#my friend gave me an edible and I got so stoned and my contacts got so dry I couldn't open my eyes at all by the time we left the club LOL

[queeriboh]

last night was funnnnn

[thedickjourney-blog]

Sasha

This is fucking long.

A close friend once gave me invaluable advice that I now live by: A crush is just lack of information. Read that again.

I must have accidentally swiped right on Sasha on Bumble. Initially, I didn't find him attractive based on his profile, which gave off a "closeted dork" vibe or someone who might have been into theater in high school.

When using dating apps, my ritual involves taking an edible or joint before swiping and going to sleep. As I was browsing through my matches, I noticed that Sasha and I both loved Taylor Swift and early 2000s punk rock, so I sent him a message about it (a bit lame, I know). Surprisingly, we started chatting. At some point, he asked something personal, and I responded with a long and strange message. But soon after sending it, he stopped replying, and in my stoned state, I became paranoid, thinking it was an eternity. I unmatched him, out of pure paranoia, I can't really justify or defend my actions.

Despite unmatching and not having any other contact, Sasha had sent me a Spotify playlist, which I listened to. It may sound cheesy, but it felt like I was getting to know this stranger intimately through the music. I regretted my hasty judgment or maybe it was just weed paranoia—I don't know. I searched for him on Instagram using his Spotify username and found him. Since he was still a stranger from Bumble, I thought there wasn't much to lose, so I sent him a DM, getting my crazy tendencies out in the open right from the start.

The DM worked! I mentioned that finding him might seem crazy, but I loved the playlist. We chatted about music and other topics. Honestly, at first, I was more into the idea of making a new friend than anything romantic.

A few days later, he messaged me spontaneously around 9 pm for a drink, and despite being in sweatpants and a hoodie, I said yes and met him. To keep the effort minimal, I chose a place close to my house, and we met just 20 minutes after his text. I didn't care much about my appearance because I didn't think much of him. But when I saw him waiting at the bar, that changed. I was flustered—he looked a million times better than his photos. He had a glowing, pale skin with light freckles under his eyes and on his cheeks, long hair, a cute mustache, and deep blue eyes. Fucking beautiful deep blue eyes. He had a soft and feminine appeal that was incredibly sexy.

We talked for hours until the bar closed, then went to another bar and continued chatting. This moment felt timeless, and I didn't want it to end. The curiosity he elicited in me, felt better than sex.

We went back to my place to take my dog for a walk, my messy apartment, didn't seem to bother him. We left my place and got beers and went up the hill of Montmartre, where we sat in front of the Sacre Couer. We drank, and sang along to Taylor Swift. Amidst the beautiful view and music, we kissed—a naive and romantic moment. We even joined a group of strangers for a while, and it felt perfect.

I think that what is absolutely awful about dating with apps and just the way things kinda roll in society nowadays, it’s that its so shitty all the time, that when it’s decent… it is amazing? After the stupid date, we chatted a few days and I obviously idealised this man so much.

These feminine “open minded” , “deconstructed” men are the most dangerous type of fuckboy. I was thinking about him and just felt this intense curiosity to get to know him more. It wasn’t about starting anything or even thinking of relationship or any future, it was just this amazing thing of hoping for more moments like that date. Officially, I was crushing hard on Sasha. 

The second time I saw Sasha, was when he invited me to watch a movie at this place. 

I told my best friend how I was super looking forward to it, but was hesitant that he would flake. He had stopped texting me one or two days prior and I was super overthinking it. She advised me that if by 5PM there was no message, I should just let it go. At 4 fifty something he wrote me. I went home, shaved my whole body and washed my hair and all that shit girls do when you want to look perfect and smell perfect dressed and undressed. The fucker arrived at his flat the same time as me, dripping in sweat from a run. 

(Let it be a commentary and observation in the inequity of heterosexual dating, like nothing worst than really trying to look good and get ready with time, and the guy is there with his outfit from work and sweaty balls. Gross.)

He took a shower while I helped prepare some of the food and we moved things to his living room where we were supposed to to watch the movie. 

Accompanied by good wine and our favorite music, we didn’t watch a movie. We talked again for hours and hours,about anything and everything. 

I can’t quite remember how or when, but at some point we were making out on his sofa. I was very much craving him and wanting him. In the most ridiculous way, it was the guy I had a crush on and finally I thought we’d physically connect. In between kisses we undressed, he even brought poppers and it was sexy and fun and dorky. I was enjoying myself and him and suddenly he couldn’t keep his erection. Which is a normal thing and happens and rarely it’s a girl’s fault but an issue of the guy. But the perks of having a crush and my weird ass personality, was that I completely took it personally. I reacted the worst possible way: I stopped and got dressed and make my way out of his place. He accompanied me and I don’t even remember what he said, but in a split second I realized how badly I was behaving. I apologized and stayed. 

It is important to add context to the fact, that I am a slut with weird dynamics. I can have sex with you, but sleeping together is somehow more vulnerable and intimate for me. I never ever let men stay and I never stay to sleep with someone. 

And I stayed and I slept in his bed, in his T-shirt while we put on Shrek 2. It was the first time I slept outside my bed with someone since I got divorced; he probably didn’t know, but to me it was a big deal. 

I left early in the morning, we didn’t have sex. I was feeling so weird about everything, because I was confused if he liked me or not and worst, I felt so weird with the possibility that I was feeling things. 

So I dealt with it in the worst/best way I know: I made plans with another guy hours after getting home. Let’s call him “Pierre”. We had been talking and all on hinge, he is the typical hot guy (Blond, tall , blue eyes and a fucking insane beautiful muscular body like impeccable body). I invited him for coffee, which is what we met for. And after the 30 mins coffee, this hot beautiful man was pounding me like a beast in my bed. I have a theory that God whenever he sends dumb people to earth, he makes them hot and well endowed. Pierre is one of God’s favorites. We just smoked weed and fucked all day, this man sparked nothing in me other than keeping awake the hungry sex demon I have inside of me. This was my way to not think about feelings and enjoy myself, and in the end Pierre continues to be a very convenient bootycall until today. 

Despite being super aware of having a crush on Sasha, I kept on living my life and seeing other people. Since the date at his place, things kind of fizzled out.

About a week after, I was at a jazz club on an a date with another guy and Sasha texted me. I was already kind of wanting to go home, so I told him I was on my way home. He said he was in my neighborhood and wanted to see me. Like the idiot I am, I rushed into a taxi and organized my house a bit and just waited for him. Only for him to last minute flake and with the worst excuse. 

At this point I realized how this was getting shitty and hurting me. I texted him finally, a long ass message that started off as “No one is busier than someone who’s not interested in you”. And the answer sucked, it was one of those “my mental health is shitty so I’ve been shitty to you so let’s stop”. It sucked. 

What sucked even more, was the way my head spiraled and felt completely delusional. Because all my experience of him felt real, reciprocal, natural. How could it be that it was one sided this whole time ? Was I too weird ? Too intense ?

Weeks passed and I shifted my focus on myself and work and healthy habits and all that “healing process bullshit”. Until I realized how much this had affected me that I was taking my paid time with my therapist to talk about it. I was hung up on the fact that I slept over and was so vulnerable and at ease with someone that gave no shit about me. This was always about me, not him.

I reached out to him, a picture with the quote “Just paid my therapist to talk about you, isn’t that romantic ?”. 

Which he responded, and resulted in scheduling a day to see each other. Which there was sexting in between, and lots of hope from my end.

I knew to not overthink or put too much effort because I had no idea what really to expect and I didn’t want to feel dumber than I already did. 

He arrived to my place, completely flushed and everything seemed to be a hassle. He talked about how he had a bad day and all and I was like “we could’ve rescheduled” , and he said “No I wanted to be here”…

We sat on my sofa, Avril Lavigne playing in the background and we started to talk. I really wanted to discuss everything and the way I felt and how things sucked for me and blah blah blah. But instead, Sasha did a monologue. Not any monologue, a ridiculous monologue. This 30 year old man sat on my sofa to complain about the pettiest and smallest inconveniences in his life. It was such a fucking turn off, it was a man-child, a boy complaining about things that he had no will to change or work on. In addition, it was followed by a second monologue about being in love with another girl….To make it better, the timing, very much aligned with when we met and the fizzing out… 

At that very draining moment of realizing how much I was wasting my time listening to him, I had an epiphany. It was as if all the therapy and growth had come full circle in my head and this was the moment to put it in practice. Younger me would’ve sat through it all like an idiot, and try to make him feel better. Younger me would’ve been so sad about the other girl, and probably still insist on a toxic dynamic so that he could “choose me”. Younger me would’ve ignored the giant red flag of the fact that this man just enjoyed my attention and my eagerness to comfort him. It was never about a connection with me or truly understanding or liking me, I was just warm and convenient and very dumb.

It was ridiculous and inappropriate for him to talk about being in love with the other girl, I mean, what was the point ? He was in my home, and trying to kiss me in between the conversations and vomiting this pathetic shit. For what? To make me feel insecure ? To avoid directly rejecting me ? 

Everything came together, his beautiful angelic face started to repulse me. The cool deconstructed guy was just another entitled white boy. Indeed, the way I perceived him at first, it was all in my head. At this stage in my life I was “healed” enough to understand the patterns and reject them. I confidently sent him home, and erased him from all social media and contact. Irrationally I know myself well enough that this was a weak point for me, maybe the first time since my divorce that I opened my heart a bit to the possibility of feelings; the best way to protect myself was to completely cut him off. 

Despite this experience ending this way, It was such a milestone for me and the dick journey. We grow up idealizing romance and romantic love, but to me it’s crazy, that in the end we are just animals roaming the earth and self love seems to be the type of love we struggle with the most. 

This crush was just really a huge lack of information, and the way I felt was a reflection of my needs being met at a bare minimum after so much time of being completely neglected. It wasn’t special or magical, it was just the minimum, but the season I was in , it magnified everything. 

This isn’t a story of “I deserve better” because honestly, I am very shitty sometimes and I think I karma comes for me. But it is about understanding how the way we might see someone, isn’t about the person, but a mirror to how we truly see ourselves. That last moment I was with him, I was not in the same place I was when I met him. The newer version me isn’t at all into adult-babies or emotionally crippled men… 

A crush is just lack of information. 

[vitalityofficial]

Vitality LORE ACT 1 - The Girl: Prologue

VITALITY LORE // A1 - The Girl

Summary: We are introduced to a young girl whose life is about to change forever. After suffering a devastating loss, a mysterious man will eventually come into her life and begin his dark path of vengeance. The girl is only the beginning.

Warnings: Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Bullying, Depression, PTSD, Anxiety

Wordcount: 1,778

School had been out for an hour now and all her friends had gone home. Why hadn't her parents come yet? They never took this long! And why haven't they called? She took her phone out, dialing her father's number and it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

"Dad! I'm still waiting. Are you okay? I'll wait for fifteen more minutes and if you aren't here, I'll walk home! I'll take the special kimchi route, okay? I love you!"

The 'special kimchi route' is a series of alleyways littered with various family-owned shops - one of those shops owned by an older woman who had the best kimchi dishes around and one her family ate at often.

The girl frowns after the fifteen minutes are up and finally hops off the swing, grabbing her book bag and sighing. "Traffic must be bad today," she reasoned, leaving the gated school property and making the long trek home. She still found it odd that neither had contacted her, but her mother's cellphone was being repaired and her father was old and sometimes didn't pick up service well. They lived far up in the hills - the rather "poor" part of Seoul, tucked far away with the main city in the distance - and any nearby payphones were broken and left to rot.

As she walks and walks, she can't help but to hum a happy tune, feeling perky despite everything. Her birthday was in 5 days and her parents had promised to take her to Busan for a whole week! Her best friend had moved there last year and the two didn't get to keep in contact so it was the perfect way to celebrate a special day.

"You! Child!" A gruff voice spoke from a darkened corner and she yelps when a frail hand grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Grandma! You scared me!" She laughs, hugging the older unrelated woman. She was a well-known resident to all in the small neighborhood and the girl's family was very familiar with her.

“It’s so awful, child! Truly terrible!” The elderly woman murmurs, her eyes wide and pupils as big as saucers. The girl frowns and a look of concern comes over her face - word around was that Grandma was not well and often spouted eccentric things but the other residents often did their best to take care of her as there were no known relatives around. “Are you okay, Grandma? Shall I help you home? It’s getting chilly out.” The girl softly grabs her hand, guiding her in the direction of the woman's house.

“I am so sorry, my sweet girl. You are to endure so much pain and it is not fair for you were destined for so much good.” The old lady rambles as they walk but the girl brushes it off, use to it. When they reach the final hill - which happens to split off into a fork - the girls home on the right and a cliff just across the weather-beaten road and the woman’s on the left - they are overwhelmed by the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance.

“What’s going on?” The girl panics as she takes everything in, immediately dropping the old lady’s hand as she rushes towards the commotion. She had never seen so many people gathered around this area and to her horror - right in front of her house!

"Was there an accident? What happened?" She pleads with an officer, who immediately stops her from crossing the tape barrier. "It's not safe, young lady. Please stay back!" The female cop grasps the girls shoulders, pushing her back. It wasn't soon enough though as the girl peaks around her, seeing a trail of blood that went over the cliff edge - something truly abnormal and mortifying.

“That’s my home! Where's are my Mother and Father?” She was panicking now - something clearly wasn’t right. Her parents were never late picking her up from school or activities and to come home to this...mess...The girl knew now that something terrible had happened and there was no hiding it from her. “Mama? Papa?” She screams desperately, tears instantly flooding down her cheeks.

The officer gave her a solemn look before turning to her superior, the two whispering among themselves for a couple of minutes. When they returned, the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the commotion, sitting on a bench with her - a bench the girl often sat on with her Father when they ate breakfast and waited for the school van to pick her up each morning.

The officer didn’t waste much time breaking the news. “My dear, I am afraid your Mom and Dad had an accident and are no longer with us in this world.” Though her voice was gentle, it was clear that breaking such awful news to a child wasn’t something she did often, or even wanted to do.

The girl sputtered, unable to form any words. She looked around for the Grandmother but the woman was nowhere in sight now. “Mama...Papa?” She cries out weakly - the thought of never seeing them or speaking to them ever again filling her with an overwhelming sense of despair, leaving her gasping for air.

Everything went black then.

7 Years Later - (2016)

“Yah! Chaewon! Are you even listening? Hey! Watch out!” A firm hand grabs the girl's arm and yanks her backward just as a delivery scooter races past, beeping madly. “Are you spacing out again? What is with you?” Areum looked at her friend worriedly, the rapper of the triangle kimbap she was holding in her opposite hand crinkling loudly.

“Huh? What did I miss?” Chaewon snaps out of her funk, a tentative smile on her face. Areum groans in response, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her snack. “I said,” she begins with her mouth full of food, “I was thinking of asking Kangdae out. Isn’t he handsome, yeah? He’s not like the other boys in our class.”

“He’s a bit dumb, isn’t he?” Chaewon mutters. Sure, he was cute and had muscles but he wasn’t exactly known to be bright and was at the bottom of their class in terms of grades unlike Areum, who was in the top five.

Areum groans and smacks her friend on the arm. “Don’t be so rude, Unnie! He’s not stupid, okay? He just doesn’t really like studying but he’s a good person! He wants to get into music and he’s really good at it too! You should listen to one of his tracks he’s produced!” She goes to pull out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through some files.

“Maybe another time, yeah?” Chaewon waves dismissively at the cellular device her friend holds out to her. “I have to get home.”

“Let me walk you!” Areum offers, linking her arm through Chaewons. She was understandably concerned about her friend - who had been experiencing sporadic blackouts for a couple months now - and wanted to make sure she got home safely. “I mean, you did just nearly get shit on by a scooter while having one of your...moments.”

Chaewon shook her head, “No! I’m fine! Plus you know how my parents are.” Areum pouts, grumbling. “They have to be the lamest parents on earth if they won’t let their daughter bring a friend home. We’ve been besties since forever and I’ve never even met them! Ugh...”

"Yeah. They’re...strict and really embarrassing, to be honest. You’re not missing out on much.” Chaewon huffs, checking her phone for the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” She forces a smile at her friend, pulling her school blazer around her tighter as suddenly a chilly breeze whipped through the air. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

As Chaewon walked, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so distant lately. Areum had been a true friend to her ever since her move to Gwangmyeong. She was the first student to welcome her. The first to defend her against the snotty students who picked on Chaewon for being sullen, quiet and “weird”. Prior to the...incident, she had no real issues with bullies and was rather well-liked by her peers.  She had since become the opposite version of former herself - the girl her parents adored was gone and she had no proper concept on how to defend herself or react to the other student's harsh words and actions.

So why was she so rude at times? Why did she lie to someone she considered her best friend? Chaewon had come to the conclusion that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. The only way she could deal with everything was by lying about her life outside of school. It made it easier to pretend - the façade she had created was an escape, albeit still very bleak, much like the truth.

The sounds of the city center grew more distant as she reached the iron gates of her “home”. Her slender hand gripped the cool iron and pushed it open slowly, the squealing of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Laughter could be heard flittering from the playground behind the old stone building that housed 13 other kids just like her:

Orphans.

The Seojun house for orphans wasn’t too terrible - the food was edible on most days and the rats and roaches were few and far between as of late. The couple who ran it weren’t the kindest and had clearly become burnt out after running the institution for the past 20 years. If they hadn’t been getting a good sum of government money to run it, they most definitely would have abandoned the ominous place long ago. What made the place tolerable were some of the staff, like Mr. Kim.

“Welcome home, Miss Lee!” Mr. Kim - the designated maintenance and security man --  greets Chaewon with a cheery smile as she approached the front door. He even stops raking to open it for her, bowing and motioning with a hand for her to enter as if she were royalty.

“Ah! yes! Home sweet home! Thank you, Mr. Lee.” She manages to muster a smile, bowing as she walks through the familiar doors and sighing loudly. Her smile falters as she is out of the caretakers sight and the familiar sense of dread slowly overcomes her once again.

[silverwhiteraven]

Borne of the Stars - Chapter 9 - An MLB Kryptonian AU

Tag List:  @eve-valution @weird-pale-blonde-person @kris-pines04 @soulmate-game @abrx2002 @amayakans @vixen-uchiha @heldtogetherbysafetypins @raisuke06 @dorkus-minimus @captainartsypants @mopester-is-here @moonlightstar64 @annabellabrookes @maribat-is-lifeblood @toodaloo-kangaroo @the-navistar-carol @elspethshadow @chocolatecatstheron​ @ivymala07

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 8 ] [ Chapter 10 ]

[ Summary: Lunch was enjoyed, Félix has a message, and more talk happens as they return to school. ]

The group of students spent the remainder of their lunch period eating to their hearts’ content. Marinette and Barbara had pitched in together to make sandwich wraps, something the latter had compared to being “just like a burrito!” Everything else was bread and pastries brought up from the bakery below.

“Those were the best scones I ever had, I wish I could live here and eat them every day,” Babs lamented as they all gathered their things, preparing to return to school.

The others giggled at her antics and Marinette shrugged. “You get used to them; besides, those were only the rejects, you should try what they sell in the counter displays.”

“Rejects? Those were rejects? But they were perfect! Absolutely delicious!” 

Marinette only shrugged again with a sheepish grin. Kara chuckled, knowing the reason for the ‘rejects’. Nino, who also understood the reason, hid his laugh at the continued dramatics and answered the unspoken question.

“Yeah, dude, they’re the stuff that didn't come out quite right. Not good enough to sell, y’know? But they're still just as edible as everything else, so they bring them up here to eat with meals.”

“Anything we don't eat with lunch or keep for dinner, we donate,” Marinette finished the explanation, standing from her barstool perch at the countertop table. 

“Is that where you get the macaroons for your class?” Karen gestures to the now empty macaroon box sitting in the recycling can. The last of them had been taken by the girls, Nino content with his scones.

Marinette shook her head, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Made those ones myself from our home supplies. I stopped letting Maman and Papa give me some from the bakery once I perfected the recipes myself. Still as good as my parents’, Nino?”

The boy gave her two thumbs up and a nod with a big smile. “Can’t even tell the difference, dudette.”

“Aw, sure you can, Major!” Kara exclaims, calling Nino by one of her music-based nicknames for him. “Can't you taste it? She puts much more love into the baking she does for her friends.” 

There’s barely a beat before the group bursts into laughs and giggles at the claim, and Marinette covers her blushing embarrassment with her hands. However, she can't help but smile with a bit of appreciation and pride at the statement.

“Thank you, Kara, I’m glad you liked them. Come on guys, it’s a bit of a walk back to the lycée.” She sighs, and adds in lament, “I’m going to miss the days of walking to the collège; living right next door is a blessing I never savored.”

Nino nods in understanding, patting her back and staring at a chain of all the girls following suit in their own pats of comfort, bringing out a giggle from the now comforted girl. 

As everyone files out the door and heads down the stairs, Marinette holds the door and leaves last. “Head out the ground floor’s back door, the lunch rush is too busy to get through,” she reminds the group as they head down. Her phone chimes in her pocket as she descends the last of the steps, and she pulls the device out as she exits outside. 

“Félix?” Her brow scrunches in confusion and she frowns, pulling the attention of her friends.

“Adrien’s cousin?” Nino asks, stepping closer.

“The Luthor boy?” Babs voiced her own curiosity.

“You mean the Graham de Vanily heir?” Karen pitches in, a little more excited.

Kara breaks the chain of questioning the identity of Félix with a: “What did he say?”

“‘Something doesn't seem right about today. Be careful. And just in case, keep that reporter’s contact open. Paris may need assistance.’” Marinette read the message out loud, her confusion turning to worry.

“I've never gotten a message like this from him before. He never contacts me during school hours, either, even breaks. I wonder what’s wrong…” As she muses, she sends a simple return text: ‘Will do. And you too, Fé. Let’s hope it’s nothing.’

She doesn’t voice her reply before she puts the phone away, or the last one from Félix. 

‘We shall see.’

“That was…ominous,” Babs voices skeptically as the group resumes their walk back towards the school. 

“He can get like that sometimes, it’s nothing to worry about,” Maritnette shrugs, trying to brush the new worry off everyone’s shoulders. As the only one of them who had been around him the most so far, she was the only one at the moment who could reassure them. And as such, she didn’t voice that Félix’s hunches were usually right in some way or another. Yet she refused to worry anyone else any further, and kept the tidbit to herself.

Her efforts seem to work as the others seem to relax. All except Kara, looking pensive.

Marinette and Kara both drop to the back of their small group, a couple paces behind the other three who had struck up a new conversation about Nino’s hat and the girls’ preferences of headgear that didn't act difficult with their longer hair. 

“Rolling Penny for your thoughts?” Marinette jokes to the hero, who snorts at the play on words with their shared interest in music.

“Get me a Stone with Jagged edges and you can have your pick of thoughts for the rest of our lives.” Marinette laughs as she imagines handing over her only famous commissioner as a trade offering.

She shakes her head and chuckles, “No can do, that’s a free Stone, no keeping it like a pet rock. You'll have to settle for the Penny.”

Kara taps her chin in thought before snapping, smirking with a tease; “How ‘bout a nice crystal cluster instead? I hear Geodes are pretty and valuable.”

The teased girl snorts and shakes her head. “This crystal is already around you often enough. I’ll add in extra tarts to our next hang out, would you consider that payment enough?”

“It’ll do, for now,” was the joking return, and the two shared a laugh.

“But really, Kara, what is it? Is Félix’s text bothering you?”

A shrug, and then, “Well, yeah, I’m still a little wary around him, ya’know? His dad was still Lex Luthor, and no hero, let alone any Kryptonian, could trust that man to be as far away from us as we could throw him; and trust me, we could have thrown him far if we wanted to. And you say Félix says things like that a lot?? It sounds a lot like something similar to my original suspicions about you.”

Marinette glances back up at Kara quizzically. “What suspicion in particular?”

“Well the whole ‘Kryptonite in your body’ thing isn't exactly a common thing. Seeing Félix at the same time I saw those crystals in you? Painted a really bad picture. Lex wasn't exactly against human experimentation.”

She recalled a few of the stories both Supergirl and Alya had told her about Lex Luthor, even a few of his family getting their hands dirty in the same villainous business, and factoring in the new information, Marinette understood a bit more about how easy  it could be to have suspicions like this against people around the Luthor family. Not to mention the family itself.

“So, you think...Monsieur Luthor did something to Félix?” She was a bit alarmed at the conclusion, worry coating her words and thoughts. 

“That, or he’s just a really observant guy. But! Now it’s your turn not to worry about it!” Kara explains, her voice gaining a light cheerfulness and reassurance as she pulls Marinette against her side with one arm. “School is no time to fret over anything except making it to the last bell.”

Marinette laughs and leans into the side-hug, taking comfort in it. “Since when did you prefer school over thinking about all the potential future dangers you could be punching into the sun?”

“Since I had friends to hang out with,” was the returned quip, and an added, “And no more etiquette classes was a huge bonus, too.”

“They have etiquette in America?”

“Nope, on Krypton, it was kinda a thing for me. Kal got lucky.” The Kryptonian scoffs. “But I have a feeling I'm going to dread being at my new home because I'll be suffering through it again,” she groans, nodding out towards the school they could now see down the street.

A glaringly obvious person decked out in all yellows, white and black was standing out front.

“Chloé? What did she do this time? Is this why she was glaring at you all morning?”

“Yep,” Kara scowls, “Publicity stunt from her dad, he offered to host the cousin of world-renowned reporter Clark Kent during her stay in Paris. Lady Bourgeois over there doesn't like my ‘uncivilized, barbarian lifestyle’,” she mocked with a sarcastic one-handed air quote and an eye-roll.  

“She’s a bit of a handful, I can agree with that,” Marinette smiled sympathetically, suppressing a laugh at the inaccurate jabs. “I’ll help you out if you want, I’ve dealt with her for enough years to gain a life-long tolerance.”

“I’ve got your number; I’ll call you if I need to. Or,” came the teasing tone, “I’ll just do it anyways; I could never get tired of talking with you.” 

With a laugh and an eye-roll of her own, Marinette stepped away from the other and picked up her pace to catch up with the rest of their group. “School first, we can figure out our new phone schedule later, if we even need one now that we share a timezone.”

“Touché, lil’ Butterfly, touché,” Kara concedes, catching up only a step behind.

The Parisian girl raises a brown, “Butterfly?” 

“Beautiful, always a step ahead, and always dodging around everything.”

“Dodging?” Kara, I can't dodge anything for my life without warning first.”

The two laughed, and Kara nudged the other girl reassuringly. “Besides avoiding compliments you shouldn’t, I think you’re doing just fine on your own.”

“Well, besides those embarrassing compliments, if there's anything I shouldn't be missing, warn me, okay? I’d hate to leave anything hanging.”

Kara gave a big sideways grin, her eyes hinted with wistfulness. “Sure, Geode, I’ll do that; at least for anything that doesn't want to wait for a perfect timing first.”

“Like?”

“The fact that we’re back at school and the warning bell just rang?”

“AH!! Kara! Warn me next time!”

[confusedhost-archive]

for the ask song thing,, cupid by jack stauber? and either with emile or roman pls? ily!

I have been doing too much roman-centric stories for this, so it’s time for some Emile! Challenge myself to not write the first thing I think of, you know?

In other news, I love you dearly, spouse and Emile gets a certain quirk that most people wouldn’t expect of him. 

Warnings: Mild swearing, self harm implications

-----

Emile watched his last patient for the day walk out the door. Today was not a good day, and as much as he wanted his caffeine, he wasn’t sure if his heart could take seeing the hot barista behind the counter. Despite what most people thought, Emile had seen them outside of just in the coffee shop, but that was simply because Remy had the uncanny ability to basically shapeshift into their preferred gender. That was a superpower if Emile had ever seen one. 

The thing was, they were also the hottest person on earth, and after a full god damned day of longing, now he was about to torture himself by getting a coffee and seeing the exact person he was longing for. Honestly, this was just rude now. 

Packing his stuff up, he sighed. “Can’t I just.. take it away, please? Just, no more love right now please, I have stuff to worry about that isn’t the hot barista.” 

He walked out of the office, a satchel covered in pins and cartoon embroidered patches slung over his shoulder. “I don’t need to be head over heels for anyone right now, and this was so random I don’t understand how love works-” 

Emile marched over to the shop and sighed. “Literally all I want is to not need to live with the knowledge that I have a crush that doesn’t love me back,” he huffed. Sliding a hand into his pocket and playing with his loose money, he amended his statement. “And to have a dollar to ride the bus home afterwards.”

He got in line, hit by a sudden realization. He didn’t actually know how Remy felt towards him, and- goodness, he was about to make a horrible mistake. 

He was very soon at the front of the line, Remy standing right in front of him and he was about to make a very large mistake. “Hey Rem!” Emile hummed, glancing at the pink bracelet around her wrist. “Can I get a chocolate frap with double the caffeine, please?” Emile asked. 

“No, babe, I know that you have a lot of caffeine already, so you’re getting a normal amount in your frap.” Remy responded, leaning against the counter. “Now, anything else?”

“A quick meeting when you finish work?” Emile asked, half hoping Remy would say no. If she said yes, the confession was set in stone.

“Sure! Now, that’ll be five-ish bucks?” Remy grinned, holding a hand out. 

Emile squinted. “You’re kidding. Do you usually act like this?”

“Nope, just for you babe.” Remy made a ‘give it’ motion, still smiling innocently. 

Emile pursed his lips, but passed the five dollar bill anyway. 

“Thanks hun,” Remy hummed, slipping it into the register and counting out the change. “Now, name?” 

Emile smiled. “Picani, thanks.”

Remy waved as Emile sat down at one of the tables by a window. He pulled out a metal bottle, drinking half of it’s contents in one quick chug. Monster energy drink certainly wasn’t the greatest tasting, but he was addicted, so really the two factors canceled each other out.

A minute later, “Picani! A frappechino for Picani!” 

Picani was full of bad ideas today, and that’s why when he got his coffee, he decided to add the extra caffeine that Remy didn’t allow him to have. He opened his bottle and poured just a little into his starbucks cup. He glanced over at Remy and found that she was staring at him, face scrunched up in disgust. Emile held eye contact with her. She knew exactly what was in his bottle. 

This was a bad idea, and Emile knew it, so why not go all the way? He sipped it and scrunched his face up at the terrible taste, but a friend of his, Remus, had once ate moss (fake moss, it wasn’t even remotely edible) with ranch, so really, it probably wasn’t that bad. It took all the way until Remy’s break to finish it without gagging, and at this point, Emile was hyper as heck. 

Remy tapped on the table, alerting Emile to her presence. “Let’s go?” 

Emile nodded, still trying to scrape the taste of the drink off his tongue. He got up, throwing out the cup and following him out the door. They walked for a while, passing by a park. “Hey, wait, can we go take a break over there?” 

Remy tilted her head, nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

Emile sat down on a bench, Remy settling beside him. “Is something wrong, babe?” 

Emile shrugged. “A little bit. I just wanted to tell you something real quick.” 

There was a flash of panic across Remy’s face, and Emile sighed. “So here’s the thing? I think I love you.” 

Remy froze. “Oh gosh, babe, I’m sorry but-” 

“Unrequited, right?” Emile looked over as Remy nodded. 

“I’m aroace, babe, and I’m not looking for a relationship.” Remy said apologetically. 

Emile frowned. “Don’t say it like that. It’s not your fault that I care for you like that, and it’s not your fault that you’re aroace, and it’s not your fault that you aren’t interested in a relationship.” He looked over. “Do you need a minute? If you feel as though being friends is going to be too uncomfortable after seeing how I feel, that’s alright.”

Remy frowned. “Do you need a minute?” 

Emile gave a soft chuckle. “I do, but, if you would like to talk, no matter when that is, I’ll be ready.” 

Remy sighed, tapping a pattern into the bench. “I’ll call you later. Be careful on the way home?”

Emile nodded. “I will, but please be safe as well.”

He walked off, making it all the way to the bus station before hissing in annoyance. “You knew how it would turn out, why are you upset?” He growled, clenching his hand into a fist and beginning to swing it into his side, before pausing. No, he wasn’t supposed to hurt. Not himself, and not anyone else.

“But goodness, cupid, did you have to be so cruel?” He huffed. The bus stopped, and Emile sighed. “I just want to be painless.”

-----

To anyone interested, Emile being addicted to monster is a running joke that my spouses and I have. My wonderful spouse that sent this ask right here (@friendlyyalienn) happens to be writing a monster addicted Emile fic. 

Edit: There is now a part two!

[glolovescats]

A story of me and my history. My experiences.

CW - trauma, sexual assault, mental health struggles (ADHD, BPD, OCPD, Depression, PTSD, Autism??), self harm, addiction, psychological abuse

.

.

I’m 27 years old, non binary, AFAB. I am the older middle child of 4, all of my siblings are brothers.

I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD, BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder), OCPD (Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder) and most recently PTSD.

My first psych evaluation was when I was 5 years old, and I have recently found the notes from that evaluation and they point to early onset BPD traits as well as ADHD.  Though it is stated repeatedly throughout the notes that they could not complete a full assessment because I refused to participate in any activity or or engage with anything that I deemed “too difficult” instead spending more time on the things that I was comfortable with such as painting.

My favourite lines from the assessment are as follows:

“If she is not motivated by an activity, she trends to wander off physically and mentally.  However if interested, she can concentrate for long periods of time.”

 “*Deadname* was a great talker and loved to tell stories on and off topic. She had a keen sense of her own capabilities and was often self-critical of her work stating ‘it does not look good.’ It was very difficult to change her mind and she appeared to want to be in control of the situation.”

I remember after this assessment being medicated for ADHD for a few months. My parents called them my “hyper pills” because if I was hyper it meant I probably hadn’t taken them..... yikes.

After those few months, for whatever reasons my parents took me off the medication.

I have had a very intense oral fixation since a very young age, biting my nails for as long as I remember and being a thumb-sucker, not just during sleep but during awake hours as well, until I was 9 years old.

When I was 11 I began self harming, as a way to release my emotional energy and tensions and soothe myself.

When I was 13 I told my mom about my self harming, at which point she sent me to a psychiatrist again. I was again diagnosed with ADHD and put on medication, which I remained on until my second year of college when I decided I didn’t want to be medicated anymore.  As a teen, I continued to self harm but hid it from my mom as she was very critical and cruel in her reactions to it.  Anytime I had emotional outbursts (which was, fairly often) I would be asked “have you taken your meds today!!?” as if that would solve everything going on.  I spent many hours curled up in a ball in my closet crying, sobbing, feeling like I was going to explode, then hurting myself to calm down.

When I left home for college, I developed anorexia. I stopped cutting myself, but began hitting myself repeatedly until bruises formed, then maintaining those bruises over long periods of time as a new form of self harm.  It was also in this time that my love of cannabis started to really form (I had enjoyed it as well as a teen, but in limited capacities as I lived with parents who I had to hide it from, and they were quite controlling over my social life and free time)

After 2 years of college, my first queer partner, whom I still feel very fondly for and maintain a very strong friendship with, noticed not only my eating disorder but also my self harm habit, and convinced me to seek help.  A few months later I went to my doctor and was diagnosed with Depression and Anxiety, and put back on medications.  I was 19 then, I am 27 now and still on that same medication, though the dose has varied throughout the years depending on my emotional state.

I went through some other relationships, some healthy, some less so.

I became more and more in love with cannabis. SPending what little money I had on it. “Borrowing” some from friends and lovers. Smoking when I woke up, in the afternoon, and before bed, sometimes throughout all hours of the day.

When I was 23 I fell in love with a man named Derek. It was the first cis man I had ever truly fallen in love with, and that love became... toxic. Obsessive. At the time I would have called it passionate but I know now that it was very unhealthy.  I put everything in my life aside for him. I risked pregnancy not because I wanted a child (I never have) but because I wanted to make sure he would never leave me.  This is also when my love of cannabis solidified into an addiction.  I was using it to cope with the pain of being so desperately in love with someone who, wasn’t very good at catering to my needs, to put it lightly. He was a dealer at the time, this was before it became legalized in Canada so dealers were still very much needed.  So I always had access to it, and for free or cheap.  We would wake up in the middle of the night and go smoke a couple bowls before heading back into bed. We smoked all day every day, it was what our relationship revolved around.  We would also take large amounts of MDMA on the weekends and go out dancing from midnight to 8 or 9am at the after hours clubs, then go home and smoke to ease the come down. This gave me a love for MDMA which is a terrible thing for someone with low serotonin to begin with.

Nearly two years into our relationship, my friends started to notice that I wasn’t being treated well, that I was always hurting, always longing for more from him, and always pushing aside my needs to accommodate him.  They begged me to leave him.  I was having breakdowns, even with my antidepressants. I was self harming again. I was having rage blackouts. I was hurting.  A few months later, he broke up with me.  I begged him not to. I promised I could be right for him. We just had to try. He didn’t want to try.

Now, 4 years later, I’m so glad he didn’t. Yes, my heart was shattered in that moment, yes it sent me on a spiral, but I see now how toxic the relationship was and he is not anything like the person I would want to be with for life.

At that time I was living in towns on the outskirts of Toronto, but his dumping me gave me the push I needed to move to into the city, which I did, y months later. March 15th 2017.  Moving to Toronto meant more freedom, more access to all the things that made me happy - a queer community, a polyam community *I discovered Polyamoury about 2 months after our breakup and realized how much I needed it*, more job opportunities, more diversity and acceptance.  It also meant higher rent, higher weed prices as I was now buying from dispensaries, higher transit costs and generally higher cost of living.  Some of my new friends were sex workers and it... appeared enticing for me.  however I didn’t feel close enough with these friends yet to ask details about safety, vetting, standards, etc.

Well, I decided to get into sex work for myself, without really knowing what i was getting into.  I’m not going to get into much detail here because my PTSD stems directly from these experiences and I don’t want to trigger myself right now.  But I spent 2 years working as a Sugar Baby and Full Service Sex Worker.  I did not have standards. I was driven by my need to maintain my weed habit - which was at least 2 grams/day - so on average about $600/month or more.  I didn’t take safety into mind more than letting my roommate know the given name and phone number of the person I was meeting up with.  This led to... a lot of fucked up situations. A lot of pain and trauma. I was constantly high, which allowed my to dissociate while these things were happening to me and suppress the memories quite quickly. By this time in my addiction, I was never NOT stoned.  On top of that I would occasionally take MDMA before or during a date to maintain a peppy mood and appearance.  On March 1st 2019, after realising that I wasn’t even making money off of all of it, I was driven far into debt by trying to maintain appearances and a lifestyle that i just couldn’t afford, and a realization that I was dissociating whenever I was being intimate with a client OR a friend or loved one... I decided to leave the industry. It’s been over a year now.

In the first year of my living in Toronto I saw a psychiatrist about my mental instability, my rage blackouts, my obsessiveness. I was diagnosed with BPD and put on a mood stabilizer, which I admit has helped a lot in terms of my heightened emotions and rage problems.

During those first 2 years in Toronto, I was also in a queer, polyam relationship with a person named Laurel.  At first i was drawn to their softness, their creativity, their ability to be vulnerable with me and others.  Eventually, that vulnerability became co dependance. They used me as a crutch, they took all of my emotional energy for themselves and never gave any in return.  While I was being traumatized, I was also supporting them through their mental health struggles and ignoring my own. They had a bad habit of disregarding and stomping all over my boundaries. even after we would discuss them and i would make compromises. I was being abused by this inherently toxic person (I say that, having many friends who have witnessed and felt the toxicity from this person as well). By April 2019 I was drained, I was traumatized, I was falling into a pit and being pushed down even further by the person who claimed to love me.  When I tried to set boundaries I was met with threats of suicide, manipulating me into staying with them longer.  But eventually I started to see through it and I just couldn’t anymore. I ended it. Which was met with a lot of cruelty and more manipulation to the point where eventually I had to just block them from every form of contact and move on.

Throughout the year after that, my weed habit maintained, and got even more intense, going up to closer to 3 grams/day and including concentrates and edibles as well.  I was always high. Always numb. I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t focus during conversations even if I was really interested in what we were talking about. I couldn’t stay awake, I would pass out while hanging out with friends, while on public transit, in movie theatres.. anywhere. I could hardly get out of bed in the mornings and when I did I would go straight for the bong.

I was constantly fatigued and I felt numb. I didn’t want to believe my precious cannabis could be doing this to me though, so I begged my doctor to refer me to a psych to discuss changing medications, assuming it was my meds giving me these side effects.  That psychiatrist diagnosed me with OCPD, saying that he believes this is what has always caused the depression and anxiety, and he also diagnosed me with CUD - Cannabis Use Disorder - essentially a fancy way of saying I’m an addict and my drug of choice is cannabis.  He told me that he would not touch my meds until I either drastically cut back my usage or stopped altogether.

I was devastated, I hated the idea of having to not smoke weed anymore. And I knew I would HAVE to stop altogether because my many many many attempts in the past to cut back were never successful. I knew then that I was an addict, just like my alcoholic father, my alcoholic and cocaine addict younger brother. I knew I had the gene too.

I discovered MA - Marijuana Anonymous, which is like AA  or NA but for stoners.  My dad had been sober for 11 years with the help of rehab and AA so I figured I would give it a shot.  I smoked my last bowl on February 29th, I went to my first meeting on March 1st.  I haven’t smoked or consumed any cannabis products since. It’s over 4 months now. I also made the conscious decision to be sober from alcohol as in the past my attempts at smoking less weed led to drinking more alcohol.  I know I need to fight my addiction as an entire entity, not just as one substance.

In the past 4 months I’ve been through a lot of ups and downs.  Not only with sobriety, but with the pandemic hitting Canada mid march, forcing me out of work and stuck at home, it’s had both positive and negative effects.  My first month of sobriety I was fairly manic, I wasn’t as hazy and groggy and fatigued, I had also just started taking Vyvanse - a stimulant - for my ADHD. So I was very motivated and I was cleaning and creating and doing all these things I could with my free time.  Then about a month and a half into it I started to get physically depressed - I say it that way because my mind felt ok. IO wasn’t having catastrophic thinking or suicidal ideation or desires to self harm - but I was feeling very avoidant and sleeping and napping so much more. Two months in, my memories that I had been suppressing with the constant high started to come through to my conscious. Sometimes they were childhood or teen memories, which I could mostly cope with.  But then came the memories from the sex work. The traumatic experiences. The shame that surrounds them.  I was having invasive thoughts. I would lay my head down to sleep and suddenly be in flashbacks.  I had known for a long time (about a year, since leaving the industry) that I was triggered into panic attacks by intimacy and touch, but I didn’t know exactly what was causing those panic attacks. I just knew that touch made me feel so unsafe.  Well, now I knew why. One night I called my sponsor, crying, stuck in a loop of flashbacks and memories and feeling like I couldn’t breathe.  And then the words just flowed out of me, I said “I think maybe I have PTSD”.  Luckily for me, I already had a follow up appointment with my psychiatrist scheduled for the next week. I told him everything that was happening, that I was remembering things but then getting stuck in flashbacks and shame and cycling thoughts. He then diagnosed me with PTSD. He suggested we go back up to a slightly higher dose of my antidepressant while maintaining my other medications (I’m still on the mood stabilizer and the stimulant) and urged me to find ongoing therapy. My sponsor had sent me a link to a group of psychotherapists who work on a low budget sliding scale, so I referred myself to them and within 48 hours had a free 50 minute consultation scheduled.

Where am I now?

Struggling with the invasive thoughts which make me feel depressed, but knowing where they stem from is helpful.  Awaiting my therapy consultation which is in a couple of days, hoping it’s a good match and that we can start speaking weekly or every other week depending on cost.

For a while now I’ve been trying to decipher whether I really do have ADHD< BPD and OCPD all blended together, or if I’m really autistic, because so many of my traits and symptoms overlap with autism.  I’m doing my research now on traits of autism and seeing where I identify.  I doubt I would ever get a diagnosis, as doctors would rather believe we have all these other disorders rather than autism (stigma), but to know where I feel I fit would be helpful.  I have some friends on the spectrum and I’ve reached out to them to discuss as well.  My youngest bother is autistic but he really fits the “autistic teen boy” stereotypes which I do not.  And I understand that autism can present very differently in different genders and different people.  Personally, I believe I may be Autistic and have PTSD. But I will continue to pursue ongoing therapy, as well as DBT therapy, to address my behaviours and see where I can learn to cope better.

I am probably the most single polyam person you could meet. I have no intention of dating, though I do have a couple crushes I intend to grow strong friendships with, until I have learned to cope with the PTSD and intimacy triggers. In a way it’s as if I am currently feeling asexual, because even the thought of kissing someone I like triggers me into a panic.  But I don’t believe that I will feel this way forever so I don’t use asexual as an identifier or label for myself.  I am not working, though still technically employed, my job is in the travel industry and we don’t expect to have enough meaningful work to return to until at least the fall.  When i do return to work I’ll be doing so remotely, as will most of the employees of our company. So I have less transit expenses, less time constraints, and more freedom to focus on myself and my personal development.  I’ve made this tumblr to explore and learn more about autism in adults. As well as to have something to do and distract myself with when i start to enter a depressive cycle.  SO this blog will be a mix of mental health and neuro-divergent info posts, along with cute animals, selfies, travel photos, and maybe a little shit posting - as a treat.

Welcome, and thank you for reading my story.  If you have any questions or relate to any of it and want to chat, my inbox is open.

[fanforthefics]

For the AU game. Bodyguard AU or Teacher AU for Tyson/Gabe??

1) Everyone knows of the Great Rivalry.

At least, everyone at Avalanche High does. It’s one of the first things Freshmen are filled in on. These are the edible meals from the cafeteria, these are the bathrooms not to go into if you don’t want a contact high, and also, if you ever want to stop Mr. Barrie’s Chem class for ten minutes, ask him about the time Mr. Landeskog stole all his pens. That will get you at least ten minutes of ranting about humanities teachers who think they’re too good for logic and rationality and like to nitpick other people’s grammar and the time it takes to grade and fashion choices and who definitely think they’re better than everyone else just because they happen to be good at everything. He might go a bit into his perfect hair, but take takes a particularly windswept day.

Of course, if you want to delay Mr. Landeskog’s class, you can ask about the time Mr. Barrie put a stink bomb in his classroom so he had to have class outside all day. He can’t prove it was Mr. Barrie and his homeroom, but that won’t stop him snapping about it and ridiculous science teachers who don’t understand nuance and purposefully misinterpret everything and never take things seriously. If you catch him at the right moment, and ask about Mr. Barrie’s habit of bringing in cookies for his classes, Mr. Landeskog might skip a beat, but it usually won’t get you a longer rant, so it’s not useful.

This is the Great Rivalry. This is Avalanche High’s favorite drama. (This is Nathan Mackinnon’s, long-suffering Phys Ed teacher, greatest bane).

2) Tyson definitely really does hate Gabe. He tells Nate that, over and over again. Partly because he doesn’t trust that anyone can actually be that hot and smart and good a teacher and so loved by the kids and look so good in the shorts he wears when he’s coaching field hockey. He has to be faking all of that. Tyson is sure he is, in fact, because the polite, charming face he puts on around literally everyone else somehow always falls with Tyson.

“Maybe because you’re mean to him too?” Nate suggests, as they sit in the teacher’s lounge eating the brownies Tyson brought in because it was easier to bake than to grade.

Tyson glances over to the table wear Gabe is sitting with some of the other humanities teachers, laughing loudly. “I’m not mean.” Nate raises an eyebrow. “I’m not meaner to him than anyone else,” Tyson amends, because fine, he can be sarcastic, what the fuck ever. Nate’s eyebrow stays up.

Because Tyson doesn’t want to see that judgy eyebrow (Nate really shouldn’t through stones if he’s living in the mean house too), he looks around again, somehow settles on where Gabe is. Gabe’s not laughing anymore, and somehow he looks over at the same time, catches Tyson’s eye. He raises his eyebrows, all dripping condescension. Tyson makes a face back.

“You only prank him.”

“I do not—”

“So, Tyson. I hear your kids are going to Science Olympiad this year.” Tyson doesn’t need to know who’s standing there, because he recognizes the voice, the tone, and also the trim torso, but he looks up anyway. Gabe’s standing there, looking down his aristocratic nose at Tyson. “First time?”

Tyson flushes. He’s proud of his kids for that, it’s a pretty new program and they’ve all been working their asses off. Gabe doesn’t need to say it like that, like he let them down because they didn’t get qualify before. “Yes,” he retorts, trying and probably failing to let that show on his face. “How’s the field hockey team doing?”

It’s a low blow because they all know that it was a pretty devastating loss last week, and one of Tyson’s Olympiad team is on the field hockey team and she’d been in literal tears when they lost, and Tyson had just been getting ready to go over to the bench to maybe say something when Gabe had found her and talked to her until she sniffled and smiled a little. But still. Gabe shouldn’t insult Tyson’s team if he’s not ready to be insulted.

Gabe clearly isn’t ready to be insulted, because he flushes a dull red. “We’re rallying,” he replies, cooly, and reaches down for one of the brownies on the table. Tyson grabs the brownies away.

“These are for people who don’t give my team shit,” he tells Gabe. “No cookies until you can recite the quadratic formula.”

“Then why does Nate get them?” Gabe asks, and Nate makes an offended noise but doesn’t disagree. Gabe grins at Nate, easy and handsome in a way he never is with Tyson.

“That’s the Dogg exception,” Tyson says, and Gabe turns back to Tyson, that smile freezing on his face. It’s fine. Tyson doesn’t care that Gabe never looks at Tyson like that. “It’s a narrow one.”

“Sure it is,” Gabe agrees. He knocks on the table, which should be lame except he somehow manages to pull it off, then heads out of the teacher’s lounge with a wave to Nate. Nate turns to Tyson.

Tyson gestures wildly. “See!”

Nate’s eye roll is probably a risk to his health. “Oh, I see.”

3) (The first time Tyson talks to Gabe, Tyson really was trying to be friendly. They were both new, or so Tyson guessed given that everyone was giving him the ‘hi new kid’ handshake, and Tyson was excited and nervous and wanted to make friends, especially with the hottest guy he’d ever seen. They’d been milling around before the first teacher’s meeting, and Tyson had gone over to Gabe, and held out the Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies he’d made to bribe everyone into liking him. “Cookie?” He’d said.

Gabe had turned around, and he’d given Tyson a look like—it was the look he still gave Tyson, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. “I don’t eat cookies,” he’d replied, all snooty, and Tyson had still been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Seriously, bud?” He’d asked, still smiling so it was clear it was a joke. “How do you survive without a sugar fix? It’s like, my drug. Well, and caffeine, but that doesn’t count.” Gabe still didn’t say anything, so of course Tyson was going to keep talking. “I mean, I can see you don’t eat much sugar, or you’d have to be working out like, an insane amount to look like that, which you clearly do, but not like, as much as you would if you ate as much chocolate as me.”

“Is the sugar why you talk so much?” Gabe had replied, and like, Tyson got it, okay? He knew he talked too much, especially when he was nervous, and said stupid shit and he was trying. Gabe didn’t need to jump down his throat for it.

Tyson had swallowed, and then, “Fine, I’ll go give the sugars to someone who deserves it,” he’d retorted, trying to save face. He left before Gabe could say anything else. But he’d seen Gabe eat a cookie later, in the teacher’s lounge, so. He got the message. And it was on.).

4) Gabe really does hate Tyson. He tells EJ that, and sometimes Nate, and sometimes Mikko. Often his sister. Generally, anyone who will listen.

“Okay, yeah, but you don’t,” EJ informs him. EJ, Gabe thinks, probably has a class to teach, but is instead sitting on Gabe’s desk as Gabe tries to prep for his next class.

“He planted a stink—“

“Have you ever tried being nice to him? Then he might be nice to you.” EJ waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously on the word nice. Gabe is an adult and thus doesn’t blush.

“I’ve tried,” he says, very dignified. “He takes everything I say the wrong way. It’s like he’s willfully misunderstanding me. Yes,” He goes on, before EJ can say what Gabe knows he was going to say, “I heard it, I know, but this is not Pride and Prejudice.”

“But you’d make such a good Darcy,” EJ retorts. “And you want it to be. You can carry him off to your manor and have sex on every surface and to the lake swim thing so he can gape at you as you get out and—“

“I don’t want any of that,” Gabe snaps. He’s only like. 25% lying. “He’s so annoying and so touchy and I don’t—“

“Wow, say what you really feel,” comes a voice from the doorway, and Gabe resists hitting his head to the desk by the skin of his teeth. Every time. Every single time. He just can’t seem to say anything right around Tyson.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. This is the humanities wing of the building, Tyson usually sticks to his lab. Except this time Tyson is standing in his doorway, his arms crossed over his chest in that way that Gabe can’t quite look away from, and scowling. As he usually is, looking at Gabe.

“I was going to find Colin to see if he was coming to drinks tonight. But I guess I’m not wanted around here.” He snorts. “Good. Too many books here anyway.” He smiles, but it’s not the one he gives everyone else, that bright, open thing. “I think I’m allergic.”

“You can’t be allergic to books,” Gabe points out.

“Because you’re the expert on allergies? Did you go out and get an MD along the way?” Tyson asks, snorting.

“And you are the expert?” Gabe retorts. Tyson always does this, pokes at him until it gets Gabe’s back up and he has to snipe back, even if he hadn’t meant to at the beginning. Even though he never means too, at the beginning. At least when he’s irritated he actually knows what he’s saying, though.

“I’m closer than you, I took some bio classes,” Tyson informs him, and looks ready to say more, but then the bell rings, and he glances over his shoulder at the hallways that will be filled with students soon. “I’ll see you later,” he tells EJ. He doesn’t look at Gabe when he leaves.

“See?” Gabe demands of EJ.

EJ smirks. “Oh, I see,” he says, and then yelps as Gabe smacks his arm.

5) (The first time Gabe talked to Tyson, Gabe meant to be friendly. He had been so, so nervous, and trying not to show it—waiting for the questions about why a non-native speaker was teaching English, wanting to impress everyone, wanting to be liked—and then he’d heard “Cookie?” And turned around, and—

Gabe’s smooth, usually. Often. But there was something about his nerves already, and that bug smile and the glint in those brown eyes and the way his shirt hugged the muscles of his arms and Gabe had not been expecting it, the sudden hit of attraction. And…he wasn’t always good, with things he didn’t expect. So he’d stammered something about not eating cookies, because it was the first words his brain put together, and, well. It all went downhill from there.

But if Tyson wanted to bring it. Gabe was going to bring it back.)

6) So everything’s good and they’re only minorly driving Nate crazy and entertaining EJ to no end, and then it’s someone’s brilliant idea to assign them to spearhead the baking sale. (EJ. Tyson is definitely blaming EJ. On principle, and also because he’d utterly failed at keeping it together when Bednar announced it at the staff meeting).

(“But it’s perfect!” Nate says, looking very innocent. “You love to bake and he’s good at the organizational shit.” So maybe Tyson blames Nate too.)

So they have to work together, it seems like, because Tyson’s definitely not going to let their bake sale raise less money than Calgary High, because fuck that shit. So once Gabe stops sneering at him long enough to actually set up a time to meet after school, Tyson really does do his homework. He’s not going to let Gabe show him up either.

Gabe does not show him up, but he does show up to their meeting—at the coffee shop down the street from the school because it’s after school hours and also Tyson’s classroom smelled a little suspicious from a mix up and he wanted to let it air out before he spent a significant amount of time there again—with a to do list. And a chart.

“Wow,” Tyson drawls, when Gabe lays the to do list on the table. “Really leaning into the whole teachers are just nerds who grew up thing, eh?”

“No one says that,” Gabe retorts, rolling his eyes. “And you’re a teacher too.”

Tyson waves a hand. He doesn’t see how either of those things matter. “Yeah, but I’m a cool teacher.” Gabe snorts. “You think you’re cooler than me?”

Gabe raises an eyebrow. He looks, fine, very cool doing it. But that’s just because anyone with that jawline and that hair and those eyes would look cool. It’s not like, inherent to him.  Tyson is cool despite genetics that gave him unruly hair and barely average height and a predilection for babbling. Gabe’s only cool because of genetics.

“Okay, let’s get down to business, defeat the huns and all that,” Tyson says, grabbing the paper. He ignores Gabe’s snort, and glances at it. It’s, fine, a lot of useful things, like figuring out the budget and getting volunteers and coordinating parents. Tyson would have thought of all of it. Definitely. “Okay, but where’s the baking?”

“We’re organizing, we don’t have to contribute,” Gabe replies, like that’s obvious and Tyson should have known it. Which, thanks. Tyson does actually get the distinction. But,

“Yeah, we’re not going to get any teacher to contribute if we don’t,” Tyson informs him. Maybe Gabe should know that. “Like, there’s no way to passive aggressively guilt them into it if we don’t do it too.”

“Maybe they’ll contribute without the guilt,” Gabe says, but Tyson doesn’t both to pretend he doesn’t crack up at that, and Gabe waits a beat, then he starts chuckling too. “Okay, fine, yeah. But I don’t really bake.”

“I’m not doing the baking for both of us,” Tyson warns. He’s not going to be that person in the group project, because fuck that shit.

“You like to bake.”

“Yeah, but not to do other people’s work,” Tyson shoots back. Gabe shakes his head.

“I didn’t—I just…probably shouldn’t bake,” he admits, looking a little shame-faced and a little irritated he has to admit it. Tyson’s not not into the look. “It doesn’t end well or edibly for anyone.”

“You aren’t getting out of it for something like that,” Tyson decides. He is not caving on this.

“So you’d rather poison our students?”

“It can’t be—“

“Ask EJ,” Gabe interrupts, with a dire look on his face. It’s the look of a man who’s Seen Things. Tyson thinks a lot of things about Gabe, but he doens’t think Gabe could fake that.

But he can’t just give in. That would be, well. Giving in. So, “Fine, we’ll bake together. But I’m still not doing everything, you’re going to contribute,” he warns, and Gabe opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it. “I know, it’ll be tough to handle each other for that long, but it’s for the kids, Gabriel. Think of the children.”

“Um. Yeah.” Gabe swallows. He must really be dreading it. “If it means you’ll actually pull your organizational weight—”

“Sorry some of us don’t need to color code our flashcards,” Tyson rolls his eyes. He’s not going to let Gabe mess this up. He reads the first article off the to do list. “Okay, budget. All of it too chocolate. Next.” Gabe snorts, like that’s stupid, which, duh. “That was a joke, I didn’t actually mean—“

“I know,” Gabe snaps back. “That’s why I laughed.”

Tyson’s mouth snaps around his next retort. “Oh,” is all he can come up with. Which Gabe takes as a cue to start talking about his budget ideas, which definitely lean too hard into Principal Bednar’s admonition to try to keep it under cost. Tyson can definitely fix that.

7) Gabe is not saying that maybe EJ was right and if he’d just powered through earlier, everything would have been better. He’s definitely not saying that, on principle if nothing else. But—well. It does get easier, the more time he and Tyson are forced to spend together for the bake sale. It’s hard to mess up everything you say to someone when you actually have to have real conversations. He’s definitely made real jokes, not just said something sharp to make up for the fact that he doesn’t know what to say.  

And he thinks—well, Tyson actually smiled at things he said a few times. Maybe it’s hard to misinterpret everything Gabe says when you have a real conversation too.

Or maybe Gabe just looks ridiculous, with flour in his hair and probably some dough on his face and definitely looking like he has no idea what he’s doing. Probably because he doesn’t.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Tyson says, and mercifully takes the whisk away from Gabe. “You really suck at this.”

“No, I just joke about murdering children for fun,” Gabe retorts. He’s maybe pouting a little. He hates looking stupid, and he knows he does now. It’s especially bad in front of Tyson, who will definitely make fun of him for it.

“Look, we don’t yuck anyone’s yums in this house unless I need to report you to the police,” Tyson says, and Gabe chuckles, despite himself. Tyson’s smile flashes, sudden and surprised, and then he ducks his head to go back to whisking. This is the Tyson Gabe’s seen before with other people, quick with a joke and a smile, cutting but not mean-spirited. And, somehow, looking cute with the flour on his nose. And very competent. “Now get back, I think you might set off some electronics if you stay here.”

“I’m not radioactive,” Gabe retorts, but he scoots back to the island so he can watch Tyson bake. It’s safer for all concerned, probably.

“How are you so good at this?” Gabe asks. He’s had Tyson’s baked goods before, generally when Tyson’s not looking so he can’t snatch them away.

“It’s a better addiction than booze or weed,” Tyson says, half-laughing. Gabe rolls his eyes at Tyson’s back, but doesn’t say anything. “Nah, I just—I don’t know, as a kid, whenever I was bummed or whatever, my mom would have me help her bake. It made me feel like I was good at something, you know? And bonus, sweets at the end.” He sets down the bowl, then reaches over to pour what looks like a arbitrary amount of chocolate chips in.

“Then why didn’t you open a bakery or something?”

Tyosn snorts. “Come on, me, run a business? That’s not for me. I’d have to be able to find my head to do that.” The way he says it, it sounds like he’s quoting someone. It also sounds like he believes it.

Gabe must make a sound, because Tyson turns around, looking at him. “What? You know it’s true,” he says, and his lips twist, just a little. “You say it enough.”

“That’s not—“ he hadn’t known it had hit a nerve, Gabe doesn’t know how to say. He hadn’t known that Tyson actually believed it.

“It’s okay, I’ve got other skills. Like making sick baked goods. And, you know, teaching kids. Chem’s just advanced baking you can’t eat. Well, shouldn’t eat.” Tyson reaches for some Saran Wrap in a cabinet. Gabe takes the opportunity to reach in and grab some dough.

“Hey! No touching.” Tyson spins, glares. “If you’re going to eat cookie dough, use a spoon. And wait till I add the Nutella, that’s when it gets really good.”

Gabe shrugs. “It’s really good now.” He tries to put his words together, make sure they can’t be misunderstood. That he’s not accidentally poking sore spots. “I’d buy it, if you had decided to go that route.”

Tyson glances away, his cheeks stained red. “I thought you didn’t like my baking,” Tyson says, all in a rush.

“What?”

Tyson looks back up at Gabe, rolls his eyes. “You don’t eat cookies, remember?”

“What are you talking about, Tyson?”

Tyson covers the bowl carefully. “Never mind. Nothing.”

“Tyson—“

“So I think I have a task you can manage,” Tyson interrupts, loudly. “Can you put this in the fridge? I cleared a space and everything. I know it’ll really be taxing you, but I have faith.”

“Wow, thanks,” Gabe drawls, and lets it go.

8) Tyson’s just finishing up his junior lab when he hears the door open. He’d generally ignore it—these aren’t the kids he’s worried about sneaking out or whatever, these are his AP kids—but then the whispers start, spreading from the door closer to the front. He is, in the end, unsurprised to see Gabe standing near the door, looking a little sheepish and of course, unnecessarily attractive.

“Hold on a sec, then we’ll get to the good stuff,” he tells everyone, then goes over to Gabe. The whispers definitely follow him. It’s not like he doesn’t know what the kids say about him and Gabe; they’re definitely all waiting for something to blow up. Well, something other than the experiment he’d been setting up. “What’s up?”

“Sorry, I thought you’d be done with class.”

Tyson glances at the clock, and, yep, oh shit. He hadn’t heard the bell. “Shit,” he mutters, too quietly for anyone other than Gabe to hear, then turns to the class. “Okay, looks like we went long. You guys can go, or you can wait a couple minutes and see what I’ve got for you. No harm no foul either way.”

A few of the kids start to pack up, but most of them stay, Tyson notes with no little bit of pride. He glances at Gabe, to see if he noticed. The kids can like him, too.

Gabe doesn’t look particularly impressed, but he doesn’t look surprised, either. He’s also just looking at Tyson.

“So is it urgent, or can it wait?” Tyson asks. Gabe blinks, like now he is surprised.

“No, I just wanted to go over some last minute things before tomorrow. It can wait.”

“Okay, cool. Stick around if you want, we’re going to blow shit up.” Gabe barks out a laugh, which gets another line of whispers down the tables.

“Sounds like fun,” Gabe says. It’s--careful? Nice? Tyson’s not sure. He thinks Gabe might be plotting something, it’s the only explanation for why Gabe’s been…easier, lately. Like, sure, they can’t fight constantly if they have to work together, Gabe has to let him do some things, but it’s…Tyson doesn’t know. Less condescending. Gabe smiles more. Laughs with him, not at him.

It makes it harder for Tyson to be on his guard, which is what makes him sure it’s a trick. Tyson knows how to be ready against Gabe’s barbs and patronizing sneers. He hadn’t been ready for his smiles. But Tyson’s strong, he’s not going to be taken in.

And right now, he needs to blow something up, so. “Okay, let’s get to it,” He says, and they do. Gabe hovers in the back as Tyson explains what he’s doing, the science behind it, then vamps a bit because he likes the drama. Everyone is appropriately impressed by the bang and multicolored smoke that comes out of the beaker, because Tyson knows how to impress an audience if nothing else, then the rest of the kids start to pack up and Gabe comes up to the front table, leans against the counter.

Tyson pushes up his safety glasses onto his forehead. Gabe snorts.

“What?” Tyson demands. “You thought that was cool, don’t front.”

“You look like a mad scientist,” Gabe informs him.

“Okay, stereotype of every hipster Lit teacher ever,” Tyson retorts, reaching up to try to smooth out his hair. “I am responsible enough to teach good lab safety.”

“I know,” Gabe says, which isn’t on script. Tyson blinks.  “It’s cute.” He reaches out to tap the glasses.

Tyson can feel himself go red. So what, a hot guy is complimenting him. It’s definitely part of a nefarious plan, but he’s only human. He has to take his ‘being complimented by guys who look like Gabe’ where he can find them.

“Whatever,” Tyson mutters, then rallies. “What do you want, anyway? This is a long way from home for you.”

“I told you, I wanted to go over some last minutes changes facilities wants.” He pulls out another one of his ridiculous printed lists.

“Okay, Landesnerd,” he says, and smirks at Gabe’s rolled eyes at the nickname. “Hit me.”

9) The bake sale is going great, if Gabe does say so himself. They managed to get plenty of teachers to participate as well as parents (not guilting, thank you Tyson, Gabe is sure), and there’s plenty of buyers. They’re going to raise a lot of money, and Bednar is definitely happy with them, given his expression as he and his wife browse the offerings.

“So you survived it?” EJ asks, sidling up to Gabe. He has a brownie in one hand and a cookie in the other. He’d been one of the people Tyson had not-guilted into contributing, so Gabe’s not sure who’s watching his booth, but that’s not Gabe’s problem anymore. “Working with Tys?”

“Somehow.” Gabe looks over to where Tyson is manning their booth. He’s laughing with one of the moms, clearly on some sort of selling spiel. He’s managed to get chocolate on his shirt. Of course.

“And you still hate him?” EJ asks. He doesn’t manage to sound very innocent. Or anything but smug.

Gabe’s not an idiot, thank you very much. And Tyson looks over, sees him watching, and grins, that big open grin like he’d had the first day they met, and it’s still just as cute as it was then.

“Shut up,” he tells EJ, and goes to sell some baked goods.

10) “So we rocked that,” Tyson informs Gabe, when everything’s all done and packed up. “Definitely beat Calgary.”

“Yeah,” Gabe agrees. He sounds a little distracted, though, which is unusual for him—he was definitely on the ‘crush Calgary’ team. Tyson wipes at his mouth, because whatever’s distracting Gabe seems to be in his general face region.

“Um, earth to Gabriel? We kicked ass? Our cookies were the star of the show? Or they’re really mine, but. You can have some credit,” He allows. He’s ready to keep talking, but then Gabe blinks.

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“Come on,” Gabe says, decisively, and he starts towing Tyson down the hall with a hand on Tyson’s wrist. Tyson sort of has to follow.

“Gabe, what are you doing? Is this part of your plot? Where you take me away and murder me?” They get to Gabe’s classroom, and he tugs Tyson in, then shuts the door. “Nate has find my friends with me, he’ll be able to find me, and he totally knows it’d be you, I—”

Then Gabe takes a step forward, so Tyson’s back is to the door, and Tyson’s mouth snaps shut. “Gabe?” He asks. He doesn’t—this is off script too. Gabe’s too close to him, all—stupidly handsome and big and his lips are like, right there, Tyson doesn’t know—

“Fuck, Tys,” Gabe mutters, then he is definitely kissing Tyson. That is a thing. That is happening. He has a hand on Tyson’s neck and the other one on the door behind Tyson and he’s an irritatingly good kisser and Tyson can’t just let that stand, so clearly he has to kiss back, show Gabe that he’s not the only one with game around here.

He doesn’t concede defeat, but he definitely does end up sagged against the wall—not because his knees give out or anything, just because the wall is conveniently there. “Oh,” he says vaguely, as Gabe continues to press kisses to his jaw, “So this is your plan?”

“What plan?” Gabe asks, and kisses Tyson again, deep and maybe a little knee-melting.

“I don’t know,” Tyson comes up with, “It’s you plan. Whatever—plan you’re doing by being nice and friendly for a change. And kissing me.”

Gabe’s head drops onto Tyson’s shoulder for a second, which is a shame because it means he’s not kissing Tyson. That should change.

Then Gabe lifts his head. “It’s not an evil plan,” he says, sounding a little exasperated. “I just want to kiss you. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Um, yeah? You don’t like me.”

“You don’t like me,” Gabe corrects, and Tyson manages to roll his eyes even now.

“No, you definitely don’t like me. You were a dick to me when we met, and—“

“I was—when we met I was already nervous and then a cute guy started talking to me about his cookies and I blanked and said something that he misinterpreted,” Gabe retorts, definitely sounding exasperated now, but also—incredulous, maybe? “For the first but not the last time.”

“I—what?” That is very very off script. That isn’t—they hate each other. Right? “You didn’t eat my cookie.”

“I honestly don’t remember what I said,” Gabe laughs, a little, but doesn’t meet Tyson’s eyes. “I was—it was a lot.”

“You thought I was cute?” Tyson’s only just now hearing this. “You said—you said I talk too much.” He mutters that last part. It was a shitty thing to say, but maybe Tyson’s too sensitive, maybe—

“No, I kiss people I find really unattractive,” Gabe says, and then he does look up, meets Tyson’s gaze with those big determined baby blues. “And you do talk a lot of shit, Tys.” He keeps going before Tyson can reply to that. “It’s cute too.”

“I—what?” No one’s said that before, for sure. Even Nate like, just puts up with his babble.

Gabe groans. “Can I kiss you again?” He asks. “And then take you to dinner and work on convincing you not to hate me?”

Well. Put that way. “I suppose I can allow that,” Tyson says. He doesn’t say how he’s pretty sure that’s not going to be much of a job, any more. Instead, he tugs Gabe in to kiss him again.

11) The Great Rivalry ends, as all things must.

However, tales of the Great Romance is spread in whispers around the school. Apparently, it’s just as easy to distract Mr. Barrie by asking him about Mr. Landeskog’s dog, and to distract Mr. Landeskog by talking about Mr. Barrie’s latest antics. You can’t really get more details out of them, though sometimes if you’re around after school, you can see them working together in one of their classrooms, arguing about something with their feet hooked together under the table.

(You can still get Mr. Landeskog going about the stink bomb, though. That one’s always going to be a classic).

(They are still just as annoying to Coach Mac. But he guesses he can be happy for his friends too). 

[artificialqueens]

welcome to the dollhouse pt. 1 (Trixie/Violet) - Fryshook

Trixie Mattel thought she was going to NYC to cut an album.

AN: Idk tbh. I really d. AO3.

Trixie was in NYC and, well. Bob was out of town, and Trixie needed to crash with someone.

“You stupid fucking bitch,” Violet greeted him with a hug. They were outside this old glory hole-in-the-wall Violet recommended; 4/5 clown emojis.

“Violet,” Trixie said, “You look fat.”

“Not all of us can be masc4masc gym rats like Trixie fucking Mattel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trixie posed, lifting his arm behind his neck and flexing. Violet shook their head. “Feel free to Snapchat this or whatever, I can hold it.”

“I can’t with you. Let’s get drunk.”

—

About five minutes into drinks the pair were approached by a fan who squealed, “I can’t believe I’m finally making Contact™ with the legend, icon, and star–”

Trixie suppressed the desire to roll his eyes at the goddamned motherfucking Contact reference, nodded the fan along, sipped his whiskey, and fucking lived for the fact that Chachki was being completely ignored right next to him.

And Violet, to their credit, only huffed and puffed a couple times before finally giving up and returning to scroll their phone until the interaction ended. Trixie eventually sent the fan away with his patented stone-faced selfie.

“Oh, you know,” Trixie turned back to Violet. “Just one of my like, fans or, whatever.”

Violet was only able to feign disinterest for so long before they finally asked what that was all about.

“It’s all…UNHhhh,” Trixie said with a shrug. His face fell at Violet’s blank stare. “Oh bitch, don’t play dumb. It’s a YouTube sensation.”

“You and Katya doing makeup tutorials now? Sickening…” Trixie laughed, genuinely annoyed. Violet took a sip of their cocktail. “‘YouTube fucking sensation’, bitch…”

“Girl, we average a hundred thousand views in like, an hour. I’m not joking, bitch.”

“Oh,” Violet took off their hat and ran their fingers through their flattened pompadour. This was when Trixie knew they were drunk. “At all. How is that whore?”

“Girl, you haven’t been watching her periscopes?”

“Who the fuck periscopes anymore,” Violet muttered into their drink. Trixie laughed and ordered himself another double, fuck it.

“Didn’t you guys just see each other on the Christmas Cunts tour or whatever?”

Violet rolled their eyes. “Fucking BOTS. I barely remember that trip. Although,” Violet set their drink down and gave a Trixie a look, “We were painting next to each other and she was all ripped and shit.” They downed their drink and signaled for another. “Talking about fucking tanning and Botox and shit, bitch. You’re both so Hollywood now, it's…”

“Inevitable,” Trixie finished for her.

“Girl,” Violet took her drink from the bartender. “I guess.”

—

It took about two and a half drinks more for Mexico to come up again.

“But girl…” Violet’s smile was easier to come by, now, the bitch persona having melted away with the vodkas. “She was looking good.”

“You are so gross,” Trixie said.

Violet giggled and sighed. Something in her demeanor was setting off a little voice in Trixie’s head.

“Did you actually…do… something…?” Violet rubbed their face with a groan and looked at a him. “Don’t be specific,” Trixie warned.

“No,” they said. “Don’t be a freak.”

“But you thought about it.” Violet squinted at him.

“We have all,” they began, setting their drink down slowly, “thought about it, bitch. You know what, fuck that. If we didn’t get poisoned by those edibles, yes, some shit would’ve gone down.”

“Violet Chachki going down. Well I never…”

Violet cackled and slammed the rest of her drink, pulling Trixie out of his chair by the neck of his shirt. “C'mon, idiot. I’m ready to dance.”

—

They danced. They ran into some people under the lights; a couple other queens, other queens’ assistants, friends from New York, friends of friends who may or may not be assistants, and the occasional fan…

By the time they headed back to Violet’s apartment they were both sloshed for the Gods, Violet clinging to Trixie’s arm like a seasick koala.

“I never fucked Katya,” Violet confessed on the ride over, her words curdling all the alcohol in Trixie’s stomach. “Because I felt like she was too distracted or some shit. I need someone to be like, obsessed, you know?”

“Uh huh.”

“I totally could have though.”

“Right.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed. “Do you not think I could?”

“Girl,” Trixie pried the drunken queen off his arm. “I have literally seen Katya get up and leave a room because she got too aroused during a documentary about black. Holes.” He held one finger up to Violet’s twisted face, “In space, bitch. Can we have one fucking conversation that passes the Bechdel test?”

—

At the apartment, Violet put on a pot of coffee. Trixie was grateful for the cup she handed him until he took a sip of what tasted like pure whiskey.

“Are you for real?”

“Girl,” Violet took a sip of their own coffee, a small smile spreading across their face like a fungus. “You thought we were done?”

Trixie shrieked with laughter, setting his cup down carefully so he could throw his swimming head back and silently ask God why they put him in the company of psychotic people so often; and why did he enjoy their company so much?

“This is it,” he wheezed to the heavens. “Pearl warned me about you, but I had no idea…”

“Listen bitch,” Violet laughed and leaned over the counter top, “Fuck Pearl, fuck fucking Katya–”

“I thought we agreed to stop talking about that.”

“–I am really glad you’re here.”

Trixie swallowed another sarcastic response, getting a good long look at his drunken frenemy; clocking the disheveled hair, the ugly bruise on their arm from the stupid move they had tried to pull off on the dance floor. The dumb new tattoo that was kind of cool in a dumb tattoo way. “Me too,” he said, reaching over to toast their mugs. “I think. But girl,” he took another swig of his coffee, “it’s gonna be a long week if you keep spiking the coffee, giiiiirl…”

—

It was day five of six of his trip and Trixie was fucking hungover. Trixie hadn’t been this fucking hungover since, uh… the day before.

“How does this bitch get anything done?” He muttered to himself. His phone started to chirp with a FaceTime request as he made his way out of the studio. He answered it and was greeted by a bloodshot eyeball.

“Mama, can you use your vast medical expertise and tell me: is this a stye?”

“I dunno,” Trixie said, “looks like eye herpes.”

Katya cackled on the other end, pulling back so Trixie could see the rest of him. He looked exhausted, though that was nothing new. Trixie always worried, anyway.

“I hope not, although I kind of think I would have had a breakout way before now if so,” Katya said. “How’s it going? You and Trinket tear each other apart yet?”

“We’ve been getting along great, actually.” Trixie grinned down at Katya’s stupid, handsome face. As disturbing as Violet’s Mexican epiphany was, it wasn’t exactly shocking; Katya is beautiful - even crusty and sleepless. Also, Violet’s a gigantic whore. “She does seem determined to keep me heavily intoxicated, though,” he continued. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Oh, yeah, that sounds, ah…” Katya took an extremely long drag of his cigarette. “Fun. Look. I was actually - I was wondering, I know you’re busy, but I have a cut of that video I’m working on for the thing-”

“The thing! How exciting!”

“Yes! I want - can I send you the rough cut? Like, tonight? I just want your opinion.”

“Katya, yeah, of course. Send it.”

“Aw, Tracy. You’re the best.” Katya planted a kiss on the camera.

“Oh, you know what,” Trixie began as Katya pulled the camera back. “That’s definitely eye herpes.”

—

Trixie was surprised to find Violet at the apartment when he got home. They had their laptop open on the kitchen counter and barely glanced up at him when he came through the door, obviously looking for something.

“Hey,” Trixie nodded at the other queen. Violet grunted in reply.

Trixie rolled his eyes and dumped his backpack on the couch. “Since you’re here, you wanna order takeout or something? I’m starving.” Violet ignored him, still staring at their computer. “Hello? Cunt?”

A ding! popped out of Violet’s laptop speakers. They ripped a tiny USB drive out of the machine and held it up for Trixie to see.

“Do you know what this is?” They said. Trixie looked from the drive, to Violet, slowly shaking his head.

“Just jackin’ it: The Return of Frankie Malone?‘”

Violet shook their head, a grin spreading across their face like a barn fire.

“This, you barbie doll bitch, is the rough cut of a little something called ‘Welcome to the Dollhouse.’”

Trixie froze. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Violet shook their head. Trixie buried his face in his hands and began to laugh.

Welcome to the Dollhouse was a failed reality show idea cooked up by a couple Drag Race producers who saw “potential” in their contentious, achingly millennial rivalry. The pitch for the show was: Violet, fresh off her win, decides to make up for her bad attitude by letting her season 7 sister Trixie Mattel crash with her while she tried to find new footing in the ATL drag scene.

They rented out a little bungalow to act as Violet’s place and shot for about four weeks. Trixie had never had so much fun in his life, and he was surprised it was with Violet, of all people.

Violet, on the other hand, was not having it; every day there was a new dispute with the producers, with her reps, with fucking craft services. She was miserable.

Once the pilot was in the can, Trixie went home. A couple months later, his agent called to tell him the network gave it a pass.

Trixie was no stranger to heartbreak, but this had taken him a little while to get over.

“Hello? Cunt?”

Violet was still waving the USB drive in his face. “Amazing,” Trixie said, shaking his head. “That’s amazing. I can’t believe you have that.”

“So… are we watching this or not? i have a bottle in the fridge I was gonna open when it premiered, but. You know.”

“That’s funny,” Trixie said. “I drank mine a long time ago. Pop it in, I’ll grab the bottle.”

—

The footage was kinda eerie without any music.

They cut to a talking head with Violet saying something shady about Trixie’s look for the pageant Violet had entered her in.

“Jon Benet Ramsey? More like Jon Benet I-don’t-want-to-see-that.”

On the couch, Trixie shrieked and Violet shook their head.

“I wrote that line, right?” Trixie said. Violet nodded, rolling their eyes. “Fuck, I’m funny. Man. I can’t believe they didn’t pick this show up. It’s good!”

“I mean, it’s no Finding Prince Charming, but…”

They laughed as the camera cut to the horrified looks of the pageant queens Trixie had beat out for the crown with nothing but a pair of tap shoes and a wig made out of 17 other wigs.   

“Do you ever think,” Violet began, “of what it would have been like if we knew each other before doing the show?”

Trixie grunted, trying to concentrate on the show. The camera stayed on Violet watching from off-stage, laughing at Trixie’s idiotic victory speech; and it was twisting up his insides a bit, for some reason. 

I guess it was always her show, he thought. That would have changed if they’d made it past the pilot. It would have changed. 

“Like,” Violet said, breaking Trixie’s concentration again. They pushed their face in so their chin disappeared into a series of folds. “If we…”

“Oh,” Trixie set his drink down to finally look at Violet, “you mean if you weren’t such a raging cunt to me the entire time.”

“Not exactly,” Violet shrugged, smirking. “But c’mon, girl. You loved it.”

Trixie rolled his eyes and picked his drink back up. “Girl, I’ll tell you what would have been different: absolutely fucking nothing.”

Violet nodded. “Well,” They took a sip of their drink. “I was thinking: maybe they would have made me knock you out instead of Pearl. You know,” Their eyes slid to Trixie, who was pointedly not looking at them. “Capitalize on those emotional stakes…”

Trixie felt his lip curl. He took another sip of his drink.

“Then again. They never took advantage of you and Max, did they?”

“Max was too boring,” Trixie muttered.

“True,” Violet said. They shook their head, turning back to the TV. “Our rivalry would have been so good. What a fucking shame.”

It was the most blatant act of antagonism from Violet in the entire week Trixie had been there. He really should have seen it coming, but he didn’t want to take the bait. He really didn’t. Then again, he couldn’t just sit there while–

Trixie’s phone whistled with an email.

“Ah, Katya’s thing…”

“What’s that?” Violet leaned over to peer at the phone.

“Her - it’s a rough cut of this short she’s making, well, one of them, for the show.”

“Oh, cool. Forward it to me and I’ll put it on the TV. Give it a proper premiere…”

Trixie hesitated for a moment before sending the file along; Katya wouldn’t mind the extra pair of eyes, especially not Violet’s. 

Ding. Violet whipped the thumb drive back out and connected it to the TV, settling back in next to Trixie and taking a long sip of champagne. 

The video started with a fumbling phone. The camera focused on a green eye, then a flash of teeth. Violet glanced at Trixie and then back at the screen, eyes wide.

Katya settled back into a chair.

“Oh my god,” Trixie and Violet said in unison. Katya was wearing nothing but clip-on bangs.

And he was hard.

It was the wrong file. Someone out in the world was trying to figure out a way to get hard to a video of Katya Zamolodchikova doing a surreal monologue in broken Russian, while Trixie Mattel and Violet Chachki sat on the couch and watched Brian McCook adjust his bangs and wrap his hand around his dick.

“No,” Trixie reached for the remote, “no, no, no–”

Violet snatched the remote away. “Yes, bitch. This is HAPPENING.”

Trixie stared at Violet, jaw on the floor. “You cannot be serious? This is a total violation–”

“Oh, spare me. You sluts probably send each other this shit all the– OH!“ They scrambled to hide the remote under themself as Trixie lunged at them. Violet laughed as Trixie effectively hugged her, trying to find the remote. “Did I hit it on the head or what, bitch? I can’t believe you just came for me that way!”

“Violet,” Trixie hissed, sliding away from where he had the other queen pinned into the couch, trying to ignore the husky noises coming out of the television. “Turn. It. Off.”

Violet just stared up at him, shaking their head. “Did you,“ they began quietly, "or did you not, watch my ancient porn with this bitch, and then send me detailed fucking reviews, Trixie Mattel? Including a fucking write-up on the volume and consistency of my cum?”

Behind them, Katya let out a weird whine, babbling in Russian.

Trixie blinked. That was true, they had; but that was a professional fucking production…ish. And the cum thing was all Katya; Trixie was more interested in the mis-en-scene. He said as much to Violet, who pushed him away, pausing the video and pulling out their phone.

She took a picture of the screen and sent it to Katya and Trixie’s phones with the message:

V: bangs are a good look on u, girl.

Violet stared at Trixie while they waited for a response. They were both holding their breath until their phones finally vibrated with a response.

K: Oh cool.

K: I guess this is what I get for naming all of my files SMH

Trixie and Violet looked at each other. “She would,” Violet said, typing a response.

“What are you saying?” Trixie muttered, not liking at all where this was going.

Violet smirked at him as the message went through to the chat. It read:

V: TRASHHHHHH. U don’t mind if we watch it right??

“You’re insane,” Trixie whispered, staring at his phone.

There was a long pause before Katya finally replied.

K: Only if you record yourselves jerking off to it

K: lol

Trixie and Violet glanced at each other again. Trixie did not care for the glint in the other queen’s eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare–”

V: Challenge accepted, hooker.

[growlegalweed-blog]

Legal Weed Resources

Check out... https://legalweed.gq/420/single-serving-marijuana-weed-tea/

Single serving marijuana weed tea

ForeShadow: I've been smoking weed since the 7th grade, but didn't try my first edible until I was in college. Every time I would try one, it would never seem to work and I followed, and wasted a bunch of weed, on many different recipes. Then one day, a friend of mine that I met in college gave me biscuit he had made with oil. I ate it and nothing happened for about an hour and a half, so I chalked it up to me just not being able to feel edibles and started smoking. About an hour later I'm laying bon my bed watching cartoons while stoned and I notice that it's becoming difficult to focus on one thing. My mind kept racing and that's when I realized that I was getting higher and higher and I started to freak out until I eventually went to bed about an hour later. I woke up the about 14 hours later very dissatisfied that I finally felt edibles but I couldn't enjoy them because I passed out.

I soon fell out of contact neither this person before I could get the recipe, and for the last five years I have been trying to get high off different edible recipes since then, and I finally found one.

A couple months ago, I bought an eighth of great weed from my local dispensary. They lowered there price on all the outdoor weed they grow to $6 an eighth AFTER tax. They usually have a great selection to choose from on the $6 eighth shelf, around 5-10 kinds to choose from, and since everyone is always buying them, they usually behave new ones out every other day, so you can get some really really good weed there.

Anyways, here is my recipe.

1 gram of weed 20% or higher/ 2 grams for 15-19%(I used oh Kush at 23% the first time and purple Hindu Kush at 25% the second time)

2-3 tablespoons of coconut oil. (Note: I got my coconut oil from the dollar tree so it was only a dollar and it's unrefined and has more fat)

A pot of water

Some tinfoil

And your favorite tea.

Step one: Grind up the weed and put it in the middle of a peice of tinfoil. Wrap the tinfoil so the weed cannot fall out.

Step 2: Place inside toaster at at 150 degrees for about a half hour.

Step 3: place 2-3 tablespoons of coconut oil into a glass Mason jar or glass cup.

Step 4: place cup in a pot of water and turn on high heat until oil is melted and water is boiling.

Step 5: place the cooked marijuana inside the cup or jar with the oil. Leave inside the pot of boiling water. Reduce heat to medium high.

Step 6: cook for about 30 minutes.

Step 6: Remove cup from water and let the oil and tea thicken.

Optional step: you can also strain the weed from the oil using a coffee filter, although I find it more Efficient to leave the weed in since it doesn't have a bad taste.

Step 7: brew a cup of your favorite tea. Mine is Earl grey or Chai spiced tea.

Step 8: place 1/2 to 1 tablespoon of weed oil inside of tea and stir.

Step 9: drink and enjoy.

This recipe got me really stoned when I tried it, and has worked both times for me. So if anyone had trouble feeling marijuana edibles, give this a try

submitted by /u/Big_Al21990 [link] [comments]

[captivesrp]

There is a stir about camp the next morning, hissing voices inquiring, suspicious eyes turned towards Ffrewgí and the other camp slaves. As he goes about his daily tasks, Ffrewgí feels the Gwaedwn regard him with hot eyes, curled lips. He does not care; he fetches his water and sweeps his avenues without expression.

Evening comes and Ffrewgí collects his dinner, eats it in his tent and then sleeps.

Days pass mechanically. The first hunting group returns and the next leaves. Ffrewgí averts his eyes whenever he passes Murchadh and the other ex-captives, carrying buckets of water or offal, baskets of rubbish to the refuse pit outside of the village or fresh herbs to hang in the drying shack.

Ffrewgí completes his labours silently. When it rains, the drumming speaks instead. When fog rolls in, it holds even thoughts close and quiet. Occasionally, during his hunting group’s evening sessions, Fuldryn presses Ffrewgí for answers, but the cracking voice from his mouth is ghostlike and expressionless.

The day of his own departure for the hunt creeps ever closer. When Anwen and her group arrives back from their excursion, bleeding, stumbling into the village in the middle of the night, Ffrewgí is unable to fall back asleep for the immediacy of his own doom.

The morning does not dawn but steeps slowly from black to deep blue, and when Fuldryn rouses Ffrewgí and Cydwag the air has not yet tasted even the faintest touch of the sun. The two captives follow Fuldryn as they wake Ashrille, then to a large round tent where the hunters are outfitted by another brigand. Ffrewgí accepts a bush sword and loops a length of rope around his shoulder. Cydwag asks for the outfitter’s help to secure a spear-carrier to her back and takes a longbow and arrows without comment. Ashrille shrugs into the straps of a basket and slips a sheathed knife into her belt.

Symbre meets them just as they step outside. “Five days,” she says. “Return by the sixth day or we will become concerned. Good luck, and may Grauffyd carry you.”

They move off and Symbre, and the village, disappears in the fog.

*     *     *

The group arrives at the back of a moss-covered lean-to, hardly distinguishable in the wet verdancy of the surrounding forest. They have been hiking for half the day; nothing new for any of the group, though they arrive weighed down and in no haste. Fuldryn has them wait as they move around to the front.

"Brân is in a trance," they whisper, coming back around. "He will have information for you when he wakes."

Ffrewgí smells pungent smoke in the still air. He rubs his nose and makes eye contact with Fuldryn.

"Dream-herb," they say with a wink. "He must be really searching."

"Searching for what?" asks Cydwag.

"Signs of the creature, of course."

"In dreams?"

Fuldryn nods. "Brân Crow-watcher, he's called. He says he connects with the consciousness of birds in his dreams---and birds see much." Ashrille snorts and they raise their eyebrows. "You doubt the prescience of dreams?"

"I don't," says Cydwag quietly.

Ffrewgí wanders a few paces away, his mind wandering further. He looks up, blinking in the fine rain filtering through the canopy above him, thinking about the village left behind. His gaze falls to his hands and he pictures a line of dark red on his left palm, the sign of the blood pact. Ashrille moves near him, picking at a shrub. She took the pact. Not for the first time, Ffrewgí wonders if he made the wrong choice; or if he had had a choice at all. He looks into the woods, watches an owl cut through the damp gloom between the trees, and thinks of Archora, and the hand on the spear. There had been no choice, and Ffrewgí cannot trust anyone who had seen one.

The distrust cuts deepest when his thoughts turn to Murchadh. The boy had been shepherding him, fattening him up for slaughter---in this case, a slaughter of hopes, an abandonment of his home and family. "I freely offer my loyalty and energy," Murchadh had said, striding forward to join the tribe of violent kidnappers. And for what? Wealth? The blood of a mystical beast?

"Ah, I hear movement," announces Fuldryn. "I think our host has returned to us. Come on."

Ffrewgí wipes rain from his face and follows the others as they move around to the front of the hut.

"Careful of the garden," says Fuldryn. They lift their trailing skirts to avoid them brushing against the various low shrubs and herbage sprouting thickly in dark soil on either side of a narrow stone path.

"Those who walk with care need not worry about dinner," crackles a new voice, and a grizzled head pokes out from a hole in the lean-to.

"Ah, Brân, I thought I heard you moving about in there." Fuldryn gestures to the children. "Here is our latest hunting party. Anything they need to know?"

Brán Crow-watcher steps fully out of his lean-to through no discernable door. He intones a verse as he walks towards the group:

Unique, she is—or he is, or they are— no creature is her like, which is of purest, iridescent white, or darkest, purest coal; which is of ungulate design, or feline—antlered, hornèd, furred, or smooth.

Reclusive as the Spring in Winter be, no words define, no eyes can find, her ageless mystery.

"We really don't know what the creature is," translates Fuldryn. "But it's probably all-black or -white and a mammal."

"Not a chair, but four-legged; not a carpet, but could make one; not a river, but produces drink for its young," says Crow-watcher.

"That's not a lot to go on," says Cydwag.

"It sort of is," ventures Asrhille. "I mean, just that it will be unlike anything else."

Crow-watcher's odd-coloured eyes twinkle.

"It is a creature of legend," agrees Fuldryn; "it should be recognizable when you see it." They turn to Crow-watcher. "Have your birds any news of the creature?"

Beads in Crow-watcher's braided hair clack against each other as he wiggles his head and smiles.

A visit from my friend the crow has told me of a sign, they show me visions, where to go, so pay me focused mind!

The crow revealed that roses will not point you in the right, though thick and scarlet thorned they fill what next the crow gave light: a thorn that stands alone upon the branch we call our home. Head for the thorn, and by the dawn, its grounded twin will gloam a point, the way for you to go. Stray not from path, for long would be your fall—the earth that shows is Radda’s speech and song, but Grauffyd’s path will hold you true until his tumbled skin, on every side surrounding you, grows green and smooth again.

Friend crow then showed me whitest bark, and stillest pond, and reeds on which—he bids me tell thee: “Hark!”— on which the creature feeds.

He also bids me tell thee “Ware!”: for danger, too, finds succor there!

After repeating his riddle once, Crow-watcher turns and disappears into his lean-to.

As soon as the children turn to them, Fuldryn puts up their hands. “I think you can figure it out, I really do. Only ask if you are sure you won’t be able to figure it out on your own.”

Ffrewgí’s mind lifts from the gloom, his interest nibbling at the riddle like a fish at bait. “Roses will not point us right,” he says. What could it mean?

“Compass rose,” says Ashrille. “That must be it.”

“Compass rose?”

Ashrille wiggles her finger in the air. “The . . . the thing in the corner of maps---shows directions.”

“My village didn’t have any maps,” says Cydwag.

“I’ve seen a couple,” says Ashrille.

“So,” says Ffrewgí, returning to the riddle, “a compass rose can’t point us in the right direction?”

“The thorn will.”

“Yeah, but what is the thorn?” asks Cydwag.

“I think I may have to answer that one. A bit cruel of Brân, that,” says Fuldryn, overhearing. They point off into the forest. “Off to the northeast is a spire of rock---a thorn, if you will.”

“I guess we can figure out the rest on the way,” says Ffrewgí.

“Good luck,” says Fuldryn. “I’m an adult,” he adds, looking at the children’s expressions, “I can’t accompany you to kill a creature that can only be hunted by a child.”

Ashrille snorts and turns away.

“Remember, five days.”

Ffrewgí and Cydwag follow Ashrille into the woods.

*     *     *

Tangled vines crawl over the base of the stone thorn, withered rose petals carpeting the earth beneath them. Ffrewgí gingerly runs a finger along the side of a particularly vicious looking thorn, one of thousands upon the vines.

“I think we’ve got to wait here until morning,” says Cydwag. “‘Its grounded twin will gloom the way’, or something like that, right? Like, its shadow.”

“‘Gloam’,” corrects Ashrille.

It is already evening, so the choice is not hard to make. Ashrille takes off her pack and removes its woven lid, revealing a cornucopia of foraged edibles---focused on retaining their northeasterly course, Ffrewgí had not even noticed her gather them along the way.

“I guess it’s my job to get the main course,” says Cydwag. She unslings the spears from her back and begins to string her longbow.

“You---” starts Ffrewgí---“you may want to save your arrows for the creature.”

“Tubers can be the main course,” offers Ashrille. “I found plenty.”

Cydwag allows the bow to bend back straight, unhooks the string and pockets it.

They eat, and the fresh food feels good in Ffrewgí’s stomach.

“It’ll be cold tonight,” says Cydwag. “Cold and wet. Let’s try a fire.”

Try a fire is all they do. Working together, they manage to collect a few handfuls of dry-ish tinder, but nothing with which to light it. Ashrille strikes the back of her knife against a collection of pebbles and stones but fails to make a spark. 

“Wait,” exclaims Ffrewgí, tearing his eyes away from Cydwag as she attempts a friction-start, rubbing sticks together. He looks at her startled expression. “Oh, sorry, nothing about the fire, but . . . if its shadow points the way in the morning, don’t we know which way to go already?”

“West,” mutters Ashrille.

“But probably not due west.” Ffrewgí deflates. “We’re in the north and it’s not midsummer.”

“Good thing we’ve already stopped for the night,” says Cydwag, smiling. “Ah!” she exclaims, tossing her rubbing sticks to the ground. “This isn’t going to work.”

“And no blankets, either,” grumbles Ashrille.

Ffrewgí looks sharply at Ashrille. He has not slept in bedding since his capture. Perks of the Gwaedwn, he figures bitterly.

The night passes slowly, restlessly, and in uncomfortable damp. The onset of a full rain decides their abandonment of the already futile pursuit and they break their fast on a few stalks of a rubbery plant Ashrille calls Longchew.

“How are we going to find a shadow in this?” Cydwag is standing beneath the western face of the spire, looking up at the gloomy sky.

“Maybe we should just head west, and maybe a tiny bit north” Ffrewgí ventures. “That’s roughly where the shadow would have pointed.”

“The riddle warned that our path has to be precise,” says Ashrille. “On the sides of the path is Radda’s speech, apparently.”

“The god of trickery,” mumbles Ffrewgí. “Right.”

“I knew I recognized the name!” says Cydwag. “And Grauffyd is our god, of course.”

“Well, the god of the earth, anyway,” mutters Ashrille.

“What does ‘Radda’s speech’ mean?” asks Ffrewgí. “Practically, I mean.”

“‘Long would you fall’,” quotes Ashrille. “A cliff?”

“No,” says Ffrewgí, “that wouldn’t be Radda’s speech---too straightforward.”

“Fen?” offers Cydwag.

Ashrille nods. “That makes sense.”

Ffrewgí breathes in deeply, gathering his courage. “Look, we’re not going to get a shadow from the ‘thorn’---maybe for days. I can find solid ground in a fen, if our aim isn’t true from here. We have to keep moving.”

“Fair enough,” says Ashrille. “Lead on.”

Ffrewgí leads on, and before what he estimates is midday---the rain does not let up at all---they have reached the edge of a fen: tangled trees have given way to thick ground cover, which spreads out ahead of them into a mist enhanced by the rain. The immensity of his task suddenly hits Ffrewgí; the trust of his companions and the journey ahead.

Avoiding the eyes of Ashrille and Cydwag, Ffrewgí leads them forward slowly. The soles of his feet sink in water that wells up through the thick grass. He will not find dry ground anywhere in the fen; he changes his trajectory only when the ground sinks enough for the water to come up over his feet. 

They move like this for a long time, traveling carefully, creeping forward.

“At least the rain is keeping the bugs down,” remarks Ashrille at one point.

Ffrewgí is thankful for that, at least. His muscles ache, half from stress and tension and half from the long day’s journey. 

Night is a crawling darkness devouring the pale grey clouds when Cydwag cries out, “Tumbled skin!”, quoting the riddle and drawing Ffrewgí’s attention to a long slope ahead, dotted with the dark shapes of boulders. They are all soaked by rain and fen and, after a final push, fall exhausted onto the solid ground of the slope.

“Come on,” says Cydwag after she has regained her breath, “let’s see if we can find some shelter.”

Ffrewgí and Ashrille drag themselves up and follow after the hunter as she stumbles from boulder to boulder. Eventually, they encounter a gigantic rock with an almost smooth scoop cut from one side. Pressed against the cold stone, the ground finds they are protected from most of the rain.

“Good enough,” declares Ashrille. “I’ll forage for breakfast, how does that sound?”

Food has been far from Ffrewgí’s consciousness and, even now reminded of it, he does not feel hungry. Before he can marvel at that, he has fallen asleep.

*     *     *

Blowing rain wakes them in the early morning and accompanies them as they trudge through the boulders into a cedarwood forest. True to her word, Ashrille provides various roots and tubers for them to gnaw on as they travel.

They do not immediately see any sign of the riddle’s next instruction---whitest bark, they recall---so they journey along the foot of the slope and then straight along the bottom of a shallow valley, following a thin brook trickling west-northwest from the fen. They encounter no birch---what they surmise to be the white bark of the riddle---before nightfall.

“The terrain isn’t difficult,” says Ffrewgí, resting against the bole of a tree, “should we travel through part of the night?”

“What if we weren’t meant to travel in this direction?” asks Cydwag.

“The riddle gave details for the rest,” ventures Ashrille.

Ffrewgí nods. “I mean, the other groups didn’t succeed and they weren’t punished, so at worst we just travel another day’s-journey in this direction and then turn back if we find nothing.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Works for me.” Ashrille shrugs.

“Alright,” says Cydwag.

They keep on until the forest is wreathed in absolute black, then stop to sleep. Calling out to each other to keep together, they find moderate shelter beneath the spreading boughs of a stunted cedar and huddle together for warmth.

This night, Ffrewgí is kept awake by his empty stomach. He hopes its grumbling will not wake the others. The pattering of rain leads his numbing mind slowly, very slowly, to sleep. When his consciousness surfaces for a moment a movement of the stars later, the forest is silent but for the creaking of trees and the intermittent drips of collected rain losing purchase on the canopy above.

He wakes up fully to a grey dawn. He has pressed himself around the root of the tree. Ashrille is sitting up just outside the skirt of cedar branches. Ffrewgí groans as he sits up.

“Cydwag is off hunting. We’re supposed to start a fire,” says Ashrille.

They find dry moss without much difficulty, and Ashrille manages to find some pieces of flint. Sparks catch after a few attempts striking the flint against the heel of Ashrille’s knife, and she nurses the little tongue of flame with additional clumps of moss until it catches onto the tinder Ffrewgí has gathered.

They have a respectable campfire burning when Cydwag returns with a squirrel and a shaggy rabbit.

“Can I use your knife, Ashrille?”

Ashrille hands Cydwag the implement, and Cydwag makes quick work preparing the critters for roasting.

After eating, they wipe their greasy hands on their mossy seats and set off in what Ffrewgí really hopes is the same direction they had been traveling the day before. As close as matters, anyway.

Ashrille forages an earthy lunch, but before they have finished the chewy tubers they leave the cedar woods and enter a meadow.

“There’s our white bark,” remarks Cydwag.

Across the meadow spreads the verge of an incredibly bright birch strand. Ffrewgí has never seen birch trees so straight or white.

“Now for reeds and a pond,” he says, “right?”

They enter the birch forest and are dazzled by the sudden brightness. Ffrewgí cannot see the sun through the leaves, but dappled shadows play across the faces of his companions as they, too, look around in amazement. A breeze blows a curl of mist through the arrow-straight trees ahead of them and a rainbow plays in its droplets.

“If I were a magical creature I’d spend my time here, too,” says Ashrille with a wry smile.

They discover the pond after a short wander through the trees---its still, almost perfectly round surface about a dozen paces wide and surrounded by thick, rich-green reeds.

They approach it gingerly, but no creature of any kind is in sight.

“Gladhyn!” exclaims Ashrille, feeling a reed between her fingers. She drops to her knees and pulls up a handful of the reed, revealing a bundle of thick, slightly pink roots. “These’re better than the muck I’ve been feeding you today.” She hands the bundle to Cydwag, then pulls up another for Ffrewgí, then for herself.

The roots are sweet and crisp and Ffrewgí makes short work of his handful. He moves to the pond’s edge himself, pulls up reeds one at a time and eats their roots slowly. The others sit on the clean grass. Cydwag pulls up a few more reeds also.

“Should we wait here out of sight?” suggests Cydwag after a period of silence. “Maybe the creature will return, if this is its favourite watering hole.”

“Seems as good an idea as any,” says Ashrille.

“What about the danger?” asks Ffrewgí, “that the riddle mentions?”

Ashrille shrugs. “Let’s hope Crow-watcher just wanted to make an impression.”

Ffrewgí’s mind conjures up visions of Anwen’s group, staggering into camp covered in blood. He is not even sure if he remembers the image correctly, whether they had been so obviously injured. In his head, they are riddled with vicious wounds. But he does not say anything. He watches Cydwag’s arm flex as she raises herself to her feet. The sunlight glints off the wicked points of her spears. We’ll be okay, Ffrewgí assures himself.

“Let’s get comfortable,” says Cydwag, moving into the trees.

Ffrewgí grabs a handful of Gladhyn and follows.

*     *     *

They wait for what feels like a long time, though sunlight is still a bright golden presence in the forest as Ffrewgí’s eyes begin to droop. They have not seen anything move near the pond, mystical creature or otherwise.

Ffrewgí stirs and looks over at his companions. Cydwag has an arrow nocked in her bow, but its point is down and she is leaning back against the bole of a tree. Ashrille is idly picking at the grass around her.

“Shouldn’t the sun be going down?” whispers Ffrewgí.

Ashrille looks up from the grass, muttering, “Now that you mention it . . .”

Cydwag starts and the arrow falls from her bowstring.

“Something’s not right,” says Ashrille. She stands up, peering up through the forest’s canopy.

“Is it morning?” asks Cydwag groggily. “I think I fell asleep.”

“It’s the same day,” says Ffrewgí slowly.

Ashrille breaks from cover and walks slowly to the pond. “We came from there, right?” she asks, pointing roughly southeast. At Ffrewgí’s hesitant nod, she crouches down by the reeds. “The sun hasn’t moved since we’ve been here.”

Ffrewgí follows her eyes to the shadows, faint and soft on the moss bordering the reeds.

“Why is it sunny, anyway?” asks Cydwag, rubbing her eyes and looking up. “It's been overcast or raining every other day.”

“Every other place,” whispers Ashrille.

“Magical creature, magical wood,” mutters Ffrewgí.

Cydwag picks up her bow and makes sure her arrow is tight against the string. “Stay here. I’m going to go check if it is sunny outside the birches.”

When she comes back, she is running. “It is morning,” she gasps out. “Dawn is just breaking. We spent all evening and night in here somehow.”

Initially, Ffrewgí’s shock is that of surprise and incredulity. Then at his surroundings---magic! Then it hits him: today is their fourth day gone from the Gwaedwn village and they have only two days and one night to return within Symbre’s schedule. Two days and one night to make a journey back from a place that took them three days and two nights to arrive at.

This latter shock passes through the others, too; Ffrewgí sees it on their faces. He musters himself as best he can; cries out, “We need to go!” and heads southeast at a jog that in his panic he does not monitor for sustainability. Cydwag and Ashrille fall in behind him.

He is already stumbling to a walk as they break out of the birch forest into air noticeably cooler and greyer, despite the clarity of the rising sun through the cedars ahead. Ashrille and Cydwag pass him, turn back when he bends over coughing.

“Come on,” encourages Cydwag. “We can slow our pace a bit. We can rest before tackling the fen.”

Ffrewgí wrests control of his lungs, nods, and follows as the girls set off again into the beams of light from the east.

*     *     *

It is sometime late in the night when they pass through the field of boulders. They have hardly collapsed against a stone when dawn greys the sky across the fen.

“We’ll rest until it’s light,” gasps Cydwag.

The others have nothing in them with which to generate a response, and none of them are awake to rouse the others a movement of the sun later when the heat of the fully risen sun has woken a bank of steam from the fen.

Ashrille stirs first, another movement later. “Gotta go,” she says groggily, shaking the others awake.

Ffrewgí leads them through the fen. They travel more quickly than they had on their first trip through, but the journey still takes all of the morning and everyone suffers from the extra energy their swiftness requires. They do not pause on the far dry bank, however, but slog onward into a sheet of rain.

The clouds do not allow for an estimate of time remaining in the day, but when they reach the stone thorn there is still grey light in the air. Wearily, they turn further south and trudge on.

*     *     *

Very little of Ffrewgí is left when he and his companions finally stagger into the village in the wan half light of predawn---only his body, though not his awareness of it. It collapses in his tent and Ffrewgí only remembers the final leg of his journey when he is roused in the full morning for his report to Fuldryn.

Even then, it all seems a blur. Only a solitary, faded green reed poking his side from the waist of his pants draws into Ffrewgí’s sharp focus the reality of that birch wood.

The flickering of a silvery-blue fish darts in and out of his mind’s eye, swimming in the cool depths of the still pond.