#getting REAL pretentious with my file names

[chocolateclockworks]

[heldflesh]

TALES OF SABRY — FAIRUZ IBRAHIM.

──  (  tamino.  genderqueer,  he / they.  )  recently  seen  trapezing  across  a  lone  stage,  spotlights  dancing  off  beaded  sweat  –  audience  a  crowd  of  one,  half - asleep  or  otherwise  dead,  spirit  rising  from  still  body  in  a  chant;  encore,  encore!  bravo!  at  verve:  enter  FAIRUZ  IBRAHIM  SABRY.  twenty  six  years  old  &  a  scorpio,  usually  observed  in  tits  out;  slivers  of  chainmail  barely  concealing  loving  shark - bites  alongside  rib,  fishnet  your  only  true,  loyal  companion  –  starfish  spurs  against  heeled  boots;  aquamarine  could  never  ;  fairuz  is  a  devotion  visitor  known  within  their  circle  as  MADCAP  +  GRANDIOSE,  a  perpetual  hum  of  knife  prty  by  deftones  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  HUBRISTIC  +  CAVALIER  follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  an  incessant  need  to  entertain  and  please,  for  oneself  and  for  others,  one  complete  theatrical  act  ,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  SIREN  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  lightning  against  stark  red  sea;  no  tell  of  morning  from  night  –  only  fools  dare  to  cross  the  threshold;  scaled  body  wrapped  around  splintering  wood,  ichor  flowing  from  lip  and  chest  –  harpoon  a  stake  upon  self  .  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  focus  on  defense  being  a  performance  in  itself,  accusatory  points  towards  a  faceless  jury  and  judge  in  the  checkout  line  of  a  mini  mart  –  i'm  innocent,  your  honor!  hear  my  pleas,  hark  my  –  cue  one  dragged  away  by  smoothed  heels,  threats  brimming  lips  /  insatiable  hunger  and  the  habit  of  playing  with  ones  food  –  thoughts  bubbling  mid - air,  tom  and  jerry  sequence  of  cat  and  mouse,  mallet  to  head  –  cuckoos  circling;  almost  as  satisfying  as  the  kill  /  and  bone  an  accessory  –  so  sustainable  chic!  –  fish  spine  piercing  cartilage,  ribs  lining  lobe  –  cuffs  of  mysterious  vertebrae,  drilled  and  filed  and  –  .

... mentioning themes of IMPLIED MAN - EATING, SLIGHT BODY HORROR, INJURY, DEATH, and RESURRECTION. proceed with care.

with palms held out.

full name — fairuz ibrahim sabry.

nickname(s) — ruse, in a poor attempt to give himself a nickname ( did not stick ); pretty boy; puck ( perked up chee– ); narcissus, after method acting too hard– austin butler who?; others yet to be seen.

date of birth & age — october 29th, 19xx, physically twenty6.

gender / pronouns — genderqueer; he / him & they / them preferred, all welcomed.

sexuality — bisexual.

typing — siren, slut of the sea ( affectionate ).

occupation — unfortunate thespian; one man act; professional ( ? ) clown; cashier at oracle & oddysey.

astrology — scorpio sun, aries moon, leo ascending.

interests — cheap thrills. spotlight - induced sweat. anything that gleams or sheens, skin included. red meat & red wine & red lipstick in a very real, very french way. fishnet for more reasons than none. garnering attention. burlesque clowns. being a burlesque clown. six seas, don't bring up the seventh.

aversions — "deep" feelings. "deep" conversations. forced intellectualism, you can be pretentious and stupid! skeptics & nonbelievers. taxes. tax collectors. attention seekers, there can only be one ( it's them ).

next in queue — girls on film, mindless self indulgence; pain, boy harsher; slow, depeche mode; talking in your sleep, the romantics.

notable features — what's not to notice? knife - like teeth and an old scar where they nip into bottom lip every too - wide grin & lazy clown make - up; a triangle beneath every eye ( only two, for now ).

general disposition — too grand and generally delusional, but they wear it very well.

last known location — lifting himself back onto the rocks in a siren - dwelled cave like a baywatch wannabe, only to slip upon the surface and back into the water. hasn't emerged since out of hurt ego and deeply hitting embarrassment.

scrying mirror & kindred — mercutio ( romeo & juliet ), dorian gray ( the picture of dorian gray ), oberyn martell ( game of thrones ), theodore laurence ( little women ), emma woodhouse ( emma ).

what lurks in the past...

time is trivial beneath the ocean's surface; light no longer refracting, only vast blue encasing the young. first memory - first consciousness, an array of bubbles; thrashing and struggling, god mother's serpentine body wrapping around and around until all is still once more, until only bone is left to drift further down the depths.

their behavior is pack - like, school of sirens circling coasts like sharks, symbiotic and one; homes made of shipwrecks and reefs, underground caves and trenches, close to docks and ports and harbors, convenience - store runs for sailors and captains. it's rare that they break surface, walk among humans - entertainment best between selves and their food; happy meals best accompanied by toys.

fairuz is both alike and unalike them; a penchant for the finer, rawer things in life, metallic tang behind each sharp tooth, and a growing boredom, tree - like in their sternum. branching, rooting - blooming dissatisfaction with each coast they distance from. the sea felt stagnant, while every breach of ripple upon surface revealed new buildings - years meaningless to them, but everything to land dwellers.

curiosity, was all it was; curiosity all that killed them. separating from pack, intrigued by talks of a circus near - shore, a different sort of spectacle than drama between sister sirens ( they gave a mermaid's purse to you? but they gave one to me! you slu - ); fairuz became enthralled with the faeries who spun from silk, the witches who swallowed fire only to shoot fireworks from tongue - the ringleader whose smile pierced through every one of fairuz' hearts.

their visits upon land became more frequent, trailing the traveling troupe whenever able; need an incessant itch beneath their scales, a match against their ever - growing hunger. quick snacks became one, then two - doubling with each town or city swam across.

fairuz never heed the warnings of a red sky, human paranoia no toll upon their body; still broke surface, that fateful day, lightning serving them well - ship an oyster cracked wide, ready for taking. their hunger barely satiated when a whistle sung from behind; not a warning, but the sound of air tearing as a harpoon spit from its gun and ripped into their scaled flesh.

the sky was no longer red; no longer anything, the ocean's pressure luring them into their endless slumber; reminiscent of their youth, when they welcomed the sea's warm embrace like their own mother's. comfortable. warm. safe. do you wish to live, siren?

voice clear as day; like a whisper into their ear, soft and urging. you can live forever, if you please. if their consciousness was still awake - fairuz would've found the humor in being siren - called; instead, their spirit stirred inside them, hands pressed upon their former living shell. let us save you. let us free you. just say yes.

sirenkin, their family: the choice to leave was no one's but fairuz', one of their few regrets in life; visiting sirens of devo, do you know this fucker?

righteous fishermen with penchants for revenge: slow your rolls - fairuz' is just a little guy, a little fella! and they should be dead! right? ... right?

...comes to light in present...

five years resurrected, five years given to delphinium's traveling, theatrical circus troupe and one would've never guessed; a puzzle piece fitting just right against an entirely wrong picture, the epitome of a live, laugh, love sign hung crooked against a contemporary farmhouse kitchen wall - fairuz dazzles all. or pisses them off - either, or - all of the above; attention is attention, and fairuz craves it almost as much as they crave fle-

they awake the same everyday; a life - rattling exhale of breath, gasping and hoarse like the first time they reopened their eyes; almost comedic, hand trailing to the star - like scar upon their chest - a tale better left unsaid, in accordance to delphinium. they know best - better than fairuz, at least; knows what secrets are best kept, while fairuz spills open at any given moment, at any curious glance.

he's all emotion; nothing cool, nothing collected - only extravagant, demanding; eyes on them at all times. dramatics started at the blink of a single one of those eyes - constantly performing for an unknown audience, never caring if others are swept up by his current. takes good intentions and swallows them for his own benefit; you wouldn't trust a god, would you?

the circus settled in devotion just short of a few months ago; no signs of leaving yet - performances weekly, each and every weekend and occasionally wednesdays, if audience demands then who are they to gatekeep? fairuz lurks beneath the sea's rippling surface some days - sleeps behind the counter of oracle & oddsyey's other days; a siren needs a little spending money, after all; especially him, pockets usually barren and closets overflowing. otherwise can be found wherever there's a crowd.

traveling circus troupe [ menacing voice from behind, hey sis- ]: fairuz' found family. faeries and witches and humans and sirens and nymphs alike, all welcomed as long as they harness talent. don't ask why fairuz' is there; only delphinium knows.

a horde of angry lovers: a necessity in every town, devotion no different. fairuz is more wrong than right, would rather end up in a second grave than admit it.

...and carries into the future.

how long can a corpse walk for, before their magic runs out? before they've stolen all the energy left inside, until blood is shed once more - theirs and others, and others and theirs. prophecies tell of moon falling back into sea and never - rising once more, fallen on unwilling ears - fairuz' mostly, forever pig - headed, too busy gazing upon reflections.

how many enemies, can one make? scorned lovers of lovers, scorned friends betrayed for the slightest whim, abandoned on impulse. scorned family - sick of antics, of fairuz' thoughts that only revolve around himself.

fairuz never worries of the future. but perhaps they should.

prophecy - spewing nymphs: they heed not their warnings, demise be damned - you'd think fairuz would know better by now.

friends to enemies: a eventual happening, slow at first, but like all fire - the more it grows, the farther it spreads.

[kuiperblog]

Growing up with Moby Dick

Age 15

I feel like most people I know who were exposed to Moby Dick as kids were introduced to it by their Gen X dads.

I was not introduced to Moby Dick by my father.  While my dad's taste did affect a lot of the movies, music, and books that I was exposed to (and developed a taste for) as a kid, Moby Dick was something that I discovered on my own, thanks to the internet, and specifically, file sharing sites. For some people, P2P file sharing was something you did because downloading twelve MP3 files and burning them onto a disc was cheaper than buying a CD from a local retailer.  But in the corners of the internet where I found myself in 2005, there was sort of a culture of torrenting things just because you could. In an era where games fit on 700 MB compact discs, the idea of filling up a 160 GB hard drive seemed inconceivable, but some torrenters took it as a challenge.

Much like the person who starts their day by opening the YouTube app without specifically knowing what they're going to watch that day, I would go to torrent portals and message boards and chat rooms mainly for the purpose of discovering new media, and the summer before my freshman year of high school, I downloaded a lot of things just out of a vague sense that they were culturally significant and I would probably benefit from exposing myself to them. It was a place to find classic movies, music, books, and games.

In that sense, sites like the (now defunct) Mininova and Demonoid were a lot like a public library.  (There's also a sense in which torrents, as opposed to sites like limewire, encouraged downloading entire collections and a sort of archivist mindset -- so you might know to look for one particular song, and then end up downloading an entire discography.  Depending on where you were searching, it was actually easier to download a zip file with every single novel written by Michael Crichton than to download a single book.)

That was how I "discovered" Moby Dick.  I recognized a familiar name, said "I should probably experience this," and (filesize / (135 KB/s)) later, I finally had a chance to load it up and see what it was all about.

My first teenage impression of Moby Dick in real-time, for the first 20% or so, was that it was clearly competent.  I could clearly see the appeal.  It wasn't really my thing -- it felt sort of primitive in comparison to more modern material that has more *stuff* going on, but I could clearly see that it was, in what I imagined to be some "objective" sense, good.

And then I got around 25% of the way through. And, not to spoil it for you, but at around 25% in, Moby Dick becomes something very different. And my first thought was, "this is weird, hopefully it'll get back to the 'good stuff' soon."  But it didn't let up: it kept being weird.  And my reaction turned from one of annoyance, to confusion, to a kind of resentment at just how pretentious it was being.  "You're being weird for the sake of being weird.  Why can't you go back to being 'normal,' like the stuff I'm used to!"  But this was a culturally significant piece of media, presenting me with something that I could not recognize the merit of.  I felt like I had been trolled by the entire culture!

I had reached "level 1 contrarianism": "People say this thing is great, but I think it's garbage!"

Age 20

It wasn't until half a decade later in college that I finally revisited Moby Dick. And, to my surprise, I found that I really liked it. In fact, the things about it that struck me as "weird" and "pretentious" suddenly struck me as "daring" and " delightfully experimental."  It was unpredictable. It didn't follow any sensible rhythm or pattern. Moby Dick the third time was not the same experience as Moby Dick the fifth time, or the tenth time.  Every time, I discovered something new.

In a way, my "media discovery" was similar to what it had been during my teenage years, but just taking a different shape: I was striving toward becoming more cultured, but with a focus on depth, rather than breadth.  When I was a teenager, the idea of rewatching a movie or TV show held little appeal; as a college student, I delighted in revisiting old shows and seeing what they offered on rewatch. And if you're going to go back to a piece of media to see how many layers it has, you could do a lot worse than Moby Dick.

But over time, my love of Moby Dick morphed into something else.  Because, to the same degree that my teenage self sneered at Mody Dick for being "pretentious," my college sophomore self delighted in being the sort of utterly sophomoric person who delights in things because of what other people decry as pretention. Telling people that Moby Dick was one of my favorites was, while honest on a certain level, also a form of bragging, and so in that sense it literally was pretentious. It was a way of forming and declaring my identity as the sort of person who enjoys Moby Dick.  Yes, I certainly enjoyed Moby Dick the tenth time around, but also there's a certain pleasure that comes from presenting yourself as the person who has spent a huge amount of time with a specific piece of media and learning enough to talk about it in a sophisticated or erudite that makes you highly "cultured." (Of course, if I could listen back to the “sophisticated” things that my college sophomore self had to say about it, I would probably cringe now.)

I had reached "level 2 contrarianism": "people say this thing is boring and pretentious, but actually it's great!"

Age 25

Five years later, I still liked Moby Dick, but not with the hyper fanaticism of a 20-year-old who's just discovered the ability to enjoy things that exist outside the conventional mold of popular media.  While Moby Dick is certainly doing something that feels atypical by 21st century standards, it wasn't really doing something entirely unique: lots of greats had done the same before, and since.  It was both overrated by fans and underrated by critics. Sure, it was influential, but it didn’t really deserve to be influential; the fact that it influenced so many people is mostly a quirk of history, and not really due to anything having to do with “objective” greatness.  If Moby Dick were released in [current year], it wouldn’t be anything special.

I had reached a new stage of contrarianism, level 3: "people say this thing is either excellent or boring, but actually it's just pretty decent."  (I don't have much more to say about this: appraising things as anywhere between "mediocre" or "pretty okay I guess" is, by definition, milquetoast.  I had very little to say about Moby Dick, except to sort of look back pityingly at the hater I had been at age 15 and the fanatic I had been at age 20.

Age 30

My 25-year-old self might be the most pretentious of all, because "Moby Dick is okay I guess" is maybe the most incomprehensible take I've had on it.  From my present-day perspective, I can totally understand hating Moby Dick from a completely inexperienced perspective, and I can totally understand loving Moby Dick for totally sophomoric reasons, but I think that my 25-year-old stance on Moby Dick is more a reaction to my younger self.

I think it was another layer of pretention in this sense: My 20-year-old self felt special for liking Moby Dick instead of “popular media.”  My 25-year-old self had realized that Moby Dick was popular media, and, on a certain level, treated it as another thing to feel “above.”  (Or maybe I’m just modeling my 25-year-old self incorrectly, and I had just become bored with Moby Dick after so much repeated exposure, and at that point lacked the ability to appreciate it to a further degree).

Here's my current take: Moby Dick is actually everything that it's cracked up to be. (I was going to call this my “level 4 contrarian” take, but the thing is, there’s not an ounce of contrarianism to saying “other people are totally right about how Moby Dick is.”) It's an incredible showcase of talent from one of the all-time greats. John Bonham is not overrated: everyone says "he's the greatest drummer of all time” and they are right.  The fact that Bonham is one of the most influential drummers that ever lived is indisputable (there’s a reason they call it the “Bonham triplet”), but it’s largely irrelevant. Led Zeppelin didn't invent rock and roll, and you can certainly have a conversation about whether Bonham “deserves” to be one of the most influential drummers to ever live, but the “Bonham triplet” isn’t significant because it’s named after him, it’s significant because when Bonham does it, it actively enhances your enjoyment of the music. He’s not doing it just to show off! He’s doing it because he’s a performer, and his job is to satisfy the audience, and over a long career he got really good at doing that!

Led Zeppelin is fun to listen to even in the absence of any kind of historical context.  Bonham’s drumming in particular is a particularly important piece of the trouble. And Moby Dick is the track where he gets to hog the stage. 

While you're certainly allowed to believe that drum solos are "pretentious and hard to follow," I think there's something beautiful in drum solos that is a perfect blend of rhythm and chaos, and nobody does it better than Bonham. There are drum solos, and then there’s Moby Dick. It really is something special. That was my sophomoric take, and it’s easy to declare something “special” when you’re a college sophomore, which is probably why I felt a need to distance myself from that opinion. But it turns out, my 20-year-old self was right: Moby Dick is just great. It’s fun to listen to, and that’s true even absent any discussion of “culture.”

Moby Dick isn't overrated, and it's not overrated -- it's correctly recognized as one of the greatest of all time.  And if you listen and don't understand the appeal and can't have a good time with it, that's okay -- come back in 5 years, and maybe time and experience will have changed your mind.  Or maybe it won’t -- and that’s okay, too!

While my 25-year-old attitudes seemed largely characterized by a desperate attempt to distance myself from the views I held when I was younger, I no longer feel the same way -- I think it’s cool that I got to be all of these different people: the teenager who hates Moby Dick for being boring and pretentious, and the college sophomore who loves it because it’s daring and sophisticated, and the 25-year-old who seemed to be jaded for no reason other than that it seemed like the proper thing to be.  It’s kind of cool that there are all these different people who I think so differently from despite the fact that they are literally me. (Is this what it means to “contain multitudes?)

[smooth-goat]

1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10 (is it hats? 👀), 11, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 26, 30 sorry for so many lol

aafjdskal thank u for so many !! its totally fine and encouraged in fact

Art programs you have but don't use

I still have the downloads for a full adobe suite--I needed them for college. But I've since let my subscriptions lapse when I dropped out.

3. What ideas come from when you were little?

I've had this one novel idea bouncing around in my head since I was eleven, where in the 1300s this massive trade city in modern-day Pakistan was set under strict quarantine as the Black Plague came over from the Gobi Desert westward. Years pass, better trading routes are found, and the city is lost--except the survivors of the plague's descendants still inhabit it as a small village, unknown to the outside world. Now, around 1909, a disgraced Russian archaeologist and his niece go down to this lost city in hopes of saving his job, only to find there's still people there. The story is about the little family hosting them and the line between academic study and colonialism. It's always been on a back burner because any real development would require paid consultants, but I do privately write little things for it.

4. Fav character/subject that's a bitch to draw

Hmmmm I think young children. I don't have a lot of experience drawing them so it's a struggle for me to communicate their age with proper proportions.

7. A medium of art you don't work in but appreciate

Digital, really. I do work in it sometimes but really only when making animatics/animation, since I don't have a cost-effective setup to do so otherwise.

8. What's an old project idea that you've lost interest in?

A few years ago, I spent a great deal of time on an animatic for TAZ Balance set to "Ball Cap" by Mother Mother. I had almost the whole thing in rough boards but lost steam refining them.

9. What are your file name conventions?

Just a brief description, mostly. Not really ever a proper ~artsy~ title. Examples would include "Sea Lion.jpeg" or "sisu v_01.png" the "v_01" stands for "version 1". For animatics I put keep everything in the auto-generated folders and just rely on the little image preview to keep things straight. My writing is filed under the actual published title, or a wip title. An example of that would be "moominpappa gets wrecked.docx" which, if properly titled, would surely be turned into something more moody and pretentious.

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

Yes it is hats!! For technical or research aspects I love all sorts of different clothing. When I'm working out clothing patterns I love figuring out complex construction details like 1890s cycling skirts or the flap neckline in the Herjolfsnes find undershirt. But strictly drawying: it's hats. The swoopy lines are so much fun and they add so much character and mood.

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what?

I am a creature of ADHD; I have to have something on when I'm drawing. Sometimes it's a youtube video that I'm just listening to. I also have Spotify playlists I've made for different characters or relationships or AUs I have. I've spent most of my time on the Hunter animatic listening to Innuendo Studios' series "The Alt-Right Playbook".

14. Any favorite motifs?

No shocker here: disability. In my more private drawings I focus a lot on chronic pain and interactions with the inaccessible physical world. I'm also a sucker for Victorian floriography, as anyone who's browsed my ao3 works' titles could notice. Also in unpublished works (visual and written) I like working in the intersection of disability and sex. About how the body moves in sexual acts, how to accommodate for disability, the extreme vulnerability sex places on a disabled person, and the interaction of pain and pleasure that happens when sex is a physically painful act.

15. *Where* do you draw?

For digital art I have this whole setup at my desk, where the drawer is pulled out for my tablet and my laptop on the desk proper--all for Good Grade In Occupational Therapy purposes. (really because I'm 5'2 and the height of the chair I'd need to comfortably draw on the desk doesn't let my feet touch the floor). Sketching I do on the couch or in bed. I bring my sketchbook around a lot and will do it on the go. Sometimes when I'm going on drives, I pull over with a good vista and draw there sitting on the hood.

16. Something you are good at but don't really have fun doing

colored pencil!! 1000%. i do Not like working with colored pencils. The grip required for them is too small without buying a separate grip, which I have to take off and on every time I switch colors, which is Often. and they work sooo slowlyyyy. i like media like watercolor, oil, and markers--stuff that lays down lots of color quickly and can be refined later. i like a certain messiness or rawness. paint impasto, visible canvas grain, fingerprints, water splotches, etc

19. Do you eat/drink when drawing? If so, what?

Not always sketching because I'll do that in lots of places. Digitally yes always. I know I shouldn't because of the spill risk but I am a simple man and I always need to have a little drink. Usually soda or hibiscus La Croix.

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

I really like drawing hands! I know they're the classic artists' bane but sux to be you because I have lots of fun with them. (For the longest time I thought I was messing them up because I'd use my own hands as reference and they'd come out looking Wrong. Years later I've realized the Wrongness I was seeing was a combination of my hypermobility and large arthritis knuckles.)

21. Art styles nothing like your own but like anyways

oh, lots! the hyper-stylized, cartoony stuff is so interesting to me. the functions of digital art are largely a mystery to me so it's just fascinating how well people use the medium. Especially the color-block lineless art that reminds me of papercut art. And I've always enjoyed how the Professor Layton games approached character design--a great deal of stylization and caricature which is so different from my own drawings of people. i also really enjoy 17th century english woodblock prints. when i paint its usually kind of impressionistic with lots of blurry lines, so the stark black and white and geometric shapes they have is so different and cool to me.

26. What's a piece that got wildly different interpretation from what you intended?

wrt art I can't really think of any! most of the finished pieces I've done were for classes and therefore weren't highly-creative projects open to a great degree of interpretation.

wrt writing For Sure that time i got accused of being a pro-lifer when I wrote "Ginger Tea and Parsley Oil" lmao. i have no idea how any competent reading of the text would come to that conclusion

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated?

wrt my visual art, most of it isn't published online but rather shared in art classes or with friends. In those cases, I think the response was pretty appropriate relative to time spent and my own opinions of it. From what's been posted online, definitely my icon! I probably spent 50 hours on that drawing cause it's actually two complete drawings laid on top of each other, with the top one torn to reveal the sepia one beneath. But ain't that just the way--whatever you spend the most time on will never get as much acclaim as what you only spend a few minutes sketching. wrt my writing, most underrated is probably "Black Cohosh". It's the piece with the second-lowest hit count but also one of my favorites. I get why it's low--it's dark and moody in a fandom that enjoys fluff and focuses a lot on canon/oc interaction. But I really love it fjdskla

[icarusthelunarguard]

This Week’s Horrible-Scopes

It’s time for this week’s Horrible-Scopes! So for those of you that know your Astrological Signs, cool! If not, just pick one, roll a D12, or just make it up as you go along. It really doesn’t matter.

This week we’re hitting SHUFFLE on our music collection and see what comes up for you.

Aries 

Jerry Reed’s “The Legend of the Bandit” from the movie “Smokey and the Bandit” popped up for you, and not a bad start! You might not like country music generally speaking, but that’s a song you can love. Make it a two-fer this week; watch the movie and let your dog on the sofa with you. And if you don’t have a cocker spaniel, a cockatiel will do. 

Taurus 

U2’s “I Threw a Brick Through a Window” came up this time. We’re not really familiar with that track either, which is kinda on-brand since there’s a lot of you we don’t know… and that’s OK. This week be OK with not sharing everything.

Gemini  

You get the first instrumental piece of the group; Tommy Smith & Brian Kellock’s song, “You Must Believe In Spring”. It’s piano and sax jazz, but not, like… Lounge Room Jazz? It’s cool and calm to listen to. This week when you put on some background music to occupy your head, just listen to it for a change. It’s calming. 

Cancer Moon-Child 

DAMNIT, Cancer! The song you got is called “Boll Weevil”. That’s not the annoying part. The name of the group who recorded it is, and this is the legit full name… “The Presidents of the United States of America”. A name so pretentious it barely fits on the spine of a CD jewel case. This week stop being so.. You know… like Leo!

Leo 

OH! We know how you are, Leo! Always the center of attention and ready to be a drama queen. So, ready for your song and group? You get… A PODCAST?! No, seriously! You got the Buck Benny Podcast replaying the old Jack Benny shows - this one was from 1954. How ironically fitting. Bet you’ll be the only one to get this too.

Virgo 

You get a serious throw-back to the 50’s! “My Little Girl” from TT Grace; a Rock-n-Roll Doo Wop greaser song released in 2017. This week, get some engineer boots, leather jacket, and grow out your sideburns to your jawline… unless you look better in mary janes, a poodle skirt, and cat’s eye sunglasses.

Libra 

You get Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto Number 2 in C Minor”. Here’s what someone wrote about it when it was first performed:

“If there were a music conservatory in Hell, if one of its talented students were instructed to write a programme symphony on "The Seven Plagues of Egypt", and if he were to compose a symphony like Mr Rachmaninoff's, then he would have fulfilled his task brilliantly and delighted the inmates of Hell.”

That was not a compliment. This week ignore the haters; we remember Rachmaninoff’s name, but not that critic’s.

Scorpio 

Back-to-Back instrumental tracks huh? Ok. You get… the karaoke track for Blood, Sweat and Tears’ song, “Spinning Wheel”. The song is older than you by a wide margin, so… roll down the windows in the car, crank up the stereo and belt out the words… assuming you even know them.

Sagittarius 

You got… It LOOKS like some kind of weird MIDI file. The hell even is this? “D_E1M1-dot-MUS”? All we can read in the file’s info is the name ”Bobby Prince” and the year 1993. Screw this. If you think we’re gunna find an old Pentium machine with a SoundBlaster16 in it to see what this is, you’re nuts. We’ll throw it on a floppy disk to you. You figure it out.

Capricorn 

For you, we found a listening that’s more annoying than the one Cancer got. Which song it is isn’t important. It’s from the soundtrack to the musical named… and I SWEAR to you this is real: “Natasha, Pierre and The Great Comet of 1812”. The plot involves characters attending an opera… in the middle of what’s been described as an electropop opera. This week just… stop being so full of yourself.

Aquarius 

Look, we are NOT picking on you this time. You got… (*Sigh*) the 80’s hit… “Canon in D” by Johann Pachelbel. In this case that would be the Sixteen Eighties. Yes, it’s got a bad rap, but it’s the basis for so many other hit songs. This week checkout Rob Paravonian’s treatise on this song on YouTube.

Pisces  

Nope. You get NUTHIN’! Last week’s Triceratops encounter killed you. You’re still dead. Perma-Dead. Necromancers with a Nat-20 and Wish Spells can’t bring you back. Come back next week.

And THOSE are your Horrible-Scopes for this week! Remember if you liked what you got, we’re obviously not working hard enough at these. BUT! If you want a better or nastier one for your own sign or someone else’s, all you need to do to bribe me is just Let Me Know! These will be posted online at the end of each week via Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and Discord.

[witchlyboo]

Definitely, maybe.

Part five: The one who belongs to someone else.

Introduction. Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

Paring: Latina!reader x Logan Lerman x Tom Holland x Ben Hardy x Timothee Chalamet x Pedro Pascal x Michael B. Jordan

Warnings: Swearing, angst, misspellings, some Spanish, me learning how to write properly, and NY stuff that I've learned from movies that we all agree to pretend are real.

Word count: 6.4 k

a/n: You been asking for smut, I know, I know, I just wanted to introduce you to all the boys first, and we're getting there, just one more ahead. Also, I'm working on a masterlist because we are getting too many parts already.

All body types and skin tones friendly. You can also enjoy it as a no Hispanic reader. Constructive feedback and misspellings correction is always welcome.

Red and blue lights flash the driving mirror.

—No, no, no, por favor que no sea a mi—You beg to the sky looking at the patrol that is asking you to park, or someone else, there's a lot of cars in this part of the city, there's a big chance is the panic who's controlling your senses.—Dios, mi abuela fue a la iglesia cada domingo de su vida y nunca te pidió nada, please let me have some of her divina recompensa.—But that's not how it works, you end up parking with just a few seconds to think what to say. There's a perfect explication of why you are driving a car that is not yours in the middle of the night and smelling like a minibar.

Then this ridiculous thought comes to your mind, you look expensive, you've never seen the daughter of a senator but you must be close to it, it would make you less of a feminist if you just use your attributes? Ugh, you feel sick just to think about it but don't have enough money to pay a fine, and the constant paranoia of being chased all the time as an immigrant will only get stronger.

You pull down your dress a little so your neckline can do its job but you regret it immediately, and you're pretty sure you look more like an expensive prostitute who stole the car of his lover than some influential men's daughter.

—License and registration.—You hear him say when he approaches your window. You don't like this but you have to play the dumb tourist, the pretty foreign girl that is too stupid to be dangerous, with the look you have tonight it shouldn't be hard. But damn you hate cops, any uniformed man that works for the government is your eternal enemy, and you don't know how long you could keep the nice dumb Latina game before spit on his face.

—There's something wrong, officer? ...You?!—Your sexy and fake high voice is ruined when you see the face of the man who stopped you. This night couldn't get worse.

—Wait, what happened with the party?—Evan interrupts you while you finish some notes for work, little remainders for later when you don't have an eleven years old kid running around you, he's not usually this energic and you have to blame yourself for that, you're describing a life of excess and eccentric fun, something you let behind so many years ago that your own son doesn't know even a bit of it.

—Ugh, a nightmare doesn't worth telling.—You remember vaguely most of it but what keeps fresh in your mind is bad enough to don't want to bring it back.

—But if Timothée is my dad I have to know the important things, including the bad stuff.—Sounds perfectly reasonable and that's what makes you groan at him. Sometimes you feel blessed that your kid is better than you in any possible way, and sometimes you want to kill his brain with video games and reality shows like the rest of the parents.

—Ok, cool, but I'll keep all the +18 content for myself, so this part of the story might be blurry for you.—It kinda is for you anyway.

You should’ve known this night was cursed, you had a feeling because a) your earring fell off at the same time Timothée texted you to give you the party address and say he can't pick you up. And b) he won’t pick you up. Your mother would say that’s reason enough to not go, a real gentleman wouldn’t make you go to an unknown place in the middle of the night on your own in a city like this. But you decide to ignore it because you are a modern woman and because it’s worth it. It better be.

The outfit must be something special. You always take your time to choose what to wear, even if just another regular day, and since this isn't the case you thought about it for hours, that made your mind busy enough to not thinking about Tom and the whole love confession. He texted you saying he'll come for you to go to class together on Monday, which is completely impractical because he's way closer than you but is progress and you're going to take it.

You wanted to ask for Sheep's opinion but you thought she might not care, has been a few days since she started acting strange like she's bothered just to see you breathe. You want to blame his boyfriend to take all her time and attention from you but is probably just her new job, she got a small role in a Netflix show, and even when you're so happy for her, that's the event that has changed her into someone completely different. But you give her time, stress can do bad things to people.

The winner is the exact copy you made of the black and white striped dress Cameron Diaz wore in "The Mask" beautiful, classy, and sexy enough without being too scandalous, not that you have any problem with that, but this isn't the occasion, you don't want to feel like you're being too much or too little, just enough, it's supposed to be easy, right? you were born for this. Just adding some big shiny earrings you got on a thrift shop that look like real diamonds and you're ready, not that you own any to compare. Red lipstick, dark eyes, and a messy bun to get that disinterested pitch every look needs.

Getting there wasn't a problem, you were in the rich part of the city, everyone know who, where and what just to brag about it. The excitement is growing with every second, you check your makeup like thirty times in the elevator and send texts to your mom just to let her know where you are, and because you have to share that moment with someone and you are limited of friends these days.

Timothée opens the door with red eyes, drunk, high, or somewhere in between, you know then you were right about the bad feeling. He jumps on you to kiss you and no matter how much you try to explain the delicacy of your lipstick, he does it anyway, leaving a taste of alcohol and shrimps in your mouth. Taking you by the waist he walks you to a group of people you don't know while you're trying harder to fix the red color of your mouth without a mirror.

—Here is the companion I bought, look at her, that's how five grand per hour look like.—They laughed but you were too disoriented to process all the things he said, it was supposed to be a joke? if it is, why isn't he correcting? Instead, his hand goes straight to your ass and presses it to get you closer to him.

—I'm actually an intern in the costume designer department of the new version of "Sense and Sensibility".—You wanted to mention your recent promotion to hairstylist and makeup artist but that might be too pretentious. Anyway, they don't seem to care what you are or not, in fact, they don't even see you, all eyes are on Timothée

—Oh, well, is easy to forget when you're paying them—All laughs again. Who is this person? Who are all these people, actually? You recognize some influencers, a few cast members but there's no sign of the director, other main actors, not even his co-star. You feel like an extra in a movie where someone will be killed in a luxury party, hopefully not you. You take his hand from your body and clear your throat.—I'm just joking my love, she looks stunning, isn't she? I’ll get you a drink.

He leaves and the group of people surrounding you suddenly dissipated like boiling water, you were on your own again and despite some judgmental gazes is like you’re not there, you’re sure you could just take your dress off and throw it to someone’s face and unless Tim says something about it, no one would care. You’re there as his companion, an ornament, and that’s not enough to earn their attention because it’s too obvious you’re the one in turn.

You walk to the only window no one is smoking and check your phone, you know, the thing you do when you pretend you have important issues to attend, but no, you end reading some old messages, pictures, texting your mom of how much fun you’re having at the party, and somehow you check your filed Facebook messages to find Logan’s name. You cover the screen so fast you hurt your nail, his name is enough to make you tremble like a Chihuahua, you haven’t talked to him since that night, you know from his sister he lives in the house he bought for you two and he’s having the happiest life without you. You want to believe that because that means you took the right decision but deep inside… no, you can’t be that person, you want him to be happier than ever.

You find the guts to open the message, and you read as slowly as is humanly possible. “My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health…” Dios, just Logan could start a message like that, your smile is almost too big to fit in your face so you bit your nail to cover it a little. “I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you’ll be happy to know…”

—That’s a fucking long-ass message.—Tim appears behind you and takes your phone from your hand, spilling some of his drink on your dress in the process. Apparently, he's been there long enough to read part of the message.

—Give it back.—You command in the most severe voice you have, your magical moment got ruined and you remember the hole of hell you are.

—"My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health. I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you must know I still use them now and then"—Timothée starts reading the message, and even when no one is close enough to hear it and you don’t really care about this people’s opinion, that’s not for anyone to read, that’s one of the few parts of your life you treasure the most and you’re not ready to get over it.—You little slut, are you cheating on me with a med student?

—Give it to me.—You repeat trying to take the phone from his hand but he’s faster and walks away putting it out of your reach.

—"I meticulously preserve them, I certainly know any piece of art made by you will be priceless in the near future"—You don’t want to hear it coming from his drunk mocking voice, so you try to ignore what he’s saying and put more effort on chasing the phone.—Should I had kept the jeans where you left the wet spot on? I didn’t know you were an artist, my love.

—Timothée, por el amor de Dios.—Now you're trying to climb him, it wouldn't be that hard to take him down, he's skinny and you're fierce. That's what you thought but he's not moving even with you are on top of his shoulder and his opposite long arm keeps the phone away from you.

—Who is this guy and why is he talking to my girl like this?—You see the olive eyes getting darker and the tone of his voice went deeper than you thought he could do. You desist from taking the phone, you know the bullies love the attention, maybe that's exactly what he wants and give it to him just makes it worse.

—I'm not your girl.—You claim fixing up your dress having enough of games, and you have no reason to keep worrying about losing your job, the filming is done, and apparently your relationship with him too. You don't care about any of that anymore, just want to read Logan's text.

Even behind all the alcohol and the eyes injected in blood thanks for who knows what kind of drug, you can see the disappointment and anger, but it's not a broken heart, Is the hissy fit of a child that loses his balloon and now everyone will pay for it, especially you.

—Are you sure about that?—You can see him swallow hard, almost looking vulnerable, but his voice is defiant and threatening to prove you wrong. He just has to stretch out his arm to reach the open window with your phone in hand, his intentions are clear and the only thing you can do is raise your hands as a reflex.—You were mine the moment you put a foot on my trailer, and I don't fucking share my stuff.—Before you can say a word he drops the phone from the fourth floor.

You know is senseless but you find yourself running out of the party and going to search the device, using it also as an excuse to get away from that place. This is the first time someone makes you feel meaningless, you know the famous' world is cold and lacking in empathy but this is ridiculous, they're a bunch of parasites fed by attention and power. By Timothée.

The screen is crashed and the rest of it is probably beyond repair, not that you're surprised, its life is longer than you've been in the country and you admit you should have replaced it much earlier but you're not the kind to throw away things that still work. However, is not the phone you are worried about, not as much as what it contains.

—That was obsolete anyway, I'll get you a better one.—You didn't know he was following you, his voice interrupts your self-wailing. He sounds calmer and a little embarrassed, but not enough to say sorry, you don't think he's capable of saying it.

You shake your head and start to walk away without a word, you don't want anything from him, not materially, at least.

—Don't make a scandal out of it, it's just a phone!—He yells erasing any trace of regret in his voice. He doesn't see the reaction he expected and that's when he runs after you and with a hand on your upper arm pulls you back, you gasped for the sudden bluntness.—That annoying habit you have of leaving when I'm talking to you.

You push him away with all the strength you have, which resulted in him almost falling on the ground.

—I don't care about the stupid phone!—You finally break, but sadly is not as satisfactory as you thought it would be.—You are mean, vain, arrogant and the worst part is that you enjoy being this despicable human because you have absolutely no consequences to it. Everyone around you just accepts it and I feel so sorry for you because the only possible way for you to fill the void inside is to be surrounded by that crowd of mules licking your steps—To your surprise, he has nothing to say, he's just standing there with no facial expression, whatever he feels is easily covered by his years of experience acting, even drunk.—I can't give you that and it's obvious they don't want me either. What am I even doing here?—You ask yourself thinking where would be the best way of getting a cab, is a rich zone, must be easy.

—Everything is better when you're around—His voice is thin and fragile, you have to process what he said three times in your head to understand his words. You're not willing to look at him yet.—You're not like the others.

—Pure bullshit. You love to repeat that misogynist discourse of girls being in a certain way because is easier than be responsible for the people you choose to be—You were hugging yourself the whole time, is a cold night, but not enough to be bothersome, you enjoy Fall weather—You got me for a moment, I give you that, you fooled me but I'm too tired of guessing what version of you is real—When you return your gaze at him, he doesn't try to hide the guilt anymore, but there's still haughtiness in there.—Now, if you don't mind Mr. Chalamet, I need to get a cab.

—No, you came with me, you leave with me.—There's no trace of alcohol in his voice anymore, a good scolding is enough to put you sober, you know that thanks to your mom. Oh god, you're becoming her.

—You didn't bring me here, gigantic head—You look at him and put your hand in front of him with the palm up. He stares at it for several seconds before put his own on it—Not that!—You shake it and start looking inside his jeans pockets until you feel the metal of his key car.—You can't drive and I have to get home. You'll find it in the studio tomorrow.

That's how you ended with a car way more luxurious than you expected, driving so slowly and carefully that the police stopped you. What a night, but at this point, you couldn't care less about anything that is not that message, is been months and you can't get over it, over him. Not even Ben moans, Tom's comforting arms, or fight with a movie star at 3:00 am. is enough to get him out of your mind.

—So is true, you don't wear anything that hasn't appeared in a movie, huh?—Michael B. Jordan is leaning on the car window with a mocking smile and a sparkle of satisfaction that you would love to punch but his uniform keeps you in line, where you come from police is not equal to justice, most of the times is oppression.

—You know where it's from?—That was kind of comforting, no one at the party noticed. Not that you care.

—Is The Mask, not some Adam Hitchcock's blurb.—He smiles and even when you really don't like him, it's nice to be with a familiar face, you are really tired of running away, scaping for problems that are a result of your null capacity to deal with emotions. Ugh, what a word.

—Is Alfred Hitchcock, actually.—You didn't want to sound priggish, but you correct him with no time to stop yourself, an old habit.

—You got me, smarty, you know more than movies than me. Where did you get this car?—You feel really nervous even when you got this legally, you have your documents and license on time and he's being nice enough to not want to run away in a car that you technically borrowed for yourself.

—It's not mine.—No shit, Sherlock.

—No shit, Sherlock, I was asking where did you steal it.—You wanted to laugh but there's something with the uniform that just doesn't allow you to be yourself.—Are you drunk?

—No, no, fuck, no, it's just, I don't feel comfortable with cops—He raises his eyebrows but that is his only reaction.—Listen, is my boss' car, I'm doing the favor to take it to the studio, and I'm really nervous because is fucking expensive, he's an asshole, I haven't drive un almost a year because you people only use cars if you're rich or your work and lives depend on it. I'm starving.—The last part came out of nowhere, you haven't eaten anything in almost 13 hours, maybe that's the actual reason why you are that moody.

He doesn't answer right away, takes his time to look at you, what makes you blush, he's really close, closer than he's ever been. Does he smell like green apples? Not the actual apples, the artificial smell they had given to them.

—Get out of the car.—Oh no, is he arresting you? Is he finally taking revenge for every time you make fun of his Hawaiian-type shirts? You know you have too much karma accumulated and a cop making you pay for it when you don’t believe in their sense of justice is kinda poetic, and evil.

You don’t want to discuss with someone with a taser, gun, pepper spray, or who knows what else. So you take your bag, the key car, and get off defeated.

—My turn is almost over, I’ll take you to eat something, c’mon.—He walks back to his patrol and you stay still for a few seconds still processing his words, you must look totally devastated for him to offer that. How you see it you have two options, go with him and spend an awkward hour with a person you don’t like or risk getting a fine, Tim can pay it, it’s not a big deal but you don’t want to owe him even the minimal thing.

You get in the car holding on to your bag to feel calmer, this is the first time you’re fully alone with him since you found him half-naked in your kitchen. Those defined abs may never leave your brain.

—Are you cold?—He interrupts your thoughts with his question, you didn’t notice you were shaking. He looks for something under his seat and gives you an NYPD hoodie, you hold it doubting your next move, is not like you don’t appreciate the gesture but it’d be easier to take if it doesn’t get that words printed—Is clean.—He says chuckling when he sees the way you’re looking at it.

—Is not that, just, you know, fuck the police, defund the NYPD, demilitarize the pigs and that stuff.—You say putting on the hoodie anyway, is a cold night and you won't help the institution wearing their propaganda.

—Yeah, I get it, but you can't change the system just from within.—You decide is not the right moment to have a political conversation so you shrug your shoulders and discreetly smell the hoodie, a mix of cologne, green apples, and cheap soap, you know is cheap because you buy the exact same, do its job.

—I'm in the mood for pizza.—You say casually, making a deal to yourself to try to be his friend, he is a small part of your life anyway.—Domino's is open at this time of the night?

—Tell me you're not consuming that shit, dear Lord, you been here for how long, two years? I can't believe your idea of a good pizza is Domino's. Stella hasn't taught you anything?—You're surprised by the level of condescension with a pizza and you mirror his smile, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Your school program includes people from all around the world so you don't have that much experience with actual new yorkers. Logan is rich, so he doesn't really count.

—What's wrong with Domino's? I don't buy much street food, is cheaper to buy things on the food market. Besides, all pizza is good.—The mention of Sheep makes you a little tense, so you don't say anything about it, is not a conversation to have with him.

—Don't blaspheme in the patrol, I just washed it—You laugh, finally, after a terrible weekend. You can see why she likes him, there is something about his voice, smile, and his eyes that feel... calm, like watching Friends after a marathon of Lord of the Rings.—There are rules to survive this city, and I'm surprised you have made it this far without a proper guide.

—Chill out Mr. Miyagi, I'm not from the jungle, and I've learned a lot by myself.—He gives you a lopsided grin as a request, and you put your fingers up ready to enlist your acquired knowledge.—Walk fast, like you're about to be stabbed, something that actually happened to me, with an umbrella—He nods and laughs being related to it.—Number two, no small talk, no one cares, even if they ask. Number three, if you look a stranger in the eye, especially a homeless person, you have essentially invited them to approach you.

—Number four, we never eat from Domino's, Papa John's, Pizza hut, or any other chain restaurant, only trucks and local places are allowed.—You roll your eyes but you get the point, is just, again, you're not much into street food, it doesn't taste like home and the only way to eat food like that is preparing it yourself.

—Fine, fuck capitalism, let's support local places—You make an obvious fake enthusiastic tone but he nods proudly.—Number five, you don't need a car to live here, not even know how to drive. I would have successfully avoided this police brutality if I had followed that rule.

—For someone who is about to eat for free, you whine too much.—He parks the car and gives you a sign to go with him. You see him go to a pizza truck and order, you realize at the moment how ridiculous you look, so before chasing him you let your hair down, take your huge earrings off, and roll up the skirt of your dress until your mid-thighs letting the hoodie cover the rest, and clean the red lipstick with a Kleenex from your bag. Now you look more like a college person and not a rich girl who just got seized.

—Here you go.—He says giving you a slice as big as your head, looks oily and spreading cheese everywhere. Perfect.

—Is it vegan?—You ask receiving the food with an obnoxious face. His kind grind turned into a dread expression and you give him your second laugh of the day.—I'm kidding.

You are about to give it a bite when you see passing next to you a huge rat with the exact same slice as yours in its mouth, running into the dark of the night happy to have obtained the food for its family. They use to scare you when you just moved out but now they're like any other pigeon in the sky.

—Rule... whatever, a rat with a slice of pizza is a symbol for good luck, congratulations.—He pets your head awkwardly, not sure if you're ok with the physical contact, which, surprisingly, you are.

—I see rats with bagels all the time.—Pizza and bagels, that's the main culinary wonders of the city, you like it, not much to object but is hard not to compare it with your home's food.

—Is easy to confuse a rough diamond with a simple rock.—You both eat in silence, enjoying the mixed sounds of the city and all the different smells, the whole situation feels like one of those lofi music videos. You remember thinking about moments like this before getting the scholarship, what would it be like to feel normal in the city of your dreams.

—How do you know that much about movies?—He asks after a few minutes when you take a break to drink something, that pizza is not easy to take.

—When I was a kid a spent much time on my own, so my dad bought me a used DVD reproducer, and at the corner of my neighborhood was this movie store where you could buy 5 pirate movies for one dollar. They were blurred, with a terrible sound, and most of the time with the wrong movie inside but they helped me to not feel lonely. Eventually, the store closed but I've watched everything in it by then—He gives you a warm smile, you never told that story to anyone, not because is too intimate to share, but because no one asked, it doesn't sound like a question with a complex answer.—Anyway, I watched Marie Antoinette when I was like eight, and I decided at that moment that however is done I wanted to be part of that magic.

—You hear all kind of people chasing dreams in this city but is hard to find someone who actually deserves it.—You blush and you cover it with your hair but the smile on your voice is impossible to hide.

—Is that a compliment? You must really want me to like you to date Sheep.—You laugh but you can see his face tense, so you can guess your friend has been busy breaking everyone’s hearts.

—She hasn’t returned my calls in three days so I don’t think there’s much you can do—You nod, all this time you thought he was the reason she is ignoring you but apparently you are both in the same boat.—But yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking, what I should have said is, Marie Antoinette at eight? I can see where all the damage started.

You gasp and throw your napkin at his head, he easily catches it without even looking at it and laughs; that was unexpectedly attractive.

—Why a cop?—You ask, not sure where that question came from, maybe you authentically want to know more about him, he just bought you food, and honestly, that's the easiest way to win your trust.

—I wanted to be an actor when I was a child. This is the city of opportunities so you may think that if you want to chase the big wonder, this is the perfect place to do it. But I grow up surrounded by these people giving their entire lives to get something just given to one in a million so I decided is not worth it. For many years I wondered what I wanted to do with my life and the answer was really clear, my dad was a cop, a good one, or that’s what people say. I don’t remember much because he died when I was seven—Conversations about death are not your strength, everything can turn out uncomfortable if you choose the wrong words.—It might not be that glamorous but if my father died for it, it surely worth it.

—For the good ones.—You raise your almost empty can of Coke and he does the same with a grin that warms the cold weather of the night.

—For the good ones.

The next two hours passed like minutes talking about anything and everything. It just felt right to talk freely with him, you didn’t feel judged for your awkward family moments or your random thoughts, not even once because he told you his too. At some point of the night he borrowed you his gym sweatpants, any of you could just suggest going home but that was off the table, end that peace just for weather reasons would have been a tragedy.

—I read Timothée Chalamet is a dick. Is that true?—The mention of his name remains you of your life and everything that comes with it, including the middle semester project that you must dedicate your entire day, one that is about to start.—What, you can’t talk about it?

—He is a complete dick with no sense of privacy or human decency—And when he interrupts a deep kiss to look at your eyes, smile, and caress your chin, you feel like a character of his Victorian movies. But he didn’t ask that.—But the next week he’ll be no longer my problem.

—That’s why we have rule twenty-three, don’t ask for a picture of a celebrity unless they are local—You have heard about it before but you haven’t got the opportunity to decide if you like that rule because the only celebrities you have seen are from work and that club’s party opening.—That means you’ll be free to go to the Stephen Kings’ movie projection there will be for Halloween.

You don’t know if that was a proposition, a suggestion, or just a simple recommendation, and whatever it is, you noticed he was nervous to ask. Is it wrong? It feels wrong like you were betraying your friend accepting to hang out with his boyfriend without her consent. But he didn’t ask you to go with him so is safe to answer.

—Yeah, I guess—You get a moment, four seconds top, where you shared innocent, curious, and tenting gazes like three graders in the playground. And that’s the further you will allow yourself to go.—We better leave, if the sunlight touch me I’ll turn into dust.

You get off the car hood and go to the side door, but this time he opens it for you. You give him a “seriously?” Look, receiving a little push in your arm as a response.

↬☀︎︎

A distant voice asks you to wake up, softly whispers that turn into caresses on your cheek, your eyes feel so heavy, even when you are well aware of your environment your eyelids keep closed.

—Good morning, Princess—This is the first time Tom calls you that way, the change from silly nicknames to Princess is enough to get you out of hibernation. He is squatting beside your bed, his smile is the promise of a better day, and chasing that idea you give him one small back.—Your mom has been texting me desperately all day, she said you're not answering her calls and is worried.

—Fuck, my phone broke last night, can I call her from yours?—That’s an oversimplification but in the search for a better story, that's what you decide to believe and tell. Tom nods and gives it to you, he looks happy, beyond that, this is the first time you see that subtle blush on his cheeks and the eyes sparkling. You sit on the bed next to his body looking for your mom's number, slowly he moves between your legs, you have shorts and an oversized Back To The Future t-shirt, you got took the time to prepare yourself to bed last night and keep Michael’s clothes inside your closet to wash them, like The Tell-Tale Heart, a little innocent secret who feels dirty somehow

The conversations with your mom are always long, nostalgic and the tears are hard to hold for both parts; after a long life sharing almost every day with her, her absence never feels smaller. But this time is different, Tom is exploring the bare skin under your knee with his warm hands, asking for permission with curious eyes, and when you don’t object to the touch the British boy keeps his exploring mission cautiously, giving special attention to see your eyes in case something change. Is time to hang up when he gives a long and loving kiss to your knee, the less erotic kiss you could think of but so intimate to bristle your skin.

—Not nice to touch someone's daughter when is talking to her mom.—The protest of your voice loses strength at every word, he heard that and just straight his back to reach your face, the gap is almost extinct.

—We're okay, she likes me.—He assures holding your hips and pulling you a bit to him. Tom looks very comfortable with the new closeness authorization, you like it but are not very sure about it yet, most of you still think of him as your best friend.

—Did she tell you that? Are you talking with my mom behind my back?—You laugh when he does, almost like nothing changed.

—She adores me, I swear, I'm invited to Christmas, you know?—You're not surprised, she invites everyone, Logan was too but the first time he got family plans and didn't make it to the second.

—You should go, maybe we can do...—His lips touch yours in a peak at the middle phrase and makes you forget what you were about to say.—Man, the audacity to interrupt...—Then he kisses you again, deeply, using his tongue to taste your inner lip and his hands holding your shirt in fists. That's a twist of events.

—Is that ok?—You hear a weak whisper coming out of his voice but you got so mesmerized on his lips that decided to ignore it and kiss him back instead. He responds to your touch and starts to lean over you to make you lay on the bed.

Jesucristo bendito, is this happening? like, actually happening? you must look like trash, you barely took all the makeup from the night before and didn't take a shower, you start to get so worried about smells, feelings, and what that'll mean to your already too much-spoiled friendship.

However, the time of doubts is done when Sheep starts yelling in the living room, you both reacted running to the sound and looking for your blonde friend. Michael is there but doesn't look like the same as a few hours ago, is annoyed and tired for the lack of sleep, a look that doesn't match him at all.—What did you do?—You ask him fast assuming she's mad for something he did.

—Just in time, the star of the movie, I was wondering how much it will take you to be the protagonist of this.—That is Sheep's voice talking about you and what must be your heart breaking from her words.

—Excuse me?—You wish your tone would be less savage but you can't help respond the same way she did.

—Logan wasn't enough, then you got the drummer, fucking Timothée Chalamet, Tom and now my boyfriend. I'm so glad I didn't leave you alone with my dad or I'd be calling you mom now.—You have no words to that, Michael doesn't even dare to look at you, he must have told her something she misunderstood, but Sheep, or well, Stella is saying things she actually thinks and keep to herself. Tom walks in front of you whispering things to her to calm her down but she is not looking at him, you didn't tell her anything about Tom either so he's taking responsibility this time.—Go ahead and fuck the whole city, Michael if that please you but you're crossing the line with Tom and you know that, you're going to ruin him as you ruin every man that enters in your life.—She has a very you moment having the last word of the dispute and getting out of the apartment with Michael going after her but not putting much effort in it.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Taglist:

@eridanuswave @cjand10 @deluxeplanteater @rorodendra @navs-bhat @coxxxxxpi @leviosatothestars

Thanks for all the love and support, if you have opinions, suggestions, or want to be part of the tag list (Or don’t want to be part anymore) let me know, I appreciate every message.

[beyondspaceandstars]

Hi!

I've been reading some of your posts and I am a big fan🥰

I was wondering if its okay, maybe you could do a Loki x reader where they were best friends and denied each others feelings all the time and when Loki was brought to the TVA, he found reader there and lots of angst and fluff🥰💞😁

Have a great day😁😁💞💞🥰🥰

Nothing Gold

Relationship: Loki x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: thank you so much for enjoying me work I am so glad that makes me so happy! thank you so much for the request. I really liked this idea and I think it came out okay - sorry the ending it a bit abrupt! thank you again :)

Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Loki had to do a full-on, dramatic as hell, double-take while walking through the TVA library. He had come down to look for a variant file but had apparently ended up finding something else. More specifically — someone else.

You. You. You.

You, his best friend. You, the sweet girl he had a never-ending crush on. You, the one who had just gone missing one day.

Loki could never forget. It was like something wouldn’t let him.

He had invited you around the palace for breakfast before you left his chambers for the night. You two had been up late reading together. You frequently popped over, usually claiming to stay for a few hours, just enough for Loki to read to you some verses of a poetry book, but those hours got longer and longer each time.

Next thing you two knew, it was nearly morning and you needed at least a few hours of sleep in your own bed. He had walked you out, asking you to come back for breakfast in a few hours. You happily agreed, giving him a quick hug before parting. Loki didn’t want to let go. He remembered that detail very well. He wanted to pull you back in his chambers, just hold you for hours. Days. Months. Forever. But he didn’t. He let you go, watching as you made your way back to your modest home. He never realized that would be the last time he saw you.

Well, actually, it technically wasn’t. Because he was staring at you right now. You were at a table near the back of the library, head buried in some files but he could still recognize you. Could always point out that lovely, long hair and those soft, gentle hands. You were always a stark contrast against him.

Loki just watched you for a few moments, completely and utterly confused by the situation. The shock was wearing off and now question after question filled his brain. How did you end up here? What had you done? Were you okay? A million thoughts came over him but his legs had their own agenda. The next thing he knew, he was approaching your table. He almost didn’t know how he got there.

He stood opposite of your sitting form. You weren’t noticing him, apparently very invested in the file you were studying. Loki had to admit, that was quite like you. You were always one to get lost in the words, way deeper than he did.

Eventually, Loki cleared his throat, hoping that’d do something. Slowly, you lifted your head, brows furrowed in confusion as you looked at him from head to toe. You didn’t recognize him, Loki could see it in your eyes. He was just a variant turned agent to you. Something in him felt like it was stabbing his heart over and over again.

"Can I help you with something?" You hesitantly asked but your voice was still so sweet and kind, just as Loki remembered. You were far more patient and soft-spoken than he was.

He said your name like it was the greatest plead but you didn’t react. Loki didn’t know what to do then, realizing you were you but you also…weren’t. His face fell.

You were getting uncomfortable. "I-I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know who that is—,"

"You don’t?" Loki couldn’t help the hurtful gasp he let out.

"Sir, I’m sorry…" Your eyes began searching around frantically. Something was going on. You were getting scared, way past uncomfortable. You wouldn’t look at him anymore.

Loki said your name again, much forceful than the last. You jumped. You weren’t directly responding but Loki could see something in your eyes. He said your name again. Then again. Like it was the only thing he knew. Your eyes met one another intensely, hypnotically.

After maybe the sixth time, you snapped. You jumped out of your seat, breathing heavily, scared, surprised. It had all happened too fast Loki was also taken back. You two were more than just staring at each other. Your wide eyes were taking him in.

"Loki?"

He felt so relieved to hear his name just float off your lips. It was as sweet as he remembered. Like a little lullaby. The stabbing in him stopped.

Loki nodded. "It’s me."

"What…" You looked around as if you had no idea where you were. And maybe you didn’t but Loki hadn’t expected your name to just snap you out of it. This opened a lot of questions for him but he didn’t have time. He raised his hand, cutting off your words.

Loki nodded towards one of the bookshelf aisles further away from everyone. You nodded in understanding, following him down the rows.

Once you were a safe distance away, Loki wasted no time collecting you in his arms, his head buried in your shoulder. You were surprised for a moment at the gesture but then you fell into it naturally, like you had just hugged him yesterday. And really that was how it had felt. But Loki knew better. You had been gone for so long…

"Loki," you mumbled his name, your head pressed into his chest. "What is going on?"

Loki stilled. "Why don’t you tell me what you know."

You scoffed, breaking off the hug. You were a sweet one but Loki was no stranger to your tiny temper. You put distance between you two and Loki allowed it despite how much it hurt.

"What I know?" You repeated, folding your arms. "What I know is that I’m standing in a library with you." You looked around at the space, noting an actual lack of real books. "What kind of library is this anyway? How did I—,"

"Do you remember anything before you got here?"

Your gaze dropped as you studied your shoes. They were some nice black flats but Loki knew that wasn’t your style. You were not the business causal type, usually pleased with the feeling of Asgardian silk gowns.

Something was coming to you as you let out a soft gasp. "I was walking home. We-We had just finished a poem written by that Midgardian… Gosh, what was his name? Winter or something—,"

"Frost," Loki mumbled. "His last name was Frost and you enjoyed his poem about how nothing gold can stay. You found it relatable. I’ll admit, you may have been onto something."

A light had gone on within you. "You thought it was pretentious." Your gaze met Loki’s once more. "I called you a fool and laughed. Then we saw daylight breaking and… and I had to go home. I missed my bed. You wanted breakfast in a few hours. I agreed to come back."

Loki nodded, encouragingly, but your words had fallen off. "What happened next?"

You shook your head, that blank expression washed over you again. "I don’t know."

Loki let out a sigh and leaned back on the shelf. "Do you remember anything after that?"

You looked back down at your outfit. At least the pencil skirt was nice. "Yes," you admitted. "I was hired here. I report on variants to protect the sacred timeline." It sounded to Loki like you were reading a script. What the hell was going on here?

"But you don’t know how you got from Asgard to…here?"

You sighed, a bit annoyed. "How did you get here?"

The snippy temper was back. You were still you. Loki could’ve kissed you, a feeling that had come over him before but was suddenly more intense than ever. He would, he promised himself. He couldn’t leave you again without doing so.

"I had a bit of an…incident."

"Really? You? I never would’ve guessed," you said, the sarcasm on your words dripped heavily. Loki gave quite the dramatic eye roll. You let out a little giggle.

"Yes, well, never mind what got me here, I am here," he said, motioning towards nothing. "And I am assisting with the hunt of a variant."

"You’re helping them?"

Loki scoffed. "Don’t act so surprised." A beat. "I didn’t have much of a choice."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a smile but failed miserably. Loki had missed this. If he focused really hard, it almost felt like you two were back in Asgard, lounging around, talking about nothing. Teasing one another. His heart was aching.

"What do you know about the variant?" You eventually asked.

Loki glanced away. "It’s me."

"You?"

He shrugged. "Well, a version of me. Another variant."

You slowly crossed the aisle, coming to stand right next to Loki, your shoulders pressed against one another. Loki’s breath hitched just a bit. He would never get used to this.

You asked, "Well, what have ‘you’ done?"

Loki resorted back to his witty humor. "Nothing good as you could assume."

"This mischief of two Lokis is unthinkable."

Loki let out a laugh which you followed suit with. You two were laughing over nothing in this random library in wherever this place was. He could barely understand it and you were absolutely clueless. But the moment of laughter was good, was familiar. Too bad it couldn’t last.

"I’ve missed you," Loki admitted after the laughter had faded out unceremoniously. You looked a bit surprised at the confession.

"Truly?"

He nodded.

You blushed and looked down. "I’d say I missed you too but I don’t feel like we’ve been apart. How long has it been?"

When Loki wasn’t giving an answer, you forced yourself to turn back to him. He was staring at you quite intensely. You shivered under the gaze. It was an expression you hadn’t seen before, he hadn’t allowed you to see. It was one full of love and interest and adornment.

"Too long," was all he said before his lips were on yours. Loki finally took what he had been craving and it was happening in the TVA library. The fucking TVA. Loki’s head was still spinning with worries about this whole thing but, slowly, he got lost in you. In your lips and softness. Your hands grasped his shirt as you deepened the kiss — you. You wanted more from him. And he was happy to give.

His hands caressed your sides lovingly, feeling and holding you in the way he had always dreamed. It was better than anything he could’ve conjured. It felt right and real. Good and… Too good. Too powerful.

An alarm was going off somewhere now. You hadn’t seemed to notice it, still captivated in the kiss, but Loki was aware. He forced you two apart, reluctantly. You looked at him, ready to protest, but before you could ask anything, Loki was placing a hand over your mouth.

Footsteps were approaching. They were coming towards your aisle. Whatever had happened here wasn’t good, something had gone haywire. Had he broken the timeline? Was that even possible here? Loki didn’t know but what he did know was there was an army on the hunt for them. Without thinking twice, he grabbed your hand, looking for an escape route.

"Loki," you finally were able to speak, keeping your voice hushed as you two maneuvered the maze of shelves, "what did we do?"

"We love each other."

"Love?"

Loki stopped despite there being no time to stop. "Am I wrong?"

You didn’t answer. That was all he needed. Now to only get the hell out of here. Loki couldn’t tell if his encounter with the TVA had been a blessing or a cure as he held you close to him, refusing to lose you again to whatever trap this place planned to lay.

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Got You (Napoleon x Reader)

This is the third time i’m trying to post this fucking thing, tumblr won’t let the posts I do from my laptop under search results but they will show posts I do from my phone. Anyways, enjoy!

“This better be worth it Waverly”

“Ohhh (y/n) dear trust me it will. Let me introduce you to your new colleagues”

As she walked in the room with one big desk and a few chairs, three of them were occupied by two men and one woman, probably in her 20s. Her eyes however focused on one particular man.... The man that was one of the reasons you thrived in the illegal field.

“This is Miss Gaby Teller, the most important person in this case, next to her is mister Illya  Kuryakin, her supposed fiance and-”

“Napoleon Solo. The thief”

She bitterly interrupted Waverly, he was of course aware of (y/n)’s past with Napoleon, it was one of the reasons he requested her to join this case, keeping from her that piece of information of course. 

“(y/f/n), you’ve grown up”

“you got old”

“Right, now that everyone knows each other, (y/n) please take a seat and i’ll explain the plan”

As she took a seat from the other side of the table, directly in front of Napoleon, she tried to focus on Waverly and ignore Napoleons intense stare that almost drilled a hole on the side of her head.

“Ok, so since Illya is here to be the love interest for Gaby and Napoleon is here to just get some Italian legs in the air, what am I here for?”

“You dear (y/l/n), you will be portraying miss Brigitte Richard, an heir to the Richard well know Cigar, he is a close friend of mine and graciously agreed to take his daughters name”

“Won’t they know what his daughter looks like?”

“His daughter has been kept away from the public eye and she had transferred in Britain during high school, that’s also where she went to College and recently decided to stay there. I will give you a file of hers to study. Your goal is to get close to Victoria vinciguerra during the event, maybe even seem interested in mister Solo, of course for show, nothing more”

“Of course, everything is only just for show when it has to do with Napoleon”

-

(Y/n) was dressed in her best attire, her long red dress that hugged her waist so beautifully, of course some silver diamond earrings on her ears and her hair up in a perfect updo, her heels were comfortable at least, but if she had to run the dress would not hold for long until it gives a show to anyone around her, she prays that it didn’t have to happen, or she would be royally screwed,

“Miss Richard , your father was right you do have your mothers eyes”

What a fool, she thought, this is who she was hiding from? a woman that complimented her for the resemblance in her eyes.... she wasn’t even close to being related to this people. However, on the outside, she smiled brightly at the tall blonde lady

“Thank you so much, god rest her soul she at least she was generous enough to pass them down to me, my dads brown eyes are great but a tad bit boring don’t you think?”

The blonde gave a tight lip smile to her comment. Of course, if she knew that her real parent had never seen this type of luxury, the lady wouldn’t even spare a glance.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, Victoria Vinciguerra”

“Brigitte Richard, my father made sure to keep me away from all of... this, he wanted his kids to be humble”

“I’m really sorry for your brother”

“It’s alright, I miss him but... c’est la vie”

(Y/n) had almost swallowed the file Waverly had given her, she even looked into the cigar company, just in case anyone asked questions. As the two ladies kept talking, she started hearing commotion,she turned her head  towards the direction it was coming from and saw one familiar man falling to the ground.

“What is going on over there?”

“Excuse me dear”

Victoria started walking towards him and of course (y/n) followed. When they finally reached the crowd that was already forming a circle around him, there he was fanning himself the invitation dramatically, in true Napoleon fashion. (Y/n) kissed her teeth in annoyance, he was supposed to discreetly blend in, not cause a god damn ruckus the minute he walks in.

“Thank you, Thank you”

“I wonder what they do to people without invitations”

That is when she decided to take actions. She weaseled her way out of the crowd and kneeled in front of him to his level, offering her glass of champagne to him.

“Are you alright sir?”

“Yes, thank you very much Darling”

“I’m Victoria Vinciguerra, she is (y/f/n). I do believe an apology is in order. I’ll take it from here”

You helped him get up on his feet and took two steps to lean in and talked to her.

“of course miss Vinciguerra... next one is mine”

She giggled as she walked away in triumphant. To be frank the rest of your job was to keep an eye on these two, yet she could still say she completed the most important part.What she didn’t expect was the growing fire in the pit of her stomach that was directed to Victoria, looking at her talking to Napoleon so nonchalantly made her teeth hurt and her breasts ached with rage.

“It’s such a lovely day to be so pouty miss”

“Well sir... there is nothing really here for me to smile about”

“Not even me?”

“I think I am better off being the reason for someone to smile”

“Roberto  Russo, charmed”

“Brigitte Richard”

Roberto was a handsome man, tall, light brown hair, hazel eyes, sharp jawline, full lips and extremely well dressed, no doubt he knew his way around women and money. What a better distraction and cover up than him?

What (y/n) had not calculated was Napoleon picking up at her “strategic” flirt and filling like punching the hell out of this pretentious little Italian boy that grew up spending daddy’s money. He restrained himself from walking over to her and taking her hand, guiding her away from everyone, keeping her all to herself.

“I saw you were talking to my aunt”

“Oh you are related to Victoria?”

“Yes, my dad is her brother. I actually haven’t spoken to her today, come with me?”

“How could I ever refuse?”

As he offered his arm she smiled and linked hers with his, walking over with her head held high as they got close to Napoleon and Victoria

“My dearest Roberto, how are you?”

she kissed her nephew at both of his cheeks and yet no smile was shown. She really was cold, Roberto however smiled brightly, feeling excited to show his knew “catch” to his aunt.

“I’m doing well... who might he be?”

“Jack Devinsky, Nice to meet you”

Roberto looked at Napoleon up and down, almost well not almost... judging him harshly. Napoleons sure looked rich but there were levels to how rich you were, especially when men judged one another.

“Roberto Russo. Well... aunt Victoria may I occupy you for a minute”

“Of course, anything for my nephew”

“It will only take a minute dear”

“I am counting”

She replied at him, he took her hand and placed a gentle kiss as he stared directly in her eyes, winking at her as she left her with Napoleon. They stood there in awkward silence for a few moments, they haven’t really spoken since the case started, (y/n) made sure to avoid him.

“You look stunning if that isn’t obvious”

“Thanks”

She said dryly. She barely even looked him in the eye, all she could see was that damn night, the night she lost everything, the night her heart shuttered, the night he showed her all the cruelty of the world he always talked about.

“You are mad at me”

“Do you blame me?”

“No, it still upsets me though”

“That sounds like a personal issue to me”

-

The event was a success. which meant (y/n) could finally relax and wear her pajamas, pour a drink for herself and lounge in the couch her room had. She still wore his necklace, the gold star necklace he had bought her way back when... she took the charm in her hands and felt the cold metal.

How much more could she take with him around? it took her so much time to heal and now here he was again, scratching the wounds she had closed up all by herself. She was pulled out of her thoughts when she heard a knock at her door. She got up to answer it and was met with the man of the hour.

“Napoleon”

“May I come in?”

She sighed before stepping aside to let him in. Even when all she wanted was to punch him in the face, her heart took over her and let him walk into her room and her life once again, even when she had swore to take revenge when she saw him again.

“What do you want?”

“To talk”

“About what?”

She was well aware she was snapping at him, could you blame her? He had swore to protect her, help her when she had nothing and no one, taught her everything and then one night she came home to find all his belongings missing... and that damn letter tore her apart, she didn’t sleep for days, she waited for him to return for months and yet he never did.

“(Y/n) I know-”

“YOU KNOW NOTHING

”her voice booming through the entire room, it was like a glass of emotions was overflowing, threating to spill and make a mess. He saw the pain in her face, her lower lips trembling, her hands forming fists... still what caught his eye was one thing, the necklace. She was wearing his necklace, after all these years she didn’t throw it away. He took a breath through his nose before continuing.

“(y/n) you have every right to be upset-”

“Damn right I do”

“Will you just listen?”

“listen to what Napoleon?! What?!What?!What?!”

Next thing that was heard was her glass smashing at the wall, Vodka dripping down and small pieces of glass going everywhere. Napoleon was shocked, he should have known this wouldn’t be easy, he had wanted to reach out to her over the years, he had even went through with finding her, yet every time he chickened out last minute and walked away from it. Now, here she was in pain, yelling and smashing things... she had become his enemy

“I’m sorry”

“You are sorry? Sorry? for what Napoleon? for leaving me? for doing it in such cruel way? for lying to me?”

“I never lied”

“You swore to me that you loved me, that you... cared”

There it was, tears. She couldn’t even control it, as her voice cracked and the waterfalls started, she didn’t also want to cover them, she wanted him to see what he had done... to hell with being the bigger person. He wanted to hug her, comfort her, make her feel loved but now all he could do was to try and reason with her.

“I had to leave”

“Why? What could possibly be the reason... money? paintings? women?”

“You know I would never cheat on you”

“Oh yeah, cause leaving our house in the middle of the night is so much better”

She tried wipe away her tears, silence falling between them once again. As a way to calm and hide her emotions, she kneeled and started picking up pieces of glass, her back turned to him. Napoleon went to her side and even when he wanted to pick her up and kiss her, he controlled his desire

“(Y/n) stop, you’ll cut yourself”

“I’m fine Napoleon”

“(Y/n) the maid can do it”

“I said I’m- FUCK”

a piece of sharp glass had cut her as she accidentally gripped it a bit too hard. Napoleon saw the blood and got up immediately to find some tissues, while (y/n) got on her feet and brought her hand close to her chest, closing it to a fist as a way to stop the pain. When Napoleon approached she turned her back once again

 “I said I’m fine”

“(Y/n) you are bleeding, let me care for you”

She had started crying again. As she turned around and opened her hand to him Napoleon gently placed the tissues on the wound, dabbing away the blood carefully.

“Why did you leave?”

“I thought I was protecting you, a way to keep you away from all of the things I was doing”

“Yet... here we are”

He looked up at her. Her lower lip was in between her teeth, tears freshly running down, her beautiful eyes were now red and puffy, her nose was running and he still found her heavenly.

“You kept the necklace”

“I tried throwing it away, or ponding it... I couldn’t find the courage... it’s too pretty”

“I tried coming back to you... multiple times”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t”

She finally kept eye contact with him, getting lost once again in those ocean blue eyes, the eyes she looked at when they were laying naked on their bed, the eyes that looked at her when she woke up. With his one hand Napoleon slowly reached over and wiped a few tears with his thumb

“You are too pretty to cry over me”

“I missed you Napoleon”

She whispered looking down on the ground in embarrassment. She was everything he ever wanted, a woman that loved him and had his back and he tossed that all away, his intentions were pure yet the damage was gigantic. He hesitated for a minute, before taking her in his arms for a hug, her head nuzzling on his neck as she held on to him for the first time in what felt like centuries. Napoleon kissed her head, smelling her shampoo that was always the same, lavender.

“I missed you too munchkin”

She giggled at the nickname. Napoleon had met her when she was struggling to survive, she was this delicate little thing that looked everyone with kind eyes, yet once he got to know her he saw the passion, the fire, the potential she had to become something great, he didn’t want all that potential to go on illegal things that could possibly get her in jail or worse kill her. So from the beginning of the relationship he called her munchkin.

“Will we be alright?”

“I got you munchkin, I got you”

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Last summer, I made a post about Britcom shows that will exist when I rule the British television industry. That post contained the suggestion:

The Boys with Four First Names: Once a week, John Oliver and Russell Howard talk over video chat for an hour. I realize they’re both very busy men, so I’d be happy to have the program be live, rather than taking several hours of their time that get edited down.

The conversations mostly revolve around what’s going on in the world, with an emphasis on comparing the trans-Atlantic perspectives. What does British news look like to Americans, and what does American news look like to Britons? What do British people not realize about what it’s actually like to be in America during [current American news story], and what does the American news get wrong about British stories (on the rare occasions that they cover it)? What are the similarities and differences in the ways both countries cover international news stories? Those are supposed to be the topics of the discussions, but it’s not all that structured and it’s fine for them to go off topic and just talk about their lives and make jokes as well.

I have just finished listening to the first episode The Bugle podcast, and I feel like I owe an apology to someone, at least to Andy Zaltzman, for having written all that and never taken five seconds to Google whether that show actually exists.

There are a few minor differences between the show I requested and The Bugle as it exists. The Bugle is a podcast and has no video, but that is fine. The Bugle is a proper show that people took the time to write beforehand and edit after, when I said I was quite willing to settle for something much less professional than that. And of course, one of the people in my initial vision for the show has been swapped out for another one. The “Boys with Four First Names” title doesn’t really work when one of the names is “Zaltzman”, so I see why they went with “The Bugle” as the title instead.

...Seriously though, The Bugle is pretty well exactly the show I wanted. John Oliver talking to a British comedian about the news through his own perspective as someone who has lives in both Britain and America, comparing how the same issues are discussed in Britain versus America, and giving me a chance to hear from the version of John Oliver that he becomes when he’s not playing primarily to an American audience.

And Andy Zalzman is cool! I feel like I have not spent enough time on this blog writing about how Andy Zalzman is cool. Good News Quiz host. Good wry sardonic wit but like, not in a pretentious way. Good joke about overreach in enforcement of anti-terror legislation that I just heard him do on the first episode of The Bugle, from October 2007, and that he also did on The News Quiz just a few weeks ago. I have not heard him do it at any point in between, and I have heard him on The News Quiz quite a bit, so I guess using one joke twice in fifteen years is fair enough.

I am looking at The Bugle as something I plan to do with my time for the next while, now that I’ve seen almost all the TV shows on my list, and a long-running podcast is a good thing to have as real life starts again. I can keep this Britcom stuff with me, in the form of something I can listen to even when I venture outside these safe four walls of my bedroom.

So I downloaded the first 200-ish episodes of the podcast. It was less convenient than I’d expected to find early episodes, as the podcast distributors don’t have episodes of this podcast that go from the beginning, so I couldn’t just get them all at once. I found an archive of mp3 files of those old episodes; and then I downloaded all of them; moved them to their own folder; and edited all the filenames to have the number in sequence, date of first broadcast, and episode title. And then I figured I may as well have my efforts possibly save someone else some time, so I’ve uploaded that folder to my Google Drive. Here it is, in case anyone else is interested in listening to the first few years of this show. I’m looking forward to it.

[lunarliza]

Dirty Little Secret | Chapter One: Blankets

fuckbuddy!JJ x Kook!Reader 

You and JJ are fuck buddies- strictly physical. But what happens when you find yourself falling more and more for everyone’s favorite golden boy even though all he can see you as is a spoiled rich girl? 

You stared at the ticking clock among the sea of giggling preppy girls. Time had to be running in reverse. There was no way you still had an hour left. 

“Alright ladies, let’s now form a single-file line and practice our curtsies,” the cotillion instructor, Linda, ordered. The over-privileged girls hurried to the end of the ballroom, one carelessly stepping over your foot. “Ouch!” 

You glared at their backs and non-existent asses as they scurried, being the last one to sulk to your place behind a tall girl named Caroline. The leggy blonde snickered and leaned back slightly once everyone got into formation. 

“You look like a beat up mule,” she joked. 

You snorted and got on your tip-toes, muttering into her ear. “If I hear the words ‘prim and proper’ one more time, I might actually vomit on the spot.” 

You both peered over to Linda who was busy adjusting some of the girls in the front with her annoying pointer stick. It was only a matter of time before she would eventually get to you and criticize, well, everything. Your posture, clothes, hair, attitude. 

“If you do,” Caroline added, “make sure to get it all on Delilah in the front left. She totally swiped me for runner-up Miss Teen North Carolina last year.” 

You chuckled and shook your head. 

Caroline was probably the only thing getting you through these treacherous debutante lessons. She was your typical tall, thin socialite with a Benz and Prada collection to match. Ironically, you guys had more in common than one would think- hating just about every single girl in the room. It may be for different reasons, but the principle was there. Caroline was as competitive as they come and always had to be the center of attention, not that it was hard given her model height. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about becoming a high woman in society- evident in your ability to show up 20 minutes late to each lesson and royally screw up the dance number each chance you got. Caroline admired your talent of not giving a fuck and took a liking to you after you posed non-threatening to her spotlight. 

You faked yawned and checked the clock once more. 

“Alright I’ve had enough.” You held out your hand to Linda, causing the pageant girl in front of you to wrinkle her perfectly threaded brows. “Linda, I need to use the restroom,” you announced nonchalantly as everyone’s beetle eyes punctured you. 

“Very well y/n,” the monotonous instructor answered with her thin-framed glasses hanging on her beak nose.  

“See ya next week,” you sneakily whispered to Caroline. You proceeded to hop out of line, snatch your canvas bag at the entrance, and whisk out the door and into the busy street before anyone could see.

It was 3 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. Your ferry left in an hour, and til then, you were ready to wander around the streets of Chapel Hill. 

                                           -----------------------------

“How were lessons today?” your mother asked, taking a sip of her 1999 Vineyard Merlot before setting the glass on the black marble table.

“Fine,” you answered, picking at the halibut on your plate. 

Her glasses were perched at the bridge of her nose as she scrolled through items on an iPad. You silently glanced over to your little sister, Macy, who slid her green beans onto your plate and threw you a thankful grin. 

“What did you go over?” your stepdad, Ted, asked half-heartedly as he scrolled through his phone. 

“Uh, we did some curtsies and practiced the dance,” was all you cared to mention as you munched on your sister’s veggies. 

“That’s funny,” your mother lifted her eyes from the screen, “because Linda called and said you went to the restroom and mysteriously disappeared. And you were late.” Her tone was much more adamant at the second part, but your face stayed cool as you took another bite of the awful fish. 

“There was backup when I left the ferry,” you lied and your mother rolled her eyes, tossing the iPad onto the table. 

“Y/n, you need to take this seriously. Ted spent weeks trying to get you into those debutante lessons and we’re paying a fortune for Linda alone!” 

“It’s not my fault she has a stick up her ass just like everyone else there,” you countered. Your mom was seconds away from fuming, so you decided to add a little extra fuel. “Also someone stepped on my foot with their heel so I had to rest it or else I wouldn’t be able to properly do the dance.” 

“Enough of this, y/n,” your mother snapped at your terrible sarcasm. Macy and Ted stopped eating and watched you both with hints of concern. You didn’t understand why it was so startling to them. It was just any other Thursday evening with your mom if you were being honest. 

“If I get another call from Linda, we’re taking away your keys.” 

“Take them,” you said, stepping up from your chair and towards the kitchen. You tossed the half-eaten food into the trash and stuffed the plate into the dishwasher. “Not like I have anywhere better to be on this God-awful island.” 

You rushed to your room upstairs and kicked the door shut behind you. You sank into your bed, face first, and let out the longest, dreadful groan into the comforter. 

This was your life now. After almost a year, you would think that you’d adjust to this pretentious Kook life, but it only made you feel more stranded than ever. It started when your real parents announced their divorce a few years back. Both yours and Macy’s hearts shattered at the news. Your family lived perfectly in a tiny home until you turned thirteen. Your dad- the one who taught you how to ride a bike, swim, fish, and play poker- got a new job where he would go overseas for months on end. You hated not being able to see him and your mom hated it even more- enough to leave him. Your mom ended up taking full custody of you and Macy. Soon after, she met money-bags Ted, and, before you knew it, your bags were sealed packed as you sailed away to a fancy new home along Figure Eight complete with housekeepers, a pool, and etiquette lessons. It was supposed to be this “better lifestyle” your mother tried to paint into your head- but you saw right through it. No matter how green the grass or white the fence, you still felt like you were being locked up on an island you had no interest in exploring. 

Making new friends was also a hassle- first coming in as a high school sophomore, and then not knowing how to engage in Kook-speak with the others. It’s not your fault you weren’t well-versed in luxury cars and handbags. You had one or two friends, but spent most of your days alone. It was well past midnight when you caught yourself drowning in your own self-loathing thoughts. A sudden tap on your window startled you as you turned to find a familiar blonde boy struggling to lift the glass. You watched, unimpressed, as he finally got it open enough to slide his lean body in and land straight onto your window seat. 

“You’re late again, JJ,” you said, getting up to lock your door. 

“Phone died and there’s a guard on duty, so I had to come in through the long way,” JJ stated, plopping himself comfortably on your bed. 

He wore his usual fit- dark cargo shorts and a navy button-up with hardly anything buttoned. He reeked of weed and seawater, wearing a sleazy grin on his face. You wanted to swipe it off. Cocky bastard. 

“For the last time,” you retorted, kicking his feet off your white blankets, “no shoes on my fucking bed.” 

“I love when you talk dirty to me,” JJ snarkily replied as he slipped off his boots.   

This was JJ: your fuck buddy. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly why you were involved with this delinquent of a boy, but he was enough piss off your mom and Ted- not that you would ever tell them. You didn’t know what it was about him, but causally sleeping with JJ made you feel more in control of your life. So, once or twice a week, you two would meet up, do the deed, and go your separate ways without a word. No strings, no feelings, hell, not even a friendship. And not a single soul knew. You both understood the terms of your agreement and will stand by it until the day you both die. “Are you just gonna stand there and stare or are we gonna get to clapping cheeks? I don’t have all night dude,” JJ nagged, interrupting you from your thoughts. 

You flipped him off. “If someone showed up during their regularly scheduled time, I would have had a lot more energy.” You peeled off your cropped tee to reveal a lacy black bralette and climbed into his lap. His hands cupped the globes of your ass before sliding them into your shorts, mouth connecting with your neck. 

“Let’s make this quick,” he added between short breaths, “I have to meet some friends in an hour.” 

-----------------------------

chapter two

[fallingappleshurt]

hi! I'm the anon that sent that other writing prompt with wilbur being all sneaky and detective mode. Here's another one if you want! :D Tommy and Techno are being bullied and Wilbur notices them acting slightly differently and just goes and fucking beats them up. If you cant tell i really like the idea of wilbur just going full detective mode and techno and tommy just never realize it

Wish you were who you said you were

Brrrrrrr I’m bad at answering asks but here we go!

To be completely honest I really hate how this came out, I tried to make it seem better but I don’t know what else to do, anon I’m really sorry but here we go.

Some of this is actually based on real life experience! So that’s fun.

This is based in the fd!au by Antarctica bay! Go love her! But I’m not tagging her in this shit story, sorry.

TW: For Some Bullying, nothing too graphic or extra

“I’m just saying that I don’t think that it was that good of a character arch,” Tommy said, pushing the apartment door open.

“That’s because you can’t read, did you try gettin’ good?” Techno said, slipping off his shoes, ignoring Tommy’s rebuke, he looked up to the living room and saw Wilbur sitting on the couch with someone he didn’t recognize.

He was going to ask who it was but Tommy beat him to the punch.

“Hey Wilbur, who’s that?”

“Oh this is Griffin, he’s a new student and one of my teachers asked me to show him around and he’s pretty cool,” Wilbur said, gesturing at the boy next to him, he gave a little wave, “Hi,”

“Hello!”

“Hullo,”

“Griffin these are my brothers, Techno’s got the pink hair and the gremlin is Tommy,”

“Shut up,” Tommy flipped him off, heading towards his room. Techno sat down at the kitchen table, pulling out a homework sheet. He grabbed his earbuds when he heard Wilbur swear.

“Wait, where’s my phone?” The lock on Tommy’s door clicked, “Oh come on!” Wilbur jumped over the couch and ran up to the door, pounding against it furiously, “You child! Open the door!”

Griffin looked nervously between Techno at Wilbur, as if asking if this was out of the ordinary, Techno shrugged, calling to Wilbur, “Careful, we don’t want to get another noise complaint.”

Wilbur pounded on the door harder, “You gremlin! Don’t make me Jimmy the lock because I will then you’re dead!”

After a few minutes of fruitless threats and pounding Wilbur snapped and started digging around the hall closet for a wire coat hanger. Techno continued with his Government class’s work, he was so focused he didn’t realize Griffin had sat in the chair next to him, trying to start a conversation.

Griffin yanked one of his earbuds out, “Why are you ignoring me?” He asked, Techno raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not, I was just caught up in my work,”

Griffin rolled his eyes, “Sure, anyways, I wanted to ask you, why do you look so mad all the time?”

“You’ve known me for like 10 minutes-”

“I saw you in the hallway a lot earlier, I guess we have a lot of classes near each other, but you looked really mad, or annoyed I’m not really sure, but you just seem to constantly have a resting bitch face,”

Techno shrugged, “I’ve heard that before, I guess I do but-”

“Did you know a lot of people stare at you?”

“What?”

“A lot of people stare at you, or are you too caught up with yourself to notice that?”

Techno sat there, not sure how to respond, Griffin being in their apartment and him just casually insulting him.

“Heh, wow, can’t believe-” Griffin was cut off by Tommy shrieking. Wilbur had managed to unlock their door and jumped at Tommy, wrestling him for his phone back.

Griffin watched the scene before them, confusion sparking in his eyes, “Is that- is that, how do I say this, normal?”

“It’s a semi-normal thing,” Techno said, peering around Griffin, trying to get a better view of his brothers.

“Wow, I get what they said about you being pretentious,”

Techno shook his head, “What?” He paused, “Did I do something to offend you?” Griffin shrugged and walked over to Wilbur, who was just coming out of Tommy’s room with his phone in hand, hair disheveled and clothing wrinkled. They sat back down on the couch, chatting and laughing like nothing happened, Techno started back on his work.

He got in the zone, music back on, he fell into a rhythm and finished his Government work and half of his math work when their front door opened and Phil stumbled in. His shoulders were tight, clothes wrinkled and bunched, he set his stuff down on the table next to Techno’s backpack.

“Hey Techno, hey Wilbur, who’s this?”

“This is Griffin, he’s the new guy at school and he’s actually pretty cool,”

Phil snorted, “He’s ‘pretty cool’? That kind of sounds like an insult Wil,”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way! He’s just shy but once you start talking to him,” Techno rolled his eyes but said nothing, yeah he seemed ‘real shy’. Phil smiled, “Is he staying for dinner?”

“Griffin wanna stay for dinner?” Wilbur asked, looking him in the eye, Techno silently hoped he’d say no.

“If you’ll have me,” Griffin said.

“Of course, I’m heating up leftover lasagna, are you okay with that?” Phil asked, turning on the oven. Griffin nodded, “Yeah!”

Techno bit his tongue and tried to go back to his mathwork. Soon he cleared off his and Phil’s stuff off the table, Tommy, after some prodding, came out and set out plates and utensils.

They all sat down, Tommy talking about the next basketball season and Phil telling them of some ridiculous customer who tried to use a coupon that was 3 years past the date. Griffin was quite for most of it, laughing along with Phil and rolling his eyes as Tommy talked about the stupid things the other boys on the team dared him to do.

“This is really good,” He commented about the food.

“Thank you, it’s just a recipe from the pasta box though,”

Techno stayed quiet, working his brain, trying to figure Griffin out. He didn’t say anything rude or backhanded and seemed like a normal, slightly nervous guy. Techno didn’t know if he had upset him in someway or what, maybe Griffin was just having an offday? Techno knew he wasn’t always the friendliest person and he could have been more accommodating, maybe it would have made Griffin feel less on edge.

The rest of the night seemed to go off without a hitch. Griffin helped them clean up, thanked them for the meal and Wilbur for showing him around, then left.

Techno had trouble falling asleep, thinking about the stuff Griffin said and Tommy shifting restlessly in the bunk above him, sleep was near impossible.

People had called him sarcastic and pretentious before but it never really bothered him, so why did Griffin saying it make him feel nauseous? The other thing was Griffin said people were staring at him? That was never good, were they talking about him or making fun of him behind his back?

Techno didn’t sleep much that night.

He managed to get about 3 hours of sleep between anxiety flashes and panicking to make sure he submitted the assignment on google classroom but he was able to forget about Griffin.

Until someone yanked on his hair while he was walking down the hall, hard. He stumbled back, surprised, when an arm was sloppily thrown around his shoulders.

“Hey man, you’re heading to Green’s bio class right? For the first period? I missed that period yesterday,” Griffin said, Techno frowned, trying to pull away but that only made Griffin tighten his grip.

“Yeah,” Techno said curtly, trying to avoid Griffin’s gaze, “Why do you care? Aren’t you a grade ahead of me?”

“Not in this subject, I was just wondering, could you show me the way?”

Techno eyed him up and down, he really didn’t want to be around Griffin but if they were going to the same place then there really was no avoiding it, begrudgingly nodding, “Sure.”

Techno led him down the hall with Griffin still gripping his shoulder sharply, Techno didn’t know if he was aware of what he was doing or not. They entered the classroom when Techno was finally able to pull away and get to his desk, he sat down and followed the directions on the board while Griffin talked to the teacher.

More students filed in, sitting on the deks, wandering around, chattering amongst themselves. The bell rang and Miss Green introduced Griffin;

“Hello everyone, I hope you had a good day. We have a new student, Griffin, would you like to say a few words about yourself?”

He stepped forwards nervously, waving, “Hi, My name is Griffin, I moved here from Taiga Township, I’m 16, I like weightlifting and I play the trumpet,” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, “Sorry, I’m not very interesting,”

Techno started zone out, Griffin made his brain hurt, he seemed so shy and awkward around other people, he was polite and despite his height was overall none threatening. So why did he say that stuff last night? Techno knew he didn’t imagine it, he hadn’t even met Griffin before that so he didn’t know if he offended him or not- it all made Techno’s head spin.

Griffin shuffled to his desk, the empty desk behind Techno’s, and sat down. Techno could feel him staring but chose to ignore it, trying to focus on the lesson. Mindless note taking calmed his head and nerves slightly, it felt nice just to follow along. The class was relatively easy, Miss Green finished with their notes and gave them a worksheet, saying that if it wasn’t finished in class it was homework. Techno worked on it until the bell rang, then packed up his stuff and headed towards his next class.

As he walked down the hall he heard footsteps coming up behind him when someone threw their arm around his shoulders again, gripping the same sore spot on his arm tightly.

“Hey man, could I get the answers from Bio?” Griffin’s strident voice filling his head. Techno shifted his shoulder.

“The notes or the worksheet?”

“Both?”

“No, you should have paid attention,” Techno responded curtly, he had a short internal argument about how he was being a hypocrite.

“Oh come on man! Cut me some slack, I just moved and everything has been really stressful, please?”

Techno bit the inside of his mouth, he didn’t want to just hand Griffin the answers for something he did jackshit on but at the same time he did just move…

“Fine,”

“Ah yes! Thank you man! Wilbur invited me over after school today so I’ll get them then!” Griffin suddenly released Techno, half jogging through the mosh pit of people in the hall, “Thanks again!”

Techno just sighed and continued to his next class, arm aching, hoping this wouldn’t become a routine.

It became a routine.

Everyday after bio Griffin would do the same song and dance of running up behind him, wrenching his hair, throwing his arm around his shoulders and asking for notes or homework answers. Techno would oblige, he didn’t want to disappoint Griffin and add stress after the guy had moved from the town he spent his whole life in.

But after a week it got old, Techno grew tired of it, he didn’t mind giving his friends answers if they had an off day or needed help or a break but this was pushing it, Griffin didn’t even do anything in class! He would just sit there and throw little paper balls everywhere, he didn’t even attempt to try.

Techno heard footsteps behind him and tensed up, a familiar arm tossed around his shoulders.

“Hey man, I can’t make it over after school today-”

“I’m not giving you the answers,” Techno interrupted, Griffin balked, “Wh-what do you mean?”

“It’s been a week, you need to start paying attention, I’m not giving you the answers anymore,” Techno tried to keep walking, wiggling his arm against Griffin’s now tightening grip.

“Come on- we’re friends! You wouldn’t leave a friend-”

“We’re not friends, you and Wilbur might be but we are just acquaintances, classmates at best. I don’t owe you anything-”

Techno was cut off when Griffin yanked him to a locker bay, slamming him against the metal.

“You think you’re cool? That you can talk down to me? That’s not the case,” Griffin gripped the front on Techno’s hoodie, other hand grasping the same tender spot on his arm. Techno’s heart was in his throat.

“You either give me the answers for our Bio homework or I’ll beat the shit out of you. If you’d like a reference your little brother has seen me in the weight room, are we clear?”

Techno’s mouth was dry, sharp tendrils wrapped around his chest. He felt small under Griffin’s dark stare. Eventually he was able to choke out;

“Okay-okay,”

“Good, I’ll get them from you later,” Instantly Griffin let go of his shirt, walking away, leaving Techno to try and collect his thoughts.

Tommy didn’t really talk to Griffin all that much, he had spent a lot of time at their apartment and seemed rather nice, just a little shy. He spent most of the time with Wilbur, doing homework or talking loudly. Tommy’s hand hurt from the constant pounding on the walls to get them to shut up. He had never seen them without each other.

Which was why he was surprised to get home and see Griffin sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

“Uh, what are you doing here?” Tommy asked, taking his shoes off, Griffin looked up nonchalantly, “Just hanging out,”

“But Wilbur isn’t here, he’s at work,” Tommy pointed out, how did this guy get in?

“He said I could still come over,”

“That’s... weird,” Tommy trailed off, trying to find the right word.

“What is?”

“You just-just being here without Wilbur, it doesn’t seem right,”

“I don’t see what the big deal is, you’re just being aggressive but I guess that’s normal,” Griffin didn’t look up from his phone.

“What the hell are you on about?”

“I don’t want to repeat myself, of course that would also mean you would have to be shut up for once and listen,”

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Tommy walked into the kitchen.

“You’re one to talk,”

“Stop talking shit, you don’t know me,” Tommy shot back, voicing growing louder, grabbing a cheese stick from the fridge.

“I know enough-”

“No you don’t! Shut-”

“God you are so loud man, do you ever shut up? Like at all? How about for once you just try to use your indoor voice? Or did you forget? This is why Phil always has a headache.”

Tommy paused, had he been making Phil more stressed?

“Wh-what do you mean?” Tommy cleared his throat.

“No but it’s obvious, he constantly talks about having headaches and how he wants some peace and quiet, it’s pretty clear he’s talking about you.”

Tommy swallowed, the apartment suddenly seemed too small, or he was too big, Wilbur had always teased him about his sudden growth spurt.

“What no come back?”

“Shut up man,” Tommy retorted but it had no real bite, he shuffled into his room and stayed there, he wanted to be along. He also locked Techno out, who was not happy about that, he ignored everyone until Wilbur pounded on the door telling him that dinner was ready.

Tommy walked out, heart dropping when he saw Griffin at the table. He stayed quiet throughout most of the meal, he’d laugh along with his brothers but didn’t offer much to the conversation.

Once they had finished Techno started on the dishes and, surprisingly, Griffin helped.

The rest of the night was normal, Griffin hung around for a while more before leaving, Tommy stayed in his room most of the night, anxiety getting the better of him. He didn’t want to cause Phil more stress, he already worked so hard. Wilbur helped with the bills and Techno did most, if not all of the chores, and Tommy realized he didn't do anything for them.

He messaged Tubbo, trying to take his mind off the panic that started to burn itself into his chest. They got into a call, Tubbo talking about the stray cat in his neighborhood and how it finally got close enough for Tubbo to pet, and how he now has a bandaged hand.

They continued to talk, Tommy’s anxiety starting to drip away, at least he wasn’t a burden to Tubbo, completely.

Griffin was spending more and more time at their apartment and it was starting to fry at Tommy’s nerves, the man was always there. He had also started to join in on his brother's teasing, which wasn’t a big issue.

But it also kind of was.

His brother’s jokes were always fun and lighthearted, they usually didn’t go too far and they were just that- jokes. Griffin’s jokes were stupid and borderline hurtful, a person can only go for so long hearing things like, “You’re such a fucking moron, how’d you even pass preschool?” or “Look, it’s the human version of a headache,” or “This is why you have to cheat off Tubbo, too fucking stupid to understand,” before it got too draining.

The only time he seemed to get a reprieve was when he stopped talking or just left the room all together, leaving the room was too noticeable and could ruin the mood so Tommy would just sit there, biting his tongue, and he continued to do that even after Griffin left.

He was tired.

When Wilbur had invited Griffin over he hadn't expected it to go so well. Griffin was easy going and funny, he and Wilbur would talk for hours, Techno and Tommy seemed to tolerate him and Phil liked him so their fate was sealed. He had been hanging around for a few weeks when Wilbur started to notice a few things.

First off Tommy was quiet, not every once and awhile but all of the time, he just didn’t seem to speak and if he did it was in an intentionally quiet tone.

Secondly Techno; he had been more jumpy then usual, Wilbur had tried to mess with his hair like he normally would but Techno would jerk away. When Wilbur asked Techno shrugged, “You scared me,” Wilbur grabbed the sides of his face, chittering at him in a singsong ‘baby’ voice “Awwww! I’m sorry my little Technoblade I’m sorry,”. Techno flipped him off and shoved him away.

Phil would randomly mess with his hair when bored or zoning out but most recently when Phil had gone to, Techno had ducked away.

Wilbur briefly considered if Griffin had anything to do with it but quickly pushed it away, he trusted him. Wilbur had racked his brain trying to think of reasons as to why his brothers were acting differently but he kept coming back to Griffin. They had started acting this way when Griffin showed up but Wilbur didn’t want to point fingers just yet, he’d just have to watch.

He got his answer in two days.

Wilbur had been heading to his math class when he saw Griffin run up behind Techno, grabbing his hair and pulling him back. Techno turned to face him, shoulders slumping, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it off to Griffin, whose eyes lit up.

He took the paper then walked past Techno, shoving him too hard to be friendly. Wilbur frowned, changing course, he walked up to Techno and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey what the fuck was that?” He asked sharply. Techno’s face faltered and gave him away but he still tried to play dumb.

“What was what?”

“The thing with Griffin with the paper, what was that?”

Techno froze, just staring at him, Wilbur could see the internal panic in his eyes.

“Don’t mentally check out on me,” Wilbur said, snapping his fingers in front of Techno’s face, “What happened?”

They stood there for a moment, much to the dismay of the other students, before Techno bolted. He dodged away from Wilbur and slipped into the crowd before Wilbur could grab him.

Wilbur groaned, calling after him, “What good does running do? We live together!” But he got no response.

Which is why he jumped Techno right as he got home from school. He had cut through a few neighborhoods and hoped a couple of fences to beat Techno home.

He grabbed his wrist firmly, trying to drag Techno into the living room, “I’ll give you credit, you managed to weasel out of the conversation for, like what, three hours or so? Nice going Tech, real clever.”

Techno said nothing, just staring at him with a blank expression.

“I’m not letting go of this so you can space out as much as you want, I’ve got nowhere to be,”

Techno scoffed, “I can definitely space out long then you can,”

“You’d think that-hey wait! Do not try to distract me, now tell me what happened earlier or I’m going to crush you,”

Techno shrugged, avoiding his gaze, “It’s not a big deal, just the answers for our Bio homework-”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? He just needed some help-”

“Yeah but you don’t give answers, I’ve never seen you give direct answers to anyone other than Skeppy and Niki, that’s not like you.” Wilbur stared Techno down, trying to get him to break.

“So? People change, why are you so fixated on this?”

“It’s just that- You’ve been- both you and Tommy have been acting differently recently, it all started when Griffin showed up and I just- I don’t know, I’m kind of worried,” Wilbur trailed off, not sure what else to say.

Techno sighed, tapping his fingers on his knee nervously, “Uh, well, you're not wrong on the Griffin thing, uh, he,” He groaned, “Why is this so hard? Griffin did kind of threaten me and I know he has been saying shit to Tommy and he just laughs it off but I can tell it bothers him-”

“Hold on, he what?” Wilbur’s eyes narrowed, “He’s been talking shit about Tommy and threatening you? What the hell is wrong with him! He never seemed like the type of person to do this- are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine Wilbur, It’s not that big of a deal and-”

“It is a big deal! He acted like he was my friend, like some timid shy guy, and then he does this shit to you guys- what the hell is his problem!” He had stood up and started pacing, fist against his mouth, eyes flashing with fire.

Techno stood up, placing a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, “It’s okay! It’s okay, it’s not that bad,” He wasn’t sure what to say to placate his brother when he was this mad.

“Oh I gonna kill him,”

“Don’t, you get suspended and then it’ll mess with your job and-”

“Okay fine, I’ll get him some other way but he’s never coming back here.”

It had been two days, Wilbur was just waiting for the right opening. He had acted pleasant around Griffin but everytime they would run into his brothers Wilbur saw what they were talking about, things he had previously tried to ignore, Tommy’s forced smile after a joke, Techno trying to pull away from Griffin’s iron grip on his shoulder, Griffin’s not so friendly shoves, and it made his blood boil.

Wilbur knew he had to confront him that day. It was after lunch, they were cutting through an empty locker bay when Wilbur shoved Griffin into the wall, arm across his chest.

“Wilbur what the fu-”

“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out how you’ve been treating my brothers?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Don’t lie-”

“What has gotten into you? I haven’t done anything to your brothers!”

“Shut up, you can blabber and lie all you want, I don’t care, but if you ever even come close to my brothers I will beat you into the ground, do you understand me?”

Griffin said nothing, he just glared back at Wilbur.

“They are very important to me, never forget that,” He let go of Griffin, who half slid down the lockers.

Wilbur walked away, feeling confident that Griffin would stay away, otherwise he’d make him.

[boomkloppthesoundofmyheart]

Carraville Fic AU

Title:  the heart and mind are the true lens of the camera

Summary: On the eve of his departure, Gary thinks about the people he will be leaving behind.

“Look and think before opening the shutter. The heart and mind are the true lens of the camera.”— Yousuf Karsh

Gary scanned his London bedroom. The room looked bare, all his belongings stowed away in boxes and suitcases. The only evidence left that he once lived there was his still neatly made bed, waiting to be slept on for one last night.

It was his last day in London, for God knows how long. Tomorrow he leaves for New York to start a new chapter in his life. Phil had moved there years ago and has been living a good life for himself as a lawyer.

Gary craved a new challenge, so he hit his brother up one day and asked if there was room for one more Neville in New York City. With help from his younger brother, he spent the last several months getting his Visa and law license set up in America. Now, everything is finalized and he is eager to leave.

Not to say that he wasn’t going to miss anything here. He'll miss the rest of his family. They were devastated when they found out he's leaving the country as well. But they came around to the idea when they reasoned at least Phil won't be alone anymore. He'll have his big brother with him again.

Then, there's his friends. He'll miss them terribly, too. He'll miss Scholesy throwing him one of his famous glares as he leaves crumbs all over their notes. He'll miss listening to Giggsy and Butty arguing over which evidence to present first.

And he'll miss Becks mothering him when he's worked too hard, making sure he takes a break because "you getting sick won't help our client, Gaz."

He'll miss all his friends.

A crash of pots and pans followed by a curse brings Gary out of his thoughts.

Except one probably.

He's kidding, of course. Gary will probably miss Jamie the most. He had been friends with him before he even met the rest of his friends at law school.

They had become an unlikely pair when Gary's family moved to Liverpool for his father's work when he was 15 years old. Being a Manc in Liverpool made it difficult to find friends. But one Scouser seemed up for the challenge. Ever since then, they had been inseparable.

When Gary moved down to London for law school, Jamie followed and established his photography business there.

Gary walks downstairs to the kitchen. "Everything alright here?"

"All good. Go relax or summat. I'll get dinner ready soon," Jamie waves him off.

"When will that be? I may be on my flight already and you'll still be here cooking."

"Fuck off." A middle finger was thrown at his direction before Jamie continues bustling around the kitchen.

Gary laughs as he makes himself scarce. He walks around their shared home, breathing in their small piece of London one last time.

He ended up in Jamie's home studio. The room was covered by Jamie's most prized photographs, images of both their families. It was Gary's favorite room in the whole house. Gary will never let Jamie know that. That will only stroke his ego more and he already gets that a lot from his clients.

He loves to work in the same room as Jamie. They don't need to speak to each other. They embrace the comfortable silence between them. Him and his paperwork on the couch. Jamie at his desk, eyes glued on the computer, jaw set. Moments surrounded by those photos and Jamie made Gary feel like they were teenagers again, just doing their homework at his place, their futures still ahead of them.

Now, he's about to leave his home away from home.

Gary is about to leave his friend that made leaving home easier in the first place.

The friend who didn't give it a second thought when Gary said, "Come with me."

He just told Gary, "I thought you'd never ask." His camera and clothes were packed soon after that and he was ready to follow Gary anywhere without any solid plans for his own future.

Gary walked over to Jamie's desk and sat in his chair. He rarely gets to see Jamie's portraits until it was done. He always makes sure that his computer was off. Today though, Jamie has left his screen unlocked, giving Gary free rein to go through his photographs.

He scrolls through different folders, each titled with his famous celebrity clients' names. He's seen most of them. What catches his eye was a folder that was just titled, "him."

Gary doubles click on the folder and was surprised to see tons of photos of him. Some of the pictures of him he was aware of. Sometimes he'd help Jamie test out the lighting in his studio before his clients come. 

There were photos of him taken as far back as to when they were teenagers.

The oldest photo in the file was of him, Phil, and Tracey. Jamie had just been gifted his first camera and given them the honor of being the first ones he took a picture of. He doesn't really know if he should believe Jamie. The Scouser was notorious for being the flatterer.

Others were candid photos of him.

There was a photo of him and Phil, watching a university football match. He remembers that night. Gary had invited him to come, but Jamie was late. Punctuality was not his strongest suit when they were younger; Gary pinned his tardiness to that. Now, he's seeing the real reason. Jamie had been busy taking pictures of him and Phil, enjoying the match.

He scrolls further down the folder. There's another photo of him with Phil. This time it was when they were interns in the same case. They were walking out the courthouse, looking defeated, well because they did lose their case. He had confided to Jamie the night before the verdict that he didn't think they were going to get their client acquitted. It was no surprise to see his friend waiting there, ready to take his mind off the case.

That's just how Jamie was. He knows when Gary needed him.

I wonder what it'll be like in New York without him. He shakes his head. I have Phil. I won't be alone.

Gary clicks on another photo. This one was more recent. It looked like it was taken from their backyard when they had his farewell party. He was clearly talking to someone, with who, he doesn't recall nor could he tell because he was the focus of the photographs.

He was so engrossed with the photos that he does not hear Jamie come into the room. Gary was only made aware of his presence when Jamie spoke.

"Me dad always said, 'If you want to learn what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph.'"

Gary spins in the chair around and finds Jamie standing a few steps behind him.

"I thought it was just some pretentious artist bullshit, but I always found meself taking pictures of you. I guess there's some truth to it," Jamie shrugs. "I guess I had been always afraid of losing you."

Gary blinked. For once in his life, he could not find his voice. Like he said, Jamie had always been a charmer, but he knows this time he is being sincere. Words were never Jamie's medium of art; he likes his photos to do the talking for him.

He gets up from the chair and stands just in front of Jamie. Gary places a hand on Jamie's cheek, which he immediately leans into. "You don't have to lose me, J."

"I don't know about that. We lost Phil to America. The lad loves it there," Jamie chuckles tearfully. "Always busy, too. We never see him on this side of the pond...I'm just scared you won't come back to us either."

Gary was never one for making promises he can't keep.

Jamie was right. Phil was always busy and rarely had the time to fly back home. He doesn't want to break any promises especially if it's ones with Jamie.

"I wish you would have stopped me or let me know how you felt. I would have stayed here for you; I wouldn't have even given America a single thought."

"That'd be selfish of me if I had stopped you. I would never hold you back from your dreams." Jamie takes Gary's hand between both his own and kissed it.

Gary steps closer to Jamie. "You're part of my dreams, too."

"Ask me then." Jamie presses his forehead against Gary's.

Gary didn't need to ask for clarifications. So he asks, or rather, demands like he did those years ago. "Come with me."

Jamie smirks. "I thought you'd never ask." Unlike last time, Jamie closes the gap between them and kisses Gary.

Gary smiles against Jamie's lips. Now, he won't have to wonder how New York will be without Jamie by his side.

[rosethornewrites]

Fanfic and Monetization

Some folks and I were having a discussion about fandom and community and also non-fandom writing folks seeing fanfiction as “lesser” (in no small part because it can’t be monetized and I guess if you’re not making money off it, it’s not worth your time or some capitalist garbage shit argument). 

I’ve stopped pretending I don’t write fanfiction, but I’m in my late 30s. It’s taken since I was 16 til about a year ago to be honest about it. And I’m in good company, since the woman who won Best Director this year has admitted she writes fanfiction.

I’m often in fandom in part for the sense of community. I’m also a published poet, but I’ve found a lot of poets are pretentious twatwaffles who want to gatekeep poetry, and also regard poetry as a competition rather than as a part of a literary community reaching out to the world through writing. It makes me want to hurl.

Honestly, it’s not like anyone is actually going to make any money writing poetry in the modern world anyway. I have a fucking book of poetry with a real ISBN number and everything, and my royalties have added up to about $30. 

But I digress...

The topic turned to fanfiction commissions, and this is where my Fandom Old comes in. 

I remember when folks were very careful when they wrote fanfiction. Email addresses that were in no way connected to their real names, for instance. Disclaimers on fics (which I still do!) because various fanfiction writers had C&Ds or even lawsuits filed against them. Fanfiction.net had major issues and removed fanfics as a result of this. Before that, it was largely personal website based, which could also be scary if you fell in the crosshairs of the owner of a trademark or copyright.

To be honest, I don’t even feel comfortable having a Kofi, and I definitely don’t feel comfortable doing fanfiction commissions. In fact, I believe it’s actually banned on AO3 because of the shady legal territory.

Is it fair that fanartists can make money off their amazing artistry skills, where I cannot wordsmith fanfiction for cash? Maybe, maybe not. 

But on a personal level, I don’t write fanfiction or participate in fandom for money. I do it for my own enjoyment. I don’t want to write on demand. I don’t need to get paid for it. It’s something I enjoy doing in my free time.

To be honest, fuck the capitalist nonsense that thinks I need to make money off my hobbies like that’s the only way to justify them.

[rainy-day-gracie]

Old Friends 5

Chapter 5!! Sorry I was busy today and didn’t get a chance to post it

Spencer Reid x Reader

Spencer helps Reader deal with nightmares. 

Chapter 5:

Coffee was an everyday thing for me. But recently it has become a necessity.

The nightmares started after the case in my hometown, and I’ve barely slept since. Not for lack of trying. 

I had my second cup of coffee before noon, and Morgan gave me a face. “Did the pretty girl get laid last night?”

I laughed bitterly. “Far from it I’m afraid.”

“Are you sure? Those bags under your eyes tell a different story.” Morgan continued to pester me all until I sat at my desk. He just chuckled and walked away. 

JJ came by to drop a stack of files on my desk, and she gave me a look too. “Did you get laid last night?” 

I dropped the pen I was holding. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Did you?” JJ persisted. 

“Sorry to disappoint you JJ, but no I didn’t.” I faked a sad face. “Just a late night, that’s all.” Or a couple weeks worth of late nights. 

In the desk next to me, Spencer gave me a look but didn’t say anything. 

Hotch suddenly ran out of his office and knocked on Rossi’s door. They spoke a few words, and turned to look at us. “Everyone, grab your go bag. We’ll brief on the jet. Wheels up in 10.”

---

“Holden Baxley, a friend of mine from the Boston field office called me an hour ago. He couldn’t go into details, but long story short, a suicide bomber that hasn’t been identified walked into Boston PD with a bomb strapped to his chest.”

“Oh god,” JJ breathed. “What happened then?” 

Hotch closed his eyes. “The bomb went off, and half of the Boston police department blew out with it.”

The jet was silent. 

“How many casualties?” Morgan asked. 

“17 and counting, 23 wounded.”

“Do they think it’s a one time explosion?” I could only imagine the kind of panic this would have in the city. 

“No, because a note was left at the press two minutes before the bomber even walked into the station. The note read ‘God’s wrath will be unleashed on all who disrespect the word of the Lord.’”

“Old Testament much?” Rossi looked around the jet. “The fact that the news station is across town from Boston PD makes me think there’s more than one or two unsubs.”

“Guys,” I started. “What if it’s a cult turned terrorist cell?” 

“That is possible, especially if the leader is a psychopath that suffered a loss and blames Boston PD.” Spencer furrowed his eyebrows. “The leader could’ve involved others that feel the same and want revenge against law enforcement. By taking on the persona of the wrath of God, they likely aren’t going to stop until they wreak ultimate havoc on the city in the name of religion.” 

“We have to find them before they strike again. YLN, Reid, go to the explosion site. Prentiss, Morgan, set up in the Boston Field Office. JJ, Rossi and I will interview families of the victims and witnesses of the explosion. Try and work quickly. Something tells me we don’t have a lot of time.” Hotch didn’t miss a beat. “The wrath of God is about to be unleashed upon Boston.” 

---

The entire right side of Boston PD was blown out into the street beside it. Crowds of citizens and TV news channels flooded the streets, barely being kept back by the lines of yellow tape. 

“Spencer, how are we going to respond to the press?” I asked as we pulled up in the SUV. 

“No comment, for now.” 

As soon as we stepped out of the SUV, reporters and citizens alike screamed and shouted questions. 

“Is this the work of terrorists?” “How do we know if we’re safe?” “What do you have to say to the victim’s families?” 

“No comment.” Spencer and I held up our badges and ducked under the yellow tape. 

“The psycho that blew the place up was blown to smithereens as well. We didn’t find any kind of ID on him.” A Boston FBI agent approached us. “Larry Dillman, Boston FBI.” He offered his hand to Spencer and I took it before it got too awkward when Spencer didn’t shake it. 

“I’m SSA Dr. YFN YLN and this is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. Where was the approximate location of the original blast?” 

Dillman walked us through what was left of the front door. “About right there, when he walked into the main hall. It was noon, so there were more people busying about. That’s partly why the body count is so high.” 

“Do you know if he said anything when he walked in?” Spencer asked. 

“Witnesses have said he just yelled ‘Matthew 10:34’ and boom.” 

“‘Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.’” Spencer recited. 

“He is literally using the Bible as his scapegoat to commit terrorism.” I looked up at Spencer. “We need to get to the station.”

---

After checking out the explosion we hurried back to the station. “Hotch!” I called out. “He’s using God as a scapegoat to terrorize Boston. The massive rage confirms that they aren’t going to stop.”

“Excuse me, Agents,” a woman stood up from her desk. “There’s someone on line 1 wanting to talk to an agent from the BAU.”

Hotch pulled Rossi up to the phone and gestured to Morgan. “Call Garcia to track the call.”

Rossi slowly picked up the phone. “Hello, this is SSA David Rossi with the FBI. To whom am I speaking?”

“Is it too pretentious to say your worst nightmare?” The voice said. Obviously using a voice modulator, classic paranoid narcissist by building himself up to be some almighty being. 

“Are you responsible for the attack on Boston PD?” Rossi asked. “Michael Devons incited massive panic with a small IED.” 

“Boston PD? You mean that building full of liars, cheaters, and sinners?”

“God speaks of forgiveness, but you seem to carry a lot of hatred.” Rossi looked over all of us. “Are your friends listening to this phone call as well?”

The caller was silent for a while. “You may think we see this as a game, but we don’t. God plays no games with the people he creates.” The line goes dead and I release a breath I’ve been holding since he called. 

“Garcia couldn’t track it, probably using a disposable cell phone,” Morgan pointed to the crime scene photos. “These guys are smart, using voice modulators, ensuring their members die for the cause, so why would they call us for no apparent reason?”

“A game...” I mumbled. “You make think we see this as a game...”

“What is it, YLN?” Prentiss asked me. 

    I gasped. “What if they’re testing us? That’s why they called, to see if we could figure out their next target... Fenway Park. Are there any baseball games today?” 

“Slow down, brainy lady,” Morgan said slowly. “What are you thinking?”

“He said, ‘You may think we see this as a game, but we don’t.’ What if he wasn’t talking about the bombings but the baseball games? That’s all about choosing sides and that’s something God forbids. They would see every person in that stadium as a sinner.” I looked Hotch in the eyes. “The next target is Fenway Park, it has to be.” 

Hotch pointed to the head of the field office. “Are there any baseball games at Fenway Park today?”

“Yeah, Sox versus Yankees.”

“We gotta get over there,” Hotch said and we all ran out the doors. “Swat will meet us there.” 

---

“We can’t evacuate the stadium, that would set the bomber off early if they see people leaving,” Hotch explained as we got on our tactical gear. “Search the stadium, most likely they’re under the stands.” 

“What do we do if we find the bomber?” JJ asked. 

“Try to talk them down, if you can’t... shoot straight. Let’s go.” 

The nearly empty corridors of Fenway Park were eerie as I walked by myself. Every now and then I would hear noise from the fans, and the smell of cheap nachos filled the air. 

As I approached concessions, I looked at all the people in line. A young couple giggling at each other, a man probably in his 70s, a pregnant woman pushing a stroller. 

And an isolated young man with a giant overcoat. As soon as he caught sight of me, the guy bolted. 

“FBI! Out of the way!” I yelled. “Stop right there and put your hands up!”

To my surprise, he actually stopped. 

“Put your hands on your head and turn around slowly. Everyone else, clear out of here.”

The man turned around, a smug smile on his face. “Romans 1:18!”

He started to unbuckle his overcoat. 

He didn’t get the chance when I shot him between the eyes. 

I took a shaky breath and called into my comm. “Suspect is down. Get bomb squad in here to take care of the explosive. Fifty feet away from concessions.”

The smile was still frozen on his face, even though half of his head was blown out.

---

I was quiet on the jet ride back. He wasn’t my first kill, but my first one with the BAU, and that was sure to ensue even more sleepless nights. 

Spencer sat across from me. “You were even more impressive than usual with this case. Somehow you always raise the bar.” 

“No kidding,” Rossi said in passing. 

“So are you going to tell me about this nightmare you’re having or...” Spencer gave me a look. “You know talking about it will help.”

“Spencer-“

“Talk to me.” I could see in his eyes he wasn’t going to give up. 

“Well, it starts out with me sitting with a teenage girl. She’s a patient, and she was talking about how her teacher was... messing with her. Slowly she disappears, and the room transforms into... my mom’s bedroom. She’s standing there, yelling at me. Except the louder she yells, the more blood comes out of her mouth.” I shake my head. “I try and help her, but no sound would come out. She wraps her hand around my throat, screaming at me and spitting blood in my face. I wake up before she brings her fist down on my jaw. 

Spencer was quiet for a while. “...Could it be the apartment making the nightmares worse? Sometimes a change of scenery helps distract the subconscious from the nightmares.” Spencer twirled a pen through his fingers, and his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Maybe, whenever I’m lying awake in my bed I’m looking around my bedroom instead of relaxing.”

Spencer thought about something. “Well... you could stay the night at my place if you want. I could sleep on the couch and you can take the bed.” I could see his nervousness in his darting eyes and twitchy hands. 

I smile. “Spencer, that’s really nice but you don’t have to-“

“No, no. I want to help.” And I could tell he was serious. 

“Okay sure, but on one condition- I take the couch and you sleep in your own bed.” 

Spencer huffed a laugh. “Fine.”

---

The plane landed at 10:12 at night. Not super late, but after this case, everyone wanted to go to bed. 

Hotch had made an announcement on the jet that we could take a half day tomorrow and come in at noon. 

“Can’t wait to sleep in until 11:45,” Morgan joked on the elevator.

Since Spencer takes the train to work everyday, he hopped in my passengers seat and immediately made a face. 

“What is it?” I asked, confused. 

“Your car is disgusting,” Spencer said. “I’ve seen shantytowns cleaner than this.”

“Oh, shut up Mr. Cleanliness. A couple food wrappers does not make me a slob,” I lightly punched him in the shoulder as I pulled out of the parking garage. 

“It’s more than a couple,” Spencer muttered. 

“I’ve starting to regret agreeing to a sleepover, pretty boy.” 

---

Sitting on Spencer’s couch eating popcorn and watching Doctor Who felt so much like college that I completely forgot about the fact that I could’ve been blown up today. 

We were still watching Doctor Who on the couch when my eyes fell heavy. Slowly, my head rested on Spencer’s shoulder and started to doze off. 

I was barely awake when I felt Spencer press a light kiss on my forehead. 

His lips felt the same as they did in college. 

[lixiefe]

Can’t Touch - k.sm

Chapter Eleven: Dr.Chan

Words: 1.3k

Disclaimer: I’ve been treated at home and probably in a different way since I was an uncommon case. Furthermore, I’ve tried making Seungmin’s character a little more severe than mine, so there could be many differences (also I wasn’t much among the ‘touch’ case). I don’t really know what happens in clinics, so I’ve wrote this depending on whatever I remember from when I was questioned- and a little alteration of course. 

Warning: none

After that, you didn’t have much communication with your husband who’d engrossed himself into working even more than before. You spent the next few days without any trace of him. Seungmin only came at midnight and left earlier than you’d wake up. Of course, you felt as if it was your fault. Only if you hadn’t held his hand, he wouldn’t be avoiding you like that.

But you didn’t know he wasn’t upset at you in the slightest.

He was upset at himself and at his weak attempt of controlling himself. The feeling of your warm hand tangled with his was scripted into his mind. Not the negative effects of it, but the heavenly feeling of warmth and comfort that he found in you. Your hands had been so warm, so soft and reassuring that he craved the feel of it; again and again. But that’s such a wishful desire.

And he’d decided to ditch half of his work and dump it onto his oh-so-helpful friend. So that he could spare time for the scheduled appointment with the psychologist. And he proceeded to ignore Jisung’s pretentious whines (Jisung was more than happy that he accepted his suggestion) and slipped a sanitizer bottle in his pocket.

----

“Mr. Kim Seungmin!”

Seungmin’s eyes snapped up as the receptionist hollered his name. He got up from his seat and made his way to the door labeled ‘Mr. Bahng’. He took a shaky breath, mentally readying himself as the nurse opened the door for him. As he turned inside, he was instantly faced with an extremely pale man who’d looked not much older than himself. Seeing him, the man offered a dimpled smile that stretched gracefully into a bow-like shape. Seungmin smiled in return.

“Kim Seungmin-ssi, Jisung has told me much about you,” He said, standing up as he gestured the latter to take a seat with his hand. Seungmin timidly made his way to the seat, bending down as he made himself comfortable.

“Please call me Chan,” the doctor stated with a friendly posture.

“Seungmin,” he said with a pursued smile.

Mr.bahng- no, Chan- seemed to be quite cordial, much like the eminent social-butterfly Han. He was glad that it wasn’t an old man with conspicuous amount of degrees and a not-friendly attitude. Seungmin observed that the man had dirty blonde hair, and other than the latter himself, the room itself was dark; almost everything was themed around black. He thought Chan’s outfit choice of all-black under the white coat was also influenced by color, and not style.

‘He must really like black.’

“I already know a bit about you, but I’d like to ask you myself.” Chan said, the smile on his face never-withering. Seungmin felt his hands sweating for unknown reasons. Maybe he was antsy about someone else knowing about him and his inability, or maybe, it’s been so long since he first socialized. ‘No, I need to trust him.’ Seungmin assured himself.

“You need to answer me truthfully, yeah? I’d like to have a better bond with you so that you could trust me, but you said you had limited time,” Chan stated, a little down. Seungmin doesn’t answer, only nodding his head as a signal for him to continue. Chan put aside the file in front of him, trying to look for any trace of unexpected emotions in Seungmin’s face. As his mind dinged with a positive green ‘go’ light, he continued.

“You feel fear when being in touch with someone, right? Can you tell me more about that?”

Seungmin chews the inside of his mouth, trying to recall the dismal memories. He mentally grimaced at himself.

“It’s hard to describe. I feel very- well, irrational. And there’s this constant cycle of same thoughts. I feel like, if this goes on, I might faint. It makes me feel crazy. I can’t breathe properly, it feels like my heart is going to get burnt.” Seungmin elaborates. He sees the clinician ponder with a serious expression.

“Do you feel afraid of any kind of contact that includes bare skin?” Chan questioned to which Seungmin mildly nodded. He couldn’t remember any fatal disquiets when there was a barrier of fabric between him and the others. “And you do realize that this is your mind speaking and that the thoughts are unnatural?”

“Yes,” Seungmin positively replied. “I am aware how silly my thoughts and behavior is. But being aware does not help my impulses like it is supposed to.”

Seungmin watched as Chan scribbled something on a stray piece of paper. But he was not able to read the slightest of it. He speculated that Chan was keeping a record of his answers and symptoms. I think that’s how it works.

“Behind this fear lie many thoughts such as the danger that germs may be spread or that another person may be dirty or that you may infect another person with your germs of dirt. It is important to realize that none of these thoughts are realistic but are based on fear, which you do and it is great.” Chan stated as a matter of fact. He set his pen down. Seungmin guessed that he will be questioned more. But he was proved wrong when Chan went straight to the point. “According to what Jisung has told me and what I’m hearing, you are suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder.”  Seungmin squinted his eyes at him as his head tilted with confusion. Chan offered a prim smile as he continued.

“An obsession is defined as a repetitive kind of thinking that is driven by anxiety. Repetitive thoughts may include the fear that there are germs and other people could spread infections. A compulsion is a repetitive activity such as wanting to avoid touching, kissing or hugging other people based on the fear of germs. Obsessions and compulsions can take many forms. OCD works both ways so that a person may fear being touched or touching other people.” Chan demonstrated. Seungmin intently listened to the latter, not uttering a word. As Chan was finished with his explanation, Seungmin nodded. 

“Have you ever tried to resist this feeling?”

“I have tried, but that didn’t work out long. I- I tried to block out my mind and try being physical but-” Seungmin looked down, he couldn’t find words to continue speaking. He wanted to say more, recalling his incident with you. He still remembered the distress radiating off of you when he rushed away and the guilt of pushing you away. But should he say that?

“You are a person who wants to touch and be touched. It is just that this OCD gets in your way of enjoying normal social interaction.” The older says. Seungmin was stunned that Chan could guess the feelings that lay underneath him. Chan meekly smiled, triumphant; as he saw the amazed state of the other.

It was an effective sign that he has tried resisting himself, and his mind. It only expressed his dislike towards the side effects and dire want of riddance. And it was an advantage on both sides.

“What exactly encouraged you to come here?”

That question had Seungmin taken aback. He knew why he felt the need to fix himself, but was there only one reason? He couldn’t pinpoint. He didn’t know exactly how many people were bothered by him, but never objected. People such as Jisung, his high school friends, his mother. Or you.

“Everything. Family, friends and,” he paused, mind transferring back to your reaction. Chan raised a brow, an indicative smirk evident on his face as he asked, “And?”

Seungmin looked down as he replied, “Han Jisung.”

Chan’s face dropped as soon as the words escaped Seungmin’s lips. His expectations stooped down low; he was in for the real deal, but what was Seungmin doing. Without a second thought, he mindlessly blurted out his thoughts. “That is not what Jisung told me.”

Seungmin stared at him blankly, one eyebrow raised as he contemplated what his sly friend had revealed about him. His trust towards Jisung seemed to be irritated that they were not given proper privacy. “For real?”

Chan awkwardly faked a cough as he shook his head sideways. “No, I mean, don’t you have a significant someone?”

Seungmin could guess where this was heading and what exactly the other wanted to squeeze out of him. But, oh well. “What about it?” Seungmin said with monotone.

Chan felt intimidated at his indifferent expression. He put on an untroubled façade as he suddenly forced a laugh, trying to ease the growing tension that emitted from Seungmin. “Nothing, nothing. Haha.” He said.

Seungmin cleared his throat, deciding upon revealing what Chan probably already knew. “I do get these occasional urges to touch her. As in, holding her hand, or maybe sensing how her cheeks felt. It’s confusing really.”

Chan didn’t expect him to expose himself like that. But he was glad for the minimal amount of trust the other had for him. This wasn’t exactly related to the diagnosis, but it was an important factor for the treatment.

“Thank you very much for telling me. You should know that factors like this are pretty advantageous for you.” Chan smiled warmly. “I should let you know about your treatment. First, there is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in which you are taught methods to stop engaging in these thoughts and activities. Second, there are anti- depressant medications that provide huge help in relieving depression, anxiety and the OCD symptoms.”

Chan paused, scribbling something on that same paper again. Seungmin tried to peek at what he was writing, but couldn’t get a better view. “The best combination of treatment is medication and psychotherapy.” Seungmin jumped in surprise when Chan suddenly spoke, which integrated an amused chuckled from the latter.

“Thank you very much,” Seungmin thanked him with sincerity. He felt a strange emerge of hope as Chan ensured that it was very much treatable. Maybe, he could finally give in to his wishes. Maybe, he could feel normal again.

Chan held up his hands in surrender, his lips forming a wide grin as he chuckled again.  “Oh my god. No need to thanks me. When are you free for the next meet up?”

Seungmin pondered for a while. When was he free? It wouldn’t be wise to schedule an appointment when there was scarcely available time for himself. He recollected that the ending date of the project was not far away. It would be best to start on his recovering journey after the bustle ends.

“Approximately two weeks later. I would give you a call.”

Chan nods with agreement, taking out a card from his drawer before sliding it towards Seungmin.

“Jisung has a whole deck of them,” Seungmin laughed at the all-too-familiar card, still taking it as he stored it inside his coat pocket. Seungmin looked at the other curiously, not blinking. Chan leaned back in fright even though Seungmin was nowhere near him. Seungmin hesitantly opened his mouth, hands folding on his lap.

“How did you meet that clumsy excuse of a man?”

I don’t like this chapter.

[redantsunderneath]

On Analysis - Introduction (the “why” part)

“He had the feeling that everything he saw was a broken-off piece of some giant blank thing that he had forgotten had happened to him.” ― Flannery O'Connor, Wise Blood

Maybe some broader personal context would help understating why in god’s name I write shit about how Age of Ultron is a remake of Eraserhead and Marvel crossovers are inherently about self hating creatives going to war with editorial. Like everyone else, I love a well told story but want to be surprised - seeing Star Wars is still the single biggest event in my life in supercharging my interest in narrative art.  But from early on, I had this left brain/right brain conflict going on. I was super interested in details and loved anything that required getting all the pieces to understand (that one episode of Speed Racer where they explain all the buttons I only saw once but I must have excitedly told everyone in the schoolyard about it 2 or 3 times) and I’ve always been down for the even the shittiest world-building that makes you dig for details (maybe this why Star Wars’ gesturing at a larger canvas lit my fuse so hard and how my introduction to Marvel comics became the second stage rocket booster 3 years later - see my retropseudonostalgia post). This also is probably common, especially here.

But it’s the right brain impulse became an overriding unconscious attractor. I saw The Man with the X-Ray eyes very young and had some serious nightmares, but mostly remember actually wanting to recapture that dread.  This became a pattern.  Anything that unsettled me or made me feel weird, my brain interpreted as a good experience. 1977 was a real flashpoint for me: Star Wars, sure, and 8 is the right age for Thanatos to start haunting you, but I also got super fucking sucked in to the Prisoner and imprinted on BBC’s Dracula (especially the baby eating scene where I remembered the brides actually eating the baby on camera until the clip showed up on YouTube and, turns out, it was just a cut to a flame effect and the baby eating was all in my and Q anon’s head). The thing that unites these later two is a the feeling of Unheimliche, or something - a sort of out of body experience due to transgressive touching of something in the reptile brain, recognizable but hard to formulate in language.  

Again, not saying this is an unusual experience, but I sought after this diencephalonic impact aggressively and spent years chasing this particular dragon before I figured out what I was doing. Rank and file horror didn’t cut it because I wanted not only to feel it but to understand what it was telling me and doing to me, to wrestle with it, so needed to something resonant to be there. Kubrick’s one neat trick was having an entirely rational approach to relentlessly assembling this kind of ineffable experience… depth of meaning by design.  I think Christopher Nolan is only popular because we have so few architect directors today so we’ll take a B- stab at it (though the thematic waters he sails on are a bit shallow). This is what I was doing receptively, wanting to cognitively reverse engineer the texts that moved me and autopsy my reaction .  There were elements the things that got to me had in common - there was an existential abjection that felt like a kind of rapture, a transgressive daring in showing me something I shouldn’t see, a experience of Mark Fisher’s version of the weird and/or the eerie, but most of all a feeling that there was a story underneath there being told in an abstract language that I innately understood but my conscious mind couldn’t quite get to.

On the other side of my brain, I was sparring with narrative structure and was captivated by the way periodical narrative produced this fuzziness and that trashy or disreputable forms were better at doing some really complex things. After a late 70s of consuming everything I could, like sitcoms no-one remembers, 1930s and 40s franchise B movies, Godzilla, ABC hourlongs (it was the time that Fantasy Island and the Bionic Woman strode the airwaves), etc - just absolute garbage - Comics hit me in 1980 and hijacked my brain for half a decade.  This mostly satisfied that architectural impulse, though, and the need for the uncanny reasserted itself as a shifting obsession to pop/rock music, “hard” books, and catholic moviegoing (and I guess some of that right brain stuff is intrinsically libidinous and the pubertal timing seems right).  

My childhood book consumption till 77 was all atlases, history, and encyclopedias.  77 to 83 it was SF/Fantasy.  The one work of fiction I strongly remember as a small child was There’s a Monster at the End of this Book which is a work of absolute intersubjective terror that implicates the crap out you - I never bought the ending and saw it as a necessary contrivance to make it OK for kids but I repeatedly endangered Grover anyway, enjoying the transporting dread, and learned meta in Kindergarten as a bonus! But in 1984 (during the Sarajevo Olympics, that’s etched in my brain) I read Moby Dick, which was my first formative struggle with understanding subliminal story.  I was already in love with symbolism and conversant with nuts and bolts MFA program bullshit, as any ironically pretentious HS student would be, but reading that and writing about it and other “tough” books (especially the next year in Junior English where I learned to write, full stop) taught me I could think about this stuff and hold these abstractions in my head long enough to see what was happening under the waterline.

Movies really dominated the late 80s, though, and I became obsessed with everything from the Godfather to Die Hard, but I was only just peaking under the hood, until the left brain brought me back to TV and and thinking about narrative structure.  Twin peaks (and Wild at Heart) made me a real Lynch fan and I sensed what I sought was in that direction, but it wasn’t until I watched the whole show and movie in one weekend in 1997 that I had my conversion experience. Moby Dick opened the door a bit, but that weekend kicked it in.  My first real resource for understanding (other than HS English, a couple of hits of acid, and dorm room bull sessions with sort of smart people) was alt.tv.twin-peaks where there were many amateur scholars trying to understand the red room and above the convenience store scenes, complete with ascii maps.  

The final inciting event was Inland Empire.  The thing about David Lynch that is so perfect for my hobbyhorses is that he works within a scene entirely intuitively, connecting to really primordial stuff, and puts everything together by “painting” with feelings instead of paint, never thinking about it, just knowing when it’s right. But he usually works with a writer and editor who helps shape everything into something at least fitfully comprehensible for someone wanting to follow the surface story. You get the general idea and can meditate on the areas that are clearly not “real” in some sense and require either aesthetic surrender or a lot of thought and one hell of an interpretive toolkit - you can see the frame even if you don’t understand every bit of the picture.  Inland Empire, which he made with no other behind the camera people, is pretty much all the mind-blowing bits with very little skeleton, an abstract painting with no frame. This forces you, if you want to understand in any way beyond just enjoying the moments viscerally, to effort like hell.  The project of this for me, the reason I started this Tumblr, was using the internet for procuring and learning to use interpretive tools and, in so doing, writing my way to constructing an understanding of this one movie.  As a result, my approach to all narrative art was changed.  I figure it is time to unpack this into a framework and try to recall the specific things that helped me get here.