pretty exhausted by unsourced viral posts by people far too young to have been there claiming that people with aids routinely literally died at die-ins in the ’80s and ’90s, by the hundreds… look i wasn’t there either but i’ve never seen a credible source saying anything like this in all my reading and a lot of searching. i’m pretty sure it’s not true.
please take tumblr history with an enormous grain of salt. so much of it is garbage.
Summary: Shawn is a criminal mastermind and you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time….or was it the right place at the right time?
Alarms start going off the moment the guy you were with opens the safe door. Loud, blaring alarms that make you wish you could cut your own ears off. Everything goes from zero to a hundred real quick after that. Sunglasses comes running in followed by two other guys. There is a lot of yelling and ordering around. The guys who came in with Sunglasses start prying open vault doors along the wall with surprising ease. They leave some cash while stuffing others into bags and you can’t help but why not grab it all? Before you can open your mouth, Sunglasses is grabbing you by your collar and hauling you up off the floor.
“You, with me,” he growls and you pull back against his grip. He sets his jaw and you can see a nerve tick through his cheek. “It’s not an option sweetheart.”
Summary: The Doctor’s been working on a secret project in his workshop for his and Rose’s second wedding anniversary. The TARDIS is in on the secret and the two of them can hardly wait until the appointed day to reveal the surprise.
Rating: all ages || Word Count: 2694
AN: For @hanluvr who prompted this as part of my charity fic giveaway!! Thanks so much, darling!
“Rose?” The Doctor called,
walking in the back door without looking up from the bit of machinery in his
hands. “Have you seen the spanner? My favorite one? You know, the one with the
blue handle and the-”
He cut off abruptly when the
tool in question was thrust under his nose.
“This one?” Rose asked
He looked up to grin at her.
He grabbed the spanner and
stuck it in his back pocket before hooking his arm around Rose’s waist and
pulling her in for a quick kiss.
“You’re going to get grease
all over my work clothes,” Rose muttered against his lips, not bothering to
“Like you don’t get grease
all over your work clothes at work,” he teased before kissing her once more and
“S’not the point. Made it
home without a stain today until now.”
The Doctor grinned at her as
he rocked back on his heels, completely unrepentant.
Rose just rolled her eyes,
the gesture doing nothing to hide the fond smile that stole over her face. “So,
what are you working on out there?”
He glanced over his shoulder
at the large shed in the back garden that was his workshop. “Oh, you know, this
“Is this or that your big
surprise?” Rose asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
“That would be telling.”
She sighed with all the drama
she could muster. “Course it is.”
15-19 August, 2019: Guest of Honour at the First Dublin Worldcon
I’m ridiculously happy to let everybody know that I’ve been chosen to
be one of the Guests of Honour at the 2019 World Science Fiction Convention in Dublin, Ireland.
To say that I’m blown away by this—and have been for some months
while I sat tight on the news—would be badly understating the case. To
be the recipient of an honor that’s been bestowed on some of the people
who’ve mattered deeply in my life as an SF fan and a writer is simply
mind-boggling. To be asked to fill such a position, not just at a
Worldcon based for the very first time in the land of saints and
scholars and Nobel laureates for literature, a country known around the
world for its love of the written and spoken word, but also on my own
home ground… is an Amazing thing. Fantastic, even. …And I’m really enjoying it!
So my thanks and gratitude go first to the convention committee, and
all the people involved in putting me in this unexpected and
I’ve participated in a fair number of Worldcons in my time, but even
at this end of time it’s obvious to me that (from my point of view
anyway) this one’s going to blow them all out of the water. Naturally
it’s going to be personally satisfying to take part in the events that
routinely come with fulfilling a GoH’s responsibilities. And I seriously
look forward to getting to know my fellow Guests of Honour, among whom
it’s a privilege to be numbered. But what’s going to make this event most
special for me is the opportunity to meet and hang out with the many,
many people who’ll come to Dublin for the convention, and who’ll partake
along the way of the inimitable, hospitable Irish buzz that I firmly
believe will make this Worldcon uniquely memorable for everybody.
People who know me online, or in what we laughably think of as Real
Life, will know I’ll have a fair bit more to say about this in the days
and weeks to come. In the meantime, though, let me just say Thank you again! And I’m looking forward to seeing as many of you as can possibly make it to Dublin in August of 2019.
Now to start stockpiling my share of those hundreds of thousands of
welcomes we keep ready for visitors to Ireland. Let’s see: a hundred
thousand per visitor, times… what? Five thousand? Six? More?
Holidays are your favorite. You enjoy the cold weather, the bundling up in coats and sweaters and when it begins to snow. You love the chocolate drinks and sweets that everyone makes, how the time of year seems to bring everyone together. There’s Christmas trees and presents, and going home to see your family.
Scorch felt like a fool. He knew what the two sergeants were doing now, and why: they were reciting the names of fallen clone commandos. It was a Mandalorian custom to honor dead loved ones and comrades by repeating their names daily. He wondered if they went through all those thousands every single day. “You didn’t memorize every name, did you, Sarge?” Sev asked. “We remember every lad we trained and we always will,” Skirata said quietly, but Scorch saw that he kept glancing down at a datapad clutched in his hand. Five thousand names - plus those killed after the Battle of Geonosis - was an impossible feat of memory even for Skirata’s devotion. “The rest… we only need a little prompting.”
- Republic Commando: Order 66
this is one of those (underrated, imo) scenes that … always hits me harder on each successive reread.
He just couldn’t sleep lately. Every time he’d shut his eyes and try to focus on anything besides the malice, his mind would run right back to it again. She was quiet next to him, huddled up in an old, Hello Kitty quilt. She looked so peaceful, so at ease with her face buried in the pillows, eyebrows furrowed together intently as if they were meant to be that way. Even in her sleep she was thinking about something, and Kei couldn’t help but wonder what.
“What’s on that beautiful mind of yours, hm?” He caught himself whispering, his shaky hand reached for her forehead but stopped halfway there. “Whatever it is, it’s surely not this horror story I’m dealing with.” He finally let his fingertips brush against her, taking in her everything for a moment before backing away, slipping out of bed to do something about the nasty migraine he’s been hosting all night. The hardwood floor was freezing underneath him, the moon and only the brightest of pollutant beating stars still prominent way up in the sky. Sometimes he just disregarded medicine all together and sat on the balcony, taking in the comfort from the sky above and the empty streets below. He’d sit down on a cast iron patio chair, and lay his arms across the cast iron railing and lay his head down, closing his eyes against the force of the gentle harbor breeze. Sometimes he wondered how he even got here, with his head full of nightmares and his heart full of sorrow. Thousands and thousands of miles away from home, Five thousand, two hundred, sixty seven miles to be exact, and for what? Five thousand, two hundred, sixty seven miles away from home to run away from some distant memory, hoping in that distance, the pain would get lost along the way. He was happy now, truly, and he thought back to her in the bed, just twenty feet away, soon to be fifteen, then five, then zero, because he knew she couldn’t sleep without his presence, and even in the worst days she’d follow him out to the balcony, pull out a chair next to him, and sit there, holding his hand until he wanted to go inside. It was always like that, and part of him loved it. Was it romantic? Quite possibly, if insomnia was put in the retrospect of being romanticized. Fisherman started undocking their boats on the canal down below, shouting at each other in a language Kei couldn’t quite comprehend. They didn’t notice him, but he watched them, his fingers tracing lazy circles around the bar on the railing as their foreign conversation dragged on, dragging his interest with him. Behind him, the balcony door squeaked, and even though he knew exactly who the perpetrator was, he still jumped, the iron chair rattling underneath him. She giggled, wrapping her warm, tired arms around his neck from behind, her lips toying at the nape of his neck.
“Hey, it’s just me…” She cooed, and Kei took the opportunity to sigh.
“I know…” He grabbed her hand and held them closer to his chest. He always wondered why her hands were always so cold, yet the rest of her was always so warm. He said nothing as he placed them over his heart, goosebumps prickling along his bare arms. It was only fifty degrees, yet fifty degrees was warm for a place like this, especially at the break of dawn. She didn’t even bother to sit next to him today, just holding him as time ever so slowly passed by.
“Do you want to go back to bed?” She muttered after some time, lethargy still hinted in the very crevices of her voice. He wanted to tell her that it was stupid of her to even follow him out here in the first place, that she didn’t need to, that she could just stay by herself inside until his pity party subsided. She wouldn’t listen, though, she never did. He liked to say she was as stubborn as she was beautiful, sometimes. He tilted his head back and looked into her eyes for the first time that morning, the soft gaze and knowing eyes enough to melt his heart all over again. He nodded, letting go of her hands over her chest and sulking back inside, sparing one last glance to the lost fishermen on the canal.
She burrowed herself under the same Hello Kitty quilt as before, pulling him closer and draping it around his shoulders. He sighed, part of him feeling ridiculous, usually he wanted that thing kept as far away from him as possible, but now that it practically engulfed him, he couldn’t help but lean into the solace of its warmth. She spared him a chuckle, cupping his head in her hands and kissing the corner of his lips in the singular way that made his head spin. Her fingertips were still cold, but her lips were ever so warm, and goosebumps broke out on his skin once more.
“You’re being oddly affectionate today…” He croaked, leaning in to notion that he only wanted more.
“Is it a crime to kiss my boyfriend now, Tsukishima Kei?”
“If it was a crime, I wouldn’t mind going to prison.”
“Oh.” She peeped, quietly before breaking out into giggles. “That was horrible. You really do need to sleep, baby, replenish your wit before you say that to me ever again.”
Kei found himself laughing, burying himself deeper into the quilt on top of him. He still looked up at her, the sudden sunlight filtering through the blinds making him squint even more than he was before. The softness of the light that casted through made her look like an angel, he thought, an absolute divine deity. Although she had bags that made her look like she had received two black eyes and frizzy bed head that was only more prominent against the light source, she looked perfect to him.
“I love you.” He said with a hoarse voice, under the blankets. She looked straight at him with amused eyes, blinking ever so slowly until they shut, and she leaned over to kiss him. He melted into it, his hand heavy against the side of her torso.
“I love you too.” She muttered, between a broken kiss. “More than you could ever imagine.”
It was no surprise that as they entered the large warehouse masks were being handed out to all the the people that were invited. People from members of the mafia, government, trade, and big business were all there and who bought what or who was there to gamble, was their business and their’s alone.
Chanyeol and then others slipped on their masks and separated into pairs and made their way through the crowd. Even with the masks some people were unmistakable so it was easy enough to strike up a conversation and talk business.
Blue, Yellow, and White Diamonds (glaring at Steven): You killed Pink Diamond! Confess!
Steven: I don’t know!
Pink Diamond (casually strolling in, stretching): Hey, guys, back from my vacation! What’s been happening for the past five thousand…. OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING? Have you been crying, Blue? Why are all my Rose Quartz Gems bubbled?
Spend a night at the Kings Inn Motel and win $25,000.00
The Craigslist ad didn’t say much else.
Just a local area telephone number and address.
Call To Make Your Reservation Today!
I scoured the ad three more times for some catch—some hidden fine print—before picking up the phone to dial.
“Front desk.” The man on the other end of the line sounded bored and put upon.
I sat up straight in my chair. “Yeah, I uh, I saw your ad.”
“Yes, sir. The room is still available.”
“This prize money—twenty-five grand—that legit?”
The man on the other end sighed. “Yes, sir. Would you like me to make you a reservation?”
“What’s that about?” I asked. “I mean, what do I have to do?”
“Look, dude, it’s a promotional thing I think. I don’t know—I just man the front desk. Stay the night; win the prize. Simple.”
“Yeah, ok, but what’s the—“
“It’s a double bed room. Sixty-nine dollars a night. Non-smoking. Looks like it’ll be available Wednesday after 4:00. You want the reservation, or no?”
Twenty-five thousand dollars for one night in some flea bit motel?
I gave him my name and particulars and listened as he punched them into a computer.
“Alright, Sir,” he’d found his way back on script, “your reservation is confirmed and we look forward to seeing you Wednesday. Please have your ID and a major credit card at check in. Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”
I cleared my throat. “This isn’t some sort of scam, is it?”
“Nope. We’re authorized to issue you a certified bank draft come check out time. Assuming you stay the full night.”
“One more thing,” I said quickly. “How many other people have won?”
But the line had already disconnected.
The Kings Inn Motel is one of those places.
You know the type.
Seedy, low-slung red brick buildings set back off the side of some lonely Interstate. A humming sign casting neon shades of red and blue over a mostly empty parking lot filled with broken bottles and cigarette butts.
WIFI & WEEKLY RATES AVAILABLE
An electronic bell buzzed jarringly somewhere in the back as I stepped through the door into the lobby.
Inside, the air was hot; heavy with the stink of bleach and disinfectant. Like the smell of a pool shed or a nursing home.
The young guy behind the Formica topped front desk barely looked up from his phone as I approached with my overnight bag.
“I’m on break,” he said flatly.
“Uh, I have a reservation.”
He dropped his phone to the counter. “Oh. So, you’re the guy? Well, welcome to the Kings Inn–where we treat you like royalty. They make me say that, sorry.”
His teeth, when he smiled were brown and yellow—leaning drunkenly against one another.
“License and credit card, please,” he said.
I slid them across the counter.
“Alright,” he said at length. “Everything looks good. You’ll be in room 205. Housekeeping just finished up in there, so should be nice and clean for ya. End of the row—past the ice machine.”
I took my cards back and said, “About this contest. What’s the gimmick?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You know. What’s the catch?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you. Management handles all that.”
“Can I speak to them?”
He shook his head. “Against the rules.”
“There are rules?”
He leaned in conspiratorially. His breath was hot and smelt like garlic bread. “If it was me? I’d lock the door, pop a couple Xanax, crawl into bed and sleep straight through till check out time. But that’s just me.”
I nodded as if I understood and took the proffered plastic keycard.
“Checkout’s at nine. Enjoy your stay.”
Room 205 was indeed past the ice machine—at the far end of the long L shaped arm of the building where it backed up to a dense copse of trees.
I parked my car beneath a streetlight and walked the half a dozen yards—past an endless row of barred windows and cheap plastic patio chairs—to the door of room 205.
The door was nothing special. A dented and drab olive green with peeling white stick-on letters above the peephole. Not dissimilar to a million other such doors lining countless motel corridors from here to Angola.
My room key fit with a tiny thunk in the lock and I pushed the door inward.
Maybe, in the moments before I flicked on that overhead light, I expected something different. An axe murderer crouched in the corner. A message daubed in blood above the mirror. Something fantastic or dark. Something worthy of the telling.
Instead, the too yellow light shone on a scene that was all too familiar.
Coral pink walls that clashed with the jade green of the carpet. A sickening tableau of stale cigarettes, floral patterned bedspreads and faux wood grains. I could almost smell the sex—the half remembered and unfinished acts—that lingered hot and filthy on every surface like a film.
Pedantic, yet comforting in its simulacrum of home.
I dropped my bag on the small round table to the left of the door and flopped bodily onto the nearest bed.
How many unborn babies had seeped into the fabric of these blankets? How many un-recepticled loads of cum had sprayed across those pink tufted headboards? Enough to make it a living sentient thing?
I checked my watch—it was a little after six. Fifteen hours lay between me and that twenty-five thousand dollars.
What had the guy at the front desk said? Stay the night; win the prize.
I grabbed my car keys and headed toward the door.
I’d need pizza or beer if I was to make it.
The air felt different on my return.
Used is the best way I know how to describe it.
That dry staleness of long disuse shot through with traces of something I couldn’t identify. Like the final ghostly fingers of someone’s cologne lingering.
The TV was on–the usual bevy of infomercials and pay-per-view porn ads—and from where I stood I could see contents of my overnight bag; strewn across the floor.
I dropped my pizza and froze—straining for the sound of some hidden intruder.
I checked the small dirty bathroom.
I looked under the bed.
I gathered my things—just a change of clothes and some toiletries—into a pile and called the front desk.
The guy seemed unconcerned and brushed aside my indignation.
There were no other active keycards available for my room, he assured me. And no one had been into the office since my arrival.
“Were any maids in here while I was gone?” I wanted to know.
“Housekeeping leaves at 5:30. Your bag probably just fell over.”
“Can I switch rooms, then?”
“We’re all full up.”
“So, you’re not gonna do anything about the fact that someone’s been in my room rifling through my shit? What kind of place is this?”
A sigh. “I’ll log your complaint and you can take it up with management in the morning. I can offer you a free continental breakfast, in the meantime.”
I hung up.
I’ll admit, I thought about leaving right then. Just grabbing my bag and the remnants of my cold pizza and booking it. Home sounded good. Home sounded safe. But the thought of the money stayed my hand.
It was past nine now. What would a few more hours hurt?
I bolted and chained the door behind me before climbing into the bed.
The sheets were thin and rough. Hospital quality. They scratched at my legs and the tops of my feet and audibly crinkled when I moved. The pillows little more than lumpy plates behind my head.
I bathed in the fuzzy blue glow of late night TV and fell into a fitful sleep, already counting my winnings….
I fumbled in the dark for the jangling cordless phone on the bedside table.
“Mh? Hello?” I said, only half awake.
Through bleary eyes I could just discern the digital alarm clocks glowing yellow timestamp.
“Sir,” the voice on the other end was familiar. Bored. “I have to ask you to please keep it down.”
“Whasat? Do what?” I was finding surer footing in the land of consciousness. “Who’s this?”
“We’ve had several noise complaints from guests. Please keep your voices down. It’s very late.”
“You and your visitor. Just keep it quiet, ok buddy?”
I sat up like a bolt and felt blindly for the lamp switch—casting the room in a sickly orange glow.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger. The room was freezing cold. The drone of the old AC unit under the window rustled those hideous curtains in erratic patterns across the green carpet.
What had he been on about? Something about a guest?
I shook my head to try and clear some of the cobwebs. The roof of my mouth felt dry—my tongue bloated and unwieldy. When I stood to go to the bathroom for a piss and a glass of water the room seemed to wobble beneath me and I had to steady myself against the TV.
I felt sick. Or slightly tipsy. Like I did when I was six and had a fever of 102 and the world looked elastic and shiny.
The bathroom was small and grimy. The tub yellowed. I splashed some tap water over my face as I tried to catch my breath. My cheeks felt hot; my stomach roiled. Had the pizza gone bad?
I stepped back into the main room as the phone continued to ring.
There was that feeling again—that imperceptible otherness—like the twice diluted stuff you breathe on airplanes.
It was a little after 2:30, now. Who was calling?
“Hello?” I picked up the phone.
The glaring hum of the dial tone was the only response I got.
I set the phone back in its cradle.
“Don’t answer that! It’s probably Tony, wondering who stole those last five Lortabs.”
I jumped as if struck, biting back a scream as I whirled in the direction of the bathroom.
A young woman in a loose-fitting sundress was visible through the bathroom doorway—her back to me. Her pelvis was pressed hard against the sink as she applied lipstick to her loamy reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Don’t tell Tony I’m in here, ok? He’ll try and take my jacket.” She smiled conspiratorially before climbing into the tub.
“Hey!” I crossed the room in three quick strides and grabbed the cheap plastic lining of the shower curtain. “Who the fuck are you?”
I pulled the curtain back with a sharp whisk.
The tub was empty.
I turned the light on with a flick of the wrist and stared numbly at the piss colored grout and linoleum. There was nowhere else to hide. My chest felt tight and my bowels felt twisted. I struggled to catch my breath. Using the wall as a guide rail, I navigated my way back to the bed and sat down amid the tangled sheets.
I was going to throw up.
I just needed to lie down. Just rest my eyes—just for a second. Yeah, that was it. I was sure. I was just tired. Ill. Nothing rest wouldn’t put right.
The pillows felt blissfully soft this time; the sheets satiny. How had I misjudged them? And the air! The air didn’t smell like mold. It was sweet—like fresh laundry.
I inhaled deeply through my nose.
“There you go!” tub girl sing-songed from bathrooms dark maw. “Go to sleep, baby. Rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, rolling onto my side.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up.” I could almost feel her lips on my earlobe that time. Could almost smell her earthy perfume.
I nodded. Yes. Sleep.
I cracked my eyes.
The digital alarm clock now said 3:04.
Surely it had only been a moment since I closed my eyes.
I found the phone. “Yeah?” My voice sounded funny. Muffled.
A wave of static rolled over me. Buzzes and pops and whistles. Like a fax line trying to connect.
“Hello?” I tried again.
I closed my eyes—they felt so heavy—and prepared to press END on the phones dial pad when I heard it.
Just a whisper—barely even there. Almost lost among the screeching and buzzing of an unused line.
“Yeah?” I perked up at the sound of my name. Peeled my eyelids apart again.
“Jimmy, its Mom. Listen to me, Jimmy. I need you to wake up.”
“Mom?” The word sounded unfamiliar. That couldn’t be right.
“Listen, Jimmy. You have to wake up.”
“It’s three in the morning,” I whined.
“Get up. Hurry. Management doesn’t want me talking to you. You need to get UP.”
I struggled into a sitting position, still cradling the phone. “Mom?
How is this you? You can’t be calling. You’re de—“
The voice through the static cut me off. “You need to get up. Get your keys and get outside. Now. You can’t fall asleep. Okay?”
“What about the money?”
“Hurry, Jimmy. I love you.”
The call ended abruptly.
I looked at the phone and thought of my mom. Remembered the last time I’d seen her. She’d looked so small in that coffin—barely filling out her favorite pink Sunday dress.
A nascent migraine had begun to settle in behind my eyes.
“Whatever Tony said, he’s lying.”
If I turned my head I could almost see her—my gal Friday—daubing on uneven finger-fulls of mascara.
Get your keys
“Just go back to sleep, baby.”
When I stood up too fast the room spun and I almost fell.
Careful. Careful. I shuffled barefoot across the verdant carpet jungle to the table by the door.
My keys felt heavy.
“Baby, where are you going? Get back in bed. We can split this Roxicodone I found.” She sounded forceful.
I need you to wake up
I grappled with the door lock and chain. My fingers felt stupid. Unresponsive. “I’m sorry,” was all I managed. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Hey! Hey, come back!”
I pulled too hard and the door swung inward banging off the drywall with a muffled crunch.
Outside it was early—or late—and wonderfully cool and still. Rocks and asphalt stung the bottoms of my feet as I stepped off the curb and into the parking lot. The invisible vise around my chest—the one I hadn’t noticed till then—began to loosen.
I staggered to my car and leaned my forehead against the driver’s side window. It felt good to just breathe normally.
I climbed behind the wheel and started the car. Let off the break and began to reverse.
A loud male voice. A dark bulky silhouette in my taillights.
Someone beating fists on the trunk of my car. Grabbing for the door handle.
I screamed, threw the car into drive and stomped on the gas. I shot through the motel parking lot like a bolt scraping sickeningly over speed bumps. I didn’t care. I gunned it past the front office. Past the neon sign. Away from that place and onto the narrow road toward the interstate.
I guess I was sleepier than I thought, though.
See, I don’t remember nodding off behind the wheel and I don’t remember the car veering off the road. Nor the tree speeding toward me.
If I strain, I can vaguely recall the car rolling. The crunch and shriek of metal and glass.
A well of darkness finally pulling me in.
Carbon dioxide poisoning.
I heard those words a lot in the coming days.
They were whispered by doctors and nurses, scribbled on charts and forms I was asked to sign.
It was almost a week before a police officer—Mitchell, I think his name badge said—filled in the gaps in my memory.
Officers responding to calls from motorists on the Interstate about an accident near the Kings Inn. I’d fainted at the wheel and wrapped my car around an oak tree doing 60. Or maybe it was a maple?
Anyway, first responders pulled me out delirious and screaming about people trying to get me.
They thought I was high or concussed.
I still had the keycard to room 205 on me so police made a sweep of the premises.
The lights were off in the front office and the doors both locked.
In my room they found my scattered belongings and an unmade bed.
In room 204 they found a gas-powered generator thrumming away– pumping high levels of CO2 through the air vent that connected the two rooms.
“Twelve percent concentration, doctors say,” he told me. “Levels that high can cause any number of symptoms. Nausea, headaches, confusion, auditory or visual hallucinations. You name it.”
“I thought I was seeing ghosts,” I said.
He nodded. “Nobody was registered in room 204 and the generators gonna be hard to trace. It’s old. Could buy one just like it at any Lowes or Home Depot. But we’re looking into it.”
“What about the kid at the front desk?”
“MIA. It looks like a random thing. Some sicko trying to lure people in. Gas ‘em up and do God knows what. You’re lucky you had the good sense to run for the door. If you’d fallen asleep, doc says you might have slipped into a coma or worse.”
I looked up from the IV in my arm. “Did you find anything else?”
Officer Mitchell frowned slightly and shifted in his seat by my bed.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “like I said, there wasn’t nothing in room 204. No prints, no personal effects—except for this.” He extended a large clear plastic evidence bag toward me.
“It was left on the bed in 204. Can’t let you keep it, of course. It’s evidence.”
Summary: Dan Howell may have been only fifteen, but he knew where his life was going. He was going to be a runway model, (his pastel goth fashion and thousands of tumblr followers assured him of that.) And just because he has a crush on Phil, a year eleven who also happens to be super dream and in drama, that doesn’t change Dan’s plan. It just inspires him to come up with a new one. A ten-step plan, to be exact. Word Count:10021 Warnings: some swearing, making out, mentions of sex, anxiety, angst at the end, slight homophobia (typical teenage boy stuff) A/N:I’m so excited to be sharing my PBB3 fic with all of you! Special thanks to my artist, Sasha, (x) and my beta cloackativelys for being so lovely. Also, thanks to Josie for being a team player and actually reading the first draft of the fic before anyone else. Please enjoy!
Dan could already see it. One day, he was going to be a model. He had dreams about it; walking down the runway in the latest fashion, everyone taking his picture, people going ‘oo’ and ‘ah as he walked with confidence. He would buy a mansion with the millions of dollars he had and he would fly to exotic places in his own private helicopter. His partner, (and not just a wife, if a hot, rich guy wanted Dan he would say yes in two seconds) would be equally as famous and would support Dan in everything he did. He would maybe fly back to Wokingham to rub in the face of all of the people who called him a gaylord —when he was so obviously bisexual— that he was rich and famous and they weren’t. Unfortunately, today was not that day.
This is what happens when I need a nap and @bloomsoftly encourages me.
This is the beginning of 62% which I wrote for the FYDL Drabble-a-thon which I was going to sit out. Knowing me, i’ll probably keep writing and posting all the way up to 100%.
Pairing: Johnny Storm/ Darcy Lewis
Rating: T for language
“Lewis, when are you gonna make an honest man of me and take me out on that date I’ve been asking for?”
Johnny leaned up against the partition wall next to Darcy’s desk and flexed his arms in his tank top. He’d peeled half his flame-proof suit down to his waist because he’d caught her looking at his hip line once before and he was absolutely vain enough to see if he could recreate the phenomenon.
“When I take you seriously,” Darcy said, squinting at a line of code on her computer screen.
“Ouch.” He blinked, and waited for her to acknowledge him. She didn’t, just cocked her head to one side and hit the backspace key repeatedly. “You don’t take me seriously?”
Darcy looked over at him and the pause of silence that followed made him twitch in place. “I mean. Sure. You’re…you and I take you…semi seriously,” she said with a shrug. “But I don’t take your offer of a date seriously.”
“Like, at all seriously?” he asked.
Darcy rolled her eyes and sighed. “Five percent seriously. I take it five percent seriously.”
(Disclaimer: I am a liveblog! I’ve seen up through episode 105, Know Your Fusion, and all analysis and assertions made herein are based
upon such information as I have received to this point. Please don’t
spoil me about future events in the reblogs!)
And that, of course, brings us to Jasper.
Jasper did not grow. Jasper did not learn. The one thing Jasper took away from her ordeals on Earth was that, since power was all she was good for, and she was no longer the most powerful creature around, she had to become that person again. Jasper was given out after out and chose none of them. Jasper continued to look down on anyone “defective” until we saw her about to crush Amethyst on her forehead like a can of beer. Jasper is a beautiful, horrifying, heart-wrenching parallel to Rose Quartz, because if you abuse someone enough, tell them they’re worthless and their individuality has no meaning, they will either rebel or adopt every ideal you pound into their head with feverish devotion.
Despite all the awfulness we’ve seen her inflict on the people she comes into contact with, Jasper is a victim, the result of a society that exalts eugenic perfection but only in service to the collective. It’s been pounded into her head for five thousand years, and what probably started as patriotism or loyalty to her people is now her zealously clinging to the only thing in her life that makes her feel like she’s worth something.
And so she wouldn’t allow herself to be saved.
For what it’s worth, the story isn’t done with Jasper. Something tells me that she’s going to be one of the first gems unbubbled and healed; Steven’s personal experience with her corruption is gonna be a source of loads of guilt. I wonder, though–will she remember what it was like? Will she be receptive when the gems show her that it was the Diamonds that did that to their people? Lapis could show her explicitly, actually, and she’s one of the few people Jasper would be willing to listen to.
I just hope we see her soon. What an excellent character.