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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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Star is getting better, Sam is getting a friend, Stephen is a Sad White Boy™. A layover chapter. I'm not very happy with how this turned out but hey, it's an update and its still pandemi-lovato outside, we gotta be gentle on ourselves. PA turned out to be way more serious than I planned it to be anyways and I think that's very yeehaw of me to expand my writing from the usual almost-crackfics that I write. Love you all 3000.

Days stretched like a piece of chewed up gum, bleeding into one another at a snail's pace, one dull grey NYC afternoon after the other. The hospital wing I was forced to camp out in Tony's tower was top notch but everything, starting from the constant beeping to the sharp, chemical smells, irritated me, and what little strength I had to communicate was mostly spent on listening to Sam's tall tales.

Odette had stopped by shortly after the first wave of weakness had set in; no, I didn't dramatically faint or suddenly develop third stage cancer, I simply turned into a near-catatonic vegetable, devoid of any emotion or will to exist. My bones were like Jell-o, my thoughts - sluggish, sparse clouds that rarely swam in the grey plains of my overtired mind.

My boss was fussing over me for hours, I heard faint echoes of her and Stephen's argumentative conversations before she flipped out and shut the door to my hospital room, strong aromas of incense and smoke briefly overshadowing the bleach and plastic stench every hospital seemed to have. I

I became mostly coherent after her ministrations; enough to see the dark circles under her eyes and the ghastly tone of her skin. More often than not, I couldn't even properly focus my vision, things like using the bathroom and eating three times a day were the worst chores I'd ever had to do.

My body was trying to convince me to wither away, to simply allow the vessel for my spirit to become one with the Earth once more. I had no energy to process what had happened on the foreign planet; when I slept, I didn't dream, I didn't have nightmares, time just flowed like a fast, untamed river, my weary body drifting along the calmer streams of the shoreline and occasionally bumping into a stone of daily routine.

My stubbornness, however, was an inherent part of me. I had considered, many times, simply giving up; the voices in my head whispered at me their poisonous ideas. It would be so easy, to fall asleep and never wake up. They baited me with the promises of afterlife, of golden halls and spaces full of light and warmth.

Sam had started spending a lot of time at my bedside absolutely unprompted; sometimes, he'd hold my hand, gentle, tender fingers drawing senseless squiggles on the inside of my palm. Faint echoes of his aura told me he was worried for me, but also grateful for what I did for Stephen and angry at someone. I tried not to think about the last part: I could sense their pity and their unease every time one of his teammates stopped by my hospital room.

A healthy-looking young woman spending most of her days blankly staring at the wall wasn't a picture-postcard view. Sam wasn't bothered by it in the slightest, and when I finally clawed my way out of the dredges to be able to answer questions with a simple 'yes' or 'no', he promptly lit up, speaking to me in a happy tone that almost wasn't forced.

Tony stopped by, too, usually late in the evening, when he thought I and everyone else was asleep. He sat next to me, his intelligent brown eyes fixed on my face for twenty, thirty minutes at a time before he'd stroke my hair or run a hot, calloused palm over my arm, and then took his leave, slow, shuffling footsteps quietly receding into the hallways. I really didn't know what to think about Tony, he had always been quite quirky, but his gestures were... Nice.

Stephen... Him, his actions, I understood the least. He had argued with Tony, argued with Odette and I was sure I heard him and the Black Widow scream at each other during lunch time. Sometimes I thought I heard his voice, at night, the darkness behind my eyelids suddenly bursting with golden sparks and green bokeh but when I finally mustered up the strength to open my eyes, the empty, white walls were all that greeted me.

Stephen never stopped by, I rarely heard his voice outside of my room and almost always it was one bickering or another, mostly with Sam muttering a few choice words as he noisily sat down on the chair next to me. As much as I hated to admit it, it bothered me. Near-death experiences tended to leave a strong imprint on the human mind and whether Stephen liked it or not, we were connected for life.

"Then Steve, the dumbass, just jumps out of the plane. No chute, no warning," Sam's voice, drifting between fond and annoyed, snapped me out of my stupor. "Robot-brain curses, yells at his boyfriend like he can hear him and just... Does the same fucking thing," the exasperation made a tiny spark of mirth settle in me. I flexed my fingers despite the dull ache, gripping Sam's fingers in my palm. I didn't need to see him to know he immediately perked up. "Meanwhile I'm standing there with my wings, trying to figure out where in life did I take the wrong turn to end up with these two idiots."

"You should get them," I swallowed, my throat dry, my vocal cords tense from the lack of use. "One of those... Backpack leashes," the words were a battle to get out, it was a fight with a brick wall to force my brain to string sounds into a sentence, but I persisted.

"Should I say 'welcome back'?" Sam's optimism is cautious.

"Gettin' there," I forced my eyes to meet his, to see the life bustling in him. To feel alive, even by proxy.

"I should get Strange here, he's been running himself ragged these days, tryin' to figure out how to bring you back," Sam's free hand scrambled for his cell as I struggled to raise my eyebrows. "Yeah, yeah, I was as surprised as you were, Tony barely gets the wizard to sleep and eat."

Faint pangs of shame wormed into my headspace, for assuming the worst when I knew that his façade of vitriol and sarcasm was just that - a wall to protect himself. My rediscovery of the ability to feel, even if it was gooey shame, grounded me in this plane of existence, forcing me to face reality and return to it.

"I feel like shit," for once in my life, I allowed myself to openly, publicly complain about my state of being.

"Yeah, I couldn't tell," Sam's tone was refreshingly teasing. "Odette and Strange explained what you did. Well, sort of," the man scratched his chin. "I understood about half of it, really, but what matters is that you were badass as fuck!"

I struggled to hold onto that sense of being present. "Well, it wasn't my choice," I felt the need to state the fact. "I'm a conductor, of sorts."

Sam's eyebrows rose, both of his hands encompassing my lax palm. "Wizard-man said you consciously directed the energies, or whatever."

I felt the tiniest laugh bubble up from the bottom of my throat, my dry, chapped lips stretched on their own accord. "Because it tickled and itched. It was annoying," I belatedly suspected that there was something... Off, about my explanation.

Sam's gaping expression, exasperated disbelief, put me on edge. "You thought that radioactive ash tickles and severe nerve damage itches?" His head shook from side to side, as if he was trying to get rid of a persistent mosquito.

"Um," I had the decency to look away. "I didn't know it was radioactive," I meekly supplied as the door to my hospital room all but flew open.

Stephen looked - not much better than me, if I had to guess, with the exception of a highly anxious face instead of the (probably) dead inside high school drama club goth that I looked like. The Cape billowed behind him despite a lack of any wind, wiggling as my eyes widened in response to the fabric moving on its own.

"You're okay," Stephen's baritone had me snapping up to meet his stormy eyes with a speed I wasn't aware I possessed at this stage of my recovery. The sorcerer stood silently, eyeing me in turn.

"I'll go get some coffee," Sam delicately interjected, giving my hand a brief squeeze and all but running out the door.

"Radioactive?" I repeated the question that bothered me the most. Shock seized my chest as I fully faced the implications of our impromptu adventure, but I welcomed the acrid sensations, desperate to feel anything at all.

"Yes," the sorcerer took a few long, hurried strides before crashing into the chair. "I didn't notice at first, but then you grabbed my hand and," a jerky inhale followed the confession. "I felt the healing burn, I felt how your body rejected the particles," his speech stuttered. Slender, gloved fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd be dead in an hour, maybe, if not for..."

I was equally at a loss for words, it seemed. "Weren't we... Harmful to others when we..?" I struggled to form my thoughts.

"You burnt it all off," Stephen replied curtly, puzzled. "Your whole being rejected everything that came from that wretched place. Tony insisted we run tests, do scans. Neither of us have even residual radiation from past x-rays," Stephen's fingers twitched. "But that's not all."

"Your hands?" I offered, remembering some of Sam's words.

A sharp inhale coming from the sorcerer answered my question, if not in detail, and the man himself hesitated to reply for a reason I did not know. I didn't undo the damage, this much I knew was true. He swallowed loudly, eyes firmly planted on the wall opposite me. "They do not hurt anymore," the words were barely louder than a whisper.

I chewed on my lip, slowly, idly, letting Stephen process whatever bothered him that much. He should have been happy, or so I thought, that there was one less thing in this world that had the potential of giving him a headache. "Good," I simply replied, attempting to shrug.

"No, you don't understand," he suddenly lifted his eyes, staring at me hotly. "You did so at the expense of your own life, your lifespan, you energy, your ability to have child-"

I stopped his rant, lifting up one shaky, and my feeble gesture instantly made the tired, broken man deflate into someone that reeked of shame and regret. His shoulders dropped, head briefly touching the side of my bed. For all purposes, I nearly acquired a lapful of kicked puppy Stephen.

Mustering up my very last dregs of energy, I scoffed in his direction: "Don't fucking tell me what to do, wizard," before the familiar weight of apathy began taking over me again. One sluggish thought after the other, I came to a conclusion that he was experiencing a sort of survivor's guilt, except I didn't die.

Or maybe I did? Maybe I'd left some unknown, invisible part of me on the irradiated plains of a foreign world, coming home as a shell of my former self. To their eyes, at least, it could have looked the part; not too long after Stephen's departure, I mustered up the strength and the courage to look into a mirror, to properly see the damage I'd done to myself.

An ashen undertone to my skin, my eyes had sunken deeply into my surprisingly angular face. I had the look of a person who'd survived famine and torture, at least. I appeared to be as dull and disgusting as I felt. For what felt the first time in ages, I carefully, slowly ran myself a hot bath with some of the fancy toiletries placed in the bathroom, because of course Tony would have a full size bath in a hospital room, the steaming, herbal-smelling liquid almost instantaneously giving a boost to my blood flow and speeding up the living energies within my exhausted form.

Sam was waiting for me when I stepped out heated and pruney, a lopsided tilt to his lips and the mouthwatering smell of coffee gathering saliva in my mouth for the first time in days.

"Stephen needs to see a fucking therapist," I grouched, sitting down on the bed, bundled up in a fluffy bathrobe.

Wilson's responding eyeroll was pure reflex. "They all do," he reached out for his thermos, having noticed me eyeing it. A paper cup was promptly filled and given to me. "I can recommend a few, by the way. That specialise in unusual circumstances," he eyed me with kindness, gesturing towards the hospital room with a wide wave of his hand.

I chewed on my lip. "I don't think it will help much, at least right now, since all my hurts are- eh, magical," I shrugged. "I gotta figure out how to stop my limbs from feeling like cooked spaghetti noodles first." The coffee tasted like the usual hospital sludge but somehow, after being devoid of all feeling, it was the single best thing I've had in the past week.

"Seems like a solid plan," Sam agreed. "Your boss is a scary lady, by the way. And I mean it respectfully."

The corners of my mouth tilted up. "Yeah, but she's also very experienced and very kind. She knows her stuff."

Sam quickly looked to the side and as I followed the direction of his stare, i spied a pile of empty Tupperware boxes, causing me to lift an eyebrow at the suddenly bashful man.

"What?" He tried for indignant but it came out as a squeak. "I'm a man, god dammit! I am given free food, I take the free food!"

The realization set in. "She's feeding you now? Did you hit on my boss to get food, Sam?" I wagged my fingers, enjoying the face expressions the man was making, probably, a little more than I should. He looked like a right bird when disgruntled, all puffed up and glaring.

"No!" He almost shrieked. "She cornered me, said I was doing God's work by sitting and talking to you! She just started bringing those... Casseroles, every time she stopped by," the agitation in his voice was quite funny to me. "Not like it's a chore, I actually like the peace and quiet. You've been the best listener I've had in the past year," Sam's grin grew more genuine. "And I don't have to see RoboCop's mug all day or listen to someone argue over the best pasta shape."

"Your house sounds like a nightmare," I supplied conversationally, remembering my own peculiar place and the set of rules and- SHIT, I belatedly realized, someone might went to my apartment to get my stuff and gotten in trouble. "Sam, who went to my place to get my stuff?" I asked, trying to force down the bubbling unease.

"Some lady stopped by, I think her name was also Sam?" He quietly questioned. "Had two kids with her, the boy kept staring at me like I'd stolen his lunch money," the man finished off his coffee, gathering the trash and noisily throwing it in the bin.

"Yeah, that's my neighbor. And Armin is a cool little dude, he's just very shy," I offered absent-mindedly, inwardly breathing a massive sigh of relief.

"He looks like the boy from 'I see dead people' movie," Sam deadpanned, opening a large drawer and extracting my gym bag from it. "I'll leave you to get dressed," we nodded to each other before Sam left the room, phone to his ear and a relaxed atmosphere around his whole being radiating warmth and contentment. That was a nice change from the tense, grim atmosphere of the days past. I could get used to it, could re-learn how to let myself feel like a living being again.

I was eager to return home; stepping in through the portal, my living room greeted me exactly the way I left it the day I went to work, a few books scattered on the couch, my fleece blanket hanging halfway off the couch. Stephen hovered behind me as I set my bag down on the table, immediately surveying the state of my plants and my altar.

"Do you need, um, help with anything?" He was fidgeting, all but vibrating behind me.

Apparently, Sam had talked some sense into the wizard because he stopped by a few times since that day, for a short small-talk or a cup of coffee, the kicked puppy look back on full display.

I told Sam off, of course, saying that I was an adult and so was Strange, but something in his knee-jerk reaction told me that he was so used to playing referee, it didn't even register with him that I might be able to handle my own business. I told Sam that much, taking his hand in me: I wanted a friend, not a parent, not a therapist. It went pretty smoothly.

"No, not really," I figured I could water my own plants and vacuum my own floors. My phone buzzed at that moment, a number saved in my phone as "Tony 😎" coming through with an absolutely outrageous message.

"I'm bringing pizza in 20. You better have Netflix. Tell Dumbledore to pick up his phone."

I promptly thrust the phone in Stephen's face, who instantly developed an equally annoyed and fond expression, as he searched the numerous pockets of his robe for the sleek, light StarkPhone. "Resistance is futile," he sighed, sitting down on the couch as I went to change into something fresh and water my plants while Stephen flicked through my Netflix. I heard him mutter to himself: "Grey's anatomy? Sixth season? Oh my God," with the tone of a man tortured.

"I had a roomie in college who majored in Medical History," I snorted. "When she had a bad day, she'd absolutely pick apart every single thing in the show. From the doctor's misconduct to the way a surgeon was holding the scalpel," I explained, seeing Stephen's eyes sparkle with amusement. "She was absolutely vicious and it was the most hilarious thing."

The sorcerer stroked his chin, leaning back into the couch. "That's acceptable. All medical shows are rubbish," he stated firmly. His phone beeped, causing him to sigh and conjure up a portal within seconds, in the corner of my apartment I had aptly designated to be the landing pad to myself. Tony stepped in, a bottle of wine and three steaming pizza boxes in hand. Smiling at his boyfriend, Stephen turned to me with a curious look: "What did you major in?"

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birdskullz · 3 years

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24hr Laundry

about 4k words • short story • scifi / horror

to celebrate the first day of camp nanowrimo AND receiving my first rejection letter ever, i'm gonna share the story that got rejected!! even so, i'm proud of myself just for finishing something, so enjoy, and happy camp everybody!!

If you've ever walked into a twenty-four-hour laundromat, you've walked into them all. They might not share the same layout or use the same model of machines, and the colors will differ from place to place, but the experience is consistent. Almost dependable. You can count on the sounds of laundry going and fluorescent lights buzzing, the smells of detergent and fabric softener. You know what to expect, and you take some comfort in that when you go to wash your intimates in front of strangers.

However, there's an air of impermanence to a laundromat, especially if it’s located in a strip mall. Despite standing open while countless businesses spawn and die around it, there's a lingering threat that the laundromat might not be there the next time you need it.

Mallory Fisher was no stranger to laundromats. As a junior in college, she had the process cleaning her clothes down to a science. The tiny laundry rooms on campus demanded that she be as quick and efficient as possible; they also demanded that students pay outrageous prices, nearly ten dollars to wash and dry one load. None of the other students seemed to flinch at the expense. It wasn't their own money they were spending. But Mallory just couldn't afford it anymore.

She decided to try out Mr. Scrubs' 24hr Laundry, a medium-sized facility in a strip mall about a five minute drive away from her dorm building. Wedged between a pizza parlor and a jewelry store, it seemed nice enough. The prices advertised in the window seemed even nicer, with wash and dry only costing about a buck fifty each. Mallory silently congratulated herself as she walked through the propped-open door. She'd beat the system. What a deal.

When she crossed the threshold, she was hit with a wave of déjà vu. She glanced around the place, and it felt like her eyes had looked at the same things in the same order once before: the vending machine by the front window, then up the row of dryers, then to the box TV mounted on the back wall. There was the older man sitting under it, reading the paper with his legs crossed just so. The weight of the clothes basket on her hip felt so familiar, so right. A strange prickle began to crawl up the back of her neck.

Mallory shook it off, knowing that she'd never set foot in Mr. Scrubs' before. She'd read somewhere that déjà vu was just the brain catching up with the eyes, nothing special about it. She could only remember it happening maybe twice before now, and each time it had been more of an inconvenience rather than anything to worry about.

The girl studied the place as she walked in further. It looked like it hadn't been renovated since the late eighties, but it wasn't the cute kind of retro that was trendy at the moment. The floors were a checkered pattern and grubby, the kind where the white tiles always looked dirty and the black ones had faded to gray. The machines seemed too big. The aisles between them seemed too cramped. Old neon signs buzzed in the front windows at a different note than the fluorescent lights overhead, which added a faint dissonance to the air.

Mallory noticed she could feel the discrepancy between the notes resonating in the base of her skull. She also couldn't tell if it was too bright or not bright enough; either way, seeing felt like a chore. Hopefully, she wouldn't be there long. Otherwise she might get a headache.

There didn't seem to be an attendant working since they didn't offer a dry cleaning service. There were only four other people there, which Mallory was glad for. The fewer people who had to witness her in her worn-out leggings and holey sweater, the better. She quietly headed for a washer in the back left corner and opened the round door. She bent over her laundry basket and started loading in her clothes.

"I wouldn't use that one, dearie," a wavering voice said, "It's broken."

Mallory turned and saw an older woman standing at one of the plasticky blue tables. She was working through a mountain of clothes in the rolling cart next to her, folding what looked like enough laundry for a small army. The woman wasn't looking at her, instead rather enraptured with her tedious work, so Mallory wasn't sure who she was talking to at first. Still, she surveyed her washer. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong with it, not that she was an expert on cleaning machines. But then, she spotted a piece of paper face down on the floor by her feet. She knelt and turned it over.

The page read "Out of Order" in messy, scribbled lettering.

Mallory stood and sheepishly tried to reattach the sign to the washer door. The tape was too old and thin, and frankly covered in too much dirt, grime and lint to work anymore. So instead, she pulled out the shirts she had already thrown in and tucked the paper into the door as she closed it. Then she opened the next washer down and began loading her clothes again.

"Thank you. You saved me the embarrassment," she said over her shoulder, even though her cheeks burned.

"It's no trouble. I can't remember the last time that washer worked, but Larry refuses to get it replaced," the woman replied.

"…Larry?"

"Yes, Mr. Scrubs himself. Mr. Cheap suits him better if you asked me."

Mallory gave a light laugh at that. She closed the washer hatch, turned and leaned her back against it. She thought the woman was a little aloof at first, but now she seemed genuine. She liked the way the red bandanna covering her limp gray hair brought out the apples of her cheeks. Her casualness put the girl at ease, encouraging her shoulders to loosen. She hadn't realized they'd gotten so tight. Plus, it seemed like she was being let in on some hot gossip that she couldn't get anywhere else. She wanted to keep the conversation going.

"Have you been coming here long, Mrs…?" Mallory trailed off, waiting for her matronly acquaintance to fill in the blank.

"Doyle. But please, call me Claudia," the woman said. That was nice, but despite not being a child anymore, Mallory would rather die than call this woman by her first name. Mrs. Doyle would be just fine. "And yes, for a good ten years or so. What about you, dearie? I've never seen you in here before."

"I'm Mallory. And I've been using the college laundry rooms up till now. I just couldn't take the prices."

"Ah, that's where they get you. Tuition just isn't enough, is it?"

"Tell me about it," Mallory said with another laugh.

The two continued on talking as the younger woman put in her detergent and the older kept folding. Topics ranged from Mallory's major (marine biology) to Mrs. Doyle's grandchildren (five in total). There were stories shared and helpful tips passed from one woman to another. The conversation was so refreshing and easy and warm that Mallory got lost in it, and she jumped when her washer chimed, signaling the end of the cycle. She kept talking with Mrs. Doyle over her shoulder as she began switching her load over to the dryer.

"Mallory, hon, don't you separate your clothes?" Mrs. Doyle asked her.

"Oh, I guess I don't. I mean, throwing everything in one load and washing it on cold hasn't done me wrong yet. Saves money too."

"Well, how about that. I suppose you could teach this oldie a few things, couldn't you?" Mrs. Doyle had finished her folding. She took out several bottles of laundry adjacent items— detergent, fabric softener, bleach, dryer balls— from the bottom of her basket to make room for the clothes. Mallory offered to help bring them out to the woman's car, but Mrs. Doyle assured her that she could manage just fine.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mallory," she said when she had everything together, "Maybe I'll see you again sometime.”

"Most likely! This place is nice," Mallory replied warmly.

Mrs. Doyle turned to go, and Mallory turned toward the bench seating under the TV. The seats were open now, the old man having left a bit ago, and the small table held a thick layer of magazines. She selected the trashiest one she could find, sat down, and buried her nose in it. She had about forty-five minutes to kill and she was sure she could blow through at least half the stack.

"And dearie?"

"Yes?" The young woman looked up.

"Don't stay too long. I know this laundromat doesn't close, but some places just aren't meant to be open much later than this."

Mrs. Doyle gave her a long, serious look. Her cheery demeanor was gone, replaced with a sternness that felt like it was reserved for naughty children. Mallory was confused. She had walked in around six-thirty, which meant it couldn't be much later than seven o'clock. Of course, the nights were getting longer and the sun was starting to set, but she was sure she'd be out of here and back in her dorm room long before nine. It was sweet of the old woman to worry though.

"Sure, Mrs. Doyle. I'll leave as soon as this load is done."

That seemed to satisfy her new acquaintance, and with a stiff nod, the older woman again turned to go. Mallory looked back down at her magazine, but as she did, something caught her eye. A bottle of Clorox bleach sat abandoned in the rolling cart.

"Oh, wait, you forgot your—" Mallory began as she got up to grab the bottle. But when she looked, Mrs. Doyle was gone.

"...bleach.”

In fact, she found that everyone else had left too. She hadn't noticed anyone else leave, save for the old man. She’d been too caught up in talking. It was strange seeing the laundromat empty. It seemed larger now that she had it all to herself, and the electricity hummed louder without the presence of people to mask it.

She felt weird just standing there, holding a bottle of bleach out for no one to take. Even though there was no one to see her, she felt stupid. Better to leave it in the cart, she told herself. Mrs. Doyle would be back for it. As Mallory started back toward her seat, she felt like the déjà vu was coming over her again, that prickle coming back with such a vengeance that it felt more like a shiver. But instead of the uncanny sense she’d already done this, it felt more like she was between something. She didn't know what she was between, but she knew she was neither here nor there. Just between, and she didn't know which side to return to.

Mallory’s legs felt unsteady, and her fingers found the hem of her sweater, wringing and twisting as she came to a stop in front of the coffee table. She would have kept messing with it until it was threadbare, but she got a hold of herself. Mrs. Doyle had just left, and there wasn’t any reason to freak out. Being alone made it feel like she’d overstayed her welcome, that was all. Even so, the girl craned her neck to look for a clock that would tell her she was overreacting. But there wasn't one anywhere. The only indication that any time had passed was the darkness in the parking lot that the streetlights did nothing to keep away.

She paced the length of the laundromat to look out into the lot. Had it been that dark a minute ago? She was desperate to know the time. Her phone was in her car because she didn't have any pockets in her leggings. God, why couldn't women's fashion be functional too? Mallory knew she should go and get it, but staring out into the empty expanse of asphalt, unnaturally yellowed by the streetlights, made her think of all the things that could be out tonight. A man in a dark hood, a formless monster watching from the shadows, a crack in the ground waiting to swallow her up.

Impulsively, she kicked the door stopper away. The door swung closed too fast, no mechanism to keep it from slamming. Bang! It was so heavy that the store-front windows wobbled on impact. She doubted the glass would save her from anything trying to get inside, but she stole back a little sense of security, a little normalcy from it.

When she turned, Mallory noticed that her dryer was not the only appliance running anymore. She stared at the "out of order" washing machine, watching it shudder as it ran. When had it started? It wasn’t running a second ago, was it? She eyed the rest of the space warily, wondering who could have started a load without her seeing them. Mallory inched forward to peer into the clear door that served as a porthole view into the washer drum.

There weren't any clothes inside.

Water began to seep out of the door then, soap frothing around the rim like the machine had a bad case of rabies. Mallory began to back away slowly, both out of fear and to avoid getting her shoes wet. Embarrassment started to make her cheeks flush again. She felt like a kid again, a kid left home alone who made too big of a mess, with no hope of cleaning it up herself before her parents got home. If she could have afforded to buy new clothes, she might’ve bolted right then and there, the majority of her wardrobe yet to be dried be damned.

Her heart sank. She knew she couldn't do that.

With a stubborn determination born out of her tight budget, Mallory paused to take a breath and clear her head. She was an adult, she could handle a little water. It wasn't her fault the washer was leaking, and it would be unfair of Larry to blame her for it. He wasn't even here, nor did he hold any sort of authority over her. It wasn't like she was an employee. It wasn't like she was responsible for any of this. But despite telling herself that, she still aggressively searched for a mop or even some rags, just anything to soak up the water and erase the evidence of anything going wrong under her watch.

There, behind the counter where an attendant was supposed to sit: a mop with a cheap plastic handle. It sat in a yellow rolling bucket, leaning into the corner. Mallory warily eyed the misbehaving washer, half convinced that it might explode as soon as she let it out of her sight. Then she dashed around the counter.

Just as she got the mop in her hands, the fluorescents gave up the ghost and the laundromat went dark. Layers of sound began stripping away— first the hum of the lights, then the buzz of the vending machine and whatever else had been running in the background. Mallory cautiously stepped out from behind the counter. At least the neon signs in the windows were still on, reading "Open 24hrs" and "Self-Service" in bright red and blue. Their light reflected off the chrome of the appliances, mixed with the shifting texture of the TV's muted, staticky glow.

The washer thumped loudly, like an unbalanced load was being tossed around inside. As she edged closer, the mop raised defensively, even that stilled. Mallory passed the trusty dryer holding her clothes, doing it's job in the face of adversity like a good little machine. She reached out and patted the top of it in a silent thanks, keeping her eyes trained on the broken washer.

She stopped short when it’s hatch swung open.

The Out of Order sign rocked back and forth in the air, falling into the puddle below.

A thick tentacle burst from the circular void within the machine. It was nothing more than a blur, lunging straight for her. On impulse, she batted the thing away with the mop and sent it hurtling toward the wall, which it smacked against wetly. A dark gooey liquid splattered across the peeling wallpaper, like bug guts against a windshield. The limb then recoiled, yanking itself away and arching up into an 'S' shape, mimicking a cobra ready to strike. Mallory ran for the other end of the laundromat before it got the chance.

Something slimy got a hold of her ankle, tangling around it like seaweed in the ocean. She stopped, looked down. Another squishy tentacle curled around it, cold and wet and sticky. Before she had time to pry it away, the gray limb ripped her feet out from under her. In the next second her hip connected with the floor, a loud thump audible beneath the clatter of the mop. Hot pain sprouted while cold water soaked her side through. She didn't have time to care. The creature started to drag her body through the puddle, reeling her in like she was the catch of the day.

The girl's hands scrabbled uselessly along the checkered tiles. She needed a hand hold, a purchase, anything to stop the living winch from dragging her into its machine-washable lair. She risked a glance back toward it, and noticed a mouth had come out of the shadows of the washer drum. Three circular rings of horrid yellowed fangs snarled from inside, like a garbage disposal made of flesh. It sounded like a garbage disposal too, deep growls and horrible gurgling filling the girl’s ears. More tentacles poked out of the machine, wriggling in a way that discouraged the idea of bones. Mallory had come across many invertebrates in her studies, but all of them had been dead in a lab tray. Was this karma? Panic shot through her chest and she flailed her arms more desperately. Her hand managed to catch on something, closing around it in a death grip, only to discover she had a hold of one of the rolling carts.

But it was the rolling cart with Mrs. Doyle's bottle of Clorox.

Somehow, Mallory's luck hadn't run out. Two of the cart's wheels were twisted the wrong way, which put up enough resistance to slow the monster's relentless pull. She managed to get an arm over the lip of the cart's basket and reached for the Clorox bottle with the other. It was close enough to touch, but just out of reach of grabbing. Her fingernails skittered over the smooth white plastic, useless.

The creature jerked her and the cart backward, sending the bottle spinning. The handle of it bumped into the palm of her hand. Mallory let out a strangled noise of triumphant disbelief.

Another jerk, another foot closer to the load of laundry from hell. As a kid, this was just the sort of thing she would have been terrified of, but she was an adult now. She could handle this. She'd worked her ass off to pay her own way through college, played the capitalists' game and nearly won, and she wasn't about to die here and waste it. She tossed a defiant glare toward the gaping tunnel of teeth and then let go of the cart.

The thing sensed the slack immediately and heaved her up into the air so fast that she almost hit the paper tile ceiling. She dangled there for a moment, upside down, feeling like an animal caught in a snare. The tentacle began to reel her in again, slow and methodical. The mouth began to drool, the blue saliva oozing over the teeth and to the floor. Mallory thought the spit looked way too much like her dollar store detergent to be funny.

As it pulled her in, she twisted herself so she could brace her feet against the machine's chrome finish. For a heart stopping second her wet sneakers slipped against the smooth metal and she almost lost her footing. She'd have to make this quick. She struggled to unscrew the child-proof cap on the bleach. At her resistance, more tentacles began throwing themselves around her middle. The maw smacked impatiently, the webby membrane functioning as lips throwing mucus everywhere. The girl gagged when the smell of its breath wafted towards her face: the pungency of dirty water and mildew.

Finally the cap came away with a hard yank. The monster yanked at her too, making the bleach slosh in the bottom of the bottle. Mallory wasted no time in dumping as much of it down the thing’s throat as she could. It wasn't easy— as soon as the Clorox met the creature's gullet, it screeched horribly and started jostling her around. Its grip loosened and she hit the floor with a splash. For a moment she lay there, stunned, watching the mob of tentacles pulse, writhe, and flail above her. It was disgusting, like watching night-crawlers squirm in the bucket before being used as bait.

Spurred on by adrenaline, Mallory scrambled up and grabbed the washer door. She slammed it as hard as she could, but it bounced back into her waiting hand. It was just like any other time she hadn't closed one hard enough, save for the wet squelch and pained, keening squeal that followed. Again she threw the door, and again it came back to her. The clutch of tentacles slapped at everything they could reach, trying in vain to recapture their prey. She smacked one away that came too close to her face.

One more hard slam, and the tentacles wilted in defeat. They began retreating, hastily slithering back into the washer drum. As soon as the monster had folded in on itself enough, Mallory shut the door and threw her weight against it to keep it that way. Her feet slipped in the water. The machine shook and rumbled as the thing writhed within, bumping against her cheek painfully.

Gradually, like the end of a normal spin cycle, the machine quieted down. Mallory refused to let go at first, sure that the creature was just playing dead. When she worked up the nerve to back away, her posture was stiff and tense in case it lunged for her again. The air conditioning kicked back on then and she shivered, her wet clothes making her chilly. They clung to her and she felt like she’d been dipped head to toe in a vat of detergent. Mallory huffed angrily. She was sure she'd never get the monster's mucus out of her clothes, and the irony of it wasn’t lost on her. All this just to wash her clothes at a cheaper rate? How annoying.

She stood there for another moment, just breathing. In and out.

The odd sensation she’d been feeling, the uneasiness in her mind, was gone. She wasn’t between anything any more, and she could only hope she was back where she came from. But where had she been? What was that? Did that really just happen? How the hell did that monster-octopus-kraken-thing get into a washing machine in a land-locked state?!

A loud ding came from Mallory's left and she jumped away, crashing into the dryer next to her. She stared at the glowing green light just a few feet away. When she realized what it was, she sunk to the floor in relief, not caring about the puddle in the slightest.

Her laundry was finished. Her clothes were clean.

#real writer #writer #writeblr #writers on tumblr #short story #horror short story #scifi short story #my writing #my post #horror writer #reblogs are much appreciated!!#my first rejection wowowow #:')

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blxxdyvalentine19xx · 3 years

Text

I lost my dick 🍆

Mod Sun x Fenix (ftm character)

Warnings: light smut, swearing, mentions of ice dick.

**I almost named myself Fenix when I came out as ftm in high school, I found it cool that Fenix is the name of a character in Downfalls High**

Fenix was frantically searching across every possible space in his boyfriend's house that he could have possibly left his packer. Being neuro divergent and a trans male made for interesting times and weird phrases. "For fucks sake! Where the hell did I leave it this time?" He half growled; looking up when he felt Derek's hands on his shoulders. "What?"

"Take a breath and chill out for a second" Derek ran his hands over Fenix's shoulders lightly and brought his boyfriend into a hug. "What did you loose this time?" He asked softly; carding a hand through his boyfriend's hair.

Swallowing his pride; Fenix shook his head, hiding it in Derek's hoodie. "I lost my dick" he mumbled quietly; slipping his arms around the taller man's neck.

The fact that his boyfriend is transgender excaped his mind, so the sentence caught him of guard "how...what...huh?" His brows furrowed in thought as he tipped Fenix's head up. "How in the hell..." Derek hesitated; "are you high?"

Fenix punched Derek's shoulder lightly; rolling his eyes and grinning. "Not high just trans" he teased; kissing his boyfriend's cheek. "I really don't know where I left it this time" Fenix rarely broke composure enough to ask Derek; asking his boyfriend was a last ditch effort.

"Oh right, you're not cis" Derek smiled as Fenix punched at his shoulder. "Of course you don't" he kissed the man's forehead and thought for a moment. "Did you look in the freezer? You've found it there before." Derek's hand grazed over the small of Fenix's back.

Hanging his head; Fenix sighed and shook his head. "Don't remind me; I still don't know how that happened." He blushed before slipping out of Derek's arms. "But yes, I did check the freezer" even then there was a good chance he probably looked right at it and missed it.

Colson was over at Mod's working on a few songs with his friend when he made a bee line to the freezer after a popsicle. "For God's sake" he said when he looked up; met with a very realistic but silicone looking dick. "Fenix, think I found your dick, buddie" Colson ruffled a hand through his own unruly bleach blonde hair.

Looking up from the piece he was working on; Fenix blinked a few times, his tongue in his cheek as he let go of a defeated groan. "You probably did, I kind of lost it." He mumbled, looking at the rapper. "At least I know where it is now"

Hearing what Colson said; Derek chuckled and smiled. "That seems to be a regular thing now, isn't the first time." He texted out a message to Fenix reading 'leave it, might be of use later 💦'

"Somehow I believe you Mod" Colson shrugged and got himself a blue raspberry popsicle and Mod a green one, he needed a sugar fix and this would have to suffice.

Reading the text his boyfriend sent him; Fenix's eyes drew up towards his boyfriend. Raising an eyebrow; he shook his head flipping Derek the bird. "Maybe, depending on time that is" Fenix grinned as he jumped from the stool he was sat on and went over to Derek. "You dirty little fucker" he mumbled into the man's ear as he ran his hands into Derek's hair.

"Trust when I say I'll make time" Derek hummed; slipping a hand into the back pocket of Fenix's jeans. "Not my fault it feels good taking it up the ass." He mumbled into a kiss and squeezed his boyfriend's ass. "May as well take advantage of the unconventional idea"

Coming back In after a successful day in the studio; Derek smiled as he found Fenix on the couch focused on an episode of 'Shameless'. "Hey" he mumbled; slipping his arms around Fenix's neck from behind.

"Hey Der" he nuzzled close to Derek's arm. "What's up?" Fenix kissed Derek's wrist and looked up at his boyfriend. Pausing the show in the process.

"Mm a little horny" Derek's hand wrapped around his boyfriend's throat as he kissed Fenix. "Mind taking the top tonight?" He asked; nipping at the man's lip.

Mumbling something under his breath; Fenix hummed as Derek's grip tighted a little. "Not at all, baby" he kissed back and cupped the back of Derek's head. "Bedroom" Fenix caught a breath once Derek let go and bit his lip.

He nodded and let go of a breath as Fenix looked at him; the man's blue eyes dark in contrast to usual. Derek had found himself being more comfortable lately with not being as in control and reveled in how Fenix was able to make him love being submissive.

Letting the cold metal ball of his tongue ring dip into Derek's belly button; Fenix grinned as Derek was already writhing under him from being teased. "Barely touched you and you're a sweet mess already, baby"

"C'mere" Derek half whined; kissing Fenix lightly and humming into it as the man looked at him. "Do us both the favour and please fuck me" he mumbled into another kiss and squeezed at Fenix's shoulders as his (Derek's) boyfriend eased into him gently.

Biting back a blush; Fenix had the instinct to hide in his boyfriend's neck as Derek let out a sound between a moan and a hiss.

"No, no, you're not hiding" Derek spoke between a moan and a shiver. "Look at me, right here" he pulled his boyfriend's head back up and grinned as Fenix's cheeks were pink with a blush. "I don't care, you know it's of no difference to me, I love you and can't get enough of how you make me feel"

Feeling Derek's hand return to his neck; fenix nodded and kissed his boyfriend. "I know that" he mumbled and ended up somewhat laughing when Derek effortlessly rocked his hips and pulled him (Fenix) forward. Taking it as a cue to move; Fenix rolled his hips slowly.

Arching his hips; Derek bit his lip letting himself relax and focus on both the cold and the gentle rocking of Fenix's hips. "Fucking hell, yes" his breath shook as Fenix kissed him softly.

Hiding his face in the pillow; Fenix ended up throwing it at Derek as the latter peppered him in kisses and grinned basically praising him. "Not bad for me not being a top" he mumbled and trapped his boyfriend in a cuddle.

"You do alright for being a bottom" Derek kissed Fenix and ran his hand up the his boyfriend's back. "You get in your head too much about not thinking you're enough" he whispered; looking at Fenix who gave him a warning look.

"Force of habit" Fenix whispered back hearing Derek's words. "I always worry about not being enough" he raked his fingers along his boyfriend's chest and sighed. "You're so damned chill about it and I don't know how not to be worried about all the things I know won't happen" Fenix nuzzled close to Derek and smiled as he was pulled upwards so he was laying on top of his boyfriend.

Derek pulled Fenix on top of him and shifted so he was comfortable. "You're more than all that, baby" his hands ghosted the tonic Fenix's thighs. "You make me realize who my own insecurities are small compared to what you go through every day" Derek's finger ghosted the tattoo of what he now realized was the beach they went to on their first official date.

Fenix watched as Derek thumbed the tattoo on his (Fenix's) leg. "Got it after we called it a night, kells did it for me." He smiled and covered his eyes as Derek kissed it. "That's why it has your logo in the middle" Fenix relaxed when Derek looked up at him.

"I recognize my boy's work, he did a good job of it" Derek smiled up at Fenix and slipped a hand under his head. "I like it, you seemed like you felt free that day" he let his messy hair cover his eyes as Fenix's fingers ran through it. "He sees you like a little brother" Derek spoke and stuck his tongue out at his boyfriend. "He threatened to beat my ass if I fucked it up that night"

"He's done a few of mine actually" Fenix said; whilst playing with his boyfriend's hair. "Kells did this one the day I started T" he took Derek's hand and ran one of his boyfriend's finger along his (Fenix's) waist. "He said it's supposed to remind me what it took for me to get that far."

Definitions:

Packer: (silicone penis used by some frm transgender individuals, simillar to a dildo and can be used sexually if so desired)

Neurodivergent: an atypical neurological configuration, for example a person who has a developmental disorder and/or a mental illness.

Cis: cisgendered - someone who is assigned male\female and identifies with their assigned gender.

#mod sun #derek ryan smith #ftm transgender #trans character #mod sun fanfiction #mod sun smut

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