#two insomniac nights in a row

[chimchiri]

Troubled night for Rainbow. Time for a phone call.

Please don't tag as ship art

[sroloc--elbisivni]

when i was a kid my mother believed firmly in the importance of not using food as a reward for things. she thought it was the sort of thing that would lead to an unhealthy relationship with eating. and i respect and understand her reasoning but i’ve also grown into being the sort of person where using food as motivation is not only getting me to do work but just plain getting me to eat when i otherwise wouldn’t want to.

[itsnotzka]

Why, hello! Okay, I needed a break from other things, so I decided to finish this thingy. Nobody stopped me, so there you have it, haha ;)

Insomniac neighbors AU (:D) Comedy of sort? Who knows.

Jake/MC, and Richy (mentioned),

warnings: none, I think

little over 3k words.

Read below or on Ao3.

Quiet was the night.

The faint murmurs of the city seeped through the open window, blending seamlessly with the gentle hum of his computer. The soft glow emanating from the screen delicately illuminated the room without overpowering the senses.

Outside, the city was sleeping. He sat alone, relishing in the tranquility around him. With a soft exhale, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut, surrendering to the serene stillness. A perfect way to spend the sleepless night.

His bliss did not last long, though. 

The tranquility he had just savored shattered like fragile glass as a series of loud thumps resounded from the apartment above, rudely intruding upon his peace. Rhythmic. Regular. Purposeful. It was as if someone—or something—was relentlessly pounding against the wall.

With a frustrated click of his tongue, he glanced upward, his thoughts already swirling with annoyance. This wasn't the first time, oh no. It was the third consecutive night of such disturbances. Three damn nights in a row, his sanctuary invaded by these unwelcomed noises. And, as the noise persisted, irritation simmered within him, threatening to boil over.

Because the nights, the nights were meant to be his and his alone. 

He closed his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the noise. Yet, the relentless thumping persisted, refusing to be ignored.

Fine. Enough was enough.

With a sudden jolt, he stood up, the chair he had been sitting on spinning and nearly tipping over as he strode purposefully toward the door. He paid little heed to the possibility of disturbing his neighbors' intimate moments. Ready to demand they screw their bed to the wall, or simply screw each other elsewhere, he stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Without any hesitation, he began climbing the stairs two at a time. Before he could even start second-guessing his decision, he found himself knocking firmly on the door of the apartment directly above his own.

The thumping stopped immediately. For a brief moment, there was silence, then the sound of footsteps approaching.

Just as the door began to creak open, he wasted no time in venting his frustration. "Finally! I don't know if you even realize, but it's the fucking middle of the night and—oh, shit."

A step backward was his immediate reaction upon seeing the woman before him. It wasn't just the anger etched in her eyes, nor the furrowed brows and crossed arms that silenced him. No, it was the startling sight of her—all covered in red stains. From her shirt to her hands, even her face, she resembled a character straight out of a slasher movie. And when she casually wiped her sweaty forehead, leaving behind a conspicuous streak of crimson, his shock only deepened.

"Uh-huh. It's the middle of the night. And?" she sighed, seemingly unfazed by her unsettling appearance. "Do you need something? You're the one standing in my doorway, yelling."

“What the h–hell…” Stupefied, he could only manage a dumbfounded gesture, pointing incredulously at her with both of his hands, his eyes widening.

Her frown deepened at his reaction, but it was only after a moment that she glanced down at herself and her hands, noticing the streaks of red. With an amused scoff and a roll of her eyes, she dismissed his alarm. 

"Oh. It's paint, genius. I'm painting," she casually fixed a lone strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead with her fingers stained red. "If I were a murderer, I'd be more careful. Don’t you think?"

His breath caught in his throat as he registered her words, a wave of relief washing over him. 

"Well, I suppose I'd rather confront a murderer, then!" he retorted, his voice regaining its composure. "At least I wouldn't have to deal with the constant banging on the walls at night, it seems. What the hell are you even doing?"

"I already told you, I'm painting," she shot back, her narrowed eyes fixing him with a glare. "And, excuse me, but aren't you that loud guy living in the apartment under me? The one who slams his doors no matter what, and always blocks my bike with his?"

"Am I? Well, maybe because your pretty urban bike with that ridiculously huge basket always takes up two spaces, mine included," he countered. "Learn to park, maniac. It’s not that hard! And keep it down! I’m trying to work!"

The young woman's laughter echoed through the hallway, genuine and hearty. "Unbelievable. And what are you doing at night that my painting bothers you so much, huh?"

"None of your fucking business what I do," he barked, jabbing an accusatory finger in her direction. "It's quiet hours, so either you stop banging on the walls or I'll report you. And then your bike!"

"Damn asshole," she hissed, her grip tightening on the door handle.

"At your service," he replied with a mocking bow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Have a good night, psycho. Red does not suit you, by the way."

Whether or not she heard his parting words remained uncertain, as she promptly slammed the door shut in his face. Fuming with anger, he turned on his heel, ready to storm back to his place. But as he reached the door and patted his pocket, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you’ve got to be kidding…" he muttered aloud, his hand coming up empty. He grabbed the doorknob, even though he knew it was a futile gesture without his keys.

Could he be that stupid? Could he really leave his apartment with nothing, not even his damn phone?

Apparently, he could.

With a frustrated grunt, he considered banging his forehead against the door in a fit of vexation but quickly dismissed the idea as both stupid and potentially painful.

And definitely loud.

Left with no other option, he reluctantly decided to seek help from the landlord. He cursed his luck because, of course, the landlord lived right next door to that dreadful neighbor who could easily pass for a murderess in the right lighting. Nevertheless, he really didn't like the idea of spending the rest of the night stranded in the hallway.

This time he climbed the stairs with deliberate steps, determined to handle the situation with a little more finesse. Walking to door number 33, he knocked softly, hoping the guy, by some miracle, wasn’t sleeping yet. Or was already awake. Whatever was closer. 

Yet, the silence that greeted him was quite deafening. Undeterred, he knocked once more, this time with slightly more force.

His heart skipped a beat as the door behind him creaked open, and a familiar voice broke the silence. "What happened? Is the landlord too noisy, too?" 

He spun on his heels, fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Mind your own business, huh?" he retorted, frustrated. 

The young woman chuckled, pausing in her task of wiping away the stubborn red streak of paint from her face with a damp towel. "Richy's out for the night," she informed him, nodding toward the landlord’s apartment. "Whatever you need from him, it'll have to wait until morning."

"Well, isn't that just fucking perfect," he growled, more to himself than to her. 

Her laughter bubbled louder at his exasperation, head tilting slightly in amusement. Quickly, she covered her mouth, though, mindful of the late hour and not wanting to disturb the neighbors further. 

"Let me guess, genius," she remarked with a hint of amusement, her smile softening. "You locked yourself out. A smarty-pants like you? Aww, that’s so sad…" Her lips pursed in mock sympathy as she tried to wipe her hands of the remnants of red paint.

He snorted in response but remained silent. With determined strides, he made his way towards the stairs, fully prepared to spend the night wandering the city until morning. Passing her by without so much as a glance, he was about to descend when she called out to him.

"Okay, wait a minute," her voice caused him to pause mid-step. "I think I can help you out."

“No, thanks,” he snorted, turning to her, “You just want to gloat at my misfortune.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she shook her head. "Maybe a little," she admitted playfully. "But you're the asshole here. I'm just the good-natured maniac whose pretty bike you keep blocking."

Her bluntness caught him off guard, and he regarded her with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. After a moment of contemplation, he let out a resigned sigh, realizing that he was indeed in a bit of a bind with very limited options.

"Come in, will you?" she urged when he didn’t respond. "I'll go get some tools."

"Tools?" he echoed, but she had already vanished inside, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

After a moment or two, he sighed and cautiously crossed the threshold of her apartment, his eyes scanning the space to locate where she had gone. The layout of the place mirrored his own, a spacious studio with an open living area. However, the differences in décor were quite obvious—unfinished paintings leaned against the walls, an easel stood in one corner with a canvas in progress, and sheets of paper littered various surfaces, each with vibrant splashes of color. The faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and somehow it wasn't unpleasant at all. 

On the floor in the further corner of the room, his gaze landed on a toolbox, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it lay a hammer and a small painting, only partially framed.

The culprit of the noise. 

"Hey, what did you mean by tools–" he started, his voice trailing off as he took a few steps toward the bedroom, only to freeze in place.

She had already taken off her paint-stained flannel shirt and was in the process of pulling a red t-shirt over a snug tank top, the fabric clinging to her figure a little too perfectly. He felt a pang of unease, suddenly aware of his accidental intrusion into her personal space.

He barely had a moment to process his embarrassment before she turned around with a smile as she noticed him there, her laughter hitting his ears. Then, with a playful shake of her head and a casual run of her fingers through her messy dark hair, she made her way back into the living room. 

"So you're not just an asshole, but a voyeur, too?" she teased, her tone surprisingly light given the circumstances. "What a combination!"

"S–sorry," he mumbled, feeling a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks as he looked away. "I didn't mean to. I was just–" He clicked his tongue in frustration, struggling to find the right words. "In my defense, you disappeared, and I just wanted to–"

“Relax, eh? Let's open your door,” she interjected, her laughter cutting through his stumbling explanation as she patted him on the shoulder and moved toward a large toolbox.

"What? H–how?" he stammered stupidly, his gaze following her movements as she crouched next to the box, her fingers deftly rummaging through its peculiar contents.

"Yeah, well… Have you ever taken a closer look at me or my apartment?" she quipped, a wry lift of her eyebrow accentuating her point. "I'm the absolute embodiment of forgetfulness and scatterbrained tendencies, in case you haven't noticed. How many times do you reckon I've accidentally slammed that darn door and found myself locked out? Those locks might seem sturdy, but truth be told, they're quite easy to pick…"

He snorted in disbelief. "Wait, wait, hold on... Are you seriously thinking about picking my lock?"

"Why not?" she shrugged casually, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark, but found himself at a loss for words.

"Yup. You're crazy. I'm leaving," he declared, raising his hands in resignation as he turned towards the door.

“Well. Good luck, then!” she chuckled skeptically, waving to him with a small, thin screwdriver and what looked like a hairpin. “I hope your doormat is comfortable… You should know that Richy is on a date, and I guess it went very well, so I have no idea what time he'll be back. Might as well be late in the afternoon. Or in the evening.”

He paused, a mix of disbelief and fascination flickering across his face as he turned back to look at her. Despite the paint smudges and the aura of chaos surrounding her, there was a peculiar glint in her eyes that felt oddly genuine and dependable. Bold. Daring.

"This can’t be happening…” he muttered, his fingers instinctively finding their way to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She only chuckled further, “If it makes you feel any better, the first time it took me about 3 hours to get inside.”

“So you've… really done this before?" he inquired tentatively.

She burst into laughter, her amusement almost contagious. "Yup. I do this every two weeks or so. My own door, of course! But don't let Richy in on my little secret. I just don’t want to bother him too much..."

He hesitated, uncertain whether to trust someone whose toolbox contained an eclectic mix of brushes, paints, and all variety of tools. As he pondered, his gaze drifted to the paintings adorning the walls behind her.

"Hey… Did you paint those yourself?" he asked, pointing to the colorful canvases, most of which were saturated in shades of red.

"Of course. Why do you ask? Want some proof?" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, the screwdriver still held loosely in her hand. “Or are you about to critique my masterpieces?”

"No, I just— I... I've seen similar ones. All over the city. In different places," he explained, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze narrowing as she processed his words, rising from her spot on the floor. "You mean that street art?"

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on her still paint-splattered face. "Are they yours? They are, aren’t they?"

"Planning to report that too?" she shot back, a hint of sarcasm lacing her tone as she held his gaze. "Just like my bike and the alleged noise at night? You know you have no evidence for any of it!"

"No, it's not that," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just curious. I really like those paintings. The ones in the city, I mean. I never would've guessed someone like you could be the artist behind them."

“I didn’t say I was.”

"Come on," he gestured towards the red figure on the canvas, "They're identical to the ones in the city. These simple, faceless cat-like characters doing all sorts of amazing little things. Cleverly hidden in various, unexpected places."

"No, they're most definitely not identical," she huffed, striding up to the painting. "Can't you see something's missing in mine?"

"Yes, those big eyes painted with thick black lines, right? Sometimes other details, too. Very distinctive."

"Distinctive my ass! They're just stupid doodles that someone painted on real things!" she retorted, her frustration evident as she gestured toward the artwork.

"Do you really think so? People seem to like them. Have you seen all those pictures all over the web? They got quite popular, at least in the city. They even got a name, what was it…" He rubbed his stubbled chin, trying to recall.

"Night Watchers," the woman sighed, resigned.

"Right," he grinned with an odd sense of satisfaction, "Night Watchers. I like it."

"Well, I don’t!" she snapped, pointing her sharp screwdriver at him once again. "Those doodles are crude and primitive. And so are those who paint them!"

"Fine, fine!,” he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “You're strangely defensive here, and we're just talking about graffiti, you know? Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Forget it," she sighed, taking her keys and waving them in front of his nose. "Come on. I’ll get you and your arrogant ass home."

He opened his mouth to protest, but seeing her determination, he realized there was no point. Without hesitation, she strode down the corridor, and he hastened to follow.

As they reached his apartment door, the young woman wasted no time in kneeling down, her movements fluid and assured as she began to work on the lock. He watched her with a mix of fascination and disbelief, the scene unfolding before him like something out of a movie. Here he was, in the dead of night, entrusting a stranger with the task of breaking into his own home. and not just a stranger. It was a surreal moment, one he never could have anticipated.

"My name’s Charlie, by the way," she muttered suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. Despite her focus on the task at hand, there was a hint of warmth in her tone. "You can tell me yours, or I can keep calling you an asshole. Whatever you prefer."

He snorted in slight disbelief, recalling the last name written on an intercom, “Okay, hold on. You want to tell me your name is Charlie Brown*?”

She turned to him, her expression serious and unfazed, “Charlie Brown. Got a problem with that?”

“No, it's…” he scratched his head, trying to contain his smile to a minimum, “It's just cut– curious. That's all. Fits an artist, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. So?” her gaze focused on the lock once more, “Do you want me to keep calling you an asshole?”

"Tempting," he conceded, leaning against the railing with a wry smile. "But my name is Jake."

“Well then, Jake…” Charlie's fingers danced over the lock, her touch deft and precise. With a soft click, the lock surrendered, and she pushed the door open. "Welcome home." Her grin was triumphant as she got up and gestured for him to enter.

“I'll consider this as compensation for disturbing my peace,” he sighed, stepping past her as he finally made his way back to his place. But then, as he glanced back at her, he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Charlie. You'd make a very good burglar."

“Yeah… No problem,” she rolled her eyes, “Suppose us insomniacs have to stick together. No matter how annoying you are.”

Jake’s shoulders shook with silent mirth, “Yes, well. It was… interesting to finally meet you, Charlie Brown. And you actually do look good in red… when it’s not all over you,” he casually pointed to her t-shirt.

“Screw you, Jake,” her eyes crinkled at the corners as she snorted at him, “See you around.”

He watched her vanish down the hallway, a smile lingering on his lips. Then, with a soft click, he closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

. . ………………… . . 

She came to an abrupt stop, her fingers tightening around her phone as she squinted at the grimy wall of the aging city building. Until quite recently, it had served as a canvas for her creativity. The playful red figure mid-jump over the rope – the cable swaying from the electrical box nearby.

Now, however, it was something entirely different.

Thick, bold lines appeared on her little masterpiece. A bike now dominated the scene, but not just any bike. It was a truly whimsical rendition, making the red figure no longer leaping but riding that damn bike with carefree abandon. A large basket adorned the front, and right in it—a brush, and a screwdriver.

And there were those eyes. Those unmistakable, big, doodle-like eyes.

A laugh had to leave her lips, disbelief and amusement fighting with each other, as she read the small writing underneath. 

Coffee tonight? 

J.

“That damn asshole…” 

. . ………………….. . . 

*You all probably know this well, but Charlie Brown is a character from the comic Peanuts :) 

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, share, let me know what you think ;) <3

[faededaway]

𝓜𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝔁 𝓗𝓾𝓶𝓪𝓷 (𝓑𝓮𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓱 𝔁 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓪)

800words/part1/intro

In certain myths, there appears a creature who brings about the worst in people. The creature haunts people to madness, turning them all to drunkards, addicts, gamblers, or insomniacs. To their dying breaths, the people would cry, "just leave me alone!" No story shows any person finding a way to get rid of them or any ways to get along with them. Everyone suffers to death.

See, Sera has one such shadow haunting her right now. That, is why she did all this research to try and find something.

The only truth she found is the part where all the 'victims' yell at the shadows to leave them alone (she's been doing that too). But, the only reason she's shooing it is because it keeps telling her, "you should sleep soon. You have work in the morning," and, "if you eat the same thing 7 days in a row, you won't get proper nutrients. Buy some grapes, you like grapes," and even, "tell her you don't need extra shifts. You need proper rest."

See? It is annoying! Sera can understand why someone would drink or smoke upon seeing hallucinations, though she doesn't think gambling or addictions are related to seeing hearing shadows move.

It doesn't even look that scary! It appears like a shadow (hence the name). It's shaped like a cloth ghost wearing a plague doctor mask. It isn't 2D but it does not have a physical body; it's like a hologram! You can see it and hear it, but you cannot touch it. It would be wrong to say you cannot *feel * it. Sera felt it before she saw it.

She had been drowsy at work after working overtime three days in a row. She'd been on the brink of passing out dozing off when a large warm blanket like thing cascaded from the sky and draped itself around her body.

It was like someone had zapped all her exhaustion out of her body; she felt like a toddler awaking from their slumber. She was so rejuvenated that she almost asked her manager for another shift when 'someone pulled the blanket off of her' and all her exhaustion returned. That was when she first heard it speak, "I can take just as much as I can give. Do not force my hand."

Back then, Sera assumed she had started hallucinating from the lack of sleep and slept for eight hours in one night (instead of her usual two to four hours throughout the day). And, yeah, she felt like a toddler again. The shadow had spoken to her again, "do this everyday and you will lessen your neck cramps and headaches."

It was standing at the foot of her head, looming on her sleeping body. Sera had freaked (naturally) and rolled off her bed. But, she felt no pain as the 'blanket' had caught her before she hit the floor, "your bedside table is the wrong size. It would have hit your head."

It went on to explain itself later. It said it came to help Sera, "humans cannot help but have habits. Schedules and routines make you who you are. But, you have too many bad ones. I, Behemoth, am here to intervene."

Sera didn't look convinced. She was sure she needed a shrink appointment. But, the therapist or whoever would probably make Sera fix her life telling her that 'the only way to get rid of it is to fix your life'.

Bleugh. Yeah, no. Sera was perfectly okay with her life as it was. She did not want to go through such a hassle. But, she did want to get rid of her hallucinations; that is why, she hit the library and read a bunch (for the first time since highschool).

"You enjoy reading. Do this more often," Sera didn't know she was smiling until she felt her smile fall at Behemoth's comment. Dang it! It knows me too well!

That's when she decided to ask it, "how do I get rid of you?"

"I suggest not to talk aloud in public. It makes for a bad impression," she swung at it with a book in reply when it continued, "I will disappear when you are better."

Ah. So Sera's would-be therapist had would-have-been right. There is only one way to get rid of him. She sighed in defeat and muttered to it herself, "it's easier said than done! And, I don't even know where to start."

Behemoth's warmth embraced her just like the first time two weeks ago, uplifting her spirits just a bit, "you can take as long as you need. I will assist the whole way."

Sera wanted to ask it why it would do that for her or why it came to her and not to someone more in need. But she held back from giving in to her bad habit, making it the first step of her long journey of her life with Behemoth.

[sjofn-lofnsdottr]

☾■♒☼ !

Two of these were asked by other people so I'll answer those then, and for the people without the list pulled up, the questions I will be tackling are ☾ (sleep headcanon) and ☼ (appearance headcanon).

First, the sleeeeep:

Dusk tries, he really does, but he is terrible at sleeping. He is a lifelong insomniac with a whack-ass sleep schedule and people are lucky he didn't accidentally get himself killed after not getting more than two hours of sleep in a row for a week. He sleeps better when he has someone with him, listening to someone else sleeping helps remind his brain it's sleeping time ... but 'better' is relative, and sometimes he still doesn't sleep at all.

Farron makes tinctures intended to help Dusk sleep, and they work like a charm ... so long as Dusk actually takes them. He worries about taking too many, too many nights in a row, so he really only takes them when he's truly desperate to get some sleep.

And now, the question I've never thought much about, ~appearance~:

Honestly, the thing with Dusk is that he really does look that normal and average. He's medium height, with a medium build, with regular-ass blond hair and perfectly normal green eyes. Even his beard is about what I pictured, more or less.

But, hm. What might stick out for people, if they know just how much damage he's taken over the years, is that he doesn't have any scars, save for a couple of very faint ones on his hands from carpentry related incidents when he was young. He is extremely dependent on magical healing to get him through the fighting he does, and as a result, he just ... he's fine. He looks like he's never fought a day in his life. He's not sure if that's weird or not ... he likes being so run-of-the-mill looking, it means he's more likely to be seen as Random Elezen Man #58, but at the same time ... shouldn't there be something to show for it all?

Thank you for the asks!

[wreckmetoji]

Zero to Sixty

 A fic in which the persistent man frequenting your diner takes you on a drive

↳ Nicholas D. Wolfwood/Transmasc!Reader 

content warning. transmasc!reader, streetracerAU!Wolfwood, profanity, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, soft wolfwood, i want him to put his fingers in my mouth

i saw a tiktok of a guy drift racing and his user was nicholas. literally what do you want from me

minors DNI

9.9k words

Late night shifts sucked.

It was a mutual understanding that in any backwash shithole town, anything opened past eight at night was only ever populated by the occasional insomniac or rebellious group of high–schoolers that think they're cool for drinking lukewarm black coffee. Not exactly favorable when your wage completely depended on tips, but you had to make the best of it. You were new at the diner, fresh meat, so of course they'd give you the shifts no one wanted. A few more weeks of this and you should be in the clear, but the struggle was even making it that far on pennies and pocket change.

A less than favorable position to be in, not knowing that your pockets would have run dry halfway through your venture to the coast, but this was merely a bump in the road that was your grand adventure to broaden your horizons. Or at least that's what you tried to tell yourself.

So here you were. Staring in the face of a middle aged burnout diner "chef" telling you he didn't want to actually cook anything past a certain time despite the fact you were both scheduled to close. Useless fucker.

With a shake of your head, an obvious roll of your eyes, you reached down to the rows of coffee stained mugs resting ugly and chipped against the back counter. Taking the rag over your shoulder, you decided you'd at least try to look busy just in case anyone actually came in on a Tuesday at ten pm. Unlikely, but you weren't about to get an earful from a gaggle of particularly mean old women again.

The end of your shift was just around the corner– your useless chef counterpart having already left for the evening. He wasn't interested in staying if there weren't any tips to pool. Nut up and be a man, he said, you're capable of handling yourself, kid. If you were in his position you might leave all the same, but it didn't irritate you any less that he even had that option, or that you just weren't confrontational enough to tear into him for leaving you alone in the middle of fucking nowhere to close a diner you've been working at for less than two weeks.

Deft fingers worked at the cash register, clicking the archaic buttons with animated ticks and chimes, before a set of blinding headlights pulled into the parking lot. You narrowed your eyes, inquisitive as the car pulled up close to the front door, obscured by the partially closed blinds. The headlights shut off, and the sound of a car door opening and closing made your mind jog back into action.

Shit. You forgot to lock the front door.

Worn out sneakers slid against the cracked tile below, scurrying over to the door in an attempt to reach it before this enigmatic stranger could beat you to the punch, even if it meant tripping over yourself in the process. It seemed that whatever deity was in charge of your fate was feeling cruel this evening, as the moment your fingertips ghosted over the cool steel lock, the door was being pushed open with a chime.

What an awkward situation you've managed to wedge yourself in, you think, swallowing thick as you stare up at the tall man that was stepped halfway through the door, brow arched in a silent inquiry. He was broad shouldered, leather jacket half unzipped revealing an unprecedented amount of enticing pectoral cleavage with how low cut his white v-neck shirt was.

"Uh... you open?" He asked, voice gruff around the edges like it was strained. You weren't sure if it was the trance you'd found yourself in watching the slight sway of his rosary when he shifted, or because you once again realized you wouldn't ever be able to stand up for yourself even if you tried, but you simply found yourself gaping for a beat or two.

"Yeah, we're... I mean– I was just closing up, but–"

"Great," The man interrupted, pushing through the threshold of the door completely and making his way over to one of the split leather barstools. Your eyes narrowed at his air of arrogance and had half a mind to tell him to scram. Or at least you'd like to.

Huffing out a sigh, you rolled your eyes for the nth time that evening, rounding your way around the stretched out bar countertop to stand face to face. Now that you got a better look at him, he was...moderately handsome. The scruff on his chin added some kind of rugged allure to the entire bad boy ensemble he seemed to have going on. Though maybe that was just the small-town fever talking. The lack of eye-candy in this place was a cardinal sin.

"A menu?" He asked, and you had to repress another eye roll as you steeled yourself for the headache of a conversation you were about to have.

"If you haven't noticed, the cook has left for the evening," You explain with much more patience than you felt brewing inside, but it was quickly whittled away by the aggravating arch of the stranger's brow and the curl at the corners of his lips. "So you can choose between pre-frozen pies, two hour old coffee, or milk that expires tomorrow. Other than that, you're shit outta luck."

Sure, part of you should probably be putting a little more care into the first conversation you've had with a person outside of your coworkers today, and probably the only chance you were going to get at receiving a tip, but you'd trade freedom for a couple of dollars in your pocket.

Lucky you, this enigmatic stranger seemed to have some sense of humor, the smug smirk on his face growing marginally as he leans back in the creaky barstool. 

"'Yer really sellin' me on the two hour old coffee," He mused, hand patting against the countertop twice before leaning back in. "I'll take one of those."

With a tight lipped smile, you gave a quick nod, turning on your heel and reached for the pot of coffee you had yet to dump out for the evening, noting that the machine wasn't even on by this point. You couldn't remember exactly when you had shut it off, but surely the coffee itself was less than lukewarm by this point. Part of you wondered if you should turn on the warm function for even just a minute or two, but that meant you had to be here a minute or two longer than completely necessary. He was the one that decided to come in two minutes from closing, after all, so he can deal with ice cold coffee. 

Grabbing a mug, you set it on the counter with a frustrated and ungraceful clink, filling it up nearly to the rim with what was left in the coffee pot. Turning back to the man at the bar, you were in absolute shock and awe to see him cupping his hands in front of his face, in the middle of sparking up a cigarette. It took you a beat or two to wonder if he really had the audacity, and wonder what fucking era this idiot was from. 

"You do know it's not the eighties anymore, right?" You spoke incredulously, fingers still wrapped around the handle of the mug. The look he gave you was inquisitive, like he didn't quite understand what you were referring to, before he was tucking the zippo back into his leather jacket pocket. With a scoff, you decided to pick your battles for the evening, setting the mug down in front of him, some of the contents splashing over the rim and splattering the otherwise clean countertop. You weren't getting paid enough to argue with some smug asshole about smoking indoors when you were already supposed to be locked up for the night and on your way home.

"So," He began, words muffled around the cigarette between his lips, "Haven't seen you 'round here before. New to town?" Lithe fingers reached up, trapping the cigarette between his index and middle finger, inhaling deep before pulling it from his mouth. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't a little attractive, but again, that was probably the small-town fever getting to you again. 

"More like passing through," You explained, eyes locked onto the motion of the man's free hand reaching for his coffee, lifting the rim of the mug up to his lips. Glancing away, you decided to busy yourself with reorganizing mugs on the counter that were already in perfect order. He seemed to catch this too, the subtle smirk not quite obscured by the ceramic.

"Mm, passin' through, huh?" He inquired, surely a rhetorical question, before taking a slow sip. Lowering the mug, he delicately placed it on the counter, fixing you with a look you couldn't quite decipher. "Ain't exactly a pleasant place for someone like you to be making a pit-stop in, let alone stop to make a few bucks."

You could feel your brows crease at his words, eyeing him with a guarded expression. Taking a moment or two to gather your wandering thoughts and racing heart, you decided to deflect the statement, try to let it roll off your back, but something told you this guy was a lot more perceptive than he let on. 

"Yeah... The city is more my style," You said, voice sounding more tense than you wanted it to. Not that it mattered, considering the look he was giving you from under his brow told you that you were both aware of the real reason.

"You seem like a city boy," He played along, something you were moderately thankful for, even if his comment did seem somewhat backhanded at first. "Too pretty for a place like this."

His elaboration made you reel for a moment, a befuddled expression on your face as you blinked dumbly at him. His face was neutral, eyes trained on you as he brought his cigarette up to his lips again, as if he was expecting you to say something in return. When you didn't, he gave a shrug of his shoulders, exhaling deep, plume of smoke curling and twisting in the space between you. With a small wave of your hand, you cleared the smoke from your face, shooting him a less than amused expression before rolling your eyes and busying yourself with your closing procedures again. A tense silence fell over you as you worked at the register- though the ambiguous man seemed unbothered by your outwardly guarded demeanor, shoulders slack, forearms leaning on the countertop as he indulged in his coffee and cigarette. When you noticed it burning dangerously low, you found yourself sliding an empty mug in his direction, wanting to avoid him potentially putting it out on the counter. Not that it really would have mattered, considering it was already riddled with cracks and holes, but you had some sort of integrity with keeping the place as clean as you could. He gave you a nod in thanks, stubbing it out at the bottom of the cup.

Just as you had finished counting the bills in the register, you saw him stand out of the corner of your eye. Upon glancing over, you could see him fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping through some bills. 

"Oh-" You called out, earning a quick glance in your direction. "Uh... Don't worry about it, I've already counted the register so... It'd just complicate things. It's only a buck 'n a half anyways." With a wave of your hand to emphasize your intentions, he stood in place for a beat longer. 

"If you say so," He shrugged, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "I'll never say no to free coffee."

"I'm sure it was awful anyways," You joked, the barest of smiles curling at your lips for the first time since he walked through those doors. He snorted in response, tipping his head and shrugging. 

"Wasn't horrible, as far as two-hour old coffee goes."

Shaking your head in response, you found yourself huffing a small amused laugh, removing the half-apron tied around your waist and tossing it beside the register. You watched him shift in the corner of your vision, though he didn't move to leave right away, instead standing in place and glancing out the half-obscured windows towards the parking lot. 

"Didn't see another car in the lot," He mentions, and you could already tell where this was going. "Need a ride home?"

You huffed a laugh again, though this time more sardonic, shooting him a disbelieving expression. He seemed nice enough, but you'd rather be overly cautious than dead in a ditch somewhere.

"No, I'm good. I don't take rides from strangers that barge in two minutes to closing," You stated, leaving no room for discussion on the matter just in case he decided to be pushy. He only smirked. 

"Damn, should've come in a minute earlier," He teased stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he gave you a quick once-over. When you didn't concede, he took a slow breath in, then nodded, taking a step and a half back towards the door. "Alright then, city-boy. If you insist." Taking another step back, he gave a wave of his hand, pulling the door open with a chime and retreating towards the parking lot. You couldn't help but roll your eyes, an unexpectedly amused smile on your features. Perhaps it was because everyone seemed so standoffish to you thus far, so having someone engage in a conversation with you was a nice change, even if he was a bit odd in a way you couldn't quite place. 

With a heavy sigh, you went to clean up the little mess that was made. You were shocked to see a twenty dollar bill sitting on the counter, no doubt left behind by your local enigmatic stranger, making you hum out a small noise of intrigue. you stuffed it into your pocket before tossing out the stubbed out cigarette and washing both mugs by hand. You took your time, considering you were already forced to stay nearly a half hour past your shift, it really didn't matter. You wiped the counters, swept up the floors, didn't bother mopping for a second time, though tried your best to make it at least look presentable. Well... as presentable as this diner *could* be. Shutting off all the lights, you padded your way over to the door with a resigned sigh, pulling it open with a chime. You were immediately met with a car in the lot just a few spaces away from the front door, driver's side window rolled down to reveal the same man patiently waiting, eyes closed and arms lounged back behind his head. You immediately considered heading back inside and exiting through the back, but you supposed if he was going to murder you, he probably would've been a little more alert. And, admittedly, you were intrigued as to why he'd decided to nap for a half hour in the diner parking lot. 

Keeping him in your peripherals, you locked up the door, the resounding click seeming to stir him from relaxation. You glanced up just in time to see him stretch an arm out, resting one wrist on the wheel, the other half hanging out the window. He shot you a knowing expression, lips curled in a smug smirk, obviously finding some amusement in your puzzled and cautious disposition. Brows furrowed, keys clenched tightly in your hand, you stepped away from the door and headed across the parking lot- opposite to where the man was parked. What you didn't catch was his surprised expression, the fumble of his keys being pulled out of the ignition, and his haste to open the car door and approach you.

"Hey, y'know you don't have to be so stubborn," He called out, not even shutting the driver's door behind him as he took long strides to meet your pace.

"I already told you I'm not taking a ride from a stranger," You say pointedly, glancing up at him in the corner of your eye. Though you couldn't deduce exactly why, you stilled to a halt, taking in how his pace met yours exactly, staying a few steps away so as to not seem intimidating. "Listen, I appreciate it, really, but... Stranger danger, 'n all that."

You were expecting him to have some kind of negative reaction, at least in your previous experiences, and gripped your keys a little tighter inside your jacket pocket. Instead, he seemed to huff an amused breath, stuffing a hand in his jacket pocket, that unfortunately familiar smirk curling at the corners of his lips once again as he holds out his other hand.

"Name's Wolfwood," He says, catching you off guard for a moment, "Nicholas D. Wolfwood." 

Even though you were aware of exactly what he was doing, and the fact he was even being cheeky about it, you couldn't help but find it somewhat charming. Endearing, even, if you were to use the term loosely. That much was obvious in your immediate reaction, consisting of a sigh and a small smile, disbelieving but bemused nonetheless. Your eyes glance up, catching his umber gaze in a more personal connection. His smirk spread, widening slightly, seeming to think that he had won you over. 

"It was nice meeting you, Nicholas," You say softly, leaving him stupefied in place as you spun on your heel and walked. You felt a little better about the encounter, now knowing now he was just an idiot with no negative intentions. 

"What's your name?" He called out, not seeming to follow after you as he'd already done, and instead letting you go your separate ways for the time being. You scoffed, unbeknownst to him, unbelieving and amused by the audacious personality of this enigmatic man.

"Guess you'll have to find out," You say over your shoulder, never once stopping your confident strides down the sidewalk, leaving him standing in place.

Sure, it may have been uncommon for the townsfolk here to even approach you, let alone leave exuberant tips and offer friendly rides home after your shift, but you had a feeling men like Wolfwood just liked testing the waters, dipping their toe in, see what they can get away with. He didn't necessarily seem bad, but more bad news. You've had your fair share of run-ins with people that held themselves the same way Wolfwood did, knowing that leaving them in the dust would shake them off. Guys like Wolfwood didn't take kindly to rejection.

Or, at least you thought.

It turns out Nicholas D. Wolfwood was more tenacious than you had originally anticipated. It had been a few days, granted, but you didn't expect his familiar sun-kissed face pushing through the creaky door of the diner in broad daylight halfway through your shift so many days later. Your conversation was brief, something along the lines of guess you can't get enough of me. He didn't agree nor disagree, only smirked and asked if he could actually see a menu this time. You obliged with a tight smile, mostly leaving himself to his devices after you had taken his order and promptly delivered his food. For once, you actually had other customers to attend to. 

Perhaps tenacious wasn't the correct word, you thought to yourself upon seeing the stack of bills just a little too great to simply pay for a meal in the place he had been sitting, now occupied by empty space and even emptier silence. Presumptuous, you think with a huff of amusement, arching your brows at the torn piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it resting at the bottom of the stack of bills. Your eyes dart up to the door, briefly scanning over the parking lot- for what, you aren't quite willing to admit- before shaking your head. Flipping the paper over in your fingers, you roll your eyes, crumpling it up and tossing it in the receipts bin beneath the register.

This seemed to be your routine, one you became quite familiar with much to your chagrin. At some point you began to take it with a spoonful of sugar, because hey, at least Wolfwood was a half decent conversationalist, and he left you more than decent tips. At some point he had become comfortable enough to reach over the counter and tuck the folded bills into the pocket of your half-apron, shooting you a much too casual wink. His excuse was he didn't want any of it to go to the unenthusiastic chef, but you pondered the credibility of that statement considering his behavior thus far. 

In his time frequenting the diner, you found out Wolfwood enjoyed cars. You could have assumed that much, considering you had gotten a couple glimpses at the one he drove a few times now, and although it was old it was in undeniably good condition. Sleek, black, shiny enough you could probably see your reflection in it if you got close enough. You'd never had much of an interest, favoring other hobbies that didn't revolve around toxic masculinity quite to that extent, but on a particularly slow day you humored him. 

"So. Cars," You sigh, leaning over the counter with your arms crossed, eyes drooping from the double shift of constantly being on your feet. Anything that paid the bills, even if you were mentally and physically exhausted.

Wolfwood hummed behind his mug of warm coffee, umber eyes peering at you over the rim of his tinted sunglasses. Resting the ceramic down, there was an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Mhm. Cars," He says in return, being smart about the fact he knew you had no idea what to even begin talking about on the subject. You scoffed, knowing he wasn't going to simply talk about something unless provoked, and even then it was a tossup. Touché.

"So... is it just, like, a hobby?" You inquire, holding your hand out, palm to the sky, as if emphasizing your question, hoping he would elaborate further past your question. Luck seemed to be in your cards, earning a shift in his expression as he glanced off, pondering his answer. 

"More like a job."

"So you're a mechanic or something?" You sound unconvinced, taking in his appearance. You had never seen him dirtied up, covered in oil, and you don't want to stop and think about why your jaw tightened and your gut clenched at the visual in your head. 

"Not really," Is all he settles on, lifting the mug back up to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he takes an awfully smug sip of his drink.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as your hand falls back to the countertop. After his first few times coming in, you felt much more comfortable giving him glimpses outside of your attempt at a customer service, well-mannered mien. He seemed to enjoy your attitude, or at the very least be amused by it.

"Well then what do you do, exactly?" You crack, pushing yourself from leaning, palms curled around the edge of the countertop. The hum of florescent overhead lights occupied the empty space, the tick of the wall clock reminding you how close you were to nightly freedom once again. 

"I keep tryin' to show you," Wolfwood muses with a shrug, "You're the one bein' stubborn."

He doesn't have to elaborate for you to understand what he's talking about, considering you couldn't count on both hands how many times he had offered to drive you home from work. By this point, you thought of it more a battle of wits than anything. A game, or maybe an ongoing joke that was going on just a little too long, toeing the line between a joke and being a serious proposition. You breathed in deep, heaving out a heavy sigh as you locked eyes, neither willing to be the one that cracked and looked away first. Rolling your tongue over the back of your teeth, you raise a brow, forcing the knowing smirk down the longer you stared. 

You wouldn't admit it, but you'd come to... somewhat enjoy his presence around your otherwise dull work. Enjoy him.

He was quick to catch the crack in your façade, a dent in the armor you had built around yourself so well that had kept him out until this point. So, Wolfwood smiles, leaning back in his barstool, and straightens his back. He looks just as confident as he did every time, and maybe it was because your feet were sore and your calves ached from standing all day, but you had already made your mind up before the question even came out of his mouth. 

"So. Want a ride home?" 

The exhaustion from the day must have caught up to you with the way you smiled, the way you breathed out an airy little laugh as you hung your head, shaking it more so at your inability to stick to your guns rather than his continuous insistence. 

"God," You sigh out, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His expression was unchanging, cocky and confident as it was every time, but you both knew he had you this time. "Fine. Yeah, fine. You can drive me home."

You had been half expecting a celebratory cheer, or at the very least some snide comment along the lines of took you long enough. Instead, he simply gave a nod, reaching into his back pocket to procure his wallet, flipping through some bills. He knew the drill by now- knew that the coffee was free so close to closing, knew that you wouldn't want to mess up counting the register, but he always felt the need to toss a twenty on the counter as he stood. Today was no different, and you couldn't help but be a little perplexed by it. He got what he wanted, why was he still trying?

"See you in a bit, pretty boy," Wolfwood mused, reaching over the counter to grip your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. It was a fleeting touch, calloused fingertips sliding away just as quickly as they had landed there, and you could only watch him leave with red-faced bewilderment before losing sight of him once he exited through the front door. You gaped, lips parting momentarily, before clamping your jaw shut and shaking your head, taking the half-drank coffee over to the small sink and washing it by hand. 

The entire fifteen minutes of your closing procedures felt like tooo long and not long enough, anticipation and anxieties clawing at your throat as you swept and mopped the cracked tile floor. God, why did you agree to this? What if he was some murderous psycho killer? What if he was some creep stalker that just wanted to know where you lived? Thoughts rolled over you in waves, drowning out rational thinking and leaving wake for a dry throat and heart palpitations. Your hands shook as you tugged the front door open with a ding, eyes quick to land on the all too familiar black car parked a few spaces down from the front door. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you turned in place and locked up, steeling yourself with a deep breath as you shoved your hands into your pockets.

By the time you had turned around again, Wolfwood was leaning over the passenger seat, cigarette hung loosely between his lips as he gives a light shove, pushing the door open enough for you to let yourself in once you look the car. Perhaps it was you postponing the inevitable, dragging it out as long as you could, but you found your gaze roving over the sleek black paint. With the neon shine of the diner sign, you could indeed see your reflection in the paint. A white stripe ran down the expanse of the car just above the chrome trim, the letters G.T 350 scrawled in bold between the small gap. A chrome snake was stamped on the side, and your steps slowed to read the bold chrome COBRA underneath before finally circling the front and getting to the passenger door. 

It was low, low enough that even you had to duck a bit to climb in, settling into your seat awkwardly as you carefully pulled the door shut behind you. Knowing nothing about cars, there wasn't much you could comment on, although a quick glance around could tell you this was far from stock. Metal arches encased the two front seats, the back seats completely removed to make way for a welded metal box, obscuring your view of what lay behind it. Hanging from the mirror was a rosary, mahogany wooden beads dangling low, cross still swaying back and forth from the motion of you entering the car.

Wolfwood was patient, an amused smirk slightly shielded by the fingers clasped around his cigarette. He watched you, watched you take in your surroundings, the confusion evident on your face as you peered at the metal bars running through both the front and the back of the car. You were at a lack of words, both from the nerves and the lack of knowledge, so all you did was vaguely gesture to a couple of the bars running overhead. 

"Roll cage," He said smoothly. As if you knew what that was.

"Address?" A simple question, but something about the nonchalant way he said it had you questioning why he was so eager to drive you home in the first place. When you blurt out the street name and number, he seems to pause in thought, humming a low sound. "Alright."

He motioned to your seatbelt, and with an unamused arched brow, you were quick to note that he most certainly wasn't wearing his own. You give him a once over, eyes raking over his relaxed posture and casual demeanor. That at least put some of your anxieties at ease. Reaching up over your shoulder, you grip the seatbelt, pulling it over your body and pushing it into place with an exaggerated force, locking eyes with him as it clicked. All he did was snicker, turning the key in the ignition as the car rumbled to life.

It was a muscle car, an old one, and despite not knowing anything about them, you could tell from the purr and rumble it was tinkered with, yet in immaculate condition. It didn't sound standard, but what did you know?

"How good are you with speed?" Was the question that broke the silence, urging you to glance up at him with a perplexed expression.

"Thought you'd wanna take your sweet time now that you finally got me in here," You sass back.

He smirks, hand on the stick shift– next to which sat some kind of lever– putting the car in reverse as he slung his arm around your seat, peering back over his shoulder, backing out of the space. It was for show, you know it was, considering there wasn't a single other car in the lot for him to look out for. "Oh, I'm gonna. But that doesn't answer my question."

A statement as bold as it was confusing. You were certain you must have looked stupid as your gaze trails from his face, down to the hand he'd placed back on the gear shift, then out the windshield. The car rolled forwards, slow and steady, only fueling the disconcerting feeling that began to settle in the pit of your stomach. Seeming to sense your unease, his hand moved, clapping against your knee twice as he fixed you with probably the most genuine expression you've received in the entire time knowing him. It was softer around the edges, kind in a way you couldn't quite describe, and in that moment you knew you could trust him with... whatever it was he was trying to get at.

"I... guess I'm fine with it?"

"You don't sound too sure 'bout that."

"I'm fine with it," You corrected, settling back into the seat as his hand moves to clasp at the glasses sat on the bridge of his hooked nose. Removing them, he folded one side in, tucking them in the low cut of his v-neck shirt, before adjusting himself in his seat.

"Alright," He chuckles, sounding a bit too smug for your liking. "If you need to hold on, there's a bar."

With a brief motion of his hand, your eyes follow, looking at the piss poor excuse for a handle hanging flimsy just above the door. Simply due to nerves you were tempted to preemptively grab on, unsure of what exactly he had in store for this simple drive. The other, more rational, part of your brain won through for once, telling you the chances of him putting you in immediate peril were slim to none, considering his car would also be victim to any catastrophe that may occur.

The car pulled out from the lot, cruising down the street– the opposite direction of your house, you might add– at a disappointingly average speed. With the way he had been talking, half of you had expected him to floor it right from the get-go. Brows furrowed, eyes on the road, your hand that had subconsciously reached up and gripped the seatbelt loosened, falling into your lap. It took a minute or two to get off the side streets, the car rolling up to the last red light in town before they began to wind through the mountain loop roads. Motion in your peripherals catches your attention, and you were familiar enough with Wolfwood to recognize it as him reaching for the pack of cigarettes he kept in the inner pocket of his jacket. The spark of a lighter made your ears perk up, cherry burning red, blending with the traffic light bathing the two of you. 

Tension eased from your shoulders, the scent familiar. You found yourself inhaling deep, heaving a soft sigh, gaze flickering out the passenger side window to see the last sparse buildings on the edge of town. Wolfwood spoke, though in your moment of serenity you hadn't heard exactly what he said. Before you could turn your head, or hum the inquisitive noise rising up in your chest, the red surrounded you turned green, and your back was slamming into the seat behind you. 

Squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber overloaded your senses as Wolfwood accelerated, car flying past what little there was of town and headed off towards the mountains. Voice caught in your throat, one hand shot up to grasp at the seatbelt, the other grabbing at the flimsy handle above the door. The closer you came to the bend, the further your heart crept into your throat, and the speed in which you were going, you knew he most certainly wouldn't make a successful turn. You closed your eyes, braced for impact, but the squeal of tires gripping the road was the only thing you heard, and your shoulder colliding with the side of the door was the only thing you felt. 

Momentarily winded- from the shock more than the impact- your eyes shot open, desperately clinging to reason and safety. You watched the car skid around the corner, eyes shooting down to the movement of Wolfwood's hand push the e-brake back down and reach towards the gear shift again. The increasing speed was slightly more gradual this time- slightly- giving you a mere second to catch your breath and gasp for air, unknowing to your exclaimed Jesus fuck! Wolfwood barked a laugh, finding amusement in your adrenaline fueled terror. Capable hand swerved the wheel, steadying out the tires on the road as you approached the next curve. 

It was a constant state of fight or flight, though freeze seemed to be your body's most preferred reaction, save the white knuckle grip tightening on both the hand bar and your seatbelt. Every slide around every corner, every acceleration that sent your body back in your seat, had your stomach and heart doing flips. At some point, though you couldn't pinpoint when, sheer terror had turned into something a little more fuzzy, a little more addicting. There was still a spark of fear in your eyes, but more overwhelmingly there was intrigue, excitement. 

"There it is!" Wolfwood exclaimed over the rev of the engine, the screaming tires, and before you could think better of it, you braved a look at him. Umber eyes were glancing at you in his peripherals, brows pinched in cocky triumph. What he was so pleased about, you couldn't say, but the look in his eye alone had you trembling in your seat.

Both of his hands were steadied on the wheel, one for control and one for stability, before his hand shot down to the brake again, pulling up and sliding the car around another tight corner. More than a couple times as the car slid, you thought your door was going to collide with the rocky mountainside or slide into a ditch, but he always managed to keep it steady, keep it smooth, and suddenly you understood how cars weren't exactly a hobby for him. 

Reaching the peak of the mountain, Wolfwood flicked at the stick shift, slowing the car to a reasonable speed before pulling onto the shoulder, the purr and rumble of the engine filling the space  your labored breaths didn't occupy. You were shaking, trembling like a leaf, adrenaline coursing through your veins as your hands slowly and hesitantly released their respective grounding purchase. Perhaps it was the last vestiges of fear that had you unbuckling your seatbelt, pushing your door open, swinging your shaky legs out as you struggled to rise to your feet. You didn't close the door behind you, instead taking a few steps over to the metal meridian at the mountainside, hands clamping around the cool metal to help hold you up. 

Your ears were filled with the chirp of crickets, the idle rumble of the car behind you, and a sharp, pitchy ring. Taking deep breaths, you willed your heart to calm, though your body was slow to follow behind. Your mind trailed back, the way your stomach flipped over every hill, around every corner, Wolfwood's capable hands keeping the both of you on the precipice of something much more dangerous. Oh God, the way his fingers curled around the wheel, the way they engulfed the shift stick, that look in his eye when you let yourself freefall and embraced the feeling.

Crunching gravel grabbed your attention, wide eyes trailing up from toe to head, locking eyes with Wolfwood as he stood beside you. One of his hands was in his pocket, the other pinching his half-finished cigarette between his middle and forefinger, chest rising as he inhaled deep. You found yourself mimicking the motion, breathing in deep with him, holding it for a moment. His brow raised, barely perceptible, tipping his head as he inched a step closer. He reached out, cigarette burning low between his fingers as he offered it to you. 

You didn't smoke, not past a social puff or two when drinking, but you found your hand reaching up to accept anyways. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the idea of having your lips around something that had previously been between his. 

Only when your fingers were a mere scant inch away from accepting, he pulled it back, gaze unwavering as he stared at you, into you, eyes roving over your face, then your body. You could only watch with rapt attention as he placed it back between his lips, inhaling deep again. This time it seemed deliberate, seemed focused, anticipation rising up your throat as he took another step into you. The free hand tucked into his pocket slid from its place, bridging the small gap between you by cupping your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks and coaxing you to open up. 

"C'mere," He murmured, trails of smoke spilling from the corners of his lips as he leaned down. Your eyes fluttered, lips parted, and in that moment with your heart still racing and your body still vibrating, he could ask you to do anything and you would without question. 

Smoke filled your senses as he pursed his lips, blowing into you, filling your lungs and your nose and your mind with everything that was Nicholas D. Wolfwood. You breathed in, the second-hand smoke burning your lungs before he closed the distance, chapped lips locking with your own. 

He tasted like coffee and cigarettes, something that would normally make you recoil, but you found yourself melting into it, legs wobbling for a completely different reason now. A noise bubbled up in your throat, soft and airy and light, as you exhaled through your nose. Smoke curled around the two of you in an intimate dance, wisps dancing and dissolving into thin air before your gaze fluttered shut completely, letting yourself freefall for the second time that night.

Hands reached out, both yours and his, yours clasping in the thick leather of his jacket lapels and clenching tight, willing him to step closer, press into you, consume you whole. He was already a step ahead of you, flicking his cigarette into the gravel before an arm came to curl around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. The calloused fingers digging into your jaw and cheeks pried a little harder, keeping you open and pliant as he pushed his tongue into your mouth, flicking against your own with a kind of expertise that made your stomach flip. A soft, airy noise passed your lips at the intrusion, one of your hands shifting up, desperate for purchase, something to ground you. It settled on cupping the back of his neck, fingertips carding through the short dark tresses there.

You felt your legs shake, felt your knees threaten to give out from under you when his arm encasing your waist shifted down, strong hand taking a fistful of the meat on your hip and tugging you into the line of his body. The small, surprised little noise you emitted must have amused him, feeling his lips curl at the corners before he pulled away a scant inch, tongue slow to return back between his lips. 

"Fuck you taste good," He purrs, thumb sliding down from your cheek to press into the plush of your bottom lip, pushing so the tip of his nail tapped against your teeth. You had half a mind to part your lips for him, let him probe, encourage him. And you did, kind of, parted your lips imperceptibly, jaw hanging open enough for him to fit the tip of his thumb between your teeth, only for you to gently clamp down. It was cheeky, teasing, half-mast gaze staring up at him through your lashes. The hum he emitted was pleased, yet intrigued. Using the leverage of the thumb between your teeth, he hooked his index finger under your chin and tipped your head back, leaning again.  

It was a strange sensation, the possessive nature of his grip mixed with the soft of his lips against the corner of your mouth trailing down, the scratch of his stubble sending a shiver from head to toe. Your eyelids flutter, unfocused as you stare up at the clear starry sky above, fingers winding tighter in the back of Wolfwood's hair. He returned the action with a nip at your jaw, canines sinking into your skin enough to make it sting, eliciting a gasp from you. Ever the opportunist, his thumb probed further, pressing the pad into the center of your tongue. His mouth worked back up, warm words falling on deaf ears as he breathes against you, into you, sealing his lips over yours again in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips. 

He must have felt your legs shake, the weight of you leaning into him for support, because the hand squeezing at your hip moved down, passing the swell of your ass and cupping your upper thigh, coaxing you to wrap your leg around him. You oblige this time, though end up gasping into his greedy mouth when he displays effortless strength in hiking you up, winding your legs around his hips, and resting you down against the metal meridian overlooking the cliffside. 

The press of him against you, the solid plane of his chest bumping against yours, the half-hard tent in his pants you nearly mistook for a belt buckle pressing into your lower stomach, a rumbled out groan coming from between his lips when your legs wound around him tighter, pulling him more firmly against you.

"Shit," He murmured against your lips between heated kisses, "Y'er eager, huh?"

Normally your first instinct would be to knock him down a peg or two if he sounded so cocky, but the aftershocks of adrenaline were coursing hot through your body, leaving wake for burning desire you'd been pushing down for far too long just to seem like you had the upper hand. You nodded, humming a noise of affirmation, tapering off into something a little filthier when you felt the roll of his hips, angling his hips down. When you moaned low, that seemed to be enough to kick him into action. 

Both hands slung under your thighs, tugging you close and pulling you up, carrying you back towards his car. Your heart thudded in your chest, anxiety rising like bile in your throat at what was to come, unsure how exactly you could bring up something so detrimental this far in. That, coupled with the tender squeeze of your heart when his hand cupped the back of your head, protecting it from potentially getting bumped against the arch of the door while he climbed in with you in his lap, had you second guessing your own hubris of flying so close to the sun.

"Relax," Wolfwood said low, seeming to catch your sudden unease. Feeling brave, you glanced up to meet his gaze. 

His eyes were dark, umber brown blown wide, nearly black, and despite him looking like he was ready to eat you alive, there was a kindness swimming behind it all. So, when he spoke low, an intimate husky timbre, you believed him. "Don't gotta do anything you don't wanna do. Jus' tell me." 

Only managing a nod, he mirrored the action, fingers trailing from their position at the top of your head and gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He was slow to pull you in again, as if he was waiting for protest. When he wasn't met with any, he indulged, though a little less messy and a little less hungry. This time, he worked you open, eased you into it, placed both of his hands on either of your knees straddling his lap and palmed upwards. The touch had you sinking, tension easing from your body as you lowered yourself more firmly into his lap. You were met with the hardness straining against his dark jeans, the zipper pressing up between the apex of your thighs. You moaned, small and hesitant, and he nipped your lip, a silent command to not hold yourself back. 

One of his hands shifted up, ghosting higher between your legs, and suddenly your nerves came to a tipping point. Eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed, you feel the heat of his hand pressing up against your pelvis.

"Nick-" You gape, sucking a sharp breath between clenched teeth, preparing for the worst. There was a pause in the pressure of his touch when he clearly didn't find what he was looking for, a falter, and you were ready to stumble out and run before his touch glided down, two fingers pressing firm against the crease in your jeans. Your hips kicked, a gasp ripped from your throat when his fingers probed a little harder, cunt leaking from months of neglect. His movements were smooth, languid, urging your thighs apart just a fraction wider as his touch grew more bold.

He hummed an appreciative noise, tongue passing over your jaw, then biting down, his touch working in small circles. "Keepin' secrets from me, pretty boy?" 

His lack of negative reaction had your heart soaring, nerves dissipating in an instant. You must have looked surprised, stunned in the moment, because he huffed an amused breath against your warmed skin while his hands worked at the button of your pants. Feeling the need to clear the air, ask your questions, your lips parted, question hanging on the tip of your tongue, only to have the hand delving into the front of your pants punching the air from your lungs, winding you. 

A deep, gravelly groan- something more akin to a growl- came from the depths of his chest when he felt the patch of wet in the crotch of your underwear. "So fuckin' eager," He mouthed against your cheek, swiping a stripe down, then up, hand coming up high enough to slip beneath the band and work his way back down. You could barely breathe, skillful hands working your stiffened clit between his index and middle finger. It was too much, yet too little at the same time, hips bucking into the touch desperately seeking more friction, more fullness.

Hazy eyes cracked open just in time to catch the shift of his free hand running over his own pants while he worked you so expertly, the heel of his palm dragging hard against the defined line straining against dark washed denim. Despite the confidence in his demeanor, he looked messy, hair tousled and lips parted, eyes trained on you with a sense of reverence that made you whimper. You watched his jaw tighten, watched the tendons in his neck flex when his fingers trailed low, catching on your weeping entrance. He was met with eager compliance, sliding your hips forwards on his lap, sending you leaning back against the steering wheel, inadvertently causing his fingers to dip deeper. 

You were wet, impossibly so, head tipping back and eyes sliding shut as Wolfwood worked deeper, caressing the spongy spot inside you with effortless ease, like he knew exactly where to touch you and how. The pitchy noises falling from your lips had him humming low, adjusting in his seat to push his hips forward, fingers stroking faster, curling. 

"Shit. Fuck. Up," You heard him mutter, though gave you no time to process the request before his fingers slipped out of you. You jolt, whining petulantly, only to have both of his hands grabbing at your ass and hiking you up. You complied, thighs burning at the angle you were kneeled at, hips arched, sun-kissed fingers curling into the band of your pants and underwear, sliding down. 

It was clumsy, clumsier than you'd like to admit, sliding them down to your knees just far enough to reveal the slick sticking to your thighs. You kept your ass up, hips arched, as Wolfwood fumbled with his own belt. You found it endearing in some way, how his fingers slipped a couple times taking out the prong, pulling with a hurried impatience. He didn't even bother undoing it all the way, working his button and zipper quickly after. 

You nearly sputtered when he hiked his pants down to sit at his mid-thigh, cock standing proud between you with a silent intimidation with the size and girth. It wasn't completely insane, but considering you'd had nothing but a humble vibrator and your own fingers for a good hot minute, it had your cheeks warming with anxious anticipation. This made him chuckle, cocky and gravelly and deep, but you couldn't find it in yourself to snap something back at him. 

A hand on your hip urged you to settle back into his lap, shuffling a bit to find a better angle. You tucked your knees up, back hunched as he pressed you more firmly back against the steering wheel, suddenly thankful for the lack of surface area providing a horn. He seemed to read your mind, one hand under your thigh and keeping you bent, the other gripping the base of his cock and sliding against the sopping wet crease of your cunt. "Thank fuck for six-bolt," Wolfwood mused, but you were far too occupied watching the slide of his leaking tip caressing your swollen clit to process or care about what he was talking about. 

His palm was hot under your leg, hiking it up a little higher, your muscles screaming from the angle of your knee pressing into your chest. He continued to tease, tapping the weight of him against you, enjoying the wet smack against your clit. You startled, yelped, bucked your hips with a depraved whine, hoping that he would get the idea and just fuck you already.

The hand holding the base of his cock angled it down, thumb pressing at the center as he pulled his hips back, pressed the tip into you, slowly sliding forward. Your breath caught in your lungs, trying desperately to arch into him, push him deeper, faster, but the hand steadfast against the meat of your leg kept you locked in place. 

"Fuck," He groaned out long and low, fingers digging into your skin and pulling you into the upwards thrust of his hips. He was teasing you with it, you know he was, your eyes glassy from both frustration and overwhelming pleasure. His other hand locked onto your hip, pulling you down closer, just a little faster, until he was fully seated inside of you. You were already trembling, clenching around him, and you could feel his cock kick inside of you, a punched out sound coming from between his clenched teeth. 

From the way Wolfwood had been handling you, you expected him to start out slow, ease into it, torture you a little bit longer than necessary just for a little payback. That certainly wasn't the case, not with the way he pushed your thighs up, pinned you against the wheel, and fucked his hips up into you with reckless abandon. You cried out, eyes slid shut, hands scrambling for purchase on anything they could. One hand curled around the smooth edge of the dashboard, short nails digging into the thick leather finish, the other coming up and grabbing at the handle above the driver's side door. 

Wolfwood was ruthless, weeks of obvious interest and yearning poured into each roll of his hips, each pull to meet every thrust, the frantic grip and release and caress of his hands against your bare skin. You could barely keep your eyes open, struggling to keep them parted as you panted, gasped, moaned for him, the smell of sex filling the car, fogging the windows. Umber eyes locked onto the part of your lips, glossy and kiss-plush, spit slicked, his jaw hanging slack as he fucked into you.

"Fuck, baby," Wolfwood growled, the term of endearment making your pussy clench around him a little tighter. He huffed a noise, his hand trembling imperceptibly as it left your leg, coming between your legs, swiping quick lines back and forth over your clit in an attempt to push you closer to the edge. With the falter of his hips, the stutter in his thrusts, you could tell he was close. "C'mon, pretty boy- give it to me."

His commanding tone had your head swimming, lightheaded and floating. The coil in your gut wound tighter, needing more, anything more to push you over the edge. 

Your hand left the dashboard, reaching out and curling nimble fingers in the collar of Wolfwood's low cut shirt. Twisting the fabric in your grip, you tugged him into you, earning a surprise noise quickly muffled by your greedy open mouth. He returned the fervor, letting out a long groan as he pulled you down, keeping you bouncing on his cock as your climax hit you. 

Brows arched, tongue eager, you mewled and whined into his mouth as your body trembled, cunt clenched, your slick and his pre-cum coating your inner thighs and dripping down. He pulled back just a fraction of an inch, a shuddered breath leaving his throat, a low moan, hips snapping up once, twice, continuing to fuck you even as he filled you to the brim. Everything slowed, your legs shaking in his grip, cheeks ruddy and face hot, sticky and high and satisfied beyond relief. 

He panted against your lips, exchanging heavy breaths for a moment or two longer before he leaned in again, stealing you one last time with an open tenderness you didn't expect from someone like Wolfwood. You parted, heart still racing, slowing in the silence that stretched between you as you caught your breaths. The only noise between you was a grunt from Wolfwood as he pulled you up and off his softening cock, his gaze trailing down to the slow drip of your shared fluids making a mess out of his jeans and car seat. He exhaled, smirk curling at the corners of his lips as he helped you pull up your underwear and pants. 

Urging you over the console, a flat palm collided playfully with your ass, making you jump and nearly hit your head on the bars stretching overhead. You glance back to glare, but he was too occupied tucking himself into his pants to catch your ire. Lucky him. 

You settle into your seat, thighs still weak and trembling, fingertips red and sore from how tightly you had been gripping the hand bar. Weakly, you grasp at the seatbelt, struggling with shaky hands to clip it in. Wolfwood was quick to reach over, hand engulfing your own to steady it, helping you get the clasp in with a quiet click. His hand came up, gently caressing your chin much as he had at the diner earlier that night, before grabbing his carton of cigarettes and shaking one loose. Your eyes slide shut, head back against the headrest as you hear him roll down the window and spark up, smell the familiar brand you've come to call comforting, then the rumble of the car engine as Wolfwood starts it up and pulls away from the cliffside shoulder. 

The drive towards your house was muss less action-packed, surprised to see Wolfwood actually doing the speed limit compared to how much he seemed to be doing earlier. It was quiet, favoring the low hum of the radio. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, you found, both of you simply satiated, satisfied, relaxing in the presence of each other. 

When Wolfwood pulled up in front of your house, he left the engine running, leaving you to think that maybe this was it. Maybe he got what he'd been wanting from you, and maybe this would make things easier when you eventually got to leave this shitty town. You unbuckled your seatbelt, though once again he was reaching out, grabbing your hand. He leaned over, taking the buckle from you and tucking it back in its place. An off gesture, you think, but when he comes back he's holding your chin in the palm of his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your lips. It was chaste, long, but when he pulled back you could see an unfiltered kindness in his eyes. 

"See you tomorrow?" He asked, and your heart swelled, chest rose as you inhaled deep. 

With a smile, a soft amused breath, you nodded. 

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

[whumpshaped]

write me an insomniac whumpee (I can't sleep and am mad about it)

Breathe in; one, two, three, four.

Hold; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Breathe out; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Whumpee had no idea how long they'd been doing this stupid exercise. One hour? Two? Five? They looked towards the window and saw nothing but the darkness. Probably not five, then.

They looked back at the ceiling. Caretaker had told them not to check their phone before bed, since that was bad for sleeping. They hadn't, but now they desperately wanted to. They were so bored. They would've taken the nightmares at this point.

A car passed under their window, followed by eerie silence. It must've been around 1 am, then. Maybe 2. Any sooner and there would've been drunk teenagers yelling about clubs and their absent friends, any later and there would've been more cars with people going to work. Not to mention the birds, even now in the winter.

They sighed. They shouldn't be able to tell the time just by things like this. They wished sleep hadn't escaped them for so many nights in a row that they had the chance to make all these observations.

And it seemed this night wouldn't be an exception either.

Whumpee turned over onto their side and and switched on their phone. "You can pry it from my cold, dead hands," they grumbled. "I would like to see you spend eight hours sleepless and offline."

[calciumcryptid]

Batman Issekai AU

Premise: After Gotham War, Bruce Wayne is sent back through time into his body the night of his first patrol as Batman. Realizing he has been given a second chance, he hunkers down on his 'work alone' policy as he vows to not allow the people he loves into his lifestyle.

The Canon Divergences (So Far)

Bruce rebukes the advances of Talia and Selina. One day Talia asks for his help to steal something, but Bruce ends her Selina's way instead. Talia and Selina fall in love and get married.

Bruce ensures Dick's parents won't die, so the circus passes through without issue. Unknown to Bruce, this leads Dick open wide to become Talon which inevitably puts them at odds.

Bruce prevents millionaire Anton Knight (Night-Slayer) from getting into burglary and introduces him to astronomer Natalie Metternich (Nocturna). Anton and Natalie fall in love and get married, and Bruce convinces them to adopt Jason Todd. Jason Knight is whisked away to another city and grows up to be an archeologist and historian with a love for literature.

Since he prevented the existence of Robin, Tim Drake has no drive to help Batman and serves as the heir to Drake Industries. As the new owner, he sponsors Young Justice. He marries his college sweetheart Bernard, and if they flirt with Superboy that is no one's business but the tabloids.

Stephanie becomes Spoiler, but instead of gaining the attention of Robin and Batman, she gains the attention of the Riddler. She becomes the Riddler's sidekick, and they take down her father together. Her mother may be in a poly relationship with Riddler, Query, and Echo, but Crystal Brown deserves it.

Bruce prevents the existence of the Joker, so Duke is raised by his parents. He becomes a daylight vigilante inspired by Batman, taking on the name Signal as he discovers his metahuman powers. The We Are Robin gang are other daylight vigilantes.

Damian is Talia and Selina's son, not Talia and Bruce's.

Harleen Quinzel works under Leslie Thompson, and Pamala Isley is hired by Talia. The two meet and form a romance without either of them being driven into villainy.

Barbara Gordon still becomes a vigilante but takes on the name Chiroptera instead as she works independently from Batman. She gets paralyzed on a case and becomes Oracle as she directs her successor and becomes the first Gotham vigilante in contact with the Justice League and helps found the Birds of Prey.

Cassandra Cain saves Commissioner Gordon, but gains the approval of Barbara instead of Bruce and becomes Batgirl and eventually Chiroptera after Barbara gets paralyzed while on a case.

Harper Row does not leave Bruce alone, and Bruce ends up breaking and adopting Harper and Cullen. Harper becomes his first sidekick under the name Bluebird.

Naturally, Bruce is going to have to be confronted by his changed children, allies, and villains. Anyone not mentioned I am still working on the alternate history and everything is subject to change.

@insomniac-jay

[in-my-attic]

You read the same five books five summers ago, over and over. Lockwood and Co. Teenage ghost-hunters in an alternate version of London. You revel in the descriptions of corpses, the horrific acts that tie the ghosts to the places where they died, the characters not too much older than you facing down these terrors that make your own fears of crossing the street a little less pressing.

You download an audiobook four summers ago, The Outsider by Stephen King. You listen to it while you sit in the basement and play with your siblings’ legos, and when you enthusiastically summarize the plot to your mother, she asks how books like that don’t scare you. You shrug and say, Well, they’re not real. Unlike when the carbon monoxide alarm went off in the middle of night, and you, an anxious insomniac even at that age, were the only one who heard it, and had to wake up everyone else so they wouldn’t die in their sleep. It turned out that the batteries needed to be replaced, but since then, you’ve lived with a deep, unshakeable fear that your inability to fall asleep is the only thing between your family and disaster. (Years later, a psychiatrist will offer to prescribe you sleep medication, and you refuse for months without explaining why.)

You take a creative writing class three summers ago, and put Mary Downing Hahn as one of your favorite authors on a google forms question. Her stories are shorter, less intense than the Stephen King you spent all last summer with, but that means you can read dozens of them in a row, soaking up stories of ghosts in many forms. You paint your nails and your eye catches on the bottle of nail polish remover on the shelf, and you wonder what would happen if you drank it, how quickly the acetone in it would kill you. You google it on your mother’s computer and the next day she asks you if you drank nail polish remover. You say no, and go back to reading, too afraid to paint your nails in case your control slips and you can’t stop yourself from drinking it. You lose yourself a haunted old church with a cemetery out back, somehow less scary than the thoughts in your own head.

You spend the night at your friend’s house two summers ago, and you two watch Fear Street in her living room. You watch the murders with ghoulish delight, hanging on every piece of information that might explain what’s going on. Someone’s head gets pushed through a bread slicer and you both gasp in disgust, but neither of you look away. You fall out of touch with that friend when you start school again, and you are afraid to look at her in the hallway, in case she is righteously furious with you for abandoning her, even though she has so many other friends unfamiliar to you, and neither of you really meant to cut things off, it just sort of happened- but still.

You’ve been listening to podcasts for a while by last summer, and you find yourself coming back to the same episode of The Magnus Archives, even months after you’ve finished it. It tells the story of a man who lived alone, hearing footsteps in the hallway and knocking on his bedroom door. He bought a sturdy lock and never answered the knocking, and that was that. Your house isn’t that old, but it creaks and settles in the night, and you listen, heart pounding, each time. But like the man, you never get up. You feared the sounds of your own house long before hearing this tale, and listening to it is oddly comforting. Someone else shares your fear. Once, though, you see a light on in the hallway through the gap under your bedroom door, and when it doesn’t go away, you hide under the blankets and don’t fall asleep for hours. The next day, the bathroom light is still on, and you pull back to shower curtain, expecting an intruder hiding there, but find nothing. Your father comes out of his own room. Oh, I left that light on again. Sorry.

You decide to learn to skateboard this summer, and you do it while listening to a survival horror story about underground cities and the beings who guard them. The White Vault. You fall and scrape your elbow, and it puts you in mind of the way the skin sloughed off the arm of a character who became a monster himself. Part of you envies him, terrible as that sounds. You lose track of time spent in front of the mirror, picking and pulling and peeling at your own skin. If only it would all just fall away. Holding scissors sends shivers down your spine, because while part of you knows they can’t cut through your skin, part of you is also tempted to try. Part of you wants to be a bare skeleton for reasons you can’t explain, and the other part of you is terrified of not being able to hold that desire in check.

[blueberry-ash]

Slept so freaking well for a solid fortnight, but of course it was far too good to last. Two nights in a row of just laying there like a miserable insomniac, and now my brain feels like it's gonna start leaking out of my ear. 😭

0/10, do not recommend; would vastly prefer to be fully rested rather than in possession of a budding migraine and what is apparently a fully-formed Team Happy brothel AU. Since... that is apparently what my soggy-tired mind cooked up while failing pathetically at sleep??? I don't know eitherrrr, Christ.

[lpvncnt]

* ◟ : 〔 TAMINO , CIS-MALE + HE / HIM 〕 PHILIP GOFFIN-VINCENT , some say you’re a TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both DOGGED and DEPRAVED, one can’t help but think of STRUGGLIN' by TRICKY, MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD when you walk by. are you still a CLEANER, ACTIVE ASSASSIN at THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, RED EYE even with your reputation as THE GARGOYLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STUPID SHOW-PONY HIGH ROLLER, PATIENT LIKE THE HYENA WAITS, GET IN YOUR CAR AND RUN ME OVER INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR OTHERS TO DO IT FOR YOU, YOU LAZY FOOL, although we can’t help but think of JONATHAN CRANE (DC COMICS) + ERIC DRAVEN (THE CROW) + JASON DEAN (HEATHERS) + ANTON CHIGURH (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

FILE: LIP VINCENT

STATUS: ACTIVE. HEIGHT: 6'2". SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL, AROMANTIC. DATE OF BIRTH: 12/25/1995 HOMETOWN: MALMEDY, BELGIUM. RESIDING: BROOKLYN, NY. ROOMMATE WITH [TBD WANTED CONNECTION].

Instead of the usual biography, I felt like the following poem captured the energy of the past a bit better than I could ever express:

INSOMNIAC

THE night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

— Sylvia Plath

AESTHETICS

Repugnant amount of weed smoke filling a suspension-lacking 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, that only a 100% masochist would drive in New York. You were not born to cry. Leopard print BB belts stacked on the waist. A soul, emptied. No pride, no pleasure, no desire. Life is just like a Wong Kar-Wai movie. You've got two fists comically full of metal, the weight shifts you off your feet when that punch is thrown, your poorly welded home-made 'rings' -- made from a chunk of all the old silver jewelry you've collected from the bodies over time, all these precious keepsakes melted onto a fork -- made to hurt -- should be illegal. Lots of little projects like that scatter what you call 'home'. An angel dies every time a shitty fuckboy like you flashes his mid-section in local Bodega for no reason. Recently adopted a Belgian Malinois, Osiris, who is still in training and needs a muzzle (an excuse for enabling bad behavior, could be symbolic). Egregiously loud mumble-rap. When stressed, likes watching ballroom dancing while chainsmoking cigarettes.

Hi, I'm Samuel, 24, PDT, a sweet little Californian baby boy who will do tricks for treats, gee whiz am I glad to be here. All of this is a bit vague but will be fleshed out with time -- if you've got any questions on specifics I'd be super happy to clarify. Huzzah !

[rinnysega]

First Night - An Elena Drabble

Elena Ruiz couldn’t sleep that first night.

It was peaceful out here in the country, in this encanto. A soft, comfortable silence of the night with echoes of an acoustic guitar playing somewhere in the village by an insomniac Elena could relate to. Not at all like the city with horns, arguments, broken glass, or howling dogs. No, it was different out here...comforting on paper, but terrifying as she lay there in the darkness. A vulnerable sense of loneliness.

Her hair was flat against the pillow of a small bed by a window. Her friend Ozzy let her stay with him and his boyfriend in their guest room, and the two hosts really did try and go above and beyond to make her first night as comfortable as they could. Nice, plush blankets made by Ozzy’s boyfriend, cups of fresh water by the bed for her to drink, and she even came across a small candy left by the couple on her pillow as an after dinner treat. Her suitcases were nicely stacked, just one open on an armchair where she dug out her nightgown to sleep in. They were very kind out here, these villagers, and it was a welcoming environment for someone like her. For someone like Ozzy too, who continued to write to her after moving here himself. Just two people, trying to outrun the shadows of their past that nipped at their heels. Like Elena as she fled her home, chased by words of mouth and the ink of tabloids before she wound up here.

In her arms, held tight, was a stuffed animal of a blue and yellow macaw, ornate with patterned cloth of like-colors and marble eyes that glistened from the moonlight seeping in through the threads of the curtain. Ozzy’s boyfriend, Gustavo if she remembered his name right, was an artist and crafter, and there was a shelf in the room where some of his favorite toys and dolls he made were lined up in a row on display. Feeling a bit alone sometime during the late evening, Elena got up and chose that macaw to snuggle with in bed, and she stared at it that early morning as her thumbs brushed the cotton fabric of its feathers. Her eyes then drifted as she stared up at the dark ceiling.

Her thoughts were running out of steam in her exhaustion, yet she couldn’t bear to actually close her eyes, less the faces that haunted her would show themselves in her dreams. Carlos, all those people whose sour expressions she memorized in the courthouse, the press, those women that sneered at her... That one woman in particular who clung to Carlos like a rotten disease…

A small whimper escaped her as she pulled up that macaw closer to her face to hide herself from her own thoughts. After a quick roll, she lay there on her side to sob, and the macaw’s yellow cotton feathers grew dark with her tears.

Just this small act alone of crying into something as innocent as a child’s toy unlocked a deep memory within Elena, and she felt so small again - a child herself just trying to understand how the world could be so cruel and how on earth someone as fragile as a songbird could dare go up against it.

At least out here in the country, she could cry over the echoes of that unfamiliar guitar and not the criticisms of her all too familiar Carlos. 

@prophetic-hijinks

[vergess]

Hi can I ask if you know more about those 4-5 major kinds of sleep aides? Because I have tried several, all prescribed, and uh. "hangover" doesn't even begin to describe what they do to me. we're talking taking half of the smallest dose, and still sleeping for half a week. I've had insomnia my whole life as well as inattentive ADHD and every medical professional with the ability to prescribe me things immediately wants to shove a sleep aide down my throat as soon as they learn this about me and now I'm wondering if I've just gotten unlucky and only gotten the Bad Kinds (for me). (I'm guessing this is sort of like how SNRIs fuck up big time but SSRIs either don't do anything or do only a little bit to me)

I'm NOT a doctor, and this is NOT medical advice, just my personal experiences.

You prooobably don't need sleep medication, but rather, need a stronger stimulant/extended release/a second dose before bed.

I know that sounds contradictory. Take uppers to fall asleep???

But if you have ADHD and you're having reactions that bad, then the sleep meds are interfering with your already suppressed (by the ADHD) brain function.

See, it turns out, sleep is one of those things you need to focus on to do, but most ADHDers don't have any stimulant/focus left in them by bedtime. So instead of falling asleep, they drift into complicated ("buzzing") thoughts and keep themselves distractedly awake, often with bonus anxiety.

If that sounds like you, I would suggest an experiment.

Next time you have 2 days off in a row, skip your ADHD meds on morning #1 (yes your function that day will suffer from being unmedicated! That's why it's on a day off), and instead take them right before bed that night.

Then, do whatever you can to make yourself comfortable that does not include the internet or video gaming. I exclude those two options because they are almost custom designed to overstimulate and sinkhole an ADHDer's mind.

I recommend taking a hot shower, listening to some music or podcast, or practicing your daydreaming skills by hypothesizing on your favourite characters or tropes (also known as "meditating on a subject" instead of "mindfulness meditation").

Once you can feel the stimulants kicking in, lay down and try to drift off.

If you're lucky, and it turns out you just need a second dose before bed, you'll wake up the next morning feeling almost medicated and surprisingly functional, and you can take your morning #2 dose as normal.

Then, you can report to your doctor that you tried taking your meds before bed, it helped your sleep, and you'd like to get a second dose prescribed for bedtime use. Your doctor may be unfamiliar or uncomfortable with this because stimulant medications have a bad reputation and ADHD does too. In that case, you can ask about splitting your existing dose in two instead.

Otherwise, I unironically suggest having a coffee or energy drink before bed. It's not as good, but caffeine can help in a pinch. (Actually, if you've ever noticed that coffee makes you sleepy, you can probably skip this experiment).

If you're unlucky and the stimulant keeps you awake instead, then day #2 is also a day off and you can do whatever you need to recover from the experiment, be that napping or going to bed early etc.

If the experiment fails, and you've had such poor reactions to sleep meds, then it's time to consider that you don't have insomnia, but instead one of the many other sleep disorders comorbid with ADHD. These include delayed sleep phase, narcolepsy with insomniac symptoms (I have this), or atypical circadian rhythm (the GF has this one).

None of these are well treated with sleeping pills. In fact, all of them tend to be worsened by sleeping pills, in contrast to traditional insomnia.

But they do respond fairly well to two things: light boxes, and melatonin, both of which are available over the counter or prescribed.

Using a light box when you wake up, and taking a single dose of melatonin 4 hours before you want to sleep (eg: 6PM dose for a 10PM sleep time) will take about 2 weeks to show results.

But it can make a staggering difference in sleep quality for delayed sleep phases and circadian rhythm disorders. Basically what you're doing is violently forcing your body to have a "correct" circadian rhythm by using artificial melatonin to start the sleepytime process, when your natural supply isn't working.

The light therapy meanwhile acts as an artificial Morning much more concentrated than a usual morning (though in the summer you can just sit facing the sun for half an hour with your eyes shut instead), which trips the body-wake-up systems that are usually suppressed or disrupted. It's a sort of "jump start" for systems that exist but don't start when they're supposed to.

Of course, all of this assumes you don't suffer from sleep apnea.

Sleep apnea, the king of sleep disorders, will completely fuck you no matter what you do until you get a CPAP mask. There's just no way around it. It's super common, and if you sleep alone (not with partners) it's also super easy to never notice you have it.

People associate sleep apnea with being fat, but actually it's very common across all weights, because it's caused by a small deformation in your tongue or throat. When your body fully relaxes, these slightly deformed muscles end up completely closing your airway.

Sleep apnea is as easy to diagnose as it is hard to notice, fortunately!!

The doctor gives you a little oxygen meter to wear while you sleep one night (at home, even! No sleep lab needed!) and if your oxygen drops below a threshold, that's apnea baby.

Because apnea prevents you from actually sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time (though you usually won't wake up all the way to notice it), it tends to make you feel like death itself if you take sleep medications. This is because your body is loaded up on sleepytime chemicals but physically cannot sleep, and thus cannot process out the chemicals, so you'll feel like you stayed up 2 or 3 nights for every night you "slept" (passed out) with the pills.

[littlehen]

so I had my last day in my old job!

I wasn't expecting anything, but actually my colleagues all signed a card and I got loads of hugs and they clubbed together to get me a nice leaving gift. I felt very surprised and touched. Lots of people said 'we'll miss you / don't be a stranger / gosh things are going to fall apart round here without you haha'. Also some colleagues gave me little gifts individually which all had text on that said 'believe in yourself' or 'be brave' or 'you forget how awesome you are - so here's a reminder!' so that's quite revealing about how I come across, lol

It's a bit weird, I'm not sad and I'm not excited/worried about the next thing, but that's more because emotions tend to take a while to creep up on me, I'll probably feel something next week.

the strange thing was when my boss gathered everyone round ('I'm going to embarrass you for a moment!') to give a little speech about how I'd be missed and thanking me for my hard work over the years, and I couldn't stop thinking, 'But I am leaving specifically because of you. If you'd said any of this over the past decade, anything positive at all, if you hadn't spent two hours non-stop criticising me in my last performance review (and blaming me for your mistakes!) then I wouldn't be moving on.' (Although I also kind of have to thank him, because I'd come to the conclusion that if he could manage a team then literally anyone could do it, so I might as well give it a go)

the loveliest thing was when I got a text from my young colleague who I've been sort of mentoring. She wished me luck and said 'I wanted to thank you for all the support and guidance you've given me,' which was so nice because she's only 18 and it was such a professional message and I just felt really proud of her, she's come so far. I've made a really conscious effort to be a supportive and encouraging team leader for her and all the youngsters.

Personally, I've had to put up with so many shit managers over the years, or be trained by dickheads who get annoyed if you ask questions or need something repeated, or constantly belittle you and then call it banter. (Not to mention, my first boss who regularly used to pat my bum, and he was still a more competent manager than the one I've just left.) And I was just like, 'but what if it doesn't have to be that way?' So I've always told the young ones not to be afraid to ask questions, and assured them that I fully expect them to forget parts of the training, that's totally normal and all part of learning, and I won't mind standing nearby while they do a process and being available to step in if they get stuck. etc etc. Things I wish anyone had said to me when I was starting out, instead of making me feel small and worried all the time. And also trusting them to make decisions and asking them what they think, praising them for good work and thanking them for hard work. Or if they get it wrong, explaining why it's wrong and how to get better, rather than just telling them off. (Just: doing the opposite of every interaction I've ever had with my boss, lol) And watching that approach work, and seeing the young ones gain confidence - that gave me the confidence to try applying for a promotion. So yeah, it was really great to get that text from her, it meant a lot to me.

I think what's going to be weird, and really hard, is my new work pattern, Monday to Friday, office hours. For 10 years I've always worked at weekends and my days off were random weekdays. I haven’t worked five days in a row with two days off, not for years. I haven’t had to deal with shops and supermarkets at busy weekends. I’m not used to worrying about sorting out work clothes and packed lunches for a five day stretch. And I have to be in the office every day by 8.15am, which is a scary prospect for a night owl insomniac. So I think that’s what I’m most apprehensive about, more than about how I’m going to get on in the job. oh, and meeting 45 new colleagues 😳 All change

[magicmalcolm]

Malcolm Plays Final Fantasy IX

I Got The Burmecia Blues

(previous parts here)

Okay, so there's a few things to do before hitting up Burmecia.

First, a small optional area to the right of the exit from Gizamaluke's Grotto. The North Gate has a nice little scene between Freya and Quina, where the former envies the carefree nature of the latter. There's also a couple of Chests to loot. Yay!

Second, we track down a Nymph enemy for Quina to learn another Blue Magic Skill: Night. Night induces the Sleep Status on EVERYTHING in the current battle, friend and foe alike. Can combo quite well if everyone on your side has the Insomniac ability equipped (which we can get from the Coral Ring Freya won at the Festival Of The Hunt).

Third, we can dig up one more Chocograph location in this area of the map. Taking a detour past the left of the sand-tornado takes us to a secluded beach, where a set of Chocobo tracks lay. The treasure location is also on this beach and…

IT'S A TRAP!!!

Or…not?

Choco has acquired the Reef Ability! So this doesn't give Choco the ability to walk on all water yet, this one allows him to traverse the shallow light-blue waters. This will come in handy to nab a few more Chocograph Treasures back on the other side of Gizamaluke's Grotto, but we'll get them later. Burmecia awaits!

And what is the first thing that happens to us in Burmecia?

Welp.

Another enemy can be eaten here in Burmecia for Blue Magic, eating a Magic Vice enemy will earn Quina the Magic Hammer skill. which removes a random amount (based on their current HP) of the enemies' remaining MP. Could be useful to help neuter some bosses down the road.

Also some of the chests in Burmecia are actually Mimics. Mimics can sometimes summon the aforementioned Magic Vices, so battling them isn't all bad.

Sadly, Burmecia is already in Ruins by the time we get there. Soldiers and civilians alike fallen at the hands of Brahne's Black Mage Army. Still, they were nice enough to leave a Lightning Staff and this Mythril Spear untouched for us to acquire.

We also bump into Stiltzkin again, who sells us a pretty sweet bundle of goodies for a barganimous price. And we also get another Kupo Nut and oh oh this another game spanning quest isn't it?

Welp. Burmecia's already wrecked, might as well head back and get sidetracked. Play the Backtrack Song!

So first we go back to Gizmaluke's Grotto and give Moguta the Kupo Nut we just got.

He's Kupo For Kupo Nuts.

Then we head back to Qu's Marsh to check on the Frog Spawn.

This goes immediately onto Vivi. Ability Up is going to be really useful for him soon.

And since Choco obtained the Reef Ability earlier, we can grab two more Chocograph Treasures! The Magician's Robe is nice, but the Oak Staff from Chocograph #11 is the real prize right now. Bio, Stop and Drain? For Best Boy Vivi? Yay!

After that it's heading back to prep for facing Beatrix. Everyone gets moved to the back row, Zidane gets the Coral Ring and then it's pretty much down to the whims of fate.

He's doing his best.

Kuja's so sassy.

My strategy for the Beatrix fight is pretty simple, Zidane Steals and hopes for a miracle to at least get that Chain Plate, Freya casts Reis' Wind to open and heals with Potions when not defending, Quina casts Vanish on Zidane and recasts as necessary, and Vivi tries to land a Slow spell on Beatrix. Getting the Mythril Sword is about as mythical as it gets during this hopeless boss battle. If Beatrix KOs Zidane before you can Steal the Chain Plate (let alone the Sword), you might as well reset. The remakes are nice enough to Autosave right before the Beatrix Battle, at least.

OMG I actually got it what in the actual…

The real kicker is that it's not even a unique weapon...you can literally buy this in Treno in like five minutes from now...and it's almost immediately made obsolete in Treno too.

Unfortunately that's where the good luck ends. Beatrix activates her trap card: Hopeless Boss Battle. Fortunately it's still Disc One of Four so we're allowed to live for some reason.

And yet you do nothing. Aah, blessed be to Overconfident Villains.

[philatz]

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