Stranger Things
One Nice Bug Per Day
oozey mess
ojovivo
Love Begins
Claire Keane
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Not today Justin
noise dept.
we're not kids anymore.
ellievsbear
Game of Thrones Daily
The Bowery Presents
Show & Tell
★
taylor price
cherry valley forever
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shark vs the universe
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@sostarsick
a multiverse & multiship indie oc blog.
decently active, all maintained by DOT ( they/she, 30, any gendered slang & nicknames are ok ). the only reason i'd go more than like a week without posting is because i'm sad lol
rules. & muses. & opens. & wanted plots. & reblogged resources.
for @sostarsick , continued from here.
despite knowing it was just about unneeded at this point , sage didn't mind joining their friends out. what bothered him was that it left him with adrien , and adrien clearly didn't like him. sage never did very well with being disliked - always wanted to be in everyone's favor. you can't win over everyone , but he was convinced that by the time they were released from chaperoning their love bird friends , he could get adrien's mind to change. " well , if it makes you happy you can give me the whole list , but i can't possibly figure out why the list would be so long. " eyes looking at the other with a sense of longing , like he'd do anything to be liked. for someone with such an insufferable-at-times personality , it was bold of sage to assume he could be liked by most. " i mean , honestly ? " a pause , body leaning forward slightly. " yeah. it does bother me. " but he didn't know why. " we're forced out here like what , every weekend ? and every weekend you're miserable and it drives me crazy. " sometimes it's all he could think about. " i just . . . why ? what did i do ? "
having his bluff called and this frustrating, fawning look to answer to for it — adrien would appreciate sage’s methods if they weren’t so annoying. and effective! fucker. a smirk flickers across adrien’s features, but he muscles it down and darts his eyes up in a half-hearted eye-roll. “you should learn to leave well enough alone, chouchou." maaaybe adrien’s projecting. maybe envy over sage and the way he is and all the gushing their friends had done over him makes adrien intent on checking sage’s ego, unwarranted as that may be. their friends have surely told sage about adrien, right? that he’s prickly, a provocateur for fun, would probably shrivel up and die if he lost the upper hand. even now as sage leans in, adrien wastes no time in mirroring him, quietly thrilled that sage doesn’t seem keen on taking his advice. from here, he’s better able to note the set of sage’s mouth, the funny look in his eyes. adrien can’t help himself; he smiles, saccharine, and says, “pretty thing. you think too much. i just don’t believe you.” but adrien falters, blinking hard as he considers what sage has said. as quickly as it’d come, his smile goes, replaced by a bored frown. “who's being over-dramatic now?” he huffs. "like you're my biggest fan. why do you keep coming if i drive you crazy?"
lucky for omar, kelsey's a lot easier than he acts — all it takes is a single shot of that dopey, daffy face for him to be putty in his hands, and it's fucking disguuusting. he has to refrain from rolling his eyes and groaning about it, this terrible thing called affection, and this enormous amount he has for omar, the first man stupid enough to make a guy like kelsey delvaux wait for anything; and the first one he's ever felt it was worth it to wait for. he burns when he points it out, head shaking, incredulous and visibly flustered, but he meets his eyes just in time for his apology. "...whatever," he sighs, rolling his eyes like it doesn't mean anything, like he's saying alright, i forgive you, okay, stop the sincerity or i'm going to start melting, expression exasperated but conceding all the same. he hooks his ankle with omar's and lifts his gaze, one eyebrow quirked, leg locking with his and mouth flattening into a fine line.
"burger might fix it. i'm a simple man." for a guy that's pouting so bad, he sure is playing a lot of footsie with him. "quit your job. get a better one." these aren't serious suggestions, he's still playing, but god, is he tired of this work excuse. this dude and his damn job. it's like he's married to that radio station. "and tell me the story anyway? what do you know about me. maybe i love stories." he doesn't, he famously doesn't, but whatever keeps omar talking to him, here, present.
kelsey looks so much more unnerved by omar’s musing than he does that he’d showed up late … and omar eats that up, wow! add to that how the lock of their ankles makes his guileless little heart jump and an honest-to-god giggle tumble past his lips — fucking goner, down bad, the picture of smitten as he teeters into kelsey’s space and tries to catch his eyes on the come-down of a deserved eye roll. “for you? one million burgers.” with radio station money, right. he’s quick, anyway, to wave over the bartender and put in an order; just the one, because omar’s insane and will push his luck to the brink just to pick off kelsey’s plate when it comes.
left to each other again, omar heaves a sigh and cups a hand over kelsey’s knee, jostling to get him to turn this way please please please. “but i like my job.” yeah! omar loves the radio station! that job’s awesome! “you could tune in at night if you miss me so much.” all starry-eyed and rosy, until he’s pressed for the story. then he falters, a minute glitch in his good spirits. it’s one thing to lie about a work emergency, a dead phone, traffic. it’s another to lie at length. and right to kelsey’s face? this feels like a trap. it’s not. is it? he swallows, puts his smile back on. “somebody was trying to take something that belonged to somebody else.” a wannabe villain had botched a corner store robbery. “i stayed to talk with them. reason with them, y’know?” shockjock had dropped in to do the right thing. “we argued a little.” there’d been a few physical blows, nothing that’s left a visible mark. “they saw it my way in the end and gave it back.” a well-executed zap to the limbs had stopped them, and the measly $200 had been returned to its rightful register. a plate is dropped off beside them, and omar looks almost too glad for the distraction. he plucks a fry for himself. “and they all lived happily ever after.” ehh. "heroic, right?"
ash just shakes his head and resists getting into why it's not. he honestly doesn't even remember why adam had said at this point. ash is so focused on getting into bed and getting his outside clothes off so they're not touching his sheets too long. his limbs feel so heavy as he pulls his shirt off before laying on his back and pushing his too tight jeans down. a huff escapes him like it was heavy work as he lays sprawled out on his bed. his minds still a little bit hazy around the edges but he's not nearly as fucked up as he was when he called adam in the first place. ash can't even remember and he was probably crying and singing whatever tlc song fit his misery. ash turns his head and takes in the sight of them looking around his room. all his photos and memories with his friends on the wall. the alter where he's about to put adam's picture and get a etsy witch over here to make them love him. normal behavior. he's pleased when the mattress sinks under adam's weight next to him. ash for his part does keep his hands to himself even if he really wants to roll over and touch them. it is a compliment because the last thing ash wants is to be simple. he ain't ever trying to be a mans peace he'd rather drive them all crazy. adam's different though. "i think i call you because i want you when i'm scared. when i don't got a grasp on my shit i know that you will." he's never admitted anything like that before and it's making him feel sick. "i'm sorry for doing that to you."
habit would have adam drinking in the sight before them, have him hedging one soft touch and then another, until he has enough to shut his brain off and fall into something rough and sweet. tonight, however, adam plays the role of caretaker — it’s not new to them. in fact, they feel most themselves when they put the guise on. they can use it to stall on answering, can avoid eye contact to prioritize pushing ash’s clothes out of his way and into a well-intentioned pile on the ground. in truth, they hang off his every word, barbed by the honesty in it and bristled by the apology. adam’s terrible with sorry. terrible with fear. terrible for ash. and if they were better at the first two, they’d be able to say as much! but selfishness stirs in them, keeps them hanging on to what’ll surely end badly. he stills, processing, with his brows furrowed and his lower lip pressed tight between his teeth. “i worry about you,” he admits after a moment, eyes fixed on a photo on the wall. adam talks to the ash there instead. “sometimes i think that's something i do to you. like i hold you back with it.” they pause to reel themself back in, chagrined by how much they’ve said as they try to flex the unrest out of their hands. “what is it that scares you?”
gross. link feels gross; physically, mentally, psychically, all of the -ally's — he feels to be coated in slime, sweat, booze, and anchored in deep rooted, ugly feelings. "okay," he concedes on the matter of bed versus couch, as much as he still feels like adam is still sacrificing far too much — and he's sounded more petulant before, that's for sure. sounded more petulant tonight even, at different points, right, but this okay is said fairly sincerely neutrally, if only because he doesn't want to tell adam no twice. they're offering their bed. they'll offer him everything and he can only deny them so much, already has denied so much, it's impossible to keep doing. detrimental. he won't sleep in it, not after everything tonight, but he has to admit to himself: it will feel better to lay than it does to hold himself up any longer. he's just not looking forward to ruminating alone, to laying in sheets that smell like adam but don't hold them, pressed against him. used to share beds, when they'd sleep at his place. well, he'd sleep. they'd usually be awake still if he stirred in the middle of the night.
he still feels gross, over the quiet. that's around when it starts really seeping in, when he pictures green goop all over him, like in howl's moving castle. after the third or fourth nonsense thought that befalls him, he makes a second concession to himself, silently, that maybe he should try to sleep a little bit in there; argues with himself immediately that he can't, because as soon as he leaves tomorrow, he may lose him again. as much as adam probably doesn't trust in his plan, the link of right now doesn't really, either. he thinks he means it. he wants to mean it. wanting it is not enough — this is an infallible truth. you have to stay strong.
adam's voice pulls him from the depths of where he goes, again. he stills. he chokes enough on a breath that his throat feels tight around, eyes wide on the floor. you're my best friend. it shouldn't be news to him, but it feels like it is. maybe that's because he's spent so long degrading their relationship; convincing himself that he wouldn't be that big a loss, and it feels like his eyes just keep widening as they go on. the best person he knows, who he's hurt so deeply, thinks — thinks something that link can't even begin to comprehend about himself, but believes because adam wouldn't say it if they didn't mean it. they don't know it, he doesn't know it in the moment either, but those words will stick with him for just as long as the ones he shrunk under. they're going to be why he survives. "...doesn't make it right," he whispers when adam acknowledges his hurt; an acknowledgment, an ode to what they'd said before. he feels the shudder. he knows adam's nearing a limit. he might be, too.
he hasn't looked up through all of this, and he only does when adam says those three words — words that he repeats back with no hesitation, and every bit of passion: "i miss you too." brown eyes bounce up and lock at the exact time that adam looks, and he doesn't look away. he can't make any promises tonight. he can't say, nothing will happen to me. he can't say, you'll see me again. he doesn't know that. and it's true that adam is so important to him, too, but — showing them that he can be more than this will be a lot more powerful than an empty-sounding promise made in the dim light of their bathroom.
he stands. it's with aching muscles and a pained expression, trembling fingers pushing off of the edge of the tub until unsteady feet find purchase on the tile, and he looks at adam again. his good hand dips into his pocket, eyes still locked with theirs, and he rustles around in it for a good eight seconds. when he retracts his hand, he extends it across the room to adam, palm up, full of sand that falls between his fingers and... beautiful brown rocks. they're glossy finished, shiny, and — "they reminded me of you. your eyes. same color," he tells them, tone flat, matter of fact, looking down at them, rolling them around in his palm. the house they picked him up from was on the beach, it was. he doesn't mention, but he'd spent the first hour of the party rooting around in the shoreline. of course, he did. he keeps his eyes on the rocks, trembling in his hand. "you're my best friend too. probably.. probably not done hurting, but i'm done being mean. done taking that for granted. i told you where i'm goin' after this, 'cause — 'cause i want you... want to talk to you when i'm back. important to me. that's important to me." he sniffs, more snot on his face. disgusting.
he's still too afraid to initiate a touch, and that's why he sets the rocks down on the bathroom counter instead of in adam's hand, as delicately as though they were really his eyes. "yours," link states as he wobbles back, back against the wall, hand grabbing at the inside of his elbow, gaze wary on adam. then, the floor. he's telling himself no and he's sitting on a question, but it's about to fall out anyway. stupid. he can't help himself. not for the first time tonight, he feels two inches tall: "...can i hug you? before — before i lay down and ice it." pause. "all of the... it." body parts.
still reeling, half-willing the counter to absorb his body and make him more rigid ( that’s what they need, huh. more inflexibility. ) adam does well to keep within themself. it’s fucking hard, wow, with every in-tact instinct itching to go elsewhere, compose themself without an audience. it’s not regret that creases the space between their brows or makes them shift uncomfortably where they stand, because they fully meant everything they said. not quite shame either. embarrassment feels too silly and chagrin too small. if forced to give a name to the feeling that rankles in him now, all fussed and insistent and aware, he’d probably say wiped. fucking winded. even so, they keep steady, swallow around barbed wire and bear it.
link misses them too. looks them right in the eyes and says it like he means it. it’s suddenly not punishable by death to have unraveled like they had. link says it likes it’s small, and adam receives it like it’s the greatest, richest thing they’ve heard. and then link stands and comes closer. enters adam’s orbit, their own quark star. they go stock-still, hard stare fixed on link’s face even when he looks down. the mark on his cheek is less stark now. the cut on his lip looks less brazen. his hair’s gotten longer, hasn’t it, since the last time they saw each other. it looks nice, all things considered. the shadows under his eyes are deeper; macabrely, adam thinks the two of them match there. he’s - oh. closer now. holding something out to them. adam blinks hard, steps out of their head and back into the room, dropping his chin to see —
rocks. little brown rocks, salted with sand that sticks to link’s skin where it doesn’t sprinkle down to the floor. they clatter quietly when they’re set on the granite. link’s picked these out special. carried them with him all night, even covered in sand. thought of adam, thought of adam’s eyes. because he missed him. because they’re best friends and link wants to talk, it’s important. adam’s breathing stutters as the phantom grip between their ribs loosens and lets go. for the first time in holy shit, a long time, like ball lightning breaking through in a decades long thunderstorm —
hope is a stupid and selfish thing to have. but the war behind adam’s eyes is short and merciful, and they nod. they draw their eyes away from where the rocks now nest on the counter beside him, looks at link’s face: covered in snot, red and blotchy, flush from the longest night ever, eyes tragic and lovely. the thought flashes in adam’s mind that they’ve heard all this before. history has repeated itself enough times that they should know better than to allow what link’s said to invigorate. but “okay,” comes tumbling past his lips, not dubious enough for a person who should know better. “yeah. if you - if it works out for you, if you do it all and you still. um. yeah. we can talk.” just once, is adam’s assumption, for closure’s sake. that’s okay, right? that’s palatable. adam can manage that.
( a big part of them figures they won’t ever talk again. )
link draws back again and adam lets him. busies themself with closing their fist around the rocks and slipping them into their pocket. mine. pushing away from the counter with nothing more to say, they’re about to ask link if he’s done in here because they sure are. whatever life link's assurances had breathed into them, he knocks it right out of them with his question. adam freezes, but their eyes go wide.
( a bigger part of them really hopes they can. )
adam surges forward, but their touch is delicate; one of their arm wraps around links torso, mindful not to press into bruises but purposeful as they pull him into their chest and splay their hand over his side. his other arm angles to serve the hand he curves over the back of links head, fingers in his hair. when words have been too difficult, they’d always had touch. now adam pours everything they haven’t been able to say before tonight into how they hold link, chin tucked into his shoulder, as this will surely be the last time they’ll ever get to be this close. dense and with all potential for disaster, a neutron star collision. "not enough ice in the world for what you've got going on, link," they mutter, turning their head to press a taut, pained smile into his temple. "but we can try. you ready?" for bed. for whatever comes next.
"they're good at judging you cause you make it so easy for them." myles does not need omar throwing it back in his face that he talks shit about his friends choices. that's supposed to be something sacred. a ritual with your boyfriend to talk shit about your friends and to talk shit about your man to your friends. the circle of life. he would like to be more mad at omar but he's so endearing myles' cuteness aggression takes over instead. the second omar starts going on myles groans loudly as he reaches out for him. his hand coming up to pinch his cheek. "you are annoying. my friends are right." myles scolds him but there's that familiar grin on his face that tell everyone myles loves it here. "you should. you should tell them you have plans otherwise you'll get dumped. they'll understand." or they won't care and capitalism will win again. "maybe next time you'll let me know that you're late instead of having me sitting around looking so fucking stupid." he says it like it's nothing. tone a little airy as if he doesn't mean for it to hit. myles wants it to hit. "you don't think you killed my vibe? you're so cute." he feels wired as he reaches out for omar. "not tryin' to hit the club. want to go back to yours." he needs to fuck omar to sleep and snoop expeditiously. "you gotta start making it up right now."
finally, myles graces omar his touch, and it’s all he can do to level himself with a hand on the bar, lest he fall forward into the other’s space and take more than he’s allowed right now; he’s not fully out of the doghouse yet, is he? “i’ll make it up to your friends,” he’s offering readily, “drinks on me next night out.” pauses to really consider this. remembers, cruelly, that the radio station’s pay is what it is. “just, y’know. pick your two favorites.” myles has a point - often does! - and omar groans in the back of his throat, a mixture of guilty admission and a plea to be spared. “i know, i should’ve texted. my phone died. couldn’t find a charger. no change for a payphone. there’s an angle to this where i’m the one whose suffered most; lemme find it.” lot of jokes for a vibe-killer, huh? he trills his lips, dares to reach out now to catch myles’ hip and jostle him closer. “we can go back to mine.” in the back of his mind, omar combs through the state he’d left his apartment in this morning - nothing incriminating out. maybe a spare mask he’ll have to kick under the bed but, ideally, myles’ll be too distracted to be looking at the goddamn ground. “yeah, okay. i’m so sorry, gorgeous, i’m the worst, i don’t deserve you … tell me when you’ve had your fill.” if ever!
adam's hand tears away and link is promptly brought back to the present — woken up from wherever he went; nostalgic, comforted, and as delusional as he's ever been, reminded promptly of the reality that he's created for them both. there's nothing to forgive about adam's expression, whatever it may or may not be lacking in, because it's more than earned. link's in the process of dipping his chin down when two fingers prop it upward instead, head tilting back and eyes squeezing shut — turns out that he's as cowardly as he's ever been, too. he can't help himself; it's intimidating, adam is intimidating, as ridiculous as it sounds and is that someone so gentle could make him so nervous. truth is, they always have. he hates never knowing what they're thinking. he hates that he's never been further away from understanding, and he hates that he put them here.
he doesn't really know what to make of what they say initially — it's a hard line to read between the hand tugged away so quick, the smile that doesn't reach their eyes anymore ( did he remember that right at all, that sometimes, when they really smiled at him, he could see it in their eyes? has he always been so self-involved that he imagined it? or has he sucked all the life out of them, it's new? ), and then they say something that he reacts to so immediately, so involuntarily; mouth slopes down and eyes sting wet, his throat bobs, and he forces himself not to be any more pathetic than that. why is he telling them? — ... how could he not?
... then again, how could he not tell them before, even one real reason he was doing what he was doing? then again, how could he not tell them anything, how could he not give them any indication that it wasn't their fault? he thought he knew better, that's the answer to all of those. he thought he knew better, he thought he knew what was best for them, and now, he's back to a pathetic i don't know, which is not something even he is senseless enough to verbalize right now. so, he doesn't. he's quiet. he listens. he observes.
the advice is fair enough — it's real, and it's something he needs to hear, as much as adam's cadence stings. the distance, the forced control, the suffocating disappointment. he knows just as well that every part of it, including adam not caring to hear what his plan going forward is, is far kinder than he deserves. he watches as their hands shake, trembling around a first aid kit that doesn't seem to want to fit back together. he'd tried not to imagine what adam was feeling through all this, he'd tried to make himself believe that they'd get over him faster if he pulled away, tried to minimize his importance to them to make himself feel better about leaving, hated himself so much that he made himself believe that adam did secretly too, and his eyes widen in the face of how deranged and delusional that was the entire time. he cared, he loved, he tried, and link, in all his self-pitying and misery-inducing bullshit, chewed that up and spat that out at him — certain all the while that he was doing them a favor, and that's the worst part. it completely disregarded every ounce of love they'd shown him, threw it in the trash. bring on now a montage of flashing images in his mind, of their side of the nights he spent wallowing on the bathroom floor, shutting his eyes and trying to keep them out. he can't conceptualize it because he wasn't there. did he make them cry? did they lose sleep over him? is he being literal, did he get sick with worry? … is this what that saying means: with a friend like you, who needs enemies? — how sobering.
link does not do him the courtesy of looking back at him, he can't. shocker. instead his hand, the good one, moves to lift the hem of his shirt and he trades hands, the bad one pinning the shirt to his chest while the other reaches for a tissue, sets it on his lap, and shakily applies antiseptic. it's something to do, it's — the least he can do, given how many pieces of him adam's already been left to pick up. he doesn't react to the bruises littering his ribs, the scrapes aplenty; it's worse than even his hand, worse than he imagined it being, but he looks at it like it's nothing. you had me, adam said, and a tear of frustration breaks past his resolve to not cry again hearing it play back. he did have them. he had them so wholly, he'd started to think he was falling in love. he hopes he wasn't. he hopes he couldn't actually be this cruel to someone he thought he loved. adam's already survived monsters just like him, and he can't believe he thought disappearing was the way to protect him from himself. "...thank you," he says instead of i'm sorry, and it feels just as pitiful. maybe they'll believe he means it. maybe they won't. "i don't — i don't need the bed, if you'd rather. i usually sleep on a couch. i don't... i don't mind either way," he breathes out, pressing the tissue clumsily against the scrape, and all he does as it burns this time is screw up his face. "and i don't want a pass," he says with effort, gauze pressed against raw flesh, eyes shutting, head shaking. "don't expect one. i know i hurt you bad, adam. i know. and i'll be sorry for that for the rest of my life. you're the only real friend i've ever had, and i... completely discarded you."
fingers tremble and pinch at tissue, delicately tossing it into the bin, moving onto the next one. "i thought — i thought a lot of things," he explains in a continued whisper, eyes wet, face too, teeth bearing down on his lip as he cleans another portion of scraped abdomen. "doesn't really matter what. i'll work it out in therapy. you gave me the chance to talk it out and i just couldn't, man. but — but you didn't do anything wrong, at any point. if i don't get another chance to — to apologize, to explain, you need to know at least that. i've left you filling in blanks long enough. the truth is that i — i wanted to get worse. i wanted to just give up. didn't want help. i didn't care how bad it got, and made anyone who did care sorry for trying to stop me from letting it get there. you, most of all. and you didn't deserve it." — and then, he's quiet. that's all he has, and he already feels like it was all overstepping, all unwanted, all unnecessary, all too little, too late. and, he's more sober than he was thirty minutes ago, but this is still a pretty shitty first-aid job. he definitely should've let adam take a look. he drops his shirt without dressing it, tired, defeated. he thinks about putting jacks ( item ) in jack's ( person ) shoes this sunday, after brunch, where he's going to tell his entire family that he has a drinking problem and he'll be going to rehab — probably with a mimosa in hand. he thinks about how what adam really deserves is a break, and how if he had just gotten over himself, maybe he could've given them it.
adam retreats to the safety of the sink, settles the slightest bit when the edge of the counter presses into his hip and sinks his weight against worn granite. their fingers curve around the lip of the counter and their mouth is set in a thin line. inside, noise rolls and roars, dissonant and angry. guilt unearthed, hooking its fingers between their ribs and shaking, demanding to know who’d woken it from its decade-long slumber. they’re torn between i’ve finally said my piece and i shouldn't have said anything. can’t help but drop their stony gaze to link’s exposed, mottled skin. it’s - god, it’s so bad. it’s hard to look at and harder to stomach and link’s still talking but adam’s not listening, not like he should be. they’re in their head, thinking what a disgrace they are, to have allowed themself to unspool when link himself is barley held together, all battered and bruised like this, broken inside. two hurt people don’t make one healed. adam should’ve done better to hold it together. adam opens their mouth to apologize.
then closes it. what’s done is done, on both ends. now this linoleum-and-tile box is a wreckage site that smells like alcohol and every unmet message from before is a distress flare that went unheeded. what to do now? what to do tomorrow, when they’ve gone back to the new normal? adam watches link tend to his wounds. garish and unwelcome against his pallor. adam’s fingers flex, like he wants to take over. he could treat it better. not great, but better. is that anything?
“all the more reason to take the bed. your spine must hate you.” this is picked carefully out of the noise in their head. a bad back is the least of their problems, but it’s something conquerable. if link will take the bed, adam will have helped make his life a little less … god, is fucking miserable a crass thing to think? they wince, but insist again, “just take it, link. the couch is awful and your night’s been bad enough.” this close to handing over the shirt off their own back, just to be able to say they did something for link besides stinging him with antiseptic and burning him with their words.
adam’s gaze treks up from link’s naked torso to the naked look on his face. where the rest of their own expression is ruminative and small, their eyes are wide, wild with reawakened worry. there’s an ice-cold shot to the heart with what link says, how dark it’d gone. guilt grabs at their ribcage again, and sympathy shakes it until their heart breaks off it's rusty hinge and sinks to the bottom. he hears what link doesn’t say. adam’s quiet too.
some time ago, when they were still young and life itself had seemed conquerable, adam had resigned themself to three principles of life:
the first is that anger is wasted on sad people. he cannot angry someone into becoming a better version of themselves, and their sadness does enough beating them down without his help.
the second is that emotion gets in the way of productivity, proactivity, and to waste it on things that could not be changed is pointless. so he’s repressed and buried and swallowed down all that does not serve him, ended up like this. they’re better for it, right?
the third is that adam loves link. wholly, sweetly, unbearably. as a friend. as something more. now, as he watches link’s face and recognizes they've abandoned the first principle, adam breathes out the second to nurture the third.
“you’re my best friend.” immovable, speaking steadfastly before the guilt can stop them. “you’re- i know you don’t think so, but i think you’re the best person. the most good. i think, if i hadn’t known you growing up, i would’ve been worse off.” it feels like they’re closing in on themself with every word, so he speaks a little faster, a little clumsier. “if something. hm. if something happened to you, if i never saw you again, i- i wouldn’t know what to do with myself. you’re so important to me.” heat floods their face and every instinct in them screams, begs, demands them to stop talking, this is too much, the dam, the dam is breaking, stop stop stop. “you were a dick. you were awful. you were mean. and you were hurting.” adam sighs and it shudders, shakes with emotion. they cross their arms, uncross them. squeeze their eyes shut, open them again. they look at link’s neck, his red cheek, his eyes. they think back to how link had slurred down the phone and kickstarted hope in adam's system. how link used to trip over his own ramblings, fascinated, and adam had felt well just to listen. how the dappled lights of the aquarium tank had danced over link's face that first day, and adam had been conquered by it. “i miss you.” i’ve finally said my piece. i should’ve said it sooner.
clients with rapport are the best kinds of clients. for all the color in edith's life, at her core, she is kind of, well, lonely. she always has been. finding connection day to day and spreading her art? it is a win-win in her eyes. and, yes, as profound as she is, even the brief respite of human connection can calm down an unsettled brain. "i can tell," declares the tattoo artist, a finger going up to tap her temple in response. "it's my sixth sense. i know when people are troublemakers." of course, there are outliers. she didn't inherit any sort mediumship abilities from her parents, but edith is a pattern recognizer to her core. people will claim she's good at reading vibes, and that remains semi-true, but really, she can read a person moments after meeting them. "and i trust you to not. the same way you trust me. no pets, though. so maybe i'm just letting my guard down." she has a moss ball. maybe that would make for a messy transportation. "yeah. crystals. herbs. they make some salves and soaps, too. they read tarot, they read tea leaves. you know, all that. they're definitely little cuties." being raised like that, it's given her a larger appreciation for the metaphysical. it's obvious in the environment around them, colors and icons dot the room in a way one could say is whimsical. "see? you're being brave. you've made it all the way through the first part. what do you think?" she turns the sketch around to show off to zoey, flowers in the way she described with edith's artful twist. "i can change anything you'd like."
letting ones guard down early — edith is zoey’s type of person. it’s so stuffy, isn’t it? to be beholden to, like, paranoia dressed in expectation’s clothes. she laughs, devoid of the nervousness she’d come in not so long ago. “oh, i hope you don’t come to regret it.” but zoey’s harmless, really. a little bit naive, maybe. asinine, if you’re not charmed by the way she goes on and on and on, and not many are. “i love that stuff. the tarot cards and, like, palm-reading. anyone who says it’s bullshit is bullshit. and if it is? literally who cares. it’s fun! ugh, you’re so lucky.” envy, sure, but there’s syrup on it. she straightens with edith’s presentation, and her eyes go wide as saucers as she takes in the drawing. all it’s sure lines and loops lend to a dynamism zoey would never in a million years have been able to put into words. “that’s so freaking cool,” she gushes. perhaps a little forward when she reaches out to pluck the pad out of edith’s hand to have a better look. maybe even a little ridiculous as she positions the page over her forearm, like it’ll help to picture the piece on her skin. “don’t change anything. i love this.” she admires quietly, eyes alight. finally hands it back and, when it’s out of her hands, she smacks at her forearm expectantly. “alright, picasso. ink me up.”
open starter
open to: m/f/nb
plot: our muses siblings are getting married! but we both kind of hate weddings.
qianyu tried not to show how overstimulated she was as the punch from someone's cup was cascading down her dress. this was just great, the icing on top of the shitty cake she'd had all day. she was busy wiping off the front of her dress that she didn't hear the other person come up beside her. "oh shit!" she said, jumping a bit when they tapped her shoulder. "sorry, I was so focused I didn't hear you." she gestured at her dress with a sigh. "guess i'm just destined to not have a good time at this wedding." she said with a laugh.
“heeey, it’s chill, i come in peace,” ricky says with his palms out in early surrender. from his left hand hangs a rag, pilfered from the reception hall’s kitchen. he eyes the growing stain on her dress warily, then holds the rag out like a consolation prize. “my aunt gets a little too excited at stuff like this. i’d say i got lucky that you took the blow over me, buuut you’re probably not in the mood for jokes about it yet, so … let me know if that changes.” in the other room, a wedding reception carries on in full swing. somewhere in there, ricky’s sister sweeps around the room in a white gown shaped like a cupcake. out here, ricky kneels to try and dab the punch stain out. he scoffs, rolls his eyes upward until they meet hers, and chances a grin. “weddings are awful, aren’t they? i thought i was going to die of old age during the vows.”
open starter : m / f / nb ( 21+ ) ! muse : sage brooks , thirty , real estate agent. plot : enemies to lovers expect sage has never been good at the 'enemies' part and the more they hate him , the harder he tries to win them over.
" all of this feels a little over dramatic , don't you think ? " despite the other's feelings being very , very clear about him , sage was somehow still convinced that he could win them over. " what reason do you even have to hate me so much ? i think you're projecting or . . . or something. "
“over-dramatic,” adrien echoes flatly, already frowning before he’s reached the final, sharp c at the end. narrowed eyes cut away, like he has the upper hand by not deigning sage the eye contact. he looks toward the bar, where his friend and sage’s friend carry on with their moony-eyed cat-and-mouse game. tonight is no different than the weekend before, and the weekend before that, going back, what? three months now? why they still feel the need to drag adrien and sage along respectively when they can clearly manage date night alone eludes him. part of him suspects this is an attempt to pair the spares. which, god, would be easier to cope with if they’d come back to the table with his drink already. still looking past sage's ear, adrien answers, “just one reason? what will we talk about the rest of the night then?” at least adrien thinks he’s funny. he rests his cheek against his palm and slowly shifts his stare back to sage’s face. “does it bother you that i don’t like you?” something spiteful and edged in the twitch of his mouth now. “do you need to be liked?”
"party animal. i was reasonable. i didn't put the roofie in my drink myself." ash explains as if anybody asked. he lets adam guide him out of the car and acts a little more drunk than he really is. he leans into them heavily and remembers every line of their body against his. it makes his stomach flip and he moves towards his place like a limp noodle so adam will keep touching him. he doesn't even know what adam is asking what he minds about but he just shakes his head. he hears the familiar jingle of his keys and frowns at how sweet adam is being. this is what ash wants even if he can't have it. "that's not a compliment." ash laughs anyway as he nudges them into his doorway. it's a little cramped because his place is small and he hopes that his roommates are dead to the world or out. "come in" he holds onto adam as he gets out of his boots and kicks them clean across the front foyer. "i can't see." he complains as he tightens his grip on adam. "come get in my bed please. just for a little bit. i'll keep my hands to myself." obviously not.
adam winces at the reminder, but resists the inclination to say more. they focus on the tasks at hand: get ash home, deposit him in his bed, and pretend there’s a way back from this. “it’s not?” he asks rhetorically. it’s nice that ash laughs even when adam isn’t funny. nice like a sweet ache, like working a sore muscle. traipsing through the space toward the bedroom door — they’ve been here before, sure! adam just remembers it going smoother last time! he kicks the door open and cringes at the sound it makes when it bangs off the wall. when he finally does slough ash onto the edge of his bed, adam’s able to take a step back and look around the room. they’ve never taken the time to observe, figured that the less they knew the better. now they admire personal effects and how they look in the streetlight peeking through the blinds. the invitation draws his eyes back; his brows jump, lips twitching toward a smirk. “i’ve heard that before.” deliberation here looks like adam shifting their weight uncertainly, then giving in and dropping onto the corner of the mattress, enough space between for plausible deniability. "i think you're hard to figure out, ash. that's a compliment.”
"it's okay," link tells them as they're shifting his hand about, wrapping his hand up, surely joking about the sleeping bags and snacks — but from the sincerity of which he says it, you'd never guess that he read it as intended. ( spoiler alert: he didn't! it went right over his head; he really thinks adam is apologizing for that, and he doesn't want him to worry one bit about sleeping bags. he can't believe he's allowed in the house! ) "we never needed much to have have a good time." not that this has been at all a fun night, but... the sentiment is simple ( don't worry about that, you don't ever have to worry about entertaining me ), it's said like honey, it's honest; it's him trying to apologize by inserting any kind of normalcy back into their dynamic that he can, if he still can, by talking how they normally do.
eyelids flutter hesitantly open at the very same time that their gazes meet, adam asking for permission in theirs, link granting it with a nod of his head just before his cheek is guided into their hand, and then through the observation domain again. the thumb press is met with less resistance than the antiseptic and his hand had been, it's more like a wince if it's anything at all, a momentary pout and whine that gets trapped behind closed lips. he smiles with only his teeth when prompted about the whereabouts of all of them, silly looking, reminiscent of when he really didn't know how to smile with his eyes too — which, he started copying adam who smiled mostly with their eyes, around about the eighth grade. "mmm.... mhm," he agrees in permission to clean it, his voice quiet, almost hummed, eyes falling down and away as the intimacy becomes overwhelming for the both of them at seemingly the same time.
he catches it — that wavering lip. in a millisecond long glance, he catches it, and it's subconscious, but he's tipped his face so deep into adam's hand that he's pinning it to his shoulder, eyes still stubbornly locked on the floor through this strange show of affection. their hand feels like home, and he's called to it like it got dark outside — like it got dark real quick. he can hear his voice on the phone still, playing back to him. "...i feel like hell," he responds, voice still whispered; words finally a modicum honest after months of being anything but. "i know. i'm really lucky you came," he says to the ground more than to adam, and he really isn't trying to sound so pitiful here, he just can't bear the eye contact under the weight of this guilt; and he could not say anything, but he thinks they should know he's aware that they didn't have to allow this. that they, more than anyone, don't owe him a thing. "i, uh —" not giving much of a chance for adam to say anything in response, link starts on something. he starts to talk because he wants to tell them something, something he's afraid he'll lose the nerve to if he doesn't right now, and something that needs to be said out loud so that he has to do it. it's a made up rule, but link is controlled by made up rules, so this is how it has to be. "i—" fingers grip the edge of the tub on his good hand, his cheek still holding adam's hand hostage between it and his shoulder. he doesn't mean to trap, but he's doing it because he can feel them there — and that makes him less scared.
"i'm gonna—i'm gonna put my two weeks in tomorrow, and... use that two weeks to—well, my fish, i have to take care of my fish, there are seventeen of them, someone has to feed them, um... and maybe prepay some bills, um —" — the floor tiles look like the ocean again. it is literally so hard to form sentences this inebriated, but he's trying his best, okay? he's really trying. "inpatient—" the word slips through his lips like water falls through hands, head nodding, insistent. "gonna do inpatient, i think. last week, i thought i'd try outpatient, but, the — i don't know, i don't think that's— i went out tonight because i had a meltdown at work, i don't think continuing to work there is a good idea if i'm going to... fix... it." there is more than a small part of him that's prepared for adam to not believe any of what he's saying. he wouldn't blame them for it if they didn't, but he hopes that they do; it's the first time he's gotten this far in the plan, and he'd known it was the plan the second he decided to bring them into it — the second he sent that plea. before that, the silence came in so many waves of months because he hadn't figured it out yet — he didn't have the plan, and he wouldn't open this door until he was sure about it. he doesn't really believe in himself that it'll work, that he'll get fixed — not at this point in time — but they'd said: figure it out. find me when you do. he's finding them.
really lucky hits the ear like a discordant note in a familiar song. adam, who has carried on with their amateur first aid, only makes an agreeing sound in the back of their throat. if link wants to attribute to luck what adam knows is laid in loyalty, however stupid, who are they to stop him? never got far stopping him before, did they? dried blood gets dabbed away; a small pile of discarded tissue and the smell of isopropyl will be the proof they were here together. they’ll let link take the bed, will see him off early in the morning. will probably regress in this months-long process of moving on — just for a while, a quick spell! the initial impact is the worst, adam knows, and it’s largely the unexpectedness of it that fucks you up. after that, it’s just a matter of gritting one’s teeth and bearing it over and over again, and adam’s good at that.
in this loaded silence, adam goes elsewhere in their mind. goes through the motions of care and comfort, but his eyes are faraway and the tremor in his hands is abated with this funny form of detachment. so he doesn’t notice, at first, when link makes to speak again. registers belatedly that they can’t pull their hand back without disrupting something. adam blinks back into themself, blinks into link’s face. listens.
( when adam was 20, their mother had come back. she had said something similar. had held their face the way he holds links now, looking hopeful and sad. and that turned out the way it did. )
so forgive him for his slow reaction. for the unsure quirk of their brow and the blank stare they can’t shake right away as they roll link’s plan around in their head like a lead ball. and then they extract their hand from where it’s wedged between link's cheek and shoulder brusquely, like it burns there.
two fingers tilt link’s chin up, allowing adam a better view of the red ring around his neck. again, he’s rattled by the sight. they know how it got there now; hard to stay still how it got to this. “that’s great, link.” their voice does that thing again, sinks into this sobered, subdued mutter that betrays the tepid smile they force their mouth into, “all of that sounds … yeah. really good. i’m happy for you. i hope you fix it.” more quiet, more first aid. adam dots the friction burn with aloe and doesn’t meet link’s eyes when he finally hedges, “i guess i don't get why you’re telling me.”
they hate that they’ve said it immediately. of course they care. of course this is a breakthrough, a fragile and brave step in a better direction. adam revisits the apology back in the car, revisits the sick pattern sorry and soon have played through their years. they’ve crafted this steadfast and resilient dam over the course of their life and trusted in it. missed the months-old leak. adam clears their throat, continues trying to smooth the angry red out of link’s skin.
“but stay strong, okay? sticking to it is going to be hard.” the smile’s gone. “you can't come back to what you've been doing once you're on the up and up; you’ve got to really commit. own up to a lot of shit you’ve done, how badly you treated yourself.” missed the leak. “how badly you treated the people who tried to help you.” begins to spill out onto dingy linoleum, shaky hands repacking the first aid kit. “because you can’t undo that, you know? when people who love and care about you try really, really hard to reach you and you blow them off, or you ignore them, or you lie to them for months, and you can’t buck up and tell them what they’ve done wrong? even if you have a complete turnaround and wake up years away from it someday, you can’t undo what you did. hard to get to the other side of that, i imagine. so, good luck.” adam’s face pinches, disgusted that they've said so much, especially when the night’s been hard enough on link already. shut up. they open their mouth to apologize;
“you had me, man. you had me and you made me sick, wondering what the hell was going on and when i became someone you couldn’t talk to about it.” shut up. he huffs, glowers at the ceiling light. “i do hope you get better, link, and cop on that you can be hurting and still hurt others. you don’t get a pass just because your hurt is louder and you say sorry after.” shut up shut up shut up!!! adam’s expression twists, shame and embarrassment a grim cocktail in their blood. they close their eyes and take a deep breath; the way their face falls back into staid place is practiced. now they look at link dead-on, expectant. “do you want me to look at …?” they gesture to their own middle, in the same spots link had alluded to some scrapes and bruises on himself. "bed's ready whenever you are."
a laugh bubbles from edith, deep from her stomach. it's a loud, short cackling noise. it catches her off guard as if she didn't realize it comes from her, but this is something edith can relate to plenty. "profound, right. i've done plenty of very unprofound things. but don't worry, i'm actually a pretty good speller." drawing and writing came far easier than speaking most of the time. "unless it's for the joke. i can get behind that." she's done a couple meme tattoos to her and the client's enjoyment. at the end of the day, what edith loves about it is the absolute freedom. isn't this a form of autonomy? decorating yourself however you want, being however you want. she's been lucky to have had a family to be so supportive of her endeavors, but she's witnessed enough of the opposite to know just how jarring it can be. she hopes zoey's visit goes alright. "well, if you need to run from your family, you got my number." her apartment is opened to all who wish to escape. it's her safe place, she is more than happy to share. "oh. yes. it's just my moms. they live across the country, though. they are very colorful people, they own an occult shop," she tells zoey, nodding towards a picture of them hanging higher up amongst the prints and flash sheets scattered amongst the walls. "yup, they do. they've had a bunch my whole life. probably where i got the hunger for it. i used to color theirs' in with markers."
the laughter, abrupt where it bursts in-between, rushes zoey with a sense of pride. its best to quit while she’s ahead, she’s learned, so she sits back with her weight held on her palms behind her, humming acknowledgement as her attention wanders to the tiny bottles of ink on a cart close by. for all her fretting coming in, she’s having a lovely time at her tattoo appointment. then again, she hasn’t set her eyes on a needle yet - the real test of her impulsive bravery. her eyes flicker back over with the offer, surprised rumination coloring her features; surprised to have, like, earned it, but also surprised to find herself putting it in her back pocket, just in case. “that’s nice of you,” she remarks lithely, “but how do you know i won’t, like. i don’t know. throw your furniture around or - you have pets? put your pet in my purse and take it home.” her fear-mongering loses it's silly, stupid heat when she lights up, leaning forward. “seriously? that’s so cool. that’s, like, crystals and stuff, right? i have a tiger’s eye in my purse now. literally the size of my fist. i thought it'd help to, like, feel brave for this today.” zoey’s metaphysical knowledge only goes so far as the first result in a google search, but she’ll take any string of connection here. she follows the invisible trail to take in the family photo on the wall. “they’re cute.” looks back to her artist and grins. “how we lookin’ now, artiste?”
↻ Typhoon Family 태풍상사 (2025) — Episode.13 | Love Beyond Fear ⠀
"let me?" myles tips his head to the side squinting towards omar like he might find this perpetual excuse of his. he wants to be mad and he wants to put the other out but he can't. he likes him too much. there's too much at risk and it's all become something bigger than intended. "your ass ain't changin' especially not for me. you know my friends the ones were supposed to meet half an hour ago say you're not a good guy." myles points out. his friends do talk shit but he doesn't even care enough. they're not immune to ain't shit men cause the group chat goes crazy every single time one of their significant others act out. "i forgive you every time. you know i'm a bird for you baby." myles grins with all his teeth. he likes that pleading look in omar's eyes. he wants to always be the one to put it there. myles tries to keep that tight expression on his face but there's no fucking use. "it's always hectic at the end when you need to meet me." myles feels better when omar's touching him. when their gazes meet he can only shrug. "my friends are all at the club now. i don't wanna go to the club though." myles shakes his head. even if he's trying to bring omar out to meet them the universe seems to have other plans every time. he finally remembers he's pissed and swats omar's hand away. "act right. ima need you begging on your knees."
a damning indictment, one that makes omar grimace with - finally - shame. “look. i’m sure your friends are good people. but from the shit you’ve told me about what’s-his-face, i don’t know that they’re really the best judges of character.” even so, he can see where his tardiness looks really bad to myles’ friends. would look back to anyone else, too! myles must have something mad going on inside him, to continue to give omar grace. another damning indictment, but not for omar ... “a pretty bird,” he croons, syrupy as he clings myles’ goodwill and teeters into his space like he wants something, “want to let you fly around my place, knocking shit over and squawking at me” stupid, silly, nonsensical in a way omar hopes can draw a laugh. “i don’t plan it. it’s unlucky. trust me, i’d love to tell them to figure it out on their own.” maybe it’s wrong to say - bad superhero! omar finds it hard to care right now, caught up now in the pissy look on myles’ face. unfortunately, he loves it. grins at it, like a fool. “hey now. that’ll come later. promise.” he cocks his head, takes careful stock of the look on myles’ face. “you sure? you love the club. don't tell me i've killed your vibe."
"we don't really talk," edith replies, with a shrug. it's nothing with malice, mostly he went his way, and she went hers'. "it's alright, though. i don't even mind my worst bits." this took a long time to come around on, making peace with her regrets and insecurities. but they are what they are, just a small part of what makes edith a whole. she lets out a small laugh at the other's reaction, a quick hook of her pinky with zoey's, and listens intently as she explains. "ah," she says with a nod. "many such cases. the beige monochromatic lifestyle is slowly becoming a pandemic. i was lucky to avoid it pretty massively." anything about light and color, it was all first taught to her by her moms, both incredibly colorful individuals in their own regard. she knows she's lucky to have that support. it only aids her further in her art career. edith nods with solemn recognition, the sketchpad has been idle in her hands the further she gets sucked into the conversation. "oh, yes, i don't need to imagine, i lived it. i actually don't tattoo names on people." anymore. she's learned from her mistakes. "we've come a long way, with tattooing, i mean, if you totally hate it, we can laser it off, or cover it up. but i like to think that it's only as permanent as we are, and we're not really permanent at all." she's not going to be gloom and doom about it, but a lot of the reason she loves her tattoos, even the ones she hates, is because they're a representation of her life. to her, she's a gallery wall until she dies. "they're gonna change and shift. we all do, don't we? and i think that's terrifying to a lot of people." finally, she returns to the paper, sketching off vibes more than specifics. "i don't think so. but i'm maybe the biggest supporter of fighting the beige agenda. so let's knock your mom's socks off."
all the color, the vividity of edith’s portfolio, had been what caught zoey’s wandering eye on social media in the first place. she beams appreciatively now, glad to have been heard through the winding noise that bubbles out of her mouth constantly. wide eyes go even wider with the notion of lasers, but it’d be a lie to say zoey doesn’t feel a nudge of relief; permanence is a scary thing! and zoey’s a bit of a chicken. even now, she shudders, shakes her head. “god, i’d rather you misspell some crazy-ass name on me than go under a real life laser. but that’s - mmh. you really know your stuff. little miss profound.” left to roll these new ideals around in her head as edith returns to the sketch, zoey swings her legs back over the side of the chair and watches on absently. she considers the beige storm coming to her next weekend, how she’ll have to play her part for forty-eight long, grueling hours; astute with a straight spine and long-winded observations clattering behind a stiff smile. awesome. at least there’ll be something pretty to look at, just down her arm. the impermanent permanence of it feels less daunting now. zoey almost lets edith work in silence to the end of her sketch — almost! “you close with your family?” just - okay. sure. “do they have a bunch of tattoos all over too?”
