#its so satisfying to see them all in a post perfectly synced up

[just-a-fangirl13]

Why s5 *might* be the season MacRiley happens

Okay so...Hear me out! I'm not crazy I promise!!

Firstly, after 5x03 (and probably 5x04) it may seem very unlikely that MacRiley could ever happen. But I thought of a few reasons why they might actually happen by the end of s5 after all.... (it gets a lil long winded and kinda complicated but just stick with me till the end!)

1. All the MacRiley moments including the ones in 5x03.

[this Mac smile could not be an accident or something that slipped through both production and post-production right?! that in itself is a whole reason!]

Every Macriley moment we have ever had- whether it's the hugs, Riley saving Mac, Mac saving Riley, the ultimate show of loyalty when Riley went after Mac during Codex or even just the looks exchanged between the two- to any outsider it would seem pretty obvious that they are dating or at least in love. Keep in mind the writers would have written each of those scenes and Lucas and Tristan have acted them out with a specific build up in mind aka MacRiley.(think about the date episode: Riley just got dumped but was still thinking about how Mac might be hungry. She didnt have to do that. She could have just shown up at his place..) I mean how can they write two people so perfectly in sync and so perfect for each other and not have them end up together? It would just be a waste of all that tension and slow burn. (not to mention all the hugs and glances)

2. They know we exist. 

The MacRiley fam is very active on twitter with the writers and while they were writing 5x01 they knew we were around. They know we are a huge group. They would not want to risk pissing 90% of the fandom off by not making MacRiley endgame.

[P.S.yes 5x03 was a bait and switch but if you were paying attention you would have noticed that neither Lucas not Tristan live tweeted or hyped up the episode. They knew we would probably hate it so they didnt publicise it too much! so in the future if you have doubts about the episode being a MacRiley one just check their stories or posts on twitter/intstagram]

3. Yes 5x03 happened. 

I really think it was an episode they HAD to write. Ok so after 4x13 they had 7 more episodes planned and were filming 4x20 (aka the finale) when the pandemic struck. So they have these 6 episodes but no finale for it. [Idk if anyone else has noticed but in 5x01 there were clearly some parts cut out. For example the conversation between Desi and Riley towards the end seemed a bit jilted. Riley asking Desi to forgive her but Desi replied with yeah we are cool (still no apology ofc) I feel like something happened during that which ended up getting cut out so it could fit with the final story.]

This makes me think that they have rewritten a few bits to tie into the new finale episode. In 5x03 when Mac asked Desi to come fishing with him which was clearly something very personal to him she was like no do better.. then we see Mac's disappointed expression. She could have easily said okay but maybe not for our first date? Or its not really my thing? Or just about anything else rather than laughing in his face like that. Eventhough MD is together they still arent compatible. Mac’s final words in 5x03 was him being desperate. I truly think he is so broken and lost that Desi is the only safe thing left, the only thing he feels like he can fix right now. Once he finds himself again and heals...then it's going to hit him like a pile of bricks!!

4. But Riley doesn't have feelings anymore...WELL doesnt she? 

When it comes to Mac, Riley is always in denial. We saw it in s4 when she tells Bozer not to make her say it. I think s5 will show her finally accepting it. Finally accepting that she is in love with her best friend and that it definitely isnt Codex adrenaline because she caught the feels when Codex wasnt even around. While Mac's arc would include realising he and Desi are never going to work and that he is unhappy and that RILEY is the one for him.

[why else would they give Riley feelings for Mac? Something has to come of it.]

5. The slow burn rule.[this point is a lil complicated] 

Now season 5 is rumoured to have 13 episodes. So here’s what I think: If MacGyver follows the pattern that most shows do when it comes to slow burns, then technically MacRIley should have happened at the end of season 4. But since the season got cut short and they didnt get to air/finish their final episode the writers had to improvise. 

From what I know, 4x19 which is 5x04 for us is the episode where Mac meets Desi’s parents and 4x20 was supposed to be the finale that was left unfinished.(they are definitely moving the timeline ahead if a pre finale episode is suddenly a mid season one.) There might have been a 4x21 or 4x22 but I haven't heard anything about those....EVER.

So what I think they have decided to do instead is extend the MD storyline a bit longer just so they dont end up scrapping all their s4 episodes where they would be together and write a new finale that ties everything together, aka MacRiley.

If you think about episode counts, s4 and s5 together would have 26 episodes which is a how long a normal season runs. Basically what im trying to say is if we follow the ‘slow burns end by s4’ and take season 5 as an extension of 4 then MacRiley should get together in the season 5 finale or maybe the episode just before. (IM REALLY TRYING TO GET SOME LOGIC INTO THIS)

This would be a typical TV thing too where the couple finds out about each other’s feelings while the main arc of the show is also at its peak, which perfectly sets up a future season where fans are hyped but still has a satisfying ending.

6. So what about MacDesi?

So far the macgyver writers have given us characters we love. Think of every character on the show apart from maybe Desi... Mac, Riley, Bozer, Jack, Matty, Leanna, Samantha, Russ and even Murdoc. WE LOVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. So then why is Desi such a strange character? I think shes purposely been written as an opposite to Mac or even Riley (I get she’s supposed to kinda replace Jack but Jack is really irreplaceable). 

It's not necessarily a bad thing its just not a great thing to do or have great execution. People have said things like Desi is a badass and shouldnt have to apologise or say I love you back to her boyfriend because she is a strong woman...I'm sorry but your opinion of who a strong woman is, is EXTREMELY skewed. A strong woman is someone who can make mistakes and when she does, she is ‘strong’ enough to own up to it, she is loyal and fierce and also caring while being a badass who can take down bad guys. And for GODS SAKE, RILEY DAVIS IS A STRONG WOMAN...people have called her mushy and feminine on twitter and I'm just very confused by that.....

Anyways before I go off on a rant, it seems like Desi is intentionally being written this way. Every opportunity they get to redeem her and make her more relatable or just a better person they just dont take it. While Rileys character arc is one of the best I've ever seen. Either its intentional or they’ve forgotten how to write characters...which is worrisome but ill give them the benefit of the doubt.

The writers also know we dont like Desi. The amount of times we've tagged them in the toxic posts or pointed out problematic things we can be sure they've seen at least half of those. So theres no way they dont know. RIGHT?

So why then is MD still a thing you may ask??

Well for one they cant break them up again off screen because of those unreleased s4 episodes. (not to mention the other parts of the audience who arent as invested in mac’s love life would probably be very confused.)

Secondly Mac has to be the one to pull the plug, not Desi. 4x13 made it seem like Desi was the annoyed one not Mac. He apologised to her which meant he wanted to fix things. 

Thirdly, they are opening the chpt one last time before they permanently close it. MD is going to be a stark contrast to macriley(it already is in every way possible). Every issue Mac and Desi had can be used to show how amazing macriley really is as two people who arent even dating yet.

Fourthly, MD being together is a sort of commentary on Macs mental health as well. We can see how happy he is with Riley but around Desi he becomes some one else. If the writers are doing this on purpose or subconsciously still remains to be seen.

And Yes keeping MD around for a few more episodes seems like a necessary risk right now but I have a feeling its going to be worth it later.

[I know we have had like 4 desi entered episodes already but I really think 5x04 will be the last of it since 5x05 is the Jack episode and 5x06 is Mac+Riley+Bozer episode with no mention of Desi at all!]

The writers know we are a dedicated bunch and they know that once MD breaks up for the last time the entire fandom will be waiting and watching. That's when the show will be at its peak. That will be the perfect moment to bring in MacRiley’s arc to a new start!

Congrats if you stuck with me through this whole thing! if you agree/disgaree with any of these or have other reasons why they could be endgame in s5 let me know!!

[khtrinityftw]

Honest KH2 Appraisal

Continuing looking at Kingdom Hearts II from a moderate standpoint, here is a post looking over all the good of the game's tumultuous narrative, because accentuating the negative as described in this post without looking at all the positives does it no justice. Here are the ten major things that went right with the game's narrative:

- The Characters: Even if much of the character writing is a downgrade from the previous two installments, one vital quality is still retained: you like these characters, you feel for these characters, you are interested in these characters and invested in where they end up. As this video points out, it's still a story about Sora and his friends, not about the increasingly incomprehensible Xehanort and his increasingly uninteresting followers. In fact, it's the story that ends the larger story they've been a part of ever since the original game. It's the true end of their journey, and you're with them all the way.

- The Emotion: I find that "melodrama" is something that is very unfairly maligned. It's bad in the wrong place, sure, but in the right place it is highly effective at going straight for our hearts and giving us something memorable, possibly even formative, that will last us our whole lives, more than more "seriously" written things do. And KH2 piles on the melodrama to superb effect, exactly in the way you would want and expect in a Disney JRPG. The convoluted nature of the plot falls by the wayside when you are wrapped up in the emotions - to paraphrase Ansem the Wise, you don't need to wrap your mind around things when your heart already knows them.

- The Balance: KH2 might just be the crowning achievement in the series when it comes to balancing Disney, Final Fantasy, and KH-original elements. Each receives more than their fair share of spotlight, and each is able to interact with one another in perfectly natural ways. So as out of sync as the forces behind the narrative were, the forces within the narrative have never been as much in sync. The KH universe has never felt as unified as this ever again.

- The Tone: Similarly to the unfair rep that melodrama gets, there are many who instantly judge the "early 2000s shonen anime" tone (meaning style, flashiness and Rule of Cool takes precedence over serious subject matter) that KH2 goes with, often upset either because they wanted the first game's tone again or they wanted something darker as suggested by the famous secret ending video from the first game. But there's so much that's good and fun about early 2000s shonen anime when it's done right, and KH2 is an example of doing it right. I honestly think that this tone really works for the series and wish it had stuck to it, rather than deteriorating into the bad, pretentious, self-important shonen anime style that it did.

- The Themes: While continuing the themes established in the prior entries such as hearts, connection of hearts, darkness within hearts and light within darkness, and the power of memories, KH2 brought several new themes to the table such as the nature of existence, what your place in the universe is, the importance of keeping the promises you make, and perhaps above all reunion with friends. And even if the story's writing was wonky, the themes always shine through and are explored and wrapped up perfectly. 

- The Visuals: Masaru Oka's lackluster Event Direction can't detract from how visually grand Nomura's story is, with the imagery on display still remembered by all who played the game even today. Of special note has to be the World That Never Was, which is positively dripping with atmosphere and filled with unique structures, doing full justice to what was glimpsed in KH's legendary secret ending.

- The Sense of Humor: As much as I harp on Nojima for his writing problems, I would be remiss to not praise his excellent sense of humor that he filled his scenario with. Nomura even confirmed a lot of comedic touches like Sea-Salt Ice Cream being a running gag that runs so long that it becomes an important plot point was Nojima's doing. Also notice how the Halloween Town stories are written in a hokey manner like a Christmas special - don't think that wasn't intentional, that's the whole joke and it's hilarious. In fact, a lot of famous "KH2 out of context" moments and lines like "we totally owned you lamers!" seem to be conscious, tongue-in-cheek choices, and done in a way that doesn't offset the emotional sincerity of the dramatic parts of the story. With the KH series often being unable to lighten up these days, this kind of comedic touch is sorely missed.

- The High Points: This story's high points aren't just high, they're goddamn iconic. "Looks like my summer vacation is...over". The Hollow Bastion war sequence and the battle of 1000 Heartless. The stories of Beast's Castle, Olympus Coliseum and Space Paranoids. Timeless River in its entirety. The tough, climactic boss fights against the members of Organization XIII, Disney villains like Hades, and powerful Heartless such as Groundshaker. And of course almost everything that transpires in the World That Never Was. I believe I speak for many when I say that the low points like Atlantica or that weirdo subplot with Cloud, Tifa and Sephiroth are entirely forgivable when high points of this caliber are packaged along with them.

- The Finale: Like I said above, the World That Never Was gives us one of the best finales in video game history. From going through the dark city streets, to the mental duel against Roxas, to scaling the Castle That Never Was and taking down the rest of the Organization, to seeing all the heroes reunite, to the verbal battle between Xemnas and Ansem the Wise before the latter’s heroic sacrifice, to entering a physical manifestation of Kingdom Hearts itself where you slice through buildings, dodge laser fire from a flying mechanical fortress, fight hordes of Nobodies and take down Xemnas, to the final boss fight against Xemnas in the Realm of Nothingness, and finally to the sheer perfection that is the ending sequence. Every character gets a moment, every plot thread is wrapped up in a bow, and the happy ending you've longed for since the first KH didn't have it is finally achieved. There are flaws, but in the grand scheme of things they're nitpicks. This is the most satisfying conclusion the KH series has ever given us or ever will give us. There's just no topping it.

- The Collaboration: Tragically, Nomura took the wrong lessons away from KH2's success and from the criticism its narrative received. Here is what he admitted after KH3's release:

By axing professional scenario writers like Nojima and collaborators beyond Masaru Oka since they get confused by his concepts and stories, Nomura has traded one style of narrative mess for a much worse one. With his name under the "Story" credit, the stories are now even more convoluted, pretentious and badly paced, and now with far less sharp dialogue, less humor, less balancing between Disney, FF and KH-original elements, less emotion and thus less emotional investment, and less characters to be interested in or care about. Just...less FUN. This old post nailed it. Kingdom Hearts III came as close as was possible under the circumstances, but when compared to Kingdom Hearts II, it’s still a noteworthy step down. Regardless of its faults, KH2 is clearly where the KH series peaked.

[watchmegetobsessed]

Red thong - Shawn Mendes

😌😌😌😌 its THAT smut 😏😏😏😏

drabble list masterlist

Post-concert Shawn is out of this world for sure, and one of your favorites. His blood is usually still boiling from the ecstasy he just experienced on stage, he is talking louder, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the adrenaline or because his hearing is temporarily damaged from all the screaming in the arena. He jumps around, screams at you happily, sometimes throws you over his shoulder and runs down the hall while your laughter echoes from the walls.

Tonight is no different, Shawn jumps down the steps from the stage and runs right up to you, picking you up and swirling you around.

“Babe!” he screams, his sweaty body pressed against yours, but you don’t mind. “Tonight was awesome!”

“Yes it was, you were great!” you laugh holding onto his broad shoulders.

When your feet are back on the ground he grabs your hand and you head to his dressing room.

“Great job tonight, kiddo!” Andrew grins at him when you meet him in the hallway and they highfive happily.

“Thanks. So I have the night off, right?”

“Yeah, enjoy,” he smirks giving you a look too and you almost immediately blush.

Your sex life with Shawn is a constant joke around the team and at first it bothered you so bad you even started crying one night when Brian took it a little too far, but Shawn soon changed your perspective. You and him are basically the only couple on tour ergo the only ones doing the deed regularly, to be exact every day. The guys are pretty jealous of Shawn living his best life, traveling the world with his best friends and his girlfriend, having sex in a different city every other night. Soon you learned to just get in on the joking and turn it around and let them know you are not ashamed to satisfy your boyfriend every damn night.

Shawn pulls you into his dressing room and starts undressing immediately, throwing his sweaty clothes to the ground while you walk over to the small couch by the wall, sit down and just watch him get around the room, a goofy smile on his pink lips. He starts humming a song and when he kicks his pants off he starts to play an imaginary guitar and you swear this is one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. Your high on adrenaline, hot boyfriend in only his boxers, playing an air guitar, his body shiny from the thin layer of sweat, luscious curls bouncing with each movement.

He notices your eyes on him and smirking at you he finishes his silent solo, walking over to you. Leaning down he presses his palms into the cushion next to your sides, holding himself up on his arms while he grins at you.

“So, we have the evening to ourselves, no team dinner, no hangout with the guys, just us,” he sighs satisfied. “Wanna know what I’ve been thinking about all day?”

“Mm, what?” you smile at him cheekily, tilting your head to the side while your eyes keep wandering down to his lips.

“That red thong you have on.”

Your eyebrows arch high at his blunt statement, but you’re not too surprised. He can be a sweet puppy some days, but then he would make the dirtiest comments when it’s just the two of you, making you wet at the oddest places, like when he told you at the airport, out of the blue how he wants to finger you on the plane. That flight is in the top three for sure till this day.

“How do you know I have a red thong on?” you ask, remembering he was still asleep when you got dressed in the morning.

He licks his lips playfully shrugging his shoulders shortly.

“You didn’t wake me up, I was up earlier, I just like watching you get ready in the morning.”

“Sneaky,” you smirk at him leaning closer and kissing him shortly. “So, what about my thong then?”

“I want it gone, so I’ll have a quick shower and you and I leave as soon as possible,” he informs you about his plans before pecking your lips and straightening up he disappears in the bathroom.

About forty minutes later the car pulls up at the hotel and you rush inside before anyone could recognize him. The elevator ride up is basically a torture. He keeps biting into his bottom lip, driving you crazy while he warns you if you lick your lips one more time he is going to fuck you right there in the elevator.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you cheekily ask and he just takes a deep breath, a smile hiding on his perfectly shaped lips as he turns away from you. You smile to yourself, counting the floors impatiently.

He grabs your hand when the doors open and the two of you run down the hallway, right into your room and the moment the door closes behind you he pushes you against it, lips hungrily tasting yours as his hands slide down to the back of your thighs and he picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist.

It’s nothing more than just eager make out until he brings you to the bed, gently putting you down and standing up right in front of you. His eyes are dark and you push your thighs together because he is making you feel things for sure.

“Take your dress off,” he simply says and you obey, pulling your grey bodycon dress off while he starts stripping too. “The bra too,” he adds.

Your lacy bra that matches the thong gets tossed to the side and you lie almost fully naked on the bed while you watch him pull his boxers down and stands tall and very naked, staring down at you hungrily, already hard for you. It’s one majestic view and you try to remember it for the times when you are far away from him.

“So, you like my thong?” you seductively ask in a low voice as you slowly open your legs, giving him a great view of your lower part.

“It’s pretty nice, but we are getting rid of it,” he smirks at you as he gets down on his knees.

Your breathing fastens as you watch his face get between your legs. He gently kisses you through the lacy fabric, keeping eye-contact the whole time. Then very slowly he takes it between his teeth and starts pulling it down. You lift your hips to help him out and can’t help but bite into your lip at the sight of him with your thong between his teeth.

Once it’s off of your body he doesn’t let go of it, instead he stands up and looks down at you lustfully, the lingerie hanging from his mouth and you swear you almost cum just from this view.

“You gonna keep chewing on that or will you fuck me?” you impatiently ask it, because your vagina just can’t take it anymore, you need him inside you. He turns his head and lets the lacy piece fall to the ground before he turns back, playfully smirking at you.

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry babe.”

In the blink of an eye he gets on top of you, lips crashing down on yours while one of his hands slide to your ass, pulling your hips close to him so you can feel just how hard he is. His lips travel down on your neck, collarbones and chest while soft moans escape your mouth, enjoying the intimacy.

Some girls complain about how their boyfriends don’t want to go down on them. With Shawn, it’s not the case, he is willing to do it any time of the day, literally. And tonight is no different either.

“Fuck,” you sigh in ecstasy when his wet tongue meets your heated clit. He knows just exactly what makes you lose your mind, he basically performs on you the entire alphabet, making you beg for more and more with each movement.

You already know he doesn’t let you cum, but still, when he suddenly moves away from your lower body you ache for more.

“Soon, baby,” he whispers kissing you sloppily as he positions himself between your legs. “I love you,” he breathes out as he slowly but surely pushes into you.

“Shawn!” you moan his name as he picks up a demanding, fast pace with his movements. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to play any longer either.

You move your hips in sync with his rhythm, opening up your legs so he can thrust into you as deep as possible. You watch his muscles on his arm and chest flexing as he is holding himself up above you, his curls covering his forehead, eyes closed, lips parted as he starts panting and moaning himself.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” he rambles burying his face in your neck.

“Me too,” you breathe out, already feeling your climax reaching your body.

His hips smash against you a few more times before his movements become uncontrollable, he falls out of his rhythm and he moans his name in a shaky tone. Just seeing him lose himself throws you over the edge and you try to keep up the ecstasy just a little longer by moving your hips while you’re both just keep moaning.

Instead of falling to the bed next to you, he gets up, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he walks into the bathroom and returns with a wet towel, gently cleaning you up, something he never misses to do and you are always amazed by how much he cares about you.

Once you are all cleaned up he tosses the towel to the ground and finally lies besides you, pulling you into his arms, kissing your forehead gently.

“Wanna know what I’m thinking about?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“My red thong?” you playfully ask grinning up at you. He just smirks shaking his head no.

“Well, now I’m thinking about that, but before, I was thinking about how lucky I am.”

“You are?” you softly ask laying your palm out on his bare chest, gently stroking his soft skin.

“Mhmm, because I’m literally living my dream and I get to share it with the most amazing woman.”

“Didn’t know Beyoncé is here with you.”

He starts laughing, his chest vibrating under your hand and you watch him in awe. His laugh is your favorite.

“I’m hiding her in one of the buses.”

“Rude, I want to meet her too!”

“I’ll arrange it for you, babe,” he smiles down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before pulling the covers over you.

[spiderman-spoilerman]

SPIDERMAN EXPOSED BECAUSE OF TAYLOR SWIFT ADDICTION: What Is Peter Parker to Spider-Man?

This shit that has been going on for months now has finally been solved. For the longest time I’ve been following Spider-Man oh so very closely, eager to find out his identity—not to expose it to the media vultures, oh no, our hero deserves more than that. But… to satisfy my own curiosity. He’s the only Avenger hiding his identity, you know? You’d think they’d be okay with it after all these other superheroes get to run around freely…

Anyway!

As you all know, countless names have been linked to Spider-Man. He seems close with Tony Stark, but that’s hardly relevant. There’ve been links to JD Slinger, the American Pop Singer, in a very poor attempt to sell records—you’re not Hannah Montana JD fucking Slinger! Stick to your trash music!!!

However untrue and disappointing Slinger’s attempt at fame is, he’s not the only one with musical elements that is linked to Spider-Man.

A few months ago, a viral video entering adorable and kind of pedos-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-territory circulated around the internet and into our nightly news, as does every baby goes viral video does. You can check it out on the link below for a good dose of endorphins.

[Link: Baby boy wants to be Taylor Swift, re-uploaded by djflash]

[Description: A six-year old boy is standing in the shower with a towel draped over his body like a makeshift cloak, he is clutching his tooth brush on and seems to be furiously lip syncing. The camera shakes as the person behind the camera stifles laughter.

May Parker, the original uploader and aunt of the then-toddler Peter, asks: Aren’t you tired Peter? From all the singing? You’ve been singing for two hours. Aren’t you cold?

Peter is intensely staring at the mirror as he lip-syncs but pauses to look at May. He says in a tired and raspy voice: Yeah, but, but my fans! I need to sing, Auntie May, for the fa— [looking harried] DROP EVERYTHING NOW, MEET ME IN THE POURING RAIN—

The sound of Peter singing is drowned by May’s scream as Peter falls on his butt, having jumped with his passion for the song, and tripping.

It cuts off with May laughing while taking Peter in her arms, phone capturing her picking him up and hearing Peter crying as he tries to get back to the mirror: It—doesn’t hurt May. Need to get back—my! My concert!

Video ends]

Now how does a viral video of a baby Taylor Swift fan connect to Spider-Man?

Well, May Parker posted it on Facebook when Flash Thompson, who claims to be a good friend of Peter Parker (although I highly doubt this, he’s only in it for the clout and Spider-Man’s love, click here for more on Flash), decided to share it to everyone. One of his reposts on Twitter propelled it to viral success.

Weeks later, May Parker decided to bless us again with more content by taking a video of her now teenage (17 years old—PEDO’S STAY AWAY) nephew singing, once again, a Taylor Swift song.

[Link: I’m so glad im seventeen and can properly thirst upon this wonderful hooman]

[Description: They are in the kitchen this time and May Parker is being discreet with her video-taking. A Taylor Swift song ends softly from his phone’s tiny speakers. A Spotify ad interrupts but the video cuts it off two seconds later for another Taylor Swift song to filter in.

We take in the scenario. Peter is in his pyjamas, shaking his booty while singing Stay Stay Stay. He flourishes his hands a few times, dramatizing, “That’s when you came in wearing a football helmet, and I said, [he changes voices] “Okay, let’s talk” [he finishes one pancake and pours a new batter in before using the ladle as a microphone, as if in anticipation for the moment, and, back bent, face scrunched up, belts: STAYSTAYSTAY I’ve b EEN LUH-VING YOU FOR QUITE SOME TIME- TI-HIME! YOU THINK THAT ITS FUNNEH WHEN I’M—OH MAN, I spilled batter on my shirt!”

The camera shakes with May’s silent laughter. Peter does not seem to notice. He looks side to side, almost as if he is looking for something to wipe the batter with, but there are no paper towels in sight and his shirt is dripping with the excess batter the size of his fist.

In the most compelling, and understandable, moment of decision making, Peter has chosen not to be responsible and strips instead, to the utter delight of seventeen-year old’s in the world (and ONLY those younger than that! Pedos, I swear to god, if I see you, I kill you, that last blog was the last time you make me burn my eyes!)—a wonderful set of abs and toned muscles you would not expect from a seventeen year old boy singing to Taylor Swift with the squeakiest voice in the world.  Adorable. Ten points for my good boy ranks.

The video ends with Peter staring further at the shirt and licking at the batter before it violently cuts off to the roaring laughter of one May Parker]

It is peculiar, to watch May navigate the wonders of technology, too, because the first video was on her Facebook years unnoticed before Flash Thompson unearthed it for the world to see (Mr. Thompson, what exactly were your intentions going through a beautiful May Parker’s Facebook pictures?). But this time, she also apparently intended to send it to Peter’s friend’s Instagram account. However, the fluke came when she posted it and tagged them instead.

People who have followed her upon the first viral video have now decided it to be God’s work to distribute the video, making it viral within days. The very same people were the ones who noticed that Peter Parker’s singing style is the very same as Spider-Man’s.

I hear you gasp. Well, of course. I spit my tea as well, when I realized it too.

See, unless you were living under a rock, about a year ago, Spider-Man was exposed as a Taylor Swift fan when he saved a ten year old girl and began teaching her about the History and Influence of Swift’s discography and career, before proceeding to sing with her the hit song Speak Now. All of it was caught on camera, of course.

The people who spread this new video started a conspiracy theory that Spider-Man and Peter Parker are very similar people. One user @finn-man-the-aquaman pointed out that Spider-Man and Peter Parker’s voice are very similar. Another user @maxine_and_spider-man compared the dance moves from the two videos, putting frames of each steps beside each other, and found that it was so uncannily similar that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. It was an interesting point to make, because both Peter and Spider-Man had particular steps, all seemingly on a whim, but also matching each other perfectly. They are by no means good dancers, God no, but their whimsical dancing looks like two bad dancers following one choreography, couldn’t follow it technically but committed to it emotionally.

Twitter user @emiliar summarized it the best: the chest pump, the feet extension, the little jig, and the butt shake, before leaning backward and singing at the height of their emotions— apparently this is a common dance choreography?

To which @pissshitcry responded with a video that would bring us the wonderful breakthrough that I’ve been walking you all through.

[VIDEO uploaded by spidermansavedmetwice]

[Caption by @pissshitcry: No. Apparently: ]

[Video Description: Spider-Man is swinging through the buildings before stopping by Midtown High School, in front of a harried looking student, screaming frantically, and this is it folks: CAN YOU GIVE THIS TO NED LEEDS, TELL HIM SPIDER-MAN THANKS HIS FRIEND PETER! tHANKS! Before zipping away

Video ended]

Now. Okay. I know, calm down guys, I’m trying so hard not to run up the hills and do an Irish Jig, because I am so, so, so excited about all these new revelations! Nobody has quite documented this, too, so people, watch out for more of my content in a few weeks.

SO! Implication one: Spider-Man knows Ned Leeds.

Implication two: Peter Parker helped Spider-Man somehow.

Implication three: Spider-Man knows Peter Parker.

Cut, do it again, but with more emotions: SPIDER-MAN KNOWS PETER PARKER.

Let’s zoom back to a few weeks after the viral hits and Taylor Swift posts a video of her watching the video and then saying into the camera, with that iconic red lipstick and perfectly sculpted eyebrows: I have never thought this would be something that will happen to me in my career ever, but seeing a super-hero sing praises about me and teaching my [and she quotes from Spider-Man’s erratic explanation about her history] “unattainable song-writing prowess equal to that of the rock singing legends of ye old—” really does bring a smile to my face! More than that, Peter Parker is an absolute cutie too! He looks like such a sweetheart, baking those pancakes, apparently, for her aunt? Be sweet to your aunts guys! But also. I came here to cordially invite both Spider-Man and Peter Parker to come out to my concert in New York in two weeks! I’ll be there May 25th at the Lincoln Center, and maybe we can all sing together!”

She ends the video with the iconic Spider-Man wrist flip. The video has been circulated and has now gained over an estimated 100 million views.

It sparked a buzz of interest among the people, Peter Parker having received much of the spotlight. He hasn’t said anything in relation to Spider-Man but had reluctantly agreed to go to Swift’s invite. And I cannot emphasize the reluctant part. Kid looked so uncomfortable, but maybe he’s just shy!

Okay. Now, this thing is the most glaring indicator of what I will be telling you. The night of the concert. Everyone is there for Swift, but everyone is also there waiting for the much-awaited Spider-Man and Peter Parker saga. Halfway into her song list, Taylor Swift stopped to talk. The time has come.

Peter Parker walks into the stage, and the crowd welcomes him with adoring cheers, similar to Swift’s entrance herself. She introduces him, even though she absolutely does not need to, and the people scream their approval.

When Swift gives him his own mic, he almost drops it before catching it with his incredible reflexes. Swift calls for Spider-Man to reveal himself, much to the delight of the crowd, chanting his name as if it was a concert for him, which, in many ways, it kind of was. However, Spider-Man didn’t appear after that and the duo had to continue on.

It was a cute performance, with Parker stumbling a few times before getting the groove with Swift and belting it out as well. Everyone joins in on them singing and enjoying her old songs, Swift smiling and laughing the whole time.

Peter leaves the stage Spider-Man plushies and roses thrown for him, to which he received with a graceful bow. Swift resumes her concert after a few hearty jokes thrown in—but wait! What’s that?!

A screaming insect crashes at one of the large LED walls at the stage and the camera [and the collective crowd] is surprised to see the superhero—SPIDER-MAN!

“Ehehehe, hello Miss Taylor Swift, Ma’am!” He says, in a particularly deeper voice. Autotune? Before they sing it out, as they would—Swift laughing, and Spider-Man trying—Spider-Man explains that he was nervous meeting Peter Parker, before scrambling to correct that it was Swift he was nervous about meeting.

Swift then teases Spider-Man about a potential crush, which.

BRINGS US TO MY BREAKTHROUGH POINT.

TAYLOR SWIFT WAS ABOUT TO BRING US THE GAY COUPLE OF THE CENTURY, BUT SPIDER-MAN WAS TOO CHICKEN TO GET TO IT.

Okay, alright, I hate pedos, and we don’t exactly know Spider-Man’s age but we do know that he’s very young, what with all the pop culture references he’s been dropping with the intuition of an internet native. So, he’s young, alright? Possibly Gen-Z, even. Here’s a post you can see about his age analysis.

SPIDER-MAN. HAS. A. CRUSH. ON. PETER. PARKER.

[Insert hand chopping movements]

AND THEY ALMOST HAD A CUTE MOMENT ON STAGE HAD SPIDER-MAN BRAVED IT THROUGH.

PETER PARKER, AND I MEAN, PETER PARKER! SPIDER-MAN HAS A CRUSH ON YOU!

We’ve established that Spider-Man knows Peter Parker. They’ve met. Peter has possibly helped, or even saved Spider-Man himself. Now, saving a superhero is something that not just anybody does. And Parker himself is a student at Midtown Science High—he’s a smart kid! And seeing as these events just happened months apart, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to imagine them meeting again, perhaps, with Parker making pancakes in dewy mornings, and a tired (and yearning) Spider-Man is watching from the windows as Peter dances along to Swift’s songs.

The watching from the windows theory and thus getting to know the choreography might not be so creepy if you factor in the fact that Spider-Man might be hiding his crush for Parker’s safety!

It is like the modern incarnation of Super-Hero romance, only now, its more inclusive! To exist in such a beautiful world, and to watch such an innocent tale bloom in this cruel, cruel world. We could only hope to see more of them together, maybe as something... more?

--

COMMENTS:

reblogged by thunderstrike: this is like someone trying to overanalyze twilight for some depth—THERE ISN’T ONE!

thunderstrike reblogged by spidahmanna: come on, give them some credit at least for recounting the most batshit insane crossover in the universe as we know it so far

reblogged by skdfas: this person needs help, but very entertaining to read

reblogged by nedleads: oH MY GOD 

reblogged by kliyon: new ship, age appropriate Spider-Man x Peter Parker

reblogged by ekeke: um yes, i need a dash of meet-cute with one cup of flavored angst—soda please, I like it to hurt— large fluff, a BFF serving of some of them yearning, and a happy sad-meal for one please.

reblogged by unaunann: im done with this site, who wants to burn the internet with me?

3, 000 reblogs in 1 day

--

 Tony, reading the blog: Hmmm…

[Later]

Tony: Okay so I read this blog and I have remedied it.

Peter: Oh my god thankyoumisterstark I swear I didn’t mean to—

Tony: You are now the biggest shareholder for Spotify because I know you don’t want me to pay for a premium account, but if you’re gonna listen to those damn ads while singing to Taylor Swift, at least earn from it, you know?

Peter: …that’s what you took from the whole thing?

--

NEXT ARTICLE: The Avengers film a parody of Queen’s I Want To Break Free. Is Captain America is as beautiful as Rogerina, or is he too buff??? Tony Stark is an iconic drama queen, perfect for Freddie Mercury, and more!

[insomnihan]

han’s Entire Thoughts and Feelings on Dreamcatcher’s “Deja Vu”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

MY TIME HAS COME 2.0!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FULL INSOMNIA MODE DONT. LOOK. AT. ME.

there are no read mores here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

ALRIGHT SO-

THE SONG OKAY LETS JUMP RIGHT INTO IT i wasnt expecting something lowkey sad BUT im not mad at it!!!!!!!!!! i had conflicting emotions when i desperately wanted to cry but also headbang?????? HOWEVER thanks to force and air the tears in my eyes were drying as i headbanged- LIKE this song really PUT ME THROUGH IT like that chorus didnt have tO DO ME LIKE THAT™!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT THEN THE VERSES AND THE PRE-CHORUSES WERE SLOW (and the bridge but bridges be like that in nearly all songs) WHICH IM ACTUALLY REALLY INTO it was like being in a roller coaster with the verses being the slow hill and the chorus was the fall THAT PIANO GOES HARD...................... but like in a soft way????? DONT ASK ME WHAT IM SAYING IS IM A HOE™ FOR PIANO THOSE DRUMS DURING THE CHORUS STOP IT I CANNOT I FELT THEM VIBRATE THROUGH MY BONES

like i DEADASS have nothing to criticize or change about this song its PERFECTLY FINE AS IT IS (except for like more gahyeon and dami????? pls??????)

siyeon starting the song.......................... thank you.............. I STILL STAND BY SAYING I WOULD LISTEN TO HER VOICE FOR LITERALLY FOREVER HER VOICE DURING THE CHORUS QUEEN OF SINGING CHORUSES OH BUT THEN THAT HIGH NOTE ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????? SHE DIDNT HAVE TO KILL ME LIKE THIS BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH I- and now....... im in the deja vu P L E A S E

gaaaaaaaahhhyeeeeeooonnnn her voice is so pretty!!!!!!!!!!! BUT I WANT MORE!!!!!!!!!! HOWEVER youre the second one to sing with this beautiful gentleness of a part and to be honest this part paired with siyeon starting it really eases you into the song and its quite the blessing to hear thanks- and then yknow this part right after handong........................... Heaven™

SPEAKING OF HANDONG LISTEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE AMOUNT OF LINES SHE HAS MAKES ME WANNA CRY OKAY THIS PART RIGHT HERE............................. PLS.............. (i think its just me but theres a smaller voice singing like right under her voice????) HER PRE-CHORUS PARTS ARE LITERALLY THE BEST PARTS IN THE WHOLE SONG TO LISTEN TO pls believe me when i say this its NOT bc shes my ultimate bias like i genuinely like her parts the most

sua pls i was already prepared for softer vocals and you really gave that to me and then this is absolute perfection they were beautiful and amazing OF COURSE got me feeling like i was floating on actually clouds god TAHNK YOU AND THEN YOU JUST HAD TO HIT ME WITH YOUR PART RIGHT HERE???? i understand its just the chorus but I Felt That™ okay!!!!!!

JIU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i stand by saying how your voice be powerful as hell still even during these lines VERY short but VERY effective and very good leading into the chorus i love- and then your bridge....................... B I C T H really put me in my feelings but i welcome it with EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING and with open arms.......................

YOOHYEON AKA THE OTHER QUEEN OF SINGING CHORUSES I MEAN..................................... I LITERALLY DUNNO WHAT TO SAY!!!!!!!!!!! LIKE THEIR BEAUTIFUL SOUNDING HER VOICE GOES WELL WITH THEM like i really like the parts she sings after siyeon like................. Y O O F if a feather became a voice-

i need more dami too..................... P L E A S E like obviously with their other songs i was expecting dami to be in the second verse and with a smooth rap section and the former was correct HOWEVER to my pleasant surprise SHE SANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! her singing voice suited this SO MUCH and im actually glad there wasnt a rap part at all in this song especially that SECOND PART.................. Heaven™ 2x

my favorite lyrics (x): i know i said handongs were my favorite to listen to but i like these lines dont hurt me

난 이 숨결이 허락되는 날까지 As long as I can breathe 다신 너를 놓을 수 없어 I can’t let go of you again 우린 모든 순간 함께 할 테니 We’ll be together for every moment 내 곁에서 beside me

THE DANCE OKAY IM GONNA DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT ill be referring to THIS PERFORMANCE can we pls talk about how loud the fanchant is im crying and really take it in and all of their talented glory ANYWAY OF COURSE the choreography F UKCING SLAPS just so many different position changes and just alwaYS SO IN SYNC WITH EACH OTHER ITS INSANE ill just list them briefly and keep the points short this is long enough:

THE BEGINNING AND THE END BEING THE SAME...................... CERTAINLY DEJA VU-

SIYEONS TUTTING THING THANKS

handongs majestic spin

this and this with how the formation changes and how their arms swing AND the kick

ALSO in those parts in the last bullet i dunno why but i like that move jiu does when she sings IT HITS

i recall sua spoiling literally the first move of the chorus dance in that vlive THE CHORUS DANCE ALL THOSE FORMATION CHANGES LITERALLY MESS ME UP and THIS most important move in the entire choreography and they line up and its SO COOL to look at

when they lie on each other doing yoohyeons lines

handongs part again when theyre in the line and how satisfying it is to watch

THE ENTIRE BRIDGE

LITERALLY THE ENTIRE DANCE FROM START TO FINISH

QUEENS OF STABILITY

sidenote: can we talk about how handong and dami?????? literally spin during their parts????? and they sounded super clear??????

THE VISUALS SO.......................... if you had asked me two days ago (maybe a little bit of yesterday) about how i felt about this video.................. i wouldve mentioned some unpopular opinions regarding the videos look............ i mentioned to gwen @loonapunk that i wasnt TOO into it............ BUT- after finally sitting down to do this long ass post i dont hate it!!!!!!!!!!!! i think bc i have to remind myself that this song (album???? well song-) is for that kings raid game and all the visuals AND story are based off that????? i dunno BUT WHAT I DO KNOW IS I LIKE TO WATCH IT

IM TOO BIG STUPID™ TO COMPREHEND THIS STORYLINE AND COME UP WITH MY OWN THEORIES EVEN NOW AND I WOULD L O V E TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU BUT THIS IS LONG ENOUGH AS IT IS SO ILL REDIRECT YOU TO THEORY POSTS (TWO (2) FROM MY GALAXY BRAIN MOOTS) THAT I LIKED:

@highsomnia NITAS POST WHICH I PERSONALLY FOUND ENJOYABLE TO READ SO IF YOU COULD READ THIS YOU SHOULD ALSO READ THAT

@in-somnias ELENAS POST WHICH WAS ALSO AN INTERESTING READ RIGHT HERE

AND THEN THIS ONE THAT WAS ORIGINALLY FROM TWITTER i dont follow her so im not gonna @

AIIGHT IMMA GO CRAZY WITH THESE SHOTS (with only small one/two sentence captions this is LONG ENOUGH):

BICTH I SAW THIS AND KNEW I WAS GONNA GET GOT™ like its just super duper INCREDIBLY PRETTY TO LOOK AT

THIS WILL BE FOREVER ICONIC™ DONT ARGUE WITH ME

this is what the calm before the storm looks like

went back to the mv film making video and turns out they got slippers on under that table love that for them

how in the hell am i supposed to interpret this exchange

okay longer section i think im supposed to interpret this more as a sister bond than a romantic one?????? i remember being taken aback and believed this to be something gay BUT 99.9% OF INSOMNIAS say its gay subtext so ill just put it like that i dunno but like i just wanna say they have beautiful smiles and im love them!!!

a youtuber reacting to this mv saying it just looks like theyre shading each other.................... anyway-

i CANNOT i repeat I CANNOT EXPRESS TO YOU how Shook™ i was when i saw this for the first time i basically jumped out of my chair i couldnt i-

this mv really led me to believe jiu was the evil one.............................

POETIC. CINEMA.

THE WOMAN. THE MYTH. THE LEGEND. THE FIREBENDER. THE WOLF. LEE SIYEON. pls light me up

Symbolism™................ SYMBOLISM I CANNOT COMPREHEND GO TO THE THEORIES

MORE SYMBOLISM GO TO THE THEORIES

T H E M

NOT ONLY IS THIS VIDEO SUPER AESTHETIC™ BUT THE SEVEN (7) MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD BLESSING US ONCE AGAIN WITH THEIR PRESENCE AND ALLOWED THEIR ROYALTY VIBES SHOOT INTO THE MESOSPHERE INTO REAL LIFE KILLING ALL OF US

THE DANCING SCENES WITH THE TEASER OUTFITS...................................... AT EASE.....................

LITERALLY NO COMPLAINTS MOVING ON:

JIU

L I S T E N KIM MINJI YOURE A FULL PRINCESS this pink fluffy dress with the flower crown in this picture............................ i may have cried- like a lot of people were trying this look to persephone and im HERE for that concept for her and like the white outfit AND black outfit is probably super symbolic again im too Big Stupid™ anyway when i saw that black outfit in the teaser........................... i was attacked jiu with a sword is just EVERYTHING i wanted and more

SUA

LITERALLY I CANNOT- her hair being wavy looks SO GOOD on her THIS BLACK DRESS WITH THE FLOWERS she is always a Serve™ WE KNOW THAT but her visuals just HIT DIFFERENT this time lighter colored hair really suits her and then of course she looks FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC in the dance scenes in the white and the black that low pony tail pls

SIYEON

purple on this woman just shoulders and collarbones out being Beautiful™ ALL THE WHILE staying ON BRAND with herself and was wearing pants good for her G O D i just love the way her hair looks in the white and gold outfits like it just LOOKS PRETTY to me i dunno how to describe it also her with a pony tail WHAT ARE YOU SO PRETTY FOR-

HANDONG

i just................... want closer shots of this.................. CLOSER SHOTS IN GENERAL OF HER ACTUALLY like LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL™ SHE LOOKS HERE I WANNA SEE MORE OF IT??????? PLS??????? nothing gets me weaker than her hair being styled exactly like in the picture i just love that her royalty and regal vibes and looks were FINALLY realized and WAS BROUGHT TO THE FOREFRONT

YOOHYEON

THIS MV MUST CONVINCE ME SHE IS EVIL BY SHOWING HER FOREHEAD first of all the first outfit turning her into an Actual Entire Princess™/Queen™ that red one i dont really understand SHE MAKES IT WORK THO THEN THAT BLACK OUTFIT LISTEN yo it was like getting hit by a whole truck full speed i wasnt ready and i just wanna admire that yoohyeon and gray colored hair is an actual match made in heaven i just have to say-

DAMI

i love this suit and the patten on it so much this outfits color (what is that teal????) and her hair color is such a GOOD PAIRING and on her SHE JUST KILLED ME WITH HER SOLO SCENES i wish i had more to say about her and her outfits but what else can i say other than that she is INSANELY ATTRACTIVE AND I WANT HER TO STEP ON ME???????

GAHYEON

she really broke my neck when i saw her the first time LIKE DEADASS LOOK AT THIS PICTURE i had fallen for her and i cannot get up when i saw this outfit in the other shots like the black top and the see through sleeves but her skirt is like different colors she really Served™ in this outfit bangs usually look cute but in her solo parts she was coming for my heart like miss lee gahyeon pls-

BONUS TIME: B-SIDE TRACKS (just short thoughts and point out specific parts i liked lmao)

Intro:

their intros always slap are you kidding me-

The curse of the Spider

i wasnt ready for this bop to slap me in the face on my spotify that chorus didnt have to do that to me THAT GUITAR DIDNT HAVE TO DO THAT TO ME i love the way dami and handong sound in this song i mean wrow-

favorite lyrics (x):

소름이 끼칠 만큼 It’s chilling 도망치고 싶어질 it makes me want to run away 그런 두려움일 테니 such is this fear

Silent Night

B I H C T i knew when i heard this in the highlight it was going to be my favorite one IT REALLY WOKE SOMETHING IN ME these lyrics i cant- gahyeon and handong hurted me with their lower registers Y AL L YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE HURTED ME THAT D R O P DID

favorite lyrics (x):

겨눈 칼 끝은 a blade directed at someone 결국 돌아오게 돼 eventually returns 더 다가오지 마 don’t come closer

Polaris

this song is as if i was wrapped in the thickest blanket i got and im resting on the softest bed in the world with a fireplace going nearby and i could finally rest peacefully bc the lord knows i need it- i really cried a little bit listening to this pls leave me be i legit cant pick a specific member i liked the most for this song i just love it and everything it got

favorite lyrics (x):

그게 너라서 행복해 I’m happy that it’s you 그 많은 인연 속에 Among those numerous connections 수많은 사람 중에 Among those numerous people

LIKE im so completely satisfied with every song on this album and im completely in love with it!!!!!!!!!! the only ‘issue’ i really had was with the mv visually but as you read i warmed up to it lmao LIKE IM JUST SO PROUD OF THESE WOMEN AND HOW TALENTED AND HARDWORKING THEY ARE like i have to say the japanese release?????? and this????? being so close to each other????? you telling me they learned TWO (2) different choreographies one after the other???? i absolutely love this album and i desperately desperately DESPERATELY want so much more success for them bc ITS WHAT THEY DESERVE!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is supposed to be just about the overall mv and deja vu but i might as well just type what i feel lmao

IN CONCLUSION: MY INSOMNIA ASS IS BOTH ALIVE AND DEAD BUT MOSTLY ALIVE I LOVE THIS IM STREAMING

i have to bring this back its relevant again:

[mysynthfetish]

Season’s Beatings!

Bah Humbug! It saddens me to see that the ‘Murican version of Xmas, namely the capitalism-and-consumerism-gone-haywire-on-meth-and-steroids-pseudo-“holiday” that Xmas has devolved into, is slowly but surely creeping its way around the globe. It’s in full force here in Japan, though not quite to the extent of ridiculousness and ridiculosity that prevails back “home” but that’s hardly any consolation. In any case, O my non-existant readers, QUICK GO OUT AND SPEND MONEY YOU AIN’T GOT ON SHIT NOBODY WANTS SO YOU CAN SHOW THEM HOW MUCH YOU CARE ABOUT THEM!!! Meh.

Aaaaaaaaanyway. The Main Insert jacks on my main mixer started giving me the shits so I said fuck both of y’all, yanked those bastards out and replaced ‘em with the new version of the jack and all is fucking well now. Better Soundcraft than Mackie, and better Anything than Mehringer.... Here’s some photos.

This is the offending party. The jacks in question are at the top right. As you can see, they’re a funky kind of Neutrik jack. Weird looking. Not the usual threaded metal receptacle that’s bolted to the front panel. Oh no, it would’ve been more expensive to go with actual threaded-metal-business-end jacks. These Neutriks have plastic jobbies that secure them to the front panel, which as you can see have a + looking indentation into which you insert a coin, and lefty loosey, “click” and off they come. Righty tighty “click” and on they go. I actually have two of these mixers, and I’m sure I posted about them before as I’ve had this same problem with the other mixer and ghetto-fixed that one. This one though, there was no ghetto-fixing, the jack was fucked, so I desoldered both insert jacks and slapped new equivalent Neutriks in there. Nice that they still make them.

I thought it odd that the jack that shat itself had already been circled with pencil. Seems I’m not the only person to have gone on a repair mission with this mixer. And get a load of the sloppy soldering on that other jack at lower left! Fucking hell, people... FLUX REMOVER!! EVER HEARD OF IT?! Slap me upside the face with a semi-sacrilegous salami on sunday.... Aaaargh! Anyway it’s fixed and working perfectly now.

In other news I picked up a weirdo little ancient Fostex 4-channel mixer with a built-in compressor, thinking I’d use it as a sub-mixer for snares from my various drum machines. It’s an MN-15. This one has the four RCA line inputs NOT run to the comp, only the single 1/4” mic/line input gets processed. Hmpf! The newer MN-50 though, seems that one is a re-design, which sends everything through the comp. Well then. I thought I’d just re-route the outs of the four input channels to the in leg of the mic/line slider and that’d be that.

The folks at Fostex are nice as fuck! The PCBs are very clearly labelled! But in the end, it isn’t working exactly as I thought. If you have any of the four channel faders zeroed, the signal cuts out entirely. I mean even if you zero out a channel that has nothing connected to it, the whole works gets silenced. Weird! But! If they’re raised even a smidge, everything works fine. Maybe there’s a ground plane separation I missed. In any case.... for the time being it’s been shelved.

Arturia DrumBrute Impact in da haus. This guy’s been hanging out here for about a month now. The more I play with it the more I like it. Yeah. They really did quite a good job with this. I noodled with the original DrumBrute in a shop but it was a bit too big and the sounds didn’t really do it for me, so I was a bit skeptical about the Impact at first. I thought it was just a smaller, trimmed down version with a madeover front panel and new color scheme but yeah nope. The sounds are really good, the sequencer is loads of fun and quite flexible, all around I’m very satisfied with this little bastard. If I have to say what I don’t like about it, well, the snare needs a bit more punch, and it would be awesome if the knob positions were memorized with each pattern (like the MFB-503 does). Otherwise, it’s a keeper for sure. Oh and this...

That right there is the most beautifulest distortion pedal I done ever laid eyes on. Sounds awesome as fuck too. Man I love this one. The visual element is simply astounding, mesmerizing even. Icing on the cake. Such a fantastic pedal. Currently I’ve got the Volca Nubass run through it, and fuck me sideways do those two get along like a house on fire in a thunderstorm. Perfect pairing. AAAAND....

That happened. Well I got it on extended loan from a friend who was letting it collect dust. I totally can’t afford to buy it outright. Maybe we can work out a paymebt plan. Synth rent-to-own or some shit. Haha! Yeah yeah. Anyway I had a Synth Lite II a while ago, and it was neat but noisy, and had no white noise so I modded it (I’m sure if you look waaaaaaaay back I posted about it here). Dunno why I sold it but I did. This mofo though, yikes. Welcome to Minimoog territory. Well, same neighborhood anyway. 3 VCO POWER!! Ring Mod and Sync too, as well as filter FM and the famous feedback loop, built in. The sequencer is a pain to get your head around but is useful. Through effects, like any other synth, it enters a whole new realm. Speaking of effects...

I have it run through this. As a synth, the nutekt is a fun thing to noodle around on, but with a stereo audio input and three simultaneous effects (mod, delay and reverb, with a number of variations of each), using it as an effects processor is a no-brainer. It is clean as fuck too. Personal favorite is ensemble, ping pong delay, and submarine reverb (which is like anti-shimmer, the pitch-shifted reverb is an octave lower instead of higher). Lots of fun.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

[seenashwrite]

12 Days

Status: Complete Word Count: 4.7K Category: One-shot; Humor; Holidays; Christmas; Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant; Fluffersnark Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Sam, Cas, You, special guest stars Warnings: None Author’s Note(s): Merry Christmas ya filthy animals; let’s use some tropes for good not evil; don’t sweat the word count, a good chunk of it is listing things (you’ll see); more post-story Overall Summary: It’s twelve days until Christmas, business is slow, but boredom has been chased away by the arrival of some very special gifts for two very deserving hunters.

1.

It started on the thirteenth, which - as all supernaturally-inclined people know - is a harbinger of doom. But Dean didn't see it that way, at least, not at first. Neither his hackles nor his suspicions were raised, and why would they be?

Sam pointed out that they should be, given the lack of postage or a “from” on the fancy tag attached to the fancy box with the fancy bow.

Here was the thing, though: pie.

The smell was heavenly; well, as heaven ought to smell, as far as Dean was concerned. And it should taste of whiskey. And it should sound of classic rock and classic engines. And it should feel of broken-in leather seats - hell, even just broken-in flannel. Anyone who knew Dean would presume such, and they would be correct.

And there, now, atop a library table, was a little piece of heaven. The tag had a "1" drawn on it in ornate calligraphy, a TO DEAN just under, and when opened, a charming drawing of the best of desserts, more fanciful handwriting proclaiming: A Fresh Homemade Apple Pie.

"Whoa," said Dean.

"Hmmm," said Sam.

It was beautiful, it was exquisite, it was delicious, and Dean ate it straight from the box, demolished it, nothing but crumbs in just under an hour.

"You don't think this is a bit weird?" Sam asked, watching as his brother leaned back with a contented sigh.

Dean brought his eyes to Sam's, then rolled them. "Our life is weird. Anyway, I know exactly who this is from - it's about trying to make up for that fight we had last week."

"Hmmm," said Sam.

Again.

2.

The next day, there were two boxes - the first was identical to the the prior day's, from packaging to content. The second was wrapped in kind, only bigger, the tag sporting "2", and featuring a tiny inking of brightly-colored shirts, though this time the tag read TO DEAN & SAM. Inside were plaid flannel button-downs, one for each of them, perfectly sized, in exactly the colors they would have chosen.

Dean was pleased, goaded Sam into trying his on; he begrudgingly admitted it was nice. But he had a question, so he asked it.

"I don’t get it - why? I mean, including me, if this is about your fight?"

Dean shrugged. "Got me. Who cares? I'm up for getting my ass kissed six ways to Sunday - if she wants to run The Twelve Days of Christmas gambit, she can knock herself out."

"Technically, the twelve days should start after----"

Dean interrupted as he picked up the box with the pie. "Before, after - I can handle twelve days of this whenever. So? You in this time?"

3.

Outside the bunker door on this day were three boxes: first, pie; the next, shirts; and the newest elicited a gasp from its recipient. TO DEAN, read the tag, Three Rocking Tapes. And there, just as the little drawing had shown, were three mix tapes full of his favorite songs, and his favorite songs only, no filler, no B-sides. He would soon find that one of the tapes was strictly live recordings, and the tunes were as crisp as if time had been rolled back briefly so as to capture the melodies in HD, sounding as if he were right there in the front row.

Dean put on his new flannel, stuffed his pants pockets with the tapes, snatched up the pie, and scurried to his room without another word. Or a fork. Or a napkin.

Sam sighed, and then he put away the shirts.

4.

Brought into the library were four packages - one pie, two shirts, three tapes, and now a box which held tiny bottles of top-shelf liquor. Four Shots Of Whiskey declared the tag, and Sam would swear that Dean erupted in what one could’ve interpreted as a squeal. A very manly one, naturally. 

It tasted wonderful, according to Dean, and he thought to offer Sam the fourth after pounding the first three. Sam tried it, happened to agree, and he drank his shot as Dean hacked into the latest pie.

An odd look crossed his face.

“What?” asked Sam.

Dean shook himself out of it. “Nothing. She tweaked the recipe, I guess.”

Sam nodded, set his empty bottle with the rest, but before he began to gather the shirts, he asked another question:

“Didn’t she always say she hated to cook?”

5.

Dean was singing under his breath as he tied his robe a little tighter, then opened the door. “It’s the most wonderful time of the---- Whoa!”

He’d yelled so loudly that Sam came rushing out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “What is it? What’s wr---- Wow.”

The morning had brought with it one pie, two shirts, three tapes, four whiskeys, and there, on a very large, very heavy box, a tag reading TO SAM.

As he flipped the tag open, he said, “I think she’s doing it wrong, I don’t think each gift is supposed to be repeated every----” Sam cut himself off with a massive intake of air once he saw it:

FIVE BOOKS OF LORE!

They were old, slightly yellowed, smelled ancient, and Dean wrinkled his nose, but Sam inhaled deeply, and his eyes sparkled as he laid each of the books out on the table almost reverently.

“These…. are…. AMAZING.” He looked to Dean, excited. “They’re really rare, I’ve been looking for a couple of these for forever!” A pause. “Something wrong with the shirts?”

Dean had opened the package, and was staring into it with a perplexed expression; he held up a sleeve for Sam to see.

“This look pink to you?”

6.

A hunt had taken the duo away from the bunker overnight, and on the front steps the evening of the sixth day, waiting for them to return, were: one pie, two shirts, three tapes, four whiskeys, five books, and six bags of salt.

“That woulda been useful last night,” Dean muttered.

“It was a big body,” Sam commented.

“He was a whale!” Dean snapped.

Sam frowned. “Why don’t you eat some pie and calm down.”

Dean grumbled something unintelligible.

“Huh?” Sam asked.

Dean didn’t answer, but did continue to grumble as they brought the salt bags - and the rest - inside.

“Will you please just tell me what’s wrong?” Sam tried again.

Dean sighed, and said, “Yesterday’s pie was… off.”

“Define ‘off’,” said Sam.

“It was really… I dunno, sour, or something.”

“Maybe it was a different kind of apple.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, now you’ll be used to it, if it’s in today’s.”

“You assume I’m gonna try today’s.”

Sam gave Dean a look.

Dean returned it in kind - then he shrugged, picked up the pie, turned to go to his room, thought better of it, turned around, and grabbed the whiskey, too.

7.

A suspect stomach prevented Dean from seeing the newest batch of presents until Sam had brought most of it down into the war room, the flush of a toilet echoing down the hallway heralding his arrival, and he stood by the stairs, watching as the job was completed.

“Nice of you to join the party,” Sam said with a grunt, depositing the last box onto the map table.

Dean studied his sweaty brother. “Why’re you so-----”

“Because, look,” Sam said, pointing.

The bags of salt had increased in size, tripling, in fact, from the few modest pounds the day prior; even for Sam, it was quite the haul. That made: six bags of salt, five books of lore, four whiskey shots, three rocking tapes, two flannel shirts, and a fresh homemade apple pie.

“Fresh, my ass!” Dean practically screamed at the package. But then his attention went to the newest arrival. “You or me?” he asked.

“You do it,” Sam replied, flopping into a chair, hair flopping out of his eyes as he did so.

Dean looked at the tag and grinned. “Ah-ha. Lucky you. Hopefully this time it’s something we can both----” Scanning further, he cut himself off, raised his eyebrows. “Welp. At least there’s the whiskey.” He gestured to the box as he took his own seat. “All yours.”

TO SAM ~ Seven Healthy Smoothies

As Sam removed the ornate wrapping and began to open the box, he jostled it, and his eyes met Dean’s briefly at the sound of clinking glass. He began removing the smoothies and setting them in a line. All seven were cool to the touch, all in crystal goblets, all piled high and with a dusting of peppermint flakes on top, all ready-to-drink due to the thoughtfully-included straws.

And all were an interesting shade of slightly neon green.

“It’s… festive,” Sam finally said, after several beats of silence.

“So? You gonna try it?” Dean asked, caution in his voice, a hand reflexively coming up to rub his belly.

“I dunno - you really think the pie made you sick? The pie itself - not the fact that you’ve been killing off a whole one every day for a week now?” Sam asked pointedly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Then try it.”

“All right,” Sam replied, and picked one up, brought it to his nose for a sniff and, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t toxic in that regard, took a tiny sip. He grinned. He sipped more. He grinned more. And then he removed the straw and began to gulp it down. When he lowered the glass and his line of sight was clear, he found Dean eyeing him.

“Really?” Dean asked.

“It’s great!” Sam exclaimed, picking up another. “I gotta ask her for the recipe! Hey, have you talked to her at all? To say you’re sorry?”

“I’m not sorry,” Dean replied, smug, and stood - pausing briefly as his gut let out a horrific moan - then took the box with the tapes and retreated to his room.

Sam huffed, and shouted after him. “You’re not gonna help me with all this salt?!”

8.

“You need to call her.”

Dean and Sam were standing near a bookshelf, watching the box, both jumping in sync, startled when the shaking started up again.

“No.”

“Then go open it.”

“You open it.”

“Yesterday’s was for me, this one is probably----”

“It may be for both of us----”

“I can see your name on the tag from here!”

Rock, paper, scissors ensued.

Dean lost.

He flicked open his pocket knife as he walked to the table. The box suddenly went still when he gingerly raised the tag with the tip of the knife. “I can’t read what it says,” he told Sam.

“You could if you actually opened it!” Sam replied, growing annoyed.

“Fine, I’ll open it!” Dean declared, and used the knife to draw a large slit through the paper, enough to where he could get the flaps of the box open.

“I meant the tag--- oh, never mind,” said Sam.

Dean stood there staring down into box for so long that Sam finally walked over - and he found himself staring, as well, once he came to a stop by Dean.

The contents of the box were glowing.

Along with the seven healthy smoothies, six bags of salt, five books of lore, four whiskey shots, three rocking tapes, two flannel shirts, and a fresh homemade apple pie, it appeared the Winchesters were now the owners of eight canning jars, based upon the two rows of four metal caps, jars with minuscule holes pierced into the lids, jars whose contents pulsed gently with a warm amber light.

Rock, paper, scissors ensued.

Sam lost.

Dean backed away.

Sam reached in, removed a jar, snickered, then turned to show Dean that there, trapped inside the glass, was a fast-chirping, hard-glowing, wings-vibrating, bird-shooting, larger-than-usual-size, very pissed-off little lady.

Dean’s eyes grew wide. “But why?” he whispered.

Sam read the tag aloud. “TO DEAN - Eight Angry Fairies.” Then he burst into laughter.

“Sure, real funny!” Dean said with a sneer. “This is a total bitch move, even for her!”

Sam laughed harder. “We only have one microwave - you gonna go for the oven this time? What do you think, about three-fifty for a half-hour should do it, huh?” He set down the jar, still chuckling as he moved to the box containing his smoothies, took one out.

“You still have some in the fridge!” said Dean, coming back to the table, but hesitating briefly when the fairy threw herself against the inside of the jar, rocking it and causing a puff of sugarplum-scented glitter to waft into the air. He quickly picked it up by the lid - using his fingertips only - and deposited her back with her friends, closing the flaps for good measure.

Sam continued unpacking, said, “I know, but I wanted to see if she’d done anything new to these.” He took a sip, closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up as it slipped down his throat.

“And?”

“They still taste great. Better, even. How’s the pie been?”

“Didn’t finish yesterday’s, it was mushy.”

“Mushy?”

“Yeah, mushy!” Dean exclaimed. “Why do you care?”

“Jeez, Dean! I’m just making conversation!”

“And the tapes suck, too, before you ask!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first day they were great, and the second day, and then all of a sudden hair band rock started sneaking in----”

“You like----”

“NO, not ALL of it, and then there was grunge----”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh, and you know what was on the last one? Right in the middle of ‘Black Betty’? Friggin’ Bieber!”

Sam went back to laughing. “This is too good, you get what she’s doing, right? She’s telling you she’s not sorry, either!” 

Dean began to sulk, and Sam went back to drinking the smoothie, both still doing so when Castiel came into the room.

After a brief frown at the pile of salt bags - once more having increased in poundage since the last batch - he asked about all the packages. They explained. The frown returned.

“So you haven’t been helping her in any way, at all?” Dean asked.

“No,” replied Castiel, picking up a fairy jar and studying it. “I wager someone is, however, based upon the books Sam is receiving, and based upon these specimens - they’re quite reclusive and quite aggressive, that she managed to locate eight is… impressive.” He returned the jar to the box and turned to Sam. “Have the books continued to be rare tomes?”

Sam swallowed the most recent mouthful of his lime-hued treat, and answered, “In a way - they’ve all been different, and nothing we already have, but…. it’s just….”

Dean and Castiel raised their eyebrows, prompting him.

“Well, a few have been about cryptids, some about urban legend type stuff, things that she knows aren’t true. Maybe it’s some filler, since she’s having to come up with so many of them, or something.”

“And today’s?” asked Castiel.

“Open it up and see, if you want,” answered Sam, and Castiel did so.

“These are hardback copies of first-edition Chuck Shurley stories,” he said.

Sam just barely managed to avoid a spit-take. “This is great!” he choked out.

“Laugh it up, ass,” Dean shot back, and tore into the box with the shirts. He groaned. He yanked them out, threw them on the table, greeted with more of the same ol’, same ol’. Sort-of. Their sizes, yes; flannel, yes; pleasant-colored-plaid, no. They were patterned in pastel flowers.

A thought striking, he ran to his room, came back with a boombox, tested out the tapes. They were indeed classic rock. The elevator music version. Dean was fuming. The box of whiskey still held liquor, and it was still whiskey, though just a taste told him it was no longer top-shelf; not swill, but definitely well.

And then there was the pie.

Once the seal was broken, the smell was an assault, something sharp and pungent, all three men muttering “ugh” and “oof” and “ew”, and when Dean set it on the table, it made a belching sound, the slightly burnt crust sinking down, a thick grey ooze seeping out and over the edge of the dish.

“Man, she’s really nailing you, Dean!” Sam cried, laughing so hard this time that tears came to his eyes, and he had to sit down, Dean’s glare doing nothing to stop him, and when he settled, he was finishing off the last of his drink when Castiel directed a question his way.

“Why are you consuming pureed elf?”

9.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Sam.

He held up one of the shoes. A left shoe, because they were all lefts. He had been gifted, according to the tag, Nine Missing Shoes.

Dean ran a hand over his face. “They’re not actively trying to kill us. Can we not look a gift horse, here?”

Sam tossed the shoe back into the box. “Let’s get started.”

Castiel had advised the fairies be kept in the dungeon - in their tightly sealed jars, of course - until he could determine what best to do with them. Dean and Sam, meanwhile, had a plan for the rest. Seven smoothies, flushed away. Six salt bags, piled in storage (after all, it would eventually get used). Five books, after being screened for usefulness, taken to recycling. Four whiskeys, after being tasted for quality, down the drain. Three tapes, after being checked for listen-a-bility, crushed underfoot. Flannel shirts, if not of plaid or plain flannel, donated. And as for the pie, into a trash bag it would go.

Their mission took the entire day, and after they pulled back into the garage and Dean cut the engine, he turned to Sam. “I think she’s trying to say something about bad luck.”

“With the shoes?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. “Maybe she’s trying to say that it’s like the other stuff - nothing bad at first, but get ready, it’s coming.”

“Can you just… just get over it, and call her? I’m afraid she’s messing with some bad stuff, if she’s getting into cursed objects all because of a stupid misunderstanding---”

“I have tried, okay?! It kept going to voicemail, all last night, and when I tried earlier, it was disconnected!”

Sam blanched. “We need to do a locator spell, or get Cas to find her - she could be in real trouble, Dean.”

“She’s not in trouble, she’s being a dick,” Dean spat, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him - and then he froze.

Sam climbed out, followed Dean’s gaze, and he was stunned - there, near the steps leading back into the bunker, was every gift they’d just disposed of, stacked and wrapped, not a bow out of place. They shared a serious look, then spoke at the same time.

“I’m getting the ingredients!” Sam announced.

“I’m getting Cas!” Dean announced.

The locator spell did not work, and the brothers, defeated, went to bed, but fell asleep with faith in their hearts, with faith in their angel friend, who was, at that very moment, out looking for the source of the mischief which had fallen upon them.

However.

They knew he was having no success when they were awoken at the same time in the middle of the night by footsteps running down the hallway. Sleepiness initially impacted aim, but a baker’s dozen of rounds later, and the shoes had been brought to a halt. The pair of gun-wielding, mussed-hair, pajama’d hunters looked upon the pile of hole-filled sneakers at their socked feet.

“Heh. Lucky thirteen,” said Dean.

Sam just looked at him.

“Thirteenth try’s the charm?” Dean suggested.

Sam rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to bed.

“‘This is too good, Dean!’ ‘This is great, Dean!’ ‘She’s really nailing you, Dean!’” Dean muttered in a high-pitched, mocking tone as he shuffled off to his bedroom. A squeak from behind caused him to whip around, fire a shot into the side of a shoe which had weakly tried to make a run for it. Its laces went lax.

Dean made sure to reload before his head met his pillow.

10.

A not-so-fresh homemade rotted-apple pie. Two lavender, paisley-patterned flannel shirts. Three rocking tapes filled with “Rock-A-Bye-Baby”, karaoke-style, by a singer who sounded a great deal like William Shatner. Four rancid whiskey shots. Five Hardy Boys books. Six twenty-pound sacks of salt. Seven pureed elf smoothies, with what appeared to be fingernails sprinkled on top. Eight angry fairies, whose flailing was beginning to crack the glass. Nine missing shoes, which squeaked out whines despite not making contact with the floor.

And now, ten tiny bubbling cauldrons of putrid purple, Ten Witches’ Fluids, all for Dean.

“I hate her,” Dean said.

“No, you don’t,” Sam said.

“I’m gonna kill her,” Dean said.

“No, you won’t,” Sam said.

11.

Dean crouched down, jaw dropped, putting himself on eye-level with the intricately-carved case, fixated on the row of eleven clown marionettes. He poked one in the tummy with his index finger. They all began to sway and giggle maniacally.

“Yep,” he said. “Eleven clowns-a-dancing.”

“Nope,” Sam said, and he fished his lighter from his pocket, then held it between his teeth as he began to drag one of the massive bags of salt toward the table. He managed to tear the corner of it open, spilling salt everywhere, scooping up two handfuls and stomping to the creepy diorama.

Dean shook himself out of distraction and stood in between his adrenaline-fueled brother and the newest gift. “What are you---- no, Sam, NO!”

Sam threw the salt in the direction of the snickering puppet nightmare anyway, but the lighter now resided in a tightly-clutched fist. “WHY NOT?!” he bellowed in response, his neck - his entire face - flushed.

“You wanna do a salt-and-burn inside? Are you insane?”

“SHE’S insane! Why would she do this, what have I ever done to her?!”

“Oh, because I deserve this? Because I’ve done something to her?!”

Sam was livid, and he’d be lying if he said a good portion of it wasn’t from fear. “What was the fight about?”

“Whadda you care?”

Now it was Sam’s jaw that dropped, and he wordlessly gestured to the clowns; they tittered and chanted “Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam!” in acknowledgment.

Dean sighed. “She got pissed because when she met up with us to help out, I said… look, she’s real independent, I get it, and I get that she’s been hunting a long time, but not as long as we have, and….”

“What. Did. You. Do,” Sam asked, voice low, teeth grit.

“I maybe said… suggested… that she hang back a little, because… well, you remember her leg? The time before last? When she wasn’t paying attention, and that rugaru shoved her into that rusty junk at the scrapyard? How nasty it was? How much she cried, I mean, I’ve never seen her cry, and...”

Sam crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find his next words, and when he did, they came out in a burst. “She could've gotten tetanus!”

Sam looked at Dean in disbelief. “Do you like her-like her?”

Dean gave him a look. “Are we in grade school? What the hell does----”

Sam quite possibly gasped. “You do.” Now he took a few steps in Dean’s direction, quite possibly poised to punch. “I heard you talking to her about staying safe, and giving her tips she doesn’t need, but you’re the reason she cut out early, aren’t you? You went and pulled a bunch of ‘Hey sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself hurt, I’ll protect you’ crap, didn’t you?”

Dean’s silence was all the confirmation that was needed.

Sam shook his head, began backing away, pointing to the clowns. “Burn them!” he hissed, then continued in reverse out of the room, not turning his back on the pile of presents til he was halfway down the hall.

12.

So it was, on the twelfth day of Christmas, the exhausted and gut-churned brothers now had in their possession:

A troupe of tiny clowns who wouldn’t shut up; a now-quarantined med room because of witch fluid corroding anything in its path; shoes that screamed as they pounded against the door of the room into which they’d been thrown; a dungeon filled with escaped, definitely rabid fairies; a stopped-up sink of viscous elf; a storage room stacked with overflowing bags of salt that trickled into the hall; a kitchen table filled with bottom-barrel whiskey; a crate with un-spooled tapes that would re-spool each night; racks filled with garish flannels; and taking over the refrigerator, worm-laden apple pies.

"It's the 24th. That's it," whispered Sam.

"What could that mean for tomorrow? Since it'll officially be Christmas?" Dean whispered back.

Sam turned to him, seriousness coating his posture, his expression, his tone. "It means we should be the hell out of town."

Dean grabbed Sam by his jacket, eyes wild. "She’ll find us! It doesn't matter where we go! Cas is still out there looking for her, but he’s never gonna find her!"

“She doesn’t want to be found. And I know why. I know what I did,” Sam said.

A barely-there vroom prompted them to look warily upon the twelve glossy, innocent-seeming toys in the long, narrow box. Dean let loose of Sam, and then he snatched the tag off the box - TO DEAN ~ Twelve Classic Cars - ripped it in two, and tossed the scraps to the side. Not that it would do anything but it felt good. 

“So, what? What do you think? Will it help us get out of this mess?” he asked.

“I don’t know, because how am I supposed to apologize?” Sam asked in reply, and then he said, “I heard you being all patronizing with your hunter 101 tips, at the motel. I was right there, and I didn’t speak up. I could’ve changed the subject or pulled you aside and told you to lay off. That’s what I did - what I didn’t do.”

Dean grew solemn. “So that’s what I was being? Patronizing?”

Sam nodded. “You’d wouldn’t talk that way to me. I mean, you want me safe - I want you safe - and you sure as hell tell me when you disagree with me, but... you’d never make it seem like… like…”

“Like if you got hurt on a hunt, it’d be because you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. I think... I think all she needs to know is that you believe in her, and you’ve got her back.”

“And how I think she’s pretty freaking badass,” Dean added. “Because, I do.”

They stood silently for a few moments. Twelve tinny horns honked. They looked to the cars.

“Curse box?” asked Sam.

“Curse box,” confirmed Dean.

The curse box, while sturdy and appropriately chanted over, was - apparently - on holiday, as it were.

It was midnight when Sam was jolted awake by his door slamming against the wall, Dean jumping on his bed so hard it nearly rolled him onto the floor with the rebound. He immediately pulled his gun from under his pillow when he saw Dean’s shocked expression, the shotgun in his hands, aimed somewhere at the floor. Then he noted twelve pairs of headlights, heard twelve revving engines.

And eleven cackling clowns.

And nine pounding steps.

And eight flapping wings.

The clock on the bedside table flipped to 12:01.

Despite everything, Dean grinned. “Merry Christmas,” he said with a pump of the shotgun.

The grin was returned. “Merry Christmas,” replied Sam with a click of the hammer.

You leaned back, moving your legs to the side as Chuck took his seat, then passed two of the small popcorn containers he carried to you and Amara.

“Extra salt?” you asked.

“Got you covered,” he said in reply; to Amara, he said, “And there’s M&Ms, too, Sis."

“Oooooh, yes,” she responded happily.

“What’d I miss?” asked Chuck.

“Round one just started,” you answered, then ate a mouthful of the best popcorn ever created.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask - did you want some elf poltergeists in the pipes?” Amara inquired.

You shook your head. “No, this is good. I think they learned their lesson. Besides, I’m glad they’re having some fun.” You pointed to the large movie screen at the front of the empty theater. “Look at those faces.”

“Pure bliss,” she agreed. “And I must say, you’re very creative.”

“Not really,” you said with a little laugh. “I just thought: how do I show them that even the best hunters can get wrapped up in a crazy situation? How sometimes it’s just bad luck? And that the last thing that’s helpful is to be babied about it? Plus, well, ‘tis the season of giving.”

“So do you think you’ll go for it with Dean, now that you’ve got some inside scoop?” asked Chuck.

“Ah. Well. What do you guys think I should do?”

“Can’t answer that,” Amara said.

“Free will’s the name of the game,” Chuck said.

“Fair enough,” you said.

A few moments of chewing on the parts of all parties, then:

“He’s a great kisser,” Amara offered.

“I wrote him to be fantastic in bed,” Chuck added.

You gulped, then coughed. “Good to know,” you croaked.

Chuck smiled. “Who says we don’t answer prayers?”

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

Author’s Note #2: I know I took liberties with the 12 days dates, hope you don’t mind too terribly much 😉

Author’s Note #3: My trope comment means: Dean likes pie? Are you sure?! and Sam loves THE LORE?! OMG! and on and on and on, which often... often... offfften... we (and yes, I’m pointing fingers at myself, too!) beat into the ground in our stories. I thought I’d attack some of those. And granted, they attacked back.

Behold, the summoning of The Nashooligans:

  @butiaintgonnaloveem @impandagrl @waywardjoy @jalove-wecallhimdean @jame-sbarnes @just-another-busy-fangirl @amanda-teaches @fanforfanatic @salt-n-burn-em-all @idreamofhazel @cyrilconnelly @rozadolphin @theblackharrystyles @carryonmycobaltangel @ilsawasanacrobat @klaineaholic @helvonasche @ericaprice2008 @amionthetumbler @tankcupcakes @littlegreenplasticsoldier @emlostinwonderland @michellethetvaddict @theoriginalvicki @ellen-reincarnated1967 @copperseraphim  @mrswhozeewhatsis​  @crowleylovesyou  @bumbleball13  @anticipate1003  @sixtysevenandwhiskey @raspberrymama  @lastactiontricia  @babypieandwhiskey  @winchesterprincessbride   @gripmetight-raisemefromperdition   @roseblue373   @waterfeenix137   @thisismysecrethappyplace  @fandomismyspirit  @thedevilinthedetails​  @rainflowermoon

[lemon-verbena-writes]

Some notes on A/B/O, how I use it, and other thoughts on the genre.

This post is inspired by @pools-of-venetianblue‘s wonderful comment [link] on love like blood, and I quote heavily from it here; she had such well-thought-out commentary, I wanted to include it here. Anything quote-blocked is hers; my responses are formatted normally. 

I wanted a chance to discuss how I use A/B/O, and how others use it, and some other aspects of my fics, and this seemed like a good way to share that. I’ve put a read-more cut in about halfway through, because this ended up becoming very long. I think we all know that I’m a bit prone to long, though!

Your writing is stunning - the prose is gorgeous, poetic, and flows so well. You build the tension between Robin and Cormoran perfectly (and how are they both so in-character in such a different universe??? genius). And the angst... god, you are so good at drawing out that emotional pain until it physically hurts - and it made the moment where these two idiots finally give in and talk about their feelings so cathartic and satisfying.

Honestly, I left this bit in because I love flattery :) Also, I wanted to say that I’m so happy the angst was successful in making the feelings reveal both emotional and satisfying! I often find that I can draw out the emotions for ages, then when it comes time to wrap things up, I don’t know quite how to make it happen. So I’m very happy it worked!  

In anyone else's hands, this trope could be a giant disaster, reinforcing sexist ideas about the sex and gender stereotypes - but you have handled it really well, showing the characters themselves struggling with the demands of the trope. Robin fighting against her biology, refusing to give in to its demands by asserting her subjectivity and her right to pursue the life that she wants - and her need to know for sure that what she has with Corm is more than biology, that it is her, Robin that he loves, and vice-versa, is absolutely wonderful - and I am living for her acceptance that their hearts, minds, and bodies are all in sync. I really hope she gets to a place where she can integrate/accept being an omega while still not letting it dictate the way she chooses to live her life (and thank god that she's found Cormoran who genuinely loves her brilliance and would never want her to change). And while I feel like Robin's struggle really is the emotional core of the story, Cormoran's angst about feeling like he doesn't live up to what Robin 'deserves' in an alpha, and coming to accept that it's actually about what she wants, and she wants him (at least I think that's where you're going with it??), complements it really well.

Again, you flatter me! The fact that this all came through makes me feel very successful as a writer, because these are complex things to depict in ways that aren’t ham-handed. Also, this is what I love about writing A/B/O: the ways that you can exaggerate the internal feelings with an external mechanism, so that not only do the characters get to have all their canonical feelings and struggles, but there’s an additional layer of biological issues. Robin not only has to deal with being single, she has to deal with having heats; Cormoran’s not only attracted to Robin, but he can smell her, and her emotions, and her need for him, and still he feels the need to deny it. It’s a way to make things both easier and harder! And you may have noticed, I do love to torture my characters, and draw out the emotional pain while giving them physical satisfaction.  

All the things @pools-of-venetianblue touches on here are things I wanted to convey in my writing, and I’m glad it worked. There are many, many ways to write A/B/O, as many ways as there are authors. Every author uses it in a different way; in my writing group, there’s one author who writes A/B/O because it gives them a path to male pregnancy (”mpreg”), by making male characters Omegas. Other writers enjoy writing dubious consent, which Heats can provide, while still leaving room for eventual HEA and explicit consent. A/B/O has room for so many tropes, including things many people find upsetting or gross, such as rape/non-consent, gang-rape, animalistic traits beyond knots, and unbalanced power play. But at the same time, it can be a way to write m/m pairings having happy biological families, mpreg, nesting, and tooth-rotting fluff. It’s up to each author the directions that the A/B/O goes.

Like any collection of tropes, A/B/O contains multitudes. The ways I choose to use it are my own, and other authors will use other aspects in other combinations. I choose not to use many of “darker” tropes, like extreme possessiveness or total loss of consent, and I don’t usually dwell in the more visceral aspects of the biology, like the desire to impregnate. (That’s what knots are meant to be for; they hold the semen inside the Omega’s body, in order to have a better chance of impregnation. Some authors use this mechanism heavily; sometimes Heats will guarantee pregnancy, some A/B/O worlds have multiple births as a matter of course, triplets and more. But those don’t appeal to me, so I don’t use them! Others do. It’s all a matter of preference.)

Going back to what @pools-of-venetianblue says at the top of the paragraph: “this trope could be a giant disaster, reinforcing sexist ideas about the sex and gender stereotypes...” I choose to use aspects of A/B/O that suit my preferences, but other people enjoy the sex and gender stereotypes. They’re writing them on purpose, not by accident, and they generally know they’re not good things! (They wouldn’t know to tag them if they didn’t know they were bad things that needed to be warned for, right?) But they want to explore the ideas, and that doesn’t make them bad people or bad writers. The important thing to know about A/B/O, or any fic really, is that it’s not always about being good feminists and smashing barriers, etc. I fully support those things! But fanfic isn’t always about that; sometimes it’s about satisfying the weird parts of your id that wants things you know are bad/wrong/gross, but fascinate you anyway. 

There’s nothing wrong with that. It took me a long time to come to the realization that just because I sometimes enjoying writing things like dubious consent (that almost always becomes explicit consent) it doesn’t make me a bad person. In real life, dubious consent is bad! But this is fanfic, and I can explore the interesting-but-bad things in a safe context. I would never want to be in a dubcon situation in real life, but I can enjoy writing about it and exploring the character’s feelings and reactions in fic, where it’s not real.  

But at the same time the A/B/O thing isn't just a trope to subvert, it's also vital to the power of the fic, in that it takes their connection and compatibility and makes it material and visceral, letting you really amp up the desperation and euphoria in a way that wouldn't feel realistic in the canon universe - but which totally makes sense here. Oh, and it also lets you write really, really good smut. How is it so good? They have sex for like three chapters straight, but it's not repetitive at all?? How am I totally on board with this knotting thing, even though in any other context I find the idea super gross?? You're a smut genius.

Can I say again that I am SO VERY GLAD my absolutely gratuitous smut isn’t repetitive? I worry about it so much, but I just enjoy writing it so much that I do it anyway. Thank you for assuaging my fears on that count!

I do enjoy building the A/B/O into the fabric of the world! It’s one of those tropes which can be used to create an entirely different society, or can be integrated to our modern-day world, and either can work. I really enjoy fitting it in to our world; how would it work? What would be different? What would be the same?

I use A/B/O to, as @pools-of-venetianblue says here, “take their connection and compatibility and makes it material and visceral.” Their connection is the same, just more. Harder to deny, harder to resist, and ultimately inevitable. (Dear JK Rowling, it had better be inevitable! Who could write these characters and not see their relationship as inevitable? I digress.) 

My preferred tropes out of the collection that make up A/B/O are the ones that deeper and make physical the bonds that characters already have. 

So, to sum up, I have loved every single moment of this fic (and Comma as well!), and each new chapter absolutely makes my day. I probably still wouldn't ever read an A/B/O fic by any other author - but I absolutely will read anything and everything that you write in this fandom, no matter what genre or trope - this is that good. Thank you for writing this, I can't wait to see what you do next.

Again, the flattery, please know I love it and it’s working. 

P.S. How exactly does mating work? What are the effects? I'm really curious - I tried google but it wasn't particularly helpful. Do we get to find out in the next chapter? (PLEASE SAY YES)

Alright, mating. Again, something that different authors do differently. I’m not going to spoil either of my fics here, but I’m going to explain it, because sometimes people find it upsetting or gross and I don’t want to spring it on anyone. 

Generally, mating involves the Alpha biting the Omega hard enough to draw blood. There’s usually a gland for this; some universes, the scent gland, others have a specific mating gland for this exact purpose. (I have a mating gland in mine, because I prefer the mechanics of the mating and scent glands to be separate.) So in order to Mate someone, the Alpha bites the mating or scent gland hard enough to break the skin, leaving a scar which signifies the Bond to anyone who can see it. (The scent glands being scarred as a way to denoted who is Mated can sometimes be like wedding rings, an obvious indicator that someone is off the market.)

In  my universe, I haven’t discussed Beta biology much, but Betas are essentially us, no knots, no glands. They can’t sense as much of the information available through scent-glands, and wouldn’t be able to sense whether someone was in Heat/Rut without help. Betas cannot Mate anyone, because they don’t have the biological tools or imperative to. 

Cormoran leaves Robin lots of love-marks partially because of the Mating instinct; he is in Rut, and with an Omega he wants to Mate, so he bites down and uses his mouth, because his instincts tell him to. He doesn’t go for Robin’s mating gland because I don’t take away all of their higher brainpowers in bed, but he wants to, and instincts are hard to deny. (I also tie in the possessiveness here; it’s not all-consuming, but he’s... territorial about his Robin. That’s canon, though!)

I hope the mechanics of mating doesn’t upset anyone, but there it is.

Thank you to @pools-of-venetianblue for the wonderful comment and flattery, and for permission to re-use your words here, and to anyone who’s enjoyed my work and is curious enough to have read this entire thing. It’s terrifyingly long, but realistically, what do I write these days that isn’t? I hope this has been useful and illuminating for anyone who isn’t familiar with A/B/O, and everyone should feel free to ask me other questions you might have.

[seungcheolrk]

● CONVEX OCTOBER EVALUATION: THE BIG DAY !

OCTOBER 28TH, 2018 — CONVEX’S DEBUT @ OLYMPIC HALL, SEOUL PRESS CONFERENCE ( 5PM - 6PM ) & SHOWCASE ( 8PM - 9:30PM )

october overall feels kind of like that strange state between awake and asleep, late at night after practice when exhaustion has well and truly seeped into his muscles but his eyes just won’t close. having had time off last month for chuseok and as a reward for their hard work, seungcheol expected this month to be a hectic rush to scramble together plans and the last of a semblance of organisation in their pre-debut lives. in a way, it is, practices stressing the little details he still hasn’t nailed ahead of their first public performance as debuted idols. it is in the way he can’t sleep without waking up too many times to count in the week leading up to the showcase. it is in the concerned glances he keeps getting from other members and staff as he continues to stutter his way through sentences. 

blink and you’d miss the way the month flies by, leaving seungcheol trapped in his own head the night before the showcase despite having gone to the lotte world halloween celebrations in an attempt to tire himself out so much that even his wandering thoughts can’t keep him awake. it seems it doesn’t matter what he does, he can’t shake the nerves that tomorrow he’ll wake up and he’ll go to the press conference, the styling, the actual showcase and he won’t be choi seungcheol anymore — he’ll be a debuted idol, a member of convex. 

when he does wake up the next morning, a little groggy from lack of sleep ( though he imagines everyone is, because if you’re not worried about all this then you’re probably too excited to sleep instead ), he thinks there’s no possible way five o’clock could come any slower. their morning preparations feel like they’ll never end, though his comfortable turtleneck and blazer combo are a good choice for the tightness in his throat as he spots the table for the press conference through the curtains. there are more reporters than he can count on both hands and feet, but he supposes they are a sphere group and it’s been a hot minute since sphere debuted a brand new group. with luxe just debuting earlier this year, too, and a kt group coming at some point as well, he supposes there’s a certain attraction to all the new ‘competition’ between the top tier companies’ new generation idols. personally, he doesn’t understand it, but if it helps both groups get the attention they deserve, he won’t complain. 

it’s not exactly like how they practised last month. cameras distract his attention with each flash and click and he doesn’t recognise a single journalist in the way he recognised the stern curves of their coaches’ eyes and taut, emotionless lips. he doesn’t want to say anything, knowing that all that’s going to come out is a stumbled mess of mismatch syllables but he knows, too, that saying nothing is just as bad. he’d rather chance that people find his nerves admirable or endearing over thinking he’s rude or cold. or worse, ungrateful. so he answers one question about how excited but nervous they are, smiles so wide that his dimples dip into his cheeks and his long eyelashes flutter. he messes up almost every other word but he gets it out in the end and the stars in jihoon’s eyes down the table are enough to know he did well, all things considered. he swears to himself to answer more at their future comeback showcase, to try hard to answer smaller questions in the many interviews and shows they’ll take part in in the coming months to promote this debut, and that satisfies him for now. as much as he imagines the company might complain, he works best with baby steps, and perhaps with a group so large, it will go a little more unnoticed that seungcheol says so little at first. at all, it’s hard even for the chattier members to get a word in edgeways when the chattiest get going. 

they’re hidden behind closed doors for an hour after that, plenty of time for his heart to come down to its regular pace just in time to speed back up again as staff begin warning them of how much time is left to go. some say it with an urgency to their voice, clipboards in hand and headsets over their ears, the stress of everything going perfectly clearly spiking their blood pressure. but the stylists, those who don’t have trivial things like the brightness of the stage lights and whether or not the mics will work when the vocal team perform the first song of the night to worry about, their voices are full of wonder. wonder and enthusiasm and all the things he should be feeling know that his dream is only twenty-eight minutes away but instead, his stomach is filled with angry butterflies, desperate to escape their cage. he’s probably going to sweat off all his makeup before he even goes out on stage, but he lets the stylist continue covering the pimple on his chin diligently, quietly, because it’s safer to feign not knowing his fate should it hit him before the stress finishes him off. 

don’t get him wrong, though, he is excited — unbelievably so under all the pressure, but that’s just it. there’s so much riding on this hour and a half of his life, such a minuscule amount of time in his long, healthy lifespan, that it’s hard to enjoy it really. he knows he will once it’s over. he knows he’ll look out on the crowd once they’re doing their final introductions and goodbyes ( for now ) and he’ll feel immense pride and joy and everything in between because then all the scary parts are over. then, he’s made it. maybe not quite made it, but he’s gotten this far; he’s passed the worst of it. first impressions are important and it won’t matter if he’s perfect for the rest of the promotion cycle; he has to be perfect now. 

( he has to be perfect all the time, as per the woes of the idol life, but now especially. at least, it feels that way in the heat of the moment. ) 

he takes a deep breath, gulps down a mouthful of the water bottle thrust towards him in the crowd of members backstage. this is it, and he can hear the roar of a lively audience as the first vcr clip plays. 

it’s strange hearing familiar voices boomed out over the arena, and then moments later in the room around him. it’s strange hearing familiar names called out to prepare to enter the stage once the arena stereos fade to a dramatic silence. a familiar song, familiar vocals, everything feels so close yet so far. he knows all these people, knew these songs before anyone else out there in the audience did, yet he feels disconnected from it all, like he isn’t really here living it — like this is some kind of dream. it’s as if all his friends, new and old, are debuting around him and he’s a bystander, watching it all unfold, but he’s not. he’s part of this and he’s being ushered away to follow the vocal team on stage with their own unit song, the lights blinding as he walks out and the screams deafening as they get into position. 

but he can’t stay starstruck; he can’t think about how his parents are out there somewhere watching him ( probably crying, too ). even if he wants to, he can’t. he has a job to do and he has a stage to own the best he can and hell yes, he’s nervous, but this is where he feels the most at peace in the world. perhaps not in front of two and a half thousand people, the last time they did this having only been about two hundred or so, but still— the stage, swallowed by the music and the atmosphere, is where he belongs. 

when he raps, he doesn’t stutter even once. he’s practised ‘ah yeah’ enough times now that he could perform it in his sleep, even, but regardless, he exudes a confidence that whilst doesn’t embody the meaning of the word charisma, at least more than makes up for the shy mess he is off stage. anyone can see the difference between the strength he feels when he raps compared to his timid speaking nature and he can only hope that duality appeals to their audience. all he can ever really do in general is hope because he can’t change anything overnight. he can grow, though, so maybe, whatever it is their fans will be called one day, maybe they’ll come along for the ride. 

he pays enough attention to the other rappers to keep in sync with their movements as they ‘dance’ their loose choreography. he’s still grateful for it all these months later but their more relaxed coordination for this song is a blessing when mansae has so many steps and jumps that he’s always worried he’s going to land on someone’s toes or twist an ankle. he doesn’t have too many lines, too much to worry about perfecting, but what he does have, he executes with a precision only achieved by late nights in the studio and a demo playing through his headphones in the dorm when they get a little free time. once that same silence befalls the speakers, he exits the stage to allow the performance team to own it themselves. 

their first full group introduction of the night goes by with ease. he’s said ‘hello’ enough times in the last few days let alone lifetime not to mess it up, thought enough about how much he loves the song 20 to gush about it on park heejae’s command with only a few stutters every sentence. the mafia game is understandably a bit of a mess to his muddled brain, thirteen people far too many to keep up with as he stares wide-eyed at each of them accusing one another with fire in their eyes. ( it’s then that he realises why he’d gotten the nickname bunny from a fan whose post he’d read online after their pre-debut showcase, and he blushes just in time to be called out by one of the performance team as the mafia. ) the following retelling of all the memories they’ve made over the past year as convex ( he wonders if anyone out there realises how long this group has been in the works, how long he’s doubted he’d make it this far, but he supposes that ruins the illusion ) bring tears to his eyes. he doesn’t once cry, but he won’t deny getting teary-eyed as he recounts the time jihoon had surprised him with the news he’d be joining the group and that their long-time dream to debut together that felt so unrealistic would actually be coming true ( and again when tales of hyun pranking people are retold and he can’t hold in his laughter ). he feels so comfortable that he almost misses the cue to say a temporary goodbye so that the ‘mansae’ music video can play on the big screens for the first time before they gather to perform it moments after. he wonders if it’s really that fun to hear a song twice in a row like that, but he soon realises how stupid that sounds when he himself is guilty of listening to new songs on repeat for hours the day they come out. he hopes people will do that with ‘mansae’ tomorrow when the album is finally available to buy and stream. as always, he hopes. 

it’s not the first time they’ve performed their debut mini albums’ tracks, and certainly not the last, but it still feels like both of those kinds of ultimatums in one. most of his peace has gone by the time they’re in formation and the first beat hits, but he doesn’t think about it at risk of losing more. he doesn’t really think about anything, honestly. he lets his mind blank a little, listens to the backing track and his friends’ voices so to know when to jump, when to kick his foot across the floor and when the time comes for his own lines. 

blink and you’d miss the way the minutes fly by, leaving seungcheol’s chest rising and falling and his heart pounding at what feel like a hundred miles an hour. the night’s coming to an end as they introduce themselves one last time, make a loud promise to work their hardest for all the fans and for the equally as hardworking staff that helped make all of this a reality — that helped their dreams all come true. 

and at the end of the day, when he curls into bed with exhaustion deep in his bones as always, he drifts away the moment his head hits the pillow. debut day complete. now? who knows what the future holds, but he’s ready. they’re ready. 

happy debut, convex; may the force be with you. 

[xbarrjallenx]

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Pairing: Ethan Dolan x Reader

Gender: Female

Summary: Ethan was going to Australia with Grayson, but his girlfriend couldn’t come with them. 

Song reference: Leaving On A Jet Plane - John Denver

Word count: 1.986

Posted: 23rd of February 2018

A/N: Two updates in just a day, yaaay! Anyway, I had this idea last Saturday, before the twins left for Australia, but I had too many things to do and I finished writing it last night. I hope that you like it and one with Grayson is almost on its way.  I hope you like it and enjooooy! I would like to read some of your feedbacks, thank you! 

- G. x

“Finally,” Ethan, your boyfriend, deeply sighed in relief and you sadly smiled at him as he admired you from your shared bed. “all my bags are packed!” He was so cheerful because he has been stressing himself the whole day. He couldn’t fit all of his stuffs inside his luggage and it made you feel bad even though you found it cute whenever he would groan in annoyance.

 “Good job, babe!” You downheartedly stated with a fake wide smile, slowly leaning against your bedroom door. You considered his pretty eyes and you were about to cry as your chest quickly tightened. The twins’ flight to Australia was late at night and he was still with you, but it seemed like you were already missing half of yourself.

 “Aw, come here, beautiful!” He got up from the bed with a pout on his face and he pulled you in a tight hug. “I will be back soon!” He assured you but you couldn’t think straight. When would this soon be? He didn’t even know when he would come back home.

 “I know that you will be back, but I will miss you.” You buried your face on the crook of Ethan’s neck, smelling the pleasant odour of his favourite perfume. You unleashed a deep and heavy sigh as only God knew how much you would miss your man, the love of your life.

 “I will miss you too, babe!” He whispered against your hair and he sweetly gave you a kiss on the top of your head. He was so sincere and, in fact, his voice slightly broke as he fought against his tears. “I wish you could come.”

 “I wish, but I can’t leave for a very long time, bub.” You pouted, feeling bad because you preferred staying in Los Angeles to mind your own businesses rather than spending some time with your boyfriend to relax and have fun. “And it’s your work too, I don’t want to distract you.”

 “You aren’t a distraction, love.” He groaned in annoyance and, even though you couldn’t see his face, you knew that he has already rolled his eyes for a million times now. “You would definitely be my inspiration, I would be happier if you were there by my side.”

 “Oh, shut up, Ethan!” You shot him a playful stare and slapped his chest gently. He was goofy and you knew that he would just be distracted. You could already hear Grayson shouting Ethan’s name for every time your boyfriend would just kiss you and stare at you during the photoshoot with Bryant.

 “Then shut me up!” Ethan had a cheeky grin on his gorgeous face and you perfectly knew what he wanted: a kiss, one long kiss before leaving. You shook your head with a wide smile, being happy and forgetting that Ethan was going away soon.

 You slowly diminished the space between you and your man with a slow kiss. The atmosphere was pleasurable while your lips danced in sync, arms wrapping around his neck and goosebumps slightly tickling your skin and shoulders. His lips were so tender and the kiss was giving you an excessive amount of chills, feeling some waves of pleasure flowing all over your skin.

 You’ve been with Ethan for a long period of time and it wasn’t hard to tickle his turn ons. In fact, you would always tease him and the kiss would always be intense, making him let out some soft but sexy moans, while you gently pulled his hair. You’ve also learnt that your simple and innocent kisses could always lead into something else, just like a passionate making love session, and you would never even regret it: Ethan was great in everything that he did, from making you feel loved to making you laugh and smile, but he was outstanding in making you feel the pleasure and the love in bed.

 Everything was perfect, the sun has set and it left the room lightless. The moment was built up and you couldn’t help but sway to the harmony that your lips followed while they passionately danced, seeing Ethan’s face all the time, even though your eyes were shut. You felt his body pressing against yours as he lifted you up, your legs automatically wrapping tightly around his waist. He spent too much time on working out and you seemed weightless like a feather as he didn’t even use all of his strength.

 He brought your bodies on the bed and he was there, on top of you. He gently pressed his body against yours, feeling his boner and a smirk quickly formed on your lips. He started to bite your lower lip, pausing the kiss to give you some time to catch your breath. You knew you lived for this. Then he kissed your cheek, going through your jaw and then your neck. You couldn’t deal with the situation if he ever left you. He gently nibbled your skin, leaving some light marks. You were his and he was yours. He licked your soft spot, biting and sucking on it as hard as he could. He left you breathless and you would definitely miss this. Would he miss you once he arrived in Australia? He then stopped to admire the dark purple love mark on your neck and yes, he was satisfied. Was it enough? Would it last until he came back home? You didn’t know.

 “Are you okay?” You heard Ethan softly murmured. He was preoccupied because you had a perplexed and lonely expression on your face. There! It hit you: he was leaving you soon! The sadness, the pain and the feelings of nostalgia came back. They hit you as if they were a train and you were there, left in pain. “Didn’t you like it?” He considered your eyes and bit his lower lip.

 “I did,” You sadly smiled, quickly killing the perfect atmosphere that you both created. “I just don’t want for you to leave me.” You honestly confessed and you saw Ethan biting his lower lip despite the darkness in the room. He slowly got off your body and sat on the empty side of the bed, still facing you.

 “I don’t want it either, (Y/N), bu-,” He started to explain but you already heard this so you cut him. He couldn’t cancel his flight nor you could go with him. It was a part of his work.

 “Can we just lay here and cuddle with each other?” You asked him and he nodded in response, lying beside you. He quickly pulled you in a tight hug, feeling that he really didn’t want to leave you alone.

 “I love you, (Y/N)!” He whispered in your ear and you held him tighter, saying that you would never let him go, that you wanted him to stay. “Will you wait for me?”

 “I always will, Ethan Grant,” You broke the hug and you rested your head on his chest, smelling the perfume of his warm and comfortable sweater. “I promise.”

 “I will be back for you, love,” He played with the strands of your hair and he knew how much you loved it. “I promise.” You looked at him, smiling for one more time. “We will always do FaceTime, okay?”

 “Yeah, but how about time zones?” You curiously asked, worrying about the massive difference between Australia and Los Angeles’ time. You weren’t ready to have nineteen hours of time difference.

 “We are together in this, we will fight, we’ll never let time zones break us!” He was determined and you just let out a soft giggle. You adored him because he wouldn’t easily give up on you. He would fight to win your love and to win against all of the odds. You gave him a kind smile and nodded your head in agreement. “We’ll never let distance to break us.”

 The silence slowly filled the room and the only thing could be heard was your dulcet breathing. Ethan still played with your hair and you could feel that your eyes were slowly shutting, finally letting the weariness to hit you.

 “Goodnight, sleep tight.” Ethan mumbled and he started to hum your favourite song, lullabying you like a baby. You loved it when Ethan would sing or hum you to sleep. “I love you!”

 “I love you too, bub!” You groggily responded and gave him a short but unforgettable last kiss. He flashed you a contented smile and watched you as you rested your head on his chest once again.

 “I love you more!” He fought back, kissing the top of your head.

 You were sad and it was painful, but what else could you do? You were aware that these things could happen in a relationship, but you still pursued everything, because you know that you loved Ethan so much and he was worth everything. After all, love can beat anything, even a war.

 “Ethaaaan,” Your deep sleep was suddenly interrupted by Grayson’s noisy mouth. You started to hear the sound around you, mostly the twins’ conversation. Ethan was still beside you, but you were already facing the other side of the room, him hugging you from behind. “Bryant is downstairs and the taxi’s already waiting for us.”

 “Grayson, shush!” You felt Ethan facing Grayson’s direction to roll his eyes. You knew the twins perfectly and you could say what they were doing, even though you weren’t really looking. “I am coming.”

 It was the time, unfortunately.

 Ethan slowly got up from the bed and he tucked you into bed. “Can I wake her up?” You still pretended to be asleep and listened to the twins.

 “No, please don’t!” Ethan softly refrained his brother. It would be hard for the two of you. “I hate to wake her up to say goodbye.”

 “Fine!” Grayson was annoyed and you suddenly felt a gentle kiss on your temple. You would miss your best friend so much, there was no doubt. It was a nightmare and it gave you anxiety, because you heard the taxi blowing his horn. The two important boys in your life were going away and you wouldn’t have your favourite people beside you for a while. “C’mon!”

 “I am coming!” Ethan downheartedly assured him and you felt Grayson stood behind his brother, listening to what your boyfriend had to say to you before they left.

 You were being a little dramatic, but you loved these boys and you couldn’t believe that they were heading to another country without you. You have always been together since you were five and you were an inseparable trio.

 “More than 12.000 kilometres, love, but don’t worry we can do this!” He left a long and gentle kiss on your lips. You wanted to kiss him back, to stop him and hold him tightly once again. “Wait for me, because when I come back, I will bring your wedding ring.”

 You tried so hard not to cry, but your breath hitched and your tears were about to fall in no time, luckily Ethan didn’t notice it.

 “I love you, my one and only!” He kissed you on your forehead this time and it lasted for a little while. “Have some sweet dreams.”

 Those were the last words you heard from him that night. You heard him going out of the room as he shut the door behind him, giving you the cue to cry without him knowing it.

 “See you soon, baby!” You gloomily said in between of your choked sobs as you watched the taxi driving off towards the airport’s direction. “I love you so much and take care.”

 You finally understood why he didn’t want to wake you up to say goodbye. It would be hard. It would be hard for him to leave you and for you to let him go. Nobody has ever said that goodbyes were easy, nobody has liked them either.

[ca-8]

(This is a short story about the Wright Brothers I wrote for chem class! Thought I'd might as well post this so it wouldn't rot in the back of my Google Docs app lol)

A Success Takes Flight

“You won’t win this one, General Orville!” an eleven-year-old boy declared, chasing an even younger boy down the hallway. The younger boy struggled to stifle a giggle as he almost tripped over his feet and darted around the corner. They both held a plastic horse with fake identical soldiers glued onto their backs. Various parts of their yellow and blue coats were scrapped off, but by the grins plastered on their faces, the boys didn’t seem to mind.

    “When I get away, I will, General Wilbur!” a seven-year-old boy retorted, looking back at his older brother. They passed by a window of their house, and the moon shining from the Ohio night sky gazed down at them. They zoomed by their little sister’s room, and the small owner silently looked up at the doorway and returned her attention to the doll in her hands.

    Wilbur increased his speed just a little. He figured his taller stature would easily overpower his younger brother's shorter size, and he would finally win the make-believe battle. The fate for his victory was sealed; however, he didn’t know that it would be from Orville’s own carelessness. 

    They ran into the living room, and while his eyes were on his big brother, Orville’s feet caught onto the edge of the rug that stuck up from its usual position. That grin instantly flew off his face as he collapsed onto the ground. The toy flew from his hand, and the horse was beheaded when it came in contact with the hardwood floor. 

    “Woah, are you okay, Orville?” Wilbur asked, approaching and kneeling down beside him. But his brother’s attention stayed glued onto the broken object. 

    “My toy…” he mumbled. 

    “What is going on here?” Wilbur turned to the doorway and saw his mother rushing to the scene.

    “Orville tripped and his toy broke,” Wilbur said. He heard sniffling behind him, and he saw that his brother’s eyes were starting to well up with tears. 

    “Oh, honey…” their mother mumbled as she kneeled in front of him, cutting off his view from his once beloved toy. “You don’t need to cry. We can always fix it tomorrow, and it will be as good as new, okay?” she said in a soothing voice. Orville sniffed and wiped his eyes, but before he could say anything, the front door flew open.

    “Wow! What smells good in here?” their father’s cheerful voice asked. The boys’ eyes instantly lit up when they saw a little bag in their father’s hand. “Father! Did you get us anything?” they asked in sync, running up to the man.

    The father peered down at his children and chuckled, wiping off dust from his dark coat. “Now, now, boys, settle down.” His eyes went past the boys and onto their mother, then to the mess scattered behind her. “My, what happened here?”

    “Orville broke his toy,” their mother informed. Orville lowered his head.

    “Oh, it’s okay, the one I have is even better,” their father said. “Can we see it now?” Wilbur asked, bouncing on his toes. “I will, but first, I’m starving!”

    The boys hurried to the dinner table and messily swallowed the food after their father’s prayer. Ignoring the disgusted looks they received from their five siblings, they ran from the kitchen and back to the living room. Wilbur encouraged his little brother to clean up the mess on the floor, which he obeyed, and they both waited for their father. Soon, the preacher entered the room.

    “Okay, boys, here ya go!” he said. He put his hand inside the bag and carefully pulled out...some kind of object.

    “What is that?” Orville asked.

    The toy was a model of some sort of vehicle made out of cork with paper wings sprouting from the wings. But what really caught the boys’ attention were the two tiny things sticking out sideways on the other end of the vehicle. “You know, I am not sure. I guess it’s up to you boys what you want it to do,” their father said, handing it to Wilbur. 

Wilbur held the strange toy in his hand with Orville peering over his shoulder. “Can it fly?” he asked, using his finger to gently brush the wings. 

“Does it?” Their father was grinning like he was silently telling them to find out. 

Wilbur stood up slowly. He moved the two small paper pieces slightly and cocked his head to the left when they both spun around the end. Without much thinking, he flicked one of the pieces, and the two spun quicker than anything he has ever seen. 

“Woah! Let me see!” Orville demanded, jumping up from his spot. Wilbur handed him the toy and his little brother flicked the rotating paper a couple of times. His black irises seemed like they were shimmering with awe. Suddenly, he rose up the toy and threw it across the room. 

“Hey, what’re you-?” Wilbur started, but when his gaze followed the toy, he realized that it was gliding through the air like a dead grasshopper instantly springing back to life. It flew across the room for a second before landing safely on the carpet. 

The Wright brothers were silent. “My, what an interesting toy!” Their father walked over to it and picked it up, examining its unique features. 

“That’s so cool!” Orville exclaimed. “I wanna do it again!” He ran over to his father, and after getting it back, he threw the device a few more times. Meanwhile, Wilbur stood and watched them entertain themselves. He wanted to join them; however, a thought forming in the back of his mind kept his feet cemented to the floor while thinking to himself, ‘I wonder if there’s anything to make us fly like that.’ 

For the next few years, the boys’ source of fun was only that toy. They always found new ways to make it fly faster and farther, like throwing it with the wind on a gusty Friday or climbing on top of the large tree that was not too far from their house and throwing it from there. Though, Orville would be its primary owner because of Wilbur being buried in his studies more and more each day.

But Wilbur was far from annoyed. He enjoyed being occupied in work he knew how to do. It was a way to show off what he knew, and what more he wanted to understand. And later on, school work and the flying wasn’t the only thing that brought a smile on his face.

Despite that, the activity would eventually introduce life-turning despair to him.

A few years later, Wilbur stood at the sides of a large river of frozen water. Many of the boys were holding their hockey sticks and skating along the thick ice. Wilbur's eyes followed the black puck that was passed between them. He had been playing hockey from time to time, but this was the first time he would be playing with this many kids.

"Be careful, Wilbur!" his mother yelled on the hill behind him. Wilbur looked up and gave her and his family an excited smile. His sisters and brothers had books and dolls in their arms. Orville had their flying toy. "Oh don't worry so much, Susan, he will be fine," he heard his father say. 

Wilbur put his gaze back on the field and joined the other boys. Some of them he knew, some of them he didn’t, but it didn’t matter all too much. They accepted him as soon as he quickly took the puck and smacked it to the other side of the frozen lake. 

Playful laughter erupted from the fields the boys had fun. Though, all through that time, Wilbur felt an unsettling feeling in the back of his head. As he chased boys who were trying to show dominance over the puck, he looked over his shoulder. The person behind him caused a shudder to run down his spine.

He was far, but his piercing gaze was almost unbearable. Oliver Crook Haugh stood on the other side of the field, his eyes never leaving Wilbur’s. The stare was as if a lion was stalking a gazelle abandoned by its herd. 

Wilbur shook his head and focused back on the game. He was just probably having a bad day. Yeah, that’s it. The neighborhood bully always had a bad day. Surely he had other prey to pick on, right?

The Wright kid pushed in front of the other boys and held the puck against his stick. He kept a steady pace as he focused on the black, round object, only looking up every few seconds to avoid the other boys coming his way. The end field was so close he could practically see the grass in his sight. He prepared his arm to raise and swing the puck to the imaginary goal. 

But he never did. Instead, a pair of black shoes appeared in front of the puck. Wilbur shot his head up to see Oliver with his stick behind his back, ready to swing. He thought he was aiming for the puck, but a sharp pain that collided with his jaw told him he was wrong. Wilbur felt himself fly back, and the only thing he saw next was a pair of birds flying in the cloudy sky.

It was as if time was moving in slow motion. The birds held their wings out, letting them glide perfectly along the windy air. Wilbur wished he could be one of those birds.

The world turned black when they flew out of his view.

Raindrops crashed into the window. Many slid down to the bottom, and Wilbur silently cheered for some to reach the bottom before the others. It was the only thing he could do that was slightly fun since his parents banned him from ever leaving his room.

“You need to stay here and rest if you want your jaw to get better,” was his mother’s actual words, but to him, it held the same meaning. Especially since she and his father said he wasn’t allowed to play hockey anymore. 

“I can beat up Oliver if you want,” his other brother, Otis, offered. Every Wright child was taught to never raise a hand at anyone, so it surprised but also satisfied Wilbur that Otis would suggest such a thing. However, he had to decline; he didn’t want his brother to get in trouble because of his rage. Besides, who knows what Oliver would do to him?

His other siblings helped him eat and read stories to him, and though he appreciated it, they didn’t ease the pain. Not just the pain of his jaw, but this heavy pressure in his chest. He thought it was just a side effect of being brutally injured, so he ignored it.

One day, Orville silently came into his room and sat on his bed. He glanced at his big brother and mimicked his stare at the window. It was raining again.

Wilbur noticed that he was holding the flying toy. “You should be doing homework,” Wilbur said, forcing his gaze back on the window.

“I got bored. I wanted to go outside but Mother said I would bring dirt in the house.” Wilbur hummed, and the two boys sat in silence.

“Hey, Wilbur?” Orville said after a few moments.

“What?”

“Do you think we can actually fly like our toy?” Wilbur’s eyes trailed back to the small toy. The paper was wrinkling and the cork was covered in dirt, and some parts of it were coming off. Not only that, but the two smaller pieces of papers that stuck out at the end were beginning to rip. It surprised him that he didn’t notice such drastic details until that moment. “I don’t know,” he finally responded. 

“Now that would be fun, doncha think? We’ll be like those annoying birds that wake us up every morning.” Wilbur let out a soft chuckle, and Orville grinned widely. 

“Yeah, I guess we could. Someday.” They faced the window once again.

Wilbur felt ashamed. He was among the oldest of the Wright children, and yet, he just witnessed most of his siblings go off to college. He should be there too, but instead, he was stuck at home, wallowing in self-pity and failure. 

Right after his jaw healed up, his mother fell ill, and Wilbur felt that this was his time to be useful. After all she had done for him and the family, it was the least he could do. At first, his father insisted that he would take the position so his son could catch up on his studies; however, Wilbur knew that his chance of graduating high school was far from his grasp. 

Ever since the incident with Oliver, the heavy, empty feeling never left him, even after most of the injuries were fixed. In fact, it was probably worse. The usual urges to get out of bed, to eat, sleep, and smile were gone in an instant. It wasn’t very long before he realized that feeling took away his need for academic success. Afterwards, he dropped out of school, and taking care of his mother became his primary goal. Though he knew it was impossible, he still had regret lingering through his veins everyday when he thought of his chances for college.

“You don’t have to worry about me so much. You should get back to your studies,” his mother said weakly. Whenever they were in the same room together, she would always take the time to lecture him about his mistake. But he refused to listen.

 Wilbur held the fork up to her mouth and her teeth hesitantly took the food. “Don’t be silly. If I can’t take care of you, who will? Father’s too busy.”

“You could do so much more…”

“I will, but after you get better.” 

A tensed smile fell upon her lips as if she was putting every ounce of effort into showing her love. “You are so selfless, Wilbur,” she said. 

Wilbur returned the gesture and took the empty plate off of her nightstand. “Thank you. Now rest up, Mother.”

Being in the Midwest, the day was unusually peaceful. The cloudless sky showed off the summer sun with pride, the grounds were untouched by merciful mother nature, and the wind was nonexistent. Orville and Wilbur would curse those calm days, and the flying toy would stay in the shadows of Orville’s room.

Wilbur walked in the kitchen and put the dish on the kitchen counter. Just before he could start cleaning it, a soft knock drove him out of his wandering thoughts. The older teen raised an eyebrow before making his way out of the kitchen.

“Orville?” he said when he opened the front door. “Shouldn’t you be filling that empty head of yours?”

His little brother chuckled. “You’re one to talk. I came to talk with Ma.”

“Don’t know if that’s a good idea. You know how she is, if she sees you, you won’t hear the end of it.” He only shrugged. There was something about his face that Wilbur couldn’t help but notice. His eyes shimmered with strange determination. As he entered the house, his pace was fast and those strong-willed irises darted from the furniture with the speed of a cheetah. 

And Orville did the same. The moment the door opened, he was overwhelmed by the apathy his brother radiated. He knew he had changed in some way ever since the accident, but he never thought he would ever feel whiplash in the presence of his brother. When it was over, he wished he was brave enough to make Oliver pay and take his father’s angry lectures as a man rather than simply watch Wilbur become less of himself by the moment. 

But now was not the time to focus on the past.

He entered his mother’s room to see the frail woman on her bed. “Orville?” she said, just above a whisper. He knelt by the bed, putting a hand over hers. Her sharp, cold skin sent shivers down his spine.

“Ma, before you say anything, I want you to hear me out,” he began. Wilbur silently walked in the room and leaned against the doorway. 

“School’s not going well for me. I think I’m going to drop out.”

His mother’s eyes widened slightly. “What? Do you know how-” She erupted into a series of coughs and Orville jumped back. Wilbur pushed passed him, grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand, and poured the cold liquid down her throat. 

Orville waited until silence was the only noise in the room. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, “it’s just not working for me.”

Wilbur turned and glared daggers at him. “You wait here, Mother, Orville and I are going to talk for a minute.”

“Wait…” she gasped out, but the boys have already left the room.

“I thought the biggest idiot in this world was the neighbor who ran in his burning home to save a piece of jewelry. But now… now you’re taking his place!” he yelled as soon as the siblings reached the other side of the house.

“I’m sorry, but it’s all too much! I want to do something more than solve little equations and learn the same history lesson over and over again.”

“So what, you just left? You left an opportunity to make a life worth living?”

“I never left. I still have a future. School is just not it.”

“I swear, if you don’t go back, I’ll drag you back there and make sure you don’t come out!” He was glad Katherine was out with her friend, or else she would replace their mother and lecture them for hours. That was the last thing he needed.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur-”

“Stop with the apologies! If you’re really sorry, you suck it up and go right back into that classroom. We don’t need another worthless child in this family.” Orville fell silent. Wilbur let out a heavy breath and looked away when he realized what he had said. It was almost as if he was talking in the mirror. 

“Wilbur, that’s not true and you know it,” his younger brother said. “Ma wouldn’t be half as healthy if you hadn’t stayed here.”

He sniffed, cursing his body for even thinking about crying. “I stayed here because there’s nowhere else for me to go. If I can’t bother to read a book, what good am I?”

Orville sighed and wrapped his arms around him. The last time they hugged like this was when he was six and Wilbur was eight, and Wilbur comforted him about another toy he broke. They were glad no one else was around; it was embarrassing enough already. 

“I can help with Ma, and after she gets better, we’re gonna start a company and get a lot of money.”

“You idiot. Do you know how much that would cost us? And you don’t know the first thing about starting a company.” Orville pulled away and smiled. “Then you can find a way.” 

Wilbur softly laughed. “Fine.”

For the rest of the year, they did everything they could to help their mother. She didn’t have the strength to scold Orville on his decision anymore, so his father did it for her. He yelled and sometimes threw him out of the house to “make him experience what will happen” (as he would say) if he didn’t go back. Yet, Orville persisted, claiming that he and Wilbur were going to find a way to survive without school.

Meanwhile, Wilbur stayed in the background. For some reason, his father was easier on him. Of course, he had the hour-long lectures, but ever since he began taking care of Susan, they had grown distant. Still, he ignored this, and their relationship continued to be a struggling flame in an active snowstorm. 

And soon, that flame would burn out. 

In 1889, the light of death finally consumed her. 

The Wright brothers sat in the front row of the crowd. The casket containing his mother’s body refused to leave the youngest’s line of sight. The older, however, felt as if his eyes would explode if he took a glimpse. Their father’s words were only echoes.

“God blessed me with an angel, and it seems…” he began, obviously suppressing a sob. Wilbur drowned out the rest of eulogy. Orville was too distracted to listen.

The church was filled with nothing but despair. Katherine and Ida cried so loud that the heavens must have heard them. Lorin hid his face from the crowd. Reuchlin was looking out the window. The brothers didn’t talk to them that day. 

It wasn’t long before the two stood at the grave of their mother. Wilbur shouldn’t be crying because he knew this was coming. Despite repressing those thoughts every day and every night, reality always haunted him. His mother’s illness had no cure, so no matter what he did, he could not prevent the inevitable. 

Orville put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” was all he muttered, and he pulled his brother away from the grave. I’m sorry, Ma, he apologized, I’ll make us into men that you’d have to be proud of. A wind of encouragement blew past him, rustling the leaves of the trees next to the grave.

Several years have passed since their mother’s death. Their father fell into a depressive state and urged his children to leave him alone. Thanks to him, Orville was able to convince Wilbur to come live with him in his house. From selling newspapers to designing bikes, they earned enough money to make a living. But, was it really enough?

“I know we enjoy this and all, but is this what we’re only going to do?” Wilbur asked, sitting down on his bed. He and Orville just came back from another day of work. 

“Of course not. This bicycle business is only to get us some money,” Orville’s voice responded from the other side of the tenement. He poked his head into the room, grinning widely. “The real dream is over here.”

Wilbur let out a silent sigh and followed him to the ‘office’, which was just the kitchen covered in papers. The only thing that piqued his interest was what was on them. “I went ahead and made some pictures of what real aircraft will look like. What’d ya’ think?” Orville said.

“When did you make these?” Wilbur asked.

“Not too long ago. I just hid them so I could surprise you!” The older sibling raised an eyebrow. Never thought I’d see a twenty-five-year-old man act like a ten-year-old girl.

“Um, this is interesting and all…” Wilbur slowly walked up to one of the papers and picked it up. The drawing contained a large mechanical vehicle with open seats in the middle while propellers sat in the far end. Large paper-looking wings held up by what he thought were sticks hung at the sides. “...But why?” he finished.

“Why? Didn’t you read the newspaper the other day?” Orville ran out of the room, and a short moment later he came back with a newspaper in his hands. He set it down on the small table and flipped through it until he came to the page he wanted to show his brother. He pointed to one of the headlines:

German Aviator Otto Lilienthal Dies From Aircraft Crash

“A lot of people want to fly, Wilbur,” Orville started, “but they can’t if they don’t do it right.”

Wilbur had heard about aircraft testing and was lucky enough to read about aeronautics in the past. Though he wasn’t entirely focused on it, his love and hope for flight had never died. In fact, the decaying flying toy sat in him and his brother’s room. Even so… “Can we really do it?” he said, quickly skimming the article.

“Hm? Of course we can! All we need is some parts, coffee, and a place to fly. As long as we can put enough back into it, we’ll be richer than the British monarchy. And besides, you basically said it yourself that you didn’t want to make bikes forever.”

That, he couldn’t deny. A few years ago, he did like the idea of designing their own brand of bikes. And yet, inside him, he felt as though something was missing… Maybe this was it? 

“I don’t think I can make this project last long without a wise-guy like you, man,” Orville said. 

What was he talking about? His drawing and notes made enough sense for it to be possible. Not to mention the aircraft’s architecture convinced him that it could have plenty of stability to stay in the air with someone in it, if they had the right equipment. However, there was one thing that was off.

“Balance,” he said. “The aircraft needs to be balanced so it doesn’t get out of control. We’ll need…” He looked at his brother, who had his head tilted at him. “How much money do we have?”

Orville hesitated, then grinned when he realized what he meant. “Enough to test several times over.”

“Well then, let’s get to work.”

‘Dear Samuel Langley,’ Wilbur wrote on the cleanest sheet of paper he could find. Behind him was his brother, counting up the cash they had earned in the past few years. ‘My name is Wilbur Wright. My brother, Orville Wright, and I would be honored to possess some of your works on aeronautics. We have been informed that you worked on Otto Lilienthal’s aircraft, and we ask for your knowledge of its architecture.

Ever since the day of Lilienthal’s death, we plan to give our blood, sweat, and tears to make an aircraft powerful enough to let hundreds of people soar through the skies. However, we know little about the science of flight, and we believe that you could bring us that knowledge. We only ask for a few books. Even one is more than enough. Just anything that can let us work our fingers to the bone.

With your help, a dream of human flight will become reality. Thank you, Wilbur Wright.’

A few weeks later, multiple books appeared on their doorstep, and they immediately took them in. “Holy-! Wilbur, look!” Orville shouted. Wilbur turned his attention from the other books and walked over to him. His eyes widened when he held Lilienthal’s book in his hands. They flipped through the pages, taking in every drawing, entry, and recording of the progress of his aircraft experiences.

 The brothers took turns staying up all night studying each book on what made existing aircraft possible. Soon, they narrowed down to what they needed to do: how to get the wings to stabilize the vehicle while it’s in the air.

They looked for things that could naturally fly to see how they made themselves consistently stable. Once the Wright brothers found it, they took their notebooks and binoculars to the local park. 

“Those birds…” Wilbur said, watching the creatures fly through the sunny sky. “They don’t necessarily put too much work in their wings, don’t they?” The birds have only flapped their wings four to six times, as he noted. They kept their wings still by their sides and just let themselves glide with the wind as their accelerator. 

“Maybe our aircrafts can do that?” Orville suggested. 

They decided to test his theory. With the help of Lilientha’s data and wood to hold up the hundred square foot fabric wings, they built their first-ever glider. Two large rectangular wings stood above and below each other while behind held up by wood. In the middle was a hole that would allow the users’ knees to stick out while their feet held onto the back. Wood horizontally stood in the front of the hole where the user’s chest would be supported. A few weeks later, they were ready to test.

But, Dayton proved to be quite useless as the testing sight. When they sent off their glider, it dropped right to the ground with no effort. The brothers covered their faces in embarrassment. 

“Well, what now?” Orville sighed, resting his head on the kitchen table. 

“Don’t pout like that. We’ll just find us a place that’s more suitable. Now, what place has a lot of wind and is private enough for our experiment?” That night, they were still lost. But when it seemed like they were at an impasse, Wilbur came up with an idea. He researched the windiest states and cities closest to Ohio, and a week later, they were headed to North Carolina, bringing as much equipment as they could carry. When they arrived, they paid for their hotel and rented out a large building with nothing but empty space inside. It was perfect for building numerous aircrafts.

Yet, when they followed Lilientha’s data to the tenth place, something about their glider was off. They decided to make adjustments (using stronger fabric, putting more and less wood under the wings, switching between who was going to be pilot), but it was useless. Nothing worked.

“Maybe they were wrong,” Wilbur said. He scanned Lilithenal’s notes again. “Then what’re we supposed to do? We can’t improve something if it was wrong the whole time,” Orville groaned, leaning against the wall.

“It’s not like you to act dumb, Orville. Of course we can.” Wilbur closed the book. “We just need to take a different route.”

His face glowed instantly, like a lightbulb just turned on in his mind. “Let’s build a wind tunnel,” he suggested, “so we can observe how the wings move with the airflow and measure constant velocity. We can also catch what goes wrong with the current wings.”

His big brother smiled. “There he is. For that, we’ll need a large fan and a room we can look into. And we’ll have to test the wind tunnel first just so we can make sure ours is efficient,” Wilbur explained. “First, let’s find a fan that’s powerful enough to be used against the glider.”

“I know what we need. Wilbur, are you okay with handling the smaller models of the wings?” Orville asked. “Yes. What are you going to do?” his brother asked. 

“Don’t worry, leave it to me.”

Wilbur did as his brother asked. He designed a smaller, but not too small, pair of wings that looked exactly like the ones on the glider. Without warning, Orville kicked the door open and dragged in a large box with a fan attached to the end. Wilbur covered his ears at the sound of the boxes’ legs screeching against the floor. 

“Aha, sorry…” Orville said sheepishly. “But, I got us our wind tunnel!” He went to the side of the box and pulled up a small door, revealing the darkened inside. Inside that darkness was some sort of stand with horizontal sticks on two of its inside ends sitting near the top. “With this little creation, we can measure how the wing moves against the wind and its pressure. We can see how much it lifts and how it drags.” 

“Then what’re we waiting for? Let’s get started,” Wilbur said and handed him the wings. Orville grabbed them and attached it to the top of the stand. After closing the door, he rushed to the fan and turned it on, then led Wilbur to the far end where the side was nothing but glass. They fell in silence, focusing on nothing but the wings. 

The wind pushed against the wings and they quickly flew off and crashed into the glass. If the glass wasn’t there, the wings could have smacked their faces. “...I think we need a different set of wings,” Orville commented. “Thanks, genius, never thought we had to do that,” Wilbur remarked with sarcasm. He got up and turned off the fan, then lifted up the door to grab the wings. 

The second pair, which was longer and curvier, couldn’t produce as much lift as the other pair and the drag caused the wings to move too slow. The third pair, which was a little shorter and straighter, lifted a lot faster than the second, but the drag was too insignificant. They produced more and more wing models until their fingers were numb. Sometimes, they accidentally cut themselves with the steel.

The hours of work and days of testing one hundred eighty-nine (Orville counted) wings, they eventually find the pair. Their long, teardrop shapes lifted perfectly against the wind, and their drag proved to be just as efficient: not too fast and not too fast. They instantly abandoned the other test models and created the gliders’ wings’ final form.

Orville laid in the aircraft and nodded at his brother. Wilbur pushed the aircraft and the glider took off. Just like the models in the wind tunnel, these allowed the wind to lift him in the air, and the drag stayed constant. The only thing he wished they changed was how they could land. About fifteen seconds in, the wind disappeared, and Orville landed right into the sand. 

“Just as I thought,” Wilbur mumbled under his breath, helping him off the ground. “Ugh, what?” his little brother said, wiping the sand off his clothes. 

“We need to make the aircraft more mobile so we don’t end up like Lilithenal,” he answered. He looked over to the glider. And I think I know just how to do that.

“What’s this?” Orville asked the next day when he walked in the large empty building where they made their inventions. In front of his brother were tools and a medium-sized flat rectangle made of the same materials as their glider. 

“You know how I keep saying the aircraft lacks control?” Wilbur asked, and he nodded. “Well, I made us something called an elevator. With this, the one flying in the aircraft can control the wings so the balance won’t be off all the time.”

Orville nodded. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying...And-”

“And because I invented it, I will be the one to test it.” Orville stopped and glared. “What? Don’t give me that look. I’m the big brother anyway, so I get to do things first.”

“And you’re the one calling me childish all the time…”

Once they were finished attaching the elevator to the glider, Wilbur hopped into the glider, his knees poking out of the little hole and stomach resting on the fabric above. With the help of his brother, he was sent into the air. The movement was rocky, but despite it, Wilbur strangely felt at peace. After a few seconds of wind accelerating the glider, the wings began to shift to the left on their own. Wilbur gripped onto the handles of the elevator and slowly shifted them back to the right. The aircraft managed to keep itself in the air for the time being. 

He quickly realized that he was gliding right towards the ground. He took a deep breath and carefully pushed the elevator up. The wings shifted upwards, and he was back in the air. He looked down at Orville, and, while even being in the air, could see his big smile cheering him on. Wilbur formed his own grin and titled the elevator down.

“Wing warping,” Orville suddenly said when Wilbur reached the ground. “What?” he said, breathing heavily.

“While you were shifting the wings, it came to me. Just like birds, you controlled the wings so you can be better adjusted to the air.”

“Why do we have to give it a name?” Wilbur asked.

“Because people might ask what the method is called when we get interviewed. Plus, we invented it, so we have to give it a name. Edison didn’t invent the light just to call it ‘thing that can make light,’ right?”

Wilbur snickered. “Alright fine. Anyway, I think we need to add something to make the aircraft last longer in the air.”

“Way ahead of you. Come on, I have an idea.”

The brothers headed back to the building. Orville showed Wilbur the damaged flying toy they brought with them. As soon as the older brother saw rudder-like things on its tail, he quickly knew what his brother was saying. They put the toy back and went to work. 

By some miracle, their predictions were right. With the rudders they attached on the back of the glider, the rocky movement he experienced before greatly decreased. He soared through the skies, like a bird hungry for adventure zooming from its mother’s nest. If he was daring enough, he could probably take a nap here. 

But he couldn’t rest yet. They could now add power to the soon-to-be aircraft.

“So what did you two need my help with?” the Wright brother’s friend, Charles Taylor asked. They brought him in from Dayton because of his intellect with machinery. He was quite useful during their construction of original bike brands.

“We need to build an engine powerful enough to support an aircraft, and all of the others being sold couldn’t quite fit the requirements. They were all much too heavy,” Wilbur informed. The brothers walked him to the door of the large building and opened it. Charles flinched at the sight of their large glider. Orville gave him a quick explanation for the situation.

“Hmm, then I guess I’ll have to use aluminum instead of iron...” Charles explained, his eyes darting over to the glider. He gave it an intense stare for a few seconds before saying, “What will it specifically power?” 

“We were thinking about adding propellers to help it lift in the air. Could that work?” Orville suggested. 

“Guess we’ll have to find out. I’ll get some equipment and you boys start on the propellers.” The brothers followed Charles’ instructions, and about an hour later, he came back with boxes of machinery. 

As they helped him bring the boxes in, he asked, “So you two want people to fly because you were bored with bikes?”

“Ahaha, not really…” Orville trailed off, huffing when he put down one of the boxes. “It’s actually a dream we had ever since we were kids.”

“Really? I only heard y’all mention aircraft a few times at the bike shop.”

“We didn’t have much money at the time, so we couldn’t really do anything about it,” Wilbur said.

“Ah, makes sense. Everything’s getting more expensive these days. Alright, I think this is the last box.” Charles sat the box down and put his hands on his hips. “By the way, just because I can make it smaller, it’ll still be a little heavy with all the combustion chambers and crankcase and such. I don’t think it’ll work well with fabric and wood.”

With that, the brothers began manufacturing steel propellers and managed to get stronger wood to support them properly. At the same time, the machinist silently prepared them an engine suitable for powering human flight. As the three men were oblivious to time, hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and those months transformed into a year. Luckily, they used that time to put more weight into the aircraft. Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Charles was finished. 

“There you are, fellas!” he said with a big grin. The smaller engine’s aluminum skin gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that shined through the windows. “All you need to do is put the gasoline in this tank right here-,” he pointed to the small tank on the engine’s right, “-and it should mix with the air that comes from the air intake, assembling the ignition in these cylinders right there-,” he pointed to the four combustion cylinders that hung below the flat surface at the top, “-and go right through the fuel line no problem! Now we just need to find a way to make that fuel go right to the propellers.”

“Thanks, Charles, we dunno what we’d do without you,” Orville. 

“Hey, anytime. By the way, you guys said you needed these?” Charles went towards the back where the boxes sat patiently, waiting to be helpful after days of being untouched. He dug through one of them and pulled out chains and a couple of sprockets. When the brothers wrote to him the first time, they asked him to bring those from the bike shop.

“We figured that those would be needed,” Wilbur said, walking up to him and taking the two objects from his hands. “What for?” Charles asked curiously. 

“You know how we used those to build bikes?” Orville started. “We attached the sprockets to the pedal and wheel, and connected the two with a chain so they could move. So, if we attached the sprocket to the engine to power it up, we can connect that with the chain. Then, we can attach the other end of the chain to the second sprocket that’s attached to the propellers.”

“Oh, I see, like one big bicycle,” Charles said. “Well then, let’s power this baby up.”

Just like in Orville’s explanation, they attached one sprocket to the crankshaft part of the engine, then wrapped a chain around it. With the other sprocket, they attached it to the end of the long pole that connected to the propeller. They did the same actions for the other propeller. 

The next morning, the first heavier-than-air powered vehicle had its first taste of the clouds.

“Ready, Wilbur?” Orville shouted. His big brother laid on his stomach on the pilot’s seat of the aircraft. He looked back to see Charles and his friends (four men and one woman, who were invited to come see the Wright brothers’ success) standing far behind the propellers. His younger brother was behind the engine, ready to activate it. 

“Yes, sir!” he yelled. In the next few seconds, the engine was activated. The back of the aircraft sputtered, like an old man coughing out his struggling lungs, and Wilbur’s heart skipped a beat. He gripped the handles of the elevator. After a long, tense moment, the propellers turned slowly, then faster, and faster, and faster until he couldn’t see the individual blades anymore.

The aircraft bounced and carefully lifted itself off of the ground. Wilbur was suddenly pushed through the air by a gust of wind, and he took flight amongst the clouds. 

It took quick thrusts to the right and left, and at some points, Wilbur thought he was dropping to the ground. He tilted the wings to where they could move against the eastern airflow and moved upwards. Another sputter left the engine, and he heard nothing but the whistling wind and hum of the propellers. 

Was he doing it? Is it working? Everything inside him felt light and fluttery. Wilbur moved his gaze from the ground and looked up at the sky. The sun stared at him from above while the birds stood clear of the flying man. It might have only been a few seconds, but compared to their other tests, this flight was a decade long. 

He let out a soft laugh. It worked, Mother, we did it.

He titled the wings to their left and flew back around. Ant-sized people stared up at him, and one of them was jumping for joy. A sputter erupted from the engine again, and Wilbur decided that it was time to let his wings rest.

He landed the aircraft back on the ground and jumped out of it. “So, what’d you think?” he said to the crowd. Charles had a huge, excited smile on his face while his friends looked stunned. “See, what’d I tell ya? These guys are geniuses!” he said to the small crowd.

“I think we’re about to be the richest men in the world!” Orville shouted. He ran up to the aircraft and hugged it like a father embracing his child. 

“B-But will anyone believe it?” one of Charles’ friends stuttered, staring at the aircraft. “I mean, a flying car, the press will think you’re joking!”

“Oh, they will,” Wilbur stated, crossing his arms. “Once they see this thing fly across the world, they’ll have no choice but to believe it.”

[empresspinto]

Last night I dreamed that I lived at a seaport school. It was the same building from many of my dreams: wooden piers winding around its outer walls, stairs up to second level slatted platforms, an enormous mansion with eighteen-odd rooms, dark green exterior walls and nearly the same color water, constantly waving. A variation of the boardwalk I visited so often in my childhood, mutated into something far grander. But I digress.

I was meant to leave the school. I don’t know why. I don’t recall if it was temporary or permanent. I was meant to leave, so I got in my car. (Even in my dream, I had no driver’s license. I worried that I would be caught without a license; perhaps I would be pulled over for something trivial, like failing to stop correctly at a stop sign in the eerie late night stillness.) 

I drove through the parking lot, which was dimly lit by old-fashioned lamp posts. A car pulled out suddenly, in front of me, and I had no time to brake; I jerked the steering wheel right, drove through some empty parking spaces––but three people stood there, at the end.

I wasn’t going quickly, but only the tall dark-skinned man on the right and the short olive-skinned person of indeterminate gender on the left managed to dive to the  side quickly enough. The girl in the middle––long, blonde hair, dressed in a flowing nightgown, unlike her two friends who had been clothed typically––barely moved, if at all, as I drove straight towards her. I tried to pull enough left to miss her, drove around in a spiral before managing to brake. 

As I stopped, my headlights illuminating the three of them perfectly, I saw the girl laid on the ground, her hair spread around her like a fan. (In hindsight, she laid almost exactly opposite the direction she should have had I run her down.) Her friends stooped worriedly beside her.

I got out of my car and raced towards them, worried that I had killed her. (The car that had forced me to swerve had pealed away, not even leaving a tire skid to indicate its earlier presence.) 

When I got to them––which took twenty times longer than it should have, given it initially appeared a mere ten, twenty feet from my car––I saw the girl sprawled across the asphalt in an oddly angelic way. I asked desperately for her to wake.

She did. She pushed up to her elbows, tilting her head at me. Her friends glared at me accusingly. She stood and walked away. Her friends disappeared. I gaped after her.

I did not leave the school that night, sleeping in my car. The next morning, I went in search for her. She stood on the northeastern balcony, a salt breeze twirling her hair. Her mother stood beside her.

They assured me of her wellbeing. Her hair was as pure blonde as ever, not a rusty stain to be seen. I didn’t remember if there had been one last night. I expressed my fears, my remorse, explained why I had had to swerve.

They shook their heads at me, simultaneously, like an invisible string tied one of them to the other. Perhaps only one of them was real. Perhaps the angelic daughter was a shallow porcelain forgery, her mother a crone who crafted her from dust and air. Perhaps the wrinkled, disapproving mother was false, a facsimile of a person held in thrall to the disconcertingly pristine daughter.

One was a puppet, the other a ventriloquist, of that I was sure.

The headmaster exited the broad french doors. He approached us, bowed slightly to the girl and her mother, the mother and her girl, then turned to me. His lips were thin, somehow both pursed and pulled wide across his face. A toadish henchman.

Two policemen exited the doors as well. They stepped in sync, robotically. I was to imprisoned and put on trial for my foolhardy actions, for my near-miss murder of the girl. She beamed beatifically.

I was tossed in a wide room, bars stretching from ceiling to floor in an odd geometric cage. Outside the bars, a narrow hall allowed for two narrow men to stand abreast or two broad ones to file along, observing, guarding the cell. It was a solid fifty feet from one end to another. I crouched beside a soft rock. It was as tall as I was when I knelt beside it. When I leant against it, it sunk in just-so, and when I leaned back away, it regained its form.

A woman entered. She was an investigator––an interrogator. She held her phone up, filming in my direction. Demanded I look directly at the phone. She did not say, but I knew it would pick up on the tone of my voice, the dilation of my pupils, any sweat or crease on my brow.

She asked many questions. Many unrelated to the accident. I believe they may have been framing me.

I said something to her, perhaps it was rude. She demanded I say I was sorry––demanded I mean it. I knew something bad would happen if I couldn’t convince her.

I scolded myself in my mind, drawing together a facade of remorse, allowed my voice to break when I apologized. I was in a stressful situation, although that was, of course, no excuse.

She was satisfied. The interrogation went on. I don’t recall the rest of the questions, although I had to force an appearance of caring. I remember this part because I remember thinking: if I were too convincing but somehow not enough, she would claim I was a psychopath. She would believe I was a gifted liar of the sort that could only exist in one devoid of compassion, in one who didn’t care as humans care about others.

I worried that maybe I was a psychopath.

She decided I was and deemed it a solid reason to lock me up for life. I sat in that cell, near-constantly guarded, and slowly more people joined me. People who did not conform correctly to society. A girl with a spine curved like an upside down J and a claylike face, who could not walk but crawled. (The guards jeered and she became my closest friend.) A too-scrawny man who could not crawl, because he could not, in fact, bend at all. He leaned against the wall. A woman whose body was impossible to distinguish from her limbs but with a brilliant mind. A dozen others. Most kind. A few had distaste for the rest of us but loathed the guards even more, so would not rat us out.

The dream stretched years compressed into perhaps half an hour of real time. Over this we collected two potential lockpicks: a pair of tweezers, and a curled length of a metal strip. We would jab it into the simple locks any chance we got, any time the guards weren’t watching or left for breaks or shift changes. We were not, at least, recorded. Of that we were sure.

I was the most determined to eventually pick the lock. (Granted, several of the others lacked the dexterity necessary to hold the lockpick, let alone use it.) I would jab one of our communal tools into the pick everyday, wiggle it around. At some point, it became less because I believed I would and more out of habit, because maybe, maybe someday.

Except then, one day, it worked.

I had inserted the curved strip into the centermost door’s lock, levered it to the left and swirled the end around the right. Something clicked. The door swung open. I stared, wide-eyed, terrified, for a split second before jerking it back into place a moment before the guard ten feet away turned his sweeping gaze back to us. I looked at my companions. They looked at me. 

A terrified, overjoyed smile crossed each of our faces. I slipped the lockpicks into the open end of a metal tube that made up a portion of the gate, then quickly made my way to the two women I mentioned earlier. We plotted under our breaths.

I was to be taken to a more secure, more isolated cell the following day. They would, with our other friends, pick the lock three days after I left and make their way to the cell I would be in. We would all be free. It was a complicated plan.

The interrogator woman, who despised me, took charge of my being sent to another cell, and took charge of most guard shifts. I was placed in an ice rink on the third floor of an open-air tower. A chain length fence stretched across the only open segment of my cell, spiraled barbed wire stretched across the top.

It was tougher than I expected, but I made do. I spent the first day learning the guard schedule. Learning their break habits. Learning when they left to see their paramours even though they would claim they had been on watch the whole time.

After all: The expanse of walls that was not the singular eight foot wide fence was solid white brick, like a high school gymnasium. Not even an air vent. And how would I get over the barbed wire and down two floors without being discovered?

Especially when they were going to make my enclosure an exhibit. People would be allowed to crowd around the eighteen by twelve floor in hope for a peek of me. The supposed psychopath––truly a victim of society’s circumstantial cruelty––on display like a zoo animal.

The second day I climbed the fence and hopped over the barbed wire, which stood a mere four inches at its highest. (Granted, the chain link fence was a good six feet and there was not much to help me jump the fence––they did not expect me to be willing to hop over to the floor, rather than climb back down the other side.)

I crept down the stairs at the opposite side of the room to see the second floor. I found the first. The dream glided across the second day’s explorations in flashes. I made it back to my cell with time to spare.

The third day, I left and crept down to the first floor to set a tightly bound scroll of paper––the plans––in a tube beside the brick on the first floor. I could have left the previous day; but all of my friends would have been left to pay for my escape.

As I started to climb,  I saw the interrogator arrive early. She took the elevator. I raced up the stairs, climbing over a concrete tube that was three feet in diameter, puling myself up to the third floor just as the interrogator erupted from the elevator.

She looked inside my cell. Called out my name. Raged, shouting at the man who’d come with her. They leapt back into the elevator just as people began to mill about the floor. I recognized many of their faces. The too-scrawny man gave me a wink. I used the crowd to cross the floor, climbed the fence and vaulted over it, tucking and rolling as I hit the ice and jumping back with a shout, skating across the ice in my tennis shoes. 

People’s attentions snapped back to me. The elevator doors opened again, and the interrogator pointed two burly guards at me––her mouth dropped open in shock as she saw me standing there, exuberantly performing for my captive audience. They stared, as did the interrogator and guards, and did not witness my friends’ actions. By the time the lights went out, it was too late.

I had woken.

[lyv-writes]

Professor - Hank McCoy

words - 1,252

pairing - hank mccoy x fem!reader

warnings - pure smut, professor kink, oral (fr), edging and i think that's it?

a/n - i wrote this a loooong ass time ago, so it’s probably not the best but oh well :) you can thank @rax-writes for her outsiders fic reminding me that I had finished fics i could post lmao

______________________________________________________________

Hank pushed you against the wall causing you to gasp, giving him the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. He kissed you hungrily and you moaned into his mouth.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, tugging on his lower lip with your teeth. He growled and lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his torso, before pushing you back into the wall. He kissed down your neck, stopping occasionally to leave small marks across your collar bones and jaw.

He pulled away from the wall and carried you over to his bed, throwing you down onto it. You sat up and quickly took off your dress as he took off his shirt. You bit your lip, eyes raking over Hank’s body.

You stared up at him in wonder as he unbuttoned his pants slowly, seeing how his teasing affected you. Hank had always been soft and caring, and you never minded that. It was what had drawn you to him.

But this, seeing him so dominating was...exciting.

Even though he wouldn’t say it, Hank was jealous. Seeing the way Alex shamelessly flirted with you tonight set him on edge. The way he grabbed your wrist and all but dragged you out of the party sent an ache straight to your core.

You were broken out of your thoughts when he was suddenly on top of you, teeth tugging at the skin on your neck. You moaned and arched your back, pressing your bra-clad chest against his. He pinned your hands above your head with one hand and kept the other at your waist, rubbing small, sensual circles on the exposed skin. You squirmed as he kissed your neck all the way down to your stomach, tongue dipping slightly into your navel. He laughed lowly and looked up at you. He slipped his hands into the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, tossing them somewhere on the other side of the room.

He let go of your hands and lifted you up so you were sitting on his lap with your legs wrapped around him. You kissed him roughly and ran your hands through his hair, occasionally pulling. He groaned and tugged on your lip, causing you to whimper in return. Hank removed himself from your body and stood at the side of his bed. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you so your legs were dangling off of the side, before kneeling down, his head between your thighs. He smirked as he put your legs over his shoulders. He lowered his face and began trailing kisses from your thigh to the apex in the middle.

“Hank-” I gasped, cutting my sentence short.

The first lick of his tongue had you writhing in pleasure.

You whimpered, as he held your hips down with his calloused hands, tongue flicking your sensitive bud. He kissed down from your clit, until his tongue prodded at your entrance, causing you to whine wantonly. His tongue slipped inside and began to fuck you, brushing against your g-spot with every move. You felt the heat coil in your lower abdomen, the knot near unraveling, when he pulled away, leaving you right on the edge.

“Hank,” you whimpered, eyes screwed shut.

He leaned down, taking your earlobe between his teeth, whispering, “That’s Professor to you.”

You inhaled sharply, his words only adding to the heat building between your thighs.

He moved to hover back over you and slipped two fingers past your wet entrance. They pumped inside you, speeds varying from tortuously slow to dangerously fast, as his teeth scraped against you. Your back arched as you cried out his name, your climax making your body shudder. The ecstasy flowed through your veins and you thought you would pass out. You closed your eyes, throwing your head back as his fingers moved incessantly.

“Profes...” you rasped. You couldn't even form a coherent thought before you went over the edge again.

Only when you were trembling and gasping, did Hank stop. He stood up and gave you a lopsided grin as he unbuckled his belt and took off his pants along with his boxers. Your mouth went dry as he slowly climbed on top of you.

He lifted you back up into a sitting position, your legs draped across his thighs, and leaned down, pressing his lips to yours, roughly. You gasped, feeling him fully sheath himself in you quickly.

“Professor-agh,” you moaned, eliciting a groan from Hank. He quickly moved you into a laying position, holding himself over you. He gripped your hips, leaning back on his heels to gain more leverage in order to thrust harder.

“Fuck, princess,” he murmured, your heat tight and constricting around him.

Your hips began moving in sync with his, as you dragged your nails down his back, no doubt leaving red lines. You swallowed the moan that tore from his throat when you pressed your lips roughly to his. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, sucking harshly at your sweet spot over your jugular. You moaned as his tongue left a trail down to your breast.

He slipped it in his mouth, his teeth slightly biting down on the nipple. You began to grind your hips against his. Hank growled and pulled out, flipping you on your front. You leaned up on your forearms and gripped the bedsheets. He spread your legs apart with his knees and gripped your hips roughly, fingertips digging in.

He rammed into you harshly, setting a brutal pace.

You felt infinite; You could stay like this forever. You could die like this, you’d decided, and be perfectly content.

You gasped, as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The air as thick with your combined breaths as the sound of skin against skin reverberated throughout the bedroom, the bed creaking and headboard banging against the wall.

You looked over your shoulder to where your bodies met and shuddered, a loud moan forcing its way out of your throat in the form of ‘professor’. You cried his name as his hand went up to roughly grab your breast. He groaned as you rotated your hips against his. You were numb with ecstasy.

He saw the euphoria on your face and slammed into you roughly. You cried his name as he gripped your hips harshly. He leaned close to your ear, his breath making you shiver. “‘Come for me, princess.”

You shook as you climaxed, your body bowing at the sensation.  Your walls clenched around him, quickly bringing him to his own orgasm. You laid there, him on top of you, gasping.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still panting. “I wasn’t too rough was I?”

You had a satisfied smile on your face as you ran your fingers through his hair. “Are you kidding me? That was extremely hot. Maybe I should make you jealous more often.”

Hank smirked and pulled you closer, pressing kisses to the place where your neck met your shoulder. “I don’t suggest that, doll.”

You pulled his face down to yours, lightly brushing your lips against his as he groaned, his member twitching against your thigh. He kissed you again and you wrapped your arms around his neck as he rolled you onto your back slowly making his way back down your body.

“You wanna be a tease? Two can play at that game.”

You bit your lip, it not taking long to realize it was gonna be a long night.

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

@kurtwxgners @madelyne-pryor @rax-writes @dicckgrayson

[lizzyisameme]

literary sexts vol. 1 poetry meme

Literary Sexts is a modern day anthology of short love poems with subtle erotic undertones edited by Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl. Hovering around 50 contributors & 124 poems, this book reads is like one long & very intense conversation between two lovers. It’s absolutely breathtaking. These are poems that you would text to your lover. Poems that you would slip into a back pocket, suitcase, wallet or purse on the sly. Poems that you would write on slips of paper & stick under your crush’s windshield wiper. Poems that you would write on a Post-it note & leave on the bathroom mirror. Treat yourself, a crush or a lover with this lush gift!

source and amazon buy link.  

I will be providing select short, sometimes edited, poems for a texting/”sexting” meme, but not the whole book itself.  If you enjoy the poems provided, please support the collection whether it’s the first volume or the second.   Or look into the works of the various contributors and see if anything else they’ve written is to your liking!  

Feel free to add to and/or edit these sentences to better suit your needs---but remember, many of these work best in the context of texts and/or love notes instead of spoken dialogue.    ---Lizzy.  

Mark me like a passage from your favorite book, then open me there again and again.

My skin is full of flowerbeds and you know every way to make them bloom.

I am tracing the knobs of your spine like the map of my favorite continent. You are all the places I haven't visited yet and I mark each one off with my teeth.

Your hands unzip me one breath at a time; there is not room beneath my skin for all of you and I spill over the edges with a sigh.

You take apart my heart in pieces with your mouth, but the splash of your tongue against mine feeds it back to me. It tastes sweeter coming from you.

You opened your mouth and spoke the language in my blood.

You kiss me and there aren't sparks. There’s an entire orchestra in my chest, playing staccato on my heart strings.

My hands are nomads, my dear desert. May they never find rest.

Being small things, we understand this as our humble attempt at thunder, at setting the world to shake.

Delicate work. Like peeling kiwis. My tongue across your skin. Mellow flesh against my lips. Your taste always in my mouth.

How a storms needs to feel the earth how the earth wakes to the pelt of rain how the ground is quenched is how I need you... 

My hands were glaciers I never dared to move freely, my fingers icicles. Your touch thawed me to excavation. I want to dig into your warmth.

Kiss me like white bread, stick to my teeth even after the whiskey. I want memories of your mouth lodged beneath my tongue to wake me at two in the morning, hungry.

I want you next to me, in my bed, your clothes making friends with my floor. Love me hard enough so we wake up the neighbors.

Your hands peeling that onion, thumbs and forefingers pulling skin from skin—they are sacred. Let me kiss them. Let them bless my sinning chest, let them peel my lips apart.

I don't want to be your harmonies anymore; I want to be the melody you scream when your heart is starving for love. I want to satisfy your hunger.

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

You, darling, are Vesuvius. I won’t see you coming. Erupt. Wreck me. Leave me ashes leave me Pompeii, leave me outlined into your history forever.

It's not so much that I want to kiss you. I want to relearn vocabulary words from the shape of your mouth. All my poems are yours first.

Kiss me blossoms in the summer, lover. I want to taste the succulent sweet of your peach tree smile. This time let Adam take the fruit from the garden.

Surge into me as a downpour, as the pounding waterfall which makes swollen rivers flood, as the sea.

The happy ending to this night: you tug my hair and lightly brush your hand across my lap. Don’t forget how resilient I am and how I would bend for you.

Even my lungs are in love as we breathe together.

I don’t just want to take your breath away. I want to rip it from your mouth and keep it locked away between my teeth. You can only have it back if you kiss me again.

The gentle friction of your hand on my thigh is enough to strike a match inside me. I lean into your lips and the fire blooms and spreads.

You are an undiscovered continent. I trail my fingers down your mountainsides. Ten explorers digging for buried treasure, I want to take it all.

My body is a gospel and you are my first quivering hallelujah. Your breath leaves your mouth like a prayer and washes over me like faith.

My hands are hungry for your flesh, desperate in the way that rivers empty themselves over waterfalls.

I peel back your skin to see if we have the same scars. I follow the map of your veins back to your heart and press my palm against yours to tangle our lifelines.

I hope to breathe in you. I hope my body will be the blood your roots drink.

We commit sins in holy places, fold ourselves between pews like dirty pictures tucked into a bible. Pant each other’s names until they sound like scripture.

My tongue collides with your collarbone like a meteor careening across the cosmos, and I taste the stars you are made of.

You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.

You, benevolent god, legs splayed like instruments of creation. I, blank slate of the universe, kneel in wait for you to fill me with your hot, honeyed light.

My hands are suntanned tourists without a map whose desire compels them onward to explore your golden cities by the light of the stars.

The moment between your thighs where I become a devout follower of your existence. That hour which passes in slow seconds of soft skin, as I lay my head against you, drifting, drowsy with love.

Your grin is a flash of primal fire in the dark. Somewhere deep inside me, something hungry wakens and shifts, uncurls its insatiable tongue.

I have been thinking of how I want to be touched by you, with hands that will play me like piano keys, with fingers that will make a symphony out of me.

You till the soil of my need, my lips a blood-red flower bursting open with the first wet flush of your heat.

When it comes right down to it, all that nonsense about hearts syncing up feels like a hallelujah with our bodies pressed together like praying hands.

Every time, you peel back my skin, pry open my ribs, and feast on my insides. Every time, you make a meal of my heart, and every time, I let you.

You’re not one for poetry or sentimentality, so I’ll just say that I’ve dreamt of being the motor oil trapped in the grooves of your weathered hands.

I ache for your hum between my legs, the purring of motorcycles on winding highways: wind in my hair, and romance in losing myself to the sweet, revving vibration of the engine again and again.

You smile and it’s like sunrise. Something inside me Wakes up, stretching.

I float away in cool sheets against my burning skin, and you are the sea guiding me beyond the realm of earthly things.

My lipstick spills over your mouth and trickles down to your chin, your neck, pooling into your collarbones. We love like crushed grapes in wine country.

You're kissing a wildfire up my thigh and I am tracing the landscape of your jawbone like a sculptor. My hands were made for this.

The rush you give me: The way a blade of grass must feel when splashed with a cloud’s cry after days of screaming for rain.

We are the fall of Rome, all fire and fighting. We collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, kissing like gladiators, loving like rebuilding.

You creep into my head like a river rushing for the sea & a cosmic digit of fingertips flash over me.

You are pressing against me like I press flowers against the pages in my book. You are kissing my neck and it feels like the start of forever. I want to touch you until my palms burn.

The wet of your mouth rains down my neck like frame, the soft heat of your tongue burns the apple in my throat. We are practiced at this love that asks angels to cover their eyes and turns devils shy.

I melt into the gentleness of your fingertips. Your tongue presses me open like the summer fresh flesh of a perfectly ripe fig, all juice, seeds and pulp.

The small of your back is refuge, is veldt, is summer heat. And I am predatory snarl.

I can't brush out the taste of you; coffee breath, cigarette smoke, and all. Mouth to mouth; Our shared vices linger on each other. Your salt still lives in my tongue.

I'll take you quiet as the bones in your closet, love as softly as a whisper. Holding your tongue like a secret.

You smiled and lit up like the dusk. I sank to your lips like the sun against the horizon. We made the day stand still.

I want to kiss you until you melt into me, ice turning to water. I want to drink you deep, and warm you from the inside.

[emma-poole]

I dream of Robin before I meet her. The shelter in Long Island tells me there are three dogs particularly in need of homes. We have one. Not the youngest...or the most photogenic in her picture, but she has a special demeanor and needs someone who will give her a loving environment. She’s been sitting in the shelter for two years and no one wants her because she is a middle-aged Pitbull. I twist her name around in my mouth. R o b i n. It is not a name I would ever choose for a dog.

I am 25 years old, newly out of a string of unfulfilling relationships, nostalgic for a dog-filled childhood. A yoga colleague has put me in touch with a local rescue. I sign on as a foster. As a child, I rolled around with my dogs in the backyard, muddying my knees and hands to crouch in the grass and watch the bugs from their level. A home video captures me at 3 years old, screaming to my mom from across the yard that I would like to see where Stella pooped. Stella is our dog. I browse the shelter’s website. Scrolling through each cute, tragic face, my cursor comes to a halt. Robin. Age 4. She is chocolate brown with big, honey eyes. Sitting on on her hind-legs, pink belly exposed, her head is fixed in the classic pitbull tilt, furrowed brow, discerning. I smile. Contrary to their disclaimer, she is absolutely photogenic.

King is a giant pitbull puppy with big ears and a loppy gait. He wags his tail as he approaches, jumps in my lap, nuzzling his enormous head on my thighs. Eponine arrives next. Eponine! I immediately feel connected to her because of the name- I played Eponine in Les Miserables my sophomore year of highschool. She is older, a bit more reserved. Her eyes reflect the weariness of a hard life. I am told she does not interact well with other dogs. I stroke her malt and white fur, tell her she is beautiful and that I wish I could adopt them all. She softens beneath my touch. I kiss her forehead and mentally curse the humans that landed her here.

Robin is brought out last. She is both sheepish and energetic, seemingly overwhelmed with being out of her pen. I take her for a supervised walk around the perimeter of the shelter. She is one of our best walkers, they boast. I feel like I’m walking a bullet. Her little dumpling body tugs at the leash, happy to lead me anywhere but here, away from a closed cage, free amidst the cloying winter air. She stops to sniff every shred of garbage, gingerly peeing when she lands at a piece deemed worthy. Squatting down, her saggy nipples just barely brush the pavement beneath her, a result of over-breeding and improper after-birth procedure. They tell me she was found roaming the streets post-partum. I think of the babies she doesn’t know, how many puppies she must have birthed and where they are now. We give her a bath. She looks mortified and slightly degraded, but keeps her body perfectly still. Her courage makes my heart ache.

They give me a pound of kibble in a large sandwich bag, a new collar, and a bright red coat with fur accents. Robin sits in the backseat of Linda’s jeep the entire drive home from Long Island to my apartment in Washington Heights. Linda runs the shelter, and has offered to drive me to and from the visitation. She is British, zany, and a hero in my eyes, devoting her life to the cause. We pull up to the curb. Paperwork has been filled out. Background checks made. Payment handed over. It is January 31st, 2015. I am about to have the hardest year of my life. Thankfully, the universe swoops in and sends me Robin.

And so it goes that the longest and most intimate relationship I have ever shared with a living creature is not a human one. And I have an abundance of beautiful, magic humans in my life.

It is January 31st, 2019. Four years have passed since that fateful day. She sits at the edge of my bed as I write this, curled up in a brown half-moon, licking her paws and occasionally her vagina. She acts oblivious to me until I adjust my foot, disrupting her head position. I wink. She blinks. We have a rhythm. I can no longer imagine life without her

*

You know all my secrets. The weird things I do at night when we are alone in the room. Every conversation I have with myself. You hear me pray- to God, to the universe, to any ominous presence that will listen. I wonder how many times you’ve heard me play out a hypothetical conversation with past boyfriends, or their new loves, or the news anchor who exists solely in mind and asks, head perched, so Emma. Tell us what sparked the idea for your latest book? I speak to you in Australian and British accents, reminding you how gorgeous you are for the 23rd time in one hour. You think nothing of it, and even if you do, you don’t blink. Instead, you tilt your quizzical head, lift your snout, and and lick my eyebrow.

I try not to inhale every time I pick your poop up off the sidewalk. The amount of shit that comes out of your body could make a grown man pass out. And yet, no matter how many measures I take , I catch your lingering scent, at once proud of and disgusted by the aroma you are capable of producing. Your tail goes completely straight during the process, like a magic wand warning passersby to keep their distance. You hold eye contact each time. I’ve been told this is because you feel vulnerable and are making sure I have your back, if anything were to happen. I love you enough to get poop on my finger one out of the five times I clean yours up, although it is unfathomable to me that after four years I still haven’t mastered a method that prevents this at all costs. Still, we carry on. Across the street, a dog owner kneels down for the scoop. Solidarity. Dont fuck with me, it implies. I’m holding a steaming bag of shit.

The first time you see me have sex, you leap up in defense, assuming I am being hurt. What must you think of this tangled show. Of masturbation. The sounds I make when I come. I think you’d probably prefer not to see me in the act, as it crosses a vague line between us, despite the fact that you stare at me every time I pee, change my tampon, and parade around the bedroom naked.

You hate the vacuum. Are triggered by skateboarders, cyclists, and really any quick moving inanimate object. Trainers presume that you were abused, kicked, which is why you sometimes try to eat people’s feet. You are both incredibly affectionate and aloof in chosen moments, often elsewhere in your own far off world, until you hear the sound of a bag of chips crinkling in the kitchen. You get annoyed when I spend too much time on my phone, preferring candlelight to the blue glow of the screen. You’d rather  I not take your picture, although you tolerate it long enough to satisfy me. I have never seen eyes widen as much as yours when I open a can of tuna, cook bacon, or grill chicken. To this day, you keep your entire body still when taking a bath, stoic but tolerant, holding out for the treat you are inevitably promised after. The second you leave the bathroom, you run at full speed around the apartment, rubbing your back on each exposed brick that lines our hallway. You are a piece of furniture, a fixture of our shared space. I feel you even when you’re not in the room, which is rare, as this apartment is your palace, the first place you called home. You are worth every dog hair on my bed, each crumb of dirt caked onto the bed sheet, and the million strands of fur I pick off my leggings at the start of every subway ride.

Sometimes I catch you looking in the mirror watching me watch you looking. You study the faces I make when I change clothes 7 times only to put on the original outfit I took off. On the days I work early, you doze back to sleep as I get ready, waiting for the moment I crack open the coconut oil to moisturize my skin. You love coconut oil. Despite it being one of the reasons you are probably fat, after my arms and legs are glistening from its sheen, I swirl my finger in the container and let you have your moment, licking your lips long after there is anything left to taste.

Warfare breaks out each time I leave the house, as though you have been robbed of your dignity. I wish I could tell you that I’ll be back and you’d believe it wholeheartedly, knowing I am always coming home to you, that you are the best part of my day. I wish you knew how much I talk about you to my students, to strangers, to anyone willing to listen. I once stopped seeing a guy with the softest lips I have ever kissed because he found it perpetually odd that we sleep in bed together.

It’s true. You are my most steadfast sleeping companion. You like to plop your 60 pound bum directly on top of my pillow, dead-weight, until I nudge you enough that you roll over, carefully side-eyeing me to sleep. When you want to be completely submerged beneath the covers, you shuffle your paws in an effort to move the blanket aside, using your mouth as a third hand, pushing everything into a messy heap until you’ve achieve your desired outcome. I warm my feet under your belly at night. In the morning, we wake up head to head, your muzzle on the pillow next to mine, eyes peaceful slits, breath toasty. I am convinced our breathing syncs up in our sleep, that when you have a bad dream, the weight of our bodies next to each other comforts you out of it. When I watch you tremble, paws twitching, I place my palm gently on your belly, and you relax. Recently, after waking from a bad nightmare, sheets soaked and my heart pounding, your body is the first surface my hand reaches out for.

I talk about your death often, mostly as a coping mechanism for my brain. I imagine having your ashes molded into a ring I could wear, joke about getting you taxidermied, a stuffed Robin head for the rest of time, casually perched on my living room wall. Oh that old thing? She was my first dog! Can you imagine people’s reactions? They already think I’m more obsessed with you than the average person. My cousin once expressed genuine concern that I will never love someone as much as I love you. I laughed, amused at the notion. But is it really possible for humans to love each other as unselfishly as you love me? We are always wanting something in return. Ownership. Possession. Validating to be validated. All you have ever asked of me is to show up.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, you bark suddenly, awakened by a footstep in the hallway or the sound of the moon howling out the window. I watch your moving lump struggle to break free under the covers, tiny limbs flailing in every direction, driven by new urgency. You leap off the bed, ears perked, alert. You are my nightwatch. In the blackness of the room, my eyes trace your outline guarding the door. I know, with more certainty than I know anything else in this world, that if that door were to open and you sensed danger, you would lay your brave, beating heart in front of mine, and armor my body with your own. I have never trusted anyone with my life as much as I trust you. Your unabashed instinct to protect makes me want to wrap my whole body around you, and whisper, over and over again, I don’t think you will ever realize how much more I need you than you need me. You are my biggest teacher, my most stubborn shadow, my earth angel.

*

Robby lou. My sweet peach. Potato puff pumpkin head. For all of the time I spend wondering about the complexities of the universe- why we are here, how we began, and where we continue onto, I live in gratitude that for a brief period of my little life, you chose me.

Someday you will not be here. And I will. That seems like the biggest injustice of them all. Because why would I ever want to live in a world without you? Perhaps, though, that is also the lesson: to celebrate, rather than cling to, the time we are given.

You are the biggest gift in my life, you beautiful weirdo. Thank you for keeping me in the moment, accepting me without judgment, and bringing me back to myself again and again.

Robin Noodle. My Sun and my moon. My north star. Goodnight, sleeping beauty, I whisper. See you on the other side.

[alwaysrunning-never-lookingback]

6-3-17 RACE REPORT--> Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Yes, you read that right! I don’t know what my deal was earlier this week, but my race today went very well. Here’s a play-by-play of the Logan Urban Trails 10-Miler, as well as I can recollect:

At 4:37am, I’m awake. The windows are open, and instantly my sweat-drenched skin is cooled by the box fan. I tell myself that no sane person actually runs a race if he’s waist deep in peanut butter and dreams are not real, which calms me. I use the bathroom and I’m paranoid about my hydration levels, but it’s dark and I gather no information on the subject. Shortly thereafter, I drift back to sleep. Before my eyes have time to shut completely, it is bright outside, the birds are calling, and I am upset. I look at my watch, 6:13am. I’ve slept roughly 90 minutes since the cold sweat, but ‘restful’ is not the adjective I have in mind. I do a triple check to make sure I’ve got everything I need for race day, and then I make breakfast. Over a bowl of oatmeal, yogurt, and fruit, I listen to Brand New’s album Deja Entendu and Angels & Airwaves’ LOVE, start to finish. It’s a ritual I began in high school and to this day I still do it the morning of races when I’m chasing a particular result. After breakfast, I make my way to the park, nearly 2 hours before start time. The first several minutes are spent reading, another ritual of mine. It’s a singular chapter in arguably the most influential running book of all time. Parker Jr.’s ‘Once A Runner’. The chapter is titled The Interval Workout. Reading this before races makes me both motivated and nervous. One chapter, and I only read it on race day. Following a short reading, I start with a walk, then a jog. As I begin my jog, I cross paths with a snail of considerable size.

Ought I to worry? I want to shrug it off, but as I’ve just documented, races make me particularly superstitious. Before long, the race is about to begin and I prepare myself as best I can. To everyone’s dismay, they tried to get us going early! Official race time was listed as 9:10am, and a little after 9:00 they said “Get ready, we’re going to start the race with a 30 second countdown!” After a lamenting groan from the crowd, the race director says “We listed start time as 9:10, does everyone want to wait for that?” After a unanimous decision in the affirmative from the runners, they gave us a little more time. For the next 8 minutes or so, I tried to skillfully control my breathing and get my heart rate back down to manageable levels. The race hasn’t even begun and already things are feeling a little out of control! Now, call me a sell-out (or perhaps an even more colorful and creative name than that), but I just entered this race to win. I gave no thought to time or pace or effort, I simply wanted to take first. When the gun went off, I let the pack naturally sort itself out for the first few minutes, and found myself right behind two guys, the three of us leading the crowd. We quickly were separated from everyone else within the first mile, and gained more distance with every step. The pace was a little slower than I anticipated, but instead of taking on a Prefontaine-style attitude so early, I let these guys lead and just followed right behind. At 2 miles, we dropped one guy. It was pretty obvious he hadn’t had much hill training, and I felt bad for him. He was bent at the waist, almost doubled over on the uphill, and I just wanted to straighten him out and carry him up the hill with us. Perhaps I sympathized with him because I’d been there before, and I was acutely aware of the detriment it would cause for the remainder of his race. I know it had done so for me many times. But I had my own race to run; I had to look out for me, you know? Now here we are, a little over 2 miles into this race and it’s just me and this other guy. He’s taller by several inches, with much broader shoulders than myself, so I drafted off him for a while. I don’t know if we were even moving fast enough or the headwind was strong enough for my drafting to make a difference, but mentally it was a huge confidence boost. Somewhere between miles 2 and 3, I decided I’d stay with this guy until we hit mile 5, and then with any luck I could break away and get some distance between us. I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes down to a neck-&-neck sprint between me and just about anyone else, I will take the loss 90% of the time. He was looking pretty strong. After winding through some neighborhood streets, we start coming up on an aid station around 3.7 miles. We both ask for water, and then he takes me by surprise- two little kids run out to our assistance, and when the wax Powerade cups hit our palms with just a little too much force, he stops!! I had half a mind to keep my prior goal and stay behind him until the halfway mark, but something wouldn’t let me. Still moving, I take a few sips and spill some water down my chin like a child dribbling soup and I am off. Not too fast, but enough that I never saw the guy again. I gave him until I arrived at the next aid station, right before mile 5, before I really opened up and put some distance between us. As I run past the volunteers and drink table, I decline water and they quickly ask to see my name & race number then radio something in to the people at the finish line; what they said I didn’t hear nor did it concern me. My legs felt great and I wanted to see what I could do today. Running with the other guys, we were never faster than ~7:10 pace for the first five, and our average hovered around 7:33. I cross the point in the gravel that marks 5 mi and tried to put on some speed, with my next five miles averaging 6:01 pace. As luck would have it, my breakaway was perfectly synced with my headphones, which begin playing one of my favorite songs for racing, “Throw Down” by Follow Your Hero. So that’s exactly what I did. For the remainder of the race, I focused on flying through the downhills and strong, powerful knee lifts on the inclines. I specifically remember finishing a particularly long downhill section right before 7 miles, and my feet were on fire! I thought I had tied my shoes tight enough to keep them from sliding, but the friction of the downhill pounding didn’t just create hotspots in my shoes, the entire interior was a furnace. From here, with roughly a 5k to go, I was really feeling good. This is where I kicked out my two fastest miles, 5:50’s back-to-back (5:50.42 and 5:50.25, if we’re splitting hairs). It helped that I was listening to Imagine Dragon’s “On Top Of The World” and Set Your Goals’ “Mutiny!” by this time. For 7 minutes I felt unstoppable, and that’s just what I needed. The song “Mutiny!” is so, so perfect for any competition, in my opinion. Road races aside, I try to avoid listening to music during any kind of running or hard workouts, but sometimes that cannot be avoided. There is one part of the song in particular that helps power me through the worst workouts and low points in races, and I save this song only for times I know I will be in considerable distress, which is why it appeared in my playlist during the final miles of my race. Near the end of the song, the line goes: “We have come to pillage. We have come to burn. We have come to incite the riot. We have come to take it over.” Now, say what you will about music and its place in running, nay, in life. Have your opinions on what is ‘good’ music and what is not. Hold true to your beliefs and morals on the subject. I will both respect and honor them. But every single time I hear this line in this song, I feel like I could take on the world and outrace anybody. Delusions of grandeur aside, at the very least this song pulls me out of the darkest abyss and keeps me moving fast for a few minutes more. I run past a local restaurant, Herm’s Inn. I can smell the roast coffee, the maple syrup, and the famous cinnamon-swirl pancakes with their cream cheese frosting. The haunting aroma causes my mind to wander. I think of the friends and family sharing meals there. I think of a comfortable booth, someone waiting on my every need, food that satisfies without fail. I even consider the ease with which each of those lucky individuals arrived at their destination, and I’m briefly filled with jealousy. They rightly and smartly chose to treat themselves instead of pay real money to be subjected to a 10-mile run in the heat. What am I, an idiot? The gradual fade of savory smells returns me to a sense of reality and duty. Notwithstanding a final aid station just before the final climb I didn’t see a single person, bystander or otherwise, again until I approached the finish line.  For a split second, I regret not breaking away earlier and seeing what I could really do with a full 10 miles at my disposal, but then I remember that not only is this a small stepping stone for later-season events, it wouldn’t be smart to risk everything on such an early-season race. I am the first to cross the finish line in a time of 1:06:34 unofficial, 6:39 average pace. A cool, metal bench under a tent offers some solace from the heat, and I take it. I can feel the cold on my thighs and palms. It would be startling if it wasn’t so refreshing. The race director snaps an unflattering picture of me removing my hat and running my hands through my sweaty hair, and I remove my shoes, afraid to know if I burned a hole through my socks. My socks are fine, thank goodness, and I feel well, all things considered. A few minutes to catch my breath & regain composure, and I’m shotgunning glasses of complimentary chocolate milk to quench my thirst. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. I get in a few easy miles as a cool down, make some phone calls to friends & family to give a short race report, and then cheer the rest of the runners in while I wait for the post-race awards and raffle. As the winner, I am guaranteed free entry into next year’s race to “defend my title”, and I was awarded a very high-quality hiking stick as well as a Bath Bomb (???). I didn’t know what a bath bomb was until I called my mother and told her that’s what I’d won. Her immediate reaction was laughter. Probably just going to re-gift that one to my sister because blue fizzy bath water isn’t really my scene. Additionally, the raffle granted me a nice pair of SmartWool PhD socks, so I’m pretty stoked about that!

All in all, today was good. I’m sore, but nothing worrisome like I was feeling earlier this week. Tomorrow will be a much anticipated day off, and then some more looking ahead as training days and race days approach.