#have had this sitting in my drafts for ages but i got so aggravated over that poll i finished up the alt text and here we go

[mlobsters]

things i learned about the opioid crisis that truly shocked me

oxycontin (oxycodone) is more powerful than morphine (i thought i had a decent understanding of opiates, apparently not)

purdue (makers of oxycontin) claimed less than 1% of people got addicted based on a handful of sentences letter to the editor (link to letter in NEJM) in a medical journal about patients taking short term narcotics in a hospital environment and called it a study

the package insert said "Delayed absorption as provided by oxycontin is believed to reduce the abuse liability of a drug." no proof - just believed.

the medical officer at the FDA, curtis wright, allegedly drafted the medical review with purdue including claims about very limited rates of addiction and potential for abuse. a year later, he went to work for purdue

sales reps were paid commission by the number of milligrams their doctors prescribed, encouraging doctors to continue increasing dosages

purdue claimed oxy didn't have the peaks and valleys associated with opioids and used an extremely distorted graph that was incredibly misleading to prove their point (log scale that flattened the curves)

they created the concept of "pseudoaddiction" which meant drug seeking addiction behavior was actually untreated pain so the solution was to increase the dosage

the company who launched the fentanyl spray subsys were encouraging doctors to prescribe it offlabel for back pain and the like with the explantion "pain is pain" asking how is back pain different than end of life cancer pain

i knew fentanyl was a serious problem but i had no idea the overdose deaths increase after the launch of subsys and competitors in 2012 was this stark and terrifying

insys was investing $3-4 million dollars in speaker programs that were a cover for bribing doctors to increase prescriptions of their fentanyl product

in 2015, subsys was one of the top five most profitable opioid products in the US - something that was only indicated for breakthrough pain in cancer patients on around the clock pain management with high opiate tolerance levels as part of end of life care

medicare would not approve the prescriptions and pay for them (many thousands of dollars for one month of subsys) for offlabel uses, so insys created a system where their reps would pretend to be from the doctor's office (in collusion with doctors, dr office would give the private patient information so insys could have the information needed) and lie about the diagnosis to get it approved

actual promo video for sales reps to sell fentanyl

from burlakof, former vp of sales at insys: "the only way that i knew how to do it, to get that guarantee, is to bribe doctors." "you're saying bribery, like you're kind of--" "yes, i am" "that has a really kind of, big meaning, that word." "yes. i think to use any other word would be irresponsible of me at this point." "back then, did you think, 'oh, i'm going to bribe people'?" "yes."

90% of all hydrocodone production was going to pill mills in the late 2000s

at one point broward county alone (ft lauderdale, just a bit north of miami) had 150 pill mills

florida regulations were so lax, anyone could open a pain management clinic - including people with felony drug convictions

florida also did not track out of state people filling prescriptions that would throw up red flags like it did in other states

a retired dea agent, lou fisher, worked with large pill mills to make sure they followed requirements and could pass inspections by dea acting as their "compliance officer"

but fisher was being paid by the wholesaler, he maintains he didn't do anything wrong

by putting prescribing into the hands of corrupt doctors, they could technically be following the rules

once the pill mills were shut down, a large population had been addicted to opioids via pills now only had heroin to turn to

the george brothers and others in pill mills were indicted under the federal RICO act and it was the largest prescription drug trafficking case in US history

chris george maintains he just ran a business. he didn't create addicts, he gave them a safer way to get their drugs. and the people coming to florida to buy his pills were the actual problem. "The patients are the ones that caused whatever problems we have here."

(ps the george brothers are also white supremacists)

stuff i've watched/listened to

American Pain (HBO) - documentary on pill mills in florida, primarily about the George brothers

The Crime of the Century (HBO) - documentary directed, produced, and written by Alex Gibney. The film follows the opioid epidemic in the United States, and the political operatives, government regulations and corporations that enable the abuse of opioids, particularly the Sackler family and Purdue Pharma. Part two focuses on the rise of fentanyl by Insys Therapeutics.

Opioids, Inc by FRONTLINE (PBS) full film on youtube

Opioids in America by American Scandal (podcast by Wondery)

Dopesick (Hulu) - dramatized series based on nonfiction book Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company that Addicted America by Beth Macy

Painkiller (Netflix) - dramatized series based on Patrick Radden Keefe's New Yorker article "The Family That Built an Empire of Pain" and Pain Killer: An Empire of Deceit and the Origin of America's Opioid Epidemic by Barry Meier

[leah-bobeea]

Magazine Girl; Steve Rogers

You ever start writing a fic about a journalist reader at two am who’s eventually gonna end up doing steeb, over his desk, biting down on his expensive leather belt?

❀ ❀ ❀

Warnings: CEO!Steve x Journalist!Reader, Angst, Steve’s a little mean, Bossy Steve, Shy/Anxious reader, Dom!steve, mentions spanking, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, coercion (a little teensy bit), Bad writing lol

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Terrible writing w/ a terribly rushed ending. Written on my phone, in my notes app, not beta read, and barely proofread.

❀ ❀ ❀

Yes, your hands were busy. Not busy typing out a rough draft of this stupid article on Steve Rogers, not busy calling his secretary to set up a meeting with the man, or the closest to him you could get, not busy doing their job at all. They were busy tapping your pen against the glass tabletop of your desk, successfully annoying Wanda, who sent you an aggravated look from across the room.

“Seriously, Y/n?” Wanda moved from where she was at her desk, clearly not making a breakthrough on her article for this month's issue either. You could only shake your head in reply. Throwing your head back to stare at the ceiling, you starting explaining. “Maria gave me this huge article, Wanda. Cover! And, trust me, I know she’s testing me and doesn’t think I’ll actually be able to do it so she can fire me, or belittle me, or- or something! I don’t know what to do, help me, bestie.” As you finished rambling you looked up at her with your best puppy dog eyes, hoping for some of that amazing advice she gives.

Wanda laughed and pulled a chair over from an empty desk, sitting down and haphazardly throwing her feet on top of your cluttered tabletop. “She wouldn’t give you an article you couldn’t handle, she loves you, Y/n. If it’s truly as difficult as you’re making it out as that means that she knows you’re ready for it, and you’ll do amazing. Who’s it on anyway?”

She was doing such a good job at easing your nerves until she brought up the topic. You whined high in your throat and threw your head to the side before uttering, “Steven Rogers,” you turned your body back to Wanda, “What more do I need to say?” Her eyes widened just a little. “Sheesh...I’d start making phone calls, and praying, maybe?”

❀ ❀ ❀

“Hello, Miss. Carter, um- this is Y/n L/n with Shield Mag-“ “Please hold, dear.”

You pulled the phone away from your head and let it rest on your naked thigh, quickly pressing the speaker button. It was times like this when you were grateful that you let your grandma convince you to buy a house phone. Peggy Carter was the fifth person you’d contacted trying to get an interview with this man and she was the second lady that humored you enough to at least pretend like she’d get back to you.

She’s his main assistant so you might have better luck this time...

Thirty minutes later you had your head inches off the ground and your toes wiggling in the air. Humming the annoying hold music to yourself, you braided, unbraided, and re-braided a single strand of your hair. At thirty-nine minutes you were ready to give up until you heard a click on the other line.

You scrambled to turn off the speaker and press the phone back to your ear.

“Miss. Carter I was hoping to set up an interview with Mr. Rogers, over the phone, in person, or through email, if that’s possible?” You asked, hopeful that she wouldn’t shoot you down immediately like everyone else.

“Well, Magazine Girl, I only do in person. But I am a very busy man, so I need to know right away, what’s in it for me?” Your breath hitched and you almost fell and cracked your head open from how startled hearing his voice made you. Then, you nearly gave yourself a head rush from how fast you sat up.

“Well, um, Sir, you would get a headlining article, and uh, a cover on the June issue of Shield Magazine. That’s um, that’s if you want a cover- you don’t have to be on the cover if you don’t want to, just the interview would be mentioned on the cover, but-“ His chuckle was gritty and vivid, effective in stopping your babble. “I’ll see you Friday around noon. Goodbye Magazine Girl.” He hung up on you before you could even comprehend anything but that captivating laugh.

You rubbed at your eyes and grabbed your planner and pen. “Friday at noon...”

❀ ❀ ❀

The next day you were back in the office, sitting in Wanda’s stiff chair with twin caramel lattes sitting in front of you. That was the thing about you, you’d come to work early bearing gifts just to tell your closest friend your good news. You’re sweet like that.

When Wanda arrived it was fifteen minutes later and your latte was halfway gone. Hearing her black stilettos click on the glossy linoleum made you perk up immediately. As she approached, you stood, handing her the latte and wrapping your arms around her lithe body.

“I got an interview!” You squealed, rocking your bodies side to side. She stilled you and smiled. “Gosh, that’s great, Y/n. How’d you get it?”

“Well, I called, like everyone, and he picked up, Wanda! he picked up! I’m scheduled for Friday, and my Lord, Wanda, his laugh, it's like honey...” You trailed off, sighing at the thought of him. Your head was rested on her shoulder, a faint smile on your face. “You’ve got a crush on him!” Wanda exclaimed, grabbing your shoulders and holding you an arm's length away to get a good look at your bashful face.

You gasped, “No I do not! That would be totally unprofessional!” The cackle that erupted from her made her sound like the wicked witch of the west. And honestly, under her stare, you felt like Dorothy stuck under that house.

When Wanda was finally done laughing maliciously she let you go, plopping down in her desk chair and sipping her latte. She pointed over and your desk and gave you a look. “Better start drafting those questions... we wouldn’t want you to blank on your crush.” “Wanda!”

❀ ❀ ❀

The days leading up to Friday were excruciatingly long, yet the hours until twelve flew past all too quickly.

It seemed as if your wardrobe was never ending, full of clothes that you deemed inappropriate for a meeting with the CEO of American Enterprises. You threw yourself back onto the bed, hair and makeup done but body still wrapped in a fluffy white towel. “Oh Milky, what am I gonna wear?” The soft white kitty glared at you from the pillow she was perched on, meowing at you aggressively.

Ten thirty blinked on the clock and you sat up, glancing at all of the clothes that were scattered on the floor. “I guess this will do.” You picked up the same emerald blazer you had chosen originally and layered it over some basic Levi’s, and gray low cut blouse flowing over your form. A belt was necessary, so you grazed over your options. Brown wouldn’t go, even though it was your only fancy belt. The only black one you had was old, the leather cracked and worn, but it had to do. You slipped on some pretty black heels, lucky that you painted your toes a similar color to your blouse. After accessorizing you sprayed your signature perfume, the one that got you your first college-aged boyfriend, and the same one that you were wearing when you got your first real job.

By the time you were on the Metro, it was eleven o’ six, and you were worried. If you were late you’d lose this chance, and probably your job. The car stopped around eleven fifteen, giving you fifteen minutes to make your way to the building, check-in, and try to not seem so nervous.

Finding the building wasn’t difficult at all, after all, it is the second biggest building in New York City, competing with Stark Tower. The “A” at the top wasn’t illuminated, but it still stood out against the other buildings, cowering over them.

You found that the doors were heavy and if you denied Wanda of going to those burn boot camps you would have extreme difficulty prying them open. The inside was classy, just as you expected. The lamps had blue shades and the front desk lit up with a design that resembled the American Flag, but with less curved stripes and only one large star.

The receptionist was one of the women who shot you down immediately when you called and was a little surprised when you checked in. “Hello, I’m here for Mr. Rogers, twelve o’clock?” She searched for something on her computer, clearly trying to see if the appointment was legitimate. When you were proven correct, she handed you a temporary security badge and a sharpie to write your name on it. “Have a seat over there when you’re finished. I’ll call for you when Mr. Rogers is ready for you.” She smiled, it was fake, but it helped you feel more comfortable.

The red couch was stiff and small, clearly not meant for long periods of sitting. The badge was clipped onto your blouse, not your blazer, and the weight of it was pulling at the already low cut neckline. You thought about moving it, but your attention was quickly turned to the coffee table, where your magazine sat, opened to an article you wrote. Your hands were a little shaky as you went to close the magazine, but you were interrupted before you could grasp the bent pages.

“Miss. Y/n? Mr. Rogers is ready for your interview. Head up to floor thirty six, the door on the right.” Miss receptionist sounded bored, her eyes never left the monitor in front of her. “Thanks.”

Some of the others in the waiting area looked up to you after hearing where you were going, causing you to blush.

You felt lucky to get the elevator to yourself. Thirty-six floors is a long way to go, yet you got there in under three. In the elevator you adjusted your outfit and flattened your hair, hoping it wasn’t frizzy.

The door on the right was clearly not just a meeting room but an office, which you thought was odd. You also found it odd that no one was in the room, you expected to at least be met with his assistant or secretary, if not Steve himself.

Your eyes scanned the room to make sure it was completely empty before taking a seat on the leather chair on the opposite side of the big desk. You opened your notebook and got out your lucky rooster pen before going over your questions once again, hoping he didn’t think they were stupid.

You waited fifteen minutes for him, growing increasingly irked as the minutes built up. When he walked through the door you felt like your heart stopped.

Six-four build covered in a black suit and tie, white undershirt pristine. Blonde hair disheveled and a perfectly manicured beard. The door slammed shut and you heard the clinking sound of a glass being set down. Steve lifted his head and you snapped yours to the front, hoping he didn’t catch you checking him out.

The room was silent besides a rustling coming from behind you. You busied yourself with your notebook, highlighting the questions you wanted to ask most.

“You’re a very patient girl.” He observed. Steve made you wait on purpose. He knew from the first person you called that you wanted an interview, he was friends with Maria Hill after all. But he wanted some entertainment, and after looking into you, he knew you were the right girl. So far he’s made you wait an hour and fourteen minutes for just a smidge of his attention.

“Yes, Sir.” You mumbled, accidentally stopping the highlighter too soon, pressing it down, and letting the pink ink bleed to the next page. He hummed in approval as he rounded the corner, drink in his hand, coat jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, first couple buttons loose. Finally, Steve sat in the big chair, keeping eye contact with you as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany table.

“Give me that.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement, “What?” You asked, putting your pen down on your lap. Steve motioned for your notebook, and you opened your mouth, starting to stumble over your words. “Oh? um- Okay?” You handed it over to him and he relaxed back into his chair. A question bubbled in your throat, but you didn’t let it escape. Instead, you watched as his eyes scanned the papers, blue cursive, and pink highlighter, little stars and flowers drawn in the corners. “Mr. Rogers, are you ready to start the interview?” You tapped your watch, twelve twenty four.

He nodded, “Yes, I’m ready.” You cleared your throat and went to ask for your notebook, but he beat you to it. “Miss. L/n, is there an achievement or something that you’ve contributed to me that you are most proud of?” Why was he asking you your own questions? “Sir, I-“ He cut you off once again. “Answer the question, doll.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. “I- um, no. I haven’t contributed anything to you that I should be proud of, Sir.”

“Is there a particular moment or memory of building this relationship that stands out to you?” He continued with the questions, tilting his head to the side. Why was he twisting the questions onto you? When you didn’t come up with an answer he chuckled, sounding sickly sweet like molasses dripping straight from the sugarcane. “Patience finally wearing thin, honey?” You nodded eyes staring at his chest, you couldn’t quite muster up the courage to look him in the eye.

He snapped your notebook closed and slid it towards your side of the grand desk. “You couldn’t answer my questions correctly, Y/n.” You nodded, eyes now downcast, admiring the pattern on the blue carpet. You felt like you were going to cry. This big scary man was mean and just wouldn’t let you conduct your interview and you didn’t know why. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I know you are, doll. But, if you can’t answer my questions how can I answer yours? You have nothing to offer me.” This was it, you were losing your chance. “Business wise, that is.” Your head shook, and your hands were clasped together, your left thumb rubbing your right nail back and forth. “I don’t understand, Sir.”

“I’m friends with Maria, Y/n. If you’re able to get this article done and get me on the cover you’re gonna get a promotion, you want that, right doll?” Your eyes went wide, “Yes, Sir.” Now, he stood, coming around to the front where you are and leaning against the desk. “She said to make it difficult, but I don’t care enough to do all that. So, doll, I’ll answer your questions. They’re quite good actually. And I’ll do a little photoshoot for the cover, but you’ll need to pay me back.” You gulped, hands suddenly sweaty, you felt like a little chihuahua, trembling under his gaze.

“How? Um, how do I pay you?” Gosh, even your voice was shaky. “Stand up. Lose the blazer.” Steve commanded, slowly unbuckling his belt. You could faintly tell from the buckle that it was Hermès. You stood and took off your blazer in a rush, folding it poorly and setting it on the arm of the chair. “Atta girl.”

He placed his hands on your shoulders and then ran them down to your hands, giving them a little squeeze before he hooked his index fingers into your belt loops, pulling you closer. So close that the tips of your shoes were touching. He leaned down to kiss your neck and you stiffened, but when he grazed his teeth over the bruised spot he just created you melted into him, your hands grasping at the pristine white button up, letting out a little whimper.

Steve pushed you back a little and took in your form, then he pulled the little security badge off, tossing it to the side. Like a little kid, he pulled at the neckline of your shirt. “Off.” You would’ve giggled at him if he didn’t look so scary right now. His blue eyes were piercing into yours, left hand so tight on your hip you thought he might leave bruises.

By the time your shirt hit the floor, he was pushing at your shoulders, hinting at you to go to your knees. “Sir, I don’t know-“

You started, knees hitting the carpet underneath you. He shushed you and guided your head to look up at him. “It's okay, baby, you don’t have to know how. I’ll do all the work, doll. Now, undo your bra.” As expected you did as he asked immediately, fumbling with the clasp until it fell down your arms. It ended up next to your thigh as you watched him pull his belt through the loops.

Steve walked around you and kneeled down, belt in his hands. “Put your hands behind your back.” You nodded immediately, so submissive, completely at his mercy. “Yes, Sir.” Steve loved how polite you were. He made quick work of restraining you, tying your hands to rest against your jean clad ass. The metal felt harsh against your skin and the soft, expensive leather snaked up your arms.

When he was back in front of you he sighed and shook his head. “I should’ve had you unzip me first.” Hearing Steve say that finally brought you to the reality of what was about to happen. You watched with big eyes as he undid the button and then the zipper, the sound making you tremble. His dress pants puddled on the floor and you were in awe as he massaged his bulge through his boxers. Slowly, he pulled them down to the middle of his thighs. His cock bounced up to hit his abdomen and he hissed as he stroked it a few times. “Open as wide as you can, honey.”

As always, you did as asked. Your tongue stuck out a little, wetting your bottom lip. He grasped the back of your head and leaned you forward a little, then you felt his blunt tip on your tongue. You gagged and spluttered when Steve was about halfway seated, he pulled out and leaned down, kissing you sloppily. “Breathe through your nose, baby. Don’t forget.” Then he was back at slowly entering your throat. “Fuck...” he grunted, finally fully seated in your throat, your nose pressed against his nicely groomed pubic hair. He caressed your throat then, rubbing the bulge in your throat, resisting the urge to press down and have you choke on his cock even more. “So good, Y/n.”

Steve started rocking into your throat, slowly fucking it as spit leaked from the corners of your mouth. After minutes of abusing your throat, he finally pulled out, adoring the way tears ran down your cheeks and how you hiccupped, wanting to desperately rub at your raw throat to soothe it. Your hands pulled at the belt and your eyes begged Steve to undo it. “Up, doll.”

He hoisted you up from your armpits and bent you over the desk. Steve pressed kisses down your back and reached in front of you, unbuckling your belt and throwing it somewhere to the left of you, then he unbuttoned and unzipped your pants, tugging them down with fervor.

Steve undid your restraints and left more kisses down your back until he reached your ass, spreading your cheeks to reveal your tight hole and glistening cunt. “I’d love to see this ass all bruised and red, but I’ll have to save that for another day.” His index and middle finger ran circles on your clit, your back arching to press into him more. “Sir, please!” You gasped, your hand flying out to the edge of the table and nearly knocking over the glass of whiskey he left on a coaster when Steve finally pushed two fingers into your aching hole.

“Gotta open you up first, doll, get you all sloppy and ready for my cock.” You cried out as he hooked his fingers, rubbing the magic spot inside of you. “Please, Steve, please.” He cooed at you, pulling his fingers out, and instead traced his name over your clit. “You gonna come, baby? Huh? You gonna drench my fingers, little girl?” You were moaning in wanton, hips humping his hand desperately. He brought his other hand down and started fingerfucking you again, giving you just enough to push you over the edge.

Your moans were breathy, your legs twitching, and you were panting by the time your orgasm faded. “I hope you know I’m not done with you yet, doll, I still haven’t come inside you.” That made you whine high in your throat and you tried, to no avail, to slam your legs shut around his hand.

Steve’s right hand fisted his cock a few times, making sure he’s rock hard and dripping with pre-cum, while his left kept your lips spread, showing him your gorgeous pussy. The blunt head at your entrance shocked you, and you yelped at the intrusion. “Sir!”

He leaned his head down and spit where you were joined, trying to make the glide even easier. “Shut up, doll.” He snapped after you cried out. Once he was as deep as possible inside of you he reached for his belt, looping it over as if he was going to spank you, and stuffed it into your mouth. “Bite down,” Steve demanded, a hand snaked around to the front of your neck where he was applying light pressure.

When you tried to push back against him he held your hips down against the wood steadily and started snapping his hips at a fast speed. Each thrust pushed you down onto the table, letting your clit rub against the mahogany wood.

Your vision felt spacey like you could black out any moment as he choked you. Your orgasm washed over you and you had to use all the strength you had in you to keep biting down on the belt. You didn’t want to know what would happen if you disobeyed his and let it go. Steve’s hips harshly snapped against your ass a few more times before he stilled inside of you, filling you with his spunk.

Before Steve cleaned you up and let you leave his office he had to finger his cum back inside of you, making sure none of it went to waste. Then, he made sure you had a way home, and a way to contact him, because, “Now you’re no longer Magazine Girl, but My Girl.”

@lo-bells

[writingabouteverything]

The Perfect White Flower--and Other Nonexistent Things

a/n YALL THIS IS PROBABLY DUMB BUT I HAD THIS IDEA ABOUT A HARRY STYLES X READER FIC THATS BASED ON THE PLOT OF JANE THE VIRGIN AND I WANTED TO WRITE IT SO BADLY I MADE THIS ACCOUNT

disclaimer--wont follow the show exactly 

Pairing: Harry Styles x latina! reader (a key factor of the show revolves around the lead being latina, and im latina and honestly love writing for us but anyone can still read and understand/hopefully enjoy and the fic doesn’t involve any physical descriptions:)) 

Series Summary: Y/n l/n has had the world figured out since she was a child. She won’t be a writer because it’s risky, she’ll just focus on school and becoming a teacher. She’s never been a child, because her mother had her at sixteen and hasn’t aged a single year since. That’s part of the reason the promise she made to her grandmother means so much to her--if she doesn’t have sex before marriage, her child will never have to grow up as quickly as she did. And Harry Styles is at the top of the world--his music has never been more successful, he has a lovely girlfriend, and he’s never been more in demand. He has everything in the world...except a child, and through a series of unbelievable events--y/n might be his only chance to have one. Ever. 

Chapter One Summary: Who knew getting a pap smear on two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee was as bad as having unprotected sex? 

There’s something dangerous about taking public transportation in LA. And no, I don’t mean it in the ‘there are bad people in the world’ type of way. I mean it in the ‘I live in one of the casual influencer, celebrity, tourist hubs of the world and each time I step onto the bus I find myself mesmerized by all the stories I see in them’ way. Kind of pathetic, I know, but sometimes a child with blonde pig tails or a woman streaming on instagram live will catch my eye and the urge to pull out my lap top and start something I’ll never finish. 

I know that writing isn’t some kind of disease. But I can’t let myself fall in love with it the way I want to. There’s nothing wrong with writing a short story or two, but trying to write a novel? That’s impractical. It will distract me from school, from the four year plan I’m almost done with.

Sighing, I brave taking at my surroundings. I deserve this today, after the anonymous, rude costumer at the hotel today, I need positivity. No one is particularly inspiring. The bus stops and I watch out the window. At first the crowd is ordinary, and then i see them...paparazzi. Flashing cameras from all angles, grown men violating all rules of personal space. It never sits right with me, but I guess it’s just part of living in LA. The bus starts moving again. When it stops again, I see even more paparazzis, but their cameras aren’t flashing. Good for whoever escaped that. 

The bus door opens and I snap my attention back to my computer screen. I rub my eyes as I stare at my word document. How is there more that needs to be edited? This professor is the harshest grader I’ve ever had, and my friend, Gisa, is kind for giving me even more notes. But I’m exhausted. Two tests and an essay due before 12:00. And it’s...11:38. Great--I have to upload it the second I’m at my doctor’s office and have WiFi again. 

I spend some time highlighting and rewording sentences, and once I’m done I reward myself with more people watching because I deserve it and I can’t fall asleep here. I’m kind of invested in the girl live streaming her bus ride...maybe she’ll say her instagram handle. 

But when I look up, she’s not on the bus anymore. Almost no one is. An elderly couple is sitting towards the back. A woman with a toddler sit two rows in front of me...and there’s now a man directly across from me. I blink for a moment, imagining a story for someone who’s face I can’t quite see beneath such dark sun glasses. His dark waves and strong jaw do most of the imagining for me--he deserves a mystery, a dramatic one with a happy ending and just enough romance to keep the people interested. A good romance, too--not too sappy. Enemies to lovers, maybe. A mysterious stranger that’s not really a stranger because something about him is just...familiar. 

He turns his head and I drop my gaze immediately. There’s no doubt he caught that, but I still pretend to edit the title of my essay. “You’ve been typing stubbornly since I first got on the bus.” There’s an accent--of course he’s english. But it’s more than that, I’ve heard that voice before. I’ve been...soothed by it. And--oh my god, I’m sitting across from Harry Styles.

Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t freak him out. He’s probably on here to escape the the whole ‘oh my god, you’re Harry Styles!’ thing.  

“What are you writing?” Harry Styles just spoke to me. I greeted my one direction poster every single day in middle school, and Harry Styles just spoke to me. Okay--relax, breathe--it’s only weird if you make it weird. 

There’s a kind of curt curiosity to his question. He could have been ruder, considering how blatantly I was staring at him. “I um...an essay.” I’m temped to turn the screen so that he can see I’m telling the truth. Though he wasn’t hostile, a part of me is paranoid that he thinks I am writing about him. It’s a fair assumption, for all he knows I’m drafting a tweet about who I saw on the bus this morning or preparing to send something in to some gossip girl-esque blog. “It’s due today at noon and normally I’m way more on top of things, but I had this last minute doctor’s appointment rescheduling because my usual doctor is out of town and--” I cut myself off before I can tell Harry Styles that I’m ovulating and that if I don’t go to my OBGYN now, I have to wait an entire month and I’ve already been off birth control longer than I’d like. I might not have actual sex in my near future, but my cramps have been extra terrible. “An essay, I just finished an essay.”

He nods once. Maybe he feels bad for so thoroughly startling me into such a rambling, because the corner of his mouth tilts upwards. A soft smile adds even more grace to his features, I focus on the dimple that appears in his cheek. “An aggravating essay, I take it, considering the death glares you’ve been giving your laptop screen.”

I smile at his polite humor. “It’s for the harshest grader on campus. She took three points off of my first essay freshman year because I spaced my bibliography wrong.” 

He cringes in sympathy. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” I hum, proud of myself for not letting him know that I know who he is. The bus stops, I can see my doctor’s office behind a few paparazzi. “This is my stop.” 

Harry nods once, ducking his head slightly. A tiny part of me feels sympathy for him; from what I’ve gathered, he genuinely loves his fans and the relationship they have, but it must be draining to never have a moment of privacy. Especially when it’s people who care more about selling your picture than your mental health. 

I linger on the bus’s step, watching the men with large cameras look around. “Excuse me, are you guys looking for Harry Styles?” Most of the men disregard me, but one looks at me. “I know he’s near here because I’m a really big fan and my friend just texted that she saw him.” This gets me the attention I wanted. “He’s at Northfield--a cafe like three blocks down. I just know that if she got a picture with Harry in like a magazine or something she’d totally lose it--in a good way, and she’s been having a bad time so if you see her can you try to make it happen? Knowing her she’ll be at his side, she’s blonde, shortish hair.” 

The men seem skeptical, but I guess they realize that this is the best lead they have. I think the fact that I gave a reason to justify selling Harry out for no reason helped. They disperse together, heading at least three blocks away from Harry. I don’t know if I’ve actually helped him, but I hope I have. 

“Essay girl.” I freeze, half cringing. Did he hear that? That’s embarrassing. I consider darting away, but decide that would just make me cringe more. So I turn on my heels. “You...you forgot your phone.” 

He just saved my life. “Thank you.” I take my phone from his outstretched hand, ignoring the slight thrill that runs through me when our fingers brush. “You’re my hero--the last thing I needed today was to run all over the city searching for my phone.” I finish the awkward admission with a partial laugh. 

“Least I could do,” he mumbles, “especially considering what you just did.” 

...He did see that. “Oh um--it was nothing, I just kind of made a connection and assumed the only reason you’d be on a public bus is because you were trying to avoid some things, and you make really great music and a lot of people happy, so you deserve that break.” Why does it feel like I’ve been talking forever? “Anyways, thanks for the whole phone thing, and I hope I got them off your tail.” 

My joke seems to somewhat land. His lips part, like he’s planning on saying something else. A timer on my phone interrupts him. I instinctually look down--great, the alarm on my phone warning me that I’m only ten minutes away from being late. “I’m late.” I turn towards the bus’s exit. “I gotta go, but thanks again, and I hope you have a good day.” 

I disappear after that, still not sure that that whole thing wasn’t some kind of hallucination. Did I just meet Harry Styles? He...he gave me my phone. Harry Styles has touched my phone. I can’t wait to tell Gisa, she’ll lose it.

I’m still thinking about Harry Styles when I finally reach my OBGYN’s office. When I get there, things are a lot more hectic than I thought they’d be. Many people crowd the waiting area and the receptionist’s desk is clearly understaffed. Two young girls are trying to address multiple upset pregnant women and take phone calls at the same time, all while practically buried in a sea pf paperwork. Wow, I didn’t realize that transferring was such chaos. One of the girls waves me over and barely checks my name before shoving a form towards me. I fill out as quickly as possible. 

 I upload my essay quickly after checking in. Who knows, maybe Harry Styles’s blessing will get me an A? A third person in scrubs emerges from the back after a moment and ushers me into a room. I tell myself to focus on going over the facts I need for the test I have to take in a little over an hour. Or to focus on the fact that I just met Harry Styles. But instead, I feel my heavy eyelids fall shut. 

I don’t know how long I sleep, but I know that I wake up during the middle of a doctor’s sentence, “...I know I’m not your usual, so I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.” 

“Hm...Yeah, yeah I’m comfortable.” She nods once, her wide eyes slightly red. “But I do have a class today in like an hour, so I was wondering if this was going to take longer because of the office’s move?” 

“Oh, no,” she shakes her head. “Just because Dr. Rodriguez gave us no notice before deciding that she no longer wanted to work here...or in the country. Or even live in the US, despite the fact that we just signed a lease on a place together...” Tears well in the stranger’s eyes, pity settles in my stomach. 

“That sounds incredibly complicated, I didn’t mean to rush you.” 

She blinks twice, her expression blanking as she fights against the pain of what’s clearly a terrible break up. “No, no--you have every right. Today is your day and if..honestly, if you’re strong enough to go to a class after this, and do what you’re about to do by yourself, then I’m strong enough to get through today.” 

Um...didn’t realize a pap smear counted as something that needs moral support, but I’ll chalk it up to her heightened emotions. “Thanks.” 

She snaps on her medical gloves. “No, thank you for your patience. Now lay down.” 

I do as told, preparing for a sensation I haven’t often experienced. A moment passes and I know she’s started. She’s moving away from me much faster than expected. Oh--I guess pap smears are a lot shorter than I expected. 

“That’s it?” 

“Yep,” she hums, pulling her gloves off. “Now just take it easy, and hydrate.”

Weird...but that’s like general doctor advice. “Thanks!” 

--

I’ve never wanted to keep a secret from Gisa, but sometimes I really regret telling her I met Harry Styles. It’s been almost a month and I find my mind wandering back to the moment in which our fingers brushed more than I should. Sometimes I let myself wonder what he might have said if my phone hadn’t rang. I was probably just imagining the way his lips parted, but my ind refuses to let it go. 

“...You know it’s kind of sad, I read an interview in which he spoke about the fact that he has some genetic condition that makes it hard to have kids. He has so many godchildren, and I feel like he’d make such a great father.” 

I try to keep up with Gisa’s words, but the dull ache in my head makes it feel so far away. “Yeah...he seemed really patient.” 

Gisa nods, turning to face me. “You alright, you’re looking kinda green?” 

“Yeah...” I reach for my canvas bag. “I think I just...I probably just need some water.” 

My hand grazes the metal of my water bottle and then the corners of my vision blur into blackness. I sway, Gisa’s hand is on my shoulder...and then it all goes black. 

--

I sit uncomfortably on the hospital’s cot. Gisa is a traitor for telling my mom that I fainted. I knew she’d just drag me here--hispanic mothers, they either believe they can cure you with vic’s vapor rub or they want you in the ER. No in between. 

“I know you didn’t want another test, but you’ve been throwing up in the morning for days and now you’re fainting.” 

“Fainted,” I correct, “it happened once.” 

“C’mon, mija, it’s just one doctor’s appointment.” 

Speaking of, an ER nurse returns. “Fainting and nausea spells explained,” he says, glancing at his clipboard, “you’re pregnant.” 

My mom and I can’t help but exchange a look before bursting into laughter. Pregnant. If I’m pregnant then the second coming is here. “That’s impossible, I’m a virgin.” 

He glances at my mom, “maybe we should have this conversation in private.” 

“No, what you say in front of me you can say in front of my mom.” 

My mom raises an eyebrow. “Y/n, did you and that guy from your english class--” 

“No! No, we did not. I am a virgin and there’s no way I’m pregnant.” I glare at the nurse. 

He then ushers me to a bathroom so that I can provide a urine sample. After I’m finished, he shows me a pregnancy test strip. “Pink means pregnant.” I bite my tongue as he tests the strip in my sample. He pulls it out and it’s...it’s bright pink.

“I’m calling my doctor, because this has to be a mistake. It has to be like a hormonal thing.” 

“Exactly, pregnancy hormones.” 

I glare even harder, calling the doctor that I saw last week. “Hello, Dr. Ash? I was wondering if I could get a consultation because I’m in the ER and some crazy doctor is trying to tell me I’m pregnant.” 

Silence on the line for a long second. “...I actually cleared my calendar for you.” 

[niall-is-my-dream]

Something Beautiful - Epilogue

So, this was something that I started writing ages ago and has been on hiatus. I've had this epilogue sitting in my drafts for a year! I was going to write a chapter to go before this but it hasn't happened so I've decided to post this and end the fic.

I hope you like it! Catch up on the link below.

https://niall-is-my-dream.tumblr.com/post/615170836129808384/something-beautiful-masterlist

Thanks

Em x

8 years later

Standing at the kitchen island you chopped away at the ingredients you needed for dinner later. You were having a bbq so you prepped all the salad and got the meat marinating in the fridge. It was early afternoon and the sun was blazing in through the patio doors that were open and welcoming in the warmth of the summer.

From here you could see Monty hiding from the sun under the patio table and chairs where it was shady and cool. He was getting on a bit now, just turned ten years old, still lively like he was as a pup but lazy like an old man to.

From this position you could also see your greatest achievement, your six year old twins Jack and Izzy. You may have carried them for 34 weeks before they were born early, but they were the spitting image of their father. Izzy in particular had eyes that were identical to Niall's, her book obsession however she got from you.

Both were obviously musical like their father, but Jack had excelled in football and you'd spent the morning watching him run around the local football pitch.

Wiping your hands on a cloth you made your way out to the garden, Jack was at the end of the garden practicing some kick ups and Izzy was busy bouncing around on the trampoline.

"Hey you two, shall we take Monty out in a bit when the weather has cooled down?"

"Yeah, when is Dad back with Grandad and Aoife?" Jack called back to you.

 "Not sure, game won't finish for maybe another hour and it depends on if they can get through the crowds quickly, and if your Dad chooses to stop and talk to everyone he knows!" You replied smiling.

Niall had gone to watch Derby play at Chelsea today with his Dad Bobby and his partner Aoife. Checking your watch you saw that the game would probably just be starting the second half so you had plenty of time to walk Monty and be back to start cooking.

Just over an hour later and you were all walking towards Wandsworth Common. When you and Niall had first starting discussing buying your first house together there had been no doubt that you wanted to stay close to where both your flats were. With easy access to the tube and shops you had also decided you didn't want to be far from the Common.

It was there on a cold February day that you had tripped over Monty's lead and Niall had spoken to you for the first time. Sadly the pub you first laid eyes on each other in was closed now and was going to be turned into a hairdressers of all things.

But the Common held a special place in both your hearts.

It was where you would go in the early stages of your relationship, where you would spend ages walking around together with Monty getting to know everything you could about one another.

It was where you'd come with Monty that beautiful spring day when you'd found out you were pregnant while Niall was away touring his third album. You'd gone there to gather your thoughts about how to break the news to him that after almost a year of trying you had finally got a positive pregnancy test. It was also the place you'd both gone together to digest the information that it was twins.

And just last year it was the place that you had both taught Jack and Izzy to ride their bikes without stabilizers, while Monty chased the stupid ducks by the pond.

It was your special place and somewhere you came everyday when you were in the UK. When the twins were younger and before they started school you would spend a good amount of time in the U.S. at the L.A. home, but now Niall only went over there when he needed to and would only spend leisure time there if you were all with him.

He hates being apart from you all and it had devastated him at first when he toured last year and the twins had been at school for a lot of it. But Niall had gained what he had always hoped for, a long successful career with dedicated fans who had embraced you, Monty and the children.

You stood watching the twins scooter around the path with Monty bounding beside them, but then you had an overwhelming feeling that you were being watched. You had come to learn this feeling well in the first few years of your relationship. Knowing that Niall was a public figure and you were in a relationship meant you were also of interest. People took your photo without permission quite often, particularly here on the Common.

Looking behind you cautiously you saw Niall walking across the bridge with his Dad Bobby and his partner Aoife walking behind him. He still gave you butterflies in your tummy even after nine years together. He smiled and gave you a wave as they made their way over to you. Monty was next to spot him and he gave up on aggravating the ducks to race over to him. Jack was next, followed by Izzy and they sped over calling out to their Dad and Grandad.

"Hey stalker." You said to Niall as he came over to kiss you.

"Not stalking, you text me to tell me you were going to be here!" He smirked.

You looked over to see Izzy in deep conversation with Aoife. "And I did my writing homework but I left my school book as I wanted to read it with you."

"I'm sure we can look at that together, just make sure we help out with dinner and stuff for your Mum first though, ok?" Aoife replied.

As Bobby and Aoife finally reached you after being practically mauled by the twins they greeted you with a hug and a kiss each.

"I've prepped most of dinner while you were out, just need Pops to start up the bbq when we get back." You said looking at Bobby.

"I think I can manage that." He said rubbing his hands together. "I'm in a good mood after our win, think I'll have a couple of beers to celebrate. Speaking of football how did you do this morning Jack?"

"Really good and I scored a goal!" Jack said with a massive smile on his face.

He hadn't been happy about missing the game with Niall, but you'd only just managed to get him a slot on the football team after being on the waiting list for months. Niall had insisted that there would be other games he could take him to in the future that didn't clash with his practice. 

"The Common always looks amazing on a summer afternoon doesn't it?" Aoife said as she leant down to give Monty some attention.

"It does, this place has always been something beautiful." Niall replied smiling as he looked at you, taking your hand in his.

[carpsurprise]

i wrote this literally ages ago and saved it in my drafts because i knew, one day, i wouldn’t be writing much.... and i answered so many asks yesterday y’all deserve something. sorry for clogging up y’alls feed <3 anyways here’s a leah writing! bc i realized i have almost nothing written for her haha oops

plot: the farmer, tired and disappointed in themselves, comes across leah relaxing in the forest. she comforts them until they have the strength to continue on.

word count: 928

notes: hehe i dont know what this is im quite tired... but tw: alcohol!! nothing excessive, but leah has a lil glass of wine while she spits some life advice

The farmer’s legs ached with each step they took on the uneven dirt of the forest, the shooting pain up the side of their thighs nagging at the back of their mind. They were working themselves nearly half to death in preparation of the next season that steadily crept up as the days passed. Foraging today had been a failure, only adding itself to the list of minor headaches and complaints that were beginning to sprout across the back of the farmer’s head. Caked in dirt and sweat, each footstep was heavier than the last from their aggravation.

A song, sung by a broken and cracking voice, carried from the river to the forest’s clearing, causing the farmer to stop in thought for a moment. Leah was laid down next to the river, propping her head up on one hand with her ankle resting atop her other knee, her foot bobbing up and down to her own song. The farmer had walked up behind her interest, seeing the matching bob of her head as she sang, and the half-empty glass of wine held loosely in her other hand. Her song had not stopped when she turned her head to see who was blocking the warming sunlight from her body, throwing the farmer a quick smile.

They had taken it upon themselves to sit next to her, wanting to rest their aching legs before walking another step. The river bubbled with lazy movement, no sign of jumping fish to catch for any extra gold. The farmer had let out a labored sigh after a moment, throwing their head back to focus on the sound of the river and birds.

“What’s wrong?” Leah asked, finally slowing her song down to a hum.

The farmer shook their head. “Tired. All I’ve been doing is trying to get more money.”

She continued to hum, throwing her head along with her own song. “Well,” she interrupted herself, looking out to the river, “when was the last time you got to relax?”

The farmer stifled a laugh, not remembering the last occasion they had to simply sleep in. Their noise was enough of an answer for Leah and her easy temperament, making her close her eyes before opening them to see the farmer. She was looking up at them, her head thrown back in a position that was surely going to make her sore. Though, it was evident she didn’t care.

“Didn’t you come to the valley to get away from the pursuit of money? The effect it has on us? To become one with nature?”

The farmer was silent.

“Take some time to smell the flowers…  look at the clouds… move with the ocean, you know?” She took another sip of her wine. “Don’t lose sight of why you’re here. Not just in Pelican Town, but on the Earth in general. Learn to appreciate the little things and you’ll be much happier.”

The farmer nodded, avoiding her eye contact. She had thought it a lost cause, bringing her head back up to gaze at the water with a small grunt. Leah swirled her glass, watching the deep red move with it. “Need to get more wine, my glass is half-full.”

Her comment hadn’t made it to the farmer’s attention, their eyes steadily trained on the languid movements of the water in front of them. Leah’s deduction had created a pain in the farmer’s core, perfectly explaining the recent unhappiness and poor mood they had been suffering with for the past two weeks. A few guilty thoughts had flashed through the farmer’s mind, quickly thinking of the promise they had made to their grandfather, and the idea that their connection to the valley had faded in the pursuit of money, just as they had despised about their old life.

Leah rolled her eyes, unknown to the farmer, but quickly threw a glance at them over her shoulder. “Quit thinkin’ so much about it,” she shifted her body slightly against her picnic blanket, “everyone gets caught up in stuff that’s not good for them. Just try to remind yourself why you’re here. I have to do it too, every so often.”

“Yeah,” the farmer nodded, “you’re right.”

“I know I am,” she teased, finally putting her glass down and sitting up. Her eyes trailed to the trees of the forest, then to the nearly empty bag of foragables next to the farmer. “Whoops, sorry. I did some foraging this morning, if you need anything I’ll give it to you.”

The farmer shook their head, struggling to get back onto their own two feet. “No, I’ll be fine. Think I’m gonna go sit with the chickens or something. Or maybe get some sleep.”

Leah looked up at them with a friendly smile. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you around, though, I hope you get to feeling better.”

“I’m sure I will in no time,” they smiled down at Leah, turning on their aching feet back to the north farm entrance. The birds chirped just a little louder to them as the crunch of sticks lining the forest floor cracked underneath the weight of their feet. With a sigh, the farmer looked up to the sky only to be met with white, puffy afternoon clouds. The clouds moved just as slow as the river had, leading the farmer to think that they should be moving the same pace as everything else around them.

[artificialqueens]

mental (adoreney) (1/2) - DanFin

A/N: This oneshot was a bit old and laying to waste away in my drafts. I finally rewrote it today. The day I wrote the rough draft, I was venting. Now I’m fine. :) Part 2 will be out soon! Enjoy!

“If you’re a boy, you can go get your backpack.”

All of the boys in the classroom run to their locker. A year ago, I would have joined them just to make it easier on everyone. I didn’t want to get yelled at, either. Now, I refuse to get up because I know I’m not a boy or a girl; I’m nonbinary. I’m no longer afraid to admit that.

“Danny, get up, you’re a boy,” Mrs. Rust says. She looks confused. Is she confused by my decision?

“No I’m not,” I reply. Doesn’t she understand that I’m an enby?

Mrs. Rust shakes her head, “Yes, you are. Go with the other boys.”

I shake my head at her, signaling that I will not get up. I am sick of being misgendered. I’m the only one that can stop it.

Mrs. Rust puts her hands on her hips and glares down at me. I know she’s pissed off at me. “Danny-”

“I’m not,” I interrupt her. “I’m not a boy.” I glance around and see that most of the class is staring. The few that aren’t are whispering to each other.

“Your birth certificate says you are a male. So, that means you are,” Mrs. Rust says. She hasn’t seen my actual birth certificate. She’s only seen the class roster on the computer. That means she’s only seen the thing on my student ID that says: “Gender: M.”

I try to mimic Mrs. Rust’s icy glare. I resist crossing my arms; the last thing I need to do is display aggressive body language. “Birth certificates cab become outdated.” I state confidently. I have no reason to be insecure about that statement. I don’t weigh less than ten pounds anymore.

Mrs. Rust sighs loudly. “Daniel Noriega, you are a boy and you can’t change that! You’re too young to be thinking about this anyways. Do not make me send you to the office,” she explains. She crosses her arms and keeps her gaze on me. I look back at her.

I bite back an aggravated sigh; I know that would get me in even more trouble. She’s not a psychologist or a biology teacher; what does she know? I want to tell her this, but I can’t. I should just give in. I wouldn’t be in a lot of trouble. The worst they could do to me right now is call my mom.

I should give in, even if it shows weakness. No, I should stand up for myself. I could help another teen that feels the same. But I wouldn’t be in trouble if I gave in. God knows I don’t need to be written up for fighting with an ignorant teacher… Again…

I stand in front of Mrs. Rust and think for a few moments. I think about the pros and cons of each of my options. One keeps me out if trouble, one can help inspire another teen. One helps me, one harms me and helps another…

That’s it, I’m giving in.

“Yes ma'am,” I reply weakly. I look at the ground. I have a feeling I made a bad decision, but I can beat myself up about it later.

“Now, get up and go to your locker,” Mrs. Rust says firmly. I know she’s smiling proudly. She always does when she wins an argument.

I quickly get up from my seat. I ignore the stares and walk out to my locker. I did not want this today nor did I need it. I’ve gone though enough already.

“So you’re finally out here,” someone beside me says. Their voice is deep and masculine. “It’s about time. You are a boy, ‘ya know.” I finally recognize the voice; it’s Kyle.

“My organs don’t define my gender,” I repeat firmly without looking away from my locker. Making eye contact can encourage conversation; I’m trying my best to discourage it.

“Um, what about down there?” Kyle says. I notice him motion towards my crotch. My cheeks and the back of my neck heat up. I bite my lip. What a pervert.

“That’s none of your business,” I reply in a low voice. “I’m not attracted to you at all. Plus, gender is more mental, not physical.” Or maybe it’s not real? I don’t know, I’m still confused about that.

Kyle scoffs and scoots away from me. “That’s- You’re disgusting.”

I feel every bit of confidence I had wash away. I feel the overwhelming burning of tears in my eyes. My mind goes blank; I can’t think of a snappy comeback. I exhale slowly and quickly put my locker combination in. Kyle must feel proud since he made me speechless.

Once I get my backpack, I slam my locker shut. I walk past Kyle and towards Mrs. Rust’s classroom as quickly as I can.

When I get back to Mrs. Rust’s classroom, I go to my seat and sit down. I look down and let my hair hide my face. I don’t know if it’s obvious that I have tears in my eyes. If it is, I don’t anyone to see me. I don’t think they’d understand.

I have to be positive. It is almost time to go home. That means I’ll be able to talk to my mom. She’s one of the only two people that I trust. She’s very open-minded and accepting. She doesn’t care about who I love - as long as they’re between the ages fourteen and sixteen - or if I’m a boy or girl or neither. She loves me for me.

The other person is my long-distance, Australian boyfriend, Shane. He’s two years older than me. He was the first person I told about my feelings. He was one-hundred percent okay with it since he is genderfluid - which is a nonbinary gender. - He helped assure me that I wasn’t confused or wrong. He helped me through a lot of self-hate. Hopefully I will be able to talk to him later today.

-

“How was school?” Mom asks as soon as I close the front door. I set my backpack down next to the door. Do I really want to tell her about it?

I shrug and look away from her. “I don’t know, to be honest. I was told I’m disgusting,” I reply nervously. I have no idea how she’ll react. She’s pretty protective of me and my siblings.

When I finally look at Mom, I notice a frown on her face. She hates it when I get bullied. Please don’t lecture me. You know I am not that good at standing up for myself.

”Why did someone call you disgusting?” she asks. I walk over to the couch and sit down beside her. I stare at the ground at first 

I look up at her before speaking. “Because I refused to get up with the boys. I don’t feel like a boy or a girl, Mom. I feel… genderless. It’s called nonbinary. A lot of other people feel that way,” I explain. Hopefully she won’t see it as a trend or attention-seeking.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Maybe you’re just confused right now because of puberty?”

“Mom!” I say in a loud, whiny voice. How could she doubt me? Why would she think I’m confused? “I’m not confused! I’m old enough to know what I am. I knew I was gay when I was twelve and in sixth grade. How come you think I’m too young to know my gender identity when I’m fourteen and in eighth grade?” That should make her think.

“Because… Danny, I… I just don’t understand this. It worries me sometimes. I don’t want you to be bullied,” Mom explains. “It’s just an instinct. I don’t mean to seem like a narrow-minded person. I’ve just never been through this. I never questioned my gender identity or sexuality.”

That makes sense. If someone hasn’t been through something, it’s obvious that they wouldn’t know how to react.

“Oh, okay… Only Kyle and my music teacher bother me about it, if that makes you feel better. Everyone else just goes along with it or are too scared to say anything.”

“Okay,” Mom replies, “That’s a relief.”

“May I go to my room?” I ask and Mom nods. I get up from the couch and walk down the hallways towards my room.

Once I enter my room, I go to a desk that is pushed up against the wall. I got it soon after I got a laptop for Christmas. I see that Buffy has claimed it as her bed. She’s laying on top of my laptop. That is about to change.

“Okay, off you go,” I tell her. I try to shove her off. - I know if I try to pick her up, she’ll dig her nails into my laptop. - She looks at me, hisses, and swats at my hand with her paw.

“Why do you have to be so rude?!” I ask her. She narrows her eyes at me in reply. She then stands up and jumps off of the table. I watch her walk away. I pull the chair out and sit down at the desk.

I open my laptop and press the button to turn it on. I then click on the MySpaceIM icon. I embedded it on my desktop so I wouldn’t have to look it up every time I want to get on it. I wait for the program to load. I really hope Shane is awake. He lives all the way in Sydney, Australia. There’s a large time difference in between Azusa and Sydney.

dannynoriega: Hello… You awake?

shanejenek: Yeah, it’s 10 am in Sydney. I’m at school. What’s up?

dannynoriega: oh, I had a bad day and I really needed someone to talk to.

shanejenek: What happened?!

dannynoriega: I was called disgusting by Kyle because I told him that gender was mental and not physical. He’s messed up.

shanejenek: Sounds like it. I wish I could come to Azusa and hug you and tell you everything will be okay :c. I also wish you could come live with me. My friends are accepting.

dannynoriega: The friends I have are but it’s not enough sometimes. They don’t always stand up for me. Sometimes I want someone to relate to…

shanejenek: I’ll always be here for you to talk to. Even at 2 AM. That’s what boyfriends are for!

I smile and giggle at his comment. Comments like that get to me sometimes; especially if they’re from someone I love a lot. I love Shane unconditionally.

dannynoriega: Yeah I know and I’m glad you are. But remember that I can’t always have my laptop. That means I can’t always text you.

shanejenek: Well, one day, we’ll be together in real life. Things will get better. Believe me!

dannynoriega: I will. I’ll let you go. You don’t need to get in trouble at school.

shanejenek: I personally don’t care if I get in trouble but okay. I love you <3

dannynoriega: I love you, too <3

shanejenek: <3

I wait a little while before clicking the ‘x’ in the top right corner. I then shut my laptop down. I hope what Shane said was true; I hope we do get to see each other in real life one day.

[paragonrobits]

Choice In Family

Karkat, Terezi, and Dave have a thoughtful nature on the families you get stuck with and the families you chose. While drowning in grub-babies.

Also on Ao3 and FFnet~

“Y'know, it's weird how none of us really get to choose the way our families get us,” Terezi said, claws deftly working needles. She was pretty much skilled at anything she'd ever turned her paws to; a Pyrope trait, to excel at any task they felt obliged to try and they would always master it in record time. Only the Amporas took it to bigger extremes. Terezi, after much painstaking instruction from Rose, had gotten good at needlework.

Dave had to raise an eyebrow at that; barely noticeable under his shades, but she definitely knew. “Really, now,” he said with an affected lack of any tone at all that, despite his best efforts, accentuated the wariness. Any talks about family could go down very bad roads that neither he, nor Dirk or Hal, wished to be addressed these days. “That really that weird, Teez? Nobody really gets to pick your family.”

This got a gruff snort from the the floor. Terezi paused in her weaving of fabric to turn her head towards Karkat, laying down on the ground in a pile of grubs. Infant trolls, perhaps less than a few months old each, all almost the same age down to a few seconds from crawling out of the slurry. They mostly looked alike; similar patterns of horns – mostly not very long, fairly thin but strong – and came in several shades of the castes. A couple were the recently emerged shade of lime, and they looked the most like Karkat. A few were teal, at least two were bright cherry red, and some of the outlying oddities were shades that didn't match up to either one of them. Dave expected jades, olives or even violets to start cropping up. It was like every time he turned his back, new grubs were showing up and squeaking for attention.

“That's just goddamn bullshit, Strider,” Karkat said archly, doing his best to look dignified with multiple grubs crawling over his body like throw pillows made of wiggle, and failing miserably. One was curled up smugly against his chest, and another was hopefully biting his hair. What it was hoping for, it was anyone's guess. “You know it and I know it and Terezi knows it, this damn little child right here on my head knows it and she doesn't know anything. Besides she should know hair is not edible in the slightest, you stop that you bad baby!” The grub yawned in disinterest, curling up into a ball and rolling against his side. “'You can't choose your family', don't be dense. We sure as hell did, didn't we?”

A thoughtful pause filled the room.

“Suppose we did,” Terezi said, a bit cheered up by the thought. “But... I dunno. Dumb thought, I guess. I just thought it was weird that with both our species, with all the differences in how we raise babies and educate them and live our lives, we still have that in common. Not much choice with who you get stuck with.”

“...Yeah. It sucks,” Dave said, very cautiously. “Like,  a metric shit-ton. That was a real measurement on Earth. Totally was. I am not bullshitting you here, I can almost definitely promise you, we came up with that one to calculate how much tonnage could be taken up when an elephant just squatted down on innocent bands of wandering accountants and were just being complete bastards about it so they-”

Karkat's noise wrinkled. “Knock it off, jackass, you'll spoil the kids taste for swearing!”

“Eh,” Terezi said. “We could do with a bit less fuckin' cursing in this household, ya hear me?” She paused to sniff at her needlework. It was a grub-shaped bundle of cloth, suitable to hold a grub like a little sweater, complete with straps to tie around an adult troll's body, and stretchy enough to accommodate them as the grubs matured until they reached pupation age. It might also make a good bag for some bread.

Bit of a shame that Terezi's taste in fabric still resembled a zebra made out of plaid and neon lighting that had been fed into an anvil factory, backwards. Dave recoiled in horror from the bright colors.

“I like it,” Karkat said loyally. “It's pretty.”

Terezi smirked, smugly.

“Okay,” Dave said, getting back on track. “But I think I get what Terezi was talking about. Human kids were adopted or born into existing families. Troll kids got culled by their... their loogies.”

“Lusii, you insensitive jackass!” Karkat hollered. Some of the grubs hissed supportively. One of them yawned in Dave's general direction.

“He's doing that on purpose, Kar, don't feed the small squishy's thirst for aggravation,” Terezi said, doing more knitting.

“Yeah, those things,” Dave said, unbothered. “Either way, you get saddled with caretakers that may or may not... uh.” He paused, and it was a very delicate pause. Like one of those old fancy, expensive egg-things on old Earth, but this could crack at any moment, and give birth to crawling horrors he did not wish to see again.

Terezi's arm, seemingly moving on automatic, reached out and grasped his forearm reassuringly. She was so much bigger than him, the swell of her hip alone towering over him even while she was sitting and he was standing up, that her palm engulfed his entire arm. Yet her cool touch was reassuring; Dave visibly calmed down. He breathed in, out, and she gave him another gentle squeeze.

“May not be right to be around a kid,” Terezi said gently, picking up the thread in his head. It was the sort of thread that was probably on fire and burning to the touch.

“Yeah,” Dave said mournfully. “Like that.” He stared at the ground, resolving to go forward, and plunged through with it. “Hell, look at Vriska. Her mom was... messed up. And Gamzee's goat-dad thing was barely ever round, way Karkat tells it.” Karkat nodded, gazing with concern at Dave and gauging if he was Okay. And Feferi basically had to run a whole gamut with Eridan to keep her mom from waking up and ending the world... before she actually did, I mean. Lot of stress to put on a kid.”

Terezi shrugged. “That's the way it was on Alternia. A lot of coldbloods had to do more caretaking than their lusii were able to give in return. And warmblood lusii had... other issues, a lot.” She said this in the calm way of someone who, in her youth, had thought about this a lot and plotted to dismantle the entire system that demanded it be like this. “I've been looking into Beforus. Their culling system; they still had lusii, but they also had some trolls that cared for wigglers. Bit like your and Kanaya's ancestors, Karkat.”

Karkat considered this; the idea of a troll caring for wigglers was a revolutionary one but getting more commonplace. “You mean like the way they were on Alternia... or the ones we actually met?”

There was another pause. “That sounds potentially, uh, super squicky,” Dave said, sticking his tongue out. “Like... her being in that kind of a caretaker relationship while they're both hate-flirting with each other 24/7? That's... that's messed up, man.”

Karkat and Terezi looked at each other and shrugged. They did not question this, even if they didn't really understand Dave's problems; some things just did not translate well. “The point,” Terezi said firmly, carefully edging away from the subject. “Is that what we're planning here... I dunno. Might work better than just turning kids loose with lusii and leaving them to fend for themselves.” She didn't need to emphasize that Alternia was a profoundly unnatural state of being, a world of perpetual warfare and misery orchestrated to make their specific generation strong enough to win SGRUB. Strength, in her opinion, was overrated. If you wanted to see trolls as they really were, without jackass cherubs and their puppet minions constantly bringing out the very worst of them and making that the standard for social behavior and government models... you needed to examine Beforus. That was trolls as they would have been.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna pretend I know what you're getting at, nod a lot and accept the life you've laid out for us,” Karkat said, laying back on the ground and lifting a grub with a grumpiness that Terezi grinned at, knowing full well that this was Vantas cheerfulness.

“You do that, Kar,” she said, mouth wide and toothy.

“If it becomes common place, you could end up with the same... uh, issues on Earth,” Dave said warily.

“See? That's why you're here,” Terezi said. “Telling me about these things so I know what to avoid when I draft the legal stuff for it.”

Dave contemplated the possibility that Bro had wound up being the man he was for just that exact purpose, to make Dave the kind of guy who would be wary of potentially destructive guardians, and he thought he was better off not thinking about that. Terezi winced at this thought, and Dave quickly changed the subject. “I, uh...” he looked at the grubs, and got some inspiration, as well as a legitimate question.

It was blatantly obvious whose grubs they were, or at least the primary donors of the slurry that produced them. Karkat and Terezi were doing their very best to add numbers to overall troll population, and do their part in repopulating their species. Dave privately suspected that they were trying to set some sort of record; outdo whoever the troll equivalent of Genghis Khan or whoever would have had a huge amount of direct descendants. “I thought you needed the Mother Grub or whatever to get troll babies,” he said. “These guys, I know damn well they didn't come from that spawning pool. Where the heck have they been coming from?”

Terezi coughed, looking embarrassed or caught in the act of some culturally damning act of Things Man Was Not Meant To Do. Karkat looked carefully at the ceiling, not looking at Dave. “We, um.” Terezi coughed again, and focused on the knitting. “We found a way. Took a lot of work. A lot of work.”

“That's an innuendo, isn't it.”

“Not in front of the kids,” Terezi said mildly.

[reptilerach]

“Rejection”; Chapter Six

NOTES: Wowie, humans! This story is going better than I thought it’d be. Thank you! More bad language in this chapter, and it’s probably going to be like that throughout the whole story. What can I say; I have a thing for curses. Pretty long chapter today, just cause I felt like it. Enjoy!

(Once again, “(Y/N)” means “Your name”. Just a reminder, in case any newcomers stop by to read!  (◕ω◕✿) )

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His eyes narrowed, and studied your figures intently. Finally setting you down after a few moments, he pointed to the kitchen. “GO SIT DOWN AND WAIT FOR DINNER. I CAN’T HAVE EITHER OF YOU MAKING ANYMORE OF A MESS IN HERE, NOR DO I NEED TO HEAR ANYMORE OF YOUR PUNS.” Papyrus glared directly at you, which made you giggle. Sans walked past you, entering the kitchen, while you stayed behind with Papyrus.

“Paps, do you need any help?” You asked sweetly, tugging gently on Papyrus’s red scarf. Papyrus spun around to face you, and smiled sadly. “NO THANK YOU, MY DEAR FRIEND (NICKNAME). I APPRECIATE YOUR OFFER, BUT I CAN’T LET A GUEST SLAVE THEMSELVES AWAY HELPING OUT THE HOST. BESIDES, IT SEEMS LIKE YOU AND MY BROTHER WERE HAVING QUITE THE CONVERSATION. I WOULDN’T MIND CLEANING UP IN HERE.”

He winked at the part where he mentioned Sans, and you blushed brightly. “A-are you sure?” You stammered, cringing at your awkwardness. Papyrus outstretched his arms, and you gladly accepted his offer for a hug. “I’M POSITIVE! I’LL BE IN THERE SOON. THIS WON’T TAKE LONG.” He held you tightly against his armor, and you smiled. Papyrus was such a sweetheart. After you let go, you wove to him and made your way to the kitchen. The subconscious of your mind was happy for a break from the depression you were in. You wondered Sans felt the same way.

Sans took a seat at the the right seat next to the head of the oak table, and tapped his fingers impatiently. He leaned on his right fist, and mindlessly started tapping his foot. Just when he looked to see why (Y/N) wasn't there yet (it's literally a five foot walk), he picked up on a little of her and Papyrus’s conversation. Listening carefully to their words, he smiled when she asked if she could help.

i knew she wasn't that bad of a person. As he was about to argue against it, thinking that she might just be messing with him and making him believe she was good, (Y/N) accepted Papyrus’s offer for a bear hug. And it looked pretty damn genuine from where he sat. Calling off his nerves, he lost some of the concern that had begun to eat away from inside his soul earlier when he had to show the human who was the boss around here.

You practically skipped into the kitchen, only to find Sans watching you once more. Observing. Analyzing. Taking mental notes, if you will. Your cheeks stayed at their high temperature, and you pulled out the chair across from Sans. However, it pulled backwards as soon as you went to sit down on it, and your butt hit the hard tile with a thump. “Ow!” You cried out, but Sans chuckled under his breath. You got up, and gave him a playful glare. This time, you made sure that the chair wouldn't run out from under you.

“i’m just messing with ya, ki- er, (y/n).” Sans corrected himself, and you nod in approval. You leaned forward quickly, resting your elbows on the table and smirking at the small skeleton in front of you. “Are we going to finish our conversation? Or are we gonna talk about something different?” Sans responded with a shrug, and you squint curiously at him. “eh, i don't care. if you want to, but i feel like it's gonna mainly be insults about me and how i can't guess age for shit.”

You winked, and sat up straight. “Damn right it was gonna be.” “ay, watch your fucking language.” Sans snapped playfully, and pretended to give you an evil glare. You scoffed, and shot right back at him. “Wouldn't that be reading, wise guy?” Sans opened his eyes, looking as if he were about to snarl back a good comeback. It never came, and he sat in silence. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t was determined to make sure you wouldn't win this feud.

He ruffled his jacket like a gangster would, and propped an arm up on the table. “you think you're so clever. but can you think of a good comeback for this?” Suddenly Sans stood up from his seat and teleported out to the living room. As soon as he left he was back again, holding that half empty bottle of ketchup. You raised a brow, and inspected it. “It’s a bottle of ketchup.” Sans rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms. “no duh.” You winced at him, and an incredulous look spread to your ears.

“What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” Sans gazed at you with half lidded eyes as if you were an idiot. “you eat it. jeez, and i thought you were this wise human that knew everything-” “I KNOW THAT YOU EAT IT!” You shouted with frustration, nearly breaking the bottle in two. A little crack spread across the surface, and Sans’ eyes widened. Then he went back to his sarcastic and carefree attitude. “so do it.” “Do what?” He smiles, and raises a non existent eyebrow. “eat it. the whole bottle.”

You contorted a face of pure disgust, and shoved the damaged glass container away. It bumped into Sans’ jacket, which he took in his hand and examined. On the outside, he had a poker face on so strong he didn't think that you realized how shocked he was that you actually cracked the thing. It would at least had to take him in his most fearsome state to shatter it just like you did, where no amount of physical pain or struggle mattered to him.

“what? are you too chicken?” Sans smiled, thinking that would affect (Y/N) like it would Undyne. Undyne would never let a challenge go down. Neither would Frisk or Papyrus. But (Y/N) just rolled her eyes, and remained firm in her seat. “Don't even start with that crap, Sans. I'm not a chicken. I just think that drinking ketchup like you is a feat that can only be done with monsters who have no tongue or tastebuds.”

Sans made a couple of chicken and rooster noises to try and change the girl’s mind, but she was stubborn. No matter how much he beckoned, she would not take the condiment and down it. He frowned, and uncapped the bottle. “who said that monsters don't have tongues?” (Y/N) tilted her head, and whispered a quiet “what?” under her breath.  “Well, one: you're a skeleton. You are made up of bones, and bones only. The tongue is a muscle, which doesn't classify as a bone. Two: apparently monsters don't have tongues if you guys eat weird and gross food like cider made out of spiders or snail pie! Gross!”

You blanched, and stuck out a tongue for drama. Sans looked like he could care less about what you thought, and shrugged. “you're wrong about both of those statements. welp, more for me.” And then it was….gone. Just gone. You scoot your seat forward, watching the ketchup go straight through his teeth like water. You stared at his spine where his neck should be, and saw how it was moving; just...no ketchup was coming out. It's like the ketchup was turned invisible on its way down.

After he guzzled the empty glass with the words, “Grillby’s” in a fancy calligraphy, your jaw gaped open with utter amazement and shock. Sans wiped his mouth, and flinched when he saw how intently you were staring at him. His cheekbones tinted a slight blue from all the attention, and rubbed the back of his skull sheepishly. “no manners when others are eating either, huh?” He commented, which snapped you out of your dumbfounded stupor.

“How did you do that?!” You asked excitedly, your grin spreading to one the size of a plate. Your eyes were saucers, and you’re sure Sans was creeped out by it... but you were so astounded that you wanted answers immediately. “uh...do what?” He stuttered, and looked back at the living room for Papyrus. His brother was on his way over, and Sans was relieved that he wouldn't have to handle this topic on his own.

(Y/N) gave him an aggravated but stunned look. “You know exactly what! How do you eat?! The ketchup...it just went...fwoosh! Right through your teeth! How's that even possible?! It's just- I just- gah!” She threw her hands up in the air, and Sans grinned contently at her amazement. Frisk had asked this question too, but Sans just gave her a simple answer that he thought (Y/N) would smack him for.

She went silent, and left Sans on his own. Papyrus walked behind her, but she didn't notice. Her eyes were focused on Sans’ eye sockets, it was actually quite unnerving. Sans sweat nervously, but he didn't know why. just answer it like you always do, man. Sans told himself, and managed to speak. With a wave of some jazz hands, he smirked as (Y/N) glared at him with annoyance. “magic.” He stated, and refused to elaborate any further. Guess he didn't need Papyrus’s help after all.

She growled angrily, and turned around in her seat to face Papyrus. so she had noticed him. Sans thought bluntly, and crossed his leg over the other. He watched (Y/N) whine to his bro the same question she’d just asked him, but unlike the short skeleton Papyrus went into a whole spiel about it. With the amount of infatuation the human held, Sans thought she would fall out of her seat just by leaning into Paps’ words.

“SO BASICALLY, WE PUT THE FOOD INTO OUR MOUTHS…” Papyrus started off, and you rolled your eyes. “I think I got that already. But where does go?” Papyrus pointed to his abdomen, and she glanced downwards. “AS YOU CAN SEE, WE HAVE NO STOMACHS. BUT THAT’S OK, SINCE MONSTER FOOD IS MADE UP OF MOSTLY MAGIC AND DISAPPEARS ONCE YOUR BODY ABSORBS THE FOOD’S CALORIES.”

You blinked into space for a few seconds, then asked another vital question. “If it just...vanishes, why do you guys have a bathroom?” Papyrus posed heroically, and his cape flowed behind him with the draft coming from the window. You didn't understand why the window was open in the first place, since Snowdin was still in the middle of a bad snowstorm. “I LIKE TO TAKE SHOWERS WITH MY COSTUME ON! ALSO, I LIKE TO BRUSH MY TEETH AFTER DINNER ANYWAYS! SANS DOES TOO.”

You switched your attention back to Sans, who nodded in agreement. You gave him another incredulous look, and he stared right back at you with a “oh, come on!” glare. “what? i like to have good hygiene just as much as the next guy. i’m not overly clean; just enough.” Papyrus laughed, and it scared you for a second. “TELL THAT TO YOUR ROOM. IT IS ONE HECK OF A MESS IN THERE COMPARED TO MINE. PLUS THE FACT THAT YOU NEVER WASH YOUR SHIRTS OR SHORTS-” Sans stood up immediately, and tried reaching to his brother’s mouth to close it.

Since Papyrus was over a foot taller, the action was pointless. “paps, shut up! my room is fine! and i do wash my clothes. i’m not a hobo or somethin’.” Papyrus shoved him backwards, and proceeded to take out some more pans and ingredients for a new batch of pasta. “YOU ARE A SACK OF LAZY BONES, BROTHER.” You snort at that, and Sans threw you a warning look to stay on his side. Of course, you didn't.

“How lazy, Papyrus?” You asked sweetly, and the taller skeleton whizzed around quickly. He laid his hand on his hips, and began to list off all the things Sans doesn't do. “WHAT DOES SANS DO? BESIDES GO TO GRILLBY’S, OF COURSE. EVERY MORNING, I ALWAYS HAVE TO WAKE HIM UP FOR SENTRY DUTY, AND MAKE HIS MEALS! SANS ALWAYS FALLS ASLEEP AT HIS STATION, AND NEVER RECALIBRATES HIS PUZZLES!”

You laughed hard to Papyrus’s burns, but Sans did not. He had been begging his brother to stop, but eventually quit and simply let his brother ramble onwards. That didn't get you off the hook though, as you were the one who encouraged it. Sans teleported over to you, and looked down upon your curvy figure with dark, empty eye sockets. Normally, you would've been frightened, but Paps was in the room. Sans couldn't harm you in front of his innocent brother.

Knowing this, you smirked a shit eating grin and got out of you seat. “oh no you don't.” Sans murmured loud enough for only you to hear, and you ran around to the opposite side of the table from him. There was a good six feet between the two of you, so you continued to taunt him. It was like asking for a Death Wish, but you didn't care. You were being dangerous, but with fact that Papyrus was there you knew you weren't in too much trouble.

“So what you are saying is that Sans is a baby that constantly needs the Great Papyrus’s help changing his diaper?” You spat evilly, and Papyrus laughed from across the room. He was cutting up different sorts of vegetables together, and let out a gleeful “Nyeh-heh-heh!” “EXACTLY. YOU TOTALLY UNDERSTAND ME, DEAR (Nickname).” You smiled at Paps’ compliment, but flinched when you looked at Sans again.

His face was a dark blue from embarrassment, and if looks could kill, you would be minced meat. A sinister aura floated off him, and you gulped. His eye sockets were pitch black, and a teal flame flickered violently in his left eye. He teleported beside you, but instinctively you jumped over a chair and hid behind Papyrus for protection.

Clinging onto his scarf, Papyrus looked down at you and smiled. “WHAT’S THE MATTER, (Nickname)? IS SOMETHING WRONG?” You shook your head “no”, but Papyrus didn't believe you. “NO, THERE MUST BE IF YOU WANTED MY ATTENTION! IS THERE SOMETHING MISSING FROM THE PASTA?” You prayed that he would disagree, since Sans had teleported right after you dodged his first grab at your hair and was now approaching me fast.

But, of course, luck was not on your side. “WAIT! I’M MISSING THE MOST IMPORTANT PART! I’LL GO RUN TO THE STORE. TIME ME!” He shouted, and bolted out the door, leaving you in the dust. Well, fuck. You thought, and the lights to the kitchen flickered on and off creepily. One second, Sans was just standing there with a horrifying expression by the table. When the lights went off, he teleported away and left you with an overwhelming eerie feeling in the kitchen.

FIRST

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Chapter Ten (Where all the chapters before that are.)

Chapter Twenty (Links for Chapters 11 --> 19)

Chapter Thirty (Links for Chapters 21 --> 29)

[shiiza-zeppeli]

Jotaro Headcanon(s)

Okay, so I’m sure everyone who’s watched or read Stardust Crusaders is familiar with the knife scene in the Jotaro vs. Dio fight. After Jotaro gets stabbed and hits the ground, it’s revealed that he stuffed his shirt with magazines, which is what saved him. But I don’t remember him mentioning his hat, not would his hat fit one. Add in the fact that we see blood when a knife hits his hat, and it can be concluded that Jotaro definitely took a knife to the forehead. Which isn’t just something you can shrug off.

So, with that lengthy explanation over, I have this headcanon where Jotaro suffers from pretty bad migraines from the end of Part 3 onwards.

More information on this (additional explanation + fic draft maybe?) under the cut. ((also sorry if this is messy I typed it on my phone at midnight, oops))

I haven’t finished anything past Part 4, so I can’t say if there’s anything in canon that directly contradicts this, but I’m pretty sure it’s completely possible. I’m not an expert in head wounds either, but having an inch+ of steel embedded in your skull doesn’t sound like something a person could do without any side effects, so that’s what I’ve been thinking.

And as for some more headcanons…. I also like to imagine that since Joseph and Polnareff were so badly injured and down by the end of the fight, while Jotaro was still standing, he got shoved to the side when it came to medical care. As in, the SPW concentrated on those two while Jotaro just watched and hoped Joseph would be okay, sitting patiently but still bleeding out. He wouldn’t have taken the magazines out of his shirt before getting picked up, so they’d still be in there as Polnareff and Joseph were getting cared for, soaking up any blood that came out of his stab wounds. Which would exist because if you compare the lengths of the knives with the thickness of the magazines, there’s no way they didn’t stab Jotaro at least a little.

Moving on, Jotaro is sitting there bleeding out while the other two are being fussed over by the SPW, telling anyone who does take the time to notice him that the blood isn’t his, and that it came from Dio’s injuries when the two of them got too close while fighting. It would be a lie that he half believed, half didn’t, but wanted to be true anyway. Three people had already died on him that day, and he didn’t want anyone the mortality rate of his trip to Egypt to climb any higher because the doctors that should have been saving them were occupied with the less injured Jotaro.

The doctors/nurses/whatever would listen to Jotaro’s refusals, since the magazines absorbing his blood meant his shirt didn’t show how much he had bled, and his hat helped hide his head wound. The blood on his face he again attributed to Dio, since the vampire had squirted it with blood from his leg (how it was possible to make blood to that far and with such precision, Jotaro didn’t knoe). Thus, the conclusion was that Jotaro miraculously wasn’t that injured.

It wasn’t until after Joseph woke up and hugged Jotaro that the extent of the teen’s injuries were revealed. Jotaro had been trying his hardest to stay awake and alert while Joseph was out, but he started slipping once the old man woke up. During their hug, Joseph felt the odd angles of the magazines jab into him, and asked Jotaro about it, who told him about them. Joseph then made a silly comment about how it was such a waste of good material and pulled up Jotaro’s shirt, making the magazines tumble out. At this point Jotaro would be too dazed from blood loss to stop Joseph in time, so his hands just kind of shoot toward Joseph’s arm in a delayed reaction, freezing when he sees how bad the scene looks.

Because when the magazines tumble out, they weren’t the white and blues they had originally been, but pinks and reds, with some crusty brown on top. There are gashes in his chest too, ones that he never noticed, but does then. As does Joseph, who starts asking Jotaro about it, but the teen just replies that he thought the magazines had stopped the knives from hitting him, and that he hasn’t felt them in his skin, so he hasn’t noticed.

At this point his words are slurring a bit, and the SPW doctors hear him and start assembling stuff to work on Jotaro because oh god they messed up and it turns out he’s more injured than they thought and what are they going to do it a Joestar dies because they were careless (his last name not actually being Joestar an unimportant thing at the moment, because he has the blood and he has the birthmark and that’s all that matters).

Jotaro then makes a sort of offhand comment that his head hurts or that he has a headache or something, and Joseph immediately takes off his grandson’s hat and rubs his good hand against Jotaro’s head. Not only does he see the blood from the wound left there, but he sees the shine of a blade and gasps. He asks Jotaro about it, to which Jotaro replies that Star Platinum must have knocked the handle/base (whatever it’s called) off when he was blocking the road sign. Which freaks Joseph out, because he has no idea what that means (why would Star Platinum be blocking a road sign?? (because Dio, of course, but Joseph was unconscious/dead/whatever for that)).

Then Jotaro just kind of mutters and passes out on Joseph’s shoulder, sending the old man into a complete panic. His family had a history of dying young, and maybe he had avoided that, but that was probably because he tricked death by having a funeral at age 18, so that didn’t count. And what would he tell Holly if her only son died? Wait, was Holly even okay? Did they kill Dio in time? Did that actually solve the Stand problem? He needed to call Suzy, too, to make sure Holly was still okay….

So then Jotaro becomes the SPW medical team’s top priority and they remove the blade, leaving Jotaro unconscious for a little while, but alive. He eventually wakes up with a pounding headache, one that would be just a taste of the many nights and days to come spent staring at a chart or wall as the world distorted around him and his head felt like it was partying with a sledgehammer.

Loud noises would tend to bring on headaches, as would strong smells and bright lights, so Jotaro would grow even more fond of being alone. And, eventually, the ocean. Sure the water had a slight smell to it, and the hum of whatever machinery ran the boat he was on or the equipment he was using meant he wasn’t always in complete silence, but it was a lot better than while on land. Plus, the ocean could be dark. No bright flashing lights from a nighclub in its middle, and no one holding up a stereo or yelling at their boyfriend floating on its waves (for the most part, that was. Sometimes drunks would find their way into the water, but that usually didn’t happen in places where he studied).

Occasionally his migraines would be bad enough that he’d have to take the day off, but for the most part he could manage. On bad days he’d just take some pain pills and glower his way out of any conversations, succeeding in avoiding confrontations that would aggravate his condition for the most part. His co-workers learned not to ask him what was wrong, either, which was good. Because Egypt was a secret kept between him, his grandfather, and Polnareff. And his mother and grandmother, to an extent (not to mention the SPW), but mainly the three who survived it. And only his grandfather and the foundation knew about the head wound, too. He had never managed to tell his mother about it, because he knew shed worry. Suzy had probably managed to figure something out along the line, but neither he nor Joseph had explicitly told her, so she likely didn’t know the exact details.

And that was the way Jotaro liked it. Migraines were a pain, and he would love to get rid of them, but if they were the price he had to pay for living, he didn’t mind too much.

[midnightruleswriting]

This is a bit of a follow-up to the story I posted last week. I know it needs more imagery, though I’m not quite sure where. But if there’s anything else anyone could suggest, I’d really appreciate it.

The tavern is crowded when Rowan pushes the heavy oak door in, greeted by the scents of freshly baked bread and ale, and the smoky overtures of the fire. Scanning the dark room, glancing over the masses clustered at tables throughout taking in a meal and a drink, they notice an empty stool at the crowded bar. Pushing past a group of raucous dwarves, Rowan slides onto the available stool and orders a mead. A human barmaid passes the drink down the counter, and Rowan takes an appreciative sip, letting the alcohol warm them from the inside before they have to begin the long trek back home.

           Behind them, the door swings open every few minutes, letting in drafts of cold air that sweep all the way to the far end of the tavern, chilling Rowan to the bone with each intermittent gust. They shudder, pulling their heavy cloak closer. Having spent all morning outside haggling with traders to buy the meat and furs Rowan provided, they crave a reprieve from the late autumn chill.

           Rowan sits there, nursing the drink and then another, stalling. They know they have to head out of the town before the sun gets too low, lest they won’t make it home before dark. And though their bow is slung over their shoulder, quiver full, they would prefer not to be out in the woods alone at night.

           The noise of the other patrons fades into a comforting lull behind them. Rowan can only afford to make the long trek into town every fortnight or so when hunting’s good. It allows them the chance to stock up on supplies, especially with winter so close. But it is also the only interaction Rowan has with others, preferring instead to spend the days alone in the quiet of the woods, and the evenings in the peace of their treehouse.

           Behind them a voice, high and clear above the din, asks, “Excuse me, have you seen a red-haired elf passing through?”

           Rowan’s shoulders stiffen; their fingers twitch with the desire to pull their hood up. But no, that would be too conspicuous. That would look like they had something to hide. If someone had business with them, Rowan would hear them out. Even though—in the fifteen years they had been selling and trading in this town, no one had ever come looking for them. Once their business was done at the market, they were left alone.

           Rowan hears the voice again, repeating the question. A gruff response follows. “Aye, lass. Over at the bar there. Is that who ye’re looking for?”

           “Perhaps, thank you.” Rowan doesn’t miss the clink of a coin on wood that follows, and the sharp tap of the heels of approaching boots on the hardwood floors. Rowan keeps their head down, eyes on their drink.

           “Excuse me.” Out of the corner of their eye, Rowan sees a hand reach out and tap the shoulder of the patron next to them. An older human with a scruffy beard and weathered eyes. “Do you mind if I…?”

           The patron nods, shifting off the stool. A young female elf takes their place, flicking her long red braid over her shoulder. “Cold out, isn’t it?” She asks, glancing at Rowan. They only nod in response, a cold knot of dread twisting in their stomach, turning the mead sour.

           Fifteen years. Fifteen years since they’d left home. And here—not a foot away—sits Fenrose. A few inches taller than she had been the last time they saw each other, and certainly more mature. Gone are the gowns Rowan remembers her in, typical of court life, replaced by the tunics and leathers and furs donned by commoners.

           Fenrose brusquely orders a mulled win, and turns on her stool to study Rowan properly. “Not even going to say hello?” She asks coyly, flashing a smirk. “Since when do you drink ale, anyway?”

           “It’s mead. I never liked wine.” Rowan shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. But their skin is crawling, a small voice inside screaming run, run, run.

           Fenrose takes a long draught of her drink when it arrives, then lets out a long sigh—but whether it is one of satisfaction or aggravation, Rowan cannot tell. “What’s the deal, Finley?”

           Rowan flinches, recoiling from the name and the past it drags up. It stings like a slap to the face. That night, so many years ago, when Fenrose knelt in front of them, repeating that name and begging for a response. Rowan couldn’t give one then, and isn’t sure they can muster one now.

           Instead of answering, Rowan pulls their sleeves down a little further, ensuring their arms are fully covered. Fenrose doesn’t seem to notice, but Rowan knows better than to underestimate their little sister. Always so quick on the uptake, Fenrose understood lessons and cues like none other, lessons it took Rowan ages to learn. Rowan can see her eyes darting, scanning the room before returning to Rowan, and beginning their circuit once more. There was a cunning there, lurking beneath the surface. A stark reminder of their father. Fenrose wouldn’t miss a thing, no. She was too much like Rowan, too much like their father. Nothing escaped their notice.

           “So, what, are you not going to answer me? Is that what’s going on here?” Fenrose flicks a stray hair out of her face, seemingly unperturbed. “I’ve got all day, Finley. I don’t mind waiting.”

           “What are you doing here?” Rowan finally croaks out. Their throat feels dry, and no amount of mead seems to help. Heat creeps up their neck as a cold sweat breaks out on their palms. For the first time, the tavern feels uncomfortably warm.

           “I want you to come home, Finley.” Fenrose says evenly, meeting Rowan’s eyes and locking them in place with her gaze. “We want you to come home.”

           “We?”

           “Faylen misses you,” she shrugs, sipping her wine. The fingers clutching her goblet are long and impeccably manicured, yet unadorned. Despite her common clothes, she reeks of court.

           “Faylen doesn’t even remember me,” Rowan scoffs. “If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t either.” They just wished they could believe their own words. Under the twisting knot in their stomach, a tiny ember of—hope? Happiness?—flickered into being. Rowan hadn’t expected something such as this, had only ever entertained the possibility of seeing their siblings again in their wildest fantasies.

           “Faylen—he remembers bits and pieces. He doesn’t understand why you left. Neither of us do. We miss you—it’s not the same without you, Finley—”

           The slap of the name stings harder this time. Rowan slams their hand down on the bar, a sudden and abrasive movement. “My name. Is not. Finley.” Saying it out loud burns their tongue. Were it not for the overwhelming disgust fueling their outburst, Rowan may not have been able to force the words out.

           Silence falls between them, thick and heavy, interrupted only by the going-ons of the tavern around them and Rowan’s heaving breaths. Fenrose’s eyes widen; Rowan is the first to look away, focusing instead on their drink in front of them.

           “And what, pray tell, would you prefer I call you?”

           “I’m sorry?

           “Your name. What do you want me to call you?” Fenrose’s response is easy, level, like she’s gauging the waters. As anyone with her diplomatic training would.

           Rowan had not been expecting this, had not been expecting Fenrose to reach out her hand and place it on top of theirs, to speak so quietly and easily, cutting through all their defenses.

           “Rowan.”

           Fenrose nods once. “Rowan, then. Is that why you won’t come home? You changed your name?”

           “Fenrose—stop. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” A harshness creeps into their voice, and Rowan can see Fenrose recoil from their tone. The knot in their stomach twists painfully. They swallow hard, steeling themself. The way her face falls—it’s so familiar. Fifteen years hasn’t changed too much, Rowan realizes with a pang of regret.

           “Does this—have to do with those brands on your arms?”

           Rowan curses internally, pulling on their sleeves again. “I’d hoped you would have forgotten.”

           “Forget?” Fenrose laughs, her voice raising, practically shouting over the din. “How could I have forgotten? I find you, burned and scarred in the library in the middle of the night, and the next day you disappear? How could I forget, Finley? Sorry—Rowan. How?”

           Rowan shrugs, ducking their head and shying away, uncomfortable with their sister’s outburst. “I had thought—Father would have—”

           “Oh, he tried,” Fenrose laughs again, dry and empty, a hollow sound. “He tried. Punished me whenever I mentioned you—I learned pretty quickly not to.” Rowan stiffens once more at the mention of punishment, primal instinct kicking in. But their sister continues on without pause, “Extra lessons on decorum or court etiquette, the awful stuff—not as bad as—” Fenrose stops suddenly. “I’m sorry—that’s not what I meant—”

           Rowan waves their hand, dispelling her apology, shoulders relaxing only slightly. “I learned early on I was not the favorite.”

           “When did he start—you know?”

           “Twenty years ago? Sometime around then. I don’t really remember. He didn’t—appreciate my complete and utter disregard for court formality, to use his words.”

           Fenrose stares blankly at Rowan. “I’m sorry, what? You’re the one that—you helped me with my lessons, you knew everything about—”

           “Oh I knew the rules—I just didn’t follow them. Look at me, Fenrose. Do I look like I belong at court? Entertaining guests and ruling a province? Father did not appreciate my disinterest. He tried to—teach me my lessons through other means, to put it nicely.” Overcome by the need for Fenrose to understand, Rowan shoves up their sleeves suddenly, revealing the scarred brands of elven runes, the same ones Fenrose saw all those years ago. “Weak and strong. Undisciplined and focused. He taught me my lessons in dichotomies. What I would never be, and what I had to be, to rule.”

           “That last one—I always wondered what it meant…” Fenrose murmured. “I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

           Rowan’s fingers trace the final brand on their wrist, closest to their left hand, the one without a twin. “You wouldn’t have found it—in any books. Father came up with it himself, his final blow. I suppose… the closest approximation would be ‘unfixable.’”

           “Unfixable?” Her response is only a puzzled quirk of her eyebrow.

           Rowan only nods in response, the firelight in the tavern drawing them back to that evening in the library, the scorch of the fire poker as it carved, white hot, into their skin, branding them for the last time.

           “What does that even mean?” Fenrose splutters, sipping her wine once more. Hiding her discomfort.

           Rowan shrugs. “I could never be the perfect heir, Fenrose. I would never be what he wanted me to be. He had built up this ideal in his head, and he hated that I could never live up to that.”

           “But you—we had the same lessons. You excelled, Finley—Rowan—I’m so sorry. Who care if you shrugged off court customs? I know other lords’ children who have done significantly worse. You did nothing wrong—”

           “Fenrose,” Rowan says slowly. “It didn’t have anything to do with my lessons, or my behavior.”

           “But you said—”

           “I know what I said. Father used those as excuses to hide his hatred. I believed, them, once. But no, I learned soon enough. The core of the problem was that I wasn’t what I was supposed to be. I wasn’t male. I wasn’t female. I think—if I could have settled on one, Father wouldn’t have minded. But I was something else. I am something else. And I wanted to behave like that at court. I couldn’t live under those oppressive rules and norms, the strict customs we were expected to uphold for the sake of four thousand years’ of tradition. Father couldn’t stand the idea that I would be anything other than what I was supposed to be. And he—punished me for it. As you know.”

           “So you’re not my—” Fenrose furrows her brow, studying Rowan. They can see the mechanisms working in her brain, trying to put the pieces together. Rowan doesn’t let her finish the sentence.

           “I am not your sister. I am not your brother. I am your sibling. And I would prefer if you referred to me as such. When I ran away—I left that all behind. I’ve made a life for myself. I’m happy.” Though Rowan knows it to be true, there’s a weak warble in their voice that belies their conviction.

           Fenrose is quiet once more, silently ruminating over the dregs of her wine. Rowan finishes their mead, waving the barmaid away. No time for another drink; they’ll need to head out soon to make it home before dark.

           “I take it this means you don’t want to come home with me?” Fenrose asks weakly, a final plea. Rowan feels the slightest pang of regret—she came so far, only to turn back empty-handed.

           But Rowan pushes that regret aside. They know it’s for the best. “Unfortunately, no. We’re all better off if I stay away.’

           “Forever?”

           “I can’t go back, Fenrose. Not while Father is still alive. And you are not ready to take over.” If Fenrose were willing to hunt Rowan down—alone, by the looks of it—who knows what plots she might concoct to depose of their father.

           “But you could—”

           “No. I cannot. I will not. We are not having this conversation. We are both young, and inexperienced, and it would be a disaster. An even worse disaster than having Father in a seat of power.” Rowan breathes out a heavy breath, calming their aching, racing heart. “Go home, Fenrose. Faylen will need you.” Faylen needs you more than you need me, they think to themself,

           Fenrose downs the rest of her wine. “So that’s it then? You’re sending me off on my way like I’m nothing to you? Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

           “I have missed you,” Rowan says slowly.

           “Anything else? Why won’t you come back, even if Father’s gone? Say a hundred, two hundred years from now, he dies. You won’t come home?”

           “I don’t fit in at court, Fenrose.”

           “If you’re in charge, I hardly think anyone will care,” Fenrose rolls her eyes.

           “It’s not just that—I don’t want to be at court. I want to be out in the forest, in my own home, that I made for myself. A home I built, and live the life I have made for myself. It is quiet, and it is simple, and it is what I want. A lonely life at court would not satisfy me.”

           “Lonely? You would marry—you would be us, with your family—you could raise your own children and—”

           Rowan waves their hand, silencing Fenrose once more. “I have no interest in marriage, or children. I have no interest in the…physical pursuit of others, in making that sort of connection with another. And yes, I miss you and Faylen. But you all are fine without me, and will continue to be fine without me. You are Father’s pride and joy. I’ve heard he parades the both of you around and lets other nobles fawn over you. That’s good. Let him. You’ll be safe so long as you play your roles.”

           “I don’t think I will ever understand you,” Fenrose stands, roughly pushing her braid back over her shoulder.

           “Are you leaving?” Rowan asks, unsure what to do now. Their hands fidget, finally rolling their sleeves back down. The tavern still feels oppressively hot; sweat dampens their back under the heavy winter cloak and layers.

           “I don’t know what else to do. It’s a long journey back home.” Fenrose throws her cloak back on, pulling the hood up to cover her braided hair and finely pointed ears.

           “Come home with me,” Rowan offers suddenly, reaching out and grasping Fenrose by the hand, surprising even themself. “You don’t want to be alone in the forest after dark—you can stay with me, for the night.”

           “I would like that,” Fenrose smiles, a flash of white teeth. “You said you’d built it yourself?”

           “In a sense.” Rowan pulls their own cloak up, tossing another gold coin on the counter for the barmaid’s trouble. “I met a druid, befriended them, for a time. She taught me a spot of nature magic and helped me build my treehouse.”

           Fenrose stops short in the middle of the tavern floor, eyes affixed firmly to Rowan, assessing. “You’ve led quite a life.”

           Rowan laughs, a real, hearty laugh that rocks their sides. “Come on. We can share stories to pass the time. It’s a bit of a walk.”

[neilthechiseler]

This Story Used To Be About Joan

(Or “How To Finish Writing A Story In Ten Easy Years”)

[Reveries of a wannabe writer after the cut.]

This story used to be about Joan. 

That was about a dozen drafts ago. For the purposes of this testimony, I’ve moved past Joan as a character, but since this used to be her story, I feel compelled to tell you that Joan was a sweet-natured, mildly trippy woman in her mid-to-late 20s who had just given up smoking and her boyfriend of seven years. It was over a clash of life approaches. For Joan, life was about singing the song of herself, because she contained multitudes, and what was true for her was good for anybody. Dennis, on the other hand, was hung up on the world. Petty things like keeping the power bill paid. Food in the refrigerator. You know, crap like that.

Since Joan was a free woman again, she’d gone back to her default mode of dressing like the best rack at Goodwill and furnishing her apartment like the worst end of large item pick-up day on the garbage route. She had dark bangs that she’d finally gotten right, just like the woman on TV. She was going to get an iPhone just like her (and that should tell you how long this has been on the to-do pile) until she realized that she’d screwed up her credit rating several years ago when she wasn’t paying attention to what she was signing. You see, she was really into textures at that particular moment, and the feel of the paper was a monumental distraction. Besides, minimum service agreements were tools of corporate hostility, and she felt the same way about paying early termination fees. Sunk again by philosophical differences.

In fact, it was as she was walking back from the cell phone store, tripping along to music that only she could hear, that she found a puppy, the kind her mom used to call a “Heinz 57 mutt”. It was sitting in a cardboard box which was apparently its current home, foraging in the garbage for its breakfast…which, being in the bin behind an appliance store, is drilling a dry hole, but dogs find a way. Joan picked up the little guy and got a flood of instant-validation affection. The decision was made. The dog was coming home.

From there, Joan’s story would be heading into the adventures being a single pixie in a fair-to-middling town and how she has to adjust to the puppy way of doing things, pulling Joan out of herself and dealing with the needs of another living thing for the first time in her life—never mind that she’d just shared a life with another living thing for seven years, because continuity is for cowards. The story would’ve been warm and kind, full of the wonderful lessons that animals can teach us, because they’re so like us, you know?  In other words, it would’ve been a copy of Chicken Soup For The Soul soaked overnight in an indie rock soundtrack until it was a soggy mess that just fell apart in your hands.

So you see why I had to ditch that crap with great speed.

Then I started thinking about the previous owner of the puppy. After all, somebody finds a puppy, somebody loses a puppy. Either that or somebody tells a puppy to get lost. So now we were on the story of a brown-haired boy with skinned knees and a crooked smile who promised his dad that yes, he could take care of a dog. His mom went behind the old man’s back and helped the boy pick out a dog from the shelter. 

While the boy was in the process of losing his mind, Liz, mother of one (“but some days it feels like two,” she usually tells her friends), noticed that her husband was looking on with an almost rictus grin. “It’s going to be fine, Tony,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder as they settled into the porch swing. “A boy that age needs something to get out of his own head. Care about things other than himself. Y’know?”

Tony finally snapped out of it, just enough to wrap his arm around Liz. “Yeah. We’ll just see about that.” 

The first three days were filled with the type of kid/dog romping that used to be underscored in family movies with a lonesome harmonica and guitar accompaniment. On day number four, however, the boy left the back gate open, and the puppy (who, even as a puppy, had become rightly freaked out by the boy’s strenuous, hands-on type of love) made a break for it.

It took the boy awhile to notice his mistake. He was busy burning ants with a magnifying glass, and wondering how long it would take to burn the squirrel that had ruined his pine cone bird feeder. When he finally figured out what had happened, an ungodly piercing wail of misery went through the air. The old man was on deck first.  “What’s got into you, champ?”

“Daaaaaaddy, the (blub) puppy (blub) got (snort) awaaaaay!” Through blubbing and snorting and snot bubbles, he relayed an edited version of the past hour that he thought would let him off the hook. “Help me find him?”

A kind of hardness crept into the father’s face, possibly because he had heard nothing but the puppy and the puppy and the puppy all week, and he was the one feeding the dog and cleaning its “peeps and poops”, as the rest of the household insisted on calling them. If this is a test, the boy’s failing, he told himself. And here comes a teachable moment. “I dunno, champ, this dog is your responsibility, so maybe it should be your responsibility to bring him home.” Then, just to twist the knife, “Better get your umbrella. Looks like a storm’s coming.”

What was coming was a torrential downpour that flipped the child’s cheap plastic Ninja Turtle umbrella inside-out almost instantly. Because of the miserable visibility, he ended up walking well past his “safety zone”, calling for the dog with a name the animal would never recognize because the baby genius had never bothered to tell the dog what its name was. That was the least of his worries, though, because when he was barely 100 yards from his subdivision, the driver of a tractor-trailer, fresh as a chemically-preserved daisy on his 30th working hour without sleep, suddenly lost control of his rig.

And at this point, with the steel behemoth close to spilling its presumably-toxic-to-humans cargo all over the suburbs, its indifferent headlights staring down a child who didn’t think he’d have cause to regret not mulling over his life insurance options this early in the school year, and two years away from the divorce hearings that would take the boy upstate with his mother while the dad dedicated his basement to a massive train set that he was convinced would make everything right again, let’s take a brief intermission.  

You might have noticed that I never named that child, and there’s a good reason for that: the little punk was a unsentimental aggravation. In a “write what you know” sort of way, I used to be that kid…and I couldn’t stand me either. At the same time, if I actually did the kid in, I’d either be drawn and quartered by a sentimental public, or I’d run the risk of clicking with an audience who kind of gets off on stories about kids being run over by diesel-fueled death. Since their money spends just as well as anybody else’s, I’d have to find new and “exciting” ways to flatten children, and who wants that on his head? If that makes me a coward, then fine, I lost my nerve.

(Occasionally someone reminds me that there’s a third much more likely option, that people could continue to ignore all this noise. My response is always the same: “Who the hell gave you this address?”)

Anyway, this is the point where I started thinking about the truck driver. At the time there were reality shows, news reports, and darkly amusing YouTube videos about truckers and the grueling lives they lead. Why not the truck driver?

His name was “Sweet William” Dallas, entering his second decade of cross-country freight hauling. William’s nickname was from a Leon Redbone song, and he had a tattoo of the man himself from the cover of Double Time on his left bicep, both of which he regretted once he decided Lynyrd Skynyrd was a better fit for him. 

Bill, as he now begged friends and coworkers to call him (which was the primary reason why they didn’t), was trying to finish a big-money run a day ahead schedule because his silver-haired mother was fading fast. At least that’s the way she put it after spending a week dealing with his aggravating brother, who had broken an arm trying to fish the TV remote out from behind the big dresser. "Get Richie out of here,” she had texted him a few days ago. “He’s really screwing up the schedule for my krav maga lessons.”

That gave William at least two deadlines to beat, and to that end, a twitchy neighborhood kid sold him a cluster bomb of caffeine pills and other stimulants, which our driver had been popping like M&Ms since Fredericksburg. Bill was either so tweaked or so zonked that he thought Unnamed Kid was a deer (a deer in jeans and a Polo shirt) when his truck told him to screw off and turned itself into a telephone pole flattener. 

(At which point I tell myself “Now that’s a pathetic way to put a button on a story. What about the drug dealer? Yeah, the dealer, let’s roll with that for awhile.”)

Andy was as thin as nothing squared, wearing a Make America Great Again cap pulled down tight over his sweaty forehead and an army jacket from the dumpster behind Goodwill buttoned to his neck, even in summertime. As far back as he could remember—that’d be last Tuesday—he wanted to launch a career in recreational pharmaceuticals, and attempted to jump-start a weed concern. Unfortunately, not only did he have a “black thumb” for agriculture, but no sense of effective camouflage, as his arresting officer told him. So he ended up in the bottom-feeding world of ordering pills from the ads in the back of High Times and selling them with a markup to people who couldn’t find a better connection. His primary clientele was desperate people on a deadline (mostly reckless college students), but sometimes he got special cases, like a young twentysomething woman who was just coming off of a long-term relationship…

Hold on a minute. That’s Joan, isn’t it? You do remember Joan, don’t you? This used to be her story, you know.

Not only is Joan more tenacious than I thought, but she turned out to have a few more jagged angles than she appeared to on first blush. She claims that her plot refused to launch because it kept blowing sunshine up my ass. No argument there, but to remedy that, she decided to go dancing on a patch of ice, screw her back up, and get hooked on under-the-counter pain killers...a shocking number of them homeopathic, which is a hell of a trick if you can pull it off. Joan insists all that had nothing to do with me, but there’s this hopeful look in her eyes when she says it that, under the circumstances, scares the crap out of me. So negotiations with Joan have resumed, because as much as I don’t want fictional people to wreck themselves for attention, there’s a mercenary streak in me that wants to see if this goes anywhere marketable.

So watch this space. Maybe the next time you read this, it’ll be about Joan again. Who knows?

That kid’s not coming back, though.

--enw