#hello world they’re 1 years old. cigarette

[mcrlboro]

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning

(pinterest inspired board)

part: 1/6

(other parts)  (masterlist)

The day it happened, it wasn't a significant meeting at all, you barely even talked. In fact, when he opened the door of your neighbor’s flat that day with a beer in his right hand and his hair messy, he didn't have any effect on you. You always knew that living next to a director meant that sooner or later you’d bump into the pretty faces of well-known people. Sure, you didn’t expect them to be Hollywood actors like him, but to say you were starstruck by the man, would be the overstatement of the year.

The building you’ve lived in for the last three years has five floors; you live in the 4th, he lives in the 5th. He’s a quiet person, usually spending his evenings out of his apartment. You’ve talked sometimes, about the weather and the weird lady that lives in the 1st floor. You’ve never told him you find his directing style a little pretentious.

You’ve never been to his place until that annoyingly warm August evening, when you find a white button up shirt on your balcony. You can clearly see more clothing when you look up and you’re certain the item you’re holding belongs to him.

He’s not there though. Instead you find a different face behind the door. Lighter eyes and darker hair. The man in front of you is definitely younger than the director. You don’t bother to notice what he’s wearing.

“Can I help you?” His voice is deeper than you expected. Stronger, with a touch of European accent. The sound of English surprises you at first but soon you realize he must be another foreign coworker that came to visit your neighbor

“No, I just think Argyris dropped this and it ended up on my floor.”

He looks at you and then at the shirt, in your hands.

Then he says “Sure, I’ll take it.”

“Okay.”

Then it ends. He doesn’t even ask your name. You don’t have to ask his. You figure out, as soon as you walk down the stairs, that it’s Sebastian Stan that you just talked to.

And while being a big fan of marvel movies, you think nothing special of him at first. You just wonder how a mostly unknown director from Greece got an actor like Sebastian to come here so they can work together. It makes no sense to you, but you forget it when your phone starts ringing.

/

It would’ve been easier if you never saw him again, yet you do. You see him trying to understand what the old lady from the first floor is trying to tell him. You already know. The elevator is not working. The next day you see him walking up the stairs.

You exchange a quick hello, how are you and then off you both go.

The same night Argyris invites you to have a drink with them in the terrace. Part of you wants to just stay in bed and binge watch some Sherlock episodes. Part of you already thinks of what to wear.

There are around ten people there when you show up. They’re all sitting down in huge pillows drinking and talking loudly. You don’t know most of them.

You sit next to a blonde girl, across from Sebastian. This time you notice he’s wearing a plain black shirt and holds a glass of whiskey.

You don’t share any direct conversations but you learn that he’s afraid of growing old and that he thinks Taxi Driver is one fucking masterpiece, as he says.

When you mention that you’re probably the least artistic person in the room right now, you hear him laugh.

A curly haired woman starts dancing with him at some point. You decide he’s not a good dancer.

He leaves the same time you do, following you down the stairs.

“I thought you live here.” You say when he doesn’t stop at the floor you expect him to.

“Ah no, I stay at a hotel near the centre.”

He keeps talking about his suite until you reach your door.

You part in a blur, with a short goodbye.

He still doesn’t ask for your name.

It makes you feel genuinely offended.

/

Two days after, he is the farthest thing from your mind, until you find him sitting in front of your door, his eyes roaming the place with despair. And then he sees you.

“Ah finally you are here.” He starts casually. “Thank god.”

You just nod.

“Argyris told me to wait for him with you. We had a meeting but he got stuck in traffic.”

You give him a look.

“He said you’re always at home so you won’t mind.”

Ouch. Yeah sure, your social life wasn’t something to brag about but for some reason the way Sebastian said it, it sounded like an insult.

“Okay, come in.” You shrug, clearly not feeling comfortable and turn around to unlock the door.

You hear him call your name. You thought he didn’t know.

“Yes?”

He offers you an easy smile.  “Thank you.”

/

Sitting in your couch he’s eyeing the entire room, while you put some groceries in the fridge.

“Argyris says you’re a great girl.” He clears his throat. “But he thinks you’re too quiet for your own good.”

You look at him, your eyes flicking up and down his face.

“And from what I can tell, he’s right.”  You hear him laugh.

It felt weird to see him laugh while he was leaning back at your cozy pillow. He had entered your life so suddenly you didn’t even have time to react to it.

“I’m sorry but I barely know you.” Your words are sharp. He sits up.

“Okay then let’s get to know each other, what’s your favorite Disney princess?”

Defeated, you laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, this is an important question.”

You wait for him to crack up but then you remember he’s an actor.

“I don’t know.” You think for a second. “Mulan?”

“Oh my god. Mulan is amazing.” You smile at him. “My favorite is Jasmine, she’s just so badass.”

You share your favorites that day, having almost nothing in common rather than your everlast love for animated movies and buttered popcorn.

When it’s time for him to leave, he stops and looks at you in the eye.

“You should talk more often.”

You stare at him with confusion. “I talk,” you raise your eyebrows. “When I have something to say.”

“Good.” he says, still looking.

/

Later in the evening, you’re eating some yoghurt when he comes knocking on your door.

He’s different. The white tank top he was wearing this morning is replaced with a dark shirt and his face looks tired. You assume they’ve been working since he went upstairs.

“Hiii”, he says dragging the i, “Am I interrupting anything?”

You desperately want to nod. You want to tell him that you were doing the most exciting thing in the world, before he came but you were never a good liar.

So you just tilt your head and take a step back.

That’s when he enters and is met with some loud rock music blaring from your laptop.

“You like AC/DC?” he asks, almost wide-eyed.

“Well, I can tell it’s them when I hear their stuff.”  For the first time that day, he seems to be in loss of words. “Why are you so surprised?”

He sits in the same spot in the couch as earlier and laughs.

“I just didn’t take you for the kind of girl who likes this music.” It’s your turn to laugh.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Quiet girl who loves animated films and eats kids’ yoghurt” he looks at the carton in your kitchen table, “and also likes metal music? Doesn’t add up.”

“We’ve basically just met; you shouldn’t make assumptions about me.”

“Fair enough.” He sits back, fidgeting with his fingers.

You take some time just looking at him

There was a certain vibe about that man that made you wonder how it’d feel to cruise down a dessert highway in a convertible mustang with him. In the summer. With him wearing that white tank top.

The color of strawberries emerges at your cheeks just at the thought of it.

You wish he doesn’t notice.

You’re glad to find him looking the other way, before he speaks up.

“We’re going out tonight.” His voice is warm now. “Argyris says you should come along, even though I’m quite sure there’s no hardcore music where we’re going.” He laughs again.

I can’t. You almost say. But then anxiety slips away from you and out of sudden you want him to stop being so freaking arrogant, going around and acting like he knows exactly what kind of person you are.

He thinks you’ll say no. You can see it in his eyes.

“Sure, when should I be ready?” you say, surprising both of you.

He looks at you for some time and then trying to hide whatever he was thinking he says the first thing on his mind.

“How old are you?” He sounds pitiful. He knows. He wishes he could hit a wall; with his head.

“Twenty-one.” His eyes scan yours, unsure of what they’re looking for. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He inhales deep.

/

You try to blink. You’re at a party in a little bar you’ve never been before and a lot of people are wearing black. Alcohol. You can still taste it on the back of your tongue. You don’t remember how you end up pressed against a dark skinned man, but you can tell he smells of cigarettes and despair.

You sway your body to the beat, close your eyes. Breath in. And out. You think the music deafens you for a second but you open your lids and see Sebastian and he’s watching you, unashamed.

He’s not that far, though it feels like it with countless bodies in the way. The music melts. His gaze is almost angelic. Or devious. You can’t really tell.

He’s dancing with that curly haired woman again. You wonder how intimate their relationship is.

The red neon lights make his skin glisten. His muscles move divinely. It makes you think there’s an entire world inside him, his flesh barely keeping it hidden. Out of sudden you get the urge to walk towards him. You want to see him up close under this dim lighting. But you don’t move.

The man that’s groping your waist asks for your name. You tell him you need to flee. He doesn’t understand.

You sit outside with the sweet summer breeze touching your bare arms. The bass of the music in the background syncs with the beating of your heart. You can feel your ribs grow with every breath you take. Until you stop breathing because the door opens and his eyes suffocate you.

You can’t fathom the effect he has on you. He was a pretty face on screen some days ago. But right now he steals distance and stays near you.

You don’t look his way. He doesn’t say a word. Nicotine and smoke surround you as he exhales. His fingers hold the cigarette butt with care.

“Do you want some?”

You turn to look at him.

“I don’t smoke.” He laughs.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t want some.”

You want to know if his breath has the taste of sulfur. You want to pretend it’s the alcohol or the loud music that makes your head hurt.

“What’s the best part of being an actor?” The blue in his eyes glows.

There’s silence but he seems to be thinking about it.

“Do you ever feel things too much?” He says, his voice hoarse. “I mean, when you feel something so intensely it becomes a part of who you are.”

You nod. You understand.

“Acting allows you to let go of these feelings,” he starts. “You share the burden with the audience until it becomes light and you can hold it again.”

You look at him, shaking your head.

“I don’t think I could that,” you close your eyes. “I don’t think I could share what I feel so easily.”

He stands up. The wind hits you again.

“A lot people can’t. That’s why everyone is heartbroken,” he takes a breath, “Feelings eat us raw.”

You both go to bed alone that night. Tomorrow there is a hole next to you.

/

the morning after, search history

(02:45 PM) hangover recovery

(03:00 PM) best food after a hangover

(03:10 PM) sebastian stan

(03:30 PM) sebastian stan girlfriend

(06:00 PM) xanax side effects

/

You follow him on Instagram. He doesn’t follow you back. You remember he probably gets tons of followers every day and decide not to let it bother you. Instead you study for the exams of the following month.

The subject of your studies doesn’t interest you. Another poor decision you made under pressure. Sometimes you feel as if your life is borrowed from someone else. Sometimes you feel as if you haven’t found your home yet.

Feelings eat us raw.

His girlfriend looks beautiful in the pictures you find online. The media isn’t certain if they’re still together but you like to think so. It makes it easier to avoid him.

But the universe seems to be oblivious to your thoughts and you see him that same day. You’re taking the garbage out and he’s coming down from the top floor. You meet in the elevator.

“I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” his eyes are smiling as he talks “you looked kinda drunk last night.”

You fidget with the hem of the bag you’re holding.

“I wasn’t drunk.” You notice he’s growing some stubble. You’re not sure you like it.

“Whatever you say, doll.”  You bite your cheek trying to devour any sign that might give away how his words make you flinch.

He turns his body a little so now you’re facing each other. He’s so pretty. He’s so pretty in a way that doesn’t hurt. You try not to stare at him, but you fail sometimes. You’ve never noticed how slow the elevator moves until you want to get out. You can’t stand being so close to him for much longer.

He’s an arrogant rich actor who loves Disney and smokes a lot, you think. I have no reason to be affected by him.

“Ah! Argyris said we’re leaving for the weekend.” You eye him curiously. “He wants to show us some small villages in the south. He thinks we should get to know the country a little more before we start.”

You’re stunned by your neighbor’s dedication to his work. Sometimes you wish you had something you could be passionate about too. Sometimes you think you’re never going to find it.

“That’s great. I’m sure you’ll like it.” You give him a smile.

He leans his back at the wall. The elevator stops. Finally.

“I like your eyes.” You grab tight onto the bag. “But they don’t smile when you do.”

He opens the door and he’s gone.

They tell you that it’s fun to meet a famous person. They tell you, you can ask for a photo and a hug. They tell you celebrities don’t talk a lot but that doesn’t mean they’re rude.

But he’s not like that.

He’s fire. He’s burning heat and scorching flames. His words are his thoughts; raw. You don’t like it.

/

late night search history

(00:38 AM) blue valentine movie soundtrack

(01:15 AM) is sebastian stan a bad person

(01:30 AM) acting classes for amateurs

(01:50 AM) cheap leather boots

(02:10 AM) sebastian stan eyes

 You find it annoying; how he’s present even when you’re alone.

Thankfully he’s leaving for the weekend, you think.

/

The weekend, however, is two days away.

You think you can get away without seeing him. And you do. Until it’s late at night again. And they’re all upstairs with music so loud you’re certain the lady on the first floor is going to be rude about it in the morning.

The music tempo has you unaffected. All you think about is if he’s dancing with that woman again.

He’s such a bad dancer, he should not be dancing.

There’s a subtle knock on your door. You know it’s him. You hope you’re wrong.

“Do you feel like dancing?” His face is all flustered. It’s a good look on him.

“You can’t come knocking on my door at 2 AM and ask me to dance.” His gaze is filled with confusion.

“So you don’t feel like dancing?” You roll your eyes. He notices.

“That’s not the point Sebastian.” It’s the first time you call him by his name. You let it slip away slowly, testing the way it sounds coming out of your mouth.

He takes a step closer. You are suddenly aware of your pyjama shorts and your exposed skin.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to irritate you.” His eyes are the cliché blue of the sky. “I just thought you might want to dance, that’s all.”

Suddenly you feel guilty and embarrassed. He’s oblivious to it.

For a moment you feel his eyes linger on you. It feels surreal.

You nod at him.

He’s ready to say something when Argyris comes down the stairs, his shirt slightly unbuttoned.

“Ah man, I thought you got lost or something.” You lower your eyes. “Stop messing with the poor girl. People are looking for you.”

He throws a smile at you and Sebastian takes a quick breath.

“People are always looking for me.”

He gives away that he’s carrying a burden. Your expression softens. But then you look at Argyris and you see he doesn’t really pay attention to these words.

You share a quick look before you’re there standing alone at your doorstep, trying to grasp the idea of him.

/

When you wake up you feel like running. You can’t fathom where the feeling comes from but it starts like a liquid running down your veins and soon you can’t stay in bed even for a second.

Feelings eat us raw. Only if you let them.

.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged in this six part story :)

[6peaches]

Richard Siken - You Are Jeff

1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan- tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet.

2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.

3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. O how he loves you, darling boy. O how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It’s beautiful.

5 Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he doesn’t want to eat them.

Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry.

6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.

7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.

8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.

9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you don’t know who he is.

10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready, and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers.

You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.

11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.

Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say.

12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down.

13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do.

14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.

15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights.

16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for. Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn.

17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again, home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn’t. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move.

18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re still right here.

19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all.

20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty.

21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! Those trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches.

23 Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . .

24 You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

- You Are Jeff by Richard Siken

[yeselbeethings]

moments from the village

pairing: yamato x reader

a/n: hmm, kind of free form... like it’s a reader insert but there’s bits filled in that are just generic to the idea of a character. Also the first thing I’ve written in like a thousand years.. 

synopsis: a few tender moments, scenes from your relationship with Yamato

warnings: nsfw content for the last few: general sex, fingering, oral, rough sex.

1. Yamato drinks genmaicha tea almost exclusively. The first thing he does when he comes home is make a steaming pot, and sit the well-worn armchair that occupies the corner of your living room and sips it slowly. He loves the nutty taste of toasted rice against the grassy earthy taste of the green tea. When it’s hot, you make him genmaicha lattes. Over brewing the tea and mixing it with brown rice syrup to sweeten it. You serve the drink over ice.

2. Yamato’s favourite desert is matcha cake. You roll a thin, rectangle of bright green sponge cake with lashings of sweetened whipped cream in the middle, slicing thick chunks and topping them with the first of the season’s strawberries. You meet him at the banks of the Naka river with the slices stored safely in a bag. You both kick of your shinobi sandals, tossing them behind you and dipping your toes into the cold water. You can’t think of anything more Yamato than the mixture of earthiness and sweetness.

3. For Yamato days off are reserved for reading architecture books. Yamato pours over each book in his collection, absorbing all the knowledge he can. His current obsession is shoin-zukuri. For his birthday, you buy him an expensive architecture model kit. He painstakingly completes it, gluing the delicate wooden pieces together over the next few nights. The model of the local temple lives on your shelving unit in the living room, sitting proudly next to the string-of-pearls you’d purchased from the Yamanaka’s flower store the day you moved in.

4. You always thought you disliked Kakashi Hatake. You’d never really spent much time with him, never been on missions together, and didn’t really understand who thought it was a good idea to place him in charge of a team of rookies. The dislike deepened once you and Yamato began dating; the constant stories of his teasing and cajoling your boyfriend bothered you. The first time you met properly, that all changed. Drinking beers and sharing steamed and salted edamame, you found yourself thinking that Kakashi had a wicked sense of humour, and silently thanked him for giving you new ammunition to rile Yamato up with. Yamato loves your friendship, but hates being the subject of your evenings jokes. You and the copy-nin become quite the double act and it makes Yamato’s heart soar.

5. The first time you meet Team 7, Yamato is overwhelmed - trying to keep the three teens in check, dodging their constant questions, the fighting, and the vying for your attention; the whole situation is an unmitigated disaster. You and Kakashi stay on your best behaviour, but share a look that screams - Can we please just get a beer after this? You both do this every day?! - You send an apologetic look in Yamato’s direction, you hadn’t thought that stopping to say hello as you passed them coming from the training grounds would cause such a commotion. Later, as you walk home from the bar you tell Yamato that you enjoyed the impromptu meeting in the end, that they’re his little family now, and how the whole thing had reminded you of when you were younger and you and your cousins would fight endlessly over any trivial thing. Yamato had never though this what having a family would be like, and he wonders to himself when those kids became so so important to him; deep in the pit of his stomach, he feels the ache of worry grow as he wishes that nothing tragic would happen to them.

6. Whenever Yamato catches you laughing with Genma his chest constricts. You laugh heartily at the tokubetsu jounin’s terrible jokes and, as always, engage in the friendly flirting that characterises your friendship. Yamato knows you’ve know each other for years, that there’s nothing more there than two comfortable friends. The part of him that recedes back into ROOT in times of panic tells him that you’d be better off with a man who’s name refers to natural alluring and dazzling lights. Genma asks you how things are with Yamato if you’re off the market for good? He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and glances over your shoulder. You follow his gaze, eyes landing on Yamato - who seems to have glazed over during a conversation with Ebisu. You look at your boyfriend and smile, catching his eye and whispering to Genma - oh yeah, this one’s a keeper. In the dead of the night, Yamato asks if he makes you happy and you tell him your world is full of harmony now. That you feel serene. Yamato’s heart feels as though it could burst from his chest.

7. Yamato has a bad habit of shouting at you when you hurt yourself absentmindedly. The first time it happens you’re not paying attention when slicing green onions for dinner. He snaps at you to run it under the cold tap and gets the small first aid box you keep in the kitchen. You snap back at him at first, you’re a kunoichi, you know what you’re doing with knives, this isn’t even serious, why are you being like this? Over time you realise it’s because he feels helpless when you injure yourself at home, it’s different to missions - home is where you’re safe. You stop snapping back, and he continues to treat your small cuts with disinfectant wipes and plasters. Sometimes you forget they’re there and feel a blush rising when Iruka mentions it when you pick up your assignments at the mission desk.

8. Yamato is old fashioned. He learnt so much of how to treat a partner from hearing what the older married ANBU used to talk about. He pours your drinks, pay for meals, offers you an arm to link when you walk, and kisses you chastely when in public. This has earned him a reputation for being shy, you know he is anything but.

9. You both spend your free time pouring over recipe books and buying second-hand cookbooks when you have downtime after long missions both in Konoha and other villages. You cook as much as you can and prepare meals together. The first time Team 7 comes to your tiny apartment, Sai and Sakura watch you both laugh and talk about anything and everything as you prepare a meal for everyone; soy milk ramen. You both drink wine and chop and stir and forget you even have guests, it’s only Naruto’s hungry grumbling that snaps you back into reality

10. You introduce him to your grandmother - the only living relative you have now - she tells him that he’s very handsome and he blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. Later she asks what he does and he tells her that he’s a jounin sensei. She eyes him with suspicion, making an off-handed comment about how in her day jounin sensei’s didn’t carry themselves so seriously, have such an intimidating posture or analyse every exit and escape route when they came for tea with old ladies. Later she corners you in the kitchen as you prepare desert, and she asks you what he really does, you whisper ANBU in her ear and she tells him over matcha cake that she’s glad you’ve found someone who will always protect you. Sometimes they play cards when you’re out of the village on missions, your grandmother chain smokes cigarettes and tells Yamato of the fights she had when she was an active kunoichi. Yamato knows she would kill him if he ever hurt you. He knows it would never come to that but loves the fire and passion running through her and how it’s been passed on to you. When she starts to forget herself, and slowly you, Yamato holds your hand in her tiny kitchen as tears roll down your face. In the night he weeps silently for her too. When she dies, she leaves all her ninja tools to Yamato, and her old engagement ring.

11. When you have sex, he sits cross-legged, your tights draped over his and your feet nestled into his hip creases. You lay the rest of yourself flat against the large bed you share, and he gently coaxes you to orgasm. He spreads you apart, and uses his thumbs interchangeably to rub your clit; up and down, or in soft circles, different speeds, and pressures. Sometimes he slips a finger inside you, stretching you gently and curling up inside you to pull you closer and closer to the edge. He uses his forearms to keep your legs pushed apart as they draw closer and closer in as you feel yourself slowly tipping over the edge. After your orgasm, he spends time rubbing down your shaking thighs and placing delicate kisses on your legs. He never rushes you to move, he never takes his eyes from your flushed face.

12. When you fuck, your legs are over his shoulders and his hands pinch your nipples. He drives into you and moans loudly. It is fast, and deep, and hard.

13. Sometimes you convince him to put on his old ANBU uniform. When he fucks you like this, he stands behind you and knocks your legs wide. One hand keeping you stead as he pushes you forward ruthlessly with the force of his trusts, the other hand wraps around your neck. Your hand claws over his gloved wrist, pushing his hand into you as you revel in the feeling of Cat choking you.

[siken-archive]

You Are Jeff

1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan- tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It's a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet. 2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let's call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we'll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother's favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free. 3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I'm telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it. 4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It's beautiful. 5 Let's say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He's already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They're already made, but he doesn't want to eat them. Let's say the Devil is played by two men. We'll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they're twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry. 6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you're certain that you've never seen this Jeff before. But he's on your team, and you're ahead, you're winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there's no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window's open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire. 7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone's for you, Jeff says. Hey! It's Uncle Jeff, who isn't really your uncle, but you can't talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one. 8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn't seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello. 9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you're sure he knows you're in there, and he's singing to you, even though you don't know who he is. 10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You're in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you're ready you'll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren't ready, and then you don't remember where you've been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It's a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers. You're in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You're in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door. 11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay. Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say. 12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don't reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down. 13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let's say you have cancer. Let's say you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you're happy anyway, and that's okay, it's a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn't working. So much for the facts. Let's say you're still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do. 14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don't remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can't decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you're deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go. 15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won't heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it's split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights. 16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It's yours, you deserve it. It's already been paid for. Somebody's paid for it already. There's no mistake, he says. It's your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone's doing all the talking but no one's lips move. Consider the hairpin turn. 17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where's the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you're home again, home? He's next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn't. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don't move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you're not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You're dancing: you're neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he's there or he isn't, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you're danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don't move. 18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It's time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don't get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don't know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You're still right here. 19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don't like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here's the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They're not the same name, Jeff. They're not the same at all. 20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they're in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let's say you're not in the field anymore. Let's say they're not brothers anymore. That's right, they're not brothers, they're just one guy, and he knows you, and he's talking to you, but you're in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty. 21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don't make a noise, don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I'm in the hallway again, I'm in the hallway. The radio's playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice. 22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren't really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn't move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can't remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there's no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches. 23 Let's say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I'll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We'll whisper it in your ear. It's like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . . 24 You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

[emile-hides]

Birthday Gift

Part three of my Found Family Overwatch self-insert series. This time staring @r1pwitch, with a special guest appearance by @syalin-deerfox

Part 1

Part 2

In which the family is all together for a birthday party

Cross fell back onto the couch, letting out an exhausted huff and they slunk into the soft cushions.

“Oh no, you are NOT done.” I turned to them, holding handfuls of torn apart wrapping paper, confetti and glitter filled my hair as I glared down at them.

“Aw come on, just a little break,” they said, voice squeaky, “I’ve been emptying balloons for hours now!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I threw a wad of sparkly unicorn paper at them. The blocked their face and laughed like a mouse.

The house was a wreck, as three year old’s birthday parties tend to leave homes. Ari, the birthday girl, was currently sitting on the stairs with her old brother, Jojo (7), playing with her new toys.

A knock to the door drew my attention away from cleaning. I glanced at Cross, expecting them to offer to get it, only to see them inhaling yet another balloon.

“I’ll get it.” I chuckled a bit at them, stuffing the torn up wrapping paper in a trash bag before making my way to the door. Did someone leave something?

Outside my door stood a bounty hunter, short but efficient, with a bow across his back and a longhorn skull as a helmet, green tufts of hair poked out to barely cover his eyes. To a wanted man, he was intimidating, he meant life behind bars, if you were lucky. Though to me, he was

“Zayne!” I cheered, more than a little excited to see my best friend. I jumped a bit to hug him, just to pause, my excitment waning as I noticed something in his arms.

“Uh... Who’s... kid is that...?” I asked, a small girl with racoon ears and a tail clung tightly to Zayne’s side, avoiding eye contact.

“Uhm.... yours?” Zayne said with a smile and a tone to indicate that was meant to be funny, but not exactly a joke.

“A trash can?!” I tried not to raise my voice as I paced around my living room. Zayne nodded, sipping his tea on the couch beside Cross.

“I couldn’t believe it either. I was chasing down my arch rival,” some archer he fancied with a massive bounty. Zayne says they’re rivals, but the way he talks about him, they sound more like lovers, “when I stumbled upon her...”

I glanced down at the child, who’d been sitting quietly with Ari on the confetti covered floor.

“She got a name?” Cross asked the smart questions yet again.

“Not that she’s told me.” Zayne shrugged, “I figured you two have taken in two random street rats, what’s a third?”

“A lot. A third’s a lot.” I muttered, scratching the back of my neck as I glanced down at the kids. Ari was doing her best to get the anxious little Racoon girl to play with her.

She came from Busan, Korea... I didn’t like Korea very much. They’d gotten too comfortable with younger soldiers over there. Orphans were typically raised to join the military. Even if she wasn’t Korean by blood, if we took her back, that’s certainly where she’d end up.

I nodded, patted my cheeks, and knelt down to the little girl.

“Hello, my name’s Emile. You already know my friend, Zayne, and that there’s Cross,” I started introducing each of us slowly, “This is my daughter, Ari, and my son, Jojo.”

The girl glanced around at everyone, then gave a shy wave, holding onto the sleeve of her shirt.

“Do you have a name, sweetie?” I asked gently.

She shifted, a soft M sound escaped her lips.

“M?” I repeated, encouragingly.

“M...moss...” She mumbled out, glancing up at me, “Moss..”

“Moss? Well it’s very nice to meet you, Moss.” I smiled, sitting cross legged next to her, “Can you tell me about your family, Moss? Your mommy or daddy?”

Moss shifted a bit, looking down at the ground as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She then gripped her sleeve, slowly pulling it up.

“wow!” Ari leaned over Moss, staring at her arm, “You’ve got a lot of owies, Moss!”

A deep, overwhelming sadness filled my heart at the truth my daughter spoke. Moss’ arms were covered in bruises, old indications of cigarette burns, blueish-black marks showing where they’d been forcefully grabbed, held tight, dragged, and hit. It all made me feel sick.

I clenched my fist, then took Moss’ sleeve, gently covering her arm, “Thankyou, Moss. You’re a very brave little girl.” I pat her head, then looked to Ari, “Ari, sweetie, why don’t you show Moss all the new toys you got for your birthday? And share them, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy!” Ari saluted and giggled, then excitedly took Moss’ hand, dragging her upstairs, Jojo following close behind.

Zayne got up, grabbing his bow from the side of the couch, “I’ll find her parents.”

“You don’t have to-” I started.

“I’ll find them.” Zayne spoke in a tone, making it obvious he wasn’t finding them for our sake.

I nodded, then glanced to Cross, “You ready for number three?”

They stared at me blankly, then took another shot of helium, “I don’t really have a say in the matter, but of course.” They squeaked.

Zayne didn’t get to stay long. He was hot on the trail of the “rival” of his, and had to get moving before the trail went cold. Of course that didn’t stop them from taking multiple pictures of the snow covered village.

After he’d gone, Cross got out of cleaning by offering to make dinner, which isn’t really an offer, as I would burn the house down attempting to cook.

I stood alone in the living room for a moment, sweeping confetti. I stared at our wall of family photos. Pictures of the Shimbali brothers and sisters, Mondatta the day I was blessed with meeting him, Cross and I in front of the house, Ari’s many baby photos, Brother Zenyatta and Genji the day of Genji’s surgery, a full photo of the then full family, Cross, Ari, Jojo, and I. It’d need to be updated with Moss.

A ruckus caught my attention, Ari came barreling down the stairs, toy airplane in hand, Moss and Jojo in line behind her with their own little planes. They all made flying sounds as they zoomed around the living room.

A warmth filled my heart as I knelt to the ground, “All suspended aircraft, please begin your decent. Dad’s loving embrace airstrips are clear for landing.” I spoke in a radio announcer voice, holding my arms open.

Ari slammed into my chest like a bullet train, Jojo excitedly slung his arms around my neck, jumping up and hanging from me. Moss hesitated, holding onto her sleeves as she stared at me.

I smiled at her and extended a hand, “It’s okay, it’s just a hug, I promise..”

She shifted, then slowly walked closer. I hugged them, my three wonderful kids, tight in my arms. It was warm, and safe. I felt like I could hold them forever, so nothing could ever hurt them, so they’d never know the danger of the world around them.

But dinner was ready, so I had to let them go.

As I watched them race into the kitchen to get to their seats, I found myself left with a smile, and a few tears.

I can’t wait to see them grow up, I thought.

I can’t wait to see the amazing people they become.

I’m so happy I can be a part of their lives, see them grow and change.

I can’t imagine what I could have done to deserve such a gift.

The gift of three amazing, brilliant, wonderful kids.

[goldenpinof]

so basically here’s a script of “Basically I’m gay” by Daniel Howell, if someone needs it

link to a google doc

Hello Internet.

«Sex! Secrecy! And a whole lot of internal screaming. Starring Daniel Howell. One of the greatest mysteries of our generation. What is Dan’s sexuality?»

Spoiler alert. I’m not straight. Sex, the foundation of life and the only thing we’re really supposed to do. Everyone’s obsessed with it. You bunch of degenerates. In the list of things that identify a person, one of the most important for other people to know is their sexuality. For, if sex is the primal force propelling all of these humans forward by their hips, they have to know. Are we gonna fuck? Or like could we? Or are you, ‘cause I’m just wondering. Now, we live in a heteronormative world, which is a long scary word that makes people feel attacked for some reason. Shh it’s okay.

What it means is people are presumed to be straight. If you’re not, then at some point, you have to “come out”, which is a whole thing. Or people might just try and guess based on something you do or the way you act, because yay stereotypes. So this is something you have to be clear on, because if you’re not, how are all these other people that aren’t you going to cope? But I’m pretty sure no one that knows me thinks I’m straight. So I don’t really need to come out as much as just clarify what the hell is going on. As here I am at age 27 and my sexual preference is seemingly still a vague, debatable, confusing, impenetrable mystery. But why? And what is it? Well, those are some big questions. Are you sure you wanna know my answers?

[YES]

Okay, well, if you say so 'cause this is a complicated and sensitive issue and when it comes to me, boy, there is a lot to unpack here and it is a total clusterfuck. So strap yourselves in and let me tell you a queer little story about a boy named Dan.

Chapter 1 �� The Word

♪ When I was a young boy ♪

♪ My father ♪

Didn’t have much time for me because my conception was clearly an accident and he was a narcissistic proud man suddenly inconvenienced in the prime of his life and this emotional neglect gave me lasting problems.

Sorry that’s not all relevant right now.

I was an only child for seven years and with working parents. This meant I had to make my own fun so I was imaginative  and loud which is something that my teachers used to say quite a lot followed by, “However.” Here I am age five. Look at me. Cute, poised, sassy, turning out this photo shoot like sorry, Grandma, I stunted on this set. Are you seeing this? In almost every way, I literally peaked age five. I loved being the center of attention. People said I had an infectious happiness, that my beaming smile brought them hope and joy. People that know me are laughing right now. But a boy, in the '90s being happy and generally polite acting? Sounds kinda GAY if you ask me. Literally, masculinity was so fragile, people were so proud and scared and society so aggressive that a boy smiling!?.. appearing to be empathetic or in any way emoting was seen as a threat. How dare they laugh and feel comfortable? They must be soft and weak and girly and GAY. So basically thanks, Grandma, for raising me to be a nice child, you dick. Just kidding. That’s a joke and I told you not to watch this video because it would be rude so if you send me a disappointed text telling me you’re offended, I don’t know what to tell you. Although, now I think about it, you did make me go to church for 10 years, which in hindsight probably also didn’t help ♪ Hallelujah ♪ the issue here so. But then it was time for little Dan to go to school and this is when it  

♪ All went wrong ♪

'Cause it turns out most children, evil pieces of shit. Doesn’t matter if you try to raise a happy innocent child, throw that kid into school, aka, a literal Mad Max Battle Royale with the feral offspring of your local community. Yeah, that crap’ll be undone in about two weeks. I was six years old running around the playground pretending to be Sonic the Hedgehog or something when two brothers come up to me aged seven and eight with an unexplained aggressive look in their eye. And the younger one pushes me to the ground, kicks me in the stomach, and just says, “GAY.”

This was the first time I ever heard that word. Well, I don’t know what the heck gay means but apparently it means people kick you on the floor so that ain’t good. I didn’t know this child or give them any cause to have an opinion on me. And, actually, I never directly interacted with them again. What epic clustershit of failed parenting and general culture brought this tiny child to get angry and attack someone, then call them gay for looking like they were having fun outside. Are you okay, 1990s? And so my relationship with sexuality began.

I wasn’t looking to define myself as a child indiscriminately playing doctors and nurses with various friends until once somebody’s mum walked into a room to find three fully naked children sat on a bed sticking sellotape to each other’s butts. Yep, which I don’t recommend. Also, Jesus Christ, the poor woman that saw that. Then you get to the magic age around 10 or 11 where everybody suddenly wants to pretend they’re totally a “cool teenager” who’s doing all the drugs and the sex and the fights, totally. Boy, gay was a really popular word back then.

[[Boy] Uh, homework is gay. [Girl] Uh, my mum’s so gay. [Boy] Uh, you touched a girl, gay.]

This one little shit who I won’t name was one of the school bullies and he loved the word gay. He had it in for me and I have no idea why. You know me, Mr. Winnie the Pooh Meets Slender Man. Well, when I was 10 just Winnie the Pooh. I didn’t do nothin’ to no one ever and yet this guy used my pacifism as a punching bag where any group situation was an excuse to single me out call me gay for some reason and then make everyone else exclude me because they were scared of him. I had a girlfriend. We dated for six whole weeks. We kissed in a game of spin the bottle once by literally sucking on each other’s faces. Then she ended dumping me over speakerphone at a birthday party that everyone in my class but me was invited to but, hey. I don’t know what I was doing wrong, but at this age, I understood one thing. Being gay, whatever that meant, was clearly the worst thing you could be. On a Darwinian level, I was being told, okay bitch, “Survival Code”. Don’t be this apparently. Evolution. Plot twist, this bully I think he was a bit gay because once he asked me to have a sleepover at his house and I thought was me finally getting socially accepted only for him in the middle of the night to come up and ask me, “So who’s going to be the boy and the girl?” I was an innocent smol bean who didn’t really understand what he meant because, to be honest, I didn’t actually understand get how babies were made yet. But needless to say I think he was disappointed. Wow, closeted child turns into homophobic bully. Thanks again society. But this whole primary school journey was really just an amuse-bouche for the full six-course tasting menu of suffering that would be secondary school.

I went to an all-boys school. It was a literal hellscape.  I thought it was hard making it through a school of 200 kids with two or three bullies. Try over a thousand where a clean 800 are fully psychopathic gorillas fueled by testosterone, Red Bull, and Eminem albums. Making sure that the word f- no longer means an innocent bundle of sticks or a cigarette anymore in the British lexicon. Nope, now it was a cool homophobic slur along with gay, gaylord, gayboy, puff, pufter, ponce, batty, batty boy, bum-boy, bender. Shit, this is so long. People have a lot of words for something they don’t wanna think about. Look at me in this stupid blazer. Oh, “you’ll grow into it at some point in the next four years”. Thanks, Mum. Day one, kid in form class, some stupid hedgehog-looking motherfucker side eyes me and says, “What you lookin at, puff?” First interaction at a new school. Great! My entire existence on a daily basis then becomes navigating this school like I’m in the bloody “Maze Runner” trying to avoid aggressive pricks with chode ties. And you know being verbally abused for being a nerd or a Greebo at least felt relevant to me at the time. Greebo, definitely one of my faves there and I’m sure that Korn and Slipknot would have been proud to have 12-year-old me as a fan. I kinda knew who I was in the hierarchy at that point. I was essentially a theater kid who spent all of his free time playing Runescape on the AOL browser on his mum’s PC instead of football. I accepted it. But at least I wasn’t actually this “gay thing” people kept throwing around because by now I understood a gay is a boy who fancies other boys. And to be honest I don’t really feel like I’ve ever fancied anyone before.

Then puberty happened.

Oh yeah, this is fun, tingly feelings, I smell bad. It was quite fun dribbling on this girl’s face playing Truth or Dare, maybe later we’ll go behind that bike sheds and, there I was sat in English class, my friend next to me. I watched as he delicately removes a pencil from its case. We briefly make eye contact as he flutters his long black eyelashes with a blink before staring forward. His eyes are so bright and beautiful yet they seem so sad and deep with emotion. I wish I could just understand. Oh fuck, I think I’m a bit gay. You’re telling me this whole time I actually have been the bad thing that people keep calling me? Shit!

Chapter 2 – Feelings

Oh do you hear it that faint hum, something coming from a deep, dark place too powerful to control? It’s the self-hatred. She is here and she’s only getting started. Short version, I fall hopelessly in love with a friend of mine who doesn’t feel the same way which crushes me into a million tiny pieces and years later actually it turns out he was gay the whole time. He just really specifically didn’t like me. [Double kill.] Here I am, 13, crying to evanescence alone in my bedroom feeling like there’s no point in really being alive as I’m clearly a faulty outcast person that has no place in the world. I stopped going to church with my grandma because I felt like I wasn’t really supposed to be there. Also, by this age, the whole Christianity thing didn’t really make much sense to me. And the adult services were dry AF compared to coloring in a picture of Jesus’s face at Sunday school. So other than the free tea and biscuits they gave away after the sermon, religion didn’t really have much to offer me. Damn, there was some good biscuits though. I miss that. But wait! All is not lost yet. Do you see that? A triumphant, rallying cry of guitars, stripey hoodies, and black hair dye. Emo had arrived! I swear to God, emo is one of the best things that happened to pop culture in the last 20 years. As well as inventing eyeliner and skinny jeans, a new word hit the theater, nerd, goth, band, kid corner that would change my world forever.

Bisexual. You can be normal and gay at the same time and some people think it’s cool? Well, slap a long fingerless glove on my arm and sign me up to Myspace 'cause Mum, I’m bi. It was a good term 'cause it was a catchall for anyone who felt sexually confused or curious that didn’t want to commit to something stronger which is very me. Big commitment issues. Thanks, fam. To be clear, regardless of whatever the 2006 teenagers thoughts and feelings were, being bi is valid and should not be excused away or erased by anyone. Thank you.

From this moment, I was a loud and proud raving bi to my close friends and the strangers on the internet who saw my clearly-labeled sexual preference on my Myspace page. And the emo friends I made at this time were awesome. We just used to hang and make out with each other and listen to music and drink bottles of Smirnoff Ice until we were sick on each other with no judgment. The judgment came several years later looking back at the photos that you can’t delete. So I didn’t need to tell my family or people at school anything. But the thing is with a Myspace page, anyone with an internet connection can read it. And so the rumors started spreading through my neighborhood that Dan Howell was in fact a bisexual. I had a friend in French class who one day, totally unprompted, just turned to me and said, “Hmm, yeah, I thought so. You give off a bi-vibe.” A bi-vi-, what the fuck is a bi-vibe? Great, yeah, nothing to make a 15-year-old feel self-conscious about his behavior like being told he emanates a bisexual aura. What am I supposed to do with that? Sorry that I give off mixed signals. I’m versatile. Turns out it was actually a social upgrade from being called gay all the time 'cause bisexual was a new word that only referred to sexuality so people actually had to decide how they felt about the fact I was attracted to boys. As opposed to gay which as we all understand is synonymous with bad and also implies a general threat, plague, curse/evil force that simply must be destroyed. People at school were actually almost nice to me with curiosity about it and a few of the boys that previously loved to just generically call me gay while throwing a compasses at me or something, now started to low-key flirt with me and some stuff happened. Go figure.

But then I entered the dark ages and no I’m not talking about my hair because I was never actually cool enough to commit to dying it black. As quickly as they arrived into my life, my emo friend group vanished into the night. Like the tip of an eyeliner pencil snapping or the HTML on your intricately-crafted MySpace page falling apart when the host websites of your embedded gifs die, so, too, did my social life. One had to suddenly focus on school, another moved town, two of them just fell out with each other and started hanging out with their old friends again. Well, we don’t all have back up friend groups, Lindsey! I went all in on the emos! You’re telling me I have to go back to sitting in my kitchen playing Runescape now! Thanks a lot. So for a year I literally had no friends. And this is when the bullying at school really stepped its pussy up. The things people used to say offhand to me in a corridor were now said loudly in classrooms where everybody would laugh. People used to sing songs about me being gay on the bus while my fellow nerds sat around me just stared awkwardly out of the window not wanting to get involved. People shouted things out during GCSE exams in front of the whole school and the low key pushing became punches. People used to wait for me after school just to throw things at me. Once a guy put his hand around my throat and pushed my head against a coat peg in the locker room while everyone was watching and just slapped me for five minutes. But I never reacted. I never cried or got angry or fought back 'cause then I’d be giving them what they wanted and I refused to play along. But this way of dealing with things definitely had an impact on my relationship with emotion going into life. I became a total outcast. No one wanted to come near me out of fear that they’d get targeted, too. So no one ever stood up for me. And, you know, I don’t blame them. I just resent them even to this day. No, I’m kidding, I don’t really. I do. No, I don’t. I, hmm. Teachers at the time obviously did nothing. In fact, one of them saw this happening to me and laughed 'cause you know, boys will be boys especially the gay ones that get killed by the other ones, am I right? Ah, classic lad banter. And home. See, keeping this on the topic of sexuality and not economic class, violence, addiction, and health issues, let’s just say some shit was goin’ down. I didn’t think I could ask my family for help or share my feelings about this, mainly due to my dad. Funny guy, kind of a woke hippie who did and said a lot of things I did respect but at the same time used to walk around the house saying how he hoped someone he had a problem with at work would *clears throat* “die of bum cancer.” Yep, so picked the one area to be a bigot that would further traumatize your child. Nice! This experience coming from a childhood hearing the word gay meaninglessly thrown around as an insult at home and school, in music, on TV, to then realizing I am actually kinda gay, to then very specifically being attacked for it was traumatic. The world was clearly telling me if I ever wanted to be accepted by anyone or, in my particular environment, survive, I couldn’t be gay. I was afraid of it, literally homophobic of myself. I am talking Pavlov, sunken place, North Korea-level mind alteration that made me terrified of and repulsed by this part of me. This is called internalized oppression. It’s a real thing and it’s some real shit.

Chapter 3 – Internalized Oppression

From this moment I was no longer advertising myself as bi. No, BRB deleting that Myspace real quick, xD lemme get on that Bebo. “My Chemical Romance”? No, I’m listen to what’s this, N-Dubz? Jesus Christ. I go away for the summer break and come back to school quiet and serious and fully straight. *coughs* I needed me some new friends that were a bit higher up the social ladder, you know what I’m sayin’ for security so I go ahead and join “The Inbetweeners”. Literally this group of friends, the exact middle ground between nerds and desperately wanting to be cool. And oh how desperate we were. The great thing about these friends was they knew loads of girls. So firstly, instant cool points. Secondly, if I date a girl *scoffs* super not gay. The problem with that was it’s not like everyone just forgot everything that’s been said about me and this group of friends, casually homophobic pretty much all the time and also they hung out in places near some even more aggressive and super homophobic peeps. Just full-time Runescape would have been a better in hindsight. I find myself going through the same shit at school but now voluntarily going through it at the weekends from the people that are supposed to be my friends thinking I’m doing the right thing whilst constantly telling myself I’m now totally heterosexual. So I did what many people choose to do at that point and I got a girlfriend. But this is pretty messed up because I really liked this girl. In fact, I loved her as a friend and I was genuinely attracted to her but I was so afraid of sexuality I didn’t even wanna do anything straight in case I had some weird gay panic that I was totally frigid and I led her on. And when she got pissed at me, understandably, for being a terrible boyfriend, I just felt even worse. This was someone who I liked that I was hurting and lying to but I couldn’t leave as then I’d have no armor. Beautiful irony here is having a girlfriend didn’t in any way stop the abuse 'cause remember, gay is a great all-purpose general insult. (Call someone gay today and we’ll throw in a free set of steak knives.) And when these neighborhood teens started heavy drinking and getting into drugs, things suddenly got quite scary as people joked about setting fire to a tent as I slept in it at Reading Festival. Or saying, “You know that notoriously unstable guy? Yeah, he said he’s gonna kill you next Saturday.” Awkward.

This was definitely the lowest point in my life. I just felt totally alone, confused and I deeply hated myself. I used to ask God, in case he was there, to please, just make me straight and everyone stop. But I saw no end, no escape, no way to change the world or who I was. So one evening I thought fuck it and I attempted suicide.

I say attempted, because just before it was too late I thought

“oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit what have i done what have i done fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck?”

“what will your grandma think don’t do this to her she tried her best and she loves you”

“your family aren’t total dicks and this will fuck them up can’t you just get over it surely”

“you’re gonna get to the last year of school and give up now really what was the point”

“I heard this is one of the most painful ways to die so not a great choice if I’m being blunt”

Felt kinda bad for a few days otherwise I pretended it never happened and I didn’t tell anyone, until now, literally. Hmm, I know pretty dark right, but hey spoiler things kinda worked out. I mean still gotta lot of issues but here I am. I’m so glad I failed for so many reasons, for the people in my life, for the future I would’ve wasted. The most important being that I thought I was trapped in a situation forever when in reality, the entire world I lived in and my life changed completely. I thought it was hopeless when in reality there was so much to hope for and that’s it. Time changes everything. With the lives that we have, we can try anything we’ve dreamed of. I want anyone that’s ever felt like this to realize you are never trapped. There is always hope. You just need to believe in yourself and get to the other side. So yeah school age 6 to 18, I’m gonna give that a bad Google review. The thing is I did stand out. I’ve always been a loudmouth, class clown, annoying shit. Since graduating, it turns out half the people I knew were fuckin’ gay. That group of friends I had, all lovely people now. Five of them were gay, five gays! That is statistically irregular. Oh but they flew under the radar. All I’m saying is I wish people just hated me for being annoying and immature. Leave the gays alone!

My light at the end of the tunnel was university. I was gonna get my A levels move to a new town and ghost these bitches. But I took a gap year first to earn some money which was very boring sitting at home and working at ASDA where I was not happy to help. My shift started at 5 a.m. on a Saturday. Signed up for a Twitter account to run my mouth off and then bam. “So my name is [Dan].” My YouTube story begins, a new chapter of my life to redefine. So you know what I do? Get a Formspring because nothing gives you that attention feeling like one of those anonymous question and answer websites that are inherently toxic and no one should use. And straight out of the bat bisexual Dan returns. 'Cause hey, just like Myspace, I’m only telling a few people on the internet right now. It’s not like one day I’m gonna get so many followers that random strangers and my family might see it. Wow, I had a lot fun with many different kinds of people in 2009. Let’s just say I got a lot out of my system. Got a couple of things in my system, too. Sorry.

And this is when, through the magic of the internet, I met Phil. And obviously we were more than friends but it was more than just romantic. This is someone that genuinely liked me. I trusted them. And for the first time since I was a tiny child, I actually felt safe. And the relationship we formed at that point was something that I needed in my life. We are real best friends, companions through life, like actual soulmates, not that souls are a real thing that exist. It’s so lucky to just find someone you can be that compatible with and especially to anyone that has experienced the kind of self-hatred that I have dealt with, one person accepting you can make all the difference. And I bet so many people wanna know so much more about that which, honestly, I take as a compliment. But here’s the thing. I’m somebody that wants to keep the details of my personal life private. So is Phil. I know lots of people these days, thanks to social media, want to share and monetize every aspect of their life and then as soon as something changes suddenly it’s this huge drama because everybody got invested in the story of your life like it’s a soap opera. I don’t want that. I wanna do certain things without an audience. I wanna be spontaneous. I don’t wanna feel afraid to take risks. I want to enjoy totally fucking something up and not have to post a statement about it. And if anyone thinks people really have to share these things about their life, you need to rethink your position. And look, I understand that sex is a fun and interesting thing to talk about. I get it. I am also a disgusting pervert. But the specific minutiae of who I be fuckin’, when, why, where, how long, how, uhh, I mean? Sexuality is a general fact that it can be very useful to know about a person for several reasons, but we can’t force people to disclose that either. We don’t know this person’s life story, what they’ve been through, if they haven’t told people, if they’ll lose their job, if they’re in danger. There are so many reasons someone might not be open about it. We can preach the message that being out is good, but aggressively speculating or trying to out someone is really bad. They might not be gay, in which case we’re just harassing someone and probably stereotyping. And if they are there’s gonna be a reason why they haven’t talked about it. So I don’t wanna see any responses to me finally talking about this like no one is surprised. “Dan we been knew.” Wow, you huge galaxy brain genius. What’s it like walking around with all those brain cells in there working overtime? What, you got like three in there? Don’t lose your balance, mastermind. I haven’t exactly been subtle have I? I’m an awkward, sexually ambiguous nerd. “What the fuck even is your sexuality?” That’s not the point. I’m already dead inside so it doesn’t matter here, but to me if someone’s reaction to a person coming out is just, “yeah, I knew”, they’re showing no empathy towards the issue or that person. They’re just making it about themselves like it was a fun piece of gossip they already knew. All we have to do is listen and be accepting.

So anyway back to the tale. Whilst things were looking up for Dan aged 18, things quickly got messy again. Wow, that beats the emo streak of temporary self-acceptance by like six months, nice. There was a point around 2011 where the relationship with my audience shifted from what felt like direct communication between me and individuals that just saw me as a comedy creator to communities of people that formed to talk about me when I wasn’t there. Which is fine, but for some people it was about getting generally invested in me and my real life which I thought was a bit strange 'cause inevitably like anyone who puts themself out there, some people started to really dig into my private life to find out information about me that I wasn’t ready to share. And this was around the same time that YouTubers finally started to get mainstream recognition in the British press. We had the BBC knocking at our door trying to offer Dan and Phil a radio show. From that, Dan and Phil became this entertainment duo that we could have a creative career with. And we love working together, so when all these opportunities came for Dan and Phil, we were really excited but I was also scared as people clearly knew I wasn’t straight and I hadn’t told my family that. None of my old friends knew about this, and what me and Phil had was ours and personal and yet some people were trying to get access to it for their own satisfaction. It was no longer a few people on the internet, no big deal. So I just shut down. It felt like I was back at school again, surrounded by threatening people trying to expose me for their entertainment. Most I’m sure just wanted what was best for me and I feel such genuine sadness and am sorry that I couldn’t be closer to and more truthful with the people in my life that were just trying to be nice but I wasn’t ready to deal with it at this time so I had to do something to contain it. I definitely sent some mixed messages. Some were just joking around, others were super defensive that in my panic came across like “I’m now telling everyone I’m totally straight” when all I really meant was “please fuck off and don’t invade my privacy, you creepy stalkers, thank you”. But this experience seriously triggered some PTSD in me and I was back in the dark place. I didn’t want to just disappear from the internet to escape it and throw away this creative hobby that actually started paying rent. Thanks. So I just decided to put anything to do with my sexuality in a box to come back to later as I was still processing my past and I wanted to understand my identity on my own terms and timeline and not just have it hijacked as fuel for people’s sexual fantasies or some headline in an article. And whilst we’re not exactly living in a utopia yet here on YouTube, the general internet culture only five or six years ago was a much less wholesome, progressive place as this little bubble is now. Sure, a lot of people probably would have been supportive, but there was just as much open bigotry and general toxicity 'cause people felt less accountable and it was okay to say certain things 'cause it’s just on the internet and I couldn’t handle that at the time. And, generally, I can handle a lot. I have big hands with a very wide reach for playing piano, you fucking.. get your mind out of the gutter. We can’t ask people to just put their lives on hold to address their sexuality first. If a kid dreams of being a footballer and age 18 gets signed to a club and all their dreams come true but they’re scared to come out because of the insane homophobia in that community, they shouldn’t turn it down. Yes, it’s so important to be truthful about who you are and open and proud in front of the world but it’s our society’s fault that these people are scared to say who they are. So let’s all focus on making it a welcoming place and people will come out when they are ready. So when was I ready? Well, it’s always been on my mind that I need to talk about this at some point. I couldn’t just keep going forward in my life ignoring it, not only just so I can be authentic, which is very important for general existing, but also just letting people know what kind of sexual attention I want from the world. All of it from everyone. God I’m so thirsty. And if anything motivated me, it’s the idea that I can help someone else 'cause that’s basically my whole career, isn’t it, admitting to shit that I’ve been through so you will feel better about yourselves. There we go, you’re welcome. I have a platform and a following of millions of people, many of whom I know have been through exactly what I have. And if I tell my story as painful and flip floppy and flawed as it is, I know it will mean something to someone as every time someone speaks openly about sexuality, it saves lives. I’d never met a single out gay person until I was 18. And if I had, or even just seen better representation in the media, I wouldn’t have felt so totally alone. I wouldn’t even be saying this to you now if it wasn’t for TV shows, musicians, and public figures in the last couple years reinforcing this to me. It doesn’t matter if I was living the life privately as there was still so much confusion about my feelings and fear. But things are better now, on the internet, on TV, in my real life. It’s not perfect but it feels safe enough in this space right now for me to feel confident. So thank you, sincerely, to all the brave people that came before me and to any of you that made this world seem welcoming for me. And instead of procrastinating from this by focusing on work, which was a way for me to insure my own independence and survival in case I was rejected, or just doing things for other people to take my mind off it instead of asserting my own needs, which my therapist keeps telling me is one of my biggest problems. Here I am with a fresh void of time in front of me to fuck up however I want. Now look, we all have different experiences in life. Some of us are lucky, some of us not. It just so happened that the first 18 years of my life were horrendously shit. It failed me. But we get dealt cards from the start, too. If you look at my life, I was born into this world as an able-bodied, white, cis-man in Britain which immediately gives me so much privilege in this current world and I am fully aware of how much harder making it to today could have been for me, which is why we all need to stand up for equality and social justice even if it doesn’t apply to us. No one stood up for me when it mattered the most and that almost cost me everything. So if you see a woman being harassed, a gay being threatened, someone muttering something racist, say something, do something because if you’re still or silent, the victim will just think that you are against them, too. We all have a responsibility.

This tale was just some of the stuff relating to sexuality. We all have a whole sob story if we wanna tell it but I just wanted to explain the journey of how I got to this point and overcame the obstacles that tried to block this path. And now I’ve arrived.

Chapter 4 – Labels

Okay cool story, bro, it’s answer time. What’s your answer. Whaddayalikedafuk? Here’s the thing, you want me to talk candidly about sexuality as if it’s something that I understand? I don’t know what it is, why it is. Turns out no one knows. I’ve been sitting here for years waiting for scientists to just work it out like bleep bloop. [Oh this is why and exactly how it’s different for people. There we go.] Thinking I shouldn’t run off my mouth on the internet in case my theories and opinions on varying gayness get debunked next week. Well, I waited long enough and it didn’t happen. Science, ya fucked up, you let me down. And I fully expect to have to delete this video in two weeks when you find out all the answers suddenly. Thanks a bunch. What makes someone gay or straight or all the things in between? What the ever loving fuck is gender about? This is a mess. Yet people want you to give them a word because that’s how humans communicate with words that have meanings. Which is why our disgusting species is impatient, stupid, and obsessed with labels. And this applies to everything, sexuality, gender, political identity, what obscure genre of synthwave you listen to. People just want a label that represents something they understand so they already know how to feel about you and don’t have to bother thinking. [Oh you’re a feminist well I don’t need to know anything more. Oh you’re a leftist. Oh you’re a K-pop fan but but but but.] If people just want to find a way to disagree with you or dislike you, they can refer to the label and turn off their brains. Hey, what does my label say? Huh. The issue is, especially when we start talking about the writhing mass of confusion and suffering that is sexual and gender identity, the limits of language and specific terminology become a big problem. What does being gay mean? You never thought about a boob once? What does being a man mean? You wanna be an emotionless rock rubbing raw steaks against your biceps? It’s not like humanity is all in agreement right now. I don’t like the stereotypes and drama that come with all this terminology so I’m just not gonna use it. Thing is gender identity isn’t my issue. I feel comfortable with the identity that I’ve had my whole life. Dan, a tol boy from England. But being a man means nothing to me. I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable wearing makeup or a sickening pair of heels, though I can’t even draw in a straight line so that would be a disaster. Also is anyone really comfortable wearing heels? Hmm. Icons of masculinity aren’t really a big part of my life. Might as well call me a fucking formless blob that sounds more relatable. Shout out to all my formless blobs out there, rise up. I don’t have to do anything or be anything and I personally wouldn’t feel offended if I wasn’t referred to as a he. Well, she’s feeling hungry today. Stop fucking judging me, Susan. I’m sad and I’m gonna eat this whole damn cake whether you like it or not. But anyone that has this don’t really care attitude about their gender identity is in a way privileged 'cause some people, especially trans, care a lot about their gender identity and using the correct pronouns which other people should respect. Likewise with sexuality, whilst to me the endlessly increasing list of tribes and flags being flown is a bit daunting and confusing and personally stresses me out 'cause I almost find it constrictive, some people like it. Because if you’re feelings are confusing and then you look at a word that represents something and go, “wow, that me”, it can help you realize you’re valid and find a community and that’s great. There is so much controversy around this issue and others but if we all just calm down, respect each other’s experiences and try to just be nice, reasonable people, which is a lot to ask, let’s be real, it’s quite simple. If you wanna use language to express your honest feelings and identity, that’s great and other people should respect what you say. Likewise, if you hate labels and you just wanna be a formless blob, that’s fine, too. No one should force you. The only thing that isn’t cool is telling other people what they should or should not identify as 'cause that ain’t your problem or your business, bye. This was one of the things that held me back from talking about this for years. Shit’s confusing, man. Let’s just go back to cellular reproduction by mitosis so I don’t really have to be specific. Two people that I really look up to and respect, Harry Styles and Janelle Monae, both famously say that they don’t feel the need to label it which, to be honest, is how I feel and is perfectly okay. But I get it, for me, you want a word. Oh, that’s hard, though. I’m an annoying guy. I feel uncertain specifying my sexuality in the same way I wouldn’t say I am an atheist. Who the fuck am I to say whether God does or doesn’t exist? I don’t know shit 'bout shit and neither does anyone else. I mean I think it’s unlikely in the same way I know I like DICK. But I’m not gonna pretend to have a definite answer here. Looking at my public statements is inconsistent and confusing. Looking at my personal track record through life is super confusing. And looking at the void inside my soul threatening to crush the entire universe with the force of its event horizon of misery and melodrama, well, fuck let’s close that shit up. One thing’s for sure whatever heterosexual is, I ain’t it. Really if you ask me, I don’t think anyone’s totally straight. I think there’s a lot of social and emotional issues getting in the way of yet to be understood feelings of attraction that can be very flexible. And trust me, I’ve known a lot of straight guys until a couple of drinks, some deep conversation, and lingering eye contact, and suddenly they just start leaning in. What does that make them? And am I totally gay? No. Am I slightly more gay or is it just easier for gays to hook up with each other because of societal norms. It’s not like the signs for male and female bathrooms are what I’m attracted to. I don’t care what flesh organ you have between your legs, what your hair’s like, if you’re covered in it or a fuckin’ beluga whale. I’m gonna be honest, I’m not picky. I’m easy. So am I bi or pan or poly? Well, now we’re just in a clusterfuck of defining language and I’m confused and sad and horny. This is why I personally love the word queer. I understand that some people don’t as it is a slur but as someone that’s been the target of it several times throughout my life I’m up for some reclamation. It’s like recycling. The definition makes sense because until society is equal with all sexual and gender identifies, it is literally strange from a conventional viewpoint plus it’s better than a super long acronym, it’s inclusive of everyone and therefore great for formless blobs. There we go, an identity I feel comfortable with. A highly-strung, depressed queer praying for a giant meteor to hurry up and finally eradicate humanity. LMAO, yeet!

But to come full circle, I know that even today, deep in my heart the word gay scares me because that’s how I’ve been conditioned my whole life. So, you know what? Fuck the literal definition and the scientific definition and what everyone thinks. I finally have to just confront and accept this.

I’m gay.

Oh look, didn’t spontaneously fucking combust. Well, there we go, that was a lot of stress about nothing, wasn’t it? Bloody hell. So yup, I’m here, I’m queer, and don’t worry I’m still filled with existential fear.

WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER WE’RE FILLED WITH EXISTENTIAL FEAR.

Chapter 5 – Fear

Even though I’m at this current place, there is still so much I’m afraid of and this has taken months to make because of that. Telling my family was a big fear. I have problems connecting with them emotionally because reasons. So I only came out to them this month and if it didn’t go well, as I’m now the independent adult that I fought so hard to be, I was ready to cut them off like the bottom of a sweater turning into a seasonal crop. But I didn’t have to, love you. I didn’t think they’d reject me these days but coming out is still a surprise. It changes things. And I’m a pretty awkward person generally but the idea of just dropping this in conversation in front of them all terrified me. And I tried several times this year to do it but I just couldn’t. So you know how I finally came out to my family? E-mail. Yep, I literally just sent them an e-mail saying and I quote,

“Hello gang. I’ve been meaning to talk to you all for a while, something quite important that should be disclosed at some point. I thought I would around Christmas, then Mum’s birthday, then last Easter Sunday, etc., but every time I meant to, I either felt like I would ruin the mood of the day or I just felt awkward and didn’t want to. So I decided just to email you all instead which is really inappropriate and just weird but that somehow seems appropriate for me and at least I’ll just finally say it.

Basically I’m gay.”

Yup. It was just getting ridiculous so I thought screw it and hey, it worked. Turns out my remaining family, pretty chill bunch of people. Even my Christian grandma said this,

“We love you for being you. It must be a great relief to finally acknowledge who you are. Popsie and I just want you to be happy. People are born as they are and have no say in it. I hope that now you will feel free to live your life as you want with no pretense.”

Aw.

“Don’t forget the iPad.”

Yes, I said I’d give her my old iPad. She mainly cares about that I thing. Wasn’t so sure when I was 17 but it went well now and I know that makes me lucky but, hey, it shows that times change. As for the other people in my life, obviously all the friends I have now are cool. If anyone in my life I’ve ever known isn’t cool with it then I don’t care. And sure here online there might be a few incredibly lost bigots following me or just some classic trolls who I think should get fucked. No, like literally, I think you should try it. You’ll probably enjoy it and you might learn something about yourself. Inevitably some of you watching this might have a weird reaction if you just feel like it was a shock or you feel hurt that I kept it from you. But I feel like I explained myself reasonably here and going forward I can’t have any space for that, sorry. I’ve come to terms with who I am and now you have to, too, ha. Funnily enough straight up homophobia is probably the one thing I’m not that afraid of, because I just don’t agree so it doesn’t hold much emotional power over me but you bet I’m opening myself up to all new kinds of in real life and international discrimination now which is fun. But one of the other big fears holding me back was, honestly, that I wouldn’t be accepted by the community. I know that it’s a big pride flag covering a lot of ground and even the idea of it and certainly most of it is amazing. But there is a lot of drama within it right now especially on the internet. You’ve got Grindr gays arguing about how manly gays should be, bi’s getting ignored, trans people, especially of color, not being historically appreciated, acephobia, fucking SWERFs and TERFs. No thank you. So even though they are my people, I know some of them will have problems with something. And even then, just seeing such a loud and proud, strong and opinionated group of people celebrating something just intimidates a smol introvert such as myself. And in my mind if these people don’t accept me because I’m not being definitive enough or I took too long then I almost feel like I’ll be alone all over again, and this is a fear that a lot of people have honestly. But I’m a nice guy and I’m trying my best so you better be welcoming, you bunch of fuckin’ queers. And obviously with the topic of sexuality, it doesn’t matter where we are or how far you think we’ve come, by merely mentioning it, I will be opening up a primordial box of bullshit which will include every single stupid argument and question since the dawn of time. [It’s not natural.] There’s gay animals. [Adam and Steve.] That’s based on a story and the protagonist that arrives later probably doesn’t agree with you. [Why can’t we have straight pride?] I could spend 10 hours on all the classic crap and people would still be asking the same things. This being posted on the internet, my hopes are so incredibly low, lower than my self-esteem.  Wow, that is unhealthy. I need to stop doing that. This video is about internalized oppression and the problems of language. I’m not here to pontificate on every topic tangentially related to the entire concept of gayness. *ASMR voice*: Pontificate on every topic tangentially related to the concept of gayness.  

There’s other humans and all the time in the world left for that. The time in the world coincidentally being not much longer. Climate change LMAO. But I had to tell my story so people would understand me and these things. Why coming out is still a big deal because queer people are often invisible and suffering until they have to do it. Some people grow up in supportive environments and it’s a positive experience. But more likely, especially around the world outside of the big cities, it isn’t. This is not a fight that is anywhere near over. Even in Britain today people are debating whether children should be taught to be accepting of sexual and gender identity in school.

Queer people exist. Choosing not to accept them is not an option.

To anyone watching this that isn’t out, it’s okay. You’re okay. You were born this way, it’s right, and anyone that has a problem with it is wrong. Based on your circumstance, you might not feel ready to tell people yet or that it’s safe and that’s fine, too. Just know that living your truth, with pride, is the way to be happy. You are valid. It gets so much better. And the future is clear. It’s pretty queer.

So there we go. Now I can proceed authentically in my life with full disclosure. Cute mutuals know to slide into the DMs. And you can all fuck off and leave me alone.

Bye.

[bi-bi-richie]

Meet Me in the Woods (1/4)

In Derry, Maine, most people don’t know about the four spirits that reside there. Of course, everyone has heard of the four elements; Air, Fire, Earth and Water, but they had no idea about the identities behind their abilities.

...

Ao3 - 1 2 3 4

...

In Derry, Maine, most people don’t know about the four spirits that reside there. Of course, everyone has heard of the four elements, Air, Fire, Earth and Water, but they had no idea about the identities behind their abilities. For centuries, the spirits passed between different entities, more often than not, humans. The problem was that almost everybody they passed through had the intention of using their abilities for their own selfish desires. The spirits eventually decided to retire in their own individual humans, starting as infants, and act as the little voice in their head as they grew up to insure that they would be their ideal spirit wielder.

The oldest of these spirits is Air. Air is a spirit that craved freedom, the one that touched the sky and, unlike the others, couldn’t be tied down and controlled. The spirit had hope to find someone like themselves, faster than fear and stronger than any danger. Air knew they had no success in finding somebody like this in grown people, but they believed they could mold the young child into what they need. What the world needs.

The second oldest is earth. Earth is nothing like Air, a polar opposite some would say. Earth was a content spirit, never reaching for what they can’t have because they already had it all. They, like Air, could never find somebody like this, it’s impossible to find a human without desires. Still, Earth was sure that they could teach their human to settle with their ability. Show them that they didn’t need to explore the world, instead they could make it. It’s wishful thinking and Earth would stick to it.

The third and second youngest of these spirits is Water. Such a beautiful yet powerful spirit, Water is definitely one of the most respected spirits out of them all but also the most fun. Water has a playful personality that, surprisingly, complimented their mighty ability well. Water wanted that in their human; fun and free but not afraid to do what’s right, even if it means sacrifice. Though the spirit was a lively one, there was no room for love in their existence.

The final and youngest spirit is Fire. Fierce was the only word anyone who looked at the ability of the spirit could use to describe it. They’re unbelievably powerful, even more dangerous than any other spirit and the most destructive. Fire is fearless, like Air, and never stepped down from a fight. Though Water has tamed them in the past, they always came back with more force than before. Fire knew early on that whoever they picked would have to be strong and won’t be pushed down- ever- even if Fire had to teach them.

…

As a child, Eddie always knew something was different. Most people can’t use the wind to help them run faster or hold them in the air while they read a book... or use the air at all. Eddie first learned that when his dad walked into his room when he was 4 and having a windy day in his room so his cape would flap up and down while he played. His dad, Frank, much calmer than anyone should have been, sat Eddie down and asked him about what he was doing. Eddie, convinced he was now in trouble, just ducked his head and told him that he was just playing and somehow willed it to happen. Frank smiled, called him his little bird, and had Eddie agree that he wouldn’t do it in public. Eddie reluctantly agreed but Frank promised that he would take Eddie out into the forest and they could play with it there.

For a few years, they did. Until one day Frank didn’t come home and the wind howled harder than anyone had ever seen that night.

The other side of all of this was Eddie’s mom, Sonia. She was blissfully unaware of her son’s unique ability his whole life since Frank urged Eddie to keep it away from her considering she might not understand the same way Frank did. Eddie didn’t realize why until he heard a voice in his head.

At ten years old, Eddie had surprisingly kept his secret from his mother pretty well. It wasn’t exactly hard to hide, it could be chalked up to the air conditioner being too high or a window being left open. What almost gave him away was a voice.

Eddie was looking out the window one night and saw his neighbors had a fire going in their backyard. He watched it with a smile, missing the days when him and his dad would do outdoor things together. His smile faded when he saw everyone go inside, leaving the fire to rise in height and nip at the leaves above it.

“Blow it out,” a voice said in his head. Eddie almost fell back from how sudden it was and how close it sounded.

“Hello!?” Eddie called out and frantically looked around his room, but he saw nobody and nothing even capable of making noise.

“Quick,” the voice snapped, “that could spread in no time.”

Eddie’s eyes filled with confused tears, unable to understand what’s going on and afraid of something he didn’t know.

“Edward! You have to stop it! A quick puff could take it out in a mere second!”

Then he couldn’t handle it anymore.

“Mom!!” He screamed out, “mom help me!!”

In no time at all, Sonia was barreling into the room, wild eyes searching frantically for her son and almost fainting at the sight of him sitting by an open window, sobbing his eyes out.

“Edward! Have you lost your mind!? What are you doing by an open window!?”

Eddie could barely see his mother through his tears. “I-“ he hiccuped, “I heard a voice! In my head!”

There was not a collection of words that could’ve scared Sonia more than those. In less than an hour, Eddie was laying in a hospital bed trying not to cry and listening to his mom scream outside his door. Somehow, everyone had ignored the hard push of wind in the hospital as the doctor explained that Eddie probably just heard a voice from the outside, as he seems physically and mentally healthy.

Eddie heard it again while he slept in that uncomfortable bed in a sadly familiar white room. Eddie trembled when he heard it, but something made it a little less scary than before, and a little more welcoming.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Edward, your father wasn’t.”

And for a young Eddie Kaspbak, a few years without his father or the freedom to use his abilities, that was enough.

…

Beverly heard her voice many years sooner than Eddie did. Beverly, like Eddie, had a parent who saw their ability and loved it as a part of them. At the time, Beverly and her parents lived in a small house a little further away from Derry but in Derry nonetheless. It was easy to hide Beverly’s more dangerous ability when there was nobody around to see it. As a baby, her crib caught fire more often than could ever be considered normal. The funny thing was that Beverly never got burned once.

Through too much trial and error and excessive lies to Beverly’s father, Alvin, Beverly lived comfortably with her mother, occasionally her father, and her flame.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Beverly’s mother had been deathly ill for a good year in her life and didn’t survive. In her grief, Beverly, now four years old, set their house on fire without realizing she was letting her power escape her. When sheher and her father escaped, he slapped her and blamed her even though he didn’t have evidence and the firefighters couldn’t find a clear cause for the fire. But Beverly took it to heart. He was right. Now Beverly had nothing left of her mother and she took the blame upon herself.

Alvin moved them fully into the town. Kept them cooped up in a tiny, rundown apartment and let his love for Beverly slip with every sip of beer and drag of a cigarette he took.

One night, Beverly, seven years old, watched herself in her bathroom mirror. A fresh bruise was spreading across her cheek and she knew she’d have to cover it up before she went back to school tomorrow. She watched herself and felt tears slowly leak from her eyes. Thoughts of how she despised her appearance, her uncanny resemblance to her mother and how it’s a curse filled her mind. She felt nothing but hatred for it.

“Don’t do that,” a voice lightly scolded. Beverly leaped backward and frantically looked around

With as much bravery as a seven-year-old can muster, she called out, “who’s there? Show yourself!”

The voice let out a quiet, “tsk tsk,” and Beverly slowly started to realize it wasn’t a voice coming from someone in the apartment.

“Shh, you don’t need to fear me.”

Beverly trembled but couldn’t help but feel comforted by the gentle tone. “Who are you?”

The voice shushed her again, “never mind that. All you need to know is that I’m here for you, Beverly. I love you.”

Hearing that, even at seven and not truly understanding the power behind those three words, caused Beverly to collapse and sob. She had been denied love for so long. A caring voice to tell her everything will be okay. That she was loved.

“And don’t say those things about yourself,” the voice scolded again, but gently. “One of the things I love the most about you is your flame.”

…

Mike has...the perfect life for his ability. It’s unbelievably easy for him to hide it, he didn’t even know about it until he was six-years-old. Ever since he was born, the farm had been doing more amazing in their farming than ever. The soil was always perfect, everything grew at its best and there was rarely a spoiled harvest. It was amazing and unlike anything any farmer had ever seen.

When Mike did discover his ability, he was playing outside alone one day. He loved to be outside, to discover new things everyday. Though he was generally allowed to run around wherever he wanted, he still felt there was more to find. His father warned him of a high cliff above a quarry and that it was too dangerous to go alone. For a long time, Mike held onto that rule but the dullness of that day was just too much to bear for a six-year-boy who craved adventure.

It didn’t take long for his imagination to run wild and rationalize his decision to run off. In his mind, he imagined he wouldn’t get too close and he would come back before his dad noticed he was gone. There’s no way his dad just expected him to sit there and be bored all day! So he ran off, pushing tall grass away without touching it and giggling at how it tickled rather than lightly cutting his arms like it would to someone else.

Eventually, the soft dirt under his feet turned into hard stone, letting him know he was mere seconds away from seeing the quarry he had only started thinking about ten minutes earlier. One shove at a branch and suddenly he was greeted with one of the most breathtaking sights he’d ever seen in his life- not that he was really old enough to cherish it.

The quarry was huge, almost like a canyon in Mike’s mind. He thought the drop below had to be at least 200ft.

It didn’t take long for Mike to decide that getting a closer look couldn’t hurt in the slightest. It was in his best interest! Nobody in the whole wide world could just see the quarry and not get closer. So he did.

He inched closer. Then closer. Ever so slightly closer. Okay, a little closer. Maybe a lot closer. So, maybe too close.

What didn’t occur to Mike was that he had hit the natural edge of the quarry a few inches back. The ground beneath him just grew with every step he took. He didn’t take notice and he didn’t look back.

“Michael,” a voice suddenly stopped him.

Mike stopped, but didn’t bother to look around to find the voice. He just kept walking but at a slower pace.

“Michael,” the voice said yet again.

“Yes?” Mike squeaked out, keeping his eyes ahead.

“What are you doing?” The voice asked.

Mike shrugged, assuming whoever was there could see him. “I wan’ see the quarry my daddy always talks about!”

The voice hummed, “but didn’t he say to stay away?”

Mike paused, then he sat down and thought about it. “But I was bored!”

The voice chuckled. “Michael, it’s time to turn back. You know the way very well.”

Mike huffed as he got up and turned around. What he saw made him almost fall right back over. It was a large strip of stone, perfectly matched to Mike’s small width and as long as he had walked.

“What happened!?” Mike gasped out, his shock was quickly replaced with wonder.

“You made it, Michael,” it explained gently.

“Oh,” Mike sniffed, “can I get rid of it? I don’t wan’ my daddy knowing I was here.”

The voice chuckled again and it made Mike smile in response. “Of course, just go back to the edge and I’ll help you with the rest.”

So Mike did. He hopped along the stone right back to the natural edge of the quarry, mostly unaware of the way the stone path crumbled and fell into the water below. When he turned back around, everything was as it was before. He started walking back home where he knew his parents would be making lunch at this point.

…

Even though everybody had heard their voice relatively young, the youngest of them all was Richie.

When Richie was three, well, he couldn’t exactly speak the right way. He knew words, small sentences but his lisp made things hard to say. The strange thing about Richie was that he knew words he had never been taught by his parents. Words like, “spirit,” or “ability.” Things that Wentworth and Maggie, his parents, would never say and especially in front of a three year old.

The even weirder thing about Richie was that he had the most unusual tendency to be wet. As a baby Richie would be found surrounded by a puddle of water, or wake up from a nap soaked to the bone. When he was learning to crawl and walk, Richie couldn’t do it on tile because he always managed to slip on water that seemed to come from nowhere.

For the first few years of his life, his parents had no reasonable explanation for it. Maggie insisted he just sweated. A lot. Wentworth suggested a leaky roof, but how could he be soaked to the bone even when it hasn’t rained in three weeks? Richie was an unsolved case. The strange unknown “phenomenon” kept them hesitant to send Richie to a daycare or preschool despite how social they knew their son was, especially for a toddler. Maggie convinced most people that there was no point,she was a stay-at-home-mom and Richie was still young .In reality, she couldn’t stand the idea of sending Richie away to people who won’t understand him… even though she didn’t understand either.

It wasn’t until he was four when all their questions were answered.

Another quirk of Richie’s, even as a toddler, was that he could never keep a secret. Obviously he wasn’t trusted with big secrets, like what Wentworth bought Maggie for her birthday, but sometimes one of his parents let out a loud “FUCK” from one room and begged Richie to keep it a secret from the other parent. Not because they really wanted it to be, but because they really didn’t want Richie running around the house chirping out “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” And, well, that never worked.

Richie was playing in his room that afternoon. Most kids liked to play with actual toys, but Richie liked to play with cups of water. He was the only one who could do it too! He made shapes out of the water, his favorite animal (which changed every week) was a popular choice to play with. Today he made a fox, a playful one (at his spirit’s suggestion) that nipped at Richie’s fingers and ran around his room until Richie decided he wanted to cuddle with it instead.

As he sat on his bed, stroking his water-fox, he rattled off question after question.

“Fox bye bye?” Richie whined.

“I’m afraid so, but one day you can keep him by your side.” Water answered.

“But,” Richie sighed, “I wan’ fox! Can I keeps him?”

Water sighed, “I’m sorry, Richard, but nobody can know about him- or you. You know that.”

“... Not mommy and daddy?”

“Not even them.”

Richie huffed and crossed his arms. “Mommy and daddy no tell.” He sat up from his bed and grumbled, “mommy and daddy tolds me I can tell them a-anything .”

“Richard, let's just play! Make another animal!” Richie sighed, happy that his spirit’s serious tone was gone and rolled off his bed.

“I wan’ cracker.” Then Richie padded off to his bedroom door.

He yanked the heavy door open with all his strength, but he forgot about the fox still running around his room . It let out a loud yip and charged out the door and down the stairs where his parents were watching tv. Richie watched it run down the stairs with wide eyes, ignoring the way Water was screaming in his ear to stop him! Richard, no! But he was paralized.

He heard a shrill scream come from both his parent’s mouths. That’s when he ran downstairs.

…

Despite all the spirits being connected and having similar experiences growing up, they didn’t meet until they were freshmen in high school.

Eddie was homeschooled for a large chunk of his life. He was only allowed to go to school in his last year of middle school, which was probably the most miserable year of his life. Even then, it was a private school. He fought tooth and nail to be allowed into a normal public high school, demanding that his mother gave him a single normal experience. Amazingly, Air didn’t speak once during the fight. Eddie thought that Air would argue against Eddie, considering their belief is that Eddie should be in the forest , perfecting his ability. Eventually, his mother caved, but only because the constant storm patterns scared her into believing that god was angry with her.

Beverly spent elementary and middle school in an all girl’s school. There, she was heavily bullied. Beverly never really understood why, other than the fact that little girls were the biggest assholes in the world. She was miserable every single day of her life as long as she attended there and went home to her father. It was horrible, she couldn’t handle it anymore. Fueled by Fire’s demands to stick up for herself and the anger of being harassed again and again and again, Beverly burned a girl’s cheek. It wasn’t until after what she had done that she realized she didn’t have a lie that could save her secret from being let out. So, she set the school on fire. Lucky for her, nobody could find the source of the Fire. Nobody was going to believe a group of girls, who were notorious for hating Beverly, that it was her fault. Beverly was moved into Derry’s public high school when school started again.

Mike was homeschooled until high school. He begged his family to let him have any other sort of experience, just to be around other kids his age- other people! Despite the constant bitching from Earth in his head that this is perfect for you! A young spirit needs the freedom you have. It was annoying, but Mike didn’t let any of it get to him in the end. Eventually, his parents caved and let him do his last piece of school in a public school with all the other kids.

Then there was Richie. After his parents discovered their son’s unique ability and voice of reason in his head, they had to quickly adapt to accept their son for who he was . They didn’t like the sound of Richie saying that his destiny is to be alone with the water one day- or that’s what Water told him. So Maggie had homeschooled him until middle school. She hated to admit how afraid she was that her son with such a wandering mind would run away with the voice in his head demanding it, or even find out from a teacher that Richie had revealed himself. But she couldn’t contain Richie for long. Richie was allowed to go to a public middle school and high school with the promise that he’d keep his secret safe- no matter how guilty she felt about it.

It had to happen eventually. The four spirits are expected to work in harmony but from a distance. That’s how they worked for years, knowing of each other’s existence but only ever coming together during an important situation. Unfortunately for the spirits, humans don’t work that way. Meeting each other was all the teenagers could dream of when they learned there were others like them. It was going to happen no matter what.

It terrified the spirits.

...

Read the rest on Ao3

[deweysdenouement]

close encounters of the sibling kind

written for the following prompt on @asoue-network: 5 times Jacques and Kit narrowly avoided each other in the city streets, and the one time they ran into each other.

also on ao3

1. The first time Kit sees Jacques since the last proper meaningful conversation they had, it’s barely a notable encounter. He’s walking in the streets, sharply dressed in a suit that is both impressive and hopelessly out of place in a dingy part of town. She looks more suited to her surroundings in an old shirt and trousers she’s had to bring in at the hem, cardigan loosely hanging over her shoulders. She’s always been a better chameleon than him, even if he is the perfect spy. She can’t see his face. He’s just narrowly avoided her, and all she sees is the flick of his suit jacket and his foot (light step, pointed inwards a little, he had never got that looked at), disappearing around a corner. It’s a flash of a person that no one but a twin could have identified in the short time they occupied the same space, but she knows him like she knows herself. She doesn’t follow him because she is busy, because he is probably busy too. Because there is a grease stain on her cardigan and she wants him to think she has her life together. Because of the schism, because of fights from years ago, because of rules she can’t remember but follows anyway. She lets him go and holds onto the moment like a charm. 2. The second time, Kit sees his face. He is in a coffee shop, sitting at a bench by the window (they always sat at the window when they were together, opposite each other with legs too long for their bodies squashed against each other and Lemony hooked under one of their shoulders) and he’s frowning over a notebook. He’s grown into his body now, like she has, but his expression of anxiety hasn’t changed. He still chews on his lip, furrows his brow. She does the same. It’s comforting to carry that with her. When he looks up, probably seeing that the shadow hasn’t passed the window like all the others, that the light hasn’t flooded back onto his paper, she turns away, pretends to be watching the roads for a taxi. Her hair dyed and sunglasses on, it’s doubtful he’ll make the connection. Then again, she always has. She doesn’t look back, so she can’t be sure if he looks up before she steps away. 3. The third time, she doesn’t actually see him. She’s in a seedy cafe, bothering some poor hapless waiter for information about a recent customer, when she hears his laughter in the kitchen. Kit looks up, recognises the raucous laugh instantly. She wonders who he’s talking to that makes him laugh like that, because it sounds real, and she knows when he’s faking his amusement. The waiter looks at her questioningly, and she tries to turn her attention back to him, listens to her brother’s dry chuckle and words she can’t quite make out. Before she’s done, she hears the back door open, then swing shut. She’d be lying if she pretended she hadn’t wished he would come out through the front and see her, just so she could know his reaction, but he is gone and the place is dead silent. The mission comes first, so she pushes it to the back of her mind and carries on, but sometimes when she speaks, it’s his words that come out of her mouth. Twin things. 4. Kit doesn’t find out about the fourth time until a little later. At the time, the day had been unremarkable. She wasn’t working, so she had spent it with Dewey in his library because Frank told her he was lonely. Then she had stayed the night. Then the next day, only leaving a few times for meals and a breath of fresh air. “I think I probably have to leave today,” she tells Dewey in the afternoon whilst he’s swinging around on a high shelf and she’s sitting with her back against it eating strawberries. “I fear I left some food on my table before I visited you, and I don’t like to think of the state it’s in now.” “Oh,” Dewey says, frowning, and she hopes he isn’t too disappointed. “I thought you might have sent J back there.” “What?” Kit frowns, tips her head back to look at him. “I haven’t seen my brother in years, Dewey, what are you talking about?” “You haven’t-” Dewey’s frown deepens, and then he groans. “Kit, he was here yesterday!” “He was what?” “He stayed last night, his name is in the books,” Dewey says, looking despairing. “He had something to attend to nearby. We thought-” “You thought what?” Kit asks, then realises. “That’s why Frank invited me here, isn’t it?” “What else would he have said?” Dewey blinks. Kit waves him off. “I thought you were seeing him when you went upstairs,” Dewey says miserably. “Stupid cryptic VFD shit.” He sounds angry. Kit hasn’t heard him sound like that before. “It’s fine, Dew,” she says gently. “I can’t see him anyway. The schism is...bad.” “I live with Ernest,” he shoots back. “I know what the schism is like. He’s your brother!” “It’s not that simple.” “Yes it is,” Dewey says bluntly, then drops his files onto the floor next to her. She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just leaves, and can’t help but search for his car outside, even though she knows he’s long gone. 5. The fifth time, she nearly runs him over. She’s driving like she always does, which is to say, like she has nothing left to live for, and he is crossing the street nowhere near a crossing and not looking for oncoming traffic, which is also what he always does. Neither of them will break a habit. Kit swerves away and screeches to a halt before she actually realises it’s him. Thankfully, she recognises her brother right before rolling her window down to yell either an apology or expletives, she hasn’t decided. She’s not a perfect person, admittedly. He doesn’t recognise her past her tinted windows, although he might recognise the car and the dents in it. She doesn’t wait to find out, just screeches away and watches him hurry across the street in her rearview mirror, and thinks that objects in the rearview mirror are closer than they appear, whatever that means here. 1. Fate intervenes the sixth time they’re in each other’s orbit. Kit walks into a bar (and this sounds like the start of a joke, but it isn’t) and scans the room for an empty seat. She’s not here for a cheap hookup or a crazy night, just wants one drink to take the edge off, put the fuzzy borders back on the world instead of the sharp edges she could cut herself on. There is exactly one seat left at the bar and of course, it is next to her brother. She considers going straight home, but the empty silence of her apartment seems horrifically unappealing right now, and here she can at least be around other people for a bit, bathe in their smiles and laughter, even if they’re not directed at her. She takes her seat. “Are we going to keep pretending not to know each other?” Kit asks, not turning to face him. “That seems as much your decision as mine,” Jacques says drily, then turns to her. “Hello, dear sister.” “I keep seeing you,” she blurts out. “Just in the street. And we were in the hotel at the same time.” “Well,” he says. “That explains some things.” “I suppose,” she says, and Jacques orders her a drink whilst she stares at her hands. “You look tired,” he tells her. “I am tired.” She’s not a good liar around him. “It’s good work,” he says. “Worth it.” “I haven’t seen you in years. Properly, I mean.” “You’re seeing me now.” “Yep,” she says, rapping her fingers on the glass. “I’m sure we’ll face the consequences. Someone will be watching.” “Someone’s always watching,” Jacques sighs, and the bartender gives them a peculiar look. “Do you remember waiting for the bus?” Kit asks, holding onto the hazy memory as she speaks. “When we were little?” “I remember,” Jacques says, smiling faintly. “You had very little patience for waiting.” “I haven’t changed,” she says, and he laughs. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” “Lemony could have stood there for hours,” she remembers, thinking of how small he was and how he’d stand in his brother’s shadow and peer out for the bus with big, dark eyes. “He wasn’t like us, was he?” Jacques sighs. “I miss him,” she admits, like it’s not obvious, and drains her glass. “Me too,” Jacques says gently. “I said only one drink,” she considers, partly to herself. “Why are you here? Waiting for someone?” “No,” Jacques says, amused. “Just stopping by. I don’t think I’d be picking anyone up at the bar.” “No, you’d prefer the penthouse, wouldn’t you?” Kit says, and they both laugh. “I have to go home.” “Need a lift?” Jacques asks. “I’m not drunk.” “I’m catching the bus actually,” she tells him. “Though they take forever around here.” “I’ll wait with you,” he says easily, and she likes the idea of not standing alone at the bus stop with a cigarette. This will not become a regular occurrence, but for one more day, she waits for the bus with her brother.

[obscuniverse]

Obscu listens to: The Magnus Archives - Episode 1 ‘Angler Fish’

@derinthescarletpescatarian​ has been ranting at me about this series for what feels like a million years so here I am. Also apparently I’m the world’s biggest stereotype. Let’s roll, shall we?

Oooh, I do like spooky violin. Can’t have a horror anything without spooky violin.

Okay can we pause and talk about the symbolism of having ‘Angler Fish’ be your first episode title? Fun Fact! As you may recall, the angler fish is what happens when you ask any child to draw any animal that they imagine has teeth, and the teeth come out all different sizes and directions but they’re definitely spikes, and then they get so caught up with the teeth that they rush the rest of the body so it looks like a particularly carnivorous poop? That’s the one. The part that’s particularly relevant is the the bit where they’re a bunch of glowing knobheads; that is, they have a fleshy forehead appendage where the end is colonised by bioluminescent bacteria, which they use as a lure for smaller, less coprotype prey. So we’ve got some strong lure imagery, and it’s the first episode, so on one hand this is literally the lure that the series is using to draw us, the readers, into consuming (or, if you know @derinthescarletpescatarian​, being consumed by) the series. Of course, it’s almost certainly referring to the content of the episode as well so I anticipate a protagonist (and possibly diverse other victims) to be _lured _into something bad for them.

Secondary Fun Fact! Anglerfish mating involve the male biting into the belly of the (several times larger in size) female and hanging on until their skin and blood vessels literally fuse together, with the anglerfish male being fed directly by nutrients from the blood of the female through their shared circulatory system. Will our protagonist bite off more than they can chew and become hopelessly, permanently enmeshed in something larger and more dangerous than they, so interwoven with it that they are unable to extricate themselves from it but also being given by it the means to survive? Will we the listeners? I guess we’ll just have to hit play because I’m only 36 seconds in. I do like the narrator’s voice though.

More spooky violin, can’t go wrong with that. Ooooh a crescendo. Hot fucking damn. Oh snap there was some sad tunelessness there!

Ohshit it’s a recorded diary! Every horror game I’ve ever played has prepared me for this moment.

Nothing spooky happens at a research institute named for strength or might in both Latin and Norse. Certainly not one that deals in esoterica. Okay, let’s see what Johnathan Sims (Simms?) gets up to at Swole Hogwarts.

What’s that? The previous Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher Archivist is dead and you’ve been hired by Spooky French Dumbledore who is almost certainly a monster because of course he is to replace them? This will end only well and definitely not with a spiral into a mental breakdown culminating in some Here’s Johnny! shenanigans.

“There are very few genuine cases” and now that you’ve jinxed yourself every single genuine case in the world is going to be crawling out of the walls to say hello. You’d think after 4 years you would’ve learned not to say such things. It’s like watching D-Class personnel at the SCP foundation.

“When an investigation has gone as far as it can it goes to the archives” (emphasis mine). So you’re gonna be digging into a 200 years’ of spoopy cold cases that are gonna get real hot real quick. I’m down. 

Ahahahaha. Oh academia. Even in Swole Hogwarts you can’t get away from theorists vs practicalists.

86-91-G/H is definitely going to come up again. I can vividly picture the wild strewn-about room of someone driven mad by the haunting nature of their job. Or of my own office because of who I am as a person. I wonder which file ate Gertrude. I also wonder if the lack of use of modern electronics is a safety measure that Old Mate Johnny has unknowingly violated.

“I have secured the services of two redshirts, and you can tell because they’re unnamed researchers” “I don’t expect Martin to secretly be the highly skilled wizard/creature manipulating events form their apparent background doddering disguised as a silly fool in keeping with long fairy-tale tradition contribute anything except delays” Martin is definitely Snape. OOOooooOOOooooOOH, attempting to digitise T̵̨̛͚͉̫̩̰͍̓̽̽̍̓͑̓̾͌͗̂̈́̉ḫ̸͈̪̉̆̓̀͌̓͒̈̋̐͝ĕ̵͉̻̻ ̷̜͙̤͎͈̝̮̘̄̅̓̆̿̕͝R̴̪͑̍̒̍̾̅̐́͘͠͠ę̸̞̪͕̠͍͉̝̀̈́́͌̽ͅc̴̟̱͈̦̎̅̋̏͆̌̇͘͠͠o̶͚̞͕̲͒̋r̷̲̟̭͚̠̾͑́͋̓̈́̎͒̾̚d̴̩͓́͑̀͊̂̿͛i̴̗͈̣̟̻̯̼̘̞͕̋͜ͅņ̶̡͍͚͙̩͇̟̝̩̬͍͖̳̓g̷̯̬̙̱͚̏͂̔͐̉̇̾̋̓̎̈́͘s̷̢̫̗͙̱̻̳̞̩̐͛͂̍̑̐̊̚ have been met with significant spooky magical fuckery distortion. Fancy that.

The redshirts are named Tim and Sasha, and they will be doing some supplementary investigation suicidal monster hunting to fill in Blanks That No Man Was Meant To Fill. Maybe they’ll survive now that they have names, but they really should’ve saved the name for when one of them is mortally injured and the audience has to care enough about them for them to survive so you can reveal that they are in fact a person.

“I apologise to my eventual replacement after I am horribly eaten by/transformed into whatever is in 86-91-G/H any future researcher.”

Johnathan Sims is Niles Crane from Frasier and I will accept no word to the contrary.

Ah yes, the most esoteric and terrifying of eldritch phenomena; someone trying to bum a ciggy off you when you’re 80% scotch and 60% regret.

Ah, so “can I have a cigarette” with a human form ‘asking’ is the glowy knob on this ghost’s forehead. Completely without intonation because it’s just playing back a noise that attracts hammered people at night rather than understanding words that attract hammered people at night. Pretty sure I’ve seen this in an anime.

Apparently totally sloshed British students make better horror/urban fantasy protagonists than most movies would credit.

I take it back.

At least the spooky poopfish got some dinner.

I wonder if the missing student’s name also been John is a bit of tongue in cheek.

Oooh he’s created a “this is all bullshit” category into which he clearly intends to consign most of these. STOP PLAYING CHICKEN WITH THE UNFATHOMABLE HORRORS OF THE VOID BETWEEN THE STARS. Or, y’know, keep at it. This will not be hilarious and/or traumatic at all.

“Check out this photo of a spooky ghost if you run it through a sixth sense filter” That’s right Johnny, get beckoned.

I’m actually not 100% on this format but I’ll give it a few more tries.

[rorybergstrom]

𝑫𝑰𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑩𝑶𝑫𝒀 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑩𝑰𝑺𝑬𝑿𝑼𝑨𝑳 𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑲𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑻𝑯 𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑫  ???

            hello, it’s nora again…. hitting u with another child. a south london-born softboi who deserves tenderness. has a burner phone and doesn’t use social media. does techno dj sets. plays the synth loudly through the night if u live in gorham his room always sounds like a space ship just landed. deals weed around campus on his rollerskates. hates that he can’t get new light up wheels because ana coto made rollerskating cool again. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board. this intro is recycled?? so if theres mistakes, sue me??? and be sure to like and subscribe for more unboxing content x

application.

『 FIONN WHITEHEAD ❙ DEMI-MALE』 ⟿ looks like RORY BERGSTRÖM is here for HIS JUNIOR year as a MUSIC TECHNOLOGY student. HE is 23 years old & known to be ECCENTRIC, FANATICAL, NITPICKY & DOGMATIC. They’re living in GORHAM, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ ooc name. age. tz. pronouns. 

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some. right now is dad to one cat, whose name changes on a daily basis (identity is constantly shifting, duuuuude), but they were originally named ‘wheezer’

rory has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. doesn’t really know where he fits yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all. isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

secretly a small-scale drug dealer, only does weed n some party pills. rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones,  floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes:  weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… is very tender and tame… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

hm now that rory has !Evolved! ig we can do hook up plots if u want but he’s not tht good at divorcing sex from emotion?? like he  hooked up w teddy once n felt hopelessly inlove so..... if u want soft plots b prepared for crippling sadness.......

stay groovy XD XD

[fanfiction4thesoul]

My Happiness is with You Part 1

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: ~3.5

Warnings: Language; full on troupe

Summary: It’s the holidays which means it’s time to visit your parents. And Roger gets to come too.

A/N: Hello again. This has been in my drafts for a while. Figured I would post it. To be honest, I’m not sure how happy I am with this. So let me know if you like it, or I might just let it die. Thanks to any and all that comment/like/reblog!

“Yes, mum, I’ll be there. No, I promise I won’t be late. Yes, I have the time written down. Yes. Yes.” You sigh as your mother keeps going on and on about the holidays. She called just to make sure you had everything right before tomorrow. It was probably more because she liked to stick her nose into everything. 

You hear Roger chuckle as he gets up from the couch, having listened to your half of the conversation for the last 15 minutes. He pinches your bum as he passes causing you to squeak in surprise on the phone. 

“What was that? Are you alright (Y/N)?”

Glaring at Roger does nothing but make a cheeky grin appear on his face before he disappears around the doorway. 

“Yes, mum, I’m fine. Look I’ve got to go but I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait! One more thing. You’re bringing your boyfriend, right? Ryan was it?”

“It’s Roger mum. And yes, I told you he’d be coming along.” You frown. Your mum is normally really good with names. 

“Great! Last thing, I promise. Ellie will be coming too! Won’t it be great to see your sister? And of course Richard as well.”

Oh yes. Seeing Ellie and Richard will be simply delightful. The prodigious first born with her dashing husband to boot. 

Just as you were about to respond, Roger comes back through the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hand. He waves one in your face before moving to sit back on the couch. 

“Yeah it’ll be fantastic mum. I’ll see you then. Bye!” You hang up the phone without waiting for a response. Groaning, you move back to the couch with Roger, taking the offered beer before settling next to him.

“Your mum giving you trouble?” Roger asks as he tucks you closer into his side. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” You take a large pull of beer. Setting it on the coffee table, you move to snuggle into Roger’s shoulder. “Are you sure you still want to go?”

“Not in the least. But they’re you’re family. I have to meet them right?”

You and Roger had been dating for quite a while now. You met back when Queen just formed at one of his gigs and hit it off. The expected one night stand turned into a two night stand that just sort of never ended. Well, until Freddie basically smacked you over your heads and asked what the fuck you were doing. 

Now here you were, living together though not alone. You moved in with Roger and Freddie over a year ago. While Queen was starting to do well with the sales of their first album, none of you could afford to live on your own. But that was fine with you. You adored Freddie, even if he was a shitty roommate sometimes.

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to meet them if you don’t want to.” You try to reassure Roger. Even though you’ve been together for a while now, you don’t want to scare him off with the prospect of your parents. Lord knows your mum just might.

With the holidays rolling up, your mother planned a small family get together that was supposed to be just you, your parents and your brother, Tom. He was on holiday from his first year at uni, so you’re excited to hear how he’s been making out. Out of the two of your siblings, he was easily your favorite.

Roger originally wasn’t supposed to come, but he told you a couple weeks ago he wanted to meet your parents. “No, love, I’ve got to meet them. I’m just a little nervous.” Looking up, you can see worry in his clear, blue eyes. He sets his empty bottle next to yours, avoiding your gaze.

“Where’s the confident rockstar I fell in love with? I didn’t think you’d be afraid to meet my parents.” You brush your hand across his cheek, gently turning him back to face you, wondering where this insecurity came from.

“I don’t know if you noticed, love, but I wasn’t exactly a one-woman kind of person before I met you. I never had to meet a bird’s parents. And I’m definitely not the type of guy parents want their daughters to bring home.”

Roger certainly had a point. With his long hair, smoking, drinking, and passion for the drums, he can seem like a parent’s worst nightmare. But you’ve been lucky enough to get to know Roger and see past the mask he puts on for the world. 

You’ve seen him patiently take care of Freddie while he was sick and being an even bigger diva than usual. 

You’ve watched him get excited over the release of the latest book in the series he’s been reading. 

You’ve seen all his soft smiles and the tender gestures that make up Roger.

“I think you’re exactly the type of person I want to bring home. And if my parents can’t see that in the few days that we’re there, it’s their loss.” Bringing him down, you kiss him sweetly. He responds immediately, molding your lips together.

When you pull away, he leans his forehead against yours for a moment. “Okay. We’ll see how it goes.” He gives you one more quick peck. “Now let’s get back to the movie. You’ve already got me emotionally invested in these characters so I need to know how it ends.”

Laughing, you rearrange so you’re curled up in Roger’s lap, head resting against his neck. 

Tonight's date night for the two of you. And by god does that make you sound like an old married couple. But you’ve been so busy the past few weeks with the holidays, you’ve barely been able to spend time together. 

So you both insisted on having a night to yourselves before you shove off to your parents’ place. Luckily, Fred was out of the house, so you and Roger could watch shitty movies and cuddle on the couch without Fred’s suggestive commentary. 

When you first met Roger, you thought he was very rigid. Sure he was suave with any woman he came into contact with. But he always seemed so aloof, both physically and emotionally. Of course, he had no problem with bold gestures to flirt, or anything to do with the bedroom. You just never took him for a touchy feely kind of guy. 

Boy were you wrong. Once you got together, he loved to touch you.

A hand on your hip to bring you closer or an arm around your shoulder as you sat together. Anything he could do to idly touch you, he would. His absolute favorite though was holding hands. He’d swing them between you while you walked, bring them into his lap, plant kisses all over your hand. You think it has something to do with all his excess energy.

Not that you minded. 

So it comes as no surprise to you that by the time the movie is over and you’re halfway through the next, you’re both stretched across the couch in a mess of limbs. 

You’re almost asleep on top of Roger’s chest, mostly because he’s gently running a hand up and down your back soothingly. His other arm keeps you pressed against him, as close as you can possibly get. Just before you can doze off, the door bangs open and the lights flick on. The light easily passes through your closed eyes, causing you to scrunch them up. Roger groans and you feel him throw an arm over his eyes.

“Hello, darlings! How are you this fine evening?” Freddie barges in. Squinting through your eyes, you can see him shedding his many layers of clothes he wore against his bitter cold. Fred sure knew how to ruin a moment. 

“We’d be a hell of a lot better if you knew how to make a quiet entrance Fred.” Roger moves his arm to glare at him, using his other to hug you impossibly closer. 

“And where’s the pizzaz in that?” Fred moves to the kitchen and you hear him put the kettle on. “Have you two been here the whole night? What happened to date night?”

“Well, it looks like it just ended,” Roger grumbles, though you doubt Freddie hears him. Sighing, you snuggle into Roger, willing the soft atmosphere to return. 

Fred drops something in the kitchen and yelps. 

You let out a groan filled with resignation. You know it’s time to get up and actually go to bed. You’ve got a long trip tomorrow and you both need some rest. Though Roger protests when you move, he follows you down the hall to your room. You get ready for bed in comfortable silence. Taking off your shirt and shorts, you rifle through Roger’s clothes before you find your favorite shirt of his and pull it on.

Collapsing into bed, you close your eyes again until you feel Roger’s weight beside you. He guides you to him so you can cuddle into his side. Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you hear him whisper, “I really hope you’re right about tomorrow, love.”

Trees blur by as Roger speeds down a back road, only a short distance from your parent’s house. He’s nervous. He fiddled with the radio for half an hour before you told him to knock it off. Then it switched to tapping out random rhythms on the steering wheel. You finally lit up a cigarette and passed it off to him. 

For the rest of the trip, you and Roger have managed to to go through half a pack. It definitely helped with his jitters (and yours too, if you’re being honest) so you can relax and talk. Roger finishes off the last cigarette, tossing it out the window before rolling it up, cutting off the frigid air. 

Before he can start tapping away again, you grab his hand and bring it into your lap, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be fine, Rog,” you tell him. He gives you a small smile in return just as he pulls onto your street. You feel your own nerves jump a little. 

Once he parks, you get out and he quickly follows joining you at the front of his car. He takes a second to pull your coat tighter around you. “You muppet, were going inside! Quit fussing.”

“Oh shut up,” he says. You laugh as he bring you in for a tender kiss. “Can’t help it,” he sighs and offers you his arm. “C’mon, love. Let’s go meet your parents.” His smile is brilliant as he guides you up the drive to where your family waits. It’s the special smile he reserves only for you and it makes your heart swell even further. It gives you hope that he’s gotten over his worries. You’re so happy with Roger. Every day you’re reminded of why you love him so much. 

You just hope your parents can see that. Well, more like your mum.

Before you can even reach the front step, the front door is thrown open. “(Y/N)!” Tom yells. He races forward and tackles you in a hug, forcing you to let go of your grip on Roger.

“Tom! It’s so good to see you!” you laugh out. When he relinquishes his hold on you, he has a huge grin on his face, partially obscured by his shoulder length, dark hair. “You grew your hair out! It looks very rockstar,” you say, fiddling with the ends. 

He swats your hand away, “Yeah. Figured I could get away with it now I’m at uni. Mum still had a fit, though.” He shrugs his shoulders. His eyes flick over to Roger who has been watching your whole exchange with a fond smile. You’ve told him numerous times how close you are to your brother, so he knows how excited you really are. “And who’s this?” he drawls, “The beau mum’s been talking about?”

“You bet I’m the beau,” Rog grins, extending his hand, “Roger Taylor.”

Tom squints his eyes as he shakes hands. “I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

Roger opens his mouth to answer, but your mum’s yelling interrupts him, “Thomas! Will you let them in the house for God’s sake!”

Tom just rolls his eyes. “C’mon, before she shits a brick.”

You grab Roger’s hand again and lead him inside with Tom. The rest of your family is spread about the kitchen. 

“(Y/N)! You finally made it,” your mother exclaims, though she makes no move to hug you. Your father gives you a smile, though, before bringing you into a bear hug. Pulling back, he gives you an eye smile. Always a man of few words, your father likes being in the background and leaving your mother to take the lead.

When he sits back down at the table, you’re brought to the attention of your sister. Ellie is sat at the table as well, Richard leaning against the wall directly behind her. “Ellie, Richard,” you say. Ellie just gives you a nod and looks away while Richard doesn’t even pay you any attention. 

“Well, (Y/N)? Are you going to introduce us to your boyfriend or not?” Your mother asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course,” you pull Roger a little forward with you, giving his hand a squeeze, “Everyone, this is Roger. Rog, this is my mum, dad, Ellie, her husband Richard, and you already met Tom.”

Roger puts on his most charming smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Thank you for letting us stay with you, Mr. and Mrs. (Y/L/N).”

“Oh none of that. Call me, Charlie,” your dad says.

“...You can call me, Beth,” your mother adds hesitantly. You quickly dart your eyes to your mother and wait. She looks a little uneasy, but doesn’t say anything more, making you breathe a sigh of relief.

Your father is quick to invite you and Roger to the table where supper is just about to be served. You have to squish onto one side with Tom to all fit, but that just means you and Roger get to sit closer together. Tom catches everyone up on how he’s been doing at uni, the friends he made, the classes he’s taking. Your mother scolds his hair choice and you watch her gaze shift to Roger slightly before returning back to Tom. Roger must notice though, because he squeezes your thigh under the table. 

It’s strange and a bit worrisome. Your mother has always expressed a certain type of dislike towards what she considers the “unruly” people. You thought she might mention some of those comments in passing humor before warming up to Roger. But her quiet demeanor is unusual. And unnerving. You’d have to try and talk to her alone some time.

A moment passes before your mother brings up Richard’s law firm and so dinner digresses into mind numbing lawyer talk that no one actually understands. You can tell Roger is trying to be polite. He looks attentive as he listens to Richard, but his wandering hand tells you otherwise. He keeps it tame, though, only caressing your thigh and playing with your hands. 

When Richard finally stops talking and there’s a small lull in conversation, your father speaks up for the first time, “I’d like to know more about you, Roger. If you don’t mind.”

“What would you like to know, sir? I’m an open book,” he says, leaning back in his chair and putting an arm around the back of yours.

“What are you studying?” your mum cuts in.

“Right now, I’m going for biology.”

“Right now?”

Roger shifts a little, “I used to study dentistry, but I was quick to find out I’m not cut out to be a dentist.”

Though your father asked to know more about Rog, your mum takes over the conversation. She asks him everything from where he grew up, to his previous schools, to where he works. Then she starts throwing in her snide comments. 

“Oh, you lived in Truro? I heard the city’s architecture is atrocious.”

“I bet you had some interesting people at your stall in Kensington Market.”

The more questions she asks, the more comments she makes. And a pit forms in your stomach. She’s keeping everything cool and calculated. Like she’s gathering evidence for a trial. You knew she wouldn’t like his appearance at least. Not with his long hair and stylish (if outlandish) fashion. But this is not how you scripted it in your mind. She was supposed to make some faces, maybe, that you would brush off. Then she would start to like Roger once she got to know him. 

She wasn’t supposed to do...this. 

You’re sure Roger knows what your mother is thinking, if the furrow between his brows is anything to go by. His answers, that started out extremely polite, now hold a soft edge to them. He counters her comments with an easy breeze, as if he’s not being subtely insulted. He’s waiting for something. 

You can see Tom watching this ping pong match with a little worry showing on his face. Ellie and Richard’s face give nothing away. “Wait, wait, mum,” Tom interrupts, attempting to save you and Roger. “How’d you meet (Y/N)?” 

“We met at a bar my band was performing at. Hit it off and the rest was history.” There it was; his ace. A hit back at your mother. Roger smirks, tongue in cheek looking completely satisfied as he waits for your mother’s response.

You watch with a small smile as Ellie finally frowns. Just as your mother goes to open her mouth, your dad speaks up, surprising you. “Oh, you’re a musician. That’s quite a talent. What instrument do you play?”

Roger looks just as surprised as you, but kindly replies, “I mostly play drums and backup vocals, though I can do some guitar as well.”

“What did you say your bad was called?” Tom asks.

“When I first started in uni, it was Smile. But we changed lead vocals and bass so now we’re called Queen.”

Tom slams his hands on the table causing you to jump. “I knew I heard of you before! The guys on my floor wouldn’t stop raving about Queen, wondering when they were gonna come back to play. I’ve heard your album a hundred times thanks to my roommate.”

Roger gives him a genuine smile and explains how the band sets up gigs and that they might be headed back towards his area in the near future. While they talk, your mum is silently stewing at the head of the table. She catches your eye once, and you just stare back, not sure how you’re going to deal with this.

Supper finally ends and you and Roger help Tom clear the table and do the dishes. Your dad makes a move to protest, but your mum quickly shuts him down and ushers everyone else into the sitting room. Tom and Roger joke around while you work, seemingly forgetting the tense atmosphere from before. You’re glad they get along above anyone else. When you finish the dishes, you shoo Tom in with the rest of the family, saying you’ll be along soon. 

He doesn’t get very far before he turns around. “Don’t let mum get to you, (Y/N). Or you either, Roger. Just make sure you’re happy.” He says the words lowly so no one else overhears. You sigh as he walks away. When did he become so mature?

Bundling back up in your coats, you lead Roger outback into the cold air. He quickly lights up a cigarette, leaning against the railing of your deck. He takes a deep drag before passing it off to you. You mimic his position. After a few moments, he asks, “Are they always like that?”

You hum. “Like what? Pretentious as fuck?”

He snorts a laugh, “Yeah.”

“Only my mum and sister. And Richard by default I guess. My dad just quietly goes along with everything. Tom’s the only outspoken one.”

“Besides you, right love?” He gives you a soft smile around the cigarette.

“Yeah...besides me.” Roger passes you the last of the cigarette, coming to stand behind you. As you take the final drag flinging away the butt, he wraps his arms around your middle pulling you back against his chest.

“I’m… sorry. About my mother. I don’t know why she’s being like this.” You feel so shitty about how she was behaving. Roger doesn’t deserve that.

“Hey, you’ve got no need to apologize for her, love.” He speaks in your ear, nuzzling against you. “I’ve heard it all before. From my own parents, no less.”

You sigh, “Still. I’m sorry.”

Roger hums, kissing a line up your neck. When he reaches your ear again, he pauses. “You’re happy, though… right love? With me?”

You whirl around in his arms, looking up at his startled expression. “Of course I’m happy with you! Don’t ever doubt that.”

He smiles and brings you in for a long kiss. “I don’t, love. Not with you. I love you. So long as you’re happy, I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.” He murmurs, still brushing his lips against yours.

You just bring him back, pressing yourself as close to him as you can possibly get, conveying as much love as you can into the kiss.

[ververa]

‘Twelve Shades of Love’

Mine and @misssmephisto‘s story

CHAPTER 1 - “We have a daughter...” (PART 2 & 3)

Lana Winters & female reader

II

"Ms Winters we're honoured. From all orphanages you chose ours and it's…"

"Lana, look" Marion cut off the other woman and squeezed the journalist's hand drawing her attention to the group of children playing outside

There she was. Their little angel from that evening. She wasn't playing with the rest. She was sitting alone and reading.

Apparently the girl seemed to be happy – doing her thing, not caring about the other kids. But Lana was too observant. She saw everything. Every little detail. That sad and scared look in y/n's eyes. How other children poke fun at the girl. At that very moment Lana wanted nothing more, but to kick their asses.

"Ms Winters" an elder woman brought her back from her thoughts "I'm sister Ann. I'm in charge here" she said smiling friendly

“You are a nun…” Lana stated

“I am. Is that a problem?”

The journalist took a deep breath. It was hard for her to interact with nuns and priests after Briarcliff, even if she knew that they weren’t bad people.

“No. It’s not a problem” Marion answered squeezing Lana’s hand reassuringly

They looked at each other, then again at sister Ann.

“I just thought it’s a secular orphanage…”

“Not exactly, however I’m the only nun here”

The journalist nodded.

“What can I do for you?”

“We met one of the girls during the mayor’s party last week. We just want to say hello” Marion said enthusiastically

“Which one?”

“Y/n”

“Oooh”

“Can I go to her?” Marion asked

“Of course”

The singer looked at her girlfriend

“Go. I’ll talk with sister Ann” Lana said

Marion nodded and headed to the garden, where the child was.

“What’s her story then?” the journalist asked “Is she here since always or…”

“Her mother lost her mind when she was pregnant. She ended up in asylum and there she gave birth to y/n. She tried to kill that poor child twice”

“What? W-what do you mean?”

“She tried to choked her with a pillow when she was an infant and a year ago, when everyone claimed she’s cured she took y/n home and hit her with a mirror. Y/n still has a scare on her head” the nun shook her head “She was in two foster families, but they didn’t want her. She’s so different. She can either open up or block completely”

“Why didn’t they want her?”

“They claim she’s too much for them”

“She’s 5?”

The older woman nodded

“How a 5 year old can be too much?”

“Ms Winters, I don’t want to be intrusive or pressure you… But if you’re considering adoption you had better make up your mind quickly”

“W-why?”

“I know you and… I know what kind of relation it is. As a member of the church and Christian I don’t approve it. But if you decide to adopt y/n, I’ll do my best to help you. It’s not because you’re Lana Winters, but because that child deserve to have someone who will take care of her. She might be a problematic child, but you Ms Winters should manage. However, I’m not going to be in charge for too long. Mrs Brooks is going to take my place soon and she won’t be that understanding and eager to help…”

Lana moved a little to have a better view of her girlfriend. Marion was sitting on the bench with the girl. The woman seemed to be happy. Happier than Lana could remember her being. The journalist knew that the child won Marion’s heart the first time they had met. The girl had something that captivated both of them, but Lana didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that she liked her too.

The thought of adoption was on their minds since the visit at the orphanage, but Marion didn’t dare to mention it. The singer didn’t want to pressure Lana into anything, especially knowing how hard it was for the woman to deal with her pregnancy and the aftermath of it.

_ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _

It was a few days later. Marion came back home after a few hours that she spent at the opera house. She found Lana sitting in their huge living room with a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other. Though she wasn’t reading anymore. She was just sitting and looking at the wall full of their photos with famous people.

‘Good evening, love’ Marion kissed Lana’s forehead and moved to sit opposite her

The journalist smiled weakly.

‘I’m so tired. That was the worst rehearsal ever. We spent 4 hours practising…’

‘I saw him’ Lana said suddenly

‘What? Who?’

‘I…’ she hesitated ‘I was thinking about y/n. I know you want to take her. I know you want to have a baby, well a kid actually, but well… I just couldn’t stop myself. I went to the orphanage. They told me where he’s going to school and I went there’

Marion approached her girlfriend and cautiously sat next to her.

‘I saw him. I saw Johnny… my son’ Lana explained with shaking voice

‘But why? Why did you go there?’

‘I just… I don’t know. I thought that I should, but now I don’t know anything’

‘What you don’t know? Ask me and I’ll tell you’ Marion took Lana’s hand and squeezed it gently

Winters took a deep breath.

‘What if I’m considering it, because I want to redeem my guilt?’

‘What guilt? Lana’ Marion kneeled right next to the other woman ‘There is no guilt’ she caressed Lana’s cheek ‘You did nothing bad’

‘I left him. I’m his mother… I should have taken care of him. I’m no better than y/n’s mother and now as the guilt is unbearable I’m considering taking her’

‘No. Lana, stop it. You cannot blame yourself for what had happened to you, because it wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me?’ Marion cupped Lana’s cheeks ‘Do you understand? It wasn’t your fault. It’s on them. And you owe him nothing. You already gave him enough. You carried him for 9 months. I can only imagine how hard it was. I wish I was there for you. I know I wouldn’t be able to help you in any way, but at least you wouldn’t have been there alone with all that. Lana, you gave birth to him. You gave him life and that’s the best you could do for him’ the singer carefully wiped the tears that were escaping Lana’s beautiful, brown eyes ‘And when it comes to y/n. I know you like her. Even if you don’t want to admit it. Well, my dear you may try to deceive yourself, but you cannot deceive me. And the truth is that you lost the fight when that little miracle showed you her favourite book and asked you to read to her. She won your heart when she fell asleep in your arms with her tiny hands carefully wrapped around you and her head resting on your chest’

The journalist laughed wiping the last few tears.

‘I love you so much’ she said leaning in and kissing Marion

‘I know, because I love you too. More than anyone before, Ms Winters’

‘Marion’ Lana caressed the singer’s cheek ‘I know you want to have a baby. I know you want to take y/n. And I’m ready’

‘Are you sure? I didn’t want to pressure...’

‘I’m sure. Let’s do this’

III

The adoption procedure was supposed to take about one week. That was the quickest option, that sister Ann came up with. Both Lana and Marion decided to visit the girl as often as possible and spend with her as much time as they could. But they still needed to work. It happened that Marion had a performance and had to leave for two days.

The singer left only when Lana assured her that she's able to deal with visiting y/n and facing sister Ann and Mrs Brooks on her own.

The singer didn't want to go, she knew that it was still hard for Lana, even if she wouldn't admit it.

The journalist was reserved when it came to her feelings. It took quite some time to get to her and Marion knew that Lana just needed a while to let y/n become a part of her life. They were so alike that it wasn't possible not to notice it, so they bonding with watch other was just a matter of time.

The resemblance between them was the first thing that hit Lana. They both had been abandoned –

y/n by her mother and Lana by Wendy. They both were mistreated by people. Hurt deep inside by the world. The only difference was that Lana knew a different life, a positive part of it and asylum was only a temporary period that she had got through. It was different with y/n. She was in the orphanage since always. They're throwing her from one foster family to another not caring much about the child's feelings.

Lana couldn't get over that thoughts. It hurt her the same every time. Usually when she was visiting y/n with Marion she was able to control that side. But without her girlfriend it was going to be twice as hard. There were so many doubts that she couldn't deal with. Lana felt as going crazy with every minute, so as to remain sane she let herself got lost in work.

'Oh no' Lana muttered to herself looking at her watch - it was too late to go and visit y/n 'You fucked up Winters' she shook her head

It wasn't typical for them to miss any visit when they're together, but Marion left and Lana was working. Work had always been the best of all excuses for her, but it wasn't that. Not when it came to the child. She was afraid to go there alone. Afraid of what she may feel or that she may become too attached to the girl. She had a hard time realising it already happened. 

Next day the first thing on Lana's mind was going to the orphanage. She went there in the morning, buying a huge teddy bear on her way. The journalist felt out of place standing at the window of a toy shop, but she wanted to make her absence up to the girl. 

She was trying to calm her nerves by taking deep breaths on her way to the main room, where all the children were usually playing. Every visit was accompanied by anxiety. It was the place and its vibes. Lana could feel negative energy flowing through the walls, but that day it was different. The eerie aura was unbearable. The woman knew something was wrong, but didn't know what until she reached her destination and realised y/n wasn't there.

'Where is she?' Lana entered the sister's office without knocking

'Ms Winters? G-good morning'

' I'd not call it good. Where is y/n?'

'I… She should be in a common room'

'Well, she's not there'

'Maybe she went to the toilet or is in the bedroom'

' She's not!' Lana snapped

'She didn't disappear Ms Winters. There's no need to raise your voice' sister Ann said 

'She is 5. She's not allowed to leave on her own and she's nowhere to be seen here. Also you don't know where she is. So how can I be calm and not raise my voice?'

'Ms Winters, I'm sure we'll find her. Shall we?' the nun pointed at the door

'We shall' Lana said leaving the office

They checked the common room and the bedroom, but they didn't find the kid.

'Maybe she's in the garden. Let's go there' sister Ann suggested hopefully

Lana was following the nun still holding a fluffy toy in her hands. They were about turning and going down the stairs to the door when they heard someone yelling.

They stopped and looked at each other.

That was enough to make the journalist act. Lana didn't wait for sister Ann. She speeded up and as she was getting closer she could hear a silent sobs. She knew it was y/n. She couldn't explain it, but she felt the girl's presence.

Before sister Ann could stop her Lana opened the door. That wasn't expected. Definitely not by Mrs Brooks who jumped when she saw no other, but Lana Winters herself. The journalist didn't even look at the woman, who suddenly went quiet. All her attention was absorbed by the girl - standing in the middle of the room with her eyes red and puffy and cheeks still wet from tears. Lana's heart broke at the sight. She immediately dropped the teddy bear and moved to the child. She knelt, so that she could be face to face with y/n and carefully wiped the girl's cheeks.

'Y-you came' y/n sobbed a bit surprised

'Of course I did' Lana smiled 'Why wouldn't I?'

'You weren't here yesterday… and they said you don't want me anymore' she looked down

'We would never change our mind' Lana stroked the girl's hair 'Why did you doubt that?'

Y/n didn't answer making Lana suspicious. The woman looked at the item that the kid was holding in her little hands. She immediately recognised the book that she had given y/n on their third meeting. The girl was hugging it to her chest, but Lana could notice a few tattered leaves were sticking out of the book.

'Y/N' Lana wanted to caress the girl's cheek, but the kid flinched and moved rapidly.

Only then did the journalist noticed a red mark on y/n's cheek

'What happened?'

'Nothing!' the other woman answered before the girl could say anything

' I'm not talking with you' the journalist said dryly

' She's not able to answer your question'

' But you are?' Lana stood up

' What's going on in here?' sister Ann asked 'Y/n what happened to your face?'

The girl didn't answer, but began to cry.

' Mrs Brooks I expect you to explain what happened'

' Nothing. She just needed to be punished for bad behaviour'

'Are you kidding me?!' Lana yelled 

'What have you done?' the nun looked at the child and then at the caretaker 'You will explain yourself to the outpost board and the mayor' she stated

'Is this a threat? Who do you think you are to threaten to me?'

' It's a warning' sister said 'For now' she added

At those words the other woman puffed her cheeks up and blew a raspberry. She then moved towards the kid. Mrs Brooks started to explain herself, but Lana paid no attention to her words. The journalist was focused on the caretaker's moves and how y/n reacted to them. At some point the woman swung her arm dismissively and that's when she lost. The girl shrieked with terror taking a few steps back and curling into a ball in the corner of the room.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry' she was sobbing

Lana as an observant and clever woman understood it. In that moment everything became clear to her. 

'You hit her…' she looked at Mrs Brooks who suddenly went quiet

'Is that true?' the nun asked

'She didn't give me a choice' the woman began to explain herself

The journalist moved towards the child.

'Hey, sunshine, it's okay. I'm here. She won't hurt you' she offered y/n her hand

The girl looked at Lana with her big teary eyes. She was trembling with fear and Winters couldn't stand seeing her like that. All her memories from asylum suddenly hit her. In the child she could see no other, but herself from asylum.

'That's enough' she cut off the other woman 'I'm taking y/n' she stated and not waiting for response lifted the girl up

Y/N was barely weighting anything and if it hadn't been for her body still shaking a little Lana wouldn't be able to say she was having the girl in her arms. 

'Are you going to let her do that?' Mrs Brooks addressed the nun

Neither sister Ann nor Lana reacted to that. Though the journalist could feel how the girl's hold tightened, so she stroked her back and kissed the top of her head reassuringly. 

'I'll take you to her room and get the papers ready' the elder woman said

They're about leaving the room when Mrs Brooks spoke up again

'That's against the law! You're breaking the rules!'

At that Lana turned around to the other woman

'You're the one who should be afraid of the law. You have no idea who you're messing with' she shook her head 'And that's the threat. If you touch my daughter again or even speak to her I'll make sure your life turns in hell and you won't find any job anywhere'

_ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _

Lana followed sister Ann to the room y/n was sharing with a few more children. She was holding the girl for the whole time trying to calm her down a bit more.

The journalist let the child go only when they were alone. Lana carefully sat the girl down on the bed. Looking deep in the girl's eyes she could almost see her soul. She felt how hurt and scared the child was and that made her heart ache. But despite the inner need to kill the woman who dared to hurt her baby Lana did her best to smile at y/n.

'It's okay. You're alright. Everything is. Nobody's gonna hurt you' she stroked the girl's hair and gently put the strand of it being y/n's ear

That's when Lana noticed a scar on her head - the one about which sister Ann had mentioned. The woman touched the scar with her fingertips and y/n flinched.

'I'm sorry' Lana moved back 'I didn't mean to scare you. I… you don't need to be scared anymore, okay? I won't let anyone hurt you' she smiled when the girl nodded

'Let's pack your things up, shall we?'

The child jumped off of the bed and began to gather her things. It didn't take them long, as the girl didn't have too much stuff.

'Come on. Let's go home' Lana took y/n's suitcase and took the girl's hand

They're going down the stairs when sister Ann approached them.

'Ms Winters, there are quite a lot of things that you need to see and ready and…'

'Tomorrow' the journalist cut her off ' I'll see everything tomorrow. For now I need to take my daughter' she looked at y/n 'Home'

The nun didn't even try to voice an objection knowing that it's impossible to outtalk Lana Winters.

'Alright. But make sure you're here tomorrow as early as possible. We don't want any troubles, do we?'

'Of course. Thank you, sister' Lana said

'And you my dear' the elder woman addressed the kid 'Be a good girl' she stroked y/n's hair 'May God keep you in his care'

Let me know what you think

[polarishq]

Meet DUYEN NHU HUYNH. They are ONE HUNDRED years old and hail from LAO CAI, VIETNAM. Duyen embodies the constellation, CORONA AUSTRALIS. They use UTP pronouns. Their faceclaim is UTP.

Corona Australis reminds me of tattoos hidden under modest clothing, a sugar sweet smile, an empty pill bottle, drugs crushed in a napkin, cherry red lips, a row of leather jackets tucked into the closet, mercury dripping from the fingertips, a streak of mascara on white paper, a crystal knife pressed against flawless skin, a silhouette standing on a ledge, a couple bottles of Jack, cigarette fading to ash, ‘don’t like my attitude? call 1-800-FUCKOFF.’.

BIOGRAPHY

The first time Duyen ever threw a punch, she was four months old and knocked her twin sister off of the couch. That was, probably, a big indicator of where their lives would go.

With matching names, faces and clothes, everyone expected Duyen and Tien Huynh to be the perfect pair of twins –– in all actuality, they were the exact opposite. If their attitudes weren’t bad enough, they could never stop fighting. One pulled the other’s hair, so the other would scratch her eye; one ripped the other’s clothes, so the other would smack her. It was an exhausting cycle of devilish actions from cherubic faces. It added strain to an already failing marriage and by the time the twins were seven, their parents had agreed to split up, with each taking a child.

Their mother, Giang, took Duyen to Australia, but was unprepared for how hard it would be to raise her. Before, Duyen typically had only lashed out in response to her sister’s energy. Now, she grew increasingly irritable all on her own and often lashed out at Giang and her new wife, Allison. Though she was solely to blame for the tension, Duyen lost her willingness to deal with it and ran away when she was fourteen. Three weeks later, she came back home, changed. She never spoke about what happened while she was away, but the irascible girl was no longer herself. She no longer acted out or socialized. She only ever showed signs of life when people touched her, and those reactions were always bad and often led to intense breakdowns.

At a loss of what to do, Giang and Allison admitted Duyen into a psychiatric institution in hopes of fixing whatever had fractured inside of her. It was during her stay that Corona Australis appeared, right along her left index finger. No one knew what it was, least of all Duyen, so she mostly paid it no mind. Even if it was magical, it wasn’t a miracle; she was still trapped inside of a hospital for the unforeseeable future.

Three years passed before she was released, only a handful of months before her eighteenth birthday. Her moms were surprised to find a completely different girl; she was energetic in a way she hadn’t been since the move from Vietnam. She was jovial and affectionate now, always the first to crack a joke or flirt with a guest. They soon learned that there were still rules: touch was only okay when she initiated it and any amount of force would be met with a blade pressed against their throat. They didn’t know if this was their daughter anymore; Duyen wondered if Giang ever knew who her daughter was.

Allison was the first one to notice the mark on Duyen’s hand. She sat her daughter down and asked if she’d experienced anything particularly life-changing while hospitalized. For a moment, Duyen panicked, fearful that her mother knew some of the horrible things that had taken place, but Allison clarified that her mark meant she was special. Allison showed her own mark and told Duyen about magic, stars, constellations and more. When she explained that Corona Australis, the one who’d sponsored Duyen, had a love for the pure-hearted, Duyen laughed. She was far from pure; that had been proven time and time again. Allison retained that just because Duyen didn’t see her purity, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t there. Many people were like her: hurt and lashing out in response to the world’s cruelty. Though Duyen had her doubts, she asked her mother to teach her how to use her magic.

It was Giang’s suggestion that they go back to Vietnam, on the off-chance that Tien also had a mark now. She thought it would be better if the twins learned their magic together. The family of three made the trip to Vietnam, but Giang never managed to contact her ex-husband and they never reunited with Tien, either. Duyen would never admit to being a little disappointed by this. Instead, she kept on smiling. No matter the reason, Duyen was on her own. She learned magic from Allison, with a few tips from Giang, whose water magic was weak, in comparison. Before long, Duyen had a firm grasp on her magic and was confident enough to strike out on her own again.

Now twenty-one, Duyen headed to America. She made a name for herself among the community of earth witches, as the underground king of crystals. Where most witches found their powers limited when crystal got involved, Duyen knew how to use hers in whatever way she chose. She could use her crystals to heal, to paralyze, to summon, to kill –– she’d even figured out how to stop time. Most importantly, she was the leading authority on using crystals that other witches had deemed too impure to even touch. When someone wanted something impossible to happen, they found their way to her, though her services never came free. They were always surprised to see such an innocent face behind the rumors, but she quickly taught them all that she was far from innocent.

Around the late 1990s, she made her way to England to work some magic for the royal family. While there, she heard rumors of a school for magicians back in the States. She spent the next year digging up all of the information she could find on the school, from what they taught to who was running the place. Eventually, one of her more trusted acquaintances talked her into going to Polaris, if only to see what it was about. After a few years of being stubborn just for the hell of it, Duyen caved and reluctantly made her way to Vermont.

Hilariously, it took no time at all for her to find Tien here; after all, their rooms were right beside each other. Almost instantly, the two fell into their old ways of bickering and fighting, constantly at odds with one another. It felt more natural than any ‘hello’ or ‘I missed you’ ever would, especially given their opposing constellations. As time progressed, they never eased up on their arguing, but everyone learned that they were inseparable; trying to get between them was a death wish. No matter how they feel about each other, Duyen’s loyalties would always lie with her sister before anyone else, and she’d proven that time and again.

She’s been at Polaris for a little over a decade now and is still a terror. She deceives everyone with her unbelievably cute face and cheerful mannerisms, and most people are left traumatized when they discover that she’s a total monster. She guards herself with her crystals, so no amount of mental or dark magic can work on her –– she’s had enough of that in her lifetime. She does have a draw and inherent lightness about her, but it can get lost in all of her… personality.

She’s still on her medication, which is a good thing because she can be scary when she’s sober. If drugged-up Duyen is a landmine, then sober Duyen is a ticking time bomb with a pretty bow wrapped around it.

INCLINATION

Corona Australis, the Southern Crown, has a longstanding rivalry with its counterpart, Corona Borealis. Signified by the laurel wreath, Australis’s specialty lies in crystal magic. Not only does Australis possess the ability to channel crystal energy, but is extremely intuitive in growing crystals. Their positive applications of magic make them a direct contrast to Borealis, and the stars as a whole tend to favor Australis. Despite this, Australis chooses only witches pure of heart, who they believe are “worthy” of the crown they bestow.

CONNECTIONS

Filling the role of  Martha Harris’ Sparring Partner.

Filling the role of Katrina Winters’ Object of Affection.

SEVEN DEVILS [4/6]: Duyen mostly keeps to herself, but she also has a very small group of friends. She sees herself as their protection, more than anything else. She likes to keep them close and will gladly kill anyone who even looks at them wrong. That doesn’t mean they’re free of her terror; she’s still a bit of a landmine, even when it comes to them. They just get the privilege of also seeing her when she’s a little calmer. They’re an odd mix of personalities, but they somehow work.

Penned by Ricki ★

[inflashback]

all the ones you want to do 👀

well, here’s everything except the ones i’ve answered, you asked for it

theyre mostly about my youngmabel au, which i will ramblr about for free if anyones interested :’)

What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

i’ve, for a really really long time, wanted to write like. a scene where laura kinney and henry sutter Talk Their Shit Out, but that would take so so long and i’m not motivated... sorry laura and henry. okay i think the rest of these will b about mabel but. gotta stick with my idiots.

Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

this is from my young mabel story !!

“[Mabel] stops banging her head when she feels a stab of anxiety slash through her stomach. It’s not hers, that much is obvious-- it’s a soft golden feeling, the nerves, the-- 

The girl in the front of her mind, with hair cut just below her ears. Small scatterings of pimples across her face. She has a smile without sharp teeth; she cracks her knuckles when she’s bored or needs to fidget; she owns a pair of overalls she wears at least twice a week in the summer, when she’s in the mood to run around the fields outside her home, barefoot, with a friend or a girlfriend, when she wants to smoke a cigarette or two (she’d kicked the habit exactly three weeks ago today, she’s really proud of herself and her sister is, too), her sister’s name is Mónica and her name is Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna--

Anna Limon, Anna Limon, Anna Limon.”

the reverance to which mabel says anna’s name has always Hit Me for personal reasons and this scene i think is good. that is all

What character that you’re writing do you most identify with?

right now? either vera or mabel. vera is... not Right, and not Wanted by the outside world, so she’s angry and stupid to combat it. and mabel just... loves Her Person more than anything in the world, so there’s that. 

What character do you have the most fun writing?

again, mabel!! she’s so fun and angry all the time and it’s so freeing to just be able to do whatever the hell you WANT with a character

What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?

Uh!! I think i use a lot of metaphor and write a lot of physical affection :’) i’m not sure if others would agree but that’s pretty basic!!

Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

yeah...

Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? 

i write a lot of drabbles, but my proudest works are my long fic!!! i also plot way too much and i love to do it.

Do you wish you were the other?

i have no idea what this means but... yeah i guess? How would you describe your writing process?

pace around my entire house looping one (1) song thinking of one (1) scene. figure out exactly what it would take to get the characters to that point. write like 2000 words, fall asleep, cant make words for the next three years.

What do you envy in other writers?

oh god, everything. i don’t know how to make my words flow like certain people do, RIVER

Do you want your writing to be famous?

god no. my stories are mine.

Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

yes! here! there’s one story i’ve only shared with two people and that’s my borderline-ridiculous ‘beetlejuice with lab rats and gay shit and werewolves’ au, it’s the most self indulgent thing i’ve ever written and i love it so much.

At what point in writing do you come up with a title?

usually while listening to songs!! fr example my most recent posted fic is a lyric from ‘cop car’ by mitski because the line ‘i get mean when i’m nervous / like a bad dog’ makes me think of mabel, thus that fic came into existence.

Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

SUMMARIES i hate summaries usually i just paste in whatever i’ve got as the first sentence.

Tried anything new with your writing lately? (style, POV, genre, fandom?)

not really? new fandom but. i got my bread and butter, dude, i don’t feel like branching out. writing’s just a hobby i’m okay at.

Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?

i don’t think so !! like some of the stuff is personal and you can’t really understand from an outside POV, but. most of it is just dorky found family stuff!

Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

oh dear god yes... i mean. obvs river youre asking this youre aware of my aus. but i have a billion aus, theyre my favorite thing to write and ive got at least three for every fandom i’m in. i have an au for my lab rat beetlejuice au, too, which i’ll get around to writing someday.

Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)

ALL I DO IS DESCRIBE PEOPLE’S TEETH AND PHYSICAL AFFECTION. uhh i use the phrase ‘bared their teeth / had far too many teeth / smiled with too many teeth’ a lot, its because i find it the easiest descriptor for monsters and i like to write about monsters.

Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

ohh god okay youngmabel take three. anna wears soft reds and lots of layers-- to contrast mabel, who wears a thin nightgown and has a bright green color palette. this is largely because mabel has been made to show herself to everyone who’s tried to control her (sally, aurora silver, etc) while anna hides in herself. anna specifically wears one of mónica’s old sweaters, because she can hide and protect herself with her family, while mabel cant. also i love mónica im so hype to have her in the series. mabel also repeats things in groups of threes (”hello, hello, hello, anna, hello, hello, hello”) because she’s fae. i love her. ough and i cant wait for the character development you guys rnt ready fr this dumb series

What other medium do you think your story would work well as? (film, webcomic, animated series?)

I WOULD LOVE FR IT TO BE AN ANIMATED SERIES but also it as a film would rock.... yeahhhhh

Do you reread your old works? How do you feel about them?

my xmen ones, yeah. they’re really comforting for me. i feel like i wanna give my kid self a big big hug.

What’s the story idea you’ve had in your head for the longest?

probs the daemons au or the agents of shield / xmen crossover.. those both gave baby abbey a lot of fun hours.

Would you say your writing has changed over time?

yeah! ive gotten better i think

OKAY RAMBLE OVER THANKS RIV

[gotatext]

hello, it’s swamp witch nora again…. i couldn’t stay away.... hitting u with a tiny baby boy who is also terrible (sometimes).  musical softboi who loves karl marx and hates children dying in cobalt mines to make smart phones. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board, have a peruse. fyi sorry for those of u who have read this intro a thousand times i literally.... can never b bothred to change it n i think thats really sexy of me x

CHARLIE PLUMMER / DEMI-BOY — don’t look now, but is that rory bergström  i see? the 23 year old music student is in their junior year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be whimsical, impassioned, self-indulgent and nitpicky, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he / they will make a name for themselves living in griffin street. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her. )

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some

has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. rory don’t really know where they fit yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all!! slippin out of his physical form into the spirit realm! isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but currently feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it!!!!

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

occasionally deals weed n pills when strapped for cash, but only 2 ppl he knows, and on a very small scale grass-roots level!! (so its ok???) rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car. we love to see it

aesthetics: bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and drumming into blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, watching vine compilations until your eyes turn square, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones,  floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes:  weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… has never hooked up with anyone… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

actually i think rory had sex w delilah in the last version of this rp so if u want a hook up plot its possible just unlikely. they’d hav 2 be the driving force i reckon cos rory doesn’t really act on impulses like desire or anythin.... jst bottles that shit up !!! but yea we could do a spicy hook up plot maybs, depending on the person

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol