#fucking tracks for tacoma

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 39

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Nicky screamed as he found himself yanked from his bed as he fell to the ground. The blanket that he had so perfectly burrito’d himself in had been pulled and he had gone with it pillows and all. He laid on the ground blinking up into the darkness wondering what the hell had just happened, he squints and thinks he sees blond hair. He racks his still loading brain to try and think of anything he had done recently to Aaron that would result in such a rude awakening.

The lamp clicks on.

“Nicky, are you- Andrew, what the hell.” He hears Aaron’s voice from the left and now Nicky can see the black armbands of his other cousin.

That tracks.

“Flight 8329 from Charleston International Airport to Seattle Tacoma International Airport took off 20 minutes ago.” Andrew says as if that means anything to Nicky.

“Cool?” Nicky squints at his cousin.

“There was an hour delay due to a staffing issue, but it is off the ground now.” Andrew continues and Nicky continues to not understand what is being said to him.

“Great?” Nicky hears Aaron.

There is silence in the room and Nicky finds himself starting to drift back to sleep. The floor really wasn’t that bad.

“So, Daniel’s not here anymore?” he hears Matt’s whispered question.

“Dude, why are you whispering?” Aaron asks.

“Smithsters still asleep.” Matt says voice still quiet.

“How the fuck did he sleep through Nicky’s banshee scream?” Aaron asks voice lowered down to a whisper.

“I think moving all his stuff wiped him out.” Matt offers.

“We moved everything he just said where he wanted it.” Aaron grouses quietly.

“You know Smithster isn’t much of a talker.” Matt reminds.

“Whatever.” Aaron huffs and Nicky is almost back asleep.

“Yes Matt,” Andrew says voice quieter than it had been when he had been rattling off facts about Daniel’s flight, “Daniel is not here anymore.” He says.

That is actually great news. Feels like a shame that FF didn’t wake up to hear it but Nicky knows that it wasn’t just the move that had wiped his friend out.

The last three days had been interesting.

First, Aras had flown back home. She had offered to stay longer with FF since Daniel was still around, but he had merely smiled and told her that he’d be okay. Nicky had almost cried when FF had said that he wasn’t alone anymore. Nicky’s heart twisted when the two decided that it was probably for the best that FF not come back to Washington for Winter Break.

Second, there had been the whole debacle where Daniel had shown back up with the man who had married FF’s mom. They had burst into the practice and had gone straight towards where FF was sitting sipping his ‘New and Improved Day/Boyd Smoothie’. Wymack had gotten between them before anything happened physically, but Nicky could still see how FF froze at the sight of his mother’s husband.

There had been raised voices, threats of security, demands on why ‘John’ hadn’t answered his phone to come bail his ‘brother’ out, that he’d forced his dad to come all the way across the country to bail his ‘brother’ out. FF had been quiet looking bored and unbothered by the tirade of the man who married his mother.

Wymack had been in rare form.

“He didn’t pick up because that phone is in my desk.” Wymack had hissed standing utterly stalwart between FF and the two men. “Now get the hell out of my Court before your son gets reacquainted with the Campus Police.” He points towards the exit.

FF’s Mother’s husband had demanded FF’s new phone number but neither Wymack or Smith gave it.

It was only as Wymack lifted his own phone up to his ear after having dialed campus security that the two got the hint and ran off.

Following that there’d been the expedited emergency restraining order request that had been pushed through.

Nicky and Wymack had been the ones that went with FF for support during the request since everyone else had a prior engagement. The security footage was all that had been needed to grant it as far as the judge was concerned despite FF’s Mother’s husband’s pleas that it was merely a ‘fight between brothers’.

Nicky had almost wished he had given Andrew the Maserati back when the jackass had shown up to the hearing with his son wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I’m not the step-dad. I’m the dad that stepped up.’

Oh.

He opens his eyes and tunes back into the conversation. It seems like Aaron had come to the realization that the only way that Andrew would be awake at this god forsaken hour of- Nicky looks at the alarm clock- 5 AM is because he’d been in the same bed as Neil who was a notorious early morning runner.

“You want the Maserati.” Nicky interrupts the whispered argument.

“No, I’m just here to comment on how Smith’s motorcycle helmet really ties the whole room together now that he’s moved in.” Andrew rolls his eyes so hard that even if Nicky hadn’t been looking at his cousin he would have heard the eyeroll. “Yes, I am here because it is now officially impossible for me to hit Daniel with my car. That was the deal.” Andrew says with a scowl, “So you are taking me to where you stored it.” He says.

“Andrew, it’s too early. They’re not open yet.” Nicky groans grabbing one of his pillows and trying to hide his face under it.

It was unsurprisingly ripped away before he could properly hide away from his cousin.

“We have to walk to wherever you hid my car.” Andrew hisses.

“Andrew you’re not seriously going to make me get up and walk the whole way there on the first morning that I can sleep in.” Nicky groans.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t stolen my car Nicholas.” Andrew hisses.

“You guys can take my truck.” Matt says with a huge yawn as he settles back into bed. Morning practice for the rest of the week was not mandatory.

“See, we can take Matt’s truck. The place is only a 30 minute drive away and it doesn’t open until 7 AM anyways.” Nicky groans and tries to roll under the bed. If he can get to the far side then it will be difficult for Andrew, with his 5 foot nothing height to reach-

Andrew puts a foot between him and freedom.

“This room is buying Neil and I breakfast.” Andrew says, “And then we’ll go pick up my car.” He says.

“What? Why?!” Matt and Aaron demand as Nicky groans still trying to roll under the bed despite Andrew’s unyielding foot.

“You all either knew about Nicky’s plan or were part of Nicky’s plan.” Andrew says.

“Okay but Smithster is innocent.” Matt says.

“True, but we need him to come.” Andrew says.

“Why?” Nicky groans changing direction to try and roll under Aaron’s bed only to be stopped by the absolute barrier that was Katelyn’s suitcases of off-season clothes she kept under Aaron’s bed since her own room didn’t have space for it all.

“So we can get into the breakfast place now instead of the usual time for people our age. The owner loves him.” He says.

Ah, FF’s old lady magnetism.

Nicky gets it.

The boy has very pinchable cheeks.

There are very few things one can do when faced with an Andrew Minyard who has decided upon something. Eventually their whole room was up though Andrew at least was far more gentle with FF than he had been with Nicky. FF could sleep through almost any amount of noise but would wake up at the slightest touch and go still.

Nicky really wishes that Andrew had a less conspicuous car because he’s sure his cousin could have gotten away with running Daniel over if he had a Volvo or a Ford.

Nicky went with FF on the back of his motorcycle. One of Aras’ parting gifts to him had been an orange helmet with ‘Foxy’ written on it. Nicky had loved it immediately and unironically. Nicky held onto FF and hoped that his friend was awake enough to actually be driving on the damn thing, but FF had seemed at least 90% conscious.

Either way they arrived at the breakfast place FF was pushed to the front to speak with the owner of the fancy breakfast spot and within 10 minutes they were at a table surrounded by the elderly early bird patrons.

The all-you-can-eat brunch was always both a challenge and a danger when you are a group of college athletes. A challenge because it always felt a bit like a race against the chefs who were churning out chicken, waffles, hams to slice, eggs of all varieties, bacon, sausages, French toast, cinnamon rolls, hashbrowns, quiche, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, and lox bagels. The danger was what Matt was currently finding himself in since the man had failed to pace himself. “I think I’m gonna die.” Matt groaned.

“Smith, where did you get that smoothie?” Aaron asks looking as FF was sipping a delightful looking smoothie.

“The owner gave it to me while you guys were filling your plates.” FF says. “I’m supposed to let her know if I need another one.” He says.

“When are you going to be off that liquid diet?” Aaron asks as he digs into some bacon.

“Well, next week I can just start essentially putting things in the blender and I shouldn’t suffer the consequences like with the borscht.” FF shrugs. “Gran said she’d send along a pie to celebrate when I can eat solids again.” He adds and FF’s face is as blank and as unemotional as it usually was but there was a general air of sadness.

“You know, I don’t think it’d bother Allison or any of the girls if you joined us for winter break.” Matt says from where he was staring up at the ceiling still overfull from going too hard too fast on the egg options.

“I don’t want to intr-“

“It’s not an intrusion.” Andrew says looking at his phone, “We’re inviting you.” He adds before getting up and grabbing his backpack, “Do not let them take my plate.” He says looking at the table. Andrew’s plate was laden with the sweeter side of things for breakfast and he had made up a plate for Neil who was supposed to meet them at the breakfast spot.

Andrew left and nicky figured he was going to go grab Neil outside. “Isn’t it for the original Foxes?” FF asks.

“Yeah, but you’re our friend so it’s fine if you come. I know Dan wants to really get to know the guy who took her place on the line.” Matt says with a laugh that has him looking queasy afterwards.

“You and me can room together.” Nicky says.

“Isn’t Erik coming?” Aaron asks incredulously.

“Yeah? So?” Nicky questions.

Aaron looked at Nicky like he was an idiot and opened his mouth likely to say why, “I don’t want to intrude. I can probably just sleep on a couch out in the main area, if your friends are okay with me coming.” FF sips at his drink. “You and Erik have a lot to catch up on.” He says voice giving that slight indication that he felt awkward.

Catch-up on-

Ohhh.

Yeah, he and Erik are going to christen that bed if it hasn’t already been christened.

“We’ll figure something out.” Aaron says easily enough.

Eventually Andrew returned with Neil in tow. He was a little sweaty looking but definitely look like someone who had been running for about two hours at this point. He figures that Andrew must have brought spare clothes for Neil to change into so that he’d be acceptable in the breakfast joint.

“Smith has agreed to join us for Christmas Break.” Nicky announces to the couple as they took their seats.

“Quite brave of Smiths considering how the last holiday break went when he came with us.” Aaron says wrly.

“Yeah Andrew, make a deal not to stab Smithy again.” Nicky holds out a pinky for a pinky promise with his cousin.

Andrew rolled his eyes as FF piped in, “Romero stabbed me.” He says loyally.

Eventually they got to talking about their plans for the Winter Banquet on Friday. Nicky was going with FF as his date and had already gone out and gotten him an appropriately bespoke suit with Aras the week before.

Eventually they wrap up breakfast. Nicky, Aaron, and Matt all pay and they make their way out to the parking lot.

The parking lot where the Maserati was.

“Andrew, how in the world-“

“Like a locked gate would even slow Neil down. Got the opening time and the driving distance from you this morning and narrowed it down to the only long-term parking lot in the area.” Andrew says idly as Neil hands over the spare Maserati keys to him.

Nicky spends a bit more time bitching about the fact that Andrew woke them all up mostly out of spite and as a cover for getting his car back without Nicky’s assistance. However eventually the time for class swiftly approached.

“This isn’t over!” he says pulling on his Foxy Helmet and pointing at Andrew.

“I think it is.” Andrew replies with a shrug as he and Neil climbed into the front of the car.

Nicky rolled his eyes but climbed onto the back of FF’s motorcycle.

Winter Banquet was in 2 days.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

What led to scruffy!Reader's bipolar diagnosis? Any specific event that happened ?

"Oracle?"

"What's up?" Babs asked half turning in her chair to look at him, "Can you pull up Y/N's location?"

"Why?" she asked, already typing.

"I- we- I just want to know where she is. She was pretty mad at me when she left my apartment and she won't pick up the phone."

"Jason."

"Please?" It's how small his voice is that does it. How unnerved he looks. You always answer- even if it's a text to ask him what the fuck he wants.

Barbara starts typing, tracking where you'd been through places that your phone had pinged and frowned. "Over on 82nd... Looks like an Alley?"

"That's not- it's 4am," Jason said, "God-"

"I'll start calling hospitals," Barbara said. "I'm sure it's not-"

"She told me she wasn't on drugs," he said, his voice hardly a whisper. "She told me-"

"It might not BE that," Barbara reminded him. "She could have lost her phone, or it was taken."

Jason shook his head and turned, going to see if anyone would help him look for you. In his mind's eye he could see you. Talking a mile a minute. Like you couldn't keep up with the thoughts in his head. Everything was rushed. Some of it was just straight-up delusional, telling him that you were going to find god but you had to sell your guitar for a bus ticket? Because you had to go to Tacoma? And then telling him God wasn't real but you still had to look because it was the only way to finish school? And then asking him to take you to get ice cream. He couldn't even REMEMBER all the things you said. But he could remember the fury. How Angry you got when he asked you what you took. And it made his stomach turn.

_____________

When the nurse came back to the desk, Jason bolted to his feet and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, "Is she-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," she said, "She said she doesn't want to see anyone."

"But-" Jason started to protest. You had to see him. He had to talk to you. He had to know.

The nurse could only shake her head, "She was adamant," the woman said.

Bruce nodded, "Can you at least tell us she's okay?"

The nurse weighed her options and held up a finger, gesturing for them to wait before pulling a file and rifling through it quickly. "There's a release form in here for Jason-"

"That's me," Jason blurted, "Can you- what even happened how-"

The nurse sighed, "Someone called dispatch about a woman walking barefoot by the side of the road in shorts and a t-shirt. Said she was really friendly, just said she was lost and not sure how to get home. Her feet were pretty cut up. And it was cold out. So a beat cop picked her up and dropped her off at General. She was delusional and exhausted. Dehydrated. And so they put her on a 72-hour hold."

"Jesus," Jason breathed.

"But," the nurse said, "She IS safe. And she's gotten a little sleep."

"Will you tell her," Jason exhaled slowly, "Tell her I'll be here to take her home?"

The nurse smiled a little. Placating him. "Of course."

And Jason nods, turning and walking out the doors, leaving Bruce to smooth things over. To tell the nurse to call him directly if there was anything you needed. Because Jason can't breathe. He can't think. He feels like he's gonna be sick.

You needed him. You came to him because you were struggling. And he basically just... Shut you out.

"Jason," Bruce said softly, "You couldn't have-"

"I could have not accused her of being high," Jason snorted. "I could have helped-"

"You don't know that," Bruce said carefully. "Just- wait until you talk to her?"

"Yeah," Jason sighed. "Probably a good idea... What the fuck happened to her shoes? She was wearing shoes when left."

[dreamdstate]

── ( cis woman, she & her. ) recently seen standing dramatically, a step too close with hands in pockets in a worrying nature overlooking at the cliffside: enter ETHEL JANE OTTOMAN. twenty - eight years old & a sagittarius, usually observed in prairie dresses littered with dirt and mud, fucked up kicks that are sizes too big and only strapped down by too - tight laces and a prayer ; ethel is a devotion visitor known within their circle as LOYAL + DEPENDABLE, a perpetual hum of mona lisa by j soloman on salted mouth. something of the PESSIMISTIC + RASH follows, regardless … something to do with the indescribable yearning of wanting to leave a place you didn’t want to come to begin with, perhaps ? strange, what a HUMAN can get up to. they’ve been heard waxing lyrical about a dream they had recently, a strange tale of never ending dogs chasing, their teeth centimeters from ankles — she’s not a runner nor a track star, the feeling of walls closing in constant. the need to escape into a world that’s better than where she is, however, always disappointed when she wakes. pay no mind to fanciful star - gazing, though: rather, mind the tangible. the overbearing sadness she brings to the function, ruining the whole vibe, sad man crooning a - la the national playing over speaks when she gets the aux ; an old toyota tacoma that on it’s last leg but she can’t bare the thought of leaving it in a junkyard ( inanimate objects having feelings or not, it’d be sad ) . overalls with nothing underneath, ripped and tatted enough to barely being considered clothes.

warnings for accidental + parental death, living off the grid type of things.

full name — ethel jane ottoman.

nickname(s) — none currently, except any expletives her cousin nala throws her way.

date of birth & age — december 5th, 1995.

gender / pronouns — cis woman / she & her.

sexuality — unknown, but definitely not straight.

species — human.

occupation — currently works as a garden assistant at her family's store, more tbd.

notable features — noticeable scar on the side of her left cheek, from childhood. various others across body.

for all intents and purposes, the ottoman family is known around devotion. their reputation precedes them, usually in a good manner, thanks to their store, edmunds. named after her great great grandfather who moved to devotion decades ago, they soon became decades long owners and founders of a prominent local hardware store turned garden center combo and created to help farmers, fishermen and others alike gather supplies with little need to leave the quiet town. it's been since passed down to each eldest son to carry on it's legacy --- some more inclined to the idea than others.

her father, wilbur, was the youngest son of five -- he was never meant to carry the heavy mantle that came with the ottoman territory, nor did he have any kind of interest in picking it up. instead, eyes were set on the closing horizon ; his biggest aspiration was to get out of devotion and set sail to .. really anywhere. an unsettling feeling of wanderlust even as a child made it's home in the bones of him and never let go. everyone chastised him, saying it's not in the family nature to leave. to disappear, to do their own things. wilbur was never one to really give into the status quo. by the time he turned 18, wilbur was out of here. a caravan full of his belongings and the small amount of cash he had left over after working at edmunds, nothing but family left behind.

wilbur settled in the middle of idaho, making camp and finally running out of funds he so desperately clung onto for as long as possible. it was here where he met a woman named delilah -- the two fell in love and the rest? was history. or, that's how the story normally goes. delilah was a child of those who created a small villiage out of an abandoned campground. originally, it was created by delilah's own family, and soon turned into a place where those who didn't want to deal with the burdens of modern society could live in peace. they farmed, harvested, did everything on their own. solar panels to created what little electricity they used, planting and cutting down trees for warmth in the death of winter. by the time the two were wed, wilbur was already a functioning member of this small society --- though welcome, he was held at an arm's length, like all 'outsiders' who married in were considered. he was the one who went into town for things they weren't able to get themselves, considering his own dealings as a previous outsider.

ethel was born there. it's all she'd ever truly known. raised by the community moreso than an actual school ( the group had elected a more montessori type of learning than workbooks, etc ) and figuring out everything she could within childhood, it was ideal, to her, at least. she was content to stay there for the rest of her life --- only, mostly, interacting with those within the community instead of the modern world. wilbur had other plans.

without warning, the family up and moved. parents and their baby girl moved farther into the forest, a cabin he'd been slowly working on. he wanted a place of their own, without the rules of the society they'd been living in. she was 13 and leaving the only place she'd never known. it was from then on solely the 3 of them, only making the two hour trek to and from town whenever they were unable to create what they needed and then some. though happy her father seemed more relaxed in his own space, ethel was lonely. she'd make friends with the fishes in the creek and the owls in the trees, but with both her parents spending all their days working to create resources for their small brood, it was a lonely life. social skills declined and she became a somewhat - version of her own rapunzel. though not trapped, it was be until she was 28 that she'd leave her cage.

PARENTAL DEATH / they die on their way back from town -- ethel is sparred the details, but the police give their condolences after spending hours finding the cabin. she's not sure what to do -- despite her the loneliness she felt for years in her chest, she'd never been actually alone. an island of her own, surrounded by so much, yet given so little. so, she continues on. wilbur taught her how to drive and the route to the small town they frequented. she was adopted by some of the local shop owners, taken under her wing and given a sense of community, despite her awkward nature. years and years and years go by. it's easy to keep going when that's all she knows.

a nice man who owns the deli in the town offers to help her find other family. they attempt to get to the small community, but their doors were effectively shut, in particular due to their grief over delilah. gears then switched to the other side -- the ottoman family in devotion. she'd never been, perhaps once or twice as a small infant, but the names thrown around in documents kept secret in her fathers office are somewhat familiar -- rants overheard when things would begin to break, about how he should've fought harris or clobbered donald over god knows what. a year, two, go by until things begin to pick up in this aspect. ethel was starting to think her writings got lost in the mail. an uncle makes an invitation to come join them in his guest house -- an unexpected one, letters sent with information and what could be awaiting her there. the cabin is sold, essentially, to that deli - owner for safe keeping in case she ever wanted to come back, for one reason or another. there's not enough room in her small tacoma to hold everything, so he keeps it safe.

now playing — none. who is going to introduce her to spotify?

last watched — none. movie night ???

inspo — tbd.

has only been in devotion, actually, for around two months --- she's still relatively new and trying to get her footing. nala ( and the other ottomans ) are her cousins from her father's side, though she currently has disagreements with the other about things.

she is genuinely just sooooo kind. not a mean bone in there, i'm afraid. but she is so so so afraid. a little dear in my mind. truthfully, she's really skittish the first few hundred times you interact .. but i think she'll warm up pretty quickly as long as you're ( seemingly ) kind. pls excuse her, she's learning.

a bit of a dummy, but she doesn't mean to be. truthfully is naive in the highest degree, and doesn't know exactly how to gain the knowledge her cousin seems to weld so easily.

but once you get to know her and her trust, she will make ur brain explode with knowledge of shit you will never care about ever again. loves to talk, even if just to herself, and is strong in her own convictions even if they go against the grain.

has had very little interaction with modern media -- she much prefers going out and making her own entertainment and not starring at screens, or anything of the sort, really. would much rather go out exploring and finding things to do than deal with things that will make her brain rot.

currently holds a job at edmunds, to keep herself from falling into a pit of not knowing what to do. she essentially just waters flowers for hours at a time -- catch her at the right time and she can make suggestions to, squeaking out the right soil and conditions to grow perfect plans. they're kind of her special interest.

love love love love loves animals. will inundate you with animal facts.

has never ever been kissed!! never held hands, no nothing.

has an eternal guilt for not going out with her parents that day, instead staying to attend to her 'job', the garden and harvest for the trio. it's still something she doesn't speak about - doesn't have the vocabulary to explain her grief, nor does she want to worry any of her new found friends with a burden such as that.

[danielashcuntwars]

I had a really weird dream last night that bauhaus started making children's music and I only found out about it because I read an article that was titled "bauhaus has a children's album now and it fucking sucks" so I went to listen to it and one track was like peter murphy just groaning into a microphone for a couple minutes like "uuuuuuuuihhhhhhhhhhhh" but the rest of the songs didnt even have him as a vocalist. the singer was some guy that daniel ash brought in who sounded like the dude from simply red (like this basically: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=izOdvBmTDh0) and I was like "well why would peter murphy get involved in this project if they were using another vocalist" so I decided to go to the bauhaus house for an interview because they were all living together in a polycue and I went inside and there's all these kids running around and toys everywhere (idk who mothered these kids) and I asked them why they made the album and they were all like "we're family men now" then I tripped over a fisher price playset blacked out and when I woke up I was at the old safeway I used to work at in tacoma and it was snowing and I had to get carts. then I woke up for real

[lovelylovelyartist]

Hey just gonna throw it out there really fucking gouache to have an app for a phone tracking website/app on a "Find Domestic Abuse Shelters" website, what the fuck.

NOT FOR ME, FOR A FRIEND, she's trying to escape an abusive boyfriend and needs to get her stuff.

Does anyone know of resources for escaping domestic abuse, preferably in the Seattle Tacoma area? Either shelters, moving help, financial assistance, Intimidation, anything

[garlique]

so here is my dilemma today sjdjdjs . day 2 in the field of a new job and yesterday i fucking HATED it and HATED the commute to the point where i cried the whole way home and then ALSO cried for like an hour afterward w my partner about how much i hated it and how miserable i was !! im putting it below a cut bc it'll probly get long but if anyone does read it all tell me if i should quit or try to keep going through it

okay so basically the job is charitable fundraising, face to face on the street canvassing. i dont wanna go into too much detail abt the company structure but the company that hired me is contracted by the IRC to do all their face to face fundraising. so yesterday they did some like intros and some basic dos and donts and then paired us up w someone and said "okay go!!"

here are my issues with it that are just about the job structure and not my own issues: theres no centralization at all and every day i would be going to a different spot. now this would be fine if it was based in tacoma, where i know my way around, and also dont have to ride for an hour on multiple forms of transit to get TO the city. the job is in seattle but i live in tacoma and anyone who sees this who does this commute will understand lol. they'll tell us where we're mesnt to be the next day 'by 8pm the night before' and having to scramble every single night to work out a complicated and frankly expensive commute to a brand new place makes me wanna kill myself sjzjzjzjz

minor issue but we have to use our personal phones and let them location track us for time clock purposes and i truly am not comfortable with that, and it saps my phone battery horribly which is a major source of anxiety for me

also in all their promo materials people had tables they were Sitting behind and for us, it is literally standing still in one spot for 6 fuckin hours a day which like i get it but if i can't walk around or sit i cant do it!!

last major issue is in fact the job itself. and i will admit this is my fuckin fault but i dont even rmr when i applied for this position and i have just been desperately applying for whatever i think i could get. but goddamn i am so tired of jobs where the people i interact with as a RULE treat interactinf with me like a horrible fucking chore or something else awful they have to get through like i can just FEEL the disgust radiating off them and that is so goddamn exhausting to me

now here is where we get into why u Shouldn't quit. the number one answer is that i am less than 2 weeks into quitting nicotine and in like another 2 weeks i SHOULD be a lot more normal. i say should because unfortunately nicotine is a surprisingly effective med for a lot of the mental issues i deal with and i honestly DONT know if i will get back to feeling normal within the month timeframe most people do !! and thats also assuming i dont fuckin relapse at all in that timeframe and am Able to stay off it, which if i stay at this job will probably be very impossible. but i truly just DONT have the necessary emotional regulation skills to deal with what i need to at this job! i dont have the emotional regulatory skills to deal with the constand rejection and brushing off, i just dont have the ability to not take it personally right now. and honestly given everything i dealt with at cascade and how much that affected me i dont know if i Will have those regulatory skills once im thru quitting!!

i dont know. like i want a job where i know im putting Good back into the world but i also dont want tiny fucking returns and rejection and unhappiness, and besides this would be an expensive fuckin job w the commute n the food n everything. i just dont wanna fuckin do it and i feel like with how fast paced everything is in this industry i should probably just fuckin quit now .lmao

i just dont know what to do and we're so brain foggy that we cant even make a fucking decision and im so tired and i dont wanna do it lmao . so someone tell me if i should quit or not !!

[seekdevotion]

*    𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃    :     good  to  see you  'round  these devo parts,    ethel JANE ottoman    &    teagan mora.   please  submit  your  account  within  twenty  -  four  hours.   mia goth    &    xolo  maridueña  are  now  taken    !

──  (  mia  goth.  cis  woman,  she  &  her.  )  recently  seen  standing  dramatically,  a  step  too  close  with  hands  in  pockets  in  a  worrying  nature  overlooking  at  the  cliffside:  enter  ETHEL  JANE  OTTOMAN.  twenty  -  eight  old  &  a  sagittarius,  usually  observed  in  prairie  dresses  littered  with  dirt  and  mud,  fucked  up  kicks  that  are  sizes  too  big  and  only  strapped  down  by  too  -  tight  laces  and  a  prayer    ;  ethel    is  a  devotion  visitor  known  within  their  circle  as    LOYAL  +  DEPENDABLE,  a  perpetual  hum  of  mona  lisa  by  j  soloman  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  PESSIMISTIC  +  RASH  follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  the  indescribable  yearning  of  wanting  to  leave  a  place  you  didn’t  want  to  come  to  begin  with,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  HUMAN  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  never  ending  dogs  chasing,  their  teeth  centimeters  from  ankles  —  she’s  not  a  runner  nor  a  track  star,  the  feeling  of  walls  closing  in  constant.  the  need  to  escape  into  a  world  that’s  better  than  where  she  is,  however,  always  disappointed  when  she  wakes.  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  the  overbearing  sadness  she  brings  to  the  function,  ruining  the  whole  vibe,  sad  man  crooning  a  -  la  the  national  playing  over  speaks  when  she  gets  the  aux  ;  an  old  toyota  tacoma  that  on  it’s  last  leg  but  she  can’t  bare  the  thought  of  leaving  it  in  a  junkyard  (  inanimate  objects  having  feelings  or  not,  it’d  be  sad  )  .    overalls  with  nothing  underneath,  ripped  and  tatted  enough  to  barely  being  considered  clothes.  /  committed  to  legend  by  mackie,  24,  they  /  them,  est.  suicide,  heavy  eye  imagery  (looking  into  camera,  gifs  in  particular),  heavy  gore.

──  (  xolo  maridueña.  cis  man,  he  &  they.  )  recently  seen  knocking  things  off  shelves  and  having  a  laugh  at  buy  'nd  go's:  enter  TEAGAN  RAFEAL  MORA.  twenty  -  three  old  &  a  virgo,  usually  observed  in  corduroy  jacket  that  belonged  to  father  and  probably  an  abomination  of  graphic  t-shirt  from  walmart’s  men’s  section  three  sizes  too  big  underneath    ;  teags  is  a  devotion  local  known  within  their  circle  as  FRIENDLY  +  ANIMATED,  a  perpetual  hum  of  twenty  -  something  (  one  take  )  by  nothing,  nowhere.  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  OVERZEALOUS  +  IMPULSIVE    follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  cursed  boredom  and  a  knack  for  attempting  to  be  a  menace,  even  in  death,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  GHOST  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  different  scenarios  of  death,  the  overlook  of  friends  and  family  being  sad  after  he  perishes  in  the  most  odd  way  possible  ;  trapped    underwater  like  a  fish,  doing  some  stupid  shit  on  a  latter  —  being  god’s  little  fucked  up  ken  doll.  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  focus  on  the  sound  of  a  refrigerator  running  (  that’s  what’s  inside  his  head,  not  a  damn  thought  in  there  —  scientist  want  to  study  him  saur  bad  they’re  shaking  at  the  bit  )  until  a  fuze  shorts  and  it  turns  off,  singing  the  wrong  lyrics  both  on  purpose  &  not  (  only  he  gets  the  joke  whenever  he  tries  in  front  of  friends,  ignoring  the  pit  in  stomach  when  no  one  laughs  like  damn  can  no  one  have  a  laugh  anymore  —),    the  inexplicable  joy  of  a  golden  retriever  who  keeps  coming  back  despite  being  told  no,  something  about  licking  the  hand  that  feeds  or  whatever.  /  committed  to  legend  by  mackie,  24,  they  /  them,  est.  suicide,  heavy  eye  imagery  (looking  into  camera,  gifs  in  particular),  heavy  gore.

[taviokapudding]

Horrified to announce that if you LIVE OR VISITED TACOMA-PIERCE COUNTY, WASHINGTON SINCE NOV 2021 {DOUBLY IF YOU GOT COVID/HAVE LONG COVID} to get screened for tuberculosis if you have or suspect you have symptoms

Some bitch has been refusing treatment for over a year, has been ordered repeatedly by the court to self isolate since Jan 2022, ignored the multiple court orders with the recent order from Jan 2023 being the last one that if she breaks will force her to be tracked, & btw we only know about her be she was in a car accident

Did I mention she has COVID too? Yes that heavily implies folks with COVID were exposed to tuberculosis unknowingly.

once again if you have LIVED OR VISITED TACOMA-PIERCE COUNTY IN WASHINGTON STATE SINCE NOV 2021- doubly if you got COVID during that time or after your visit, get screened immediately if you suspect your symptoms are tuberculosis

Also a big ol’ fuck you to the US government & US judicial system for letting this kind of thing happen for a whole year because tracing how many people were unknowingly exposed to this terrible bitch is going to be hell in real time. The fact the Washington courts involved didn’t immediately stop this after the first court order violation and she’s being given another order instead of immediate monitoring is a HUGE loophole and public endangering situation. Everyone who allowed this to happen should be suspended and banned from working in law ever again. This shit shouldn’t be legal. Also fuck all US news outlets for focusing on a weather balloon instead of this.

[julialouisdreyfest]

NIAT Interview

So to start off, what does the name N.I.A.T. stand for?

JR - Never ingest apples, Timmy. Will - NIGHT IN AT TIANANMENS - Take your time and sound it out. Danny - Nice Interstate At Toronto

I saw that you guys recently went on tour, how'd that pan out? 

JR - We had a great time! Looking forward to our next tour in October! Will - For our first tour it went exceptionally well.  Minor vehicle issues halfway through but we were able to perform every date with minimal setbacks.  We are going back on the road in October for a little over a week and playing with some good friends - couldn't be more excited. Danny - It was really dope. I haven't been out in a really long time so getting back out there was awesome.

Favorite venue from that tour?

JR - The Plaid Pig in Tacoma for sure. The locals were all super nice and made us feel right at home.  Will - Haufbrau House = Hall of Fame - the venue in Tacoma, The Plaid Pig, was badass.  Major Railyard (R.I.P.) vibes for sure. Zach - Substation in Seattle! Danny - The pinball bar next door to The Plaid Pig, the venue we actually played at.

Over the years you have had quite the lineup change, how has that affected your sound, or has it? 

JR - I think it has changed our sound in a lot of ways. Everytime we have a member change, the most important part to me is keeping the feel that we have always created. The chaos, the energy. At this point I am the only original member but luckily for this last member change, Danny and I had worked together playing crazy weird music in the past. So it just felt obvious to me to ask him. I have always loved making music with Danny. I can honestly say this new chapter has me more stoked than ever!  Will - The sound has changed to a degree - I think much of that lies in Edward Longo's departure from the band in 2019 (that guy is in a league of his own) but with Danny integration into the band, it has brought back an element that I thought we had once lost.  Having to deal with those abrupt lineup changes has also allowed us to explore different avenues - I started a solo noise project called PLVMES in mid 2020 after Tony Morales departed and now incorporate elements of that into our live sets to replace the samples he wrote for our first album, "Blasphemist".  Slowly working on re-incorporating that again but at the moment, the noise walls become more and more cohesive as we get along it might be awhile before that happens.    Danny - I'm the new guy, It seems like it's changing a lot, but also, it doesn't?!

For the metal laymen, how can you describe the fucked-up sound that is grindcore? 

JR - Imagine driving by a music festival going 90 miles an hour with your windows rolled down trying to make out who's playing. Will - The sound of a government building being razed. Zach - A garbage bag of empty paint cans rolling down a hill on a windy day. Danny - S.C.U.B.A. if you know you know.

I was super excited to see you guys contribute to the Nirvana grind cover album. How did that come about and why Aneurysm as a song choice? 

JR - I want to say Will found the Label that put it together and asked if we could submit. "Territorial Pissings" was already taken so I picked my second favorite song, "Aneurysm". The recording process for that one was a lot of fun. Will - I came across a post in a random grindcore group on social media and contacted Sudden Strike Records out of Ireland about submitting - it only took us a few rehearsals for it to come together before we recorded, mixed and sent them the track.  There were a good number of bands that had already picked their songs so it was our first choice but even if we hadn't been able to get on the compilation, we probably would have ended up covering it anyways.  Zach - Always one of my favorites, we all immediately gravitated towards it (seems kinda obvious). Danny - I have no idea. I was not in the band. If it was up to me we would have tried to do a Weezer song and see if anyone notices.

What's your take on Montanas metal scene, its growth and what it could benefit from? 

JR - It has come a long way. I think the biggest thing is just more bands. More bands making more music. Like Zach says, go record your homies if you can. Make terrible music with your friends until you make something you think is awesome. There's no fast way to make our scene bigger or better. It comes from more people, trying new things. Will - The scenes are ever changing, ever growing - we're still reeling from losing The Railyard and Smiling Dog Records, two DIY mainstays that provided countless bands here the opportunity to play.  The influx of residents in the state has resulted in there being many more musicians around than there used to be, leaving us in a good position where we can really expand what we're working towards if we put in the work - I think much of this can be addressed with better organization and networking.  It is also beneficial to provide a service to your scene if you're able, whether it is flyer design, street-teaming, shooting photos, promoting online, etc.  The list is endless. Zach - At this point in my life I’m very thankful for the metal scene, and Montana music scenes in general for their sense of community and the friendships. I think something the scene could benefit from is more DIY boots on the ground: house shows, homies recording homies in the basement for free, cross genre DIY shows, etc. Danny - It has definitely come a long way. I think we just need more  high quality music of all sorts, there is never too much. Hahaha. 

What is the most annoying thing that people do at a metal show, besides just standing there looking at their phones? 

JR - Gatekeeping. Also people requesting you to play literally anything lol. Will - Showing up late or ditching out early because you gotta work in the morning.  Your job ain't going anywhere, bucko. Zach - Karate bullshit in the pit. Danny - Smoking weed when I'm trying to worship the Lord with my music.

What goes into your writing process? 

JR - When this band started we just liked the idea of writing with no limits. I think we still encompass that. It usually starts with a drum part I make but lately we have been jam writing more with Danny. Will - Generally starts with a skeleton brought to the table by JR; Danny and Zach then take the reins and construct the guitar parts.  Vocals are constantly evolving just like the lyrics and go through multiple edits before anything is set in stone but there have been a few songs where the lyrics were basically written on the spot ("How Long Does Shit Burn?", "Coffee Is For Closers").        Zach - One person brings an idea to the table, usually JR with a drum part, and we expand upon it. Danny - Mostly just starts with a riff, work around it, bring it to the guys and if they like it we keep working around it. Sometimes we just jam one out too. I don't think there's really a right or wrong way to do it, just whatever works for you. Don't be afraid to try new things.

Favorite Seinfeld character and why? 

JR - Morty Seinfeld, I mean the guy worked for Harry Fleming for 38 years. Will - You got a question, you ask the eight ball. Zach - Kramer Danny - Bender

React to this: You're watching a stage play. A banquet is in progress. The guests are enjoying an appetizer of raw oysters. The entree consists of boiled dog stuffed with rice. The raw oysters are less acceptable to you than a dish of boiled dog.

JR - The only reaction I can think of, would be to go home and hug my dogs. Will - *lights blunt* Zach - Raw oysters are absolutely delicious. Pop one with a little hot sauce, uncultured swine. Danny - Wait, you guys aren't eating boiled dogs? I thought this was metal.

Working on any new material, what can we expect to see in the future?

JR - Well, you can watch us attempt to write ourselves into a never ending wormhole of weirdness and loud angry noises. Will - Find out for yourself this Saturday @ The Nova Danny - Degeneracy, overall.

You can catch NIAT during this year's fest at Nova Center on August 6th at 10:15pm!

[drabbles-mc]

Sucker Punch

Kozik x F!Reader

Part 2 can be found Here

Request by Anon: I have a Kozik request. I was thinking that, during a fight with Tig, the latter could dodge a hit that accidentally catches the reader (Opie's sis maybe, that seems to be a popular one) and before anyone can fully react, she fully hulks out on him, and he's surprised that she's fully punching him, rather than cat-fighting. And maybe ends in smut?

Warnings: language, blood

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: I didn’t end up going the smutty route with this one. Honestly I’ve written multiple smut fics the last few days and my brain is just tapped out, so I went in a little bit of a fluffier and flirtier direction instead. Hope that’s okay! xo

Join my group-chat here: (X) ​

SOA Taglist: @garbinge @masterlistforimagines @adela-topaz-caelon @chibsytelford @mijop @xladymacbethx @i-just-read-stuff @kkim120 @multiyfandomgirl40​ @everyhowlmarksthedead​ @toni9​ @unicornucopia-fuckers​ @mayans-sauce​ @shadow-of-wonder​ (If you want to be added to my taglist just let me know!)

You weren’t really concerning yourself with the ruckus that was erupting on the other side of the clubhouse. If you let yourself get distracted and riled up every time a couple of the guys started to fight with each other, nothing would ever get done. If there were no bullets or knives involved, you really didn’t bother to insert yourself into the middle of it. Your only concern was staying out of the middle of it, which you were usually able to do very successfully.

It was Tig and Kozik going at it. Again. It wasn’t anything new in the slightest—the two of them hadn’t gotten along in ages, and now that Kozik was trying to transfer back from Tacoma all of the tension was only intensifying. At least once a week they were going tit-for-tat over something.

You heard Jax tell one of the prospects to go grab a couple of brooms to clean up the mess that would undoubtedly be left behind in the wake of the scuffle. You chuckled and shook your head at yourself as you continued to wipe down the bar and the stools in front of it.

The noise of their fighting was getting closer. You turned around to see if you should hop back over the bar to stay out of the fray, but before you could, you were getting knocked backwards by a fist colliding with your face, your mouth instantly filling with the metallic taste of blood.

Both Tig and Kozik froze in their tracks, the fight and reasons for it completely forgotten in that moment as they saw you wiping the blood from your lip. Tig instantly pointed to the blonde man standing next to him, blaming him for what just happened.

“All him,” he held his hands up in surrender.

Kozik looked mortified, “Shit, Y/N, I’m so sor—”

Before he could finish the sentence you were swinging on him. You didn’t know why the two of them were fighting, and you really didn’t care. But you knew for a fact that you didn’t want your face getting busted open because of it. Tig practically leapt out of the way, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your wrath.

At first Kozik made no move to get out of your way. He figured that if you needed to slap him in the chest a few times to get your frustration out, it was the least he could do for you. Besides, it would be better and easier to take than a beating from any of the guys in the club for accidentally hitting you.

What he wasn’t banking on, though, was you actually knowing how to throw a punch. Your initial thought was to bust up his lip the same way he did yours, but you also knew that the head was a very painful target to hit. So instead you went right for his solar plexus, causing him to double-over and attempt to back up out of range.

It didn’t stop you, though. You continued to try and close the distance and keep swinging. It wasn’t until you felt someone grabbing you by your shoulders that you snapped out of it and stopped. You took a breath, spitting the last of the blood out of your mouth as you shrugged off the hands on you, realizing much to your surprise that it was Tig who was stopping you.

“As much as I’d love to see you beat his ass,” he chuckled, “didn’t seem like it was shaping up to be a fair fight.”

You huffed, shaking your head. You stepped forward, giving Kozik one final shove before blowing past him and heading towards the back of the clubhouse. You looked for a dorm with an open door and ducked inside, thankful to see that it was Opie’s. If anyone wouldn’t mind you borrowing their sink it was him. You yanked open his dresser drawer and pulled out one of his t-shirts, needing a fresh one since yours now had blood running down the front of it.

You washed your face off in the tiny, cramped space that passed for a bathroom. The cold water felt good on your skin, but it stung the open cut on the inside of your lip. The sink was splattered with red for a moment as you rinsed and spit. You quickly washed it down the drain before shutting the water off.

As you were peeling your blood-stained shirt off over your head, you heard a soft knock at the door. You looked over to see Kozik, whose face was a giving off a mixture of different emotions. He’d originally shown up to apologize but the scene that he walked in on had shifted his mind to a completely different track.

You rolled your eyes as you pulled Opie’s shirt down over your head, tying it so that you were no longer swimming in it, “What?”

He shook his head to dispel his wandering thoughts, “Uh. Sorry. I just, um…I came to say sorry.”

You sighed, resting your hands on the back of your neck, “Thanks. Next time just, you know, don’t punch me in the fucking face.”

He chuckled, “It wasn’t on purpose!”

“Didn’t you use to box?” you cocked one eyebrow, “They never taught you how to pull a punch?”

He smirked, “Never got good at that part.”

You laughed, “Clearly.”

“Feel like I should be the one asking you if you used to box,” he rested a hand just below his chest where your first hard shot had landed, “Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?”

You chuckled, leaning back against Opie’s dresser, “You try growing up in the house I did and not learning how to throw a punch,” you shook your head, “Survival of the fittest.”

He nodded, “Right, right,” he took a deep breath, “We good?”

You tapped your chin, putting on a show of being deep in thought, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he laughed as you walked closer to him, “You probably gave me a bruised rib or two. What more do you want?”

You leaned in close to him as you squeezed past him in the narrow doorway, “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

He followed you out of the room, catching your hand in his before you could make it back to the main area of the clubhouse. He pulled you back to him, your chest pressing up against his, “Sounds like you might already have an idea about that.”

You could practically feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest with how close the two of you were. You chuckled as you gently patted his cheek, “Y’know I’d love to kiss you right now, but someone busted my fucking lip open. So. Guess I can’t.”

He called after you as you walked away, laughing as he did, “Can I get a raincheck on that?”

You turned around and flashed him a smile, shrugging your shoulders, “Guess we’ll have to wait and see. Might take a while to heal.”

[riseofthecommonwoodpile]

ok SO i just learned some wild shit and i’m gonna be really annoying, BUT

i was listening to this episode of You’re Wrong About (which is a really good podcast, btw) that’s about the DC snipers, this is part 1 of 4 i believe, and in it they focus on the autobiography of the ex-wife of John Muhammad (one of the two perpetrators). The first thing that was pretty amazing about the episode is that his ex-wife is a frankly amazing person, and by the end of her part of the story in this episode, i had to pause because i was crying happy tears for her, like, i love this woman. And the second thing I learned is that John admitted to investigators after being arrested, the first thing he admitted, was that the reason for the killings was to create a pretense to kill his ex-wife. He blamed all of the killings on her. like, WHAT? how did i grow up during this and literally never hear about this? there’s some like, deep Ideology to the fact that after they realized it wasn’t Islamic fundamentalist terrorism (John wasn’t even particularly religious) the media just. stopped shouting about it, maybe whispered quietly somewhere that it was an abusive man who couldn’t get what he wanted. big content warning on the episode for domestic abuse, obviously, but like, HIGHLY recommended.

(also P.S. she divorced him while they were living in washington state, after he had kidnapped their children and no one had any idea where they were for over a year, and she moved to maryland for reasons explained in the ep, and it was a Tacoma father’s rights group that had investigators go to Maryland to track down exactly where she lived for him. because of COURSE it fucking was)

[baby-grayson]

Do Ness and Gray Ever Get Back Together Or Are They Done For Good?

 tw: discussions of drinking and depresssion

Grayson spent the entirety of Christmas break without speaking to Ness. He hardly spoke at all, truthfully: only the occasional chuckle when Ethan brought up a story from the good old days. Most of his clothes stayed folded in his suitcase: he rotated between a few pairs of sweatpants and some thermal long sleeves when his mother drove him to physical therapy. He spent every night staring at the ceiling, hearing Ethan’s low snore next to him, and wondering what Ness was doing at that exact moment. When he watched Ethan drive away at the end of winter break, leaving Grayson behind to take the semester off, Grayson felt like was giving up more than just his academic responsibilities that semester.

During the holidays, Ness was more than happy to have the distraction of her four brothers around her. With someone always mad at someone else, or bleeding onto the coffee table, she had enough chaos in the world around her to distract from the chaos in her life. Her only thought of Grayson happened when her Nan sat down beside her to ask about that boy, she had been seeing last year: Ness shook her head softly, said they were together anymore, and changed the subject.

The next semester went by in a whirlwind for both. Ness rushed from class to class, trying her hardest to pull up her GPA from the nosedive it took when she was taking care of Grayson after he came home from the hospital. She bolstered enough confidence to apply to be a writer for the school’s newspaper. Her happiest moment that semester came from reading the email that she had been hired as a contributing editor. For a moment, she paused and imaged what Grayson would have said if he was there. Afterall, Grayson had been the largest encouraging force for her to apply when they were together. She shook the thought out of her head and immediately called up Samantha, who suggested they celebrate Nessa’s victory of a box of white claws and bottle of cheap vodka from the gas station.

Nessa’s life saw many changes that semester: the absence of Grayson, her appointment to the newspaper, and a newfound predilection for shitfaced, promiscuous, wild partying. Samantha dragged Ness from frat house to frat house on Friday and Saturday nights, and even on Thursday afternoons. When Ness would gravitate toward the corner of the party, fingering her bottle in her hands, sometimes she would wonder about Grayson, how he was doing, if his condition was getting better: she would wash away the thoughts by pressing the bottle to her lips and returning to whatever antics Samantha and her friends were getting up to. It was a dangerous cycle: high risk and high reward but the constant mental stimulation excused Ness from her quieter, introspective thoughts.

Grayson lived a quieter life: splitting his time between at home therapy exercises and helping his mother prepare the garden for springtime. He drove Ethan’s old Tacoma truck to the local greenhouse to pick up bulbs and fertilizer, planting a bed for the start of springtime. By the time the crocuses had started to poke out of the ground, Grayson’s arm was in much better shape. Thanks to the selfless work of his healthcare team, and his commitment to his own wellbeing, he was more than ready to return to school in the fall.

Had he been in a proper frame of mind, he would have called Ness. Not with the intentions of explicitly getting back together with her, but to see her, talk to her, tell her that he missed her. However, his body had healed much faster than his mind. His mind still craved his bed almost 24 hours a day, despite never allowing him the sweet respite of sleep. He chewed at his lip all day, until he tasted metallic blood on the tip of his tongue. He spoke to no one except Ethan: even in the locker room. The once boisterous and bubbly Grayson became a shell of a person: quiet and limp in the corner of a room, only the physical memory of the lion’s soul he used to host.

Ethan tried to coax his brother to go out. Ethan even went as far as the hook his arms around Grayson’s ankles and try to pull him from his bed, dragging him from across their apartment floor, but Grayson was always the heavier twin. Grayson anchored himself to the edge of the couch and only grunted when Ethan sighed and mumbled a few words of goodbyes. Grayson heard the front door closed but didn’t have enough energy to pick himself up from the floor and walk back to bed.

Being a senior, Ethan was well recognized at most campus parties. He walked through the door and instantly start giving people side hugs and asking how they have been. He smelled the familiar odor of stale, cheap beer emanating from people’s plastic cups. He stopped in his tracks, however, when he stood in the kitchen door to see Ness standing with Derek. She was in a tight black crop top and held out a red solo cup in front of her. Derek looked down at her with wobbly eyes that suggested his stupidity was heightened by warm feeling of alcohol.

Ethan cleared his throat and tried to divert his eyes but couldn’t help himself when Ness strung her arms around Derek’s bicep and asked him to go dance with her. Ethan pretended to be distracted by the six bowls of chips in front of him, but in reality, he couldn’t stop watching the scene play out in front of him. Derek was too drunk to take two steps to the left. He couldn’t barely walk with Ness hanging off of his arm, so much so that he held onto the kitchen counter for stability.

“Ness,” Ethan said emphatically.

She spun around with a surprised look on her face, shocked to hear someone use that tone at a party. For a second, her heart dropped into her stomach. She recognized the masculine angle of the jawline and the kind hazel eyes and in her tipsy statement, her emotions betrayed her for a second. But the lighting fixture of the kitchen befriended her to remind her that she was looking at Ethan, and not the man she thought about before she went to sleep at night.

“E?” Ness asked, suddenly forgetting Derek, who was now wobbling his head over the sink as if he was going to puke.

Ethan took a step toward her as Ness did the same, “What’s going on?”

Ness knew Ethan meant more than what she was doing in the frat house kitchen, but she played coy, “I’m here with Sam and some of her sisters from APhi. I think they’re in the basement if you wanna-“

“Ness,” Ethan said, nearly sounding like he was scolding her, “What’s going on with you?” Ethan gestured to the red solo cup in her hands, something she wouldn’t have been caught dead with last year.

Ness shrugged in response, “I’ve been okay.” She thought about asking Ethan how his brother was doing: but decided against it, choosing that appearing strong was better than tipping off Ethan that she still cared.

Ethan looked at the ground for a moment before looking back up at Ness, “He’s not doing the best, Ness.”

She wore a blank stare. The only semblance of a reaction she gave Ethan was that she slightly sucked in her top lip before he continued talking.

“His arm is better, took a couple months,” Ethan sighed, “I just can’t get him out of the house anymore Ness.”

“He’ll come around eventually,” Ness tucked her mouth against her cup to take a sip while watching the expression fold on Ethan’s face.

He shrugged again, “I just thought maybe-,” he sighed, “Nevermind.” Ethan turned his head to look out of the kitchen, at the rest of the party that was still booming in the house. He turned to Ness, “Find me if you need a ride home, alright?”

Ness nodded while Ethan walked away. She started the amber liquid in her cup for a minute before feeling her spine curl at the sound of Derek vomiting into the sink.

Ethan came home without a pretty girl by his side: something about the action of dragging Grayson across their apartment and then running into Ness threw him off his usual flirtatious game. His keys clinked as they hit the kitchen counter, “You’re still here?”

Grayson groaned from the floor.

Ethan reached down to give his brother a hand, pulling him off the floor.

“You’re home early,” Grayson yawned, his voice was raspy with sleep: a dead giveaway that he had fallen asleep on the cold, hardwood floor while Ethan went to the party.

“Not my night,” Ethan mumbled and passed a hand through his hair.

“What happened?” Grayson’s voice shook as it spoke, wavering between frequencies.

Ethan looked at the bathroom door and contemplated escaping the conversation before decided to state clearly, “I ran into Ness. She was there with Samantha- and some of their friends.”

Grayson’s mouth went dry. He pressed his tongue against his cheek, avoiding looking at Ethan’s eyes.

“I told her how you were doing,” Ethan tried to keep his tone casual, “told her maybe- I dunno,” he shrugged, “she could say hi sometime-get you out of the house-“

“the fuck you do that for?” Grayson didn’t wait for Ethan to finish his thought.

Ethan sighed, “You’re just- Gray” Ethan perched himself on the arm of their couch, “All you do is sleep.” Ethan looked at his brother with eyes of concern, “Maybe it’s time to start-“ Ethan sighed again, “having some fun.”

“And my ex-girlfriend is fun?” Grayson’s eyes squinted as his tone sounded acquisitional.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ethan tried to defend.

“That my ex-girlfriend, after telling her I’m a pathetic mess, is fun?”

“You know what,” Ethan conceded, “Just forget it. I tried doing the right thing for you but clearly- clearly,” he passed a hand through his hair, “Clearly I don’t know what to do.”

Ethan turned away from the conversation before Grayson could grow angrier. Grayson heard the hiss of the shower turn on and locked his bedroom door behind him as he laid awake in his bed.

The consequences of Ethan’s meddling came to fruition nearly a full week later. Ness donned her old knit beanie and thermos to sit on the stands at their football game. Unlike last year, she did not scream and cheer when they scored: she took little sips of hot liquid and silently watched the crowd as they game went on.

She was leaning against Grayson’s car when he walked out from the locker room: in a pair of joggers, his hair a mess, and his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

He stopped in front of her. They looked at each other for a minute. The sound of cars and buses reversing out of the parking lot and merging onto the road filled the air around them.

“Good job tonight,” Ness whispered into the air.

“Thanks,” Grayson’s tone was low and curt.

“I uh- how is your shoulder?”

“Better.”

“Good.”

Grayson looked from side to side, not seeing anywhere he could run to to avoid the conversation. “You know you don’t have to talk to me Vanessa,” he said lowly, shifting his weight on his heels, “I get it- you moved on with your life. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m not-“ she started but didn’t finish. She sighed and shrugged, “I wanted to see you again.”

“Well here I am,” Grayson said flatly.

“You are,” Ness mumbled. She stared at a spot far away on the ground, “Maybe we could- do coffee? Sometime?”

Grayson shrugged, “Don’t really drink it anymore.”

Ness nodded softly, “Okay well,” she sucked her lips in, “I just thought I would try.”

Grayson responded by folding his lips into a tight line and opening his trunk to throw his duffel bag inside, signaling that he was done with their conversation. Ness mumbled words of goodbye and stepped away from him. He watched her walk away: fondling remembering what the fluff of the pompom on her hat felt like when he used to kiss the top of her head after a long game.

That night, both of them laid in their respective beds and thought about the other: each of them convinced that they were done forever. They woke up the next morning: husks of people. Ness tried to sleep in, she danced her feet around in her sheets but it made her miss the familiar warmth of Grayson’s arms on a Saturday morning. She jumped out of bed and found a pair of sneakers to go on a jog with: she told herself it was a coincidence when she jogged right past Grayson’s apartment.

Grayson continued his depressive patterns of living in bed and only showering every two weeks.

Ethan had gone to a party: telling Grayson not to wait up as he slid through the door. Grayson didn’t even feign a response. He scratched his balls and sniffed as he changed the channel on the television. Grayson thought that Ethan had forgotten something when there was a knock at the door twenty minutes later.

Ness stood in front of him.

Her face was red and puffy, but her eyes were smeared with distinct coats of concealer. Her hair fell in front of her face in messy strands. She looked up at him with knitted brows.

“You okay?” He asked brutishly.

Ness signed and gritted her teeth, “I-I uh-“ she closed her eyes, “I need you-could you- I didn’t know who else to go to- Grayson.”

Grayson looked around her shoulder to see if anyone else was lingering in the stairwell. He shoved his body to one side of the door way and nodded his head in a motion that asked Ness to step into his apartment.

“Thanks,” she gulped. “I-uh.” She sighed and looked around, being in his kitchen flooded her with memories. She remembered the last time she walked through his door. “Can you drive me to the drug store?” Her words came out in a flash.

Grayson took a moment, trying to use all of his brain to make sure he heard her correctly before hesitantly saying, “Yeah…sure.”

“Thanks,” Ness nodded quickly.

Grayson looked from one side of the room to the other, “Should I ask-“

“I missed my period,” her words merged together, “By a week.”

Grayson nodded, “Okay.” He said lowly.

Ness did not move from where she stood but her eye grew into large orbs as he moved passed her. For a minute, she wondered if he was abandoning her. But instead, he came out of his bedroom with a fleece thrown over his t-shirt and his car keys in one hand.

Both of them stayed silent in the car ride. They were brought together in a wordless commitment to privacy. Neither of them even bothered to reach to the radio and put on something to fill the void: they sat there. When Grayson parked, Ness didn’t ask him to go with her, but he did anyway. Even slid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter when they stepped to the register.

Grayson didn’t realize he should have driven Nessa back to her dorm until he pulled up to his own apartment building. Ness didn’t question it: she bolted from the parking lot to Grayson’s front door and tapped her foot against the floor as he worked his eye into the lock and opened the door for her.

Grayson waited on the couch while she locked herself in the bathroom. He didn’t even bother taking his shoes off. He looked up when she opened the bathroom door, with a thin smile.

Grayson’s mouth tightened into a small knot, “Everything uh..all set?”

Ness sighed and nodded softly, “Yeah uh..” she weighed her head from side to side. Suddenly, the embarrassment of the situation flooded over her entire body like a tsunami, “Crisis averted.”

“I’m sorry I-“ “I didn’t mean to-“

They spoke over each other.

“You go-“ “No you go-“

Grayson folded his hands in his lap while Ness chewed on her bottom lip.

He spoke into the silence, “I’m happy for you- that you know, everything worked out.”

Ness nodded, “Thanks, and thanks for—thanks for doing that, you didn’t have to.” Grayson tried to response graciously but she kept going, “I didn’t know who else to- I didn’t have anyone else I could-.” Nessa’s shoulders drooped, “It’s funny, I’m always around people now- but I’m never really with them.”

Grayson nodded, not knowing what to do with that information, “Glad I could help.”

They stood in silence for another moment.

Grayson cleared his throat before continuing, “And sorry, for uh- sorry for breaking up with you I just- I thought it was best because of -..well- I could have gone about the whole thing better.”

Ness found a shy smile, “Thanks Gray.”

They nodded at each other.

Ness groaned and grabbed fists of her hair, “What are we doing?”

“Talking?” Grayson stuttered.

“No, I mean.” Ness turned herself around once before looking at him with a tired expression, “We were so good, what happened to us?”

Grayson shrugged, “I don’t know. One minute we were perfect and the next-“

“Lights out,” Ness finished.

Grayson nodded. He took in a sharp breath through his nose, “Sorry I- sorry I turned you down- last month. About coffee.” He shrugged, “I guess- I just thought you were asking because you felt bad for me. That was- that wasn’t the best move.”

Ness nodded softly, “It’s okay, I get it.”

Grayson looked up at her, “Do you still want to go?”

Ness looked up at him. She moved her mouth from side to side, pensively. She swallowed, feeling a lump dissolve in the bottom of her throat. “Yeah,” she said lightly, “I mean- if you want to.”

Grayson nodded in response, his eyes darting around the room.

“What happens-“ Ness bit the corner of her lip, “What happens if it doesn’t work? If we’re just…too different now?”

Grayson shrugged, “Then I guess you get a free cup of coffee and I’m five dollars poorer.”

Ness chuckled, “Fair.”

“And if it works,” Grayson leaned toward her, “Then I get the best thing that ever happened to me back.”

Ness started to blush and rolled her eyes, “You were always too smooth for your own good,”

Grayson shook his head with a soft smile, “I mean it Ness- you-“ he shrugged, “I know I used to say it all the time but I really don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

She smiled shyly at him, feeling the tension in the moment subside.

“You’re-you’re an angel Ness. An absolute angel,” he reached out to hold her hand, “my sweet girl.”

His fingers sparked with they reached out for her palm, telling Ness that they would be seeing each other for much more than just coffee.

EPILOGUE

Two elementary school age boys barged through the front door of the family.

“MOM!” “Pass!” “Throw!” “Back!” “Johnny—” “Alex—” They spoke over each other.

Ness chuckled and lowered the heat on a pot that was simmering on the stove. From their highchairs, two twin toddlers babbled and spitted at each other. Grayson busted through the doorway, “You shoulda seen them Ness! Two regular all-stars.” Ness smiled and hugged both boys, placing careful kisses on the tops of their heads while looking for bruises on their visible skin.

“How were the twins?” Grayson started wiggling a finger at little Bradley who was transfixed by the jiggly motions of his father’s hand. Next to him, Connor called out, wanting an equal amount of attention from his daddy.

“Good,” Ness commented, “Alex! Johnny! Go wash your hands, dinner’s almost ready.”

Ness exhaled softly and a smile lit up her face when Grayson wrapped his arms around her. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips. He brushed a hand over her bulging pregnant belly, “You think it’s another boy?”

“I hope not,” Ness laughed.

Grayson smirked and kissed her again, “At this rate, I think we could make a whole team.”

 (A/N: Thank you so much for reading, especially if you were someone who started reading from the beginning. This story took over my blog like a whirlwind and it’s been a lot of fun. I’m still more than happy to do pre-fic or post-fic concepts if you want to send them in. Also, I never posted it but I did work out a story for Ethan in this AU: who he ends up with and what happens to him so let me know if you’re interested in that arc. As always, I love getting feedback from you guys. I hope this week brings you all of the positively and light you need)

[leupagus]

My Stationery Box, or: The Douche Chest, or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Being A Terrible Parody Of Myself

So I really love to write letters, and have since i was a kid — when i cleaned out my grandparents’ house I found a few I’d written in grade school, and my parents’ files are chocablock full of the weird collage type things I sent to them in college. 

I’ve also been a huge insufferable fucking snob about stationery since way too young (yes I did have a fountain pen phase, no it did not go well) and have been collecting fancy paper and cute cards and assorted weird writing paraphernalia forever. Up until recently, things were just kind of haphazardly stuffed in various drawers and shelves and I could never actually find any said fancy shit when I wanted it; but a couple of months ago I discovered an adorable little chest of my late mom’s that had previously housed, I think, her knitting and has mostly just been collecting dust since. And voila: The Douche Chest was born:

(Pictured with my elderly laptop and coffee with my coffee warmer, which I STRONGLY ENCOURAGE everyone to buy one day when we’re not under worldwide quarantine, seriously it will change your life.)

Keep Reading for some top tier stationerdery

First off, the stuff that helps me write! I still use my family address book, which was purchased sometime in the early 80s and has the name and address of everyone my parents ever cared enough about to want their name and address, which is actually not that many people. I keep it updated and have added a few people, but mostly rely on my phone’s address book. Mostly I like it because it’s got a lot of my mom’s handwriting.

My planner, which has a whole correspondence section where I keep a record of who I write to regularly, when I write to them, and what kind of stationery they usually get (because there are different types and you don’t want to give a correspondence an inconsistent letter-reading experience! Yes I know, I can’t believe I’m like this either) indicated by the m, s, x, l, b notations. That will be relevant later. Also yes the planner is where I scribble down both story ideas and my gratitude journal. This is what I’m saying in re: yikes.

At my own house, I have a whole huge box of letters I’ve gotten over the years, mostly organized by sender and date. Since I’m at my aunt’s house for quarantine, my correspondence is all being kept in my dad’s old... I dunno what to call it, basically it’s a trapper-keeper type thing that I literally never saw him go to work without. (A running theme of this tour is that a whole lot of this stuff is inherited from/given to me by my parents and grandparents.) Inside is also various labels that have come in handy when addressing packages etc, as well as our local neighborhood directory.

Next up is my pen bag, which is — I mean, it has my pens. I prefer writing with a black .5 tip rollerball type pen, and by “prefer” I mean “I cannot abide writing letters with anything else and will go to Staples and buy a new box rather than use a ballpoint pen except obv not right now, which makes the bag real important for keeping track of all my special pens.” Also pictured: my grandpa’s ancient letter opener that I’m pretty sure he stabbed multiple people with, and my blue Le Pen which I use to annotate my letters when I’m reading them through before sending. I KNOW.

This is my assorted letter-writing stuff storage box (no we’re not even at the cards yet this is TERRIBLE); please note that I sort of jerryrigged this box together myself, which will be another running theme of this tour. Glue, roller whiteout thingies, washi tape (which I don’t really use but people keep sending me?) post-its and my address stamp because no matter what I do, the fuckin’ Audubon Society refuses to send me a single donation request with cute stickers showing my address even though they’ve sent my deceased dad like three THIS YEAR. Anyway. Also please note the incredibly awesome initial stamp thing — I came up with the rough design in college and use it in place of my name a lot, but I went to leoniebunch and they transformed it into this super professional and lovely design that I want to use for the rest of my life. Not pictured: the fucking wax seal I also had made with that design, because yes, I’m like this.

WE’RE STILL NOT DONE WITH THE PARAPHERNALIA: here’s the other misc. stuff that I use on the regular. Cup with sponge because we’re not really licking envelopes these days: tons of weird stickers that I’ve collected, YET MORE PENS, including rainbow ones because one of these days I’m going to write to one of my friends with alternating rainbow colors and they’ll have to murder me. Also pictured: the letter opener which I forgot to put back in the pen bag, as well as my dog’s nail clippers and brush because that’s a handy place to keep them. Also also pictured: my dog, who does not help in any way with letter writing.

OKAY FINALLY ONTO THE STATIONERY, Jesus just writing this all out is making me both proud and ashamed.

I’m sure you noticed in the first pic how everything is meticulously, not to say monomaniacally, labeled. Some stuff might require a little bit of explanation; some stuff is pretty wysiwyg though. For example, BEAR CARDS, which:

(These are sent exclusively to my nephews, who go absolutely apeshit over them every time. Come to think of it, I have a LOT of cards/letter stock/etc that is just for one person or one set of people, which maybe I should talk to my therapist about.)

PUN CARDS are likewise exactly what you think they are; they’re the most recent addition to my hoard, having found them at Powells when I went to Portland in February. They are extremely My Kind Of Thing.

Then you’ve got things like BIRTHDAY CARDS, THANKS, POSTCARDS which like — guess what:

(Please note that of these birthday cards, all but two were actually inherited from my grandmother who passed away in 1986. See if you can guess which two are my purchases.) (Also I’m running out of thank-you cards but to be fair I am rarely grateful so this should last me another few years at least.) (Also shit, I didn’t take a picture of the postcards I don’t think? Whatever, they’re postcards that I’ve either inherited from my parents or collected over the years. There’s also a very odd collection of wolf-themed cards that SOMEONE in my family collected, and that I have been using exclusively for allighater because she’s the only one who could ever appreciate them enough.)

Then there’s the BLANK CARDS and BLANK AND WRITTEN CARDS WITH/WITHOUT ENVELOPES, because sometimes I just need to know what I’m getting into before opening the boxes. I’d say a good 50% of these were inherited from my folks, with the cutsier ones being my own purchases. The cards that these boxes originally contained are looooooooong since used up but they’re nice boxes and that meme about adulthood being an endless debate over whether or not you should keep a box because it’s a really good box is accurate as all hell. 

(There are a lot of cards in here that I bought when I was like, in college — those square ones, for example, were purchased at Faces in Northampton when I was in college and I’m probably never going to actually send them which is kind of ridiculous but see: this entire post.)

And finally, the actual letter-letter stationery! Which I also have an embarrassing amount of! First up is what’s labelled MADOC TREE CARD/LETTER because I honestly had no idea how else to describe it; it was inherited from my grandma who everyone called MaDoc (on account of her being both a ma and a doctor, go figure) and it’s really lovely. I doubt it’s the original intention, but I like to unfold the paper and use both sides of it, because I always have a lot to say. These are used only for family members on MaDoc’s side, and of those, only the ones I really like, which accounts for there still being a lot left.

Then there’s the X-LARGE paper, which isn’t actually that large — it’s just normal computer-sized — but in context is the biggest stuff I’ve got. All of this paper is from my mom, who loved using cute themed paper, and I use this stuff mostly for the friends of hers I keep in touch with (which is actually kind of a lot).

Then there’s the letterhead I use for — okay, so like, we know by now that I’m deeply weird, but this is probably just DEEPLY WEIRD, but whatever, you came this far. So I found a metric shitton of 6 3/4 envelopes in amongst my parents’ office supplies — I have literally zero idea why they had about 5 100-count boxes of these envelopes but I’m one of those people who can never, ever throw shit out, so! I gathered together all the letterhead that they’d also collected over the years from the various universities and hospitals they worked at, cut said letterhead down so that it a) didn’t have University of Tacoma or whatever still on it and b) perfectly fit a 6 3/4 envelope if folded three times. The resulting shape is a little... odd, I’ll admit, but it pleases me greatly and that’s the important thing. In fact this has been my go-to correspondence choice for a couple of months now.

(Also pictured: the cover for this hinky-ass box I made out of a Beekman 1802 box from when we went to their store for their Rose Apothecary popup shop. Zero regrets. Not pictured: the really cute pad of paper I also use for these envelopes that’s a more normal size and shape because where’s the fun in showing you normal stuff?)

And finally, my pride and joy, my Crane Stationery, some of which I have had since I was in high school and my mom bought me a box of it for my birthday (I told you, running theme). It comes in small, medium, and big; yes, I absolutely have rules as to who gets what size of these, too. The medium box kind of fell apart a few years ago so I cobbled a new one together; Crane stationery is notable for not being as exciting as that cover might imply. I’m also kind of pleased that I still have the airmail stationery that I got in college that apparently isn’t sold anymore, which I find baffling because what the fuck is the point of international correspondence if you don’t have to use special stationery? Anyway:

(In re: the lined sheets — I actually have them for every size, because I loathe lined paper but also loathe writing crooked, hence these guides that I put under each sheet as I write. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

So that’s the complete guided tour! If you aspire to have a collection as viscerally unnerving as mine, feel free to send any questions my way. You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

[francisp0rter]

The Grammy Awards are Decadent and Depraved

By Blunted

Before writing anything about the Grammy Awards, it should be duly noted that nobody really gives a shit. Everyone knows that the nominated artists are nowhere near the best the industry has to offer, but at the end of the day (8PM EST, to be specific) we all tune in to watch the big train wreck in the hopes that at least a couple of shining moments will come through. 

The whole thing was off to a bleak start when, in an astoundingly bone-headed move, the Grammys decided to relegate the Rap Album of the Year awards to the pre-show, forcing one of the greatest emcees who ever lived to accept his first Grammy nomination in complete silence. The argument in the Grammys favour is that none of the nominees are popular enough to warrant a spot on the main show, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much to the Grammys when they drag out H.E.R, who elicits a collective “who the fuck is that?” anytime she appears on screen. 

And even if it’s a case of the nominees not being popular enough, why nominate them in the first place? Freddie Gibbs and Royce Da 5’9 don’t need the Grammys, we already know that they’re two of the best poets this great genre has to offer. And Nas CERTAINLY doesn’t need the Grammys, as he’s gone his whole illustrious career without even receiving one. How are you gonna make him accept his first ever Grammy award off-air like he’s winning Best Classical Compendium or some shit? 

For the Grammys to nominate these incredible talents and then stick them in the pre-show is not only an insult but just downright fucking dumb. Letting Nas on the Grammy stage to accept his first ever award would have done a hell of a lot more to remedy the Weeknd boycott situation than having Harvey Mason Jr. come on screen and beg everyone not to be mad at him.

With that being said, the 63rd Grammy Awards were pretty god-damn weird. You could probably chalk the strange vibes up to the lack of a real audience and the battle-of-the-bands style layout the Grammys opted for, but that’s not entirely it. Something else was off, something nearly intangible. After about an hour of this uncanny-valley feeling, I realized where it was coming from: Trevor Noah. 

Possibly the least funny person on the entire planet Earth, Trevor Noah bumbled his way through over three hours of jokes that would have bombed even if they were performed at an open mic night in Tacoma, Washington. The only funny thing that left his mouth was, 

“Gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me. We’re back at the 63rd Grammy Awards,” and it was only funny because it didn’t make any fucking sense. 

Worst host of all time aside, the show ranged from pretty good to downright cringe-inducing, with some moments of greatness sprinkled in. Billie Eilish kicked the show off with a sleepy performance of her Record of the Year nominated track “Everything I Wanted,” in which she sang on top of a luxury car submerged in a cloud of smoke. Eilish, as always, left little to be desired and delivered her performance with the precision of a well-trained theatre kid. There’s an inherent starry-eyed quality to Eilish’s music, but her talents make it easy to look past. 

Haim’s blistering performance of “The Steps” was stellar. The group’s musicality was on full display as Danielle Haim led the track on drums and vocals, before quietly switching out with her sister Alana to take centre stage, proving once again that the best way to make a splash at the Grammys is simply by playing music and playing it well. 

Bruno Mars and Anderson Paak also gave two incredible performances as Silk Sonic. The first was a Soul Train-inspired rendition of their brand new track “Leave the Door Open” that looked like it was equally as fun to perform as it was to watch. Later, the duo took the stage and set the place on fire with a tribute to Little Richard. Anderson’s drumming was the highlight of the performance, and whoever was running the sound seemed to know this too, centring the rhythm section in the most prominent part of the mix. 

There were plenty of moments that were good, but not overly special that I’m gonna run through really quick here. Harry Styles came through and did his cool gender-bending thing. I really like “Watermelon Sugar,” I think it’s a perfect pop song, and I think Harry Styles is way too good to have ever been in One Direction. I’m excited for his next album and that’s all I really have to say about him.

Taylor Swift’s performance was excellent, and it was great to see her bring out Aaron Dessner and Jack Antonoff and give them the credit they deserve for helping her expand her sound on her stellar 2020 offerings “Folklore” and “Evermore.” 

Meg Thee Stallion, Cardi B, and Dua Lipa banged out some hyper-sexual performances that didn’t really seem to have a point other than being shocking. But the songs are nice and at least Meg can rap.

Oh, and Beyonce broke the record for most Grammys ever. Does anyone really give a shit about that? I thought it would be a bigger deal. 

The rap performances left something to be desired, which is an absolute fucking shame considering the emcees they had nominated in the Rap Album of the Year category. DaBaby came out and did his one flow, and then Roddy Ricch joined him, which was nice. Roddy’s solo performance was actually really great. He’s one of the first rappers I’ve seen play an instrument while rapping. Scarface is the only other one to my memory. Maybe Mac Miller, too. 

Lil Baby’s performance was, at first, captivating and powerful, but upon further inspection feels kind of weak, especially considering the weird diatribe from neoliberal grifter Tamika Mallory that he placed halfway through the performance. Re-enacting a police killing with paid actors was also a little tasteless in retrospect. Baby rapped his ass off though, and hopefully his performance will show clueless rap fans that trap music isn’t just a genre meant to soundtrack frat parties.

The worst performance of the night belonged to Post Malone, as it so often does. The Texas troglodyte appeared on stage in the worst Blade costume I’ve ever seen to deliver a dead-in-the-water rendition of his abysmally bad single “Hollywood’s Bleeding.” I remember there was a time when Post Malone’s whole thing was being this pop-crossover Bob Dylan type with rap aesthetics. I didn’t like it, but it was infinitely better than whatever weird gothic thing he’s doing now. 

All things considered, the Grammys were the Grammys. You can’t really expect too much from them. While the highs were really high, the lows were so unbelievably low that it was almost embarrassing. Before I sign off, I just wanna give another quick “fuck you” to Harvey Mason Jr. You’re the worst, man. 

[tsthrace]

What does a girl do when she realizes she needs to cut an entire chapter from her WIP because it doesn’t fit? She posts it to tumblr. 

So yeah, this starts to build a scary world that might look a little too close to our world. It might introduce you to this badass trauma surgeon, Dr. Griffin, who needs to make a quick escape. And then it might leave you hanging. Forever. 

Well, not exactly forever. This is now Clarke’s backstory for my WIP. She’ll resurface years later on a church-turned-farmstead. Guess who’s the priest of this church? So yeah...

Content warning: mention of rape (but no rape itself) and just general hits-too-close-to-home: you know—fascism, totalitarianism, misogyny, toxic masculinity. Oh, and Clarke swears a lot.

It’s angsty. That’s what I do.

3,260 words. No tagging for Clexa, because Lexa doesn’t come on the scene yet.

It’s also posted over on ao3 if you’d rather read it there.

---

We all thought it couldn’t happen here, even as it was happening here.

Clarke had been running for so long that she wasn’t sure if she was still being chased. She had spent the last six years wandering through parts of Washington she never knew existed. First to an abandoned sawmill a few miles east of Mansford in the mountains. It was a glorified barn, really, but a community of refugees from Seattle had been gathering there, doing their best to patch up the building’s roof and walls. Then, there was still enough gas to transport what they needed if they rationed properly. But they were all adjusting to life without electricity, without phones, without any sense of who they were without those things. 

She was there only three months when word came that a militia had materialized in Darrington and was registering children and looking for doctors and healers. Healers. That’s what they called women with Clarke’s skills. People who had gone to school for 13 years, who had prioritized their craft over their health, their family, their relationships for a grueling residency followed by an only slightly less grueling fellowship. They called men doctors, even if they were less educated, less skilled, and less practiced.

Fuck them. Clarke’s response had become reflexive. It was her internal response when the police came that first night of what some called the Resistance but what the police called the Riots. 

Unrest had been brewing for months, but It was when the President “temporarily” suspended the First Amendment right to assemble that all hell broke loose. Thousands of protestors became tens of thousands, even in small cities like Spokane and Tacoma. Police traded rubber bullets for real ones, patrol cars for tanks, pistols for AK-47s. Dozens of people landed in Clarke’s hospital, some gone before they were taken out of the ambulance, ripped apart by the people sworn to serve and protect them. 

That was the night two officers were trawling the halls of her ward, looking for “resistors” to arrest. 

“They’re unconscious,” Clark said slowly. “They’re sedated because they’re waiting to go into surgery.” She knew it was a bad idea to talk to them like they were kindergartners, but she couldn’t stop herself. What these men were doing was sick. Her patients were here because of them. Some of them filled with bullet holes, their lives barely clinging to them, others with collapsed lungs caused by broken ribs, others with simple fractures who would be out to fight another day. But Clarke wasn’t going to tell these guys that.

“Is there someone else we can talk to?” The officer said. His name badge said Blakely. “Maybe your boss?”

Clarke felt her fingernails digging into her palm. “Officer Blakely—”

“Corporal Blakely.”

Clarke went on as if she didn’t hear him. “I’m the person with the highest seniority here right now. If you’d like me to call the Chief of Surgery...”

Blakely pulled out a pad and pen. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Dr. Marris.”

Blakely scoffed but wrote down the name.

“Is there a problem?” Clarke bent a little to catch his eye with her glare.

“Not at all.”

After that night, everything changed. The President sent in federal troops. There were tanks outside police precincts, and men in uniform carrying AK-47s stood at every corner in downtown and Capitol Hill. They rode the light rail, searching for enemies and booting out anyone who fell asleep on the trains. Curfews were instituted. Clarke had to have her ID and a letter from the hospital ready after every shift. The same soldiers (or were they cops?) stopped her every night, even after the sixth time when everyone knew everyone’s names. She had written theirs down. Because fuck them.

Two months later, the Seattle PD renamed themselves Washington’s 1st Militia when the President had encouraged all “patriots and protectors of freedom to band together, arm, and fight for American values.” Police departments across the country took this as a rallying call. They traded their police uniforms for military fatigues. They tore off their city badges and replaced them with a thin blue line. Bros before everything else, even democracy. 

They pulled her out of the OR as soon as she wrapped up a craniotomy. It was her third surgery of the day, and her hands were stiff, her scrubs covered in sweat. The two soldiers’ assault rifles startled her, but she’d seen enough gore in her time to know how to keep a straight face. Blakely was back, but this time he was dressed like he was serving in a desert war zone.

“Officer Blakely.” She remembered he was a corporal but fuck him.

The corner of Blakely’s mouth lifted in a sharp smirk. She watched as his eyes glided down her body. “Congratulations, Ms. Griffin, you’ve been recruited to Washington’s First. We are in need of fine healers like yourself.” 

Fuck you. The words raced through her mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She understood by now that those words aloud could do nothing but put her in danger. “How can I be of service?” she asked evenly, looking him straight in the eye. She had heard rumors that the militias were taking medical workers from their hospitals and clinics to set up their own facilities, but she thought they’d only take men for their specialists and surgeons.

“You need to come with us,” Blakely looked down at the sweat stains under her arms.

Clarke didn’t move. “What kind of healers are you looking for?” she asked in her most neutral tone. 

“A variety, ma’am.” Blakely’s jaw stiffened.

A small crowd of the floor’s staff had gathered at the nurses’ station, halfheartedly pretending to work while they watched the interaction.

“Like nurses? There are a lot of nurses here who are much better at their jobs than I would be.” Clarke laughed lightly and glanced at the nurses. “I’d make a terrible nurse.”

A few of the nurses nodded, their eyes smiling because smiling with their lips might bring trouble.

“We already have healers for that kind of work.” Blakely took in a breath and looked around the floor, frustrated. He knew he’d said too much. “Maybe we should go somewhere—”

“Then I can’t possibly think why you’d need me. I’m sure there are doctors who can meet your needs.”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“After all, there are two other trauma surgeons on staff here more suited to your, uh, preferences.” Clarke glanced down at Blakely’s groin.

“I was sent to find you, Ms. Griffin.”

The more he called her “Ms.,” the more her resolve solidified. “I just can’t imagine what anyone would want with little old me.” She covered her voice in maple syrup. “Dr. Lee and Dr. Bancroft are very fine surgeons, very respectable. Dr. Lee graduated top of his class from UW. I’m supervising his fellowship, and he’s very skilled.” Clarke let the words roll like waves along a beach on a calm day. “And Dr. Bancroft is who we call whenever we need a feeding tube done right the first time. His focus on fundamentals is exceptional—”

“They want you,” Blakely said more loudly than he intended.

Say it, she taunted him with a sharp look, though the words that came out were light. “I’ll call Dr. Lee. I’m sure he’d be more suitable to you—”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“You’d rather have Dr. Bancroft? Sorry. I thought you’d want the more skilled surgeon, but to be honest, we do perform a lot more feeding tube placements than major—”

“We know you’re the best.” Blakely growled, giving in. 

Clarke had won, but she still felt empty. “You can’t even call me a doctor.” 

“Protocol.” Blakely refused to look at her. “Come with us, ma’am.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You can appeal on grounds of pregnancy or motherhood.”

Clarke scoffed. “Of course.” She didn’t even try to hide her disdain, though she knew she had to play along. She looked down at her scrubs. “I need to change.”

“Of course,” Blakely said. His smile was sharp, an insult. “Though we’ll need to supervise.”

Clarke bit down hard. She had not joined the Resistance, but she’d been obsessively keeping track of their Instagram posts at @emeraldcityjustice. Militiamen never raped, she’d learned, especially if the woman was white and of marrying age. They didn’t call it rape, though, they called it “sexual theft.” They were not to spoil another man’s property (or potential property), and that meant no touching. This restriction forced men to get creative, find new ways of dominating without ruining the goods. Resisting, the posts said, meant speaking the militia’s language. 

“But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” Clarke had memorized some key verses, and she said this one loud enough for everyone around the nursing station to hear it. “Matthew 5:28. I think those are words in red. You know, Jesus. The son of God himself.” She would not let these fuckers anywhere near her. 

Blakely squinted and his face turned to stone.

“The locker room is on the second floor,” she said. “You two are welcome to wait outside the door, if you like.” Clarke strode towards the elevator. Blakely glared at her a few moments before nodding at his partner. They followed her into the elevator. Clarke looked at her watch. 10:15 p.m. Shift change. The locker room would be packed. 

“We need to sweep,” Blakely said as they stepped off the elevator and approached the locker room door.

Clarke sighed loudly. There was no use in arguing. Blakely nodded towards the key swipe. Clarke swiped her badge and a little red light on the handle turned green. Blakely opened the door then turned conspicuously so that his back was facing the opening.

“This is Corporal Blakely of Washington’s First Militia,” he shouted into the room. The volume of his voice made Clarke jump. “Private Cooks and I will be doing a sweep of this locker room in two minutes. Those who are not appropriately covered at that time will be taken into custody.” Blakely let the door close behind him and set a timer on his Apple watch.

Are you fucking kidding me? Clarke didn’t say out loud.

Five minutes later, Blakely and Cooks were back out in the hallway. Clarke knew they wouldn’t find anything. The locker room was a windowless space that was mostly concrete and tile. It had one exit, a fire hazard long ignored because that part of the hospital had been built 140 years ago. The only other door was a closet full of cleaning supplies.

Blakely nodded at Clarke to go inside. 

“You have five minutes,” he said, fiddling with his watch again.

“I’d like to shower.”

“Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. If you don’t come out on time, we will come in.”

Clarke swallowed and pushed through the door. Dozens of annoyed eyes lifted as she walked in. She just shook her head as she walked past them. 

Because it was an old hospital, doctors—female doctors, even surgeons—shared the locker room with nurse supervisors, charge nurses and other medical staff who had seniority. (Male doctors, especially surgeons, did not share a locker room with anyone, of course.) It bothered Clarke on principle, but for the most part she liked being around the non-doctor staff, and it didn’t hurt to have a friendly relationship with the nurses when she was on the floors. 

The women’s eyes quickly went back to their tasks of leaving. Between the unrest and a new virus no one seemed to know anything about, the hospital, which was already under-resourced, had been over capacity for weeks now. Everyone was tired, stressed, and getting more and more afraid. They just wanted to get home as soon as possible. The later at night, the more aggressive the patrols got. 

Clarke walked to her locker and took a few deep breaths as she quickly spun the lock to its numbers and pulled it open. She took off her white coat and hung it on the hanger inside. She pulled out her backpack and checked that her phone charger was inside. She pulled her wallet out and stared at her driver’s license for a long moment, not sure if it would be a liability. She decided to bring it, along with her curfew papers, and a used copy of The Obelisk Gate she’d picked up from Horizon Books a few weeks ago but never opened. Next, she stuffed her street clothes inside along with two sets of clean scrubs (only later would she wonder why she took the scrubs). Finally, she grabbed the two boxes of protein bars and four bottles of Gatorade that she kept there to keep her energy up on long shifts.

Clarke almost laughed at how much could fit in her small backpack. 

She looked at her watch. Three minutes left. Shit. She almost forgot to switch watches. She pulled off the little cheap thing she used at the hospital and replaced it with her dad’s chunky but sleek metal piece. It was heavy on her wrist, but that’s what she liked about it. Somehow she felt safer with it on.

She swallowed. She needed to move, but to move meant everything would be different. She threw her shoulders back, lifted her hands in front of her, palms up as if making an offering, and took in a deep breath. It’s what she did whenever she was about to make a first cut. She closed her eyes, felt the ground solid under her feet, felt her heart slow to steady saunter. 

Clarke smiled to herself. It was a heavy smile, sad and defiant. Fuck them.

She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and walked to the broom closet.

“You alright, Dr. Griffin?” A voice rang out. Veró, the charge nurse from the post-op wing, looked up as Clarke was about to go inside. Her eyes were nervous.

“I will be,” Clarke replied as she closed the door. “Take good care of yourself, Veró. Be safe. You didn’t see me, okay?”

Veró nodded. “You stay safe, Clarke.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. Her smile was heavy with concern. “I didn’t see nothing.” 

Clarke held Veró’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded, stepped into the closet, and closed the door behind her. It was a small space, but large enough for two people to fit—a fact Clarke had exploited with Lu, a nurse from the Telemetry unit, several times. There was a small, dirty, pointless window at the top of the closet that she and Lu had covered with a tray from the cafeteria so that the janitors in their breakroom across the alley couldn’t watch them taking their break. During the day, thin streaks of light leaked in around the edges. Clarke was grateful it was so late and that the alley outside got so little light. The metal shelving served as the perfect ladder, sturdy and wide. She disrupted the toilet paper and big bottles of cleaner as she climbed, leaving hints of her escape, but there was nothing to be done about it. The top shelf was blessedly empty, too high up to be useful.

She pulled the tray out of the way to reveal a window that was smaller than she expected. She turned a small latch and pushed the window. It didn’t budge. She pushed it again, harder this time, though she didn’t have much leverage. Nothing happened. The shelf wobbled minutely under her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It held steady as she gingerly pulled her full body onto the top shelf. She barely fit up there. She checked her watch. She maybe had a minute. Probably less. Clarke hit the base of the window with the flat of her palm. Nothing. She hit it again. Still nothing. She took a breath and closed her eyes. 

Please.

She hit it again and heard a tiny scrape. One more push, and the window swung open with an achy shriek. It might have been shut for decades. Clarke was lucky. The drop from the second floor window to the sidewalk was short. The alley swept upwards from 9th Ave., ending at the top with the fifth floor’s windows being at street level. 

She was out, and she had no idea what to do. By now, Blakely and Cooks would have noticed that she hadn’t come out. Maybe they’d give her another minute. She remembered the Apple watch. 

Her mind churned and tumbled. She had opened holes in skulls with drills and saws. She had cracked ribs to expose hearts that stopped beating in front of her eyes. But now, on this warm summer night on an empty sidewalk, she didn’t know what to do. So she ran. The hospital was a mess of old buildings connected by narrow alleys—easy to get lost. But Clarke had done her residency and fellowship here—spent nearly a quarter of her life here—and while she didn’t know the alleys, she knew the buildings, recognized the skyways above linking everything together. She slid from shadow to shadow in the direction of the interstate. It was an intuitive decision, the way she knew exactly where to find the bleeding in surgery. 

She kept moving, the rolling rumble of the highway getting closer. Finally, she found herself at the parking garage and knew exactly where to go. She walked calmly through the first level reserved for people going to the ED. She was careful to avoid the security booth where Mitch would be. He was a good guy, and Clarke didn’t want to bring him any trouble. She moved quickly towards an emergency exit which brought her to a fire escape facing the interstate. During her first year as resident, she and Dr. Salem used to meet there to smoke a joint after a 30-hour shift. 

She paused. Think. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Her breath caught when she came across her mom’s contact. You could have called, she could already hear her saying. We would have figured it out. Even if there was enough time for her mom to get from Whidbey Island to the city—and there wasn’t—it wouldn’t be safe. Anyone she called could be implicated and punished. Unless she chose to crawl back into the hospital, she was now an RRL, a Resistor of the Rule of Law.

This is moment everything changes. The thought cracked across her mind like lightning and disappeared just as fast. The thunder would roll on for years and years.

She closed her contacts and opened Instagram instead. She went to the @emeraldcityjustice profile. Her grin was grim as she hit the Message button. How ridiculous this world had become.

“Canada or the mountains?”

“What?” Clarke shook herself out of a haze. The driver hadn’t spoken since he picked her up from a dark corner under the interstate where @emeraldcityjustice had told her to go. They immediately turned east over the lake to Bellevue.

“You’ll have to decide at the drop point in Everett,” the driver went on. “They can either get you on a ferry to Canada or you can head to a refugee community in the mountains.” He glanced over his shoulder to the back seat where she was lying down to avoid facial recognition cameras on the interstate. “Do you want to escape or do you want to fight?”

THE END. THAT’S IT. I’M SORRY.

[zuucc]

(via https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2uhDvAxrHTeh6OjyqNY4dw?si=mGdIhX3uRku7jy7TlmfGnQ)

FANFICTION: country!Edition

Remember how I asked about suggestions for fan fiction-esque country songs? This is the result. My friend who I gave to for christmas is a huge Timothee Chalamet fan so that’s why it’s got space cowboy timmy approved. Anyways, I ended up organizing the songs into stories and this is the notes I gave her aswell. Just thought I’d share. 

1: It’s the cliché love story for me

Tequila

Lika A Man

Best Shot

Wedding Dress

Better Together

Yours

God, Your Mama, And Me

Nothing Like You

2: The Trope of life: Childhood friends to lovers. With a little bit of heartbreak

More Than My Hometown

Chasin’ You

She Got The Best of Me

7 Summers

Just About Over You

Hurricane

Love You Like I Used To

You’re Still The One

3: “Best friends WHO JUST CAN’T FUCKING ADMIT THAT THEY LOVE EACH OTHER”

Friend’s Don’t

Both

We’re Not Friends

Marry Me

What If I Never Get Over You

4: Summer romance but make it forever

Blue Tacoma

Ridin’ Roads

Slow Dance In A Parking Lot

19 You + Me

5: Why be lonely when we can be ✨together✨

Lonely One

Sippin’ On Fire

One Number Away

Oh, Tonight?

Somebody’s Problem

6: Summer fling but like in Tennessee

Sunrise, Sunburn, Sunset

Play it again

Smoke

7: Bad boy x Good girl

Good Girl, Bad Boy

Like You Never Had It

Cowboys and Angels

Talk You Out Of It

Yin Yang Girl

8: Country: Angel edition

H.O.L.Y

Heaven

Angel

9: Ich bin drunk

Neon Fools

One Of Them Girls

Need You Now

Bonus tracks: SELF EXPLANATORY but like just in case

Found You

Rebound but make it last forever

More Hearts Than Mine

🥺🥺🥺

The story tells itself 

Forever After All

just damn😍😍

Take It Out On Me

I mean…