#like....if a tile is tossed out and you win is one coin

[salamispots]

mom while setting up mahjong: aren't you going to be uncomfortable sitting sideways like that in the chair?

me: do you not see me sitting like a little gargoyle in my computer chair

[missamyrisa2]

How did you and your crew at the Tickle Factory celebrate Easter?

(oh gooosh I got carried away with this~~~)

An adult easter egg hunt ~ how silly, yet all the same you're all too happy to indulge. The emerald of the gentle grassy hills sparkles with the remnants of the morning dew, and your legs are carrying you faster than possibly ever before. No one is leaving this contest with a basket full of eggs, this much was made clear. Only the luckiest few would be finding a single egg, after which they were to be immediately rewarded.

A stunning royal blue egg sits high in the tree. Your jump won't reach it, and by the time you start to scale the trunk a much more limber player has snatched it. She waves at you with an outstanding smugness before being whisked off by a floating platform to claim her winnings. You catch a glimpse of brilliant puce under a shrub, and so do three others. With a deafening clunk you all collide with one another, allowing a clumsy grungy guy to stumble over and claim the egg though not before nearly dropping it right into your open hand.

With another winner floating off, your competitors struggle and shove to search for what they think is the last prize. You let them run off because you've already spotted it. Glinting in the fountain, obscured by the endless coins is the silver egg. You casually walk towards the bubbling water acting as though you're looking in other directions should anyone spot you. And with a nervous sudden lunge, the prize is yours. The sparkling shape rolls in your palm with a heft, and you feel your stomach tremble when the platform is suddenly under your feet.

You hear protests and curses as they see you float away ~ and when you arrive into the opening bay doors of the building you find yourself bouncing on your toes, not thinking twice about the peculiar sounds of joy emanating from nearby rooms. The prize chamber flares to life with chunks and clangs.

"Please present token for prize verification." A robotic voice both gentle and stern prompts you, a panel sliding out eagerly awaiting your egg. Upon receiving the glittery treasure, the room shifts and becomes increasingly celebratory & pastel, with balloons inflating all around and sparkling bursts of glitter firing from cannons in all directions. A screen slides out from the wall and displays a smirking face, worn by a tall feminine figure with long blonde hair wearing an elegant floral dress cinched by a thick black belt under a long black cardigan. Atop her head are two fluffy white bunny ears which gently flop as she speaks.

"Congratulations, winner! You've beaten the odds and you're quite adorable. You'll make quite the prize~" she remarks, holding fingers to her face in a delicate yet taunting expression.

As the silly celebration sounds and music flare, the floor opens into a conveyor and moves so suddenly you roll across its surface, tumbled down a decline. All the pastel and high spirit gives way to your trek into what appears to be a factory. Other conveyors run across the giant facility, some carrying other people in varying states of undress and elegant outfits. Rooms filled with busy machinery are seen in the distance. Sounds of buzzing and humming and clanking mix with laughs, giggles, gasps, and moans.

You're moving faster and faster, barely able to keep up with the surreal imagery. You recognize one fellow egg winner in a far room, strapped into some apparatus as a spider-like machine descends on them. And then all goes dark, your destination rapidly approaching towards the downward slide and right into the waiting machine hands.

Two large gloved robotic hands catch you and immediately start handling and tossing you around. They are joined by more, sliding out of the walls in this tiled room. Each wiggly hand gleefully begins relieving you of clothing as they chase you towards a waiting clamp. The giant curved metal apparatus opens welcomingly, the robotic hands working efficiently to tug away your shirt and pull your pants down, their fingers sneaking in to poke and stroke your skin in specific spots to make you twist and turn to their design. And as your undergarments are snatched and you become naked sooner than expected, the mechanical hands take to rubbing and massaging your body, poking at your tush to make you move towards your next destination~

As you stumble closer to escape the grabby hands, the clamp catches and closes around your midsection. With a firm grasp across your belly it seals and expands above and below, now looking like a shiny corset from your lower ribs to hips. The soft padding trembles and wiggles as you are heaved upwards and dragged further into the facility. Pulling you through a clear tube, the clamp and its lower body whiz speedily but pausing regularly so scanners can fire tingly beams over your exposed upper and lower body parts.

At last you are deposited into the next chamber, a pristine room with a curious oval shape. With a surge of energy, an apparatus drops from above and snatches your wrists into rubber cuffs, holding you stretched up. A door slides open and is filled with shining silver. The worker regards you with a friendly wave and is followed by a whole line of more. The crew files in one after another, decked out in their silver jumpsuits and reflective visor helmets. They exchange pleasantries with one another, look at various notes on display panels, and regard your naked wiggling form as one would an unfinished workshop project.

One of the team produces the silver egg, and places it on a pedestal. "Color verified. Begin filling procedure." The machinery hums to life and scans your prize before clicking and whirling, opening a series of circular ports across its shiny surface. Team member step forth and attach tubes from their equipment. You are helpless to watch and theorize what comes next as the tubes fill with sparkling silver coloring. "Fill complete. Commence colorization." In unison, they detach and point their gear towards you, adjusting the nozzles.

You start to panic at their stride, you tell them to stop but they can't be deterred from their job. Your body is suddenly alight with ticklish sensation feeling the mist of their weaponry firing with an impossibly teasy buzzy sound. The giggles slip your lips seeing the silvery color coating your skin. Every drop of the mist clings to your skin and gives it an irresistible tingle as if a hundred tiny pixies were earnestly drawing their tiny fingers around in circles. Your sides are trembling madly at the generous coating of the silver glitter but this is soon forgotten when a nozzle begins carefully firing into your armpit starting at the outer rim and gradually working inward.

Your legs become nothing but quivers when a pair start spraying up and down, coating your thighs and lower legs before going around and covering from behind your knees up to your clenched butt. The giggles and laughs and occasional moans from all this soft slightly wet attention on your body is further accented when you sense a nozzle being gently touched to your bouncing navel. You can't see their face through the visor but you would guarantee there was a wicked smile inside as they slowly pulled their trigger and filled your bellybutton with the tingly tickly paint. Glittery sparkles fly outward from the excessive treatment given to your giggle button.

Your laughs fill the room but their equipment matches in volume as more arrive to work their equipment on your increasingly ticklish and silvery body. A pair work your arms, coating from biceps up, stepping around as you squirm and thrash to make sure to cover it all. The machinery assists, humming down to brace your head and allow a smaller sprayer to cover your neck. Two clamps slide out to ensnare your ankles and lift your body so that your feet can be thoroughly coated.

And last but not least~ and with a tinglyyy scan, a new machine glides down and takes aim with tiny detail brushes and small nozzles to begin merrily working first on your royal chest buttons, carefully spraying and spreading the tickle sparkle paint. Working through your moans and gigglegasps, the machine hovers down and attaches clamps to your thighs to keep you from closing them so it can work away. Tiny brushes extend and wiggle and twist from your inner thighs towards your most royal area painting it up in the same tingly silvery color. And at the same time, secondary machines dip down and start working your ears as an irritatingly distracting paintjob to join the attention down below.

Their work done, the works stand back, some of them pausing to admire their handiwork with hands on waists. The machinery retracts and gives way to that spidery contraption which begins sliding out from one side. Its endless arms extend and clank into place, taking aim at your glittery shiny tingly body. Each arm rears back and surges with power, trembling and opening to begin shooting puffs of air at your body.

"Begin sealing process."

Each caress of compressed air is a kiss of tickly attention on your sparkly skin. The machine works to rapid dry your skin and seal the coating in place with excessive teasing puffs. They aim all around your body, firing their puffs at your armpits, your ears, neck, two at your chest, one at your navel, a whole line down your ribs to your hips and a trio working your extremely ticklish silvery royal zone.

Barely giving you time to react to this overload of sensation and how your skin is so shimmering and feels so tickled, the cuffs open and you are dropped through an opening in the floor. Working through yet another tube you catch a glimpse of what looks like the status board from a carwash ~ and deduce it is tracking your place in this whole affair. With a ping, the lights on "Clear Gloss" ignite.

You scramble on the tube trying to get away, not wanting to see what a clear gloss will entail but the rollers are moving you quickly with no chance at escape - particularly as the next turn of the tube is thick with spinning buffer brushes. You are drawn into the tube of fluff with the sound of rising machinery, their whirling soft surface buffing along your painted skin with endless soft teasing strokes. No part of your body is able to escape as you roll and twist and turn and hysterically laugh, the spinning brushes transferring their shining gloss to your body which exits the tube bearing a sheen through the glittery paint.

Similar tubes are depositing your competitors at the same time. The sassy girl is glowing a deep shade of blue, her sass long lost to the endless giggles she struggles with. The very air is tickling her wiggly body and she spins about on the platform. The guy in passionate puce fares no better, trying desperately not to move as he becomes more visibly aroused through his struggling snickermoans.

The open room below is busy with heavy machinery, but your curious glance down is interrupted by the arrival of a new machine which extends three clamps. You move to run but your body is so tingly from the painting and buffing that every step is ticklish agony as if you were moving through a wall of feathers. The silver clamps seal over each of your waists and begin humming and buzzing. The gentle electric current sends tingles all around your midsection, the sensation of something being attached makes you scream with giggles.

With an uncaring toss, the machine lifts all three of you over and sends you flying below as the clamps disengage. Below, a gigantic easter basket is waiting to receive and looks to be filled with a pristine white fluff. You land with a gentle bounce, your colleagues landing nearby. Glancing down, you all notice that the machine has put a black leather-like belt on each of you, all bearing a shiny oversized flower buckle.

"Aww, look at my eggies~!!" That voice returns as the boss of this place floats around on her platform, arms folded in a superior smirk. "This is my favorite basket yet~" she remarks, watching in delight as you all now begin to struggle and giggle and writhe across the fluffy interior of the pastel basket. The silky friction of the soft interior against your painted buffed skin, further enhanced by the hum of the tease belts has you all rolling in your giggles ~ positively screaming when you're unlucky enough to bump one another. Every attempt to stop and hold still lasts moments ~ the boss cooing down from above at your plight ~ before the tickles get through and you're again a helpless mess. The guy loses control and quickly ticklegasms, but his treatment only continues after a deft machine sweeps into clean him up and push him right back into the fluff. The girl now has a cleaner hovering by incessantly as she can't stop ticklegasming.

You prove to be a harder nut to crack, holding your sounds and moans. This only further entices the boss as she floats down and watches you. "Oooh I have a hard boiled eggyyyyy~" she pulls her fluffy ear headband down and starts gliding it along your belly and sides. "Come on now eggy, crack for meee~" she taunts. "You know you wannnaaaa~" and though you give a good fight, it is absolutely hopeless when she reaches down to tap the flower buckle and increase the sensitivity treatment. With hum and buzz joining your burst of giggles and moans, she grins and floats back watching lovingly as you lose control and collapse into the fluff ~ resigning yourself as the silvery glittery prize on this easter hunt.

[superkalyanmatka]

The Complete Guide to Kalyan Matka

Introduction: What is a Kalyan Matka Tips?

A Kalyan Matka Tips is a small, red plastic cup with a lid. It is used in a game called Kalyan Matka, which is popular in India.

On the surface, Kalyan Matka Tips appears to be a very simple game. The objective of the game is to win as many bets as possible by guessing the number of squares on the board that have been covered by an object like a coin or matchstick.

The first player starts by placing their bet on any square on the board and then covers it with their hand before tossing it into the air and shouting "Kalyan!" If they guess correctly, they win their bet and get to keep whatever was underneath their hand; if they are wrong, then everyone else gets to take whatever was underneath their hand.

Kalyan Matka is a type of gambling game that is popular in India. It is a game where the player has to pick two numbers and then bet on which number will come out first.

Kalyan Matka is a type of gambling game that originated in India. It was developed as an alternative to the traditional games of dice, cards, and roulette. The game is played with two sets of numbered tiles which are drawn from a bag without replacement until one player wins.

The objective of the game is to win an amount that corresponds to how many bets you have made during the game. A complete guide on Kalyan Matka can be found below:

- What are Kalyan Matkas?

- How does it work?

- How do you play?

- Tips for playing Kalyans

What does the term "Kalyan" actually mean in Hindi?

Kalyan is a term used in Hindi to mean "gift" or "present."

Kalyan is a word used in Hindi for gift or present. It can also be used as an adjective to describe something good, such as kalyan movie.

What are the 6 Types of Matka & How to Play Each Type

Matka is a game of chance. It is played by two or more players. The objective of the game is to win all the money in the pot. The game is played with a matka board and four pieces of money - one piece for each player.

The six types of matkas are:

1) Kalyan: This type of matka has four different ways to win, which are:

2) Gaja: Here, the player can win by either betting on a particular number or bet on all numbers.

3) Danda: This type of matka has three winning ways to win, which are:

4) Pachisi: This type has two winning ways to win, which are either betting on a particular number or betting on all numbers.

5) Phulao: This type has five winning ways to win, which are either betting on a particular number or betting on all numbers.

How to Play the Game in Different Cities Around The World

Kalyan Matkas are a popular Indian dice game that is played in several cities around the world. In this article, we will be discussing how to play the game in different cities around the world.

In India, it is played mainly in Mumbai and Delhi. In London, it is played by people of all ages and backgrounds. In New York City, it is mostly found at outdoor street festivals like Coney Island or as part of a family-friendly carnival.

Kalyan Matkas are also known as Indian dice games or Patience games due to their long history of being played by people waiting for something.

How to Find a Kalyan Matka Shop Near Me

Kalyan Matka is a type of gambling game in which the player has to select one of several numbered boxes. The player must then predict whether the next drawn number will be higher or lower than the number on the box they chose.

Kalyan Matka is a popular form of gambling in India and some countries around the world. It is usually played by people who are looking for quick money and a lot of luck.

Finding a Kalyan Matka shop near me can be difficult, especially if you don't know where they are located. This article will help you find them easily and get your hands on some quick cash!

Conclusion: Start Playing The Game Today and Be Lucky!

It’s time to get playing the game today and be lucky.

The authors of this article are trying to convince their readers that it is time to start playing the game. The article provides some tips on how to do that, such as finding a mentor, joining a poker tournament, and using these strategies in your everyday life.

[shao-hujiaqi]

Satisfaction of the Mind Stems From Comparison

“Satisfaction of the mind stems from comparison.”

Mr. Hu Jiaqi says so as he elaborates on human value. A trendy game “羊了个羊”, which roughly translates as “Sheep a Sheep”, has given me an insight into the meaning of this sentence.

This elimination game is deceitfully simple. At the bottom of the screen are seven spaces for you to put the tiles. Place three matching tiles in the spaces to eliminate them from the game. Once you’ve eliminated all tiles, you win.

But there are two differences from traditional elimination games:

1. The number of players of each province who have cleared all the levels is listed on the game’s interface. The more people passing the game, the higher the province would rank in the list. The province with the highest passing rate will be on the top.  

This undoubtedly aroused the enthusiasm of players trying to keep up with others. Bringing honour to their hometowns sounds even more exciting. Provincial ranking has become the game’s gimmick for those who are striving vigorously for it.   

The game developer boasts that “no more than 0.1% of players can get through all levels”, which has strongly stimulated the desire to win amongst many gamers.

High difficulty means it’s easy to fail. More people have the desire to win than backing out, so they try over and over again. The more times they fail, the more they yearn for success.

Hardly have they realized that this game is a carefully designed trap taking advantage of players’ high ambition.

In the first level of the game, at the bottom of the screen are seven spaces for you to put three kinds of tiles. Therefore, it’s easy to get through. But the second level is a totally different story. There are 15 different tiles, with still 7 spaces. The difficulty brought about by the sudden upgrade has left many players in a flurry, who would put the blame on their own way of solving the puzzles.

But with the improvement of players’ proficiency and development of the game, they come to realize that the trick lies beyond the realm of skills but in the mechanics of the game itself. Sequence of tiles is totally random and it’s nothing but sheer luck if you win. It's equivalent to tossing a coin——you can only win by 20 times of heads in a row. And you would lose even if the coin lands tails up for just one time.

Like “Minesweeper”, “Sheep a Sheep” is just under the guise of an “intellectual game” with the challenge being left to chance and not to players’ skill.

Mr. Hu Jiaqi says: A person's desire largely determines his/her sense of happiness. The more easily the desire is to be satisfied, the happier one feels.

To complete all the levels of a game is exactly what players want, and it is the lowest expectation. However, repeated failures push this goal further and further. Because unfulfilled ambitions pile up, negative emotions accumulate ceaselessly, and what they get at last is none but a feeling of emptiness after vain attempts.

I can’t help but think of another game known for “torturing players”, Jump King.

Since release, Jump King has been known for its extremely high difficulty. There is no enemies to contend with. Players must ascend a tall, vertical tower by making careful jumps in the upper left and upper right directions, and the jumps can be charged.

The difficulty comes from two aspects:

All progress and each fall cannot be auto-saved. There is no turning back, which means you must start all over again if you quit.

Tension rises with each jump as a single mistake means a long fall. Hours of efforts will amount to nothing.

It is stated clearly that this game is extraordinary challenging. The higher you jump, the harder you fall. Countless players cry loudly in the process of playing because of the fall caused by misoperations. It is an enormous test of the players’ willpower.

Meanwhile, it tells you not to quit or to be discouraged. Your only enemy is yourself.

The moment they reach the top, a huge sense of achievement and contentment will make the players cry with joy as they have conquered themselves.

As Mr. Hu Jiaqi says: “Satisfaction of the mind stems from comparison.”Comparing with yourself, you can be filled with  gratification that comes from overcoming yourself; comparing with others, you can get nothing but a feeling of emptiness by considerations of gains and losses.

Games are supposed to bring people happiness, and the twists and turns in between are to highlight the hard-earned victory. But “Sheep a Sheep”only arouses players’ desire to compare, who feel resentful and unsatisfied after repeated failures. Naturally, games of such kind become meaningless.

The Chinese character “人” （person）is simply written in two strokes. But a person’s thoughts are complicated. French philosopher Pascal has said:“Man is a thinking reed. ”I think that’s exactly the difference between man and all things of nature.

[earlgreydream]

new york.

| draco malfoy x reader | fluff |

cw: a bit of soft smut, swearing

“Come on, Draco,” you grabbed his hand, pulling him through the streets of New York. His eyes were wide, and he marveled at everything.

Before dating you, Draco had stayed in the wizard world, barely leaving London. He kept within places of magic, and had never really seen muggle life.

Now, the two of you were eighteen, and you’d managed to free him from a summer at Malfoy Manor. He’d agreed to go to America with you for the summer, though he was extremely hesitant to spend a summer in the muggle world.

“New York IS magical!” You had insisted to Draco, and he gave in once he realized how happy it would make you. And secretly, he was curious to see where you had grown up.

Oh, and that you had braved your entire Christmas break at Malfoy Manor, under the scrutiny of Lucius, who was incredibly unfriendly and unwelcoming to his son’s mudblood girlfriend.

“We’re staying in my apartment. It’ll be just us, Draco. You don’t need to worry about impressing anyone,” you had promised your anxious boyfriend.

Now, Draco’s silver eyes couldn’t take in all of Times Square. He looked like a startled child, and you giggled at his wide eyes.

“This is crazy, Y/N, everything is all lit up-” Draco gaped at the signs. You walked slower, keeping in time with him as he took it all in. Your hand held onto his arm, keeping you together as you navigated the busy square. 

You looked up at the sky, dark clouds hanging heavy overhead. Thunder boomed in the distance, just over the sound of the street. 

“It’s going to rain. Time for an indoor activity,” you broke Draco from his trance, and the two of you made it to a small staircase outside of a building. Draco hesitated, and you dragged him down into the underbelly of the city, into a lounge you frequented whenever you were in the city. 

You were greeted by buzzing neon lights, printed carpet, and arcade machines. Everything was retro, looking like you’d stepped into the 80s. You ordered soda before pulling your boyfriend to an arcade game. He looked unsure, and you grinned at him, setting your things down. 

“What is this?” Draco asked, looking around curiously.

“This is an arcade. We play these games, I’ll show you.” You put a coin in the slot of the machine and showed Draco how to play Pac-Man.

“Want to try?” You asked, moving over to let him try after you finished demonstrating. He nodded, gingerly pressing the buttons. A frown knitted on his face as he struggled, not doing near as well as you.

“Can I try again?!”

“Sure, babe.” You slipped another coin in the slot, and he attempted a second time, still barely making any points.

“Draco, it’s just a game, relax,” you smoothed yourself hands down his arms as he tensed up with frustration. It was taking all of your strength not to laugh at him as he fought with the game.

“I can’t even win against a bloody muggle contraption-” Draco huffed and a couple teenagers turned their heads.

“It’s alright, they’re hard. Some take practice. Let’s try another one.” You sipped on your sprite, giving Draco a quick kiss to calm him down. He hummed softly and followed you to a different game. Thankfully, he was slightly better at the second one, and his bad mood faded with your encouragement.

You spent the entire afternoon there, eventually swapping arcade games to bowl in the alley at the back. You knew Draco was using magic, because he striked every time. You rolled your eyes as onlookers stared in awe, and he grinned at you with a wink.

“It’s not fun if you cheat.” You told him, and he kissed you.

“No, but I’ll play fair next round.” You let him, knowing he wanted to redeem himself of being embarrassingly shit at the games.

You had only dropped your bags at your apartment, but the two of you had been out since your flight landed this morning. You were starting to get tired, and you could sense Draco was too.

“I’m starving, and the rain has let up. Want to get something to eat?” You asked Draco, and he nodded, holding out his hand for you to take. You grinned and intertwined your fingers, walking out to the damp street with him.

“Come on, there’s a great deep dish pizza place closer to my apartment.” You led him into the subway, and his arm wrapped around your waist protectively as you waited for your train. His chest was pressed to your back, his grip on you secure.

“We’re safe.” You rubbed his arm that was under your ribs, but he didn’t relax. You rode the train downtown a bit, before getting off in lower manhattan.

“It’s just up here.” You told him, tightening your jacket as the night got colder. The two of you walked half a block into a New York deep dish pizza parlor, and Draco smiled at the delicious smell as you entered.

“Two,” you said to the waiter, and he sat you down at a booth in the corner. Draco’s hand rested on your knee, and the two of you ordered their restaurant original pizza, sipping on ginger beer as you waited.

“This is your New York?”

You hummed, nodding in response. He kissed your cheek sweetly, openly affectionate with you in the public setting.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the MET so you can see the art,” you said, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from his face. He leaned down and kissed you softly, one of his arms around your shoulders as the two of you sat on the same side of the table.

“I’m excited.”

“Me too, it will be fun!” You agreed. You turned as the waiter set down the pizza in front of the two of you, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up.

“This is huge, Y/N!”

The waiter smiled and left you alone, and you sliced off a piece, handing it to him before serving yourself.

“We’ll put the leftovers in the fridge at home. Try it. You’ll like it, I promise.” You encouraged him, and he did so with excitement.

“Oh my gods, this is so good!” He exclaimed, making you giggle.

“New York isn’t half bad, is it?”

He shook his head, silver eyes shining. You enjoyed your pizza, watching people walk by out the window. Draco had already expressed his anxiety over not only the amount of traffic in New York, but also of the cars driving on the wrong side of the street. You giggled at his disdain for the incessant honking, used to the quiet serenity of Malfoy Manor.

You were yawning by the time you walked the last three blocks to your apartment, Draco’s hand on your lower back as you slid your key into the lock. You let yourselves in, kicking off your shoes and losing your jackets in the hall. Draco took his time looking at your apartment now that you had time, and you let him wander as you put your extra pizza in the fridge.

You watched him run his fingers over your books and look at plants and various things of yours that were set around. You leaned in the doorway, unnoticed by him, observing him peek into your life. He picked up a small stuffed bunny off of your bookshelf, an endearing smile on his face as he carefully set it back down.

“I love your room,” Draco said when you stepped in, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting against his back.

“Thank you.”

“Let’s wash the city off,” you said, tossing your jeans into the bin, stripping off the rest of your clothes as he watched, following suit.

You giggled as he chased you into the bathroom, lightly tickling your sides. You turned on the shower, stepping under hot water and pulling your boyfriend in with you. He kissed you deeply, water running over your bodies. He squeezed soap onto his hands and began to glide them over your skin, squeezing your ass in the process. He definitely spent extra time on your chest, and you did the same to him, washing him up. Your giggles echoed in the shower chamber, and Draco left hot kisses over your neck, shoulder, and chest.

Draco lifted you onto the wide tile shelf, kissing you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth. Your fingers tangled into his wet hair, and you spread your legs for him to stand between.

A loud moan escaped you as he slowly entered you, a slight discomfort forming as a result of your lack of regular sex at the castle.

“Please— fuck— move,” you begged Draco, dragging your nails up his back.

He obliged happily, fucking you slowly, careful not to be too rough. Your chest was heaving, your body on fire against the cold tile of the shower, everything slick and steamy. Draco’s mouth moved along your neck and jaw, and your head was spinning as his hips repeatedly met yours.

“Need to feel you come around me, love,” Draco murmured, tweaking your nipples lightly, drawing a squeal from you.

“I’m close, just, a little faster,” you panted, gripping his shoulders. Within minutes you were coming undone, and you wouldn’t collapsed if it wasn’t for the shelf holding most of your weight. You felt Draco’s orgasm follow, leaving you both lightheaded and airy.

“Give me a minute before I can stand up.” You laughed, holding onto his arm to steady you.

The two of you finished getting clean, and you dried off before going to your bed. Your head rested on his chest, fingers tracing shapes over his milky skin until you fell asleep.

You woke up the next morning to soft noises in the kitchen. You got up and pulled Draco’s t shirt over your head, walking out to the kitchen to find Draco struggling.

“I was going to bring you some tea in bed but I can’t find the kettle.” He complained, and you giggled, shaking your head.

“What? Why’re you laughing at me?” He demanded, and you held his cheeks and kissed him.

“Hand me two cups, Malfoy.” You ordered, using his last name. His nose scrunched up, and he bit back the urge to complain about how you addressed him.

He obeyed you, and you filled the cups with filtered water, and put them in the microwave.

“You’re joking-” he started, and you cut him off with another kiss.

“We’re in america, sweetheart. I haven’t got a kettle.”

He was disturbed by your lack of kettle, but he trusted you to make good tea, and he didn’t want to upset you by judging your American ways. The term mudblood pricked into the back of his mind, instilled by his horrid father. He pushed the thought away, and wrapped his arms around you. He didn’t speak, but he hugged you tightly, and you rested against him.

“I love you,” his voice was full of such urgency, you didn’t know what had crossed his mind that made him feel the need to hold you so tightly and remind you of his affection.

“I love you too, Draco.” You touched his face gently, looking into his eyes.

You broke away to drop tea bags into your now-hot water. You put a bit of cream in Draco’s how he preferred it, and he kissed your cheek, pulling the two of you back to bed with your tea.

“We can get ready after this.” You decided, enjoying the warmth of your bed. Draco loved your tea, and he finished his more quickly than you. He traced the flowers printed on the duvet, listening to you talk about the museum you were taking him to.

He was enjoying the city so far, even though the noise had kept him up. He got dressed and admired you in a little white sundress. You spun around for him, and he kissed your lips, catching you and pulling you into him.

He couldn’t keep off of you now that the two of you had space. You’d graduated, and you were free. You could openly be loving without the judgement of teachers or other students, and no one was around that Draco had to protect his reputation from. 

He was always kissing you, holding your hand, or letting his hand rest on your knee now that you were away from judgemental gazes. He enjoyed just being with you. Draco was much more relaxed away from his family and aristocratic peers, and your life together in America was coming a solid reality.

Draco’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand as the two of you ascended the steps up to the MET. You turned, grinning at him in the sunshine, and you pushed up on your toes, kissing him sweetly. 

“I love you!” Draco announced when you dropped back down from kissing him, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I love you too, Draco.” 

He let you pull him inside, and the two of you spent the entire day wandering through the endless rooms in the art museum, admiring the paintings, drawings, sculptures, and artifacts. 

Draco’s eyes lit up at the sketches of the dancers, he studied them for a long time. 

“I think I’d like to try art.” Draco informed you, and you looked up at him.

“You should, I think you’d be good at it.” You spoke encouragingly, and he smiled down at you.

“Do you mean that?” 

“I do.” You rubbed his arm and kissed his shoulder. 

“Come on, I want to see the impressionists. That’s my favorite part of this place.” 

He followed you, standing behind you as you admired the paintings. His arms were around your waist, and his head rested on your shoulder as he looked at the paintings with you. 

You stayed at the museum until it closed, going home and eating the leftover pizza on the balcony. You handed Draco a sketchbook you had, and some pens, earning a smile.

“I can use them?”

“Of course.” You nodded, and he began to sketch you, sitting there. You listened to the cars below, and happy people singing in an apartment above yours. His sketch was beautiful, and you smiled at him dreamily.

[books-of-the-great-leviathan]

Chapter 29- Alois

***

Time dragged like a broken leg. All Alois had for company, all he'd had for the past weeks, were the same set of catsbones, carts of books heaved up stairs from the Palace library, and one singular madman.

Mad boy, Alois had to amend. Elias was indeed a boy- twelve years old, the one solid fact Alois had managed to coax from him- and not a man, though he was, without a doubt, mad. He muttered now, under his breath, his fingers laced and clasped in front of his mouth as he stared down at the jet and ivory tiles of the catsbones board.

Alois watched him, though he should be watching the board- mad or not, Elias could have made a fair amount of coin sweeping catsbones boards at any gambling palace across Pavaloir's harbors. Most of Alois's pieces sat in a tidy pile at Elias's end of the board. His last roll of the dice hadn't gone favorably, either. A few moves, a few flicks of Elias's wrist and the clatter of dice, and Alois would lose his right boot.

"Are you going to do something?" Alois asked.

"Quiet," Elias said, not taking his eyes off the board. He was Estaran, his accent thick as gholiant stew; they spoke their mother language, comfortable as old leather after nothing but courtly Lapidaean for so long. Elias hadn't seemed to recognize Alois. Maybe he didn't care. There was something refreshing about it. Alois might have been any young sailor, any docksman or miner, anyone but who he was.

Fisherman, Alois thought, and then thought of Marin, and his throat grew tight.

"You might as well put me out of my misery," he went on, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. "You're winning. It'd take a miracle for me to pull ahead at this point."

"Miracles happen."

"Not against you," Alois scoffed. Elias didn't answer him, but reached out, tossing the dice. Alois groaned as Elias flicked his three remaining pieces down, three ticks of his nails against the ivory chits. He swept them to this side and raised his wide dark eyes to Alois, a hint of a smile on his face.

"I win," he said.

Alois reached down to tug off his boot. Between the shutters, the long wind-stirred drapes, he heard them: bells, bells ringing across Lapide, a tide of sound growing nearer with each passing moment. The last to sound was the deep bronze voice of the bell crowning the Palace, beneath the hawk finial atop its grand dome. Alois stopped, and straightened, watching his glimpses of the city between the drapes. He rose to cross to them and stood, fingertips brushing the fabric, listening to the bells as they went on, and on.

Beyond the terrace and the spearpoints of statues the Vie was all light, the city all light, verdigrised domes and slanted roofs and spires struck brilliant by the noon sun. The Vie was like a spill of silver ribbon, the clamor of bells becoming discordant, then slipping once more into harmony, a golden tide of sound reaching him up the sheer cliff walls of Valeris Ridge.

They'd rung this way for days. They were mourning bells, Alois knew, though for whom he had no idea. King Daval had wanted no sympathy cultivated for Lapide, but Alois had learned Lapidaean tradition at his mother's feet. She'd slipped him books his father forbade and told him the rest. Bells were rung for festivals and fetes, for coronations, for occasions of joy, the bells an outpouring of prayer for the Triune.

Now, their sound was somber, their pattern funereal. The pall of it hung, and lingered, like scars from plague.

"She's scared," Elias murmured as the sound faded.

Alois looked back. "What?"

"Who else? Princess Isabella." He fiddled with the catsbones pieces. It was a beautiful set, the prettiest Alois had ever seen. His guards at Pavaloir Tower had played with a battered old board and replacement pieces carved from brushfowl bones, but this one was a masterwork, board inlaid with mother-of-pearl forest birds, pieces carved in the shapes of tiny ships. The board tiles themselves had been skillfully made to look like the ripple of water across the deep ocean, so the playing ground became a battlefield, ships sailed and lost across its surface.

Did Cereza sail a battlefield? Was she lost out there amongst waves and starlight, none but the wind as company? Alois felt his hands quiver and clenched them. Gray spotted his vision, pushing in at the edges; always a haze, his vision narrowing. One day it would narrow to a pinprick, and then to nothing at all. No more catsbones, no more sunstruck Vie. He thought of Cereza, of her sweet face, the curls of blonde hair escaping her pearl net. To marry her, to end the war. Peace and prosperity. A long reign. A fair reign.

A fair world, if such a thing were possible.

"I doubt that," he said at last. "Isabella doesn't seem the type for such base and mortal emotions as fear."

Elias shrugged one shoulder. "She is." He set the piece down on the empty board, precisely, then reached to pluck another: this one of jet. He set it ahead of the other, so they seemed to curve along the same course: toward what, Alois couldn't fathom. "Queens and kings have much to lose and much to fear."

"My father's not afraid of anything," Alois muttered.

"Yes," Elias said. "He is."

Alois snorted. "Name one thing that scares Daval Belmont."

"You do," Elias said.

Cold twisted in Alois's gut. He clenched his hands, knuckles blanching. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not."

"Why would my father be afraid of me?"

"That's not what I said." Elias bent again over the board. More ships, now; he moved them, muttering, whispering, swept them away and moved them again. His movements became agitated, and he shook his head and shoved the pieces into a heap, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "No," he said. "No, no, no, it isn't right..."

Alois crossed to him and touched his shoulder. Elias jumped, whipping toward him. His gaze was far away, not on Alois; he was elsewhere, leagues off. With a blink, his eyes focused, and Elias seemed to return to them, to this room. He stared placidly at Alois.

Cold whispered across his skin. Around them, the sound of bells faded. "Are you..." Alois began. His mouth was dry. "Are you all right?"

"Look at this," Elias said.

He set the ships on the board again. Alois sat, slowly. The jet ship sat lonely in the center. Behind it, another chased its course.

"There's a storm coming," Elias said. "All the way across the Great Blue. I saw it. I saw it there and it told me. Its blood shone in the water, and I cupped it in my hands and drank it."

"What? The Great Leviathan?"

"You believe me," Elias said, like it was a fact. "You believe in it. You always have." He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "It calls to you in dreams."

Dreams. Pathways of stars. The falling star that had traced the way to Estara so many thousands of years ago. His mother had whispered to him, even as the word of Bellana was called from the rooftops. Of whales, and godsblood, and blue spurting like rivers from its wounds. The tales of the world's beginning, that the Leviathan shaped it from dark seas, and that all things came from its flesh and its blood. That all things would one day go back to it, and all would become dark again. His mother had taken him by the hand, had helped him saddle his elk and ridden with him to the shrine of the old three-faced goddess.

She'd traced the paintings on the shrine walls, candlelight flickering in her amber eyes, and told him these tales of how all things had begun.

How do you know what's true? Alois had asked her, thinking of the stained glass windows of Bellana in the throne room, the way their colors enshrouded him, so brilliant they made his eyes hurt. Bellana, staring down with her blue-white eyes, her flaming sword aloft as she battled her enemies, seemed real as anything: a force like a storm, like a tidal wave, like his father the king, eclipsing all in its path. He certainly believed Sky-Queen Bellana would hurt him if she found out his pricklings of doubt.

His mother smiled. She wore dusty riding leathers, not her usual gown and veil and gold collar, her hair braided in a coil at the nape of her neck. Her fingertip lingered on a painting: the Leviathan surrounded by schools of sea creatures, the masses following it like cloud gulls follow winds.

No one knows what's true, she said. No one for sure. No one but the whale, and it's not one for telling.

But Father says...

He'd trailed away as cold crept over his skin. Mentioning Daval was like invoking the true name of the Deepmother: it might draw him here, it might make him come and find them. And when he did, he wouldn't have to fear Bellana's wrath. His father's would be enough.

His mother's expression had sombered. She'd turned back to the walls, lowering her hands, and sat at the shrine's edge.

The little spring had plashed down the rocks. The candlelight broke into splinters of light across its surface. Alois had thought about how much he wished he could stay there, not just in the shrine but in that moment, an insect caught in amber. How much he wished things would never change, that he would always feel safe and hidden from the eyes of gods and kings alike.

Mama? he'd asked.

It's all right, Alois.

His mother held out her arms and he folded into them. He was six years old, still afraid of the dark, understanding too much. She'd stroked his curls and leaned her cheek against the crown of his head. The candlelight made the paintings seem to flicker and move: fishes and monsters and whales and winged things, circling and circling to no end.

You are not his, his mother had whispered to him. You don't belong to him. Nor to me, either. You are your own. To burn or to build, you choose. All we have is choice. That was what the Leviathan gave us, greater than all else.

He'd held onto her so tight, believing her with all he was. Four years later she was dead, limp and bleeding on the bed, the whites of her eyes bruised black from her plague. It had killed many, that plague, one of so many plagues to sweep Estara. All her love had seemed to die with her, and all Alois's courage, too, held close like an ember, keeping him warm.

Did belief die so easily? Could it be killed, too?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to say to the mad boy. He plucked a fruit from one of the bowls of plums scattered through the room and took a bite. Its honey-sweetness didn't shake the taste of dread from his mouth.

"Who are they?" he asked as he chewed, nodding at the catsbones board.

"The cursed princess," Elias said. He rested his hand on the lonely ship. "And the bleeding man."

He tapped the other ship. "He hunts her across dark and lonely seas. Hunts her to the flank of the whale, so he can stare god in the eye and ask why, and kill it at last..."

"The cursed princess? Cereza? You see Cereza?" Alois's heart hammered. "Is she all right? Is she alive?"

"Not for much longer. She's dying."

Dying. Not dead. "The bleeding man-"

"You call him Witchhunter."

Captain Azare was hunting Luca and Cereza. On his father's orders, no doubt. Alois experienced a surge of hot anger. Another terrible thing done in service of Daval, in service of Estara. At once Alois wished the Witchhunter were here, were standing in this dim, pretty room with its books and its drapes and its gulls calling from the terrace, so he could demand why. Demand why, and punch him, or draw steel on him. Something equally stupid.

He remembered Azare in the passageway, then. Orklight and shadows, the glint of steel and silver on Azare's Witchhunter grays, the look in his eyes, a longing so profound it had struck cold to Alois's core.

Trust what he asks of you, he'd told Alois, and Alois had. Not for the king, he knew. Not for Daval, but for him, for Azare. He'd wanted so much to trust Azare, and so many had suffered for it. But trust him he had. Even now, a part of him still wanted to.

He set down the plum, sucking juice off his palm. "Bleeding man. Is Azare wounded?"

"There's more what can be wounded than body and bone," Elias said, matter-of-factly, and scratched at his ear.

Captain Azare. Hunting Cereza. Hunting Lapide's hope. Alois thought of Cereza again, her sweet face and fine spirit. He hadn't wanted to marry her, still didn't- he did not want to marry anyone at all- but to have her at his side, be his queen, wouldn't be so bad. She was the kind of person to make things grow, not to raze them with fire. Maybe together they might have become the kind of leaders Alois wished he could be.

Peace, prosperity. Fairness for all. He might as well have wished for honey sweets, too. It was never to be, his betrothal never more than a cloak to hide a dagger beneath.

All the same, he couldn't help but pray she would come back alive. A prayer not to Sky-Queen Bellana cloaked in lightning, but to older gods, nameless gods, weeping water and the flicker of candlelight on stone. All the same, he couldn't help but hope everything would be all right. Not just for her, but for everyone.

For Daval, too?

"Where are they?" Alois demanded, leaning across the board. "Tell me more. Tell me everything."

"Far away...on the rim of the world..."

"Saints-" Anger flashed, a lightning strike, and he slammed his hands down on either side of the catsbones board. The pieces jumped; one ship toppled. Elias flinched, hiding his face in his hands. "I'm stuck here, I'm useless, I'm waiting for nothing-"

Elias was weeping like a child, his shoulders shaking. Alois breathed hard. His own eyes swam with tears. Traitor eyes, in more ways than one. He wished again the Witchhunter were here to do what he'd done ten years ago, to drag him away from the sight of his dead mother and hold him tight in his arms. Azare had wept then, he realized. He'd wept like Elias was weeping now.

Alois let out his breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words sounded glib, but he didn't know what else to say. If it were Marin he'd know what to do, but Marin was a long way from here. Still, he knelt next to the mad boy and put his arm around him, staying with him until his sobs and shudders slowed, until the room was quiet once more.

Elias lowered his hands. Salt tracks glimmered down his face. He scrubbed his knuckles over his nose.

"There's something here," he said. "In the Palace. Like a cloud of smoke. Can't see through it...hurts to try..."

"What? What is it?"

"I don't know. I could see the princess, and then...too much. Too strong. Ghosts whispering. Chained at the wrist and at the neck. They remember...there was a girl here who could talk to them, but this isn't speaking, this is-"

He cut off, and his eyes grew wide. He twisted and grabbed Alois by both wrists. His chair toppled and clattered. Alois jerked back, but Elias was full of some fever strength, and held on.

"It's coming for her," he hissed.

"Who? Isabella?"

"She's in danger," Elias said. "Not just her. Her ghost. It's restless inside her like a bird in an egg, ready to hatch, ready to die-"

There were few times in Alois's life where belief consumed training, where conviction obliterated caution. A child, following his mother's secrets instead of his father's punishments. When he had made his bargain with Isabella, the fledgling promise of a new way of living. Now, that same fervent conviction burned in Elias. He wasn't mad, Alois saw, not really. Simply pushed so far he'd been tilted out of the way most saw, into some new realm of knowledge, some divine place past Alois's ken.

Now, belief swept aside all logic, all doubt. Alois knew.

Something was wrong.

Footsteps approached the door. Alois stood as two Falcii pushed it wide, blocking the doorway. Both were armed, pistol and blade.

"Good afternoon," Alois said, switching back to his formal Lapidaean. "Is everything well?"

The Falcii approached. Elias backed off, hands clenched.

"Prince Alois? Come with us," said the one on the left. Her voice was flat, emotionless. Alois glanced around the room. Plants hung from braided ropes. Shelves held today's collection of books. The breeze stirred the drapes, something below exciting a cloud of gulls so they rose like smoke, buoyed on the wind. A catsbones board, pieces scattered.

"I'm sorry, what's this about?" he asked.

"Come with us." The other one was a big man, a head taller than Alois. "Now."

"Did the princess send you?"

"Isabella is no longer a princess of Lapide," said the first Falcii. "We come under the orders of Captain Enzo Acier, acting regent of-"

"Acier? Where's Isabella?" Alois stepped back. His stocking-clad right foot slid on the flagstones. "What happened?"

The big man drew his stiletto: a sinister whisper of steel to steel. Alois's palms were slick. He stepped back again. The cloud gulls shrieked outside.

"This isn't right-" he began.

"For Lapide," the Falcii whispered.

A howl split the air, a frenzied cry. Elias. "Saints! The pain!" Alois whipped round as he collapsed, writhing, clawing at his face. "The pain! The pain! Saints spare me! It hurts so much!"

"What's wrong with him? He plagued?" The first Falcii swept past Alois; the second looked past him, distracted. "Paolo, hurry up and help me-"

Alois picked up the upset game table chair and swung it straight for Paolo's back. It cracked into him, hard, with the sickening thud of wood against flesh. Paolo cried out and dropped to his knees, bowling sideways. The other Falcii whirled with a shout, blade half-drawn. Daval might look at him with shame, but Alois was a son of Estara.

He was trained as one, too.

The first Falcii came at him, blade loosed. Alois ducked aside and she skidded past him. On the floor, Elias sprang at Paolo, catching him round the neck. Steel sang. Alois ducked as a blade lashed down for his shoulder. The Falcii slashed at him again, and he twisted out of the way. Her sword hit the doorframe and stuck deep.

"Ah, Hells-" she started.

She never finished. Alois hit her on the head with the empty fruit bowl. She collapsed, leaving the sword twanging in the doorframe. He wrenched it loose and turned, braced to fight, but there was nothing, no one. Elias released Paolo, who slumped, unconscious, to the carpet.

"It's all right," Elias said. "I got him."

"Yes, you did," Alois said, eyebrows raised, breathing hard. He peered into the corridor. Nothing there but sun-dappled marble and echoes.

"They were here to kill us," Elias piped up.

"Yes, I rather realized that." He went back for his boot and pulled it on again. It was a good thing he wasn't dead; it'd be damn embarrassing to go to his tomb half-shod. "We have to get out of here. Someone will have heard all that. Come on."

"Ghosts hear everything," Elias whispered.

Alois couldn't argue with that. "Where's Isabella?"

"Down. Down. Down in the dark." The boy brushed past him. "Follow me."

[onetuffbunny]

okay so

midday in mid september right before fall when it's starting to cool down but it's not cold yet, air still but a breeze is about to start, you're in a field with a small hill and there's no one around except maybe a few birds sitting in the trees around the edge, you look up at the sky and there's no airplanes or anything, just you and sky and some white clouds big against everything that almost look like someone painted them on but they didn't

like lightning in a cartoon, sharp and sharp and sharp, but dial in back, replace danger with fun but not electric neon purple sort of fun, lick it and you taste the ghost of it an hour later when you thought it had all gone

like you're fourteen again and it's a friday night and you're at the rollerskating rink because it's like 2000-whatever again and you're at the arcade because of course there's an arcade, it'd be a pretty shit roller rink if it didn't have an arcade, and you're taking little steps because you still have your skates on because the guy at the counter fucked off and you can hear someone play DDR but you can't because you're wearing skates, so you put in some coins for skeeball and start tossing and you're by that dome game, the one where you have to stop the light, and the neon's casting strange colors on you and you win yourself some tickets, so you go to the prize area and you get a ring pop and lick it and dip it into your pop rocks and you feel it fizzle fizzle fizzle on your tongue and then they dim the lights because they're doing a couples dance and they cast little white lights that flicker around like fishes on the ball, disco ball or some shit, and you sit there tasting sweetness all by yourself

chemical but good, fake but it knows it, it's not pretending to be anything otherwise, there's no berry in nature that matches that color, not even blueberries, and that's okay, artificial can be good, it' not always bad

you're on the road in a place you don't know and it's 4 AM and your only choices for anything to eat are fenny's and the gas station and you go with the gas station because you are b r o k e and there's no one else there but the cashier and your buddy with the car and you, so you go to get one of the premade sandwiches that come in boxes because they don't even have the hot dogs rolling at 4 AM but you stop by the drinks first even though you aren't even getting one because they keep the napkins over there and you aren't going to make a mess in someone else's car and then you just watch the slushie machine do its thing for awhile, cycling endlessly, and you decide fuck it, you haven't had a slushie since you were a kid, which was two years ago, and you taste it and it's good as fuck

like neon but not the harsh neon and not like bright red neon letters on the side of a building in vegas or whatever, the cool neon, the kind that makes everything seem darker in a bright way, kind of calm, real nice, close your eyes and go to sleep sort of neon lights, not lookatmelookatmelookatme neon lights

like you go to the pools that only exist in 80s architecture magazines and there's tile all around, white, even on the ceiling, and you dip your hands, cupped, and draw it to your mouth and it is clean and it is pure and it is the clearest water you have ever seen, the sweetest water you have ever tasted, and the lights sparkle off of it, no waves, just the ripples you leave behind, and it was wrong of you to dip your hands into the water, this water was not meant to be sullied by humans, it was not meant to exist outside of pictures

11:00 PM, night's still young, you have plenty of time and plenty of clubs, this night is a tribute to dionysus but no wine shall pass your lips, darkpurplered, this is not a tribute to the god of the harvest, this is a paen to dionysus twiceborn of divine ecstasy and madness and you are the altar, so you go out and you have one scotch, one bourbon, one beer but now it's time to get real weird with it, now's the time for shots, candysweet and candysour, and then you throw back a fishbowl drink with umbrella and little candy fish, and then you're in the bathroom with water on your face and you look into the mirror and you see yourself looking back at you and you taste candy on your lips

like how you want hairspray to taste because you're not supposed to drink it, obviously, but there's always going to come a day where you styling your hair, putting the bobby pins in because a bun won't hold itself, you're doing this properlike, and you spritz everything to hold it in place and you get it all up in your mouth and it tastes like licking a cottonball, which is not how blue tastes

like sugarglass you can see through, transparent but not all the way, and it tastes cool but not cold, not like the color white, and faintest tinge of stainless steel but only at the edges, only if you're looking for that taste on purpose because you know it's there

the girls all wore this spray when i was a kid because it was cheap and it was cute and i mostly remember the pink flavors, gummy bear and cotton candy, and it's like that but you colorshift it a little to the left so it's a complimentary color just as fluffy and sweet, except there aren't many scents of things that are blue except maybe blueberries, which really smell of fuckall most of the time, so it's called something like ocean water or something like that but water never smells like that, so i don't know what ocean water candles and perfumes and shit smell like

late night nice dream and you wake it all away but remember it in bits and bobs, the ghost of a dream and the ghost of a flavor in your mouth, not real but almost

perceptions of the ocean but not the ocean itself

kind of like when you brush your teeth and then take a drink of water and it's cold as fuck but instead of brushing your teeth, you drank pure syrup instead

anyway that's about it i guess

[qquinntessential]

ON THE CREATION OF HARLEY QUINN

First thing’s first, there are SO MANY different tellings of Harley’s origin story, it feels like no one at DC can agree on any one, so I’ll be taking bits and pieces from some of them, but for the most part, Stjepan Šejić’s version of events in ‘ HARLEEN ’ reigns supreme. I also want to make it very clear that I don’t believe that Harley is completely blameless in her turn to villainy. Was she manipulated? YES. Was it still her decision to take the action she did? ALSO YES. Just because Joker’s a conniving little shit doesn’t mean that Harley is completely absolved of any wrongdoing / responsibility. So, without further ado, LET’S GET INTO IT.

HARLEEN QUINZEL was one of the most promising post - doctoral students that had graduated from GOTHAM UNIVERSITY. With a B. Sc., an M. D. and a PhD under her belt, no one would’ve suspected the upbringing she came from. A father who disappeared from the picture at fifteen for some lowly conning and a dingy Bensonhurst apartment with little to no love to spare didn’t exactly come to mind when talking about a 3.87 GPA and a GYMNASTICS SCHOLARSHIP. And it’s not like people were too apt to believe that those things were WELL DESERVED when they belonged to bleached blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and lips that smiled too often. In fact, their biases were only STRENGTHENED when she was caught with one of the psychology department professors in what she believed was an act of GENUINE AFFECTION. To say that her graduation was a RELIEF was an understatement. Her peers still mocked her until, to her surprise, the funding for her research at ARKHAM ASYLUM had been granted. She was the one laughing now.

This was where the trouble began. She could feel in her bones that something EXTRAORDINARY was about to go down, but she had no idea just how extraordinary it would truly be. Flipping through patient files, she recognized some faces, her television screen having broadcasted them through the darkness of her small apartment, just as worn as the one she’d grown up in, but with more warmth of her own. POISON IVY. THE RIDDLER. KILLER CROC. One in particular, however, piqued her interest. THE JOKER. A man with no rhyme or reason that anyone could decipher. UNTIL NOW. She was convinced that her predecessors had all come in with the wrong approach. They’d regarded him as nothing more than a criminal, out for personal gain. They were WRONG, in her eyes. To her, he was just like anyone else. “ WHY’D YOU DO IT ?? ” would not be her question. No, she was more concerned with “ HOW CAN I HELP ?? ”. So their first session was booked and her life was changed forever.

Quickly, seeds dug deep, sprouting furiously. She was never a good sleeper, but now she COULDN’T SLEEP. Not without seeing HIM and every time she did, she stayed awake for the rest of the night. If it wasn’t for her NEW - FOUND FRIEND ( the cheapest whisky on the shelf ) and their PARTNER ( more caffeine than most humans could handle ), she most certainly would’ve died of exhaustion. But she carried on, knowing that she was GETTING SOMEWHERE her colleagues hadn’t with him. Meanwhile, she ignored the ALARMS sounding in her head, warning her to BE CAREFUL. She was convinced she could handle her LITTLE CRUSH. Convinced that it was just EMPATHY rooting deep within her for a patient with which she was working closely. And then, when she could no longer CONVINCE herself, she IGNORED. Ignored the ETHICAL VIOLATIONS. Ignored the RISK TO HER CAREER. Ignored the MESS THAT SHE WAS GETTING HERSELF INTO. Because, in all honesty, the things he said MADE SENSE. And so she spiralled into this self - made pit until she found HIM at the bottom, waiting with OPEN ARMS and HUNGRY LIPS.

Everything sank into her bones the minute THE BAT had his hands on her patient. WHO WAS HE TO ENFORCE THE MORALITY OF THE CITY WHEN MORALITY ITSELF WAS SUBJECTIVE ?? The rage festered, manifesting in her attempts to further REHABILITATE her patient. She needed to show him that she UNDERSTOOD. That she was ON HIS SIDE. That’s how she’d win him over, RIGHT ?? But before she could sneak him the weapons he’d requested, another force had seeped its way into ARKHAM. 

Before anyone could react, GOTHAM’S MOST WANTED had been granted an early pardon, havoc spilling from every cell into BLOODIED HALLWAYS before taking to the streets. She stumbled upon it halfway through the ordeal, dashing inside despite the horror. SHE HAD TO MAKE SURE HE WAS OKAY. Before her mind was at peace, she’d been cornered, a gun brandished, HARVEY DENT HIMSELF determining her fate with the toss of a coin. She’d been lucky that her patient didn’t believe in such determinism. He believed in BRICKS. The weapon clattered to the ground, metal against tile, her head SPINNING as she tried to make sense of what was going on, her place in this MAD REALITY, who was really the bad guy, how they were going to ESCAPE FROM IT ALL. Flashlight rounded the corner and suddenly none of those questions mattered anymore. Another gun had her heart racing, but this time it’s aimed at BLEACHED SKIN. 

Before she can comprehend it, a BULLET IS DEPLOYED, a shot RINGING through hallowed halls, a body crumples to the ground. THE JOKER STILL STANDS. She didn’t know what to do. The recoil had her hand shaking as blue eyes feasted on the scene. AN INNOCENT MAN HAD DIED BY HER HAND. A laugh slipped from surprised lips. And then another. IT WAS HILARIOUS, WASN’T IT ?? Nothing she did, good or bad intentioned, MATTERED. He really was right, and for the first time, she saw it for herself, FIRST - HAND. The blood, the guts, the CHAOS. 

NONE OF IT MATTERED. 

She donned the red and black with a SMILE ON HER FACE, one that mirrored his own; CAREFREE and WILD. She had finally found her true self in HARLEY QUINN, THE CLOWN PRINCESS OF CRIME, and NOTHING ELSE MATTERED.

[peril-party-ttyd]

Chapter 1: A Fuzzy Foray

Chapter 1 sees Mario going to Petalburg, Shwonk Fortress, and Hooktail Castle. It takes place in a very stereotypical World 1, filled with grassy plains. 

Here’s the bullet points of the chapter overall:

Major Battles:

Fuzzy/Gold Fuzzy

Gus

Red Bones

Hooktail

Miscellaneous Events:

Koops!

A Hitch In The Run

Click “Keep Reading” to see what I have to say about each part!

1. Fuzzy/Gold Fuzzy

Fuzzies mark the first minor enemy that show how difficult the run truly can be. The timing to guard their attacks is extremely difficult, and they have 3 HP each meaning they can’t be taken out with one normal attack. In addition, you have to fight 4 before the boss of Shwonk Fortress, Gold Fuzzy. In a normal run you fight 2 sets of 4, then the boss, easy peasy. My run went something like: Fight one set of 4, save, bash my head against the wall trying to beat the 4 and the boss in a row, go back to the local town, Buy 4 fire flowers (which conveniently do 3 damage to all enemies), go back and win first try. Gold Fuzzy itself isn’t that difficult, but the context makes them so. 

PARTNER GET!

Koops: Koops has defense. Koops lets you attack more than 1 enemy at a time. Koops can attack spiked enemies. Koops is the best, and a valuable addition to the team. He’s my second favorite partner overall. Currently, both his attacks (Shell Toss and Power Slide) do 2 damage per turn, but Power Slide attacks all ground bound enemies at once. This allows the Party to do up to 3 Damage to all enemies with Mario’s Multibounce Badge. Needless to say, I like Koops. Goombella isn’t obsolete; her Headbonk is a life saver with the paratroopas in Hooktail Castle, but Koops is certainly helpful for the Dull Bones and other enemies.

2. Gus

Yep! I fought him again. I went back to Rogueport for badges and such after getting Koops and decided to see my old pal Gus. This is also when I started counting how many times I game over’d. Gus killed me 3 times. I got him the 4th time, after using a Mini Mr. Mini (-2 attack to all enemies that succumb to it) and Koops to completely negate all of his damage output. Now, West Rogueport is completely open and I never have to pay him 10 coins. Good stuff! Fun Fact about this fight as well, the game only checks that your HP is less than 10 or so to have him say “You can Run Away if you need!! I’m a tutorial on how Running Away is Ok sometimes!!”. So I saw that message every time I fought him.

3. Red Bones

Another addition to the list of roadblocks simply because it’s a Boss. This fight was incredibly easy. Here’s what the turn order looked like, in fact.

Koops in front, he power shells to eliminate all 4 of the Dull Bones partners. Mario hammers. Red Bones summons another Dull Bones.

Koops shell tosses the Dull Bones. Mario hammers the Red Bones. (he’s at 2 HP now). Red Bones throws a bone that misses Koops due to Close Call P.

Koops shell tosses and Mario hammers.

So yeah. Pretty easy boss.

A Hitch In The Run

I didn’t mention this the first time, but unfortunately... I’ve been cursed. You see, after defeating Red Bones I continued into Hooktail Castle where someone locked in a treasure chest begged me to find a key for them to be free... When I freed them, they called me an Idiotic, Pudding-Brained Dolt and cursed me! Now, whenever I hold R, I turn into a little piece of paper! This is the second curse on this run, the first being that I turn into a paper airplane when I press Y! (on specific tiles) I don’t know how I’ll deal with both this and having 1 HP but hopefully this won’t kill the run...

4. Hooktail

Hooktail... is easy. She starts with 20 HP, 5 Attack, and 1 Defense. But, the game tells you time and again to find something that sounds like what starts with “cr” and ends with “icket”. There’s a badge (Attack FX R) in her castle that makes Mario’s attacks sound like a cricket. When equipped against her she loses 1 defense and attack per time the sound is played. Another badge in her castle is Power Bounce, which allows the player to jump on an enemy multiple times. These badges combined allow you to take her down to 1 attack, 0 defense before she even gets a chance to attack. I died once, because I failed the timing on the jumps, but the second attempt completely destroyed her. With some good evasion luck, I beat her in less than 5 turns or so. I expected this fight to be much harder than it was, but Hooktail’s still pretty much a pushover.

Stats at the end of the chapter:

1 HP/ 10 FP/ 12 BP

Badges obtained during this chapter:

Close Call x2 (Petal Meadows ? Block, Random Drop)

Close Call P (Random Drop)

HP Plus (Hooktail Castle) [Will Sell, although it does nothing when equipped]

Last Stand P x2 (Howz of Badges Sale for 35 Coins, Hooktail Castle)

Multibounce (Shwonk Fortress ? Block)

Power Bounce (Hooktail Castle ? Block)

Game Overs:

Shwonk Fortress Deaths (unknown) + 6 after

Next up: Chapter 1-2 Interlude!

[forever-rogue]

Supercut - VIII

Summary: Roger didn’t know how good he had it when Y/N was his. But when Y/N became Deacy’s, he realized he had messed up.

A/N: Hey, hi, hello, it’s me, ya girl, back (finallllyyy) with another part of this saga! I’m sorry it’s taken me forever, but between studying, taking the bar, and getting really sick (still sick woo), I just ddn’t have time to dedicate to this, and I wanted to give you all something quality. So please enjoy! xx

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader (former), John Deacon x Reader (current)

Warnings: infidelity, language

Word Count: 4.2k

Note - this is still in the past.

MASTERLIST

The First Time Roger Cheats

Playing with the napkin stretched delicately across her lap, Y/N cast an annoyed glance around the restaurant. The seat across from her was empty, utensils untouched, glass unfilled. Roger was late yet again.

She pondered how long she should wait for him before leaving. Glancing down at the ornate watch on her wrist, she realized it had already been nearing an hour. An hour of her sitting by herself and wondering if he would show up.

“Miss?” she was pulled out of her own thoughts as looked up and met the sympathetic gaze of the waiter. He looked nervous, probably hoping she wouldn’t snap at him. She forced a smile onto her face, “are you ready to order? Or still waiting?”

“I think I’m just going to go. It appears there’s been some sort of mistake,” she tossed the napkin onto the table, watching it plop there sadly, “I’m sorry for wasting your time. Do I owe you anything?”

“Don’t worry about it, Miss. I hope your evening gets better,” he gave her a small smile, and she just nodded; she hated when people pitied her. Keeping her head down, Y/N ducked out of the restaurant quickly, praying that no one saw the tears falling from her eyes.

It was probably silly to be so upset over something so trivial in the grand scheme of life, but it still stung. Roger had promised her he’d be there.

This wasn’t the first time he been date to one of their dates. Or the second. Or the third. She should have been used to it by now, but she always held up hope that he would change and make some sort of effort. It appeared that he never would.

Shrugging on her coat, she reached the nearest payphone. She wasn’t ready to go home and be alone and get too caught up in her own thoughts. It was a dark place sometimes, and not territory she wanted to enter on this dismissal evening. She knew exactly where she wanted to be.

Grabbing some spare change out of her pocket, she slipped the coins into the grimy old box, picking up the receiver gingerly. It had seen better days and she didn’t want to catch some weird disease on top of everything. She quickly dialed John’s number, gripping the cord tightly and hoping he was home.

Listening to the blaring ring for what seemed like an eternity, Y/N figured John must not have been home, and decided to abandon her efforts. Just before the receiver was put back into place, she heard a faint voice come through, “hello? Hello?”

“Deacy?” she asked quietly, hearing noise in the background. He wasn’t alone, “it’s Y/N.” “Hey! What’s up?” he asked before holding his hand over the receiver and shouting at someone in the background, “sorry about that. Bri and Freddie are over and they’re being right idiots. We’re playing Scrabble and drinking beers! They are going to get so crushed!”

“T-that sounds like fun,” she closed her eyes and imagined the three of them sitting around the table, all of them second guessing every questionable word, “I’m sorry I interrupted, I’ll let you go.”

“No, no, please don’t hang up! Why don’t you come over and join us?” he asked and her heart felt a little less heavy at his sweet words, “wait...aren’t you supposed to be on a date with Roger?”

“No,” she lied, biting her lip. If he wasn’t with her or with them, she wondered where he could be. Hopefully he’d just be crashed out at his place, drowsy with sleep, “that’s not tonight. I’ll be over soon then.”

“Perfect! I’ll get your spot ready and open a beer just for you,” he sounded so happy, and she felt like a lump was rising in her throat. She always ran to him when she needed help. But this time she couldn’t tell him, or Brian, or Freddie. Not when it was their other best friend involved, “see you soon, love bug.”

“See you soon,” she all but whispered. Hearing the click from his end, she followed suit, letting out a low sigh. Things were, and always had been, so easy with John. He lit up at the slightest sound of her voice, always smiling his signature gap toothed smile, his eyes crinkling in the corner. Sometimes she wondered is she had made a grave mistake. Maybe it should have been him all along.

Her hand perched on John’s door, she realized she probably should have gone home and changed first. They would surely ask questions when they saw her all dressed up, showing up for night in of scrabble. While she was musing if she should just run home quickly and change, the door opened and there stood John, waiting her intently.

“You’re here!” he exclaimed and threw his arms around her. She relaxed into his touch, feeling more comforted than she had in a long time, “we’re just getting ready to start a new round, what perfect timing!”

“You know I couldn’t resist a night with my best friends,” she stepped inside, immediately getting wrapped up by Freddie’s strong arms, “hello Fred, I see you’ve missed me.”

“It’s been too long-”

“It’s been five days-”

“Too long! Tell me, where has Roger been keeping you?” he chided her, taking her coat for her and ushering her into her usual spot. She bit her lip and just shrugged lightly, trying to play it coo, “is he not joining us? I dare say you’re dressed very exquisitely for a night of board games.”

“This old thing? It’s nothing, really. But, ugh, Roger’s not feeling well,” she tried to go with a simple lie and not give them all the sordid details. If she opened that floodgate, she’d be there for hours telling them about the all things that had happened between the two of them. All the missed dates, the long nights of arguments, all the little annoyances, “it’s just me. I hope that won’t put too much of a damper on your plans.”

“Huh,” Brian said as he handed her a beer, “he seemed okay earlier. I could have sworn he said something about you two going out this evening? La Rossa or something?”

“He must have been confused,” she could tell her voice was getting slightly higher as she lied, and tried to keep a straight face. It should have been so simple, she should have just told them everything, but couldn’t bring herself to do it, “it’s not tonight.”

“Y/N, is everything alright?” John asked gently, putting his hand on her knee and giving it a tight squeeze. It should have been him she thought to herself. She loved Roger though, and she knew that wasn’t a lie. Sometimes things got hard, but, by this point, she had convinced herself that Roger, and only Roger,  was what she had wanted, “you can tell us anything.”

“Everything’s peachy, Deacy,” she reassured him, giving him a tight lipped smile. He could see right through her - he always knew when something was wrong. But he wasn’t going to push her on it. She would come to him when the time was right, “but thank you guys for letting me join. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Friday night than with you lot.”

“How did you even come up with that word!?” John stared incredulously at his curly haired best friend. Not only was it a double word score, but it was long, and therefore worth a ton of points. None of them would even have a chance of winning at this point, “are you hiding a dictionary under the table?”

Freddie quickly ducked his head under the table, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the lanky man’s lap. Brian just silently flipped him the bird, as Freddie chuckled, “I’m afraid he’s clean. Somehow he has all those words in stuffed in that big mop of curls.”

“Fine,” John huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Freddie and Y/N just chuckled as they glanced glances, while he murmured under his breath - something about Brian being a cheat and a liar.

“I hate to do this to you all, especially you, Bri, since you came up with that lovely word, but,” Y/N smirked as she slowly laid down her tiles. With each letter, the boys leaned in closer, watching with shocked faces as she topped Brian’s score, “I believe that is the new high score.”

“How are you both doing this?” John was exasperated now, throwing his hands in the air. She just gave him a smug smirk as she shrugged her shoulders innocently, “you’re all liars and cheats. This is the last time I’m playing with any of you. Except Freddie.”

“Do you hear that Bri? That’s the sound of-” she was about to say a sore loser but the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted her, “the phone. Deacy, who’s calling you at this time of night?”

“I dunno,” he answered as he stood up, grumbling as he walked over the phone on the kitchen wall. He paused for a moment, letting out an annoyed sigh before picking up the phone, “Hello?”

“Who is it?” Bri called over to him, watching as John’s face went through several expression changes ranging from annoyed, to concerned, and confused.

“It’s Rog,” he said quietly, covering the mouthpiece and giving Y/N a questioning look, “he’s wondering where you’re at. Do you want to talk to him?”

Y/N felt Freddie and Brian’s eyes glued to her as her brain raced a thousand miles minute, trying to figure out what to do. Should she said just talk to him? What would they say if she refused to answer? Biting her lip, she slowly shook her head, indicating a clear no. All she said quietly was “just tell him I’m here and hang up.”

“Everything’s fine, Rog. Yeah, it’s me, Bri, and Freddie. Yes, she’s been here this whole evening,” she could tell from his strained voice that Roger was probably fuming and giving Deacy a hard time over everything. He cringed as he held the receiver from his ear, Roger’s voice coming through but unclear, “yes, I’ll tell her. Goodnight, Rog.”

John set the phone down, hands on his hips as he came slowly made his way back to over to them. He sat down slowly, letting out a long breath as he turned to Y/N, “what’s going on, Y/N?”

“What do you mean?” she asked quietly, focusing her attention on the remaining tiles in front of her. Brian and Freddie exchanged a few nervous glances.

“Roger just said he’d been trying to ring you for hours. And you weren’t at your apartment,” John sighed as he ran a hand through his short hair, “you said earlier that he wasn’t feeling well. But he made it seem like you had plans. Two very conflicting stories.”

“Darling, is everything okay?” Freddie was gentle as he put his arm around her, trying to pull her into a hug. She flinched out of his touch as she stood up, putting a hand nervously to her face, “Y/N?”

“Everything’s fine, I swear,” in her mind she said it in a reassuring tone, but out loud it sounded sad and tiny. John stood up, putting his strong hands on her shoulders, attempting to calm her down, “it’s just a bit of a misunderstanding. I should go.”

“Or you could stay a little longer,” his voice was low and warm, making her feel the tiniest bit better, “you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

“I should though,” she insisted, giving him a half smile, “everything’s fine, don’t worry so much, Deacy. I’ll see you later. I had a good time with you three. Thank you.”

“If you need anything, just call us. We’re always here for you,” Brian gave her a small wave as she grabbed her jacket off the couch and quickly headed. Just before she closed the door, she gave the boys one last sad smile, not letting them get another word in.

Y/N grabbed her keys out of her purse, fumbling to find the right one for her door as usual. Before she could even reach for the door handle, she was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Roger sitting in front of her door.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming, pretty girl,” Roger said as he looked her up and down. He noted that she was dressed very nicely for what was seemingly a night in with the boys, “I’ve been here for over an hour.”

“Yeah? Well, I was sat, waiting for you in that restaurant for almost an hour,” she crossed her arms over chest. Two could play that game, “I was humiliated Roger! La Rossa is a nice restaurant and I was just sitting there, like a fool, by myself waiting for a man that was never going to show up.”

“Fuck,” he murmured under his breath as he anxiously ran a hand over his face, “that was tonight?”

“Yes, that was tonight,” she frowned at him. Sticking her key in the lock, she let herself in, a reluctant Roger following her in. He gave her a sad look but she wasn’t having it, “you promised this time. You’ve done this countless times and frankly, it’s getting really old. Instead of sitting there and feeling sorry for myself, I left. I called Deacy and ended up playing scrabble with him, Bri, and Freddie.”

“You could have called me to remind me!” he became flustered as he flopped down the couch, annoyed mostly with himself as he tried to control his temper. She stood there, giving him a surprised expression as he tried to pit this on her.

“No, Roger. That is not my job. I am your girlfriend not your keeper. It’s your responsibility, as a grown man, to be able to do things, simple things, such as remembering a date on your own!” she knew her voice was shrill, but she didn’t care at this point.

“Fine, so this is all my fault!” he shouted back at her, “it’s always my fault! Good old Roger, fucking everything up!”

“I never said that! Quit trying to make yourself the victim! I take responsibility for my actions, and if something is my fault, I’ll admit it!” she got closer to him, ready to fightt him on this. She wasn’t ready to let him get his way this time, “just man up and deal with it, Rog.”

“Wow, really, Y/N? Says the one who was so upset she went crying to Deacon? What did you tell them all? How I’m the worst person ever, how ruined everything?” he asked, wondering just how much the boys knew. He stood up and the two of them were just glaring at each other, their chests rising and falling rapidly with raggef breaths.

“I didn’t go crying to anyone,” her voice was low, and she wanted nothing more than for him to leave. She hated arguing with him. She just wanted things to be normal. She just wanted to love him, “and I didn’t tell them anything. I’m not like that, Rog, and you should know that. I told them you said you were feeling sick and we didn’t have a date. You ruined that yourself by calling Deacy. You know how that problem could have been solved? If you’d just remembered.”

“Fine,” he huffed, throwing his hands in the air, “look, I’m sorry, okay? I know I’m a shit boyfriend.”

“Where were you, Rog?” she asked quietly. She both did and didn’t want to know the answer. She didn’t know which desire was stronger, “tell me. Where were you? You weren’t with me or the boys. We saw your parents last weekend, and I know you didn’t have anything scheduled.”

“It’s nothing, Y/N,” he said firmly, avoiding her gaze, as he nervously swallowed the lump in this throat, “please just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then tell me,” she pushed him a little further, knowing he would eventually give in. She studied him and noticed that his lips were slightly plumper than normal. A scent clung onto him, a scent that she didn’t recognize as his or hers. The lightest of bruises covered his neck, “why are you avoiding the question?”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?” he sighed as he tried to push past her, but she grabbed his wrist and didn’t let him go, “Y/N.”

“Tell me, Roger. If it’s nothing you can tell me. You’re my boyfriend, we’re supposed to be able to tell anything,” her voice was small as she tried to keep from crying. She was almost positive she had her answer.

“Oh? Then tell me, girlfriend, why won’t you admit you’re in love with Deacon?” his voice was laced with venom as he turned to face her. Her mouth dropped open at the shock of the sudden question. She hadn’t been expecting that, “now you’re all quiet? I can see the way you look at him and the way he looks at you.”

“Because I love you, you stupid idiot,” she shouted back at him, a hurt expression on her face. He knew, how did he know? Even if she had never admitted it, even to herself, she knew the feelings for John were there. She had never even said them out loud though.

But she loved Roger. She knew she loved him too, just to what extent was the question. She struggled to bite back her tears, “I love you. I chose you, Roger. After all those time you tried to ask me out, I said yes. To you. And I still chose you every day.”

“Well, I love you too,” he sighed, wishing he could take back his words. He didn’t mean to upset her, he hated seeing her upset. But sometimes the words were hard to hold back. He still had that Taylor temper, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said quietly, and he threw his back, whether in annoyance or exasperation, she wasn’t sure. But she wasn’t wavering from getting an answer. It was the least she deserved, “tell me where you where. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” was all he choked as he looked back at her. His eyes were glassy and she knew what he meant. Unfortunately, the words were not foreign to her - several men in the past had told her the same things, “I’m so sorry, my love. It didn’t mean anything, I swear. It was an accident-”

“It was an accident?” she was somewhere between laughter and crying as she echoed his words. That was a new one.

“Y/N, I swear it was,” he said as he tried to pull her in his arms. A few hot spilled down her cheeks as she smacked his arm and took a step back from her, “baby, please.”

“No,” she all but whispered, “don’t call me that right now. Roger, how could you do this? You don’t just sleep with someone by accident. It doesn’t work like that! It’s not like slipping and falling. It takes effort to do that.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. She was just there, and I had a few drinks, and then next thing I knew-”

“So you were just out day drinking, met a girl, and fucked her?” his excuse was so pathetic. Once she said it out loud, it just made her laugh, a sad, strangled sound, “you know, Roger, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Why were you even drinking during the day? You had rehearsal earlier today and then what? You just went to the bar?”

“It was a meeting, honestly.”

“A meeting?” she scoffed, “where were the others then?”

“I was meeting with someone about my set up, it doesn’t involve the others,” he closed his eyes, regretting every single action he had taken. He shouldn’t have given in so easily. He should have known better.

“Huh, okay. But that doesn’t excuse any of this,” her vision was cloudy now, “I just...I don’t understand. Why? I’ve never asked you for much Roger, the only thing I’ve ever asked was that you don’t do this. Exactly this. And yet that’s what you did.”

“I’m so, so, sorry, my love,” he sunk down on his knees as he pleaded with her. He put his hands around her waist and held her close, his head resting on her hips. His voice was thick as he too starting crying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t...I shouldn’t done this. Please, please forgive me. I love you so much, Y/N.”

“Please leave,” she said quietly, trying to pry out of his iron grip, “I don’t want to be around you right now. You broke my heart, Rog.”

“Y/N, please-”

“I got up this morning, a smile on my face because of you. I spent my day excited because, getting all dressed up, because you promised to take me on a nice date. I sat there by myself, like an idiot, stood up again. Then you have the audacity to show up at my house, smelling like another woman and covered in hickies, trying to make me the bad guy?”

“I don’t even know how to begin to apologize,” he looked at her pathetically from the floor, his own face red and splotchy, “words cannot describe the magnitude of the mistake I made.”

“Then why did you do it?” she covered her face with her hands, “if you know it was wrong, then why? There’s a lot...a lot of steps to take in between seeing someone and having sex with them, especially if you know it’s wrong. You could have stopped yourself. If you wanted to have sex, you could have come to me. You know that! But you still chose to go through with your actions. Now we both have to deal with that.”

“Can you ever forgive me?” he looked at her with wide, innocent eyes, gnawing on his own lips, “please. I love you so much, Y/N.”

“Did you think about how much you loved me when you were fucking another woman?” she hissed at him, going over to door and hastily pulling it open. No more words came out of her mouth as just closed her eyes and pointed into the hallway, “or were you just busy thinking about chasing your own high the whole time? Whatever it was, I hope it is was worth it.”

“Y/N,” her name rolled off his tongue like a prayer, like it was the only thing he had left in the world, “please. Don’t leave me. I need you. I love you.”

“Just go,” she was almost begging him at this point. All she wanted was to be alone and have a good cry, “if you love me, even remotely, please go.”

He got up slowly, heading out the door at a languid pace, waiting for her to break the tension and tell him that she still loved him, “please say this isn’t over. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“I’m not making any promises right now,” she moved to close the door, “I’m not in the right headspace to be making any decisions right now.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” it was a last minute desperate plea.

“We’ll see,” was all she said as she closed the door, listening to it click shut before quickly locking the door. Keeping an ear at it, she listened for his retreating footsteps. After a few minutes, she heard Roger slowly leave, and she allowed herself to slid down the door, crying silently.

Her pity party was cut sort when she heard her phone start to ring, the noise seeming too loud in the sad, lonely apartment. Pulling herself up, she slowly made her way over to the phone, desperately hoping that it wasn’t Roger from a payphone.

“Hello?” she asked quietly, trying to keep her sniffling down.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” it was John of course, just like clock work. Just like he knew.

“Nothing,” she lied, putting to keep herself calm, “nothing at all. What’s up? It’s a little late to be calling, isn’t it?”

“I wanted to make sure you got home okay,” he responded, a note of concern in his voice, “you were upset when you left. And you still sound...not so great. Are you sure everything’s fine, love bug?”

“Everything’s fine, Deacy,” the lies were coming easily now, “it’s just late and I”m tried.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.“

“Call me if you need anything at all,” his voice was soft and sweet and she desperately wished he was there with her right now. He always knew just what to say, “Love you.”

“Goodnight John,” she murmured at him, hanging up before he could say anything else. Her heart was heavy with so many emotions, and confused feelings, her mind racing with a million different thoughts. It was all too much, and yet not enough, all at the same time. Right now all she wanted was sleep.

Maybe the world would look better tomorrow. Maybe.

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[aceofstars16]

Trapped in the Past (Chapter 5)

Fifth Chapter of my Timetrapped AU inspired by @artsycrapfromsai

When Mabel and Dipper fight over a time machine, they find themselves sent back thirty years in the past. Now it’s up to the younger versions of their great uncles to get them home.

Chapter 5 - Scam Artists 

Mabel helps Stan with a small con job and Dipper runs into something unexpected...

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 6 - 7

AO3

Mabel watched as the landscape passed by, her face pressed up against the cool window. She glanced at the floor, where she had placed the time machine, and barely managed to hold back a sigh. Every time she looked at it, she felt a knot of unease and sorrow grow in her stomach. Was she really doing the right thing? Or was there even a right thing to do in her circumstance? If only she had a way to make sure Dipper was okay, or to figure out where he was, or…something…

“You okay kiddo?”

Stan’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked over at him. He glanced at her for a moment before looking back at the road, but in that second, she saw concern on his face. If only she could tell him…

“Yeah it’s…fine…” Pulling her sweater up to her ears, Mabel tried to believe it. To remind herself this was the only option - the only real solution she had.

“Thinking about your brother, huh?” There was a heaviness to Stan’s voice that made her pull the sweater down so she could see and hear clearly again.

“How did you…?” She sighed and looked at the time machine, touching it with her foot. “Yeah, I just hope he’s okay…”

“I’m sure he’s fine…he’s a smart kid, yeah?” Something in the way Stan spoke made her wonder if he was really talking about Dipper or his brother. Ford. She still wanted to know more about him, but her thoughts were divided between that and her own worries.

“Sometimes…though he’s not the most social person. I usually helped him with that…”

“Oh…”

Looking at Stan, Mabel felt a question rising up in her mind, and since she couldn’t really think of anything else to talk about, she took a shot at it. “Were you and uh…Ford, close?”

If Mabel hadn’t been looking at him, she might not have noticed the tiny wince on his face, but she did. And she immediately regretted it. Opening her mouth, she was about to take it back, but Stan’s voice stopped her.

“Yeah…he was my best friend you know? I…it’s a twin thing I guess.”

“Wait, he’s your twin?!?” Shock coursed through Mabel. How in the world did she not only know that Stan didn’t have another brother, but that said brother was his twin?

“Eh, yeah. Had some fun times pretending to be each other. We even mastered each other’s voices. Heh, we messed with a lot of people back in the day.” A lightness overcame Stan as he spoke, a genuine smile growing on his face. Which disappeared as soon as Mabel asked her next question.

“What happened?”

A shadow passed over Stan’s face and he sighed. “I…oh look at that.” Stan pointed at a cliff outcropping that was being highlighted by the sun. It was pretty but not something Mabel thought he would normally point out. Man, what had happened between him and his brother?

“It looks like a big mouth.” Mabel tried focusing on the outcropping, but it was hard to do when she really just wanted to talk about Ford more. Or figure out if there was something else she should be doing instead of going to Gravity Falls. Both questions were weighing her down, and it wasn’t fun in the slightest.  

Silence grew between them, and despite knowing Stan wouldn’t want to talk she had to know. Or at least try to find out… “Was it a fight?”

Stan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he was pretending he hadn’t heard her – he had done that in the past. Or future if she wanted to be technical.

“Dipper and I fight sometimes.” She didn’t really know what else to say, or if there was anything she could say to get Stan to tell her what had happened. But just mentioning fights brought up guilt over the Waddles incident. “…we…we fought before we got separated.” And maybe none of this would’ve happened if I had just let him have his day with Wendy. She didn’t voice the last bit, but she thought it. The thought had crossed her mind a lot the past few days…

A sigh. “Sorry about that, kiddo…I…I’m sure it’ll all work out.” Though the words were comforting, they sounded more depressed then encouraging, as if he wasn’t even thinking about her and Dipper. Okay, so a fight was probably the reason behind him not wanting to talk about Ford. But it must have been a big one. She couldn’t imagine any fight would ever make her not want to talk about Dipper. Sure, sometimes he could be stupid after a fight, but that only lasted a little while. And they usually laughed about it later. So what kind of fight could break up twins?

“You getting hungry?”

Stan’s voice shook her out of her thoughts – though they still lingered at the back of her mind – and she looked out the window. There were signs lining the roadside, advertising a few different restaurants. Now that she thought about it, she was pretty hungry. But she wasn’t stupid. She had seen how little cash Stan had, and how he had sped away from a gas station without paying.

“I’m good.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, a frown on his face. “Sure you are…”

They stopped at a small food chain that Mabel had never heard of, so it must only be a chain in Utah or something.

As Stan pulled in, Mabel glanced worriedly at him. “Really, I’m okay…”

“I’ve heard your stomach grumble three times since I mentioned food, kiddo, now come on.” He opened his door and Mabel hesitantly followed suit. But as she walked around the car, she saw him frowning at the few coins in his hand.

Upon hearing her shoes crunching on the gravel of the parking lot, he looked up and shoved the money in his pocket again. “Say…how’s your acting?”

Oh this was the Stan she knew. And while Dipper didn’t approve of Stan’s schemes, Mabel found them fun and usually somewhat harmless. Besides, maybe doing something familiar would help ease her mind about this whole mess. “I’ve been in every play my school has put on.”

As she spoke, she grinned and he matched it.

“Great, now, here’s the plan…”

“Oh this one is much cleaner than the last one!” Mabel practically shouted as she hopped around, looking at each of the pictures hung up on the wall of the restaurant. Normally she didn’t pay too much attention to them, but it fit into the plan and they actually were interesting. People cooking burgers, cartoon characters sharing burgers. Kind of silly but hey, there was nothing wrong with that.

“You’re right, these floors look recently swept. That will give them some extra points.” Stan said, bending down to examine the colorful tile.

“Um…can I help you?”

An employee was looking at them from behind the counter, confusion written all over his face.

“You sure can! I’m a scout for the Best Burgers contest, and we’re here to judge this fine establishment!” The words rolled easily off of Stan’s tongue, a grin punctuating the end of his sentence.

“Uh…Burgers 4 U is a chain…” The employee – Steve – said, looking at Stan, confusion still lining his face.

“We are judging all burger joints, chain or not. Every place has a different manager and staff, right? So it’s only fair to judge them all!” As he spoke, Stan tossed his hands up in the air and looked around, still grinning.

“And yours is one of the best ones we’ve been to so far!” Mabel piped in, pointing to the cartoon painting. “This looks original!”  

“Umm…” Steve looked at Mabel and at Stan. “Why did you bring your daughter with you to judge restaurants?”

Stan stared for a moment, as did Mabel. Saying he was her uncle wasn’t hard at all since he was her great uncle but there was something a little strange about having someone assume he was her dad. Though it kind of made sense in a way. They did look related after all.

“Gotta have the kid’s perspective too, right? ‘Sides, her mom couldn’t watch her this weekend and she loves burgers.” Mabel was surprised how quickly he came up with a cover, but this was Stan, quick covers seemed to come easy for him. Though it did sound a little more strained than some of his other lies, but Steve just shrugged, so it was still a win.

“Okay, so uh…you want to order or…?”

“First things first! There is a small entry fee.” As he spoke, Steve frowned, but Stan rushed on. “Only to expand the prize money of course. The winning restaurant gets it all, and just between you and me.” Stan lowered his voice and bent closer to Steve as if to make sure they were the only ones who could hear the next words despite there being no other costumers in the building. “Your establishment is already better than most of the places we’ve been to this week.”

“Umm…okay…uh…” Steve looked around, biting his lip. “My boss isn’t here right this second, maybe we could wait till he gets back-“

“Making the customer wait on the manager. Sweetie why don’t you write that one down.”

Mabel froze, because she didn’t actually have anything to write notes down on. But after a second, she stuck a hand in her skirt pocket. Act like you have everything you need, even if you don’t. That was one of the lessons she remembered from her play rehearsals.

“Wait, wait, um…how about I get you your food first? He should be back by then.” Steve tried for a smile, and Mabel felt a little bad for scamming him. She was pretty sure he was just trying to do his job and not pass up something his boss would be interested in. But her and Stan needed food, and he would be okay…right?

“Sure thing, I’ll have a number three with extra fries and, Mabel sweetie, what do you want?”

The question caught Mabel off guard for a second, mainly because she hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. But she narrowed her eyes and tried quickly skimming over the kid’s meal options. “I’ll have the Jr. Deluxe kid’s meal!”

Steve nodded as he turned his attention to the screen in front of him and pressed a few buttons – some of which seemed to stick because he hit them a few times. “Alright, that will be-“

“Hmm, charging the judges for their meals, make a note of that.” Stan stage whispered to Mabel, effectively cutting Steve off from saying the price.

“Umm…” Steve glanced at the screen, then at Stan and Mabel. “You can have as seat; I’ll get this out soon.”

Stan nodded. “That’s what I like to hear. Got some points going for you.” He winked then grabbed the cups Steve had pulled out for their sodas and confidently strode towards the drink dispenser.

A few minutes later, Mabel was sipping some sort of off brand soda while munching on fries and a somewhat bland burger with tasteless toppings that didn’t add much flavor. But she was so hungry she didn’t even care. Food was food. And as she glanced up at Stan - who was tearing into his burger - she was pretty sure he felt the same way.

As she took the last bite of her burger, Mabel saw Stan looking at the counter, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Alright kiddo, let’s see if we can get that ‘entry’ money…and maybe a milkshake if you want it.” As he spoke, he reached out and ruffled her hair before picking up the tray and making his way to the trash.

Mabel quickly got up and followed him, trying to push aside the guilt as she glanced at Steve. It wasn’t that much money and they really did need it. Especially because she didn’t know if Stan would be able to get away with not paying for gas again. At least not without getting into trouble.  

Making his way back to the counter, Stan grinned at Steve. “Your boss back yet?”

Steve glanced around nervously. “Not yet…”

Stan made a tsk sound. “Well, I can just pay and we can be on our way. After all, I can’t enter you without the money.”

It was a bluff. Mabel was pretty sure Stan didn’t have enough money to pay for the food they had just eaten. And if Steve took the offer…Mabel prepared herself to run.

“I…well…How much is it to enter?”

“Twenty dollars.” Stan came up with the amount so fast, Mabel couldn’t help but wonder when he had come up with that number. It didn’t seem like a lot to her but she vaguely remembered Dipper talking about how money had been worth more a few decades ago…maybe that had something to do with it?

Despite the amount sounding very low to Mabel, Steve looked worried. “I’m not sure if I can…”

“Well, I guess we’ll just scratch this one off of the list and be on our way…”

“Wait! I…let me just…” Steve opened up the cash register and started counting out a few bills, worry furrowing his brow. As he looked up, he hesitantly handed it to Stan.

Stan took it and counted it carefully. “That should do it! And your odds of winning are looking pretty good.” He winked and grinned, then turned to look at Mabel. “Ready to go, pumpkin?” A questioning look grew on his face, and somehow she could tell it wasn’t because he actually wanted to leave. Milkshake. She remembered what he had said, but despite loving sweet things, Mabel could see the uncertainty on Steve’s face and she just smile and nodded.

“Yup, ready!”

Stan frowned at her, but let her lead him out of the restaurant. After all, she was pretty full and…leaving while they were ahead was the safer route. Plus, skipping out on scamming someone was something Dipper would approve of. Not that he was here but…she didn’t want any little thing to get between them. Not a pig, or a milkshake, or anything else. So, she led Stan to the car and hopped into the passenger’s side without a word.

She could feel Stan looking at her, but she focused on a loose stitch on her sweater.

Then the car rumbled to life and they were on their way again.

Stan leaned back in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but deep down he didn’t know if he would actually sleep at all.

Looking at the backseat, he saw Mabel curled up, his bag under her head as a makeshift pillow. As he watched, she shivered and without really thinking, he took off his jacket and draped it over her. It was the least he could do since he couldn’t afford a hotel. Or at least, not if they wanted to keep some of the money they had managed to scam out of that kid at the burger place. Getting a hotel room would take most of, if not all of the twenty bucks and Stan was pretty sure he would need to fill up a few more times before they made it to Oregon. So, sleeping in the car was the only reasonable option. After all, he didn’t want to be flippant with the money Mabel had helped him get.

The thought brought a small smile to his face. Mabel had been great. He was surprised how well she had played along. Almost like it was a game. Part of him felt bad for dragging her down to his level, but she hadn’t seemed to mind too much. Apart from the milkshake. She seemed to have more of a conscious about scamming people than he did. Though once upon a time he might’ve been a little more hesitant about it too. But now it was the only way he could survive so…he did what he had to do.

Letting out a breath, he caught sight of the tape measure that was still sitting in the front seat. He hesitantly picked it up and turned it over in his hand, frowning as he saw some circuit boards and other things that he didn’t think tape measures normally came equipped with. Maybe it was a toy or something…but his gut told him otherwise. He looked at Mabel again and couldn’t help but wonder what she wasn’t telling him. But he couldn’t force her to tell him. He would just have to be patient, or hope that her great uncle would be able to help her. And her brother.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Stan felt a small stab of worry and pain. He didn’t know what had happened between her and her brother. But he sure hoped it would work out better than him and Ford…But then again, Ford had asked him to come so…maybe there was still some hope for them too. Though he tried to tell himself not to get his hopes up. There was no telling why Ford had called on him so suddenly, it might not have anything to do with their broken relationship…  

Placing the measuring tape back on the passenger’s seat, Stan pulled the postcard out from the armrest and flipped it over to look at the writing. Please Come was the most prominent part of it, and everything looked normal for Ford. Then again, Stan didn’t really know what was normal for his brother anymore. But as he looked closer, he couldn’t help but notice a few ink splatters on the corner, and a few lines that looked a little shaky. Anxiety grew in his stomach and all he wanted to do was turn on the car and drive all night till he got to Gravity Falls. And for a second, the idea took hold and he stuck the key into the ignition, only to stop as he realized how hard it was to move his arm even that short distance. His body was exhausted. After all, he really hadn’t slept much last night.

With a groan he pulled the key out and leaned back again. A few hours and he would be good to go. Though as he tried to find a more comfortable position, he couldn’t help but wonder how well he would actually sleep. Anxiety didn’t really aid in falling asleep. But he had to try. Because he needed rest to drive safely. And he needed to drive safe, for Mabel’s sake. Plus, he wouldn’t really be able to help Ford if he got into a wreck either. Just a quick nap. That’s all he needed. Give me that, just two hours or so. He pleaded with his brain as he closed his eyes and tried not to think about all of the worries and uncertainties crowding his mind. It seemed an impossible task, but eventually his exhaustion won and sleep overtook him.

The ceiling was so clean, at least compared to what Dipper was used to - though there were still some stains here and there. Not nearly as many as there were in 2012 though. He tried seeing if any looked like an animal or something but that was really more Mabel’s forte. It was better than thinking about his current situation, though it wasn’t doing a very good job as his mind kept coming back to Mabel, and Ford, and what the heck he was supposed to do. What he wanted to do was go back to the attic and see if he could find some answers. But he wasn’t quite sure where Ford was and he didn’t really want to risk any more backlash even if Ford had given him food and actually seemed interested in his findings. Crap. Had that been smart? Would that create inconsistencies in the future? Well, he couldn’t really take it back now. It wasn’t like he could wipe Ford’s memory or anything. Hopefully it would be okay… Maybe Ford wouldn’t even think about it too much, he did seem kind of…odd. Off his kilter or something. Even more so that Dipper would’ve expected.

Closing his eyes, Dipper wondered if he could actually fall asleep. It would be more like a nap than anything. After all, he wasn’t really that tired, but there was only so much he could do while pretending to be asleep.

Or maybe…trying to tune out his thoughts, Dipper listened closely. The only thing he could hear was the wind outside and the heater working furiously to keep the room warm. No stairs creaking, no muttering, nothing to indicate that Ford was nearby. If he was quiet, maybe he could sneak up to the attic.

Sitting up slowly, Dipper looked around, but didn’t see any sign of Ford either, and it was still quiet too. Pushing the blankets aside, he slowly made his way out of the parlor, keeping an eye out for Ford as he went. So far so good.

One step, then another. Stepping over a spot on the ground that was known for creaking, at least in the future - just in case. Ducking behind a wall because he thought he heard something. Continuing onward a moment later when everything seemed clear. Almost there.

“Well, well, well! Whacha up to kiddo?”

Dipper jumped straight up at the sudden sound before fumbling to turn around.

Ford was staring at him, a huge grin lighting his face. That was…odd…

“Uh…I was just uh…getting some water…” Dipper came up with the excuse on the spot. If Ford was even more out of it than before, he really didn’t want to risk upsetting him.

“Don’t let me stop you, I’m just on my way to the lab, hahaha!” Ford’s grin didn’t falter once while talking, and as he spoke, Dipper noticed something even stranger. He blinked with one eye, then the other…and it almost looked like one eye was bloodshot.

Turning on his heels in a very jaunty way, Ford started making his way towards the gift shop. But as Dipper watched, he felt a growing sense of unease in his gut. Something did not seem right. Sure, Dipper didn’t really know Ford, but…what he had just witnessed did not line up with how Ford had been acting the last few days. Had he finally cracked under some sort of pressure? Or had he just lost it completely?

Whatever it was, Dipper couldn’t help but feel that Ford wasn’t really in shape to be working in the lab, especially after the warning he had given Dipper a few hours ago.

“Wait!” Trying not to pay attention to the fear growing in his chest, Dipper raced after Ford, reaching him just as he opened the bookcase.

“Oh look who’s back. I thought you were getting a drink of water Pine Tree.”

“Pine Tree…?”

“Go on, I have lots of important equations to fix!”

Dipper stared at Ford, watching as he blinked again, one eye at a time, just like before. A chill ran down his back.

“Are you…are you sure you are up to it?” It was the first thing that Dipper could think of, and as soon as he said it, he winced. That sounded very rude.

But Ford’s only response was a laugh, a very loud, long, laugh. “I’ve never been better! Just got work to do!”

Not reprimand, no yelling at him to leave. And laughter. Dipper hadn’t heard Ford laugh more than a chuckle…Maybe he had been off of his game before and now he was actually back to normal but…it didn’t feel right at all.

“Could you help me find a water cup?” Dipper didn’t know what he was doing, but every inch of his body was telling him to do something, to make sure Ford really was okay. Because this was Gravity Falls, and anything was possible in Gravity Falls. There was no telling what kind of things could mess with people here.

“Ha, good one. You can find it yourself, kid. Now, I’m off to work!”

Fear pulsed through Dipper, but he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that he could not let Ford get to the lab. And before he knew what he was doing, he bolted forward, barring Ford’s way into the secret hallway.

“Hey, what are you doing Pine Tree?”

For the first time since this encounter started, Ford actually growled. He seemed very annoyed, which was more normal for him…Maybe he was just-

A flash of light caught Ford’s eyes and Dipper froze. Because they did not look right, they looked like…cat’s eyes… Wait, wasn’t there something in the journal about…?

“Out of my way!” Ford shoved Dipper into the wall, pushing his way to the elevator.

Dipper didn’t know what was going on, his brain was blanking on the exact details of the creature he had read about in the journal. But there was one thing he did know. The machine in the basement was dangerous, and if some creature was trying to get to it…he had to stop them. And if Ford really was just crazy well…he’d deal with the consequences of that.

Scrambling to his knees, Dipper dove forward, grabbing Ford’s legs and making him stumble.

“Hey, what the…?”

“I don’t know what you are or if you are just losing it but I’m not letting you into that room!”

“Get OFF ME!”

Ford kicked Dipper, hard, slamming him into the ground.

Pain radiated through Dipper’s body and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Fear engulfed every inch of his body as he tried to get air into his lungs. The elevator doors rolled open. Ford grinned at him.

No! Dipper scrambled forward, his vision going blurry as he rolled into the small enclosure. Opening his mouth, he tried desperately to breathe again, and his lungs finally complied.

“Not a smart move, kiddo.”

Gasping for a moment, Dipper forced himself to look up at Ford, only to press himself up against the wall at the murderous look in his eyes.

Terror gripped every inch of his mind and body. What was he doing? He couldn’t stand up to an adult, he was just a kid. Ford was much bigger than him and he didn’t have anything he could use to defend himself besides his hands.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you one more chance, Pine Tree. Stay on this elevator and pretend this never happened. But if not well…”

He should take the deal. His brain screamed at him to just stay still, to do nothing. But…

“…you might make a good pawn for Sixer…or your sister.”

Anger cut through the fear. Mabel. He brought Mabel into this. There was no way Dipper was letting this thing hurt Mabel in anyway. Especially if it knew where she was…

The doors swung open and Ford strolled out. Taking a deep breath, Dipper lunged at his back.

They both fumbled to the ground.

“THAT’S IT!”

Ford kicked Dipper again, sending him flying, but unlike last time, Dipper still had his breath. He jumped again, trying to pull Ford away from the machinery, doing anything he could to stop him. Kicking, biting, tripping, anything.

“ENOUGH!” Ford kicked Dipper away again, murder glistening in his eyes.

Everything hurt. Dipper didn’t know the last time he had ever felt this much pain. He could barely look up, let alone keep trying to hinder Ford.

But this time Ford wasn’t stalking towards the machines, he was coming towards Dipper.

Crap…was this it? Would…whatever thing controlling Ford actually kill him? Just to get to the machine?

All of the adrenaline that had been fueling Dipper was dying. Fear came back full force as tears started forming in his eyes. He didn’t want to die. Not here, not without making it up to Mabel, not at the hands of his hero. But what else could he do?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wrench on the floor. It was a few feet away, but he fumbled forward. Maybe if he could get a good hit in, he could do…something…?

A lunge for the tool, a growl from Ford as he tried to reach it first. Feeling the weight in his hand as he wrapped his fingers around the metal tool and swung, right at Ford’s head.

The clang echoed around the room as Ford fumbled and fell to the ground.

Breathe coming in gasps, tears fell from Dipper’s eyes as everything sunk in. As his body almost shut down from sheer shock and exhaustion.

“Wh…wha…?”

Ford’s voice sent a spike of fear through Dipper’s body, but he could only look at Ford as he felt his head, then looked up at Dipper. Blood was dripping from his right eye, which was shut tight. Confusion flicked on Ford’s face for a moment, but then he touched his eye and as he pulled it back his expression was one of utter terror.

“Oh no…”

[dreamofkpop]

Relaxation time

Stray Kids 10th member AU

Charlie x Bang Chan

requests are open!!

(gif not mine! credit to owner!)

“You look stressed”

“Well you are quite an observant one”

“Is that a compliment or something?” Charlie huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Chan snickered and stood from his chair, pulling Charlie’s arms back and taking them in his own. “A compliment, obviously, now what’s up?”

“We are going out somewhere, come on” She held tugged on his hands which were still gripping her own.

Shaking his head, he pulled her forward into a hug. “I’d love to, but i need to get this work done. Plus! It’s almost 3 in the morning, so things will either be shut or too busy”

“Oh come on Channie! You need to relax and de-stress, things have been tough this past week or two and you need a break!” Charlie lifted her hands and patted his chest, pulling back with a smile.

The leader sighed, looking down at Charlie with a tired smile. Charlie stared back up at him with a pleading smile, making it hard for him to protest.

“I...I can’t, I’ve gotta work.”

Charlie sighed, looking up at him with piercing eyes. “Christopher, you need to rest”

“Charlie. I can relax after I’ve finished, you should go home and sleep” He reached up and ruffled her hair.

She watched as he walked back over to the desk and sat down, placing his hands flat down, a long sigh emitting from his lips. There was a moment if silence in the room, Chan hesitantly glancing between the monitor and the girl behind.

He sighed, spinning the chair back around, the corners of his lips curling up. “Fine then, where are we going?”

The streets of Seoul were lit up and busy, people hustling and bustling around the open roads. Shop signs illuminated the concrete roads and made everything multicolored in the best way possible.

Charlie casually strode down the road, her boots clacking against the paved roads. She had one hand stuffed into her hoodie and the other interlocked Chan’s larger hand.

Although he knew these streets like the back of his hand, Chan trailed beside Charlie like a lost puppy, his eyes trained on the road ahead of him.

“Where is this arcade then?” He asked, raising his voice over the crowds around them. He looked at Charlie with a questioning gaze, not seeing a familiar building in sight.

Suddenly Charlie stopped, head turning to look down an alleyway between two buildings. She looked back at Chan and smiled before pulling him down the alleyway.

“It feels like you are dragging me down here to kill me” He laughed, though there was a hint of panic in his voice.

Charlie chuckled loudly, her head rolling back. “Don’t worry Chan, if i ever chose to kill someone i wouldn’t do it here, alleyways are kinda obvious”

“I worry about you sometimes...”

She stopped at a door, looking back at Chan as she pushed it open. “That is, my friend, your own problem”

The door was fully open, a blast of neon light flooding the otherwise dark alleyway. Confusion was written all over Chan’s face as Charlie pulled him into the building and towards a staircase leading down.

“How come I’ve never seen this place?” Chan questioned as they climbed down the stairs.

Red and Purple neon signs hung on the wall, the light bouncing off the black and white tiled walls. Charlie’s boots clacked against the tiles as she bounced down the stairs with a new found enthusiasm.

“Because it’s hidden! That’s a way it’s called ‘The hidden arcade’ It’s hidden underground between two buildings! I love this place” Charlie rambled, getting to the door and pushing it open.

Chan stood at the door way in awe, his eyes scanning rapidly over the room. There were games everywhere, vending machines in the corners of the room and a bar at the back.

“Well come on then! We have games to play!” Charlie called from the other side of the room, leaning against a claw machine.

Chan walked into the room, still looking around in awe. “This place is...this place is awesome! How long have you been coming here?”

“One of the first places me and my brother found when we moved to Seoul, got lost trying to find a cafe and ended up here! Love this place though, made friends with all the workers and met a lovely who i am now very close with”

“You said that all in one breath, amazing” Chan laughed, patting her shoulder.

She nodded proudly, grabbing his hand. “So, what d’you wanna play first?”

An hour later and the pair were crashed on one of the many large couches, game controllers in hands. The same game of Fortnite displayed on two different televisions.

“This is why i don’t play video games with you! You get too competitive!” Chan complained, smacking the buttons haphazardly.

Charlie rolled her eyes, taking one hand off the controller to pick up her drink. “Oh quit your whinging! I’m just good at this!”

“Because you spend hours watching Felix play Fortnite” He sighed, it almost sounded like he was complaining.

She looked at him in the corner of her of her eye, a  smirk dancing on her lips. “Are you complaining? Or are you jealous?”

The controller slacked in his grip, looking over her as his jaw dropped. “Who said I was jealous?!”

“I did” Charlie smirked

Chan took his eyes off her, focusing back on the game with a new found determination to win.

“What? No!!” Charlie exclaimed, watching as her character was killed. “Nah man that is taking the biscuit!”

She tossed the controller down beside her, watching Chan’s screen as she picked up her drink and began sipping on it.

As he continued to play Charlie scooted closer and leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. Chan laid his head on top of her’s and shuffled around.

Chan’s character was eventually killed, making the boy sigh and throw his hands up. He dropped the controller onto the table and leaned against the back of the couch, Charlie’s head still neatly tucked onto his shoulder.

“Oppa....” She whispered, turning herself to look up at him. Chan hummed back in response.

“Do you feel any better? Better than you did earlier today?”

Chan nodded, his hand blindly searching for hers. He found it and held onto her hand tightly, his thumb ghosting over her knuckles. “Yeah, better, thank you”

“No need to thank me, just looking out for my favorite Aussie!” She smiled.

Chan’s eyes widened. “Don’y let Felix hear you saying that, he’ll have a breakdown!”

“Yeah...good idea” Charlie shrugged.

Sitting up, Charlie pushed herself onto her feet and stretched. Her eyes wondered around the otherwise empty room, locking onto one of the many claw machines.

“Aren’t most claw machines rigged?” Chan questioned, leaning over the back of the couch, watching Charlie’s retreating figure.

She shrugged, reaching the machine and leaning against it. “Probably, that or i’m just amazing at these games”

Slotting a coin into the machine, she watched the ‘05′ appearing on the very small screen before she pressed down on the button, the claw moving.

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist, making Charlie jump. She quickly looked up at the mirror in the back of the machine, relaxing when she saw Chan.

The boy propped his chin up on her shoulder, his hands locked at her front, gently toying with the fabric of her hoodie. Charlie could she him smirking out of the corner of her eye as she attempted to win a plushy.

After a failed attempt, she sighed and took her hands off the button.

“Here let me try” Chan let go of her hoodie, leaning closer as he placed his hands on the controls.

Charlie stood there, her back pressed flush against Chan’s chest. The older was muttering to himself as he moved the claw about. They both watched intently as the claw picked up a stuffed toy.

“yes..yes...yes...yes!! I did it!” He cheered, moving away from Charlie and crouching down to retrieve the toy.

Standing back up, he held it out to Charlie. “For you, my love”

Charlie giggled and gladly took it off him, cuddling the stuffed toy in her arms. “On that note, never call me that again”

Laughing, Chan swung his arm over her shoulder, leaning down to whisper to her. “What...would you rather me call you, babygirl?”

“Ah oh hell no, back away from me boy” she exclaimed, pulling his arm off her and stepping away, trying the hide the pretty obvious blush on her cheeks.

Charlie spun around, looking at the clock that hung on the wall, chuckling to herself. “Would you look at the time! I think it’s time we headed back” She looked over at Chan.

The older boy nodded, walking up to Charlie and slinging his arm back over her shoulder. Charlie bid goodbyes to the workers and her friend, who Chan had found was called Amelia, before leaving the arcade.

The sky was dark, stars dotted around in the open space. The streets were a little less busy and the streets were less illuminated as some shops had shut for the night.

“For your sake, I’m gonna pretend you aren’t as red as a tomato. Let’s go” Chan casually stated, earning a gasp from Charlie as he pulled her down the street.

Her free hand flew to her cheek, pressing into the skin before pulling her hand back.

Get a grip Charlie, don’t be so stupid

[mrbadwithnames-blog]

The Game Of Funopoli...

Some Background...

Uriel = this on angel dude, Adam = the guy who owns the house we’re all squatting in, Lily = Nobody cares.

“Wait... did Adam design the characters after us?” I asked looking at the four small figurines after Uriel opened the small box.

“I think so, I guess I’m the hat,” Uriel said picking up and inspecting his pawn.

“Then I guess that makes me that makes the gun me,” I said taking my one.

“The teacup it obviously Adam,” I said looking over to the fourth pawn, a literal stone carving of a pile of crap.

“...”

“...”

“I think this might be-” I was interrupted by Uriel who said “Yeah definitely…”, we both looked over to the sleeping Lily with pity before deciding not to wake her up to play the game.

 “Right, so I assume you know how to play the game?” Uriel asked.

“Yeah, I played it by myself once, my parents bought me the game for Christmas and I had nobody to play it with so I learned the rules,” I explained.

“That is that is the single saddest thing I heard from you,” Uriel said with even more pity in his eyes than before.

“Shut up, it’s not like I wanted to play the game with anyone!” I replied.

Uriel just kept shooting me that same pitiful look,

“...”

“...”

I took out the four stone tiles inside which when placed beside each other into a square make up the playing board, I put Uriel’s pawn on the start square labelled ‘Start Here’ same thing with my one.

I gave each one of us five brown coins and five green coins…

“What about the other pawns?” Uriel asked.

“I’m not going to give money to pawns that aren’t in the game…” I replied.

“So you’re not going to use the other pawns?” Uriel asked.

“Why would I put pawns that nobody is going to play on the board?” I asked rhetorically.

Uriel picked up the pawns and placed them down, “It does no harm for us to include them.” Uriel shrugged.

“Sometimes, I can’t tell if you are just that…annoyingly nice or if you’re just trying to piss me off…” I complained before rolling the dice.

“One…” I announced before moving my pawn one square forward, it read “Warebears attack you, you loose one brown coin, if you don’t have one, you lose a green one, else you go back to the start…” I surrendered the one coin…

“Alright, now you go…” I said tossing the dice to Uriel, “Six,” he announced, he moved his pawn six places forward before reading the square aloud “A small inn, you can buy it for one green coin.” Uriel put one green coin away before pulling out a little green-stone house figurine, “Keep in mind the green ones are mine.” He said placing it down on the square.

I roll again, “Five!” I announced, “Finally, luck is on my side!” I said as I move my pawn forward by five only to realise I landed on Uriel’s inn, “Ah, welcome to my inn!” he exclaimed upon seeing this, I looked to the bottom of the square, it had ‘1B’ written in small text, I guess that’s the amount I have to pay for stepping on it, I had Uriel one brown coin,

Uriel looked over to me, “Why are you paying me?” he asked.

“Because I landed on your square,” I explained, slightly irritated at this point.

“It’s alright, you can stay for free, I’m sure my inn can stay in business despite letting one person stay the night for free.” Uriel shrugged.

“THAT’S NOT HOW THE GAME WORKS!” I exclaimed handing him the dice.

Uriel: 6 Brown, 4 Green

Me: 3 Brown, 5 Green

 Uriel rolled again, “One…” he said, a grin spread across my face, “Oh, too bad, it’s ok though - sometimes, luck just isn’t on our side.” I explained.

Uriel moved forward by one, “Upon leaving the inn, you are approached by a group of bandits! They demand your money or they will kill you, which will mean returning to square one.” Uriel read looking down to see an ‘at least 2B’ written on the bottom of the square.

“Ooooh, that suck!” I said with a wide grin, before seeing Uriel place six brown coins on the square.

I wasn’t sure why he did this…but to be fair, he did a lot of stupid things.

 Uriel: 0 Brown, 4 Green…

 I roll the dice, “three…” I announce, moving my pawn over, “Surprise square!” I said as I reached for a card, “You found ten brown coins behind the couch!” I read with excitement before grabbing ten more brown coins.

 Me: 13 Brown, 5 Green

 Uriel rolls the dice, “One…” he read again, he moves over to the square, “Looks like your competition stalked you, move one pawn closest to the start to the square ahead of you.” Uriel narrated before grabbing the cup pawn and moving it to where I was, Uriel then took out a surprise card for the pawn.

“Swap your money with someone else on this square…” Uriel read.

 Me: 0 Brown, 0 Green

Adam: 13 Brown, 5 Green

Uriel: 0 Brown, 4 green.

 Without saying anything I roll the dice, “Six…” I grumble before narrating the square “Multiply your money by two! -Enjoy~”

 I just handed Uriel the dice…

He rolled the dice… “One” He announced moving onto the surprise square, “Add the value of all player coins on this square, and divide by two, that is your current balance, if it is not a full number or not an even number, round up and or minus one coin,” Uriel said,

0.5(13 + 0) = 6.5, Round up to 7 and minus one 6 Brown, Green remains the same since the value ends up as 8, except for Adam who looses 1 Green.

 Me: 0 Brown, 0 Green

Adam: 6 Brown, 4 Green

Uriel: 6 Brown, 4 green.

 “GOD DAMN IT…he’s taking advantage of the other pawns…is that even allowed?!… I guess I might as well cheat too…” I decided.

“Hey, you have Adam on your side, I think I should get Lily.” I suggested, I expected him to protest but he just said: “Sound fair, I’m glad you learned from your mistakes.”

 I rolled one for Lily’s pawn, “one…” she moved onto the werebear square and had to move back since she has no money.

“LILY YOU LITERAL PIECE OF SHIT!” I cried, causing the real Lily to wake up and jump up, “Adam?!” She exclaimed looking around, “No, no, sorry, I was just screaming at your pawn in the game.” I explained waving Lily to go back to sleep.

 I roll the dice for myself, “one…” I moved one forward… It was a bland square…

 “What does a blank square mean?” Uriel asked.

A devilish idea was born in my head, “Oh, that…it means that we…fight…” I came up with some a random excuse.

“A fight? How does that work?” Uriel asked,

“Simple…” I look at the cards…”We just think about who would win the fight with the give land and pawns…” I explained.

“I see…a very creative game!” Uriel exclaimed.

“Exactly!” I replied, “Well since this is me, I have the teleport bullets so I teleport beside your Inn.” I explained moving my pawn to the square after the inn.

“Alright, in that case, I think I win,” Uriel replied uncertainly.

“Why is that?” I asked looking around the board.

 That was when I imagined it, I move towards the inn…ready to take the enemy castle when suddenly… I’m surrounded by a group of bandits… Uriel pointed to the bandit card, “It says at least 2 brown, I gave them six, by giving them all I have I  hope, nay pray that they will help me in my hour of need if such a time comes!” Uriel exclaimed.

I looked over to my money pile, no coins…this means I’m dead!

I flipped the board and left leaving Uriel along in the living room, except for the now sleeping Lily.

[likenothingnameable]

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.   

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.  

[vcxnihilli]

jungle love

Four-forty-five and his arms are already aching. His legs burn, his lungs struggle and puff inside his chest. Sweat falls into his eyes, makes his hair so heavy he can’t see a damn thing. He pushes it back. Tries, and fails. As per usual.

But Harvey’s smiling. Laughing. He loves every minute of pain. Because it’s all for football. Maybe that’s a fucking colonized train of thought, but Red Cloud be damned if it’s not the best fucking feeling in the world. Even when they lose a game, it’s still fun, it’s still everything he thought it was when he was six years old.

(Back then, he was three-foot-nothing with his head shaved almost bald. Mom left him with one of her brothers while she was working in town and he’d take Harvey to his son’s games. The lights, the sounds, the feel of every touchdown. Harvey was obsessed.)

His breath catches. He pauses in his sprints, hand on his side. But he pushes on. His chest burns, his throat goes tight and slick, his hands get that swollen feeling. But he’s fucking flying. A second faster than Hernandes, he finishes. Rolls forward, lies on his back, smiles up at the sky.

“C’mon, Day! Give me a mile!”

He sighs. Smiles. “Yes, coach!”

When he’s running, he’s laughing. Jefferson, Hernandes, Maclaurin; they all ignore him. They’re used to it by. The exuberance. None of them even notice as he runs right past Tantoo without his usual display. No running backwards, no flexing, no big juicy kisses blown across the field separating the football boys from the cheerleader girls.

He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t even break his stride or miss a chance to poke fun at someone’s form. There’s nothing he wants to talk about less than how he dumped her last weekend, right after the first game of the season. How she cried in Don’s Bronco and called him a cunt. For what? She didn’t say. Just told him to drive her home, so he did.

Why? she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer. But he thinks she already knew. Or maybe he’s paranoid. That his life’s written across him sure as the freckles on his face. Maybe she looked close enough and saw that spot, right by his nose, isn’t even a freckle, but a fucking love letter to Chuck god damn Midthunder.

Why else would she have hated him so much? If not because she knew Harvey was in love with him.

But it’s thirty minutes until game time now and they’re doing their stretches, getting in some water and orange slices because that’s what the football moms like to bring. (Susie brought frybread once and almost got lambasted because of the carbs, Susan!)

Then they file into the locker room. They put on their padding, their jerseys. Crack jokes about someone’s small dick. The usual. Coach stands at the front of the locker room and draws lines on a whiteboard, tells them how they’re gonna go after the ball’s thrown. Who’s catching, throwing, running to the end zone. No one’s really paying attention, except the bushy-tailed few fresh off of JV.

“Let’s have a good game, boys!” says coach.

They go out on the tail end of the national anthem. The bleachers erupt. Shake and smash under stomping feet. Echoing, echoing, echoing from end of the field to the other. Harvey, ever the show-off, raises his fists in the air. Eggs them on. God, he really missed his calling as the romantic lead in one of those brat pack flicks.

“Cool it, Day.”

He joins the rest of his team on the field. They watch while the captains meet for the coin toss. Up, down, the Spartans kick off. Some groans, some sighs. But Harvey just claps his hands, whoops because he can.

They line up, twos and threes. Harvey stands in the middle, watching the other team’s quarterback. He crouches, hand touching turf. The ball’s kicked and Harvey’s gone.

The next hour, hour and a half, pass in a blur of pushing himself faster, harder. Of focusing on his grip, the torque of the throw, the spin. They play like an orchestra; beautiful, rehearsed. They fumble once, score eight touchdowns. Riley manages three perfect field goals. The Spartans get one. And it’s shaky, hits the post and bounces right off.

In the end, it’s close. Fifty-seven-fifty-one, Eagles. It’s their first win of the season. Harvey makes sure to dump nice, cold gatorade all over coach, to show their appreciation. And with one last hurrah they return to the locker rooms.

He doesn’t even look at Tantoo as he walks past her, shoving Washington out of his way. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him either. He wonders if this time, someone will notice when he doesn’t stop to say something to her. If they’ll notice he doesn’t try and drench her with his sweaty hair. You’re not a fucking dog!

No one does. Maybe god is real.

When they get inside, it’s deafening. Laughing, shouting, hooting, hollering; it all bounces again and again off the tile walls, until it’s not just a team but an army in there. Harvey’s the loudest of all as he pulls his jersey over his head, ditches his padding on the ground, pulls his pants down off his legs. He sits.

“Damn, Day.”

“What?”

“When’d you get that fucking snake?”

A snort.

“You’re packing, right?”

He’s done this whole kit and kaboodle a million different times, and yet, it always seems to go this way. Is that why it took him so long to realize he’s gay? Because guys have been talking about his dick before he even had pubes?

And, as usual, he plays along. Because that’s more fun than not. He stands, puts one foot up on the bench.

“This?” he asks, one hand framing his cloth-encased junk. “You mean this? Right here?”

He’s smiling. He doesn’t even care that his whole ass is hanging out. He just cares that Jefferson’s face is right at crotch level. Because that’s the joke.

“All natural.”

And god damn if Jefferson’s not desperately trying to make contact with the family jewels. With his other hand, Harvey makes a V, points at his eyes.

“My eyes are up here, bud.”

[pippki-writes]

Munsters in the Shadows [Chef Andre - Part 7]

NOTES: One of my friends got me to join an e-fed, and even though I know nearly nothing about wrestling, I do feel confident in my ability to write fairly entertaining nonsense. And I’d love to share that nonsense with you lot too!

(Chef Andre Poêlon, Toddrick, and other non-wrestler side characters are mine. The other wrestlers—Bert, Ahmya, Dionysus, Chassie Fear, Sidroy Covington IV, Queen Machine Jenny, and Lord Raab in this installment—belong to their respective creators.)

(Andre’s appearance is based on Chef Gordon Ramsay. I’m so sorry Chef Ramsay. Here’s your alternate French-American life)

WC: ~2.1K

Installments: Part 1 (The Recipe); Part 2 (L’Aperitif); Part 3 (L’Entree); Part 4 (Fish); Part 5 (Main Course); Part 6 (Salad)

The three count came down, and Andre was useless, thrown from the ring as Bert took down Andre’s teammate Dionysus for the win. Andre had nearly had Bert just before that moment, but nearly isn’t good enough. Here he was, a chicken cordon bleu of wrestling—pounded down, wrapped around the idea that he had any idea what he was doing, and thrown hastily into the fryer of taking on people who actually knew the technical ins and outs of this world. Half-baked and wholly unprepared. No one wants nearly cooked chicken. No one wants a wrestler who can only nearly win.

Perhaps the few wins he’d managed had simply been luck. A small string of coin flips in his favor, briefly giving him the false idea that this was something he could do and be any good at.

But he had put on a good show, hadn’t he? Every match has to have a winner and a loser. Perhaps he could make a name for himself as the most beloved and entertaining loser.

Could he really live his life like that?

Andre tossed his mail on a well-ignored stack of letters piled on the table by the door, and dragged himself to the bedroom, falling face-down into the bed, letting sleep steal over him without even bothering to get undressed.

It had to be a dream. Even in the darkest throes of drunkenness he’d ever achieved in his wilder and more wayward days, Andre never set foot in a Taco Bell. And even if he had gone to a Taco Bell, he was very sure they didn’t have seven-foot-tall fountain drink cups that loomed over you.

But that’s what this was, an enormous beverage cup, white and emblazoned in dark purple branding, carbonated fizz hissing from its top.

Andre opened his mouth to protest, but every time he did he found himself pulling a small, perfectly formed taco out of his mouth. He was up to four tacos when the fountain drink—purportedly a medium, according to its label—addressed him directly.

“No doubt you’ve experienced cups before. Let us talk about what you really want to know—our place in the ever expanding universe.”

Andre shook his head. He didn’t come to collect philosophy from fast food. But the cup was talking without waiting to see whether or not he was coming along for the ride. It was deep in the weeds of a fantastic metaphor involving Matryoshka dolls and the multiplicity of human existence when it stopped, Baja Blast bubbles hissing into the silence, as it considered Andre.

“Just because you fit in doesn’t mean you belong,” warned the beverage.

Andre shrugged helplessly, not wanting to chance the manifestation of more unwanted tacos. Maybe if they were real street tacos, that would be one thing, but he was quite sure these were somehow the mass-produced variety befitting the slightly neon dream Taco Bell they found themselves in.

“Where do you even BELONG!?” the Baja bellowed, before the tiled floor beneath them began to shake. The cup rocked from side to side and tipped over, a teal tidal wave crashing over Andre and up his nose, drowning him completely.

Andre woke with a gasp, sure he was covered in soda. But no. It was only water.

Wait.

Water?

It took a moment for his hazy mind to process what was happening. There was a flood of water pouring from the ceiling directly onto the bed where he had been sleeping. He looked up just in time to fully witness the complete collapse of his ceiling, and a naked and bewildered old Mr. Jenkins clinging to his bathtub as it fell from the floor above with a mighty crash into what had once been Andre’s bed.

Andre didn’t exactly care for the police, but he didn’t mind firefighters. Admired them, even, if he stopped to think about it and what they were capable of doing to help people. But he certainly felt like he’d seen far too much of the Indianapolis fire department lately, and though it wasn’t their fault, it was hardly a good thing.

They tromped into his apartment to make pronouncements about the structural integrity (or lack thereof) now endemic to his apartment, equipment gently bumping into walls and tables as they went.

Andre dove to catch the precarious stack of letters as a wayward bump from a hip radio sent them tumbling off the hall table. Sure the apartment was an absolute disaster, but some part of him felt like adding just one more thing to the mess would make him completely lose it.

He really needed to go through all this mail. His intention had been that he would get to it later, and that had been the case for months, time continuing to slip away from him in greater chunks, things he should have been doing still left undone. He squared the envelopes in his hands, and noticed the familiar blue and red border striping of an airmail envelope. He pulled the letter out—it was from his father.

This was hardly the time for it, but he opened the letter to read it anyway, the letter a thin piece of paper in his father’s blocky handwriting wrapped around an airplane ticket.

«My dear son,» the letter began, «I have been watching this wrestling career of yours with some interest.

«Mostly because the neighbors will not cease bringing it up, and woe unto me if I am caught in these conversations unawares of your latest foibles and follies in the ring.

«And what follies and foolishness it all is! What kind of career is this, my son?! It is a disgrace to yourself and your name. I understand you find no restaurant worth your talents willing to hire you, given what had happened, but this is not the answer.

«Come back home. Your crimes have been forgotten, forgiven. We can find a kitchen that will take you on. The industry here is hurting for good chefs, and that is what you are. A good chef. Not this.

Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Papa.»

Andre looked at the ticket enclosed—a one way, open-ended ticket to Paris Charles-de-Gaulle Airport.

His crimes—misdemeanors, really, shoplifting not because he needed to, but because he could. Fastest five fingers in the fifth arrondisement. Of course, nobody called him that, mostly because the alliterations weren’t the same in French, but it was true. This was part of what led his father to send him away to America so many years ago.

Andre hadn’t thought about his crimes in years and years. Andre was perhaps around fifteen, and though he didn’t know it at the time, he’d just committed the last little larceny he’d have the opportunity to commit in Paris. He had wanted a snack, but didn’t feel like paying for it. Like so many times before, he snuck a little hunk of quality cheese and a sleeve of crackers from the grocery store, and strolled down to sit by the Seine to enjoy his ill-gotten goods. There was a little park right on the water that was perfect to enjoy the weather, the cheese, and the fact that he should have been in school at that exact moment in time, but wasn’t.

He had a little pocket knife that he used to divide the sticky cheese into bite-sized bits, popping them in his mouth and savoring the creamy tang chased by crisp crackers. A fine afternoon. He pulled a dog-eared old copy of Asterix le Gaulois from his bag to leaf through. He’d read the comic more times than he could remember, but he enjoyed the by now familiar humor of its pages. He let the sounds of an afternoon in Paris wash over him, and only looked up when a shadow abruptly crossed the panels of his comic book and stayed there.

Before Andre stood a huge man, muscles hardly concealed by the coat he was wearing. The man had the air of someone famous who was trying not to be recognized, and the much more common air of a tourist hopelessly lost. Andre looked at the man quizzically.

“Parlay oo on-glaze?” rumbled the man with a frown.

“Ah. Oui. Er, yes,” Andre replied.

“Thank fucking god!” The man was clearly American, unable to cope without the coddling comfort of his native tongue being spoken to him. “None’a these self-righteous French bastards wants to speak some goddamn English around here, and I’m fuckin’ LOST, supposed to be in the ring in an hour and ain’t nobody want to help me, my damn phone don’t work, shit—“

Andre ate the rest of his cheese and crackers while the rant poured out of the man, directed not at anyone in particular but to the entire affront that the nation of France presented to him as a goddamned American. Andre didn’t really listen, but watched the muscles of the man’s forehead twitch, the rage painting his face a vivid shade of beet red, until finally Andre had finished his snack and caught in the tirade a mention of the actual destination he was trying to find.

“Studio Jenny?” Andre interrupted. “Mon dieu, that will take you perhaps forty-five minutes by metro to get there. Thirty if you can catch a taxi. Can you catch a taxi? You are tall, perhaps they stop for you. Come, we had best hurry if you want to make it to this place in time.” Andre stood, tucking his fingers in his comic book, and hurried down Pont Neuf to a road that taxis might lurk along. The large man followed, bewildered that this somewhat gangly teen was directing him so. In short order, Andre was addressing the taxi driver in French to help the hapless American, and the stranger was climbing into the car.

“Hey!” the man barked, sounding angry, though upon reflection Andre realized that might have just been how he always sounded. “Thanks.” He fished in a pocket and handed a business card to Andre, that Andre glanced at without reading and tucked into his book. Then the taxi took off, and that was that.

Andre blinked, a dawning realization creeping over him. He didn’t hear the firefighter repeating to him, “sir, you’ll need to find somewhere else to stay.”

That burly man he’d helped by the Seine. It couldn’t have been.

Dazed, Andre walked over to the rickety livingroom bookshelf, pulling his beloved copy of Asterix le Gaulois into his hands. The book easily fell open where an old business card dug into the spine. He pulled out the card, suddenly remembering a very official and stern-looking envelope in the mail pile.

It was a legal notice, about a certain lawsuit. That he was supposed to have responded to. That, in absence of any response, he had summarily lost.

He compared the name on the business card to the name of the plaintiff.

They were one and the same.

Burbank Regional Airport is a cozy, unpretentious sort of airport. A simple conduit between landing strips and the parking lot outside, without a time-distorting labyrinth within that would seek to entrap lost and wayward travelers.

Is it the best backdrop for a promo? Probably not. Especially not while walking through the building. But between the catastrophic loss of his apartment, the heavy contemplation of existence, and any other number of excuses Andre could pull out for why he simply hadn’t done it, Andre had not made the time in his life to record his promo before the last possible minute. But something, no matter how half-assed he made it, was better than absolutely nothing. Not that it mattered, he thought to himself. The camera of his phone is angled awkwardly up as the video starts, Andre pulling his mask down below his chin, looking distracted.

“Right, what the hell have we got? Merde,” he pauses, finger swiping on his camera while it records, looking for his notes on who he is supposed to be fighting. Off camera, Toddrick can be heard scoffing. “Really dude? You’re fighting Sidroy Covington the fourth, Queen Machine Jenny, and Lord Raab. It’s you, Dionysus, and Chassie Fear against them.”

Andre swears in French. “Lot of damned people. Why the hell so many people?” He groans, exasperated. “Fine. Whatever.” Andre’s resolve at being able to wrestle is clearly cracking. Gone are the overconfident attempts at puns and culinary lingo. He is approaching a breaking point. “Win or lose, you lot are going to have to fight me like hell to get out of that ring. Maybe I can’t win. Maybe I can, who knows. Maybe luck will fall my way again. All I know is you will not have an easy time of trying to take me down. But go on. Try. Be my fucking guest.”

Final Course: Part 8 (Just Desserts)