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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 2 years

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Spotify Wrapped Prompt #49

I'm sick of slow rock, I'm sick of quick quips/Sick of holding onto nothing when i just wanna hold your hips

Luther's playlist was nostalgic in the most distracting kind of way.

"Doesn't he have anything on here other than slow rock and…" You fumble around for the cassette's case and drag a finger over the ridges of the careful handwriting. "…80's hits?"

Your friend doesn't answer you. He's got a wrinkle between his brows so deep it could be a gorge and a little bit of hair that needs to be combed over to the other side. You start folding the candy wrapper you've been using as a bookmark, keeping your hands occupied and nowhere near fixing it for him.

"'Cause like, listen, I like Sting as much as the next guy, but." With a bit of breathy laughter, you try to catch his eyes. "That's not a whole lot, you know? And between him and, like, Aerosmith or whoever we've been listening to for the last twenty minutes, I'm about to say we shut it down and go back to working in silence."

He presses his fingertips into the nape of his neck, mumbling something you can't quite catch over Sting's crooning.

"Sorry–" You reach around the stack of records and turn down the music, just a little bit. "–could you say that again?"

With a world-weary sigh, Five Hargreeves drags a hand down his face. "I'm tired, Em." He tosses the manila file folder onto the stack haphazardly, as if to punctuate his point. "I'm calling it a night."

He still hasn't met your eyes. You shift in your seat. "You want to take a break? I can keep going for a little while, if you want me to take over your pile of–"

"No, Emerson, look. Look at me." He's focusing somewhere around your chin. "I know you want to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. But it's a marathon, not a sprint." He reaches a hand out, as though he can feel you slowly recoiling from his words and wants to hold you in place. He doesn't, though– his hand rests about an inch away from yours, covering the article you had just combed through. "Nothing is going to change between now and tomorrow morning." His mouth seems to stumble over the unspoken promise of nothing will happen to you.

He must truly be exhausted, you think vaguely.

Part of you– a young, trembling, bleeding part of you– wants to ask him why he doesn't care about this as much as you do, or else why he doesn't seem to believe you enough to care. It stands in the center of your mind and sobs. You leave the grocery store without it.

Instead: "Is it okay if I leave everything out, I don't– I just don't want to lose my place."

With a heavy kindness usually reserved for maybe two of his brothers, Five nods. You place your makeshift bookmark delicately between the pages of the census records on the table in front of you, eyes glossing over the records within. You stay there for a moment or two, letting your eyes unfocus slightly. You don't want to stand up.

Then you hear another tired sigh. "Come on," Five says, already pushing his chair in. "You're not staying there all night. Take a break."

You lift up your head. He's reaching a hand out to you, waiting for you to take it. He's looking straight ahead, though, a rare little half-smile on his face.

The next song on Luther's cassette begins to play. You take Five's hand and let him pull you to your feet.

He makes a face, standing there with you in the study. "I'm not giving this cassette back to him," Five murmurs, swaying back and forth ever so slightly. "It's going in a landfill."

"Aw, you're telling me that Sting hasn't grown on you at all?" You crack a tired smile and, before you can stop yourself, squeeze his hand. "Sounds to me like you just want to keep the mixtape all to yourself. This modern music is growing on you, old man, admit it."

He lets out a short breath of generous laughter. Five is almost exactly your height. You're standing almost nose-to-nose with him, the soft music warm and alive with static, and it takes you until his hand slips out of yours and moves to your hips to realize that he would like to dance with you, if you would let him.

Warmth floods your body, embarrassment and fondness swirling together into something bright and shining and almost to much to look at directly. So you close your eyes. With stuttering breath and a slow grin you're too tired to hide, you close your eyes, bring your hands up to cup his face, and bump your forehead against his. You feel him relax against your body. You figure that you probably do the same.

"I know this song," you say, feeling as though you should whisper. Your eyes are still closed.

"Mm?" He smells like coffee, like warm skin, like sleeping in on a cold morning. You wonder if he's looking at you.

"Yeah," you say, letting him guide you in a slow circle. "I think I had to sing it in high school for something."

"Mmm," he says.

If his eyes are closed, and your eyes are closed, then the two of you could be anywhere, really. You could both be here by choice.

#writing #drabble #....nine of them...anyway.....#what is that. a nonadrabble? like a pentadrabble. that can be a thing right #*grips writers block by the neck* yayyy writing :)))#i have at least three wips that i would LOVE LOVE LOVE to be able to finish #but to finish anything i do bullshit like staying up til 11. like i just did.#bc god forbid my brain let me write before 9pm #tired. ah well. im happy. im glad i wrote this one.#reverse urashima taro #wish me luck waking up tomorrow. I'm gonna do my best.

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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 3 years

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Scribbled this out super fast after @platonic-fo-imagines made that one tumblr post into a prompt!! Go check ends blog out if you have platonic f/os it’s awesome

anyway sometimes. when you’re the only semi-psychic in the mansion. you have to be the one to tell your little old man friend to chill

#flsdfajds i just thought this quote was s ofunny and was like. hm. im going to reverse the f/o and the s/i in this scenario #and then im going to latch onto it #i COULD have just reblogged the post and tagged it huh. ill go do that too don't worry #but this was fun and got me drawing! so i think its a win #reverse urashima taro #drawing

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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 3 years

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wait I’m just now remembering the dream I had with a platonic f/o in it. Dare I say.....poggers

Okay I’m actually gonna talk about it because MY blog time to listen to MY dream ramblings. Also if I talk about it in the tags I’ll have to censor character names and that’s no fun. - Started w/some kind of parade? Or musical? Theatre on wheels? That was also its own little village also on wheels, I think? Or maybe the set was just massive. Some guy who graduated when I was a freshman was the lead. getting to see him again was cool

- The weather was warm, late spring/early summer like irl— the next part was probably influenced by my brother’s graduation ceremony that we went to. Bunch of ppl milling about, some of whom I know. I don’t remember for sure but I want to say there were more people that I would have know in high school than people I’d recognize now.

- ANYWAY the fun part was that Five was there, as though he was just another high school classmate. He gave me a card (for some reason? It made sense in-dream) that had like. A poem that was attributed to C. S. Lewis specifically, but I can’t remember anything about the poem which SUCKS. I remember being sad I didnt have it when I woke up. I also think it was like, a satire poem? Or a joke in some way. I couldnt READ it in the dream alas but I was VERY happy about it.

- and the last thing I remember is being in like. A Dollar Tree entrance, because we were in the parking lot of the Dollar Tree by the dmv where I live. So that was fun

#EARLY BIRTHDAY GIFT TO ME #reading this back and it’s nonsensical #but that’s okay. It was a good dream #reverse urashima taro

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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 3 years

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f/o dream f/o dream; nonsensical ramblings under the cut

Okay so the dream started out very horror-adjacent. Setting was a weird sort of mixture between my current dorm room and my family's house; in technical terms, the Vibes Were Bad. The whole location was plagued by this sort of miasma of unkind intent that threatened to possess us entirely the longer we remained inside of it. I was in a bed for part of the dream (because I was in a bed in real life, and wakefulness was beginning to slip in) and could tell that I was being taken over, filled with something other than myself, when I began moving my head erratically and struggled to move the rest of my body. I managed to stave it off by recognizing what it was and visualizing a sort of pillar of white crystal emanating light from inside of me, like some of those youtube meditation videos like to have you do? It was that sort of thing, and it worked. So. Point one for anxiety reduction techniques, I guess.

My siblings and I, throughout the next part of the dream, discussed the issue and our uneasiness about it. I attempted to share what I had experienced, but was interrupted and didn't really feel the need to try again. Throughout the next part some Coraline shit happened with magical little characters and i think there was a flying vehicle of some kind and the set pieces were very much made of darker wood. It was p cool but I can't remember much of that stuff.

At some point, my siblings had gone, and the Hargreeves siblings were there instead. We were also in some kind of big school gym at night time. There was this huge contraption with these massive, canoe-shaped hammocks of canvas that were spinning and rotating up there like a fucked up amusement park ride.

Five, for some reason, was tasked with doing some acrobatics routine on this thing, a test he needed to pass. We were worried about him! There was this one little magical villain who reminded me of a kirby villain, and then there was some greater power that I couldn't quite see because it was on the other side of the spinning windmill of hammocks. BUT we were very nervous for him.

Sslkdf;as I don't think there's any better way for me to say it than "he did it and it was fun," because it was super fun in the dream, but there's no way to describe it without it sounding silly. He kept the momentum going with his weight– we helped, at points– and he spun around up there until the dream decided he was good.

He came down, the funny little kirby villain turned out to be a little girl from the Coraline part of the dream, all was well. I remember wrapping Five in a big hug in celebration. I kind of intended it to be like, a group sibling hug, but nobody else really joined lmaooo. That was okay. It was the sort of hug that could get a person through a week.

That was mostly what I wanted to get down– after that, the setting changed back to my family's house, and Five and I were going to head out to do something, though he had to get ready first. While he was getting ready, he changed into my youngest sibling, which tracks, actually. I ran into my brother and we started talking about Diary of a Wimpy Kid. That's about it, thank you for listening patiently while I recounted my dream c:

#I hardly ever remember my dreams so this was really fun #wayside school is falling down #reverse urashima taro

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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 3 years

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Spotify Wrapped Prompts #20

The moon hung in the sky like half of a sand dollar and Emerson tried to fold his napkin into what he remembered being a goose.

It wasn’t quite working, half because it had been a while since his high school Mandarin class, half because the napkin was that flimsy brown shit found only in the greasiest of diners and the most public of schools, three quarters because his left pointer finger was in a splint, and about a teaspoon because he was blitzed out of his mind.

The moon was beautiful tonight, he thought as he bent the napkin this way and that and tried to remember the bit of poetry that started something like that. If one of the few souls in Griddy’s Doughnuts had asked this young man what he was doing in this little diner and when was he planning on ordering something, anyway, he would have told them that he was watching the moon. This would have been wrong on two counts: the bright white light that had captured his attention was in fact not the moon but a streetlight, and he was at the diner waiting for a friend.

He wasn’t quite sure which one of his friends had called from an unknown number and asked to meet at a little doughnut shop, at least not at this very moment. He couldn’t remember being too anxious about it, though, so it must have been someone he wanted to see.

And it probably wasn’t anyone from the party, either— they would have said something to him while he was there, and he didn’t really know most of the people in there, anyway. A friend from high school ran into him at the gas station and brought him back to their new apartment in the city for some chips and dip, and also a few swigs of alcohol, and also a handful of Strawberry Bomb or Girl Scout Cookies or Blue Eyes White Dragon or whatever the hell that pretty girl said her weed was called. Remembering the party, Emerson’s chest welled with gratitude for the kindness of strangers who say they knew you when you were both teenagers.

A teenager stepped into Griddy’s, opening the door like he had expected it to dematerialize as he approached and was, frankly, disappointed that he had to bother with touching it at all. The bell jingled in sympathy.

“Emerson,” Five said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Glad you could make it.”

Eyes wide and perhaps a little red-rimmed behind turquoise-rimmed glasses, Emerson blinked, made one last, hasty fold to the goose’s head, and reverently slid it across the table. A precious gift for a dear friend. Five stared at it. Its neck slumped over.

“I’m here,” Emerson said, as if explaining. “Right where you said. This is where you said, right?”

Five’s eyebrows slanted just a half-centimeter lower. “Emerson,” he began, feeling silly even as he asked, even as he knew the answer, “are you high?”

He pressed his hands against his cheeks, the gears in his head whirring. Five, uncharacteristically, allowed them the time they needed to turn— perhaps enjoying the smell of smoke. “Would I know if I was?” he answered, pointing his finger gun at the folded goose as a perceived gotcha.

After a moment, Five laughed into his hands. “Of course you are,” he mumbled. “Unbelievable.”

“Sorry, what?” Emerson asked, now whispering for some reason. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”

“I just asked if you had money,” Five whispered back. “We should buy some doughnuts.”

Emerson’s eyes practically sparkled in the dim light. He nodded once, twice, three times, and then started rummaging in his coat pockets.

Shaking his head, Five leaned back in his booth. “Can you believe they managed to sell this place?” he asked. “And the new owners even kept the name. Other than the, uh—“ He looked around the near-empty diner. “—cosmetic interior design changes, the place hardly looks any different. The more things change, huh?”

He was speaking mostly to himself. Emerson’s attention was focused solely on exploring the contents of his jacket pockets. With the triumph of the sun illuminating clouds from behind, he drew forth a tiny, mint-green wallet with a zipper. He placed it on the table ahead of him, right next to the slowly-unfolding goose.

Five’s eyebrows quirked. “Are you asking me to order?”

“You’re allowed,” Em justified. “You’re old enough. Even if you’re little.” He suddenly grew mournful. “And getting littler by the day.”

His fingerless-gloved hand gesticulated in a way that implied that he thought he was illustrating the concept. Five reached across the table for his wallet without looking away. “Em, do you think I’m aging in reverse?”

“You could be. Like Mork.” He cracked a knuckle with one hand. “Or maybe you’re just weathering? Off the top? From the wind. Or, no, eroding. Maybe time’s eroding you and turning you into sand.” He reached out to fuss with Five’s hair and was promptly swatted away.

“That’ll be my cue,” he said, smiling that one smile he did that felt like a punch. It didn’t quite land, glancing off Emerson’s shoulder and leaving him smiling peacefully back. Before stalking off, Five slid the black pepper shaker in front of Emerson. “Smell it,” he ordered. “Pour it in you hand, not just the shaker. And I swear, don’t eat it straight. If you think it’ll taste good you’re lying to yourself.”

Em looked at the shaker thoughtfully. As Five walked away, he gasped in realization. “Is this something you learned from Klaus? About weed?” he asked, in his normal volume. Seeing that Five was no longer present, he turned around. “Hey, Five!”

Five was leafing through Em’s wallet up at the counter. “Get me a dozen donuts, mix of flavors,” he said, in that brusque sort of way old men talk to young servers, “and a black coffee.”

“Five, did you learn it from Klaus? Is pepper a hangover cure for...” He searched for the words. “For when you’ve had drugs?” he finished, loudly whispering the last word.

“And a hot chocolate.” He spun around, exasperated. “No, Emma!” he hissed. “I didn’t learn shit from Klaus. I thought telling you to play with a pepper shaker might keep you occupied for the minute it takes me to order!” He turned back to the server with a tired, half-sarcastic smile. “Babysitting. Can’t believe I’m giving him sugar this late.”

The employee behind the counter was in their mid-twenties and working a late Friday night shift at a shitty little donut place. But in just two and a half more hours, they would be fresh out of the shower with a bottle of wine and ready to marathon the entirety of Galavant for the first time since college. So for now, they kept their customer service face on and prepared Five’s order.

He leaned against the counter as he waited, watching Emerson watch him from back at the booth. Em waved at him. He waved back.

“Sorry I was so loud,” Emerson whispered.

Five craned his neck towards him. “What was that?”

He cupped a hand— the one that was not cradling a handful of black pepper— over his mouth and leaned out of the booth. “Sorry I was so loud, Five.”

“No worries,” Five responded in full voice with a lopsided smile, projecting just a bit louder than he really needed to. “Not like there’s anyone here to care.” Em smiled softly and went back to playing with the pepper in his hand. Five watched him.

“Would you like your donuts in a box or a bag?” the server asked, dreaming of their doormat.

“Better make it a bag,” Five sighed, fishing a few bills out of Emerson’s wallet and sliding them across the counter.

At the booth, Emerson was staring at the false moon again, humming a tune so earnestly he might have been singing to the night sky.

Five returned with a bag of sticky donuts under his arm and a drink in each hand. “Here,” he said. “Sober up.”

Emerson peered into the bag, eyebrows raised. “Can I have some?” he asked, so childlike that Five just had to stare at him.

“Yeah,” Five said, the venom catching on his tongue and dissipating into the air. “I got them for you. The hot chocolate too.”

The headlights of a passing car illuminated Emerson’s face in a mosaic of triangles of light. Their eyes reflected something that Five had only seen a few times before. Then the light was gone, and Emerson seemed a little less high. “Thanks, Five,” he said, and reached into the bag for a donut wrapped in wax paper.

Five watched him eat about a fourth of the donut in one ambitions bite. He folded his hands in front of his chin. “You never really struck me as a... hobbyist substance user, Em.”

“Oh, it wasn’t mine. A friend let me smoke some. I got invited to a party.” Em finished his donut, and then waved a powdery hand. “Not you, a different friend.”

Five’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Do you consider us friends?”

“Of course,” Emerson replied, so quickly and so easily that Five wondered if he was answering a different question.

The gears of Five’s mind, for a brief moment, faltered. He felt the hours of the night slipping through his fingers. “Did it occur to you, when you were getting stoned in a basement somewhere, that maybe this wasn’t just a courtesy call?

“Can I have another chocolate one, or do you want that one?”

“Dammit, Em!” Five snatched the bag away. “I’d expect this from my degenerate of a sibling, but not from you. I called you here for a reason, and if you’re not lucid enough to hold a conversation with—“

“Don’t call Klaus a degenerate.” Emerson almost spilled his hot chocolate with the force of his words. “And who the fuck are you to talk? Why couldn’t you just tell me on the phone or, or— at least tell me your name when you left a message? Made it less ominous?”

“Are you trying to insinuate that it’s my fault you smoked a stranger’s pot? That you just had to get high because I made you so anxious?”

“No!” Emerson slammed his styrofoam cup down on the table. “I’m just saying that I’m not the only one who’s being a fucking idiot today.”

Five brought his coffee to his lips.

Em pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “What are you trying to hide from your siblings, Five? And is there even a good reason for it?”

“Of course there is,” he said before he could remind himself that he didn’t need to justify what he was doing, didn’t he know how much Five had already done for his family? Didn’t he understand that everything he did, every choice he made, was in some way for them?

Em nodded as though his stupid psychic abilities extended to telepathy as well. “Sorry I ruined the night, Five.” He sounded heartbreakingly genuine. “But can we talk about whatever this is in the morning? I want to sleep. The world’s not gonna end before then, is it?”

Five waited until Emerson’s eyes flicked to his face. “No,” he said softly, when they settled somewhere around the flaccid half-goose of a napkin on the table. “Not tonight.” Small miracles. He allowed his jaw to unclench. “Come back to the mansion?”

The thought of Emerson wandering back to his apartment in this state, even as the high was wearing off, made his stomach twist up in a way that usually meant someone would be dead pretty soon. And what would be the point of walking him home and then having to teleport back to the mansion? He would be walking the same distance either way— give or take— so he might as well make it easier for him to make sure Em ate something in the morning.

A small, shy half-smile bloomed on Em’s face, brightening the whole damn town. “Sure,” he said, “Thanks, Five.”

#warning for alcohol and drug use #writing #this one wENT SO OFF THE RAILS AAAAAAHHH #it just like. BARELY connects to the prompt #but ive been tapping along at it for like. maybe a week or so now and its like yeah time to open up my notes app. where was i. hey WHY #WHY DID I MAKE MYSELF HIGH WHY WAS THAT A CHOICE I MADE #I'll tell you why its because i was reading going postal and i was like DAMN sir terry pratchet deserves that knighthood #and i was getting self conscious about my own writing being SUPER boring in comparison #and so at like nine o clock as im in my bed doing a little bit of Stuff I Enjoy before going to sleep i was like you know what?#this is the spice this story needs #instead of like. taking actual knowledge of plot and shit from this really good novel i just finished. its okay im working on that #also can you tell that i 1. have never smoked weed and 2. had no idea why the fuck five would need to talk about #i just needed SOMETHING that would fit in with of a friday night by anais mitchell!!!! and just sitting in a cafe thinking about #an old poet and how this fading town was once something else #doesnt make for an active story i cant COMPARE to reacher gilt showing up at moist's date right before the post office is on FIRE #that was the point in the book btw where i was like oh. oh. this is masterful work what do i need to do to write like this #and part of the problem maybe. is that i can't set that sort of narrative trap for my characters when i get tired out writing 2000 words #reverse urashima taro

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