#Lucky Ducks does not pass the vibe check for me

[mikaikaika]

From a lore perspective, I just wanna throwback to when everyone was saying that the Elections were a distraction to keep people distracted and hooked to the island but now just by dangling good stuff infront of them all of that has just vanished from everyone's head. The Federation is doing a mighty fine job if I say so

[hollowmossart]

Alright I don’t know what prompted this. It’s 11:06 at night, although time is fake so who knows. General TW/CW for mentions of violence and such. It’s fanfiction. side note: these are all fictions I find while scrolling Ao3 that I get stronger reactions to the tags or description from! If any of these are yours and you do not want them here, please message me and tell me

This will also include my reaction to the fan fictions but entirely judging the book my it’s cover (in this case, tags, fandoms, and descriptions) on whether I would read/have read or not. If I’ve read it, there will be a rating/recommendation

-Assimilate by AlacrityAbound-

•words: 2,882•

Rating: Incomplete, Teen+, M/M, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Description:

”He saved them all, he had to remember that. He had saved everyone from this terrible fate, from the life he now had to live. They didn’t understand, would never understand, nor would they know the lengths their Voice would go to protect them.”

H-huh??? No no no this sounds painful.

Tags:

“The smiling god”

oh no

”hurt and very little comfort”

EXCUSE ME? PLEASE NO

”believeinasmilingcecil”

OKAY LISTEN. IVE WRITTEN THIS BEFORE. IVE COSPLAYED THIS BEFORE. BUT F-CK THIS AU LMAO

”betrayal”

um. to whom,, may i ask??

Will I be reading this?

Maybe if I grow to a point of numb where I turn to Strex!Cecil in order to feel? Maybe if I just need to cry.

-Dinner Break by StarshipRangerBoyWonder-

Rating: Completed, M/M, General Aud.

•words: 1,717•

Description:

"Cecil’s in desperate need of some food. Lucky for him, Carlos comes to the rescue."

Firstly, this sounds like sm-t, though it’s not marked as being such. I do have to note, one of the fandoms listed, along with the obvious WNTV, is. McDonalds..? Is there actually a fandom?? Secondly, Carlos to the rescue.

Tags:

”Cecil/Chicken Nuggets”

Please.. please tell me this is not a ship. This can’t be right??? Wot?? I’m scared mom come pick me up. I need Carlos and Martin(tma) and my boyfriend in a cuddle pile with me right now.

”duck”

..duck goose?

”Kentucky does not exist” “I repeat” “Kentucky” “does” “Not” “exist”

Gotcha! Makes perfect sense! thank you night vale

Will I be reading this?

likely.. not. the tags mixed with the description have me in fear of my brain cells. i have so few left.

-Absolutely Facinating, Scientifically Speaking, by zombified_queer

Rating: Completed , Teen+, M/M

•words: 584•

Description:

"Carlos was just out doing some shopping when he just about had a heart attack. Still, it was facinating, scientifically speaking."

To be fair, without the tags this one would not have caught my eyes, however, the tags are as follows:

Tags:

"Earl Harlan is a merman"

Okay... Go on..?

"The aquatic hamster ball"

Firstly, huh? I think I have been in one of these. It leaked and got my jeans wet. Secondly, really weird deja vu right there.

"Earl is loosely based on the zebra turkeyfish"

..The what now? DId I miss a few episodes or--

Will I read this?

It is relatively short for my liking, however, I have extrmely curious. I've read the works of this fandom and I've seen just how weird it can be. I might.

A remembrance of strange things, by Pseudothyrum

Rating: Completed, M/M, General Aud.

•words: 630•

Description:

"There isn't enough coffee in the world to deal with Night Vale"

Me reading some of the tags/descriptions of fanfiction at what is now 11:57pm on a Monday. Giving off the vibes of a Cecil POV.

Tags:

"wall tentacles"

... what? yknow.. its not as strange as it could be..

"crack"

ah a crack fic. that last tag is a bit less concerning now.

"definitely not ghosts"

hey uhh i think they're might actually be ghosties.

"blood"

did i accidently find a hannibal x will fic.

Will I read this?

Again, it is super short, so I likely won't. I gotta point out, most wtnv fanfiction would be considered crack fic by any other fandom, so this fandom's idea of 'crack fic' concerns me. I might check it out. Not super high on my look out.

-Endless Wedge, by the_angst_alchemist

Rating: Major Ch. Death, M/M, complete

•words: 1,397•

Description:

"Years have passed since that snowfall way back when, and Carlos can still recall every second when he wasn't able to say those words to the man he cared about. So in order to keep that broken voice preserved in his mind, he's kept his own voice quiet."

..Oh wow. Ow. This one caught my eye with tags that made me giggle, but a caption that made me well aware I will cry upon reading it. The description suggests it is well written, I want to even say beautiful. It also hurts because how dare you make Carlos sad?

Tags:

"Carlos doesn't cope well with death"

:( baby no its okay (Have I mentioned I'm a simp?)

"Cecil doesn't cope well with being dead"

I think that's the general consensus of the public, Ceec

"endless wedge"

Sounds like this is describing an emotion? Maybe the wedge of pain in my heart when I read this.

Will I read this?

Oh no doubt in my wee brain. I wish to hurt this good please. It seems amazingly written judging solely on the description, and has a decent amount of words for my liking! I will update when I have read it. I just noticed it's a part two, so I might have even more pain to bear first.

I will update this post when I go through more! It's currently 12:25AM on 12/01/20 on a god damned Tuesday why did I hyperfixate on this for an hour and a half.

[quillsareswords]

Crooked Grin

Damian Wayne

Your smile shouldn't look like that.

[Reader lives with John Constantine, and is similarly a demonologist and magic user. About 16-18.]

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

"Are you ready to go?"

You turn away from the book on the table, and face him. "Sorry?"

"Are you ready to leave?" he repeats. He leans against the doorjam, arms crossed, clad in black, much like yourself. He doesn't look impatient, but he does look a little anxious.

You cock an eyebrow and shoot him a lopsided grin. "Nervous, Birdy?"

He rolls his eyes as you snap a leather bound journal shut. "Please, I've assisted you before."

You set the book on your dresser. You shoulder a messenger bag on your way to meet him at the door. "Sure, but you already know what I'm up against this time."

"I didn't see it," he argues.

"But you felt it."

He doesn't answer you. Turns away before you can get a proper reaction.

You shut the door behind you, and enter the Wayne Manor. If anyone were to open the door again, it would be an empty closet.

Ah, how you loved your little door trick.

It was fairly simple magic, something you learned quickly. You could simply replace doors—switch one with another, if you will. With a rune and a mumbled phrase, you can make any door lead to any room that has a door you've marked with the same rune.

"Tim's the one who saw it on CCTV."

You stopped in front if the bookcase in Bruce's office, allowing Damian the grand honor of pulling the right book and pulling the hidden door open. "Video footage isn't exactly trustworthy when it comes to paranormal—haven't I told you this before?"

"Probably," he answers, throwing you comical wink.

Now you're the one rolling your eyes. "One if these days, you're gonna wish you listened," you sing, beginning your decent down the metal grate stairs.

He starts down after you. "No I won't." He slows his pace when he's next to you, "Because you'll be there to remind me." Then off he goes, taunting you to chase him clear down to the cave, through the secret hideout, and clear over to the vehicle bay.

You've never liked riding on Damian's bike. Or Robin's bike, rather. You much preferred his Lincoln, all leather seats and metal walls. Though he insisted it would be faster tonight, so you relented. The bike felt less secure, gave you less of a chance if anything were to happen.

Don't misunderstand; Damian is a fantastic driver. You'd rather him behind the wheel than yourself any day. It's more the people in the city he calls home you don't trust.

You've always had a love-hate relationship with Gotham City. You love the dreary atmosphere, the rainy days. You adore the old buildings and even older libraries. You live for the underground, more-than-human clubs and shops peppered throughout the streets.

You hate the crazed clowns, killer plants, and murderous penguins. You despise the snobby people and jacked up prices. You detest the crumbling ruins left to decay alone. Most of all, you abhor the other side of the coin.

Gotham has no shortage of darkness. In its people, under its streets, below the waters, above the rooftops. Though it sends a shockwave of thrill through you, the danger only you seem to be aware of is forever just around the corner. From ghouls to vampires to demons to dark witches, Gotham is crawling with things darker than its skies.

You, if course, stay in your lane unless absolutely necessary. Demons, ghosts, angels. That's your specialty, after all.

You're who the Bat Gang calls when things get a little too weird. Your father figure isn't one to drop and run at anybody's beck and call (except, perhaps, yours), so you're the one who gets the call first. You don't conplain—you enjoy the practice.

Damian slows and steers the bike off the backstreet, into the tiny parking lot of a little abandoned church. Little, meaning most likely one big room, and maybe a backroom and a bathroom at the end of the building.

He twists the key and silences the engine, one foot anchored on the asphalt, then removes his helmet.

You unwind your arms from his torso, lifting off your helmet as you slide off the machine behind him. You stare up at the stark white building and the wide brown mounted to the front of it. "How long has it been empty?" you inquire.

He dismounts the motorcycle and pockets his keys. His eyes find the same spot yours have: the busted glass of the front door. "Three weeks."

You turn to him, incredious. "Three weeks? Really?" You face the building again, studying the sprawling vines and waist-high grass by the playground, the chipping paint and the grimy windows.

In the light if dusk, it wasn't a place you'd want to find yourself on any Sunday morning.

"Three weeks," you breathe. You steal another minute or so to run through your mental database. What causes such decay so quickly? What was powerful enough to take residency in a church?

You head up to the doors, treading over busted asphalt and shattered glass and dry leaves on your way. Damian follows you closely, peering around at the surrounding buildings and streets.

The streetlights flicker on behind you, but you're too busy trying to get a good look at the inside before opening the doors to notice.

You try the handles first. It doesn't budge. You don't want to risk irritating whatever is inside before you're ready, so you duck down and carefully slip through the bottom pane of the left door, which had been shattered. Outwardly, you note. Whatever broke the glass came from inside, leaving the shards of glass scattered on the sidewalk.

Damian hesitates before he follows you. His muscles tighten the moment he crosses the threshold.

Beyond a short hallway consisting of three flimsy doors, you find the sanctuary. It's laden with over turned or broken pews, stained red carpet, and papers and pamphlets scattered all around.

Damian joins you in the middle of the isle a moment after your entrance, footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. "The two doors on the end of the hall are bathrooms. I didn't see much there, besides some blood splatter in one of the sinks."

You nod, gaze shifting around the alter. "What about the far end? Have you been in that one yet?"

"No," he answers, "but if the other two were bathroom, it's most likely an office or a kitchenette."

You point to the far end of the sanctuary, at a door looming in the corner. "That's the office, I bet." You turn to face the entrance doors. "Let's check the door in the hall first, that one over there's giving me a bad vibe."

He follows you to hall, but you make him wait by the sanctuary doors.

When you nudge open the ajar door with the toe of your boot, Damian's suspicions are confirmed. A slim white refrigerator, four feet of vinal counter top, and a shallow sink. The only thing out-of-the-ordinary is the rancid stench and the cock-eyed chair by the window.

You dig out a maglight from your messenger bag and click it on. Light floods the dim room as you wave it around, gliding over counter tops and in open cubords. "Nothing in here," you report absently, fingers hooking around the refrigerator handle. You yank it open, just as a precaution.

You gasp suddenly, more out of shock than fright. You puff out your cheeks with the excess air, staring down the red and white mess caught in your flashlight beam with high eyebrows. "Found what's making that smell."

"What?" Damian stalks into the room, posture tense and guarded.

You press the door closed to save him the scaring image of three dead, mutilated chickens and a severed cat head. "Some sacrifices, apparently. Looks like they've been in here for a few days, maybe. A week, at the most."

He tries to look again, but you slam the door too quick and push him out of the room.

You know he's seen far worse, and frankly so have you, but one less thing to pop up in nightmares could make all the difference.

The pair of you make your way back through the hall and down the sanctuary aisle, to the flimsy wooden door at the very back, behind the podium and the alter.

However, your gait hitches a few feet yards away. You stick out your arm to stop Damian.

He looks to you for an explanation, but you don't hear his question.

You're too busy skimming the room with your eyes. The air seems to cool around you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. You mentally recite the hand motions and spell for a barrier rune, just in case.

The streetlight outside flickers six times exactly, before it goes out completely.

The room is considerably darker now, leaving shadows to dance upon every wall, to whisper in your ears, to nip at your ankles.

Your growing paranoia gets the better of you, and you jump closer to Damian as your light darts in the direction of quiet crunch, eyes narrowed.

A gray cat scurries out of the way of your light, skinny and panicky.

You exhaled slowly, light beam passing through the room one more time before you turned back around.

Damian knows better to comment on it. Not that he would have—he just thanks his lucky stars you jumped, too.

You hook your index finger with his before you move forward, beam still highlighting all areas within close proximity to the door.

Shielding rune and defensive spells fresh in your mind, you waste no time in opening the door. You bypass the formality of the knob this time, and decide instead to kick it wide open.

The handle crashes against the wall, thundering echo bouncing trough both rooms. You search the ceiling thuroughly before entering, sure to hit every inch of the textured surface with the beam of your light.

When you are confident there's nothing hiding there, you move past the threshold cautiously. As you tightly swing your light around the room, a story unfolds.

This room, that appears to an office with cheap bookshelves of holy literature and a desk right out of an Ikea magazine, more closely resembled a warzone. Books strung throughout the room, some flipped over, some split open, some with pages in taters, and some with their covers ripped clean off.

The windows on the north and west side are so thick with spiderwebbing fractures, neither of you are able to see through them properly. The carpeting is shredded in random places, as if wild cats had been set loose to ruin it. You look back to the windows, at the curtains, and wonder if that could possibly exactly what's happened here. But with a spotlight on the paintings and pictures on the wall, you decide that cats have nothing to do with it.

You approach one of the paintings slowly, light focused on the face of what you guess is Mother Mary. Your mental check has you listening to Damian's boots crunching on discarded pages as you observe the hollow place where her face should be.

"Look at this."

You turn away from the image at Damian's call. You find him in you beam, crouched in the middle of the room, hunched over an open book, his micro light poised between his thumb and his index finger.

"What is it?" you inquire, crossing the room to lean over his shoulder.

"There are words written in this one." He points to the red, black, and blue circles highlighting specific words.

"It was very swift?" You squint at the page. "Why would you use three different pens for that?"

He shakes his head. "We're investigating a possible demon and you're questioning why somebody would use different pens in a book?"

You roll your eyes once again. "Firstly, you should always assume poltergeist before demon, and secondly, who do you know that would make any kind of mark on a book in a church?"

"Point taken." He stands, waving his light around by the wall you'd come in by. "Closet."

You turn again to find where his light is pointed. "Awesome," you heave, stalking toward the feeble sliding door. You motion Damian away from its direct path, positioning yourself on the opposite side.

In one swift motion, you jerk it open.

"Shit!" You jump away as a man falls out, his head hitting the floor with an awful thud.

"I really hate closets," you hiss, pulling the high neck of your shirt up over your mouth and nose, the stench tumbling out with him.

With his shirt fitting the way it does, Damian is left only with a sneer and his hand.

You narrow your eyes and refocus your beam on the mystery man. With your boot, you roll him over.

Black button down, white collar, brass belt.

"Preacher," you announce. You take a closer look at his face. Bald head, strangely proportioned features. "A weird one, though. Looks more like he belongs in a trenchcoat at a playground."

Damian nods, fearing that if he opened his mouth, he'd have to taste the smell of rotting skin.

"What exactly were you doing here, buddy?" you ask aloud, half expecting an answer. When none comes, you look to Damian again. "I would say it was just straight up murder—maybe a robbery-gone-wrong—but this guy doesn't have any marks.

A look passes over your face, as if you've just reminded yourself of something. "Get me a pencil off the desk."

Damian creeps the short distance back through books and scattered paper in the now pitch black room, relying heavily on his tiny (yet impressively bright) flashlight to keep him from tripping on anything.

At the desk, he reaches across it for a pencil from a plain white cup, but stops short when his gaze snags on a book spread open there.

Thick black lines scrawling across thick, yellowing paper that alarmingly resembled dried skin, thin and black red letters in a language he only vaguely recognized. He could only guess a few words; that one could be blood, this one might be chicken, over there could be human. He knows better than to touch the book at all.

He returns to you quickly, though you're already looking at him. He holds a sharpened No. 2 pencil out to you. "When you're finished with him, there's something you should look at."

You accept the pencil, flipping it in your hand so you were using the eraser for whatever you were planning to do with it. "What is it?"

He watches you gently press the eraser to the preacher's eyelid. His brows furrow, but he doesn't ask. "It's a book. The pages don't look like paper, and I don't recognize the language. It's partly Latin." He grimances as you carefully push one eyelid open. There is no eye, only a round black, coal-like stone. "And some runes, or something alike."

You turned to look over your shoulder at him. "Really?" You look back down at was once an eyeball. You're quiet during your examination, poking your way all around the poor man's face.

Damian stands at the preacher's opposite shoulder, watching from above. He doesn't ask what you're looking for. As whip smart as he is and as quickly as he learns, he gets lost in the centuries-old homemade terms and lack of scientific logic.

Finally, you stand. "He's been possessed," you concur. "The skin's gone cold, so it's been a least a week. And the rot in his mouth is pretty progressed, so it's probably been a little over that." You meet his eyes in the dark, as if you're expecting something.

"I don't have any intent to ask, beloved."

You bob your head with a little smile. "Fair enough. Desk, then?"

"Desk."

You follow him back across the room again. You lean over the surface, pointing the wide beam down on the old book. You kept attentive to how close you were to the edge of the desk, as well as how far your many necklaces and bracelets hung above the miscellaneous items and papers strung about the flat wood.

"This is an old language, one of the original ones the first demonologists and occult studiers used to record everything and communicate with each other—"

"Why did they need a separate language?"

You kept your gaze focused on the open page. "Most serious demonology—outside of Bible stuff—and focused paranormal study started around the same time people were called witches for curing sicknesses, Dame."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I'll stop boring you with the history lesson. It's basically a mashup of Latin, Greek, and little freestyling."

"Can you read it?"

"Yeah, I read stuff like this in the House Of Magic's library pretty often. It's similar to what is used in modern day demonology."

You squint down at the page, scrutinizing the dull lettered lines. Damian noted that you weren't blinking.

"It's . . . It's labeled as an invocation, but it's a summoning." Your eyebrows gather above your nose. "Which is pretty obvious, considering–"

"(Y/N), as much as I adore hearing you talk about the things that interest you, what exactly does it summon?"

You fall silent, eyes darting further down the page, to the two intricate symbols scribed there. Finally, you announce, "Crossroads demon—for making deals. But it doesn't make sense, because crossroads demons don't need this much, uh, drama."

"What does that mean?" A creak echos from the sanctuary. He moves quickly and quietly, back to the door to see what's caused it.

You speak a little louder to be sure he can hear you. "Well, a crossroads ritual is so much simpler than this, and you don't need any kind of rune, symbol, or anything, really. As basically as I can put it, you put a box in the dirt and beg for it to work." You grab your longest necklace in your hand and pull it away from the desk, allowing you to lean closer to the book without the programed stone touching the desk. "And this right here would mean–"

You eyebrows unfurrow immediately. That would mean I summon thee to take my soul. Your eyes dart wildly across the page, rereading and rechecking every letter of the old text.

That isn't the right center for a crossroads demon.

You mentally run through everything but of information you'd compiled since last night, when Tim had shown you the footage.

You bounded down the stairs, Damian on your heels, as you chattered on about Constantine's rotten habits and The House's typical invasions of privacy.

"Speak of the devil." Tim throws you a cocky, yet oh-so-tired grin.

You jump the last three grate steps, landing with a hard thump on the cement. "Close, but not quite," you laughed, sauntering over to join him at the massive blue screen. "What can I do for ya, Trombone?"

His eyebrows slant together in annoyance at the aged nickname. You try to play a trombone one time—one time. "Found this yesterday," he grits. His pinky tags the tab button, just as Damian joins you.

The black and white CCTV clip is taken from a security camera, focused on the building across the street. Nothing seems to be happening.

You lean closer to the screen. Maybe you're missing something? You doubt it's a prank, considering the last time they tried to jumpscare you. Your gaze bounces around to all the windows and the doors, the dark corners and the shadowed strips.

Then, out of the blue, the three streetlights bordering the parking lot and accompanying sidestreet flicker off. Then on again, then off.

You blink. Squint. "Rewind it."

The footage speeds backward a few seconds, then takes proper motion again. You focus on the windows. A shadow moves just inside the door. "Right there," you point at the glass entry doors. "Go back and watch the edge of the left door."

The accelerated decay of the property.

The dead animals in the kitchen.

The intact cross.

The flickering streetlight.

Possessed priest.

This is for something far stronger.

You pull away from the table and shoot forward, nearly tripping over an outstretched arm. "Damian!" you bellow, stumbling out into the sanctuary.

He's halfway down the isle, flashlight swinging to face you in surprise. "What?"

You run through the room to close the gap between you, beam of light cutting through pitch black empty space, peeling back inky air from the ruined room. Paranoia swells in your chest, knowing something was looming in the shadows so close to him.

He subconsciously reaches out and grasps your arm. "What's wrong?"

You're still steadily searching the room with your light. "It isn't a crossroads demon, it's worse, it's bigger, it's meaner. We should go back to The House, regroup, get some tougher stuff."

"What do you mean?" Now he's skimming the room with his light. "What is it?"

You shake your head. "That's the bad part, it wasn't specific, so I don't know for sure."

"For sure. What do you guess it is?"

"Educated guess?" You flick your light behind you. "Fourth ring—bad news."

"Aren't all demons bad news?"

"Not the ones you can reason with."

You both spin on your heels to face the crashing commotion by the entrance. Your light caught it just in time to see pages settle on the ground around a newly over turned pew.

"We're leaving," you state firmly, pushing against Damian, a silent order to move your ass.

His light must have hit every edge of the room as he creeps forward, step by step, toward the entrance of the sanctuary. You walk backward behind him, keeping your eyes from settling on one thing for too long.

When the pannel doors slam shut with enough force to knock the remaining photographs and painting off the wall, you feel the pressure of Damian not only stopping, but jerking back a step against your back.

Your beam settles on the office doors. "The doors shut?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the lock?"

"Watched it."

"Fuck."

"Shit."

You move your beam to the podium. Then the fractured statue of Jesus nailed to a cross on the furthest wall. The head and arms had been broken off, laying sadly at his sides.

"Damian?"

"Yes?"

"We're going back to the office."

"Obviously." He spins around to stand at your side. "I'm far more comfortable with the remains of the living than the presence of the dead."

"Not really the dead, but I know what you mean."

You lead the way down the main isle, light skimming and skipping through the room as you went. You listen intently, for any sound that might tip you off to intentions or locations. Demons lower (or higher, depending on how you looked at it) than a Sixth Circle require a body to walk the living plane. If you're right, there must be a form of some kind around here some place. A physical body.

You reach out absently, hooking your index finger around his pinky. You've had people and things snatched away in silence before, and you weren't about to let it happen to Damian.

He doesn't say anything. No typical snide remarks or well thought jabs. The first few times he'd accompanied you to an exorcism or a hunt, he'd been just as cocky and arrogant as the day you met him. He'd laughed when you whipped out a canister of table salt.

The third time, though, he'd been pinned to a wall by something he couldn't see or feel. He couldn't fight it, couldn't intimidate it, couldn't distract it.

He never mocked a thing about your practice after that.

Another crash echoes from the left side of the room, drawing both of your attention. Your light finds the broken crucifix, now toppled over and laying across the podium it knocked over on it's way down. Your light lingers.

"Go ahead into the room," you poke a thumb in the direction of the open door. "Set Carl back up in the closet, if you don't mind."

"Carl?" Damian edges his way back to the open door, using your favorite tactic of keeping an eye on him. If he was still talking to you, odds are, he's just fine.

"Yeah, I named the poor guy. Didn't want to offend him with that dead dude on the floor." You creep closer to the crucifix.

"And you chose Carl because. . ?" he pushes the door the rest of the way open, the creak bouncing off the walls, throwing the sound in every direction.

You kick a shredded Bible out of the way. "Just what came off the top of my head," you answered honestly. You shift your gaze from the broken religious symbol to the surrounding area, just to make sure.

"What about Davis?" He sets his little flashlight between his teeth to free his hands. He hesitates, but hooks his hands under the dead man's shoulders, grips his shirt, and lifts him back to a near-standing position.

"No way, look at the stubble of his chin. No Davis would let it get that bad."

He stuffs the body back into the closet with as much grace and pride as he can manage. He shoves the door shut double checks the latch to make sure it doesn't swing open with the added weight. "Mark?"

"No way." You nudge the wooden cross with the toe if your boot. It must weight at least seventy pounds, and it from the six inch industrial screws on the back of it, it was bolted to the wall. "Not with hair that thin."

He shakes his head. What to talk about now? "Find anything out there?"

"Not yet." You crouch, running a hand over the carved robe.

He sweeps the room with his light again. But this time, it catches on the farthest corner from the door.

His heart leaps. His spine stiffens, his blood runs cold.

It's staring right at him.

His mind reels, grappling for something—anything—you've mentioned about dealing with a demon face to face.

He's panicking. Why is he panicking? He works well under pressure, one might even say best. Why now? He feels terror grip his heart, and his breath is coming and going in short, silent bursts. Terror floods his mind—but why?

Why, why, why?

He was raised for this sort of thing, groomed for it even. He's never reacted this way before–

It's a demon, he reminds himself, through muddied thoughts of escape plans and defensive manuevers.

It's got to be messing with him. He remembers you mentioning things like this, both in idle conversation and over sparring.

He does his best to push it away, keep the blood rushing in his ears at a manageable level.

What does he do?

Does he yell for you? Will that startle it, or push it to action? Should he make a break for it? Is there even a chance he could get to you before it gets to him?

What if he takes you from the equation entirely? What can he do? Can he hit it? He can see it now, mostly, at least. What about shielding himself?

"Damian?" Your voice sounds like church bells ringing on a dark and foggy morning.

There's his out, if all else fails. You'll be coming to check on him in a few seconds if he doesn't answer, and he's finding speaking more difficult than usual anyway.

He tears his eyes from the piercing red and orange globes hanging in font of a foggy face. An old, dogeared bible lays on the floor. Surely that would do something.

"Hey, Dame. Everything good?" He doesn't hear anymore movement from you. You sound more focused. "Damian?"

He holds his breath. Counts to five. Releases. Counts to five. Another breath.

"Damian, I swear if you're just too focused to listen to me. . ." Your warning trails off as you draw closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you moving around the corner, coming through the doorway, and then you stop.

He doesn't look away from the thing in the corner. He knows you're looking at it. He knows, because you haven't called his name again.

He nearly jumps and your voice, cold and level. "You nasty bastard."

The thing's glittering orange irises slide slowly to you. The rest if it doesn't move.

He takes the diverted attention to get a better look at it.

It looks like a man—all the pieces are there, the arms, the legs, the hands, the feet—but it just looks wrong. Like. Poorly designed animated character that was meant to resemble a real person, but was just off enough to be nearly unrecognizable.

And the face. It was distorted in an indescribable way. He could almost pick out the details—a nose, a mouth, even eyebrows—but it was like they were just out of sight. Like looking through a foggy mirror, but the air was perfectly clear.

"What brought you to Gotham, then?" you question.

Damian tries to sneak a step backward. You're only a few feet away, and if he can get to you, you'll be able to tell him what to do. Give him something to hit with.

Unfortunately, the discarded papers and books scattered along the floor expel any and every chance of stealth he thought he had.

Orange irises flicker yellow and snap back his way, and he finds himself unable to look away. Panic is starting to rise again when you take two daring steps sideways.

"Hey, what the hell, man? We were having a conversation, you know. It's rude to look away when someone's talking to you." You're only a foot away from blocking him entirely.

It's eyes are back on yours now.

"As I was saying, what brought you 'round this side of town?" Damian sees your hand sliding into your back pocket. "Thought you'd be up in the skyscrapers, ya know, with the big dogs in fat ties with fatter checks." You slide on a pair of knuckles.

Damian shifts his weight. You're about to charge it, he can read it from your body language. As loudly as his instincts are screaming, he knows he'll only be in the way if he stays where he is. His best bet is to at least get out to the sanctuary, so you can get your job done without worrying about where he is.

You're both silent for exactly two seconds. Muscles curled tight, like wild animals waiting for the right time to strike.

Then, in barley a blink, you're leaping forward, words of a dead language flying off your tongue, bring orange shapes he doesn't register encasing your hands. He's swerving behind you, slipping on papers in his rush for the door.

He speeds around the first row of pews, and takes the farthest left right isle. He makes it to the double doors at the back of the room, before discovering that the doors are still very firmly locked. Thankfully, the doors were cheap and easily gave way to Damian's forceful convention.

He shoves one side the rest of the way open, and discovers exactly why such a task was so difficult in the first place.

The dining table from the kitchen had been lodged in the doorjam.

He blows out a breath when the leg catches on the wall of the hallway. It's not going to open without shattering that table leg, which he doesn't have time for.

You let out an angry shout, shoving forward the spinning, glowing sigil you're using to shield yourself from the demon's razor-like fingertips.

You thrust it through the doorway of the office, quickly pinning it down on an upright pew.

Damian swears under his breath and ducks past the doors, opting instead for a more stable place to hold his ground, should things get as bad as they were looking.

The room is nearly pitch black, both his and your flashlights abandoned in the office, providing the smallest amount of light to the most obvious parts of the room. The only other sources of light are your magic and your eyes, both a mesmerizing shade of dark orange, glowing fiercely in contrast to the stale dark air surrounding you.

There were times when those glowing irises were a calming, steadying presence; something to lean against to keep himself grounded.

This is not one of those times.

At the moment, he's hunkered down behind a church pew, waiting for you to tell him to do something, watching sparks of magic fly around the room as you battle against a demon you weren't entirely prepared for. The great room is filled with encantations in a language he doesn't care to understand and ungodly shrills and growls.

Then, he hears a pained shriek so deafening and strangely pitched, his hands involentarily fly up to cover his ears.

The room goes quiet and still, papers settling back on the cheap red carpet, dust finding it's way back down to the wooden surfaces.

He peers over the edge of the church pew once more, eyes flicking through the whole room in a near desperate search for that orange glow. It couldn't have been you that made that noise, could it?

Finally, he finds two tiny, bright orange circles flickering around the room as well. The palms of your hands still have a soft glow to them, in the fuzzy outlines of your veins.

"Damian, where'd you go?" Your voice is level—you aren't worried. You know he didn't go far enough that you couldn't be heard.

It always left him just a bit tender in the chest when you reminded him just how well you knew him. "Right here," he beckons, straightening out and picking his way back across the room to the doors, where the dim beams of the streetlights out side have away his outline.

You start up the isle immediately, eyes still piercing the darkness. "Do you want to go get your light?"

He doesn't answer you right away. "My–? No, I have more at home. What happened to the demon?"

"Killed it," you answer dryly. "Or mostly did, anyway. Either way, we better go before we find out."

He's about to follow you back up the rest of the way to the doors, but stops halfway. "Wait, I do need something from that office."

You turn to ask what is, but he's already running back down the main isle. Your grip tightens on the strap of your messenger bag, the same strap that had been sliced in two at some point during your little skirmish. Eyes dart around the great room. You raise your maglight again, and click it back on. You'd gotten yours from the office, but Damian's was too small for you to waste much time looking for it. You point it after him, and when he vanishes into the mostly dark room, you direct it to the darkest edges of the room. When you're satisfied, you pinch the light between your jaw and your shoulder, drop your bag, and set your hands to work with moving that blasted table out of the way.

You've just about got it completely clear when the sound of the office door reaches you. You turn halfway, just to check. And then, your heart drops along with your flashlight. It feels like the floor's given out from under you when your light catches him.

You start to shout, but the words get caught in your throat. Your hands twitch and suddenly the world seems like it's slipped into slow motion.

Then, your knees are bending and the rubber soles of your boots claw against the carpet. Your rushing toward him, but it doesn't feel fast enough.

Faster, faster, faster.

Your heart is palpitating and your mind is reeling already, and all you can hear is the premonition his screams.

You come to a near-screeching halt in the tiny space between your lover and the charging black mass, fully intending to push him clean to the exit, eyes hardly focused before it happens—

Something hits you, hard, fast, and cold. Your eyes roll back and ice shoots through your veins, you can feel it, and the pain is overwhelming as you stumble backwards with the world spinning around you and—

Damian feels it in his chest before he sees it. Heavy and tight. He spins around, though it takes a measure of courage and willpower, because he has a feeling he knows what's happened, but he doesn't want to see it.

You're a few feet away, crumpled, hunched in on yourself as you sit on your knees, between two intact pews. Your back heaves with every strangled breath. Your hands are out of view, pressed firmly against the rough red in front of you to anchor yourself.

"(Y/N)?" He braves a step or two forward. "What happened?"

You don't answer.

Chills rush over him in waves. The temperature in the air hadn't been in any way warm to begin with, but his breath billows out into the stream of light from the flashlight he'd managed to pick up on his way out of the office. He tries your name again, and this time, you side to your feet.

You don't stand, mind you, so much as levitate gently until your feet are beneath you. You turn very slowly, with jagged and barely controlled movements.

You grin widely at him, but it's crooked and too sharp at the ends. It reaches tour eyes, sure, but really wishes it didn't.

Part 2; but I can't link it because Tumblr is still being a bitch with links. I am so sorry. If you go to profile, it should be the first post until further notice. 🙄

because Tumblr apparently has a limit of 250 text blocks per post

[microshiner]

Ska, craft spirits, and Colorado's real drinking town

The hangover bell rings loud and clear in my head as I lift a 70 pound guitar cabinet into the back of a white 2000 Ford Econoline XL. Rain falls lightly. I am running on only a few slovenly hours of sleep but despite the pounding head, my mood is jovial. My band mates and I recount the night before over and over. In the world of ska music, there are few bands more respected than Hepcat, and few bands more infamous than Mephiskapheles, and we just shared the stage with both in one night. It was also the kick off to the second leg of our spring and summer run- this morning we hit the road out of Denver and head for Durango, Colorado, where we’ll spend a week in the studio and follow it up with two shows in the area including a performance at the legendary Ska Brewing Company.

Alright.

Personally, I am excited for more than one reason. I went to school in Durango, but it’s been six years since I’ve lived there and from what I can tell, the drinking scene has only gotten better. A new craft distillery just opened up, and the number of breweries has jumped from 4 to 6 (All this in a town of 17,000. Fort Collins gets the glory, but at over 150,000 residents, are their 14 breweries and 3 distilleries that impressive? Which is the real drinking town?)

I contemplate this and other pressing issues to pass the time on a 7 hour haul over the Rocky Mountains. As we climb in elevation, my mood levels off. It always does when passing time in the van. Whether I am headed somewhere new or somewhere I’ve been many times, as long as it’s light outside touring has always had a bit of a weird vibe to me. The late nights, the shows, the people, the free drink tickets - that is what it’s all about and what makes it worth it. The rush of playing a good show is matched by no drug or other experience I’ve ever had. But during the day, driving through the middle of nowhere to the next town while getting further and further away from your personal life back home, the anxiety creeps in.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been in a band at a level where touring was our income. I’ve always had to hurry back home after each run and get to work in order to keep the bills paid. Right now, it’s about 9:30 on Monday morning. Everyone I know (except the three guys sitting here with me) is at work, or walking the dog, or heading to the bank, something normal.

Don’t get me wrong, there is certainly a level of awesome to all this. I’m never going to be a ‘company man.’ I knew that by the time I hit high school. I take a lot of pride in what I do for a living and for a hobby. But the older I get, the harder I find it to relate the stories of the road and the stories of the pen and the stories of so many nights passed in rock clubs to people who are my age but haven’t had a night out in months. The word ‘baby’ means something entirely different to them.

As Vonnegut would say - So it goes. We pull into town just in time for happy hour but unfortunately the liquor store will have to suffice for tonight; we’ve got to get to the studio. Tomorrow I will have the opportunity to experience some of the actual culture of this town I’ve missed so much.

Tuesday morning I am walking down Main Avenue bright and early in a leisurely search for a cup of coffee and a paper. Part of me feels like a Texan, stopping to gaze into each store window as I pass by and then actually purchasing, after looking around to make sure no one I know is in sight then ducking quickly into the storefront, a “Durango” t-shirt. I’ll have to bury this down in my backpack so my bandmates never see it. I justify the window shopping and eventual purchase as a mere way to pass some time before my scheduled meeting with some real locals, the owners of Durango Craft Spirits, at 10 o’clock.

I walk into the tasting room to meet owners Michael and Amy McCardell. Immediately I can tell that the duo lives by their motto and are ‘Inspired by the true spirit of Durango’ - It is only 10 am but the room is full of bluegrass music and the McCardell’s beckoning call for a drink. Michael handles the distilling of what is currently their sole offering - Soiled Dove Vodka, made from a mash of 60% native grown, non-GMO white corn they get directly from the Ute Mountain Tribe of Ute in Towaoc, Colorado (just a little over an hour from Durango). His soft voice, with a bit of a country tinge, makes even a short sentence sound well-rehearsed and wise. Perfect for telling stories, and I’m guessing he has a lot of them.

Lucky for me, Michael is not at all shy about telling the story of Durango Craft Spirits, his pride and joy.

It is, I learn quickly, Durango’s first post-prohibition, grain-to-glass distillery. “We’ve got a couple friends over at Ska, Dave (Thibodeau) and Bill (Graham), that opened Peach Street Distillery, in Grand Junction) years ago and one day I met the old distiller and Bill brought in one of their first bottles of gin, along with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire,” Michael says. “It was just unbelievably so much better. That first opened my eyes to craft distilling.”

This was over ten years ago, and until that day Michael had no plans at all of going into the distilling business. “A couple years later, I’m hiking around a piece of property up north with the county assessor, and he said ‘I gotta tell you this story. There’s a buddy of mine who thought he found some ancient Anasazi ruins on his property and he wanted me to come check them out. They hiked up there on a cliff to an Anasazi looking wall and there was an old still sitting back there.’”

He decided to do some research and try to figure out what kind of distilling was done in the area. “I started reading a few books about distilling in the area, and there was quite a bit done,” Michael says. “Especially turn of the last century when the silver market took a crash. A lot of the miners took to cooking booze in the mines.”

With his interest piqued, Michael attended three distilling schools and landed himself an internship at Wood’s High Mountain Distillery in Salida, CO, with the intention of opening his own show in Durango once he learned about the operational side. Both Michael and Amy had spent years in the local hospitality industry managing hotels and a golf club.

As their current jobs came to end due to sell offs, the decision was made to go full-steam with the distillery concept. Step one, securing a location. Where They landed right on the corner of 11th and Main, in the heart of downtown, and opened in January of this year.

Their setup is pretty simple - tasting room in the front, still setup and work area in the back (visible to guests), and office off to the side. Nice and cozy. “We go grain to glass right in the building with all regional grains,” Michael says. “We’re real proud to mash, distill, and bottle right in house.” I had been sold on their concept already, but at this point I could not continue the interview without trying some of their product.

Amy, generally in charge of the tasting room and PR, hands me a pour from behind the bar. I stir, smell, and sip. Then I gasp.

I am not a vodka drinker. My taste for the stuff was ruined by too much Smirnoff as a teenager. But this morning I am happy to make an exception. This stuff is good. Smooth, one of those spirits that you know would be perfect in a cocktail but it almost seems like a sin to dilute it, like a fine scotch. Until you realize that a vodka of such high quality could finally allow you to drink those plastic-bottle vodka infused party concoctions you swore off in your mid-twenties because you can’t stand the headaches any more, minus the headache. “I use a pretty strange recipe for the vodka compared to other distilleries, and it gives it a pretty unique flavor.” That, I agree, is easy to notice.

“The product is tied to Durango’s history,” Michael informs me as empty my glass. “Soiled doves being a Victorian term for the prostitutes of the town. They operated into the 1960s in Durango and were fined heavily, with the fines helping to cover the cost of the schools, the police department, and the fire department.”

The McCardells pay homage to these lovely financiers on the back of their bottle. The cocktails served in the tasting room are also related to the town’s history, an effort that has most certainly allowed the curious tourist to feel more accomplished in his imbibing. The distillery looks to release an unaged whiskey this fall, with barreling scheduled to begin this month. The vodka is currently only sold within 150 miles of Durango. “We are being (probably) too cautious about our growth,” Michael says. They do, however, plan to expand further across Colorado. Not bad for a true mom-and-pop and operation.

I like to think that my band is a mom-and-pop operation. I guess it would be a quadruple-pop operation. Like Michael and Amy, we have grown our small company from nothing into nothing less than an amazing life experience, with no real guidance other learned experience. We have made plenty of mistakes over the last eight years but have slowly made progress come from each of them. We’ve dealt with marriages, jobs, mortgages, kids, operational disagreements, and an old van catching on fire on the road, and as life has happened, we have found a way to happen with it. Back in the early days, circa 2007-2010, I put all of my eggs in that basket. I was willing to work crappy kitchen jobs and live in dilapidated apartments so that I would in turn have the flexibility to leave town when I needed to and be able to keep my financial overhead at a bare minimum in order to play music multiple nights a week. I cared about nothing other than making the band succeed. I lost relationships and friends.

The other guys, at least the two I started the group with, did the same. And then, in the fall of 2010, we crashed and burned hard. So hard, in fact, that over the next two years we did next to nothing with the group. We had no money, our leases were up, and we had nowhere left to go. For a while, we went our separate ways. Our biggest lesson, and one of the most important things I have ever gotten out of life, is that you have to have options - you have to have more than one card to play. As we’ve grown up since then, we have found ways to have other priorities in life while still being able to come back and execute with the band when it’s time.

While the band was on ‘unofficial hiatus’, I filled the musical craving in another group, but I was also able to take the experiences I had with the band, mix them with my college degree, and create some kind of shit show career path based on music business and journalism. Five years later I feel I can see it blossoming. To me, the craft lifestyle embodies that same spirit - live life, take what you’ve got, mix in a heavy dose of passion, and throw it to wind. It takes awhile, but when it finally comes full circle, it tastes so damn good.

[call-me-rei]

Chapter 37

“I found out what it takes to be a man.”

---

Vic took me down to the beach after our kiss on the pier. We took off our shoes and carried them in opposite hands as we walked hand in hand along the shoreline. It was very romance movie. Once we got tired of walking we sat in the sand and stared out into the horizon. It was a clear night with the moon was shining overhead and reflecting into the ocean.

I leaned my head on his shoulder and breathed in his scent. His cologne mixed with the salty air around us in a perfect way. I nuzzled my nose into the crook of his neck and he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“I don’t want today to end,” I whispered. “This was the best birthday I’ve had in a long time.”

He planted a soft kiss on my forehead and squeezed my hip gently. “I’m glad. I was really worried about it.”

I lifted my head to look into his eyes. “You were?”

“Well, yeah. You’ve been through a lot these last few months. I wanted to give you a day you could enjoy.”

My heart fluttered at his words. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so lucky with a boyfriend like him. “You know, you’re really sweet. It’s hard to believe that everyone’s afraid of you.”

He chuckled. “A bit, yeah.”

“Why is that?” He hummed in question, so I tried again. “Why is the school afraid of you? What’d you do?”

“Well, what have you heard?” he asked with a nervous chuckle.

It was my turn to chuckle. Memories of what my friends had told me about Vic during my first week of school came back to me. “I’ve heard that you’re in a gang, or that you sell drugs on the side. Obviously I know that’s not true, but it’s funny what everyone comes up with.”

“Right? They make me out to be cooler than I am.”

“That’s not true,” I defended, “I think you’re pretty cool.” He smiled and pulled me back into him. I wrapped my arms around his middle before I asked, “So what’s the truth then?”

Vic ran his fingers up and down my back slowly as he looked thoughtfully at the sky. “It happened my sophomore year. I went to a party with Mike; he was in eighth grade at the time. But like, he was freakishly tall, so no one questioned why a fourteen-year-old was at a party with juniors and seniors.

“Well, we were there and having an okay time. Next thing I know Mike is starting to get into it with this jacked dude. This guy was huge and mad at my brother because his girlfriend was flirting with him and the guy thought Mike was making a move. And he might’ve been, I don’t know. All I knew was that this guy was going to hurt my brother. So, I did what any good big brother would do: I stood in front of the guy and squared up. I wasn’t going to let anyone talk to Mike that way or try to intimidate him.”

“You fought the guy?”

“Kinda,” he continued. “I soon learned that this guy was the captain of the wrestling team and wasn’t one to be messed with. He swung at me, but I ducked in time then swung back at him. Now, he might’ve been big, but he couldn’t fight outside of the wrestling mat. I punched him in the jaw and he went down. I went back to school that Monday and everyone was talking about how the ‘little sophomore knocked out a senior’. I wanna say that no one messed with me after that, but that would be wishful thinking. People tried it but they learned not to fuck with me or the people I love.”

I reached and poked his bicep with my finger. “I can’t believe you knocked a guy out.”

“What, you don’t think these arms could do it?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not that. I just think it’s kinda hot. I wish I could’ve been there.”

“I could flex for you now if you want.” He patted his bicep for emphasis. I quickly poked him in the stomach to shut him up. “Alright, alright,” he laughed.

I shook my head before resting it back on his shoulder. Then I lifted it again when a question popped in my head. “Wait, so why’d you try to beat me up? I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Vic’s face lit up in realization. “Oh, that was because I thought you were cute and I didn’t know what to do about it.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but blush at his confession. “Well for the record I think you’re cute too.”

“I hope so! This relationship would be really awkward if you didn’t.”

I couldn’t contain the ugly cackle that left my mouth at his joke. Vic joined me in laughter then gazed at me once we’d both calmed down. He brought me into him once more and drew shapes on my back with his finger. “I hope you had a good day,” he said softly.

I nuzzled into him. “It was perfect. Thank you for all of it.”

“You’re perfect.” He held my chin with his thumb and index finger and pulled my face to his. We shared another sweet kiss under the moonlight as the waves met the shore.

***

Things felt off the day after my birthday. Aside from the fact that it was Monday, the vibe at school was off, and I couldn’t figure out why. People kept staring at me when I passed them. I was kind of used to it already. Ever since my first day kids were staring at me because I “stood up to Vic,” then they started staring at me because Vic and I became “friends.” These stares felt different though.

It felt as if everyone knew something, and they were looking at me trying to figure out if I knew it too. Like there was some huge secret that they couldn’t tell me for whatever reason. I almost wanted to scream at them and ask what was wrong, but I knew nothing would come of it. So I just walked.

Lynn was by my side as I entered the building. I could tell she noticed the stares too. She grabbed onto my arm when they got too intense and she started to get intimidated. I tried my best to keep cool as we walked down the hall. She finally let go when we reached my locker.

“What did you do?” she asked.

I shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? We literally just got here. I know as much as you do.”

“Well something happened and apparently everyone knows about it.” I hummed. That much was obvious. “Do you think they know about Rick?”

I froze. The issues with Rick ended a month prior, so it seemed unlikely that that information would just now be spreading around the school. Besides, the only people I had told about Rick were my friends. I was sure none of them would say anything to anyone else, but maybe someone overheard us? But why wait a whole month to tell other people? That didn’t make much sense. My mind spun in circles with those questions.

I shut my locker door and looked around. I wanted to figure out who would’ve told the entire school my business. The truth was I didn’t know anyone in this school aside from my group of friends. Any one of these other kids could’ve said something. And since rumors don’t have a timeline, it wouldn’t be too preposterous that that person wanted to spread shit about me now.

The thought scared me, then angered me. I didn’t appreciate rumors being spread about me, especially not about my family life and my abusive ex-stepfather. It wasn’t anyone’s business, but I’d be dammed if they started talking about me behind my back.

“Kells?” I looked down at my friend who was staring at me with concern in her eyes. “C’mon,” she said softly, “let’s go to class.” She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and led us to calculus, passing kids as they stared and whispered.

***

The day didn’t get better. All through calculus I felt different pairs of eyes on me. It took everything in me not to lash out. English class was worse. I noticed kids whispering to each other when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t make out much of what was said, but whatever it was had them all looking at me and snickering. By the time I got to choir I thought I could hear their thoughts as well.

He comes from a broken home.

His dad doesn’t love him, that’s why he hits him.

He deserves it. Gay piece of shit.

Or maybe those were the thoughts I had in the back of my own mind. Things had been going too well lately, why not add some depression to keep things level? Because of course, good things don’t last forever.

I walked out of the choir hall and into the atrium. I wanted to leave the building, maybe just go home and forget about my last class. It was pretty much a blow off class anyway, and Lynn or Sav could give me notes. At least if I wasn’t there I wouldn’t be made fun of.

I sat down and was about to pull out my phone to text the girls when I saw Lynn walk up to me with a worried look on her face. I immediately stood.

“What’s wrong?” I’d never seen her look so upset before.

She chewed on her bottom lip. “I think I figured out why people have been staring at you.”

“It’s Rick, right? They know what he did?” Panic was starting to course through me. All I could think was that my whole school knew I had been abused at home. That was, until Lynn spoke again.

“That’s not it.” She said it so softly that I almost missed it amongst the chatter in the atrium.

“Then what is it?” She started playing with her fingers. “Lynn?”

“Have you…been online today? Checked social media?”

I shook my head. “Tell me what’s going on.”

With a sigh, Lynn pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen. She handed it to me once she was done. I was confused and wondered why I was staring at a Twitter page.

“Lynn, wh-”

“Just look,” she said, cutting me off.

I took another look, finally acknowledging what all was on the screen. It was Jacob’s Twitter page. I looked at Lynn again but she just gestured for me to look back at her phone, so I did.

I scrolled down from his header to the most recent tweet. Then I almost dropped the phone.

His most recent tweet was a picture. A picture of me with Vic the night before. We were kissing on the pier. That picture had been tweeted out to Jacob’s 1,000+ followers, most of which I assumed went to our school. That would explain the stares.

“Is this…” I couldn’t even finish my thought.

Lynn nodded. “I heard some kids talking about it in sixth period so I looked for it and…well...”

I sat back down. “Does Vic know?”

“I don’t-” She was cut off by a booming voice at the end of the hall.

“Wheeler!” Everyone in the atrium immediately went silent and looked in the direction of the angry yell. I just put my head in my hands; I already knew who it was, and I knew he was pissed.

“Where the fuck is he?” Vic had stormed up and was next to me now, standing in between me and Lynn. I didn’t make a move, but others did. Kids circled around the three of us so they wouldn’t miss anything that was about to happen.

I didn’t want to be there for it. Vic was pissed, rightfully so, but I’d never seen him so angry before. It was understandable though since he had been wrongfully outed by the biggest jerk in school. Still, I was frightened, embarrassed, and heartbroken. This wasn’t fair to Vic, and knowing how scared he was to come out, I knew he’d want revenge for what was done.

“Jacob fucking Wheeler get your ass here now! Fucking face me you coward!”

The kids around us looked in every direction trying to find Jacob. Then the corwd parted. Jacob appeared from the crowd with a cocky grin on his face. I wanted nothing more but to wipe it off, and apparently Vic had the same idea. He took some steps forward.

“What the fuck, Wheeler?”

“What? Were you trying to keep it a secret? That you’re gay and you’re dating that little piece of shit?” He gestured to me. I stood up in anger.

“Shut up you tool,” I spat. He just laughed in my face.

“Aw, are you trying to stand up for your little boyfriend. It’s funny Fuentes, I would’ve thought at the very least you could pull someone better. Instead you go for him?”

Vic didn’t say anything; he just stood there with his fists clenched. Jacob took that as a sign to continue.

“Why him? Is he easy? Is that the reason you guys became friends so suddenly? He sucked your dick to get on your good side, didn’t he?”

“Leave him out of this,” Vic seethed through his teeth.

“Or what? What the fuck will you do? I’m not afraid of some fucking fa-”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence because in a flash Vic had pushed him against a nearby wall. Some girls screamed as they ran and dodged the two of them. Vic had a tight grip on Jacob’s collar with one hand and his other forearm on his neck, clearly cutting off circulation.

“Now Wheeler,” he started in a eerily calm voice, “didn’t your parents teach you that that word isn’t very nice? You could really piss someone off when you say shit like that.”

Jacob sputtered out a couple coughs in response.

“Let’s get one thing straight: you posting that picture was a bitch move, and I will make sure that you know that every time I see you. And in case you don’t think I’m serious, remember this: I was gay when I kicked your ass last year. I was gay when I kicked your ass at the beginning of this year. Hell, I’m openly gay now, but I’ll still kick your ass. Don’t fucking test me. Now, you’re going to leave me, my friends, and the boy I love alone, or else I’ll make this last month of school the worst one for you.”

Vic shoved Jacob angrily against the wall after his speech and watched as he cowered. Jacob’s friends helped him off the ground and retreated along with a few kids who were watching the scene unfold. Vic wasn’t concerned with any of that though. Once Jacob was gone he walked over to me. The rage that was once in his eyes was replaced with concern as he asked, “Are you okay?”

I nodded, trying to get a grasp on everything that I had just witnessed. Then something occurred to me.

“You love me?”

Vic’s expression went from worried to confused to shocked. “What?”

I tried again, this time with a smile playing on my lips. “You love me.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well…it wasn’t supposed to come out like that. I was thinking I’d tell you in a more romantic way. Maybe with a nice dinner, not when I was about to beat some guy up.”

“Yeah, but you did it for me. I think that’s pretty romantic.”

“And I’d do it again if I needed to.” I smirked as I walked toward him to close the space between us.

“See? Romantic.”

“I guess.” He put his hands on my hips and stared into my eyes. “I wanna try this again, properly this time. I love you, KQ.”

I put my hands on his face and closed the space between our lips. “I love you, too.”

[cheetahsprints]

Five Pebbles

Summary: “All I have is dark energy.” Words: 959 Based on: This Post

Participating in a multidimensional charity event seemed like a good idea on paper. People, beings from all worlds have diverged on to Earth two. He watches them mill about, trading goods and showing off their inventions. It’s a bit complicated, translating everything. With the help of the Council of Wells they made it work.

He is dressed in full Vibe gear. He sits at his table, sweating buckets. The grin he long had plastered on his face has faded into a stoic expression. He’s hot and his lips are sore and chapped. 

Harry had lost several rounds of rock, paper, scissors (Cisco totally didn’t vibe his choices, he was just lucky, OK?) but Cisco had lost a bet. That is how he got here. At a kissing booth. He cringes as he sees another person approaching. 

The figure looms over him. By the way he’s dressed, he’s another from Earth seven. It is a strangely similar place to Earth one, except with witches, dragons, and werewolves. It is just an assortment of strange and magical things. Familiar blue eyes capture his. But a colorful array of flames dance over his clothes and skin. He wears form fitting black leather and dark, shiny armor. A bizarre wide-brimmed hat shadows his eyes. 

“Hello,” Earth-7 Wells rasps. “How much for a peck on the cheek?”

Cisco gulps. “Five pebbles. No tax.”

Necromancer Wells frowns and tugs at his glowing, curved weapon. Cisco slowly inhales, quietly exhaling, fighting to keep his cool. He doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry.

“All I have is dark energy.”

“That’s fine too.” 

Cisco holds out shaky palms. Necromancer Wells conjures a pulsating, formless, purple mass. White sparkles within seem to twinkle at him. It settles in Cisco’s palms, bathing him in an oddly comfortable feeling of floating. He checks that he’s still on the ground, just to be sure. He realizes he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Close your eyes. Become one with the darkness.”

That doesn’t sound ideal. He glances around. No one has noticed the exchange. He sighs and does as he’s told. When he opens his eyes, the energy is gone. For a moment, it vibrates in his veins, giving him a rush of power he’s never experienced. It dissipates into a soft hum. He likes it.

He wonders why this Wells is so tall. His gaze darts downward, and he sees that the Necromancer is wearing unreasonably high-heeled boots. He tries not to smile. Wells kneels before him, removing his hat. He offers his cheek. 

Cisco carefully leans forward. He gives him a gentle peck on the plumpest part. When he pulls away, Wells is flushed, the hint of a smile twitching at his lips. He’s beautiful in an eerie way. He’s handsome in a fierce, quiet way. He’s a winter storm and autumn rain rolled into one. Unlike most versions of Wells, Cisco loves him instantly. It’s not in a romantic manner, but an all encompassing, devouring, inevitability. 

Necromancer Wells passes his fingers lightly over his cheek, as his face is overtaken by a grin. He prances away with a swirl of his cloak. He’s barely a few yards when another customer appears. He ducks a little, trying to avoid Wells. He looks like Ray Palmer, and has that lanky puppy mannerism. Wells stalks behind him as he approaches the table. Cisco observes him giving Witch Palmer a vile glare. 

Ray asks, “What?”

Wells continues to scrutinize his face. It’s like his every fiber is screaming, “I’m more handsome.” 

While he looks a bit like he stepped out of the pages of Harry Potter, it’s a little different and jarring. There are dark red curling tendrils of make-up on his face, and he’s dressed in black and maroon robes. 

He brandishes his wand from his sleeve and waves it. Cisco raises his eyebrows as Wells discreetly flicks his wrist. Ray frowns at his wand like something should’ve happened. The next moment, he grabs his throat. Cisco stands up, ready to help him if possible. He starts to cough, bracing himself on the table. He chokes up smooth rocks covered in green goop. Cisco stares, flabbergasted. Ray stares too. Then, he spreads his arms, grinning. 

“Five pebbles,” Ray announces, even though it’s obvious. 

Cisco chuckles and ruffles his hair. “Good boy.”

If Ray had a tail, he would wag it. Only, one does appear, wagging rapidly. Before Cisco’s very eyes, Ray transforms entirely into a dog and licks his face. Literal puppy Ray bounds off into the distance. Wells lifts his hand to bid Cisco goodbye.

Harry materializes with a, “Who was that?”

Cisco leaps out of his skin. “Dude.”

“Was that Necromancer Wells? He borrowed my pulse rifle and never gave me the spell book he promised.”

Cisco goggles at him, not sure if he’s supposed to respond to that. Harry inhales. He prods at the slime-coated pebbles with a single finger. He doesn’t veil his disgust. Cisco shakes himself and tugs off his leather jacket. The activity of the event appears to be decreasing.  Harry seems to grope him. He doesn’t have the strength to mind if anyone sees, absorbing the feeling of Harry’s nimble fingers into his molecules.

Harry adds non-sequitur, “Did he try to hurt you? I have it under good authority the Cisco of his Earth is his mortal enemy.”

Cisco blinks, so slow he thinks he vibes Necromancer Wells getting mauled by a werewolf, and Cisco’s doppelganger saving his life. “I think you might have that wrong.”

Harry shrugs. He opens his palm, showing his own offering of stones. Cisco huffs and pulls him by the collar for a kiss.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Cisco reminds him, “lovers get kisses for free.”

[victorzsaszhands-blog]

Dumpster Kid. Ch 1.

This is a story I wrote for my AO3 account. (SydMarch) Thought I might as well publish it here too! Enjoy. 

-=-=-

SUMMARY:  Maddison's parents were killed by her uncle, she fled and became a street kid, Being friends with Ivy. Her life on the streets was short-lived as she met a Ginger haired boy who let her stay with him. And together the mischief they made.

-=-=-

Chapter 1. Aren’t you that Dumpster Kid? 

It’s been two weeks since my ‘uncle’ killed my parents, he had planned to kill me but the screams of my parents warned me to run. I don’t know if he has been looking for me. I’ve been lucky, this nice street kid named Ivy has let me hang around her. She seems a bit shy but she warms up easy and is a talker if you mention plants. I’m amazed at how good she is at botany. Ivy has a friend called Selina, I’m neutral towards her but she seems to give me negative vibes. Well lately Selina has been very rude.

Ivy and Selina have been gone for almost a week. All they let me know was that they had ‘business’ to attend to. I already know that Selina does some sketchy business. My eyes wander to the poster on the dingy streetlight: Haly’s circus. Huh, it’s only 4pm and it doesn’t close until 9. I pull my good pair of shoes out from behind the dumpster, before deciding to leave a note in case Ivy comes back. I pull a pen out of my pocket as I scribble on a nearby pizza box. ‘I’ve gone to visit Haly’s circus. If you’re back and I’m not here then I should be there.’ I prop the box up against the bin before grabbing a brick to stabilise it. I quickly get up and pace my way to my destination.

I run through the dingy streets, lucky that no criminals are near. My feet run through cement, to pavement to gravel to grass. Finally I am here. My eyes light up noticing the candle lit banner. Haley’s Circus. My heart sinks as I realise it’s a paid entry. The sign says $15 entry. I check my pockets. $5. I slowly walk around the site and notice a caravan with no one around it. I’ll sneak around there. I remain quiet as I disappear into the night. The gravel is noisy and gives away my location. I gasp as I watch a tall boy step infront of me, his ginger hair glistens in the dark moonlight.

“What are you doing sneaking in here missy?” My eyes water as the Ginger boy speaks.

My voice shaky. “I’m sorry, I-i was bored and I wanted to visit. I just, I-i didn’t have enough money to get into the gate. I promise I won’t go into the main t-tent.” I try to keep calm, thinking that he will call the cops on me. I have to act sorry. I don’t want to go to jail.

I look up at the boy before he starts to laugh. “Ah, that’s funny. Go on.” He moves slightly out of the way so I can pass. I don’t. “And What are you doing here?” I give him a slight smile before leaning against a nearby caravan. He follows suit and leans next to me. “Well I live here.” I look at him, It must be nice to have a home, words slip out of my mouth. “What’s it like?” I whisper the next part, “to have a home.” His face changes emotions.

“Well, Every single day my mother brings home new men to sleep with. Do you know what it’s like to be yelled at to do the dishes when you’re mother has been banging a CLOWN IN THE NEXT ROOM.”

I look over at him at go to put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was just curious to know what having a home is like.” I feel a bright light on my face as I notice the main tent is lit up brightly. I go to head pat Jerome before retrieving my hand back to my side.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Aren’t you that dumpster kid, I swear I’ve seen you near the pizza joint. I think I may have given you half a pizza once.” He gives a short laugh, “I got an ass kicking for that haha, said It got wet in the rain.”  

I let out a slight sigh as I turn to face him, attempting to change the subject. “How about you show me around.” Before I can move he grabs my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine. His warm calloused hand colliding with my soft cold one. A blush spreading its way across my face. He pulls away from the caravan, roughly tugging me along. I speed up to him as he drags me along the circus. I watch as people walk around as, my blush deepening as I realise some people might think he and I are a couple. He takes me to a stand with toys and cotton candy hanging up, a sign with a duck on it. I watch as he wiggles his way into the booth, handing me three darts. “But I don’t have any-“ He holds a hand up to silence me. “It’s on the house.” He gives me a smile as I take the darts, “I forgot to ask for your name doll face.”

I look at the duck with the bulls eye before throwing and missing, I give a soft sigh as I turn to him. “Maddison, and you dear stranger?”

“Maddison, that short for Maddy.” His eyes seem to glister with darkness. “Or Mad?” He looks down then up, “Well Maddison, my name is Jerome. Nice to meet cha.” He holds his hand out and I happily shake it. Fermenting the feeling of his hand in my brain. His grip softens so I remove my hand, I squint my eyes at the bullseye before throwing my last two darts. One landed close to the middle the other at the very edge.

“Pick a prize any prize.” He waves his arms about, he really is too nice. I know I didn’t hit the centre so I don’t get a prize but, I know even if I argue with him he will give me one. I smile as I point to the purple octopus. He reaches up to grab it. Woah, he is so tall he doesn’t even have to tippy toe.

I take the octopus from his hands before whispering a thankyou. “I know you promised not to go in the main tent but I won’t tell anyone if you do.” I give his hand a pat. “It’s okay, I’m sure I’ll be able to come back and see later, plus I seem to have grown tired.” I’m just able to turn around before Jerome places a sturn hand on my shoulder.

“Awe who said anything about leaving, you’re welcome to stay with me.”

I look at him. He is so nice, too nice. What if I was an murderer, which I’m not but if I were he just invited me to his home. Easy kill. Lucky for him I’m not a murderer, just a thief. I have to ask him if It’s a sleepover.  “For the night?” My eyes seem to be begging, I know I’ve only just met the fellow but there’s something about him that drags me close, want to know more.  

His lovely green eyes meet my sky blue ones. “Listen I like you, so I’m going to let you stay as long as you want. Just promise me one thing…” His voice darkens with the hint of a threat. “Promise not to steal anything from me.”

“Don’t worry Jerome I’ll steal for you not from you.”