Whenever You Take Too Much Time To Write Something Know It Is Because Stephen King Has Been Stealing

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you haven't heard from him in weeks. you'd gotten used to the silences. back when he was rising, when the news ran his name in red bold letters. the hood. the new kingpin. the man with a demon’s voice. he'd disappear and reappear with blood on his hands and wild in his eyes, and you'd patch him up, swallow your fear, and pretend he was still the guy who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap watching late night cartoons. but this time's different. this time, when he shows up, it's not at your door, it's in your dreams.

the room melts around you in flickers of red flame, the air stinks of sulfur and rain, and when you look up, he's standing there. thinner than you remember. ragged. his cloak wrapped too tight around his frame like it's choking him.

"parker?" your voice is small in the dream. maybe because you know it’s not a dream at all. he doesn’t speak at first. just looks at you like he’s trying to remember who you are.

“you said you wouldn’t use the demon again,” you whisper.

his grin is tight, bitter. “and you said you’d stay if i stopped killing people.”

you flinch. it’s not the words. it’s how casually he throws them.

“what the hell happened to you?”

he steps closer, and the floor sizzles under his boots. “i lost. everything. norman’s gone. the stones are gone. my crew’s scattered. i’m just a guy again. just parker. and parker doesn’t win.”

you shake your head. “that’s not true. you’re not—”

“don’t do that.” his voice cuts. too sharp. too tired. “don’t lie to me just because you loved who i used to be.”

you want to reach for him, but the cloak moves on its own now. it snarls at you. maybe it always hated you.

“you don’t have to keep going like this,” you say. “you could come back. try again. start over.”

he laughs. it’s dry, like ash. “you don’t come back from what i’ve done.”

“then why are you here?” you ask, voice breaking.

he finally looks up. his eyes are glowing red. not from the cloak. not from the demon. this time it’s just rage. grief. exhaustion.

“…i wanted to remember what it felt like. to be near you. to want to be better.”

your breath catches. he’s close now. you can smell the blood, the sweat, the fire that clings to his skin. he leans in. just barely touches his forehead to yours.

you wake up choking on air. sheets soaked. heart hollow. you check the window. it’s still locked. but there's soot on the sill.

THE SERAPHITE WHISTLE OMG

zak breaking oscar 😭

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moving into a house together after college wasn’t exactly the smooth transition you’d hoped for. the idea sounded nice in theory: both of you finally out of the chaos of dorm life and finding some semblance of normalcy in the real world. you quickly realized that your expectations had to shift. everything about this new chapter in your lives felt different from what you imagined, and not in the easy, carefree way you’d hoped. it was messy. in more ways than one.

the first sign things wouldn’t be a walk in the park was when you both arrived at the house, a modest two bedroom tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. the previous owners had left behind remnants of their lives, old furniture, strange smells, and more dust than you’d care to acknowledge. it was the kind of house that had potential, sure, but needed a lot of work. you could already see michael’s hesitation as he stood by the door, scanning the space with that distant, unreadable look he always wore. he didn’t say much, as usual, just shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "it’ll do," was all he muttered. and that was that.

the first day of unpacking was a mix of frustration and awkward silence. you both had a lot of stuff, old books, clothes you probably should have thrown out years ago, random trinkets and mementos that didn’t make any sense. michael didn’t say much, just quietly took boxes from the car and brought them inside. you tried to talk, tried to make small conversation, but his replies were short and detached. when he did speak, it was almost like he wasn’t really speaking to you at all. the words were more of a distant observation. "this stuff’s not going to fit in here." "we’ll need to fix that." he wasn’t unhelpful, but he wasn’t exactly engaged either. it was like there was this invisible wall between the two of you, and every time you tried to climb over it, you realized it was sturdier than you thought.

and then came the furniture. or, rather, the lack of furniture. michael had picked out the couch, a ragged, secondhand thing that seemed like it had been through at least two decades of college parties. but the rest of the house was bare. you went to the store together to pick out a few pieces. it should’ve been a fun experience, but it turned into a disaster. michael was overly picky about everything. he didn’t want anything too “fancy” or “flashy,” and while you understood that, you started to get frustrated by his refusal to even consider anything that might bring a little color into the space. every time you found something you liked, he would shoot it down with a single look, a soft grunt of disapproval, or, worse, silence.

"what about this one?" you’d ask, holding up a throw pillow that was soft and vibrant, the exact opposite of everything he usually gravitated toward.

"it’s fine," he’d respond, barely glancing at it, like it didn’t matter at all.

"you don’t even like it, do you?" you would press, your voice a little sharper than intended.

"it’s a pillow," he’d shrug.

you knew better than to push too hard. michael wasn’t someone who took kindly to being told what to do. so, you tried to pick your battles. but the mess kept piling up, and the tension never quite dissipated. on days when the house seemed especially chaotic, when the boxes were still scattered across the floor, when the furniture still hadn’t found a permanent place, when it felt like nothing was in order, he’d retreat into his own space. it was like he couldn’t deal with the noise, the mess, or the feeling of being trapped in this house that wasn’t quite "home" yet.

the first real argument came on the third night, when the kitchen was a disaster and you were tired of cleaning up after him. you hadn’t even meant for it to escalate, but something in the way he carelessly left his things all over the counter, again, broke something in you.

“michael, seriously?” you asked, your voice low but edged with frustration. “you can’t just leave your stuff everywhere.”

he turned to face you, his expression unreadable, a mix of annoyance and something deeper. "i’m not the one who’s making a big deal out of nothing," he said, his voice quieter but sharp.

"it’s not nothing! it’s about respect!" you snapped, your hands gesturing wildly toward the mess. "this house is a mess, and we can’t even get anything done because you won’t help with anything!"

the silence that followed was thick, suffocating. michael’s eyes darkened, like he was suddenly somewhere else, his thoughts miles away from the moment. "i’m doing the best i can," he muttered under his breath, but it was almost like he wasn’t talking to you at all.

you didn’t know what to say after that, and you both just stood there in the kitchen, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. you knew he wasn’t the type to open up, to tell you what was going on in his mind.

after that fight, things were quieter for a while. you both settled into a routine, kind of. the dishes still piled up, the boxes still went unpacked, but somehow, the house started to feel a little more like home. there were still awkward silences, still moments where michael would disappear into his own head for hours, but there were also moments of calm. times when he would sit next to you on the couch without saying anything, but you knew he was there.

ask

I love how in the espn transmission they hate the ferrari/hp livery as much as anyone.

"They dont commit to it, go full blue and white"

"It looks like half of a car and half of another car"

"Look at the williams/hp of montoya" favorite one, that car look nice

brock nelson just took a stick to the nose... safe to say he's seeing stars... i'm funny right?

we're so sorry to hear about your roommate that passed away he gets five big booms BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

nathan mackinnon actually isn't real he's apart of your imagination

the power of friendship defeating depression is mcu canon now