#and your assumption that that’s the case is fucking rotted

[imlittlebitdie]

Just love when a visit to the coffee shop turns into me getting antisemitic bullshit from a white trans dude.

The minute he learned I was a Jew shit went south. I’m so fucking sick of White Leftist goyim.

[cdroloisms]

been thinking about post-prison c!dream again and i feel like ... characterizations of him after pandora smtimes can lean vindictive. and it's not like there's no proof for this being the case, lol, this man has quite a few angry speeches post-prison about getting his Revenge! and such, and obviously has Feelings about the whole being left to rot and be tortured thing. that being said, i think it's worth pointing out how what a character thinks they believe and what their actions show can have some...pretty apparent discrepancies, and i think that c!dream's stated desires to take his revenge as well as a "us against them, you're either with me or against me" viewpoint of the server as a whole don't necessarily match up with his behavior post-prison

for one, i think it's worth pointing out how often c!dream's anger in these cases is obviously emotional to the point of incoherence--it's often been stated that his speech in the logstedshire chase scene screams of projection in the midst of a panic attack, which, i mean? yeah? he's making assumptions about what c!tommy thinks and basically repeating what c!quackity said in that cell almost word for word and making the kill-and-revive-you-over-and-over-and-over threat that he definitely wasn't going to go through with (though, is kind of interesting retrospectively considering we know that he literally did that to himself). then there's his rant to c!sam in daedalus one which literally includes his threatening c!sam with c!quackity, a claim so absurd that c!sam himself points it out as making no sense. and then there's his speech with c!quackity where he says he's going to torture...las nevadas? as in, the country? dream that's. dream it's a country. it can't feel pain. dream.

in this, a clear pattern is established where a lot of these angry threats are...bluffs. hot air. even if c!dream is genuine when he makes these threats, they're really not plausible (like, uh, please tell me how youre gonna convince quackity to torture sam for you king.) and it's not like c!dream doesn't have a pattern of being A Whole Lotta Bark when you have him in a position where he feels cornered, either. but with this, there's a precedent that's established where c!dream's threats, particularly threats where he's literally just listing shit out like that, should be taken with a grain of salt. less evidence of true plans and more an attempt to bare his teeth at you until you back the fuck away.

of course, this in itself isn't enough to claim that all of his claims of more vindictive actions should be dismissed. that being said, across the board, when you look at c!dream's actual actions post-prison...well, the amount of actual revenge this guy gets is. very small. very small. in fact, contrary to what one might think due to his paranoia and the huge breach of trust that had happened as a result of the prison, c!dream actually seems quite willing to establish connections with other people--friendly interactions, even alliances to a certain degree. looking at the following list of interactions w/ people post-prison:

He immediately gives the axe of peace to c!Techno in Snowchester after they part ways at the Arctic Commune--though the lack of favors between them indicates that there's no real explicit reason to call on each other in the immediate future, he does show very clearly that their parting hasn't made himself unwilling to cooperate with c!Techno at all.

Punz is self-evident--he speaks with his ally and reaffirms that the plan is still on track (a plan made before the negative effects that prison had on his. uh .everything)

The aforementioned conflict with c!Tommy, where he makes a lot of threats in ways that seem like a pretty damn deliberate mirror of c!Quackity and makes no effort to follow through on, particularly in tems of the killing-and-reviving shit and keeping tommy in exile and whatever else he was saying there

The interaction with Sapnap, where he is clearly gauging c!Sapnap's reaction and flees shortly after things appear to grow in hostility, once again making overtures at a threat that he will never follow up on (even considering he could very easily follow Sapnap to find Kinoko and could as such attack it quite simply even with just, a couple flint & steels tbh)

An interaction with Eryn where he makes no effort to be hostile at any point, hiding behind his shield and then exchanging items when Eryn offers them. The entire time, c!Dream's actions are defensive and purposefully nonthreatening and at no point does he attempt to engage a fight--even when not asked for payment, he gives a valuable item in exchange. Clearly more an attempt to be friendly than any outright hostility, though he is also obviously wary.

Daedalus also quite self-explanatory--again, it should be emphasized that letting Sam go in any capacity with any lives is explicitly an act of mercy. Left alone, Sam would have died in the prison for good; he set his spawn in the prison, a fact Dream would've known when he escorted him out. He makes a lot of threats, including some that are quite incoherent, and at the end he kills Sam once and then escorts him out of the prison grounds alive. Interestingly enough, conversations in Daedalus also seem pretty explicitly from a perspective of trying to get c!Sam to understand him in some respects--like, c!Dream isn't seeking division here. Even in consideration of the fact that he needed to get the keycards, c!Dream's continued emphasis on trying to get c!Sam to see him is...interesting, in view of how much of what went wrong being explicitly because of c!Sam's betrayal.

He warns Bad and Skeppy away from the prison shortly after beginning to reside there on a permanent basis. He gives them quite a sum of gifts (iirc, a block of netherite and a totem of undying) despite firing arrows at them; even though he has a reason to be aggressive towards c!Bad as one of the prison guards (something both c!Bad and c!Skeppy point out) he makes no effort to kill them and outright gives them valuable items while warning them to stay away from the prison

scrapped lore, whenever it was meant to happen, was an obvious "revenge" attempt against quackity...which goes, badly. a clue into the State that he was in in terms of his revenge quests. also, whatever interaction he has with c!wilbur later, obviously c!Wilbur doesn't end up worse for wear physically from it.

In inconsolable differences, c!Dream is more preoccupied with keeping a "feeling" of power over c!Wilbur over taking outright control over the room and therefore complies with c!Wilbur's orders. He does attack, but despite having more than the necessary means to kill both c!Wilbur and c!Tommy while he's there, does not do so. Neither does he manage to keep them trapped in the prison, something that he absolutely could've done if he so chose. Instead, he values a (imaginary) symbol of his continued alliance with c!Wilbur over any kind of hostile action, imprisonment, or killing of either person (and explicitly values c!Wilbur's life over just about everything, there.)

In his interaction with c!Foolish, he's outright trying to get c!Foolish to consider him beyond what other people have said about him. He's trying to establish some form of an alliance and offers...well, quite a lot in order to have one (in order to have a five minute warning of c!Quackity's location. like, he's putting himself in c!Foolish's service quite explicitly here, offering to become his hitman or bodyguard). He's obviously wary, but also obviously trying to be friendly and largely interacts with c!Foolish by trying to establish a rapport, not by trying to threaten him into something or attack him in any way. Even with c!Sam, the amount of outright threatening behavior from c!Dream isn't all that large--mostly, he's being petty? You could make an argument about c!Dream's vague threat to c!Sam's island, but clearly Sam loses no lives from Dream in any interaction they might have after they leave the summer home.

I consider the whole interaction with c!Aimsey canon bc literally everyone was playing as their characters there--c!Dream outright goes out of his way to try and protect a total stranger here with no obvious personal benefit. He literally inserts himself into the conflict to try and prevent c!Aimsey's death, which is kinda wild for someone to do as someone who allegedly wants people to die on the server. He attacks (and even kills c!George) c!snf here, but it's all in a scene where they get distracted from their whole "blowing shit up" moment because they want to chase c!Dream, and c!Dream specifically uses very little melee combat here--a lot of ranged stuff, which is far from his specific specialty. Further, there's a scene in this fight where c!Dream is acting entirely defensively, backed up against a wall with his shield in front of him as c!snf attack, and at the end he just runs away--all behavior that doesn't seem to be about killing anyone or profiting from anyone's deaths in any way.

LN5, threats similarly nonsensical, and he dips as soon as things start going south. For all of his seeming confidence, he's not the one that continues the chase in an attempt to kill c!Quackity, and the fight evidently freaks him out considering how he ends up not realizing he's being stalked by c!Tommy and then hides in the prison for a solid while (while still being stalked by c!Tommy)

Despite apparently wanting them to decide who to die in the saw trap (which had a premise that is frankly, quite hard to believe), c!clingy are given the exact items that could've facilitated their escape. He certainly could've killed both or one at any point in time, even if he wanted a message to be spread to the server (something easily done with one guy)--instead, he monologues at them, then conveniently leaves so that they can get away (and they could've with the literal items he gave them if tommy didn't burn their food.) When c!Tommy returns the following day, c!Dream makes it clear he expected both of them to have gotten out

Despite being clearly unable to stand c!Tommy, blaming him for most if not all of his problems on the server, and outright saying to c!Tommy that c!Tommy would never agree to help him (after they had a shouting match literally one day ago), gives quite the sales pitch to get c!Tommy on the same page as them.

I'm probably missing stuff, but you get my point--even when presented golden opportunities to kill off a player post-prison, c!Dream doesn't take it. He outright spares c!Sam when he could've easily died from the Revengers' tactic. When meeting with strangers, he prioritizes establishing a friendly rapport with them through things like gifts over, in his distrust, treating them badly so that they're scared of him and therefore don't fuck with him yadayada. His behavior, instead of exuding an aura of anger and vengeance and vying for destruction, tends to send a message of trying to be outright unthreatening, please-don't-attack-me. He's not going everywhere holding his big fuck off axe, he's seeing a new person and ducking behind his shield.

Oftentimes, I feel like this quote is pulled or paraphrased from No Way Home to show how c!Dream has become distrusting of people, vindictive, post-prison

And if that means we have to kill everybody— and ev— everybody that doesn't wanna go along with what me and Punz have to say? Everyone that doesn't want to figure it out? Then, fine! You can be simple-minded and you can die simple-minded. But! If you wanna actually know what's going on in this world, and you wanna fix it, and make it the best that we can be, and live forever? Then they can join us.

And while I'm not saying we should dismiss the whole quote as just being disingenous bluffing, I think when taken into the context of post-prison c!Dream's actions (or, well, c!Dream's actions as a whole) as well as his actions in the finale itself (such as his appealing to c!Tommy in the next stream), rather than putting the emphasis on the idea of "everyone who disagrees with me should die," c!Dream seems far more preoccupied with the idea of trying to find people who are willing to work with him to "fix" everything. People who will help him make it so that they can "live forever"--a desire he expresses in the fourth finale stream as well.

like, it's not to say that c!dream isn't vengeful. he is. i mean, i'd say moreso than vengeful, he's angry--just like how a lot of his overtures at friendliness are so deeply rooted in fear. the prison made him angry and the prison made him scared, and the anger has to be repurposed into revenge because revenge is power that he certainly didn't have when he was on his knees begging for mercy. but far from being closed off and unwilling to work with other people post-prison due to his experiences in Pandora (which. would make sense. i mean. like, he was left in there, and tortured, and betrayed. anger and revenge and a general distrust towards everyone and a desire to destroy a world that condemned him would be very easy to understand in this scenario), i'd say c!dream's interactions with people post-prison scream of a general lack of a desire to actually go through with killing people. hell, he even revives c!tommy--c!tommy! who just killed him! who c!dream outright blames for like, basically ruining his life! when revivals are literally apparently destabilizing the universe!--shortly after killing him. generally, he meets people who are dealing with him aggressively with a desire to flee moreso than with murderous intent (in genuine finale 2, for example, this guy was sure more focused on running the fuck away than he was on killing either of c!clingy), and even moreso deals with other people on the server by acting defensively and even in a manner that seems deliberately designed to get them to be more willing to work with him, or at least deal with him in a friendly way. despite his paranoia and how deeply pandora cut as a betrayal and his obvious wariness towards all people as a result (there's hardly a single interaction on the list above, after all, that doesn't have c!dream's obvious fear of people leaking all over the damn carpet), he seems to be much more focused on the idea of finding possible allies than he is on the idea of killing everyone possible.

which, i mean, makes sense. as he himself states:

[jordanstark007]

Chapter Five

Alex Cabot / Amelia Chase

(A/N So I fixed her, and her actions, does that justify me writing this, no, but I figured fuck Pam Adler she was an awful person- she also played Abby Griffin in the 100 and I really didn’t like her - so your welcome you can sleep easier.)

“Amelia Chase is not guilty.” Alex looked up at George the man sauntering into the precinct thankfully splitting up her and Elliot, Alex feared that is he had she would have gone blow for blow with him for that comment.

Liv scoffed, “How can she not be guilty, she cuffed him to the bed.”

George nodded, “She did but she wasn’t competent at the time.” He turned to address Casey and Abigail, “How long has your sister been an alcoholic?”

Casey was stunned she knew the entirety of Amelia’s journey of sobriety but at no point did she think that held any standing to her case or conviction, “She’s been a heavy drinker since she was 14, our father pushed her to the edge, but she’s been clean for 4 years.”

Alex shook her head, sadness clouding her eyes, “Not from the night of the rape, she’d been drinking.”

Abigail was stunned her head in her hands, “That’s not possible Amelia hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol from the minute we admitted her into rehab. She was careful, she never relapsed.” George hummed in agreement,

“Because it wasn’t her fault, Pam Adler gave her a water bottle filled with vodka, one sip and all self control was out the window. She already had PTSD and with the alcohol she didn’t have the mens rea to commit any crime.” The rage simmered in Alex, as she stormed out of the precinct.

“Councillor to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit.” Alex glowered at Pam Adler and her attorney,

“Amelia Chase, you framed her for murder.” Pam chuckled, with a cocked brow,

“You can’t prove that.” Alex shrugged sliding a document across the table,

“A sighed sworn statement from the man that you used to commit the murder, a revised statement from Peter Smith saying it was you and Sydney Greene that raped him, and the DA’s petition to drop the murder and rape charges in favour of facilitation of a sexual offence. You’ll be charged with obstruction of justice and wrongful imprisonment, there goes your chance of parole.” The defense attorney sighed,

“What are you offering Alex?” The blonde glanced over at the woman shrugging,

“Your client reiterates to the court at Amelia’s hearing that she had no part in the murder, nor the rape. And the DA doesn’t press charges.” The lawyer whispered quietly to Pam, the pair exchanging a brief conversation,

“Fine, you got yourself a deal. On one condition,’we want to know why your so desperate to help Ms Chase.” Alex cocked a brow glancing between the pair,

“Ms Chase is the sister of an ADA and a marine soldier who was wrongfully imprisoned due to the defenses oversight of her mental condition, and reduced capacity, I’m helping an innocent woman.” Carolyn Maddox’s eyes furrowed,

“What mental condition?” Alex smirked, the files making their way into her briefcase,

“She’s an alcoholic who was given alcohol by your client after four years of sobriety, under the guise of it being water in a water bottle. And with her already existing PTSD, from childhood abuse Amelia Chase did not have the capacity to commit a crime nor the mens rea to stand trial. Her record will be expunged and your client will continue to rot in prison.” The smirk still hadn’t dropped from Pam’s face although Alex did revel in the shiner of a black eye she possessed.

“Tell me is she still good in bed councillor?” Alex snarled,

“We’re done here.”

Walking out of that meeting Alex was seething, God was she angry the constant assumption that she and Amelia were fucking was beginning to grow infuriating. They weren’t wrong of course, but that didn’t at all negate her anger.

Casey and Abigail found themselves in Alex’s office later that day sat waiting for her, “Casey, Abigail to what do I owe the pleasure.”

Abigail smirked as Casey’s smoothed out her features, “Casey wants to know if your fucking our sister.” Enzo of whom Alex only then noticed was sat on the couch immediately succumbed to laughter.

It was manic laughter, uncontrollable fit of chuckles, that Abigail soon succumbed to, Enzo wheezed out an apology between large breaths.

“I’m sorry, just give me a minute.” Alex sat at her desk head in her hands,

“I didn’t mean to.” Abigail raised a brow her own smirk reminding Alex so much of Amelia,

“What did your fingers just slip inside, no of course she tripped and fell between your legs.” She winced when Casey delivered a swift slap to that back of her head and Enzo was yet again divulged in laughter.

Casey turned to her wife with a pointed glare, “You be quiet.” Before directing her attention to Alex,

“Did she buy you the watch.” Alex smiled looking down at the watch brandishing her wrist,

“Yeah, and the flowers, the breficase, new notebooks a new fountain pen. She’s been nothing but sweet.” Abi and Casey exchanged looks, before Abi spoke,

“You keeping Cabot or are you taking Chase when you get married, because Amelia Cabot sounds good, rolls right of the tongue.” It was Casey’s turn to giggle, Enzo approaching an arm wrapped around her wife,

“Amelia has to take Cabot, tradition is me Alex and Hunter all convert the good Christian Chase girls to lesbianism and they take our last names.” Alex snorted although she was still nursing her head in her hands, Casey scoffed indignant,

“You did not covert me to lesbianism.” Enzo surrendered her hands raised, as she smirked at her wife,

“Okay sorry, coaxed you to bisexuality, whatever it is Alex has to make Amelia a Cabot to stick it to your bastard of an old man, I mean your brothers baby mama gave James and Danielle her last name and your oldest brother is a priest so no kids for him the Chase name ends with him.” Abigail nodded in agreement with a soft smile at the thought of her wife.

“She’s got a point, the idea of Amelia being married to a woman would probably send him over the edge, could count on a heart attack during the vows.” Enzo chuckled heartily in agreement,

“I remember the ‘heart arrhythmia’ during me and Casey’s engagement party.” Abi cut in,

“Or the ‘stroke’ during me and Hunter’s after party.” Alex looked up at the three curiously,

“Is he really that bad?” Abu groaned leaning back in her chair,

“Depends which of us you ask, our brothers would say he’s a good father, but I got more injuries from him than playing baseball. Amelia would tell you what a bastard he was, she got the worst of it, especially when he was drunk she’d get in between us and him, and Casey-” The ADA interrupted,

“He was great until I started playing softball, then even Amelia couldn’t protect me, no matter how hard she tried and she did try. When I met Charlie and we got engaged he became a father again, but when Enzo came into the picture and I left Charlie he told me he didn’t have any daughter anymore only sons, even with the bruises in my face he couldn’t understand.” Enzo held her wife in large burly arms, careful of the bruises still littering her face.

They were interrupted when Alex’s office phone rang she picked up immediately tears clouding her eyes at what the voice in the other end was relaying.

She put the phone down immediately standing up, “Alex what’s wrong?”

Alex’s eyes were glossed with tears, “Pam Adler got into Amelia’s cell at Riker’s she’s in the hospital Pam stabbed her with a homemade shiv, she’s in surgery now.”

[high-theyre-frendough]

ABOUT THE BLOG

For a while, I was posting random high thoughts on my main account, but decided, why not make a dedicated page for that kind of content. So, this is my 🍃 account. I will never post or respond here if I am sober or think I am too sober. That way, it is authentic.

MY NAME

If you don’t follow me, call me the avocado bandit. if you do follow me, you must call me the avocado king. becoming a follower makes me your king.

ABOUT ME

I am an adult and I consume weed to help with my C-PTSD & depression. Also for silly time because silly brain is fun. I am a trans guy and I use He/It/Xe pronouns. I would prefer it if minors did not interact here, but I suppose I cannot be too mad if someone comes across a funny out-of-context post. This is under the assumption that I can be funny. I will try to avoid posting here while not high. This includes writing this pinned post.

We have DID and sometimes post about it. However, that is not what this blog is focused around.

DNI

If you are transphobic/TERF/trans-med or otherwise an obnoxious cisgender person (fuck it, especially the CISHETS) then you can go bye-bye.

If think you can be a system without childhood trauma, also bye bye. This account is not the place for this drama, but trust me I have a nuanced opinion on the topic. But I don't wanna deal with it on this account.

If you homophobic, good bye bitch. Also if you exclude asexuals or non-binary people, then fuck off. Go eat a used gym sock.

If you are racist or xenophobic, I hope that your teeth rot out of your mouth, leaving you to only eating bland soup, as you are no longer allowed to enjoy foods from other cultures.

If you are trans-id I would appreciated if you identified as blocked.

If you are pro ana or sh it would be cool if you got help instead of glorifying it online.

If you are a pedo, it would be pretty fucking cool if you got on a boat to the center of the ocean, tied cinder blocks to your feet, and entered the water.

TAG GUIDE

Different types of posts will use the following tags for the following things. If you follow, feel free to block whichever ones you like. Don’t expect everyone to like everything, so here it is for your convenience.

#♻️ gilded profoundness -> These are posts which are meant to be meaningful, even though they probably are not.

#♻️ descriptions -> directly describe the experience of bring high

#♻️ weird -> weird things said while high that are probably stupid on purpose

#♻️ capitalism -> sometimes when i'm high i am thinking about capitalism too hard and confuse myself. should i put "we"??? we are a system but will not talk about it on this account much, so idk if it is relevant? should i add things to confuse? never mind

#♻️ realizations -> things i did not think about before

#♻️ realizations but traumatic -> tmw you have a ptsd flashback while high and then recover and you are still high and also kinda dissociating and you sit there and you think about what you just now realize was trauma cause you thought it was normal but no, it fucking was not, but you're high so you just write it down somewhere so you remember it, then you go back to thinking about silly high things, or consume strange media cause you're high and that's fun to do while high.

#♻️🍆 spicy -> horny posts. probably won't post much of that here as we have a separate blog for horny thoughts, but if it is here it'll be tagged

#♻️ reblog -> posts i reblogged

#♻️ memes -> usually have to do with venting but not always

#♻️ real time -> describing things as they are happening or just happened.

#♻️ free space -> Concepts to write about for entertainment.

#♻️ ask response -> if someone said something that would be nice but do not be mean please

#♻️ agere -> sometimes baby brain takes over. soft fuzzy high brain easily becomes little baby. sfw!!!! (note that this blog is not 100% sfw, though when i do regress, it is in a sfw way)

#♻️ paranoid -> will also be tagged with common tags just in case for filtering. i just realized that if someone follows, and the block some of these tags, this pinned post will be hidden cause i have those tags pinned for convenience

#♻️ neutral -> idk a specific label

#♻️ walmartposting - Its a place for stoners to exercise aimlessly.

#♻️ upset -> vent or something idk

#♻️ dissociative stuff -> stuff about DID. usually syscourse. figured i might as well make a tag for it since we get riled up while high on occasion.

#♻️ yeee 🍺 -> alcohol was involved

[peachsayshi]

Hello my love and brain rot partner hehhe as requested here is my humble request

May i pretty please have some “The way you love me” Gojo jealous hcs? Hehehe I enjoyed that waaaay too much

NOTE: Thank you, lovely! ���️ I am so sorry this took me so long but I didn’t want to give away any spoilers just in case! Hahaha Again, I have added the keep reading tab because this turned out longer than expected. This one is for all of you who read The Way You Love Me - some more of Gojo being jealous ;)

Jealous Gojo x Reader

minors and ageless blogs dni

Gojo who met Haru for the first time and didn’t realize just how uncomfortable it would be for him to watch you dote all over your boyfriend.

Gojo who clenches his jaw every time you tease Haru with soft kisses, and wondered to himself what it would feel like to have your pretty lips brush his skin instead.

Gojo who rolled his eyes every time you forgave Haru because he was busy astonishing you with his romantic grand gestures. He can’t help but scoff to himself, because don’t you realize that he would willingly spoil you out of affection, without having to bribe you for your forgiveness? The man would hand you the world on a gold platter if you merely asked him to.

Gojo who picks up on the fact that you’re the only one who keeps the conversation flowing while he and Haru exchange weary glances at each. Your friend doesn’t trust him one bit, and there was something about Haru that always rubbed him the wrong way.

Gojo who found satisfaction in the unspoken truth that Haru was intimidated by him. He’s thought about the many ways he could lure you from under this trance, but your eyes never radiated with such beauty when you looked at him.

Gojo who should be happy for you, but wonders if you can also feel the spark that ignites when you’re alone together. Do you ever think about the possibility of what it would be like to cross these boundaries?

Gojo who made it a habit to fuck strangers as a distraction in order to subdue the jealousy that was starting to drive him crazy.

Gojo who happily accepted the narrative of you thinking he was a playboy because he didn’t want to admit the truth. He let you make your comments, your assumptions, but you had no idea that the only he person he pictured when he came…was you.

Gojo who thought it would get easier after you broke up, but forgetting that his friend was an absolute knock out who always drew the eyes of many men.

Gojo who recognized that you never noticed their stares and would randomly place his arm around your shoulder, or brush his knuckles across your cheek in public to deter the others from admiring you with any suggestive thoughts.

Gojo who always had an excuse ready when you asked him what he was doing. “You’re the perfect arm rest…” / “Sorry, there was something on your face..” - but his subtle actions were enough to paint a more intimate picture between you both.

Gojo who would get frustrated when you sought him out for advice on dating but put aside his own annoyance because he just wanted to see you smile again after your break up.

Gojo who swallowed hard as you nervously checked yourself out in the most sinful dress he’s ever seen you wear, ignoring the way the blood rushed between his legs when you asked him for his opinion.

Gojo who stated: “You look hot, but I think the guy might get the wrong idea…”, and he watches your face fall as your brows scrunch with confusion. “What do you mean?”, you ask.

Gojo who bluntly replies with: “That’s a “fuck me” dress, right?” so casually that he almost relishes in the horrifying look on your face. He nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders, “I’m just being honest here…”

Gojo who exhales happily when you decide to change into a pair of jeans and a loose white blouse instead, but later that night jacks off to the idea of fucking you with the dress still on.

Gojo who spent years coming terms with his own jealousy but did everything in his power to ensure that it never trickled into your friendship.

You meant the world to him, and he wasn’t willing to lose you over his own vices.

[tumbleassbitch]

another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything. Chapter 6/? | Chapter 5

July 7th, 2022

Laura can’t help but grin at the sound of the door opening with a resounding clack. It’s her first full afternoon of freedom.

Travis appears like a reluctant phantom, clearly unimpressed in the face of her self-satisfied smirk. He gestures her forward with two fingers, and she places her wrists through the gap obediently. 

Handcuffs are officially on. For now.

“Don’t get cocky,” he mutters. “It ain't cute.”

“Sure,” she replies, but doesn’t make any effort to tamper it down.

It’s a bit later in the afternoon, but it must still be enough time for them to settle into some facade of ‘work’ for when Kaylee shows up. Except, instead of taking her to a records room or wherever the case files would be located…

…she’s brought back to the dusty old conference room from the evening prior.

“What’s this?” she asks dumbly, staring at the cleaning supplies laid out on the table.

“It’s your internship,” he says dryly, uncuffing her. “Happy trails.”

“You’ve got to be fucking…” she starts, trailing off as the door slams shut behind her.

Seriously? She bites back a scream of frustration, clenching her fists until it hits her.

He didn’t lock it. 

Technically, she can get out, and that has to mean something. But, taking in the bare and abandoned room, it’s clearly one cell traded for another. 

Maybe… maybe this is some kind of test?

Maybe he’s on the other side of the door waiting for her to try the handle. Waiting for her to give him a reason to stuff her back downstairs, or worse; put her in a dark hole where no one else but him knows she’s there. The thought opens up endless possibilities, none of them pleasant.

But he doesn’t seem the type. 

The thought is quiet, almost embarrassed in its assumption. Sure, he’s illegally imprisoned her and argued relentlessly, obstinately denying every olive branch she, his prisoner, has offered thus far, but… he wouldn’t do that.

…Right? 

It’s another reminder of the truly precarious situation that she’s in. Assumptions get people killed.

Tomorrow, she decides. If he pulls the same shit again, she’s taking any opportunity to just get out and do the werewolf hunt on her own. But if he wants to play the petty route today, then that’s on him. 

Laura snatches up one of the folded rags on the conference table and gets to work. Mostly, there's miscellaneous office supplies, another coffee pot, stacks of printing paper; things that are practically staples of any workspace. It’s a saving grace that none of the cupboards hold rotting food.

The fridge is painfully bare, save for a six pack of beer and old condiments in the door. She grabs a beer and moves on.

In the next hour or so, every surface within reason is swiped and polished, and the corners are dusted free of cobwebs. Short of actually digging out the cupboards and tossing out the old shit, she’d say it actually looks halfway decent.

The door cracks open, and a friendly face peers in.

“Hey!” Kaylee greets cheerfully, waving a gaudy pink lanyard littered with cartoon cats and pizza. 

“Hi,” Laura replies with about half of the enthusiasm. 

Kaylee opens the door wider, looking suddenly at a loss. “I just wanted to pop in and say hi! I know you’re really busy, but I… uh. Thought I’d say hi.” The girl cringes self-deprecatingly, but it morphs into a hopeful grin. 

It’s endearing, if awkward, and the part of her that’s always melted at pitiful and helpless animals immediately takes the reins from her current bad attitude.

“Well, hi,” she says with a small chuckle, mustering up an energy she doesn’t quite feel. “Nice to see you stopped by.”

Travis appears then, looming over Kaylee’s shoulder with an annoyingly smug look. Little does he know, she’s been spraying bleach on the carpet behind the fridge for the last ten minutes.

“I had to drop by for the birthday boy,” Kaylee says slyly. Travis’ shit-eating grin- which is barely anything on a normal person’s face- instantly evaporates in the heat of the sun that is his niece.

“Oh-ho!” Laura outright snickers. “Did ‘birthday boy’ have a special day?”

“Well, I hope so,” Kaylee says, a strange note to her voice. “Because all he’s done is spend it at work.”

Laura tilts her hip to one side, folding her arms. “You know how he is,” she says with a grin that shows a bit too many teeth. “Total workaholic.”

Kaylee laughs lightly, but the glances she gives between the two of them don’t go unnoticed. A brief look of alarm, the same one that’s bubbling in her, flits across Travis’ face. 

Does she really suspect something? They aren’t exactly Hollywood actors, but it’s barely been twenty-four hours, for fuck’s sake. They can’t be that pathetic at holding secrets.

Kaylee breaks the short silence first. “Sorry, but I have to cut it short,” she says, looking a little sheepish. “I told Caleb I’d help him with his car.”

“I thought Bobby was working on that-?” Travis starts to say, honest confusion on his brow, but she slides past him in the doorway.

“You know how it is,” she tosses back, then twists around abruptly. “Almost forgot!” she exclaims, giving a loud smooch to his temple. He blinks. “Love you, T. Have fun tonight!”

She vanishes in a flurry of hair and jingling car keys, and Laura and Travis remain stuck in their places, staring at each other in mirroring looks of bewilderment.

Laura folds her arms. “July birthday, huh?”

“Impressive detective work, Sherlock” he replies drily. He waits for the sounds of footfall to fade before adding, “Put your hands against the wall.”

“Seriously?” she asks, derision practically dripping off her tongue. After getting her hopes up in thinking that he’d actually be willing to work with her, now he wants to pat her down like she’s smuggling coffee filters in her back pocket?

“Can we just-” he cuts himself short, then visibly gathers his patience. “I have places to be, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d just work with me here.”

“What? Running late for ‘birthday beers’ with the bros?” she asks with a sneer. 

He gets oddly shifty-eyed, and belatedly, she realizes that’s exactly what he’s doing. Typical. “Must be nice to still have a social life,” she mutters under her breath.

“Do you want your dinner now, or after I get back?” he deadpans.

He’d definitely be the kind of person to wake her up at midnight for cold spaghetti. She rolls her eyes and turns around. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle when he draws near. 

"Are you ready?" he asks, a soft edge of hesitation to his usually gruff voice.

Her hackles raise at the insinuation. "I'm not made of glass, dipshit."

"Never said you were," is his easy reply. And then his hands are on her body, brisk and professional as any cop. It doesn’t last long.

"Okay," he says, stepping out of her space. "Let’s get you in for the night."

She waits for him to cuff her, but he takes her by the arm instead, leading her down the stairs. 

"So, like… What was the point of all that?" she finally grits out. "All that talk about your family, doing this alone, 'working together.' All of that was just bullshit?"

He fixes her an odd look. "You serious right now?" At her silence, he scoffs. "I'll be damned. You really think Kaylee wouldn't notice a fucking werewolf photo from a security camera? Or- or statements mentioning a ‘strange animal’ out in the woods on a fucking full moon?”

“You’re talking as if I’d show her-”

He pivots on his heel, fixing her with an incredulous, slightly unhinged look. “Laura, they turn into fucking demons! Even as humans, they hear, smell, see better than us on any other day of the month! You really think they’re just like you and me?!”

“I don’t fucking know, Travis!”

“You’re goddamn right you don’t know-!”

“Because you obviously didn’t disclose that, did you?!”

He huffs a breath, looking entirely too unruffled despite the momentary loss of composure, and continues to drag her along the halls. They’re near the holding cells when he finally speaks up again. 

“I’m trying to help you. Help us.” When she doesn’t say anything, he exhales a long breath. “I know… it don’t seem like it from your point of view, but I’m trying.”

Travis opens the cell door and she walks in without a fight, meek and silent and dumb as fuck for ever trusting a single word out of his mouth. 

It’s just so stupid— she’s gullible, plain and simple. If someone told her a month ago that she’d try winning over some insane middle-aged man in a jail break attempt so that she could avenge her dead boyfriend, well. She’d laugh in their face.

Because this isn’t her. The Laura she always thought she was has nothing to lose—short of someone else’s life riding on her conscience, she’d be hightailing it out of this shithole and carving her own path from here. 

But that isn’t exactly an option right now, is it? Because try as she may to deny it, she needs someone like Travis to get her on Silas’ tracks. Someone with more experience, more years of hunting werewolves and learning the real-life lore, not the fairy tales and wolf biology he’d been bringing her all week.

She wants to scream. She wants to dig that rusty spoon into the wall and crank out every last brick so that by the time Travis brings her breakfast tomorrow morning, she can use them to bash his skull in.

So stupid, you’re better than this, smarter than this-

Travis extends a nondescript orange envelope through the bars.

Laura eyes it as if it’s a snake. “What’s this?”

“Homework,” he drawls. He shakes it impatiently, and Laura scowls, snatching it from his fingers. Inside is a stack of documents.

They have the official police department emblem in the upper corner, some looking obviously photocopied and slightly crooked in orientation to the page. At first glance, it’s a mix of witness statements and typed out reports that date back several years.

But as she’s shuffling through, there’s more. Grainy photos, what look like screenshots from game cams. Cryptic blurs streaking through the foliage. A case file on a wildfire from six years ago.

“I told you I’m trying,” he says quietly, and takes his leave.

.

July 8th, 2022

“Silas Vorez…” she mutters aloud.

The only photos they have of him are disturbing screenshots from random social media accounts, likely from tourists who were able to catch the show as it hopped from place to place.

He’s not as young as she’d figure he’d be, given the moniker “Boy.” In fact, Laura wouldn’t be surprised if the man weren’t in his early 30’s. He’s scrawny, with skin so pale it’s almost as translucent as moonlight.

The unfiltered fear in his eyes is what gives her a pause. He looks pathetic. 

And yet, this is the man who killed Max. 

Despite the other files to review, Laura keeps coming back to the pictures, burning his pink-tinted eyes into her memory. It’s a face she’ll never forget.

She sets the photos aside, returning her attention back to his only recorded kin. Eliza Vorez. Her name doesn’t feel safe to utter aloud. There’s no real logic to it, Laura knows that, but something about her stare suggests a certain danger that isn’t of this world.

She didn’t get the same feeling from the Harum Scarum poster, which she nows knows had her face front and center. But this, someone’s heavily-filtered Instagram photo of Eliza leaning out from behind Silas’ cage… 

It isn’t right. That’s the thought behind the raised bumps on her skin. It just isn’t right.

“What do you think so far?”

Travis’ voice causes her to jump. His eyes narrow at the movement, and she pushes down her embarrassment with a scowl.

“You need to be more specific.”

He shoots her an unimpressed look. “What else? The case files I gave you yesterday.”

She sighs, frustrated with herself and him. “I don’t have anything worth mentioning yet.”

“That’s fine. Give me your first thoughts,” he says undeterred.

Laura shrugs, shaking her head slowly. “I guess… Silas has been way busier than I expected. I mean, the full moon only happens once a month. To cause that amount of damage in… I don't know, roughly twelve hours? It’s a lot.”

“For a werewolf?”

“No, I mean, that’s a lot for one werewolf. I’m not exactly an expert in supernatural creatures, but you’d think that if one werewolf could cause this much damage in one night, more people would know about them, y’know? It wouldn’t be this cryptid that only exists in fairy tales.”

“I’ve always suspected there has to be more,” he concedes, scanning the room with a distant look. “We don’t know who all he’s bitten, but we haven’t found another one unaccounted for in this area, at least…”

“That you know of,” she points out. 

He nods. “True.”

“And isn’t that weird? How is no one else looking?”

Travis tilts his head to the side, fixing her with a dead stare. “You forget that there’s people out there covering their tracks for them.”

The Hacketts cover their footprints, and the bodies, if there are any. If they’re thorough enough in their coverups, then there’s a damn good chance that no one else is actually looking. Or if they are… If they’re cursed, then they think they’re alone.

“Okay, so… How many did you say are locked up by your family each month?”

“Three.”

She slowly nods. “And they were all bitten by Silas?”

He purses his lips, obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Yeah, same night.”

“Shit,” she hisses. “Okay, so maybe this amount of… casualties isn’t out of the norm. But every month, we run the risk of him actually creating more, rather than killing them.” 

Like Max, her mind finishes. He raises his brows as if to say, No shit, and she rolls her eyes. 

“I’m just thinking out loud, here.”

Travis shuts his eyes with a nod, raising a hand concedingly. “I see your point. I’m not… this ain’t my typical thing.”

“What?” she asks with a scoff. “Politeness?”

“Working with a partner,” he answers quietly. The words settle between them, and something like softness graces his usually worn face. He shifts on his feet before unlocking the cell. “It’s time.”

“Oh,” she says.

“It’s almost three o’clock,” he says with a pointed look. “Kaylee’s coming any minute, so get your ass up and let’s move.”

“Jeez, alright,” she says, and he gestures her forward. “You know, you should really use your words more.”

“You should use yours less,” he grunts back.

.

July 9th, 2022

It’s lunchtime on a Saturday, so color her surprised when he shows up empty handed.

“What’s this?” she asks, standing up.

Travis pauses in the middle of unclipping the handcuffs from his belt. “I- uh… I figured you were hungry?”

“Yeah…?”

His stare goes way over her shoulder. “... and you mentioned before that you wanted company?”

Oh. She did say that.

I need people. I need to get out of my cage.

“Yeah. I did,” she says dumbly.

His nod toes the line between exasperated and self-deprecating, but he still unlocks the door. If her smile is a little too wide, he doesn’t give her a hard time about it. 

She’ll never get tired of leaving her cell. The sensation of leaving the lonely hallway for, what’s essentially a modern-day catacomb, is paramount to euphoria. If that isn’t a sign that her brain is starting to get a little fucked up, well. What can a girl do?

Her heart rate spikes when he takes her up a familiar set of marble steps, locking the heavy wooden door behind them from the inside. Travis uncuffs her and gestures for her to take a seat.

The closet she hid in over a week ago immediately catches her eye, and she resolutely looks elsewhere. Two sad looking sandwiches and a bowl of cut veggies are on display. He’s already set out a glass of orange juice for her.

“Cool. Thanks,” she comments awkwardly. The thought of bare legs and blood- ugh, think of anything else, please- makes her stomach do flips.

They tuck in without fanfare. It only occurs to her now that she’s never seen him eat. The scant amount of times he’s joined her for meals, it’s always been booze or nothing.

Here, he chews mechanically, each bite a thoughtful attack into ham and cheese. It’s efficiency in its most carnal form, and he finishes his sandwich before she’s even halfway through with her own.

"Why does it go after humans?" Laura blurts.

Travis frowns thoughtfully, and she takes that as an invitation to continue.

"I mean, there's so many animals out here that the hassle of chasing down a person wouldn't seem worth it. I thought our own defense was that we tasted bad?"

"Not to them," he comments wryly. "Maybe it's because they are— or used to be—human themselves? Trying to reclaim their humanity through consumption."

"Maybe," she trails off. "Maybe human bodies give them more energy than animals? Or, if they're able to consume human flesh, that's important for the werewolf curse?"

His brows furrow in thought. "I don't know about that… Kaylee hasn't eaten someone in years, and she's still cursed."

Holy shit to that information. Laura swallows it with hopefully cool indifference. 

"Well, it's a thought. Maybe it doesn't matter for those that were bit, but if the alpha—um, Silas—was prevented from eating someone, it could weaken him?” 

“...Or maybe it's born out of pack desire,” he says thoughtfully. “Survival-of-the-fittest. Anyone who's able to survive an attack is seen as worthy to join the ranks."

His pocket buzzes, and with a spare glance her way, he checks the screen.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“What is it?”

It’s obvious his first impulse is to ignore her, and he visibly wrestles with himself before settling with a pained grimace.

“It’s Kaylee.”

“Um… is she okay?” she asks, biting down the urge to add, Use your words, Travis.

“Yes, she’s fine. But she’s here.” 

Why anyone would want to hang around this dusty place on a Saturday, she has no idea. Travis shoots to his feet, sternly pointing at her. “Stay.” 

“That was unnecessary!” she calls at his retreating back. With him gone, she scans the room with a new sense of wariness.

The phone on his desk is missing, of course, but it doesn’t matter. If what happened last time— 

screams, the static translation of flesh ripping under teeth

—she’s not interested in making a call.

Instead, a picture frame sitting off to the side catches her eye. The photo must be at least two decades old: a much-younger Travis stands with his arms clasped behind his back, chest puffed. Beside him is an older man with an arm over his shoulder, grinning proudly.

She hates to admit it, but he’s… handsome. Round glasses that would be otherwise nerdy on another man’s face instead offer a sweet, boy-next-door vibe that’s honestly her type. 

And that revelation makes her wince, because, ugh. There’s a thick, solid line between working with the man that kidnapped her, and drawing parallels between him and her exes.

It’s a time capsule in more ways than one. The man in this polaroid past is nothing like the phantom that stalks the precinct. When was the last time Travis smiled like this?

“Hey, girl.”

Kaylee drags a chair over to join her at Travis’ desk, and though she barely knows her, it’s obvious something’s up.

The girl has been nothing but a ray of sunshine, despite being in the armpit of a police station, and Laura has the impression that it’s a part of who she is. Sunshine and daisies— the polar opposite of her uncle.

So, whatever managed to dampen her smile must’ve been pretty bad. Kaylee doesn’t deserve that. She’s good, and sweet, and unhappiness doesn’t suit her.

‘She’s also a murderer.’

It’s that same quiet voice from before, not quite her own, yet clearly in her head. 

‘She’s a hungry, brutal mockery of a beast. A waste of shit and skin.’

Fuck. She’s losing her mind. 

“I’m so happy to see you today!” Laura says with a blinding grin. “How’s your painting coming along?”

Kaylee perks up a bit, chuckling shyly while she pulls out supplies from her dark canvas bag. “It’s really nothing special, just some practicing with colors.”

She lays out a stained cover with reverent hands, then plants a little wooden stand that’s brindled with paint splatters and mounts the canvas with gentle care. 

It is, to be frank, beautiful. 

Laura’s known her fair share of ‘artists’ throughout high school and college, but Kaylee actually is one. 

The scene is full of vibrant blues and softer hues for the sky. Sharp rocks and cutting white-capped waves are at the forefront, but in the distance is a schooner sailing easily over the violence below. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the ocean,” Kaylee says when Laura says nothing. “I wish I could travel more, you know. Get out and see the world for once, instead of watching it pass me by on the internet. But, when I get a hankerin’, I’ll just bring a piece of it back to me instead.”

“Kaylee, this is amazing,” she breathes. The girl blushes, opening her mouth to undoubtedly play it off but Laura speaks over her. “No, I’m dead serious. You could put this in a museum and tell me da Vinci painted this, and I’d believe it in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” she says quietly, and there’s so much vulnerability on her face that Laura grabs her hand and squeezes it emphatically.

“Yes, absolutely! Let me know when you set up your art gallery, and I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“Well, shit,” Kaylee giggles wetly, discreetly swiping at an eye. “I’ll give you the damn thing when I’m done with it.”

“Hell no,” Laura says. “I’d buy it if I actually had any money, but you could honestly sell this.”

“I know,” she says bashfully, but there’s a hint of pride there, too. “I want to give it to you anyways.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Kaylee speaks over her. “How’ve you been? You have to work on the weekend, too?” 

Over Kaylee’s shoulder, Travis raises the bucket of cleaning supplies with the air of a man who often doesn’t win. In other words, entirely too pleased with himself. 

Fuck. “You could say that,” Laura drawls.

Kaylee snorts. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Long week, am I right?”

“It’s just about over,” Travis says lightly, pulling out a misty beer bottle from the minifridge and setting the cleaning bucket at her feet. “Tomorrow’s a fresh start.”

“Yeah, but you know how camp is,” Kaylee says with a huff that doesn’t carry much heat. “It’s not like I have the weekends off.”

Kaylee’s already started filling her paint tray with an array of mossy greens and sea blues, a new life breathed into her disposition.

“What do you call today?” he throws back. The light humor in his voice makes him sound younger. His dark eyes appraise her, and she belatedly realizes she’s been staring. 

“Drinking on the job, boss?” Laura asks sweetly.

Travis takes a swig of his beer, pointedly looking at his phone. A game of solitaire—go figure—is already loaded up.

She grabs the bucket.

The three of them settle into a silence that isn’t actually unpleasant, though it's still weighted with unspoken words and secretive glances. 

It’s a grating feeling, like someone’s boring holes in the back of her head from across the street. Laura can’t help but overlay pink eyes with blue, wispy strands of hair with thick auburn. Two of the same beast, each with different sins.

The quiet gives her a chance to reflect. Between the sly quips Kaylee flings at Travis, or the fond look in his eye while she’s too focused on her painting to notice, she can almost pretend that things are normal. 

[gffa]

IF YOU STRIP CONTEXT OF THE REST OF THE SHOW--HELL, EVEN OF THE REST OF THIS EPISODE--FROM THIS SCENE, I can see how we should be siding entirely with Ahsoka, especially on the heels of the walkabout arc and her conflict with being drawn back towards the Jedi and the Jedi Order. Her points aren’t wrong, in the sense that she’s right that Obi-Wan is playing politics with this, but she’s stripping context and consequence out from the choice he faces and that’s specifically why he says, “That’s not fair.” and even Ahsoka herself says, “I’m not trying to be.” Her accusation is not fair. Because, let’s say that Obi-Wan did exactly what Ahsoka said--that he prioritized the people of Mandalore over saving the Chancellor.  We’re setting aside that this was a manipulation on Palpatine’s part and that Mandalore is a trap, only what we can see from Obi-Wan’s point of view and his motivations, his good faith assumptions on why rescuing the Chancellor is important. If they chose Mandalore over Coruscant, what would happen is: - They would be drawn into yet another war because they had broken a treaty, when they’re already stretched to the breaking point for this first war. - The Chancellor may be the one in trouble, but what does Ahsoka think will happen if the Chancellor dies or is ransomed back?  The Republic would be in chaos, the war effort is already balanced precariously, and none of them know that the Separatists aren’t the real threat.  Whatever good reasons many of the Separatists may have, they murder, enslave, and oppress the worlds they attack.  If the Republic loses the war, that’s what happens to every world in the Republic. - The Jedi might be more popular with people if they saved Mandalore, but would it really benefit the galaxy as a whole, given a good faith assumption on what these characters would know?  (There is no right answer to this question, of course.) Ahsoka is very nearly arguing for popularity over doing the more important thing, because this isn’t a situation where there aren’t consequences.  Mandalore needs their help, but so too does Coruscant and it’s not just about the Chancellor, it’s about the Republic as a whole.  And it even comes down to--why are politics bad?  I get that Ahsoka means that choosing your actions based on politics is a calculated sort of thing, but why is that bad?  Because Star Wars: Propaganda basically posited that that was the problem, that the Jedi didn’t play enough politics, that’s why their image was so bad. Ahsoka’s case for Mandalore could be argued to be the same thing--you want to win back the public’s faith, then you have to take this path.  That right there is politics, too. EVERYTHING IN THIS WAR IS POLITICS.  NOTHING CAN ESCAPE IT.  BECAUSE POLITICS IS EVERYTHING LIKE WE ARE LIVING IN A WORLD THAT HAS DEMONSTRATED THAT TO US VERY CLEARLY.  AND WE SHOULD ALL LEAN INTO POLITICS, RATHER THAN SEPARATING OURSELVES FROM THEM. If politics were inherently bad, we wouldn’t see characters like Padme Amidala, Bail Organa, and Mon Mothma--or, hell, even Leia Organa herself--as heroes.  Because politics are important!  You don’t have to be (and shouldn’t be) a full-time politician for politics to still be important.  That working within a system to help better it and be able to reach more people is a good thing. Further, this doesn’t come without context of earlier in the episode, Obi-Wan is specifically shown to be incredibly desiring of helping people--he basically caves to Anakin’s strategy based on Anakin’s argument that they can help people sooner:

That is right there in this very same episode.  Obi-Wan agrees to a reckless strategy specifically when Anakin points out that it can help people sooner. Obi-Wan Kenobi is not someone who doesn’t want to help people, that’s his whole thing! Further context, which isn’t specifically related to this particular issue, but does give context to Obi-Wan Kenobi as a character is everything with Bo-Katan seething over whether Satine even meant anything to him.  She did.  And she still does.  But he cannot allow his feelings to cloud his judgement--and that is something that is key to being a Jedi.

It reminds me of George Lucas’ commentary on attachment: “But [Anakin] has become attached to his mother and he will become attached to Padme and these things are, for a Jedi, who needs to have a clear mind and not be influenced by threats to their attachments, a dangerous situation. And it feeds into fear of losing things, which feeds into greed, wanting to keep things, wanting to keep his possessions and things that he should be letting go of. His fear of losing her turns to anger at losing her, which ultimately turns to revenge in wiping out the village.“  –George Lucas, Attack of the Clones commentary “He turns into Darth Vader because he gets attached to things. He can’t let go of his mother; he can’t let go of his girlfriend. He can’t let go of things.”  –George Lucas, Time Magazine interview (2002) The thing about Obi-Wan/Satine is that it was pretty clearly created to be a foil to Anakin/Padme (and, boyyyyyyyyy, is that abundantly clear in the scene with Bo-Katan where Anakin is STARING at Obi-Wan as he says this, as we all know Revenge of the Sith is looming riiiiiiiiight over our heads), where Obi-Wan and Satine do make the right choices about the vows they’ve taken to other aspects of their lives.  That they are balanced in a way that Anakin and Padme are not. Dave Filoni says it himself in the commentary for the Bad Batch arc, in this very season: “I mean, even Obi-Wan was in love with someone.  That’s not abnormal.  It’s very normal.  What you choose to do and how you choose to have a relationship, what you sacrifice, then that becomes a bigger deal when he’s made an oath to the Jedi Order to be selfless, to put everyone else ahead of himself.”  --Dave Filoni Obi-Wan’s feelings for Satine are very much a parallel and contrast for Anakin’s feelings for Padme, and we know exactly how that’s going to turn out for Anakin, because Revenge of the Sith looms incredibly large over this entire episode and this entire arc. ”He’s made an oath to put everyone else ahead of himself.” is something Obi-Wan has done and continues to uphold, so accusing him of politics is like--what does Obi-Wan gain by playing politics then?  He’s putting other people ahead of himself, so playing politics must be for that reason, too. Furthering this context, especially in tying it to what it means to be a Jedi, is commentary from “The Lawless”:

”And in that moment, that critical moment, he cannot seize on his anger and his hatred for Maul.  Though that’s probably there, deep within, he can’t seize on it or Maul will win, he knows that.  I think we learned a lot about Obi-Wan and what it means to be a true Jedi, which is what I see Obi-Wan as.“ –Dave Filoni, on “The Lawless” All of this is important to understand that, when Obi-Wan Kenobi talks about the choices one makes, about not letting his feelings cloud his judgement, he’s coming from a place of established narrative reliability. We want to side with Ahsoka, because her hurt is so genuine and valid.  Because she sees a problem with the way the galaxy views the Jedi and we know that the Jedi’s doom is soon upon them.  (And this is where I get wary of the show’s narrative potentially trying to say, “Well, they’re kind of responsible for their own genocide because they just weren’t nice enough to people and only helped so many people, that they should have done more and more and more.” because, no, fuck that idea for real, the Jedi are not responsible for their own genocide, certainly not based on anything in the canon!)  She wants to fix this problem and she’s coming at it with a choice that she thinks would restore faith in them. The problem is that the Jedi are being asked to make choices between what’s popular and what they see as doing more good for more people.  And there’s a great line from the Age of Republic - Padme Amidala comic that ties into these themes as well:

“But trying to serve the greater good doesn’t exactly make you popular.”  (Oh, hey, look!  More politics!) On first blush, the idea of helping the people of Mandalore over saving the Chancellor seems like the right thing to do because we know Palpatine is Sidious, we know that it leads to ROTS, we know that ROTS leads to the Empire, especially when Ahsoka ties it to the Jedi Order becoming unpopular with the galaxy.  But Obi-Wan points out that she’s not being fair.  He points out that the Republic is on the line.  I’m pointing out that everything is politics, one decision over the other isn’t less political just because it’s more intimate.  And it doesn’t come without context.  It’s not just the Chancellor, it’s bigger than that. And serving that greater good--as Obi-Wan genuinely sees it--doesn’t always make them popular. And still even further, this isn’t entirely about the Jedi Order’s politics, but it’s about Ahsoka’s own hurt at how the Jedi had to play politics with her, too.  She’s still hurt that they expelled her--though, as always, context shows that she gave them absolutely nothing to work with, she immediately distrusted them before they even heard anything, she refused to even send them a message, she attacked clones on her way out, she was seen colluding with a known Separatist war criminal, she was found with incredibly damning evidence, and still wouldn’t actually talk to them or ask them directly to trust her, and ultimately none of her own actions saved her, it was a Jedi who saved her--that this doesn’t negate that they made mistakes as well, they should have visited her in the jail, they were playing politics and it doesn’t matter to Ahsoka that their hands were forced--and that’s driving her conversation with Obi-Wan, especially as someone who is part of the Council that she feels betrayed her. And Obi-Wan’s coming at this from the point of view that she let her emotions cloud her judgement over what happened, that she reacted blindly rather than trusting them in the critical moment (and the theme of trust was allll over that arc), and she’s still coming from this from a place of emotion, but that he respects her choices in the end and he obviously still cares very much about her.

All of that is underlining the conversation and one of the things that makes it such a hellishly complicated scene here in “Old Friends Not Forgotten” is that both of them are pretty narratively reliable. They’re both coming from a place of deep care and a desire to help people. They’re both coming from a place wanting to do what’s best for people. Which is why I love that I think Ahsoka genuinely loves the Jedi Order and why she says, “people who truly need us”.  It furthers my feeling of how I think, had Order 66 not happened, she may have come back to the Jedi eventually, if this difference could be resolved, but at the very least she certainly never hated them.  This is all coming from a place of love for the Jedi, for her family.  Even if she’s on a different path, even if ultimately she’ll say, “I’m no Jedi.” in Rebels, that’s about what she’s willing to do, what lines she's willing to cross, that a Jedi wouldn’t, and that it doesn’t mean they’re not still her family and that she wants good things for and with them. And why I love that she may not be being fair here, she may be stripping context and consequence out of the choice she wants to make, she may be letting emotion cloud her judgement, but she’s still so incredibly valuable and I do think they should have listened to her more.  The Jedi’s genocide is not on them, the murder of an entire people can never be on the victims, but I do think Obi-Wan has so much weight on his shoulders that he has trouble seeing the forest for the trees.  And that’s not a horrible thing, especially because Ahsoka’s shoving the trees aside here. But that there was no right answer here.  Mandalore is a trap.  Mandalore is going to fall to the Empire anyway.   Coruscant is a trap.  Coruscant is going to fall to the Empire anyway.   It doesn’t matter if they choose Mandalore or Coruscant.  Order 66 is already set to be triggered any minute now, nothing can stop that.  Them being more popular wouldn’t have saved them from it, not in a galaxy where the Republic general public was apathetic enough to not stand up against the Separatist themselves, instead allowed a clone army to be commissioned and the Jedi to be drafted into the war.  They wouldn’t stand up for themselves against the Separatists, they weren’t going to stand up for the genocide of a tiny religious culture, either.  It doesn’t even matter if the Jedi fought in the war or not--fight and be killed.  Don’t fight and they’ll be like Mandalore and be forced into it anyway or killed. That the Jedi were forced to make shitty choices in situations where there weren’t any right answers and get blamed for not having magical answers to problems that they cannot possible solve. What really brought that home to me was the way the scene ended--when Anakin offered an actual reasonable, viable solution (something that most people don’t offer the Jedi when saying what they should or shouldn’t do, they’re rarely given actual, workable options) where they could do both, Obi-Wan pretty readily jumped on it.

This shows that of course the Jedi want to help, whenever and wherever they can.  Not going to Mandalore isn’t that they don’t care or that they don’t want to help, but that there are two tire fires put in front of them and they didn’t see a reasonable way to do both, and Coruscant, as the capital of the Republic, which is the only body that can possibly stand between the Separatists and the enslavement/oppression/murder of thousands of worlds, must be protected. (Just look what happens when the Republic and the Jedi fall--the Empire inflicted atrocity after atrocity on the galaxy, which says to me that the Jedi were right in that the Republic had to be defended because it was all that stood between the galaxy and a lot of really evil things happening.) Ultimately, the only thing that the Jedi could really do that mattered is that they helped save people--people like Hera Syndulla--and they did do that.  And the accusation that they’re not trying to help people is not a fair one.  Even when it comes from a place of deep care.  And that’s why this scene was ouchy in such a good way, it really was an amazing episode to watch!

[jenniferisacommonname]

Bonus Level Unlocked

This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.

I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.

Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.

But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)

But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.

Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.

It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.

But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.

Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.

It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.

Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.

Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.

Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.

“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”

Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:

“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”

Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*

As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.

*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.

[kkysolo]

Stuck On You / Prologue

Pairing: Ben Solo|Kylo Ren/Reader Setting: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, dystopia, modern, gangs. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, war, gang violence, emotional hurt/angst, codependent relationships (eventual fluff, smut, romance). 

Available here on AO3, and under the cut. 

Summary:  The year is 2084.

Despite its advances, society has collapsed on itself. The world is crooked, damaged, dying. Rezoned into new territories, separating the elite from the unworthy. Civilization is crumbling at your very feet, and in the midst of it all, your best friend, Ben Solo, has been missing for three years.  You desperately cling to what's left of him, hoping that he'll come home, praying that things will fall back into place. 

And then he does. And they don't. Because life is different when you're a scoundrel in the midst of a class war. 

A/N: Please don't mind me, posting another WIP.  I might continue posting this on here as well as AO3. 

This piece (particularly reader's experience of Ben being missing) is heavily inspired (and named after) Stuck On You by Failure. You can find it here if you want to give it a listen. 

This is just the prologue, and won't give much insight into the worldbuilding. That will come in the following chapters. Also, I'm writing this with the assumption that phones will still be a thing in 2084, though they're only still used by the poor.

Then: New Year’s 2083

The way you tore across the dilapidated bar, seething, irate - the force behind your movements astonished your friends as you shoved past them, beelining for the toilets. You hated the holiday season. It was New Years - it was supposed to be a good night, a fun night. But these fights, these senseless, petty arguments and drunken tears, they ruined it. Every single time.

You slammed the ruddy green cubicle door shut behind you, taking your phone out of your purse and sliding down onto the cool tile. It was wet, damp with fluid from the leaking lavatory that stuck to your dress. The tears came, then. Heaving, wretched sobs that ripped from your chest before you could stop them. You clawed at your knees, pulling them close to your chest as you felt that familiar crack in your lungs, that awful lump in your throat. For two years, you’d been numbly pandering through life with a canyon-sized gash in your chest - right between your lungs. A hole you couldn’t fix, a wound that wouldn’t heal. Always open, always weeping, always infected with ruminations of what could have been.  What would have been, if he hadn’t left.  Disappeared. Vanished. Gone. 

Everyone in town had bets down on when you’d get together. You’d been friends since high-school, completely inseparable. You clung to him - your world, your dreams, your future, it all revolved around him. Because to you, nothing was worth doing if he couldn’t come with you. If he couldn’t be a part of it, like he’d been a part of everything else in your life. An ever steady presence, calming and strong throughout the most turbulent of times. No matter the unrest, no matter how society changed and faltered, you always had him. And oh, how you loved him. How you dreamt of him. 

You’d still call him, sometimes. Just to hear his voicemail. Just to hear that casual, “Hey, sorry I missed you”. 

You're sorry, too.

His mother kept up his phone payments, just in case. Just in case he turned his phone back on. Just in case he needed it. Just in case he wanted to call. She couldn’t afford it, not really. No one had enough credits to just throw them at something that wasn’t even being used. But she paid it, all the same. 

You’d text him, too. Just little things, here and there. You’d never get a reply, of course. But you hoped he’d seen them. Hoped he’d seen your birthday wishes, your happy holidays and “do you remember when…?” messages. Whenever your hometown got rezoned, whenever you were swept along to another derelict flat, another house-share in ruins, you’d text him the coordinates. Just in case. Just in case he’d come home. Because where was home, really, to any of you? In a world where land and ownership was reserved for the wealthy, your only home was in each other. In your friends. In your family. In your sense of belonging, wherever it may have been.

And though you called and called and called, you’d never left a voicemail. You almost did, a couple of times. But never knew what to say. You tried, you really did try not to think the worst. You tried not to think of his towering frame withering away in a ditch somewhere, lost among the scrap metal and copper wires. You tried not to think of  his pale skin pulled too-tight over rotting bones, succumbing to maggots. No, you didn’t think like that. You couldn’t.

Your cracked and glitchy phone screen was barely visible through your haze of tears, but you didn’t need to see it. You knew his number off by heart, had done since you were a girl. He never changed it. He worried you’d forget it, if he did, wouldn’t be able to reach him if you needed him. 

The sad irony of that fact made your wails come harder. 

With trembling hands, you held the phone to your ear, shutting your eyes for a moment and relishing in the sounds of his voice as his voicemail greeting played. You sniffled, inhaling shakily in a poor attempt to control your ragged breathing. 

“Hey,” you whispered after the beep. “Hey, it’s um. Me, I guess,” you sniffled again, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. Every breath was laboured, your lungs felt as though they were burning, like you were inhaling smoke. “I just..I wanted to hear your voice. I just…” you sobbed, then, unable to compose yourself. You’d been so good at that, before. Once upon a time, in another life. Or at least, what felt like another life. “Ben, I-I need you, I can’t do this without you, I-I’m so t-tired of trying t-to do this w-w-without you. I can’t, I c-can’t do it,” you took another unsteady breath, hoping, praying, that he’d hear you. That he’d find you. “Just...p-please, Ben. Please come home, I miss you”.

You dropped your phone back into your lap, letting your head fall into your hands as you let yourself fall apart. Your heels slid on the tile, your lungs crackled with effort as they desperately fought to breathe through your howls. You’d learned early on that the only way to manage the pain, the tears, the hurricanes that came tearing out of that trench inside you, was to let it come. Let it pass, let it wash over you in tidal waves. It would dwindle eventually. The storm would subside, leaving behind its wreckage, its carnage. You didn’t bother with damage control. There wasn’t much of a point. The next storm was never far off. 

As you felt yourself begin to settle, you heard a faint knock on the other side of the cubicle door. Your name was called softly, followed by another knock. You took a deep breath, yanking at the discoloured toilet roll to dab at your face and running nose.

“One second,” you called hoarsely, picking yourself up off the floor and straightening your dress. You’d ripped your tights somewhere in your frenzy, and you pinched absently at the ladder you’d created as you collected yourself. You had no idea how long you’d been in there, how long you’d been crying. But if the scratching in your throat and the pounding between your ears was anything to go by, it had been long enough. You took another breath as a poor attempt of maintaining composure before swinging open the door, revealing a concerned Rose. Glowing, ethereal as always, even in the darkest of bars. 

“You look like you need a hug,” she murmured, stepping closer. She held her arms out timidly. Bless her heart, she tried. Always, even when you pushed her away. You felt yourself well up again, blinking the tears away as you stepped into her embrace. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

She knew, she always knew. 

“I need him, Rose,” you whined, your words muffled as you spoke into her shoulder. “I need him.”

“I know, sweetie,” she hugged you tighter, “I know.”

You sniffled, pulling away as you reached for more tissue. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, dabbing at your eyes. “I’m sorry that I’m always such a fucking wreck when I drink.” 

“Hey,” she held your arm softly. “Don’t be sorry. No one can tell you to heal.”

You nodded, chucking the tissue into the toilet. “Christ, what a mess.” 

Rose smiled, tugging at your arm softly. “Y’know, Jon sent me in here,” she said, her tone subdued. “He’s worried.”

You rolled your eyes. Jon was jealous, always had been, of your missing best friend. A man he’d never met, a man who could well be dead, owned more of your heart, more of your soul, more of your attention than he ever could. And that was fair enough, you knew that. You couldn’t argue with his statements, or how he felt. But the way he’d yell, the way he’d cry when he sensed a storm coming, when he knew you missed Ben a little more than usual. The way he’d tell you to get over it, to let go, to accept that he was probably dead. It boiled your blood. He didn’t know Ben, he’d never met him, never saw that cheeky glint in his eye, never heard his airy laughter. He’d never been hugged by him, or sang to. He’d never gotten to know his stupid jokes, or his obstinate, mercurial attitude that could be so fucking frustrating but so inherently Ben. Most importantly, though, he’d never seen how Ben looked at you. How he held you when you fell asleep on the couch, how he’d carry you to your bed before hugging your mother goodbye. How he’d dance with you, how he’d laugh with you, how he’d just be with you. It infuriated you, when Jon would insist that you let all of that go. To accept that he wasn’t coming back. Because you couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t. 

When you returned to your group, you avoided his gaze, settling in beside Rose on the opposite end of the table. Never one to back down from a potential fight, Jon approached your seat, tapping your shoulder and eyeing you expectantly. He wasn’t a bad person, Jon. He was kind, and he loved you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to love him, you couldn't bring yourself to care for him the way he cared for you. And maybe you deserved this, all of this endless pain, for stringing him along for all these years, using him as a distraction to alleviate your ache. You lived with constant guilt, constant shame for what you were doing. But you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get out. You worried that if you did, you’d crumble completely. You wished you didn’t need a crutch, you wished you felt enough empathy for Jon to leave. But you didn’t. All you ever felt was Ben, remnants of him sticking to your bones like a thirsty parasite, draining you of all emotion.

“I need some time,” you said plainly. “I just...Please. Just leave me alone.” You shook your head, your eyes glued to your half-empty rum and coke. Rum and badly brewed beer was the only alcohol available in the rezoned land. It turned your stomach sometimes, but a drink was a drink, at the end of the day.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t meet his eyes as he left, only saw him slip out of your peripheral vision and into the sea of people around you. 

When you crawled into your damp bed that night, alone and still in your dress, you’d never felt so misplaced, so lost. So hollow. So full of nothing that it terrified you. But when you slipped into a dream, into a world far kinder, far simpler than your own, you swore you could feel him. Swore you felt his arms, his hair, his breath. So you clung to it, anchored yourself to his broad frame and allowed yourself to melt. At least, in your dreams, he still clung to you, too. 

[con-fection]

ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | 5/13

Word count: 4.7k

Living with Moriarty is not for the faint of heart. He's a strange man - and you often find yourself becoming victim to moments of intrigue. There's something intrinsically dark within him, but you're currently inclined to believe that it was created out of a need for fun, for entertainment, and not out of hardship.

It was a frenzied moment in which you agreed to join him.

Truthfully, you had no idea what being a part of his game entailed. You had only seen bits and pieces on the news.

Moriarty had taken you to what was apparently a grandiose mansion. It was terribly grand - much larger, more airy and ornate than your house had been. Everything within it seems so fine, opulent, even.

It's never cold, which you're thankful for.

Moriarty leads you through a series of hallways, and down some winding, twisting stairway, and to his study. He seems fond of the finer things in life, decking out the mansion with what you assume are expensive pieces. You see a few men milling around, all dressed in suits. You think about calling out for them, getting their attention, but you quickly realise that these are men who follow Moriarty's orders.

He's got all of these people, these dark-looking, brawny bodyguards who do his bidding. They're just more puppets, and he's the one tugging on their strings. You have to wonder if they have a role in the plan, too. If they are pieces in the game - and if you're to become like them.

The worst part is probably that you don't know how - you have no idea how he's controlling them. Or why, for that matter. Really, you have so, so many questions, all revolving around Moriarty. Who he is, what he wants, why he wants it and how he plans to achieve it are all absolute mysteries.

His study is airy, with this large desk and leather chair behind it. There's bookshelves - none of them hold any books, though. Rather, they contain what, at first glance, you think are odd knick-knacks. There's all manner of things - shoes, a lipstick case, purses, wallets. They look rather out of place, considering the fancy, high-end decor of the rest of the house.

They're just random, every-day objects, but they're displayed in pride of place in his study.

Moriarty seems to catch your confused look at them, and he grins proudly. "Trophies." He says, by way of explanation.

"Oh?" You swallow, suddenly unable to tear your eyes from them.

You don't really need to be told the rest - they're trophies from people. Presumably, victims of his.

"Oh, come on." He scoffs, playfully. He stalks closer to you, closing the door to the study behind him. You still feel rather on edge, but some of that feralty and desperation has subsided.

You want to be free, no matter what. That's always going to remain the same. But for now, acceptance is best. Moriarty has all of this, all of those men on strings, and he's determined to play a game with Sherlock Holmes. All you have to do is play along until he gets bored and you can be cut loose. Hopefully, at least. That is the work of a whole host of assumptions.

Nothing is assured here.

Moriarty approaches you, looming over you. Almost tenderly, he places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you to stumble backwards and perch on his desk. He's so close, and you have to suppress a shiver. Your legs hit the desk and you shimmy yourself up so you can sit on the very edge of the desk. You're torn between fixating on Moriarty and his dark eyes, or the rows of trophies.

His hands drop from your shoulders to your hands. He inspects them almost clinically, turning your slightly shaking hands over. It feels strangely thrilling to be touched like this - intimately, carefully. Like you're precious.

And yet, it contrasts with every scrap of information you've come to know about him. His fingers glide over yours - his skin is warm, and he feels rather human like this. Not vulnerable, no, but human. Flesh and bone.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, sounding rather stunned at the damage you've managed to do to your knuckles from punching the door. "That's rather self-destructive, Cinderella. Doesn't seem like you."

"Oh, really?" You ask.

"Oh, no." Moriarty says. "You're not self-destructive. You like to hurt others instead."

You recoil slightly and his hands drop from yours. "They deserved it."

He nods, looking amused. "Well, yes, they did. That much is obvious. But you enjoyed it, and that's what matters." Moriarty walks over to the other side of his desk, opening a drawer and emerging with some bandages and packet of anti-septic wipes, before he approaches you again. He rips the little package open with his teeth and shakes it until the white cloth falls into his hands.

Moriarty discards the packet, letting it rest on his desk. "If you were going to take a trophy, what would it have been?" He asks, taking your left hand first, and swiping the wipe over it.

You let out a tiny hiss - it stings. The cuts had been small, but that doesn't make it burn any less. The white anti-septic wipe comes away from your knuckles spotted with streaks of blood. "Their heads." You admit, clenching your jaw as he does the same to your other hand.

"Oooh, nice." He says, grinning. "But not that practical. They could always rot. Human decomposition isn't my favourite cell."

The anti-septic wipe makes contact with the deepest wound across your right knuckles and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting out any pained noises. There is absolutely no desire within you to seem weak in front of somebody like him.

"Fucking taxidermy them, then." You retort, though your voice comes out somewhat strangled and pained.

His dark eyes dart up to meet yours. "Now that's lovely, Cinderella."

Despite his macabre line of work, Moriarty doesn't tend to meet people who are truly interesting very often. Even criminals can fall victim to being dull, and frequently they do. But you - you are lovely. He knows every single thing that has happened to you, and yet he's still intrigued by everything about you.

A silence befalls you as he begins to bandage your knuckles, expertly winding the gauze over your hands. It sits atop the wounds, cradling them in thin white strips. You don't allow yourself to relax - but it does feel somewhat comforting to be taken care of like this. Verona and her hellish daughters hadn't been the type to wrap your wounds or offer you support.

You hate the way he's so gentle. It makes you think, for just a moment, that under any other circumstances you would have welcomed and celebrated a touch so soft. In any other context, perhaps you could allow yourself to indulge in this - in him. But you can't, not when your life is veiled by a cloud of uncertainty that he is solely responsible for.

"So what now?" You ask, slightly more subdued now that your throbbing knuckles have been addressed. There's a deep curiosity within you now - perhaps this is an opportunity to obtain some answers for your many, many questions.

"Now we have a plan to fulfill." He sounds rather bored now, as he watches you. "There's so much that you don't know, and yet you've put your faith in me."

"I wouldn't say it was faith that compelled me to join your game."

He chuckles, sounding rather gleeful as he reminds you,"Our game, Cinderella. You're on my side now, and sweetheart, this isn't the side of the angels."

"No, I was never under the impression that it was." You retort.

"But then again, you seem to like a little hellfire, don't you?" Moriarty croons excitedly.

"Planning on telling me anything now that I've agreed?"

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't want to risk you getting bored. But, I'll let you on some things. After all, who would you tell?"

You wince at that, unwillingly reminded that freedom has come hand in hand with loneliness. Whilst half of London may have been aware of you - may have seen that years-old picture of you on TV or heard about you in the news, there is nobody, not a single soul that knows you in any way that matters.

And even now, when there's people milling about the mansion, you know that they'll never know you either. You don't think that any of them had even bothered to spare you a second glance.

In fact, Moriarty is the only person you have had a proper conversation with in days.

"I'm Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, and you're Y/N L/N, my Cinderella. And weeee, are going to destroy Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that seems simple enough." You say, sarcastically.

He clicks his tongue, chiding you. "Noooo, not simple, Cinderella. Simple would be boring - and this, this is going to be exciting. It's what everything was leading up to, until you got in the way."

"I got in the way?"

"Oh, yes. Took up all of Sherlock's attention. Very naughty of you. But now, you're on my side, and we're a force united." He sounds rather inspired, enthralled by the prospect of it all. His dark eyes are blown wide as he looks down at you. You've noticed that Moriarty has a tendency to become almost reverent whenever he talks about either the two of you together, or your crimes.

Like he's in awe. Of you - and of the two of you together.

In some way, you had chosen him. As a pathway to freedom only.

"And so, the plan is..." You prompt him.

"Pfft, so impatient, aren't we, Cinderella?" Moriarty scoffs. "The plan, of course, is to get Sherlock to answer the question on everybody's mind."

"Which is?"

He rolls his dark eyes, before gazing down at you. "Well, isn't it obvious, Cinderella? Staying alive, of course."

You frown, your mind running over everything you have learnt about the two of them - Sherlock's a detective on your case, and Moriarty is now your abductor who wants you to become his partner in crime against the aforementioned detective. "You... want him to die?"

"I've always wanted him to die. He's in the way - all the time. I just want to have fun with it first." Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly. In all fairness, murder does seem to be trivial to him - though he does keep trophies, which suggests that on some occasions, it has been more than just something on his to do list. It tells you that sometimes, when he kills, it means something to him.

It was entirely plausible that something belonging to Sherlock Holmes could end up on that bookshelf, too.

"You said that I was in your way." You say, rather absently. "Do you intend for me to die, too?"

"You're not the one I'm asking the question to. For now, you're just my teammate in the game. You could get your freedom at the end." He says.

And there it is - the hope that you've been waiting to appear. The prospect that if you play along you could be free. Your heart leaps, and you lurch forward, almost tumbling off the desk.

"Ooh, you liked that, didn't you?" Moriarty teases, pouting at you mockingly.

"Well, let's play then." You say, with a renewed kind of vigour. You feel the beginnings of a plan beginning to form.

The last plan that you had concocted resulted in three women dead at your hands and a building going up in flames. This one had the potential to be more bloody. Moriarty would probably even encourage it.

There you are, feeling just as much a hostage here as you had when you were in your basement, in Moriarty's study. He grins down at you, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw, his forefinger under your chin and the pad of his thumb resting on your bottom lip.

It's so terribly soft, so gentle.

"That's the spirit."

---

And thus began a begrudging routine. This was an unsteady partnership, and Moriarty took great joy in reminding you of that, at first.

You were to be confined to the mansion, watched by a platoon of his men, until such a point when you were to be useful. Most of your time was simply to be spent with Moriarty, preparing aspects of the game - often at times researching macabre, morbid things that you didn't understand.

There would be no opportunity for escape. Your room was heavily guarded, there were no windows for you to break, and even if there were, you still had no idea where you were.

For the first few days, you had struggled to find your footing here. This was an entirely new situation, and you were just trying your hardest to survive, to get by. You were very much a prisoner, and yet, you weren't treated the way you had been back at home.

Verona would scream at you, perhaps even strike you if she was particularly enraged, whilst Aubrey and Alora would rush about the house, creating as much a mess as they were able, and then leave you to clean it up.

Moriarty was... not so bad.

That statement, in and of itself, made you wince. He was a murderer, that much you gathered, and from what you could deduce, also the head of a major criminal organisation. It was almost impressive, really.

He could plan so throughly that he almost reminded you of yourself, which was another thought that you absolutely detested. Moriarty had shared just fragments of his plan for Sherlock Holmes with you, and yet each piece was extremely detailed with each and every possible outcome being considered.

Moriarty had the ability to be frighteningly logical. And yet, it was really creativity and spontaneity that ruled him. Those were the things he found most appealing - the outcomes that he had never considered were the ones he found the most alluring.

A typical day for you normally began when you would wake up in that grandiose room. It was superior to your hotel room - it didn't smell of any chemicals, and you felt almost at peace there. From there, you would get dressed, be given breakfast and then make your way downstairs, accompanied by a gaggle of armed guards.

They weren't so friendly. Most of them refused to even speak to you, and the ones that did were curt at best. It was rather isolating, to be surrounded by so many people and yet constantly ignored.

Then, you would enter Moriarty's study. It was quickly becoming one of the places in the mansion you were most familiar with. There, the two of you would discuss tiny details of a larger plan. You couldn't really discern what anything was going to be used for, but he seemed to like bouncing ideas off you.

There was a lot that you had learnt about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Theirs was a friendship, whilst your relationship with Moriarty was a difficult hostage and her seemingly bipolar abductor.

Today, as you entered, you found that he was already on the phone to somebody, and he looked enraged.

As always, he was dressed impeccably, sat at his desk, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other clenched into a fist, resting on the wood, almost threateningly.

"I've already told you how to do it." He hisses, his voice low and venomous. He's scowling like you've never seen him do before, his lips curled into a sneer, and there's pure rage in his dark eyes.

You look awkwardly between him and your entourage, hovering in the doorway and observing him. Thus far, you haven't seen him interact with too many people, just yourself and a handful of henchmen. Even then, he seems to hold you in higher regard than he does them, so you've become somewhat assured that you're not going to become one of his little minions, running around and doing his bidding at a moment's notice.

"I can do things to you that you can't even imagine." He says, his jaw clenched. "I can have you torn to pieces and mailed back to your family in chunks. Maybe they'll get an eye first. Or a finger. I want you to remember that the next time you dare to forget what I want."

Moriarty's voice is so low, full of vitriol and as your eyes dart to his shelves of trophies from his kills, you know that he means every single word of it. The consulting criminal is simply beyond any body else's influence. You've come to understand that's how he operates. Everybody does as he says or they die in pain, begging for their lives to end.

You can't help but be transfixed by him when he's like this. In the very short time you've known him, you haven't seen Moriarty mad like this. He's jovial, mocking and excitable. It's been a while since he's even threatened you.

Anger is one of the emotions that are most familiar to you. It has shaped and forged you in ways that love never quite had the opportunity to.

You don't know Moriarty nearly well enough to determine whether it has been instrumental to his becoming, too. But you can guess that it has been. Nobody gets this far in such a bloody, vicious field - being a career criminal - without being subject to anger. You weren't naive enough to think that it drove him all the time, but it probably contributed.

In an instant, he's torn the phone away from his ear and ended the call. His dark gaze lands on you, and the fury in his eyes seems to lessen fragmentally.

"I'm guessing that didn't go to plan, then." You remark, sauntering away from the doorway to actually enter his study and approach him at his desk.

"It's not a part of our plan," He dismisses it easily, the tension in his shoulders beginning to lessen, and his fingers unfurling from where they had been clenched into a tight fist. "You know, they're still looking everywhere for you, Cinderella. Sherlock's driving himself mad trying to figure out which hotel you're staying in."

"Do you think he would have found me by now?" You ask.

Moriarty looks at you, studying you like you're some kind of puzzle that he can't figure out. "Sherlock would have found you yesterday at eleven am. He and John have already been in the hotel room that you stayed in."

Suddenly, it feels like your heart has dropped to your stomach. Yesterday at eleven am you had been researching the intricacies of mercury and lead poisoning - an effort that you were still collaborating on with Moriarty, though you had no idea what he intended to do with the information.

If not for him, you would have been in cuffs by now, awaiting trial, Sherlock's passing interest in you long gone, and you're left to rot in some cold little cell.

"Really?" Your voice comes out a whisper - vulnerable, raw, pitiful. You hate it more than anything.

"I'm not lying, Cinderella." He says with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Do you think you'd know if I was?"

You feel all too much like you're drowning to even answer his question. There haven't been many points in your life during which you've felt this confused. The funerals and the wedding, probably - those were the days when you'd truly felt the loss of your parents the most, and the insidious arrival of a new one.

There's no way for you to really discern how this feels. It's like there's been a phenomenal, almost earth-shattering realisation on your part, and you're amazed that the world has kept turning. This feels like neither a loss, nor a gain. Perhaps, then, it was an exchange. Some part of yourself had been lost, cast aside the moment you discovered that by now, you would have lost any freedom at all, and exchanged for something that wasn't yours at all.

It felt like a part of you was now Moriarty. You were living as a slightly free woman on his time. There were limits to your freedom, but it was a warm mansion that was the polar opposite of that cold, rancid-smelling basement, and not a ten-by-ten cell.

"I don't - it'd be over by now?" You sound devastated.

"It would." Moriarty confirms, watching you closely, carefully.

The words are tumbling from your mouth before you can even comprehend them yourself. "Then, thank you. I don't, fuck, I don't like being locked up here, but thank you."

Your sincerity shocks even you, and Moriarty looks almost taken aback, his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes widening.

"Cinderella, why don't you let me tell you about why mercury is a better poison than lead." He says, all falsely cheery. This time, you can see straight through him. There's not pure excitement in his eyes, burning like a wildfire. Rather, there's a shred of concern.

You don't know whether that's a good thing or not. All you know, is that some tiny, forsaken part of you is grateful to him.

"Did you know that lead poisoning is the most common environmental illness in children in California? I didn't." He says, off-handedly. Listening to his lilting voice is an effective distraction for your internal distress. "It can be attributed to paint. And that's boring - not to mention it would take the credit away from us."

You're willing to lean into any distraction he has to offer. You really, really do not want to think about the cell you would be in by now.

"And so mercury is better because...?"

"It's more deliberate," Moriarty stresses. "That at least will be recognised as our work. It's rare, and hard to treat. It can take up to eighteen years for the body to get rid of half a dose."

You nod easily. "And are you ever going to tell me who it's intended for?"

"You'll get to know that soon enough. I'm trying to build anticipation here." He sighs dramatically, reclining slightly in his chair. "I will, however, tell you that we're going to do something you'll like. It's very your style."

"How so?" You frown. "Arson, or...?" You trail off, unsure.

Moriarty grins wildly. "Oh, arson. What a lovely crime. Soooo fun, right? Unfortunately, no. What we're planning for is a recreation of a fairytale, with a different ending."

Immediately, your eyes widen. You're thrown back to the days of obsessively demanding your mother read Cinderella to you each and every night. She had even bought you a whole host of books, all different variations of the same familiar tale. You had loved each and every one of them uniquely, memorising all of their twists and turns, every letter, every dot of every 'i' and every cross of every 't'.

"Which one?" You ask. Really, he had thrown you off there. It hadn't been what you were expecting. But then again, Moriarty prided himself on subverting expectations and being changeable - a wild card.

"Guess, won't you?" He says, amusedly. He's smiling happily, like you're not discussing deadly poisons and off-handedly referencing your murders of your step-family.

Poison. You ponder over it for a moment, running a hand through your hair distractedly. "Snow White? Are we poisoning an apple?"

You freeze. It's so, so incredibly strange that you acknowledged it - that you said 'we' rather than 'he'. It's odd, terribly so, to realise that you've subconsciously accepted your place in this.

"Mmmh, no." Moriarty shakes his head. "Nice idea, though. Shame. We can use it another time. Guess again, Cinderella."

"I don't like it when you call me that."

He huffs. "Guess." He demands.

"Sleeping beauty? With the spindle?"

"No - but keep going. You've got some good ideas."

"Uh, Peter Pan?" You suggest, wincing. Rather quickly, you're running out of ideas.

Moriarty narrows his eyes at you. "There's no poison in Peter Pan."

"Yes there is," You retort hotly. "Captain Hook tries to poison Peter Pan, but Tinkerbell drinks it instead."

He scoffs at you, levelling you with an unimpressed, bored kind of look. "It's rather pathetic that you know that, don't you think?"

"No, no I really don't think so." You say, and you don't even know why you're getting quite so defensive, like he's touched a nerve just by challenging you on this.

"Any more guesses left, Cinderella?"

"The Riddle?" You guess, rather aimlessly.

Moriarty just looks rather confused. "Are you... making them up now? If you can't guess you can just concede."

"It's one of the Brothers Grimm ones. It's about a witch who poisons twelve people - but since you didn't even recognise the title I'm inclined to believe that's not it." You sigh, and you realise that you're rather...relaxed.

"It's Hansel and Gretel." Moriarty reveals, grinning. "Poison the sweets - "

"But Hansel and Gretel were kids," You frown. "You're not talking about doing something to kids are you? Oh god, you're not going to make somebody eat the kids?"

Moriarty looks mildly stunned. "Yet another brilliant idea. Oh, Cinderella. You're so good at this. Though, I do suppose you have experience with subverting fairy tales. We could make parents eat their own children - doesn't that sound fun? How long do you think they could hold out for if they were starving and their kid's bodies were their only source of food?"

Suddenly, you feel a little lightheaded. "No, no, that's not what - just tell me we're not doing anything with kids."

"Well why not?" He sounds affronted, like you've done something to offend him.

"They're innocent." You practically plead, clasping a hand over your mouth. This doesn't feel comforting at all - this is begging for somebody else's life and hoping he will take notice, that he will be compelled to spare them.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at you, looking rather skeptical. "Were Aubrey and Alora innocent when they teased you mercilessly and encouraged their mother to hit you?"

You flounder for a response, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly, but you just can't seem to get any words out. "Kids are - kids are innocent." Is the retort that eventually tumbles from your lips, but you sound unconvinced, even to your own ears, and you just know that Moriarty knows that he's rattled you, that he's uncovered a nerve and he can now press on it for his own entertainment.

"Innocence is a big lie," Moriarty's voice raises incrementally, and you think that this may be the closest he's come to yelling at you. He sounds annoyed, like he's chastising a child - or rather, like he's disappointed in you and is irritated that he is being faced with the reality that you are not like him in every way.

"They haven't done anything, they shouldn't die." Your protest seems rather weak.

Still, he begrudgingly concedes. "I'll find the worst, meanest kids out there, and I'll just get them sick - they won't die, but they'll feel like they want to. How about that?" He suggests, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark.

"Why even listen to me in the first place? Why not just kill them anyway?"

"Beeeeecause, you're my partner in crime. You're a step above the rest of the people here, Cinderella. So, since I'm such a giving person, I'll let the kids live. For you."

For the second time that day, you find yourself thanking him.

You don't think to question why he's doing something you'd like. Jim knows the reason, though. It's because there's only one other person who knows your brilliant mind the way he does, the other man who is obsessed with finding you - Sherlock Holmes. It's with an almost burning, fevered desperation that he wants Sherlock to know that you belong to him.

This is a dedication - a brand of possession, if one were to be simple about it.

[hiddenhistoria]

Find the word tag VIII

Tagged by @zmlorenz and @sleepyowlwrites, thank you both! My words are: flower, friend, fragrance, fun, free/ air, break, clear, danger, and excite/ suspect, sick, safe, and solid. As always, snippets from These Cursed Paths.

Flower

She makes towards the kitchen, feet soundless, hand reaching for her gun. The parsen is still on the set table, waiting to be feasted upon. She looks away, ignoring the pang of her chest, and focuses on the task at hand. No intruders here, either. Jehona figures they must be watching the entrances. 

And she is right. 

Another Kairanese girl has made base in the living room, facing the front door. She doesn’t hesitate. The girl slumps much like her companion outside. Jehona sweeps through the rest of the house with the same efficiency, finding two more girls, one in each bedroom. Only the last one, a Kairanese that must have been Rumaysa’s age, is vigilant enough to sense her coming into her room and put up a fight. Jehona breaks the only flower vase she owns over the girl’s head. She makes a mental note to replace it and the wilting flowers that have fluttered to the ground before Rumaysa finds out.

Chapter 8

Friend

Another shot pings on the cobblestones. Rumaysa bites her lip to stop from making any noise. Her leg shakes from the strain and she leans against the wall of a building, moving at a crawling pace. Rounding the corner, she drags herself along the wall. Even her head fails her, her eyesight going blurry as she slides down, sitting on the road, the yielding a reprieve for her battered body. Everything hurts: her leg, her shoulder, her hands. The crutches escape her grip, clanging as they hit the ground. 

“Who’s there?”

Rumaysa starts, hope blooming in her chest. She knows that voice, the cold uninterested timbre it adapts with strangers. Her eyes, which she didn’t even realize had slid closed of their own volition, fly open. “Jehona?”

And it is indeed her best friend rushing towards her, brown locks flying with the wind, voice frantic. “Rumaysa?” She crouches down in front of her, placing blessedly cool hands on her flaming cheeks. “Are you hurt? What are you even doing here?” Jehona’s eyes do a sweep of her sprawled body, the brown dark with worry and panic.

Chapter 5

Fun

“Can you even worry?” he snips back.

She shrugs. “If I try hard enough. Now, I’ll operate under the assumption that you actually got some information to share with the class—” Hideyoshi nods. “—so we’ll retreat for tonight. I doubt we’d be able to go out again, either way, what with the uproar you’ve caused.”

“That would be advisable,” the gargantuan remarks, pulling a miraculously clean kerchief from somewhere on his person to wipe at his face. “I’d also advise you against wearing that cloak next time we go in. You’ve made an enemy.”

Jehona turns on her heel, leading them back. “All in a day’s work, Hideyoshi,” she throws over her shoulder.

“Of course she’s flippant about it,” he mutters under his breath and she smirks to herself. He’ll make her life hard and, in turn, she’ll make his life hard. Thankfully, riling the gargantuan up is fun.

Chapter 10

(Hideyona, Hideyona!)

Free

“Pity,” she laments, circling again to find the girl’s fingers. “Your poor friend will have a hard time wielding a sword with nine fingers. That is, of course, if she doesn’t contract an infection first and die. I haven’t cleaned this basement in ages.”

The subject of her attention whimpers and Jehona is reminded just how much she absolutely hates her job. She drives one more proverbial knife in. 

“If you want to blame someone sweetie, let it be your friend, who keeps her silence while you are threatened.” Jehona unfolds the girl’s fist gently and the girl sobs. 

That seems to do the trick. “No, wait! Wait! We don’t know! We don’t know, I swear!” The leader all but screams.

Jehona circles back to meet her eyes. “You don’t know?”

“I swear on my life we don’t. That is information shared on a need-to-know basis and we don’t need to know,” the girl reasons. “For this reason exactly, if nothing else.”

She accepts the explanation with a sigh. It makes sense. These girls are just grunts come to kill her. And she doesn’t have any more time to waste with them. 

Jehona sets the dagger on the floor about two meters from the girls, hilt facing them. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” She looks at the tear-faced girl. “You scared your poor friend for nothing. I have to go now. Use this—“ she points to the blade, “—to free yourselves. And do try, please. I’m not keen on coming back to four rotting corpses in my basement. Have a good day, ladies.”

With that, she walks out.

Chapter 8

Air

He smiles at the soldiers. “At ease, Wolves. Mirmengsi to all of you.” 

“Section Commander, sir.” Erisa appears at his elbow and salutes. She’s a tiny woman, barely reaching his shoulder, always shrouded in an air of seriousness that he can’t disperse no matter how many stupid jokes he cracks. Even Jehona hasn’t resisted that long in her more serious moments. The two four-pointed stars on her left breast catch the morning light as she faces him.

“Major Arlet, good morning,” Klevis greets, turning on his heel and motioning her to follow. He’s aware of the eyes that closely follow their movements. There’s an ongoing rumor about the nature of his relationship with Erisa, which has now turned into wishful thinking on the Wolves’ part since neither one of them has done anything to encourage the rumor. They’re just a bunch of romantic fools, in his opinion. And they’re going to have to wait a while longer to see a romance blossom between him and her, given he’s aromantic and Erisa is done with his shit. The only pro to the rumor is watching the serious facade crack a little more each time a pair of eyebrows is wagged in their direction. Coincidentally, that is also the only con.

Chapter 11

Break + Clear

She rolls her eyes. “Not in Hideyoshi’s presence, Maysa.”

“Why not?” he protests with narrowed eyes. Jehona likes to think he can feel the jab she’s about to send his way.

“Because,” she starts slowly like she’s talking to a toddler, “in order to explain, I’d need to break the law. I fear you’d faint at such a transgression and, as you can clearly see—” Jehona gestures to the black lump in her lap, “—I can’t move fast enough to catch you, darling.”

He glowers and Maysa snorts, all worry for Klev momentarily forgotten, alongside inquires about RT’s powers. Jehona is too good at this. Hideyoshi stops in front of her chair, impossibly tall from this angle. And, honestly, every angle she can reach at 1.65m. “Even if that were the case, you couldn’t possibly carry me, chīsame no yatsu.” 

She leans forward, narrowing her eyes. “Say that last bit in Lukovian, coward.”

He leans down, resting his hands on the table. They’re practically nose to nose. “E vockël.”

Jehona gasps and, from somewhere behind Hideyoshi, Rumaysa snorts. Some best friend she is, laughing when an asshole calls her ‘little one’. Even RT wears an amused smile at that. Klev really found the day to abandon her. “Why don’t I shoot you and then we’ll find out if I can or can’t carry you, you abominable shit giraffe?”

“Can an ant carry a giraffe?”

She scowls. “If the ant tears it to pieces first, it sure as fuck can.”

Hideyoshi straightens with such a saccharine smile, her teeth hurt. “Why so irritable, chīsame no yatsu?”

“Listen here, you uncivilized dickheaded gargantuan,” she starts, ready to inflict bodily harm. Luck, however, seems to favor him as the door slams open at that moment with a bang that has RT starting and Rumaysa glowering.

Chapter 12

(HIDEYONA, HIDEYONA!)

Danger

Rumaysa rolls into the bunker with a disapproving frown, ready to chide Dezi further for wandering. Until she catches sight of Kass clutching him, silently crying and Jehona by her side, smiling like an idiot. She looks from her to her cousin and her cat, then shakes her head. “Nevermind. Seems like I’m already asleep.”

Afraid not, Jehona signs. 

The rumble of her wheels sends Kass’ heartbeat through the roof. Rumaysa draws nearer with the sort of look anyone with a grain of common sense wouldn’t want to be directed at them and, fine, Kass is terrified. Dezi wiggles out of her arms as if sensing danger and not wanting to be caught in the crossfire and even Jehona takes a step back when Rumaysa cranes her neck and addresses her by her full name. “Kassiani Trantis.”

Kass swallows. She is screwed. 

“How dare you—“ her voice cracks and Kass sees her eyes well with tears. “How dare you not hug me after all these years—“ 

She doesn’t wait for Rumaysa to finish, dropping to her knees and throwing her arms around her umzadya. 

“—you asshole?” Rumaysa finishes with a sob on her shoulder.

Chapter 13

Excite

They clamber to their feet slowly, stiff as Jehona pushes thoughts of an angry Rumaysa from her mind with a shudder. Up on their feet, they’re a head taller than her, all gangly limbs and awkward posture. Most probably a recent growth spurt then. With a messy head of very wet brown strands, blue eyes, and a smarting of faint freckles on their cheeks, they remind her inexplicably of a puppy. A very excited puppy.

“I’m RT,” they say, extending a hand and almost hitting her arm. “Non-binary.”

She smiles despite herself, grasping his hand and shaking twice. “Jehona. A very kind woman, as you can tell.”

They laugh at that, allowing her to place their hand on the crook of her elbow, effectively getting them out of the rain. “Thank you, Jehona. I was starting to lose hope of making it back home tonight.”

“You didn’t. It’s dawn.”

Chapter 1

Suspect

Jehona looks then and what she finds on his face stuns her. It is understanding, written plainly on the arch of his brow and the line of his lips, in the way he looks at her, all of the pieces she’d laid bare for his inspection and does not flinch or judge or hate, as she’d expected him to. “Look at what you’ve done,” he says quietly, running a hand through his hair. “How can I hate you when you’re just like me?”

Her chin trembles.

“Really, siren.” Hideyoshi smiles a small, heavy smile. “That was rather rude of you.”

An inexplicable spark warms her chest, chasing away the terrible cold. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I did to Tomoki and Yukito.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

She snorts. “Well, yes, but I suspect if I went to apologize to them, I’d have injured them for nothing since your clan members would most definitely kill me on sight.”

Chapter 12

(HIDEYONA, HIDEYONA!)

Sick

By the time the parsen is done, the house around her is sparkling clean and orderly, their little dining table set and ready, and Jehona a mess of nerves and anxiety. She has worked herself up into a frenzy and she is sick of it. This must be how her dad felt last night. His anger makes so much more sense now. 

Restless energy plagues her and she takes to pacing the length of the living room. Her injured leg throbs dully; she’s overworked herself in her measly attempts to pass time. Jehona plops on the couch, stretching her leg out, and sighs deeply. She is being ridiculous. The events of the previous night have set her on edge and she’s letting hypotheticals get to her. It won’t be long until her father comes back, whining about how he’s ravenous and all will be well. There is no good reason for them to dispatch Captain Trantis’ squad to the third district. They’re usually assigned to the sixth district and they do a damn good job of keeping order there. Whatever reason the President-General has for sending men into that district, he surely wouldn’t endanger good capable men. Not with the threat of Austeria hanging over Lukovia like an axe ready to drop. Avniel may be many things but a fool he is not.

Chapter 4

Safe

Klevis just sighs. “Now that’s out of your system, back to my genius idea. Jehona is going to live with Hide.”

“Klev, dearest, weren’t you harping on about me needing to be safe?” Jehona points at Hideyoshi’s glower. “Does that look like someone who won’t kill me the first chance he gets?”

“I am no murderer.”

“With the right incentive, everyone is.”

Hideyoshi only glares harder. “Fine, then I won’t sully my hands with your blood.”

“You sure about that?” Jehona smirks. “A hasty conclusion, given you haven’t even heard of my latest nefarious deeds.” 

He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“This is getting a little out of hand,” RT comments. “Any grownups want to intervene?”

Rumaysa snorts. “Sorry, RT. Those are in short supply around here.”

“Klevis, what did she do?”

Klev shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? Is this about those four Nonaka girls who breached your house?”

Chapter 8

Solid

She shifts in her wheelchair now, finally pulling the infernal device off of her leg and dumping it aside unceremoniously. “Not that I’m not eternally grateful to have found you two there—“ Rumaysa meets Jehona’s eyes, deciding to bite the bullet, so to speak, “—but what were you doing in the third district?”

Her best friend’s anger has always been something akin to spears of solid ice and has been used as such: with calculation and precision. And rarely has it surfaced, a trait Jehona shared with her mother. Both were too adaptable and solution-oriented to be sweeped by emotions. Except for tonight, apparently. 

“We?” Jehona’s voice is a burning brand, in the way something too cold feels hot to the touch. “What were you doing there, Rumaysa? Do you think this is a fucking game? That shithead would’ve killed you!”

Rumaysa finds she doesn’t have much patience tonight. “I asked first.” She says matter-of-factly, eliciting a snort from Klevis. Rumaysa can’t quite tell if it’s from amusement or disbelief. It seems he himself can’t either.

Chapter 5

Some of these are a little too long (yes, I’m talking about the Hideyona bits) sue me. I’ll pass this on to @writingamongther0ses, @sleepy-night-child, @fictional-semantics, and anyone else who thinks they can find these words in their manuscripts: smooth, shatter, sliver and smirk.

[c0ry-c0nvoluted]

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

White privilege. The phrase implies special rights. The phrase implies having a jumpstart in the race by way of DNA. What it doesn’t imply is that that white-skinned Jim or Judy is gonna win that race, just that the game is rigged in their favor.

I don’t hate the concept. The validity of it, I mean. It honestly rings some-kind-of-true in my brain when taking into consideration the general social status of people of color. But there’s a problem with it. Not in its validity, but in its generality, its assumption, and the overall affect it has on our society.

The biggest and most obvious problem with it is that there are tens of millions of white people (if not hundreds of millions worldwide), who are all struggling just to make ends meet (if they can at all). There are “poor white folk” everywhere. And there are white kids who are terrorized by their own parents. There are white boys and girls getting bullied at school or in their neighborhood. There are white people suffering at the hands of violent criminals, scam artists, corporations, policemen… And I’m not talking about white criminals suffering, here...

I worked with this insanely gorgeous blond who was one of several dozen (I don’t remember the actual number) of women who were raped by this cop in my city (San Diego). He’d follow them from clubs, pull them over, take what he wanted from them, then send them on their way. He got away with it up until he didn’t, but how many cops still do? His choice of victim was young and white, as are most serial killer victims, but does their skin color matter? In the sense that they’re preferred as targets, yes, but not in the sense of right and wrong. Their white skin, in this case, wasn’t doing them any favors.

But let’s get back to the topic at hand.

Is “white privilege” real?

Well that depends on what you consider “white privilege” to be, and I think that’s where our signals are getting crossed. I think that if you look at it on a more psychological level you’ll see that, yes, “white privilege” is a real thing in that “white people are less likely to be demonized or judged negatively based solely on their skin tone.” (But not on their appearance. If a white person is dressed like a thug, he/she is going to get negatively judged the same way a Hispanic would. Whereas vice versa, if a black person was dressed like a total bookworm, they’re going to get judged as such, not as a criminal.) But blacks being judged more often solely on skin color is 100% true. Black-skinned people have been demonized throughout our nation’s history (and many other nations) and this demonization, along with insidious, covert attacks on black communities by those in power, have caused two things (among a plethora of others, but two for the sake of my point). 1: It’s caused non-blacks who are not racist but are just recognizing the patterns they’ve been force-fed by the media, to unintentionally relate black-skin with ignorance, violence, and criminal behavior. And 2: It’s brought about disparity, anger, and emotional trauma in the black community that is the cause of the higher crime rates in those communities and more black-on-black crime than white-on-black crime (by the people, I mean. I’m not counting by the government because that’s a whole other fuck-storm of shit that isn’t only aimed at blacks, but at any who are considered “lower-class,” which, yes, the majority of blacks in our country are. That’s not to say there are more poor black people than poor white people. I really doubt that’s the case. But the percentage of blacks or other minorities who are poor vs the percentage of whites who are is likely leaning in the direction of exactly what makes “white privilege” a valid argument. But I’m not a “facts” guy. The numbers are just ways to distract from the problem, so you’re not gonna catch me quoting them to cry foul on the BLM movement. The reality is that yes, there are probably more poor white people total than blacks in this country, but the psychology, the demonization of blacks, is a real thing.)

But there’s a problem with looking at this as “white privilege.” Number one: if we do that we (unintentionally) discredit any white person who is or has suffered. Those who are, or have suffered, will absolutely not take kindly to being told that they are “privileged”. And what happens when they are told this? It makes anyone with white skin who has suffered or is suffering (and there’s a fuck ton of us) think to themselves, “Oh, fuck no! You think I got it good? You think you’re the only one who has problems? You think you’re the only one who’s getting fucked by the system? Well fuck you, and your white privileged bullshit excuse to whine to the guilt-ridden middle class to get your free handouts! The government has fucked me over more times than I can count!” And what does this mind-state do? It creates a racial class-war between those who have white skin and are suffering, and those who have black/brown skin and are suffering. And who wins in this scenario? If you guessed “the upper-class” you get a prize. (Whatchoo want, a fuzzy bear? A goldfish in a plastic tub? G’ahead. Pick something nice out. You earned it.) So now you got poor white people with guns itching to shoot any black person with or without a gun who supports a movement that indirectly claims that their suffering is invalid. And what does this “civil class war” accomplish? It creates more “criminals” for the fucking private-owned prisons to make money off of, further separating the upper-class from the lower, creating more suffering, more anger, more hate, MORE RACISM.

So is white privilege real? Psychologically, yes, to the extent that our society psychologically favors white skin over black/brown. But has it ever made me any more money? No. Has it ever stopped the cops from pulling me over and searching my car? Fuck no. I’ve been detained, searched, followed, fined, towed, impounded, harassed more than most people you know, regardless of your color. I’ve lost count of how many damn times I’ve been harassed by the cops in my city. Shit, I wrote a goddamn rap song about it back in the early 2000’s called SDPD, smashing on the fuckers for harassing a guy who was just trying to get by. And I was NEVER a criminal. I NEVER had any weapons or hard drugs (ok, some pills and plenty of pot, but…), I was NEVER robbing anyone or breaking into cars or homes or gang banging (maybe just a smidge of graffiti, but that shit’s art), or causing any kind of…ok, no, there was some drunken shenanigans, for sure, but that was mostly my boys, not me. Lol The point is, being white DID NOT stop me from getting constantly harassed by the cops in my city. You know what did? A new car, less homies in the ride, no smoke blowing from the windows, and a slightly more tempered demeanor while driving. I still bump my rap music, but I’m not in a car full of teenage “trouble-makers”. I still speed, but I come to a complete stop at them signs, bruh. I still run red lights, but I look reeeal fucking carefully when I do. I still zip in-and-out of lanes on the freeway, but I keep it below 80 (mostly). So the only thing that’s changed is that I “appear” to have more money (with a nicer ride), and I show more maturity in being on the road. My skin color hasn’t changed, but my run-ins with the cops have.

The bottom line: Crying out “white privilege” ain’t gonna help anyone but the rich who’re sitting back and raking in the dough off all the drama and weapon sales and fines and arrests and damaged property that needs to be rebuilt. So don’t make our society’s problem about a skin color. When you do that you divide people into groups when you should be uniting them. Divided we fall. I know most of your intentions are righteous, (and this goes out to white people too who’re acknowledging their “privilege”), but you’re doing it wrong. You’re creating enemies by unintentionally discrediting anyone with white skin who has suffered at the hands of the system, claiming that you own the rights (the privilege?) of deciding that they’re the ones who are privileged, all while they’re slowly rotting in inequity right beside you.

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

And that class is the rich. The 1%.

Are most of them white? Yes. But will that stop them from stealing money from poor white people? From bankrupting small businesses with corporate industry? From putting blue-collar white people out of work and replacing them with machines? From taking their homes when they can’t pay back their loans? From putting them in prison when they fight back right next to you for equality? No. Because the 1% only care about profit, and they don’t care who they have to manipulate, rob, demoralize, or demonize to get it, or what skin color those people have. Let’s get our heads right. Open them angry eyes and see who the enemy really is. And fight THAT enemy, not the enemy that their manipulation has created for you.

How? The real solution to “white privilege” and inequity and inequality is a very simple concept but an incredibly complex task. It involves creating a society where money is obsolete. When this happens there will be no more inequality. There will be no “superpowers” or 1%. There will be no poor. There will be no rich. There will be no profit other than the profit of betterment, progress, knowledge, discovery, science, quality of living. But there’s only one way to make money obsolete, and that’s by removing labor from our society. Sound crazy? That’s because you don’t realize how close we are to doing it anyway. A fully automated society is right around the bend, my dudes. We have the technology to make ALL LABOR OBSOLETE, in which case no one will have to work, in which case money will have no significance. What will have significance? RESOURCES. But this is a topic I’ve discussed before and will again soon and more directly. So for now what can we do? We demand a society that serves the people’s interests, not the corporations’. Unfortunately I can’t tell you how to this because I’m not into politics, I’m into actual change, not perpetuating the same system that’s fucking us all. My advice? Start spreading the concept of a RESOURCE BASED ECONOMY as loud and as often as you can. This type of society eliminates corruption and inequity and is only just now becoming possible thanks to advancements in technology. Look into it. Spread the word. AND STOP CREATING SEGREGATION AMONG OUR PEOPLE. Please, for fuck’s sake, stop adding to our problems and start moving towards eliminating them. #fightsmarter2020 Thanks for reading. -cc

[chancelloramidala]

Catastrophize ► Luke Crain

Chapter One.

( TW: drug abuse, death )

“Papá, why can’t I come with?” Julia frowned as she stomped around the living room with her arms crossed over her chest. She looked as serious as a nine year old could look. “It’s no fair that you get to go on an adventure so soon after Mister Luke got here.”

Vincent let out the hundredth sigh in the past hour. As much as he loved his daughter, she was being an absolute pain right now and to be frank, he had no time for pains. “Julia, hermosa, please,” he exasperated, thankful that Luke was freshening up in the bathroom so he couldn’t be able to see Julia’s temper tantrum for the night. “You’ll be able to join many other adventures, but this one is strictly for Mister Luke and I.”

Julia squinted at her father, her face twisting from anger to begrudging stillness. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re going away.”

From the tinge of sadness in her voice, Vincent’s annoyance subsided and was replaced with something fatherly. He gently patted the spot next to him on the couch, silently asking his daughter to sit with him. And when she did, Vincent stared at her for a moment and he pressed his lips into a thin line. “You know how your Tía Frida is in a better place that we cannot visit until we’re ready?”

Julia nodded diligently as her brown eyes glanced at a photograph on the fireplace mantle.

“Mister Luke’s sister, Nell, is also in that better place. But before Mister Luke can let her go there, he has to say goodbye to her one last time.”

Death was a topic Vincent knew he had to slowly teach Julia so she wouldn’t be so shell shocked in the future. With the death of his sister when she was five, and the incarceration of her mother, Vincent had to explain the difference between leaving forever (in this case, death) and leaving temporarily (in this case, prison) so Julia won’t confuse the two anymore.

“Oh,” Julia hummed for a moment and tapped her finger on her chin. “Do you think Tía Frida and Mister Luke’s sister, Nell are friends in the better place? Like taking care of each other, and making sure they’re eating all their icky vegetables?”

Vincent had to bite back a laugh. “I’m sure your Tía Frida is being force fed by Nell as we speak, hermosa.”

Julia grinned. “I’m going to make Mister Luke a card with Tía Frida and his sister Miss Nell on it!” and just like that, the nine year old hooped onto her feet and sprung out of the room in search for glitter and colorful paper.

Little did either of them know that Luke was stalking in the hallway, dressed in some of Vincent’s clothes since he didn’t have his own, and was wiping away the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand as a small smile fell on his cheeks.

.

.

.

Throughout the whole flight to Massachusetts, Luke held the picture Julia had made him with such care it almost made Vincent’s heart burst. He made sure that the drawing wouldn’t get crumpled, tucking it carefully into the sleeve of the seat in front of him during turbulence and not caring if he got glitter everywhere. With that being said, those around him who weren’t Vincent, were quite annoyed with the expansion of glitter getting on their things and on the floor, especially the flight attendants who were quietly bickering towards the back of the plane about the mess they’d have to clean up.

Also, during the flight, Luke was gripping onto Vincent’s hand because he absolutely hated flying. Vincent wasn’t complaining though, liking that he had an excuse to touch Luke without it being too obvious.

When they landed, Vincent was miraculously able to rent a car at the airport, which he drove to their hotel because he insisted they at least settle in a bit before heading to the previewing with the rest of the Crain family. Luke kept to himself most of the time, lost in his head as he tried to process that his sister was dead, and apparently by suicide in the house their mother died in. He was thankful that Vincent gave him his space and took care of the essentials like booking the room, getting him clothes, and making sure he was eating and drinking something even if he didn’t want to.

Vincent wished he could do more for Luke, take away the pain of losing a love one, nonetheless a twin. It was a familiar mourning that Vincent knew all too well, one that haunted him every single day. It was a deep, rotting, and sinking feeling that he didn't want Luke to even know about.

It neared the time to head to the funeral home for the private viewing and Vincent was surprised to find Luke ready to go, already putting on a pair of black converse by the door. It made the other man smile to himself, glad to see that Luke was able to get himself together, even in the smallest way.

“Ready to go, buddy?” Vincent asked as he slipped on his own shoes and jacket.

Luke shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Vincent nodded, sending him a reassuring smile and patted Luke’s shoulder on his way out the door.

.

.

.

“What the fuck do you mean you couldn’t find him Steve?” Shirley glared at Steve as venom spilled from her lips.

Steve, ever-so exasperated with being yelled at on today of all days, sighed and rubbed his temples. “It means I couldn’t find him, Shirley,”

“Bullshit,” Shirley spat out as she walked up to her older brother, weighing her options on if she should punch him or not. “You gave up on him, and who the fuck knows if he knows that Nellie is- what the shit, Steve? He’s your brother!”

“You don’t think I know that?” Steve felt his lips curl into both a frown and a scowl as he began to grow annoyed at Shirley and himself.

“Fucking unbelievable,” she shook her head and then turn around to get another drink. “Out of all the times you could’ve half-assed something...” she continued to mumble hateful nonsense under her breath as Kevin poured her a drink and stayed out of this Crain family drama.

Then the doorbell rang.

Everyone was confused.

Kevin went for the door, seeing that he was the only person who was functioning normally at the moment.

“Luke, hey man,” Kevin greeted Luke at the door, making sure to say his name loudly to gather his wife and siblings-in-law’s attention. “I can take your coat,”

Luke nodded at Kevin, vaguely remembering that yes, Kevin was Shirley’s husband and fumbled to remove his jacket. But then he felt cold again. “I think- I think, I’ll keep my jacket.” he was nervous to face his family right now,

“That’s alright,” Kevin smiled lightly as his eyes darted to the man that stood behind him, getting soaked by the sudden storm that rained down. “Oh, is this a friend of yours?”

Vincent took his hand out of pocket and waved at Kevin, noticing the judgmental stares he was receiving from Luke’s siblings as they went to greet him and hug him. “I’m Vincent,”

“Kevin,” he nodded, somewhat glad that there was another outsider here.

Luke and Vincent entered the funeral home, Vincent handing his jacket to Kevin while Luke slowly approached the viewing room, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Luke, hey,” Shirley hugged her brother, almost forgetting that he was as tall as a tree and built like one. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” she pulled back from him, mentally noting how he kept his hands to himself and kept biting his inner cheek.

“I’m okay,” Luke mumbled out and looked at his eldest sister. His eyes fluttered to Steve, who looked anxious. He quickly averted his gaze and started to carefully tread over to the open casket as he caught a glance of Nell’s body.

His heart beating loudly against his chest and all the air in his lungs suddenly disappearing as his mouth went dry. “I can’t-- I can’t-- I can’t...” he turned around and speed out of the viewing room, Vincent instantly following after him.

“Who the hell is his friend?” Shirley asked Theo and Steve. “You don’t think he’s also an...” her words faded off as assumptions quickly flooded into her mind.

“I don’t know,” Steve replied in a hushed tone. “I can’t really... tell.”

The three of them, along with Kevin, carefully walked away from the viewing room to see an interesting sight. It was Luke, sitting on one of the couches, a sniffling and stuttering mess besides Vincent, who’s hand was attached to Luke’s, listening and nodding along to his every word.

“Hey, Luke,” Steve slowly approached his younger brother, crouching in front of him and Vincent, but mainly focusing his attention on Luke. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Yeah, I, um... I... I thought... I thought I could do it.” Luke shook as he spoke, his mind whirling with a thousand thoughts that were going by too fast and messily for him to comprehend.

Steve said, sympathetic as to why his brother was shakily breathing and stuttering.“I know,” 

“Take your time, buddy.” Vincent told him, gently squeezing his much larger hand.

“She’s right there,” Luke turned his head to Vincent, every chaotic noise in his head and bones finding peace when he thought about the other man.

“We can wait,” Vincent said softly, his eyes glazing over the Crain siblings who were staring at him with a mixture of emotions. Then he returned his attention to Luke, who was still breathing shakily and removed his hand from his to give him a warm side hug. Of course, Luke returned the hug, his hands wrapping around Vincent’s body as he felt his breathing slowly go back to normal.

“Can... can... you... can you...” can you go with me? Luke tried to say as they pulled back, completely forgetting that they were under the watchful eyes of Shirley, Theo, and Steve (oh and Kevin).

Vincent didn’t even hesitate. “Of course,”

Vincent waited for Luke’s cue, not wanting to force him when to go see Nell and slipped his hand back into Luke’s. Kevin asked if Vincent and Luke wanted an ice tea, and Vincent answered for both of them, knowing that Kevin just wanted out of this awkward shit.

“Okay, okay,” Luke said to himself and started to get to his feet, leading Vincent to follow.

They stood in the back, Vincent’s hand being squeezed by Luke’s grasp. “And if you’re not ready, we can just go back. No one will blame you for it.”

Luke remained silent, but took the first step down the aisle and Vincent stood by him, hands still intertwined like two pieces of a puzzle.

This was the second time Vincent had seen Nell, and despite that, he knew Nell didn’t look like she was sleeping. Luke went slack beside Vincent, staring at his dead twin and the bottled up sadness Vincent hadn’t felt in four years. He sniffed and for a second, Vincent swore he saw Frida instead of Nell and jumped back, his chest tightening as his breathing quickened.

He bumped into someone and when he turned around, he saw that it was Shirley, her stern eyes laid heavily on him. “Sorry, sorry,”

“It’s okay,” Shirley told him, resting a hand on his arm as she stared at his face. “We’re all going through some shit tonight.”

“I just...” Vincent carefully walked away from Nell’s casket with Shirley following beside him, and ran a hand over his face. “I haven’t been to a funeral since... since my sister...”

“Oh,” Shirley subsided her annoyance with Vincent and felt sympathetic towards him. “I’m sorry,”

Vincent shook his head as he walked over to the mini bar, grabbing a glass and whichever bottle he could get his hands on. “I should be the one that’s sorry, it’s your sister in this room, not mine.” he said as he poured himself a drink.

“Why are you here anyway?” Shirley suddenly asked while Vincent took a short sip of whiskey. “No offense, but this is sort of a... private family matter.”

“None taken,” Vincent was glad with the straightforwardness from Shirley because he was starting to wonder when someone would ask. “I’m here for Luke though, he needs all the support he needs right now.”

“Were you the one that found him?” She continued to batter him with questions.

“Took me two hours, nearly three.” he chuckled quietly at the memory of driving all throughout LA, ignoring every single speed limit to find Luke.

Shirley looked thankful, her stone cold facade towards Vincent completely melting away and softened. “Was he, you know...”

Vincent quickly shook his head and took another sip of his glass.“No, but then again I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“Doctor?” she raised a brow.

“I’m an ophthalmologist.”

“Oh, that’s... cool---”

“It's just not fucking fair.” Luke loudly muttered as he stomped away from Nell’s casket and into the other room. “Fuck!”

Vincent then nodded his head at Shirley, as if it was a silent “got to go” and then left her near the mini bar to go after Luke, who was crying into his hands in the corner of the room. Vincent instantly sat next to him, rubbing his back as silence filled the air between them and did his best to comfort him.

He knew that it was going to be a long night and that sleep alone was out the window, but that didn’t matter. Only Luke mattered right now.

Masterlist

[laughing-with-god]

Pen Pal Final (Part two of two)

Words; 6k

“Everyone can start again, not through love but through revenge.  Through the fire, we’re born again.  Peace by vengeance, brings the end.”

Surprisingly, you felt no sense of sadness.

Remorse simply evaded you with great ease.

Were you a fucked up person?  Had you suddenly hit the imaginary brick wall of stockholm syndrome?  Why did you feel so...indifferent? Aloof, even...

You watched the very woman who made your existence possible, who held you for 9 months and raised you well into adulthood, get butchered in cold blood right before you.  Her nagging and shrill voice was ringing in your ears only seconds prior, until it simply wasn’t anymore. Cut off by a stabbing of her esophagus and never allowed to speak again.  Abused into an eternal silence.

Yet, the breakage of some type of emotional dam never came.  What replaced it was an odd tingling of numbness that left you barren of remorse.  Like shell shock; your body thought denial of the nervous system was the best route of coping.  

Like a scene of a cheesy 70’s horror movie, you witnessed Jungkook grin evilly over the fresh corpse of your mother.  His youthful and dapper face held the disgusting splatters of gory red ink, although he seemed to pay it no attention as he turned his focus onto you.  

“Don’t worry, sugar.”  His voice was smooth and thick, unaffected yet sweet.  It doused the walls of the murder scene with sticky honey as if the most horrendous crime against humanity wasn’t just committed.  You watched your ‘pal’ take a good look at his knife and run his finger along the blade, collecting droplets of blood. He didn’t look up from the action as he said, “You’ll never have to worry about her again.”  

Your legs lost their strength and you felt your sense of balance waver.  Although you felt your body crumble, you refused to look away from Jungkook.  You much rather study his face that held an odd mixture of chaos with adolescence and was tainted with the plasma of your mother than look down upon the carcass itself.  

Behind his onyx irises gleamed a sick sense of satisfaction; if it wasn’t evident in his eyes it was sure clear from his smirk.  Justice had prevailed in his odd sense of logic and he had made himself the judge, jury and executioner of such case. Proud he stood, like a hunter over his captured and massacred prey, almost beaming at the prospect of hanging her ‘antlers’ on his wall as a cheap trophy.  

The smell of metallic iron and copper haunted the room, along with the remnants of your mom’s floral perfume that always managed to give you headaches.  This would be the final time you would experience that scent; it radiating out of the glands of her stiff and lifeless body and breeding with the aroma of her claret blood.  

You heard a bulky ‘thump’ sound.

It took you a bit to realize that it was the sound of your own body hitting the floor.  

Your legs had given out.  

Your pathetic legs were folded feebly underneath you, your upper half was still upright and staring ahead at the man in front of you.  In response, he raised a brow and casually stepped over the body before lowering himself to your level, feet still planted in the ground but arms over his knees and gazing expectantly at you.  

“What’s wrong?”  

Like watching a shapeshifter in action, you witnessed his unforgiving eyes morph into that of a docile puppy.  Glassy and syrupy, his orbs bore into yours in fondness and concern.

You quickly ripped your eye line away from him, not knowing if you could bear his face at a new found close-range.  

Instead you stared straight ahead, the steady stream of blood from the neck of your mother was flowing onto the carpet, staining the fabric below with a ruby puddle-like stain.  

Jungkook seemed to follow your gaze and breathed out a cheery ‘oh!’ when he caught sight of what you were so fixated on.  

“I’m sorry, dear.  I know you hate messes but I promise I’ll clean it all up.”  he focused more on the mess than the actual reason behind it.

A pause followed as you heard Jungkook stand up.  

“Now...where do you keep your garbage bags?”

--

The water that hit your frame was scolding hot, enough to boil really, yet it affected you not.  

You let the pattering stream beat your body into a gooey submission, your very skin screaming for the abuse to end as it broke out in angry red rashes.  The handle bar for the temperature of water was turned all the way to the hot side, releasing a rain of hell upon your naked and fragile form.

You were far from a masochist, yet the pleasure you took in such torment suggested a link to you and the behavior.

Although the setting of the shower would bring the assumption of cleaning oneself, you did not bother with soap.  

The blazing water was more than enough to disinfect whatever filth was attached to you.  

Yet the filth you seeked to rid of was not a physical layer of grime, rather it was a deeper sense of rot that tainted your very soul and essence of being.  

Guilt and shame was what you wished to wash away.  

The fiery water was meant to remind you of where you would be going after death.

And the agony it brought was meant to force you to experience a fraction of what your mother did when she was annihilated before you.

Why didn’t you do anything?

Why did you just sit and watch?

Why do you CONTINUE to do nothing?  

Why did you let your fears rule your life?  

First the world, your plan of action was to hide from it.  

And now, Jungkook….

He invaded your home and made himself comfortable...and you still just let him do what he pleases.  Your fate was easily compared to that of a cattle, sheltered until time for slaughter. And today you saw first hand how easy killing came to him.  A blink of an eye and you can be over and done with. Although your life was uneventful, you still treasured what other people were unable to; the comfiness of your home, the reading a book, a mug of your favorite warm drink…...and to think that all could be gone due to a swift mood swing of Jungkook.

After Jungkook had announced that he needed a garbage bag, your body leapt into auto-pilot and hastily made way to the bathroom.  

You locked yourself in the tiny room and pressed your body against it, the belated tears had made their arrival and cascaded down your face as sobs shook your body.  

You heard Jungkook knock on the door a few times, asking if you were okay.  

When he heard no response other than your cries, he blatantly told you in what he must’ve thought was a reassuring tone that he was going to “take care of the issue”.    

Moments later, you heard the front door of your apartment open and close.  

It was going without say, he was going to dispose of the body.  

You took it upon yourself to punish the sinful and weak actions you had partook in.  Since clearly any higher power up there was severely lacking in forcing their hand to you.  How was it that the evil seemed to live on while the good died? Your sister and mother were taken too soon and too harshly, while someone like you (spineless and delirious) and Jungkook (sinister and heartless) lived on.  It wasn’t fair. And for this very reason, you had a hard time believing in ‘god’....for what god allows such wicked actions to unfold amidst his creations?

Your body ached and the scalding temperature had become too much to bear, despite how much you wished to suffer.  

You found yourself turning the water off and facing the steamed bathroom, it had become so foggy that it was hard to even make out what was right in front of you.  

You reluctantly stepped out of the shower and snatched a towel, wrapping it around your shivering figure.  

You approached the sink and wiped the steam from the mirror above with your bare hand, the coldness of the glass causing you to hiss as your hand was basically grilled from the torment.  

You studied your reflection.  

Your face was paler than usual; pores having lost color due to shock.  Your torso downwards was reddish and heavily marked with what you had made your body endure in that bathtub.  Your hair was soaked and darkened, while your dull eyes stared back at you; redshot and traumatized.

You gazed at the broken girl in the mirror with self-hatred swirling in your gut with each passing second.

Time passed. Whether it was an hour or a few minutes, you did not know.  You and your reflection were having a stare down, it was easier to degrade and despise when you had the face of the person staring right back at you.  

Your dry throat let out an even drier chortle, the sound chilling even to you.  

You were beyond hope.  

--

When you heard the sound of the apartment door opening once more with Jungkook’s arrival, the fear and doom you were expecting to experience did not hit you.  

Instead, you just waited.  

You were laying on your bed, staring up at the white ceiling with a tranquility that you had no right to feel given current circumstances.  You suspected that it was from a peculiar sense of acceptance. Like when someone with a terminal disease is coming to terms with their end, you also felt no need to fight destiny.  Thus, you just waited for the ruler of your fate to find you.

Your ears had heard nothing but silence for hours now, therefore the noise of Jungkook’s approaching footsteps were easily picked up upon.  Jungkook wasted no time heading to the bedroom, searching your presence as if he was a moth to flame.

The door creaked open and he slowly emerged into the room.  

You still did not turn to face him, depending on hearing alone to deduce his movements and actions.  A quick shuffling followed and then you felt a weight press down beside you, his body now accompanying yours via laying right beside you and facing the ceiling.  

The sound of your guys’ breathing is all that was heard.  Jungkook’s breaths more shallow and quick while yours was deep and slow.  It was like this for a minute, almost a peaceful scene...until your mouth felt the need to move on its’ own accord.

“You’re a monster.”  

There it was...out in the open for Jungkook to dissect and ravish.  Your blunt and unfiltered feelings were finally dished out, this time with no fear of punishment that had held you back before.  It was something that needed to escape your chest, the weight of it was practically crushing you and breaking a few ribs in the process, it was a matter of time before it would smother your lungs.  Even if he were to beat or kill you for speaking so boldly, the relief of finally saying those words to him would easily overshadow the pain he could inflict on you. If those were your last words to your killer, you would at least die with some peace of mind.  

A sharp intake of breath.  Then, a chuckle.

“I know.”  Your felt more than heard Jungkook change position beside you, arm propped up on the pillow for him to rest his head on while he gazed down at you from a higher viewpoint.  “Can you blame me though? The world made me like this. You understand….right?”

You scoffed at this lukewarm response.  This was apparently a cue for him to continue even further.  

“Y/n, you can look down upon me from whatever pedestal you wish, but the fact of the matter is that we’re not too different you and I.  We both are one of a kind, the only two people who seem to notice how fucked and deranged our surroundings are. I’ve never met anyone else who saw things just as I had.  The only difference is that our strategies of surviving are different. Whilst I decide to fight back and get rid of people I need to, you simply chose to isolate yourself from everything.  But the core of our values and fears are the same. Identical, even.” Jungkook paused, most likely to allow you a second to process what he had just said. To let the seed fully plant in your brain and soak into your understanding.  “Baby, the only reason you’re shaken by me is because you see something in me. Deep inside, you know I would never hurt you.  So why are you so afraid? Well, the reason is this; you see yourself in me.”  

You blinked away oncoming tears, the words he had spoken were soul crushing- true or not.  They screamed in your itching ears and pounded viciously at your already bruised heart. Guilt ate away at you because the chain of events was spelled out for you; if you weren’t an anti-social and paranoid freak, then you would have never appealed to Jungkook or even reached out to him in the first place.  You were the honey that attracted the bee, knowingly or not. And it ended up being the worst mistake of your life. One that others would have to pay for with their lives.

“W-why?”  Your voice was watery and hoarse, defeated and battered.  

You didn’t even know what you were asking an explanation for.  There was too much that lacked any logical sense to you, you knew that you would never reach satisfying conclusions for half of them.  But you still would lap at whatever mental response Jungkook would give you, you wanted to die at least knowing as much as you could. Even if it was through the crazed lense of a killer.  

“Don’t be stupid, Y/n.  You’re smarter than that.  You know damn well that you belong to me as I belong to you.  We’re soulmates, every bit of ourselves is meant to compliment the other, even when we are opposites it only serves for greater balance.”  He huffed. “Don’t be like the other girls, they were too foolish to see how dedicated I am to those I love. I know you’re different and I know that seeing your mother die must’ve freaked you out but you have to trust that I know what’s best for you...for us.”

You licked your lips and shut your eyelids, hoping the added pressure would help dissolve the tears welling up in your eyes.  

“I would kill for you.  In fact, I already had. Can’t you see how loyal and faithful I am of you?  Do you think I would do that for just anyone? No….of course I wouldn’t. My violence is reserved for you because your soul was carefully constructed to be mine.  Out of all the inmates you could have gotten paired with, you got me. Out of all the ideologies you could’ve had, you shared my fucked up one. This isn’t coincidence, this is fate.  No matter how looney people may call me, I know god’s work when I see it.”

Those were the last words you heard before Jungkook glided the covers over your bodies, silently deeming it time for sleep before he engulfed your smaller frame with his limbs, like an octopus attempting to trap someone.  He kissed your temple and snuggled closer, quickly finding the sought after rest that you wouldn’t have the luxury of receiving till much later.

--

Your body was heavy with fatigue.  

Your mind was even more groggy, it’s usual gears were strained with the emotional stimulation you had experienced that day.  

You were somewhere between consciousness and sleep, not fully awake but also not well within the depths of rem cycle either.  Something just told you that you weren’t going to get sleep that night as well, but that didn’t stop you from feigning rest in Jungkook’s arms.  

Said killer was genuinely knocked out, grip still tight on you and heavy breathing of a relaxed man was sounding right in your ear.  

It was like clockwork in the otherwise mute room, the sounds of his intake and disposure of breath, each one radiating warmth upon your neck.  

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exha- “Psst!”

Your bleary eyes shot open at the sudden and unexpected whispering.  

Your lips trembled in shock.  

You knew very well that it wasn’t you nor Jungkook who made that noise.  

And nothing could have prepared you for what you saw when you turned your head towards the sound, the sight almost scream inducing and heart dropping.  

She was bent over the side of your bed, face close in proximity to yours.  She wore a white dress and her hair was down and flowing in its’ natural state, strands illuminated in the moonlight.  She gazed at you with care in her (E/c) orbs as her lips twisted up in a gentle smile, the fondness of seeing an old friend or loved one after a long time.  

Her face held features almost identical to yours, although hers’ were a bit more refined due to the aged nature.  The similarities gave away the obvious to any outsider who might have stumbled upon the sight, you two were siblings.

Such visitation would be more than welcomed and no cause for concern, if it weren’t for the fact your sister was dead.  

She released a giggle at your horrified expression, seemingly unable to understand why you’d be stunned at her arrival from beyond the grave.  

“Hurry up, we don’t have much time.”  She hushed before reaching over to nudge your arm, encouraging you to move.  Her touch wasn’t ice cold like movies or books depicted ghosts to be, instead it was just as warm and fleshy as how she felt when she was alive.  

You looked back at Jungkook, then back at her hoping she can see your conundrum of being stuck and not able to get up like she wished.  In response she just rolled her eyes, reminding you all too well of how carefree and bold your sister had been in life. She minded the killer not (as you probably would have too if you were dead and couldn’t be killed again) and grabbed your arm to pull you off the bed.  “Don’t worry, he’s not going to get up.”

Before you could ask her how she would even know that Jungkook would stay unaware, she was already dragging you out the room and to the main part of your apartment.  Surprisingly, you didn’t hear Jungkook awake from his slumber or seek out your now missing presence from his hold.

Her footsteps were speedy but soundless, and the remark of ‘running out of time’ rang in your head.  What time crunch could she possibly be under?

The living area of your home was doused in darkness, the only light source originated from the the street lights and moon that filtered through the windows.  Your sister guided you to a particular window, releasing your arm momentarily to unlock and open it.

You watched in confusion as she leaned out of the open window, as if to check something underneath the floor you lived in.

“W-what are you doing?”  You asked, not comprehending anything of what your ghost of a sister was setting out to accomplish.    

She turned to face you with a mischievous grin, a look you were familiar with when she usually was in the beginning process of cooking up an elaborate plan.  

“Y/n, did you know that there’s a fire escape right by this window?”  Her voice was innocent yet clever, like a teacher trying to gently lead a student to an answer without directly spelling it out to them.  

She turned to face you, and waved you over to get closer to the frame of the window and look down at whatever she was studying.  She wanted you to see something.

You did so without question, if your sister made a trip from the afterlife to visit; the least you could do is entertain whatever she wanted to show you.  

The briskness of the night air pinched at your cheeks as you leaned your face outside the window.  You looked down and saw the other windows of the people who lived floors below you, some dark and some still illuminated by light.  

Your brows furrowed at this mediocre sight.  But then your sister said something once again.  

“The neighbor who lives right below you, Mrs. Winkel I think, watches soap operas well into the break of dawn.”  

Your brows rose higher at that, confused at such an odd statement and even more befuddled at how she would know such information about people neither you or her had met.  It was so symblominal...like a riddle for you to solve.

“What does th-”  you were cut off by a pair of slim arms hugging you from behind, your sister having spooned you from the back as she rested her chin on your shoulder.  

“You’re going to live.  It’s not your time to go yet.  Trust me on this…Just heed my hints.”  

You turned around in order to ask her face to face to be more clear about what she was trying to say...but you were faced with nothing but a dark living room that was empty besides yourself.  

--

You awoke with a startle, your body having sat up as you gasped for air and placed a hand on your drumming heart.  

You wildly snapped your head back and forth, searching your bedroom for an unseen figure lurking in the shadows.  

But alas, everything was just as you had remembered it to be.  

Jungkook was still sleeping deeply beside you, arms this time holding a pillow instead of you.  

You took deep breaths and tried to calm down as you realized what had just happened; you had drifted off and had a dream.

It was just a dream.

Your sister wasn’t really here.  

You weren’t sure whether or not to be relieved by the revelation that your sister did not in fact rise from the dead to give you a little visit.  On the other hand, the discovery of it just being a dream was semi-alarming. You had never had dreams of her before, and the realism of it was concerning.

It felt so real…

Cold sweat dripped from your forehead and you ripped the covers off of your body in search for escape of the suffocating heat.  

Your throat and mouth were parched in a dryness that was the equivalent of having swallowed a handful of sand.  Your tastebuds were pleading for cool water to soothe the agony. Thus you got up on shaky legs and quietly made your way to the kitchen, careful not to awaken Jungkook.  

You took your time in pouring the water into the cup and gulping it down.  You were in no means in a rush to return to bed with Jungkook, you still were shocked that you even managed to catch a wink of rest next to him after what he did that day.  

While you drank the liquid, you found your mind replaying the dream over and over again in your head.  The details in it were so precise and careful, something you doubted your brain could conjure up on a whim.  

You wondered….

You found your eyes drifting to the very same window that your sister referenced in the dream.  Curiousity fueled you to walk over to it and peek through the glass, wondering if the sight would be the same to what you had seen in your dream.  

You gasped when you indeed saw what your sister had said; a fire escape was there.  

You froze in shock as you tried to piece together the unseen puzzle that was awaiting your resolution.  

“Did you know that there’s a fire escape right by this window?”

“Your neighbor right below you watches soap operas well into the break of dawn.”

“You’re going to live.”

“Trust me on this….just heed my hints.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief as your sisters’ knowing voice rang in your mind…

Could it be that your dream was spelling out an escape plan?  

You took a deep breath and weighed out your options, silently gazing out the window and trying to calculate the logistics of such strategy.  

If you didn’t act out and attempt the window proposal, you would have to return back to Jungkook and possibly spend years with him...if he didn’t snap and kill you, that is.  Your options of escape were very limited to none, given you couldn’t just burst out the apartment due to your horrendous anxiety. Also, all means of reaching out were utterly destroyed by Jungkook.  The fire escape could be your only source of reaching out, yet it was a messy plan that held one too many untrustworthy factors. What if you used the escape to knock on your neighbor’s window and get her attention, only for her to shoo you away?  What if you fell off the escape and five stories down to your death? What if you got stuck and Jungkook was left to find you the next day? That would be a sure deathwish. Either way, you were not guaranteed happy ending.

“Trust me.”

You closed your eyes and heaved in air with shuddering breaths, along with whatever courage you could gather.  

You didn’t know if it was pathetic or liberating that you would rather die trying to leave him with this shitty plan rather than waiting the whole situation out with him.  

You slowly opened the window, sliding it upwards and cursing the little screeching noise it made after being utilized after so many years.

The night air was cold, but due to the adrenaline in your veins you managed to not feel it’s painful sting.  You slowly placed your foot onto the metal of the step on the fire escape, taking much longer than needed to slowly shift the rest of your weight onto it.  As if you were in slow motion, you tactfully descended downwards.

The window right below yours glowed like some sort of safe haven just awaiting you.  You noted with a tearful shock that you could see into the living room of this lady’s home and what you saw caused your heart to flutter; she was watching soap operas.  

“...watches soap operas well into the break of dawn.”

She was an older woman, this was given from her wrinkles, grey hair, slouched posture and seemingly homemade sweater.  Her beady eyes were magnified by the intensity of her prescription glasses, that reminded you of the bottom of coke glasses, as she soaked in the screen in front of her with awe.  

Your fate depended on this old little lady.  

You reached out a quivering hand and knocked thrice onto her glass window.  

She looked up and saw you, eyes widening almost comically before thrusting into action and moving her little senior legs to open the window.  

You cried and cried, looking at her in a pleading beg as she attempted to calm you and get you inside the safety of her home.  

“Please call 911.  Please call. I’m begging.”  You sobbed over and over again.  

--

The calming scent of peppermint tea was all you could smell as Mrs. Winkel threw a blanket over your shaking form.  

She had rushed you into her home and shut the window before closing the blinds.  Then she reached for her ancient home phone and dialed up the sacred three numbers that you had called out for like a prayer.  

She made you tea and tried to soothe you enough to get a clear picture of what was happening.  All you could manage to tell her was that there was a very bad man holding you hostage in your apartment.

Mrs. Winkel pinched your cheek and said something about ‘young and dumb love’ which made you cringe.  She probably thought this was a boyfriend having gone crazy situation. If only she knew there was a seasoned serial killer right above her.  

She had called the police about six minutes ago and you two were frantically waiting for their arrival.  She mentioned that the police station was somewhat far away from where you two lived, noting that it may take a while for them to come.  But they were on their way, and that was all that mattered.

This did nothing to help your nerves.  

Neither did the resounding bellowing noise of glass crashing violently that followed shortly after.

Like a bat out of hell, you watched in horror as he tumbled into the area with shards of glass raining down chaotically around him.  

The blade of a knife was held between his clenched teeth.  

The tea cup in your hand dropped as you realized how doomed you truly were.

He had found you.  

He had caught on to your little plan.  

And he was furious.  

Jungkook stood up to his full height, eyes sharp as steel and set on you and this poor old lady.  He tilted his head and retrieved his weapon from his mouth, tossing it casually in the air as if it were a pencil and not the way your mother had met her end.  

“....Well, this definitely is going to be my oldest one yet.”  He stalked forward and you felt Mrs. Winkel cower beside you. “I must say, I feel a little less guilty knowing you lived a full life.”  He rumbled, obviously addressing the elder.

Your blood ran cold and a terrible realization that you were going to witness yet another murder hit you like a freight train.  

You couldn’t let him do that.  

You just couldn’t.

Not when you were so close.  

In a swift and haste movement, you hurled your body into his in hopes of containing him in any way.  

You two rolled onto the floor, him groaning while you just tried your hardest to get that knife as far away from him as you can.  His grasp was stubborn however and your prying was rendered useless. You didn’t give up the fight though, if only it was for the sake of time until the cops came.  

This continued for a few seconds and you heard Mrs. Winkel scream and shuffle towards the exit of her home, hopefully calling for help.  

Jungkook released a grunt and steadily overpowered you, pinning you down with your hands above your head.  Your body weakly wriggled in response, for the first time ever you responded with fight instead of flight. It wasn’t like you had any choice though….

You stopped your movements when you noticed that his arms were simply unmoveable and pleadingly looked up at Jungkook’s bottomless orbs, hoping that a moment of vulnerability could get you through to him.  

“Don’t.”  You cried, desperate that there was a twinge of empathy in his cold heart...a crumb of logic somewhere left in his deranged mind.  Something.  He had to have been a normal guy at some point, right?  If only you could scrape through the layers of his insane persona to get to a softer side...a side that would give you a fighting chance of escaping.  

His doe eyes watered up with unshed tears, lower lip trembling as he clearly read the fear on your face….fear caused by him.  “I-I have to do this. It’s the only way to keep you with me.”

His voice was hoarse and for the first time ever, you heard a powerless tone seep from his words.  

You stilled as an epiphany stole your focus.  

Sympathy swelled in your heart, and an odd sense of love for this maniacal boy bestowed you.  Never would you excuse what he had done, yet the reasoning behind his actions was a tragedy like no other.  His love for you was beyond reason or morals, it was as self-destructive as it was outwardly destructive to any poor soul that crossed his path.  All because his worship of you that blinded him along with a basic sense of right and wrong. He showed his affection the only way he knew how; killing.  A string of victims before you were evidence of his overzealous allegiance to the object of his affection. It was a catastrophe that he had found you...that he had formed such a connection with the one person he thought would understand him.  That his mind was sick and yours was sicker. How hypocritical would it be for you to place judgment on someone who also had an illness of the mind?

In a final goodbye and unsaid apology, you leaned up and planted your lips against his.   He was going to rot away but you couldn’t bring yourself to be so harsh as to not give him a taste of what he so hungirly craved.  Maybe if he wasn’t so crazed and you weren’t so neurotic….you two would have made a decent pair. But destiny made you two too fundementaly flawed for you two to ever experience the luxury of love.  Jungkook only knew obsession, while you only knew fear.

His lips shivered against yours and you felt tears (that didn’t belong to you) splatter against your face.  

“Freeze!  Police! Get off the woman and put your hands in the air!”  

--

~Epilogue~

With the tale over, you raised your eyes to meet the gentle but shocked gaze of the judge.  

Your turn on the witness stand was lengthy, but it was what the case against Jungkook was built around.  You nervously spilled your guts to the courtroom, knowing all too well how naive you sounded and how fucked the series of events were.  

With the mention of Jungkook, you caught yourself looking across the courtroom (something you promised yourself you wouldn’t do) to find the man.  He was sitting on the defense side, orange jumpsuit looking all too familiar against his sturdy figure and snowy skin.

His black eyes pierced ruthlessly at you, devouring your soul whole while his masked expression revealed little emotion to the anecdote you had just exposed to the jury and judge.  Beside him, Jungkook’s lawyer sat with a puffed face and exhausted frown. The case was hard to defend and he without a doubt knew what an uphill battle it would be to get his client out of this.  Yet, Jungkook seemed relaxed and at peace with everything happening around him. His lawyer doing all the stressing out for him.

You attention was stolen by a police officer leading you off the witness stand and back to your seat.  

Moments later, the jury would announce their verdict.  

You however did not wish to stick around for that.  You gathered your bag and moved to leave the room, not wishing to be under these spectors’ microscope anymore by showing them your breakdown to Jungkook’s final punishment.  

You had come to terms long ago with Jungkook’s sanity, you set aside your judgements because Jungkook was right when he said that you saw yourself in him….

To watch him get sentenced to a possible death or even a more stricter life sentence was jarring to you.  You knew that it was what he deserved but it didn’t make the sting hurt any less. He needed help...if only someone was willing to help him.  But your plea to the jury for a mental institution was overruled by the death of your mother and his previous record of five victims.

You understood him in an odd way…he was like the more brutal half to your soul.  

But you also couldn’t forgive.

That’s why you decided to let Jungkook face the music alone.  It wasn’t revenge, it was justice. Your heart and brain were too in conflict with each other for you to view this without bias.  

When you headed for the exit of the courtroom, you heard the tortured hollering of Jungkook.  

“Y/N!!  DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!  I NEED YOU! WE NEED EACH OTHER!  I’M SORRY! YOU-” a struggling sound cut him off as some officers attempted to settle him back down.  

You didn’t look back.  

Jungkook was a part of you that needed to die, no matter how painful it would be.  

When you exited the courtroom and eventually the entire building, you smiled at the bustling sidewalks and streets before breathing in the crisp fall air.  

The world was indeed scary.

But after Jungkook, nothing could frighten you anymore.

(so....after 27,300 words pen Pal is finally over.  i’m kinda sorry if this ending was unsatisfactory bc I’ve always been bad with wrapping my stories up but like tbh I kinda don’t care what anyone says anymore.  So many ppl hit up my inbox about how they wanted the story to end up and someone even had a problem with the mom character which is funny bc I always planned for her death but like all I gotta say is; WRITE UR OWN FUCKING STORY.  I did.  So anyway srry for the mistakes bc I was in such a rush to post and my laptop thought it’d be cute to get virus.  Please tell me what you thought and send love to my other stories.  Signing off, Chinkbihh.)

(Ps, I kinda wanna do a FAQ for Pen pal for questions about the characters and process of writing this story, let me know if ya’ll would want this and what questions you have.)

[cruddyborderlandstheories]

GEARBOX THIS IS EVERYTHING I’VE EVER WANTED THAAAAHAHAHAANK YOUUUUU

FUCK OKAY TRAILER BREAKDOWN BECAUSE I AM LOOOOOOSING MY FUCKING MIND OVER THIS TRAILER HOOOOOLY SHIT

POSSIBLE PSOILERS??? MAYBE? GOD DDDDDAYMN WHAT A WAY TO GET BACK INTO THE THEORY SCENE LMAO

SO FIRST OF ALL I’M NOT CERTAIN THIS IS RELATED TO THE BARMAN/SECOND STARS CULT QUEST I FOUND IN THE FILES AS SOME PEOPLE SUGGESTED, BUT I WILL ADMIT IT IS SUSPICIOUSLY SPECIFIC. MAINLY ABOUT A CULT AND THE FACT WE SEE A BAR HANGING OUT IN THE TRAILER, BUT HEY, I AM NOT GOING TO MAKE ASSUMPTIONS RIGHT NOW I AM JUST GOING TO ENJOY THIS WHILE I CAN

ANd breathe in

breathe okay

okay

im okay.

i’ve watched this trailer like 15 times already oh my god it’s so good. i wasnt so hyped about the casino dlc bc, like, i already spoiled myself on it BUT THIS IS (AS FAR AS WE KNOW) UNCHARTED TERRITORY AND

IT’S TECHNICALLY A WATER PLANET

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

okay

okay

i will stop using caps

for the most part

hhhhhhh

okay.

let’s just be calm. i got this

BUT HAVE YOU SEEN THIS THOUGH????

oh ym goD

the fucking lighthouse sent me. i just. i went feral for a solid hour and a half. just wheezing on my test. i fell onto the floor at one point, don’t remember when. it was so fucking good, i couldn’t feel my goddamn hands

;-; its so beautiful i could stare at this all day hhhhhhh

i just

hhhhhhhhhhhh

oh ym godddd ;-;-;-;-;-;-;

it’s so fucking beautiful

i can’t

okay

we see the gun/health station under the lighthouse so it’s not really THAT big, and we can see a town in the distance. running across the ice sheets is giving me HUGE southern shelf vibes which i am in love with. this whole aesthetic is just ;w; so good

there’s a catch a ride in that town as well so we know this area is fairly big (which is confirmed in a later shot)

and oh my GOD can you imagine seeing some big ol beast lurking beneath the surface of the ice sheets hohhhh

MAN

okay sorry im still not oevr this its just so fckign good

inside the belly of the beast rotting Monster and OHHHHHHHHHHH THE IMPLICATION-s of that. of that. im calm.

we get a look at 2 new enemies and mmmmmm we get a better look at them later on so just look how fuckig beautiful thsi area is with its acid that’s probably rotting stomach acid and AAAAAAAA

first close up of the town, giving me really big uhhhh we happy few vibes? which im not complaining about

TENTACLES asdfghj

anywway more toen, bridge looks like like athenas which is DOPE im hype for more athenas-esque architecture

the TOWNss oh my god im so im love with this aesthetic god. damn.it i need this injected directly into my veins like right N O W

also the bridge is going over another pool of acid, which the tentacle is coming out of. i imagine this monster was sorta acid based, which is funny. since. frozen water planet. and it’s OOZY too. oozy boy means the eridians didn’t make this one! ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

hm who’s ready to face the unintended consequences of our actions?! NOT THE ERIDIANS WHOOO BOY (you cannot tlel me that there are mantakores on this planet and not say there was eridian fuckering going on nooOOPE)

also, side note, DIGGING the spike pit under the house on the bottom right. hope we get to explore that bad boy

ALSO

who are you mysterious figure whose cape billows in the wind? are you just part of the environment?? MAYBE

more town

first look at that BEAUITUFL red barrier which OOOOH I WANNA TOUCH SO BADLY

look at it

LOOK AT IT

NOODLE BOWL

EATS??? food place?? im not sure i can’t read, Jared, 19

see s-ar(?)ed??

THAT

THAT IS BEAUTIFUL

doesn’t look like a corporation shield (no corporation gunk lying around either) and we do know red glowy shit is the New Eridian Aesthetic, so im just saying.

it could be a corporation tho, mostly because uhhh later shots

hold up

that’s not uhhhhhhhhhhh

yeah it CAN’T BE lol

cursetown - something something

these red thingies are probably just rotting monster flesh but it does look very similar to the vines on nekrotefeyo

given how worried wainwright looks i imagine him and hammylocks are being coerced into the whole marriage thing in order to complete a ritual

i mean no judgement but that red background is absolutely garrish for a wedding

1. pirate ship??? please??? look at all the mist outside and the wooden bars

god PLEASE can i get a pirate ship.  CNA I PLEASE GET A PIRATE SHIP

Captain scarlett wsan’t enoughhhh

2. why the fuck does she have a tail

3.

DJ Midnight performing Saturday: The Dark Mix Deep W???? Hear The Voices (hmmm) and Let The Music Enter You

gee i wonder if this is cultist propaganda

I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU PEOPLE ARE

BUT YOUR TIMING

SUCKS

IIIII AM HERMEAUS MORAAA

no wait wrong game

BUT BRO TENTACLES COMING OUT OF THE MAGIC PORTALS???? UFCKF UEYS THIS FITS PERFECTLY INTO H2O A- i mean, damn haven’t we got enough tentacles from the destroyer?? wow gearbox... heh. hm.

SO I AM WONDERING IF MAYBE THE GREEN UNDER THE BRIDGE AND SUCH ISN’T LIKE CORROSIVE ACID BUT MAYHAPS SOME SORT OF MAGIC SLUDGE COMING OFF THE BIG OL MONSTER BOY THAT THESE CULTISTS ARE HARNESSING TO TAP INTO something. i lost steam. but i mean MAGIC PORTALS

and we all know where teleportation takes us

MANTAKORES!!! WHICH MEANS ERIDIAN INTERVENTION SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE

they seem like fire/ice boys which i absolutely adore

THIS SHOT IS SO COOL OH MY GOD

LIKE I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN IT JUST LOOKS D O P E

WHAT IS THIS??

WHAT IS THIIIS??

CAN I PLEASE HAVE YOUR JACKET

OH ALSO

I MENTIONED IT IN ANOTHER POST BUT THIS

REMINDS ME A LOT OF THIS

IM SURE THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NO CORRELATION BUT I THOUGHTIT WAS FUNNY

ALSO REMEMBER THE BLACK EYES THING I HAVE A WHOLE THINGIE THING IMMA BRING BACK OT IT JUST HOLD TIGHT

THIS SHOT?? OH MY GOD? IT’S LIKE A MOVIE????????? I LOV EI LOVE IT LIV E OT

nND THE WOLFIE BOYS THATTHE ARTICLE MENTIONS

UCKING TENTACLES HFDGDHFGJKH THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL OH MY GOD

HE’ SGOT TENTACLE ARMS LIKE MOTHERFUCKING CHADAM

BRO IM

BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

AND A GUN THIS MOTHERFUCKER STILL HAS A GUN

WHAT A MAN

MORE TECHONOLOG Y THAT IM SURE PLAYS A ROLE IN THIS SOMEHOW

BEAUTIFUL

WE SLAM THIS DUDE UP AGAINST A WALL SO HARD SHE/HE/THEY (I ASSUME SHE BC WE CAN’T SEE HER FACE AS A COMMON TROPE) 

BREAKS THE WINDOW WHICH LOOKS SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE A WINDOW ON SANC-III BUT IM NOT MAKING ANY ASSUMPTIONS

also red SPARKS WHICH REMIND ME OF ERIDIANS AGAIN

also her whole helmet thingie??? very Guardian-like

THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE IS GIVING ME HUGE HECTOR/KEY/PLANT/ERIDIANBULLSHITTERY VIBES THEY EVEN HAVE THE GLOWING SACS OF OOOOOOOZE

which is another point to the “green sludge is magic/connected to their powers somehow” theory. hmmm i hope we mix neon green and eridium purple. purple/green is my favorite color combo. and ugh with the lovecraftian vibes? be still my beating heart!

WINNIE SHOOTING SOMOHE

i fucking LOVE the laces on this shotgun. so fucking pretty omfg

magic circle MAGIC CIRCLE MAGIC CIRCLE

also new chest it looks like

BROO??? HOLY SHIT?????????

JABBER WOLF!! SO FUCKING COOL

THAT SKULL MOUTH IS SO FUCKING DOPE IT LOOKS LIKE TROY’S TATTOO

ohhhhhhHHHHHH THE MOON IS GREEN TOO DON’T DO THI GEARBOX IM GONNA SCREAM IF THERE’S ANOTHER ALTERNATIVE ERIDIUM

THIS SHOT OHHHH

THE BAR LOOKS FUCKING FANTASTIC OH MY GOD

shots SHOT SHOTS SHOT SHOTS HTOSHSTOHSOHTS

dND the MERFOLK TAIL ON THE FAR RIGHT I DON’T GIVE A FUUUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE SAYS THAT’S MER TAIL THAT’S A TAIL FUCK U

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YSEY SEYSEYSE BIGGG

THE BARTENDER OHOH

HAVE I MENTIONED THE GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOMS BTW

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA IM GETTTING SUCH DRAGONBORN DLC VIBES I LOVE IT

SWEETFRUIT VILLAGE BTW THAT’S IMPORTANT

YOU ALLL LOOK SO FUCKING AMAZING OH MY GOD

the bartender!!!! his glasses!! AND THE VOICE MODULATOR???

the netch looking boys are called

slithercresses btw and THEY LOOK STUNNING

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

NEW RED CHESTS??? LOOK ERIDIAN TO ME

WHICH MIGHT MEAN------

ALSO THE DIMENSIONAL TRANSFER PROGRAM ON SANC-III WHERE BBY BOY MAUREICE MAKES US A PORTAL TO HELL??? WHICH GREEN OOZE WHICH IS “HECKTOPLASM” BUT MAYBE ACTUALLY N O T

THE STAR OF THE SHOW BABY GIRL GAIGE WHO’SACTUALLY OLDER THAN ME NOW FUUUUUUUUCK

YOU’RE SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL II LOVE YOUR NEW GOGGLES

H??????????????

POSSIBLE NEW PSYCHOMASK UNLESS HE’S JUST GROWING THOSE BONE HORNS IN WHICH CASE YOU GO MAN IM PROUD OF YOU

TENTACLE GUNNNNNN WHICH BETTER LPAY A PART ERIRDIANS YOU FUCKS

THIS PLACE IS WHY I THINK THIS MIGHT BE RELATED TO S O M E CORPORAITON? BUT THEN AGAIN IT MAY JSUT BE THE CULT HEADQUARTERS OR WHATEVER, THAT RED BUBBLED MANSION LOOKS P HQ

FOOD CARTS AND ALSO WHATEVERS IN THAT SWINGING BAG LOOKS LIKE BONES HELL YEAH

this this THIS THIS THIS THIS WHAT IS THIS A NEW CIRCL  E OF SLAUGHTEr? ERIDIAN???

THEYRE PUMPING SOMETHING INTO/OUT OF THE CORPSE!!!!!!! ALSO

mutaTED FEET

[something] world! with a skull symbol on the side

both green btw

god YES I LOVE GREEN AND PURPLE IM SO HAPPY

SAILOF HOLE

hammylocks helping us with a fight by some bones and more wolfie boys!!!! i love these little dudes

FIRE MUTATED SLUGS AAAAAAAAA THEYRE SO COOL

ns tHEY CUR L UP INTO BALLS AND ROLL AT YOU LIKE KRAGGONS

AND I WONDER HOW THE SLUGS MUTATED IS IT POSSIBLY THE G R E E EN?

AND THEIR SHELLS LIKE SUCC UP LAVA?????????????

THESE BRAIN-Y BOYS 

SO BLUE I LOVE THEM

AND MORE GREEN MIST BY THE WAY OWOWOWOWOWO

another look at a baddie with STUDS THIS TIME

A MAGIC WARLOCK TYPE BADDIE THIS TIME AND HE SUMMONS A STAFF AND ALSO I THINK THAT’S ERIDIUM CANNISTER BEHIND HIM

AND IT HAS SIMMILAR TENTACLESTO THE GUNS DO YOU THINK WE’RE FINALLY GOING TO GET ANA NSWER ASA TO WHY OUR GUNS ARE A L I V E

MORE SNAIL DUDES AND THE GREEN STUFF IN THE BACKGROUND M A N I LOVE TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA SNAILS

OOOOOZE

BACK AT IT AGAIN IN MY CYCLONES

GREEN FUCKING PUDDLES

B O N E S FUCKING I HOPE THIS EXPLAINS HOW THE SKAGS ON PANDORA GOT SO FUCKIN LARGGO OUTSIDE OF JUST ‘YEAH THE SEASONS’

MORE

this

THIS

ONE

THIS LOOKS LIKE A SAURIAN THE ARMORED ONES THE BASHY ARMORED ONES THAT START WITH ‘C’

TWO THAT GUN IS KICKASS

IT’S GLOWING G R E E N AND IT HAS ***THE TENTACLE BARREL***

OHHHH IM SO READY FOR AN EXPLANATION GEARBO X PL E ASE

GIVE IT TO ME

ALSO THIS

IM EXCITED ABOUT

PROBABLY RELATED TO SWEETFRUIT VILLAGE BC THE MUSHROOMS MAYBE THEY USE IT TO MAKE BOOZE MUSHROOM BOOZE EW

WHY IS HE GRAY?????? HE’S NOT WEARING A JACKET MAYBE HES CRYO-FLAVORED

more sluggus THESE ARE GREEN FLAVORED :O

also, side note

PLEASE TLEL ME THIS WAS INTENTIONAL GEARBOX

LEMME SLAP BLANE’S ASS

YOU *GUYS* PLEASE

BUBBLE MANSION??? GREEN OOZY VILLAIN THAT GOT SLMAMED INTO A WALL??? BABY BABY GIRL

THE R E D

and she’s USING A TENTACLE GUN TOO

THAT’S GOTTA MEAN SOMETHING RIGHT

hhhhhhHHHHH

also ther’e sa fridge on the left lol

also the consoles look similar to that one shot with zane which is why i believe this is part of that bubbled-y mansion.

YES ES YES YES YES YESY SYEYSE 

I WANNA RIDE THE SKY TRAM SO BAD PLEASE

I WANNA REENACT UNTIL DAWN

I HAVE A MIGHTY NEEEEEEED

ALSO NOTE THE EYES

AND THE PURPLE HOW IT LOOKS LIKE AN ERIDIUM PURPLE

ANYWAY I HA[VE TO GO EAT FOOD NOW BUT GO LOOK AT THIS LINKN

I LOOKED UP THE NAME OF THE PLANET AND MYTHOLOGY AND NOTHING CAME UP, BUT GOOGLE RECOMMENDED ME 

T H I S

https://pantheon.org/articles/l/lycurgus.html

AND MAN OH MAN

“FAMOUS FOR HIS PERSECUTION OF DIONYSUS” THE GOD OF P A R T I E S LIKE IDK A WEDDING PARTY, WHICH FORCED YA MAIN MAN DIONYSUS TO <JUMP INTO THE OCEAN> WHICH COULD HAVE SOME RELATION TO THE TENTACLES

OH AND ALSO LYCURGUS WAS THEN <<<BLINDED>>>  WHICH COULD PLAY A PART IN THE BLACK OOZY EYES EVERYONE HAS

DIONYSUS ALSO ENDS UP PUNISHING LYCURGUS WITH MADASS AND WE ALL KNOW HOW THAT RELATES

OKAY BYE 

[seeaddywrite]

overcome by shame, can i ever change?

part 3/6: five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor.

warnings: for this part – grief, allusions to depression, alcohol abuse, self-loathing, abuse of a police officer’s position, the usual. 

you can also read/follow on AO3, if you prefer. (the formatting is 110x better & includes italics where they are supposed to be!) i’m not making any promises about having the next part up tomorrow because this work week may kill me, but i’ll get it up asap. 

Less than a month later, Michael’s slumped against the wall in the Chaves County Sheriff’s station. The view from the cell hasn’t changed since the day Michael and Isobel gave Max hell for healing Liz Ortecho in front of it, and the sight gives Michael a painful expectation of seeing his brother walking through the door at any moment, uniform and disappointed scowl in place, self-righteous lecture at the ready. But that’s not going to happen, so Michael’s swollen eyes are closed. The feeling of loss eases, if only a little, and keeping his eyelids shut helps against the steady throb in his cheek and ribs, too. 

It also allows him to ignore the look burning into him from the desk across the room, where his arresting officer sits. The young man is new, desperate to prove himself -- fuck, it actually looks like he’s shined the badge on the front of his uniform. He’s wet behind the ears, too goddamned eager to show how much better he is than guys like Michael. 

Michael knows that’s why he’s still sitting here. Sheriff Valenti would’ve let him go by now, shaking her head at him in wordless disappointment, just as she had the last few times he’d found himself in here after Max’s death. This guy doesn’t give a shit about Michael’s grief, though. Doesn’t even know about it, since only a few have been told the truth. Kyle’d insisted on bringing his mom into the loop after Caulfield and discovering his father’s role in it, and Michael and Isobel had been too numb to argue for more than a few minutes. 

The sense of those eyes on him starts to chafe, and Michael forces his eyes open to meet the Deputy stare-for-stare. He knows the picture he paints: the black cowboy hat perched haphazardly on his head, the insolent tilt of of his chin and shoulders, the sprawling pose he’d adopted against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. It’s an image he’s cultivated for the last decade of his life. The rebel. The drunk. The outcast, challenging anyone who dares to get too close. 

Most people never bother to look beyond the facade, and Michael usually prefers it that way. Today, though, it rubs him the wrong way. He’s used to Max being the one to pull him out of the drunk tank in the morning, accustomed to the lectures and the insistence that Michael is worth more than this, more than the booze and the fights and the disappointment in everyone’s gazes when they looked at him. Those damned speeches had always made Michael homicidal; Max never seemed to understand that what they’d done to Rosa had killed any chance of a future for him just as surely as it had killed the girl herself. To Michael, Max had always seemed unaffected, infuriatingly numb to the truth of the crime they committed and immune to the consequences, and his insistence that Michael deserved to move forward, simply because he had, only ever made Michael resent his brother.

Finally, the Deputy seems to have enough of their staring contest. Michael’s eyes flicker open at the scraping of a chair leg on the floor, and he watches with a blank expression as the man strides across the floor with the sort of bow-legged strut used men with more ego than common sense. He tips his chin back to meet the man’s gaze, squinting through the swelling around his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise, letting the man come at him first, instead.

“So,” he says, and Michael’s eyes dart to the too-shiny badge on his chest. Simmons. The name is vaguely familiar, like all names in a town this small, but Michael doesn’t care enough to try to figure out where he’s heard it before. It’s not like it actually matters. “Your third bar brawl in two weeks. I’d be impressed, except that’s nothing for you, is it?”

The sneer in his words is expected, and Michael only rolls his eyes. “Slow week,” he drawls in reply, ignoring the shooting pain caused by moving his jaw. “I’ll make sure to throw a few more punches next week just for you.” 

Simmons huffs a disdainful laugh, and reaches back to take a stack of paperwork from his desk. “Unlikely,” he says, flipping a page in a file. “I know that you’re used to special treatment, Guerin, but I’m not Valenti. I don’t have a soft-touch for hopeless cases.” 

Michael snorts. “Yeah? You want to go tell her she’s a soft-touch to her face?” He doesn’t think much of the law, never has, but he knows that Michele Valenti is far from gentle. She’s fair, and usually pretty by-the-book, if Max is to be believed, but she’s as tough as nails when needed, and if Simmons hasn’t learned that yet -- well, Michael’s pretty sure the Sheriff will enjoy showing him how wrong he is. Michael can only hope he’s around to see it. 

Apparently, Simmons doesn’t like Michael’s flippancy. His brows draw downward into a pinched, angry expression, and he leans in close, close enough that Michael can see every carefully steamed inch of his impeccable uniform. The image jolts something loose in Michael’s mind, dragging unwanted memories of Max’s first days on the force to the front. 

Isobel had insisted on re-ironing Max’s slacks so they wouldn’t be wrinkled for his first shift. Michael’d been at Max’s for god-knew what reason, since he hadn’t even been able to look at his brother that soon after Rosa’s death -- but Michael had been there as Max put that uniform on for the first time, watched as determination filled his expression and inflated his chest and shoulders. Determination to make up for the wrongs he’d done, to atone for the sins he’d committed by helping others, as if he could somehow undo the horrible thing they’d done with good intentions. 

Michael had burned with fury at Max’s naivete, with jealousy, for his ability to move forward when Michael himself was stuck, suspended in that moment, day after day. 

It’s funny. Michael had always thought that the year after Rosa’s death was rock bottom -- yet here he is, still trapped, still furious and heartbroken, with no one to blame but himself. 

“You’re going down this time, Guerin. Assault, at the very least. That guy you were beating on had broken ribs, and there’s no way he’s going to drop the charges -- and I will personally see to it that someone claps you in cuffs and throws you in a cell to rot.” Simmons slams his hand against the bars, hard enough to make the entire cell rattle, and Michael blinks away the remnants of the memory to look back at Max’s replacement, lips curled in a sneer. Blood trickles from a split that hadn’t quite closed, yet and down his chin, but Michael doesn’t move to wipe it away. 

“That what gets you off? Guys in handcuffs?” he drawls. “I’m flattered, officer, but you’re not really my type.” And that is an understatement. In fact, comparing Simmons to Alex is an actual insult, as far as Michael is concerned -- not that he should be thinking of Alex right now. Or ever. 

Simmons’ face flushes with anger, and Michael allows himself a small, triumphant smirk. He knows he’s signing his own arrest warrant with his behavior, but he’s known that for weeks. Eventually, all of his sins would catch up with him, and he’s done trying to outrun them. 

Much to Michael’s regret, Simmons gets ahold of his temper quickly; his hands clench at his sides, and there’s a vein throbbing visibly beneath his carefully tousled blond bangs, but his voice is calm, almost cloying pleasant, when he speaks again. “Ah, well that explains things, doesn’t it?” he muses, and the knowing tone in his voice makes Michael wants to punch him hard enough to break that Colgate smile. “I knew Evans was disappearing your paperwork - every time someone tried to prosecute you, it would all just vanish, or the plaintiff would just suddenly withdraw all charges. It was obviously Evans -- I just hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d risk his career like that on a nobody like you.”

Michael struggles to make sense of that information, tries to fumble it into the schema of his and Max’s relationship for the last decade, but the pieces don’t fit. Max had always been the goody-two shoes, so by-the-book in dealing with Michael’s indiscretions that it is impossible to believe that he’d literally been tampering with the paperwork to keep him out of jail. Michael had always just thought Max had pulled in favors with Valenti, or used the ‘old friend’ card over and over -- but this? Had Max really gone to such extreme lengths to keep Michael out of jail?

“But if you two were fucking before he skipped town, well. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it?” 

White-hot rage greys out Michael’s vision, and he’s on his feet against the bars before his mind catches up with the instinct. The feeling is senseless; the insane assumption should be something he laughs at, uses to deride Simmons’ detective work, but Michael can’t summon any humor or snark to throw at him. Hearing Max’s name from his asshole replacement is too much, and Michael’s had all he can take. Power builds in his hands where they’re pressed against the cold metal of the bars, humming through him and causing a ringing, metallic buzz to echo through the small room.

He can’t do this. He has to stop, needs to push the power down and keep it hidden, but Michael’s so removed from his own body in that moment that he can practically look down at himself and see the tension turning into a wavering aura of power in the small cell. 

“That’s enough,” a harsh voice snaps, and both Michael and Simmons’ attention shifts immediately to Alex Manes. He’s looming in the open doorway, blocking all view to the administrative section of the office, an air of authority around his camo-covered shoulders that makes Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

In some ways, Alex is as familiar to him as the parts of his truck, or the smooth surface of the ship fragments he spends his nights with, but while he wears that uniform and that particular expression -- the one that not only demands instant obedience but expects it -- Michael can’t help but feel like he’s staring at a stranger. And after years of limited contact and heartbreak, that’s likely how it should be. Michael almost wishes it could be that simple. Instead, he’s fairly certain that despite everything, he could still pick Alex out of a crowd of millions from miles away. Something in his chest always thrills to Alex’s presence, drawing Michael’s gaze to him even when Alex is the last person he wants to see. 

“What the hell are you doing back here, Manes?” Simmons demands, crossing his hands over his chest and straightening his shoulders in an obvious effort to look intimidating. He’s got an inch and several pounds of muscle on Alex, so it should work, but in comparison to Alex’s hard expression and relaxed but ready body language, Simmons is nothing. Alex certainly doesn’t think so; he stares fearlessly back at the Deputy and raises an eyebrow, a challenge inherent in the minuscule movement. 

“That’s Captain Manes, actually,” Alex corrects definitively. “And I’m here because the guy he hit—” Alex nods toward Michael. “— is Air Force. He’s being reassigned effective Monday morning with a black mark for excessive drinking and brawling in public, so he won’t be pressing charges.” 

Alex presents a set of papers to the Deputy with a flourish, a hint of the attitude Michael had fallen in love with a decade ago shining through in the movement. Simmons gives him a long, hard look, then snatches the papers from his hands, all but tearing them with unnecessary force. While he reads, Alex looks around him to Michael, a silent query on his face.

Michael blinks slowly, taking stock of his body and the energy that has receded somewhat at the sight of Alex. He’s sober enough to wonder, this time, if he’ll always have this reaction to the other man -- if he’s doomed to only ever feel calm and safe around someone who’s so tangled up in some of the most negative, traumatic experiences of his life that Michael doesn’t know how to separate Alex’s comforting grip with the vice around his heart when he thinks of Caulfield. Of his mother.

Right now, he can almost convince himself it doesn’t matter. Michael’s too relieved to see Alex, too grateful for his intervention, to feel anything else.Taking a long, slow breath, Michael peels his fingers away from the bars of the cell and takes a step back. The metallic hum in the room stops completely, and as long as Alex gets him out of there without Simmons making any more comments about the kind of man Max was, Michael thinks he can avoid this situation turning into more of a disaster.

“The military doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Roswell,” Simmons says a moment later, his chest once again puffing out in righteous indignation. “Guerin’s been picked up three times in the last two weeks for the same offense. We don’t need your guy to press charges; I’ve got plenty of evidence to keep him in lock-up.” 

Alex’s eyes narrow, and Michael almost feels sorry for Simmons. Almost. 

“Really.” The word is flat, loaded with insinuation. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost out on the  position at this station to Max Evans? And then lost out on the last open position for Evans’ partner because he said he didn’t want to work with you?” Alex’s expression is carefully blank, but Michael can read him well enough to know that he’s ready to go for the throat. 

It shouldn’t surprise Michael that there are large chunks of Max’s life he knows nothing about. The two of them hadn’t been able to get past what happened to Rosa and the way it was handled, and that crack had led to nearly complete fragmentation in the intervening years. There’s no chance of fixing it, now, no way of knowing if they could have regained the closeness they’d shared for so long, because Max is dead -- but somehow, Michael is still learning things about his brother that make him want to put his fist through a wall. How many times had Max risked his career for Michael by destroying documents and evidence? How many people had he run off from the position as his partner to protect Michael? And why had he done it? Protecting their secret is one thing, but fuck, how is Michael supposed to take that information in stride?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons blusters, but Michael can tell the Deputy knows that he’s been beaten. Alex doesn’t go to battle without all of the facts on his side, without an ironclad plan, and Simmons had lost before they’d even begun. 

Alex snorts. “Sure I don’t,” he says amicably. “Why don’t we ask Sheriff Valenti, then? If all of your evidence on Guerin is by the book? I’m sure she’d be happy to back up one of her deputies and kick me out, if that’s the case.” 

Michael doesn’t know if Alex is bluffing, which almost certainly means Simmons can’t tell, either. He waits, aware that he should be more concerned about the outcome of this grudge match than he is, until Simmons growls, “Fine. Get him out of here. But the next time --” 

“You’ll throw him in cuffs and leave him to rot, yeah, I got it,” Alex interrupts, his tone suggesting that if he weren’t in uniform, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Keys.” 

Simmons slaps the keys to the cell into Alex’s extended palm and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael watches, silent, as Alex allows his airman persona to fade back into the gentler, less composed version of himself. “I hacked the cameras before I came in, just in case,” he says, and gestures at the lock on the cell. “You still need me to let you out?” 

A moment later, Michael has released the latch on the cell with a tendril of thought and stands in front of Alex, chin raised daringly as dark eyes take in his injuries. “We should go before that guy comes back,” is all he says, and Michael trails him out of the precinct and into the cool night air. Michael takes a deep breath and slouches back against the wall, eying Alex. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or what’s expected of him now; hell, he doesn’t know how to interact with Alex on a good day, anymore. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says after a moment, the words stiff. Anger would have been better, but Michael can’t seem to summon it back now that it’s gone. “It would’ve been fine.” 

Alex shoots him a skeptical glance, but doesn’t argue. “I’m going to take that as Guerin speak for, ‘thanks for getting me out of jail,’” he snipes, and hits a button on his keychain, making his SUV blink its lights from a block down. “Come on. Your truck is still at the Pony, I’m guessing? I’ll give you a ride and you can pick it up tomorrow.” 

There isn’t much chance to argue, or Michael’s too tired to try. He trails Alex into the SUV, grateful despite himself for the unwavering presence at his side. His brain is still trying to process the fact that Max, despite ten years of distance and resentment, had still been protecting him. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition with the assumption that Max had only ever done anything to protect him in order to protect their secret. Max had fucked up so many times over the years: he’d left Michael alone and scared in foster care, had only listened as Michael whispered confessions of pain and fear of the families he lived with as a child, had pushed him into taking the blame for Isobel’s crimes and allowed him to give up on the one chance at a future he had -- 

Michael hates looking backward, and hates the fact that he understands Max so much better now that he’s gone. His brother had never been human, but he was as flawed as any of them, and yes, he had made mistakes. But how many of those mistakes had seemed unforgivable because of Michael’s own unhappiness? How much of his resentment toward Max had sprung from Max falling from the pedestal Michael had put him on? 

The hand that had, until recently, been numb and scarred, flexes against his thigh. Michael will never know what Max was thinking, that night. He’ll never be able to ask questions, or try to mend the rift that he’d helped created between them. 

Michael will never have a brother again, and the loss feels fresh, now, as if the experience with Simmons had ripped a new wound over the infected one still oozing in his chest. 

“Michael,” Alex says quietly, catching his attention more effectively than if he’d stood up and yelled. It’s rare to hear his first name from Alex, rarer still to hear it in a tone that borders on affection. They’ve avoided that sort of relationship for years, both aware that they’re in the middle of a balancing act, and one wrong move could send them careening over the edge into a world of hurt. “You’ve got to stop doing this. I’m not going to be able to use the same tricks next time, and . . .” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he psyches himself up for whatever else he has to say. “And Max isn’t here to stop them from making sure you end up in prison.”

The words emerge in a rush, so quick that Michael has to let them process before he understands why Alex is so nervous. No one who mentioned his brother had walked away unscathed, lately; it was a surefire way to send Michael spiralling. 

But it hurts less, somehow, hearing the truth from Alex. Maybe because he knows that Alex understands grief, understands the feeling of anger that follows in the wake of abandonment, or because he knows Alex isn’t throwing words around to hurt him. So Michael doesn’t react; he simply turns his head to look out the window and watches the New Mexican desert fly by. 

It’s clear that Alex doesn’t know how to read Michael’s silence. He rushes on, obviously determined to get the words out before Michael loses his temper. “Think about it, Michael. If they get you in a jail cell, how long is it going to take before your cellmates, or a guard, or someone realizes that there’s something different about you? What if you get hurt and sent to medical? Who’s going to stop them from doing tests and figuring out that you’re not human? My father would love that kind of opportunity, Guerin. Please, for the love of god, don’t give it to him.”

Michael swallows, an old fear rising in his gut as he considers the scenario Alex spins for him. Jesse Manes. Experimentation. Tortured, like his mother and the rest of those poor souls hidden away at Caulfield prison. He shudders, hands digging into his jeans hard enough that his nails score the tender skin beneath. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alex’s hand is resting over the back of his left one, a gentle slide of skin that makes it easier for Michael to breathe. He almost misses the tremble in Alex’s fingers, caught up in his own emotions, but it’s there, and impossible to ignore. Michael glances up at Alex, surprised to see an anxiety nearly matching his own on his face, and wonders how often he’s ignored the way the people around him are feeling in favor of drowning in his own feelings. 

Michael flips his hand and squeezes Alex’s back, and triumph sparks in his chest when he catches the barest hint of a smile flash across full lips. 

“I know you don’t want to talk, okay, I get it. Believe me, I get it.” Alex’s words, when he speaks again, are full of rueful self-recrimination, and again Michael is struck by his own selfishness. He’s not the only one mired in trauma and hurt. But despite his own pain, despite the way Michael has treated him, Alex has been there when MIchael needs him. Every damn time. 

“But the way you’ve been acting lately -- shit, Guerin, it’s fucking terrifying. The drinking is one thing, but the fighting? The total disregard for your own health and well-being? That’s not what Max would’ve wanted for you. Do you think he spent the last decade of his life bailing you out of jail because he wanted you to rot there? Do you think your mother died convincing you to run because she wanted you to die out here instead?”

Michael’s fists clench in his lap, but his powers don’t react. This is Alex, after all, the calm in the middle of his storm, and something in Michael refuses to allow anything that might bring him harm. He grits his teeth against the spiral of guilt and shame that threatens at Alex’s words, and reaches for the door handle, ignoring the fact that the car is still moving. Alex shouts and slams on the breaks, leaving them both startled and staring at each other across the console between their seats. 

“I just want to help, Guerin,” Alex says, obviously biting back a furious comment at Michael’s stupidity. “I’m not asking you to love me, or date me, or whatever it is you’re so set against. I just want to make sure you don’t end up dissected or left to rot in one of my father’s torture chambers. Can’t you just let me?” 

The fight rushes out of Michael with a long breath, and he slumps back in the car seat. His head tips to one side, and he looks straight at Alex with a resigned, wary expression. “That’s the problem, Alex,” he says dully. “I do love you.” As much as he could love anyone at the moment. “But I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.” Maybe not ever. 

Alex’s face is washed pale yellow in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Michael doesn’t miss the hurt etched into the lines of his face, though it’s gone in a moment. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” Alex says quietly. “I’m asking you to come back to my place tonight, get some sleep, and eat an actual meal in the morning. We can figure out where to go from there.” One large hand rests on the gear shift lever, waiting for Michael’s go-ahead before he puts it into drive. 

Michael hesitates, part of him determined to climb out the door and trudge back to the Airstream to suffer through another night alone. But fighting Alex never gets him anywhere, and Michael’s tired of trying to stand on his own. If Max’s loss has taught him anything, aside from the fact that he does care about the self-sacrificing dumbass, it’s that Alex meant it, when he called Michael his family. And maybe, on a night like tonight, it’s not so wrong to want that support, no matter how selfish it feels.

So instead of following his instincts to run, Michael catches Alex’s eye and nods.