heeeeere we go

anonymous asked:

tbh ive always been in the mob fandom bc i read the comics first but your art is always a light of sunshine (tho angsty as fuck) whenever i end up on the dark lanes of the mp100 fandom. ily! keep up the great shit! ❤️

ahhhh gosh thank you ;v;

well then how bout some actual art sunshine to light up the dark, eh? ^^

CHERIE: Reclaim.

The nobility calls it Highfog, but you prefer the lowblood name - Derevnya.

There are highbloods enough that you don’t stick out, making your way through the steamy water-streets. It’s going to ruin your hair, but your dreadlocks and braid will keep at least through the time this should take. You don’t envision being here too long. You’ll stay if you have to - as long as you have to - until you accomplish your task, but you doubt it will actually require a great deal of effort on your part. 

Most things don’t. Not as you measure it. 

Your blue shoes are nice, with a slight heel, but only an inch - you always need to be able to run if necessary. Looking nice is important; getting away is more so. In light of that - of knowing there’s a small but potential risk of dealing with a troll who has a high chance of having psi, possibly dangerous psi - you’re also eschewing your beloved skirts for a pair of sleek but serviceable black pants. Your blue vest and short-sleeved white dress shirt are nothing particularly elaborate, but nice. You look more masculine than you’d like, though it’s such a minor problem when you’re so close to the last thing you need.

You reach the shop where you know she works, overseen by a pair of rusts. You admittedly don’t know much about them, besides their names; a shame, really, but they have no reason to be opposed to you, either. You intentionally didn’t try to dig too deep; it doesn’t do to make a troll feel uncomfortable by them thinking you know too much about them. 

Besides, Maidel doesn’t remember you. 

You reach the shop and open its door, walking in. The troll at the counter isn’t much taller than you, though the double horns and mane of ringlets almost make them appear so.

Your greenblood isn’t in sight, but that’s fine. You need to talk to this one anyway. You walk past the displays, giving them admiring looks - it never hurts to let a troll think you’re impressed by their wares, and the prosthetics and artifacts are a bit interesting. Erikaa might like one of the former, and you’ll gladly buy something to endear yourself anyway.

“Good evening.” You say, your voice always deeper than you’d like, but you tired of trying to pitch it higher - too much of a strain. “Are you one of this shop’s owners?” You ask, polite as you stop a few feet from the counter, posture straight but arms loosely at your side. Interested, but relaxed.

anonymous asked:

i love your art. your style is amazing. the only thing that bugs me is the fact that you replyce peter with lily in your latest marauder piece and left him out earlier. lily was no marauder, peter was. and i do not justify what he did, i do not even like him, in fact i despise him for what he did. but i still hate that fandom so often replaces him with lily or leaves him out. he was a marauder. lily wasn't. and when they were young, no one knew what he'd become.

hey, thanks for the compliment

I’ve talked about this before but i’ll repeat myself - drawing fanart is not my job and the fandom is not my employer who could make demands about my art. i’m not going to spend a lot of my free time drawing a character I don’t like, so, sorry, if i don’t feel like drawing Peter - I won’t.

This Motion Fails

pairing: Phan

genre: fluff

word count: 4,743 words

status: finished

warnings: underage drinking

Summary: Model UN!Phan where Dan and Phil go to a conference and are super touchy and everyone ships it, including the delegates in their committee.

A/N: I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here yet, but I’ve submitted a fic to phanficwritingcomp! Their results will be released will be released in about a week, but I’ll let you guys know what happens! Anyway, this fic was inspired by the recent Model UN conference that I went to, and for anyone who is still in school, I definitely recommend you go! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, because this is basically exactly what happens lol. Heeeeere we go!

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I'm new to your story CNA u pls do a recap??

first of all JUST READ THE STORY lmao if you go to my blog and click on the story directory tab i made it sooooooooooo easy to navigate the story ok. 

but if u really wanna be a lazy bum HERE’S THE MOST RECENT SUMMARY I DID WE’RE PICKING UP FROM THERE because i’m tired

(make sure you read the first summary post i linked in there. i know this is complicated. honestly just go through the tag ur better off)

i like how it’s only been a month since i made the last summary post and more shit has happened in that time than the rest of the 7 months i’ve spent posting this story. anyways

Keep reading

archiveofourown.org
Grayscale Images|Langst| Archive of Our Own
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Heeeeere we go…

This is a new fic I’m going to be working on as a bit of a side-project, inspired by @lovelylangst. Looking for a summary? I’m bad at those, so check out the post that inspired me. All I really need to add to that is that there wasn’t going to be klance, but now there is. I blame the fact that I’m participating in klance week, haha.

anonymous asked:

WHO IS YOUR BIAS IN WANNA ONE??? WHO WAS YOUR TOP PICK FOR PD101?? sorry for screaming im just vv excited to talk about these boys

CRACKS KNUCKLES HEEEEERE WE GO

my bias in wanna one/produce 101 is kang daniel!! haha honestly wasn’t that invested in the show at first cause i was all just for him but then i started to slowly fall in love with all the boys :’) but yeah daniel is my top pick & also one of my ultimate biases!

tbh i wasn’t as invested as i was for season 1 (i miss my girls so much) so i never had a top 11 pick but i do have some other favourite gems!

  • seo sunghyuk (i fell for him when he hit his head on the tableand omg his voice was so good in ikyk)
  • kim taedong (my f level rising up to a star, i nut during his shape of you performance)
  • park woojin (everything about him is amazing)
  • yoon jisung (how can i not love my mmo meme boi I WILL PROTECT AT ALL COSTS)
  • kim jonghyun (we all love our nation’s leader ;;)
  • ong seungwoo (honestly this guy is such an all rounder such talent)
  • kim yongguk (HIS VOICE IS SO BEAUTIFUL?? I LOVE TALENT??)
  • hong eunki (the loml, such a sassy dancer, not afraid to stand up against popular traineess ANYWAASSYYYS I LOVE MY BOI)

those are the ones i can think of at the top of my head but yeah i love pd101 so much sobs

therightfulalphawerewolf  asked:

“Don’t you dare move. Did I tell you you could?” (Heeeeere we go)

“Hmph. Well I told you to let go of me but you aren’t listening to me either! Why the hell are you on me anyway?! You are getting to close for comfort”

Zane rebelled, doing what Balto told him not to do and tried to get out of whatever situation he was in. 

this was supposed to be for a follower goal AGES ago but Life Happened. also it’s an announcement, because i changed my url!!  i can’t even remember how long i’ve had saamwiilson (and lbr i’ll probably go back to it at some point because it’s My Brand) but i Really Really Love Kurt so.

heeeeere we go

the sin squad™ (ilygsm! lights of my LIFE): @buchunan @camthehamz @dianaprinse @fakebuckybarnes @itsjamesbarnes @jamesbarns @sergeantcap @spocksandsandals

the ITEYAK/WBCFB authors (aka my fellow creative geniuses and all-around wonderful people whom i adore): @magnetocerebro, @canuckleheadcowgirl, @abrokencastiel, @aliitvodeson

the leonard snart defense squad (who i also lygsm): @acecaptaincold @barryandlen @coldsatom @craptaincold @frostyvib3 @iceissupergay @iriswvst @kryptxns @peteyprker @queerleonardsnart @theofficialfob

new friends! @artthetrash @avengerswitch @miss-harleenquinzel @saintseabasstian @spideysenseau @tomhardytomsofty

the other lovely people who don’t fit into those categories but are still fabulous!!! 

a-e

@acebuckyy @acesuperman @agentcampbell @akabuckybarnes @amerlcachavez @ameriwhore @anthonyfuckingstark @anthorystark @anthvnystark @aqualman @arospaceace @arrowsandnat @assbutts-and-whatnots @autisticrhys @avocadqs @blaackpanthers @blaakwidow @barnesthighs @billyteddys @blatinx @bravebucky @bravobucky @brightredbirdie @bubblegail @buckiejbarnes @buuckybaarnes @bxnres @captainbcrnes @captanandor @cassianandortho @cassiancndcr @casssianbodhi @celloluvr @classybrassyandsassy @clintbartson @corellianflyboy @cptcassianrook @cptnsbarnes @cpt-stevierogers @cptn-wdw @dancerbarnes @dances-with-snowflakes @dadbob @deadypooly @deadpoolemma @dorkyassassins @dreamerinthetardis @dudeyoureavegetarian @dummysexual @erickslehnsherr

f-j

@falconisms @falsegod @feelings-bitches @finnsreypoe @fishcustardandclintbarton @freakylikefreud @frostgiants @future-mrs-frost @futzingbishop @gessa-tray @grandmaspaghetti @gravespercy @grievingauthor @guardianchirrut @hanorganaas @harleysqvnzel @harlivy @heymurdock @hisakko @holy–watershed @hvlkbvster @iamthekingofsassgard @its-called-soccer @jackryyan @jamesbcrnes @jessiebenben @jiimkirk @jotunheim-asgard @justiceleegue @jvedi 

k-o

@karlurbvns @ladythor @last-of-the-sassguardians @last-stand-cellist @lckicfasgard @letsdosciencekids @leonardmccxy @likebritishshowers @louiestommos @magneto-was-right @mangosoldier @marlcwatney @mattsmurdass @marvel-x @midgard @miraculousfinn @myghostlywail  @natshasromanoff @naturaldaisaster @nelson-murdock-avocados @nonbinarybitty @nonxstop @ntashromanov @numendil @of-themysciraa @ohbvcks @okaynico @okaytchalla @onecrisisatatime  @originalpercival @ororokurt 

p-t

@padawanda @pamelalisley @peferparker @peggycarterly @petermaxlmoff @petersxlvers @pggycartr @piesandfalcs @pil1138 @phantomsmenace @poedameros @poetdameron @princepsrogers @prsphney @queen-jyde @queeniigoldstein @queergrindelwald @rainy-wintersoldier @renturbes @reyxfinnxpoe @runcold @saintvader @samwilson @samwylsons @sassian-cassian @scottsummrrs @sebbys @sergeantjamesbbarns @sgtjames @simptasia @softsnowyjace @space-ace @spiderroos @starksreactors @survivingonmars @syyrup @t0nyrhodey @targaryenskywalker @tchalia @tempella @templexclaire @thefvlcon @thelovelybooknerd @theongreujoy @thereddestglass @theryanreynoldspamphlet @thestubborntortoise @theviolinist228 @thewinterdaredevil @tiredengineeringqueen @tonygodstark @tonystahnk @trxmrs @tylersus

u-z

@ughchekov @umhawkguy @until-the-end-of-the-lline @username-evie @vcktuuri @victimbucky @vinterfalcons @wadevvilson @wild-hidden-doughnut @wonderwomnan @wormhole-exe 

if there’s anyone i forgot i am so sorry and don’t doubt i still adore you!

In The Shadows...Part 8

(Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Epilogue)


As the team stares blankly at Vance, his jaw chewing robotically on his hamburger as Gibbs’ cold, hard stare pierces the side of his face, Leon slowly turns his head towards the haggard, angry man as he swallows his food.

“When you say ‘everywhere’, you mean every case.  Don’t you?” Gibbs asks pointedly.

“Yes,” Vance answers coolly.

“So, not at our houses?” McGee asks as he sips his drink.

“Oh, no.  There, too.”

“She’s been watching our houses?” Gibbs asks, cocking his body towards the man as he furrows his brow deeper.

“Think of it less as ‘watching’ and more as ‘looking out for,’” Vance states.

“This woman…she’s not even 30 yet,” Ducky states as fact.

“You’d be right, Dr. Mallard.”

“I mean, what you’re saying,” DiNozzo says through a mouthful of food, “it’s pretty impossible.  I mean…she would’ve had to have been-”

“16,” Vance bites in his direction as DiNozzo stops talking, his jaw half hanging open.

“Swallow your food,” Gibbs cracks.

“She…she became an assassin at 16?” Abby implores, her eyes growing in weariness as she continues to listen to your life story being told.

Vance told them about the killing of your parents.  How your brother had gone on the run.  He told them about you being found, curled up and bloodied, in the basement of your own home with your back torn to shreds as the vertebrae of your spine peeked out from beyond the mutilated sinewy tissue.

It turned Gibbs’ stomach to think about.

“That’s enough…” Gibbs trails off as he sinks back into his chair.

“…and that’s when the FBI-”

“I said that’s enough!” Gibbs roars, drawing attention from everyone, including Jimmy, who was now slowly traipsing out of your hospital room with swollen, red eyes.

“She’s-”

As he swallows hard, his eyes slowly panning back to your head that was lobbed over, looking blankly outside at the world, he clears his throat before bringing his gaze to Leroy.

“She’s asking for you, Gibbs,” he croaks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two of you sat and talked for two hours.  Gibbs had shut the door behind him, and hadn’t emerged from your room since.

“Whaddaya think they’re talkin’ about?” DiNozzo asks, crossing his arms over his chest as him and McGee stare through the window.

“Not a clue,” he states as he tries to read his boss’s facial expressions.

“How much did Leon tell you?” you ask him.

“Enough,” Gibbs lulls.

That’s about how your conversation with him was.  You asked a question, he punctuated it with a few syllables, and then you were back to silence between the two of you.

Until he finally broke the monotony.

“How long were you tasked with watching us?” he asks.

“As long as it took for you and your team to quit being reckless,” you state.

“Define ‘reckless’,” Gibbs commands.

“Breaching protocol.  Working longer hours.  Not getting enough sleep and making mistakes in the field.  Forgoing basic grooming-”

“How is not showering being reckless?” Gibbs interrupts.

“Besides being gross?” you ask as you take in Gibbs’ disheveled silver hair, “It means that if you aren’t willing to put the care into yourself that you once did, no one can trust you to put the same amount of care into the field.  Couple that with less sleep and the mistakes already being made, and you get someone like me.  Watching over.  Until the period of time has been navigated.”

“The period of time has been navigated,” Gibbs snickers as he leans back in his chair.

“It’s hard.  Losing someone in the field…”

Looking off into the wall as you straighten your gaze out, Gibbs swallows hard as his face softens ever so slightly.

“Where do you go after this?” he asks.

“Don’t know.  What makes me useful is my ability to keep to the shadows.  Bringing me into the light negates my purpose.”

Gibbs chewed on that statement for a while before placing his hands on his knees.

“Be right back,” he grunts, getting up from his chair as he finally makes his way for the door.

Opening it up as everyone scurries back to the waiting room, Gibbs’ stare makes its way over to the crowd of people as DiNozzo turns to face him.

“Hey boss,” he says as his eyes dart around, “how did uh…how’d it go?”

But all his gaze did was fall back onto Vance.

Nodding his head down the hall as he turns and starts walking, Vance peels himself from the back as he pushes his way through, making his way after Gibbs as the team stands with question marks dancing over their heads.

Rounding a corner into an unlit part of the hospital, Gibbs turns around, his gaze hard on Leon as he draws in a deep breath through his nose.

“She doesn’t have anywhere to go, does she?” Gibbs asks.

“Not that I know of.  No home address, according to her file.”

“Where does she sleep?”

“In hotels, I guess.”

Vance watched the wheels turn behind Gibbs’ eyes as recognition dawned on Vance’s face.

“You wanna hire her.”

“Leon, I didn’t even know she was there,” Gibbs says.

“You didn’t know there was anything to find,” Leon counters.

“I don’t lock my damn door, Vance!” he bites.

“And that’s supposed to make you an expert on the unseen!?”

“It means I’m supposed to see what others don’t!” Gibbs roars.

“Like Kate’s death!?” Vance finally raises his voice.

“Heeeeere we go,” Gibbs says as he runs his fingers through his hair, turning his back on his director.

“Or Jenny’s!?  Or Ziva’s capture!?  Gibbs…sometimes, you just don’t see it,” Vance states, swallowing hard to calm his voice.

As Gibbs runs his hands down his face, he whips himself back around to Leon.

“So, so what?  W-w-we…we just throw her back to the dogs?”

“What do you propose we do?” Vance asks.

“We take on consultants for cases.  All the time,” Gibbs states.

“You want her to be a consultant?”

“I want her to be written in that way.  A permanent consultant.  Any case over 72 hours without a solution she gets paid for.”

Vance took a second to digest the information.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says as Gibbs nods, quickly pushing past his boss as he heads back in the direction of your room.

“Gibbs!?” Vance calls after him as Gibbs’ back stiffens straight.

“I said that sometimes you just don’t know what to do.”

“Yeah.  I heard ya,” Gibbs lulls.

“I never said that you didn’t know how to fix it,” Vance smirks.

And if he had turned around, Leon would’ve seen the smirk on Gibbs’ face as well.

Tick Tock from the Concrete Block

pairing: Phan

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 2,855 words

status: part 1/?, unfinished

warnings: mental illness, harsh treatment, slurs against the mentally ill, jumping off a building

Summary: As a result of Dan jumping off a building to take a picture right before he hit the ground, he was shipped off to Obsidian Rose Mental Asylum. There, he meets Phil, an optimistic psychologist who’s the first psychologist he’s ever met to actually care about his patients.

A/N: Okay, this AN can’t be long as I have to go, but I’m very excited for this next fic!! Basically I watched the Sixth Sense and got this. You know the rest. Anyway, credits to Emily Dickinson for her poem “The First Day’s Night Had Come”, really good stuff though, check it out. Anyway, heeeeere we go!


Wednesday, April 18, 1962, London

The wind was stronger up there. His jacket whipped around his small and fragile bones, relentlessly taking the physical form of the air that struck his face. He was very weak after all, after having pulled himself up fourteen flights of stairs to get to this, the very top of the Nightingale Flat Complex in downtown London. The building was like a decrepit old dog that wasn’t good for very much more than a few simple tasks. Like water. And heat. And by water and heat, the rain leaked through the cracking and weak windows, and in the summer, the mugginess was kept in the small rooms like a greenhouse. He stroked the air in front of him with bony fingers and nodded while rubbing the tips of his fingers together. The impatient bubbling of thunder in the distance caused him no worry at all. He wouldn’t be here long. Sure enough, a cloud shaped like a smoker’s puff whisked in from the south. A thread of lightning stabbed the ground in the distance, making him flinch. From the inside of his coat, he removed his polished but cheap handheld camera, the one with two lenses not one, and quickly snapped a picture. Damn. He missed the lightning by just a second. He saw it in the tiny viewfinder right before his finger landed on the button. But he wouldn’t be too late for his next one.
Shoving the adjusting photo in his pocket, he made his way to the cement edge of the building and looked over like a child with a fear of heights. Luckily for him, there was no fear to be found. He poised his finger on the shutter release and took a step onto the ledge. He grinned. This would be the shot that made his career. Legs steady and firm, he stretched them to take a jump but hesitated first. The picture of the thunderclouds sans lightning had fully developed. With a stone, he placed it on the center of the roof and returned to his position before turning his head towards the image and smiled.
“I think this belongs to you, miss!” He shouted over the increasing gales of wind. “And might I say you look very pretty in it, at that!” Before the wind forced him off the edge, he leaned forward and dived through the air like a swordfish through water. He hadn’t a second to waste. Right before his body collided with the cement, he took one final picture before smashing into the street awaiting his arrival.

They were allowed objects in their housing areas. The regulation was very lenient, with five large items and two small items, of course, within the allotted space. Although it was, technically, an asylum, most of the inmates still had a sense of self and expression, and proudly told the place by hanging everything they could get their hands on. Scraps of colored paper, charred cigarette rolls, some pages of the newspaper, pieces of clothing, and never to forget the dolls. The prisoner directly across from Dan had 36 dolls, 36 exactly, hanging by long threads she would pull from her uniform. Sometimes, if she got bored, she would laugh like humor itself originated from standing on one’s bed and dropping the dolls from their neck cordage until they bounced once on impact without the slack and swayed side to side until they stopped. “Like mommy! Like mommy!” She yelled and laughed some more. It was almost funny the first few days he was in there, but four months in and it wasn’t funny any more. Dan had observed and analyze every person in Obsidian Rose Mental Asylum, what with all this time on his hands. Usually, he remained in his cell with exactly 987 tiles, three less than the regular 990, which he picked off with his bare hands for the purpose of smashing them into bits when he got frustrated.
Riva Sciarra, diagnosed with the very rare but possible combination of paranoid and disorganized type schizophrenia, had one scratched doll in one hand and one without a head in the other scissoring one another. Dan rolled his eyes and continued to read one of Obsidian Rose’s top secret files as casually as one would a newspaper. Something about his file, his past psychologists, a fresh entry about a possible new one, he didn’t really care at this point. Diagnose him with depression, diagnose him with psychosis, call him a psychopath, it was all the same in the end. Crazy. Retarded. They never used to call him those things before he jumped to get just that one picture, but it was deemed a suicide attempt. He should have died. In the brief second when he regained consciousness while being wheeled into the ambulance, he heard one of the doctors whisper in his ear, “You know what they do to loonies like you? Put you in the loony house. That was a real stupid thing that you did.” To which he promptly passed out once more.
He felt it when he threw one of the chips from his tiles at the wall. Air, wind, began to accumulate in the room. His resting face exploded into a maniacal grin and the camera was by his face before Riva was able to look up and see the commotion. She was the lucky one. She had the room facing the sun, which cast a perfectly cylindrical shape of light onto her floor. None of it caught on the strange man living across from her. She let two of her dolls that were swimming at the beach (she still believed in beaches, even though everyone in her head said they didn’t exist) watch the action along with her. He started spinning in circles and laughing while taking pictures from every angle, of nothing at all but walls and tiles.
“You’re right, Lisa, he’s going to run out of film soon, and then he will be sad.” Her blonde doll nodded at her commentary. That’s when her brunette doll, Kimberly, spoke up, but the man still didn’t hear her. It irked Riva a little.
“Kimberly asked you a question.” She restated to the other cell. The crazy one was sweaty through his uniform, and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his face like a lizard’s. Not to mention how they were bloodshot and very red.
“She’s all in your head!” He cried and slammed his hands onto the bars of his cage, making the entire floor shake. She frowned and drew the plastic close to her ear and nodded.
“She says that you’re taking pictures of nothing and it looks funny.”
“I look funny, you crazy bitch?! Look at this!” One of his pictures had developed, all that was in it was a blurred snapshot of his wall, with a gleam of light and the silhouette of Riva in the background.
“Can’t you see her?! Look, right there, covering you up!” She squinted but backed away from the doorway. As well as suffering from hallucinations and psychotic thoughts, she was also upset by loud sounds or voices, assumed to be caused by her mother’s verbal abuse, the reports said.
“I’m telling daddy.” She whispered. Dan’s eyes widened and set the camera down slowly.
“No, no, Riva, don’t call daddy, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again…” The volume was being forced up like someone left their finger over the button until they were screaming at her until thats all she heard. She clamped her hands over her ears and bashed the heels of her hands into the sides of her head, and she screamed just to see if the crying would go away but she wasn’t even loud enough for that.
“You made them come back! I’m telling daddy, I’m telling, I’m telling!” She cried. “Daadddddyyyyy!! He wants me to take my pants offfff!” She bawled into her knees.
“Oh shit, dammit, fuck, fuck, Riva shut-! …Riva quiet please, you’ll get us both into the Pen.” His tone reached an acme and fell accordingly. Two workers crashed into their hall, each wielding a needle filled with similar colored fluid. Milky white. Everyone in Obsidian Rose has been nose to nose with Milky White before.
“Oh come the fuck on, she was lying,” He whined and flinched then the needle went into his neck. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was quite fragile, and a very small dose of anything would put him out. Riva, on the other hand, was the opposite. It took her full shot and the rest of Dan’s to put her to sleep.

The quality of the coffee was to be expected. The beans tasted like they were the grounds at the bottom of his grandmother’s cup as she was giving birth to his mum, they were roasted as if a little kid was carefully turning it like a chicken but got impatient and threw them in the fire, and the coffee machine itself looked like it was more rust than metal. Maybe that’s what those flakey maroon things floating at the top were. The terrible coffee didn’t perturb him from Obsidian Rose. He loved the way the suit fit over his body with the cleanest thing about his outfit, his name tag reading “Mr. Phil Lester”, reflecting the light of the flickering incandescents. In hindsight, this was the least requested job after he finished university, but if he wouldn’t, who would help the mentally unstable? Because it certainly wasn’t the crash of men sitting around a board of chess, not even playing it. They poured vials of orange liquid that they keep in their coats into the coffee and down an entire mug in one slurp. This was no place to be making enemies.
Phil adjusted his collar with a smile and confidently marched over to the men. He would meet new people here, and not just make friends with the ditzes like they said at the university. Although they were probably lovely company.
“Crappy coffee, right?” He laughed and took a seat next to the poorly groomed and obviously hungover “psychologists”. He remembers in University that it was an absolute taboo to meet your patience intoxicated or under the influence of any substance. He heard a story told by his professor once that a man who used to work at a psych ward he worked at met with a patient drunk and smelling the alcohol on his breath, the patient had an anger episode and needed to be sedated. He would just stick to his coffee. The cracked clock on the wall ticked louder than usual as it struck 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
“Well, looks like that’s my cue, fellas. I’ll see you later, and I hope your patients are doing alright.” Phil offered and collected what was left of his supplies to head to Ward F: Long Term. His professors saw him off with concern on their faces, whispering, “You know, he’s the only one who signed up for Obsidian Rose”. His patient was a man named Dan Howell, a photographer who jumped off the Nightingale Flat Complex building and fractured 80% of his bones, and when asked why he attempted suicide, he claimed that it wasn’t a suicide attempt and that he wanted to “take the one to make his career”. There was a whole list of possible diagnoses following, ranging from depression to antisocial personality disorder, which is what they diagnosed to psychopaths and sociopaths. A quick handwritten note from the warden on the front of the folder read “I think you can handle it, top-of-your-class!”. And the most recent entry, added a few hours ago, claimed that he attempted to manipulate the woman in the cell next to him named Riva Sciarra to remove her clothing for his own enjoyment. He shivered. Rape was where he drew the line.
“I hear the voices…all the time…” The ratty-looking girl who must be Riva said sensually when he arrived at his patient’s cell. She had her hair down, although it looks like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks, and if it was, it was probably using her own fingers which explained the frizziness. He just paid closer attention to the hair-care section than any straight man would, okay? But he took careful notice to remember the names of any other patients he might encounter, as not to call them “patient” or “psycho” like many of his friends from uni would.
“Riva, that bar you’re licking is probably very dirty.” Phil watched her trail her tongue up one of her bars covered in…well, something black and dusty, god knows what it really is.
“Won’t you help me, doctor? Make the voices go away, ooh…” She crunched her face and put her hands over her ears.
“Don’t mind Riva, she’s an attention whore who masturbates four times a day who just wants you to look in her direction.” A bored voice explained on his left.
“Hey now, yesterday I only did it twice!” The other argued on his right. His patient, Dan, was wearing constraints chaining him to the wall like a dog, even though he was already in a cage. It was something Phil really hated about the way people in his field treated other people. Their diseases didn’t remove their humanity.
“Well it doesn’t matter to me, because it’s you who daddy brought another toy for, and even right after you scared away your old one.” Dan scoffed and turned away from her.
“May I enter?” Phil asked, mimicking inserting a key into his lock. Without a proper response, Phil just let himself in.
“I love what you’ve done to the place.” Phil commented on the sole artifacts in Dan’s room: a worn camera and a blurry picture of what appeared to be a crosswalk with a bit of tarmac showing at the top. Surely some artistic thing he didn’t understand.
“The first Day’s Night had come, and grateful that a thing…” He began to recite, “so terrible had been endured, I told myself to sing.” He did not blink as he watched Phil’s eyes. “She said her Strings were snapt, her bow to atoms blown, and so to mend her, gave me work until another morn.” He felt like he was saying a satanic spell of curse to place on him, and he felt a bit uncomfortable as the room grew a bit chillier.
“I…” He so desperately wanted to change the topic, but still, Dan continued.
“And then…! A Day as huge as Yesterday in pairs, unrolled its horror in my face, until it blocked my eyes.” He looked like he was struggling to get up through the piles of chains on his lap, but he eventually stood and kept his eyes focused on Phil. “My Brain begun to laugh, I mumbled like a fool. And tho’ ’tis Years ago…that Day…my Brain keeps giggling still.” Phil didn’t anticipate how long the chains were. He needed to take a step back Dan was getting so close.
“And Something’s odd within…that person that I was…and this One do not feel the same. Could it be Madness…this?” The chains that held Dan to the wall were all there was to prevent him from crashing to the ground, as he leaned fully forward with his arms swung back.
“That was Emily Dickinson.” He spoke quietly. Phil swallowed and smoothed down his suit.
“Okay, Dan,” Phil stated whilst calming down, “let’s talk.”

newbarkmelody
co-alescence
arsenic-incendiary


little-miss-ivory

[blinks curiously]

Kufufu [chuckles]. Trainers, more trainers, and– oh, is that a little girl I know ? I thought the nursery rhymes scared the little girls away. Let me see, what was that one again. Maybe I should spill the beans, pull her hair, and snip snip.

Waving her aside, tell me the others got some strength in them or I don’t know what you’re doing, following me like that!

IRASCIBLE || [ TIS; ask-feistypants]

Hans straightened the lapels of his jacket as he climbed out of his sleek sedan, slanting dispassionate eyes over the garishly-lit sign beckoning out to weary travelers on the interstate. The heels of his designer shoes clacked softly over the pavement as he made his way across the parking lot and towards the lobby.

A portly man in an ill-fitting dress shirt sat at the scarred wooden reception desk, absently thumbing through a wrinkled copy of Sports Illustrated with a buxom woman on the cover. Hans glanced around the room, to the faded pastel stripes on the worn armchairs, the ugly floral wallpaper.

Mentally, he sneered.

Outwardly, his face was a perfect mask of frightened concern.

He strode quietly to the desk, placing one hand upon its surface.

The man glanced over his magazine, raising his eyebrows. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Hans exhaled deeply, glancing down, brow creased in worry, before meeting the man’s eyes with his own, openly exhausted. “I dearly hope so,” he said. “I’ve been all over Fairbanks. I must have been to half a dozen hotels by now. It’s my girlfriend — we had a fight, and she ran out before I could apologize properly. I’ve been worried sick about her all night.”

The man behind the desk set his magazine down, nodding in understanding. “Women, man,” he said, offering Hans a crooked smile. “You know how they are.”

Oh, indeed I do. “I saw her car in the parking lot. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to know she’s somewhere safe.” Hans offered the man an open, pleading smile, raising up his other hand to show him the beautifully-wrapped roses held within it.  “Is there any chance you could point me to her room so I could talk to her? Small thing, 20 years old, red hair, about…” He gestured with his free hand. “…yea-high. Sweet as anything.”

The man nodded, sliding his computer keyboard over and typing quickly. “Yeah, I remember her. Cute girl. Want me to give her room a ring for you?”

Hans exhaled, scrubbing his free hand over his face, through his hair. “No,” he sighed wearily. “She’s so stubborn, she’ll probably refuse to talk to me.” He leaned against the desk, motioning the man forward. “Look… just man-to-man, is there any chance you could just give me a spare key to her room? She’s a spitfire, this one. Probably won’t even deign to talk to me until I show up on her doorstep.”

The man turned from his computer screen, eyeing Hans carefully. “I…” he started, frowning slightly. “I mean… I’m sympathetic — my girlfriend and I have had some real drag-em-outs over the past few years, but… I mean… company policy…”

“Please,” Hans said, leaning just a fraction harder against the desk, and he felt his gorge rise at the word.

The man hesitated, glancing back at his computer screen.

Hans heaved a weary, dramatic sigh, reaching with his free hand into his coat pocket to retrieve his billfold.

“Sir,” the man started uneasily, “I don’t think I can…”

Without a word, Hans slid two crisp hundreds across the desk, raising an eyebrow.

The man glanced around the empty lobby before quickly slipping the bills from the desk. “You were never here,” he said quietly, nodding to Hans and extracting a blank key card from a tidy stack by his computer, tapping a few keys and sliding it through a small contraption. He leaned up in his chair and handed it to Hans. “Room 63.”

“63,” Hans repeated, slipping the card into his pocket.

“Down the hall and up the stairs. Should be on your right.”

Hans took a deep breath, nodding. “Thank you,” he said.

The man smiled at him, genuinely. “You take care of your girl, now.”

Hans offered him a grateful nod before making his way to the nearby corridor.

His heels clacked purposefully over the stairs. He stopped long enough to roughly deposit the roses in a nearby wastebin without a backward glance.

57.

59.

61.

…63.

A nondescript door, just a flat white panel with a peephole of smudged glass.

Just in case someone knocked.

Had to knock.

Hans smirked to himself as he extracted the keycard from his pocket.

‘Take care of your girl’.

That wouldn’t be a problem.

Not a problem at all.

He slotted the card to the lock and pulled the door open with a resounding slam.