#but because its just a shitty way to plow through life

[zapsoda]

terf posts arent bad because they were made by terves theyre bad because the ideology is made up entirely of incredibly harmful and flawed ideas about gender and morality

[lostcybertronian]

Parking Garage

This one was fun. Done in @breakdownsbuttlights Humanformers!Dratchet AU because I got sucked in HARD.

---

It wasn’t until 2AM that Ratchet left the hospital, trudging from the sliding glass doors into the third floor of the parking garage, abandoned by day-shift workers and patients at that time of night. He seemed to hunch in on himself, thumb flicking insistently at his phone screen, its soft glow illuminating the deep lines of his face.

Four dead. Suspect at large.

The news article refused to reload; there was no service in that damned parking garage and the hospital Wi-Fi didn’t extend that far. Still, two hours after him and every single one of his staff got the emergency alert? There had to be something new.

Possibly injured.

Outside, snow swirled in great gusts, the wind shoving it into drifts that the plows wouldn’t clear away for hours and would put his little station wagon through hell trying to get home. He would’ve been better off sleeping in his office. But none of that occurred to him. His eyes were locked to a photograph at the top of the article, framed in tiny, nearly unreadable text.

That picture. It was blurry and looked as if it were taken by someone’s shitty flip phone, but even a skeptic like Ratchet couldn’t deny it was undoubtedly, unmistakably, him.

Ratchet shoved his phone into his bag and fumbled for his keys, cursing a blue streak when they fell from his hands, clattering to the dirty cement just beside the driver’s side wheel.

Citizens are warned to shelter in place. Secure doors and windows. Suspect is armed and highly dangerous.

A hand seized the back of his collar and yanked, throwing Ratchet onto his back. Instincts formed from decades of being a combat medic kicked in and he tucked his head on impact, throwing his hands up in an I’m unarmed gesture with a grunt. He started to scramble to his feet, but a figure stepped between him and his car. The soft click of a hammer being cocked froze him in his tracks.

“I knew it was you.” His voice came out a startled stammer. He cleared his voice and tried again. “Deadlock.”

Deadlock stepped closer, boots silent over concrete, and leveled a handgun at his head. His hand quaked violently enough to rattle the gun, and even in the musty garage lights Ratchet could see his pupils were dilated, all but consuming the iris. His nose was swollen, and his lips and mouth were coated in thickening, sticky blood. Where he usually wore a black tactical jacket and bullet-proof vest, there was only a white tank-top, smeared dark down the front with more blood. His sniper rifle slung across his back.

Deadlock bared bloody teeth in a vicious snarl. “I called, and you did not answer.” 

Ratchet gestured around them, adrenaline thudding in his ears. He fought to keep his tone nonchalant. Calm. “I was here.” 

He did not say he lost the burner phone. Did not say he’d given up hope after months of no calls. Did not say he’d thought Deadlock was dead. “Now can you let me up? You need to be looked at.” He lifted an eyebrow. Looked the man up and down. “And there’s no way you’re not cold.”

Deadlock looked uncertain, something Ratchet would’ve poked fun at in any other circumstance. Then, he lowered the gun. Made a gesture with it that Ratchet took as acquiescence.

He got to his feet, ignoring the creaking ache in his joints, and dropped his bag to the ground, stripping off his jacket. “Here, kid,” he said. “Trade you.”

Deadlock stared at the jacket for a moment, like it might explode or come to life and attack him, then mutely handed him the gun, which Ratchet unloaded with the fluid ease of years of practice, pocketing the magazine and leaning down to tuck the gun into his bag. By the time he was finished Deadlock had managed to fold his wiry limbs into the oversized jacket, the muzzle of the rifle poking out the back collar. It was almost cute, the way he immediately shoved his hands into the deep pockets. 

Ratchet gave him another once-over, concluding that Deadlock was not in immediate danger of bleeding out, and stepped forward to gather him into his arms, feeling Deadlock stiffen as he did but refusing to let go until he finally relaxed into his grip.

“I could still kill you,” Drift murmured into the crook of his neck.

“I know.” Ratchet settled a hand on the back of his neck and drew back so he could kiss him, tasting the cloying tang of blood on his mouth and giving a soft gasp when Deadlock pressed forward hungrily, one fang catching on his bottom lip and slicing it open, spilling red down Ratchet’s chin.

He chuckled when they broke apart, Deadlock’s tongue darting out to lick the blood on his face. “But then who would patch your sorry ass?”

Deadlock’s answering grin was more grimace. He looked exhausted and jittery. Ratchet squeezed the back of his neck once and bent to retrieve his bag. Then, finally, his keys. “Let’s go home, kid, and get you something to eat.”

[revolution-john]

My Childhood Trauma PTSD as Triggered by the Following Movie Montage

by BENJAMIN DREVLOW

That scene in American History X. You know the one. Or maybe it was Higher Learning, I always get those confused. That curb stomp scene always reminding me of the time I tripped and face-planted in the barn while corralling bull calves, to get castrated, my two front teeth chomping down on all that jagged concrete and manure, it adds a different flavor to the recurring nightmare I have, though in my case, usually nothing to do with race relations. I wonder if everybody else who watched that movie also missed the whole point of it. Except the Curb Stomp. Everybody remembers where they were when their stoner friend with big ideas about ending racism across the world made them watch the movie with the Curb Stomp.

~

Mel Gibson getting drawn and quartered in Braveheart. You may take our lives, but you will never take… our… FREE-DOM!

~

Mel Gibson ripping his shoulder out of its socket in Lethal Weapon.

~

Mel Gibson torturing the shit out of Jesus, then blaming the women and Jews for everything, including his drunk-driving and plummeting career options.

~

Fuck pretty much any Mel Gibson movie. Except maybe that one with him and James Gardner and Jody Foster and all their comedy hijinks. It’s the gambler one but not The Gambler. But now that I think about it, isn’t Jody Foster a big Mel Gibson apologist? So I guess fuck that movie too.

~

Any movie where somebody gets shot or stabbed or thumbed in the eyeball or has one or both of their eyeballs squeezed or ripped out, which always reminds me of that time I got elbowed right below my eye but also on the eyeball and it literally pushed in my eyeball a millimeter and I still get double vision to this day whenever I line up a shot playing pool or line up a screw to hang a photo on the wall or sometimes re-hang the toilet paper dispenser next to the toilet. I’d been playing pickup basketball and my buddy who was like four inches taller than me elbowed me on a rebound and like I say I went down and lay there on my back and then all the blood started pooling in my eye socket and I couldn’t see anything and my friend couldn’t see my eyeball and he kept hissing through his teeth grossed out by it but then telling me it would okay and the whole time lying there thinking I’m thinking about my eyeball I’m thinking of the scene in Any Given Sunday where the guy’s eyeball is just lying there on the football field. I’m thinking of that closeup all the way to the hospital when they unwrap the mummy gauze from around my head and the ER doctor breathes a sigh of relief after peeling off all the dried blood to reveal that I needed fifteen stitches and I’d broken my orbital bone, but I still had my eye.

~

Any movie where somebody’s sitting there reading a book before bed, watching TV, gossiping with girlfriends, when the camera pulls back only to zoom back in on the dark night window behind them—cue the string section.

~

If I had to choose one, I’m thinking of that one zombie movie, something 28 Days something but not the one about Sandra Bullock finding love with Viggo in rehab. It’s not even about the zombies. It’s about the dark night window, not to be confused with the Dark Knight window, sorry that was a shitty pun for no good reason whatsoever, but also maybe not completely random with the guy from 28 Days also having played the scarecrow in Batman Begins where he sprays people with a drug and makes them see their worst fears, which never really did it for me, at least not like the secluded house with the zombies lurking around. I grew up in a big old farmhouse out in the barrens of northern Wisconsin. Lots of windows, no shades. In so many ways I grew up in the dark. It wasn’t the zombies I worried about. It was the methheads. Which, sure, I guess if you’re getting technical about it, same thing, fine, you win, I’m scared of zombies.

~

The Zapruder film, but as replayed by Kevin Costner in Oliver Stone’s fever dream of a conspiracy theory. The magic bullet, back and to the left, back and to the left, back and to the left. How it gets stuck in my head, JFK’s exploding head replaced with my brother’s exploding head, sometimes my own, except unlike my brother and JFK, my head’s still mostly intact. Back and to the left, back and to the left. Sometimes I think about that too with that one Seinfeld episode with Keith Hernandez and the magic loogie, but usually the loogie gets replaced with a bullet and Kramer’s head gets replaced with my brother, mine, back and to the left.

~

The sound of the gun shots in the final scene of that Tom Hanks movie where he plays himself again, a good guy, a family guy, a sly sense of humor, but this time a mob hitman with a strained relationship with his oldest son. The look on Tom Hanks’ face walking back to the house from the ocean—having survived it all, the hit that his old mob boss Paul Newman had put out on him for putting a hit on his old mob boss’s son as played by James Bond who also played Ted Hughes in that movie about Sylvia Plath killing herself. But this is past all that, it’s the happy ending. They’re on beach somewhere, white sand, somebody’s house that Tom Hanks and his kid are going to live in now. The silence before and after. Jude Law! It’s Jude Law’s face, his eye all fucked up, how did it happen, I don’t really remember the specifics but I remember the specifics. Bang, bang, bang. I think it might’ve had something to do with Jude Law being a photographer, like one of those where you pose with your kid or something or say you get promoted to head CEO or godfather of the family. Smile. Click, click, except in this case with a gun.

~

The gunshot at the end of American Beauty, pretty much the same thing, different movie. Chris Cooper confusing Kevin Spacey as gay but before Kevin Spacey actually came out as gay and a sexual predator. Not that the latter necessarily had anything to do with the former. Neither in the movie nor real life, well not really, but sorta. You get the point.

~

Jared Leto as Angel Face getting his face smashed in by Ed Norton as Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden’s split personality in Fight Club. Not so much Jared Leto, but the wet mushy sounds of it. That part on the audio commentary where Chuck Palahniuk and David Fincher defend the violence of the movie, Fincher pointing out that he was not glorifying violence, he was making it realistic. That’s what it sounds like to punch your opponent into the concrete, Fincher says and Palahniuk laughs and agrees. Don’t worry I’m not going to make any puns about the first rule of fight club.

~

That part of that one weird depressing Robin Williams’s movie where Robin Williams’s kids get killed in a car accident while backing out of the driveway on the way to school. The one where Robin Williams later on gets plowed over by a truck going the wrong way while Robin Williams is out trying to help another couple who’d been injured in a different car accident, but before all that his wife kills herself because she can’t take it and then Robin Williams goes to the suicide afterlife to save her. But then there’s fucking Cuba Gooding Jr. who—spoiler alert—turns out to be the ghost/angel of his dead son who then explains to Robin Williams that his wife/Cuba’s mother can’t be saved because she killed herself. It doesn’t matter that she had a pretty fucking good reason too, she’s still stuck face down floating around in that black swamp of bodies of everybody else’s killed themselves and nobody’s getting to heaven. That shit really messed me up—not the car accidents, but the afterlife for selfish losers like me who kill themselves. And/or my brother.

~

The bulging vein in Tom Cruise’s head from Magnolia. Respect the Cock and Tame the Pussy, Respect the Cock and Tame the Pussy. I think probably my therapist would have some thoughts about all this, and some questions. Questions and thoughts.

~

That one version of A Christmas Carol where the Ghost of Christmas Past undoes his robe to show off the alien children living under his robe.

~

I got the worst set of blue balls you could imagine while taking my best friend’s girlfriend to Baz Lurman’s remake of Romeo and Juliet. That Romeo and Juliet. I missed most of it, I kept having to go to the bathroom to masturbate in agony and to no avail. Leo and Claire Danes are hot and heavy on an acid trip, and every time my best friend’s girlfriend reaches for a handful of popcorn she makes sure to wipe the butter off on the inside of my upper thigh. This is what I get for being the good guy of falling on the grenade for my best friend, the grenade in this case being Shakespeare and my best friend’s hatred of literature.

~

Mark Wahlberg’s flaccid rotten dick in Boogie Nights.

~

The Secret of the Crying Game but not in a transphobic way. No, it’s the smallness of it what got me back when I watched it as a teenager. The tenderness. The growing tent in my pants at its sudden appearance on the screen. Maybe you don’t believe me but I was a naïve podunk kid from off the farm. I didn’t have cable. I didn’t have access to the internet. His/her (now their) secret opened up a lot of questions for me. I often dream of dressing up in drag and someone sucking my little bitty dick and if that makes me a little bit gay or maybe bi or what’s it called, body dysmorphic. I mean I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s the new millennium, we’re all a bit sexually confused aren’t we?

~

This one porno my friends and I watched at somebody’s uncle’s cabin up in the U.P. for a three-on-three basketball tournament. The Snapping Pussy. The sound her vagina made, like somebody really dramatic at clicking their tongue and slurping a half-empty malt the same time. The scene of us boys all sitting there with our boners watching a porn and wanting to masturbate but not because we were all boys and we were afraid we’d be gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a little bit gay.

~

There was this made-for-TV movie, me six years old and home alone while my big brother, supposed who’d to’ve been baby-sitting me, the only time he ever babysat me that I can remember, maybe because his one time—that time—he didn’t actually babysit me. He went out to a party, while I watched the made-for-tv movie about some kid who’d watched his mother get murdered, and then goes mute, keeps drawing these pictures of Peter Pan and Captain Hook. The kid’s grandfather, one of those big hooks, like the one in I Know What You Did Last Summer, but this was long before that, though I’m not sure it was before the book. Did you know that there was a book I Know What You Did Last Summer? I mean this isn’t about the book or the movie, this is about that kid whose grandfather had molested his daughter for years and then as an adult gutted her with a fishhook and then how he’d then come back to finish the job with his mute grandkid, I don’t know how this movie ever got green-lighted (green-lit?) for TV, but then it’s weird to even think about those made-for-tv movies and if they actually existed or if I’m just making this whole thing up, but then my brother, we had a walk-in basement at the time, this being before I’d accidently burned that house down with two space heaters stolen from the barn, before my brother’d killed himself, he’d come back late, or probably it was only eight or nine, but I was young and alone out in the woods where we lived, and he’d come back through the basement, which was attached to the family room, where I’d been watching and then all of a sudden that kid on TV was being stocked by his granddad with a fish hook and the door to the basement was opening, and for god knows why I’d turned off all the lights to watch the scary movie by myself, and it turns out it was just my brother who’d go on to kill himself in like a year, maybe six months, and he was just playing a little prank on me, or maybe he’d just come through the basement for some reason, he was always hanging out down there and tinkering around with things, but in my mind, I can remember that exact look on his face, that smirk, even in the dark, the light from the television in a blacked-out room, a blacked out house, reflecting off those pop-bottle glasses of his, the shiny too-big-for-his-face silver frames. My mother always tells me I should try to remember the happy times I had with my brother, and honestly, I can’t, I can only remember that smirk, those glasses, the handle turning a moment before he appeared.

~

Any and all sequels where it turns out that the dead character didn’t actually die at all, or maybe it’s magic, or maybe there’s time travel.

~

Any happy ending ever.

~

Every ending in my worst nightmares involves everyone I’ve ever loved or hated, their faces turning to snake faces. Snakeheads, snake arms, snake butts. Snakes snakes snakes. They slip out of their clothes and come up from under my bed, slither under my covers. They bite me, they kiss me, poison me, they consume me whole and regurgitate my bones. That’s how they always end. Me dead and abandoned.

~

That scene in the first Indiana Jones with Indiana Jones and getting trapped in the cave with all the snakes. I hate snakes. All my worst nightmares turn to snakes. Fuck snakes. This all might have something to do with my undersized penis. If you want to go down that path. The Secret of My Crying Game.

~

Has Mel Gibson ever made a movie with snakes? I don’t know, you tell me, but fuck that movie if he did. Mel Gibson is snakey enough on his own.

~

BENJAMIN DREVLOW is the author of Bend With the Knees and Other Love Advice from My Father, which won the 2006 Many Voices Project, and the author of Ina-Baby: A Love Story in Reverse, which was  released by Cowboy Jamboree Books in 2019.  Buy his books here. He is currently at work on a novel, a novella, and a collection of story-poems. He serves as the Managing Editor of BULL Magazine (@BULL_magazine_) and is a lecturer at Georgia Southern University in Statesboro, Georgia.

[vengeancedemons]

devil hit his second stride // self para (pt 1)

summary: In Hell, Robbie runs into a familiar face who convinces him to stop wallowing in self pity and make a move to stop his uncle from ripping his life to shreds. trigger warnings: hell, death, mentions of violence  featuring: robbie reyes, phil coulson, mentions of elias morrow, gabriel reyes, daisy johnson ( @daisyquakes ), and jessica jones ( @goddamndumbass ) word count: 4320 no one SAY ANYTHING

There were a lot of metaphors about Hell, a lot of famous quotes invoking the word. Robbie had read up on them after his death and subsequent resurrection, studied them as if they might somehow hold answers to what happened to him. Churchill famously instructed those who were going through Hell to keep going. Twain once quipped that one should go to Heaven for the climate, but Hell for the company. Sartre claimed that Hell was other people. Robbie had gathered a whole collection of quips and quotes, a whole world of things writers and politicians and activists said were Hell, because he’d known the deal he’d made to save his own life only had one end result and he’d wanted to be prepared. He’d been an idiot, in that regard. 

There was no preparing for Hell.

There was no making it easier. You couldn’t “keep going,” no matter how easy Churchill made it sound. You didn’t enjoy the company the way Twain joked that you might. The other people Sartre had feared were just as lost, just as tortured, just as absorbed in the terribleness of it all as you were. No metaphor Robbie had come across had managed to do justice to the real thing. Hell was Hell. There was no other way of describing it, no way of putting it into terms the average person would understand. You either knew it or you didn’t. You’d either been there or you couldn’t possibly imagine it. And Robbie could imagine it well. 

It was different, this time around. The last time (the last two times, rather), he’d at least gone out on his own terms. He’d chosen to exit stage left with Eli’s shoulders gripped in his hands. He decided to take the Darkhold back to where it belonged even if that meant he’d wind up where he belonged, too. And the people he’d cared about hadn’t been left in the best positions, but at least he’d known they’d be okay. He’d known Daisy would look out for Gabe, had known that Coulson would keep an eye on the SHIELD agents he’d begrudgingly come to tolerate. There hadn’t been an awful lot to fear.

This time was different.

With Eli running around in Robbie’s skin, there was no overselling the shitstorm that was waiting for the people he cared for. Daisy, who’d taken up residence on his couch the last few months, would be a burden Eli wouldn’t want to put up with. Jessica, who was almost a friend as much as someone you’d once nearly plowed over with your car could hope to be, would be an inconvenience his uncle wouldn’t want to deal with. And Gabe… It was too much to hope that Eli would leave Gabe out of things. It was too much to wish that his brother might remain blissfully ignorant in L.A. while their uncle wreaked havoc in New York. Whatever Eli had planned, Gabe would undoubtedly be caught in the crossfire the same way he had the night of that street race, when the Fifth Street gang saw Eli’s car and open fired with no regard for who was actually inside. And Robbie was powerless to stop any of it.

Shit, he was worse than powerless. The last time he’d been in Hell, he’d at least had the limited protection of the Rider keeping him out of the worst of it. It meant giving up control more often than not, but it made him relatively difficult to harm. Just like on Earth, the Rider had protected Robbie from damage in Hell. He’d made sure Robbie won most of the fights he got into, ensured that anyone who fucked with them had a generally bad day. Eli made sure Robbie was without that protection this go around, and that must have been intentional in more ways than one. His uncle had wanted the power of the Ghost Rider, beyond shadow of a doubt… but he’d also wanted to make sure Robbie was without it. And he’d absolutely succeeded in that.

You couldn’t die in Hell. Robbie figured that out his very first day, when he’d looked down at his chest to see a blade sticking out of it, rusted and bloody. You felt every ounce of pain dealt out to you, felt the way your heart tore itself to shreds as it beat around metal, felt your lungs fill up with blood and dust until there was no room left to breathe, but you couldn’t die. It was like one of the shitty video games Gabe used to play --- you bled, you ached, you faded away, and you popped back up someplace else to do it all again. Death would have been far easier. Anything would have been easier. Everyone there knew it.

It was why he’d also learned another important lesson his first Rider-less day in Hell. He’d learned about a rumor, a legend that desperate souls accepted as truth because there had to be some kind of end to all of this. It was a Fifth Street goon who’d blurted it out to him, a man terrified of Robbie who’d never even met the Rider. (Robbie had taken care of plenty of gang members without the Devil making an appearance at all, in the early days. There had been so much anger and nowhere to put it. It was inevitable.) 

‘There’s a story,’ the man had said, practically blubbering at the mere sight of the man who had taken his life. ‘If you take out the guy who killed you down here, you get out. You get to move on.’ 

‘Move on to what?’ Robbie had demanded, but the man hadn’t known. All he had known, all he had heard was that removing the person responsible for your presence in Hell from its depths meant a ticket to someplace else. And everyone figured that nothing could possibly be worse than this. 

So they fought. They beat each other to death only to yield no result when the person they were trying so desperately to remove appeared again out of their reach, breathing oxygenless through deceased lungs. It was utterly pointless and they knew it, but it was the only thing they knew how to do. It was the Fifth Street member who’d told him the legend that taught Robbie what happened when you died in Hell, putting a sword through his back the moment he turned away and shrugging unapologetically when Robbie turned back to him. ‘I just had to try it,’ the man said, ‘just once.’ And the expression on his face made it clear that whatever he’d hoped would happen wasn’t happening and Robbie had died and come back for what wasn’t the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Robbie didn’t know if the legend had a grain of truth to it. For him, he didn’t guess it mattered much either way. He couldn’t get rid of the person responsible for sending him to Hell, and it wasn’t because his uncle was out of reach. No, Robbie couldn’t get rid of the guy responsible for his current predicament because it wasn’t Eli at all. The only person Robbie had to blame for his presence in the underworld was Robbie. He was the one who sold his soul to the Devil for a prize he’d already won. He was the one who’d been clueless to the fact that his uncle was being driven mad right in front of his eyes. He was the one arrogant enough to believe he could make a quick day trip to Hell and pluck a soul from damnation without facing any kind of consequence. The worst person in Robbie’s life, the one responsible for every goddamn shitshow he was a part of, had always lived in the fucking mirror. He’d always known that.

And so, with no way of knowing what was going on up above and no hope of finding his way out of Hell any time soon, he focused on survival. He focused on dying as little as possible, on staying away from the Fifth Street gang members he’d gifted with all-expense-paid tickets to Hell and avoiding Lucy Bauer and her gaggle of scientists whose ghosts he’d torn from their places on Earth and keeping distance between himself and all the trash he’d taken out since the Rider brought him back from the dead. Some days, he did okay. Some days, he bled out a hundred times an hour. It was a matter of luck more than anything else. 

Today, he was doing all right. The safe spot he’d found would be burned by tomorrow --- news of people’s whereabouts traveled quickly in Hell, especially when the person in question was one that large groups of souls were seeking out --- but for the moment, his feet were on solid ground and his blood wasn’t spilling from his veins. He didn’t know how long he’d been here. Time moved differently in Hell, crawled by one moment and sped up the next. His first go-round, he’d tried to keep count. He’d tallied up what he’d thought might have been days in his head, counted them into months and years. By his count, he’d been in Hell nearly a hundred years then, but when he got back to Earth he’d found only months had passed. He hadn’t bothered counting when he brought the Darkhold back. His high school teachers might have frequently assigned him the title of slow learner, but he could take a lesson when it was obvious and this one was. Time in Hell was relative. 

And there was no sense counting it up when you knew it wasn’t going to end.

It was a realization he’d come to rather quickly, after Eli tossed him out. He went from fighting a battle in the back of his own mind to staring out at all-too-familiar fiery slopes, and he’d known in an instant that this was how things would be for him now. No one could be lucky enough to escape Hell three times, especially now that he didn’t have Ghost Rider’s powers to fall back on. This time, Robbie figured, he was here to stay. 

So he focused on the moment in front of him. He focused on the fact that, today, he wasn’t fighting off old enemies, wasn’t killing the same people over and over again or dying so many times that he barely had enough time to draw breath between one slaughter and the next. And he was wound tight and jumping at the slightest sound, but so was everyone. That was a side effect of Hell, and there was no shot at ever avoiding it. 

It was lucky, he supposed, that he stopped to look before putting the blade he’d stolen off an old New York City gang member through the chest of the person who walked up behind him. Most days, Robbie wouldn’t have bothered. After so long in Hell, he’d lost any hope that anyone he met wouldn’t strike him down where he stood. But this time… This time, the familiar face that greeted him wasn’t one of the gang members he’d taken out in New York or L.A. It wasn’t the ghost of some scientist who’d worked with his uncle, wasn’t a wannabe supervillain with a justified grudge. It was, perhaps, a man whose death Robbie was still responsible for, but not one who would kill him for it. 

Robbie’s shoulders dropped at the sight of him, grip slackening on the switchblade he’d been white-knuckling. He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing thickly before letting them slide back open to reveal that the figure was still there, still watching him with inquisitive eyes. They stayed like that for a moment, a pair of ghosts staring into eyes they’d thought they’d seen the last of, each waiting on the other to make the first move. Finally, Robbie shifted enough to make room for another body to sit on the ground beside him, and his newfound companion moved forward to take the silent invitation.

“I’d heard you were back,” Coulson said quietly. “Didn’t want to believe it.”

“Yeah, well,” Robbie sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face, “seems like I’ve got a hard time staying away.”

“Haven’t heard anything about the other guy popping back up,” Coulson prodded, and Robbie tasted bile in the back of his throat, which was stupid. There was no bile in his stomach, no food that could threaten to make its way back up. He hadn’t eaten since a slice of cold pizza Daisy left on the counter just a few hours before Eli made his presence known, and while he hadn’t been keeping track of the hours he knew there were a hell of a lot of them between now and then. 

“It’s just me this time,” he said, tasting ash in his mouth with the words, because Coulson would want to know why. He would want to know how, and if he asked, Robbie was going to tell him. Robbie would blurt out everything, everything, and while Coulson might not hold what happened to him after he let the Rider into his head against Robbie, he knew the man would never forgive him if anything happened to Daisy. And right now, in this moment? Robbie couldn’t promise that she was okay.

“Is it like what happened before?” Coulson pressed, because, in spite of his unassuming outward appearance, he was still a spy. He was still one of the best agents SHIELD had ever had, and Robbie was still a fairly shitty liar. “It went into someone else, like it did with Mack?”

Robbie couldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes down on his hands, on the stolen switchblade with blood rusting the metal. He couldn’t remember now if the blood was there when he got it or if he’d put it there himself. He didn’t think it made much of a difference. “Not exactly,” he replied after a long pause, because Coulson would read a silence just as easily as a lie. 

Another silence stretched between them, a canyon of stillness as Coulson looked at Robbie and Robbie looked anywhere else. “Robbie,” Coulson said, his voice somehow firm and gentle at the same time, and Robbie had never been the sort of person who held his heart on his sleeve but fuck, it took every ounce of strength in him not to cry. 

Coulson, he realized with the smallest ounce of hysteria in his thoughts, sounded like what he’d always figured a father might sound like. He was nothing like Alberto Reyes, who’d walked out long before Robbie had a clear picture of his face saved into memory. He was nothing like Elias Morrow, who’d been more than willing to send Robbie to Hell for his own selfish gain. Coulson was the closest thing Robbie had seen in his life to a decent goddamn father figure, and what had Robbie shown him in return? He’d gotten him sent to Hell.

He’d probably gotten Daisy killed. 

Robbie felt very cold all of a sudden, a shiver going down his spine. Eli said once that there was meaning to that, joked about it when Robbie was a child getting used to having an uncle where he’d once had a mother and father. That means someone is walking over the place where you’ll be buried, he’d said, feigning seriousness until Robbie’s eyes widened and he couldn’t hold back a laugh. Robbie always wondered if it was true. He wondered what his grave would look like now, if he’d have one. Was a grave yours if the body in it hadn’t belonged to you, in the end? Were you still a person if someone else was walking around in your skin? At what point did a man become a ghost?

“It was Eli,” he said, so sudden it surprised even himself. “It was… When you saw us, before, me and Daisy, Eli followed us out somehow. He hitched a ride inside my head. Rode around up there for months until he had the strength to…” Robbie trailed off, that phantom nausea tugging at his gut again, compelling him to expel food he hadn’t eaten from a body he didn’t have. “He kicked me out. He’s running around up there in my skin, with my face, with --- With the Rider in my head with him. And I don’t, I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t think I can stop him.”

The sea of information settled between them, and Robbie could swear he saw the words floating in the air, fading in and out of existence as Coulson processed it all. He didn’t know if the shock on the agent’s face was because of the tale he’d spun, the fact that it was more words than he’d probably ever heard Robbie say in one sitting, or some mixture of the two. The silence was a heavy one, a weight on his chest that he didn’t know how to breathe around. And he didn’t need to breathe down here, not when he was already dead, but he still felt as if he was suffocating. When he tore his eyes from the switchblade to risk a glance in Coulson’s direction, the man was looking at him with an unreadable expression and Robbie wondered if he might break his day-long streak of not being covered in his own blood. And god, he would have let him. If Coulson tried to take the knife from his hand and drive it through his fucking skull in that moment, Robbie would have let him. 

Finally, Coulson shifted, breaking the silence with the question Robbie had known was coming. “Does Daisy know?” And even though he’d known Coulson would ask, it was a punch to the goddamn gut. Robbie closed his eyes again, letting his head drop. He would have preferred the knife to the skull, he thought. He would have preferred anything else.

“I don’t know,” he replied, so quiet he wasn’t sure Coulson would be able to hear it. He wasn’t sure he wanted Coulson to hear it, wasn’t sure he wanted the other man to know. Robbie had failed Daisy, and he didn’t even know how deep that failure went. He didn’t even know if she was alive right now, didn’t know if Eli would try to fool her or if he’d kill her the moment she walked into the apartment. At one point, he might have liked to think he knew his uncle well enough to predict his next move, but now? Now, Robbie wasn’t sure he’d ever known Eli at all. He’d never taken Eli for a murderer, but he was one. He’d never taken Eli for a narcissist, but he’d nearly gotten his entire fucking family killed in order to pursue his own selfish goals.

He’d never believed Eli was capable of hurting him, but he’d sent him to Hell without a hint of hesitation. 

There was a sound off to the side, a quiet click of Coulson’s tongue as he mulled the new information over, and Robbie wondered if this was the part where the knife would slip from his hand to Coulson’s, if this was where he’d die and respawn someplace else, ready to die again. He braced for a blow that didn’t come, prepared for an imaginary hit. Instead, Coulson sighed. Robbie opened his eyes, glanced over at the man cautiously. Coulson was staring at him, studying him intently as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. Finally, he broke the silence with a question: “So what are you going to do about it?”

Robbie blinked, eyes wide as the words settled into his head. He opened his mouth and closed it. Once, twice, three times. Finally, he spoke, and the confusion was clear in his tone. “What?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Coulson repeated, and the words made just as little sense this time as they had before because what? Robbie was in Hell. He had no access to Earth, no way of knowing what was happening there, and certainly no way to stop it. He didn’t have a plan because he had no options. 

“What can I do about it?” He asked, incredulous. 

Coulson quirked a brow, looking so utterly unimpressed that Robbie had to run through his story again in his head, had to look for the parts he’d missed in his situation that made Coulson believe he had anything resembling options here. He came up short, again and again. If he had choices, he had no idea what they were. And still, Coulson looked like he was missing something obvious. 

Finally, the agent seemed to take pity on Robbie with a sigh, shaking his head. “Robbie,” he said patiently, sounding very much like a man preparing to explain something simple to a particularly stupid toddler, “your body is still your body. Isn’t it?”

“I… guess so?” Robbie wasn’t sure what he was getting at, didn’t know what this had to do with anything. His body was still his body, but it wasn’t accessible. It was up on Earth and he was down in Hell and it wasn’t like there was an express train he could take to get back to it.

“And it’s still alive,” Coulson pushed, and Robbie tilted his head to the side, still not understanding the relevance. 

“I don’t think it would do Eli much good to kill it,” he allowed, because that would really defeat the purpose of whatever Eli had planned. Besides, Robbie didn’t think the Rider would let his body die, even if Robbie wasn’t in it. The guy needed something to hitch a ride in, didn’t he?

“So your body is alive,” Coulson continued slowly, “and your soul is alive.”

“Is that what we are?” Robbie questioned. “Souls?” He’d never given it much thought before and, given Coulson’s expression, it wasn’t a conversation they had time for now, either. 

“I don’t think you understand the point,” Coulson said which, fair. Robbie definitely didn’t understand the point of whatever it was Coulson was getting at, but whose fault was that? Coulson was the one being a cryptic old bastard, as if SHIELD and its shitty secrecy was an important thing in Hell. Robbie sighed, shaking his head and motioning for Coulson to just come out and say whatever obvious thing he was missing. “If your soul is alive and your body is alive,” Coulson said, finally taking enough pity on Robbie to spell the damn thing out, “that means you’re alive, Robbie. You aren’t dead. You’re just lost.”

“I’m not lost,” Robbie argued, because he was nothing if not contrary. “I know exactly where I am. I’m in Hell, Coulson. What’s it matter if my body’s alive if I can’t get to it.” 

“Have you tried?”  Coulson sounded angry now and Robbie remembered that, while he sounded fatherly in the way none of the men in Robbie’s life ever had, he wasn’t Robbie’s father. He was a guy who’d found Robbie at a strange time in his life and offered him guidance he hadn’t known he’d needed, but he wasn’t his father. If Coulson was a father figure to anyone, it was the person up on Earth with the body he was demanding he try to find a way back to. Fathers, when they were decent, protected the people they cared for. And right now, for Coulson, that wasn’t Robbie.

It was Daisy. 

And Robbie got it. He really did. If it had been Gabe in trouble, he’d be angry too. He’d be chastising whoever he was with and demanding they do something, but what was there to be done? “People don’t just walk out of Hell, Coulson,” he snapped.

“Didn’t you do that?” Coulson retorted. “Multiple times?”

“Yeah, with a demon in my head and a chain that could open portals to other dimensions. You see either of those things laying around now?”

“What if I had a way?” 

Robbie’s head snapped up, and he searched Coulson’s face for any hint of humor and came up short. “You got a way out of Hell,” he repeated slowly, “and you… What? Waited ‘til now to bring it up?”

“I have a rumor,” Coulson amended, and that made more sense. Rumors were like currency down here. They passed from person to person, gained value where they went. Everyone was looking for an out of some kind or another, but no one had ever found one.

“Rumors are usually bullshit,” Robbie pointed out, looking back down to his switchblade and twirling it in his fingers absently. “Plenty of rumors about ways out, but I never heard of anybody actually making it. You know why that is?” He paused, though not long enough for Coulson to answer before he provided the answer all his own: “Because the rumors are fucking horseshit.” 

“Or because the wrong people are trying,” Coulson countered. “Look, this rumor says it’s a door. The only people who can pass through it are people who shouldn’t be here. Like, for example, someone living?” 

“Or a good man who didn’t earn his spot,” Robbie replied, the realization springing on him all at once. “Shit, Coulson, if this thing’s real…”

“We could both get out,” Coulson confirmed with a nod. Robbie sucked in a breath through his teeth, weighing their options. If it were just him with a shot to get out of Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d take it. The thought of getting his hopes up just to have them dashes was somehow worse than the idea of never trying at all. But if this could mean a second chance for Coulson, too…

Robbie looked up, a newfound determination in his eyes. “Well, shit,” he sighed, shaking his head. “What do we have to lose?”

[theladyonfire]

Not Even This

OCEAN VUONG

Hey.

I used to be a fag now I’m a checkbox.

The pen tip jabbed in my back, I feel the mark of progress.

I will not dance alone in the municipal graveyard at midnight, blasting sad

songs on my phone, for nothing.

I promise you, I was here. I felt things that made death so large it was

indistinguishable from air—and I went on destroying inside it like wind in

a storm.

The way Lil Peep says I’ll be back in the mornin’  when you know how it ends.

The way I kept dancing when the song was over, because it freed me.

The way the streetlight blinks once, before waking up for its night shift, like

we do.

The way we look up and whisper sorry to each other, the boy and I, when

there’s teeth.

When there’s always teeth, on purpose.

When I threw myself into gravity and made it work. Ha.

I made it out by the skin of my griefs.

I used to be a fag now I’m lit. Ha.

Once, at a party set on a rooftop in Brooklyn for an “artsy vibe,” a young

woman said, sipping her drink, You’re so lucky. You’re gay plus you get to

write about war and stuff. I’m just white.[Pause.] I got nothing. [Laughter,

glasses clinking.]

Unlike feelings, blood gets realer when you feel it.

Because everyone knows yellow pain, pressed into American letters, turns

to gold.

Our sorrow Midas-touched. Napalm with a rainbow afterglow.

I’m trying to be real but it costs too much.

They say the Earth spins and that’s why we fall but everyone knows it’s the

music.

It’s been proven difficult to dance to machine gun fire.

Still, my people made a rhythm this way. A way.

My people, so still, in the photographs, as corpses.

My failure was that I got used to it. I looked at us, mangled under the TIME

photographer’s shadow, and stopped thinking,Get up, get up.

I saw the graveyard steam in the pinkish dawn and knew the dead were still

breathing. Ha.

If they come for me, take me home take me out.

What if it wasn’t the crash that made me, but the debris?

What if it was meant this way: the mother, the lexicon, the line of cocaine on

the mohawked boy’s collarbone in an East Village sublet in 2007?

What’s wrong with me, Doc? There must be a pill for this.

Too late—these words already shrapnel in your brain.

Impossible in high school, I am now the ultimate linebacker. I plow through

the page, making a path for you, dear reader, going nowhere.

Because the fairy tales were right. You’ll need magic to make it out of  here.

Long ago, in another life, on an Amtrak through Iowa, I saw, for a few blurred

seconds, a man standing in the middle of a field of winter grass, hands at his

side, back to me, all of him stopped there save for his hair scraped by low

wind.

When the countryside resumed its wash of gray wheat, tractors, gutted

barns, black sycamores in herdless pastures, I started to cry. I put my copy

of Didion’s The White Album down and folded a new dark around my head.

The woman beside me stroked my back saying, in a Midwestern accent that

wobbled with tenderness, Go on son. You get that out now. No shame in

breakin’ open. You get that out and I’ll fetch us some tea.Which made me

lose it even more.

She came back with Lipton in paper cups, her eyes nowhere blue and there.

She was silent all the way to Missoula, where she got off and said, patting my

knee, God is good. God is good.

I can say it was beautiful now, my harm, because it belonged to no one else.

To be a dam for damage. My shittiness will not enter the world, I thought,

and quickly became my own hero.

Do you know how many hours I’ve wasted watching straight boys play video

games?

Enough.

Time is a mother.

Lest we forget, a morgue is also a community center.

In my language, the one I recall now only by closing my eyes, the word for

love is Yêu.

And the word for weakness is Yếu.

How you say what you mean changes what you say.

Some call this prayer. I call it watch your mouth.

When they zipped my mother in a body bag I whispered: Rose, get out of there.

Your plants are dying.

Enough is enough.

Body, doorway that you are, be more than what I’ll pass through.

Stillness. That’s what it was.

The man in the field in the red sweater, he was so still he became, somehow,

more true, like a knife wound in a landscape painting.

Like him, I caved.

I caved and decided it will be joy from now on. Then everything opened. The

lights blazed around me into a white weather

and I was lifted, wet and bloody, out of my mother, screaming

and enough.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

tell me abt your exalts fighting styles 👀👀

luke i have SO MANY of them

shadow has to be fucking hilarious. if you know shit about fighting and you watch shadow fight its like a fucking comedy show. start with a light base of rich kid self defense class, layer on extremely boring militia training made for spear fighting in ranks, and then sprinkle on some twirly acrobatic dance moves??? shadow what the fuck. his feet are like blurs over the fucking ground and hes doing these wild spear spins and then he actually gets down to it and all his actual moves are super boring

seal on the other hand is a brawler and scrapper who now has to use a longspear longer than he is. seal never laid hands on anything bigger than like a shiv before he got his spear. im imagining him throwing it, it plows through a crowd of raksha or something, theyre like haha youre defenseless, and then he just launches his shitty body at them and punches them in the dick. that said he probably has muscle memory from bms so like the spear gets back in his hand and suddenly he moves like an ubercharismatic general whos a foot shorter than he should be. every move he makes looks like a comic book panel and then he reverts to feral. also seal has never done leg day in his life but his arm day also has no effect so it evens out.

des is utena. des fights with like very elegant rapierwork most of the time but every once in a while she will pull out a move so brutal and weird it makes seal look like prim and proper. des has a big gnarly scar along her left forearm because this one time she was fighting her dad, and he made a swing that was textbook for her to parry, and instead she blocked it with her bare fucking arm so she could stab him instead. and that was BEFORE she hung out wth feral ghost monsters for like three or four years

cloud is a really interesting one... i think she has training both in military-style rank-holding and a more personalized martial artsy style, but the white cloud banner demands a totally different style on top o that. lots of long flowing sweeps so the ribbon swoops out dramatically. theres like a Zone around her and its hard to really tell whats going on in there but iff you get inside that zone youre fucked

tower moves really weirdly, you know how in some anime theyre animated so they like slide around through the air for those action shots before they blur back into motion in the fray? thats how tower moves, its like fighting a snake covered in oil, and also knives are fucking everywhere. also i fucked up and gave them an ambush specialty in melee instead of thrown so instead of opening fights with sniping like sensible they Have to get the drop on people. they do have an evocation that lets them throw a knife at someone and then teleport to the guy for regular stabs. kind of a mix of corvo dishonored and uhhh i forget the name of the guy from shadow of mordor. smooth motion juxtaposed with brutal violence

who else do i got, prince? prince fights a lot like an atla earthbender i think, sharp and straightforward moves. except the way she shapeshifts her weapon from axe to hammer to spear.

[feralpumpkincatgirl]

literally nobody asked but here's sone tips for driving

A Disclaimer:

I got my permit and license in Oregon. What I say here might not be entirely 100% applicable in other states and especially other countries, so make sure to read up on the driving laws for your particular region! Driver's manuals are usually free and can be found in pdf format, to my knowledge.

GETTING THE FUCK STARTED

Make your first drive in an empty parking lot. School parking lots are ideal for this, as they're usually fairly spacious, accessible, and mostly empty on weekends.

Neighborhoods with wider streets are also a good for beginners as there's relatively little traffic and usually have a good variety of routes to take.

Pay attention to the road while you're a passenger, it'll teach you the more major roads in your area once you're ready to take them on!

PARKING

In larger lots, the ideal situation is to be able to pull in (go forward into) a parking spot and then drive through an occupied spot to get to the other side of your row of parking. This way, you never have to shift into reverse while parking.

When pulling into a spot, drive on the opposite side of the lane of the spot and turn *real* sharp towards it when the mirror on that side roughly lines up with the parking line.

If you can't pull through, it's safer to back into a spot so you can pull out without having to reverse out and increase your isk of hitting something. Sadly, I don't have any tips fo this, so practice in that emptry school parking lot from before!

Smaller lots are usually safe enough to pull in and back out of a spot.

When pulling forward out of a spot woth cars on either side, wait until the back doors at least are completely clear of the cars on both sides of you. The same goes with backing out of a spot, but instead of going by the back seats, wait until your body is clear. Why, you ask?

There's some tips for parallel parking in Driver's Ed- which I encourage taking if at all possible, it's not that bad I promise- that I don't entirely remember, but it went something like this: Line up with a parked car a few feet away and reverse at an angle, then straighten out until you've aligned with the curb. Follow the same rules as a regular parkin space to judge when to turn.

LIGHTS

I don't know about other places but in Oregon you can turn right on a red light, as long as you stop before turning and yield to oncoming traffic. Use this to your advantage.

If you're about to enter an intersection and the light turns yellow, just keep going. You're supposed to make every reasonable effort to stop, and giving yoursef whiplash and stopping halfway in the intersection is not reasonable.

Speaking of stopping in intersections, don't. Even if the light is green, don't go until there's enough room on the other side of the intersection to fit your car because I can personally tell you that being stopped in an intersection is THE Most Terrifying Thing.

If you see a flashing arrow, treat it like a red light in a right turn lane. You CAN turn here, but you have to wait for oncoming traffic.

THE OPEN ROAD

Try to avoid driving in rush hour traffic until you're more experienced. Just trust me on that.

Signage trumps all other laws. If the sign says "You can't turn right on red here, motherfucker!" that means you can't turn right on red there and you're also a motherfucker. Follow signage.

Sometimes you'll encounter a yellow-orange sign with a number on it. That's the advisory speed. My general rule of thumb is that you can start by going 5 mph over it (which shouldn't ever put you above the speed limit) in perfect conditions, and take away 5 mph from that for every bad condition on the road until you meet it.

Bad conditions include but are not limited to: Rain, night, obstructed visibility around curves (like trees, buildings, and hills), tight curves in general, and fog. For is worth double. Ice/snow isn't worth trying to drive in without chains.

Try to memorize a route before you leave, especially if you're driving somewhere new.

My Driver's Ed instructor once gave me a piece of sage wisdom: "If you tink you MIGHT need to use your signaln use it." So use it.

LIFE IS A HIGHWAY

Highway driving is the scariest type of driving, but remember that it's also the simplest. For the most part, it's literally just staying in your lane, but there are a few things you need to do.

First, you need to get on the highway. While on the on-ramp, hit the gas until you're up to highway speed and look for an opening to change lanes into the highway proper.

Speaking of lane changes, this is just about the only time you need to worry about something in your blind spot. Usually you should have pretty good visibility approaching a highway, but it's good to physically turn and look behind you before you change lanes. Make sure to use your signal when changing lanes.

You'll also usually need to change lanes to get off the highway. Same principles apply, only it's more likely you'll need to check your blind spot. Slow down to the speed the off-ramp tells you.

There's this funky thing called, I Shit You Not, velocitation where after you've been driving fast for a while you want to keep driving fast and disregard the speed limit. Hell, it happens even switching to neighborhood roads. Watch your speed in both circumstances.

THE ANXIETY

Driving is anxiety-inducing for the first while, I know. I cried at the orientation for Driver's Ed, and I almost never cry. Here's some tips for that.

If you're worried about the permit test or the written driver's test, they're both piss easy. I can't speak for the driving part of the driver's test because I never took it.

Taking Driver's Ed is a huge help. There's still anxiety in there, of course, but it's in a controlled scenario and it gives you a good excuse to leave your comfort zone. Plus, at least for me, I didn't need to take the driving portion of my license test because I passed Driver's Ed!

If that's not an option, think of it like a video game. You're not great yet, but that's because you're just learning the controls. And once you've got the controls down, you start to learn strategyn and it gets easier and easier!

Also, I'd recommend leaving your phone at home during the earlier practice runs and silencing it whenever you're driving. It's one less thing to worry about distracting you, and I found it was a huge help.

Start small. Drive on little half-hour loops, start driving for small errands, drive to/from school/work, it all adds up.

GENERAL TIPS

Don't tailgate. Ideally you want to put four seconds between you and who you're following (which you can count by starting a count from when they pass an object and stop when you pass it)

On the subject, if you'rd following a big semi truck or a bus or something like that, make sure you can see their mirrors! that ensures both a safe following distance and also keeps you Safe from plowing straight into its dummy thicc vehicular ass

You've seen that one post that's just full of memes about shitty BMW drivers? Yeah that's real and that applies to most luxury cars, ESPECIALLY of the sports variety.

Notable exception to this, at least in my experience: Teslas. I don't know why Tesla drivers are more cautious than most luxury car drivers but I'm guessing it's because of the snobby culture around them that makes people not want anyone to touch their Shiny Expensive Tesla or else they'll call Elon Musk himself to smite you

Honestly there's a flavor of driver for every type of car out there. I've personally found that SUVs are the worst tailgatersand sedans tend to pull out at the worst times.

Adjust your side mirrors so you can only barely see your own car in the reflection andtry to center your rear-view mirror as much as possible. Also, adjust the seat to what's most comfortable but give yourself at least 16 iches between the steering wheel or your face. There's an airbag there, and in the extremely unlikely circumstance you get in an accident, it Will likely kill you if you're any closer.

It's not required, but it's safest to keep your headlights on whenever you're driving. Even in daylight, it attracts more attention to your car so other drivers can see you coming!

That being said, never turn on your brights. Unless you're out driving at night in the fuckin' boonies you'll never need them, and they can actually create worse visibility than regular headlights in fog.

now go and drive fucker! you've got this!

(P.S. feel free to add any other tips onto this!!!)

[xoexoxhoe]

Spend The Night

Frat parties can be fun, right? 💃🏻

Park Seonghwa (Ateez) & Y/N

A/N: someone that has been up close PLEASE tell me what he smells like 

💥Warning: Smut & Frat Boy Seonghwa. That’s it. That’s the post. 💥

“You have to at least be somewhat excited for the party, (Y/N).”

You sighed, “Jess, I don’t think I can go. I have way too much work, it’s finals week-”

“All I’m hearing right now are excuses.” She winked at you before heading for the door, “Tonight. I better see you there.”

9:00 pm came around faster than you thought it would. The walk to the frat house down the street proved to be too much for you, leaving you winded but still freezing due to the unexpected cold front hitting the city tonight. Your skirt blew calmly in the wind as you marched your way up the steps, passing drunk freshman who couldn’t handle their alcohol, and the occasional football boy who couldn’t help but gawk at you. Jess stood at the door with one bottle pressed to her lips and another in her hand.

“It’s about damn time. The beer is getting warm.”

You both made your way into the house, feeling the walls bounce with every beat of some shitty EDM orchestrated by a frat DJ who you knew was too inebriated to be doing his musical duties. But just as the thought crossed your mind, you noticed a change in music. Looking up to the DJ’s station, you saw an unfamiliar face.

Jess tugged at your skirt, “Y/N, come on! We gotta get some liquor pumped into you, girl!”

You smiled and stepped back, “I’m gonna go see that DJ. Who is he? I’ve never seen him at the greek life socials.”

Jess stepped towards you, yelling over the speakers and crowd, “That’s Park Seonghwa. New pledge, I think. Carter told me about him. He’s super into music and he’s a dancer.” In that moment, the DJ looked up at you, catching himself by surprise. You saw his eyes scan over you, trailing along your sheer long sleeve down to your skirt. You could feel him trying to mentally imagine you without clothes, and you liked it.

You nodded to Jess, waving her off before making your way over to him, telling her you wanted a “closer look”, but really, you needed to just pursue the situation at full force with the full intention of getting to know him. Seeing you move through the drunken crowd, Seonghwa mumbled off something to another boy sitting next to him, probably giving instructions on how to continue with the music while he stopped to talk to you. Turning to your left, you saw a table filled with bottles of whiskey, vodka, tequila, and every other bad idea known to man. You confidently picked up the entire bottle of tequila and continued making your way to the DJ’s table.

After a swig for confidence, you licked your lips and fixed your hair, “Nice to meet you.”

Seonghwa smiled, sweeping his black hair back, “I’m Seonghwa, but, I’m assuming that Jesse told you about me.”

Holy shit, he was hot. “She may have told me you liked to dance and that you dabble in music.”

“Ah, I guess you could say that.” He bit his lip, staring directly into your eyes.

You lifted the bottle of tequila, “So… Park Seonghwa. I’m Y/N; wanna get to know each other a little better?”

“I’d like that, Y/N.” He grabbed your hand and led you up to the bedrooms of the frat house and into his own. You were surprised by the cleanliness, hearing from your other sorority sisters that frat boy rooms were always messy. His bed smelt like him; expensive, and you wanted to bathe in it. You spotted the YSL L’homme bottle on his dresser and sank further into the bed. This boy has class, style, and is clean?

After talking with each other and having a genuine conversation whilst finishing the entire half bottle of tequila, you both laughed uncontrollably. You couldn’t tell if it was Seonghwa’s slightly reddened cheeks that made him look even more attractive or the fact that he kept staring at your lips every other minute, making you want him. A silence washed over the both of you. “Y/N, thank you. I was kind of nervous about tonight but it was worth it.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t gonna come tonight, but I’m glad I did.”

Seonghwa’s hand slowly crawled over to yours, bringing your palm up to his lips and kissing it slowly. “Is it alright if I do this?”

Your mouth began to open, “Yes.”

He moved closer to you on the bed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears and leaning in towards you, “What about this?” He kissed you, long enough to leave you wanting more.

You stuttered, “I-”

His face was inches away from yours, “If you want me to stop, just let me know. I don’t wanna ruin this.”

You shook your head, “Seonghwa, you could never ruin this.” You met his lips with passion, climbing on top of him and straddling him on the bed. His hands traveling your body like they were making a mental map for him to remember each and every one of your curves. He quickly pulled up your skirt and untucked your long sleeve, untying its bow and exposing your chest to him. He left your lips and pulled you in close so he could be near your breasts, kissing you and nipping at you. You felt his hand push your thong to the side, sliding over your folds to feel how wet you were. You jumped at his cool fingers being inserted into your heated core while sucking on your breasts. You hummed in satisfaction, raking your hands through his hair while pressing him against your now sweaty body. You felt his hot breathes get heavier before he spun you around and laid you down on his bed. He took off his shirt and pants, letting them fall to the floor before climbing on top of you and creating a trail of kisses from your lips to your navel, then just about your clit. He pushed your legs apart and proceeded to eat you out. His tongue flicking your entrance and a free hand fingering your clit. Your hands couldn’t help but to push Seonghwa even further down into you, making him growl in satisfaction while making his way back up to you.

“You really want this, huh?”

You looked into his eyes, “Fuck yeah I do.”

His length was already rock hard by the time he slid into you, and you melted below him. His strength forcing your body to slide against the bed. He moved in you, but it wasn’t just some form of getting off for him. You looked into his eyes peering into your own and you saw that he thoroughly wanted to enjoy this. He smiled and continued to make his movements even faster, “You’re beautiful, Y/N.”

You blushed beneath him as he leaned down to kiss you, pushing his length along your g-spot, causing you to moan and squeeze his forearms that were alongside you. This time, you felt your own hips connecting with his, following his pace and moving to his rhythm. He took himself out of you and grabbed your ankles, pulling you to the edge of his bed and reentering you. He lifted your legs and demolished your insides, plowing into you with such force that you felt yourself begin to tear up, crying out his name loud enough for probably the entire house to hear. Seonghwa just smiled, enjoying your messy look and the way he smeared your dark lipstick along your cheeks. You felt yourself at your climax, gripping his bed sheet and clenching your teeth, moaning in complete satisfaction.

“Do it.” was all he murmured in the heat of the moment, and you felt yourself release all over him. He pounded you even harder and you felt his length swell within you, making you scream out again. He finally came, moaning and squeezing you, eventually landing on top of you and panting with exhaustion. His head rested on your chest, and you combed through his hair, both of you staying silent and smiling. He pulled out of you and propped himself up on his arms, taking one last look at you before finishing to unbutton your skirt, tossing it aside. You were confused, what now?

“Seonghwa, I don’t know if I can continue. You literally wore me out, I-”

He smiled softly towards you, cleaning you up with his towel and finally pulling your body underneath a blanket to cuddle with him. “You wore me out too. So, I just wanna enjoy this moment with a beautiful girl. You don’t mind spending the night, do you?”

You were in awe, “Of course not.”

He kissed your cheek, “Good, because I could get used to this.”

[lestatdesade]

I've been trying not to take adderall bc its been fucking up my skin big time but when I take it I feel so. much. better. It doesnt entirely remove the fatigue but it does mitigate the brain fog and lets me avctually think about things. Also yesterday I was like "wow i've been so unproductive" but actually I plowed through my entire list minus a couple drawings that I cant do bc I ran out of decent paper to draw on. Like I work 5 days on, then 5 days off, but the museam is closed on certain days that are low traffic or have privately done tours. So its a bit weird. But yeah yrsterday I scanned ALMOST ALL THE FILM IVE BEEN PROCRASTINATING ON, I just have one more roll to scan left!!! Then I can justify sending out some more rolls that I have to be developed. Oh, and I got a 45 year old sx70 camera from a flea market thats in super good condition and the 2 pics I took look great but I havent had the chance to take it somewhere nice to use it. It kind of needs full daylight to work and it's been raining or too hot for me to go outside at all. It's such a nicely built camera. I said that I wouldnt get one bc it requires different film than my other polaroid cameras but it's really nice, heavy leather and metal build. and it folds up to be super compact??? It's so, so nice and I'm forever salty that modern tech devices just don't have thje same quality. Everything these days is built to be shitty and have no life. This camera is older than me, and tbh, it'll probably outlive me and still function well. but with the huge advances that we've made technologically, none of my current electronics will ever hope to outlive my 70s camera. I don't think its a lack of ability for companies to construct quality goods, bc manufactuering in a digital age of laser tech thats very uniform and not human made is easier, but they PURPOSEFULLY skimp on quality to sell more. to me, thats just the fuckin epitome of stupid. Like hey, we have such incredible technological knowledge, but lets fuckin ignore it so we can make more money from having phones and computers that are pretty much disposable in usage bc they have such a short lifespan. idk it just bothers me, but as a lead on, I've been working super hard on learning new art skills. I've been working a great deal w/ watercolors and I am dabbling in using UV resin. when i visisted my grandma for her birthday, I asked if I could pick one of her beloved pansy flowers. So I picked it, pressed it and encased it in resin to make a pendant. I think she's really going to love it. She makes great pressed flower art, so i fee like its a collab between us, though I don't have nearly as much experience. She gave me a pressed flower arrangement she did and framed it for me for christmas and everytime i see it I m just filled with this kind of overwhelming happiness that she made it for me. I always feel very bleak about my life expectancy since my dad died before he hit 50, and my mother is in her midsixties and I doubt if she'll make it to 70. But my grandma is like, in her 90s and walks without assistance, climbs stairs, routinely spends time with friends, and is probably more mentally sharp than I am. So I'm hoping my parents bS will skip a generation and I'll get my grandmas health. I'm not really afraid to die, but I think looking at how my parents lack of longevity doesnt really make me feel positive about the fact that I'm inching closer and closer to 30 and that I'm sure that all the psychiatric meds I've taken, and all this stress and fatigue have greatly shortened my life span. But I'm trying to keep positive and realize that much of my goals in life that have been long term were made out of internalizing toxic ideas and psychological manipulation and gaslighting. I know that deep down, most of the ideas that I have formed around even the most basic concepts of life, death and selfqworth are tainted by the abuse I went through as a kid. But I'm reearning a lot of it and really thinking about things in a way that is detached from my own experiences, and trying to reposition my perspectives. I think the idea that anyone can unlearn the hatred they are taught and that even some really "defined:" beliefs we have are more or less conditioning has really hanged the way I feel about myself. I'm less concerned about my own mortality, my legacy, and the thoughts of others. I just want to enjoy this experience of being alive, and anything more was really a lie and a delusion that I was tricked into thinking. I used to belive that if I didn't EXCEED EXPECTATIONS and make a mastery of myself then that would prove my abusers right, and confirm the idea that I am worthless as truth. But I have learned that basing peoples worth off of their success is stupid, and I can't change the illness that has destroyed all my hopes and dreams. And also that well, I don't NEED to have these crazy, unattainable goals and pipedreams to make myself feel like I deserve to live. I deserve to live, exactly as I am, even if I am a nuerotic loser who lives with my mom despite being nearly 30 and having a job. I domt have to be some fucking legend to show people that I didn't need to kill myself. I never should have felt as though that was an obligation to begin with. I exist because I do, and I don't hurt others or act recklessly in a way that endangers other people. I don't hoard resources so that others cant use them. I'm just a nuetral being, thats akll

[artsy-hobbitses]

ONI YELLS ABOUT THE SHIELD

The Shield as a collective is what I like to call one of the company's most potent lightnings in a bottle in recent time, combining three guys with commanding presence and dripping with their own brand of charisma who played off each other like they were born to do it. They work unlike any tagteam I've ever seen (yes, even your corny-ass NWO Wolfpac, a comparison which they themselves have brought up scathingly).

For starters, there is and never has been a True Leader among the three of them. There seems to be some unspoken understanding that they work as a unit, not a hierarchy (unlike say Triple H in Evolution who was clearly the leader of the group and never let his team mates forget it). Instead, a majority of the time they act when there's a mutual agreement to act which may be due to one member pursuing a certain course of action but once the ball is rolling there's almost never any argument on who 'leads'. Occasionally Seth may take the helm when things get cerebral, Dean usually elects to move ahead if it's darker dealings and if they need to plow through bigger challenges, Roman's more than willing to be their battering ram. Beyond that they have a system they stick to when it comes to chasing down 'prey' and bringing down larger ones which is interesting to study; 1. In a chase, Seth is almost always the 'sighthound', the one in the lead hot on the scent. Dean follows up like a terrier flushing out whatever Seth unearths and Roman carries the back like a massive wrecking ball of a Cane Corso. 2. During battles, Seth dazes or stuns larger opponents with aerial assaults, Dean dives low (we see this more often now) to break their support and Roman wraps it up in a nice, violent package.

TLDR: They know the role they have to play, understand that each of them is integral to the survival of their unit and do it perfectly.

Something I find unique is also their brand of Cool Badass that includes being emotionally open with one another and completely unabashed and unapologetic when it comes to showing affection to one another. This is refreshing since affection between men esp. in wrestling tends to be downplayed, not there or played up for comedic effect, and somehow, these jacked af SWAT dudes are 720% comfortable with hugging, snuggling, more snuggling, forehead kisses, comforting face touches, cradling one another and there's no laugh track, it's not framed as an uncomfortable situation, it's not even a Big Deal with how fucking OFTEN they engage in it, like there's agreement between them that This Is Important To Our Relationship and they go with it like breathing air. 

I'd say it's pretty close to if not at the same level as the Golden Lovers, just not played as romance--it's just their way of bonding. You see it in the way Roman hugs his brothers---He looks like he's sinking his soul into them with how visceral he allows himself to be with them.

You see it in the way Seth keeps touching Dean's face (Most apparent in their earliest Shield run) to calm Dean down, and it works and more amazingly, Dean learns from it and has done it to Seth himself and Roman on different occasions.  You see it in how aggressive Dean himself gets when initiating contact especially with headbumps/nuzzles---sometimes there's snarling involved, as though he's hungry for it, sometimes it looks like a dog who had been abused up to some point in its life and while having a much better life now, is struggling with but understands and wants to show love, even if it comes off a little more harshly than expected. 

You can absolutely believe without shadow of a doubt that these men honestly love each other which is such a novel quality to prescribe to a vicious, unforgiving paramilitary unit of mercenaries.

It's not to say the relationship is perfect; They've had their share of conflict, they've been massive turds to each other at times, but  It's the kind of fierce, enduring love that interlaced with a genuine joy in each other's company which survives momentary betrayal where they would still choose each other over the world when the world closed in around them, and even heavyweight title matches;

Roman and Dean happily agree that "Loser buys beer!" with no bad blood while they gleefully bash each others' faces in because of this inspiring bit of emotional maturity (holy SHIT in MY WRESTLING?!) so rarely seen in ANY TAG TEAM where they knew the stakes from day one, decided that the best man would win, sincerely congratulated and were happy for whoever won and made it clear that it wouldn't do a damn thing to change their friendship. Roman, despite his rivalry with Seth has on several occasions saved Seth during their matches while Dean's love for Seth manifests in a sort of twisted hatelove-possesiveness where he insists that "Seth Rollins is sort of my thing" because he's gone from nihilistic not giving a shit about anyone or anything in the world, to centering his sights on a man he believes took everything worth taking away from him which against convention leads him to forgiveness rather than retribution---a story you don't always hear in wrestling and DEFINITELY not self-proclaimed 'scum' like him.

In Seth, you can sort of put what he went through next to the saga that was Triple H's betrayal and feud Shawn Michaels because there's clearly a precedent for what he did on June 2nd, but here's where it changes; Seth, openly, heartbreakingly lays out his cards on the tables for the world to see when he realizes and owns up to the true extent of what he did and he's driven half-mad by rage and despair. He's furious at what he had become, the things and people he had sacrificed and he makes no qualms that he hated who he was when he was with Hunter (who despite his closeness to has never had this sort of epiphany with Shawn).

He gives Dean a chance to enact what he believes is justice and reaches out to Roman without expecting anything in return outside of helping Roman even the odds. He doesn't just slip back into the role of being a reliable ally once more; Even if he doesn't say it, he actively worked for it because for all the shitty things he said and did when he was in a suit wearing a face that never felt like his, they were worth that much to him at the very least.

In the end, together these three men have gone through more within six years than a lot of tag teams have in a lifetime and that has made them, in my option, that much harder to break because what else could you do to bow them? What comes after lopsided beatdowns, multiple title clashes and a shattering betrayal? Who could buy their loyalty when they have seen firsthand what happens when their loyalty is bought? What can hope to shake the resolve of three war-weathered wolves whose paths are so intertwined to each other? Who are now older and wiser and more understanding of the world they in their youth wanted to change with fire and steel and battlecries?

That's what intrigues me with their current incarnation; If they were dangerous then in their impetuous, impatient naivete as novices to the main roster, imagine how dangerous they could be now.

[elizaviento]

Manipulation (part 5)

NSFW lite -- 2950 words.  Hints/mentions of rape.

(FYI: This story is a sequel/companion piece to Assimilation, which can be found in the Rick Fic Masterpost link in my blog’s description along with additional chapters of Manipulation.  Or, you can click the #manipulation tag in this post, within my blog, to access all additional chapters.)

*****

“Now approaching planet Earth,” the ship’s autopilot declared in its choppy monotone, awaking me with a start.  It hadn’t seemed to disturb the woman asleep in the passenger seat in the slightest and I sighed in relief.  Not only did she obviously need as much rest as she could get, I also didn’t particularly want to sit in awkward silence while what had transpired between us – or, rather, between me and Unity – ran on a loop in my head.

Taking a moment to come to my senses, I located and unscrewed my flask only to find it woefully empty.  “Shit,” I cursed, recalling that I’d drained the last bit before setting the autopilot and passing out.  I supposed I would be forced to reminisce on my new found status of a naive dumb ass after all.  And, right on cue, my mind began to replay Unity’s letter time and again, lingering on one particular sentence –

“Please understand that I kept her from you so that you wouldn’t end up hating yourself more than you already do.”

Of all the downright shitty and absolutely fucked up things that Unity had done during the weekend, that one sentence was the only statement of truth.  Because, I wouldn’t have just hated myself a bit more than I pretty much have my entire life.  I would have finally had the perfect excuse to eradicate myself from this universe once and for all.  So, was I grateful to Unity for preventing me from raping one of the very few people in my life that I didn’t despise?  Grateful may be too strong a word considering it had ended up raping her itself to prove, once and for all, that I was a low life piece of shit and always would be. I could have told Unity that myself and saved us each a fuck ton of time and effort.  So, no, I supposed I wasn’t grateful, after all.

But, at this point, what was done was done.  From what I’d gathered from my time with Unity, most of its assimilated victims eventually regained their memories.  Sometimes it took hours; sometimes it took days, weeks, or even years dependent upon the amount of time the subject was assimilated.  Of course, I’d only learned this after the last time Unity and I split for good.  Somewhere along the line, I’d become curious – or perhaps guilty – about the lives we ruined when Unity assimilated unsuspecting beings to commit various crimes and then leave them to deal with the consequences.  Tracking down a number of those assimilated victims had taken years in itself but almost all of them confirmed that, eventually, their memories of assimilation had returned.

So, I was essentially screwed.

I was almost certain, as her eyes continued to dart this way and that, she was dreaming of what had transpired while Unity assumed control of her body.  Once she regained even a tenth of those memories, she would despise me.  And, perhaps that was a good thing.  Perhaps, then, I could finally free myself of this unhealthy obsession.

“Now entering atmosphere of Earth,” the ship declared, jolting my focus back to landing properly. Glancing toward her, she stirred slightly but remained fast asleep.

As I brought the ship in for a landing in the driveway, I punched the garage door opener and extended a hand to shake her awake.  Groaning, she clapped her hands over her ears as the screech of the garage door assaulted her aching head as well as mine.

“Hey. We’re here – w-we’re back,” I said, only glancing her way as she swung open the passenger side door and literally fell out of the ship.  Hopping out of the driver’s side, I made my way around as quickly as I could without appearing concerned, throwing in an exasperated sigh for good measure.  She’d apparently landed flat on her ass as indicated by the way she was leaning against the side of the ship and the way my lab coat bunched around her thighs.

“I don’t even know what day it is, let alone what time.  Are they here?” she asked, staring straight up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, guessing she was referring to the remainder of her – our – family.

“I can’t walk through the house wearing nothing but your lab coat.”

“You aren’t – you have other, uhh, things… on your body,” I said, immediately wanting to stuff the ignorant sentence back down my throat.  “I’ll distract them so y-y-you can sneak through.”

“Thanks, Rick,” she said in a tone so grateful that I began to doubt my earlier assumption that memories were returning to her as she slept.  How could they have been if she weren’t currently trying to claw my eyes out?

When she began to haul herself from the floor, the hem of my lab coat rode even higher on her hips, exposing those lacy panties that I demanded she get nice and wet for me just mere hours prior.  Averting my eyes, I exited the garage into the kitchen and then made my way to the living room.

“Hey,” I greeted the family as they all sat watching that brain dead show where desperate girls fight over some lame ass loser.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her crawling toward the den.

“Dad,” Beth began as she stood and rounded the couch to block my path.  Oh great, here we go, I thought as she carefully continued.  “I – um – Jerry and I were looking for our weed wacker and found your subterranean lair…”  At this point, I tuned her out and gave the impression I was listening by nodding now and then.  When the final word she spoke pitched higher in tone than the rest of them, I answered whatever question she’d asked with, “Okay.”

“Okay?” she confirmed, appearing shocked.  Only then did I wonder what I’d actually agreed to while walking toward my room. That is, until Summer decided to interject.

“Grandpa Rick, what happened with Unity?”

“Who?” I asked a little too defensively before rebounding with, “Oh, Unity.  Yeah, well, I-I-I mean honestly – we – we’re talkin’ about an entity that thrives on enslavement and deceit, you know?  It’s not cool.  Fun’s fun, but who needs it?  I – uh – I’ll be in my room.”

Thankfully, that seemed to drop the subject and they allowed me to retreat to my small room without further objection.  Once inside, I locked the door and plopped down on the rickety cot.  No matter what happened from this point, I knew for a fact that things had changed irrevocably.  Eventually, she would regain her memories and then the chips would fall where they may.

How long had it been since I’d discovered I wasn’t the only Rick in the multiverse with the hots for his daughter’s best friend?  A decade?  I had no sooner invented the inter-dimensional goggles and slipped them over my face for the first time before I flipped through the eyes of Rick after Rick until I landed on dimension C-69.  Because, that Rick, who’d I’d crossed paths with at the Citadel a time or two, was fucking someone doggy style.  So, of course, I watched.  A perfect POV experience unlike any porn site around, I mentally congratulated myself when the breathy moans and cries of the woman, as she rocked to and fro, enhanced the experience tenfold.  But, when C-69 spoke to his female companion, every muscle in my body went rigid and I had literally stopped breathing.

“Mmm, baby girl – that’s right.  You like this dick, don’t ya?  Fuckin’ tell me you love it, Chicken.”

“Rick!” the young woman exclaimed with a laugh, lowering her head to the mattress as he continued to plow into her.  “I told you not to call me that while we’re fucking! You know I can’t stop laughing.” Then, she looked back at me – HIM – with those god damn stunning eyes.

Feeling like my heart would explode; I had hastily removed the goggles and forced myself to leave them off until the intense wave of nausea subsided. However, it had only seemed to intensify when the undeniable fact kept resurfacing again and again, no matter how many pulls I had taken from the nearby whiskey bottle –

I wasn’t the only one.  Not even close.  And, if Rick C-69 had managed to fuck her at that point in time, than so had an infinite number of our counterparts.

Eventually, after extensive ‘research’ using the goggles, I had discovered that when I had run off into the great wild yonder, my counterparts had either stayed to be with her or they took her with them.  Of course, that was years before she got married, so the Ricks who were too chicken shit to make a move sooner, myself included, ended up suffering through an affair or soul crushing unrequited ‘love’.

“Love,” I mumbled and scoffed to myself.  What a pile of horseshit.

Coming back to the here and now, I decided that I had better ways to occupy my mind. What good would it do to stew in my bedroom when I could hear her voice just on the other side of the wall, lying about why she hadn’t come back home when the kids did?  So, I shrugged into one of my spare lab coats and portaled into the garage to resume my latest project.  But, not before smashing a few empty beakers, you know, just for the hell of it.  Fuck those beakers.

----------

After cleaning up the one billion tiny shards of glass from the beakers that could just burn in hell for all I cared, I had refilled my flask and emptied it all over again in the span of fifteen minutes.  So much for resuming projects that I’d had fuck all concentration to finish over the last month.  I supposed passing out at my work station again was the only viable alternative and now I was waking up to the not so surprising gift of stiff joints and cottonmouth.

Standing from the shitty stool to crack my spine, I spied the inter-dimensional goggles dangling from a nail next to the cork board.  Suddenly curious if any of my counterparts were experiencing the same nightmare I was, I plucked them from the nail and slipped them over my face. Just as I was flipping through dimensions, there was a knock on the door from the kitchen side.

“Go away, Jerry!” I shouted, paused briefly on C-69 to watch as he woke up next to her counterpart in the bed they shared.

“Uh, yeah. Not Jerry.”  Her small voice leaked toward me through the particle wood and I nearly tripped over the stool on my way to the door, swiftly yanking it open before even removing the goggles.

“Oh, uhh. Hey – hey there,” I greeted her. She looked startled and I realized how odd I must have appeared before ripping the goggles from my face.

“You have another lab coat?” she asked before quickly adding, “I’ll wash the one you let me borrow, by the way.”  A blush rose to her cheeks as she fidgeted, bunching her hands in the hem of her blouse.

“Don’t – don’t do that.  There’s shit in the pockets I don’t want ruined,” I began before thinking better of it. Even if she did wash the coat, it would forever be the one I let her borrow after she had been assimilated, raped, pranced around, and manipulated.  No thanks.  “Actually, j-just throw it away,” I instructed, retrieving and unscrewing my flask.  

“What? You just said you didn’t want the stuff in the pockets ruined.”

“I changed my mind.”  Taking a swig, I dismissed her with a wave of my hand while I resumed my place at the workstation, hoping like hell that she would just leave me to my misery.  But, no dice.  When she continued to stand there with her hands still bunched in her shirt, I put on my most intimidating ‘what the fuck do you want now’ face and turned back toward her.

Taking a deep breath, she began, “Look.  Rick, I need to talk to you.”

FUCK!  Fuck, shit, fucking mother fuck!!   Well, this was it…

“Stop – stop right there,” I said, throwing up a palm to interject as I stood and took a step toward her.  She stepped back.  I stopped and narrowed my eyes.  “W-what the – you think – I’m not gonna bite you!” I nearly shouted, as if she had any reason to trust me.  Then, reigning myself in, I continued.  “Can you let me explain?”

“How can you possibly know –” she began but I cut her off, determined to nip this in the bud; to throw her off my scent before she detected the stench of repressed ‘feelings’.  Ugh, fucking kill me.

“I – I told you I didn’t fuck you.  And, that’s true.”

“I know,” she interjected.  Holding her gaze, I waited for her to continue.  “I’ve had these… dreams.  I don’t know if it’s just my head fucking with me or if it happened or if only some of it happened.  Regardless, I believe you,” she finished, her expression sincere.

Shaking my head at my previous hopefulness that maybe she wouldn’t regain the memories so soon, I gestured for her to take a seat on a nearby stool while I did the same.

“I’ve been doing some – some research,” I lied, not really seeing the benefit in informing her that I’d sought out others who had also been released by Unity long ago and, therefore, already knew how this would play out.  “Apparently, people who – who’ve been assimilated into a hive mind or had their consciousness hijacked by a parasite usually recover memories at some point.  Dreams are – uh – are a common method.”

Watching the realization wreak havoc on her features, I pulled my flask again and took a large gulp before holding it to her in offering.  Without a second of hesitation, she snatched the flask from my hand and tipped the contents down her throat.

“Jesus Christ, Rick!” she cried, coughing like the greenest of lightweights.  “Is this gasoline or something?  Fuck!”

She was so goddamn cute and I laughed as she continued to cough for several more seconds.

“Don’t – don’t ask,” I warned as I plucked it from her hand and took another drink. Fuck knows I was gonna need it.

“So, MY dreams?” she said, thrusting me back into a conversation I wasn’t keen to continue.

“Most likely memories,” I confirmed.  “Sssooo, that’s why I need to explain.”  Her face completely deadpan, she blinked in response.  At this point, I had no way of knowing what memories she had regained, exactly, but thought, fuck it – better to pay the piper now so I wouldn’t have to suffer his collection song later.

“You’re fuckin’ hot, alright!” I practically yelled, throwing my hands in the air. “Y-y-you can call me a pervert. What the fuck ever.  But, I can’t – I’m not gonna pussy foot around here.”

Again, she blinked.

“You expect – expect me to just – uh – you know, r-r-reject some hot young thing when she climbs – straddles my lap, huh?”  Tripping over my words the way I do when my mouth has trouble catching up to my brain, I resisted the urge to gulp the remaining contents of the flask right then.  But, when she only blinked again in response, I began to lose my patience.  “What the – w-w-what’s wrong with you?”

Appearing to finally come back to her senses, she shook her head before replying. “Rick, I’m not just ‘some hot young thing’.  You’ve known me since I was fourteen years old.  I’m your daughter’s best friend!”  Her voice rose in pitch with each word as she grew more and more upset, which only served to frustrate me.

“Fuck, you think – think I don’t know that?!”  Reflexively, I slammed one palm on the counter of my work station, causing her to flinch.

“Don’t fucking yell at me, Rick!” she defended herself and I almost felt proud.  “This is really fucking with my head right now, okay? I just need…”  She trailed off, furrowing her brow.

“A good dicking?” I filled in, condescension dripping from my lips.  “Yeah, well.  Y-you already got it and it was – wasn’t from me so get a grip.”

“But, you would have, Rick.  If you’re saying that my dreams are memories then you would have.”

Her words confirming that I’d been correct to divulge more information than she’d initially asked for, I knew it was time to end this sick fantasy of mine once in for all. She hadn’t once pointed the finger or accused me of taking advantage of her.  In fact, it appeared that she was only looking for assurances on if her dreams were, in fact, memories.  Even if she appeared, understandably, shocked that I’d admitted to finding her sexually attractive, she didn’t appear disgusted or put off – only confused.  She could have so easily called me a perverted old man, a borderline rapist, a delusional piece of shit.  But, she didn’t.  She was giving me the benefit of the doubt and I knew that if I let her, it would eventually ruin her.

So, my resolution absolute, I crossed my arms defensively and readied myself to say the most despicable thing possible in hopes of pushing her away –

“Like I said – hot young thing and blah blah blah.  Get – g-g-get over yourself already.  I fucked a giraffe.  You aren’t special.”

Her face remained placid as she quietly stood from the stool and exited the garage without another word.  Mission accomplished.

To be continued…

P.S.  For those who have already read Assimilation and would like more information on Rick/Reader C-69, please read Welcome to Miami in my Rick Fic Masterpost.  :)

[chroniccombustion]

Caught in the Grey (ch 5)

Genre: Trans!AU, hurt/comfort, romance, angst with a happy ending Rated: T Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Yosuke Hanamura, Naoto Shirogane, Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, Izanagi/Shadow!Souji Warnings: depression, dysphoria, disassociation, self-hatred, implied suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of homophobia, implied past child abuse and transphobia, canon-typical violence, mild sexual content Status: multi-chapter, incomplete

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He turns the music up higher, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and hunching inward as if he can somehow make himself small enough to hide from his own mind.

‘You’re just going to ruin everything like you always do. You push and you whine until nobody can stand you anymore. That’s why Souji isn’t speaking to you.’

Shaky, anxious energy tingles its way down Yosuke’s legs, settles in his bones like a live current through a power line.

‘Maybe it’ll be a good thing if he doesn’t show up to school – you really want him to see your shitty self-absorption? Cuz he will. You know he will; it’s Souji, nothing gets past him. He’ll take one look at you and he’ll know.’

Chapter 5: We’re Not Lovers

“Said that we’re not lovers,  cuz we’re just strangers  with the same damn hunger  to be touched, to be loved, to feel anything at all…”

- (“Strangers – feat Lauren Jauregui”, Halsey)

November

Yosuke sits under the frigid cascade of water until the entire bathroom becomes an icebox, forcing him to finally push to his feet and shut the shower off just to stop the way his body has begun to violently shiver. He barely feels it, only notices because of how his skin prickles with goose bumps and his hands fumble with the knobs. Climbing out of the shower, he grabs a towel and halfheartedly dries himself off, scrubs it through his hair a couple of times to get the excess water out. He doesn’t need to do much to it, though, since the way he’d been sitting, the spray had mostly hit his folded legs and arms, missing the majority of his hair and leaving it to dry slightly on its own. He doesn’t know what that says about his sense of time. Probably something bleak.

He slips into his questionably clean change of underwear and pulls his sleep clothes back on with all the sluggishness of a blistering hangover. Bleary-eyed, he scoops up the discarded pair of boxers without really seeing them and makes sure not think too hard about the shame-riddled piece of fabric in his hand.

Yosuke is thankful the mirror is still streaky with moisture and the last dregs of remaining steam still clinging to the glass; it distorts the view of his reflection as he passes. He doesn’t want to see himself, doesn’t want to look himself in the eyes and see the weight of what he’s done etched into the rings of his irises, doesn’t want to acknowledge his own presence in this liminal space of a bathroom. All he wants is to forget any of this ever took place, to trudge back to bed and try to get what precious little sleep he still can before the light of reality reaches in through the windows and he’s forced to join the waking world. He keeps his eyes half focused as he shuffles over to the door and reaches the hand not full of wadded-up boxers out to twist the lock until it clicks open. The movement of his reflection catches at the side of his vision and for a moment he’s tempted to glance over.

He stops himself before he can.

With the door now unlocked, Yosuke lets go of the knob and reaches across himself towards the light switch with his free hand – the other hanging heavy as lead with his dirty boxers at his side. It’s an old habit by now, turning off the light before he opens the door. He’s learned the hard way over years of late night tip-toeing around his parents’ work schedules that flooding the darkened hallway with a sudden burst of brightness is a sure-fire way to let someone know he’s awake. Even now with his brain in a fog, muscle memory kicks in and Yosuke’s fingers instinctively seek out the little piece of plastic on the wall beside the door. He flicks it down and the room is plunged into claustrophobic dark.

He blinks against the sudden blindness as he waits for the nightlight to cut itself back on in the absence of light. He uses the faint orange glow to help him find the doorknob again, carefully turning it and pulling the door open as soundlessly as he can, peeking around the thin opening to scan the hall and listen for movement beyond his pocket of space. Nothing. Only the low hum of the refrigerator down in the kitchen below.

With a deep breath that his lungs don’t seem to register, Yosuke pulls the door open all the way – as if it had never been shut to begin with. The air in the hallway is actually warmer than it is in the bathroom; the cold of the water that had chilled the tile like an open window in winter hasn’t yet seeped out into the hall. It feels strange against Yosuke’s skin, his body still hypersensitive but numbed at the same time because of the freezing shower spray. Even through his sweatpants he can feel the difference in temperature.

(Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll catch a cold and get to call in sick to life.)

Yosuke lets a shiver or two pass through him before he starts the short trek back towards his room, making sure he’s steady enough to sneak the way he needs to. As he takes his first few steps out into the dark, just before the glow of the nightlight passes between him and the rest of the silent, sleeping house, Yosuke catches the flicker of movement from his reflection in the mirror. He keeps his eyes trained forward so he doesn’t have to watch his own walk of shame.

If there is a flash of distorted gold within the mirror’s depths or if his reflection’s movement seems out of sync with his own, like something just past the glass has turned to watch him as they both walk, then Yosuke staunchly ignores it. His mind has already betrayed him too many times tonight to bother looking for more.

            He climbs back into bed and eventually manages to fall into a thankfully dreamless sleep. It only lasts for two and a half hours.

  The morning comes in like a blow to the head.

It starts with Yosuke’s alarm blaring in his ear and startling him awake. He flails, forgetting where he is in his adrenaline-fueled stupor, and gets himself wrapped in the sheets for a minute until he can wrest an arm out and slap his hand down on top of the clock.

The peace and quiet lasts just long enough for Yosuke’s heart rhythm to start resembling something normal. Then, with all the untamed force of a comet, Teddie decides that he, too, would like to ruin everything and dive-bombs onto Yosuke’s bed with a long, drawn-out, “Good moooooooooorning, Yosuke!”

And thus the day begins.

Yosuke spends the next few minutes disentangling himself from the sentient plushie toy trying to hug him to death. It takes longer than it should. Teddie whines, of course, as he usually does when Yosuke baps him in the face with a pillow, but at least he has the decency this time to release his captive long enough for Yosuke to get out of the bed.

The next half hour or so is an exercise in patience as Yosuke maneuvers around in the pre-dawn dark in an attempt to get ready for school – digging out a clean shirt, searching for his uniform jacket with increasing frustration until finally remembering he’d left it downstairs – all while continuously tripping over the lanky, blond barnacle that has attached itself to his side. But, as exhausted as he is physically, and as much as Teddie grates on his nerves, Yosuke knows the reason it’s been ramped up to eleven this morning is because Teddie still feels pouty and dejected after Yosuke (in Teddie’s words) “a-bear-ndoned” him the day before. Not that he would ever say it out loud to him, but Yosuke does have to admit the guy has a pretty valid reason this time, even if the resulting “bear hugs” cause Yosuke to nearly fall on his face more than once. Eventually (though with much begrudged sighing), Yosuke gives up and lets his new brother-not-brother hang off him like some kind of deranged belt while he gathers up the textbooks he didn’t even open last night.

Next comes the process of actually leaving the room. Teddie makes it difficult to listen out the door for sounds of life downstairs, but after a few minutes of shushing, Yosuke is able to determine there is either no one else in the house (most likely), or one or both of his parents are still dead asleep (less likely). Yosuke takes the gamble and slides out into the hallway, silently praying he and Teddie are alone right now.

The hallway is where Yosuke’s anxiety decides it wants to come out and play.

For a second he’s fine; the bear acts as a decent distraction, what with his insistence on not being left alone for more than a moment, and Yosuke can focus his brain on trying to walk without falling over. It’s when he looks up and the door to the bathroom comes into view that the horrible, knotted dread in the pit of his stomach rears back up and makes itself known. Yosuke stumbles to a halt just before crossing through the doorway, leaving Teddie to nearly plow into him at the abrupt stop.

They’re gonna know, his treacherous mind sniggers at him. Your parents already know – there’s gonna be a note waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you go downstairs, or a text from your mom saying she wants to talk to you when you get home from school. There’s no way someone didn’t hear you last night…

Yosuke clamps his teeth down on his tongue so hard that he feels his molars slice through the side of it. There is a faint tang of metal in his mouth.

It’s fine, he tries to tell himself.

Is it? Is it really?

“Yosuke?” Teddie asks from behind him, voice muffled where he’d run face-first into Yosuke’s back. He shifts away but keeps his hands clutched in Yosuke’s uniform shirt and when he speaks again his voice is clearer. “Why’d you stop walking?”

Teddie’s gonna ask questions. He’s too naive to know right now but he’ll hear it from your parents and then he’ll ask about ‘scoring’ and won’t shut up until he knows.

“Yosuke, helloooooooo!”

And then he’ll tell everybody else.

“Yoooooosukeeeee!”

He’ll tell Souji.

Terror washes through him, cold and deep-seated like ice crystallizing in the marrow of his bones. There is a moment where he feels weightless, displaced, his stomach dropping out as he stares down from the edge of a towering precipice with no ground below him in sight. His breath catches in his mouth and hangs there in a frozen, aborted inhalation that never makes it down into his lungs.

Souji would hate him. From anyone else, Yosuke might be able to handle the looks of disgust and loathing; he’s grown pretty used to it already since moving to Inaba. Housewives and retired old men with nothing to do but scowl, classmates whose families blamed Junes for their own failing businesses and subsequently viewed him as its embodiment. He’s used to it. Members of the Investigation Team, too, sometimes, when he’s being particularly annoying – he’s caught a few of his friends share looks of aggravation before, after he’s said something he knows is stupid even as he says it. Especially in the beginning. They might not hate him the way that so many others in the town do, but he knows he pisses them off sometimes and it wouldn’t come as much of a shock were any one of them to suddenly decide he wasn’t worth it. A tiny, pessimistic part of him keeps expecting it, even. One day, it whispers. One day…

But Souji.

If Souji ever turned that kind of frigid, hateful gaze in his direction, if Souji ever spat words of vehemence to his face, behind his back, cursed his name as if he had the plague – or worse. If Souji ever looked at him with vacant eyes, with icy, empty apathy, glanced at him and saw only a waste of time and energy where friendship used to be, like Yosuke meant nothing to him…

You would break.

“YOSUKE!”

Yosuke yanks himself out of his thoughts with a physical jerk, nearly knocking back into Teddie right as the bear leans up to shout in his ear.

“Ted, hey!” he says, voice cracking and nearly loud enough to classify as a shout. He’s vaguely aware of the faint hysteria, the desperate edge of fear that colors his words, and he takes a step backwards, angling to the side a bit so that a perplexed Teddie is somewhat between him and the bathroom door. “Look, how about you go first and I’ll just go use the one downstairs, okay?” It’s okay, he tells himself; if the shower is still wet then he probably won’t even notice. The bathroom doesn’t smell like anything except soap. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay…

He breathes in as deeply as he can without making it obvious. Holds it. Lets it out. All the while he focuses on keeping himself there in the hallway, present in his current reality at ass-o-clock in the morning with a clingy, long-limbed not-human suction cupped to his arm.

It’s okay, he repeats, and gradually his heart rate begins to slow.

Teddie, on the other hand, watches Yosuke silently, blond brows furrowed and lips pursed as if he’s trying to decipher Yosuke’s sudden shift in demeanor. He stays that way for a good minute or so as Yosuke gets a handle on his breathing, appraising Yosuke intensely with an expression that looks far too serious on such a young face.

Then, suddenly, as though someone has flipped a switch, his expression goes from fervent, focused confusion to a childish, almost comically melodramatic pout.

“But whyyyyyyyy?” he whines, long and loud, seemingly no longer concerned about Yosuke’s odd behavior. There is a hint of sulk in the bear’s voice, exactly like a kid that’s been denied something he wants and gets huffy when Mom tells him no. He frowns up at Yosuke with eyes that are clearly too wide and watery to be anything other than a ploy. “Teddie wants to go in together!”

Yosuke just blinks.

“…What.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, something that might better convey just how blindsided that comment has left him, but his entire body is running on next to no sleep and has had far too many bouts of anxiety to function properly at such an ungodly hour of the morning. All he can do for what seems like an embarrassingly long few seconds is work his jaw open and closed while his brain tries to come up with something coherent to say.

All that eventually comes out is a flat, “…I’m sorry, you want to do what?”

Teddie’s pout deepens. “Yosuke was going to go brush his teeth, right? This bear needs to brush his teeth, too, so I thought we could do it at the same time.” He tugs on Yosuke’s arm, leaning his weight back on his heels and holding on so that he can sway side-to-side, jostling a still-blank-screened Yosuke in the process. “Pleeeeeeease, Yosuke?” he begs, “Nana-chan said her friends Yoko and Tsukino are sisters and they do everything together, even brush their teeth, and Teddie wants to do that with his brother, too!”

That is… very much not what Yosuke was expecting.

“Brother?!” he sputters, brain finally kick-starting back to life a split-second too late behind his mouth. “Since when am I your brother?”

The abrupt shift from his earlier tide of panic to this leaves the space behind his eyes feeling pinched and tight; the culmination of too much weirdness and too little sleep. It isn’t that he hates the idea of being called “brother”, not really, and he’s pretty sure the both of them have been steadily heading towards this point for a while now – or, at least, the ever-increasing familiarity of having the bear around has grown into something he’d be hard pressed to feel normal without. But this is the first time it’s ever been acknowledged out loud, that Teddie himself has ever said anything of the sort, and to hear that he does, in fact, see Yosuke as family is… Well, not unwelcome, just thoroughly unexpected.

But Yosuke’s stumbling reaction must have come off as harsh and angry, rather than the shock that it actually is, because Teddie’s expression morphs from mopey and affronted to downright heartbroken right before Yosuke’s eyes. “Sensei and Nana-chan call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister’…” he mumbles, voice timid and uncharacteristically sad. The faint sparkle of tears starts to gather in the corners of his eyes and suddenly Yosuke feels like a complete and total ass.

“Aw, Ted, no,” he says, and it sounds just a little nervous, just a little lost. He’s not used to comforting people – he’s not the person anyone usually seeks out for this kind of thing. More often than not, he’s the reason someone is upset in the first place.

He pats at Teddie’s head awkwardly. “C’mon, don’t do that.”

Not for the first time, Yosuke is reminded that Teddie really doesn’t have anybody outside of the Investigation Team and Nanako. Sure, Yosuke’s parents are letting the bear stay in their house, and his mom seems to have taken a bit of a shine to him and his eagerness to learn and help. But that’s not really the same as having friends or family. Teddie might have boundary issues (and even though it sucks, Yosuke can kind of forgive him for it because of how new Teddie is to the human world), but being constantly lonely and bored with nothing to do but study other people and wish you could have that level of connection is… Honestly, it sounds pretty awful.

Besides, Teddie idolizes Souji, looks up to him like a little kid would their childhood hero, and also utterly adores Nanako. It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise then, that the guy would eventually try and emulate their familial bond with the closest person to him, the one member of the group he actually lives with.

Yosuke stares down at Teddie’s watery little face and something in him shifts. Pity, he thinks at first, but that doesn’t seem right at all. It’s warmer than that, closer to the chest, and try as he might he can’t name it properly. Whatever it is, though, it fills the space from which Yosuke’s initial shock at being called “brother” out of nowhere is slowly starting to drain. The more he lets it sit, the easier it feels, the more natural – like putting a name to something that already existed, or like a stone in a foundation that was always there, just not quite in place until someone pressed in exactly the right spot.

He can’t even summon up the will to stay annoyed.

With a long, drawn out sigh, Yosuke puts a bit more pressure on Teddie’s hair and ruffles it beneath his palm. “You just surprised me, okay? You can…” He pauses, his mouth feeling funny, and glances away from the teary gaze angled up at him for a second before turning back, resigned – though not unhappy about it. “…You can call me that if you want, I guess.”

The rapid, complete reversal in Teddie’s mood is staggering, his dejected expression swiftly transforming into something blindingly bright and exuberant. “Just!” Yosuke starts, frantically cutting off whatever the bear is about to say. “Not where anyone else can hear you, alright?” Because really, it’s already hard enough trying to explain where Teddie came from to anyone that doesn’t know about the Midnight Channel; Yosuke doesn’t think he’d be able to come up with a new cover story if people start thinking he’s been hiding a secret younger sibling for the past year his family has been here. (And that’s not even counting the back bending he’d have to do if his parents overheard.)

Luckily Teddie doesn’t seem to mind this addendum at all, because suddenly there’s a scrawny pair of arms squeezing Yosuke’s middle like a ripe orange and Teddie is bawling into his shoulder for an entirely different reason. “OKAY!” he crows, thankfully muffled by Yosuke’s shirt.

Yosuke wheezes, teetering slightly as the hug knocks him off-balance. “Oh my god, Ted!” he croaks. It goes unheard.

The mascot-turned-humanoid peels his face up out of Yosuke’s side and grins at him with the brilliance of a flickering star, eyes still shining with happy tears. “I promise, Yosuke-nii! Teddie will be the best little bear-ther ever!”

Yosuke winces at the volume so close to his ears. “Okay,” he huffs, “alright, cool, awesome, just get off!” He paws at Teddie’s arms to try and dislodge them and alleviate the pressure from around his ribs. For someone made up of air and cotton roughly seventy-five percent of the time, Teddie has a surprisingly strong grip. “Seriously, Ted, that hurts.”

Teddie gives him one last tight squeeze before letting him go, and Yosuke damn near topples over at the sudden loss of bear propping him up. He shoots the little blond anomaly an unamused look that Teddie seems far too gleeful to notice. Or if he does, he pays it no attention whatsoever.

Teddie twirls past Yosuke and into the bathroom, snagging Yosuke’s sleeve as he goes and tugging on it with a grin that could cause tooth decay. “Come on, come on! You’re gonna be late again!” he calls, sing-songing like it’s the most typical morning in all the waking world.

Yosuke stands there in the doorway for a moment longer, watching as Teddie grabs a nearby washcloth and douses it under the sink faucet before slapping it over his face with a resounding, soggy ‘smack!” Yosuke stifles a laugh.

Maybe he should be more put out, Yosuke thinks with just a hint of fondness, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t even a teensy bit glad to have the damn bear around sometimes, despite how rambunctious he can be. He finds it especially true in the moments of deafening quiet, when the household’s collective schedules refuse to line up and Yosuke is left on his own with a mind that likes to eat itself. He understands “lonely”, he understands “sad”, and if his first-ever encounter with Jirya is anything to go by, he more than understands that bored, restless feeling that comes with being alone.

“Yosuke-nii?” Teddie calls again, testing out the new moniker with obvious glee.

Shaking his head, Yosuke lets out a long, overdramatic noise from the back of his throat and rolls his eyes to hide the tiny, warm smile that threatens to lift at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, fine!” he grouses, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Just don’t hog the sink.”

He moves to follow after his unofficial sibling, hesitating for only a moment just inside the bathroom door before sucking in a steadying breath through his nose and stepping the rest of the way inside. Teddie once again doesn’t notice – nor does he even so much as glance at the shower, much to Yosuke’s relief. Instead, the bear gets to work making a mess of the counter as he squirts far too much toothpaste over the bristles of his cartoon-bear-covered yellow and blue toothbrush. Yosuke, for his part, simply lets out a quiet, “ug, gross,” and pretends to shove Teddie out of the way as he reaches for his own toothbrush. He has to keep up appearances, after all.

And hey, he’s always secretly kind of wanted a little brother.

As they both settle in to what remains of their morning prep, (with Teddie absolutely hogging the sink) Yosuke finds he feels a weird sense of calm. It sinks into his skin like an ointment, smoothing over the last jagged dregs of his anxiety from before and effectively shielding his mind from thoughts of shame and vivid dreams.

The wariness still lingers slightly; he can feel it humming like a distant storm if he thinks about it too hard for just a second too long. It’s seeped around the edges like a stain and colors the new, easier atmosphere with the faintest hint of dingy yellow. To make sure it doesn’t spread, Yosuke unconsciously keeps himself close to the doorway with Teddie between him and the shower. He doesn’t look over at it, only lets it glint in the corner of his eye whenever he turns to jostle Teddie with his elbow or give him a look for trying to speak with a mouth full of toothpaste. Every time he catches sight of the white tile just beyond his boisterous little brother’s head, Yosuke instinctively keeps his vision blurry and turns back towards the sink.

 ---

 The stain begins to bleed further in the longer the morning goes on.

It starts out okay. Teddie talks Yosuke’s ear off like the endless vat of energy that he is, reveling in his newfound status as an unofficially-official member of the family and effectively keeping Yosuke’s nerves at bay as they finish up in the bathroom. Nothing else of note takes place.

There is a fleeting moment as they make their way downstairs where Yosuke remembers his earlier fear of finding an irate parent waiting to confront him, but the moment he touches down on the final stair and finds the rest of the house dark and empty, the vice around his lungs eases away. There is no surprise altercation; no one jumps out from around a corner to call Yosuke out for his late-night bathing habits. There isn’t even so much as a post-it from his mother stuck to the fridge like he’d been so convinced there would be not twenty minutes before. No one knows, he tells his anxious mind, breathing out the last of the stiffness in his limbs.

Yosuke switches on the lights and helps Teddie rifle around in the kitchen for something that can function as breakfast. Their search is decently fruitful, if a bit lackluster, but given that neither of them are much good at anything requiring more commitment than a microwave, it’s really not too bad. By the time Teddie shoves him out the door with one last bone-breaking hug and a joyous, “Bye, Yosuke-niiiiiiiiiiii!!” they are both at least fed.

The first part of the walk goes pretty smoothly as well. Yosuke plugs in his headphones and fires up the new album he’d downloaded over the weekend but never got a chance to listen to. He walks in time to the beat, still feeling the warmth in his chest from earlier, and makes the mistake of letting himself believe that maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

Then he gets to the spot where he and Souji usually wait for one another.

He’s already slowing to a stop as he approaches, hands reaching up out of habit to tug the headphones away from his ears and eyes automatically scanning the area for a head of familiar silver hair. It doesn’t register at first what he’s doing – every action born from muscle memory after weeks and months of the same damn thing; it’s only as he’s pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time that he remembers.

He remembers that Souji still hasn’t texted him back after vanishing and scaring Yosuke half to death. He remembers that Souji wasn’t in school yesterday, that Naoto had acted as his mouthpiece and spouted some story about Souji being sick that just didn’t add up no matter how much Yosuke tried to work it out. He remembers the worry, the fear, the helplessness of not being able to do anything to help or even locate his best friend, followed by the hurt and frustration and the bitter, niggling anxiety in the back of his skull over the course of the past couple of days.

He remembers that he’d been upset with Souji for not trusting him enough to tell him what was wrong. He’d felt a little betrayed, angry even, though he hadn’t exactly wanted to acknowledge either emotion because he didn’t want to think about what it said about him. He remembers feeling guilty because of it, anxious and paranoid that he was overreacting but also too sure that Souji had been acting out of character to take any kind of self-depreciating comfort in the thought. He feels his gut turn.

What if Souji wasn’t in school again today? What if Naoto had been wrong or only placating them when they’d said Souji would probably be back? What if something really was super wrong, and his partner had just decided to shut him out without giving Yosuke a chance to help? Or what if Souji had just decided he didn’t want to deal with anyone anymore – didn’t want to deal with him.

Yosuke shakes his head, careful not to accidentally throw himself off-balance and step into the street. He can’t let himself think like that; it’s unfair to Souji and to Naoto and, well, probably just about everybody on the team to think that Souji suddenly just hates someone (him) or is leaving them all in the dark on purpose, picking out favorites because he doesn’t trust. That’s not who Souji is, it never has been in all the time that Yosuke has known him. Even with the anxiety, Yosuke at least is confident that his partner isn’t secretly a horrible, manipulative person at heart. After all, Souji has seen the worst parts of all of them and never so much as flinched.

So no, if Souji isn’t at school again today then that means something really is wrong, and shame on Yosuke for making it all about himself and his insecurities.

Mood soured and self-dislike rearing its ugly head once more, Yosuke stuffs his phone back into his pocket and tugs the headphones up to try and drown out the darkening thoughts. But it doesn’t work. He cranks the volume up, almost loud enough to hurt his ears, but no matter how loud he makes it there is still the tiny, mocking voice at the base of his skull that whispers just above the music and gnaws incessantly at his nerves.

You’re a terrible partner, it whispers. Look at you, always trying to play the victim. You can’t even be worried about your best friend without turning it into a pity party, can you?

He turns the music up higher, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and hunching inward as if he can somehow make himself small enough to hide from his own mind.

You’re just going to ruin everything like you always do. You push and you whine until nobody can stand you anymore. That’s why Souji isn’t speaking to you.

Shaky, anxious energy tingles its way down Yosuke’s legs, settles in his bones like a live current through a power line.

Maybe it’ll be a good thing if he doesn’t show up to school – you really want him to see your shitty self-absorption? Cuz he will. You know he will; it’s Souji, nothing gets past him. He’ll take one look at you and he’ll know.

Yosuke lurches forward like he’s been shoved, cramming his hands into his pockets and hurrying away from the meet-up spot without even a final glance around to see if his partner is nearby. A part of him hopes that Souji isn’t, that he’s already gone on ahead without waiting for Yosuke, or that he’s still somewhere far off behind, not yet close to where the pair of them usually meet.

He strides off in the direction of the high school as quickly as he can without actually breaking into a sprint and keeps his head bowed as if he can out-pace the anxiety and leave the voice behind.

  It’s almost a relief when Yosuke walks into the classroom and sees the desk in front of his own still as empty as his inbox.

He slides in through the door much earlier than he’d expected – a testament to just how fast he’d been power-walking the entire second half of his trek. It isn’t too early, a good two thirds of his classmates seem to be already in the room, but it’s early enough that he’s almost thrown off by how much he doesn’t have to scramble to his seat to beat the bell.

Chie and Yukiko greet him as he sits, Yukiko with a polite nod and quiet, “Good morning, Yosuke-kun,” and Chie with a quip about him not being late for once. He pretends to feel more indignant than he really is and shoots her a half-hearted retort. To Yukiko, he raises a hand in a lackluster wave and mumbles out something that hopefully passes as cheery. If the girls glance at one another after he turns to sling his bag off his shoulder then he pays it no mind. He can play it off as being tired if either of them ask.

They don’t. The odd looks last for a few moments more before the girls return to their previous discussion, seemingly from where they left off. Yosuke busies himself with unpacking his school bag and largely tunes them out.

More students file in. The clock above the door continues to tick, minute hand sluggishly moving ever closer to the start of class. Souji doesn’t show. The door opens and closes several more times and a handful of people enter while a few more leave – likely visiting their friends from another classroom. Souji still doesn’t show. Eventually, the students milling around the edges of the room start to find their seats and the noise in the hallway begins to die down a little as surrounding classes do the same. Souji still doesn’t show. Chie says more words to Yosuke and he responds when prompted, but he’s too busy pretending not to watch the door to ever fully join in on the conversation. And Souji. Doesn’t. Show.

A strange mix of relief and dread starts to form in Yosuke’s gut. There isn’t much time left before the teacher is due to arrive, and while the sarcastic, scornful voice that followed him from the meet-up point has thankfully quieted down now that Yosuke has the classroom as a distraction, the tempest of negativity still remains. Guilty as he feels for admitting it, he’s glad that Souji isn’t currently here; Yosuke is still a mess of conflicting emotions from the past couple of days – let alone this morning – and he has no idea how he’d handle actually seeing his partner in person. On the other hand, as the minutes eek by and it looks increasingly likely that no other students will be coming in, Yosuke’s concern for his best friend’s wellbeing swells like a rising tide, threatening to spill over and send him sinking once again. Guilt for his relief wars with the apprehension in his heart, leaving him balanced on he edge of something he cannot see the bottom of.

It’s like being lost without even a single star to guide him home.

He’s so busy focusing on his own inner turmoil that Yosuke almost misses the sound of the door opening, almost misses the quiet, moon-colored figure that slips into the room like a spectre until they’re silently easing into the chair directly in front of him. Yosuke startles as the figure turns in their seat to offer a nod to Chie and Yukiko, then back around to give him one as well.

Souji.

Souji is back in school today.

And he looks like absolute hell.

It’s the little things about him, the chips and cracks that Yosuke can see all over his partner’s finely-crafted mask of normalcy. There is a careful tension in the way he holds himself, a tightness to the line of his shoulders that speaks of carefully controlled anxiety, of exhaustion hidden down deep below the surface. Yosuke knows, he can see this and recognize it because now he knows what to look for. Up close he can see the remnants of dark circles below Souji’s eyes, faint and faded, just a hint of purple below tissue paper skin. It’s the same thing Yosuke sees on himself in the mirror after a too-long shift at work for the second day in a row.

He scans Souji’s features as the other boy smiles at the three of them. The tit of Souji’s lips is all wrong; the smile is pulled too far out along the corners and not upward like it should be if it were really real. It doesn’t reach his eyes, either, and seems to tremble the longer it stays on. His skin also looks ashen around the corners – a subtle sign of sleep deprivation that Yosuke knows all too well.

(He can’t remember ever noticing his partner looking this way before. He’s ashamed to admit that he doesn’t know if that’s because Souji’s just never looked this bad or if Yosuke’s just never looked.)

Yosuke thinks of all the times he’s been running on empty and feeling like he wants to drop, but can’t because there’s still several hours left of his shift and he has to pretend he’s perfectly fine. It’s always then that the stern, gossipy, angry old women decide to come up to him, to crowd him into a corner and make demands he cannot fulfill or intimidate him just because they think they can. Yosuke knows what it feels like to have to hold his Customer Service smile in place and keep a tight reign on his positive façade – just so they don’t pick up on his exhaustion and desperation to just go home and exploit the weakness as if it were blood in the water.

That’s what Souji looks like to him.

As horrible as it is, Yosuke has the pageant to thank for being able to notice the way his best friend is miles away from okay. Granted, he looks a fuck ton better than he did the day he went sprinting past Yosuke in the hallway, eyes wild and panicked. But that’s exactly why Yosuke can see what he sees now; because now that he’s caught of glimpse of what Souji looks like when his usual stoicism and quiet solidity are fractured, Yosuke doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to not notice it again.

Souji turns slightly at the waist to aim his surface-level smile in Yosuke’s direction, having just finished showing it to Yukiko and Chie. Yosuke catches the way Souji’s eyes seem to linger on him – just for a second – and Yosuke tries to meet them, hold them, in the hopes of finding some kind of genuine emotion hidden inside, but Souji flicks his gaze down just slightly, before turning away and facing the front of the room.

The teacher walks in a moment later and any chance of getting Souji’s attention again is lost for the rest of the morning.

 ---

           The rest of the day is a complete and total disaster.

Yosuke barely gets a chance to talk to Souji during lunch, and for the little bit he does, Souji essentially says the exact same thing that Naoto had said the day before. Under normal circumstances this might not have raised any flags in Yosuke’s head, but the way that Souji “explains” the events of the last couple of days seems more like he’s building off of something rather than recounting it. Once again there’s an odd disconnect with the timeline.

But Yosuke doesn’t know how to call him on it. He keeps his eyes trained on his best friend’s face, scrutinizing Souji’s expression as if he can pick out the missing information from the way Souji doesn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. There is a strange fluttering in his stomach as he watches – one that gets stronger every time he notices yet another minute detail that speaks of just how not-right his partner is below the surface.

It isn’t even that Souji looks like he’s been horribly sick, which, again, Yosuke doesn’t wish for but would at least lend credit to the story that both Naoto and Souji have given. He does look very much like he hasn’t slept properly, so that part at least is obviously true, but to say that physical illness is the reason for everything is just… it doesn’t fit. No, instead there is a sort of quiet jitteriness to Souji’s entire being; one that screams of trepidation, like Souji is afraid of something as he speaks. He’s also keeping things purposefully vague– not so much that it’s obvious, but Yosuke has acted as Souji’s second for far too long now not to be able to spot the discrepancies in his partner’s patterns. He’s spent months being hyper-tuned to Souji as their commander; he’s a little miffed at himself for never thinking to use that same skill outside the TV until now.

Yukiko is the one that brings up how sudden Souji’s disappearance had been. Souji’s poker face twitches just barely, but it’s enough that Yosuke, close as he is, can spot the split-second ripple on the mirror-smooth expression Souji’s holding in place. Chie picks up the thread that Yukiko began and carries it with a nod of agreement, throwing in a statement of her own.

Yosuke grabs at the end of the conversation thread, seizing his chance and hastening to remind the other boy of how he’d witnessed him tearing down the hallway before Souji can even so much as open his mouth to respond. He purses his lips and stares at Souji as if he can make his friend meet his eyes by sheer force of will. “Seriously, bro,” he adds, silently praying he can call his partner out and have it work. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast.”

Souji flicks his focus over, more like an unconscious tic than anything deliberate, and for the tiniest of moments his gaze connects with Yosuke’s before Souji’s cloud-grey eyes flick away again and back to the space just behind Yosuke’s right shoulder. It’s faster than a well-aimed Zio, but not quite fast enough for Yosuke to completely miss the flash of rabbit-like fear that’s hiding just behind Souji’s manufactured expression. The sight of it twists in Yosuke’s chest like a sewing bobbin wound nearly tight enough to snap.

Look at me, he thinks, desperate with rekindled anger and hurt. Talk to me, damnit, I was worried about you!

But he doesn’t say it out loud. He can’t, because he doesn’t know how – doesn’t know how to call his friend out for giving half-truths at best, doesn’t know how to ask Souji outright what’s going on. He’s terrified, both of making a nuisance of himself like he did with Saki-senpai and also of Souji pulling away from him and never telling him why. If Souji needs him, then Yosuke wants to help. But that means, too, that Souji needs to need him.

Because which is worse: being an annoyance or simply not being needed?

He quickly stomps that question down and grits his teeth against it.

Something desperate and frustrated claws its way up Yosuke’s throat in retaliation, and before Yosuke can stop himself he’s biting back an accusation, masking it at the last moment by making a joke at Kanji’s expense. It scalds him as he says it, like a swallow of too-hot water, but say it he does. He doesn’t even know why, it just… comes out; like a knee-jerk reaction to the feeling of being attacked, even if it’s by his own mind and not by any external force.

Souji’s expression turns to stone.

From that point on the discussion steadily decays. Chie smacks at Yosuke and Souji takes the chance to quickly throw up a wall. He deflects, changing his expression as if he’s swapping a Persona in battle, apologizing and smiling his fake, shaky smile and decidedly not giving any straight answers. The conversation winds around like a river until the details of the beauty pageant make their way to the front, where Yosuke, in his embarrassment and blind mess of confusing emotions, manages to trip headlong into his own stupidity.

Chie smacks at him again while Yukiko hisses something low and threatening that he probably deserves, and by the time Yosuke is able to fend them off, Souji has already made his escape. Yosuke slumps back into his seat, defeated and upset. There’s no point in going after his partner, he knows, because Souji has already proven his ability to vanish without a trace.

With his scalp still stinging from Chie’s knuckles, Yosuke sinks lower in his chair and folds his arms tightly over his chest as he sulks, teeth grinding as he attempts to tune out the girls’ indignation. He allows the acrid disappointment and dejection to fester – he’s sick of trying to reel it back in at this point, considering he’s still running on only a couple of hours of sleep. Chie and Yukiko finally turn away from him and Yosuke stares at the blackboard without seeing it until his vision starts to blur.

  Souji does eventually come back, of course, once lunch ends, but by then Yosuke is too embittered to care. He sits behind his partner (though he’s questioning if it can really be called an equal partnership right about now) and stares at the back of Souji’s head like it’s personally done him wrong. It’s how he feels at the moment, anyway.

Under usual circumstances, Yosuke would be a ball of erratic energy – finding ways to poke and prod at Souji to get his attention. Because Yosuke is needy, he knows he’s needy, and Souji is the best friend he’s ever had, so it just makes sense that Yosuke would want his attention all the time. He doesn’t like how needy he is (it’s cost him friendships before), but he’s stopped trying to deny or fight it. He’s seen first hand what the outcome of that can be.

But today he doesn’t do any of that. He can’t even bring himself to slip his friend a note, just to pass the time; he’s still too upset. It’s probably just paranoia, the product of anxiety and too many bad experiences with people throwing him away, and he’s aware that his reaction is most likely childish. Pettiness runs in his nature, though, when he’s hurt, and it’s just one more thing that Yosuke has come to terms with but cannot disengage from entirely. Something else he doesn’t like about himself – surprise, surprise.

Classes start and classes end and Yosuke’s mind wanders into dark places. He would try and nap, maybe, since he’s more worn out than he thinks he’s ever been outside from fighting in the TV world. However, though his body protests the lack of sleep, his mind keeps circling. So Yosuke sits and thinks, switching between being irritated with Souji for shutting him out – even if his partner really is just recovering from a messed-up stomach – to being hurt all over again to blaming himself. What did he do so wrong that Souji ignored him for two days straight? Does Souji just not trust him anymore? Did he ever?

And oh, that last one stings.

Yosuke’s emotions swing back around to frustration then; if Yosuke really did screw up somewhere, then how the hell is he supposed to know what not to do if Souji won’t talk to him? If Souji doesn’t trust him, if Souji never did, then what the actual fuck? Just… what the fuck?! No matter what way Yosuke turns this situation over in his mind he can’t seem to untangle any of it. He doesn’t know if he should apologize for something or if he should be expecting another apology from Souji. By the time there’s only half an hour left of school Yosuke is damn near ready to grab his partner by the shoulders and shake him, or corner Souji so that he can’t run away again, pin him to a wall and press in close until Souji’s has nowhere to focus his eyes except for him.

He lets himself picture it, plays the imaginary confrontation out like a movie in his head. He could grab Souji as he’s getting ready to leave and drag his partner back into the classroom after all the other students file out. Or better yet, he could trap Souji in an empty bathroom stall, maybe, could catch him as he’s passing by and push the other boy backwards so that Souji can’t duck around him to escape. Yosuke could slam his hands against the wall on either side of Souji’s waist, keep him there between his arms, press a knee between his partner’s legs, lean in to drag his teeth along the sensitive skin of Souji’s throat—

FUCK.

Yosuke startles so badly that he nearly jerks back in his seat. He just barely avoids bashing his ankle into the leg of Souji’s chair on accident, yanking his foot to the side last second and smacking his shin on his own desk instead as images from last night come roaring back into his head like a tsunami. Souji pinned beneath him. Souji with his breath gasping and his cheeks flushed red. Souji staring up at Yosuke with foggy, half-lidded eyes.

Yosuke feels the awful telltale rush of warmth as the blood in his body tries to migrate down.

You jerked off to the thought of your best friend last night in the shower, sing-songs the gnashing, sarcastic voice from the depths of his mind, mocking him as he tries to subtly squeeze his thighs together to discourage his traitorous dick. He grits his teeth in desperation, guilt and fear and self-disgust roiling low in his stomach, and silently prays for class to somehow end early.

Souji twitches in front of him, no doubt having heard the muffled ‘thud’ from where Yosuke had bashed his leg, and shifts like he’s going to turn over his shoulder to glance back Yosuke’s way.

A bubbling wave of panic rises up inside Yosuke’s chest, sending his already-fluttering heart into overdrive. The voice inside his head hisses, whispering anxious, frantic things like, he knows what you did, he knows what you just thought, he knows! all layered over top of one another like ripples in the rain. Yosuke feels his blood freeze, all the heat in his body not currently in his lap now rushing to his face in sheer mortification and dread.

Don’t look at me, please don’t look at me!

He isn’t sure if he’s more afraid of the other boy seeing right through him or of his own reaction at the sight of Souji’s face; he doesn’t trust his mind right now not to overlay the Souji from last night’s dream across the one in front of him. In the back of his head he shamefully wonders if it’s possible to be terrified and turned on at the same time. He squeezes his thighs tighter together and tries to circumvent his body’s attempts to find out.

As if some divine entity has heard him, the teacher turns around from writing on the chalkboard right as Souji is twisting his spine to look back in Yosuke’s direction, effectively halting Souji’s movement and leaving him to hurriedly realign himself facing forward. Yosuke lets out a quiet sigh of relief and slumps down in his chair once more. He ignores the sidelong glance that Chie sends his way and concentrates on slowing his heartbeat to a more reasonable level, hoping the flow of blood redirects itself as the steady pounding of his pulse sluggishly decelerates.

That was fucking close.

Yosuke’s jaw hurts from how he’s been clenching it by the time the warmth finally returns to his fingers. They shake with unspent adrenaline as he waits for the teacher to turn back around, discreetly grabbing his things and shoving them into his bag the moment her gaze is turned. As soon as the final bell sounds, right as Souji is twisting around again and offering him that bright, tired smile, Yosuke is on his feet and swinging his bag over his shoulder. He blurts out a quick goodbye and an “I’m glad you’re better, dude!” before dashing out the door like he’s running several years behind schedule, pants still feeling just barely too tight for the speed with which he walks.

He tells himself he’s just imagining the way the faint light in Souji’s face seems to dim as Yosuke all but jogs out into the safety of the hall.

 ---

 Yosuke’s shift that night at Junes is only made survivable because of Teddie.

The living mascot is still riding the emotional high from that morning and takes happy advantage of every moment that their paths seem to cross while Yosuke works the grocery department and Teddie the one just beyond. Every free moment he has, he’s gluing himself to Yosuke’s side, which Yosuke would be lying if he said he wasn’t secretly happy about. As annoying as his new little brother can be, it’s nice to feel needed, wanted, especially now, and Yosuke is thankful for the (very successful) distraction Teddie’s ravenous desire for his attention provides. They wind up getting a few odd looks here and there but his dad never comes by to see what the ruckus is about, so for once, Yosuke is able to force himself not to notice the hardened gazes thrown his way.            

The problem is, Teddie can’t be around him the entire time he’s there – even with the bear sneaking over to the canned goods aisle every chance he gets. After all, Teddie doesn’t go to school and thus has been on shift for a lot longer than Yosuke has. Stall as he might, eventually the kid is required (and deserves) to go on his dinner break, leaving Yosuke all alone with his thoughts. Even worse, it’s the part of the night that has a short lull in activity – the hour or so in between when people get off work and when they actually go out to start shopping for ingredients for dinner – so there aren’t even really any customers to deal with to keep Yosuke’s mind from edging off into dangerously dark territory. It makes him anxious all over again; even a testy old housewife or disgruntled off-duty cop would be preferable to being left alone.            

Because it’s when Yosuke is alone that the voice returns to his mind and whispers seeds of doubt and condescension into his ears.

Dirty, it sneers while he’s rearranging a stack of cans from this week’s “featured brand.”

Disgusting, it hisses and nearly makes him drop an entire armload onto his own foot.

Pervert, it mocks as he gives up and shoves everything he’d been holding onto the first shelf he can find.

Every time it speaks it gets harsher, more insistent, angrier, until it becomes nigh on impossible to focus on anything else. It’s everything he’s ever been afraid of himself becoming – other than the needy, clingy mess he already acknowledges he is – and it rattles around in his skull, getting louder and louder as the minutes tick by with nothing to occupy his thoughts beyond his own quagmire of self depreciation. He can feel it weighing heavily across his shoulders like a blanket made of stones, settling into his stomach and solidifying as if he’d swallowed cement.

It starts off quietly, too, almost so much that he doesn’t spot it at first, not until it’s too late to head it off. The guilt trickles in like an infection, like a seeping sickness, and by the time Yosuke has noticed its presence it’s brought along the doubt, the fear, the feeling of something grimy stuck to Yosuke’s skin like a thick layer of mud. It colors his vision, tugs at his Customer Service smile until it’s only held in place by sheer muscle memory, even as Yosuke’s insides start to burn and it nearly topples him over with the force of its reveal. He tries to push it aside, tries to ignore it or make it go away; it hangs on with poisoned claws and digs them deeper every time he thinks he’s managed to start to pull them out.

Remember what you did? the voice cackles over and over again. Remember how you enjoyed it?

And in the moments of silence when no one is nearby to keep him out of his own head, Yosuke does.

He thinks about all the sensations the dream had brought along with it, the ones that had stayed with him in the shower long after he’d woken up. He thinks about how good they had been, how he’d come to with the feel of Souji’s hair between his fingers, Souji’s lips against his own – not just the sex but the little things surrounding it as well. He thinks and thinks and thinks and then thinks again about how he’d been in class earlier that very day and wanted nothing more than to lean forward and press his face against the back of his partner’s shoulder.

He’d wanted to kiss Souji.

Yosuke ducks around the side of an aisle and leans against it for support as he lets the careening train of through go crashing through his head. The track behind it blazes bright and turns to ash.

GOD.

Yosuke runs his hands down his face.

He’d had a sex dream about his best friend. He’d orgasmed to the thought of his best friend. And not only that, but he’d actively been unable to think about anything else – even thinking of nothing hadn’t helped.

He feels his breathing start to quicken, catching in his chest at the end of each jerky inhale. Is he broken? Is there something horribly wrong with him that he can’t even get off to the thought of girls anymore? Is he just so irreparably desperate for Souji’s attention that he’d somehow cracked himself the moment his partner had stopped talking to him for a few days?

And even besides the fact that it was Souji that Yosuke had been picturing, that it was his closest companion and a guy, there is still another, almost more pressing concern that Yosuke finds himself circling around to now that the initial disgust and self-loathing has made itself apparent.

What does any of that say about him personally? What if it was just some weird fixation with the one person he’s ever felt this close to? Some need to be relevant? Is it even actually Souji that Yosuke’s brain has apparently latched onto now, or is it simply the ever-present yearning for someone, anyone to want him around that had placed his partner’s face, his voice, his body over top Yosuke’s pathetic need for validation? Saki-senpai’s echoing, shadowy voice had described Yosuke as a stray puppy once, months ago in the dark and twisted nether-world version of the Konishi family liquor store. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows she was probably right.

He does, after all, have a bit of an unfortunate track record with letting people use him.

Souji is kind to him. Souji is always there for him, always makes time for him; is it too far a stretch to think that maybe Yosuke is addicted to being treated like an actual person? That everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours is the product of Yosuke simply enjoying the attention and getting freaked when it’s suddenly taken away for even a moment? Maybe Yosuke really is like a whining dog, attaching himself to the first person to give him any sort of positive attention and getting under their feet, regardless of who the person is.

Maybe it’s Yosuke that now thinks of Souji as something to use, like everyone in the city used to do to him.

(And oh god, does he have to lean the rest of his weights against the endcap to keep himself standing when that particular thought crops up and knocks the wind clean out of his lungs. He thinks for a moment that he might even be physically sick.)

From that point forward, the rest of the night is left in shambles. Teddie’s break stretches on impractically long and Yosuke’s mind chews away at itself, sending him into an abyss of negativity while he turns everything over in his head until his head feels dizzy and his stomach feels nauseous.

Pathetic.

You’re so pathetic.

You can’t even pick apart what you’re repressing so that you can stop repressing it. What the fuck is wrong with you?

(He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have any answers.)

You’re gonna wind up friendless again. You’re gonna scare him away and he’s going to hate you forever. After everything you’ve said about Kanji, now you’ve gone and done the same fucking thing you’re so goddamn worried some other guy is gonna try and do to you.

You hypocrite.

You sicko.

You dirty fucking homo.

Yosuke has to run to take a ten-minute break of his own, locking himself in the storeroom with wet-hot blurring vision until the bile in his throat stops burning at the backs of his teeth.

  He doesn’t sleep much again that night either. He’s too afraid of the dreams returning to properly rest, but too emotionally wrung out and exhausted to do anything other than lay there and stare up at the ceiling until his alarm goes off for school.

  Yosuke avoids Souji completely after that.

Wednesday is almost worse than Tuesday had been, because now that Yosuke knows Souji is back at school he has to actively take measures to evade him. He makes it a point not to go anywhere near the spot along the road where he and Souji would normally catch up to one another and walk the rest of the way. He can’t risk it, can’t give the voice in his head a new chance to spew its venom into his brain cells. So instead, he cranks up his music until his ears are ringing and wills his legs to move faster, ducking into a side street and taking an alternate path to school. Just in case the focus of his mental torment is anywhere nearby.

Because even as bad as the voice is, Yosuke just… He can’t face Souji.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to see him (he really does, he’d missed his partner while Souji had been absent and unresponsive), but every time he thinks of his friend the images in his mind come filtering back in, tinting his thoughts with increasingly vivid scenarios. It’s almost like a floodgate has been opened, one that Yosuke not only doesn’t know how to close but also didn’t even know was there until it had all come crashing down. It’s almost unbearable.

So no. He can’t face Souji. Not yet. Not right now.

Not until he’s pieced himself back together and there’s nothing left for Souji to know and hate him for.

Yosuke hangs back at the school gates when he reaches them, picking his way carefully around the side of the front walkway to minimize his visibility just in case Souji is still inside by the shoe lockers. Only once he’s certain enough time has passed does Yosuke actually enter the building. He switches out his shoes as fast as he can and darts to the very end of the hall to the far staircase – the one he knows Souji is less likely to use while heading up for class – where he then loiters in the darkened corner of the stairwell, peeking around the side of the hall like he’s back on the stakeout with Chie all those months ago. He stays there, hiding, not even bothering to acknowledge the people around him as they pass him by, until he finally catches sight of that signature ethereal silver disappearing into the classroom. The crowd surges, then thins, then becomes a trickle, and all the while Yosuke remains in the safety of the hallway, only leaving his place in the stairwell when the final bell is about to sound and he has absolutely no other choice.

He slips into the classroom from the door in the back and tries to move as stealthily as he can to avoid alerting the boy in the desk in front of his own to his presence. He sits, shoots Yukiko and Chie a robotic nod in greeting, and for the rest of the time before the lunch break, he stares longingly at the back of Souji’s head and avidly pretends he doesn’t see the other boy glancing at him whenever the teacher isn’t looking directly their way.

He bolts for the bathroom the moment the lunch bell rings.

He doesn’t have a shift that night but he says he does anyway. He lies straight to Souji’s face (well, not straight to his face, Yosuke babbles it out as he’s shoving his notebook into his bag and blatantly avoiding looking at his best friend’s crumbling expression,) before heading out the door so fast he nearly stumbles. He can hear a couple of short, indignant noises from behind him – likely Chie – but he doesn’t so much as look.

He goes home and locks himself in his room, piling up under every cover he owns and cranking the volume on his headphones up as high as it will go.

He falls asleep anyway.

He dreams again – though nowhere as graphically as before. It’s muted somehow, less like he’s dreaming and more like his brain is simply cycling through all the thoughts Yosuke has been unable to drive away for the past couple of days. He still wakes up hard, gasping, frantic in his embarrassment and his confusion, kicking off the sheets and leaning back against the headboard until his heart stops trying to burst out through his chest. He’s still shaky, still guilty, still fucked up over how much he wishes it actually had been more graphic.

He doesn’t dare go down the mental rabbit hole of trying to suss out what all of that actually says about him.

There is a faint buzz from the nightstand beside him and he forces himself to move, to tug the headphones from his ears – the player long since drained of battery after running for several continuous hours – and shove them out of his way along the mattress. He rolls over to make a grab for where his phone sits blinking at him, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light in the room around him. (It takes him a good minute to realize that the sun has gone down outside his window, leaving the room only just barely lit with the fading blue-and-golden glow on the horizon.)

Yosuke nearly drops the phone twice before he finally manages to get a decent grip on it, his fingers still trembling from the adrenaline rush he’d suffered upon waking. With his body not obeying him and his mind still halfway lost in fleeting visions of his best friend’s skin, Yosuke has to stare at the device in his hand for several long seconds before he can make out the words scrolling across the screen.

8 missed messages.

All from Chie.

 Meat-Fu: Hey you jerk u didn’t even say goodbye! Rude!

Meat-Fu: What gives anyway? Thought u’d b all over Souji-kun by now.

Meat-Fu: Is something going on? Did u 2 fight?

Meat-Fu: Just went by Junes & guess what? Teddie said u don’t work 2night.

Meat-Fu: U wanna explain that 1? Y’d u lie?

Meat-Fu: Yosuke? U better read these or I’ll kick ur ass.

Meat-Fu: U’ve been acting rlly weird. R u ok?

 Yosuke groans and covers his eyes with his forearm. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with this just yet. Quickly tapping at the keyboard, he types out a short, noncommittal deflection in the hopes of heading off any more incoming headache she might send his way. Chie is persistent, he knows, and if he doesn’t give her at least some kind of response then she might just come and kick down his front door. He has no desire to explain that to his parents.

 Yosuke: lol geez chie take it ez

Yosuke: I goofed n got the days wrong thats all

 He doesn’t get an immediate reply (for which he is very grateful), but the anxiety starts to creep in low in his lungs anyway. There is still adrenaline in his blood from the… everything, so the jittery, unsteady buzzing under his skin is still somewhat present even now. It adds on to the newer trickle of dread and brings it out just a little stronger.

He doesn’t really like that he’s just lied to Chie again, especially when she’d seemed at least somewhat genuinely worried (with Chie it’s hard to tell), but he doesn’t know what to say. Should he tell her he’d made up the work excuse so that he could bail as quick as possible and avoid being around his partner, whom he’s been having gay dreams about?

Hell. Fucking. No.

So a lie it is. A lie on top of a lie on top of everything else. Because why not. Yosuke makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat and flips his phone shut so he doesn’t have to look at his own texts anymore.

He’s just about to stuff his phone under the pillow and go back to hating his life in the dark when he spots the little red envelope still starting at him from the phone screen.

1 missed message.

Confused, he goes back to Chie’s string of texts. No, he’s pretty sure he read all these, and it doesn’t look like Chie has responded yet. But then he counts them and realizes that out of the eight messages the notification said before, Chie’s only sent him seven. His anxiety pulses again.

Throat suddenly tight, Yosuke hits the button and goes back to the inbox.

Prtnr – 1

Shit.

It’s like the universe is just straight up out to get him, because Yosuke can’t stop the way his stomach flips (not even remotely unpleasantly) upon seeing his best friend’s name in the inbox for the first time in days. His hands start to shake all over again and now he can’t even tell if it’s from an unfamiliar form of fear or if it’s the last piece of his mind still wrapped up in the string of images that had plagued him while he stress-napped.

Get a damn grip, he scolds himself, though even in his head the words do nothing to help. It’s just a text from Souji. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?

Yes. But also no. Not right now. Not when Yosuke is in no fit state to handle interaction – even through something as impersonal as texting.

(And there are also tinier, thinner voices in his ears that murmur tinier, thinner vices just behind his own thoughts and war with each other around and around. Things like how he’d been so hurt and worried, shouldn’t he just go ahead and check it and be glad Souji’s talking to him again? But also things like how he should just leave it unread like Souji had done to him for several days.)

In the end, Yosuke gives in and opens the message, instantly drowning in the mix of glee and guilt and longing that comes flooding in as he reads the single, sweet message.

 Prtnr: I didn’t get to say it after class but I hope your shift goes well. :)

 Heat rises to Yosuke’s face, bright and sharp. He’s blushing, he can’t even deny that he is, because it’s so innocuous but also just so Souji, and while it’s no different than ninety percent of the texts his partner has sent over the course of their friendship, it’s still so… so…

Yosuke feels the flush trailing down his neck to seep under his shirt and dust across his collarbones. He has to take a second to close his eyes and rest his phone against his forehead like a kid with a crush, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in an involuntary smile. This is dumb; this is so, so dumb, why can’t he just keep his own emotions in check for five minutes? But even as mad as he’s been at Souji, even as hurt and upset as his friend has made him feel over the last couple of days – intentional or not – Yosuke can’t suppress the little spark of happiness that Souji’s well-wish brings.

So, so dumb.

But, because the world outside the TV is the one that isn’t shaped by thought alone, the pleasant, carbonated tingle of happiness soon runs out of fizz and Yosuke is left with the chilly spread of his earlier apprehension. He almost forgot that he’s still a mess.

With a sigh and a silent plea for his own adrenaline not to fuck him over, Yosuke rereads the message and wracks his brain for a response. Should he even respond at this point? What if Chie’s already told Souji that Yosuke wasn’t at Junes? What if Souji knew when he sent the text, and sent it because he knew and why trying to catch Yosuke in a lie?

He discards that thought immediately; as crap as Yosuke has been feeling over his partner going MIA for a while, he refuses to believe that Souji is capable of passive aggression. He’s too much of a leader, too blunt of a person; Souji might be the very definition of tactful most of the time, but he’s still someone that says what he means rather than twisting things. Passive aggression is something Yosuke has noticed Souji can’t seem to stand – regardless of his endless patience – so personal bias aside, Yosuke can’t bring himself to think that Souji would ever apply a tactic he’s so uncomfortable with from other people.

(Then again, that tinier, thinner voice murmurs, he’s been so out-of-character lately that for all you know… )

Yosuke grits his teeth so hard his gums start to sting, using the dull pain to ground himself outside his head before that particular train of thought can gain any sort of traction. He doesn’t have the strength to deal with the mental whiplash anymore.

Before he can go back to over thinking, Yosuke stabs his thumb at the keyboard on his phone and types the quickest, most generically vague response he can possibly think of that has even a semblance of safety – just in case he’s wrong.

 Yosuke: k

 He hates it the moment he sends it but it’s already done and he has no idea of what he can add to it to keep from digging deeper into the trench he thinks he might have already started for himself. There is a very noticeable part of him that is still fluttery, still warm and a little happy from earlier, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. He would tie it to relief at Souji finally texting him, but that doesn’t seem right. He could also attribute it to the aftermath of dreaming, but it’s a different feeling. He’s happy Souji is thinking of him again (not going down that possible hole of doubt and negativity,) but also terrified of what his reaction might mean. Because on its own if would be a perfectly normal thing – his friend is talking to him after scaring him shitless by ghosting him for a few days – but combined with all the more questionable things his brain has been doing, Yosuke doesn’t think he can brush any part of this off as “normal” anymore.

He can’t separate his usual feelings from the ones he’s been experiencing the past few days; how can he when he can’t even untangle them to begin with? And the scariest part? If they’re really, actually new, then what brought them on? And if they aren’t new at all, well…

How the fuck is he supposed to react to that implication?

Stomach turning, Yosuke pulls Chie’s string of texts back up so he can stop staring at Souji’s polarizing message. (How can something so fucking simple be so goddamn complicated?!)

He’s just my friend, he tells himself as he taps the button to light up the keyboard once again.

Nothing else. I was worried and my head played a shitty prank on me.

He types up a dirty, awful joke – something reminiscent of the stuff he used to pull back when he and Chie had first started actually talking, something about thick thighs and short skirts, something he might send while trying to flirt while concussed – and hits send before his conscience can convince him that what he’s doing is wrong.

I’m not gay.

  ---

 When Chie responds a little while later, offended and rightfully pissed, Yosuke lets himself go on autopilot so that he doesn’t have to think about what he’s saying. His fingers type out something hollow and placating without any sort of real apology and Chie sends him back a promise of physical harm. He doesn’t try and argue.

He’s just in the process of beginning to drag himself up out of bed afterwards when his phone buzzes again. He picks it up and flips it open without thinking, stupidly assuming it’s Chie sending him another not-so-subtle threat. It isn’t. Instead there is another message from Souji, asking Yosuke how he was doing and if his shift had gone okay.

Yosuke stares down at his phone until the screen goes dark again, tendrils of anxiety creeping back in to wrap around the base of his lungs. He feels so stupid right now; his lie sits heavy on his chest and he’s acutely aware that he has to decide what story he wants to stick to. On the one hand, he could tell Souji what he’d told Chie, that he’d messed up the dates and forgot he didn’t have a shift after all. On the other hand, he wonders if he hasn’t already shot himself in that particular foot with his god-awful, lackluster response from before. It wasn’t as if he’d really said much of anything with his single-lettered reply.

He doesn’t know what to do. Somehow, what with his brain’s self-cannibalizing, it hadn’t really crossed Yosuke’s mind that Souji might actually respond now that he was apparently texting people again. Granted, the radio silence from the beginning of the week hadn’t built any sort of confidence – just the opposite – but Yosuke still can’t help but feel stupid for not even considering that his friend would ask him about work. Souji always asks him about work.

Tired and fuzzy-headed, he decides to take the coward’s way out and sends yet another ambiguous, monosyllabic reply.

 Yosuke: yea

 He snaps the phone shut and closes his eyes, unable to watch the text bubble show up in the thread like a glowing, pointed finger. He feels like a scolded child.

Still in the dark, sitting on the side of his bed, Yosuke leans forward and props his forehead against the heel of his hand. He doesn’t know what to do. Here he is, falling apart because his head is somehow hyperfixating on things he has no desire whatsoever to keep thinking about. He should be disgusted, right? All of this – the dreams, the shower, the weird half-fantasy… thing that happened to him in the classroom that afternoon – it should be making him uncomfortable, afraid. And he is, but it’s not… it’s not for the reasons he knows (or thinks) he should be. He doesn’t understand anything right now. And on top of all everything that’s been happening he desperately wishes he could just talk to his partner again. Souji is his commander, yes, but Souji is a solid fixture in Yosuke’s life in other, more personal ways, too. Souji is his friend, the best one he’s ever known, and regardless of how absolutely fucked the past week has been, Yosuke misses him. If he were losing his mind over anyone else he might even be able to ask Souji about it (maybe, possibly, hopefully). If it were anybody but Souji himself, maybe Yosuke could try and glean some insight from his friend’s unprecedented therapist skills, because Souji always knows exactly what to say.

But no.

The only person Yosuke might have a chance at asking for advice is exactly the person that Yosuke is messed up about, and to try and broach the subject would only spell out certain doom. So he’s stuck. He’s stuck and he’s exhausted and he feels like he might be close to the point of breaking but he has no magic in his arsenal to make it all okay again. He can try to squash it down, to try and get his own shit together so that he can act normally around Souji again and pretend there was never a problem to begin with, but he knows, he knows that Shadows have been born from less and even if he managed to pull it off the knowledge would still be there. He could hide it from Souji (or try to) but he’d never be able to hide it from himself. Catch-22.

So yeah. He’s stuck. He can’t fix himself without Souji’s help, he can’t fix his friendship with Souji until he fixes himself, and all the while he’s left with nothing to grab onto for support to even keep his head above the water. He can’t even get a grip long enough to not act completely sketchy around Souji and keep his partner from suspecting something’s up. Because eventually Souji will. And then he’ll ask. And Yosuke will either have to keep lying – which Souji is bound to pick up on – or he’ll have to tell Souji the truth.

Yosuke thinks he’d rather face down his shadow again without any backup. At least his death would be quick.

And that’s something else to think about: Souji has seen Jirya, has seen him and accepted him just as easily as he’d accepted Kanji and Naoto and everybody else’s shadows later on. Souji is far from a shallow person, so, theoretically, Souji would probably be alright with Yosuke suddenly having thoughts about another dude – that little bit of info alone wouldn’t be enough to break their friendship. It’s the rest of it that might; Yosuke has no idea how Souji might take to hearing that Yosuke has pictured him naked, as unintentionally as it may have been. It’s not like he can just ask.

For a second, Yosuke tries to imagine how the scenario would transpire, putting himself in Souji’s shoes to see how he himself might react. But it doesn’t work. He and Souji are too different, with Souji being quieter and more serene while Yosuke tends to be louder, more passionate, the less likely of the two of them to keep his own reactions in check. He doesn’t think he could ever even get close to thinking like Souji does, not even if he genuinely tried. So he tries again, but switches instead to picturing Souji being the one confessing to having dreams about Yosuke and… oh.

Yosuke has to take a deep, sharp breath in to combat the way that thought knocks the air from his lungs. His heart rattles at the bars of his ribcage, pounding like he’s somehow run a marathon while sitting completely still. He digs his fingernails into the back of his own wrist to keep himself from slipping back in and following the daydream all the way to the end.

It scares him how badly he wants to.

I’m not gay.

Yosuke’s hands are shaking slightly around his phone as he opens it back up and goes back into his list of contacts, scrolling until he lands on Yukiko’s number.

 Yosuke: hey do u have ne pics from the pageant?

 This is normal, right? This is what normal guys do. Straight, heterosexual, perfectly normal guys.            

(He absolutely isn’t hoping that Yukiko has photos of Souji.)

His phone buzzes a few moments later, much sooner than he’d been expecting – though truth be told he’d almost been hoping she wouldn’t respond at all. She must not be helping at the inn tonight.

 Yukiko-san: I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.

 Oh thank fuck.

He sends back a quick “np” and lets out a long, heavy exhalation. He’d asked – that was what mattered. He’d asked one of the hottest girls in town for pictures of more girls in swimsuits. That’s all. That was enough. The fact that part of him is unfathomably relieved she’d said no is just because they’re all his friends and it’d be awkward. …Right?

But then, it had never seemed awkward to him before; not until after he’d started having whatever mental breakdown he’s currently still trying to work his way through. Not until after he’d started having weird, inexplicable dreams about his male best friend.

(He absolutely hadn’t been hoping that Yukiko had photos of Souji.)

His phone buzzes yet again and another message from Yukiko flashes up across the screen.

 Yukiko-san: Did you ask Rise-chan? She took lots of photos of everyone backstage.

           Oh.

That’s right; Rise took pictures of everybody – Naoto, the girls, and the boys. Rise has selfies, has shots of Chie and Yukiko in their various outfits on her phone, has shots of Naoto before they were able to hide themself behind the stage curtain. Rise snapped photos of Yosuke, too, as well as Teddie and Kanji.

Rise has pictures of Souji.

(How easy would it be to ask her for them? How easy would it be to just text her right now and say “send me pageant pics” and not even necessarily specify. He could always just make the excuse of needing photos of the drag pageant because Teddie wanted them. Rise would do it, too. She’d do it and she probably wouldn’t even hesitate…)

Yosuke takes a harsh breath through his nose and grinds his teeth harder into his lip until he can taste the faintest hint of blood against the backs of his teeth.

I’m not gay. I’m not.

He brings his other hand up to clutch at his phone and types with both thumbs, jamming them into the keys so hard that it almost feels like bruises being left behind. He watches his hands instead of the screen, already too disgusted with himself for what he knows he’s writing to watch as the words begin to appear.

 Yosuke: nah thats ok

Yosuke: y dont u send me a new 1 nsted? ;)

           Yosuke snaps the phone shut so hard that he nearly smashes him own thumbnail between the screen and keyboard, still on the “send” button like lingering proof of his sins. He flings the accusing hunk of circuits and plastic away from himself across the comforter and brings his hands up to drag his fingers across his eyes. He wants to be okay with what he sent. He feels only rolling nausea instead – sea sick on dry land, with thick, guilty salt water pouring into his lungs with every choking breath.

He lays back down and curls up against the mattress like he’s just been kicked in the stomach, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He stays like that, with his face pressed into the sheets until his head feels fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, and eventually reaches up to grab a pillow and press it over the side of his head. He breathes as best he can around the obstruction, willing the spots behind his vision to go away and for the dull and steady creep of bile to slide back down his throat. Please, he silently begs, though to whom he has no clue. Just let this all be over already.

Somewhere, deep in the furthest part of his mind, there is a subtle shift – like the quiet stirring of something long dormant now coming fully back to life – and the low, echoing sound of a multi-layered voice chucking from just beyond the dark.

[redroseinsanity]

The Pros and Cons of Akaashi Keiji’s Apartment

Should I have written the IwaOi WIP I had sitting in my folder? Yes.

Could I ignore the cuteness of this post? No.

Do I have shitty impulse control? Probably. 

Either way! I hope you enjoy this!!!

Akaashi Keiji loved his apartment, he really did. 

As he struggled breathlessly to get into his lovely apartment that he adored, he listed off the things that had spurred him to hand over half his savings and then another quarter to fix the more pressing issues in his new abode.

I love the sunken living room, he thought as he jammed the key in for what must have been the seventeenth time, I love the spacious feel that the high ceilings provide, the way I can fit armchairs, a table and bookshelves without feeling like I have no walkway, pausing, he rested his forehead on the peeling paint of the door.

Wrangling the key, jiggling it in any fashion that seemed like it would make the lock yield to him so he could just go home and lie down, Keiji thought about how lucky he was to have thick walls so that he could play whatever music he liked without worrying about the neighbours.

A small chuckle emerging from the darkness next to him nearly caused him to jump out of his skin before he found the source of the sound.

Him, his brain helpfully provided, Keiji kept his face impassive despite his heart nearly failing from the fright. If there was another reason his heart was jittering, Keiji didn’t (or refused to) dwell upon it.  

He’d seen this guy along his corridor before so he could rule out a significant chance of some horror movie scene coming to life and enacting itself because his goddamn key wouldn’t open the goddamn lock.

“You too, huh?” The deep voice that normally resounded in excited tones came slow and slightly slurred, it made the hairs on Keiji’s arm stand. But that didn’t mean anything, of course. 

It was a chilly autumn evening and all he wanted was to go home, huddle in his wonderfully thick blankets and binge-watch trashy reality television until he fell asleep.

Apparently, the gods felt that handling with two unreasonable clients and one unsympathetic editor was insufficient agony for the day and so, had dealt him this unfortunate card that resulted in Keiji being unable to go. The fuck. To bed.

“Me too what?” Keiji replied in a neutral tone, jiggling the door handle so hard, he half expected it to break. I love the romance of the apartment, it’s gorgeous, and it’s all mine, he chanted in his head, I chose it, I paid for it.

“You and me… We’re both locked out,” golden eyes gleamed with amusement as they peered out from the gloom of the stairwell that the man was seated in. Keji had been rather glad to get the apartment next to the stairs because that was one less immediate neighbour to fuss about, but now there was a bronze, muscled Greek god sitting next to his house and watching him fail to get in.

“How long have you been there?” Keiji found himself saying, although part of him was screaming to just focus on his bloody door.

“About um… Since uh, maybe…” Thick white brows to match equally shocking hair furrowed in thought as the guy shifted on his step, “A while,” he concluded, beaming a bright, if tired, smile up at Keiji.

From the darkened stairwell, it seemed like a miniature sunbeam was shining out at him and Keiji didn’t know if he wanted to squint or close his eyes and bask in the warmth.

Sighing, he turned back to his traitor of a door, as though glaring at it long enough would quail it into opening. Then he set about trying to turn his key and handle in a way that would open the door since, you know, that was the way doors were usually opened.

Beside him, the hottest guy on his floor, with biceps that seemed to surpass the regular bounds of fantasizing capability, simply nodded in appreciation of Keiji’s sincere attempts to get into his house without budging from where he sat.

312, Keiji remembered suddenly in the middle of a particularly rough turn of the key that was sure to leave bruises on his palms, he stays in unit 312.

Despite him not having said a word since his last question, ‘312’ grinned up at him and went, “This is cool man, this is really nice. We should totally hang out more.” He nodded to himself in affirmation of his own idea, leaning one impossibly broad shoulder against the wall.

Keiji’s eyebrows went up without him even thinking about it but he simply nodded politely and continued waging war on his own door.

“I mean, this was like seren- serepi-, like fate,” ‘312’ continued, clearly more drunk than he seemed, “Kuroo went off with Kenma at the party so he can’t come back and let me in, Kuroo’s my best bro and my housemate and Kenma’s his boyfriend,” he added although Keiji hadn’t so much as acknowledged that he was even listening.

“And I always do the thing where I-”he rubbed one hand over his face, and it seemed like his hair was deflating from its spiked updo, “I leave my keys on the table and forget them, y’know?”

Another polite nod before Keiji threw all pretences of grace to the wind and slammed his shoulder against his door. Hard.

Briefly, he caught a glimpse of bright amber eyes widening, sparking like the instant fireworks catch when you hold a flame to it.

“Yeah, dude, yeah,” ‘312’ was muttering, “Try a kick. You should try… Kicking it.”

Oh well, Keiji thought, slinging his bag to the ground, nothing to lose at this point.

Turning around, he checked his distance from the door before donkey kicking it as hard as he possibly could without shattering his ankle.

No dice.

But he turned to find molten gold eyes that were trained on him and an impressed expression on ‘312’’s face as he nodded faster than before.

“Wow, more torque… Than I expected,” he blinked slow, “You’ve got a surprising uh, torque to size ratio.”

Keiji honestly didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. He wasn’t very short, nor was he very scrawny. But, he thought, eyes trailing up defined lines and hard muscle packaged in a snug, white tee, I guess compared to him, I can’t be called big either.

“Why don’t you try,” the words were escaping from his mouth before his brain-to-mouth filter could kick in. A surprised blink.

He gestured at his door, flipping a lock of (probably greasy) black hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll try the lock while you hit the door,” he shrugged, trying to regain some semblance of self-possession, “It might work.”

Before he could retract it or play it off, ‘312’ was climbing to his feet, dusting off jeans that did wonders for his butt and smiling that easy smile of his. The one that momentarily made Keiji forget his crappy day and the wind’s chill and the fact that he had been stuck outside his apartment that he had almost bankrupted himself for, for twenty minutes.

“Okay, on the count of three,” ‘312’ commanded, positioning himself at the door, Keiji scrambled to fit the key in the lock and tried valiantly not to stare at arms that really should require a permit before being let out in public.

“One,” He made the mistake of looking up and locking eyes with his neighbour, slate grey boring into brilliant gold.

“Two,” ‘312’’s mouth quirked up in a grin that overturned Keiji’s insides.

“Three!” Keiji wrenched as ‘312’ shoved and with a loud, grinding sound that Keiji would normally associate with the scraping of a car, they flew through the doorframe and staggered wildly into Keiji’s home.

Completely off balance and casting about for support, Keiji found himself clutching one blessed tricep and with his foot crushing the other man’s.

Apologizing, he quickly disentangled himself before offering his thanks, pale cheeks blooming with faint colour as the other guy just laughed.

“No problem, man! That was a really good idea you had!” Was the cheerful reply as ‘312’ headed back toward the dank stairwell waving happily.

Shutting the door, Keiji started towards the bathroom, too eager for a hot shower before halting then continuing his stride before making an abrupt half swivel before sighing.

Lifting his face to where heaven probably was, he didn’t curse, nor did he pray, simply, Why?

Stalking back to his front door, he threw it open to a startled squeak from ‘312’.

“Sorry, I don’t know your name,” he began awkwardly, fingers interlocking and wringing.

“Oh! Yeah!” He got up and walked over to Keiji, “Bokuto Koutarou!”

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji hesitated before plowing on, “Please call me Akaashi. Would you like to come in?”

A short silence as Bokuto gaped at Keiji.

“Really?” He whispered, looking like a kid who just got told that school was cancelled for the next week. That made up Keiji’s mind immediately and he held the door open wider.

“Please,” he motioned for Bokuto to step in, “It’s cold out and you helped me with my door. You should stay here until your housemate can let you in.”

Smiling a little to himself, Keiji added, “It’s a pre-war apartment, there’s plenty of space.”

As Bokuto murmured his agreements, whether with Keiji’s statement or his offer, he stepped in again and flashed yet another devastating smile at Keiji.

It was like being stunned for a couple of seconds and then Keiji offered an almost imperceptible, gentle smile in response.

Yup, he definitely loved his apartment.

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: Empire of Storms, Ch 34 - 37

Because Chapter 38 is a... doozy, today we’’ll be covering some extra chapters. My treat.

She was a liar, and a murderer, and a thief, and Aelin had a feeling she’d be called much worse by the end of this war.

Pfft, I’ve called her worse during these chapter reviews.

Securing this alliance was only part of it. The other part, the bigger part … was the message. Not to Morath. But to the world.

“I mean yeah innocent people might die but who cares I just want attention from the whole world because I’m so ~special~ lol!”

[Aelin] was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend.

No, you’re a selfish asshole who cares only about herself and throws tantrums whenever someone doesn’t immediately bow down to you. Also, love that final nail in the coffin to the original concept of t0g. May the first two books rest in peace.

Gavriel was still too busy staring after Aedion, who hadn’t so much as glanced at his father before fastening his shield and sword across his back, mounting a sorry-looking mare, and galloping for the watchtower.

I S2G SJM, leave Gav alone.

People were panicking in the streets as the dark force took shape on the horizon: massive ships with black sails, converging on the bay as if they were indeed carried on a preternatural wind.

See Alien you fuckin’ prick, innocent people live here!!! And you’re totally okay with them all dying if it means everyone knows what an uber powered snowflake you are you piece of shit!!!!!

Rowan’s hatchet gleaming while he hooked it at his side

Again, total nit pick, but.. why do both Lorcan and Rowboat use hatchets? I mean it’s totally okay, I love other kinds of weapons getting used other than swords, but they both have hatchets? Let’s get some battle axes, maces, and other cool weapons in here!

Aelin strode for them. “Anchor them to the mainmast and make sure there’s enough room for them to reach right … here.” She pointed to where she now stood in the heart of the deck. Enough space clear of everyone, enough space for her and Rowan to work.

I’d point out she doesn’t have authority here, Rolfe does because it’s on his ship, but I might as well talk to a wall. Alien is putting the iron there in order to steady herself while using her magic, FYI. She has so much snowflake power she literally needs restrains lmfao SJM you’re killing me.

[Aelin] flicked a glance toward either watchtower to see Dorian arrive—then Aedion’s golden hair racing up the outer spiral staircase to the enormous mounted harpoon at the top. Her heart strained for a moment as she flashed between now and a time when she’d seen Sam running up those same stairs— not to defend this town, but to wreck it.

I despise Alien but the callback here works pretty well. Whereas back then, Alien was wrecking this town, she is now defending it, even without Sam at her side which highlights how much has changed and how much she’s gone through since her previous visit here. I mean, she is also the reason this town is in danger, but regardless.

Lysandra jumps into the sea and transforms into a sea dragon. I’ve already complained about her OP shifting powers, but I’ll admit, this scene is pretty cool.

Lysandra dove, and she let them see the long, powerful body that broke the surface bit by bit as she plunged down, her jade scales gleaming like jewels in the blinding midday sun. See the legend straight from their prophecies: the Mycenians would only return when the sea dragons did. And so Aelin had ensured that one appeared right in their gods-damned harbor.

Like c’mon, that’s pretty bad ass. Lysandra is a cool character in spite of her shitty powers, and that’s really only the fault of SJM’s crappy magic system. We transition into Assdion’s POV.

Aedion chucked off the shield from his back and slammed into the seat before the giant iron harpoon, its length perhaps a hand taller than him, its head bigger than his own.

So like.... a harpoon cannon, essentially? Because those were invented in the late 19th century. Consistent world building who?

Well, at least [Aedion] now knew what secret form Lysandra had been working on. And why Aelin had insisted on getting inside Brannon’s temple. Not just to see the king, not just to reclaim the city for the Mycenians and Terrasen, but … for Lysandra to study the life-size, detailed carvings of those sea dragons. To become a living myth.

How does this make any sense?? So Lysandra can perfectly replicate the system, the anatomy, and the size and powers of a beast by looking at a drawing of it? The fuck??? She doesn’t even need to see it in real life?

Gonna pull from Animorphs again; the kids have to see the animal in real life and actually touch it to absorb its DNA. They can’t turn into animals they haven’t touched even if they know what they look like. This makes sense in a sci-fi fantasy setting. Lysandra’s shifting powers do not.

Lysandra had studied the carvings of the sea dragons at the temple, once Aelin had burned away the dirt on them. Her magic had filled in gaps the carvings didn’t show. Like the nostrils that picked apart each scent on the current, the ears that unraveled varying layers of sound.

HOW DOES MAGIC DO THAT??? We’ve received several hints magic is its own sentient being but it’s never explained or expanded upon?? Lysandra’s magic is only as old as her, how can it know all these details about a beast she’s never seen? SJM I’m not asking for an amazing magic system, I just want things to be consistent and make sense!

Next chapter!

Perched on the rail of the Sea Dragon, gripping the rope ladder flowing from the looming mast, Aelin savored the cooling spindrift that sprayed her face as the ship plowed through the waves.

Even though the sudden pirate and adventures on the seas element is... well, sudden, I’m all for it. Gimmie some awesome pirate battles!

Tightly grasping the rope, Aelin leaned out, the vibrant blue and white below passing in a swift blur. Not too fast, she’d told Rowan. Don’t waste your strength—you barely slept last night. He’d just leaned in to nip at her ear before sliding onto Gavriel’s bench to concentrate.

You’re in a battle. You’re sailing into almost certain death. Can you not be fucking horny for five seconds please I am b egging. Why couldn’t he have done something pure and sweet like a kiss on the cheek?? Why does everything have to be ~sexual~, SJM?

Aelin again looked ahead—toward those black sails blotting the horizon. The Wyrdkey at her chest murmured in response.

You know what? I’ll take this over “The Wyrdkey between her breasts” any day.

Alien puts on the iron chain to restrain her magic. Rowboat kisses her ass for a bit, then we get this.

“I’ve recovered, I’ll have you know. So this morning’s little display…” “A way to take off the power’s full edge,” [Aelin] said wryly. “And make Rolfe piss himself.”

I hate you.

[Aelin] lifted her head to study [Rowan’s] face, the harsh planes and the curving tattoo. He leaned in to brush a kiss to her mouth.

If Ratlin starts making out during this battle I am actually going to quit. No joke. I’m warning you, SJM.

All anyone on deck saw, she knew, was two lovers embracing. But Aelin tunneled down, down, down into her power, felt him doing the same with his, felt every ounce of ice and wind and lightning go slamming from him into her. And when it reached her, the core of his power yielded to her own, melted and became embers and wildfire.

The actual reason SJM didn’t make a magic system was so she could pull this and justify her OTP making out in the middle of a battlefield. You cannot convince me otherwise.

[Aelin’s] magic whispered to start digging through that ash and silt. But Rowan’s grip tightened on her waist. “Easy,” he murmured in her ear. “Easy.”

If this was a ship I actually liked I’d be living because I love the “loved one helps protag with their uncontrollable magic” thing, but I hate Rowboat and Alien. I can’t even win when SJM uses my favorite tropes.

Alien shits out a huge column of fire out after Rowboat lends her his magic.

Aelin was ripped from his arms with the force of it, and Rowan grabbed her hand in a crushing grip, refusing to let her break that line of contact. Men around them stumbled back, falling onto their asses as they gawked upward in terror and wonder.

Higher, that column of flame swirled, a maelstrom of death and life and rebirth.

Oh my god I get it, Alien is the most powerful snowflake ever

So apparently this fire shit isn’t even burning or attacking their enemies, it’s literally just a display to the world. So Alien is burning (no pun intended) all of her magic just for a pretty fire display for everyone to fear how ~special~ she is? Holy shit. People actually stan this shitstain.

The flames winked out at the same second [Aelin] reached into Rowan with burning hands and tore the last remnants of his power from him. Just as she ripped her hand from his. Just as her power and the Wyrdkey between her breasts merged.

JHNDSJKAHDSKAHDKAHDSAJ SJM STOP YOU FUCKING HORNY ASSHOLE I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD YOU CANNOT WRITE AN EPIC MOMENT OF YOUR PROTAG DISPLAYING HER MOST POWERFUL MAGIC AND THEN STOP TO FOCUS ON HER BOOBIES FOR NO REASON KAHFKHSKFHDSJKFHKSD

So apparently Alien gets possessed because she was wearing the Wyrdkey. Idiot, why’d you go and do that, then? So who is possessing her?

“Deanna,” Rowan whispered. [Possessed Aelin] flicked her eyes to him in question and confirmation.

So for those who didn’t know, Deanna is a goddess mentioned in some of the other books. So the gods have gone from actual gods that were briefly mentioned to spirits who can possess people.... huh.

We switch into Alien’s POV again as she is unable to do anything while Deanna struts around in her body.

And those flames—her flames and her beloved’s magic … they belonged to the Other now. To a goddess who had walked through the temporary gate hanging between her breasts and seized her body as if it were a mask to wear.

Okay, guys, can we be completely honest with each other here? Tumblr user to Tumblr user? Does this bother anyone else?

Am I over reacting? Because I find it completely undercuts the tension of the moment when I’m suddenly forced to picture a Wyrdkey jammed in between Alien’s boobies. IDK maybe I’m just going crazy after being exposed to this book.

Alien busts a nut after hearing Rowboat’s voice and it’s enough for her to gain the willpower and strength to kick Deanna out. Not enough for her to not immediately fuck everything up though.

The ship beneath her, the center and left flank of the dark fleet beyond her, and the outer edge of the island behind it blew apart in a storm of fire and ice.

God job, Alien! If any innocent people died it’s all on you. Fuck you.

My god. We’re only on chapter 36. I... I’m going to break.....

Aelin drifted down, as she had drifted into her power, the weight of the Wyrdkey around her neck like a millstone— Deanna. She didn’t know how, didn’t know why— The Queen Who Was Promised.

Hm.. that sounds familiar.... lemmie just Google it to see if-

INCH RESTING...

Didn’t SJM once claim she hated Game of Thrones? Lmfao she’s so full of shit.

What had she done what had she done what had she done—

Later. Later, [Aelin]’d deal with that rutting goddess who had thought to use her like some temple priestess. Later, she’d contemplate how she’d shred through every world to find Deanna and make her pay.

Okay, but.. is this just Alien fuming or can she, like, actually do that? What are the gods in this world? Are they just spirits who can teleport between worlds I’m?? so confused???

Fenrys takes Alien, since she’s such an idiot who couldn’t save herself from drowning in a puddle, and jumps from the remainders of Rolfe’s ship. Good fucking job, Alien. Can’t wait to see how the narrative justifies this.

Think of that later. Aelin shoved through and ducked under larger bits of debris, past… Past men. Rolfe’s men. Dead in the water. Was the captain among them somewhere?

She doesn’t even give a shit she killed dozens, maybe even more, of innocent people on her side! But I have no doubt she’ll angst about it later but only so Rowboat can fuck her and convince her it’s not her fault even though it fucking is.

While Alien is busy wailing for someone to comfort her poor feefees, Lysandra actually makes an effort to save Rolfe and his first mate even though the sea wyverns are an issue.

Blood laced the current. And not the puffs that had been staining the water since the ship exploded. Great, roiling clouds of blood. As if massive jaws clamped around a body and squeezed.

Ain’t that edgy. We all know SJM is gonna forget all this gore and death took place once the porn kicks in.

[Lysandra] was so tired. Shifting afterward might not even be possible for a few hours.

So amassing the power to shift into a huge ass dragon doesn’t tire you out.... but destroying a few ships with your dragon form. Okay, SJM, okay.

tl;dr Lysandra kills the two sea wyverns and the chapter ends. One more to go for this review... one more....

Assdion’s POV opens up this chapter, where it’s revealed the two sea wyverns Lysandra killed were just juveniles, and there are three adults.

Faster and faster, those three bulls closed in. Lysandra remained at the mouth of the bay. Holding the line.

Even though her magic pisses me off, I think I’m about to stan Lysandra. Here she is, weakened with no magic left, and she’s willing to make a final stand and protect her friends.

The three wyverns spread out, so huge Aedion’s throat went dry. And for the first time, he hated his cousin. He hated Aelin for asking this of Lysandra, both to defend them and to secure the Mycenians to fight for Terrasen.

WHAT THE FUCK??? ASSDION NOT PRAISING ALIEN’S EVERY ACTION???? This can’t be right. This can’t be the Assdion who is only a plot device to kiss Alien’s ass...

Lysandra destroys the last warship and traps one of the wyverns into impaling himself on the remains. Then she leads the other two near Dorian’s tower, where he freezes one of them.

Dorian loosed a battle cry. And Aedion had to admit the king wasn’t that useless after all as the catapult behind Dorian sprang free, and a rock the size of a wagon jettisoned into the bay

Lmao bitch you thought! You've literally done nothing this battle while Dorian is out here killing a sea wyvern so you can climb off your high horse, Assdion. Also, Lysandra loses sight of the final wyvern.

Aedion scanned the bay, rotating in the gunner chair as he did, searching for any hint of that colossal dark shadow— “YOUR LEFT!” Gavriel roared across the bay, magic no doubt amplifying his voice.

Hate when dialogue is typed in all caps. Also magic can now be used as a megaphone? Lmfao aiight.

“SWIM,” Aedion roared, even if she couldn’t hear. “SWIM, LYSANDRA!”

Assdion doesn’t even have Gav’s megaphone magic powers, so you have no excuse for this shit, SJM.

Lysandra swims for the beach and Assdion rushes to her while everyone celebrates. This is a good concept, so like, can anyone write this but with a good ship? Might have to make a self indulgent AU for one of my ships just to scrub away the filth of this novel.

“Open your gods-damned eyes,” Aedion snarled. [Lysandra] snarled back but cracked open an eye. “You made it this far. Don’t die on the rutting beach.” The eye narrowed—with a hint of female temper.

Why the fuck is temper gendered now? SJM, you saying a woman’s temper is somehow different than a man’s? You implyin’ all women have bad tempers and they should be shamed for it? What the fuck is the point of this?

Aedion drawled, even as his relief began to crumble his mask of arrogant calmness, “The useless sentries in the watchtower are now all half in love with you,” he lied. “One said he wanted to marry you.”

Uh... why you lyin’ Assdion? I think he’s trying to compliment her, but this is kinda weird?

“But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”

FUCK I would like (some of) this scene if it wasn’t for Assdion..... Someone rewrite this but with a good ship please.

Those eyes narrowed—in what he could only call female outrage and exasperation.

... I’m done. We’re packing this chapter up.

Alien and the others show up and Assdion realizes that Alien used the Wyrdkey and nearly killed all of them. He’s understandably mad but criticism against Alien? Rowboat’s Fae peen says no!

[Assdion] was shaking now, that rage indeed taking over. But Rowan snarled at him, low and vicious, “Save it for later.”

Oh fuck you, Rowboat. You know damn well you’ll never let anyone criticize Alien. This entire fucking narrative sucks up to Alien so much and I’m pissed. If your characters make stupid ass mistakes, punish them for it! Let them know! Don’t pretend they’re perfect uwuu unproblematic babies and let others criticize them without being portrayed as villains for it GOD I’M SO FUCKING DONE

As if SJM is trying to throw me a bone, there’s this.. actually decent scene afterwards. Gav watches Assdion as he watches over Lysandra until she has the energy to shift back. SJM refers to Assdion/Gav as the Wolf and the Lion though, gets kinda repetitive.

Sand crusted [Lysandra’s] naked body, and she tried and failed to rise. The Wolf moved then, slinging his cloak around her and sweeping her into his arms. The shifter didn’t object, and her eyes were again closed by the time the Wolf began striding up the beach to the trees, her head leaning against his chest.

In a better world where Assdion wasn’t an ass to Lysandra and he was a good character... I would ship this. Fuck. Just gonna go casually write this scene but with one of my OTPs  so I can get this sweet gesture without Assdion’s shitty personality.

The Lion remained out of sight and held in the offer of help. Held in the words he needed to say to the Wolf, who had downed a sea-wyvern with one arrow. Twenty-four years old and already a myth whispered over campfires.

Fuck... the way Gav describes his son as an outsider, since Assdion hasn’t accepted him yet... it’s really good. I love this. Damnit why can’t the rest of the novel be like this?

If you guys thought these chapters were bad, buckle up. Because the next chapter is the long dreaded it.

Yup, next time we’re covering the Ratlin sex scene.

[anythingstephenking]

Full Darkity, No Doubt

Jesus Christ Stephen King, who hurt you? I say this very lovingly because I worry about him, but man, Full Dark, No Stars is a really kind way to title a collection of novellas that should be called “Don’t Read If You Have Any Trauma At All”.

King begins with a dedication of “For Tabby - Still” and I’m all “awwwww” because fuck every celebrity couple, and I’mma let you finish but Steve and Tabitha are THE BEST pairing of all time. I think I’ve posted this before, but I would so very love to have a cup of coffee in the kitchen with this family.

So I hopefully wander into a book I know nothing about, other than the dedication to Tabitha, ready for some nice little novellas. The first story, 1922, wasn’t all that triggering and honestly pretty entertaining. Sure it starts with some scumbag dillhole (Wilfred) convincing his son to help murder his mom. She’s a nag and a vulgar drunk. Remind me not to time travel back to live in 1922 Oklahoma, cause this guy would NOT care for me much I don’t think.

But after being unceremoniously tossed down a well, Wildfred’s wife, Arlette, haunts them as a corpse that has been reanimated by rats. It’s like real gross, but she gets her revenge, and honestly, good for her. Wilfred and Arlette’s son breaks away into his own mini Bonnie & Clyde storyline that gets a little lost behind the darkest version of Ratatouille the mind can imagine.

So that’s 1922. Reanimated corpses and nagging wives are really nothing new in my King journey. Onto Big Driver.

Jesus Christ (my second time taking the lord’s name in vain in this post, sorry grandma). This story. Here’s the jist. Tess, a writer, takes on a speaking engagement. After getting directions home from a friendly (female) local, she pops a tire on a deserted road, and things go real bad for her. This is where the trauma nightmares start. It’s a tough read when the main character gets raped and left for dead, then won’t tell anyone or go to the hospital. I struggled so hard with judging Tess for her poor decision making, knowing that victim blaming is the literal worst, but she’s a fictional character so whatever. She goes home and takes a shower and I scream “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??” into the pages.

Tess instead chooses her own Sherlock Holmes path, hunting down her rapist, finding out that the kind woman who gave her directions was actually the rapists mother (good god) who sent her off to be murdered and stuffed in a drainage pipe. Tess murders everyone and covers her tracks appropriately so we’re left to assume she “gets away with it” - term used lightly since those fuckers definitely deserve to die but the journey is just so very very painful. I hate reading about rape. This revenge story did not serve to make me feel any better about it, in the same way as Last House on the Left conducts its revenge tale. No thanks. Next.

A Good Marriage. A hypothetical look into what it would be like to be married to a serial killer that lives a “normal” life. I immediately drew a parallel to BTK Dennis Raider, who lived a standard middle class life in middle America, while murdering people and taunting the police in his downtime. Turns out that BTK inspired this story, according to King’s afterward. Ding ding ding, I got it.

Anywho, Darcy and Bob and boring people, they collect coins together (the yawn-iest of all hobbies), their kids are upstanding citizens and they do things like wear housecoats. Seriously, there’s a lot of talk of Darcy’s housecoat in this story.

Turns out Bob is actually masquerading as the serial killer “Beadie”. LOL. Beadie. He sends notes to the police like “I’M BACK! BEADIE!” If you didn’t know, BTK was also a total turd. He would eat and leave bowls of cereal at his crime scenes. Cause he was a serial killer. Cereal. Serial. Get it? God BTK is the literal worst.

Darcy discovers Bob’s secret and wrestles with what to do for a while, before pushing him over the second floor balcony of their middle class middle America home. Bye bye Beadie.

Seriously this book has so many bad men getting their cumuppins but in a way that is totally unsatisfactory. Let me grumble my way through the last story.

A Fair Extension. Probably the worst of all of them? This one is men-on-men shittiness and thankfully the shortest of all 4 stories. A dude dying from cancer comes across a traveling salesman (def from the Dark Tower somewhere, is he Randall Flag, I dunno, don’t care) who offers him an extension on his lifespan for 15% of his take-home pay. Seems like a decent deal, but we learn he has to pass his own bad fortune onto someone else. Because this guy is a total DOUCHECANOE, he chooses his best friend, Tom. He doesn’t like Tom because he has a hotter wife, cooler kids and a successful business. Cool bro.

He takes the deal and over the course of a couple years Tom’s life falls to pieces, basically everyone he loves dies, while our deal-getter prospers and NEVER ONCE FEELS BAD ABOUT WHAT HE DID. This guy suuuuuuuuuuucks. That’s all I have to say about this.

At the end of the day I read through this one quick; mostly because I knew my last Dark Tower was next and also that if I didn’t plow through the pain in these pages I’d be back bumbling around without reading anything for another year.

3/10

Adaptations:

Three out of four of these stories have become movies (WHY?) and I watched two of them. I hard passed on the adaptation of Big Driver because I respect myself enough not to subject myself to a film version of this story.

1922 was made by Netflix, and dear god, it was dreadful. Film snobs seemed to enjoy it, but why? Why Why Why I asked again and again. Why is there no reanimated rat-corpse? Why is Tom Jane digging a random hole in the middle of a fully grown corn field? Why is he talking like an old-timey mobster?

I JUST WANT MY KIDS BACK! (Token Tom Jane Arrested Development joke.)

A Good Marriage was released theatrically and also was not very good but in a less offensive, more forgettable way.

Onto my last palaver with Roland!

[blame-canada]

Life in Color - Creek

Once Craig realized the rainbow came from a person—one steadily beating heart, two wide green eyes—the world was never quite the same again. Maybe he's gotten a bit too poetic with time, maybe a bit too over-dramatic and strange- but he's worth it. God, is Tweek ever worth it.

I wrote this a little bit ago but realized I never made it a post on Tumblr so here we are! Also, it’s Tuesday, so this is even more appropriate. Find it on AO3 here! 

It’s a Tuesday morning.

Craig hates Tuesdays. They’re too early in the week, and they always feel too long. The rest of the week looks like a mountain from Tuesday morning. The cold is particularly biting this Tuesday, and he rubs at his subtly leaking nose, sniffing loud enough to hear it through his headphones. Summer barely existed this year, and he’s not looking forward to the snow. Nobody ever really is. Oh well.

The bus rolls to a stop in front of him, and with the snap of its shitty little stop sign popping out to blink red in his eyes, the doors crumple in like the gates to a particularly teenaged hell, and his sister shoves in front of him to get to her friends first. He just wants to get to school. He sighs and climbs in after her.

His road is bumpier than the main ones and he’s not sure if it’s because he doesn’t live in the best neighborhood or if it’s because none of the roads get enough attention from city hall. Plow trucks are unkind to asphalt. A particularly deep and familiar pothole makes his palm jam into his chin. He’s bitten his tongue like that before, so he’s learned better; he doesn’t talk on the bus. There’s not much point, anyway.

Everything looks so grey this morning. He hates mornings. Tuesday mornings, though, they’re the worst, and he’ll say it all day long.

The snow adds another layer to the dull monochromatic landscape, covering the last bits of mostly dead brown grass with greyish sludge. It’s still white in the middles, though, and that part’s alright. Besides that, even the sky matches. For a moment, Craig wonders if he’s suddenly gone completely colorblind. Then he catches a glimpse of a horrendously hot pink and red monstrosity of a scarf wrapped around Heidi Turner’s neck, and he is horribly reminded. He glares at it, as though it can hear his disdain for its existence, and scrolls through his playlists for something new to listen to. Nothing is really working for him though, so eventually he gives up and keeps his headphones in for the only reason that it completes the tired Tuesday morning look he’s going for. He’s also lazy, and the bus is loud. Everything feels slow.

They file off the bus in a neat line, their backpacks smacking into the corners of the benches because they’re filled with too many papers and the rows are too small. Craig notices his shoe is untied and takes care to take higher steps to prevent tripping on it. He’s sure if anyone caught him they’d laugh, but it’s the aisle of a bus, and he can’t be assed to care, really. He yawns and follows the crowd to the front doors.

Even though Heidi so rudely reminded him of the existence of color, everything seems so muted, and it isn’t a good thing. His eyes are sweeping the crowd, picking out bits and pieces of crucial information to analyze later. There’s a lot going on and he doesn’t want to forget any of it.

He finds himself at his locker without remembering how he got there, but that’s fine. He’s here for only two reasons, and the first is easy. He drops his backpack to the floor and shrugs off his winter jacket, tearing open the locker and carefully hanging his coat by the tag to avoid warping the fabric. No one actually keeps their backpacks in their lockers, so he closes it loudly after that and presses one hip against it to stare out into the crowd.

He can feel him before he can see him, like a tiny sun with a flow of energy that radiates from him in the form of soft, comfortable heat. He steps within his radius and a switch in Craig’s brain is flipped, and one by one the colors start to flood back into his vision. He can now clearly see just how ugly that shade of green is and question why anyone would ever want to wear that somewhat regularly in the winter. That red clashes with her hair dye. He doesn’t know where to begin with him.

His right side is leaning into cool metal while his left side is hearing the very beginning of a symphony orchestra tickle his ear, and he’s not wearing headphones anymore. Craig doesn’t have to look to know. He can feel the growth of flowering vines blooming from a familiar heart, green and shocking yellow, from here. The vines start to dance in his peripherals, like a frame to the picture that’s playing out in front of him. A body brushes up against his left side, instantly warming it, and Craig’s insides begin to melt from the heat.

“Did you see Eric’s new hat?” the voice he adores mutters, bitter as the coffee he’s sure to have in at least one hand. “Atrocious,” he sneers, and Craig hums his agreement.

“I wouldn’t expect any better. Did you see-”

“God, yes, you’re talking about Heidi’s scarf, right? Those colors don’t go together in any universe.” He shivers, probably half in disgust and half involuntary, his side pressing even closer to Craig’s, and he’s not complaining. His chest is feeling so hot, his heart turned to soup, and the affection he has for this body that hasn’t even looked at him yet is all-consuming.

“They’re ‘complicated’ again,” Craig mentions.

The sun scoffs. “No they’re not. They’re barely together in the first place. I give them a week before that status changes to either ‘in a relationship’ or ‘single.’”

Craig smirks, chuckling via a heavy breath through the nose that he knows is recognizable as a laugh, but maybe only to him. “I’m betting on ‘single.’”

“They’re so co-dependent it’s ridiculous. You’re going to lose, y-you know,” the sun, his sun, insists, and he laughs a bit more for real this time. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling now too, because he can feel it in his bones when their hands clasp together. The essence of his spirit drips into his veins like a poison, but the good kind, and one he would happily die to. As it rushes up his arm and straight into his heart, it warms every inch of him to the core. He lets out another sigh, but this one isn’t bad. The energy has simply given him more air than he needs in his lungs, and with his heart stopped, he doesn’t need it expanding his chest anymore.

They stand side by side for a moment, watching the sea of people wade around them like an obstacle course. Craig knows they’re catching the same faux pas, even when they aren’t verbalizing them. He has on the scarf Craig has called his favorite before, and it’s true, it is a favorite. It’s just the right shade of heather grey to complement his pea coat. He’s adorable in a pea coat.

The first warning bell sounds overhead, telling Craig that he needs to let go of the hand he hasn’t looked at yet and go to class, and the thought nearly breaks his heart. His partner grunts at it. Craig squeezes their fingers together once more, for good luck. “I hate Tuesdays,” he adds, as is customary, and as he’s sure he’s heard a million times before from his own lips.

“I know, right?” he responds, and the moment Craig feels him turn his head he copies him so that they’re catching each other’s eyes. “There’s so much left of the week; I can’t stand it.”

His name is shouted at him from within his head, over and over, ‘Tweek Tweek Tweek,’ and each repetition feels like a new hymn. Craig is grateful for the ability to see color only when he looks into the hazel-green of his boyfriend’s eyes, takes in the rich brown of the freckles that dust his nose and pock everywhere else, and the rosy tint of his cheeks from his own trek outside no less than ten minutes prior. Tweek is artistic perfection, with his long nose and wide round eyes and high cheekbones. Tweek is everything Craig could ever look for in a model for his photography, and so his portfolio reads less like a college application and more like an extended love letter. At worst, he will have proof of how much he adores him, though it’s hardly a worst. At best, he’ll be accepted to every university he applies to next month.

“You got your phone?” Craig asks, because Tweek forgets it some days, the quietest his phone ever gets. Tweek nods though, and he’s a little relieved. School passes faster when he has sloppy texts to read under his desk. The teachers know they’re texting but don’t care much to stop them anymore. Detention never matters anyway, because they just both end up in it for the same crime, and they spend an entire fifty minutes doing nothing but stare at each other.

It’s why Craig feels so confident he’s memorized the curve of his brow, the hook of his nose, the shell of his ears and how they stick out slightly. He knows exactly where all six of Tweek’s cowlicks are located on his scalp. He can trace them like a children’s activity book the same way he can trace the moles on his back on Sunday mornings, slow and lazy with a gentle index finger he hopes can transfer love without words. He knows it can but it’s never, ever enough.

Craig blinks when he hears the second bell ring, and he realizes he is still standing in the hallway with their fingers intertwined, the floors nearly empty save for the occasional speedwalking student who cares about attendance. They’re always late to their first classes; this ritual is crucial to Craig’s day, and he swears he can’t survive a Tuesday without it.

Tweek squeezes his hand gently and tugs on it, pulling at Craig’s marionette strings that he has always had wrapped around his fingertips. It is a silent command that Craig obeys, and he leans down to kiss his forehead, but snags a peck to the tip of his nose too. Tweek’s smile is the sun again, blinding him, and then their hands are disconnected, and it’s so unbearably cold. “See you at lunch,” Tweek says, and Craig nods, flexing his empty fingers to shake away their fidgeting at the lack of contact they so desperately desire. Tweek gets on the tips of his toes to kiss him and it blesses him, and Craig can feel vines blooming from his own lips, transferred in the contact. They snake through his body and plant flowers in his stomach, fill his brain with sweet nectar and his lungs with fresh water. He’s drowning, but it’s nice, so he accepts his fate.

Tweek takes his first steps away and Craig feels like his heart may as well be breaking, he’s so obsessed. God, is he obsessed, but he doesn’t care. “I love you,” he says, and Tweek turns, and his brilliance is so unsurpassed he wants to sob.

“I love you too,” he replies, and he walks away to his first period English class. As he walks, the change is gradual, and Craig’s heart is sinking and his stomach fills with lead. The green of the posters on the wall and the bright orange of the senior lockers fade slowly, slowly, until everything is muted again and nothing is beautiful. It’s because Tweek takes the beauty with him, Craig’s sure, and he’s never given it back. God help him if he ever loses him, because he’s not sure he’d survive without color. It is the life around him, and it grows from Tweek through his wandering vines and yellow rays of sunshine and green irises. It is everything.

Craig picks up his backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and only begins walking away when his sun turns the corner and the last of the sunrise blinks away from him. He trudges to history, his red converse dulled to maroon, and he sighs, because it’s Tuesday, and he hates Tuesdays.

Lunch never comes soon enough, but at least the pulses of rainbows that radiate from his pocket with each text can carry him through.