in the vaguest of terms. Things like a mention of him in a recounting of family holidays and such. Even James, who grew up in a long series of not homes, has more memories of his biological contributors than that.

Tasha connects the dots about the same time he does, and is right there with a calm assurance that none of them are their fucking parents and that Steve needs to stay here and now for a bit. He nods and mumbles that he’s sorry.

“Nope. Not apologizing for being human tonight, dumbass,” she shoots back. “We’re going to get you home, watch a movie, and be nice and fucked up together. Now walk. Car’s right there.”

Steve nods, and shuffles obediently the last few yards to the car. Despite Tasha’s usual obstinate attitude regarding the front seat and her absolute right to it, she’s the one who directs Steve into what they’ve all come to think of as her seat. She buckles him in like a toddler and closes the door, sliding into the seat behind him and leaning forward with a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Grounding him in exactly the way she prefers from James. Present. But not pushy.

Home isn’t far, just ten-minute drive from the center of town. Ten minutes are very long when they’re full of Steve muttering about how he’s never doing this again as Tasha turns steadily more grey in the backseat. By the time they pull into the drive, she’s breathing in long, slow breaths and closing her eyes for ever increasing periods. There really, really isn’t time to deal with a carsick Tasha and a blitzed Steve. Not that it matters how much time there is.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” James grumbles.

“I’ve had better nightmares. Give me ten,” Tasha growls at him, stalking toward the front door and disappearing into the house. James weighs the options of going after her or waiting with Steve. He decides that of the two of them, Steve’s probably the one less equipped to handle himself.

When she returns, her eyes are a little red but she’s no less pale than usual and steady on her feet.

“Alright, let’s get our boy in the house,” she orders, opening Steve’s door and releasing the buckle.

“M’na your boy,” Steve whispers, and the breathy quality of the words is less drunk than frightened. James is well on his way to wondering just what exactly he doesn’t know about this man he loves. He’s never seen even a hint of trauma reaction out of him. Certainly nothing like what he sees in Tasha or himself. He has no idea if Steve does quiet panic or a full out fight.

“Steve? Whatcha thinking about?” James asks, prompting Tasha away from him with a gentle nudge against her hip. She doesn’t need further explanation and steps well clear of the pair of them, hurrying ahead to hold the door open.

“S’okay,” Steve replies, but his eyes have gone too far away from those words to hold even a hint of truth.

“In vino veritas,” Tasha recites, her voice soft and gentle but somehow ominous as well. Truth can be a tricky thing, especially when it comes to the kind found in a bottle.

[fifty-first-worstidea]

Ladies, Gentleman, And Gremlins Of The Internet, May I Present To You The Dysfunctional Family Au For The Ericson’s Crew

Hey, that rhymes.

Basically, the children of TFS just can’t catch a break and end up with some interesting twists to their character.

Clementine: Dementia

Sometimes her lack of judgement causes her to make the wrong choices, which result in somewhat serious consequences (Player making choices)

Sometimes she will not be able to get a sense of distance and fail at simple tasks (Quick time events)

AJ: Misophonia

Gets angry at the sound of somebody slamming a door, feels sad when he hears somebody crying

The computer doesn’t understand what Misophonia is and honestly I feel smart

Louis: Insomnia, mute

Finds it hard to communicate because sometimes he’s too tired to sign

As Violet’s roommate, he often asks her to sing him to sleep because otherwise he has a hard time catching his Z’s

Violet: Schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder

In the presence of people who may be violent or emotionally unstable she sees crows perched on objects that sometimes try to talk her. What they’re saying is indiscernible but it gives her some kind of clue as to what’s in the room

Her childhood has a big effect on her personality. Being told to shut up at a young age took it’s toll and now hearing her talk is rare. It may be part of the reason she’s such good friends with Louis

Marlon: Bipolar disorder

More often than not he’s angry or sad, and there is no in between. He has scars on his knuckles from all the punching he does to walls in his spare time. Marlon feels like it’s the only time he gets to blow off steam

Often yelling at people and apologizing five minutes later, rat man Marlon has a hard time getting a grip on his feelings. He tries to warn people about his disorder when he first meets them

Mitch: Dissociative identity disorder

While he doesn’t have a name for his second personality, but it has a soft spot for his fellow troubled youth. It’s defined by its increased sympathy and lack of aggression

Mitch’s other personality is often preferred by the more mentally delicate kids, including Violet and Tenn. While otherwise unapproachable by them, he still has a slight guilt for how vulnerable they are no matter what persona he takes on

Ruby: Alzheimer's/short-term memory loss

Ruby struggles to remember names, but she can remember faces pretty well. Try not to get offended if she never addresses you by name

She has forgotten people themselves before, even Violet, who is around in her life often. When she couldn’t remember Vi’s name she was a bit confused as to why Vi started tearing up

Tennessee: Post traumatic stress disorder

Tenn cowers in fear at the sight of flames. He could never get used to them after the explosion that left a portion of his face burnt

He can struggle to open up to people, especially if they have a love for fire. This makes for a rocky relationship with Mitch and Willy

Aasim: Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder

He has a hard time paying attention to other things once his book is opened. It sort of melts his ability to multitask, making it necessary to pull the book from his gaze and talk to him head-on

Aasim is always frustrated about his hyperfixations, but lately he’s been trying to be more laid-back about them. He thinks he might be getting better at remembering that the world still exists while he’s reading

Omar: Synesthesia

Omar considers his disorder a gift, and his cooking an art. Though others may not experience it, he tries to create sort of an art out of food, because he can “taste the rainbow,” as the cool kids call it nowadays

The reason he’s so picky about his food is the same reason an artist might be dissatisfied by their pieces. It can be hard to get everything exactly right. That may be why he wants to improve and become a famous chef one day

Brody: Generalized anxiety disorder

Ah, yes, nervous little Brody. Her Xanax tablets don’t stand a chance when she’s feeling awfully anxious about something... which is to say, she’s nervous about everything. She closed herself off in her room a while ago; the only people to visit her are Marlon and Violet, who have been her best friends ever since she showed up to the sanatorium

She once listened to Violet’s descriptions of the things she sees that nobody else does and immediately thought to herself that at least her disorder could be worse. She takes a great pity in Violet’s condition and is almost hyper-tuned in to her best friend’s emotions or thoughts

Willy: Autism

Often sort of let down by the staff of the hell these misfits call home, Willy has few friends to trust in. Mitch, James, and Violet or sort of like his parents. They’ve all contributed to making him a unique character that knows how to love and accept himself as he is

He has a surprising passion for knitting, and thinks it’s kind of similar to how Tenn draws and Omar cooks. It’s safe to say Willy learns by connecting dots. James and Violet find his thinking fascinating and have had a few conversations about it when they find it harder to sleep

Minerva & Sophie: Depression

Minerva is a dead giveaway when you first meet her- she’s not the best at hiding away her flaws when the staff come around to check on the kids they’re in charge of. She’s not suicidal, she just finds that happiness is hard to reach for and keep in your back pocket

Sophie’s a bit more of a surprise. As somebody with a bubbly pastel aesthetic nobody expects her dark personality and sad thoughts. She’s more aggressive than Minerva and is a bit more unhinged, but it hasn’t gone past mental breakdowns, so the staff aren’t doing much right now

James: Borderline personality disorder

James is similar to Violet in a variety of ways, the biggest one being that they share a disorder. However, while Violet will stay silent for periods of time, James feels hostile and wants to throat punch somebody

He sucks at controlling his impulses to just hurt something or something. It can be overwhelming and whenever James faces his disorder he goes to Charlie for comfort

Charlie:Attention deficit disorder, generalized anxiety disorder

While his disorder doesn’t seem as severe as Aasim’s, it’s important to know that Charlie still has trouble catching what people say and can sometimes completely miss the words coming out of somebody’s mouth. Try to be patient with him when he asks you to repeat what you said fifty times

Despite his self-confidence on the surface, Charlie has a number of insecurities on the way he acts alone. He is often trying to evaluate himself to discover what needs improvement and what needs tweaks

Behold. My children. The troubled youth of Ericson’s Sanatorium or whatever. I dunno, pick the name yourselves. I just wanna protect all these overgrown toddlers who need hugs.

[spillinginkwithlove]

Fallen

Fallen - Chapter 1

It was just one of those days.   You know the ones, we’ve all had them, where literally every single thing that could go wrong does.

I woke up almost an hour late because I hit the off button instead of snooze which meant I didn’t have time to stop for coffee.   I barely had time to breathe.    At least I didn’t hit tons of traffic as I raced to the office.   Thankfully, I missed the morning rush hour.    Still, I barely made my nine o’clock meeting.   

In keeping with the trend of the day, that meeting went well over the allotted hour and definitely didn’t go as planned which resulted in the rest of my day being spent trying to fix someone else’s mistakes before I headed to LAX.   I had a huge, potentially life altering meeting set in London the very next day.  

“You realize your flight leaves in like three hours, right?”  Emily, my secretary asked as she ducked her head in my office. 

Looking at my watch, I was stunned. 

“Holy shit, I can’t believe it’s already five o’clock!”  I said, jumping out of my chair in a total panic.

Where the hell did the day go?!  

“Yeah, girl, you gotta go!”   Emily said as she helped me gather all the work I had yet to finish,  “You can do the rest on the plane.   The flights long enough.. Or, even in the morning.”

“Don’t remind me.”   I scoffed, zipping my bag closed,  “I just hope I packed my Xanax.”   

“You did, I checked.”   Emily laughed, rolling my carry on bag to the door.  

Walking to the door, my bag over my shoulder and my coat in my arms, I grabbed the handle of the suitcase I was smart enough to pack last night and bring with me today.    

“Wait,”  Emily shouted,  “Don’t forget your passport!”

This was the absolute longest drive to the airport I think I ever had.    I was down to about an hour and a forty-five minutes before my flight was to depart when I caught a glimpse of the highway sign for the LAX exit.   

If I make this flight, it’s going to be a freakin miracle.  

As soon as we pulled up to the terminal, I threw the fare at the driver, thanking him as I yanked my bag clear and practically ran to the ticket counter.    

“Checking in?”  

“Yes...I’m sorry, I’m running late.”

Scanning my passport, the agent handed me my boarding pass and passport,  “It’s okay, I think you’ll make it.   Security isn’t really busy at the moment.”  

“Let’s hope!”  I lamented as I began to sprint towards the security check.

The TSA line looked long but was actually moving pretty quick so at least I had that going for me.   It was still going to be close.   If the doors are closed when I get to the gate, I’ll be fucked.    My schedule was tight this time and I knew if I missed this flight, I might as well stay home.  

Standing in line, I was impatient and visibly stressed.   I hate flying as it is so adding the day I’ve had onto that worry, I was a mess.   

“Are you okay, miss?”  the older gentleman in front of me asked as he happily waited seemingly without a care in the world.  

“Yes, I am, thank you.”   I sighed,   “Just running late and worried I’m going to miss my flight.”

After this man, it would finally be my turn.

“Next.”  The TSA agent said.

“You’re in a hurry,”  the man said,  “Go ahead.”

Surprised at his generosity, I couldn’t thank him enough.   

“Thank you so much!”  I exclaimed, quickly stepping around him and up to the agent.  

After clearing security, I glanced at my watch.   I literally had fifteen minutes to make it to the gate.   With my carry on suitcase dragging behind me and my bag over over my shoulder, I ran through the terminal towards my gate.   How I didn’t trip someone or myself, I’ll never know but I ended up making it with only minutes to spare.  

Walking up to the attendant, I handed her my boarding pass,  “I didn’t think I’d make it!”  I said, completely out of breath, my chest heaving.  

“Barely!”  She laughed,  “We we’re just getting ready to close the doors.”  

“Thank God for small miracles.”   I responded, finally catching my breath as I walked down the small corridor to the plane.  

As I found my seat, sliding down into the cushy leather chair, I took a deep breath.   Now that I made it, I could finally relax, at least a little bit.   I still hated flying but at this point, I was happy to be on the plane instead of sitting in the airport wishing I made it.   

Moving my things around, I was trying to situate myself and get comfortable.   I had work to do but didn’t feel like doing any of it at the moment.   

"Are you nervous?"  the man sitting next to me asked in a very deep, flirty voice. 

"Excuse me?"  I asked, making it clear I was not in the mood.

Little did he know that although he was cute, he was barking up the wrong tree.   

I wasn’t sure but if that was a pick up line, he was clueless.  I was so not in the mood to deal with a 'talker' let alone someone who uses cheesy pick up lines.  I had a terrible day and now have a twelve hour flight ahead of me.  I just wanted to be left alone.  

"No, I'm not."  I said pointedly then continued to situate myself.  

Yes, I was being cold.  Yes, I was being stand-offish.  And, yes, I was trying to give off the anti-social vibe.   

Leaning over, completely invading my personal space, "You seem nervous. You're very fidgety."   the man said. 

Apparently it didn’t work.  

Turning in my seat to face him,   "Am I annoying you?  Because if I am, I'm sure your seat can be moved."  I replied turning back in my seat.  

Moving back into his own seat, he laughed at my retort.  "Nah, I'm good." 

Is this man so dense that he doesn't see I have no desire to talk to him?  Men can be so blind. 

I say I hate flying but really, I don’t.   I don't mind smooth and steady.  It's the take off and landings that I'm not a fan of.  Oh, and turbulence.  Turbulence is very bad. 

The plane was completely boarded but passengers were still moving about and flight attendants were coming around to help with bags.   Thankfully, my company is very generous and when I’m flying for business, I’m always seated in first class.   Not only were the seats comfy but you’re always offered a pre-flight beverage and I was looking forward to it.  

"Excuse me,” said Michael, our flight attendant,  “Would you like something to drink before we depart, Miss Johnson?"  

"Yes, may I please have a glass of red wine?" 

Wine.  Wine makes everything better.   No, I take that back, wine and Xanax make everything better, I thought, as I dug through my purse looking for my prescription bottle.

"Mr. Leto, would you like something to drink before we take off?"  Michael then asked my annoying seat mate. 

"Yes, water, please."  He replied turning towards me since he was next to the window and I was in the isle seat. 

I kept my eyes forward not wanting to open any further conversation with "Mr. Leto".   His name sounded so familiar but I just couldn’t figure out why.    From what I could tell, not only does he not understand what personal boundaries are but he's also a total slob. 

I watched from the corner of my eye as he pulled his bag from under the seat.   It looked like a bomb went off inside it.   There was so much stuffed into it, I don't know how he could find anything in it.  

Wires tangled around headphones, magazines, books and loose papers sticking up from the pockets.  He even had what looked like small packages of nuts and dried fruit falling out on the floor as he continued to try to untangle everything.   I sat there, wanting desperately to shake my head at his messiness but I didn’t.   

Reaching for my bag, sitting nice and neat at my feet, I pulled out my iPad to listen to some music as I waited for Michael to bring my wine.  Slipping my earbuds in my ears,  I found my "travel" playlist, leaned my head back and closed my eyes.   The sooner I could relax in my 'happy' place, the better.  

I was finally at ease when I suddenly felt a bunch of crap being dumped on top of me and I jumped.  

"What are you doing?"  I asked, angered by the intrusion as I pulled my earbuds out. 

"Whoopsie, sorry."   Mr. Leto chuckled,  "My pile kinda slid your way, I couldn't stop it." he chuckled, reaching over to pick up all of his shit that toppled onto me from the small tray that separated us.  

I'm glad one of us thought this was funny because I was not amused.  We haven't even taken off yet and I already wanted to kill him. 

"No problem."  I replied with a tight smile, handing him a book that fell to the floor between my legs.  

“Won’t happen again.”   

I didn’t even respond, I just rolled my eyes before leaning back once again.   

My only thought....   Where the hell was my wine.    

Looking around, I saw Michael walking towards me with a glass of wine in his hand.   

Thank GOD!   

“Thank you, Michael.”   I said, as he handed me the glass then handed Mr. Leto the bottle of water he requested.  

"We're preparing for take off soon.  Please have everything stowed away under your seat with your seat belt fastened."   Michael explained.  

I nodded as I popped a Xanax in my mouth and washed it down with a sip of wine. 

"My name’s Jared."  Mr. Leto offered, leaning so far into my space, in order to avoid his intrusion half my body was hanging in the isle. 

“Do you not understand personal space, Jared?" 

"I'm sorry, Miss Johnson."  He smirked, moving back into his space,  “Nice to meet ya.”  

Jared extends his hand for me to shake which I did.   He continued shaking my hand with a questioning look on his face.   I tried pulling my hand back but he wouldn’t let go and I realized he was waiting for me to introduce myself.  

So irritating!  

"Emery, my name is Emery."  

"Nice to meet you, Emery."  Jared said,  finally letting my hand go, all pleased with himself.  

I smiled, then drained the rest of my wine.   This was going to be a long flight.  

“Can I take your glass?"  Michael asked. 

"Yes, thank you."  I said, handing him the glass then popping my earbuds back into my ears. 

Leaning back I tried to concentrate on the music as I felt the plane move from the gate.   I opened my eyes just slightly and could see us quickly rolling down the runway through the window Jared left open.    Pulling my seatbelt tighter then grabbing for the arm rests, I held on as if my life depended on it.     

'Please, let this be a smooth flight' I repeated to myself over and over as the g-force pressed my body deeper into the seat.  

“Nothing to it.”   Jared smiled.  

“Uh-huh.”   I agreed, trying to be polite.  

So far, the flight was smooth and that helped me to relax.   Well, that and the additional glass of wine Michael brought me as soon as we hit altitude.   

“Michael, you’re the best.”  I told him,  “Thank you.”   

This flight was an overnight flight from Los Angeles to London so we'd be stuck in this aluminum tube for about 12 hours.  Like I said before, it's a very long flight especially since it was direct.    My plan was to eat, pass out then wake up for breakfast just before we land.   I wanted to be awake as little as possible.    I had work to do but if everything went as planned, I’d be able to finish that once I got to the hotel in the morning just before my meeting.   

Dinner was served almost immediately which was nice because I could already feel the wine and Xanax were beginning to kick in.  

"Foods pretty good, isn't it?"  Jared commented, taking a large fork full of salad and shoving it in his mouth.  

Maybe it was the mixture of wine and Xanax or maybe now that I'm more relaxed and not so stressed, I realized Jared was actually more than just cute.   He was straight up HOT, I had to try not to stare.  

Jared wore his hair long but today it was in a bun that sat low on his neck and he had a neatly trimmed beard.   The part of him that was truly captivating though were his eyes.   The were the bluest eyes I think I’ve ever seen.   

Trying not to be obvious I was checking him out, I just glanced in his direction.   He was gorgeous but the sloppiness was a turn off.    Holy hell, this man needed someone to organize him in a seriously bad way. 

As people finished dinner and the flight attendants picked up the trays, everyone started to settle in for the longest part of the flight.  The shades were drawn on the windows and the lights were turned out.  Some left their individual lights on but otherwise it was dark and quiet.  

Even Jared was sitting quietly reading with his earbuds in.   My semi hostile attitude must have scared him off and he gave up because he hadn't said a word since his comment about the food.   That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, I suppose.   I was tired and drugged, my patience would only last so long and he seemed to be the person that once you got him started he probably wouldn't stop.   Better to not go there in the first place no matter how pretty he was to look at.  

[rekant-a]

CHARACTER SHEET repost. do not reblog.

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.     jacqueline angela hall NICKNAME / ALIAS.     jack! GENDER.     girl-ish. she/her is fine and she’s comfortable enough being female-aligned she’s just not All The Way There HEIGHT.     5′0! she cannot stand it! AGE.    a very unfortunate topic to talk abt so i will say ‘early 30s’ and leave it at that ZODIAC.     cancer. libra moon?????? LANGUAGES.     just english

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.     as dark a brown as you can go without it being jet black. because there’s no ‘hair style’ / place for me to describe her hair i also have to say that her hair is chopped very messily - she usually does it impulsively / herself and then gets it fixed up so, realistically, not as bad as it could be. she’s got bangs + layers and the length is a little below her shoulders, barely long enough to put up but she manages it, somehow. i think soon she’s gonna go even shorter so stay tuned for that EYE COLOR.      very light brown SKIN TONE.       so pale it’s been joked about her being see-through. looks ill. might be. anaemia might factor into her consistently pallid state. burns, doesn’t tan. i also need to mention the abundance of freckles she has on her face, arms, chest and back :3 BODY TYPE.     pretty small, but soft around the middle. no curves whatsoever and prefers it that way. she runs often to calm herself down / channel anger + other unpleasant feelings so she’s got a runner’s frame + strong legs ACCENT.     sounds like she might be trying to unlearn a southern accent, which is very strange, because she lived in minnesota until she was 11. has absolutely no trace of that accent left VOICE.     soft, hesitant, like she’s afraid you’ll actually hear her if she speaks. she thinks it’s noticeably deep, but it isn’t DOMINANT HAND.     right. POSTURE.     slouched. standoffish. generally so that you won’t approach her, but look at you doing it anyway! SCARS.   big tw here for obvious reasons - a lot. brandings, a lot of lashes on her back, tiny scar on her cheek, mostly faded, probably not noticeable unless you get her in really good lighting + pay close attention TATTOOS.     no. afraid of needles BIRTHMARKS.      nil MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).      slouched posture, freckles, unruly hair, baggy clothing (a jacket like 10 sizes too big)

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.      waitress at a dingy little 24 hour diner where the coffee isn’t great and the eggs are like rubber CURRENT RESIDENCE.          a small, one bedroom apt that, for visual reference, is kinda close to zoe’s in h.ouse of cards (esp incl the little outdoor area) - she shares the burden of rent + utilities with her parents CLOSE FRIENDS.          BUNNY (regrettably)...trish walker and butterfly also get honourable mentions but there’s no chance jack would mention either of them to anyone asking RELATIONSHIP STATUS.             ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ FINANCIAL STATUS.               not super well off personally, but is supported in part by her middle class parents ... like, she has health insurance and lives by herself in new york, so. DRIVER’S LICENSE.               no! CRIMINAL RECORD.               she killed someone kjdhfgkjhdfg VICES.               formerly substance abuse (xanax), occasionally (more often than she’d like) binge drinking, uhhhh violence 

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.               lesbian!!!!!!!!! PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.             submissive  |  dominant |  switch. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.             submissive  |  dominant |  switch. LIBIDO.                ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?  TURN ON’S.               WE’LL GET THERE. MAYBE TURN OFF’S.              SEE PREVIOUS LOVE LANGUAGE.               Talking About Herself, Talking About Anything At All, Talking About Her Feelings...Being Comfortable Talking To Another Person In General...... small, chaste touches. sitting in silence. not feeling the need to shy away. any touching at all, tbh. uncertainty. GOD this girl is such a useless lesbian RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.               IDK BUT LIKE I SAID WE WILL GET THERE!!!!!!!

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.         god this is such a wild question and i dont really have an answer but i must, for my own sake, say running up that hill by kate b.ush HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.               running. working. would like to read more but isn’t great at concentrating on one thing for a prolonged period of time + sitting in a quiet room for very long. likes to sit and listen to music. gardening (has little succulents and a small herb garden) MENTAL ILLNESSES.             ptsd, anxiety, insomnia, depression, dyslexia PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.             anaemia, chronic fatigue, lasting effects of malnutrition throughout childhood: insulin resistance, hypertension, dyslipidaemia (elevated cholesterol), awful immune system, impaired function of her kidneys, also affected her reproductive system and her heart, brittle boned, prone to easy breaks and injuries, i’m gonna need to do more digging into the effects on cognition / learning difficulty but i know that there Is Some w jack so, that as well LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.            left. PHOBIAS.           enclosed spaces, the dark, suuuuuuper paranoid abt people watching her, uhhh people breaking into her house, also obviously kidnapping SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.             very low. she tries not to think about it, but she does dress and act in a way that looks like she’s trying to hide (because she is) VULNERABILITIES.            hmmm... you kno! poor impulse control / prone to violent outburst (we’re working on it) / heightened aggression, not picking up on certain cues / needing to Be Told exactly what one means in order to grasp it, easily overwhelmed, not handling experiencing her own or anyone else’s emotions well at all - prone to shutting down, escapism, her education was very unconventional so there are certain things she doesn’t know and certain things she knows that aren’t true because she was straight up lied to and she’s very insecure about her perception of this world and is doing her best to unlearn / relearn when and where she can, not very good at handling being laughed at + playful jabs

TAGGED BY.  no one.. but i will not be silenced TAGGING.   tag me if you do it!

[midnight-in-paris9]

One of Us: Reina Wynhart - Black & White Mood Board + Reina’s snippets.

Guys I’m trying so hard to find inspiration to write in general, but my inspo is sapped rn bc of school.  I’m trying to develop this story as quickly as possible. 

Plays the piano, the guitar and the ukulele.  She learned all three in her spare time, trying to drown out the sound of her parent’s screaming matches.

Can hold her breath for 2+ minutes.

Obsessed with glitter. Tinkerbelle is a style icon.

 Is absolutely terrified of heights, she gets dizzy on a step ladder.

 Loves dogs – Like really loves dogs, despite never actually being allowed to have one as a kid.

 Her mother trained her to sing for the church choir – though usually she’s too shy to actually put her talent on display, she’s quite talented when she isn’t frozen in terror from stage fright.

 Her favorite breed of dog is a Malinois.

Her neighbor had one when she was growing up, and was one of the only sources of constant affect when her parents were married.

Titan still recognizes her when she walks through her old neighborhood

Likes country music because it reminds her of a time when her mom was normal and her father was honest.

 Favorite food is Caprese Salad.

 Takes Xanax for her anxiety.

 Hates sharp objects – needles, knives, etc.  Faints every time she has to get her blood drawn because she’s that terrified.

Is fond of frilly, lacey underwear and bras.  They have to match, a habit she isn’t sure when she picked up.

If she isn’t able to sleep on her left side, she can’t sleep at all.

Is a huge horror fan.  Her favorite horror movie is Rosemary’s Baby, even though it scared the crap out of her the first time she watched it.  Ironically, it’s become a bit of a comfort movie for her.

 Curses like a sailor when she stubs her toe or smacks her funny bone.

 Keeps her room strictly organized and methodically cleaned. 

The first Christmas gift she remembers receiving was a crucifix from her mother.

 She lost it two months later and her mother slapped Reina so hard she saw stars.

Works at the local pound part-time because she loves dogs so much.

Carries bedazzled pepper spray, a gift from her boss at the shelter after he found out she had to walk home by herself at night.

Strongly dislikes Cheryl Blossom purely on principle after she walked in the first day of eighth grade wearing a fur coat.

Cries hysterically at all animated animal movies.  Doesn’t matter if they’re sad or not, she sees the big animated eyes and loses it completely.

Has never been able to resist a tire swing.

Favorite author is Jane Austin.

She argues that Pride and Prejudice is more of a political commentary than a romance, but it’s a realistic romance if anything.

 Desperately wants to go to Julliard for classical piano study.

Cried the first time she saw the movie Carrie, not because she was scared but because she was so relieved she wasn’t the only one to have been locked in a closet to pray.

Doesn’t trust people who don’t jaywalk – she says it’s because if they can’t risk jaywalking, they’re into some deep shit.

Favorite perfume is Tease by Victoria’s Secret.

Doesn’t think she wants to fall in love – her parents were “in love” and their lives were a disaster.  She thinks she’s better off on her own, maybe with a farm full of rescue dogs to keep her company.

Learned to ride horses at her grandmother on her mother’s side tiny farm in Georgia every summer from when she was three up until she was thirteen.  Her favorite pony was named Sprout and she cried for a week after he was sold off in her grandparent’s estate sale.

Takes one bubble bath a week minimum.  The bath bomb has to have glitter in it or else she doesn’t bother.

Really wishes she knew how to roller-skate.

Boys with dark eyes and Cheshire grins make her feel a certain kind of way she tries really hard to ignore.

Wants to believe that God loves her, but has a really hard time holding onto that when her life seems like a really sad lifetime movie that won’t pull out of its spiral.

Knows that everyone hates her, and frankly completely understands because if she was anyone else, she’d hate her too.

I hope you guys can get to know Reina a little better because of this.  I really love her character, and I can’t wait to share her with you all.

[alounuitte]

complicated chemistry

Phil's not really sure about this whole "treatment" thing, but since it turns out getting better isn't as simple as finding a happy ending, maybe it's worth a shot, at least. (Set ~eight months after February 2.)

chapter warnings: discussion of suicide, referenced prescription drug abuse

read on ao3, or

The waiting room is small and stuffy and smells like a closed flower shop, with a fish tank set into one wall and the others all lined with flavorless abstract art. A sense of dread presses heavily on Phil’s shoulders as he enters, and he grimaces, turning up the collar of his coat. He does not want to be here. He didn’t want to come in the first place, and the only reason he doesn’t turn and walk out before he even sits down is that his nerves are easier to swallow than his pride.

He slinks across the room to slump down in one of the ugly vinyl-covered chairs in the back corner, keeping his head down. The only other people here are a woman maybe a little older than him with her nose buried in a magazine and a surly-looking boy who must be in college, neither of which have spared him a glance.

At least there’s that, he thinks gloomily, hunching his shoulders as he looks around the room. This is bad enough without anyone recognizing him - though he’s sure the receptionist who checked him in looked at him strangely. Probably trying to figure out if he’s that Philip Connors, or if by some wild coincidence there just happen to be two people with his name in Pittsburgh.

There are footsteps in the hall, and he glances up to see a woman enter the room. “Justin Harper?” she says. The surly boy grunts and gets to his feet. Phil goes back to staring blankly at the fish tank, watching a bug-eyed goldfish ram itself into the glass.

Pride is starting to seem less important the longer he sits here, to be honest, and the seventy-five bucks he’d pay to cancel isn’t such a high price to avoid…whatever this is going to be.

He can’t go through with it, he decides, and moves to stand up, but just as he gets to his feet a man in glasses appears from the hallways, and says, “Philip?”

“Oh, God,” he mutters. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Dr Weltstein,” the man says, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Uh huh,” he says, unable to muster any more enthusiasm. He should never have agreed to this, but it’s a little too late now.

“Come on back,” the doctor says, and for a moment he seriously considers just bolting for the exit. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets and trudges after Dr Weltstein.

The office is just as crowded and stuffy as the waiting room, but at least it doesn’t have the same cloying scent of dust and dying roses that was smothering him so badly. He sucks a breath in through his teeth and lets it out as he drops onto the sofa.

“So, what brings you in today?” Dr Weltstein asks as he sits down in the armchair across the room with a pen and a clipboard in hand.

“Uh,” Phil says, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. I guess I…have…”

He trails off, grimacing, and casts the doctor a sideways look.

“Depression?” he says finally, and looks away.

“Okay,” Dr Weltstein says, his pen scratching on the clipboard. “I’m glad you came in to see me. Have you seen a therapist about this yet?”

He frowns. “Was I… supposed to?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr Weltstein says. “I recommend it for most of my patients, since the majority find a combination of medication and cognitive therapy to be the most effective, but it’s not a requirement.”

“Okay,” Phil says. “Uh, good. I mean - look, my most recent experience with doctors haven’t been great, so I’m a little… skeptical, let’s say. About this whole…thing.”

“Understandable,” the doctor says, nodding. “We’ll start by talking a little about what you need, and go from there. Did you have any other concerns you wanted to go over?”

He shrugs.

“Okay,” the doctor says. “And have you taken any kind of medication for this in the past?”

“Not… for depression,” he says carefully.

“For something else?” Weltstein asks.

“Uh, Xanax,” he says.

“Sure,” the doctor says. “Do you know what diagnosis you have?”

Phil stares at him blankly. “Um…”

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Weltstein says. “I’ll take a look in the system later. Let’s talk about that first, and then we’ll get into your depression and see what might help you.”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly.

“About how often do you take Xanax?” the doctor asks.

“Once or twice a day?” he says. “Maybe more on really, really bad days.”

Dr Weltstein raises his eyebrows, peering at Phil over his glasses. “And this is every day?”

“I mean, not every day,” he says. “It’s supposed to be as needed. Some days I do okay without it, it’s just when things get…”

He gestures vaguely. Dr Weltstein frowns and makes a note.

“Have you tried any other medications?” he asks. “Anything prescribed daily?”

“I mean, I took Adderall in high school,” Phil says. “But that was, like, twenty five years ago.”

“Alright,” the doctor says, making more notes on his clipboard. “But never an anxiolytic?”

“A what, now,” he asks flatly.

“A medication to treat anxiety,” Weltstein clarifies.

“Okay, well,” Phil says, holding up his hands. “I wouldn’t say I have anxiety.”

The doctor gives him a look over the rims of his glasses. “Philip -“

“It’s just Phil,” he cuts in.

“Phil,” concedes Weltstein. “I understand you’ve had unpleasant experiences, but it’s going to be difficult to treat you if you won’t at least talk in general terms about your mental health.”

He sighs through his teeth and tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “Right,” he agrees, and swallows hard. “Okay. Uh. Fine.” He screws his eyes shut, trying to steel his nerve. “Depression and anxiety, then.”

“And you’re managing your attention-deficit well enough without medication?”

He shrugs. “I guess so?”

“It sounds to me like you’ve been taking Xanax to manage a generalized anxiety disorder,” the doctor says. “I think what would be best for you is to stop taking it for now.”

Phil laughs sharply. “Sorry, what?”

“Benzodiazepines lose effectiveness over time,” Dr Weltstein says, “and they’re not really meant for daily use. I want to start you on something that’s more effective day to day, and we can talk about you going back on Xanax or another medication for serious episodes if you need it.”

“You’re crazy,” Phil tells him. “I need it. I’m a wreck otherwise, things get too fast, or too big, or too much and I do - weird neurotic shit. I go nuts.”

“If that’s happening on a daily basis, I want you on a long-term medication, rather than a fast-acting as-needed one,” the doctor says patiently. “That will help manage your anxiety on a consistent basis, and if you’re still having panic attacks -“

“They’re not panic attacks, it’s just -“

“- you can take a stronger sedative, less frequently, with better effect -“

“Listen,” Phil shouts, leaning forward. “Dr Weltstein. I’ve been taking it since I was, like, twenty after I fucking lost it halfway through a semester. I yelled at my roommate and wrecked half of my stuff. I skipped class for three days straight to play Megaman and couldn’t eat anything except popcorn. You cannot take me off that medication.”

“Phil, I’m trying to find a solution that’s going to help you more,” the doctor says, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “But I need you to work with me, here. Can you do that?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, resting his face in his hands. “Can’t I keep taking it while I start a new medication?” he asks, peeking between his fingers.

“If you’ve been taking it daily for so long, I’m not going to take you off of it cold-turkey,” Weltstein says. “I want you to go a week only taking it once a day, and then go down to half a dose for a few days before you stop taking it.”

“And you’re going to start me on something to help after that?” he asks.

“Well, I want to talk a little bit about your depression to help decide what will help the most,” Weltstein says. “Especially since you’ve never been treated for it before. How long has this been going on?”

“Uh,” he says, unsure how to answer that question. He can’t exactly explain how long it’s been when it was only since February. Although -

“Just an estimate is fine,” Dr Weltstein says.

“A few years,” he lies.

“Any family history?” the doctor asks, looking down at his clipboard.

“Oh, boy,” Phil mutters. “Uh, my mom, yeah. Since I was a kid.”

Dr Weltstein nods. “And any thoughts of self harm or suicide?”

He grimaces and balls up his fists, nails biting into his palms and keeping him grounded. “Um. Yes, I guess.”

“Any past attempts?”

Oh, Lord, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. He swallows hard. “A couple,” he mutters without looking up.

“I understand this can be hard to talk about,” Dr Weltstein says. “Can you tell me about what happened?”

He shrugs. “Uh, took sleeping pills once. Drowned - well, tried to drown myself.” God, he must sound either stupid or crazy. Probably both. “Slit my wrists. Not very well, obviously.” He realizes how that sounds and quickly corrects himself. “I mean, which is good. Still here. And doing a lot better, uh, for - for the most part.”

Except for how a couple of weeks ago he had a breakdown and almost took a high dive off the top of his building, but overall. In general. Most of the time.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” the doctor says. “But I am concerned about the risks of starting an antidepressant. They can increase the chance of suicide, and given your history, I think we should be a little extra careful while you get adjusted to it.”

“Right,” he says. “So…”

“You live alone, Phil?” Dr Weltstein asks.

He frowns. “Uh-huh.”

“Hm,” the doctor muses. “Do you have any friends or family you could stay with while you’re starting a new medication? I’ll try to see you shortly after you start, and we have staff on call for emergencies, but it would probably be safest for you if you had someone around.”

“Um,” Phil says, frowning. “Can I get back to you on that one?”

“Sure,” Dr Weltstein agrees, and gives him a kind smile. “I want you off the Xanax before we start something new, anyways. I’d like you to come back in two weeks, after you taper off it, alright?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, reluctantly. The last thing he wants to do is have to keep coming back here. But he did promise he’d see someone, and try some kind of medication to see if it helps.

Hopefully Rita is willing to be part of the experiment, since she was so insistent he go through with this.

“Do you have enough Xanax now to do what we talked about?” the doctor says. “I can write you a temporary prescription just to get you through two weeks if you need.

“I think I have it,” he sighs.

“Alright,” Weltstein agrees. “If not, give me a call and I’ll put in an order. Is there anything else you wanted to cover before we wrap up for today?”

Phil shakes his head. “I’ll, uh…” he says as he gets up. “See you in two weeks, I guess.”

With that, he puts up his collar again and hurries out of the room as quickly as he can without running, desperate to get outside for a breath of fresh air and get home.

[sugardaddycentral]

Connor Murphy x Reader Born To Die Part 1

Summary: After his guidance counselor takes notice of Connor's abnormal behavior, he is sent to a support group against his will, where he meets a girl just as fucked up as he is. 

 Song Inspiration: Born To Die / Lana Del Rey

 Warnings: | language | drug use | mentions of suicide | mentions of self-harm | first person writing | mental illness | teenage angst | 

 Word Count: 2k

"Now, let's begin!" the perky counselor started as she took her seat in the circle. "As you may know, I'm Nadine, your counselor." I rolled my eyes for probably the tenth time today. The circle was a lot smaller than it was last week, even smaller than usual. Normally only 5 or 6 kids actually come to these bullshit sessions. We're lucky enough to have parents who give a shit about our mental health, but were too broke to afford a psychiatrist or any real professional. 

 "Let's go around and tell each other our names and...a fun fact about ourselves and why we're here." Nadine started the session while she adjusted her abnormally large glasses.

I exhaled loudly through my nose. This was the same lame ass shit we did last week, and everybody already knew each other. I eventually tuned out after the first person introduced themselves. I reached for my phone in my back pocket and hid it in between my legs, looking up every so often so I wouldn't get caught.

 It was the same mundane routine every day for me. Wake up, go to school, come to support group, and then go home. There was no fucking excitement other than when I get high. Those were the highlights of my day. It was going fine until my mom and dad found my stash and flushed it down the toilet and threw me in into this fucking support group. They thought that my weed was my problem. They don't know shit. 

 A voice cleared their throat. I frantically looked up from my phone, believing that it was Nadine. Instead, a tall, long haired, emo looking kid stood by the door frame. I slid my phone back into my pocket.

"You must be the new addition," Nadine said, looking down at her clipboard. "Come, take a seat! We were just starting." I examined this kid from head to toe. He had to be in my grade, almost graduating. His tangled hair rested easy on his shoulders. The bags under his eyes stood out the most on his face, besides his chiseled features. His lack of any other color besides black was aesthetically pleasing to the eye; even down to the chipped nail polish. He also happened to smell of weed, strong weed. He took a seat in the chair across from mine. 

"(Y/N)? It's your turn," Nadine whispered obnoxiously loud. I let out another sigh and I stood to my feet.

"Okay uhm, I'm (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," I started. 

"Hi (Y/N)," the others answered very monotone, most likely not giving as much of a shit as I did.

"I'm here because I'm fucking depressed. Uh... and one fun fact about me is that I like to read." I slumped back in my seat. Nadine nervously chuckled before she proceeded to scribble something down on her clipboard. The circle of usual greetings continued until we reached the new kid. 

He stood up. Although he was still slouching, he was tall as fuck. 

"I'm Connor Murphy. I'm here because my fucking guidance counselor threw me in here." He introduced himself without skipping a beat. 

"Hello Connor," Nadine grinned widely. "How about you tell us about your erm ...your condition?" 

He scoffed. "Look, I'm just here to watch." A couple of the members, including me, stifled our laughter. Some didn't even bother to hold it in. He glared up at us all. His burning stare sent unsettling chills up my spine. 

The second support group was over, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and fucking booked it. I swerved past anybody who got in my way. But thanks to my lack of coordination, I lost my footing on the curb and fell on the concrete, hard.

 I also didn't happen to see the speeding car that was coming my way. The person behind the wheel honked.

"Out of the fucking street!" they yelled. I looked up to see that Connor kid shouting from out of the window of his ragged car that could easily fall apart with one touch. 

"Yeah, hit me why don't you asshole?" I shouted back, giving him the middle finger, although I low-key wanted him to run me over. "End my fucking misery," I muttered as I gave the hood of his car a rough slap with the palm of my hand. Connor sped away as soon as I walked past the car. He gave a final honk. 

 I felt a burning sensation travel to my jawline and chin area. I flinched at my own touch as I went to feel the damage done. A few drops of blood stained my fingers. I fished my hand into my bag for any type of napkin. I pulled out a used paper towel and pressed it up against the scrape.

"Hi sweetie!" Mom greeted the second I walked through the door. Her effervescent mood earned another eye roll out of me. 

Xanax was always recognizable. 

I dropped my bag off at the entrance and slipped off my shoes. Mom stood by the counter prepping dinner. "Hi," I mumbled. My eyes darted over to Dad, who was too busy scribbling some shit down for his clients. He didn't even bother to make eye contact. 

Mom clearly took notice. She placed her hand on my cheek and gave me a quick peck. She briefly caught ahold of my chin and inspected my scrape. "He's just a little busy, sweetheart," she said in a low voice. "Honey?" she called for him. "(Y/N)'s home from support group." 

Without looking up from his book, he acknowledged that I was in the room. "Hi (Y/N). How was support group?" 

I scoffed at his disinterest. "Like you fucking care," I answered before storming up to my room. I instantly flopped onto my bed and was greeted by my warm comforter. I let out a deep sigh. I tried remembering some of the bullshit techniques that Nadine introduced me to my first day. 

 Inhale...2...3...

 Exhale....4...5...

 But I couldn't even find solace in that. There was only one thing that would help me. I decided to wait until my parents went to bed to sneak out. I carefully unlocked my window, grabbed my keys, and went out through there since all of the doors made too much noise. I made a delicate landing onto the grass below. I started the car and drove off.

I drove off into the night with only one destination in mind. Only a few miles south from my house was a small park. Considering that it was close to midnight, there was a great chance that nobody would be there. I parked my car under one of the tall willow trees. I then reached into the glove compartment where I had a few pre-rolled joints and a lighter. I hopped up onto the hood of my car and took a drag. 

 It was nights like these that I lived for. Better yet, one of the only reasons I lived for. Whenever I felt like I was suffocating or like I couldn't breathe, I'd just walk or drive over to this park and drown myself in the serenity of it all. My weed was pretty much all I had left, besides my one friend. My parents luckily didn't find my small stash that I kept in my car. 

"You can't fucking do that!" I screamed as I watched the green bits swirl down the toilet bowl. 

"Yes we can (Y/N). This isn't healthy! You have a problem!" Dad shouted back. Mom stood by the doorway with her arms crossed. My heart felt like it was barbarically ripped apart. 

 I frantically ran my fingers through my hair. "What, and Mom's Xanax addiction is healthy!?" Mom's eyes misted up, Dad shot me a look of disappointment. It was nothing new.

I let out a puff of air. After the first few times, my lungs didn't burn anymore. A few leaves rustled in the distance. The sound was distinctly, like footsteps. I didn't bother to reach for my pocket knife. If I was going to die, let it happen while I've got drugs in me and I can die calm. The footsteps approached until a tall figure stood a couple of feet away from me.

"(Y/N), right?" a voice asked. My head perked up. I took another drag. 

"Yeah, who's asking?" They stepped out of the shadow. The street lamp gave off just enough light for me to see their face. "You're Connor, right?" He nodded. I had about half of the joint left. I handed it over to him. 

With all of the weed in my system, my nerves and whatever depressive residue slowly faded; for the time at least. I felt pretty fucking generous for once. 

"Thanks," he muttered. He took a puff. I could practically see the stress melt off of his shoulders. He passed it back. He unconsciously rubbed his chin when he glanced over at me. "Uh, your chin..." 

"Yeah, I noticed. Thanks for that, again," I said with clear distaste. He said nothing. There was nothing but silence, other than the occasional night creature and our coughs. The passing of the joint continued. One puff after the other.

I decided to break the silence. "So, you were dragged into support group too, huh?" Connor let out a couple of quiet coughs after he took a puff. We were nearing the filter. 

"Uh, yeah. Some teacher I have thought that it would help me," he replied. I glanced over at him curiously. His hair framed his face perfectly; curls draped down to his shoulders. The light from the lamppost allowed me to fully be captivated by his features. 

"My parents threw me into that support group because they think that I'm some fucking drug addict." I began to mindlessly rant to him like I had known him for years. "They think I'm some pill popping junkie. That's not me. That's my fucking mom. I don't get why they lecture me on me 'doing drugs' when my mom basically can't function without popping a Xanie once a day. They don't even fucking know that their only daughter is depressed out of her own mind. They don't know that I just want to fucking die!" Painful tears formed until my eyes were glossed. I let them fall one by one. 

The silence was back. Connor was almost too stunned to speak. Words were caught in his throat after I unintentionally poured my heart out to him. I wiped the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. "Sorry, fuck," I mumbled. I finished off the joint and flicked it onto the ground before crushing it with the sole of my shoe. 

"Don't worry about it," he replied, a secretive and sincere half smile faintly tugged at the corner of his lips. I then peered over my phone to check the time. 

"Uh, I should get going. But uh, thanks for listening to me dump my problems onto you," I said. I opened the car door. Connor stepped away from the hood. 

"No problem. And uh, thanks for the joint."

The day after was the same routine, as usual. Wake up, go to school, and then fucking support group. At least I sort of had something to look forward to rather than just sit at home. 

I definitely wouldn't call Connor Murphy a friend. I still to this day think he's an asshole for almost running me over. The night before, he was a pair of ears that willingly listened to my ramblings. He probably listened to me more that night than my parents ever did in my entire life. But there was something about him that I admired about him that I couldn't put my finger on. 

I shuffled into the room. The shitty fluorescent lighting flickered to an imaginary rhythm. The seat I usually sat in was kept empty for me. I stood by the doorway examining the scene. The usual group of 5 kids had been reduced to 4, excluding Connor and I. In retrospect, it was bound to happen more often than you'd think. It usually didn't take long until someone lost it or finally found better help. 

"Hey," I heard Connor's familiar voice greet from behind. The obvious smell of pot lingered from him.

I let out a small chuckle. "You're fucking high," I said. I turned around to face him. His sapphire blue eyes were painfully bloodshot and hooded. He leaned against the doorway. 

"Maybe a little." He flashed a smirk that made my cheeks heat up. Fuck, he's devilishly charismatic even when he's high. "But I can manage." 

"I'll have whatever you're having," I muttered sarcastically under my breath. I then glanced over at the support group. Nadine hadn't arrived yet, and barely anybody showed up. An idea popped into my head. I reached for Connor's hand and grasped it tight. "Let's get out of here. They won't miss us." Without objection, he followed behind until we reached my car. 

Connor was slumped in the passenger seat the majority of the ride. His eyes would often focus on what was going on outside. Our rebuttal as to what to eat was never ending. 

"Literally fucking anything," was all he said. I grew impatient of myself trying to figure out what I wanted. The closest thing that open was a Shake Shack. I pulled into the parking lot and tried to help Connor out of his seat, but all he did was swat my hand away and told me to "fuck off." 

"Be grateful I'm getting you food," I fired back. Both Connor and I ordered burgers. Even without the munchies I felt almost as hungry as he was. I watched as he ate every last bite like it was his last. As he went to take a sip of his soda, strands of his hair fell over his eyes. I tried my hardest not to stare. I couldn't say the same for him though. 

"What?" I asked. Connor shrugged his shoulders. 

"Nothing's it's just... thanks," he said quietly. "Thanks for...this." He struggled to find the right words to explain what he had. It wasn't exactly a friendship just yet, but it sure as hell felt better than being alone. A pale hue of pink threatened to color his cheeks.