#in actual years I have had to take all the neat boxes out to sift through them because usually all the stuff I use most often is at the

[existentialcrisis-24-7]

Pro tip: do not reorganise someone’s setup ever unless you’ve asked first. You’re not doing them a favour

[dzpenumbra]

6/21/23

I'm getting a little too comfortable being wide awake at 4AM.

I had some pretty big bumps in the day that I'll get to, but I want to start with a good note, because I'm still very excited. I started my day off with the Lowe's delivery. I scheduled it between 6 and 9... 1). because it's funny, and 2). because it's a fair compromise of a somewhat reasonable time for normal people, and somewhere around the start of my day.

Yoga was nice, I did the psoas one again and I'm really starting to get more of a feel of how I can sorta shift my body around and hit different muscle groups, and kinda just do that until I get to a place that feels like it's opening up my lower back. It's mostly my lower back and sacrum area that are just... not happy with me lately. <insert shocked self-awareness that I have become an aging man complaining about his back>

My workout was intense, but I saved it until after my delivery, I picked my stuff up from the lobby and brought it back downstairs to my apartment. I immediately checked the plastic tubing to make sure it fits the pump I have... it took some work to get it on there, but it does work. So... the water feature is a go. But the dish I have for it is super shallow and the water tube comes out of the top of the pump... so... I'll have to get creative to camouflage the tube and the power cord. A project for another day.

After workout, shower, food, Rimworld, all that... I eventually got around to the main event - the mini Zen Garden idea. I got two big (like 14") saucers, one was advertised as "terracotta"... but was terracotta colored plastic... Which I'm going to use anyway, I was just kinda pissed about that. And the other is glazed ceramic, and is the one I'm currently using. I got just generic all-purpose construction sand delivered, about a 50 lb bag. I opened it up to see what I was working with and it had all kinds of sizes of little stones in it.

I know a lot of people who would get angry about this. "I ordered fucking sand, this has rocks in it!" "I wanted like... super fine sand like you see in the pictures online." Dude, I got fucking excited! I had literally just ordered a sieve and screens for classifying different sizes of gravel. I couldn't find a good distributer, but I would prefer to just gather local materials anyway, the sand was kind of a... impulsive exception. I really wanted these pieces to be composed as much of found local materials as possible. But since I'm prototyping, I said fuck it. I got stoked. I ran upstairs and grabbed the little cheap plastic strainer that came with my tumbling kit... it didn't work that great. So I went into the kitchen and got the big metal one, and that worked much better. See... the sand is... damp, for some reason. There's a lot of moisture in it. It's not the end of the world, but it makes sifting and sieving it much more difficult, the sand tends to stick and clump up.

So I went through the process of sieving about... 3 or 4 quart containers full of sand? And I got a full pint container full of various sized gravel for free. There are some really neat perfectly clear quartz crystals in there too. I was just enthralled with the process, it was like a treasure hunt! "I wonder what kinds of minerals were in this sand..." "I wonder what cool stones I'm going to find." I left it all out to dry once dawn comes, and I'll get to sorting through my findings tomorrow.

I've been really inspired and intrigued by natural sorting and sizing methods. Obviously there's sieving, but I remembered some stuff I learned years ago about using water with gold panning to sort minerals by size... And I started to deep dive a bit. There's so much art that goes into this, and I feel so much freedom to take this whole classifying and sorting and arranging thing as far as I want. Like... how fine do I really want the sand... Because I can actually bring my box fan down and set it on the right setting, place it at the right distance and angle, and have it just blow the lightest sand particles off of the dish and onto a plastic sheet or something? Or into a cardboard box? And the wind will sort it for me!

I was tempted to do that with water, water is really fucking effective for sorting stone particles because of how heavy they are. But... I just didn't want to deal with more drying that I already have to. It's just time-consuming when you don't have to do it. So... my current plan is... hand-sort good large gravel pieces. Take the dried sand tomorrow and experiment with wind-sorting, see how fine I can get the sand. Then I can use two different types of sand for two different pieces if I want. Or I can just say the sieved sand is sorted well enough (it really is nice and fine), and start working on design. So many options!!!

I'm really excited about this project, there is so much potential. It's literally infinite. I'm just excited to work on it. And the part that really gets me here... I really love the sorting process itself. Just sieving sand and seeing what you get out of it. And cleaning the gravel in a tub and seeing what it looks like all cleaned up. And watching the sand dry and become uniform and look like a nice clean beach rather than a local municipal sandpit. And the process itself of just doing a slow, repetitive, meditative task that doesn't feel like much... but has a tangible impact over time. Like a plant growing. Where you don't see the progress in real-time, but at the end of the day, you look over and go "holy shit, I got so much done."

I absolutely love meditative projects like this. I'm tempted to try to set up my webcam and stream it, I just... don't know if it appeals to anyone. But... who fucking cares? If people don't like it, they won't tune in. Whatever. So yeah, I'm going to consider setting that up tomorrow. If I don't just get sucked into the process for 6 hours straight first.

See why I wanted to get that out first? So excited!

Now for the not-so-fun part...

I had two really intense night terrors last night. I don't remember the second one because it was... to my newly awoken mind very linear and open-and-shut about one of my exes, so I didn't journal it. I didn't feel like journaling twice in one "night". The first one I did journal. It was about a girl in my art classes back in college who was really into me, and had a boyfriend the whole time... but I was not at all into her, so I didn't see a problem. But... it made a weird dynamic. I thought we were cool, she said we were cool, but she was definitely into me the whole time and neglecting her relationship because of it. She offered to share her studio with me, one of the on-campus studios, and I gladly took her up on it. We would work on projects there every week, for a long time, too. Plenty of all-nighters pulled. She served as the focal point of this dream. We were in... I guess a dorm or an apartment building or something. She was showing me a song that she and her roommates had made, so I'm guessing it was probably a college suite kinda thing. And it was in a program I have used for 15+ years called Guitar Pro, it's a musical notation program that supports guitar tabulature and MIDI playback. It was a weird parody song, it wasn't very good, but it was them having fun, you know? I listened to it, I noticed that it had some samples in it that I wasn't familiar with. Then there was a part that really got my attention because... somewhere included in this... I don't know if it was the lyrics or the labeling of the tracks or something... I wish I could remember because it's something I always look out for. I remembered numbers. I remembered reading and understanding and recalling after waking up a number sequence. I know the numbers were used associated with specific people, and the girl who I was visiting - we'll call her A - had a specific number associated with her. I felt like it was included in the labeling on the program, I distinctly remember it being represented visually. (This hit me hard after waking up because you're... not supposed to be able to read text in dreams...) The numbers were essentially local IP numbers (idk if that's their technical term), that's what I recognized them as. And the one associated with A was 1.1.1.1.8 (or something close to that) So... the fact that I could process a number was a bit disorienting, but I moved on. And this is where shit started getting super fucking uncomfortable and weird.

I started getting really tired. Really tired. Like... if you've ever been put under general anesthesia? That feeling, right when it starts. And I was laying on this girl's bed, with her laptop there. But... the bed was my bed. The same sheets, freshly made, just like the bed my actual self was in. Shit... on second thought, maybe it was my bed, and she was over at my place? I don't know if it was explicitly stated that it was her bed, just that she was there. And she insisted I crash there, and I really didn't have much of a choice, I could barely move. I was really really fucking uncomfortable, emotionally, physically. I sleep on the right side and I was rolled over onto my right side and all the way over as far as I could be on that side of the bed. And I heard her get out of bed, and she was seeing if I was awake. I pretended to be asleep, hoping she'd give up. She kept going, she circled the end of the bed, getting more and more insistent. I was using my hearing to track her movements, I couldn't even open my eyes, it was just black. As she circled the mattress to the side I was on, she was getting more and more insistent, like "hello? are you awaaake?" Like... playful but aggressively insistent. Like... spooky playful. And I managed to let out some incoherent desperate grunt. It was legit a sleep paralysis thing, and I would put my life savings on that sound being made audibly in the waking world. Once she got a sign of life from me, she started getting like... manic, frantic. And I managed to get my eyes open, but as my eyes were open, all I could see was straight down at the floor. I was like on the edge of the bed, looking down at some... grey cloth or newspaper or pile of paper or something on the floor. But it was all insanely blurry, like way worse than not having my glasses on. And as I opened my eyes, shit got fucking weird. Her voice started darting around, left, right, forward, all over the place... saying over and over "yoo hoo!" "yoo hoo!" Until I pulled myself out of sleep in a panic.

Needless to say... I was pretty shaken by this. I didn't get back to sleep for another 3 hours. I journaled the dream in detail, which is why I remember so much. Then I spent the next hour or so researching succubi and sirens. Pliny the Elder said that he didn't think the sirens were real, but someone he knew said there were folklore creatures in India that would sing you to sleep, then tear you to pieces. But I couldn't find anything about that online. It's surprisingly hard to find accurate folklore and spiritual stuff on search engines. Maybe it gets filtered out because of "pseudoscience"? Even though it never even remotely claims to be science? I don't know. I came out empty handed.

Regardless of whether it was an actual entity that was fucking with me in my sleep - either my physical body as I dreamt, or my spiritual body as I dreamt... - or just an extremely difficult concept I'm still trying to process... that I don't really want to get into too much right now... 1). because it would be triggering to others... but mainly... 2). because it would be a bit too triggering for me for 5AM before bed. So... let's just say that I'm becoming more aware of this whole... "predatory people" thing I'm worried about... and the dream represents a history... and something I'm still worried about in the future.

It leads to this juggling act between not trusting anyone... and saying "fuck it, I can't let shitty people from the past prevent me from trusting anyone" and then being put in really bad situations that I struggle to walk away from. So... that's definitely a thing present in my subconscious... and maybe this demon is my way of dealing with my own metaphorical demon. Maybe that's what they've always been. I dunno, all I know is... it sucked. But experiencing it felt very... illuminating. Like "ohhh that's what I'm worried about." Like a veil had been aggressively been lifted. Or at least just a peek behind the curtain, you know?

I gotta pee, then tarot and bed.

Past - III: The Empress (Progression, creation, birth, growth.) Present - VIII: Strength, inverted (Overcoming fear, mastery of emotions through equilibrium and inner strength.) Future - Eight of Pentacles (Work, industry, learning/mastering a skill, schooling, education, apprenticeship. With passion, this is not work, it’s an opportunity to shine.)

Alright, readers aren't going to see this but I'm doing this a bit different to test my reading ability. I didn't paste the card summaries in yet. I'm gonna try to freestyle this and then put in the meanings after.

This thread starts with The Empress. She is a symbol of fertility, growth, new beginnings. Or, more literally, a mother figure. I haven't gotten this one often, so I'm not 100% on it.

This is connected to inverted Strength. Strength is the harmony between emotions and intellect, impulses and rationality, the wild side and the civilized side. Inverted, I typically read as a struggle in this department.

This is connected to Eight of Pentacles. Eight of Pentacles is about labor, work. The process of toiling, learning, developing craft, working towards goals.

I'm going to fill in the definitions now. The Empress is the only one I'm shaky on. Then I'll tl;dr it.

Okay. So... I was pretty on the money, but the guide I have puts more emphasis on the progression part of Empress. Which I didn't miss, I just didn't really focus on. Mostly because Eight of Cups from last night was still lingering in my mind. But there are a lot of cards that say similar things, that's just how it goes. So... Empress is going to represent a new growth, a major progression in life, like the birth of a new chapter. This led to inverted Strength... fear taking control. Struggling to connect with my inner strength, my courage. And this has led to... work. Work work work. On the self. Non-stop work on the self. 24/7, to the point where I literally work in my sleep. And I need to force myself to take breaks.

Straight to the point, but dead-accurate. The extra card I pulled for a placeholder in my reference book? Queen of Pentacles - the keeper of the Heart of Pentacles. The warm, Matrix Oracle-like spirit who unveils the essence of a life well lived - all four elements (the impulses) under the watchful guidance of the spirit, all entwined, all working in balance and harmony. Something to aspire towards.

[writefightandflightclub]

Return to Sender: (Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN reader)

What is this? This is 4/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. I’m not gonna share the prompt as it’s spoilery, but it was requested by @sergeantkane​ who is a genius for picking this combo! It’s a prompt about LOVE LETTERS! Omg! And thus, it matches perfectly with Richard (trust me, I had NOT made that connection when I made the prompt list :P). Thank you so much for requesting, Clarke, and I hope you enjoy it. I’m excited about this one!

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Oh, I really quite like this one. Hope it makes you feel as soft as I did for Richard while writing it! Also- it’s my first bash at writing him, so let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who helped with film details too: those not already tagged in the post- @prurientpuddlejumper​ @witchyavenger​ @veuliee2​ @waatermelon-sugaar​ @pascal-isaac​

Word count: 4.5 k. So not a blurb, then? :P

Rating: Mature, for light steam (not explicit, but 18+ or out, please!)

Warnings: mentions of food/eating. Mild angst (but it ends well), Steamy. Kissing, brief non-explicit mention of erection. Implied coitus (cut scene). Richard works in a “correctional facility”. Small mention of attempted break-in. If I missed any let me know.

Tagging: @anetteaneta​ @isvvc-pvscvl​ @nowritingonthewall​ @supernovafeather​ (ONLY READ IF 18+)

GIF by @nathan-bateman​

“Have you ever received a love letter?” Richard wonders shyly, without looking up from his crossword puzzle, his long eyelashes fanned out as his gaze dances over the monochrome squares.

Meanwhile, your eyes snap up immediately from your magazine, which you are idly leafing through, a breath catching in your chest.

You bristle at the question, and yet Richard seems either entirely oblivious, or entirely determined not to look-up at you. Perhaps both. So, instead of looking, he simply slurps the dregs of his milkshake, and pushes his plate of waffle remnants further toward the far end of the diner booth.

When he finally raises his gaze – a gentle prompt for you to answer him- his eyes are large and shining under the fluorescent lights as he peers at you over his glass, dabbing at his thick moustache with a paper napkin shortly after.

“No, never,” you state sadly, heeding his prompt with a small smile and a shake of your head. Not even a love e-mail.

“I’m surprised,” he flatters with a cautious smile. And, if you’re not mistaken, his eyes light-up with the faintest trace of desire. The barest undercurrent of passion, which is enough to have your heart beating like a drum. You notice it sometimes; this dull heat emanating off of him. It is a spark which never ignites, however - to your endless disappointment; you would fan that flame if only you knew how.

You swallow. He’s surprised? He can’t be that surprised, you think, a stone sinking through your stomach as you dwell too long on the topic of love letters, and meanwhile, Richard’s attention seamlessly diverts back to 3 across.

“You deserve one,” he says, still looking at the page, but a smile animating his wiry moustache. “A letter.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a spiralling sadness catching hold of you. Does he not understand what this is doing to you? This painful reminder? “Can we drop it, Richard?” you say tensely, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are even more soft and cautious than usual, causing you to admonish yourself for the bite in your tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course,” he smiles thinly, apologetically.

It’s simply the new job, you think. Director of Communications. The man has letters on the brain. Richard is so considerate, that you realise he must not intend to hurt you in dredging up the past; he would never. In a way though, you think, it’s even worse that he brings it up so… casually. You can only conclude he has forgotten that you sent your letter to him at all. Had your heartfelt words, declaring your love, had so little impact on him?

Maybe that’s it. After all, they seemed to have so little impact upon him at the time. What could you expect years later? On the other hand, you -apparently- remain rather sore about the topic, all this time later. It’s natural to be sensitive though, isn’t it? You’d written him a love letter and he didn’t write you back. He didn’t say it back. Didn’t feel it back.

And, perhaps it still stings so much, even all these years later, because you never did stop loving him, even if he never started loving you.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming haste to leave, you thumb through the pages of your magazine so furiously that the next table turn their heads to look at you, until you find what you were searching for.

“Here, Richard. The article I mentioned. Dramatherapy for people who are incarcerated.”

You fold the magazine back on itself, fobbing it off on him with an unprecedented urgency, hurriedly signalling to the waitress that you’d like the check. The roomy diner booth suddenly feels suffocating, and you want to get out. Meanwhile, oblivious, Richard chuckles at the title of the article -some kind of pun, you recall- as you try to push down the unpleasant emotions surfacing within you.

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, looking up at you earnestly. Looking concerned as he reads the expression on your face. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes fix on the table, where his fingertips inch hesitantly across the surface, hovering moments from yours as he debates whether to extend comfort. You make the decision for him, snatching your hand back from his reach.

“Yes. I’m Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. “Can we please go? I need some fresh air.”

“Alright,” Richard agrees gently. He looks a little flustered, but, now sensing your urgency, he begins to sweep up his papers and to shrug on his jacket. He pulls out a small comb to fix his neat curls in place, and offers you a soft smile. “Maybe we can go to the park next?” he suggests.  

As much as you want to run, you nod, some of your agitation dissipating now that the prior topic seems to be forgotten. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.” You school your expression into something calm, and you offer him a reassuring smile as his soulful eyes dance over you, a lingering but unobtrusive concern there.

As you split the check, you tell yourself for the millionth time that being his friend is enough; but even after the millionth time, you can’t quite believe it.

Still, today -Sunday- is your one day with him this week. And, no matter what you can’t have; you’ll take anything you can get.

He’s too dear to you to settle for anything less.

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

One month later:

You crouch in amongst the boxes on Richard’s front lawn. He is having a clear-out, setting out some items for goodwill, and some for a neighbourhood yard sale happening next weekend.

You are having fun assisting him in sifting through various items, occasionally bursting into a fit of laughter when he reveals yet another ill-informed, late night shopping channel “bargain” – usually some new-fangled, scarcely-used exercise contraption, which he proceeds to demonstrate in good-humour, making you fold over clutching your stomach in mirth. Occasionally, as you rifle through the boxes, you’ll be overcome by a pang of sentimentality when he uncovers an item with a memory attached; and -no matter how useless- he usually sneaks said item into his ever-growing “to-keep” pile.

“But this is the picnic hamper we took to Bound Beach Island! For your birthday, remember?”  

“Yeah, Richard, but it’s battered! It has holes! It needs to go.”

“It was a beautiful day. The light and the dunes were beautiful… and… and y-“

“-Oh my goodness, what is this?! Please for the love of God tell me you never actually wore this!”

You work through the midday sun until you come to a tired, dead halt on the grass, finally parking your ass down and wiping your brow. Richard looks warm too, a “v” of sweat soaking his old, oversized “Save the Turtles” t-shirt. No - he really doesn’t throw anything away. You smile fondly, though, remembering his sea turtle phase. Of course, he’d read some article. He always was looking for a cause.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” Richard announces with a tired puff of breath, looking more spent than he probably wants to admit after shuttling the various boxes. Still, the way his grizzled curls have fallen away from his harsh side-part appeals to you, sitting disobedient and undone on his forehead.

Thinking of him undone, you hear a faint beating of drums sound in your chest.

You ignore the music though, like always, instead smiling gratefully as he heads inside, and you take a second to collect yourself before dragging the nearest box towards you, deciding you may as well continue. This next box is taped securely shut, and you chuckle quietly to yourself when you notice it’s labelled “workout-gear”.

You peel the packing tape away and open it up, scooping out the pile of miscellaneous papers sitting right on top. Beginning to leaf through, you surmise it’s mainly unopened junk mail; mainly garishly printed promotional flyers - from a pizzeria which closed down years ago, you recognise. Probably hastily stuffed in before his last move and never dealt with. Absent-mindedly, you begin to bundle it up for the recycling pile, when a smaller, more humble envelope drops out on to your lap, a hand-scrawled address on the front. The stationary is resoundingly familiar.

In fact, everything about it is familiar.

Your heart hammers in your chest as it immediately dawns on you.

It’s your letter.

The letter you sent him, all those years ago. You’d needed to be apart from him- needed to go away to take care of family, and you simply couldn’t go without letting him know. Letting him know you were in love with him.

The memory is like a slow knife sinking into your chest as you idly turn it over in your hands.

But… It can’t be…?

It’s… unopened.

All the air leaves you lungs.

No. No. It doesn’t make a shred of sense.

You’d spoken to him right afterward, on the phone. The first time he’d called after you left town he’d almost pleaded with you, giving you an unequivocally clear, and endlessly painful answer that he didn’t want what you wanted. What you’d written about. He’d made it abundantly obvious that he simply wanted to be friends. “I- I don’t want anything to change. I want everything to stay exactly like it is between us – please? Can we still talk every day?”

But if he didn’t read it…?

You heart pounds so hard that you hear blood rushing in your ears.

He doesn’t know.

His words didn’t mean what you…

Oh my god. All this time.  

You shoot abruptly to standing when you see him approach, as if you’ve been caught red-handed, guiltily stuffing the letter into your back pocket before he can ask you what it is, an abundance of thoughts screaming in your head.

He hands you the glass of tea, ice tinkling gently, and you take it from him, the coolness shocking your palms.

Assessing what you’ve been up to in his absence, and noting the carcass of another box, Richard glances down at the pile of papers strewn at your feet. He looks suddenly worried for a moment, as if you might have found an old porn stash or something – and he looks just as suddenly relieved when he sees they are more innocent papers, scooping them up from the grass.

“Richard?” you say, your eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and the letter burning a hole in your pocket as he drops the items into the recycling. He hums for you to go on. “Do you... You know when I moved away...?” your voice is strained, and you gulp hard. “Just before, do you remember getting any unusual letters or... weird post from me?”

“Like what kind of thing?” he asks curiously, turning back to you.

“I don’t know exactly,” you lie, nervously. “I have a feeling I sent you something? A sappy goodbye thing?”

You see him mull it over, combing his impressive moustache with his fingers. “I don’t remember, sorry. But apparently I was drowning in junk mail at that apartment. Maybe it got lost, or returned to sender?”

Despite everything, you exhale a small laugh. In a roundabout way, you suppose it had been returned to sender after all. You look at the ground.

“Was it important?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looks at you.

Biding time, you take a sip of your tea while you search for an answer. It’s refreshing.

“It… Uh. It was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” you muse, masking your sadness, and he nods, looking at least half-satisfied with your answer.

Except, it does matter. It matters more than anything. And, with a sudden, overwhelming need to grab on to the past, you track to the “to go” box, rescuing the battered picnic basket from the pile of junk.

“You shouldn’t get rid of this,” you state, your back to Richard, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your voice falters. You tense as you feel him settle by your side, his hand hovering tentatively at the small of your back but never quite touching. “It was a beautiful day.”

“No,” he insists. “You’re right. I shouldn’t hang on to it.”

His words are like a punch in the gut. You turn your head to your side, where Richard is, your eyes and heart almost overflowing.

Noting your sadness, and connecting it to the picnic basket, he does everything he can to smooth things over, like always. “We can get a new one,” he says, his brown eyes sweet and hopeful and bright.

You love him. You love him still and you can’t help but turn towards him and reach out your arms, dragging him in for a hug.

“No! No, I’m sweaty,” he protests self-consciously, but you don’t care. You just need to hold him, even only for a moment – and, for a moment he stills as you loop around him, never quite clutching you back.

When you pull away though, you could swear that dim spark of passion is present in his eyes again. That spark that never catches, no matter how much or how often or how hard you wish it would. Oh, how you wish.

“Don’t ever change, Richard,” you say sincerely, your voice imbued with fondness. “Okay? You’re a sweet, wonderful man.”

His eyes are immediately soft and bashful again, the colour of his cheeks deepening a little, a crimson undertone blooming under his brown skin.

“Yes. Okay,” he offers, with a nod, his eyes creasing at the corners, and his posture even bolstered by the compliment, you could swear, his chest puffing out proudly.

For the rest of the afternoon, you ignore the unread words in the back of your pocket; but for the life of you, you can’t ignore those drums.

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

One month later:

You bundle the yapping, happy little white dog into your arms, relieved that she’s okay as her little tail happily beats against your arm.

“Are you okay, Lady?” you coo as she nuzzles her snoot into your face, eagerly lapping little kisses on to your cheek. “Thanks goodness, sweet little floof,” you baby-talk as your eyes quickly scan around Richard’s place, setting his spare key down on the kitchen counter.

You’d barrelled across town to get here, after receiving a call about an attempted break-in. His neighbour to the left had your contact details in case of an emergency -it’s not very easy to reach him at work, of course- so here you are. You came to give things a quick checking over, assured that no-one suspicious had continued to loiter. Richard won’t be much longer -his shift has nearly ended, and you’d left him a voicemail so you’re sure he’ll hurry- but you still thought you’d go on ahead of him, especially so that he wouldn’t worry about Lady.

Looking around, thankfully all seems well, and you don’t think anyone made it inside after all. Slowly then, you allow your nerves to calm and your heart to settle, bouncing the little bundle of fur in your arms, and feeding her a treat from the packet on top of the microwave, just in case she’d been stressed out.

Calming, you can’t help but smile as you look around, absorbing all the little details of Richard. You do hang out in his apartment a fair amount, but most often you will meet or sit outdoors, when the weather allows. After all, he loves to feel the sun and fresh air on his face, especially after spending all day cooped-up in windowless rooms. To you though, this Richard-ness is like a breath of fresh air, and you let it all wash over you, drinking in the details of his simple daily routine. The discarded half-plate of frijoles and rice by the sink. The ironing-board piled with identical uniform-issue shirts, pants, and plain white t-shirts. The photos on the fridge door – some of you and him too.

Doing a lap of the living space, you further note the dining-for-one TV table, evidence of his relatively solitary existence, and you can almost see him sitting there. Can almost hear his soft voice relating the far-fetched storylines of his favourite telenovelas. You imagine him chuckling warmly - perhaps shedding a tear sometimes too.

You decide you should pop your head into the bedroom and bathroom to check there too, for good measure, and you set Lady down, the dog trotting along at your heels. Once you’ve done a loop, you sigh, seeking out a fresh task, and you circle back to the sink, scraping his discarded plate and rinsing it, stacking it in the dishrack. Then, you move towards the TV chair, intending simply to sit yourself down and wait for Richard to come home. After all, you’re here now - you may as well say hello; or, maybe you can even prepare him dinner after his long shift, you muse.

As you revisit the small, rickety table, however, your eyes more keenly notice that a bunch of papers are strewn over it, all identical- a series of pastel pink leaves of paper and envelopes.

Letters.

Handwritten, in his familiar scrawl.

Letters addressed to you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, as you wonder what they could be. You don’t want to invade his privacy, of course, but perhaps this is something that’s meant for you? After all, sometimes he leaves you notes when you come over to feed or walk Lady.  

Still, this feels different, and, with a lump in your throat that you don’t quite understand, you pick up one of the leaves at random, skimming the first line, yet feeling only more confused than you did before.  

You see your name at the head of the paper, followed by the words “my dearest love,”, and underneath, some other half-formed paragraphs, scribbled over and crossed out.

No, you shake your head, your stomach flipping over. That can’t be right, you think, even as your fingers scramble for another leaf - for leaf upon leaf, until you piece together what’s going on. Until, with every line you read, fragments of both English and Spanish, you feel as though you are piecing together his heart.

Could it be true? Is this really true?

Your fingers dive for a sheet more developed that the rest, where you see paragraphs of writing, and you devour the words like you are starved of love; for you are, aren’t you? Starved? And yet, you suddenly feel so full. Brimming.

My darling,

There are infinite ways to fall in love. Some are elemental, like a raging fire. A shock of lightning on first sight. Some are slow-burning and constant, the heat of friendship warming your hearth, defrosting your iced fingertips when you come in from the cold.

There are infinite ways to fall in love, and I should know, my heart, as I have experienced every one of them with you.

You can barely read the rest as tears blur your eyes, and your hand comes to clamp over your mouth as realisation sinks through to the pit of you, the page quaking -like a leaf- in your fingers.

You make my heart beat like a drum. When I look at you, I am music, without being played. When you’re with me I am dancing, without movement. If only you would touch my skin, I feel like I would sing. If only you would-

“-Are you safe? Are you alright?” Richard asks from behind you, and you tear your eyes away from the page with a start. You were so absorbed by this swell of beating music that you didn’t hear the scrape of his key in the lock. You didn’t hear his hurried footsteps coming up behind you.  

“Richard,” you suspire, and for once his touch is on you without hesitation, his hands clasped around each of your shoulders, slowly running down your arms, and you nod quickly to reassure him, your mouth opening wordlessly. You’re safe.

His touch is warm through your clothes, and you think he is right- your skin would sing for him too if he touched you. Your love rattles you, like drums beating musically in your chest, pulsing through your body.

Then, Richard clocks your sideward, guilty glance at the pile of letters, and you see his panic instantly surface at the thought of all his unsent and unspoken words laid bare before you. All the pieces of his heart exposed.

At first, he looks apologetic, but then you step forwards a little more, into the circle of his arms. Arms which suddenly fall, unsure, at his sides once again. And, achingly slow, endlessly sure, you lift up you hand and you place it on his chest, over his heart, smoothing over his shirt and over the cool metal of the shield he wears there. You feel his heart really is beating like a drum. His chest is rising and falling beneath your hand, his breath quickened – eyes nervous.

You step a little closer, and your fingers continue their slow crawl, dancing up around his collar, inching further up until your fingers finally brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck, pushing up into the curls behind his ears, your thumb skimming his sideburn. You touch him, with your fingertips, and he does sing for you, a half-choked moan leaving his mouth at your tender caress.

“Richard,” you say breathily, searching his face, eyes openly appraising his beauty. “Don’t worry, sweet man. I love you too.” And, when you next meet his eyes there is no nervousness there. Not any longer. Instead, you find his dark, expressive eyes brewing with adoration, and that gentle but ever ascending note of passion.

“Darling, can I kiss you?” he pleads, his voice dogged by desire, his brow knitting together and his hands slipping bravely to your waist, circling you as you arch into him.

“Yes. Yes,” you say, and his mouth meets yours in a desperate, tumultuous crush. You sing too, your skin thrumming as you finally know the feeling of his thick moustache brushing against you. As you taste the sweet flavour of cherry sucker on his kiss. As you finally feel the texture of his slicked curls beneath your fingertips.

You kiss, urgently, until you are each smiling too broadly to continue, and instead Richard beams and presses sweet, intermittent kisses all over – your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your neck- his moustache tickling wherever it touches. His hands are everywhere they can be politely, roaming over your back and your arms and your hair, and it feels so good to finally be held like this.

Eventually, he pulls back, his smile no longer tugging at his lips so keenly -lips now kiss flushed with deep colour- but shining in his liquid eyes. “How long have you loved me back?” he asks in a still choked, disbelieving voice.

You bite your lip, but then allow your face to split in a radiant, unrestrained grin.

Always. Always. I loved you first, you think.

You reach for your bag, reluctant to break from him so trailing your love’s hand in yours- and you fish out the letter. The one you’ve carried around since it was returned to you. “Take a look, Richard,” you encourage.

He looks from you to the small envelope, turning it in his spare hand as you pass it to him. “What is this?”

His brows rise in confusion as you tap the stamped postmark with your index finger. Years. Years ago.

“I sent you a letter,” you explain. “Telling you I loved you. That I love you,” you correct, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, amazed at how natural it feels already, to touch him.

He audibly gasps in air, looking pained. Devastated. “I never got it. I would’ve-“, he fumbles for words, but he can’t finish them, the magnitude of all those years lost to yearning too big to wrap his lips around. “I never got it,” he repeats sorrowfully.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about that now,” you soothe. “I got your letter.” And, as you engulf him with your arms a soft smile takes over his features once again. He can’t help it.

“I’m so glad you did,” he beams, drawing you to him for another kiss, which you eagerly accept, opening your mouth to him.

God, he’s a good kisser, his tongue in you deep and eager, and the heat generated is quick to catch, a fire lit in the pit of you. That moustache is a divine thing too, his lips soft and full beneath, his mild-mannered tongue positively sinful as it works against yours.

Letting the kiss grow, you grab hold of him by the belt to draw his body closer to yours, arching your hips into his, and you feel an impressive bulge greet you as you do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers bashfully, angling his hips away from you, in case you’re not ready for… that yet. “You’re perfection. So perfect, I… I’m a little bit, uh, excited.”

You don’t blame him. You’re a little bit excited too. There’s a drum beating in your chest. Music in your heart. A song everywhere. A dance in your body.

“W-would you like to take me to the bedroom, Richard?” you purr, softly. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You wish you could capture the bliss which sparks in his eyes then, and keep stoking it forever more. His whole being glows as if you are the sun shining down on him. He loves the sun on his face. He loves you.

He loves you.

*******

Later that night:

At some point after round three, Richard is ravenous, and so you head to the kitchen to grab some snacks. One of Richard’s plaid shirts wards off the slight chill, settled over your otherwise naked body. As you microwave something quick, you can barely keep the smile from your face – even more so as you glance over at the table full of half-finished letters. As the microwave pings and you grab out the plate, another idea occurs to you, and you simply can’t help yourself.

So, you pad mysteriously back towards the bedroom, where Richard is waiting. The blanket is slung low over his hips, skimming the dark trail of hair which draws your gaze down beyond his abdomen. He is covered, and yet you bloom blissfully with heat at your new-found knowledge of what lays beneath. He’s laying with one hand folded behind his head, and one hand rested on the soft, roundness of his stomach, which you had laid your head on only moments ago.

Richard’s eyes shine with unadulterated admiration as you enter, and you flash him a mischievous smile as you transfer the plate to his hands, and subsequently tip a cascade of his letters into the middle of the bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, with a contented laugh as you bounce eagerly into bed by his side, humming in equal contentment as you slot yourself under his arm.  

“I want you to read them to me. Will you?” you ask, sweetly, and he looks bashful all over again. “No-one has ever sent me a love letter.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. “Or I thought so…”

He hesitates, perhaps feeling shy, but he wraps his arm around you securely, nuzzling you into his side as he picks up the closest leaf of paper.

He hums gratefully as you begin to stroke his smooth chest. He really does sing whenever you touch him.

“They’re not finished,” he caveats. “I wanted to find the perfect words and I… I couldn’t.”

“The words don’t have to be perfect. It’s more important that they’re delivered,” you say, your voice soft as you sink into him, and so, he gently clears his throat and he begins to read, his words and his rich, soothing voice filtering over you like warm sunshine.

After a moment listening, and letting his love and his letters envelop you, you interrupt him gently. “My sweet man. Promise me you’ll never write me another love letter?”

“Are they that awful?!” Richard exclaims.

“No!” you laugh, into his chest, tipping your chin up to look him in the eyes. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just… I think I hate love letters, Richard. They’ve only ever kept me from you.”

His expression becomes wistful, lost in thought until a smile finally captures him. Then, with a finger curling gently under your chin, he dips down to plant a small kiss to the very tip of your nose.

“No more letters then,” he promises softly. “Let’s always promise to say it out loud from now on. Let’s talk every day.”

You heart full, you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips; and, despite what you’d just suggested, you plead for him to keep reading to you, his voice and his love lulling you to sleep in his arms.

With the love letters as kindling, your dim spark finally catches, your fire now blazing. You set it in a hearth in your chest, and you vow to keep it stoked for always.

THE END

Bonus:

[angeli-marco-writes]

Dean & Seamus - At Last

A/N - 1.8k word blurb I completely forgot I wrote. Bringing this out of the archives, enjoy.

Warnings - slight cursing and angst, fluff, mutual pining.

Summary - Years of tiptoeing around one another and hidden feelings come to a head when Seamus finds a stack of art beneath Dean's bed. At last, something might happen.

“Hey Dean?” Seamus calls, breaking the silence of the half empty common room.

The two of them sitting together on opposite ends of a very comfortable and very small sofa with feet entangled in a contorted knot is not a rare occurrence, and everyone knows that the two like to be as close as possible. Dean has a notepad on the arm of the sofa, artistic pencils on the coffee table as he sketches away to his heart's content, while Seamus has a pack of muggle cards, teaching himself card tricks.

“What is it?” Dean replies, glancing up from his notepad to meet Seamus’ sympathetic gaze.

“Do you still have that muggle magic book? This isn’t going great.”

Dean chuckles, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm, deep brown eyes twinkling under the dim light from the candles. The way he watches Seamus when he isn’t looking is with nothing but pure adoration, not necessarily the way that friends should look at one another.

“Dean?” Seamus calls, suddenly much closer than before, kneeling in front of Dean’s legs now curled beneath him without his knowledge of putting them there.

“Uhm, the book? Yeah, it's under my bed. Careful you don’t find a banshee under there.” Dean says jokingly, curving his arm around Seamus’ torso to bring him closer, discarding his art for a moment, savouring the sound of Seamus’ laugh like music to his ears.

He stops thinking, and just exists for a second, only able to do that when Seamus is so close to him, chests pressed together, hearts beating as one, breath mingling and all inhibitions lowered. If he had a little more belief that Seamus shared his crush then he’d go the final step, bringing their lips together for more than a fleeting moment. If only he knew that Seamus in fact felt the same, equally as strong, equally as lovesick and just as scared of rejection. So for the meantime, they stuck to their own personal affections.

“I’ll be back in a minute, and I’ll call you if there’s a banshee.”

With a fleeting kiss that Dean pressed to Seamus’ cheek, the latter had disappeared up the stone stairs to the dorms.

On his way up, Seamus finds himself thinking non stop of the way Dean’s soft lips felt pressed against his cheek. Not like they haven’t kissed before, but every time it excites him, still bringing butterflies to his stomach after four years.

Their first kiss was in a game of juvenile truth or dare in second year, where Seamus revealed he’d never been kissed, and Dean was then dared to kiss him. That was the moment, for Seamus at least, that he’d realised he was gay - or at the very least, not straight.

It was half way through third year that the two had grown accustomed to holding hands and sharing clothes, stealing cheek kisses and cuddling on the odd night. None of this changed, even now they’ve become sixth years.

Seamus throws the door open to the dorm and leaps across to Dean’s bed, forever more comfortable than his own. He lies over it, inhaling Dean’s scent that he’s so used to wrapping him up whenever he sleeps. Oak and paint. The strangest perfection. After a moment of thought, he pulls up the west ham blanket, the oversized knitted quilt that the two made one Christmas night when they got far too cold, and finally the red sheets so that he gets a better look beneath the bed, which just so happens to be crammed full of random shit.

“Bloody hell Dean,” he sighs with a gentle smile, lighting his wand and sliding off the bed onto the wooden floor, preparing himself for a search.

Seamus sits and sifts through piles of books covered in dust, albeit in neat piles and just about alphabetised (all much more organised than his own), and a couple of boxes before he finds their old magic book.

Just as he moves to put everything back in its place, he comes across a locked trunk of chestnut wood and gold edges. It’s triple locked by the looks of padlocks atop the built in securities. But Seamus can’t help thinking, what does Dean have to hide from him? He’s always said “what’s mine is yours”, and that they know everything about one another. What could Dean possibly be so ashamed of that he didn’t even want Seamus to see? Chuckling at the first immediate thought, he pulls the box out and peers through a crack. It looks like… old notebooks?

“Cistem Aperio.” he utters the words used to unlock the trunk, only to find out that the padlock is a fake one and that the box itself only had one lock. Maybe the faux measures were to stop the other boys finding it, and not Seamus, but once opened, he’s astounded.

Piles of notepads and sketch pads fill the border of the box, but what’s in the centre is the most disconcerting. It’s Seamus, on canvas, ten times over. All from different angles, painted with watercolour or acrylics, all at different stages of completion because on some, the pencil lines are still apparent. Sure, Seamus knows that Dean is a bloody good artist, and Dean’s asked him to be a model once or twice, but this is another level. And even though he probably should, he can’t find it creepy.

He turns over a couple of the older canvases dating back to the bottom one, a mix of acrylic paint and heavy pencil shading. ‘Seamus, 7th April 1994; I wonder if you think of me half as often as I think of you.’

His heart stops just for a moment. Does dean… no chance. No way, there’s no way that Dean fancies him too. He could have anyone in the school, why would he fancy his dorky Irish friend?

He takes out a couple of the pads, opening to reveal pages of sketches of Seamus. The two together, Seamus at the lunch table, by the lake, with other people or asleep in Dean’s bed. Just the sight of Dean’s talent makes his belly flip. The curved pencil lines, the soft brushes of his coloured pencils, the perfect shading wherever it needs to be in the different photos. Each one has Dean’s signature, a date and a title in the bottom right hand corner., but some are a little more smudged with, tears?

He grabs the most recent sketchpad and tucks it beneath his arm, going to open a note pad filled with dozens of poems and quotes, but the most common one hits him hard.

‘You have to let it all go. The way he kissed you, the way he smelled, the way he touched your waist and pulled you in. You have to let it go and you have to let him go. Because he’ll never love you that way, he’ll always be your friend, and he’ll never be yours.’

That’s essentially all the confirmation that Seamus needs to realise that Dean’s liked him all this time. How could they have been so stupid, avoiding each other and never confessing?

He rips the page out of the notebook and runs out the door, the leather bound sketch pad bouncing in his clutch. He bounds down the stairs as ungracefully as possible, taking them two by two, his shoes resounding on the stone and hereby making a racket that the whole common room can here.

Seamus appears at the bottom, breathless and flushed as opposed to covered in soot, but his eyes are filled with a new flame.

“Dean,” he pants, eyes darting over to where he's curled up in the same spot as before, knees tucked under his chin with an art pad on the arm of the sofa, tucking his extortionately expensive pencil behind his ear when he sees Seamus all hot and bothered.

He stands, towering over everyone as he takes quick strides across the room, his breath hitching when he sees the sketchpad tucked haphazardly beneath Seamus’ small arm.

“Sea, please,” he begs, eyes brimming with tears to match Seamus’.

They stand an awkward distance from each other for a minute before Seamus takes the final step and closes the gap, gripping Dean’s tie and pulling him a little closer to his own height.

“Did you draw these of me?” Seamus asks with a raspy, trembling voice, filled with anguish and longing.

“Yes.” Dean murmurs softly.

“Did you write these poems about me?” he waves the tear stained page of perfect ink in front of Dean, making the taller boy swallow thickly.

“Yes.”

“Were you ever going to tell or show me?”

“Maybe one day.” Dean says guiltily, averting his eyes to the floor for only a second before meeting Seamus’ intense gaze once more, the flames behind the freckles on his cheeks a little intimidating.

“Do you, do you love me?” Seamus asks finally, taking a leap of faith, one that is finally reciprocated.

“Yes. Yes, so much.”

That’s all the ammunition that Seamus needs to tug Dean’s lips to his own, crushing them together and engaging in a fiery kiss of nothing but long awaited passion and love. Their tears dissipate as Seamus weaves his arms around Dean’s neck, and his curl around Seamus’ waist, lifting him up like he weighs nothing. Seamus deepens the kiss, licking along Dean's bottom lip to request an entrance which is more than eagerly granted, allowing them to explore each other's mouths finally. Dean lets out a muffled moan when Seamus bites down on his lower lip, the most heavenly sound Seamus has ever heard. Dean squeezes the ass that rests on his hips just for a moment before sliding his hands beneath his jumper, his dark palms running over Seamus’ milky skin, the perfect contradiction.

They become so enveloped in their bubble of passion, tongues dancing tantalisingly together, that they forget they’re in the common room, awkwardly withdrawing when the need for oxygen becomes too dire.

However, instead of the angry shouts and disgruntled faces they expect, it’s actually faces of sheer relief and lazy smiles all around.

“About bloody time!” Ron shouts.

Dean chuckles softly, lowering Seamus to the ground. The pair scrabble for their stuff, grasping it in uncoordinated handfuls, stuttering apologies before darting upstairs. Once at their dorm, they slam the door shut and throw their belongings elsewhere without a care, fighting over who gets to pin the other against the door.

“Have we really been dancing around our feelings since we were twelve?” Dean asks, trying to keep his focus on the time being while Seamus works tirelessly at the bottoms of his shirt, leaving kisses everywhere in his wake.

“Yes we have. And that means we have five years to make up for now.” Seamus quips, bringing Dean’s lips to his own once more, moving to enjoy their time together, at last.

[goldencuffs]

pen pal

Laurent starts writing emails to inmates in Marlas Penitentiary in his third year of university. The only reason he considers doing it at first is because of Auguste, who writes in one of his weekly emails in the middle of a long, sour summer: These emails help, you know. They keep me sane.

The sadness Laurent feels at reading that is immeasurable. He has to go for a run afterwards, because running is more productive than crying. If Laurent starts crying, he won’t do anything else for the rest of the day. Or week.

He keeps writing to Auguste every week, but as he does so, he feels like he could do more.

A few weeks later, Laurent tells Auguste about it over the phone. Laurent never lies, or keeps things from Auguste. The last time he did, he ruined Auguste’s life. 

Auguste, as usual, sounds tired over the phone, his voice scratchy and low. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Laurent bites his lip, phone pressed against his cheek. He always makes his calls in his room, with the blinds drawn, the lights turned off, the door closed, so the room is washed in darkness. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to understanding how Auguste lives now. This is the only thing he doesn’t share with Auguste, because it would upset him deeply. Auguste always thinks he makes these calls in the open, with the sun beating down on him, the wind through his hair — the kind of life Auguste will never have.

Laurent is acquiescent. He says, “Okay.”

They talk about Laurent’s classes, the new neighbour who has really loud sex, and the cat Laurent is thinking of adopting. Auguste assures Laurent that he is eating and that no one has given him any trouble.

When the call ends, Laurent wants, desperately, to go out on a run. Talking to Auguste always does this to him; leaves him jittery, chest concaved, heart racing. The guilt swallows him. So Laurent punishes himself: he keeps himself locked into his room until the following morning.

Summer ends, but the heat in Marlas is relentless. Laurent and Auguste continue corresponding over email and phone, never talking about things that actually matter.

Laurent gets asked out on a date by Pierre, one of the men who lives in the neighbouring apartments. Laurent says no, and Pierre pushes him, hard, against the wall.

Laurent is left with a large bruise on his bicep. He’s fascinated by the colouring; the purple blends seamlessly in with the blue, which runs into the black. He can’t stop touching it all week, pressing his fingertips down on it until his eyes water.

Pierre is an affable man. He is always polite in the elevators, helps the elderly lady across the hall with her groceries and hosts barbeque parties in the communal area. He hadn’t seemed like the kind of man who couldn’t handle the word no. Then again, Uncle had been like that too.

On Friday, Laurent gets drunk for the first time in eight years.

The following day, he gets to talk to Auguste. Laurent is too hungover to hide his own despondence.

Auguste notices. Laurent doesn’t want to waste their ten minutes on something that will upset Auguste. He will eventually tell him; Laurent doesn’t like keeping secrets anymore.

As the call beeps, letting them know there’s only thirty seconds left, Auguste says. “Look, I’ve been thinking… I think it’d be nice if you sent some of the guys here some emails every now and then.”

Laurent perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” says Auguste, a smile in his voice. “But I’m going to send you a list of people, alright? I don’t want you emailing some creep.”

“Of course,” Laurent says, breathless. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love —” The line cuts off.

Auguste’s email drops in his inbox on Tuesday at eleven am, like clockwork. In it, he includes the names of other inmates that are reasonable, suitable. There are five names. Laurent request the email IDs of all of them and sets about writing.

He only gets two responses. One is from a man named Alexon, who says he isn’t interested in corresponding right now, and the other is from Ancel, who writes fuck of. Im not a cherity progect.

Laurent writes Ancel another email, assuring him he’s not a charity project, but that goes unanswered.

Auguste laughs — or Laurent assumes he does because his email says LOL! — when he tells him about it.

So, Laurent goes on the Marlas Penitentiary website. Underneath the How to contact loved ones tab, there’s a link that says: Become a Penpal! Change a life!

Laurent clicks on it.

There are, surprisingly, hundreds of inmates, all of their pictures shown in neat, square boxes, alongside their name, age, sexuality and religion.

Laurent scrolls through dozens of them. He makes note of the younger ones, the ones he might be able to carry a conversation with. He also filters his search to life sentence because Laurent doesn’t want to give someone the opportunity to demand to see him in a few months.

Near the end, Laurent sees him.

It’s hard not to be captivated by his photo. He’s one of the few people smiling in it, and it was obviously taken outside of prison. A large man with curly, styled hair and dark eyes grins at him, teeth white and straight, cheek dimpled. He’s wearing a suit, arms crossed over his chest, arms bulging, shoulders wide. Laurent has never seen someone so attractive in his life — didn’t think people in the real world could look like this, let alone end up in prison.

His profile says: Vallis, Damianos Theomedes. 27. Bisexual. I’m bored in here. I need to keep myself sane. Send me something if you can actually keep a conversation going. Thank you for taking the time to read through this. Sorry I don’t seem nicer. I used to be.

It’s definitely… different. Laurent marks him as a maybe.

Later, Laurent asks Auguste if he knows anyone called Damianos in Marlas. Auguste responds with a, “Nope. And I know pretty much everyone here. So that’s not a good sign.”

“Why not?”

“It either means the dude is a complete recluse, or that he’s barred from most communal activities. Like I said, not a good sign.”

But something about Damianos’ profile keeps Laurent intrigued for the next several days.

He isn’t sure what it is; the picture, of someone who once led an obviously lavish style, or Damianos’ words, I need to keep myself sane, an echo of Auguste’s sentiments. Also the Thank you had been unusual, as well as the I used to be nicer. Laurent used to be nicer, too.

Laurent ends up Googling Damianos’ full name that night.

There are about twenty articles to sift through. All of them detail a violent, horrific crime, where Damianos murdered his own brother in his penthouse.

But even that doesn’t deter Laurent. He remembers how the media, the court, the lawyers had presented Auguste: as someone vicious, cold and calculated, the complete antithesis of how Auguste really was.

The articles about Auguste had been eerily similar. All of them mentioned how shocking it was that a doctor at the top of his game could senselessly murder his own uncle, but very few of them mentioned why Auguste had done it.

They made it out like Auguste was some bloodthirsty maniac, bent on revenge, and not a caring, protective older brother who had been horrified by their Uncle’s actions.

It’s why Laurent decides to give Damianos the benefit of the doubt. If he does end up being a creep, or a weirdo, then Laurent has the luxury of never speaking to him again. He’s not being stupid about this.

His request is fulfilled two days later. Damianos’ email ID is attached at the bottom.

Laurent sends his first email that afternoon.

[pettyprocrastination]

Ok I have a major thing for handwriting idk so what do you think Ezra's handwriting looks like? (And on that topic, try not to think about love letters from Ezra when you're apart... Or do, I'd love to hear your thoughts bc I'm kinda dying here) I also feel like he's the kind of person to have just... a box of things you've written for him... Like literally anything. Shopping lists, letters, etc. and when he's away he takes them out and reads them :))

okay im feeling lonely and a little sad tonight so I immediately ran with this and uhhhhh this happened. (last bit is between him and reader from the thing “Stupid Man” that i posted earlier today. ) this ended up being a bit longer than expected sorry lmao

I’ve never written Ezra before please be gentle with me y’all

For this we're gonna say that Ezra is right-handed. 

I think Ezra had beautiful handwriting. Smooth, sloping neat lines ever since he was able to write. While other kids had to work on their penmanship, his was a natural gift. His handwriting was one that teachers would compliment in grade school, so distracted by the smooth strokes of his pencil that they hadn’t noticed the words used on his assignments weren’t even his, but that of the student sitting right next to him. The girls in his class would giggle and swoon at the albeit juvenile words of affections he’d write to them on secret notes passed back and forth between them, a habit he kept well into his adulthood. While he wasn’t proud of it, the harvester would leave notes of bittersweet goodbyes to lovers the morning after, remarking on how he would never forget the time spent working together on harvesting deposits as well as the intimate “and dare I say magical” nights they spent with one another. The women he laid with would be so enamored with his words and the rose tinted images his words painted, that by the time they would realize he’d taken off with their share of the harvest as well as his own, he’d be far enough into the stars all they could do was curse his name to the sky in anger. 

And then, one harvest in the Green, he had met a man named Damon and a brave little girl named Cee. 

These meetings, whether it was predestined or not, lead to him losing his right arm, and with it his beautiful handwriting. 

Learning to write again was frustrating, as a child it had come to him with ease, a natural gift. But as a grown man? Kevva alive it was enough to make him contemplate putting his fist through a wall. Until-

“Ez,” You poked your head into the den, eyes squinting and a blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. “It’s three am, come to bed baby.”

You. 

You made it worth it. With every shy smile you wore each time he gave you a written proclamation of his love and dedication to you, no matter how messy his chicken scratch writing was you’d pepper his face with his kisses in gratitude. 

“My poet.” You’d coo in his ear. He’d feel that every moment of frustration was worth it, if he could see you like this every time. 

After losing his arm, Ezra became more appreciative of little written things. The notes you’d leave on the kitchen counter when you go to work, the way you doodle smiley faces and cartoon fruit on grocery lists, even the little slips of encouragement you sneak into his pocket when you thought he wouldn't notice. 

He did notice. He noticed every time actually. But he didn’t say anything out of fear that you would stop. 

Ezra had a little box of mementos about you, a ticket stub from the first movie you saw, an aurelac gem from your first dig together (one he swore to himself to never sell) and all the little notes, lists, and reminders you’d ever written. When one of you has to leave for a long period of time, whether it be work, or family or whatever reason. Each time he’ll open that box when he feels deepest in his lonesome, and his heart will lift just the tiniest bit. 

(next bit is just a little except with Ezra x Alien!Reader following this prompt)

Ezra must not have heard your key slide into the lock, or the door open at all. The washing machine was loud enough to drown it out, the damn thing was on its last life as it shook and trembled enough for you to send it a distasteful glare as if it were human. 

The wood creaked under your steps and yet, nothing. No thumping of excited feet to be met with a bruising kiss to your lips, mumbled “I missed you” against one another as you inevitably celebrated your return in bed with each other. 

You continued your trek to his bedroom as softly as you could. 

Maybe he was asleep?

He sat on the corner of his bed, his back to you and a box in his lap.

You found yourself staring at him with a smile, leaning against the door frame as you watched his sift through a box full of little notes and lists you’d written over your time together with a bittersweet smile. 

“Is this what you do whenever I leave?”

Ezra jumped, flinging the box from his lap and spilling all it’s contents onto the floor. A variety of emotions crossed over his face before one took over them all at the sight of you. 

Pure joy. 

He crossed to you in three quick strides. His hand found itself at the nape of your neck, pulling you to him for a heated kiss that you were all too grateful for due to your time apart. 

“Oh my darling warrior has returned.” He spoke between the feather-light kisses he laid all over your face, turning you into a fit of flustered giggles at the feeling of his scruff against your skin.

 “Were those diplomats as horrid and soulless as you claimed them to be?”

You pulled away and groaned. “Even worse. But that doesn’t matter now.”

“That it does not.” He agreed, his thumb rubbed comforting circles against your skin. “Not a day went by when I didn’t think of that shining smile or alluring voice, having you part from me is like robbing an addict of their temptation.”

You pressed your hand against his mouth. If he spoke any further you definitely wouldn’t be able to focus on anything other than taking off his clothes. “Enough of that smooth talker.” Your eyes went to the pile of notes across the floor. You spotted one, a tiny birthday card with a coffee stain on the corner, that was from the first time you celebrated his birthday together. It had been three months into your relationship. You stared up at him.

“You really kept them all?”

The look in his eyes, so soft and tender part of you was worried he’d break in your hands. But you knew better than that. 

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t, brave one.” He rested his forehead against yours, exhaling a shaky breath as he did. “I am afraid I’m not as strong as I first surmised I would be at your frequent departures-”

Guilt washed over you in a hot wave. “Ezra-”

“-but I am extremely grateful that you return to me each time.” He interrupted, a soft kiss pressed against your pulse-point to punctuate, your eyes fluttered shut and he smiled. 

“It is a blessing with no disguise that such a woman as yourself would go see the world and decide to return to the humble abode of a lowly, former harvester such as myself after each one. I do not need a reminder of that gift, but still, it helps the distance feel just a click smaller.”

You sniffed and bumped your forehead against his with a tear smile. “Stupid man.” You weakly scolded, your voice wavering and not holding its usual command of the room. 

Ezra smiled, oh how he loved to hear you call him that. Ever since you first found him years ago on your home planet, and witnessed him nearly get killed because of his lack of knowledge on the plant life there. You’d guided him throughout his dig, all while criticizing his stupidity, lack of preparation and “positively abhorrent attitude, you stupid man! Coming to a planet you know nothing of? Surely you want to die!”

Over time he learned that “stupid man” was your version of “I love you.”

“You know you’ll never be without me, Ezra.” You dipped your head down and pressed a kiss to his chest. “No matter how far I am, you will always have me with you. Please don’t ever forget that.”

His hand slid up to rest on your cheek, you didn’t miss the way his fingers trembled oh so slightly against your skin. 

“Oh gentle warrior.” He whispered with a warm smile. “I do not deserve you.”

You thought-no, you knew he deserved you and much more. But he hadn’t realized that yet. You believed that Ezra deserved the world. You couldn’t give him that, so you settled for your love, devotion and handwritten notes slipped into his back pocket when you thought he wouldn’t notice. 

He noticed every time.

[aswithasunbeam]

Do you have a father's day AU written? If not that's fine but if you do I would love to read it

I do now! :) Hope you enjoy!

Father’s Day

[Read on AO3]

Rated: General

Summary:

Philip and Eliza plan the perfect Father’s Day: breakfast in bed, a homemade card, and the obligatory tie. Despite a few bumps along the way, things turn out in the end. A fluffy modern hamliza au.

“No!” Pip’s shout sliced through the sleepy Sunday morning.

Alexander froze in the entry to the kitchen, palm of his heel resting on his eye where he’d been rubbing away the last of the sleep crust. His son ran over to him and started insistently pushing on his knees. He looked over at Eliza, who was squatting by the cabinet where they kept their cookware, her hand braced against her rounded belly.

“No yelling, Pip. You know better,” Eliza scolded.

Pip pouted up at him. “Back to bed.”

“What?”

“We were trying to make you breakfast in bed.” Eliza heaved herself up with the aid of the counter. “You got up too soon.”

He smiled. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Well, it’s not much of a surprise now, but happy father’s day.”  

“Thanks.”

“Bed.” Pip ordered again.

“I think I’d rather eat out here with you and Mom, anyway,” he said, lifting Pip up and carrying him towards the table. Pip’s hair was adorably bed mussed, and he placed a kiss to the messy mop before settling him into his booster seat. “What are we having?”

Eliza popped open the fridge and replaced a carton of eggs. “Scrambled eggs and sausage. Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He sifted through the pile of mail on the table, intending to clear it for their meal. A powder blue envelope peeked out from under the coupon mailer from the local grocery store. Picking it up for a closer look, he felt his stomach drop. Stamped in red over the addressee were the words, “No forwarding address. Return to sender.”

“What’s that?” Eliza placed a steaming mug down on the table and touched a hand to his shoulder blade.

He tilted the card so she could see it. “I guess my dad moved again.”

“Oh, honey.” Her arms wrapped around his waist, her pregnant belly hard and firm against his back, and she hooked her chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Me too.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek before pulling away to finish breakfast.

Using his thumb to tear open the back of the envelope, he pulled out the card decorated with a row boat reminiscent of the one his father had used to take him fishing when he was six. Inside, he’d scrawled a long, heartfelt message about all the wonderful developments in his life over the past few years: updates about his work for the Senator, the little house he and Eliza had purchased, and silly stories about his irrepressible two year old. He retrieved the photo of Pip, mugging for the camera with chocolate ice cream smeared across his lips, and the sonogram of their expected little girl.

“That’s me,” Pip announced. He’d stood up on his booster seat to see what his father was looking at. His little fingers reached out to point at the photo, as though Alexander might be having difficulty identifying the subject.

“Yeah it is. That’s my little goofball,” he laughed, kissing his son again. Spirits lifted slightly, he propped the pictures up in front of the vase of flowers and gathered up the rest of the mail to place on the counter.

“Do you want to give Daddy his present before we eat?” Eliza asked, attention fixed on the frying pan.

“Present!” Pip exclaimed, scrambling down from the chair to race into the living room.

He caught Eliza’s eye, and they shared a smile.

Pip returned seconds later, his flat feet pounding on the wood floor, carrying a long, skinny box with a card taped to the front. “Here,” Pip said, thrusting the box at Alexander.

“What do you say, Pip?” Eliza pressed.

“Happy Daddy’s day,” Pip added, distracted as climbed back up into his seat.

“Thank you.” Turning the box around, he smiled. “Well, now, I wonder what this could be.”

The card was an 8 ½ by 11 sheet of printer paper folded down the side with ‘Happy Father’s Day!’ printed along the top in Eliza’s neat handwriting. Pip had scribbled a rainbow of colors with crayon all over the front in no discernible pattern. He opened the paper up to find a drawing of a square and three stick figures, a big yellow blob at the top presumably meant to be the sun.

“You and me and Mommy,” Pip explained, leaning over the table to point again. Eliza’s stick figure had a circle drawn around the middle, meant to signify her belly, Alexander guessed. “Is this your little sister?”

Pip nodded. “And that’s my slide.”

He saw a big blue line going up from the grass off the side of the page. They’d bought a plastic swing-set weeks ago to set up in the yard, but he hadn’t actually had time to put it together yet. Tracing his finger over the line, he suggested, “We should put your slide together after we eat.”

Pip bounced excitedly in his seat.

“Open the present, already,” Eliza said, grinning as she scooped eggs onto three plates.

“I’m opening,” he said, grinning back at her. Tearing the wrapping paper off the box, he pulled off the top to find a garishly patterned green and yellow tie inside. He laughed and looked over at his wife.

“Pip picked it out all by himself at the store,” she explained with a pointed look.

That made sense. “Thank you, Pip. I love it.”

“It has green. That’s your favorite,” Pip said, clearly proud of himself.  

“I’ll wear it to work tomorrow,” he promised. Clattering dishes and silverware drew his attention to Eliza. “Do you need help, Bets?”

“Please,” she said.

He jumped up and grabbed two of the plates, placing the plastic Power Rangers one down in front of his son. Pip dug in immediately, grabbing a sausage link with his hands, not bothering with utensils. Tussling Pip’s hair, he said, “I’ll get the napkins.”

They’d barely finished eating when Pip clambered out of his seat and bounded towards the back door. “Slide!” he demanded, grubby hands twisting futilely over the plastic child protected doorknob.

“In a minute,” Alexander said. “First, we wash our hands and help Mommy load the dishes into the dishwasher.”

Pip pouted, but slunk back to the kitchen. Alexander lifted him by the armpits onto a stool so he could reach the sink, and squirted a generous amount of hand soap into the boy’s palm. Pip shoved his hands under the tap, letting the water wash off the soap.

“Rub your hands together, honey,” Eliza directed.

Most of the soap had already run off by the time Pip clapped his hands together. He pumped the hand soap over Pip’s hands again, helped him wash properly, then gave him a paper towel to dry off. Then he helped Eliza clear the table, loading the dirty dishes into the washer and squirting dish soap into the frying pan.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Eliza said, kissing him.

He ran his palm over the side of her belly. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Slide!” Pip demanded again, waiting impatiently by the back door.

“Yes, yes, okay. Slide.”

“Think you can manage by yourself?” Eliza asked, smirking at him as she handed over a box cutter.

“I think I can manage to pop a few pieces of plastic together,” he said.

The door knob was slick with sausage grease, and it took him two tries to turn it properly. When the door opened, Pip raced outside, bounding across their fenced in yard with his usual manic energy. The swing-set was in three large boxes, leaning against the house. He stooped down to start unpacking the pieces.

The walls around the slide support clicked into place easily enough. Pip was ecstatic to help install the slide itself, though his only job was to kneel at the bottom and try to keep it from moving too much. The inside support system created a tunnel that Pip watched come together with wide eyes.

Sun blared down on them as Alexander fought with the last of the tunnel structure, sweat beading on his brow. The final piece didn’t seem to want to line up properly. Wiping a hand over his forehead, he tried again, biting down a swear with the piece slipped again.

“Can I slide, now, Daddy?” Pip asked.

“Just a minute, bud.”

“How’s it going?” Eliza called from the backdoor, watching them with a soft expression.

“The last piece won’t go in,” he replied, frustration in his tone.

“Need some help?”

He nodded.

She made her way over and knelt beside him. With hardly any effort at all, she slid the final piece into place, then gave him a smug smile. He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, you’re better at this than me.”

“Just nice to hear you say it,” Eliza said.

He kissed her firmly. “Will you help assemble the swing piece?”

“Happily.”

Together, they worked at attaching the plastic swings to the bar supports and digging the poles deep enough into the earth to keep the whole structure steady. Pip raced around them, touching every surface with barely contained excitement. When at last they declared the set complete, Pip let out a whoop of joy and bounded headfirst into the slide tunnel, crawling around the twists and peeking out at them through the little transparent window.

Eliza relaxed back into his arms and waved at Pip when he emerged at the top of the slide. Alexander rested his head against hers and rubbed his hand over their baby, delighted to feel the little nudges from a foot or elbow. He kissed her temple, feeling blissfully content.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Thirty-Eight: Rocks ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Mikoto ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

When Sasuke was very young, he enjoyed collecting rocks. At first, it was any kind of rock. It might catch his eye due to its shape, its color, how it caught the light...or just because it looked neat. Childhood wonder meant he wasn’t overly picky in his early days, picking up whatever stone happened to catch his fancy and stuffing it into his pocket.

Before long, he had quite the collection. He kept them, at first, in a little box his mother had made to throw away before he snagged it out of the garbage. But it was a bit small, and his treasures soon outgrew them. His mother then gave him an old tupperware container with a snapping lid, but even that was eventually not enough. When Mikoto gave him a plastic tote, she was sure that would be the end of it. As cute as she found the hobby, she could only indulge him so much.

With his space officially limited, Sasuke took to - every so often - sorting through his hoard and putting away what no longer sparked his interest into the big bed of rocks in the backyard where water would cascade off the roof when it rained. That way they were still near, but no longer taking up his special space.

Itachi would often help him, finding interesting stones here and there during his time in junior high. Sasuke too scoured the playground at school, the gravel by the bus stop...anywhere he could to spy something new and interesting to add to his collection.

And eventually, his little hobby was noticed by someone else.

“W...what are you doing…?”

Crouched at the edge of the gravel that filled the swingset grounds of the play area, Sasuke glances up at the inquisitive voice. “Huh?”

Mimicking his posture, a girl from his class rests hands on her knees. “Are you - a-are you looking for something?”

“Yeah!”

“Did, um...did you drop something i-in the rocks?”

“Oh, nuh-uh. M’looking for cool ones!”

“...cool ones?”

“Cool rocks! See?” Uncurling a hand, he shows the little collection he’s already gathered: a white rock peppered with black spots, a grey one with smoothed edges, and a green one with a hole in it. “Aren’t they cool?”

She tilts her head, examining them politely. “You found those...i-in there?”

“Uh huh! There’s lotsa cool ones if you look. Here…” Rooting around, he nibbles his lip in concentration. “...like this one!” Up he pulls a little stone. It’s really not anything out of the ordinary save for its vaguely purple color. “It looks like your coat!”

The girl perks up, cupping her hands as he makes to hand it to her. As noted, it’s almost the same shade as her jacket. “Whoa…!”

“I’ve got lots at home - I keep ‘em in a bin in my room! My brother finds some for me sometimes. He says some you can skip across water! I wanna try it next time we go to the lake. He’s gonna teach me!”

“Across the water…?”

“Yeah! He got one to bounce ten times once - my big brother can do anything!”

Blinking, she then gives a soft laugh. “I’d l-like to see that! I thought rocks just...sink?”

“Not when my big brother throws ‘em! He says you gotta find a good flat one, and you throw it just right. I tried once but it’s kinda hard to do…”

“I-I’m sure you’ll get it someday! Maybe you just need to...to practice!”

Grinning, Sasuke nods. “...your name’s Hinata, right?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m Sasuke! Wanna look for more rocks with me?”

“S-sure!”

Together, the little pair pass the rest of their recess in the bed of stones, carefully picking at ones that catch their eyes. While Sasuke’s are all unique and maybe strange, Hinata gravitates toward simple ones: round and smooth with solid, soft colors.

“Those are really pretty,” Sasuke praises as the bell tolls to return to class.

“Should I...keep them?”

“If you want to! Maybe you can make a collection, huh?”

“Maybe...my dad doesn’t like m-messes, though.”

“Can you put ‘em in a box?”

“I don’t have one…”

Sasuke’s lips purse in a thoughtful pout. “...here, give ‘em to me. I’ll find ya a box and bring it tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“You...you will?”

“Yeah! Maybe you can come to my house, and we can trade! I have lots!”

Something brightens in the girl. “O...okay!”

With that, Sasuke puts his rocks in one pocket, and Hinata’s in another as they run to make it back to class. A small spring finds its way into Sasuke’s step. He’s never had a friend with rocks before…! Already he thinks of getting to show her all the ones he likes best, and some he might be persuaded to give her. He’ll get her a good collection in no time!

Of course...by now...such memories have all but faded.

“Hey Mom, do you know where my old CD collection is?”

Looking to her son from the plant she’s pruning, Mikoto pauses, thinking. “Well...I suppose it’s probably in the old garage. Most of your old stuff should still be out there, dear. Need help looking?”

“Nah, that’s all right. I can do it. Thanks.”

“Going old school?” she can’t help but tease. “I think I still have a radio that plays discs somewhere…”

That earns a laugh. “That’s okay. The library’s looking for some donations of CDs. Thought I’d chip in mine since I don’t use ‘em anymore.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Maybe I can give them some old records I have…”

“Not sure they’re looking to go that far back.”

Mikoto gives him a look. “Hey now, I’m not that old!”

“Didn’t say you were, Mom,” he assures her with a wave, heading out. After their expansive remodel, the old detached garage is more like a storage shed with the new one under his old room. Who knows what other relics of his childhood are out here…

Opening up the creaking door, he coughs a bit at the dusty air. Waving it away, he squints and sighs at the rows and rows of boxes. He’ll be out here all day at this rate…

Still, his mother is a stickler for organization, so it’s not long before he finds the section devoted to his old belongings. Name plastered over several boxes and totes, he picks one at random to start sifting through. But rather than CDs, he finds toys. Quite a few of them: action figures, plushies, Hot Wheels cars…

Wait a minute. Perking slightly, he takes out a faded green dinosaur. “...mister Roary?” he mutters, batting off some dust. Jeez, he used to sleep with this thing...where he went, it went with him.

After a moment’s debate, he sticks the plush under an arm, resealing the box and opening another.

Twenty minutes pass with little luck. Pulling a small tote from a high shelf, he swears at the weight. Good grief, this thing is heavy! What did he put in here, rocks?

Resting it atop the old workbench with a grunt, he pries open the lid and finds...well, just that. Man...he totally forgot about these. He was such a weird kid, pocketing away any rock he could find. Most in here aren’t even anything special. Among them are minerals and crystals his mother bought for him now and again. A small sample of amethyst, some quartz, a sphere of sandstone...and there in a corner is a small box. Maybe some of his favorites…?

Taking it out, he untapes the lip and lifts the lid, brow furrowing slightly. That’s weird...they’re all just normal rocks. Sorting through, he finds nothing of note. What were…?

Putting the lid back down, he then notices faded marker along the top. Brushing at more dust and squinting, he tries to make out a name…

“Sasuke?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, wow...it’s dusty in here.” Behind him, another figure enters. “Did you find them?”

“No, not yet...I was just…”

And then it hits him.

Brightening, he spins around. “Hey, look!”

“Huh?”

“Remember this?”

Blinking, his companion stares for a moment at the little keepsake box. “I…?” Accepting it as he hands it over, there’s a long pause. “...wait…”

“Ringing a bell?”

“You still have these…?”

“Yeah! And all my old collection! I dunno why Dad kept them, it’s literally just rocks…”

Lifting the lid, pale eyes widen. “...oh my gosh…” Carefully, Hinata plucks a soft purple stone from the box. “...I do remember these…”

Sasuke can’t help a grin. “That was the day we actually became friends. And look at us now.”

Hinata gives a soft laugh. “Yeah...funny, isn’t it? It’s too bad you didn’t stick with it, hm? Maybe you could been a geologist or something.”

“Sadly, I’m not as excited by a bunch of rocks as I used to be,” he admits. “I’ll have to go through these another time, though. Some are actually kinda neat.”

A knowing smile pulls at her lips. “I’d like that.”

“Want me to put that back?”

...she hesitates. “...actually, can I...keep it?”

“Of course. It’s yours. I was just hanging onto it for you. For a lot longer than I intended.”

There’s another soft laugh. “Thanks.”

“Now...I need to find those CDs. Wanna help me look?”

“It’s why I came in.” For the moment, she sets the box atop the workbench, helping fetch another to find their treasure.

Well...another treasure.

“Wait...is that a dinosaur plushie?”

“Hey, I liked dinosaurs too.”

                                                       .oOo.

     This...is one of the most random prompts thus far, but hey! I made my daily goal word count and then some, so at least there's that xD      And it actually turned out pretty cute! Smol SasuHina is always fun to write. Add in a flash forward to them older, and that's a win in my book lol      Anyway, I'ma be busy tomorrow, so I best call it a night! Thanks for reading~

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 1

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader

WC: 2500+

Relief comes in the form of a fresh pair of socks. After clomping into the lodge for what feels like the millionth time that day you kick off your boots; the old offending pair lying discarded after being immediately shed in favour of something far thicker and obnoxious with pompoms. Soggy and sad, you can see those left abandoned creating pools by the door over the top of the one mug you’d insisted on keeping unpacked for occasions such as these. You haven’t touched the sandwich, stale bread adorning the sodden cardboard the gas station had graciously wrapped it in, tomato looking suspiciously like sludge and avocado even more like something you’d find between bathroom tiles. It doesn’t bother you though, and it’s nothing a monumentally sweet cup of herbal tea can’t fix for the time being. You just needed to make it to dinner.

It’s through the steam that you smile; hope as warm as the fire roaring in the hearth, mood impervious to the dampness of falling snow. It encases the edges of the splintered window frames, closing in as it lines the sills and topples every now and again from the roof with a shudder. And though empty walls wait with bated breath, ready to bare the pride of their new owners, you can’t bring yourself to start unpacking. Empty cupboards beg to be filled, closets eager to be lined and bathrooms desperate to be stocked - all screaming for some form of progress despite knowing you intend on offering none. Not yet, anyway.

Crates are jammed in every free corner, staircase blocked with a barrage of suitcases while furniture is left littered with packages and the promise of a nap. Even the room you’ve claimed as your own, the largest in all respects and the one you rightfully deserve after picking up the keys and moving across the country early and alone; has only the bed made. And, if someone were to clamber over the mountain of belongings at the foot of the stairs and traipse through the hallway lined with linen, they’d see a wardrobe harbouring piles of clothes and a carpet fashioned into a maze of mismatched books and boxes.

But you’re too involved in the moment to worry about everything you need to do, enraptured in the peace of a promising beginning. A fresh start is just what you need. A new place in a new town where no one knows your name. Where memories can be buried in the snowfall, and a future career can be forged in tree trunks. Here, you’re Y/N, no more and no less. Y/N, a woman who really needs to get on with the rest of the evening.

A gentle sigh escapes into your mug, a soft hum that’s swallowed with the remains of your tea. Aching feet pad against the rich wooden panels lining the floor, slowly easing you into an evening free from the bustle of a choking city. Void of the demands of people, or the hollowness of a house you’d come to refuse as home. Another comfortable breath comes as a jumper is pulled over your head, fabric softly tugging against your skin like caressing fingers. Even your laces cause little trouble, boots done up in no time before you’re out the door, nose buried in the cream fluff of a scarf.

The crunch of fresh snow starts off your journey into the town centre of Motbury; leading you down the damp wooden steps and onto the small stone path tracing through your new garden, property lined with thick pine trunks and shivering greenery. Late afternoon sun rays drift lazily through the branches, dusting the world with a pleasant yellow glow you can’t help smiling into. A quick glance backwards says goodbye to the lodge and its characteristic grooves, to its tattered log exterior and triangular peaks, sharp supports and clusters of windows. To the stone columns you swear you’ll coat in fairy lights and markings, the wagon wheels you’re certain you’ll never get around to moving, and the mound of firewood stacked haphazardly against the side of your new home.

---

The first store you enter welcomes you with open arms and a comfortable heat, gentle jingles of the bell above the door seeing the man behind the cash register’s head lifting. He smiles through a dark beard flecked with greys, hair a mess with the numerous passes his tattooed fingers make across it. Still, the expression sees a face creased with age brighten, bearing the same cutting lines that accompany his front door. He greets you with a casual hello before returning his attention to the two figures in faded uniform on the opposite side of the checkout, nodding along to their stories.

From the back you can’t make out much besides their thick, fur trimmed coats and working boots - but the guns holstered to their sides tells you enough. The shorter of the two, of who is at least a head below the man on the right, runs a hand through brightly coloured hair, diffusing icy blues and mousey brown roots. The tension marrying between his broad shoulders explains the concern twitching restlessly in his fingers, nerves conducting the gentle incessant taps of his toes. Such apprehension is mirrored in the flash you catch of the other man’s expression; muted red curls trimmed neat, freckles splotching pale skin.

The pair hears your entrance, turning too late as you disappear into the aisles with a small cart, eyes intent on the slip of paper decorating your palm. Murmurs still snake across the floor, your back growing warm as their voices brush against it. Snippets of conversation follow; questions about family and comments about the upcoming forecast. A conversation that refuses to linger on the missing posters plastered to the windows, and a warning about getting the store secured before the raging weather hits. Boisterous laughter finally defrosts the room that’s slowly been icing over with their worries, and it joins the selection of bread you sift through, loaves and rolls scattered with seeds accompanying the vegetables you’ve collected on the journey through the store.

None of the other bodies in the cosy space seem to mind the presence of the police, all wearing gentle expressions and comfortable shoulders. It puts you at ease, the usual nagging concern that bounces in your chest at the sight of law enforcement ebbing away. From the corner of your eye the quirk of a tall man’s lips sees the pressure stringing down your neck thaw, close enough for you to hear him chuckling at the conversation overtaking the front of the store, his amusement tumbling into the butcher’s display. His head shakes within the palm his chin rests against, smile turning into a grin. Then a large, callous hand pushes back loose strands of sweeping sandy blonde, impatiently forcing red plaid sleeves back up to the crook of his elbows.

And then you see it, something that makes your heart leap and pulse race, breath catching with a stifled gasp - there’s a special on steak. You beeline for it, now close enough to feeling the man’s warm laughter caress your side. Gathering a few packages and dumping them into your cart, you return to the sausages, of which the blonde seems to be struggling with. He holds two varieties in his hands, glancing from one to the other, utterly perplexed. You can see the difficulty, considering the options before making a decision.

“Pork and sage are always a good choice,” you offer helpfully, reaching in front and collecting an identical pack to the one he’s debating.

“You couldn’t be more right,” he replies after a moment, turning his incredibly blue eyes to you. The twitch of his lips widens into a smile, discarding the losing flavour and placing the winner in his basket. “You’ve just made dinner a hell of a lot easier.”  

“Just doing my duty.”

“Your country thanks you,” he chuckles, and your stomach leaps.

Intending to respond with a witty remark you’re almost certain won’t be nearly as clever as you hope, the words die in your throat with the crash fracturing the air; as sudden as the tumble of cusses emanating from the front of the store. You both whip your attention to the shattering of glass and the fuming voice of the shopkeeper, frustration buried in another person’s giggles. “Oh c’mon, Jeremy! That’s the 2nd jar this week!”

“Shit,” responds the man you assume to be Jeremy with a groan, “I’m so sorry Geoff.”

“I should have you bloody arrested for this.”

“I could do it, Geoff,” interjects the taller man eagerly, giggles eventually subsiding. “Just say the words. Please. Ask me to arrest him. God damn it Geoff. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Please have me arrest Jeremy.” 

You can’t hold back the sniggers, joy dripping through the fingers you hide your lips behind. The stranger beside you joins in, shaking his grinning face yet again. Far taller than you, he stands on his tiptoes, peering over the shorter shelves. “There go the complimentary chocolates.” He rocks back on the balls of his feet, wincing. “Damn it. Geoff always has the one with little hazelnuts inside.”

“What a waste,” you gasp, hand clutching your scarf in an action he mirrors. “Does this happen often?”

He glances at you, surprised. It takes him a moment to realise that he doesn’t actually recognise you, having accepted your conversation and comfortability as a form of familiarity. “All the time. That pair make a mess everywhere they go. I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You’re new here?”

“Just moved in,” you reply, brushing away his disappointment in his manners, “I bought the lodge up the road.” You shake the hand he offers, dwarfed in his firm grasp. “I’m Y/N. Figured I’d collect some supplies before my roommates arrive.”

“Ryan.” He smiles, a lopsided, carefree expression that leaves him looking younger. “I’d tell you that you’d get used to them, but you really don’t. 2 years and the short one’s still a pain in my ass.” He laughs, warm and rich. “I don’t let him in the shop anymore, he’s always breaking stuff. But I won’t take up any more of your time.” He gives your trolley a pointed glance, assessing it’s contents and then your stature. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”

You offer him a shrug, rather enjoying his company. “Not for a few more days. I moved in early to sort out some paperwork, pick up the keys and make sure everything’s set up. I’ll probably end up shopping again in a few more days. They’re animals.”

“The lodge, you said?” He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful and tracing the paths he knows so well in his head. “The one on the outskirts, went extremely cheap?”

“Suspiciously cheap,” you correct.

“By the tree line?”

“That’s the one.”

He dives into his pocket while you’re speaking, sawdust trembling from the patches plastered against his pants. Rummaging around, he discards a number of crumbled receipts into his basket before pulling out a business card. “Here,” he insists, pressing the laminated piece into your expectant palm. “I run the local carpentry store; ‘Hay Woodworks’. A place like yours is gonna require some fixing up. We try to keep on top of the scratches around the doors and window frames - nah, don’t look so scared, it’s just animals trying to find shelter in the storms - but it’s always best to be safe. One good gust and the whole thing can cave, even with the newer buildings. I’d be happy to help out, even if it’s just to check the property out before the storms hit. I’ll sort you out with anything.”

Your eyebrow quirks, testing the waters with a timid snatch at opportunity. “What about a job?”

He considers this thoroughly, picking up one of your hands and studying it, folding it over in his own. Finally, he lets it drop, lips pursing to the side. “What’ve you worked with?”

“Mainly statement pieces and decorations,” you reply fondly, thumb tracing one of the many callouses that’d stained your hands years ago, skin tattered with scars. “But I’m good on a ladder. I used to work in my Granddad’s shop when I was younger and we’d go out and fix up houses. I haven’t carved in a while, but I’m all about new beginnings right now.”

He’s lips tug into a broad grin, welcoming and infectious. “I think I could find something for you to do. It’d be hard work, but swing by the shop tomorrow and we’ll see what you can do. I’ve got a couple of fix up jobs lined up for the coming few weeks, I could do with a hand once I know what you’re capable of.”

You’re beaming as you thank him, potential rushing through your mind with the excited shake of your hands. Eventually you pry yourself away with his insistence of having taken up too much of your time. Venturing further into the groceries, you throwing a few well-timed glances back at him, Ryan staring intently at his shoes before shaking himself, tearing away from your line of sight at the call of his name. During your interaction the commotion taking over the front of the store has died down, cheerful warmth still radiating in spite of the cold rattling against the exterior walls.

“Hold on, Michael,” comes a voice over the shelves a few minutes later as you’re leaning into the milk fridge, overwhelmed with the hum of freezer elements, unable to discern it’s familiarity, “I just want to check something first.”

“Go for it, J,” encourages Michael, hearing the bell jingle as he pushes open the door and says his goodbyes to Ryan, gusts of freezing wind playing with his curls. “I’ll be in the patrol car with my ass pressed to the heater.”

You pay the conversation no mind, finally having picked up enough produce to keep a small family fed for a week - or your roommates satiated for at least 3 days. Making your way to the checkout, the voice comes again, curious and careful. “Y/N?”

Spinning, you find yourself facing the small, bright officer, deep brown eyes widening in disbelieving joy. He’s stronger with your name this time, excited. “Y/N! Since when do you shop up in the mountains?”

“Jeremy,” you breath, shock coursing through your veins, “oh my god, is that really you?”

“Jesus,” he chuckles incredulously, both embracing for a long moment before he holds you out at arm’s length. He can’t quite comprehend your existence, drinking in the sight of his long lost friend. “It’s been, what, 2 years? How’ve you been?”

“Alright,” you admit rather hollowly, blinking a few times to stay on track. “What’re you doing here?”

“I work here now.” There’s pride in his voice, chest puffing up and finger jabbing the patch adoring his breast pocket, a similar one on his arm. “I was transferred here after we stopped working together, you’re looking at Motbury’s detective chief inspector.”

“You’re kidding.” You laugh, elated and vaguely aware of Ryan paying for his groceries, returning the wave he throws you from the door. Another billow of wind, ice nipping the tip of your nose. “You finally got your promotion.”

“You bet your ass I did, and a haircut.” His fingers skim the colour that’d made him so unrecognisable, and your heart feels instantly lighter.

“It looks great.”

[queenevaine]

Chapter 9: Bits and Pieces

I wanna say too with the upcoming release of a new character, they will be the last survivor added into this story.  The other ones will be coming out too late for me to really want to keep fitting them in.  

Dwight took a deep breath, laying on the hospital bed.  It didn’t take the staff long to get him a gown he could wear while they cleaned up his normal clothes.  He had plenty of time to think about what he was going to do next.  The police officer that had stopped by assured him he wouldn’t have to worry about the legal consequences his job was going to face, and that he would be compensated sufficiently.  That eased the worry of money when everything was sorted out, but there was still time between then and now that Dwight had to worry about.  

He knew he couldn’t stay at the hospital longer than he needed, and he was fine enough to leave.  Maybe not mentally, but would anyone be after the Entity’s realm?  When a nurse walked in with his clothes folded in a neat pile, he nodded to her in thanks.  She didn’t stay a moment longer, more than likely to allow him to change in private.  It felt good to be in clothes that were actually clean, not caked in dirt and blood.  He sat on the bed again, trying to think about where he could go.  

The slip of paper Jack handed to him was on the bedside table.  I could always call him, right?  No, I can’t just impose like that.  I hardly know him.  He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of the door opening.  

“Mr. Fairfield, how are you feeling?”  

The doctor’s voice was gentle, obviously not trying to startle him.  Dwight simply shrugged.  

“I’m alright.  Just a lot to work out.  Am I.. clear to go?”  

The doctor nodded after a moment of hesitation.  

“Yes, you’re perfectly healthy physically.  If you feel ill at any point that isn’t your normal cold or flu, see us immediately.”  

Dwight nodded, trying to give as reassuring of a smile as he could.  

“I will.  Thank you.”  

The doctor turned to walk out, leaving Dwight to leave whenever he was ready.  He stared at the now closed door, taking a deep breath and getting up to head out.  He knew he’d have to go at some point, but he still had no idea where he’d even go.  How much has even changed in two years?  He figured he’d have to do some exploring, and that was at least something he could spend a lot of time on.  

It felt strange to wander around what Dwight always knew as home.  Most of the buildings were the same ones, but others were vastly different.  This was going to be an experience.  

The receptionist idled her time, checking over appointments and making sure that each was scheduled and properly notified when the phone rang.  She looked at the area code, blinking at the number.  Where even is that from?  She picked up the phone and barely even opened her mouth when the voice shouted from the other end.  

“I don’t need any appointment, ‘M askin’ if a ‘Dwight Fairfield’ is there.”  

She blinked in surprise, tilting her head.  

“And who am I speaking to?”  

“A friend of ‘is.  He there or not?”  

“Sir, I can’t-”  

“Fuckin’ christ, I just need to know if he’s there, and I know you can tell me that kinda shit.”  

The receptionist sighed quietly.  

“Give me a moment to check, please.”  

“I got all day.”  

Pretentious asshole.  She held the phone between her head and shoulder, typing in the name to sift through the records of patients.  

“...No, we don’t anymore, he-”  

“Anymore?”  

Be patient, don’t get irritated.  

“That’s correct.  He was released earlier today.”  

“Where the hell did he go?”  

“Sir, I don’t know that information.  You’d have to talk to him.”  

“God fucking-, fine, thanks anyway.”  

Click.  

David groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.  The hotel room he was staying in was comfortable enough, but he would definitely rather be heading out to find Dwight.  He really had no idea where to go, and even then only had a vague idea of the area where Dwight lived.  He never really got specifics, but the news thankfully had given enough details for him to find out.  

Where would Dwight even go?  The question tugged at his mind constantly.  David knew he was lucky enough to always have a consistent place to stay; considering how wealthy his family was already.  That, and the money he had earned himself was more than substantial.  He couldn’t stand being idle in the hotel room anymore, instead deciding to head out and just see what he could find.  

The town was small, at least compared to where he grew up.  The buildings were nowhere near as clustered together, and he could very easily walk without having to shoulder his way past anybody.  Nice little place.  He kept his hands in his pockets, aimlessly wandering around the town’s streets.  He knew he could easily walk around the entirety of the town’s main street and never get tired.  Surely someone would know of him, at least?  

Never hurt to check.  

Dwight was exhausted.  He thankfully still had some money on him, but nowhere near enough to last him long if he wasn’t careful.  The sun was setting now, and Dwight knew better than to stay out past a certain time.  His hometown wasn’t particularly dangerous, but he’d rather not take any chances he didn’t have to.  He tracked down the nearest phone he could use, glad that the town hadn’t gotten rid of the age old payphones yet.  Some things never change.  

He pulled out the scrap of paper, putting quarters into the phone and dialing the number.  Please pick up.  

“Hello?”  

Thank god.  

“Hi, uh, is this a bad time?”  

“Dwight?  No, it’s not, how are you holding up?”  

“I-I’m doing well.  Uhm…”  

Damn it, not now!  

“I was hoping, if it’s alright of course, if…  you knew of a place I could stay for the night?  I don’t really have that set up yet.”  

Fear quickly surged, this was stupid, I shouldn’t have asked, I should’ve just stayed in the hospital-

“Sure!  Where are you?  I’ll come pick you up as soon as I can.  I do live a bit out of town, so it’ll take me a bit.”  

“Uh, corner of Main and 3rd.  The payphone outside of the hardware store.”  

“Is that- wait, I know where you are.  Sit tight, alright?”  

“Yeah, and thanks.”  

“No problem at all!  I’m not the kinda guy to leave someone hanging like this.  Should take me about twenty minutes.  See ya then.”

The phone clicked, and Dwight put it back and headed outside of the box.  Now it was just a matter of waiting.  That won’t be so bad.  Just twenty more minutes.  Even still, the encroaching fog made him feel the familiar senses of fear and panic.  Everything’s fine, it’s just chilly tonight.  The fog doesn’t mean anything anymore.  

Despite that, he was incredibly anxious.  It was all too familiar, to feel the cold, eerie chill before being sent to a game of death by cruel meathook, or rarely by the hands of the Killer themselves.  The silence was so eerie, but he preferred it over the sounds he typically heard of the Entity.  He didn’t know how much time had passed by now; his watch was horribly off.  His heart started to race in his chest as more time passed, and he swore he had the unmistakable feeling of someone watching him.  Michael?  

He darted his attention around, suddenly paranoid that he was actively being stalked by the masked Killer.  He wouldn’t be able to clearly tell in the fog, especially with it being so dark.  He pressed his back against the phone box, at least alleviating one direction he had to be wary about.  He was still concerned about the other surroundings, heart leaping to his throat when he saw a silhouette in the fog.  

He immediately moved to another side of the phone box, hiding behind it.  No, no no no, it can’t be him, right?  He had no idea what he was going to do.  I could actually die!  Fear seized him again, eyes widened in panic.  

The honk of a car made him scream.  When the window of the driver’s side rolled down, he was relieved to see Jack with Coach in the bed of the pickup truck.  

“Hey, sorry for taking a while.  You okay?”  

Dwight nodded.  

“Yeah!  Yeah, I’m okay.  Just, thought I saw someone in the fog.”  

Jack looked into the fog, then back to Dwight.  

“I’m not sure if I see anybody.  It might be a trick of the fog, like when you feel something crawling on your arm and there’s nothing actually there.”  

He shrugged, then gestured to the passenger door.  

“You can hop in shotgun, or in the back with Coach, if you want.”  

Dwight nodded, quickly jogging around the truck to get in the passenger seat.  

“Thanks again, really.  I should’ve sorted out a place to stay earlier, but…  I didn’t really think about it.”  

Didn’t have the courage to face the issue, I mean.  He sighed in relief at the warmth of the car.  

“Hey man, it’s no problem, really.  Like I said, I’m not gonna leave someone hanging.  I did get to reading the news, too.  Apparently, you’re a big deal around here now.”  

Oh no.  

“R-Really?  Why me?”  

Jack looked over with a raised eyebrow, driving the route he knew almost by heart.  

“You went missing for two years, and then show up again covered in blood.  I’ve seen reporters all over town trying to figure out what they can about what happened.”  

“It’s nothing, really.  I just…  got lost.  Really lost.  It’s, hard to explain.”

Dwight shifted awkwardly in the seat.  Jack reached over to pat Dwight’s shoulder.  

“It’ll turn out fine, I think.  I’m pretty sure the excitement will die down after a few weeks.”  

A few weeks too long.  He nodded, leaning back in the seat.  

“I’m not exactly a guy that wants to be in the spotlight of anything.  I just…  wanna get back to my life.”  

“Can’t blame ya.  I’m not a flashy guy either, I just like doing what I do without too much problem.  Puts me at ease to work with the animals I raise.  Not sure if I ever mentioned it, but I work on my sister’s ranch.  She started getting more and more work, and I said I’d help her out wherever I can.  It’s nice and quiet most of the time.”  

Dwight couldn’t help a small smile.  

“Yeah, sounds nice.”   

They fell into silence as the road veered off into a dirt road.  The ranch was bigger than Dwight expected, and much more quiet.  

“Alright, here we are.”  

He quickly parked the truck and got out, Coach obediently hopping out and following close at Jack’s heels.  Dwight followed behind them, still anxious about the fog.  Reminds me of Coldwind.  

The door to the house swung open, and Dwight was instantly met with a chorus of barking dogs.  

“Down, boys!”  

A young woman, Jack’s sister, walked in from the kitchen in pajamas.  

“Come on, you mutts.  Bed time.”  

She paid little attention to Dwight, instead dragging several of the dogs away by their collars.  Jack turned to grin at Dwight.  

“She’s a little blunt, but nice.  I promise.  Come on, lemme show you a spare room you can use.”  

Dwight silently followed Jack, looking around at all the details of the house.  It was a nice place, but was definitely far too large for just two people.  

“There we go.  Bathroom is at the end of the hall.”  

Dwight turned his attention back to Jack when the door opened, noting how simple the room was.  Guess a spare room isn’t gonna be decorated too much.  He walked in and started undoing the tie he still had on, nodding to Jack.  

“Thanks, honestly.  I know I keep saying it, but, I really appreciate it.”  

“Not a problem, Dwight.  Lemme know if you need anything, my room’s the first door on the left there.”  

He pointed at the door that had countless scratches at the bottom.  

“Coach gets real antsy to get in my room sometimes, especially when he was a puppy.  Pretty easy to tell which room is mine because of it.”  

Dwight nodded, his question pre-emptively answered.  Jack turned to head to his room, Coach sitting beside it as if on cue.  He suddenly stopped as Dwight turned to put the tie on the nearest nightstand.  

“I just realized, you don’t have any spare clothes, do you?”  

Dwight blinked, shaking his head.   

“No, actually.  I’m… not sure what happened to most of my stuff.”  

“Here, let me get you some pajamas to wear.  That should be more comfortable than that stuff you’re wearing now.”  

“It’s okay, really!  I-I don’t wanna impose more than I am.”  

“Don’t worry about it!  I think they’ll fit you fine.”  

Before Dwight could say anything more, Jack was gone and getting spare clothes from his room.  Dwight sat on the bed and waited patiently, taking the time to reset his watch to the correct time.  It was already 11:45, and he knew he’d have an interesting day ahead of him tomorrow.  Jack came back quickly with oversized, flannel pajamas.  

“Here’s an old set I don’t wear anymore.  It’s a little big, but it should still fit.”  

Dwight nodded, carefully taking the pajamas.  

“Thanks again.”  

Jack nodded, closing the door and leaving Dwight to his privacy.  It’s better than a formal shirt and stiff pants.  He quickly changed and got into the bed, putting his glasses on the nightstand and leaving his clothes in a pile beside it.  Wait, that’d be rude, wouldn’t it?  He quickly got up to fold his shirt and pants, then place them neatly on top of the nightstand.  

He took a deep breath, covering his eyes with his arm as he lay on his back.  I have no idea what I’m even doing.  I’ll just, worry about it tomorrow.  He closed his eyes, trying to settle to sleep.  

David swore as he got back to his hotel room.  How the fuck does no one know where this guy is?  He nearly threw himself onto his bed, irritated at jet lag messing up his entire sleep schedule.  Instead of sleeping, he sat against the pillows scouring through anything he could find on his phone.  Nothing was particularly helpful,  and that only served to irritate him more.  He groaned loudly in annoyance, looking over to the clock.  Only 4:30, really?  He sighed, getting up and heading to the bathroom.  Might as well take a shower.  

When he got out, it was just barely 5 am.  He groaned again, rubbing his eyes and grabbing a towel to dry off his hair.  He wasn’t even quite sure what he was going to do, but anything was better than staying in the hotel room.  He quickly got dressed and headed out, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.  The streets were entirely empty, only a few signs of life from places that were open all hours of a day.  

He was quickly starting to get used to the town, easily finding his way around.  There wasn’t much that was particularly interesting, but he never failed to find something to do, even if it was something mundane.  There’s gotta be at least something, it’s all over the news, isn’t it?  He sighed as he wandered into the nearest store, mindlessly looking around to distract himself.  

At 6, David opted to head back to the hotel and get something to eat.  It was better than wandering around with absolutely nothing to do.  What even did Dwight do around here for fun?  He shook his head, taking his time eating breakfast.  He wasn't surprised that hardly anyone else was awake in the lobby, and those that were might as well have still been asleep.  

He headed to the fitness center to kill time and burn some stress.  The hotel was surprisingly nice for a place so small.  He couldn't help the small pit of worry in his stomach.  What if this is the wrong place?  Or if he's already long gone?  But where would he go?  

He groaned, wiping off sweat with the nearest towel.  He headed back to his room to clean himself up, reading the time on the clock.  Only 7:15, but at least it’s more reasonable to be out.  He put on a change of clothes, heading out again.  There were far more people out now, David noticed, including a multitude of vans that very nearly sped over him.

“Oi, watch where yer fuckin’ drivin’!”  

The side of the van stuck out to him, being the branding of one of the local news channels he idly scrolled through on TV.  Now where are they going?  He turned to follow the road the vans had driven down, cursing to himself as the van turned a corner too fast for him to keep track of it.  He ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.  His attention suddenly darted when he heard a yelp that was all too familiar.  

Dwight!?  He quickly sprinted in the direction of the yelp, now positive that he was hearing Dwight when he yelled again.  

“Hey, stop!”  

Dwight sounded genuinely distressed, and every instinct of panic screamed at him to run and find him.  He ran through the densely packed crowd of people he ran into, pushing people aside to get to the center.  When he finally broke through the crowd, he saw Dwight being roughly pulled by another man.  Panic quickly settled into rage.  

“Oi, back th’fuck off!”  

“D-David?”  

Dwight stared in disbelief.  David was here?  I’m not hallucinating, am I?  The protective grip David held his arm in told him otherwise.  He had expected people to be curious, but he hadn’t expected to be swarmed by news reporters.  

“You deaf or what?  Fuckin’ move it!”  

David’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.  He felt like he was in a daze as the crowd parted and David very quickly guided him out.  They didn’t stop until they were a fair distance away, and when Dwight’s mind finally caught  up to process everything.  

“David, how are you here?”  

David turned around to face Dwight.  

“Took a plane.  You think I wouldn’t try to find you and the others when I realized we weren’t in hell anymore?”  

Dwight held his arms.  

“I… didn’t really think about it.”  

The gentle touch on his shoulder made him look up.  

“Come on, Dwight.  I don’t leave people behind, you know that.  Where the hell did ya go overnight?  I tried finding you yesterday.”  

“Really?”  

Was he who I saw in the fog last night?  No, he would’ve said something long before.  ...Right?  

“I-I stayed with someone I met.”

He quickly noticed the sharp inhale from David, as well as the way his muscles tensed.  Figures that he’d be uneasy by that.  I don’t really know Jack well.  

“I’ve got a hotel room that’s got plenty o’space.  You can stay there with me, if ya want.  Besides, you can help me find th’others, too.”  

Dwight blinked in surprise.  

“You’re searching for everyone else?”  

“‘Course I am!  You lot mean more t’me than any fucker back home.  ‘M not gonna let any fuckers harass you, either.  Come on, lemme show you where it is.”  

Dwight nodded, following beside Dwight as David walked back to the hotel.  He walked almost in a surreal daze, as if what was happening was a dream.  Yet, he knew it wasn’t any dream or hallucination, no tricks or deceptions from eldritch beings.  This was real, and Dwight couldn’t be happier.  

[shadowsfiguresfigments-blog]

A good place to die Chapter 21

Warning: harsh language, violence

I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour, but Penny was still pretty out of it. When I carefully wiggled out of the space between his arm and his shoulder, I realized he was truly asleep. There he lay, his huge form stretched out over my tiny bed, with his hands and feet dangling over the side – it was so cute I snapped a picture with my phone. Not wanting to wake him up (or has he started hibernating again? I’m not sure), I sat down at my desk and checked all the papers for the bookstore for the umpteenth time. Everything so far was ready to go – I had talked to the suppliers, Bee had helped me doing all the registration stuff which was now neatly filed away in a folder I swore to never touch again, and the bookkeeping was up to date. I had stored all of the money I had found hidden in the store as well as in the tiny apartment in a little book-safe auntie had given me, and I was positive I had enough “change” to keep the store running for half a year or so. Mr. Shank’s had never spent much, and it was now obvious he had belonged to the “I don’t trust no bank”-type of people.

I would be open for two hours every afternoon and a bit longer on Saturday. That should allow me to finish school work, study and still keep the store until graduation. Auntie surely hoped I would further improve my education, but I never felt any urge to leave Derry, and now I had a valid reason to stay.

Thinking about the opening, which would be in less than two weeks, made me slightly nervous. I wasn’t too sure if my persona would actually keep customers from coming, but on the other hand I was far more communicative since Penny had entered my life. Maybe I could do this after all.

Speaking of reasons to stay in Derry, mine just started… snoring. Well, technically it wasn’t really snoring, more like an exhausted, grunting purr, but it was loud enough to make the doors and my window vibrate. I couldn’t help myself but watch him as he slept. Despite his enormous size and the not-exactly human features there was still something vulnerable about him. The longer I stayed with him, the more details from our first encounter came back to me. He had been very aggressive back then, and wounded. I still could not fathom what that meant, but it seemed like it had left him… changed. Maybe our friendship would have never formed if that change never had occurred. Maybe he would have just granted me my wish and killed me in an instant.

Then again, I had joked about him eating me earlier today, and he had looked almost shocked at the idea. Whatever he was, I still felt no fear towards him. And I still wasn’t scared of dying or him eating me.

But I no longer craved it.

And I wanted to protect him. I didn’t care if he fed on my species (I guess I was, though I had changed a lot as well, still not exactly “human”), nor if people were scared of him.

I grabbed a spare blanket from my closet and gently wrapped it around Penny, as far as it was possible. Then I tip-toed downstairs and started to prepare dinner. There wasn’t much I knew about cooking, but I still managed some decent-smelling spaghetti tonno. Only then I realized auntie had left me a note on the table to inform me should would be late again – her boss currently did everything in his power to make her as miserable as possible. They had been two hands short for two and a half years now, and auntie was the one to fill both places while doing her regular job as well.

And it was showing. She had always been more of a plump, motherly type, but she had dropped weight quite profoundly. Her skin was sagging, and the tired bags underneath her eyes had become permanent. Speaking of her eyes, they had been so bloodshot as of late you could confuse her with an addict or something. I hated seeing her like that. Hopefully the bookstore would be profitable enough to allow her to stop working, at least at that horrible place. It had been alright until a couple of years ago, when the previous owner died, but now the restaurant had turned quite literally into a shithole. Only a few weeks back auntie had told me about roaches in the kitchen. She no longer ate there either.                                                                                                                                                                    

I put the rest of my dinner in the fridge and stuck a note to auntie to it. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t eat after work, but at least I could offer something home-made to her. When I checked back on Penny, he was still fast asleep (hopefully he wouldn’t stay like this for almost 30 years again), and I wrote him a note too, before I left for the store.

Once I arrived there, I made sure everything was where it belonged to. The door had been repaired (auntie had found somebody for the job, and, with my permission, paid him with some of the money from my inheritance), the store was neat and clean, and no further break-ins seemed to have occurred. Satisfied, I made my way to the back and up the stairs into the little apartment.

It smelled of old man, mold and dust. The stench was so intense I almost gagged, and I hurriedly opened all the windows. The lamps only glowed dimly when I turned them on, and I repeatedly bumped my toes on the junky that was scattered everywhere. This was actually the first time I set foot into the apartment, and it would take a lot of work to make habitable again. Mr. Shanks had kept the store in perfect order, while his home was the exact opposite: filthy and chaotic. Bits of decaying food lay scattered around and dirty rags and clothes adorned almost every bit of furniture. The windows were so dusty and covered in cobwebs they barely let in any light.

I took out my phone and made notes of everything I would need to at least clean out all the dirt. Then I started to hunt for stuff I would be able to use in the cupboards and drawers. Next to some very gross stuff, including rotting carcasses of rats and heavily stained boxer shorts, I managed to salvage a box of unused light bulbs, a roll of plastic bags, an almost empty box of rubber gloves and a flashlight, which was in surprisingly good condition and fully charged. Fully armed, I began the tedious work of clearing out the left-overs of Mr. Shanks.

I started by changing the bulbs in the small hallway, the living room and the kitchen – I didn’t feel comfortable enough to go either into the bedroom, the bath or the toilet. Thus illuminated, I proceeded by throwing all the dirty rags into a plastic bag, making my way from the hallway to the kitchen. The actual kitchen itself was tiny because an enormous, dark wooden dining table took up most of the space. The chairs around it must have been pretty old and would probably have some value if they had been properly cared for. But now they were nothing more than junk: the wood had been eaten away by bugs, and the upholstery almost entirely gone. Actually, I highly doubted they had been in use during the last five years at least, because of the shabby office chair I spotted at the end of the table. The chairs would have to be replaced, but the table still looked usable. I took a picture of it – I’d show it to Bee the next time I visited her. If she liked it, it would be one heavy thing less to remove.

By the time I had cleared the floor far enough to no longer hurt myself while walking around, the first two bags were entirely filled. Since the lamp shades really dimmed the light I removed them and threw them into the next bag – it was impossible to tell their original color, and they had a lot of spots that looked suspiciously like mold. I took a moment to stand by the window, inhaling the cold night air, and checked my phone. No news of Penny, and it would take another four hours for auntie’s shift to end. A quick look around revealed more details of the mess surrounding me: old wrappings in all sizes and colors, lots of dust and cobwebs, clothes, food, used dishes, single pages covered with unreadable notes, heaps of dead bugs, broken china and lots of other wonderful things had formed their very own universe, complete with its own scent and micro fauna.

I decided to not venture any further, but rather to try to rid all flat surfaces of all trash. That proved to be a good decision, because it took much longer than I had anticipated. It was an oddly sad job to sift through all the meaningless trinkets. To think that Mr. Shanks had once lived an active life outside the restraints of his own brain was something quite difficult for me – I had only known him as a confused, irritable old man. But here, among heaps of dirt, I was proven wrong with postcards of foreign mountains, beautiful photos of lakes and wildlife, and souvenirs from all over the world. Broken magnets with exotic sounding names of places and cities lay next to dead roaches, little key ring pendants depicting famous monuments hid beneath shards of broken glass and china, and fragments of discolored letters shared their space with old flyers and outdated newspapers. Hardly anything was whole and unbroken, and almost all the colors had faded or changed.

My labored breathing and my increasing heartbeat were the only sounds accompanying me as I threw away what remained of Mr. Shanks’ life. By the time I had freed the cupboards and the table from the burden of years, the hallway was stuffed with filled plastic bags and my clothes had turned the same grey-brown that coated the walls and the furniture. A quick glance at my phone told me it was time to return home and, to be honest, I really had no energy left to continue the tedious work.

As I bowed down to take some of the bags down to the trashcans, a sting inside my belly made me stop dead. The pain subsided a little rather quickly, but a strange queasiness remained. It wasn’t unbearable, but it still hurt enough to distract me, though I was pretty sure it couldn’t be dangerous.

Feeling somewhat irritated, I yanked at the bags piling up in front of me, and carried five of them downstairs. By the time they were safely stored inside the trashcans the dull pain had settled on a level of pain that made me long for a hot cushion to press against my belly. I hugged myself tightly as I made my way home, cursing a little under my breath. There was still no reply from Pennywise, and I wondered if he really was alright. My steps became faster and faster the more uneasy I felt, and within a minute I was jogging through the cold night.

When I finally arrived at our little house, I was completely out of breath. My lungs and my nostrils hurt from the cold air, my legs were shaking and I felt sick. I stripped down to my underwear as soon as I closed the door behind me, and hurriedly stuffed my clothes into the washing machine – fortunately the tiny storage room it was in was right next to the entrance. However, I could not completely avoid setting of little clouds of dust and dirt rising into the air, so I would have to clean the room thoroughly. The stench seemed to have dissipated into everyone of my pores, and now, against the comfy odors of my own home, was even more revolting than before.

As I could hear Penny’s sleeping grumbles even through the door of my room, I decided to hit the shower before I checked on him. Truth be told, I did not want to carry any remains of the flat into my room or my bed, and it was a relieve to feel the hot water on my cold, grimy skin. I turned up the heat as much as possible, not caring about my skin turning lobster red, and continued to distribute almost have a bottle of shower gel all over me. Only when every little part of me was covered in foam, including my hair, did I relax a little. I hadn’t realized how much my back was aching from the constant bending down, and the tension slowly faded from my shoulders. I let out an involuntary groan as I turned around and let the water flow over my belly. The pain subsided a little more, and I took the time to wash my face.

As soon as I could open my eyes again I wished I hadn’t done so. The water I was standing in was of a disgusting color, and the streams running down my body turned greyer with every inch. At least it didn’t smell the way it looked, and I hurried to cover myself in foam again. I even used the loofah auntie had given me for my birthday for the first time, only stopping when I had shed at least three layers of skin. My hair took even longer to cleanse. No matter how long I rinsed it, or how much shampoo I used, it didn’t seem to suffice. Only when the bottle was almost empty the water became more transparent, and by the time I felt clean again there was no hot water left.

The air in the bathroom had become so saturated with steam you could barely see anything. As I climbed out of the shower pain shot through my belly again, and a wave of nausea and dizziness hit me. I stumbled into the stink and desperately clutched at its slippery edge to steady myself. I felt a new sort of moisture covering my thighs while I desperately tried to figure out where up and down was. However, the steam wafting through the bathroom didn’t improve my sense of orientation, instead it added to the feeling of bewilderment and estrangement.

As if in a dream I stuck my hand between my legs and felt a hot liquid oozing out of me. I stared at my fingers, wondering about the dark blood clinging to them, unable to make any sense of the situation. A strange noise made me raise my head, and in a little clearing in the misted mirror a pair of unreal eyes stared back at me.

I turned around slowly, still very wobbly on my feet, and looked into Pennywise’s hungry yellow eyes, as he growled. Drool was covering his entire chin, his nose twitched at the scent of my blood, and he ducked the way cats do before they leap upon their prey. Madness radiated from him, and then he hurled himself towards me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

[mc-dude]

unuaj impresoj (g)

this takes place in very early JLI days, before booster and ted really knew each other.

or, where ted gathers some valuable data and maybe even falls a teeny bit in love

Ted likes to think that he’s a patient man.

His stomach growls. Ted clutches at it with a justified grumble.

Then again, he concedes, all of his admirable qualities have to have limits.

“Boost,” he whines as he leans back against a precarious tower of books. “I thought you wanted to get some food. Can’t we do this, like, later?”

That ridiculous mane of perfect blonde hair pops over the top of one of the shelves. Tall bastard, Ted thinks. Totally unfair. Booster’s eyes are wide and excited, face slightly flushed like he just had an invigorating workout right here in the middle of this second-hand, old-timey bookstore in the middle of downtown Paris.

“But there’s so many of them.”

Ted raises an eyebrow. “What? Books?”

Booster nods and his hair flops back and forth like a puppy wagging its tail. Ted raises his eyebrow even further.

“Well.. yeah. It’s a bookstore.” He tilts his head to the side. “Don’t they have those in the future?” He taps his chin with a finger. “I guess that would explain that weirdly intense moment you had with the magazine rack at the airport.”

Booster narrows his eyes, but his excitement doesn’t falter.

“You don’t understand! Books are, like, super rare in the 25th century.” Ted watches as he rifles through a well-worn paperback with an exceedingly gentle touch. “I only ever saw one once, and that was at a museum that we went to for a school trip.”

Ted feels his frustration slipping as he scoots forward to watch Booster run his fingers along one of the pages. There’s something about the soft, awe-filled expression on his face that makes Ted forget about how hungry he is. He crosses his arms across his chest and leans against one of the bookshelves with a small smile.

“Well, why don’t you get one?”

Booster’s eyes go wide.

“What?!” He glances down at whatever book he’s holding. “There’s no way I can afford one of these!”

Ted blinks. “Boost, these are all, like, two dollars each. Five, tops.”

Booster blinks in surprise. “But that’s as much as a coffee!” He gestures around him, book still in his hand. “These are made out of trees, Ted. Do you know how valuable a tree is in the future? How few of them are le–” he cuts himself off to rub at the back of his head. “Actually, I probably shouldn’t tell you that.”

He points at a stunned Ted with the book. “The point is, these should be worth a lot more. They should be, uh..” he frowns, glances around him “.. konservis?” He narrows his eyes, and then snaps his fingers. “Treasured!” He glances at a teetering stack of used romance novels in despair. “Not treated like–” he starts pushing the corners of the stack together “– this!”

Ted pinches the bridge of his nose as Booster aligns the books until they’re neat and orderly. “Boost, I don’t know what to tell you. You can’t change the past, right?”

Booster glances at him and shrugs. “Uh.. unclear?”

Ted rolls his eyes. He still can’t quite believe someone who knows as little about time travel as Booster does managed to find the right year, let alone even start a time machine.

“Well, books are already on their way out. All this–” he knocks on the side of one of the shelves “– is being slowly replaced by tablets and e-readers, so.” He glances at Booster who’s staring at the book in his hands with that helpless look in his eyes again, thumb sifting through the pages in the corner in a way that makes Ted’s throat feel tight all of a sudden. “So, uh, don’t think there’s much you can do about it, buddy. Sorry.”

Booster just nods and, very carefully, sets the book back on the top of the pile. “Yeah, you’re right. It just–” he runs a hand through his hair and shrugs “– feels like a waste.”

Ted stares at him helplessly. “Yeah, I get it.”

Booster takes a deep breath and throws him a small grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Ok, so– food?” He starts to head towards the shop exit. Ted glances at the slumped slope of his shoulders, back to the pile of books, back to his shoulders.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just across the street. I’ll be there in a sec, just gotta– do something.”

Booster throws up one of his hands in acknowledgement and scoots out the door with a quiet jingling noise.

“Alright, one croque monsieur pour moi–” he hands Booster the slightly soggy container “– and one ratatouille for the blasphemous vegan.”

Booster sticks his tongue out at him. “That waiter looked at me like I was a stain on his perfectly-pressed shirt.”

Ted grins. “You’re in the cheese capital of the world, mon ami.” He pats Booster arm and gestures to the crowded street behind them. “Not eating their delicious food is a grave offence. Many-a-heads were lopped off for less.”

Booster raises and eyebrow critically, like he’s not believing Ted’s blatant bullshitting, and leans back against the railing. The sunlight catches on the tips of his hair; Ted almost wishes he had sunglasses.

“It’s not like I don’t want to have cheese,” Booster starts, sniffing at his takeout box suspiciously. “A burger was the first thing I tried when I landed here. One bite and I was sick for days.” Booster pouts at him and rubs his stomach. “Days, Ted.”

Ted grimaces and pats his shoulder sympathetically. “There’s probably some digestive enzyme that you can take if you ever want to experience the finer foods in life.”

Booster fake gags. “That is literally the least appetizing thing I have ever heard.” He pats his takeout box. “No, I’ll just stick with.. whatever this is.”  He tucks the takeout box under his arm, and then his eyes light up. “Oh yeah! I saw a sign for a park on the way here. Can we eat there?”

Ted eyes his croque monsieur longingly, and then makes the mistake of looking at Booster’s face; the one that’s giving him the most ridiculous puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen. That’s going to be a problem. Ted’s chest squeezes and he lets out a sigh.

“Sure,” he relents, gesturing for Booster to move in front of him. “Lead the way, Marty.”

“How do you get Marty from Booster?”

Ten minutes of explaining why Back to the Future is the second greatest time travel movie of all time later, and with a promise to show Booster the first greatest time travel movie at the soonest possible convenience, they hit the gate entrance to the park, and Ted almost runs into Booster as he halts mid-step.

Later, Ted wishes he had snapped a picture of this moment– the one where Booster’s whole face lights up in a sort of childlike wonder, mouth parting in a silent gasp.

“Wowzer.”

Ted drags his eyes away from Booster’s face to gaze out over the park. It’s nothing special. Sure, it’s big, but it’s mostly just grass. Grass, and some scattered trees. Someone is flying a kite above them, a bright yellow dragon that makes Ted smile. A vendor is set up a ways down the path, selling crêpes filled with that looks like every dessert food imaginable. A warm breeze ruffles the tips of his hair and Ted tilts his head back to feel the sun on his face.

It’s nice here– peaceful and calm, a welcome contrast to their hectic day job. Ted glances back towards Booster, only to find him missing. He blinks and spins around.

Ah, there. He lets Booster’s shiny mop of blonde hair act like a homing beacon and jogs over to the closest tree. Ted leans against the trunk, arms cross over his chest as he looks down at his traveling companion; the one currently kneeling in the grass and running his fingers through the neatly trimmed vegetation with a ridiculous smile on his face. Ted slumps down at the base of the tree and digs in his tote bag for his sandwich.

“It everything you ever dreamed of?” Ted teases.

Booster grins at him, then stands up and gestures around him wildly with a dramatic spin. “It’s so green!”

Ted takes a bite of his croque monsieur and tries not to audibly moan at how good it is. He glances up at Booster with a bemused purse of his lips.

“That’s generally what happens when you have a lot of plants in one area,” he responds dryly.

Booster spins back towards him, opens his mouth to tell him something ridiculous, Ted’s sure– like there’s no plants in the future, Ted! Or in the 2400s plants are sentient and have taken control of the Earth– and then his eyes dart to the tree trunk behind him and he gasps with delight instead. Ted leans to his right as Booster presses his face inches away from the worn bark, taking another bite of his sandwich as he watches Booster with blatant curiosity.

“Okay, I know you’ve seen a tree before.”

Those big blue eyes pop up from where they had been studying the bark with rapt fascination. Booster glances back to the tree, back to Ted, and then rubs at the back of his head with a shameless shrug and a lopsided smile.

“Not the tree– ants!” Booster says as he flops next to Ted so close that their thighs brush together. Ted has a theory that ideas of personal space must be a bit lax in the future, because Booster seems to always find an excuse to put a hand on his back or lean into his shoulder. Or maybe he's just an affectionate guy, Ted thinks. What's surprising is how Ted doesn't actually mind. If anything, it just adds to Booster’s charm.

Ted passes Booster his take-out and takes another bite of his lunch. For some absurd, inexplicable reason, he finds himself waiting to see what will wowzer Booster next. His reactions are just so.. genuine.

It’s refreshing, Ted reasons, to hang out with someone so unabashedly sincere.

Booster thumbs open the container after a moment of fiddling and Ted watches his eyes go wide for the hundredth time in the last hour. Ted tries not to feel like too much of a voyeur as he eats another mouthful of sandwich and eyes Booster expectantly.

It’s not everyday he gets to see someone get bewildered by a box full of mushy vegetables.

The plastic spork dips into the neatly arranged pattern of multicolored vegetables, and then hesitantly enters Booster’s mouth. Ted waits as he appears to be processing, and then–

“Mm! It’s good!”

Ted grins as Booster tucks into his meal with the same fervor he used to see children at his elementary school employ, barely taking time to swallow as he scoops up mouthful after mouthful. He passingly wonders if that’s how everyone eats in the future; if everyone’s too busy with their augmented reality headsets and jetpacks to take the time to properly enjoy food.

Though, Ted muses, given what Booster’s told me about future food, maybe they just try to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Booster catches him staring and blinks. “What?”

He has little freckles on his nose, Ted observes, and then he blinks and feels his face grow hot. What the hell.

“Nothing.” He shoves his sandwich back into his mouth. Okay, Theodore– that’s enough creepily staring at people you’re trying to befriend. He sees Booster frown in his peripheral vision, scratching at the side of his neck before taking another sporkful of ratatouille, slower this time. Ted scrambles for a distraction.

“So, anything else missing in the future that you want to cross off your bucket list?” Ted asks a little too quickly, fingers tapping against the back of his sandwich wrapper.

Booster side-eyes him and takes another bite of his food. He swallows. “Bucket list?”

Ted swallows his mouthful. “Uh,” he hesitates. “Like, a list of things you want to see?” He knocks his knuckles on the tree trunk behind him. “Stuff you couldn’t get back home.”

He sees Booster’s eyes light up in that look he gets when he understands some 21st century reference, and then he lolls his head back against the tree.

“Yeah, a few things.” Booster looks at him with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t know if I should tell you, though.” He waves his hand with a haughty motion. “Important, timeline-affecting knowledge and all that.”

Ted raises an eyebrow. “What,” he deadpans, “like how the future doesn’t have trees? Or insects? Or meat products, or about World War Three, or–”

Booster laughs and knocks his knee against Ted’s. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.” He shoulders shrug in a nonchalant way. “I’m not great at keeping secrets. Michelle always said–”

He cuts himself off with a frown. Ted watches him stuff another bite into his mouth, curiosity piqued.

“.. Michelle?”

Booster swallows and hunches over ever-so-slightly. “Uh, my sister.” He sounds.. resigned. “Twin, actually.”

Ted blinks. “Oh.”

He can tell he hit a sore spot, because the dimples on Booster’s face are less pronounced, fading more by the second. Ted gently nudges his shoulder.

“.. what did she used to say?”

Booster’s still staring at the toes of his sneakers. He glances at Ted’s sandwich for a minute with a faraway look, and then quirks his lips.

“She always said that I had a malferma vizaĝo,” he says with a fond lilt to his voice. He rolls the r in a way that makes Ted stare at the pronounced bob of his adam’s apple. Booster rubs his chin and glances at him. “Uh, like a- an honest face.” He grins with that same helpless little shrug from before. “I can’t hide anything.”

Ted laughs. Like that wasn’t already readily apparent. He pokes Booster in the arm.  “You’re what we cavemen call an open book.”

Booster purses his lips again and then his whole face lights up as he sets his empty container down and wipes at the back of his mouth. “Uh huh,” he agrees, and then points at him accusingly. “You’re supposed to be a superhero, so you can’t use this weakness of mine against me. It would be, like..” he taps his lips with a finger “.. immoral.”

Ted holds his hands up defensively. “I’ll try to resist prying you for information, even if I could learn the formula for interstellar travel in a round of twenty questions.”

Booster tilts his head up and puts a hand on his chest. “Thank you.”

The conversation fades to a comfortable lull as Ted finishes up his sandwich. He finds his gaze drifting towards Booster again, wondering what mundane thing he’ll find new and exciting next. Maybe I should take him to the zoo, Ted muses. That would probably blow his mind.

He finishes his sandwich and crumples up the tinfoil wrapper, opens up his tote to toss it inside when he remembers the small object resting innocently at the bottom. Ted scoops it up, stomach churning nervously all of a sudden. Maybe he shouldn’t give it to him. Is it weird? But then he remembers Booster’s face and the way his eyes had lit up, and the absurdly endearing way he’d carefully straightened the pile and–

“Oh, hey– here.” He hands Booster the paperback before he can second guess himself. “I, uh, got this for you.”

Booster’s eyes do that thing again, get that awed, enraptured look as he carefully accepts the worn-looking book. It’s pages are curled on the corners, there’s some scribbles on the sides like someone’s kid got overzealous with the markers, and even some illegible note scribbled on the inside cover, but when Ted had seen it on the shelf he knew that he had to get it.

Long fingers turn the book around to reveal the cover. “Dune?” Booster asks, thumb brushing along its spine like it’s something more than just a two euro used novel. Ted scratches at the back of his neck, face feeling hot for some reason.

“Yeah, just something I read when I was a kid. I was obsessed with it.” Booster thumbs through the pages, thumb dragging down the corner of the worn paper with an exceedingly gentle touch. Ted clears his throat. “Thought it was about time you learned some proper culture,” he tries to joke, voice unsteady.

Booster looks up at him from under his long blonde eyelashes, eyes flickering between his own like he’s searching for something, and then he swallows, clutching the book to his chest protectively.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, tone serious and intense. His hand reaches out to squeeze Ted’s arm. Ted fights down the sudden hysteric sensation in his chest, briefly wondering how this moment became so deep.

Ted can’t seem to look away, gaze trapped in Booster’s own. “It was only, like, three dollars,” he says helplessly.

Booster sighs wistfully, eyes lingering over the cityscape in the distance. “In the future I could sell this and be a millionaire.” He tilts his head and taps his chin with a finger. “It’s like– Van Gogh with his paintings. No one appreciated them while he was making them, but as time passed they became more valuable, you know?” Ted watches as he scratches at the back of his neck and laughs under his breath. “Not that these are the same, but–” he shrugs and smiles at Ted, warm and open in a way that makes his dimples particularly pronounced. “It means a lot to a guy like me.”

Ted stares for a minute, uncomfortable with the way his chest has started to twinge every time he sees those stupid perfect dimples. Okay, Teddy. Reel it back in.

“Well,” he starts, tossing his sandwich wrapper in the air and catching it with a feigned nonchalance, “I’m only giving it to you because your pop culture references are embarrassingly outdated.”

Booster scoffs. “They are not.” He pokes Ted in the arm. “I was a history major in college, thank you very much.” He puts his hand over his chest. “I know things.”

Ted tosses the wrapper at him and snickers when it hits him smack in the forehead. “Name one musician that’s popular in this decade.”

Booster tosses the wrapper back at him and Ted dodges forward to let it sail over his head. “Um, Elvis,” he says with an air of superiority. “Duh.”

“That was, like, thirty years ago, dude,” Ted groans. “Oh my god, I can’t be seen hanging around a guy who listens to Elvis.” He pushes himself to his feet with an overly-dramatic flourish and grabs his tote.

“Wha–!” Booster grabs his arm and squeezes, something panicked in his voice. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

Ted reaches for his takeout box and tosses it into his tote so he can throw it away later. He’s about to draw out the act for longer, storm off in a huff, but something about the way Booster’s looking at him with such an open, vulnerable expression makes him roll his eyes instead, place his hand in the middle of Booster’s back, and lightly shove him in the direction of the exit.

“We’re leaving. You have to update your tune collection, my man, and lucky for you I got Stevie’s new album a brand new Denon DCD back in the Bug.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “It has a super linear converter, a four times over digital filter, and–” he pauses for dramatic effect “– a remote control.”

He waits for Booster to look impressed. Booster raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “Oh yeah, you people and your CDs. How..” he waves his hand vaguely and purses his lips “.. quaint.”

“Quaint!” Ted says incredulously. “That thing cost me eight hundred bucks, pal. There’s nothing quaint about it.”

Booster just laughs and pries his hand from Ted’s arm to gesture for him to lead the way. Ted swings the tote over his shoulder and glances at Booster out of the corner of his eye as he rubs his opposite arm with his palm. He looks relieved, Ted realises.

Ted’s struck, suddenly, by how utterly alone Booster is in this time. He’s heard tale of some kind of marketing team, and there’s the rest of the League, but other than that? Does he have any friends here? Ted wonders, chewing on his bottom lip as he swings the metal gate open and lets Booster through first. From what Ted can tell, Booster spends most of his time just hanging around the League HQ waiting to be sent on a mission.

Not, Ted concedes as he stops and waits for Booster to be done inspecting a newspaper kiosk, that I’m much different. Ever since his scheming, jerk of a dad had taken Kord industries out from underneath him, it’s been nothing but R&D for him and his Bug. He doesn’t talk to his old colleagues anymore, except for Murray, and Murray’s as much of an isolated workaholic as he is.

Booster could be a good friend, he realises, watching the curve of Booster’s spine as he bends over to pet some old lady’s poodle with that megawatt smile. He likes Booster. The others at HQ might find his enthusiasm off-putting or fake, but if Ted learned anything from this outing, it’s that that’s just how Booster is; constantly giving 110% in all aspects of life, even if under all the skin-tight gold outfit he’s just a regular guy like him. A regular guy from four hundred and fifty or so years in the future, granted, but still essentially powerless unless unrelenting charm is a super human quality.

Which, Ted acknowledges with a wry grin as the old woman practically swoons as Booster compliments her dog, might actually be the case.

Ted shifts forward against the fence. “Ready to go?”

Booster’s head snaps up at him at the same time as the poodle. Ted snorts and pushes off the fence to head down the sidewalk, waiting for Booster to catch up before crossing the street back to HQ. Booster tugs the book out from under his arm and starts to read the description on the back, mouth moving silently with every word. He bumps Booster’s shoulder with his own to get his attention. He feels nervous, all of a sudden, like, somehow, deciding that he should actively try to befriend Booster has made it five times as difficult.

“Uh, I can show you that movie after, if you want.”

“Hmm?” Booster glances up from the book. “Oh! The first best time-travel movie.” He grins at him. “Star Trek, right? You said earlier.” He taps his nose smugly. “I do know that one, actually.”

“Even I knew that Star Trek would make it all the way to the 25th century,” Ted says. “It’s a classic.”

Booster laughs and carefully tucks the book back under his arm. “Uh huh. It’s in all the history pads. I read about it in my Terran history class.”

Ted blinks and pauses in his step. “Wait– you’ve seen it, right? The show?”

Booster raises an eyebrow at him. “Ted, I’m from the 25th century. Why would I watch Star Trek when I could just order some Slyggian food from the place down the street?”

Ted groans. “Oh my god, we have our work cut out for us. No Star Trek, no Stevie Wonder– I bet you haven’t even seen Alien.”

“J’onn’s room is like, two floors up.”

Ted stares at him for a moment before grabbing his arm and physically tugging him towards the hangar bay. “That’s it, we’re not moving from in front of the TV until you’ve been properly indoctrinated into this time period.” He tugs open the door and pushes Booster through. “Hope you like popcorn, bud.”

“What’s that?”

“Ohhhhh my god.”

Maybe not so difficult.

[talkstotwigs]

Rose/Alec :D

Domesticity MemesPut a ship in my ask box and I’ll tell you:

big spoon/little spoon:Alec’s the big spoon and Rose is the little one, but also I can see it going the other way round if, say, Alec has a stressful day at work and needs comforting?

favorite non-sexual activity:honestly, probably just something as simple as sitting together and chilling? i feel like, what with Alec being the kind of person who values peace and quiet and all, there will be tons of moments where they’re just sitting together on the sofa or outside on the porch or something all wrapped up in each other. Sometimes instead of conversing they’ll be both doing their own thing - reading/on the laptop or something, but they’ll both be touching somehow b/c they’re both clingy: either cuddling or Rose with her head in Alec’s lap or something tender like that.

who uses all the hot water:Rose takes really long showers, but then again, Alec is usually up before she is and gets to use the bathroom before she does, so I reckon neither will have to go without hot water. 

who does most of the cleaning:I feel like Rose tries and all –and she’s usually pretty good at cleaning up after herself and keeping the place neat– but she’ll inevitably end up leaving things lying around sometimes when she forgets/she’s tired, and Alec just has to pick up after her a bit.

what has a season pass on their dvr/who controls the netflix queue:Rose is more likely to be the one to sift through everything on Netflix to find shows/movies they’ll both like, and she’ll convince a reluctant Alec into taking a break from his work to watch something with her as often as she can

who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working:Rose b/c Alec’ll just be unnecessarily grumpy to the locals sometimes, especially when something in the house is broken, so Rose’ll be the one who calls someone in and handles the whole thing.

who remembers to buy the milkRemember that scene in the third series where Alec reaches for a cap-less bottle of milk in the fridge and uses it? —– Probably not Alec.

who remembers anniversaries:They’ll both try their best to remember their big ones, but also I feel like Alec will somehow remember one or two super random ones that he’s attached fond memories to, like - ‘Rose, do you remember? One year ago today you nearly threw a shoe at me because I was being a twat’.

Who cooks normally?I feel like they’re both equally sub-par at cooking, but they both have a small range of dishes that they can whip up, so they take turns doing that. From time to time Alec’ll come home to Rose trying out new recipes she’s seen on TV, as well.

How often do they fight?I don’t know how often they’ll have full-blown screaming matches per se, but Alec usually knows if something’s upset Rose because she’ll go quiet for a bit and want to retreat to the bedroom or somewhere to be alone with her thoughts and mull over them. I think they’re both pretty good at reading each other, though, so any arguments are usually avoided because they know the other so well and want to do their best to make them happy.

What do they do when they’re away from each other?Oh God, we’ve never actually had to consider this because the idea of them being away from each other for longer periods of time is just so inconceivable?? I feel like Rose’ll call and text him updates about her day loads and check up on him constantly, and Rose probably steals his soft jumpers to sleep in or something when he’s away.

Nicknames for each other?Rose calls Alec ‘HardAss’ sO– (but i like to think when they get closer she’ll call him ‘love’ and things, and obviously DI Firm-Arse will make an appearance every now and then pffft)

Who steals the covers at night?Totally Rose because she’s the sort to toss and turn a lot in her sleep and she’ll take the covers with her as she does, and wake up in a duvet-burrito, soz Alec!

What would they get each other for gifts?Alec just needs to give Rose chocolates to make her happy tbh, and if he ever comes home with flowers for her she’d treasure it so much and place them into a vase and keep them alive for as long as she could. And i think Rose would take a while to figure out the right sort of things to gift Alec, because he’s a hard man to shop for and he’d probably appreciate whatever it is she gives him (even if he doesn’t like it, because manners), so this would make it tricky for Rose to know for sure what to get him for a while.

Who made the first move?I think it was Alec?? but there was probably also lots of encouraging hinting on Rose’s part so a little bit of both?

Who started the relationship?I feel like it’d just be the sort of relationship that they fall into naturally, and at some point Rose just starts introducing Alec as her boyfriend without even having a conversation about it first, not that they need to, because it’s just obvious what they are?

Who cusses more?Alec is a grump with a potty mouth but Rose loves it

What would they do if the other was hurt?If Alec gets hurt on the job you can bet that Rose will go into protective hen mode and fuss over him and forbid him from leaving the house until she’s sure he’s alright. And I feel like since Alec’s had so much experience dealing with people in a vulnerable state in his line of work, he’d be very good at being patient and gentle to Rose when the situation’s switched as well.

@thickscottishaccent

[songsforfelurian]

Hi! Recently. I have been questioning my sexual orientation as until now I thought I was hetero. I always thought that you knew from an early age what your sexual preference was.I am a 19 years old female. I have never been in relationship and find it hard to make friends due to my panic disorder. I don’t really feel attraction to appearance, its more so because of common interests. Relationships and romance seem a mystery to me, never mind thinking on whether I could be with a girl. Any advice?

Hi! I’m so happy youreached out! I’ve found that I have no idea how to address questions like thisbriefly, so if you’re interested in some of my thoughts on labels and sexualpreference, read on!

Plenty of peopledefinitely DON’T know their sexual preference from an early age! And don’t letthe prevalence of labels and titles on blogs and websites fool you. I thinkpeople often assign themselves a label before they know for sure, or beforethey’re really ready – for understandable reasons. Sexual preference is complicated,and it can be soothing and reassuring to hunt for language to help defineourselves. Labels can help us feel like our thoughts and feelings arelegitimate, and like we belong to a community – the community of people whoalso use our label. I understand and support the impulse to sift through LBGTQ+language and literature to see if something clicks. You can find a resource forthat here.

There are many problems with becoming too label-focused,though.  One major issue is that sexualpreference can be fluid, or more difficult to define than a label mightsuggest. My own sexuality has fluctuated pretty significantly throughout mylifetime, and I try not to get too attached to any particular label because ofthis. As if mainstream culture wasn’t already trying to stuff us all intoneatly labeled and divided boxes, now people are trying to do this to each otherin LGBTQ+ spaces! And this can make us feel like we have to do it to ourselves,too – catalogue our every thought and impulse, hunting for patterns until wefind some word or title that can define who we are.

This leads me to another huge problem with labels: the mostwidely known and accepted terms – gay, lesbian, and bisexual – have a rigidconnotation that many find unsettling. I’ve always been envious of people whojust KNOW they fit into one of these categories. Not to minimize the strugglesand suffering of these community members – of course I’m sensitive to that –but that’s not what this post is about. It’s about the gray area, the feeling ofuncertainty, and the importance of feeling loved and accepted and validatedeven if you don’t fit into a neat, convenient box. People shouldn’t have tomeet certain ‘queerness criteria’ to feel valued and supported, and that’s mybiggest issue with labels in general. Goodness knows how many straight-identifyingpeople out there actually fall somewhere on the queer spectrum, but don’t knowit, or choose to ignore it, because the language we use can be rigid anddivisive and doesn’t lend itself to growth and change over time.

Now to address some of your other concerns:

I think it’s very common for people to feel unsure of HOWexactly they’re attracted to others. TONS of people fall somewhere on that demisexualspectrum – they need to feel some kind of emotional connection to a partner inorder to be sexually or romantically attracted. It’s totally normal, but I alsocaution people, too – if you haven’t had a lot of experience with sex andrelationships, it can be easy to feel that you might not actually be interestedin potential partners’ physicality or genitalia, and this might not always betrue! Bodies can be scary! It can take time and experience with other actualhuman beings to determine our true feelings, and there’s nothing wrong withexperimenting safely to try to figure it out, before rushing to slap a label onyourself. I do believe that people can have a strong sense of their own sexualpreference, even with zero sexual experience – but I also think the vastmajority learn by doing.

My biggest advice is to reach out, like you did by sendingthis ask! You mentioned you suffer from a panic disorder, and I can empathize somewhat– I’ve had many panic episodes throughout my life – but I believe it’s possiblefor you to make some connections with people that could really help you. Sendmore asks to blogs, and maybe work your way up to sending a direct message.Most people LOVE getting asks and DMs from people who have legitimate questionsor are just looking for friendly support.

If you’re worried about linking your main blog to these asksor conversations, make a totally anonymous account! I know it can be intimidatingto start conversations with strangers, so sometimes it can help to make anaccount specifically for that purpose, to lower the stakes for yourself. Thinkof it like an experiment, and try to detach yourself from the account – it’sfake anyway, so if something doesn’t go the way you’d like, you can just deleteit and move on! But I do suggest that you find a way to talk to other peopleabout their own experiences, and work up to identifying some safe people thatyou can spend some time with in real life, to learn more about your ownpreferences and identity.

Tumblr is a good starting point since you’re already here,but I know it doesn’t always feel like the safest place. I haven’t actuallyutilized these resources myself, but after some searching they seem decent:

https://www.glbthotline.org/

This website has both phone and online chat features specificallyfor LGBTQ+ support.

https://lgbtchat.net/

This looks more like chatroom or message-board style.

Lastly, you can always send ME a message! I wrote this postbased on your ask, but I know it may be completely useless to you, since I knowso little about you and your situation. Conversation is always a better route.I’d be more than happy to talk and see if I can be more helpful or reassuring.If you decide not to reach out further, I’ll be wishing you luck. Remember,there’s no rush. Take your time, talk with safe people, and accumulateexperiences as best you can. Do what feels good. And remember that you DO havesupport!

[troutfishinginmusic]

Interview: John Galm (Bad Heaven Ltd.) talks Twin Peaks

John Galm (Bad Heaven Ltd., Snowing, SLOW WARM DEATH, Street Smart Cyclist) loves Twin Peaks. I love Twin Peaks. He has a new Bad Heaven Ltd. record out called Strength. He did a good interview about the album here. Instead of going over the standard questions about the album, I wanted to get his thoughts on the new season of Twin Peaks.

But first I wanted to include the text from an Instagram post Galm made about the album that gives some insight into his deeply affecting new album.

Over the past few years, I've been writing a lot more from these series of disparate memories, where I take images from my past and create these new scenarios based around them. For Strength, I kept coming back to this one image, of evening on pine street in Kutztown, Pennsylvania, the town where I went to college and spent four difficult years. After high school, a lot of my friends went off to cities and were enjoying the culture and experiences they provide for folks fresh out on their own for the first time. I was stuck in the middle of farmland, still reeling from the death of my dad a year prior and struggling to relate to anything and anyone around me. I felt alien; isolated, and it's a feeling that’s stuck with me for many years. When these songs started coming to me, I'd see Pine Street, and the old house where some of my only friends lived draped in orange streetlights, and I’d imagine a world where I had someone, that type of friend you have an irrefutable connection with, to sift through the darkness with. For years, I felt like my years in Kutztown took something from me. I took my inability to feel OK there as a personal defeat; as something fundamentally wrong with myself. I know now, almost a decade removed from it, that that's bullshit. In a way, Strength was a way for me to reconcile with this thing that I haven't known how to: A time of great confusion where I couldn't find the comfort and support I needed in the place I was stuck in. To go back and re-see these streets knowing that what I needed wasn't there and to re-imagine how it'd feel if it had been, in its own odd way, helped me heal.

Now here’s my awkward attempt at talking about season 3 of Twin Peaks and being out-nerded by John Galm. I’ve changed the format to go with my style for the blog. Other than that, I left things mostly as they were in our conversation via Facebook Messenger.

What did you think of the split of the Dale Cooper character?

I took the split Dales a lot like how I took the rest of the season. I remember staying up until 2 finishing the first four episodes the night they premiered and being so utterly confused by the tone of the show. The vibe had obviously changed, which I don't think anyone was expecting, but that's David Lynch. He's an artist that trusts his vision and follows where it takes him, which I respect. Once I realized that, I just let the show sweep over me and rolled with the punches.

Having the split Coops was a necessary thing with how season two ends, and Kyle Maclachlan did a masterful job. I have no idea how he wasn't even nominated for an Emmy. All three roles (four if we count the tonal shift from Coop to Richard) really touched on these almost ingrained, primal human qualities that made each so unique, and again, Kyle MacLachlan played them so perfectly. To watch him as Mr. C and a scene later see Dougie Jones didn't even seem like the same actor. Was it all good? No. Dougie was a lot to handle, but I think with a lesser actor, it would've been unbearable.

I found myself typing out all the stuff I thought about it too but realized that'd probably make for a shit interview. I totally agree with those assessments though. Anyway, what did you make of the room with the portal? That whole thing was interesting to me. A lot of pieces of the season feel like they could be short David Lynch films. Episode 8 with the bomb definitely could have been.

Which portal room are you referring to, specifically? There were a lot of portals to be honest.

Yeah I didn’t even think of that but yeah there are. I was thinking of the part where the guy was just paid to sit and watch the glass box.

Ah right. It's hard to say. I think the later implication is that Mr. C was the mystery financier of that room, but I could be wrong. I know Lynch left a lot of those sort of details hidden, probably so that we could have conversations like this one. And honestly, it's been a bit of time since I've re-watched season three, which is on my to do list for the next few weeks.

I think it makes sense that if Mr. C was financing the room, he was either trying to capture Cooper to keep him from returning to our world, or he was trying to capture the creature that arrived (known as the experiment in Twin Peaks lore). Either way, it makes sense: Mr. C was literally evil incarnate; the complete inverse of our Cooper. Harnessing literal, pure evil seems like pretty reasonable task, and one that would've provided an already powerful creature with even more power.

Also, my god, I fucking love this show.

Well that certainly makes sense if it's true. It's definitely going to give me some new perspective when I watch it again. What was your take on Audrey's storyline?

Audrey’s storyline was a tough one. I know it disappointed a lot of people, including Sherilyn Fenn. There are some really interesting elements to it, though. There’s that now famous scene, the Monica Bellucci dream, where she talks about living inside a dream. I think that is a larger element to the overarching narrative of the season, and I think it plays out largely in what we see of Audrey. I mean, it’s hard to talk about all the elements, but Audrey led a traumatic life after season two, and I think the scenes we see of her are she’s created to escape it. Where it gets interesting for me, though, is thinking about, well, if Audrey is living within a different plane of thought, what else is taking place there? What other scenes from the show are also a product of this reality in which Audrey finds herself in? I know a lot of people were confused by these Roadhouse scenes where characters discussed people and events we hadn’t heard of before. Maybe they’re all in Audrey’s head? maybe we were seeing a lot more of Audrey before we knew we were.

Also, the end of episode 16 where she snaps out of one reality and into another was one of the most terrifying and intriguing moments of the whole show for me. I absolutely loved that.

What was your take on the score and the more song-based soundtrack?

I think the more song-based soundtrack was kind of a neat touch. the original soundtrack had such an impact on so many musicians, and you could really see that in a lot of the bands they chose to work with.

I actually listen to the season three soundtrack quite a bit, as well as the companion piece that Dean Hurley released. What I find most fascinating about the season is how sound really plays a role in the events. Oftentimes, you'll get these long expanses without background composition, which, for television, is very rare. It elevates those moments when suddenly a song hits, or there's whispers of static, that break you from this almost monotonous pacing and thrust your mind into hyper drive.

Did the new season work its way into influencing the new Bad Heaven Ltd. stuff in any way?

It's hard to say. David Lynch is one of my favorite artists across any medium, so his influence is always prevalent in what I do. I think that, in general, being a fan of his allows you to think outside the box and try things that may not be so conventional, which I employed on this record for sure.

Do you think season 3 put a good cap on the whole series since it doesn’t seem like there will be more seasons?

A good cap may not be the right way of putting it, but season 3 gave us so much more of a world that a lot of people spent the last few decades speculating about. And while it provided some answers, it gave us so much more to ponder and dream about. For that, I think we should be forever grateful.

You can download Bad Heaven Limited’s new album Strength here

[retroreaderr]

It’s Called a Riff. [Sherlock/Reader]

This is my first non-disney post on this blog woo boy but oh well. I felt like my homeboy Sherlock needed some love tbh. Also I listened to too much Nirvana while writing this. my kink is reader being musically talented so don’t be surprised when it comes up a lot in my fics ~🕷️💋

You tuned your guitar once more, then strummed the strings. Satisfied, you looked raised the volume of your headphones then attempted to play.

Let’s see…Open D, open D, first fret D, second fret D, open G, back to second D, open G, two second Ds - you paused to listen to the song - first fret D, open D, second G, and finish it off with two open Ds. That sounded about right. You paused the song and scribbled the notes down onto your notepad, which sat nearby. You then played the riff a few times more in a weak attempt to get your hands to memorize the muscle movements.

“Are you going to play anything else other than that insufferable amalgamation of notes you call a song?”

“It’s not a song, it’s a riff. If you’re going to insult my choice of music, at least get the terms right.”

“I don’t care that much to, honestly.”

“Well then don’t be an asshole.”

“Well then don’t assault my ears in my own flat and I won’t have to. Where’s John?”

You shot a glare at Sherlock before answering, “Don’t know.”

“If you’re going to be annoying as well as unpleasant, you may as well just leave now.”

You huffed, “You started it.”

There was a small moment of silence before Sherlock glanced towards you. Seeing your upset expression caused a twinge of regret somewhere deep in him, and his anger faltered.

“What riff is that, anyways?” he attempted to sound annoyed but you caught the slight remorse. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to attempt to make up for his actions in such a way, though he never actually said ‘sorry.’ It was alright, however - you’d accepted his over-egotistical ways years ago when you’d become his friend in the first place.

“It’s from one of the best songs in existence, of course,” you eagerly jumped off of the couch and, guitar still in hand, you entered the kitchen where he stood.

“Doesn’t ring a bell with me, so it can’t be all that great.”

You scoffed then turned and walked back into the den. You approached the table, which was littered already with piles of miscellaneous junk - mostly yours. You sifted through a box of vinyl records before pulling out a particular album and, in one swift motion, placed it on the nearby record player and turned it on, letting the needle slowly make its way down to a particular spot.

Though you lived downstairs in 221c, you often visited your neighbors after much begging from the landlady - “The boys need some company, you’d be perfect for that!” Her insistent ways payed off too, and over time you found yourself spending more time in 221b than you did at your own flat. As a result, some of your more mobile possessions had also moved their way upstairs.

The song started as the needle touched down, and the song you had been playing earlier rang out. You closed your eyes and bobbed to the music as you moved back to the couch and sat, mouthing the words as they were sang. It took only a few seconds before the music stopped, and you opened your eyes to see Sherlock holding the needle in the air in disgust, preventing the music from playing any longer.

“What is this garbage? Is this really the stuff you listen to?”

“Hey, the crap you play is no better,” your eyes flickered to the violin resting in the corner of the room.

“I play classical music, which I suppose is just too complex for your tiny mind,” he flicked the switch on the gramophone and turned away, practically sticking his nose into the air.

His overconfident expression was wiped off as the pillow connected with his face. He looked at you, surprised, and you raised your arm, another pillow already in hand as a warning.

“Well maybe my music is too emotionally​ charged for you. I forgot you don’t really get the whole concept of feelings,” you say condescendingly.

He seemed taken aback at how defensive you had gotten over something as small as a song. Your last sentence in particular made him think. Perhaps he was being insensitive. But it had never bothered him before, so why now?

He looked towards you again.

You had set the pillow down and had picked up your guitar. You played the riff once again, but Sherlock did not protest this time. Instead, he walked into the kitchen and picked up his unfinished mug of coffee. It was cold by now, but he didn’t care. He stared at the cluttered table, various types of microscopes and flasks were strewn about with the occasional paper with his own sloppy handwriting scrawled across it.

He thought of the many times he had come home from a case to find you organizing his things, and usually his response was rather harsh, now that he thought about it. He would snap at you, telling you he had his things organized in a particular way, and you had just ruined hours of work. In reality, he was just stubborn and hated that he relied on you to keep his own flat neat. Not to say he didn’t often enjoy when you were around, in fact many a time as he worked on his newest case you would chime in with a rather clever remark or two. He could always count on you to bring a new perspective to a case - he had book smarts, but you had the street smarts.

He focused back on your playing, which had become more confident.

“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be -”

He stood closer to the doorway to hear your soft singing over the blaring music of your instrument.

“- As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy, take your time, hurry up, choice is yours…”

He quietly looked into the den, you sat looking down at your hands on the guitar as you played, slightly moving with the beat of the song.

You stopped and put your headphones in again and waited a few seconds before mimicking the next part of the music on your guitar, this time strumming chords for what he assumed the chorus would be. You struggled slightly, and a confused look made its way onto your face. He found it rather adorable, in all honesty, and a smile crept its way onto his face.

You wrote something down then played the chords again.

“Memoria. Mem - Augh,” your hands fumbled as you hit the wrong fret.

“Memoria, memoria, mem - shit.”

He let out a soft chuckle, but you didn’t seem to notice. You let out a frustrated sigh as you gave up, tearing out your headphones and tossing them to the side.

You sprawled out onto the couch, half laying, half sitting, one leg draped over the edge hanging, the other pulled up close to your chest, and your guitar comfortably in your lap. You absentmindedly strummed a few notes as you laid your head back and closed your eyes.

Sherlock took the opportunity to approach you, and sat next you you on the couch.

You opened your eyes at the feeling of his weight on the couch, but you didn’t look at him.

“Play something for me.”

“I thought my music was too empty-minded for you.”

“Well I changed my mind. Play something for me. Please?”

You raised your head to look at him suspiciously, did he just say please?

You strummed, and then tuned your guitar appropriately. You then started again, still extremely unsure of his motives. Soon enough, however you found yourself lost in the music.

“I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel…”

Sherlock found himself focused on how easily you moved from fret to fret, how simple you made playing look. It was mesmerizing in a way.

“And you could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt,” you paused, “I wear this crown of thorns -”

At this point Sherlock had found himself leaning in towards you subconsciously.

“…my sweetest friend -”

He suddenly realized how close he was to you. He didn’t pull away.

“- I would keep myself, I would find a way.”

You finished and looked up. Sherlock’s face couldn’t be more than a few inches from yours. His arm was rested against the back cushion of the couch simply to stop himself from falling onto you.

“I…” you were at a loss for words. He seemed to be in some sort of trance, he seemed so fascinated with you.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, he closed the gap between the two of you, pressing a sweet and soft kiss to your lips. You were surprised, but not disappointed. He quickly pulled away from you and got up, however, making his way back to the kitchen. You could hear him fumble around with various glass objects.

As calm and collected as he may have seemed, the kiss had shaken him as much as it did you. You smiled at the thought.

You started another song, certainly he had heard it before - everyone had, right?

“I said one, two, three, take my hand and come with me ‘cause ya look so fine and I really wanna make you mine.”