#attic cleanup

[johnsonsinsulation]

The Benefits of Attic Cleanup: What You Need to Know

Transform your attic with a professional cleanup! Clearing clutter not only reveals extra usable space but also improves insulation efficiency, reduces fire risks, and enhances air quality throughout your home. Plus, it keeps pests away and makes spotting leaks or structural issues easier, adding lasting value and safety. For expert attic cleanup in Oakland, visit Johnson's Insulation.

[socalexpressrestorationla]

From Dusty to Stunning: Transform Your House with Attic Cleaning by SoCal Express Restoration & Construction

When it to improving the look and feel of your home, attic cleaning is a great place to start. SoCal Express Restoration & Construction's team of experienced professionals can help bring your outdated attic back to life with thorough cleaning services that will leave you amazed at the transformation. From dusty spaces filled with cobwebs and spiders to sparkling areas free from debris or vermin, our team can provide personalized service tailored specifically to meet your needs. We understand how important your home is and make sure it is treated with respect during every step of the process.

 

Socal Express Restoration & Construction Chatsworth, CA 91311 1(866) 970-1170

[walterrobles]

Expert bird control Bakersfield and professional rodent control Bakersfield CA, we are Excludetech.

[paulborst]

Expert bird control Bakersfield and professional rodent control Bakersfield CA, we are Excludetech.

[socalexpressrestorationca]

Why cleaning the attic is essential for a healthy home

The cleanliness of a home is constantly measured by the state of its usual surfaces, such as the living room, kitchen and bedrooms. However, one area that is often overlooked yet plays an integral role in maintaining the health of the home is the attic.

The attic serves as a fundamental storage space for many homes; however, if not properly preserved, it can become a breeding ground for various health hazards such as mold and mildew, which can affect the overall quality of indoor wind.

In addition to providing prime conditions for the growth of mold, neglected attics can also act as a safe haven for pests. These unwanted creatures find refuge in crowded spaces where they reproduce rapidly and pose numerous threats to human health, ranging from the spread of disease to structural damage.

This article is intended to highlight the value of regular attic cleaning and maintenance to ensure a healthy home environment. You'll delve into how this process helps prevent the growth of mold and mildew, as well as fend off pest infestations.

Prevention of mold and mildew growth

The proverbial 'out of sight, out of mind' approach to attic cleaning can promote an environment conducive to the growth of mold and mildew, thus compromising the overall health of a home.

Mold and mildew growth is primarily triggered by damp conditions that are constantly found in neglected attics. Such microorganisms not only represent a potential structural evil, but also invent harmful living conditions. Prolonged exposure to mold spores can cause serious health problems, such as respiratory problems, skin irritations, allergic reactions, and even toxicity in extreme cases.

To understand the preventive measures against the increase of mold and mildew in Honduras, it is essential to first find out its development period. Mold feeds on organic materials like wood or quarantine that is usually in attics as it thrives in humid environments. Consequently, any leak or condensation on the ceiling could drive its increase. Similarly, poor ventilation that does not allow moisture dissipation also benefits the multiplication process of these organisms.

Mold and mildew prevention involves regular cleaning of the attic along with proactive maintenance efforts aimed at minimizing moisture levels and improving ventilation in this space. This can include insulating pipes running through the attic area to prevent condensation storage during the colder months or installing vents for better wind circulation.

Additionally, proper storage practices are critical; Stored items need to be dry, wrapped properly if they are sensitive to moisture damage, and well spaced so there is proper wind flow around them. Therefore, improving attic care protocols will help maintain a healthier home environment while mitigating potential long-term structural ills.

Evade pest infestations

A huge menace to home cleanliness and structural entirety, pest infestations can be positively deterred by maintaining cleanliness in high-end storage areas, like attics. Often raised during regular grooming routines, such enclosed spaces provide an ideal habitat for pests such as rodents, insects, bats, and even birds. They offer shelter from harsh weather conditions and predators, while also providing food sources in the form of stored items or other nesting creatures.

Accumulated dust, debris, and clutter increase the appeal of such spaces to pests, making attic cleaning a major section of pest control. The existence of pests exposes several dangers to the health of residents. Rodents are known carriers of diseases such as hantavirus pulmonary syndrome (HPS) or leptospirosis, which have the potential to pose a serious health threat if not detected early. Likewise, insect infestations often bring with them allergens that can trigger respiratory problems among vulnerable individuals. Bats are notorious carriers of fury, as bird droppings can cause histoplasmosis, a respiratory disease caused by fungal spores present in their feces.

Regular cleaning of the attic helps minimize such hazards by removing potential hiding places for pests and minimizing food availability. A clean attic is not only essential in preventing pest infestations, but also plays a role in identifying existing ones at an early stage before they get out of control. Signs such as gnawed wires, droppings or nested materials are more visible once the space is cleared and cleaned regularly, allowing immediate corrective action to be taken. In addition to this benefit, regular attic maintenance minimizes damage to removal materials, therefore preserving homes' energy efficiency, which makes it important for both health stability measures and economic causes.

[little-homestead-in-the-suburbs]

Winter Water Woes, Again...

It seems that I have the unfortunate luck of having water issues around late December/early January.Last year it was a water spigot for horses that broke between the city water valve and the first shutoff for the property, thus no water then for 11 days. Thanks to the arctic cold that blasted through last week, I once again don't have running water, it will be off at least 7 days this time, assuming that the repairs get completed the day the plumber comes out.

My apartment is connected to the barn I manage, and so also shares a water mainline as well. Since the cold weather caused power issues the heater in my barn feed room obviously wasn't working and so some of the pipes froze. We thought it was just one pipe to the sink, as we could see the break in the line, but alas, the washing machine pipe inside the wall also broke. Thus when we turned the water back on after capping off the broken line to my refrigerator, the feed room also started to flood.

In good news, we are able to have a plumber come out this Friday, so I am only home with no water for about 2 days.

Anyways, why is it that the thing you suddenly want to do is the one thing that you can't do?! I want to clean, but I only want to wash dishes and clothes, and that requires water, but I don't want to take the items up to our main building to access the communal laundry and dishwasher that i have free rights to use.

Cleaning required so that the repair people can access all the stuff that needs fixing from water damage, and so that I will be able to limit the amount of post-repair cleaning when they have to rip up flooring and do ceiling repairs.

[wheregoodthingsthrive]

dont you have any new walter hcs?:)

I do! Oh, how wonderful it is for you to ask <3 I've been thinking a lot about this guy since classes have started but these trains of thought are often broken into two categories: canon-related and self-indulgence. So, I'll try to break those into the two categories here as well <3

Canon-related

Walter's skills in gun smithing is mostly self-taught and a skill he picked up after the War as it gave him something to do, especially in the 'slow season' for vampire hunting.

He has three spaces that are truly 'his': the butler's pantry, the gun shop, and his in-house room.

Butler's pantry: his office and main 'headquarters' when he's on the clock but not in direct need. It is spick and span, being the place Alucard frequents as he is not often allowed in the other two spaces. Gun shop: connected to the Hellsing military compound, the gun shop is spotless, covered in tools and half complete guns perfectly stored away. Walter runs the shop exclusively but will sometimes employ the help of Hellsing ballistic team and eventually Seras is welcomed into the shop to learn the upkeep of her own precious artillery. The shop is huge, leading to the Hellsing hangar, and is rarely dirty. Should it be, it is a tell-tale sign he's been at work for more than a few hours. In-house: Walter could have moved off-site and away from the Hellsing Estate after he graduated university but Arthur wouldn't see it. As an active member of both Hellsing's house function and vampiric division, having Walter away and not on a 24/7 function would be detrimental to the service, on both ends. His room is a chambre de bonne, hidden at the top of the estate below the attics and is the one of four staff living quarters left in the building's infrastructure. It is sparse, articulate, and has many a war decorations, uniforms, pictures, awards, degrees, and trinkets of life hidden in various spots.

Arthur has tried to get this man married a lot, failing each time.

His discovery of his ability to puppeteer people was a 'crime of passion' moment in his development of skill. Arthur was not particularly pleased about this skill and asked Walter to never use it again unless in great duress. He would hone this ability in private and refuses to disclose how.

Atop puppeteering, the wires have a broad array of funciton once he mastered them. He can pick up objects, throw things, abseiling/rappelling, climb up things, 'Spiderman' his way around, build shields, lay tripwires/traps, sew/temporarily stitch, and can be used to sense things around him when devoid of sight (vibrations).

He and Integra's favorite activity is doing Sudoku. They'd often do as many puzzles as they could while Arthur was in meetings or at Conference breakfasts.

Self-Indulgence

Walter is maternally a Seward, giving him connections to the Crew of Light and thus the van Helsing name. His mother is Seward's only daughter. It is his 'Seward blood' that allows him to command the Monofilament Wires

The Monofilament Wires were developed by both the Sewards and the van Helsings in the Amsterdam, Netherlands. The secret of their usage is maintained by the Seward line, being a sworn generation passed trick of the vampire hunting trade.

Hellsing was much smaller an organization in the 50s-60s, making Walter and Alucard the sole operatives save for a few footmen/military command and a cleanup crew - because of this, Walter had a multitude of jobs regarding Hellsing's underbelly save for just hunting.

Killing was of course Walter's primary Hellsing non-domestic function, this is a given. His other functions included forms of espionage, diplomacy errands on behalf of Arthur, and surveillance. His extracurricular activities for Hellsing were mostly to quell his boredom following the intense decrease in direct violence following WWII and the political climate of the Cold War (please ask me about my Hellsing x Cold War thoughts). His work in espionage was mostly limited to his career from 1950 to 1965, ranging from straight spying (on vampiric forces AND humans), information collection, extortion, blackmail, and collection of dirt. He'd attend parties, rub elbows with wealthy daughters or diplomats, and protect the Hellsing image by any means necessary on a political field.

He has two favorite guns from his career: the Leiden and the Pandora. Both of which he has either made or modified. Leiden is a 1948 Jungle Carbine No. 5 Mk I, dyed and buffed a matte black. Pandora is a 1968 Ruger M77 MK II .270 WIN, modified with a longer barrel and a weighted stock. He doesn't always use guns, but he tenderly loves his rifles, especially bolt action.

Thanks for tuning in to the yap session, I like this guy a lot.

[kingdumbass]

Can You See Me?

written for @deancashorrorfest

story by @kingdumbass | art by @ephemerastardust

rated: T | wordcount: ~30k

warnings/tags: murder, urban legend about murder, egregious use of a ouija board, subsequent haunting, ghost!castiel summary:

Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 1995. After being stowed with their Uncle Bobby for the foreseeable future, Dean and Sam set out to make the most of their summer ‘vacation’. When they aren’t filling warm afternoons splashing in the creek, riding their bicycles, or suffering through old TV reruns, they’re in for cleanup duty.  Namely, sorting through all of Bobby’s old crap. 

One day, while rummaging through the long-forgotten attic, Sam discovers an antique spirit board and convinces a skeptical Dean to try summoning a spirit. The results of which turn out to be a little more supernatural than Dean bargained for. first look:

“Um, I guess we have to ask it a question?”

“Well, go ahead, Chief.  The floor is yours.”

Closing his eyes, Dean hummed along to Metallica’s ‘Enter Sandman’ as it floated through his head while Sam brainstormed a good opening line.  

Finally, Sam cleared his throat and asked, “Is anyone here with us?” to a resounding silence.

“Wow, Sam. Groundbreaking stuff.” 

After a few moments of profound nothingness, Dean popped open one eye to search the room.  Snake eyes. He opened the other to stare fully back at his brother.  “This sure is fun, Sammy, but how much longer do we have to do this before I can go to bed?”

Sam ignored him and repeated the question louder, yet still got nothing in return.  “Dean, why don’t you try?”

“And what exactly is that gonna do?”  

Sam just shrugged.  

“Fine, let’s see, uh… if there’s a ghost up here, show your ass so I can go to sleep.”  

“Dean! It won’t work if you’re a dick!”

“Oh, no, did I hurt it’s feelings?”  Dean laughed.  “Fine, show your ass, please.”

Not even a hair out of place.

Dean sighed.  “Look, I hate to break it to you, Sammy, but ghosts aren’t real and this whole thing is stupid.” Just as he got to his knees, the light emanating from the exposed bulb dimmed with a shudder, filament sizzling, before surging back on. The candle’s flame stretched and bent towards him. Sam stared at Dean with wide eyes, imploring him to sit back down.  Fixing his calculating gaze on the bulb overhead, Dean inched himself back down to rest on his heels. 

“Bobby’s house is old,” he explained.  “The wiring’s probably gone to shit from the heat.  It’s just a brown out.”

“Or it’s a ghost,” offered Sam instead.

Unbury the truth this October 👻🕯

[nobedofroses]

October 5th

pairing: Jack Daniels x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, allusions to spice

words: 878

a/n: Prompt for today is "decorating the house together" from this list by @novelbear. Silly and cute domesticity!

Directory, Day 4

🎃🎃🎃

When you and Jack had moved in together, you had both brought traditions with you. Most of yours were around seasonal and holiday cooking, but Jack’s had been about decorating. You hadn’t expected it, but Jack liked to go all out for every holiday (well at least the ones he cared about). And one of the main ones he cared about was Halloween. 

Because he had been into decorating long before he met you, he came with lots of decorations, but he also wanted you to contribute things you had or find new things you both liked together so it felt like a collaboration for your home. So each year, the two of you spent the two months leading up to Halloween keeping your eyes out for decor. Since Jack had most of the typical Halloween stuff to start with, the two of you looked for more sentimental or unique or even higher quality versions of things you already had that would last your lifetime if you took care of it. Which was how you ended up with a ceramic black cauldron filled with punch and a plastic black cauldron filled with candy right next to it at your annual Halloween party.

Jack liked to do the decorating on the very first day of October, but this year the first few days had been too busy with work and projects, so it had to be pushed back to today. The storage boxes had been pulled down from the attic a week prior in advance, one of the ways Jack was making sure you could start as soon as possible. 

When you woke up after sleeping in on this Saturday, you could smell something warm and cinnamon-y and delicious pervading the whole house and wondered how long Jack had been up to cook breakfast. You padded into the kitchen in the pumpkin-themed nightgown Jack had gotten you and insisted you wear during the season, along with the purple and green striped fuzzy socks. 

Seeing Jack at the stovetop, flipping pancakes and checking on a pot of spiced apple cider, you smiled and made your way over to him. Once you were behind him, you wrapped your arms around his middle and said, “Really getting in the mood, huh baby?” 

Jack hummed, a hand coming down to squeeze yours, “If you like this, darlin’, you should see the fire I’ve got goin’ in the livin’ room.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. It was still reaching 75 degrees during the day and the 45 it got down to at night didn’t exactly justify a fire. “I hope you turned off the AC.” 

“Actually, can you double check for me, peach? Pancakes’ll be done by the time you get back,” he told you. 

Shaking your head, you pressed a quick kiss to his shoulder blade, “You’re lucky I love you, cowboy.” 

As you walked to the living room, you heard him say quietly, “Don’t I know it,” and that more than made up for the checking. 

Jack laughed when you complained that he shouldn’t have tricked you with the fireplace video on the TV, “You’re just too cute not to tease a little bit.” 

You rolled your eyes, but could feel the warmth in your face that accompanied being flustered by Jack. Which was often.  

Breakfast had gone by quickly with Jack going over the game plan for the day and you were happy to follow his lead instead of coming up with the complex blueprints he had. Literal blueprints. 

After a quick cleanup of the dishes, etc., Jack turned to you and said, “Just one last thing and we can get started.” 

You looked at him expectantly, but what you did not expect was him pulling you close and tight and kissing you soundly on the lips. When you got your wits about you, you kissed him back, and the two of you stayed like that for long enough for you to get a little hot and bothered. 

A second or two later, Jack pulled back. All he said was, “Good morning, don’t think I’ve said that to you yet today, sweetheart.” 

“What— what was that for?” you asked, a little breathless. 

“That was to give us motivation to keep on moving on this project. No more makin’ out or nothin’ until we finish today’s work,” Jack said casually, moving to grab the first box of the day. 

You gaped at him, “Jack!” 

“Sorry honey, but we only have these decorations up for so long, so I’m pulling out all the stops to get it done today. I don’t know about you, but the motivation’s already working for me. Can’t wait to finish up so I can kiss you long as I want,” was his reply. 

You didn’t even know what to say to him, but you knew he wouldn’t budge, so you figured you should just get to work. 

The annoying thing was that it did seem to work. You finished a full hour and a half earlier than Jack had planned for. Something that didn’t seem physically possible, but was true. 

As you pushed Jack down on the couch when everything was done and you climbed on top of him, you said, “Next year, we’ll fucking decorate in September.”

🎃🎃🎃

[jeanie-g]

#28 drysdale and zegras "ghosts" the autumn mini fic list :)

sorry for the delay! i'm literally in japan rn lol. but here it is!

[#28] ghosts

Trevor didn't hate the house, but it certainly wasn't a place he'd ever imagine living in. It was old and gothic, and shaped sort of like an octagon if you walked all the way around. It had these big bay windows that arced menacingly, and a goddamn spire at the top. It was also far too large for just his mom and him, but it was better than the alternative.

Trevor had to remind himself that they were lucky, after all. What were the odds that Great-Great Auntie Heim would kick the bucket and leave the house to Trevor's mom right around the time his dad filed for divorce?

Sure, Trevor didn't hate the house, but he didn't have to like it, either.

He did get his own room, though. Right at the top of the stairs on the third floor, on its own level along with the sewing room and the attic. It was probably triple the size of his room in Buffalo, with a walk-in closet with double doors and a hardwood floor that creaked with every step.

It was sparse save for a bed in the corner, a nightstand, and a writing desk—all covered in a thick layer of dust. Clearly, nobody had stepped into this room in quite a while—a few years at least. It gave Trevor the heebie-jeebies. He wouldn't be surprised if it was haunted.

His mom wanted him to unpack as soon as possible, but Trevor didn't have it in him to play cleanup and probably hack up a lung while doing it. He dropped his bags by the door. He'd worry about it when it was time to sleep.

Bounding back down the carpeted stairs, he tried to ignore the sounds of his mom on the landline, no doubt arguing with his dad for the umpteenth time that week. He hated hearing them fight—in Trevor's mind, the one consolation of the divorce was that they'd be doing a lot less of it once it was in motion. That turned out to be fruitless fantasy. They were fighting more than ever now—about lawyers or assets, or—well, him.

Trevor'd wanted to stay in Buffalo with his dad. He never really faulted him in any of this—saw divorce as an inevitability, really. He didn't wanna leave his school and his friends and his team back home. But he was only 17, and his dad said that his mom needed him, so here he was.

The pitch of the one-sided conversation only sharpened by the time Trevor reached the bottom. He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets; he needed to get out of this house for a bit.

It was windy in Syracuse, and a dull overcast hung above them like an omen. Trevor welcomed the breeze as he stepped outside and sat on the porch steps, closing his eyes and willing all the buzzing in his head to vanish.

He sat in silence for a few minutes before a voice sounded several yards away.

"So, you're the new neighbors, then?"

Trevor opened his eyes with a start, relaxing somewhat at the sight of a boy around his age standing beside the mailbox. He was too far away to make out any distinct features, but his dark hair and eyebrows stood out against the sky like spilled ink.

"You can talk, right?" The boy continued, smiling, and only then did Trevor realize he hadn't answered.

"Oh, uh, yeah." He flushed. "I mean, yeah we're the new neighbors." He stood, taking his hands out of his pockets. "And yeah, I can talk," he added sheepishly.

The boy chuckled. He walked a bit closer, and Trevor could better make out his face now. Pale, dotted with light freckles, with piercing blue eyes. He looked...soft was the only word Trevor could come up with. Well, that and cute, despite his best efforts. He was undeniably cute, and his smile was contagious.

"I'm Jamie," the boy said. "I live next door." He gestured to the house a bit aways from them—not too different from Great-Great-Auntie Heim's, but maybe a little more dilapidated. The purple tiling was cracked and sun-spotted, and some of the shutters were broken or missing. That was kind of par for the course for these old houses though.

"I'm Trevor. I live, well, here." Trevor cringed at himself, but Jamie just chuckled again.

"I would hope so, or I might have to call the cops and have you booked."

Trevor chuckled, hands finding his pockets again. "So, doing the mandatory welcome wagon, then? Did your parents put you up to it?"

Jamie blinked. "Oh, I don't live with my parents." He said it so nonchalantly that it threw Trevor off.

"Oh, um. I'm sorry."

Jamie smiled softly. "Don't be. They're fine, just back home in Toronto. We used to all come down here to see my grandparents, but now it's just me."

Trevor breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Phew—no dead parents. "Oh. Uh, that's cool."

"What brings you here?"

And Trevor had to immediately suck in a new breath. He turned and spotted his mom through the crack in the door, still ranting on the phone. She wouldn't mind Trevor airing their dirty laundry to their new neighbor, would she?

Trevor turned back to Jamie. There was no need to sugarcoat it, especially if they were going to be seeing a lot of each other. Plus, it'd be nice to be able to talk a bit of shit with someone who knows nothing about him.

"My parents are getting divorced. My mom wanted a new place but we couldn't really afford one. In comes my distant great aunt from stage left, and, well, here we are."

Jamie frowned. "I'm sorry. For your parents and your aunt."

Trevor waved his hand. "It was overdue, if you ask me. As for my aunt, we weren't that close. I think I met her, like, once when I was a baby. I'm surprised she left the house to us, really."

Jamie shrugged. "Life works in mysterious ways. Ana was a great woman, though."

"Right. You're her...were her neighbor. I should be saying sorry to you. You knew her better than I ever did."

Again, Jamie shrugged, but he said nothing else.

From inside, something crashed, followed by a string of curses half in English and half in Greek.

"That would be my cue to get back inside probably. It was really nice to meet you, though, Jamie."

"You, too," Jamie said. "I'll see you, eh? I guess I have a reason for coming around this house again."

Trevor grinned. "And what would that be?"

"New neighbor boy's a catch."

Trevor felt himself go red from head to toe. He managed a dizzying smile. "I...you're, a...too."

Jamie laughed, eyes crinkling adorably. "Right. Bye, Trevor."

Trevor couldn't manage another sentence in good conscience, so he just waved awkwardly as Jamie walked back down the length of the driveway.

Trevor turned tail back into the house as quickly as he could. He maybe slammed it a bit too hard. He had to fight the urge to slide down onto his ass like the protagonist of a bad teen movie.

"Who were you talking to, Trev?" his mom asked, hands full of mismatched cutlery—the likely culprit of the crash.

Trevor scrubbed his hand over his face, smiling tight-lipped. "Nobody. Just myself."

He strolled into the half-unpacked kitchen and sat down on one of the bar stools.

His mom sighed, almost to herself. "Not like we have any neighbors."

Trevor quirked a brow. He was literally just talking to one. "What do you mean?"

His mom went over to a drawer in the island and began depositing the cutlery. "Well, the only other house on this stretch of road is the big, purple one on our left—you know, a little bit down the road?"

An unsettling feeling nestled in the pit of Trevor's stomach, one he couldn't name.

"Realtor said the place has been abandoned for decades," his mom continued. "There was some freak accident, and now people are convinced that it's haunted."

Trevor's calves went cold, like a rush of wind ran against them. Didn't he close the door? "What?"

She shrugged. "I'm not one for ghost stories, personally. But if they are real, I just hope they're friendly."

Trevor forced a chuckle, though the sunken feeling in his stomach was compounding. He stood and walked over to the window above the sink.

This was stupid. This was so dumb. He'd look outside and there Jamie would be, heading back to his house. It was a quarter mile down the road—he'd still be walking.

Trevor approached the window and peeled back the curtain. He craned his head to the left, and—

His eyes widened. No Jamie.

He felt his calves go cold again.

[johnsonsinsulation]

Refresh Your Space: The Importance of Attic Cleanup

In this video, you'll learn why attic cleanup is essential for maintaining a healthy home. We cover how cleaning prevents mold, improves air quality, deters pests, and boosts insulation efficiency, all while creating extra storage space.

[bardicbeetle]

hey there writers and readers who live in my phone

my partner and i are home safe. our roof leaked while we were away but we had a basin in the attic just in case so our apartment is still dry.

a lot of vermont is ripped to shreds much like last year, roads and buildings swallowed up by the rivers. but it seems, tentatively, like cleanup will be a smoother and easier process as main road waters didn’t get as high and as a result the mud and silt aren’t as deep.

regardless i’m still fully knocked into Help It’s Again mode. so. either i’m gonna do nothing but write or i’m gonna do nothing at all.

be safe y’all 💚

- stevie

[flightlessribbons]

MARINETTE: LADY LUCK ERA

MLB INHERITANCE AU PT. 4

- the origin:

A new Chat Noir, dubbed "Night Watch" by the masses due to almost exclusively seen at night and doing all manners of good deeds and selfless notions for the average Parisians, popped up almost immediately after Tuxedo's retirement.

When Bridgette is set to move onto campus for university, Marinette is hellbent on moving out of their shared room and having her own space to sew and create. She begs her parents to let her move into the attic, promising to clean out the attic herself.

After her parents agree, Marinette begins to sift through the attic belongings, and sees a pair of earrings she thinks seem vaguely familiar. She puts them on, and looks at them in the mirror, but screams when Tikki pops up behind her reflection telling her the earrings suit her.

Tikki explains the last situation to Mari, and the fae's concerns and desperation as she feels Null grow stronger somewhere in the city. Tikki tells her that she's been keeping an eye on Mari through the years, and recognizes her traits that would make her an excellent Ladybug.

Marinette shuts down Tikki's proposal for heroism, telling Tikki that if Bridgette couldn't do what needed to be done, there's no way Marinette could. Tikki refuses that mindset, though cannot convince the girl further before Sabine knocks on the attic hatch.

The faerie hides in the earrings that Marinette is still wearing, as Sabine pushes through to check in Marinette's progress on the room and offer her help to look through some of her old belongings that Marinette can move.

The two go through trunks of old family heirlooms and photo albums, before Sabine looks wistfully at an old album of her and her old friends.

In the picture is Sabine, Otis, Amelie, Emilie, Tom, and Gabriel. Marinette recognizes Gabriel Agreste, and is shocked that her parents never mentioned knowing him before.

Sabine tells Mari that Tom and Gabriel used to be best friends for a long time, which introduced Amelie and Emilie to their little university friend group. She recalls their days fondly and says their connections were irreplaceable, but admits that the group hadn't done the best efforts for keeping in contact. After Emilie's health had declined, most of the group drifted apart for various personal reasons despite them all trying their best to keep in touch. Amelie and Gabriel had been unreachable since Emilie's coma and Sabine tells her daughter she wishes she could have told them all together what they meant to her.

The two go down together for dinner, but Marinette can't stop thinking about her mom's stories and the Ladybug proposal. Though when she tries to talk to Tikki in the night and following days, the faerie does not respond.

Marinette goes to school at the beginning of a new term, nearly late because of her late night cleanups of the attic, and is met with Alya, Nino, and Chloe.

Chloe had stopped her petty bullying at a much younger age, and the four of them had been a strong group since they were kids.

Walking into the building, a crowd has amassed, but as the four try to shuffle their way past, Chloe squeals and runs to plucks the person grabbing all the attention from the crowd.

Pulling Adrien Agreste out, Chloe holds his arm tight and manages to scare the crowd away. Happily pulling him along, she introduces him to the other three as her best friend since diapers.

Marinette embarrassingly realizes that she's face to face with the model she's had a crush on since she was a kid, and fumbles a greeting to him and a sweaty handshake. He doesn't seem to mind (or notice) at all, and the four go to their class to pick their seats.

Chloe gives up her front row seat with Nino for Adrien, and instead takes the empty seat behind Alya and Mari, and next to Nathanael.

Midway through class, the first akuma alarm in 2 years goes off, and the school is a mess of kids trying to escape.

Adrien disappears in the rush, and the other four make it out of the school, but Alya gets caught by the akuma on the way out. Nino and Chloe immediately run after her, but Marinette is frozen in shock and loses them in the crowd.

Running into a deserted alleyway, Marinette tries to talk with Tikki again, panicked and begging the faerie to respond and tell her what to do so she can save her friends.

Tikki seems to have woken up from a slumber, but quickly recollects herself and guides Marinette what to do. She transforms and sees Chat Noir already on the scene, as he helps her clumsy landing into the battle.

They're both nervous, but Chat helps her get her breathing under control before they turn their attention back at the fight. Trying to get a scope on the situation, Chat suggests she ask her faerie how best to deal with an akuma. Tikki tells them what she told Bri about purifying, faerie spirits, and a bit more about her Ladybug abilities.

They go about clearing the civilians out of the way first, before dealing with the akumas directly. After clearing everyone away, they see their three friends in the hands of the enemy. Before Chat Noir can step in, Ladybug confronts the akuma. She's terrified, and she's shaking, but she resolves herself in saving her friends and the civilians that are helpless. Chat watches her in awe as she faces the akuma, before the two of them manage to end the fight.

After they purify the akuma, an eerie voice begins to speak to them through their miraculous. Sounding like two voices overlapping, the voice tells them that he's coming for their miraculous, and there's nothing they can do to delay the inevitable. That he'll keep sending akuma after akuma, to create his perfect world.

After the message ends, the two evade the press, as Chat Noir leads them to a nearby rooftop to talk in private. They discuss the voice they heard, and formally introduce themselves. Before they can talk more, their miraculous begin to beep, and Chat tells her what the beeping means for their faerie's recharge. He suggests they meet up later that night to discuss more things, but Ladybug hesitates. He tells her there's no pressure, but to think about it- also telling her that it's nice to finally have a quick thinking partner beside him with the akumas coming back.

They both leave the rooftop in different directions, and she hides again to drop her transformation. Tikki tells her she's going to stay in the earrings to rest until she can eat since Marinette wants to check in on her friends, but if Marinette could maybe snag her some cookies from the bakery when they get home.

Mari reunites with Nino, Alya, and Chloe, and the three are fangirling about the superheroes encounter. Marinette hugs them, glad that they're okay. Adrien rejoins them as well, saying he had to take shelter when the attack started. School is dismissed for the rest of the day, as well as school tomorrow, as the staff has to go over more codes and emergency situations with the return of akumas.

Marinette goes home, snagging a few cookies from the bakery, and on her way upstairs, wonders how best to tell Tikki that there's bound to be a better Ladybug out there. Though she stops in her tracks when she sees that her sister is home.

She hugs her sister, and the two catch up a bit. Bridgette mentions she caught the end of the battle from the day's akuma, and asks Marinette if she saw it since it was near her school.

Marinette lies and says she was hiding, and Bri describes it to her, but surprises Marinette by singing high praises for the new Ladybug. Bridgette bittersweetly admires how the new Ladybug was terrified but still managed to pull through and save the day. Saying she can see her push through and do the right things even when they're hard- something that Scarlet couldn't do. She sees hope in the new Ladybug, and tells Marinette that whoever it was, Tikki chose well.

Before Marinette could respond, Bridgette gets a text on her phone. Blushing at the notification, Bridgette gathers the last stuff she came to pick up. Hugging Mari goodbye, she's out the door with promises of seeing her on the weekend for dinner, leaving Marinette alone in the room to think about what she said.

After dinner, Marinette goes to her new room in the attic, and hesitantly brings Tikki out. Recharged from the cookies earlier, Tikki brings up the Chat's proposal from earlier to meet up. Her earlier thoughts of turning the Ladybug role down conflict with her sister's words, and she ultimately agrees to transform and meet her new partner. Though as she transforms and leaves through the upper balcony, she doesn't notice her dad, who came up to ask her about school, poking out from the attic hatch. He watches the balcony hatch a bit after she leaves before going into the kitchen.

She meets up with Night Watch, who admits to doubting a bit if she'd come.

"You came"

"That's what good partners do, right?"

The two discuss things like patrol schedules, and Chat catches her up on a lot of things he would do while transformed. He tells her he had contact with the previous holder and a mentor, and asked if she did as well, to which she sheepishly denied. Chat tells her not to worry, telling her that her fae will tell her a lot too, but that her black cat partner will always be there for her. She rolls her eyes at whatever puns and flirts he makes but offers him a grin at that, pushing her fist out for a fist bump. He returns it.

As she comes home, and drops her transformation, she finds the attic hatch open, and her dad humming in the kitchen below. Seeing her at the hatch, Tom smiles and motions for his daughter to join him in the otherwise empty kitchen.

As she sits down, he pulls. A fresh batch of cookies from the stovetop, telling her they just finished cooling. Marinette laughs and eats one, but freezes when her dad asks if Tikki would like some too. At her reaction, he gives a warm, but concerned smile, and tells her he knows it's the faerie's favorite.

Tikki comes out of the earrings, and faces Tom. She tries to explain why she hadn't left, but he stops her. Telling both Tikki and Marinette that he knows what responsibilities lie in waiting for Ladybug- and how their biggest downfall is them taking on too many things by themselves.

He knows he can't help in the ways he wants to as a father, but tells Marinette that she has him at home, a partner in the Black Cat, and someone he wants her to see the next day since she doesn't have school. He reassures her that they're never alone, and has a team by her side. Marinette and Tikki both wrap Tom in an embrace as all three eat the cookies.

The next day, Tom takes Marinette to her Uncle Fu's shop, confusing the girl. She's been there a million times, and voices her confusion to her father, who laughs it off and tells her to follow him inside.

There, they see Fu, who smiles knowingly and greets the family friends before closing up the shop. He calls Wayzz out, and tells the two to follow him to the back of the shop to discuss recent developments and mentions that he hears Marinette is in the market for a mentor.

Meanwhile, Adrien is happy he's made new friends, his ability to finally go to public school, and his amazing new hero partner.

Though back in his room, he voices to Plagg his concerns about his father: mostly about how distant he has become- as he barely speaks to Adrien anymore and makes Nathalie do any interacting with the boy. Noting that even when Gabriel does talk to him, his voice is cold and monotone; nothing like the father he knew before who- even at his lowest- would make sure to spend time with his son.

Adrien resolves himself to do his best for his father, hopeful that the Gabriel he knew will come back some day to them.

Previous: BRIDGETTE: SCARLET DANCER ERA

[kitkatt0430]

Haven't done this in a while, but HOPPY EASTER everyone, here have an Easter gift of villains being villainous in a villains win story.

The obvious solution to save Dante seemed to be to make sure he was sent somewhere far, far away. Which Savitar cheerfully agreed to. “I know a few realities we could drop him off on where he’d be relatively safe. Live out a normal human life, only have to worry about the normal human problems. Cars are dangerous and so is walking down the stairs if you trip. Hell, bad run in with a vacuum cleaner and next thing you know you’re going in for MRIs and knee surgery.” “Do you ever shut up?” Reverb muttered in irritation. If he’d asked Zoom something like that? Vibrating hand through the chest, immediately. Savitar just laughed.

Savitar is a bit of a talkative and sarcastic little shit in this one, but once Reverb gets more comfortable around him the banter will be much more two-sided. (This is totally villain flirting, right?)

But it's not just villains being villainous around here. From the Eobard-is-the-shitty-ex fic for Barry/Cisco/Hartley...

“I let Eobard convince me you were a lying brat and by the time I realized he’d been playing me…” Cisco hesitated. “I’m sorry, Hartley. I should have listened to you.” “And maybe if I hadn’t been an easily flattered idiot, I would have realized what he was really up to and turned him in with proof before things got too far.” Hartley heaved a sigh. “Maybe I could have stopped him before he ever had the chance to hurt either of you.” “Him using you… using all of us… that’s not any of our faults,” Barry said. And, for the first time, he might even believe it.

The only reason Barry can pull out of his own guilt complex? He feels the need to help Cisco and Hartley pull out of theirs. Right now they're sitting outside the building where a long hearing over Eobard's actions just took place and old grievances are being aired and reviewed. So it's been a long, hard day for all three of them, having to give testimony on their relationships with Eobard at some point during the process. But the hearing was entirely off screen, because I didn't want to have to research the actual process of investigating these kinds of allegations. Just move on to these three bonding, shall we?

Tommy is having to deal with a lot of obnoxious Queen family nonsense in the Ep3 rewrite for my Arrow Redux series. Including Oliver teasing him a little over wearing some of his mom's things as a kid. Though, to be fair, there's definitely the impression afterwards that Oliver liked getting to see Tommy in those things...

“We were, what… twelve? Thirteen.” “Ollie, do not.” “And we found your mom’s old stuff in the attic…” Tommy sighed. “I looked good in the tiara and heels, shut up.” Dig chuckled softly. “You must have missed her a lot,” he offered, looking amused by their antics. “I did. I still do. I have most of her things squirreled away in storage, actually,” he said with an amused smile. “And I do still look good in the tiara and heels,” he added with a smirk, just to see how that would get taken.

I've still got about... a third of the episode left to go? And then I can run cleanup on the fic. I'm also using this scene to set up an event taking place between episodes 6 & 7 as I'm trying to use the airdates of episodes as guidelines for approximately when the events within them occur and Tommy is going to be participating in an annual charity auction for an LGBT+ cause. A date auction, of course. ;)

Instead of trying to fit that into an episode rewrite, I'll probably just include it as it's own separate fic between those two rewrites.

[blackjackkent]

Werewolf battle - large but not too challenging. Three werewolves, four bats, five rats, two wolves, and the two thralls from outside. The bats and rats were only scary because of the wolves, whose Savage Howl ability gives 20 temporary HP to any allies nearby, which turned all the rats and bats from 1HP nuisances into a Potential Problem.

However, Hector and Karlach are just incredible juggernauts at this point and everything pretty much melted, and Astarion and Jaheira just ran cleanup duty behind them. The wolves and werewolves didn't even drop anything of use, the bastards.

We have two options from here - up and down. Up leads to another set of corridors in a much greater state of disrepair, full of caskets and spiderwebs:

Following this path gets us a bit of small loot but nothing else of real interest, and eventually leads to a dead-end attic area.

The real action seems to be down, which is an elevator behind a door labeled "Office Hall."

Narrator: You stand on a clean metal platform - a beautiful but antiquated elevator. There are some scuffs to show its age, signs of things dragged onto it over the years, but it seems to be in good working order.

"What in the hells? I never knew this was here. This was always Cazador's private quarters - only he ever came in here. Well - him and the unfortunate souls we brought to feed him."

Descend into the depths of the palace.

Oh boy.

Conveniently, we get a waypoint down here, for if we ever want to for some reason come back to this place once we've trounced Cazador into a pulp. Hector at this moment can't imagine a reason he'd want to.

"What in the hells?" Astarion says wonderingly as they walk deeper. "I never knew any of this was here."

There are three main doors leading from this entry point. All three of them are labeled "Crypt Gate" - one to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead, which is covered in a magical field.

The magical one has voices coming from behind it, but the description for the field states that we need a "ring of passage", which I'm assuming we get down one of the other passageways. The left door, when passed through, has ANOTHER magical door on the other side of it, so I think the right-hand door must be our starting point.

Going that way, we see--

Hm. OK. That's a bit challenging.

There's another level below that we can jump down to; it hurts, though. Instead, I had Jaheira blow the Misty Step she gets from her current amulet and go down to take a look around. She found... basically nothing, except a locked door she couldn't get through, and I also realized I didn't have another Misty Step to get her back up, and that I had no idea what to do next.

Reload. Second try.

On closer inspection, the left-hand door actually opens with the same ring of passage that we already had for the door upstairs, which gives us this:

Narrator: The ring slots perfectly into place and the door opens, assailing you with a pungent, musty air.

Past the door is what appears to be a bedroom - and rather nice for a dungeon to be honest.

This seems like it might have been some sort of office or workplace for Cazador himself:

"Guilds, nobles, politicians..." Astarion comments. "If he controlled even a fraction of these, the city could be his and no one would ever know."

Hector looks at the other man sidelong. His voice is angry, as it always is when speaking of Cazador, but there is a note of admiration in it too - or perhaps jealousy - which worries Hector more than a little. He's always known that it is not enough for Astarion to be free, not really; he wants the same power that was wielded over him.

Hector, for better or for worse, does not really want him to have it - he doesn't think it would serve Astarion well in the end and (might as well be honest) he doesn't really trust Astarion to wield it wisely either. But he says nothing - as with Shadowheart, he suspects that to try and hammer his viewpoint home would only cause Astarion to withdraw deeper into his own. He can only hope that when the moment comes, the elf will listen to reason.

One of the other documents at the edge of the room is rather concerning. It's labeled "Eternal Cruelty":

Uhhh. Upsetting. I had Hector destroy it with a punch, but nothing specific happened.

There's also this document sitting on the central dais:

"He recorded thousands of names," Astarion says, sounding baffled. "Were they his victims? Or something else entirely?"

And finally, on the bed: "Meditations of a Vampire Lord"

-----

"Prick," Hector mutters under his breath, snapping the book shut.

Karlach chokes on a sudden, unexpected laugh - albeit without much humor - and Astarion blinks.

"Careful, Carlisle," he says dryly. "Such language. I think Karlach is a bad influence on you."

"Hardly," Hector says gruffly. "Sometimes it is warranted. I merely wait until it is."

"It's true," Karlach puts in. "He even said a full fuck you to Gortash, and surely Cazador's in the same tier, eh? And that's coming from me."

"Well, I'll hardly be the one to argue. I just would hate to think you were abandoning your principles on my account," Astarion drawls.

Jaheira snorts. "If Carlisle's principles did not include destroying sadistic monsters, I think we would have all long left his side by now."

"Well said," Hector says, tossing the book back onto the bed as if ridding himself of a curse. "And the more I learn about him, the more eager I am for the destroying."

[wipside]

burn notice

ruminations in the workplace (WIP)

“Harry, you manipulative bitch.”

()

You try not to cry much when you jerk off. On worse days its too hard to get up and scrape jizz off your belly before passing out, and washing your face is out of the question. Leaving the tear tracks irritates your pock marks, but you’re a sex-crier at your core and it gets worse when you’re low. You think the two substances share a chamber inside you — balls full of saline or something equally stupid — cause once the flood gates open on one, the other isn’t far behind. You got empirical evidence for this theory whenever you went on the meds. Both fluid reserves dried up within a week. You felt less miserable because you felt less, and none of them worked for you anyway so you stopped taking them. This is your treatment now. This is the release valve. Other things supplementing, sure -- running, swimming, weight lifting, riding, the brief high of case solving, speed too, but sex is the big one. Some sex. Mostly crywanking. If you can’t be horny you don’t want to live.

A muffled voice starts up a monologue: Mamé downstairs with the wireless, just home from her Sunday job. Ambrosius Saint Miro seeps through two sets of floorboards and into your tired head. She has to keep it loud to hear it. Her chain-smoking saturates the house with atmospheric distance—invades the attic, even when you close the hatch, even when you open the windows, even when you stuff the cracks with ancient t-shirts: a milk-blue tinge to the far wall.

You’re quiet up here. Theres no need for it, but the habit has been hard to break. 

()

Door sticks in the frame in winter. Small patch of chipped paint letting the pulp wetten and freeze. You’ve thought of fixing it, but not bad enough yet. Door still opens. Give it another year. 

You dont take the bus. Du Bois may have fucked you out of a ride for the foreseeable future, but its only an hour on foot. 

()

Du Bois is already drinking again. You are so fucking smart. You could see this coming a mile off. His bloodshot eyes are as familiar a comfort as the scratchy woolen waistband of your winter uniform. 

You take a walk by homicides.

()

He gets it now. You’re sure he gets it. You’re two peas in a rotten little pod, the Shitkid Support Squad — or, ex in your case. Hah! You wish! The fucker came back to work floating along in Kitsuragis scent trail and you're still on cleanup duty, but you’re keeping it professional now. You go home to your own goddamn house every night, and if he ever asks to come by in off hours, it's going to be a hard no from you. 

()

The fight before the fight before the argument before the fight before the fight before the last argument happened in the squad car. He was clearly drunker than usual but still insisted on driving. You hadn’t slept for 36 hours. He didn’t hit any puppies or babies or little old ladies but he wouldn’t stop fucking with the radio despite a long standing agreement. You turned it off, he turned it on. You turned it off again, he turned it back on. You turned it down, he turned it up till some miserable fairies wailing contralto stabbed at your ear drums. You lost your cool for a second, shot normal words at him louder than you might otherwise, so he turned it up more and started singing.

You shouted more things after that, angry things, but he sang over them. It was an argument to you, but he just sang.

()

Early days as partners: You’re running target drills. 

“Good job out there, son.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

Hands up “Ok, ok.”

Later days: Du Bois and you go out for a beer — unusual for him to shell out for such ineffective medicine, but you aren’t as desensitised yet. 

()

Its not fair. You had a whole thing planned out, a big speech about how he’d fucked you over for the last time—or, no, first you had a whole speech about how this was the most embarrassing version of the ever-present embarrassment he called professional conduct, how, no, this was really it, if he pulled some shit like this *one more goddamned time* you were calling it quits, but that had hinged on him feeling guilty, or giving a shit that you exist, or knowing who you are at all, and he hadn’t, so; you’d hand a whole thing planned out, a *big speech*, a final run-down of long-term grievances. It had included all the very good reasons you were choosing to leave, and why he wouldn’t find anything better and it had a little caveat at the end, a clever twist of the knife, that if he could get his shit together for good—10 months at least—maybe, *maybe*, you would *consider* taking him back on the force. 

Living this limbo where you’ve been abandoned by someone you see every day. 

()

She’s riding your face again. You’re holding the bedrails. You’re pretending she’s tied you to the bedrails. You’re pretending you don’t want her riding your face. You’re pretending she’s locked you in a cell, has starved and beaten you, fucked you mercilessly, let other people fuck you mercilessly, and that it has been this way for so long you can’t remember what else you were good for. You’re pretending to be married— to her maybe— and you’re pretending that sharing this small space is something you could enjoy. You’re pretending her son is your son. You’re pretending to want a son. You’re pretending she has no son. You’re pretending she’s not married. 

You’re pretending a man is watching you, from the corner of the room. You’re pretending her husband is watching. You’re pretending he’s jerking off.

You don’t stay long after. You always get too ashamed. 

()

“Not to be a fag, but […] you’re […]. Tell me […]?”

Something something. Something that happened. Something thats gone now. Something you’re trying to forget. 

()

He’d been a good partner for the physical things. He’s the one that got you lifting. You were leaner before, more of a runner. He’d deadlifted a hundred Ks, showoff masculinity — he’d grinned at you, red-faced, and you’d wanted to prove you were better.

Weights heavy enough to snap your bones, but your bones hold anyway. Barely. You feel them creaking. Your body is falling apart, but slowly. You dont have to deal with it right now.

“9…10…11…12” hands hover under the bar as you force it up onto the rack. 

()

He came to work hungover and you thought first time?

You were disappointed by him, looked down your nose at him all day, and you were comforted. Here is proof that there isn’t anything else wrong with you. DuBois is a corrupting influence on even the sanest, most straight-laced of men. You can picture them last night doing something stupid: Blackout drunk, high on something, public indecency or the thumping walls of an apartment you have yet to see. Either way disturbing the peace. You think about it on and off all day, pity and revulsion at the imagined sight of one on the other, shifting and switching which silhouette is where whenever the image recurs: Kitsuragi with his hand down DuBois' pants, DuBois bending Kitsuragi over his flimsy kitchen table, Kitsuragis belt around his ankles, choking DuBois on his cock. 

()

Early days still: You throwing up in an alley after too much drinking, him murmuring “You’re alright. You’re ok.” Stroking your back like a babe.

(Again: you resented all of this. What felt good in the moment angered you after, the mockery of tenderness made clear from a distance, images of him on the scuffed attic floorboards sucking the self-respect from your body like a leech. This was why it couldn’t sustain itself. You’d tried to keep things on the rails but he couldn’t be fucking normal about it.)

()

The picture on his badge. He’s your age. He looks healthier and happier than you ever have. You’d needled him about it when it was re-issued and he didn’t change the shot. 

When drunk again: “It’s the last time the world made sense. I dont want this—“ hand jerks at his face “—thing to replace it.”

Then what hope is there for me?

()

You cling to his back until he wants to do the things you want him to do. Then you don’t want them anymore, so you get off. 

 You linger in the distance. You tell him, to his face, “I dont believe you can do these things.” And he says “fuck you, of course I can do these things” and he tries to do them on his own and he fails—first time and every time after— fails, consistently, to do these things you sometimes want him to do, comes back from it worse than before, more limbs missing than ever, and you feel vindicated and full of contempt. 

You tell him “I never believed in you.”

You’re disappointed. 

And you crawl up onto his back again. 

()

He’d told you, once, when he was drunk. You wish he hadn’t. He didn’t seem to remember the next day. He’d tried to lean his head on you and that frisson of horror contact sometimes provoked made you walk home in the dark. 

()

In the third to last fight, he’d called you a parasite. You hadn’t disagreed. You know what you are. You’re weak and stupid and nobody in the entire history of the world has ever loved you. 

Still manage to be better than most people, somehow. The worlds a terrible place, or maybe not. Maybe it’s just that you work cleaning up scum.

You’re better than him, anyway. You’re a tape worm, but *hes* a goddamn— a god damned prion disease! Ha! Apparently thats what gets you promoted. Weaponised brain damage.

()

Before that last, bad fight, he’d come home with you. His apartment was being fumigated again. The tenants in the unit below his had complained of roaches six times this season, and it had eventually become apparent that the problem was coming from the floors above. The landlord sent someone, probably because they vaguely remembered a building inspector on one of the leases. 

Mamé in bed already, used up bag of bones. Her hearing aids are busted and you can’t afford to fix them. Roast potatoes and onions in a dish on the counter. Towel over it. She’s left a note. Just heating instructions, not something you need.

“Bullshit assignment in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re the one who took it.”

“Yeah, well, cant have those fuckers in the 57th thinking we’re soft. You got anything to drink around here?”

Of course you had. He was already drunk all the time now, so what difference did it make?

“Dead people all over the place. I see them on the back of my eyelids, Vic. I see dead guys in my fucking dreams.”

You drinking too, in a joking mood. “You like it.”

”I dont like it-“

”You *like* it, you like murder cases-”

”I don’t.”

”-you sick shit. You-“

“Shut up”

“-*like* doing autopsies. You’d-”

”I dont fucking like it”

”-fuck a corpse if your dick could get hard enough to-”

“I don’t FUCKING LIKE IT! I dont! I dont *like* fucking- stop laughing, this isn’t funny, I dont like looking at rotten bodies every day of the week, I dont! Its the worst part of this godforsaken job.” 

“‘Ooh, noo, I dont liiiiike it,” he starts towards you. You back away. “I dont liiiiike handling dead guys mouldy penises, I doooon’t, stooop’” he lunges at you half-heartedly, but you’re up on the sofa now, nimble where he’s sluggish. “‘waaa, you’re *forcing* me to go elbow-deep in this guys body cavity without any gloves on.’”

“You fucker!” He swipes at you again and you evade. “You are so fucked, you know that?”

“*I’m* fucked? *youre* the fucked one, corpse fucker!”

“Fuck you!”

“Youre fucked!”

“No, *youre* fucked!”

“You are!”

“No, You!”

“You!”

“You!”

“YOU!”

“ENOUGH!” “Fuck me running, what is wrong with you today?”

“‘Whats up with you, man?’ I’m not the one who dropped his sense of humour on the way here.”

“This!” Waving between the two of you “This! This! This *thing*! This faggy halfway house for the terminally lonely! I don’t want it anymore! I want—”

“What? You want what? What do you want? What do you-”

“I want—”

“-want harry? What could the great detective *possibly* feel is missing from his life? What’s the thing you think will fill the hole this time, hm? What’s big enough to fill the fucking *hole* of you?”

“The hole of me— the hole of *me*?! Hahaha, the hole of *you*! *You’re* the bottomless pit of— *youre* the one who—I’m not the empty one here, Ok?! I got depth coming out my *ears*, Viquemare!! I got multitudes spraying out my ass!! You would *drown* in the vastness I got going on inside me! Fucking homo— *FUCK!*” he throws his glass off to the left. You dont startle. “I dont *need* filling, what I *need* is—“

“you need, you need, all you do is *need* things! What?! What is it now?! A drink?! A day off?! A new car?! A fat set of tits to bury your ugly fucking head in!?”

“I NEED YOU TO—” the shout trails out, loses the fury, isn’t sure where he was going. “I need—” Quietly, almost tearful, he beseeches the walls. “I need. Something. Anything. Please. a friend, a fuck, a- a fucking cat, *something*, I need—“

“Your mommy?”

The bottle flew past your ear and clattered against the wall. Didn’t hit, didn’t even shatter. Embarrassing. Pathetic. You told him so. He’d doubled down, thrown another. That one hit. He’d aimed at your head again, but overcorrected, slugged it straight into your solar plexus. It knocked the words right out of you. He’d deflated then, come over all gentle, gearing up to apologise. You’d punched him in the upper quadrant to watch how he wheezed around his fossilised liver. He’d hunched, gasping, slurring slurs, grabbed blindly at the tables surface, thrown the dirty plate at your head, missed again. Onions and potatoes flying through the air. You’d laughed at him, cold starch squishing into the carpet as you dodged a pillow, asked if he’d been such a deadshot when teaching kiddies to play dodgeball, or if it was easier now he wasn’t spending most of his time peeking up their gym shorts. He’d roared, lept at you, sent you both flying. 

For a moment, at least, his body wanted to kill yours. You’re not sure how much mind was left. He’d gone to put his hands around your throat, but you took the high ground, got a few good hits in on his face before he leaned up and head-butted you. Your nose gushed. His dribbled. You both failed to take advantage.

There was a struggle, which became wrestling, which became a reverse choke-hold, which became an embrace with too much crotch. Pants came down to your knees, his ankles. Texture of dirty carpet on bare skin, potato mush on his lower back when you turned him over.

You’d told him to stay, gone to the bathroom briefly: condoms that time, out of lube, spit straight on dick—didn’t want to feel around in his unclean asshole, didn’t want shit in your urethra. Didn’t want to think about what you were doing, really, so you held him down, nose-blood spattering his shirttails. He’d whined at the breech so you’d waited a minute, stroked his flank. Not so much for him as for your own pain: you couldn’t stand the stillness. It was terrible, this, having peace to think. 

When his breath stopped shuddering, you’d asked him. He’d nodded blearily, reached back to caress your thigh. Cheek pressed into carpet, his eyes were off in the distance somewhere. You’d pressed your mouth to his shoulder and moved.

So yeah, to make a long goddamn story short, you’d fucked him. You’d fucked him the way you had been for a while, and he’d sort of passed out halfway, the way he did sometimes, but you’d pulled his hair to wake him up and he’d come on your living room rug in a thin, geriatric dribble. 

That was the normal fight that preceded the bad one.

()

TRUE LOVE IS POSSIBLE ONLY IN THE NEXT WORLD

FOR NEW PEOPLE. IT IS TOO LATE FOR US.

()

Whatever else you could say about his work performance, *not showing up* wasn’t usually a problem. Showing up shitfaced? Showing up with a broken nose and more teeth missing? Showing up several hours late and screaming at anyone who spoke louder than a whisper? All of those, yes, but he’d show up eventually, in some state. 

(“If I didn’t work here I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, Vic. I’d just drink and drink and drink and party and party and party. I think six months leave would kill me dead.” You’d laughed. It was a joke. It wasn’t. Not really. You laughed anyway.)

You think to go to his apartment but you don’t know where he lives now. 

()

“Whatever personal grievances you mistakenly believe we share, this is a job. We are at work. I am doing this in my capacity as an RCM officer, not the other member of a two man knitting circle.”

“Fuck, fuck! Slow down!” The car swings around a hard bend without slowing. You hear a lamppost hiss past the cracked window at an uncomfortably close proximity. “How did you get a work car?! You drive like an asshole!”

Kitsuragi doesn’t reply, but you feel the engine quieten. Your stiffened fingers relax around the ceiling rail as the car slows. 

And keeps slowing.

… And keeps slowing, until it stops. 

Reaches over, opens the passenger side door.

“Its a half hour walk from here. By the time you arrive you will display the expected level of professionalism.”

Gets out, stunned

Drives off

It takes you forty minutes to get there. You’re stewing the whole way. You could have made it in 20, jogging along with murder in your brows, but a section of pavement has caved in on Main Street and you need to take a different route. It throws you off, has you walking the last stretch. The dense knit of your forehead unfolds.

You’d rather he was dead. You’d resigned yourself to another heart attack or a self-inflicted headshot, the way you resigned yourself to the general shitting out of everything around you. This is so much harder to control.

()

What is there to say? “you need me”? “Get back here”? “Don’t leave me alone”?

Pathetic. Disgusting. Go home and make your dick cry, corpse fucker.

()

You can tell when they’ve worked something out. DuBois stops coming to work hungover, but he stops working as hard too. He seems contented. You don’t ask. You *do* get on his case when, for the third week running, he never stays a second past shift, leaving you to finish your shared paperwork alone. 

“Leave it for tomorrow.” He tells you. His bemused tone is infuriating. “It’ll still be here tomorrow. What difference does it make?”

You don’t see Kitsuragi. 

()

Early days again: You identify his body within a week of your 32nd. Even bloated and wet the hollowness echoes its recognition. 

“I’m sorry about your dad.” “It’s shit, losing parents.”

You shrug. You really don’t care. It worries you, some days, how little these things make you feel. What can you say? That you're fine? That it doesnt matter? The worthless old fuck didn’t even have the decency to kill himself. He’s one of the 14 drunks each year who fall in the harbor trying to take a piss.

(“He was such a lonely little boy” mamé said. “Always crying about something. I did what I could, but you can’t live for them.”)

“My dad was like that. Sensitive. Beat him at cards once as a kid and he sulked for weeks.” He laughs. “Funny man. Wouldn’t play with me after that.”

You fiddle with the cardboard beer mat, peel layers of pressed fibre apart and hope he’ll stop talking. You dont want to know any of this. You dont need someone else’s shit haunting your head. 

You didn’t want to be in the attic so you made him take you home. You’d wanted to ask him if he’d fuck you, but he was soft-cocked. Whiskey-soft. Holding you on the twin size mattress, he’d tugged your trousers off and administered an arrhythmic handjob, let you wail into his shoulder. The wet mockery of your face on his shirt when you rolled away was enough to make you sick again. 

More drinking. Furry face abrading your stomach, tongue bathes the shame off you. You offered to suck his cock, even out the imbalance. He’d let you try but still couldn’t get it up. You’d stayed down there long enough to pass the humiliation from your body to his, make it about his failing flesh, not yours. Thirty minutes his fingers carded clumsy through your hair, thumb stroking your cheek with that usual mockery, feeling out the limp mouthful, dispersing the intermittent leakage as he murmured below his breath: “Good boy, Jean. Good boy. Daddy’s got you.”

Afterwards, when more drinking, naked, separate, more drinking, when another hand job, when no shirt to feel sick over so fingers in your ass, fucking you, when his dick still disinterested even as you come again gasping his latests title and immediately wish you could want to kill yourself, afterwards, more drinking, when clothes on, when out in the living room, drinking again, more drinking, when nothing happens here except that it does, more drinking, drinking again, when you, asking for something solid inside, but he still doesn’t want you, when he does you the favour of bending you over the couch back anyway, groping at your front, soft front groping your hard back, when slurring in your ear about the warmth of his regard for you or how good you are, the nasty, inbred things he wants to give you when he’s not so brined, when nothing happening is over and you help each other back onto the couch, when teeth and spit for a moment, when lips and tongues, when he tells you to stay put, sweet boy, when brings you a half-full glass of water you spill, when brings you another half-full glass of water and makes you drink it, when settles beside you with something better to drink, drinking again, more and more drinking, afterwards, after all this has already happened, he starts running his mouth again.

“Not to be a fag, but… if things’w’re different…. ‘f I wasn’t…. but, ’s too scary. I can’t… whnm sober, I-- I get scared.” 

You dont say anything.

“S’not cause I don’t want to, I do, I just… I dunno. Scared.” He rolls his neck to bleer at you. “I think y’re my best friend. ‘m I your best friend?”

Eyes rolled and unfocused, you say: “Y’re my *best friend*, Harry.” 

You hadn’t wanted to, but you’d meant it.

“Tell me you love me?”

You wrestled your hand out of his. “Don’t be a fucking fairy.”

“No, c’mon, just once. Jus’this once.”

He’d tried to lean his head on you but the gin-bile stench of him, that frisson of horror contact sometimes provoked, made you walk home in the dark alone.

You wish he hadn’t. Uneven steps had the fourth dried load tugging at your pubes.

He was drunk. You were drunk. He didn’t seem to remember the next day. 

He’d told you, once. He’d as good as told you. He’d wanted to tell you.

()

by the time you get there whatever was supposed to happen has already been and gone. Kitsuragi walks out the front door as you're turning the last corner. Sees you. Nods. He asks you if you want to ride back with him in a tone of soft command. You blink and are back at the station. Nothing to do here, not after last week, so you go home. You jerk off. Saline oozes out of you without the expected relief. The tit rags from your top drawer don’t feel real anymore. The bodies in them look weird, too smooth, too stiff, too far away. You can’t cum. You feel sick. You give up, go to the bathroom, try to piss with a hard-on, avoid getting pissed when you end up pissing everywhere. Throw a towel on the floor round the toilet and avoid thinking of the mounting laundry. Avoid thinking about your body betraying you again. 

()

He had been the one thing you could count on, not a companion but a part of your scenery, the looming shape of him so uncompromising in its threat that you never thought to worry it wouldn’t take you with it when it blew. The implosion, the dip in the earth, how it has done you the injustice of leaving quietly, that is the insult. No buried remains. Only the pit. Only the parting in the pale where you know not to follow. You are on the edge, watching these elements of you be swallowed: One fourth of a widowing. Something close to a friendship. Certain moments of no importance that are yours alone now. The inside jokes, which aren’t as funny when you recite them to yourself. Were they ever? Were they ever good jokes to start off with? You doubt it. And the memories, were the memories any better? Hardly. And the love? Was that real? Not with you involved. Is it such a great loss, then, this erasure of your backup? 

Yes. To you, yes. To you it is a great loss, even if you’ll never own it.