#but if you ever end up with plastic rich water for some reason. you can do this to mitigate some impacts

[bellysoupset]

OMG could we get a fic with Jonah and Luke where one of them is sick and the other is stuck being a begrudging caretaker because for some reason there is no one else around to help? Do they end up becoming more sympathetic to the sickee, or does this fuel the fire of their frienemy vibes? Also in the concussion fix Jonah is a total sympathy puker so it would be fun to play with that dynamic when he has to take care of a sickee. I love love LOVE your writing so much and your new characters’

I LOVE THIS ASK! Bad caretaker is such a Vibe. Thank you so much! There's a mention of scat, but we gloss over it real fast.

Lucas was not too proud to admit when he had fucked up. Today, specifically, he had fucked up Big. BIG. Time.

It was his high school class reunion, except well, he had grown up rich, which meant fancy boarding schools and what not. Bella had taken one look at the hot embossed invitation, raised her eyebrows and started cackling at him.

It didn't matter how much he begged she tagged along, she had shaken her head vehemently and said "being stuffed in a fancy hotel half world across from here, with your rich prick ex-friends? Sounds like hell, thanks."

Which was why they weren't currently speaking, because he had gotten pissy over it - high school and his family were always a delicate matter, his girlfriend wasn't exactly the most gentle person. That in itself was bad enough, but to add salt to the injury, Jonah was tagging along.

Jonah was the son of some maybe-probably-corrupt plastic surgeon and they had done all of school together, so their rivalry and frenemies status went back all the way to kindergarten. Once they had RSVP from the same location, their boarding school people had sent them matching travel plans, much to their chagrin.

Jonah was easily the person Lucas knew for the longest time, having met Vince and Bell in college, but that didn't mean they got along at all.

Finally, to wrap this package of shit up, Lucas was fairly sure last night's teriyaki chicken had been bad. He had initially thought his lunch wasn't settling because of nerves, but as he sat next to Jonah on the first class seat, the more he was growing aware he had been very, very wrong.

His gut was burbling under his hand, like boiling water and letting out all types of gurgles and whines. He was so grateful Jonah was going out of his way to ignore him, with headphones on, because he wasn't sure he could survive the humiliation.

His intestines cramped and he pressed his lips in a tight line, fighting not to groan. He clenched his fists, looked out of the plane's window. Fuck his life, fuck his family for saying he should go to this stupid party for appearances, fuck him for being unable to say 'no', fuck, fuck fuck-

His stomach gurgled and Lucas clutched at it, clawing at his seatbelt desperately and rushing up. He nearly lost his balance, had to grab on the seat to ground himself and Jonah looked up, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised.

"Atwood?"

Lucas winced, "I'm fine."

"Uhm," Jonah shrugged, slipping his headphones back on and turning his attention back to his book.

Lucas rushed through the rows to the bathroom. First class or not first class, no airplane bathroom was ever decent. It was definitely bigger than the tuna can he had been one when flying to Vince's family's house, but still claustrophobic and smelling like bleach.

"Jesus fucking chr-" Lucas groaned, sitting down on the toilet and clutching at his gut. He was bloated, much more than he remembered ever being before and it gurgled fiercely under his hand, pressing against his button up.

He sat there for thirty minutes and by the time he managed to make it out of the bathroom, he was starting to feel shaky on his legs. Whatever, he had played with an upset stomach before, he'd live.

He made it back to the seat, falling on it with a groan and turning his face when Jonah threw him an inquisitive look. Lucas curled up around his middle, looking out of the window to the passing clouds... His gut grumbled again and cold sweat started collecting on his brow. A cramp seized his intestines and now, to make matters worse, nausea joined in.

He licked his dry lips, planted his forehead to the cold plane window and a flight attendant came over a minute later, "Mr. Atwood?" she called, all polite, "is everything alright? Can I get you anything, sir?"

Humiliated, Lucas straightened up and shook his head, "just... Just a water, please."

Jonah turned to face him, "what's wrong?" he said dryly, squinting. Lucas rolled his eyes.

"None of your businesses."

He only had... What an hour more of flight? He could do it.

The nice flight attendant from before came back with a water bottle, but he didn't have time to drink it, beelining back to the bathroom once more.

Fifteen minutes later, he felt empty. With a rumbly, crampy belly that kept sending up burps, but blessedly his lower guts were empty. He fell back down on the seat and chugged at the water, already feeling dehydration start to get to him, if the way he was shaky and dizzy was anything to go buy.

The water quelled his insane thirst and soothed his parched throat, but did nothing good for his stomach. It had been already grumbly and unhappy, but now with an entire water bottle chugged in it... Yikes.

He muffled a belch on his hand and noticed Jonah inching away from him, a big frown on his face, "disgusting, Lucas."

"Sorry, I can't help it," he groaned, cupping his bloated stomach right where it now sported a curve, "my gut's upset."

"Well, keep it to yourself," Jonah rolled his eyes, then opened a pleasant smile as the cute flight attendant came back. Bright smile that immediately diminished at her words.

"I'm sorry, it seems there's some bad weather in the alps," she explained apologetically, "we're going to have a delay of about an hour."

God, no, Lucas almost said out loud. Jonah made a face that voiced his thoughts.

"An hour? But our party-"

"We're contacting other airports to check if we may land there. We'll also be making arrangements for your transportation from there..." the poor girl was definitely older than them for about a handful of years, but she sounded so small, Lucas felt bad for her. It wasn't her fault.

"In the meantime, would you like to take a look at our dinner menu?"

Lucas shook his head no, while Jonah nodded enthusiastically. He ordered fish with some lemon cream or whatever. Lucas reached in his hand baggage and fished out his own headphones, crossing his arms to his chest and forcing his eyes carefully on the horizon and the stormy clouds.

He prayed for no turbulence, because the uneasy feeling in his stomach was getting worse and he wasn't sure he could take being rattled around like some kid's toy.

Jonah poked him and Lucas forcefully teared his eyes away from the window. The sky had gone dark, be it because of the weather or the sunset.

"What?"

"You should eat," Jonah said, in his driest voice, "you remember last year's fundraiser, don't you? They never serve anything decent in those parties."

Lucas would normally be touched by the hint of concern he heard in Jonah's voice, moved by all the shared history they had, but not tonight. Just the thought of eating something made him want to hurl.

"Not hungry, told you my stomach's upset," he said, more snappy than he meant to sound. Jonah squinted at him.

"Do not barf, Atwood," he said strongly and Lucas groaned, planting his elbows to his knees and hiding his face in his hands. The smell of Jonah's dinner certainly wasn't helping.

"I'm trying not to, you're not helping."

"Uh-" He could hear Jonah's slight hesitation, "well keep trying."

"Thanks, go fuck yourself," Lucas sighed, biting down a burp that stung his throat, all acid.

Five minutes later the plates were taken away, more water bottles passed around- The plane shook and Lucas planted his hand over his lips.

Fuck.

"Don't," Jonah glared, like he could boss Lucas' stomach into behaving.

A rolling belch passed through his lips and Lucas shook his head, "false alarm."

"I hate you so fucking much," The other man groaned, looking away a little frantically, in search of another empty seat. There was none.

"I'm not trying to make you hurl, trust me," Lucas groaned, rubbing his stomach and starting to feel antsy in his formal attire. This had been a horrible idea.

He could've been home, curled up with Bell, while she rubbed his upset tummy. But nooo... He let out another wet belch and gulped down, feeling his stomach's contents slosh. All that water.

"Jonah-" He moaned, reaching to squeeze the guy's arm. Jonah glared at him, alarmed.

"Atwood, no. No-"

"I think I need a bag."

"Lucas-"

"Now," he gagged in his hand and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will his stomach in place. They'd get murdered for tossing cookies in the first class-

He couldn't help it. The next burp that he attempted to fight off, but that came out anyway, brought with it chunks of his lunch and Lucas snapped his mouth shut, trying to hold the puke in but-

He retched.

Vomit covered his black slacks and he heard as Jonah frantically called out the flight attendant, for more than one bag, cleaning supplies, a parachute-

Lucas whimpered as his stomach squeezed again and more vomit spilled between his fingers, since he was keeping his hand vehemently planted over his mouth still.

"Oh dear-" the flight attendant from before squealed, coming back with an already open blue barf bag. Lucas grabbed it with a shaky hand and then buried his face in it.

Faintly, he heard Jonah gagging harshly to his side and the flight attendant attempting to sooth him. His friend rushing up and all but stumbling to the bathroom, in a ridiculous attempt to save his dignity.

Lucas puked again, now allowing his body to get rid of all its contents. Please, let it be the last one.

It wasn't. His little barf bag was getting full when Jonah returned, looking grey in the face and woozy.

"Fuck. You."

"Ugh-" Lucas groaned, burping in the bag wetly, "Jonah, I need anothe-er-" he burped again, hiccuped, "fuck- anotherbag..." his words slurred together, thick with the nausea.

"Here," Jonah held it open in front of him, taking the other one with a retch of his own and snapping it closed, placing it on the ground. Lucas's initial spray was mostly contained to his lap, some chunks on his italian shoes-

Jonah gagged again, turned his face away and whimpered. He heard Lucas let let out another torrent of vomit, wondered how in the fuck did that much even fit inside of him.

"Jon-" Lucas called to him, "Jonah."

"Don't-" he groaned, eyes squeezed shut, wrapping an arm around his stomach that was flipping around. He regretted dinner, regretted ever fucking meeting Lucas.

"Jon, dude, you need a-" Lucas cut himself with another gross burp, one that sounded like he was about to hurl again, "a bag."

"Fuck, I don't need your-" his stomach surged up to his throat and he bit down his lip so strongly it nearly bled. Jonah squeezed his stomach. He cursed, "just- Just stop."

"I'm trying," Lucas sounded exhausted, his voice distorted by how sick he was feeling, "I can't- uGhuurp- Fuck. I'm- Fuck-" suddenly Lucas was standing again, ruined pants and puke bag clutched in his hands, his face milky white.

Jonah gagged, but his confusion nearly overrode his nausea, "the fuck are you doing, Lucas?! Sit-"

"Bathroom," Lucas, clutched at his gut with his other hand, "God, move Jonah, get out of the fucking way-"

He promptly obeyed, wincing away and trying not to feel like an asshole as his stomach calmed down now that Lucas and his puke covered pants and bag were gone.

"Mr. Banks...?"

"Ugh," Jonah groaned, gulping down, "Amy, right...? Amy, can you bring us something to clean up, please?"

By the time Lucas was back, now with wet but clean pants, Jonah was comfortably settled on his seat and the flight attendant rushed to his friend, trying to dot on him. She brought some pepto and more water, though now Lucas only took the smallest of sips.

He sat back down gingerly, whole body shaking and leaned his head back, "I feel awful."

"Teaches you to stop eating from garbage places."

"Just because it's not a Michelin restaurant, doesn't mean it's a garbage place," Lucas moaned softly, then leaned in and planted his forehead on Jonah's shoulder, causing the other man to stiffen.

"Atwood? What are you doing?"

"I feel miserable, please don't be a dick for five minutes?"

"You made me hurl, who are you calling dick, dickhead?" Jonah rolled his eyes but relaxed back against his seat, "if you vomit on me, I'm going to murder you and I'm not joking."

"Not gonna hurl," Lucas grumbled, his voice hoarse, "empty."

"Sure," Jonah rolled his eyes, not buying it, "get some rest, we'll be on the ground soon."

"Yeah, can't wait to puke on the dean," Lucas bit back sarcastically and Jonah winced in sympathy.

"Please, as if I'm letting you go to the party when you can barely stand. I'm not that much of a dick."

"Could've fooled me," Lucas sighed, yawning and muffling a burp against Jonah's tux jacket, "don't tell the others."

"Hell no, I'm telling everyone."

[dballzposting]

Future Trunks is soooo funny like DBZ is old so the line quality and colors Look Like That and he looks all soft and pink and the artstyle is changing and so how it looks at this point is more unique than it's ever been. And they draw Future Trunks's hair slightly different in every shot. And he has seen fates worse than hell but also he does not operate in a senseless stack of mental layers and repression and detrimental self-consciousness, rather he lives like hes playing Tetris and is constantly clearing out the bottom rows, taking life one event at a time and eating it the best he can, extracting the most nutrients out of it, he has an easy spirit that just wont quit. Hes a bright-eyed youth and hes calm and courteous and kind and courageous. Hes bashful and sensitive and during that one movie he was waiting in line with Roshi + Oolong + Krillin to see some beautiful hot chicks. With his hands in his pockets looking all stoic. But with an unmistakably soft and cute face still.

He was not reared on the processed chemicals of city slop and instead ate what could be hunted and plundered and grown. This is to say that he is of good health and his skin is very smooth.

But he does have bad acid reflux and he doesnt think much of it becasue there are much bigger things to worry about than that. He just thinks that everybody wakes up with a bitter taste in their mouths. His teeth will probably hit the shitter before hes 30 but seeing how fucked his timeline is, that's not that bad.

He has opinions about water that you dont really hear about becasue he doesnt like to complain. But if water is too clean it tastes like the inside of his mouth or like vomit to him and he does not like it. He has opinions about what water tastes Metalic or Rusty or Hard or Green or Yucky or Bitter or Clean and whether that's good or not. For example he likes snowmelt. It's pure with some rich dirt. He likes metallic water becasue it disguises the taste of his own mouth. Rusty water he dislikes however.

This is to say that in a good timeline, he probably would just stop drinking water. He would always be seen with a fun beverage. Always a different cup (plastic boba tea cup, milkshake glass, hurricane glass, all types of fun glasses, sparkling water cans, etc) and often with curly fun straws. He tries coca cola but gravitates toward fruity stuff in the end. Dr Pepper he likes more than coca cola. He had a Root Beer float once and wished that the ice cream was strawberry instead.

This of course aggravates his acid reflux immensely.

Hes 17 and is a very nice young man. Hes considerate and smart but also hes 17 and can be so so stupid at times. And he fills his stomach with lemonade and other acids and wonders why his teeth feel thinner than they used to. He gets the acid reflux from Bulma but he has Vegeta's digestive track otherwise which means that it is very Sturdy and Efficient unless something is wrong. When hes sick it all comes out the other end. As a liquid

Future Trunks is hands down the coolest concept to come out of anything. Toriyama was touched by a god when he came up with him. Concept is flawless, execution is flawless. Hes a pretty young man with bright eyes and a sweet smile and he appears on merchandise with pink hair. And he has a sword for NO REASON. Just becasue hes straight up epic. Not to mention his debilotatingly charming fashion sense. And he looks excellent in fuschia

[ghostly-cabbage]

Party In The Graveyard (Shiptember 2021 : Drunk)

It’s a day late but heres the Danny x Wes fic I wrote for @ghostgothgeek ‘s Ship Event!! Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: Language, Underage Drinking, Mild Suggestive Themes Additional Tags: Post-Reveal, Aged Up Characters, Mutual Pining, Flirting, Getting Together

Summary: So, here’s the thing; Wes never wanted to have a fucking house party, okay? This was all stupid Kyle’s stupid idea. Kyle isn’t even in highschool anymore. He graduated last year. But he invited his whole college freshmen class, and just about everyone from the senior Casper class. And it's just getting better and better. Why? Because about half an hour ago, Danny Fucking Fenton walked in.

--

Or a fic in which Wes sees Danny getting shitfaced and says, "Is anyone else gonna take care of him, or?" and then doesn't wait for an answer.

Words: 6,233

Ao3

“I take back all my poor words. Talk is cheap, but my mind is rich When I close my eyes You grab my wrist, And pull me in to your cold dead lips”

So, here’s the thing; Wes never wanted to have a fucking house party, okay? 

This was all stupid Kyle’s stupid idea. 

Kyle isn’t even in highschool anymore. He graduated last year. But he invited his whole college freshmen class, and just about everyone from the senior Casper class. 

And it's just getting better and better. 

Why?

Because about half an hour ago, Danny Fucking Fenton walked in. 

He walked in like he owned the goddamn place and the reaction went through everyone like a Whoop—like some kind of synchronized celebration of a miracle. 

What, just ‘cause everyone knows he’s Phantom now? 

Give him a fuckin’ break. 

Currently, Wes is standing adjacent to the fridge, nursing a god-awful drink Kyle shoved into his hands before disappearing back into the throng. 

Lighten up, bro, he’d said. 

Yeah. 

Sure. 

The music pounds through the house—a heart beat—a fucking jack-hammer. 

People talk and yell and spill their drinks on just about every surface that can stain. 

A cheer goes up from the dining room and he rolls his eyes. 

He slams his drink and focuses on the outdated calendar on the side of the fridge to keep from shuddering. It makes his mouth water, burns the whole way down and Jesus, seriously, what the fuck did Kyle put in this? 

He throws his cup at the overflowing trash can. 

His cheeks feel warm, but not even a buzz touches the wound up feeling in his chest. 

He passes through the dining room, stops to watch Danny and Dash shotgunning sixteen ounce Mike’s Harder cans. From the looks of the table, they've already gone a few rounds.

Danny finishes five whole seconds before Dash. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crushes his can. 

“Slowing down already, Baxter?” he says, a smug grin plastered across his face. His shoulders are slumped and he talks just a bit too loud.

Dash finishes his and tosses it over his shoulder, which—cool. Fucking nice, what, does he think they have a fucking maid? 

“In your dreams, Fenton. We're just getting warmed up. No way I'm getting out-drank by a twig like you, half-ghost or not.” 

“Guess we’ll see.” Danny shrugs. He talks like he’s one of those people, has always been one of those people. 

Wes rolls his eyes and is just about to slip out of the room when— 

“Ohhh shit! If it isn’t the one and only Wesley Weston!” 

Fucking hell. 

He turns and levels as unimpressed of a look as he can manage at Danny. 

“Imagine that. It’s almost like I fucking live here.” 

Danny swipes up a plastic cup and then proceeds to walk through the table towards him. People act like they’re finding out all over again. 

“Oh come on, Wes. You’re not still mad are you?” He comes up to him and slouches against the archway’s frame. 

Wes scrapes his tongue along his teeth. “Mad? What could I possibly be mad about?”

Danny looks at him like a puzzle. 

When he talks his voice is quiet, hard to hear over the music. “I dunno, the fact that you knew all along but no one ever listened? They thought you were crazy and you weren’t but no one's even said sorry?” His lips quirk up at the corner and Wes can smell the artificial black cherry dancing on the top of the alcohol in his breath. 

He wrinkles his nose and it has nothing to do with the smell. 

“I was being facetious, prick.” 

Danny smiles bigger, and his eyes glitter, something doe-eyed.  

“Right. So you are still mad?” 

He pushes air through his teeth. 

“Not like it matters,” he says, looking away from Danny, drifting over the room. “Where’s your chaperones? Weird to see you anywhere alone.” 

Danny just stares at him for a few seconds before understanding sparks. 

“Ah. Sam’s got a family thing. Tuck took a closing shift.” He waves a hand and his head lolls against the wall with a thunk. He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a swig. 

Everything about him looks heavy. It’s weird for Danny.  

“Have you tried the jungle juice your brother made?” he says. “It sucks. You’ve gotta try it.” 

Wes lifts a brow and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“How many’ve you had?” 

Danny looks down into his cup, swirls its contents. It’s silent for several seconds too long. 

“I’m not really sure, honestly. Didn’t know I was supposed to keep count.” 

Wes slides a hand down his face. 

Jesus Christ. 

“Listen, maybe you should slow down—”

“Yo! Fenton! Stop flirting with Wes and fucking get over here, we’re not done.” Dash calls across the room and— 

Flirting?! 

They weren’t fucking flirting. 

What the fuck.

Wes’s face heats up far beyond the liquor in his veins. 

Danny looks up and flashes Dash a thumbs up. And then Danny is even closer—grabbing his arm. The chill of his hand goes right through to his stomach. 

“Hey,” he breathes, “come watch me outdrink Dash.”

“Why would I wanna do that?” He ignores the way his breath flutters in his lungs, the way he feels light all the way to his toes.

Danny smiles like what he’s about to say is a secret—like it’s just for him, and all of a sudden Wes wants to be as far from Danny as humanly possible.

“Isn’t watching Dash lose at something for once reason enough?” 

Wes forces himself to keep breathing and he swallows. 

“Fine,” is all he can force out and then Danny is dragging him towards the table. He ignores all the people looking at them. 

The fragmented group of A-listers cheer again and Dash slams a bottle of Fireball onto the table, making people's drinks jump and slosh. 

“Let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” he says, grin just shy of evil. 

“Where’d you get that?” Wes asks. 

Dash cocks a brow. “Paulina found it? Duh.” 

God, Kyle really wasn’t joking about getting people fucked up. 

Wes is not going to clean up anyone’s puke this time. This shit is all on Kyle. 

“Dude, is it even cold?” Danny asks. 

“No, it wasn’t in the freezer long enough,” Paulina says. She’s drinking from a champagne flute for some fucking reason. He didn’t even know they had those. 

“Gimme that,” Danny says, swiping it from Dash. “No way in hell I’m drinking warm whiskey.” 

His eyes glow blue, and when he breathes out its a thin vapor. Frost creeps over the glass and Wes can’t help but shiver.

“Dude, fucking wicked. I’m still not over this,” Dash breathes, clapping his hands together. 

How could Wes forget that Dash is Phantom’s number one fanboy after all?

But Danny isn’t looking at Dash—he’s looking at him. 

Only it’s different this time. Because before it was always a taunt, blatantly rubbing it in Wes’ face when he used his powers and no one else noticed.

But the way Danny is looking at him now… like he’s waiting for something, thinking about something.

Danny hands back the Fireball and his eyes slip away from Wes and he feels like a fish wrenched from water. 

What the hell was that? 

“Fuck yeah, Fenton.” Dash unscrews the whiskey, flicks the cap off the mouth with a finger, sending it flying. He pours directly into their cups, the liquid glugging through the frosted neck of the bottle.

“Two shots of vodka,” someone says and everyone laughs.

“No chasers?” Danny asks, eyeing his cup. 

Dash puts down the Fireball. “What’s the matter, you scared of the burn?” 

“Not a chance,” he says, and holds out his cup to Dash. They cheers each other and then they’re throwing it back. 

It sinks in his stomach like a rock. There’s no way this ends well. 

.

It’s on the sixth round of Fireball that Dash starts to look green. He sets down his cup and leans on the table. He stares at the clear storage container of jungle juice and Kwan comes up beside him, pats his arm. 

“Dude, maybe you should call it.” 

“I’m fine, ‘s fine…” His words slur together. He tries to stand up straight and Kwan and Paulina both have to keep him up right. 

Danny laughs. “Not lookin’ great, Baxter,” he says, his own words falling sluggishly from his mouth. Danny goes to lift his cup to his lips again and Wes puts his hand over it. 

“Nope. You two are done.” 

“Come on, Wes. Don’t be a buzzkill. I’m good!” Danny says. “Dash is the one that lost!” He flings his hand towards Dash and knocks the Fireball over, spilling it all over the table.

The group all crows at once, a choir of “oh shit” “nice one” and “duuuude noooo”’s. A few people rush to grab their phones from harm's way.

Danny blinks at the table. “Oops,” he says. 

A smile splits his face and he starts chuckling. It builds from him, a laugh, something outside of him—beyond him. 

He laughs until he’s doubled over, holding onto Wes to keep himself stable. 

“Yeah, that’s it. You’ve had more than enough.” He grabs Danny’s cup from him before he can spill that too and drinks it himself. The cinnamon burns through his sinuses and he shudders. Ugh. 

Danny straightens and sways just a bit, stumbling into him—their faces inches apart.

“Hey, that was mine,” he says, voice twisted in a pout. “Not cool.” His breath is cold, thick with the smell of whiskey. 

Wes feels frozen, feels like he can’t breathe. 

His heart pounds in his chest and he prays Danny isn’t so close he can feel it. 

Around them the choir starts again, a chorus of suggestive “ooo”’s. He can feel their eyes on him and it makes his skin crawl. 

Fucking dammit, this is all Fenton’s fault. 

He pushes Danny away from him. Not fast or rough, just to arms length. He coughs. 

“Star, you should go to the kitchen and get them both some water,” he says. 

She gives him an annoyed look. 

“I don’t see you doing anything else,” he snaps. 

“I’m drunk too, you know,” she says, but gets up and leaves towards the kitchen. 

Paulina and Kwan coax Dash into a chair, and he puts his head down on the table, groaning. A few others are sopping up the Fireball with paper towels. 

Danny sags in his grip, goofy smile still plastered all over his face. 

“I’ve never been drunk before, this is awesome,” he says. 

Wes rolls his eyes, and maneuvers Danny into a chair. His head lolls back and he stares at the ceiling for a second before perking back up and trying to go for someone else's cup. 

“Dude, I’m serious.” Wes moves the cup out of his reach. “Quit while you’re ahead.” 

Danny groans, sinking down in his chair like he’s boneless. 

“Come on, Wes,” he says. “You think I don’t know my own limits?” 

“You just said this is your first time being drunk.” 

Danny blows a raspberry. 

Star walks back into the room and hands Wes a glass of water and then slides one across the table at Dash. 

“Here. Wanna drink? Drink this.” 

“Ugh, fine,” he says. 

He’s a few swigs into it when he stops. 

“God, it’s hot in here. Is anyone else hot?” And before anyone can answer his eyes glow that bright blue and a chill works through the air, plummets the temperature. 

“Danny—” Goosebumps rise over Wes’ skin and his breath fogs from his mouth. 

At varying levels of exasperation, the people around cry out. 

“Dude, cut that out,” he says, smacking Danny’s arm. 

“Ow, why are you hitting me?” 

“Because you’re being a pain in the ass.” 

Danny looks at him, blinks heavy eyelids. He smiles. 

“What.” 

“Nothing, you just… You’re cute when you’re all annoyed sometimes.” 

The ground feels like it opens up underneath him. 

His thoughts screech to a stop. It smells like burnt rubber, like cinnamon and black cherry. 

It’s just the alcohol. No fucking way Danny of all people would say that to him. 

“You really are drunk,” he says, but his voice sounds off kilter. 

Across the house the last song fades out and Usher’s Yeah comes on. People scream and cheer. 

“Holy shit, I love this song,” Danny says and stands up. He sways and catches himself on the edge of the table, starts laughing again. “Whew, that was close. The spinning is normal, right?” 

Fucking Christ, how did he end up on babysitting duty again? He rubs his temples. 

Is he really about to do this? 

“You should lay down.” He heaves a sigh. “Come on.” 

“Jeez, Wes, that's pretty forward,” Danny says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Heat flashes through him. 

“Would you just shut up,” he hisses. “And stop making it cold. Jesus.” 

Danny snorts and when he moves from the table he wobbles. Wes grabs him before he topples and slings Danny’s arm over his shoulder to keep him up. 

Danny leans into him, almost unbalances them.

“You got a problem with the cold, Wes?” he says, this time his cold breath is against the side of his neck. It sends chills down his spine. 

“I don’t have to help you, you know,” he says, voice thick. “You can get alcohol poisoning for all I care.” 

“You’re a bad liar, Wes.” 

Wes yanks Danny along beside him and out of the dining room. 

“Shut up, Danny. You’re drunk.” 

He hauls Danny past the living room and the knot of people dancing and singing. A few call out to them, ask them to come have fun. He steers them away before Danny can pull away and join them. 

“But I wanna have fun, Wes,” he whines. 

“Dude, you can’t even stand without my help right now, you really wanna try dancing?” 

“Dance with me, then.” 

Wes stops. He looks over at Danny and… 

He— 

He blinks, shakes his head.

“No, not—not right now,” he mumbles. 

“There’s a whole reason I came alone, you know,” Danny says. 

“What, so you could get fucked up and no one would stop you?” 

“Yeah! I mean… well, that’s part of it.” 

Wes guides them towards the stairs, ignoring the looks. 

“Your house is bigger than it looks from the outside,” Danny says. 

“Thanks?” 

“Mmhm.”

God. This is so not what he thought tonight was going to be like. 

“Where are we going?” Danny asks. 

“Somewhere you can lay down and sober up.” 

“Tha’s not vague.” 

Wes starts pulling Danny up the staircase. The second floor is dark, and he gropes around to hit the light. 

The first few steps are fine, which is to say the next steps aren’t fine. 

What he’s saying is that Danny says, “oh shit.” 

And then he’s falling—pulling Wes down with him. 

More accurately, Danny trips and pulls Wes down on top of him. 

They end up in a heap and Danny groans like someone does when they fall on the fucking stairs.

“Ow.” He reaches for the back of his head. Then he’s laughing, like it's the funniest goddamn thing in the world, what just happened. His face screws up, the face of someone who doesn’t know he’s in pain, just pretending.

“Seriously?” Wes snaps. His shin smarts—must have hit it on the stairs. 

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughs each syllable. “You good?” 

“No, I’m not—” And he looks down and he realizes how close they are. Realizes the way Danny’s hair falls into his face, the light catching the slope of his jaw. 

Danny quiets at the same time and it’s like they get stuck there. Like nothing else exists other than this staircase and this moment and the way Danny feels cool and solid like a summer night underneath him. 

“Hey,” Danny says—sounds almost breathless. “Come here often?” 

Wes rolls his eyes and just like that the moment is over. 

“Ugh.” He pushes himself up, detangles himself from Danny. 

Danny reaches for him, that stupid smile back on his face.

“Oh come on, Wes,” he says. 

“Quit messing around, dude.” 

Danny pushes himself up, runs a hand through his hair and Wes tracks the motion with his eyes against his best wishes. 

“You’re so mean. I could have a concussion and this is how you treat me?” 

Wes stands up and straightens his clothes. “You’re fine.” 

Danny gives him a look and then something sparks in his eyes. “I’m going to text Sam and Tucker and tell them how mean you are to me.” 

Psh. He says that like they don’t already hate him. 

“Would you just get up?” 

“These stairs are actually kinda comfy,” he says, head rolling back, sinking back down and closing his eyes. “I think I’ll just stay here.” 

Wes kicks his leg. 

“You can lay down in the room. Get up.” 

Danny heaves a sigh, throws an arm over his eyes. 

“Fiiinnneee.” He pulls himself up by the handrail, stops in a sitting position. “Jesus,” he says, voice just above a whisper. His breathing gets weird. It makes Wes pause. 

“You okay?” 

“...Spinning,” Danny breathes. He’s quiet for a bit, and Wes just lets him sit there. Danny holds his head in his hands for a while.  

Worry creeps into the back of his mind. Maybe Danny wasn’t kidding about the concussion thing. Maybe he should get someone— 

Then Danny is standing up and Wes steadys his other arm. 

“I got you,” he says. “Feeling okay?” 

Danny sends him a weak smile. “Yeah. Laying down does sound good though," he mumbles.  

They make it up the rest of the stairs, and Danny leans against the wall as Wes opens the door to his room. 

It’s dark and quiet inside and he flips on the light. 

He helps Danny in, and he flops face first onto his bed. He groans and rolls over. 

“I’m thinking those last few shots of Fireball were a bad idea…” 

Wes snorts and closes the door softly behind him. 

“Oh, just the last few, huh?” 

“I was havin’ fun, smartass,” Danny grumbles. 

Wes leans back against his dresser and crosses his arms. “I said you should have stopped but noooo, no one listens to Wes.” 

It gets quiet and he can feel the heaviness in the air. He clears his throat. “If you throw up in my bed, I’m kicking you out the window.” 

“I’m not going to throw up.” 

“Famous last words, Fenton.” 

“Shaddup,” Danny says, and it gets quiet. 

Wes can feel the bass from the music through the floor, the muffled sound of singing, laughing, talking. He’s used to ducking out at parties early. He’s used to laying in bed and listening to the songs through the walls until the voices slowly fade and the house is empty again. He listens to Kyle stumble up to bed and knock into the walls and yell “I’m okay” when he does.

He’s not used to having… company. 

Danny sits up like a puppet on too few strings. He makes a frustrated noise.

“It’s still hot,” he sighs. 

“It’s the alcohol, dude.” 

Danny runs his hands over his face, and then reaches back and starts pulling his hoodie off. It drags his shirt up with it and Wes can’t help but look. He looks at the multitude of scars staining Danny’s skin and the way his muscles move over his ribs and—he pulls his gaze away and studies the floor instead. 

“This is your bedroom, huh?” 

“Yep.” 

“Doesn’t look how I thought it would.” 

Wes wrinkles his nose. “How'd you think it would look?”

Danny takes his time looking around the room, hoodie pooled in his lap, before he looks at Wes and gives a boneless shrug. 

“I dunno. More,” he holds his hands up, splays his fingers, “raah!” 

“I… don’t know what that means.” 

“You know! Like… newspaper-clipping red-web on all the walls,” Danny says, smile creeping back. 

Wes squints at Danny. He pushes off his dresser. 

“That’s still all you think of me?” He picks a pillow from his bed and throws it at Danny’s face. Danny lets out a yelp. 

“Besides, I took all that shit down when the truth came out anyway,” he says, trying and failing to keep the inkling of a smile from his voice. 

Danny looks at him blankly for a second before he starts to smile again. 

“Wait, was that… Did you just make a joke?” 

Wes snorts. 

“You did! Holy shit, Wes has a sense of humor, this is bigger news than my shit. I gotta tell everyone.” 

Danny looks soft, sitting like this in the middle of his bed, eyes warm in a way Wes didn’t realize they could be. 

Something in him loosens. 

“Good luck getting people to believe you…” he says. 

“Oh, how the turn tables,” Danny says, and for a bit all they do is smile at each other. 

Danny looks away first, he glances up at the light and squints. 

“You got a light that isn’t so fuckin’ bright?” 

“I thought the light sensitivity was supposed to happen the morning after drinking.” 

“You’re full of jokes tonight.” 

Wes rolls his eyes and flips on the bedside lamp and then shuts off the overhead light. 

Danny hums and flops back down. “Better,” he says.

It’s silent for a few beats and Danny lifts his head to look at him. He smacks the comforter a few times with a flat hand. 

Wes blanches; he’s all too aware of himself, of Danny and the dim light and the closed door. 

“Dude, chill,” Danny says, like he can read his mind—wait, he can’t actually do that, right? Ghosts can’t do that? 

“Sit down or something. You just standing there watching me is creepy,” Danny says. 

Wes swallows his own heartbeat, shakes his head. “Seriously, between the two of us, I’m not the creepy one.” 

“Says the stalker.” 

“I didn’t stalk you.” 

Danny gives him a look, with raised eyebrows and everything. 

Wes sits on the side of the bed, scoots back so he’s leaned against the headboard. 

“I was… investigating.” 

Danny laughs. “Sure, dude. Whatever you say,” and his voice is like smoke—hickory and rough but winding through the air like silk.  

They fall into an amiable silence, cotton soft, but cold. Danny has an arm over his eyes again, and his breathing is so slow it’s hard to pick out from the music downstairs. 

He rakes a hand through his hair and takes out his phone. He unlocks it and scrolls mindlessly for a while. 

He can’t focus. 

Not with Danny so close like this. Not when everything is different now. His mind drifts off and he tries to keep track of every breath, wonders if he’s fallen asleep— 

“Hey, Wes.” 

He jumps. Just a little bit. 

“Y-yeah?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He puts his phone down. 

“...For what?”

“For making everyone think you were crazy.” 

Wes twists his hand in his comforter. Why the hell is Danny apologizing to him? After everything he’s done to him… tried to do to him. It gets stuck in his throat. 

“It’s… You don’t have to—” he wishes he’d had a few more drinks. 

“Nah. I do. Looking back, I didn’t handle you knowing very well.” 

He chews on his lip. He’s never felt so out of place. 

“Danny…” 

Danny moves his arm and looks up at him and his courage almost shrivels. 

“I’m the one who should apologize. Not you. I—” He balls his hands into fists. “What I did, trying to basically out you, that wasn’t… that wasn’t okay.” 

“You didn’t know the whole situation.” 

“Did I need to? It was still fucked up and. I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in wanting to be right that I didn’t care what it could have done to you.” 

It feels like glass coming up from his throat. 

He’s lost sleep, engraved in the ceiling all the ways he fucked up, all the times he's glad now that no one listened to him. His eyes feel hot and there’s no way in hell he’s going to fucking get emotional in front of Danny. 

“It all worked out in the end,” Danny says. He says it easy, gentle. “You were still technically right, though, so… There’s that.” 

Wes huffs. “Yeah. I guess.” He fights through all the mess. “I don’t know how this didn’t happen sooner though. You were terrible at hiding it.” 

Danny props himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude, I'm a great liar.” 

Wes leans his head back on the headboard. “Sure, but you’re reckless as hell. How many times did you stick your arm through your locker in front of God and everyone?” 

Danny smiles wide and bright. 

“Honestly, after a while, it was just fun to see how far I could go before anyone noticed.” 

Wes can’t help but chuckle. “Pretty far, obviously.”  

“No kidding.” 

Wes runs his palms over his jeans. 

“You’re good though, right?” Wes looks anywhere but Danny. “At home and all that.” 

“Oh. Yeah. It was, uhm, a lot for my parents. But we’re getting there.” 

“Good… That’s good.” The words feel sharp and blocky, and he doesn’t know what else to say. What else can he say? 

His buzz pulls away from him, pulls him down, makes his lids heavy. 

“How do you think Dash is doing?” Danny says. 

“Pf. If he isn’t hugging a trashcan right now, I’ll be shocked.” 

Danny laughs. 

Wes leans over onto some of his pillows. 

“How are you this okay after drinking all that?” 

Danny shrugs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m feeling it. My guess is something to do with the healing factor ghost shit.” 

“Right, makes sense.” 

He feels tired and heavy and the darkness at the corners of the room get fuzzier. 

“Paulina brought her own champagne glass,” Danny tells him. And he laughs because, who does that? 

He rolls onto his back and they stare at the ceiling.

“Are you kidding? Paulina does that, it’s Paulina,” Danny says. 

They stare at the ceiling like it’s not a ceiling, like it might become more than just ceiling. Wes imagines it disappearing completely.

Danny likes stars, doesn’t he? 

When Danny talks again it’s like he’s far away. An arms length, an atmosphere’s length… he doesn’t know. 

Danny says, “sucks that I’m missing the Super Smash Tournament.” 

Wes tries to keep his eyes from slipping shut. The bed pulls him like quicksand, the smell of sleep. “Trust me, dude, Kyle always wins anyway.” 

Danny says something, something about who he mains or doesn’t main. It becomes all the same, the sluggish rise and fall. 

At some point between light and dark Wes decides that he likes the sound of Danny’s voice. He somehow likes that the room is colder than it usually is. 

And maybe somewhere between all that he decides some other stuff too. 

— 

Wes wakes up before Danny. The sun streams in through a gap in his curtains, pooling on the wall and floor.

He doesn’t have a headache, but his neck hurts like hell. 

Danny is lying on his side faced away from him and, fuck, thank God. He thinks about last night, about Danny in his arms and he— 

He sits up and rubs his hands over his warm cheeks. 

Water. He should get some water. 

He slips out of his room and goes downstairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet. 

Well. 

Mostly. 

He can hear the sink running and the clink of glass. When he comes around the corner he sees Kyle washing dishes. The house is only half as trashed as he thought it’d be. 

Kyle looks up at him as he walks in. 

“Morning.” 

He grunts, going to pluck a clean glass from the drying rack. 

“Hangover?” 

“Nah. Slept wrong.” He fills his glass at the fridge and downs it all at once. The water helps wash the sour taste from his mouth. Ugh, he should still brush his teeth. 

He fills the glass again and heads back upstairs. He pushes back into his room and when the door creaks he sees Danny jump. 

He walks around the bed and offers the glass to a squinting Danny. 

“Awake?” he asks. 

Danny groans and pushes himself up. His hair is messy, hanging in his eyes. It's infuriating. 

He rubs the side of his face and when he takes the cup their fingers brush. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

“We have pop-tarts and cereal and shit downstairs.” 

Danny gives him a thumbs up while he drinks. 

He wants to ask if he’s okay... He decides to leave it for later. 

Wes leaves his room and goes back to the kitchen. When he gets there, he pulls the pop-tarts down from the cabinet. 

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Kyle says, “if you wanna clean the dining room, I’ll clean the living room.” 

“Nope, no. This was your thing, dude. You threw the party.” 

“But Wes,” he whines, “Dad’s gonna be home tonight.” 

“Then you should probably get started,” he says and claps him on the shoulder on his way to the toaster.

“Dude, cold blooded. You’re just gonna watch me slave away for hours and not even help your own brother?” 

“Uh... yeah.” He slots the pop-tarts into the toaster. He turns towards Kyle and leans against the counter, grinning at him. 

Kyle gives him a look. 

“How much.” 

“No. No, I’m not gonna be bought this time.” 

“Twenty bucks.” 

“Kyle.”

“Fine, you drive a hard bargain. Forty.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“‘This time?’ What happened last time?” 

They jump and look at Danny as he comes down the stairs. He has his hoodie slung over a shoulder and the half empty water glass in his hand. 

“Holy shit,” Kyle says. 

“It’s not important,” he says, sending a glare at the back of Kyle’s head. 

Danny walks up to the counter and sets the glass down to pull his hoodie on. 

“No fucking way,” Kyle says, voice pitched up. “I didn’t believe it when everyone was talking about it last night, holy shit.” 

Danny tugs the hem of his hoodie down and gives Kyle a confused look that he moves over to Wes.

He returns the look, just as lost.

“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” 

“You two hooking up last night,” Kyle says, like it’s obvious.

It feels like for a second time stops—  

Hooking up?

Hooking up?! 

His heart skips in his chest and heat rushes to his face and the tips of his ears. He feels like he’s been slapped across the face.

Danny looks like a deer in the headlights. 

“Uh—” 

The toaster pops. 

“Which, can I just say, I totally called it. I knew there had to be another reason Wes was so obsessed with yo—” 

“Kyle!” he snaps, his voice higher than he anticipated. “Kyle, oh my fucking god, shut up. We didn’t— Nothing happened last night, we just—”  

His breath feels tight in his throat and he wants to lock himself in his room forever. He can’t make himself look at Danny. 

“Who the hell told you that-that we—” 

“Uh, dude, a bunch of people saw you guys go into your room together. You know Pualina was telling me that Danny was all over yo—”

“Okay! Thank you, Kyle!” he cuts in. “Jesus fucking—” He buries his face in his hands. 

This is it, this is how he’s going to die. 

“I’m just glad for you two! I mean, like, jeez, finally!” 

“Kyle, I’ll help you clean if you shut up right now and never bring this up ever again.” 

Kyle stops, face lighting up. “Dude, deal.” 

“Cool. Now please leave.” 

“What?” 

Wes grabs him by the arm and starts dragging him out of the kitchen. “Leave. Go get the cleaning shit from the garage or some shit, I don’t know.” 

“Oh. Ohhhh, I see. I get you. I’ll leave you two kids alone to enjoy your breakfast together,” he says with a wink and holy fuck, he’s going to kill his fucking brother.

Kyle heads for the stairs and calls down, “Lemme know when it’s safe to come back down!” 

Wes drags his hands down his face. He lets out a slow breath and he tries to ignore his pounding heart. 

Wes goes to the nearest counter and puts his head down. The surface is cold against his burning skin. He groans like an injured animal and at this point he really wishes someone would put him out of his misery. 

“Well…” Danny says from behind him.

 He hears Danny moving and the sound of the fridge being opened. He looks up, watches as Danny takes orange juice from the fridge. When he turns around he sees his face is red too. 

“I mean… hardly the worst rumor to get spread around about us,” he says. That stupid smile makes its way onto Danny’s face. 

“I once had this dude tell everyone at school that I was a ghost. It was super weird.” 

Wes shakes his head. “Dude, shut up.” But he can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. 

Danny laughs, a quieter thing today than it was last night. 

“I can have some, right?” he asks, lifting the OJ. 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” 

They fall into silence while Danny pours a glass and Wes goes to numbly retrieve his pop-tarts. 

“It’s probably spread through all of Casper now, huh.” 

Danny glances at him. Something dances through his expression. He hums as he takes a drink of his juice. 

“Uh. Probably further than that, now that everyone knows I'm… you know.” Danny shoots him an uneasy look.

Right. Right. 

This was just getting better and better. 

He takes a bite of his pop-tart. It crumbles in his mouth like sand. 

“Are you… okay?” Danny asks. He reaches back and rubs his neck, and dammit, now he’s just adding insult to injury. 

He looks at him, and he sees the nerves in the way he holds himself, stitched into the way the light hits him. He’s not asking just one question.

Wes swallows. 

“Yeah… Yeah, I mean, like you said. There could be way worse rumors,” he says. He looks at Danny like he’s too far away, like he enjoyed last night way more than he should have. And he sees it in Danny too, some sort of mirror. 

“I think so too,” Danny says, heavy the way he exhales it. 

They break eye contact and Wes doesn’t really know what to do, what to say. 

“Well, uh. You have cleaning to do, I guess. I should probably get home before my parents get too freaked out.” 

Wes nods. “Yeah, probably.” He wonders if Danny knows what’s in his voice. The dark from last night is clouding his mind, pulling him, begging him to just say it.   

“Yeah… I’ll, uh, see you at school?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool.” 

But Danny doesn't move. 

He lingers like a shadow. He looks like he wants to go. He looks like he wants to stay. 

“Wes,” he says. 

Wes looks at him.  

He worries at his bottom lip and moves along the counter towards him. 

“Thanks. For last night.” 

He lets out a puff. “Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t die the rest of the way from alcohol poisoning.” 

Danny rolls his eyes. 

“I wasn’t that bad.” 

“You were pretty bad.” 

“Not even.” Danny smiles.

And they’re close again, sharing each other's space. 

“It wasn’t… awful, I guess,” he says before he can stop himself. “Even with you being a pain in the ass the entire time.” 

“Maybe we could do it again sometime,” Danny murmurs.

“What, me looking after your drunk ass the whole night?” 

Danny snorts. “No, I was thinking more like I match you drink for drink instead,” he says. 

“At least then you’d last till the Smash tournament.” 

Danny glances away. 

“I didn’t mind missing it too much, actually.” 

Wes’s breath gets stuck and his heart beats like a drum in his ribcage. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah…” 

In some ways it’s just like last night; Danny’s close enough he can feel the movement of his breath between them. 

“It’s way more fun, bothering you.” 

It’s a slow motion sort of thing, a hair raising thing. 

“Well you’re an expert at it by now.” 

Wes thinks about theme parks. Sitting at the top of the sky and just before his stomach drops—

“Always room for improvement. I could get better at it if you want me to.” 

And what if he does? What if he wants to see Danny in all the ways he can? What if he wants to know Danny for real this time?  

Maybe he wants pictures, proof that it’s real. 

Maybe it’s always been leading to this. 

Maybe it’s fucked up. 

Wes having the power to hurt him all over again. 

“Drink for drink?” he says, barely a whisper. 

“Drink for drink,” Danny says—closer, closer, breath against his lips. 

Danny gives him time to pull away. But Wes doesn’t. Something to do with what he decided last night.  

“Prove it.”

[paperpocalypse]

crackers and jam.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,703 words

Warnings: Swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a dead stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

��I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.  

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

[vague-and-aloof]

GETTING TO KNOW YOU CHAPTER 3 - SNEAK PEEK

Well, I promised you guys a sneak peek of the next chapter, and here it is! Hope you’ll like it!

———

Mistoffelees had never invited another cat home before, not even as a kitten. When he started going to school his father had already started to tell him that magic scared other cats and this had resulted in him not even trying to make friends or get too close to other cats. So asking any of his classmates if they wanted to come with him to play at his house was never an option. So he wasn't quite sure what to do as he led Tugger into his house, unlocking the door to find the house empty.

"Looks like father isn't home yet." He said as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat hanger and toed off his shoes. "And Victoria was going to be with Plato after school, so we have the house to ourselves."

"Lucky us." Tugger said a little vaguely as he shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it next to Mistoffelees' before taking another good long look at the hallway with wide eyes. "Wow, this place is nice. Like, really, really nice." He turned back to Mistoffelees, kicked off his boots before placing them by the other shoes. "Your dad must be seriously loaded if you can afford living in a damn mansion! I mean, my dad's pretty well-off too, but not like this."

Mistoffelees smirked cheekily and shrugged. "I don't know if I'd call it a mansion, but yeah, I suppose it is a pretty nice house."

Tugger whirled around and stared at him, very much like how Plato had stared at Victoria the first time he had come by their house. "Pretty nice? Understatement of the decade! When you said that your dad makes millions of pounds a year, I thought you were exaggerating."

Laughing softly, Mistoffelees shook his head and started to lead Tugger further into the house. "Well, in a way I suppose I was and wasn't. Father comes from a very wealthy family, so he already had a big sum of money to his name. But he also owns a lot of very popular and upscale clubs in the city, which makes him a lot of money every year. A big sum of that money goes back into his clubs, in order to keep making those big sums of money. But he still gets to keep-" He paused to think for a moment. "Hm, I believe about 50 percent of it. So if he makes 5 million pounds in one year, he still gets to keep 2.5 million."

Tugger's jaw looked like it was close to falling off his face as he stared at Mistoffelees. Then he blinked and started to quietly mumble under his breath and counted on his fingers, then his eyes widened. "Dude, that's still 200 000 pounds a month! What the hell does he even do with that much money? Your bills can't be that much!"

Laughing again, Mistoffelees held up his paw and started counting on his fingers. "Cleaning staff, personal chef, tuition and school related costs, top of the line dancing gear and instructors for me and Victoria, his own personal parties... food." Mistoffelees sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. "Lots and lots of food. It's all very good food, the best he can find, but it's all a bit much. Especially since Victoria and I don't eat anywhere near as much as he does."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "There are cats starving in Africa and here we are, buying enough food to feed an entire army for months every week. It's sad, really." Then he shook his head again and turned back to Tugger with a small smile.

"And of course he gives me and Tori an allowance every month. But he only gives us a small amount, I don't think he's ever given us more than a hundred pounds each. He says he has no problem paying for school and the things we need or make us happy, but he doesn't want us to rely on him for everything. He values hard work and working for your success and doesn't want to spoil us to the point where we expect him to hand us everything in life."

Tugger nodded and tilted his head to the side. "Hm, that's pretty smart. Don't want to spoil your kids so they end up like Amaryl."

This made Mistoffelees laugh and he covered his mouth with his paw. "No, you really don't." He took a deep breath and licked his lips. "My father and I have different views on a lot of things, but I respect that he has always wanted to teach us the value of hard work and encouraged us to find our own success rather than lean on his wealth."

They entered the dining room and Mistoffelees placed his bag in one of the chairs, prompting Tugger to do the same. "Let's sit in here. It's the most comfortable place to do homework in."

Mistoffelees, still very unsure of what to do, remembered how his father usually treated his guests when he invited his friends over and made his way towards the kitchen. "Can I get you anything, by the way? Water, tea, coffee?"

Tugger grinned widely. "Yeah, can I have some fur dye in my coffee?" Both of them started laughing for a good long minute before calming down.

"Well, I don't think we have any fur dye in the house at the moment, unfortunately, but I can go and get some of my father's fur tonic if that's alright." This got them laughing again before Mistoffelees waved at him to come with him into the kitchen.

"It's probably best that you make your own coffee, so you can pick what you want for yourself."

Their coffee machine was very nice, made out of metal and black plastic with a touch display showing several different kinds of coffee you could have. From regular coffee, espresso, cappuccino, latte and much more. The Deuteronomys' had a similar one back at home, but the one they had could only make coffee, espresso and cappuccino. Tugger tended to make two cappuccinos at once in a big cup, which was fairly similar to a latte but not quite the same. This was a bit more luxurious, that was for sure.

He looked up at Mistoffelees, who was rummaging around in a cupboard for tea bags. "I thought you said you weren't a big coffee person."

Mistoffelees paused in his rummaging to turn and look at Tugger, one eyebrow raised and his mouth a straight line. "Oh, yeah you're right, I'm not. I suppose we really should just get rid of it then, since there's no one else in this house who likes to drink coffee." He turned back to the cupboard and took out a box with tea with a long, exaggerated sigh. "Oh, what a waste of two thousand pounds."

At first Tugger smirked and turned back to the display, but then his words registered in his brain and he whirled around to stare at Mistoffelees. "Your dad bought a coffee machine for two thousand pounds?!"

Groaning loudly, Mistoffelees turned around to Tugger with a large tea mug in his paw which he placed on the counter before filling it with hot water. "Yes, that was my reaction too. I couldn't believe that he'd spent that much money on a coffee machine when there are so many others out there at a much more reasonable price. But he and Victoria both really love coffee so they wanted the best they could find." He poured a little milk into his tea and then turned back to Tugger. "Me, I'm fine with just sticking with tea and the occasional cup of coffee. Never saw the appeal in it and I still don't."

Tugger kept staring at him for a good long minute before he finally blinked and turned back to the coffee machine, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath. "The life of the one percent." Which prompted a small chuckle from Mistoffelees.

His own family was far from poor, they were limited to one income since it was only their dad working to support them all. Munkustrap had a part-time job at a bookstore and was able to pay for some of his things himself and though Tugger had tried to find a job too, he'd had no luck yet. So while they did have money, they did not have this much money that they could throw on a coffee machine.

"The day I become rich," He said, accepting a mug from Mistoffelees and pressed on the screen to make himself a latte. "I am going to buy myself a house like this and fill it with all of the expensive stuff, just because I can. And I'll commission huge paintings of myself that'll hang all over the damn house! Screw all of that typical rich-cat facade, I'll have five rooms with instruments, video games, an actual movie theatre in the living room and a damn bowling alley in the basement."

Mistoffelees snorted and shook his head. "You act as though there aren't rich cats out there in the world who have all those things."

@uppastthejelliclemoon @soh-da-meatball @storyweaverofgondor @whitmerule @demandra @i-overanalyze-musicals @rainbowratsstuff @rainbow-donkey @tigerstripes-and-leopardspots @tigertail94 @roxycake @roselessart

[rockislandadultreads]

World Oceans Day 2021: A Reading List!

Oceans: The Threats to Our Seas and What You Can Do to Turn the Tide by Jon Bowermaster (Editor)

More than 75 percent of the globe is covered by the oceans. It is sometimes difficult to understand why it is called Planet Earth rather than Planet Ocean. Since half the world's human population lives within a stone's throw of an ocean coastline, the oceans' health is increasingly important. Rich with resources and potential -- as a source of renewable energy, new drugs, drinking water -- for years we have treated them as both infinite and undamageable. But they are not. Over-fishing, climate change, pollution, acidification, and more have put the world's oceans and marine life at great risk. Oceans gathers some of the most insightful visionaries, explorers, and ocean lovers -- marine biologists, politicians, environmentalists, fishermen, sportsmen, deep divers, and more -- in a unique anthology, in which each speaks to a unique aspect of our world's most dimly understood dimension.

Waters of the World: the story of the scientists who unravelled the mysteries of our seas, glaciers, and atmosphere and made the planet whole by Sarah Dry

From the glaciers of the Alps to the towering cumulonimbus clouds of the Caribbean and the unexpectedly chaotic flows of the North Atlantic, Waters of the World is a tour through 150 years of the history of a significant but underappreciated idea: that the Earth has a global climate system made up of interconnected parts, constantly changing on all scales of both time and space. A prerequisite for the discovery of global warming and climate change, this idea was forged by scientists studying water in its myriad forms. This is their story. Linking the history of the planet with the lives of those who studied it, Sarah Dry follows the remarkable scientists who ascended volcanic peaks to peer through an atmosphere’s worth of water vapour, cored mile-thick ice sheets to uncover the Earth’s ancient climate history, and flew inside storm clouds to understand how small changes in energy can produce both massive storms and the general circulation of the Earth’s atmosphere. Each toiled on his or her own corner of the planetary puzzle. Gradually, their cumulative discoveries coalesced into a unified working theory of our planet’s climate. We now call this field climate science, and in recent years it has provoked great passions, anxieties, and warnings. But no less than the object of its study, the science of water and climate is — and always has been — evolving. By revealing the complexity of this history, Waters of the World delivers a better understanding of our planet’s climate at a time when we need it the most.

Future Sea: How to Rescue and Protect the World’s Oceans by Deborah Rowan Wright 

The world’s oceans face multiple threats: the effects of climate change, pollution, overfishing, plastic waste, and more. Confronted with the immensity of these challenges and of the oceans themselves, we might wonder what more can be done to stop their decline and better protect the sea and marine life. Such widespread environmental threats call for a simple but significant shift in reasoning to bring about long-overdue, elemental change in the way we use ocean resources. In Future Sea, ocean advocate and marine-policy researcher Deborah Rowan Wright provides the tools for that shift. Questioning the underlying philosophy of established ocean conservation approaches, Rowan Wright lays out a radical alternative: a bold and far-reaching strategy of 100 percent ocean protection that would put an end to destructive industrial activities, better safeguard marine biodiversity, and enable ocean wildlife to return and thrive along coasts and in seas around the globe. Future Sea is essentially concerned with the solutions and not the problems. Rowan Wright shines a light on existing international laws intended to keep marine environments safe that could underpin this new strategy. She gathers inspiring stories of communities and countries using ocean resources wisely, as well as of successful conservation projects, to build up a cautiously optimistic picture of the future for our oceans—counteracting all-too-prevalent reports of doom and gloom. A passionate, sweeping, and personal account, Future Sea not only argues for systemic change in how we manage what we do in the sea, but also describes steps that anyone, from children to political leaders (or indeed, any reader of the book), can take toward safeguarding the oceans and their extraordinary wildlife.

Spying on Whales: The Past, Present, and Future of Earth's Most Awesome Creatures by Nick Pyenson

The Smithsonian's star paleontologist takes us to the ends of the earth and to the cutting edge of whale research Whales are among the largest, most intelligent, deepest diving species to have ever lived on our planet. They evolved from land-roaming, dog-like creatures into animals that move like fish, breathe like us, can grow to 300,000 pounds, live 200 years and roam entire ocean basins. Whales fill us with terror, awe, and affection--yet we know hardly anything about them, and they only enter our awareness when they die, struck by a ship or stranded in the surf. Why did it take whales over 50 million years to evolve to such big sizes, and how do they eat enough to stay that big? How did their ancestors return from land to the sea? Why do they beach themselves? What do their lives tell us about our oceans, and evolution as a whole? Importantly, in the sweepstakes of human-driven habitat and climate change, will whales survive? Nick Pyenson's research has given us the answers to some of our biggest questions about whales. Nick's rich storytelling takes us to the cool halls deep inside the Smithsonian's priceless fossil collection, to the frigid fishing decks on Antarctic whaling stations, and to the blazing hot desert of Chile where scientists race against time to document the largest fossil whalebone site on earth. Spying on Whales is science writing at its best: an author who is an incredible, passionate writer, at the forefront of his field, on a topic that invokes deep fascination.

[hargrove-mayfields]

You’re The One I Want To Go Through Time With

Day one of HWOL is finally here!! So excited to share all I’ve written! For today I chose the prompt Neighbors AU!!! You can read this on ao3 also as part of the collection as well!!  Hope y’all like it!! 

Word Count: 11,952

Rated: G

It finally happens when he’s 15 years old. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it coming, but Steve gets kicked out.

In the very beginning of a particularly brutal Hawkins summer, he had decided to invite Tommy over to smoke weed in the pool house. He thought nothing of it, but the neighbors complained about the smell, and, coupled with every other act of his deemed irresponsible, immature, disgraceful, by his stuck-up parents, a couple of blunts was apparently the last straw.

They tell him the Harringtons had a reputation, an air of elegance and respect they had to upkeep, so they couldn’t just let him bring drugs onto their property. He thought it was ridiculous, considering that they were allowed as much wine aging in the cellar and expensive whiskey propped up on a hutch as they wanted, but when he’d brought it up he’d gotten nothing but a stern look.

They’d been through this a thousand times over, how worthless and terrible a son he could be, grounding him for bringing too many girls home, taking his car away when he failed a class, so he knew to expect a punishment.

This is obviously the next step, the throwing him out on the street thing, for years he could feel the neglect and tension starting to build up and boil over. Sometimes, they’d even hang threats of it over his head, so now that was told he had to be out of the mansion by the end of next week or there would be consequences, it couldn’t be too much of a shocker.

Though at some point, he’s got to wonder if they ever really thought as far ahead as consequences, or if they just knew they trained their boy well enough that it never got that far. If only he had more of a spine.

Now, as unsurprising as the scenario may be, Steve was still absolutely in no way, by any means ready to be thrown out on the streets before he even had his driver’s license.

In the case of emergency, like the time Stephen Sr. got just a little too rough and popped his wrist out of place, or when they’d left him alone for a month at age 9 and he went three days without food because he didn’t know how to turn the stove on, he had his aunt, the thankfully much more compassionate counterpart to his mother, who lived over in California.

The minute they’re gone, having passive aggressively hurried off somewhere, probably the country club or something, to complain about how disappointing their son was with their rich friends, Steve grabs a suitcase from the closet and gives his Aunt Margaret a call.

Before he knows it she’s got him a flight booked, a written agreement from her sister that proved taking him in was legal, and a set of luggage. Three days later, he was flying first class towards the rest of his life.

~~~~~~~

Touching down in San Francisco has got to be the most surreal thing he’s ever done.

He’d never even left the Midwest before, his farthest ventures being into the three states surrounding his home state, so to be charted off to the west coast? It’s an experience alright.

Aunt Margaret is there waiting for him, her jet black permed hair a few inches above the rest, her brown eyes sparkling with the kindest smile he’s ever seen as she runs up to hug him.

She takes all of his bags, swatting his hands away when he tries to carry even one, and makes him sit in the car while she shoves it all into the trunk.

He wasn’t used to not being the help, since that’s all his parents ever really saw him as anyways, only valuable as their son if they got something out of the time they spent with him. It’s got him feeling weird the whole drive back to the Margos apartment, like he’s in some alternate reality where people are nice to him for a change.

She lives in one of those shared places, a duplex where the house is divided into two halves for two different renters, the very kind his mother would’ve turned her nose up at despite having been raised in one herself. Margaret told him there was a mother and son who lived in the other half, but they’re quiet enough, and polite.

Just pulling up outside of the house, Steve already knows it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

The house itself, painted a pale shade of peeling yellow and missing the majority of the shingles off of the roof, is actually a reasonable size, a direct contrast to the mansion he grew up in, fit for a dozen but occupied by one most days.

Brutal summer heat has dried up the lawn and the garden so they aren’t perfectly tailored, not trimmed by underpaid staff or watered by automatic sprinklers. All across it there’s a scattering of ornaments, like colorful pinwheels in the front garden, and plastic flamingos standing guard by the mailbox.

There’s even a rickety old fence, all mossy and broken up to mark the edges of their property, so different from the white vinyl fence in his backyard at his parents house.

It would seem too that the garage was only big enough for one car, not three like he was used to, and that the makeshift gravel driveway leading up to it was at max capacity with only his aunts Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais, and a dinged up old Karmann Ghia the same color as the house parked in it.

Basically, there were none of the telltale signs that a neglected rich boy lived there, and from that alone he already knew he belonged here.

His aunt hurries him into their section of the house, theirs is the right side, so he can get to resting off the jet lag before he starts unpacking, but he’s far too distracted taking everything in to worry about being a little drowsy.

The rooms are small and the ceilings are low. Where there would’ve been beige and white and other sophisticated tones, there was a rainbow of colors in Margos apartment, from the curtains to the carpet, the Afghan on the back of the couch to the little trinkets in the entertainment center and windowsills.

He notices that, to accommodate for the heavy summer heat, there was a fan spinning in the corner, and all the windows were left wide open. His parents had the windows painted shut back home.

It might’ve been overwhelming, being thrown into a place like this so suddenly, but in his heart he knows this was what he was made for: a cozy life with someone who treated him with the bare minimum of respect.

~~~~~~~

Eventually Steve does fall asleep, the switch from Eastern Standard to Pacific time just being too great for his body. He doesn’t really mean to, he thought he’d just lay down for a minute while he was putting his clothes away in his new dresser, but he ends up sleeping until it’s almost dark out.

He goes looking for Margo when he realizes the house is empty, an irrational pit of dread growing in his chest at the familiarity of being alone, and finds her out back.

The yard also seems to be shared with the other house, a wispy line of barely showing through grass separating the two where a divider had once been, but had since been ripped up.

His aunt is with another woman, a blonde lady who he assumed was from the next door apartment, were sitting in mismatched lawn chairs, cigarettes glowing as the sun got lower and lower in the sky.

Margaret beckons him over once she notices him, and shows him off to the woman. It’s not at all like his mother would’ve done it, none of the flaunting him to make a good impression. This is more like her wanting to introduce him because she genuinely cares.

In a way, it almost makes Steve more uneasy. He could handle all the fake stuff with only the slightest hint of discomfort at being gawked at, because most of the time he’d never have to see those people again, but this was astronomically different.

“Maria, this is my nephew Steve.” Deep blue eyes seem to take him in, accompanied by a polite smile that makes his stomach drop for no good reason.

He panics, shifts into the role of the perfect little socialite he’d been working on his whole life. Without thinking, he extends his hand for her to and produces the generic response his mother’d trained into him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms..”

She takes his hand, but looks a little surprised about doing it. “Hargrove. But we don’t have to do formalities.”

“Right.” It feels awkward to Steve, but judging from the laid back attitude of the women, it’s not a universal sentiment. That only makes it more embarrassing, to be the only one bothered by it.

His aunt leans back in her chair, tapping the ash of the end of her cigarette and tells him, “Go ahead and grab a chair Stevie.”

He straightens his back out and scans the yard, expecting a chair to already be propped open somewhere. The confusion must be apparent on his face when he finds nothing but grass and more grass, because his aunt specifies, “By the shed, kiddo.”

His parents always told him they weren’t allowed to have lawn furniture except the pool chairs cemented to the ground, because they said it didn’t fit the lifestyle they tried to lead. Even the concept of a shed would’ve been insulting to their tastes.

He's done enough growing up to know now that they were just afraid to look too much like they were people who lived in rural Indiana instead of in true big city luxury. They couldn’t risk seeming too much like they weren’t in the upper middle, it would be a disgrace.

The contrast between that and just sitting out there and not having his guard up is so, grounding. Not having anything at all to do but just, sit and appreciate instead of performing and worrying, it’s a lot to take in at once.

He was so nervous the whole way up, even though it was his aunt and he already knew she was nice, that they wouldn’t get along, since that’s the way things always were with his own mum, and lord knows he hardly ever even spoke to his father.

But it’s really not tense at all, actually, it’s sort of the opposite. For once in his life he feels free of expectations, and takes the moment to just exist. Ruthie and Stephen Sr. had long ago made sure that was a concept he could barely understand.

It’s not too long after that that the screen door to Maria’s side of the house swings open, scaring Steve so bad he almost tips his chair over as he startles.

There’s a boy who he’s guessing is about his age leaning out the door, but from the distance he’s at and with how dark it’s getting, Steve doesn’t see much else about him. “M back momma.”

“Okay baby.” The screen door clicks shut again in the next moment, and Maria offers Steve an apologetic smile “You’ve gotta excuse my Billy. He’s not too good with other kids.”

“No, it’s alright.” He assures her, like a polite social butterfly should.

Maria goes in a little while after that, and Margaret and Steve follow suit, since the sun’s almost all the way down.

But Steve’s curious now. He wants to know more about the boy, Billy, he thinks was what Maria called him. It’s only right to wonder, being that they’re neighbors now and all.

It gets brought up later that night, when they’re watching TV on the couch, a thrifted, feather stuffed thing he thought was simultaneously the most hideous and most comfortable thing he’d ever sat on.

“I didn’t know you had neighbors.” He’d been trying to work himself up to talking about it, sitting in the corner of the couch in a little ball and picking at his nails as he worked up his courage.

It was funny, being so nervous over casual conversation, but he guesses he could blame his parents for that one.

His own mum wouldn’t have even paid him any mind, at most pretending to listen while her eyes stayed trained to the television or magazine or coworker in front of her and hummed a non committal response, but Margo turns her whole body on the couch to face him while she answers him, with a complete sentence even. “Oh, people used to come and go all the time over there.”

“How long have they been here? Maria and her son?”

She thinks for a moment, a little surprised at her nephew's interest in the topic of their neighbors. “I don’t know, probably about a year or so now.”

“What’re they like?” He comes across as maybe a little too eager, and his aunt notices.

“What’s got you so curious?” There’s a teasing bit of reprimanding in her tone, just enough to suggest that she knows he’s being a nib-nose, but doesn’t mind it.

And he feels himself flush, because he is being nosy. To try to save face just a little, he comes up with an excuse that isn’t quite a lie. “Nothin’, just knew all my neighbors back in Hawkins, I guess.”

But she wasn’t upset with him, it wasn’t her intention to get him to shut up, like it would’ve been had he heard the same thing from one Ruthie Harrington, so she answers that question too. “I don’t know, they’re nice, sort of reserved, but I’ve never had any problems with them.”

~~~~~~

The two boys are properly introduced for the first time the next morning, when Steve goes out to fetch the mail for Margret. It feels like the least he can do for bumming off of his aunt.

Stepping out on the porch just shy of 8 in the morning and not seeing dewey grass, or the early sunshine muted behind rolling fog and dreary clouds is something he’s going to have to get used to.

Summers in Hawkins were always muggy, full of thunderstorms and unpredictably dreary days. San Francisco is so bright, so different, and such a relief.

While Steve basks in it, the already warm breeze and the sun shining bright, the neighbors’ door opens up and Billy comes out to do the same, standing on his tip-toes to reach up into the mailbox beside the door, holding a traveler's mug of coffee in the opposite hand.

When he turns around to go back inside, Steve, staying true to wanting to get to know the other boy better, has taken a few steps closer, and has extended a hand for Billy to shake, the same sort of introduction panic he’d felt last night.

But, Billy, seeing that his hands are a bit preoccupied by a stack of bills and a cup of coffee, just offers a sheepish smile.

Steve settles for a formal introduction without a handshake, though it’s still too stiff an interaction to really get to know him beyond the awkward new rich kid in town. “Hi. My name is Steve Harrington. I’m uh, I'm your new neighbor.”

“Pleasure to meet you Steve Harrington. M’Billy” They stand there, neither of them making any move to do anything but just look at one another. Billy clears his throat and shakes the coffee cup towards Steve, sensing that maybe this was the place for hospitality. “You want some? My momma always makes too much.”

“No thanks. I’m uh, allergic to coffee beans.”

“Huh.” He seems amused by that, scrunches his nose up like he doesn’t believe it, and Steve wants to curl up and disappear. “I’ll see you later then, Steve Harrington.”

He watches the other boy turn back to leave after that, and still sort of just stands there before his brain comes back on and he realizes he should say something in return. “Right, uh, bye.”

It’s just a moment's passing, but Steve can’t get the interaction out of his head.

He chalks it up to being nervous that his new neighbors won’t like him, the fear that Aunt Margo will send him back to his parents if he can’t get along here, and that makes logical sense, except, what he’s caught up on is Billy’s crooked smile, and his blond curls that lay just past his ears, messy from just waking up and bleached from the sun, and the spatter of dark freckles across his nose.

First full day in California and he has a crush on the neighbor kid. He can’t believe himself.

There isn’t very much time to mull that fact over though, because, over breakfast, what his aunt calls her ‘special occasion breakfast’ of cinnamon rolls with ice cream, she tells him she’s going to do some errands today.

And that’s alright, he tells her he’ll be fine all by himself, and he is, for the first few hours, but the more time she’s gone, the worse and worse he starts to feel. It’s that worry again, that deep rooted fear that he’ll be left alone forever.

Experience has taught him to try to calm himself down, to catch his breath and try to focus on the fact that he knows he’s being irrational, but those techniques don’t cut it, as they often don’t, and he’s sending himself further into a panic attack trying to think too hard about it

Sitting inside, he gets stir crazy, feels suffocated by everything that had before been inviting to him, so he goes for some fresh air out front. Watching the road for so long, just waiting for the Oldsmobile to pull up, he starts to feel antsy again, so he goes out back where it’s quiet instead.

There’s a glider on the porch back there, an old rusty thing that squeaked every time Steve rocked it forward or back, but the calming motion of it is probably the only thing keeping him from spiraling too far.

He doesn’t really know what time it is anymore, only that he’s hungry, and that the sun’s going down, and that he’s been sort of zoned out back there for a long while. He feels hot and cold at the same time, and he’s lost in his head.

The sound of a screen door gently tapping against the side of the house brings his eyes up from the spot on the ground he’d been staring at with tears in his eyes, but it isn’t his aunt Margaret coming home, it’s just Billy.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning against the wall between the back doors, he says real quiet like, “Momma told me to ask if you wanted some of the dinner she made.”

He shrugs. “I’m alright.”

“I figured.” Billy looks at the floor while he tries to figure out how he wants to approach this. For a long moment, neither of them say a word, no sound between them but distant field crickets, until Billy asks, his voice quiet enough it barely registers in Steve’s mind. “You okay?”

If he’s being entirely honest, Steve doesn’t really know if he’s okay. He trusted his aunt enough to move all the way across the country with her, and yet he can’t manage enough trust to believe her when she said she’d come home from some errands? Doesn’t sound too okay to him.

But he’s not in Hawkins, he’s away from the people he knows for sure wouldn’t be coming back for him unless it was to pull something like they had and treat him like garbage. So in a way, he guesses he’s better than ever.

Unable to think of any words that might convey what he’s thinking, Steve just shrugs again, but Billy seems to get it. He sits down next to Steve on the glider and plants his feet so it won’t move, and so Steve’s attention will be on him.

Knowing he’s got Steve’s focus, since he looks over at him with glossy eyes, Billy tries to reassure him, “Your aunt’s a good lady. She wouldn’t leave you.”

“Who said I thought she would?” It sounds pathetic, wet and stuffy with the remnants of tears he hadn’t known were falling, but there’s a vulnerability he couldn’t hide behind even the toughest of masks that reveals he isn’t being honest.

“The way you watched for her car said enough.” It makes Steve feel exposed, having a total stranger see right through him, but Billy explains himself. “When my momma went out looking for this place, I was sure I’d never see her again.”

“Why did you guys move here?” If he was going to psychoanalyze Steve, he felt it was only fair to ask Billy a pressing question back.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.” He deflects it back onto Steve in a way that might’ve seemed cocky, but it's obvious he’s just trying to avoid the question.

Steve won’t let him win this one though, maybe just to save his own ego, or pretend like he hadn’t been caught crying by someone he met that morning, or maybe it was just because he had asked first, but he wants Billy to answer, so he tells him, with the slightest hint of a bashful smile playing at his lips, “You first.”

“Stubborn.” He cracks a smile back though, and goes ahead and goes first at the other boys insistence. “My dad’s a real nasty s.o.b. Would get drunk and mean for no good reason, so momma took me and we high-tailed it before he did anything too drastic.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting, why he even felt like it was any of his business, and he doesn’t know what he should say to that.

For lack of a better response, he gives his own little life story summary. “My parents were rich. They didn’t want me, so they have the time of day for me. No matter what I did they punished me for it, grounded me, hit me, sent me to Christian school, until they just got sick of me, I guess.”

“That sounds pretty shitty.” Billy offered.

“Yeah, yours too.”

After a while, Billy, sounding for a moment like he’s a lot wiser than any 14 year old has the right to be, says “What matters is we’re here now.”

Steve feels so touched hearing that. It was so simple a thing for the other boy to say, but coming from Billy after he’d just shared what he did, it means a lot more than just basic condolences.

Hardly anybody had ever been that genuine in anything they said to him. Steve can hardly force a response out of his shocked mouth. As he looks over at Billy’s face, still turned up towards the sky, he sees all that meaning there illuminated by the stars, and he's able to mutter a breathless, “Yeah.” in response.

They both jump when the door flies open, and aunt Margo comes running over to Steve. Frantically she explains that she’d been trying to make sure everything was legal, only to find that some of Steve’s papers were missing, and they had to try to track them all down and get some of them faxed, and it ended up taking way longer than expected.

It feels nice to be understood. Just a few years ago his parents left for what was supposed to be a three day trip to Indianapolis, only they didn’t come back for what was almost two months. Once they were home they didn’t even mention it, just continued going about their business as usual until it was time to leave again. His aunt taking the effort to explain herself was already a vast improvement from that.

He lets her pull him into a big hug, accepts her apology as the air is squeezed out of his lungs, and when he pulls away from her, Billy’s gone.

~~~~~~~

Finish reading on ao3! You can find this posted under the same title by ej_writer or as part of the hwol collection over there! Sorry tumblrs word limits deemed this too long!

[whitherwhence]

Monstrous May Challenge, Day 6: The Lycanthrope 

Honey Bear

A werebear comes out of hibernation, the townsfolk welcome her back. Some clumsy flirting, and a little bit of soft manhandling (bearhandling?). wlw. 1428 words, somehow.

She always came down from the mountain just before mid-spring, after taking a few weeks or so to shake her winter sleep off her bones and bulk back up a little. You couldn’t miss her as she strode through town, she was tall and broad, brawny and thick as hell, friendly with literally everyone she passed, and her laugh could be heard from a block away.

Her name was Rebecca, or maybe it was Rhiannon, something with an R — but all anyone ever called her was Bear. An unoriginal nickname for a werebear, sure, but fitting. Everything about Bear seemed big; her voice, her appetite, her arms, oh god, her arms, and she took up SPACE wherever she went. She was the only one of her kind in this part of the country, and the humans of the small town she called home for most of the year were grateful for it. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, she was very well loved and respected in the community. It’s that werebears could be a bit territorial, or so it was generally believed.

Madeline couldn’t wait to see her. This spring, she would make her move. She would! She was definitely going to do it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Ugh. How is anyone good at this? Alright. It��s cool, be cool. She would come up with something clever to say, and Bear would laugh, and then she would ask Bear to… hang out or something? Yeah. Probably. Super good plan. 

The unanimously favored queer club/tavern/bar was an absolute dive, nearly all of the bars downtown were, but it was the one everyone flocked to once winter had thawed because it had a big, comfortable patio space out back. It was also the one Bear frequented the most.

Madeline got a beer at the bar, and then made her way through the cool, dark, dingy, arcade-like interior, and through the back door to the shaded patio. Bear was on the deep bench built into the long back fence, and she was surrounded by a cluster of friends and neighbors, all chatting and laughing. It looked almost like she was holding court, if court was a group of townsfolk and a wooden table littered with half-full drinks, bar snacks, greeting cards, and small gifts — this was typical for the time of year, because everyone treated the first week of Bear’s return like it was her birthday.

“MADDIE!” a few would-be courtiers shouted out cheerfully, and someone conjured one of the well-used plastic chairs with battered metal legs for her to join them. She’d dressed carefully, it looked like everyone had, and it was so good to see them all showing off a little in the filtered afternoon sunlight.

After getting settled and saying hellos, Madeline dug her little gift out of her bag and set it on the table. “Hey, Bear,” she said, getting the woman’s attention, “I brought you something.” It was a jar of dark, rich, wildflower honey from her neighbor’s fall harvest. He always set aside a few jars for her, and this batch had been too good to keep to herself. She turned on her best wide-eyed, exaggeratedly innocent expression and aimed it at the werebear. “Bears do like honey, right?”

Thankfully, Bear laughed big and wonderful, and it sent blooming warmth from Madeline’s chest to her toes. “Well, this one does,” Bear said good-naturedly. She picked up the jar, tipped it, and watched the air bubble move down the side. She smiled at it and said, “Thanks, Maddie. Very kind of you, looks real good.” She looked back up at Madeline, and her smile softened into something really sweet. They just sat there for a moment, smiling and blinking softly at each other like a couple of goofballs. So, this was going well.

These springtime afternoons were always the nicest time to catch up with everyone. It was late enough in the day to get some good gossip, and too early for anyone to be out on the lash. The day slipped into golden early evening, Madeline switched to water, and the group filtered down to just a few friends. It got warm enough that she took off her leather jacket, and at some point Bear had rolled her sleeves up to the elbow. Those forearms. Madeline had to keep reminding herself not to sneak too many looks over at Bear, while she despaired over how to work up her courage to… what, ask her out? Seriously, why did it have to be so excruciating? But the thing was, as much as Bear caught her looking, she caught Bear looking back.

Okay, you know what? It was getting actually late now, and Madeline was starting to think maybe another day would be better. Bear had just gotten back, after all. They ran into each other all the time, no big deal. She’d just ask her all casual like, without all this build-up, yeah, that would be better, less pressure, good idea, okay, time to—

“Hey, Maddie,” Bear interrupted her spiral, thank fuck. “Help a gal out. It’s been months since I had a good look at you.” She leaned down, then grabbed one of Madeline’s chair legs and yanked, dragging it across the concrete a few feet. Suddenly they were very close, Madeline’s right knee and calf flush with Bear’s left. Bear inhaled deeply. “There, that’s better.”

“Whoa, haha,” Madeline uttered shakily. Had she just said ‘haha’ aloud? What the fuck. She blushed hard and tried harder to regain her composure. “Wait— did you just smell me?”

Bear laughed low and warm, and snuck an arm around Madeline’s shoulders. “Yeah, is that okay?” she asked, and then more seriously, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah. This is okay.” She meant it, obviously. This was amazing. Madeline was tall in her own right, or at least taller than most women she knew, but she felt tiny next to Bear. This was the closest they’d ever been to each other, and holy hell was it awesome.

“You smell nice, by the way,” Bear said, amused but sincere.

“Well, thanks? Must be my shampoo.”

Bear leaned in to get another sniff and pitched her voice down. “Mmm. Must be,” she rumbled directly into Madeline’s ear.

Because she was really going for it now, and because a hot butch woman was talking low into her ear, for fuck’s sake, Madeline shivered. But they were careening towards a cliche back and forth, and Madeline didn’t want to play. “So, this is the part where you say ‘You cold, baby? You’re trembling. How about you sit next to me here on the bench, and I’ll keep you warm.’ And I say ‘Oh thank you, Bear, you’re so big and strong’ for some reason and then I blink at you all coquettishly. Let’s skip it. Scoot over.”

There was literally no reason for Bear to scoot anywhere, as there was plenty of room next to her, but she did it anyway. “You don’t think I’m big and strong? You wound me, Maddie.”

Madeline snickered as she pressed her side into Bear’s, getting comfortable. “Of course I do, but you don’t need anyone to tell you.” Bear’s hand settled on her waist. It felt so good to be this close to her, to snuggle in her arms — well, one of her arms, rather.  

“You know— oh, dammit,” Maddie faltered and looked down at her hands to gather herself. It’s cool, this is fine. It is. Time to be brave. She looked back up at Bear. “You know. You gotta know that I like you, right? Because I do.”

Bear was looking at her softly, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “You do, huh?” Her hand slipped down to Madeline’s hip and she started to knead the sensitive flesh there. “That’s lucky, because I like you too. Have for a long while.”

“But I’m not fast,” Madeline blurted. Bear’s hand froze on her hip. “I don’t know if I can jump in with both feet right away, Bear. You gotta give me a little time.” She took a beat to slow herself down. She could do this. “But, um. Can I take you to dinner?” She prayed to whatever deity that she had this right, that this is how people fucking talk to each other.

Bear grinned delightedly as she slid her hand back to Madeline’s waist, and squeezed her in a reassuring half-hug. “That sounds good to me, honey,” she said. “Just tell me when.”

~~~

—————

HOW LONG IS A LONG WHILE, BEAR. TELL US. Whew, this one fought me! And then it kept getting longer! Why!!! I just wanted to write a big ol’ butch wlw werebear and write another wlw who wants to snuggle with her 😭  Do you ever feel like you know where a story starts and where it ends, but the rest of it has to be fuckin’ wrestled out of your brain? I’m pretty sure I know what was going on, which is good, like, at least in the long run. Ah well, the important thing is that it’s done and I can release it to the wild. Right? Haha right, guys? Anyway. The two challenge days I’ve done so far have been heavy on the anxious, obvious long-time crush, so, I reckon something different for the next few. ANYWAY. <3

[peglarpapers]

Sarah Steel, harried and distracted and dragging both her feet and her children, drops Benzaiten Steel at his first dance lesson when he is three and a half years old and forgets to pick him up for two hours afterwards. Juno is there too, of course, but since he bruises his knee partway through and spends most of his time sitting against the wall sniffling Ben counts the dance lesson only as his. He furrows his brow and copies the teacher’s moves as well as his little limbs can and, for once, doesn’t fidget or yell or get into any mischief at all. He’s just as well-behaved when the worried receptionist tasked with minding the twins when their mother doesn’t arrive at the end of the forty-minute lesson sits them both down, wedged in the corner of the mirrored walls of the ballet studio, as she makes call after unanswered call to Sarah Steel’s comms. When Juno tries, time and again, to get up and explore the old studio building to hunt for ghosts or check for secret passages, Ben tugs him back down by his right hand with a breathless ‘watch, Juno’.

 Because the dancers in front of him are magic.

They must be, Benzaiten reasons, because even though they’re much more grown-up then he and Juno are he’s never seen any adults do things like this before. There is a boy who jumps so high that Ben has to crane his neck to watch from where he sits cross-legged, and a girl who swings another dancer over her head like he weighs nothing. Another girl throws her leg out and spins so many times that even Ben, who can count to fifteen which is five higher than Juno can, makes himself dizzy trying to count. When Sarah Steel arrives, heels clicking angrily on the polished hardwood floors of the foyer, yelling at the receptionist to fucking call her next time, she was working, how was she supposed to know the lesson was so fucking short, Ben lingers in the doorway to the ballet studio even as Juno throws his arm around their mother’s legs and squeezes tight, watching the magicians dance.

Sarah was entirely ready to badmouth the Halcyon Ballet Academy for the rest of her life and spend a few more creds on her rotating cast of babysitters, but after a stream of excited babbling from Ben and pestering from Juno after Ben promises to give him sole custody of the next toy their mother brings home, she keeps up paying for lessons, and is usually only late by twenty minutes or so remembering to collect them. Benzaiten cherishes those once-a-week lessons, and while Juno steals snacks out of the other kids’ bags and on one memorable occasion floods the bathrooms after trying to see how hard he can kick the water cooler, Ben mouths the names of the moves the instructor shows them and tries to copy the twirls and tiptoes of the older students without falling over too many times. The nice receptionist learns to tell the twins apart almost every time and calls him ‘Benten’ affectionately when she ruffles his hair.

 When Ben runs out of Sarah Steel’s office and to the safest place he can think of, it is the nice receptionist who finds him crying on the doorstep of the studio and brings him home, hand in hand.

 They move to Oldtown a few weeks later, and he never sees her, or Halcyon Dance Studio, again.

~~~

 After Sarah gets… bad, the Steel twins very quickly realise that if they want things other than bare essentials (and sometimes those, too, depending on the month) they’re going to have to get them themselves. For Juno, this means shoplifting Andromeda dolls from Oldtown’s one tiny, well-defended toy store (he gives Ben a Draco figurine for their eighth birthday, with the roaring voice box removed so it wouldn’t bother Sarah) and getting paid pocket change after starting a lunchtime fight club with Mick Mercury. For Benzaiten, it means developing the galaxy’s best smile, and it is while flashing this charming, lopsided grin to a very nice elderly couple as he slips his hand into their pockets methodically in search of interesting things to pilfer that he hears the music.

 Benten hasn’t heard music like this in a long time- the only songs he knows by heart are the ones he hears in commercials running on their fuzzy monitor at home- and it surprises him enough that he jerks abruptly away from the old man bending down to pinch his cheek, the creds clutched in his fist spilling out of his fingers and clattering loudly on the slick street. Before the very nice elderly couple can realise that the earnest little boy asking if they’d seen his mother was robbing them blind, Ben is running in the direction of the music.

 He’s not in Oldtown anymore- he’d snuck on a bus this morning and gone a district over to Stitch, slightly less decrepit and with slightly more to steal. The downside to his master plan to collect all the riches Hyperion City had to offer was that he didn’t actually know where he was going. This fact hit him three unfamiliar blocks away from the scene of his near-perfect crime, and dissolved instantly the second he saw the dancers.

 Benzaiten remembered vaguely that his long-ago dance lessons had been in ballet- some kind of old-Earth style, graceful and smooth and set to strange, ancient music. Whatever these dancers are doing, it’s not that- there’s an old comms hooked up to a speaker on the sidewalk blasting a neopop song so loudly Ben can feel it pounding in the tips of his fingers, and somebody’s battered cap lying haphazardly in front of it with a small pool of creds inside. It’s a far cry from bright lights and waxed floors, but he’s no less entranced by the six- no, seven- teenagers who slide and spin and one of them bends all the way backwards and flips back up again he thought they could only do that in movies- and suddenly, as usual when anything fun starts happening, the cops arrive.

 Out of habit borne of bearing witness to many a fight (especially those started by his twin) Benten slips into the closest nook he can find- a narrow, sticky alleyway, which exist everywhere in Hyperion City no matter how nice the district is- and peeks out silently as a gangly HCPD officer waves a blaster after the laughing group of dancers, who have packed up and run quickly enough that this can’t be their first run-in with the cops. Ben waits, back against the damp wall, until the angry yells fade, then dashes in the direction of the faint, still-playing music.

 These dancers have a studio too.

 Ben almost didn’t expect it, not with how at home they all seemed to be on their stage of scuffed shoes and chewing-gum pavement. But there it is- an old warehouse, with grubby carbon-fibre walls and a section of the roof covered by cheap blue tarps. He watches as the teenagers scurry in, whooping and laughing and elbowing each other, music changed now to something quieter but no less energetic, and makes a very big decision very quickly. He memorises the street names on either side of the corner the studio is on, takes a deep breath, and turns to find the closest bus station.

 Three weeks later, Benzaiten Steel stands at the open door of Stitch Dance Studios with resolve burning in his small face and weight bulging in his small pockets. When he marches inside, his footsteps echo with a vigour that can only be conjured by a very determined nine-year-old with a very big dream. He scans the room for an appropriate judge to whom he can plead his case, and finds one in the single biggest person he had ever seen sitting at a table, staring straight at him. Ben reaches into his pockets, and the resulting clatter of cash against the plastic of the desk is almost deafening- all four hundred and nineteen creds that Ben and Juno were able to scrounge from odd jobs and odd thefts and one nerve-wracking heist of Sarah Steel’s wallet after payday.

 Benzaiten flashes the person at the desk the galaxy’s best smile, and asks for however many lessons four hundred and nineteen creds will buy him.

 ~~~

 There is a run-down building in the heart of Oldtown.

 Actually, there are many, many run-down buildings in the centre, middle and outskirts of Oldtown, but none of those buildings matter to Benten because none of those buildings are going to be the Steel School of Dance like this one is.

 He has a vision. He’s going to buy the place off the city, renovate it within an inch of its life, hang all the awards its students are going to win along the wall of the lobby right next to the enormous trophy cases they’re going to need, stud the walls of every studio with speakers blasting every kind of music you can think of, hang polished mirrors from floor to ceiling and install barres made from real Earth wood. Then after he’s made a fortune and revolutionised the Solar system’s conceptions of what it means to be a dancer, he’s going to buy Mom a house and a therapist back in Halcyon Park and Juno a commissioner’s position in the HCPD and nobody will never have to deal with any bullshit ever again.

 Benten knows all of this for sure, because he’s already halfway there. He’s close to what he needs for a lease on the place, and if he cuts back on groceries just a little more he should be able to start cleaning it up properly in a year or two. Staying with Mom had not been… fantastic, but it had kept him from paying exorbitant rent and, more importantly, kept him close to Stitch and to teaching to pay off his own classes. Teaching, working, odd jobs, the occasional minor felony… they added up. He was tired, but they were adding up.

 God, he was tired.

 As soon as he found the energy to stand up, to climb down from the roof of the dilapidated building that would become the Steel School of Dance, to go home and try not to snap at Sarah for one more night, he would get back to work. But right now? Benzaiten Steel watches the reddish Martian sunset, dimmed behind the pearlescent sheen of the dome that protects Hyperion City, and allows himself to dream for a little longer. 

[archetypal-archivist]

Sky’s Limit- Hermitcraft- Worldbuilding

Heyo! This was the product of a plot bunny I got while watching the newest animated music video by Porter Robinson, and it features pretty much all the hermits. Long into the distant future, there is a city of gleaming white and technological marvels. Electricity is entirely clean, its people are always happy, and life- as it has always done- goes on. However, for all it seems like a utopia, there is one facet that may seem out of place. The city is truly, utterly silent. Sure, there are voices and happy chatter, laughter on street corners and children running in the streets. But there is no hum, no electric buzz that most crafters of the past would have been familiar with. There is no redstone. For indeed, the red dust is entirely illegal and those who work with it are relegated to the city’s dark underbelly. And not all of them are happy to be there. It is in this city, the city of Sky’s Limit, that I have dropped our hermits. Time will tell what happens next.

----

A story in which the world has been… purified. Think skyblock, portrayed as a world of natural wonder, soft angles and high rises that scrape the clouds above, all in shimmering shades of pearlescent white. The only noise is the rushing of the wind through the grass far, far below and the distant echo of passing conversation and laughter. There are no cars, no chatter of coms, no hissing creepers or vroomping, thieving endermen. Just peace. And sometimes, if you listen carefully enough, the flapping of wings as the most blessed of the city’s inhabitants fly  overhead, the celebrity darlings and envy of everyone below. For some of the hermits, life is good. Bdubs, Xisuma, Grian, and Jevin are all upper nobility. Xisuma and Grian are some of the lucky few with wings (bee and bird respectively for X and G), while Jevin is blessed simply for being sky blue and transparent- and a being so like the sky must surely be worthy of high ranking. Surely. Xisuma is an administrator of the city, one of those who keep track of the nitty-gritty bits, like how much food each sector goes through a month, the efficiency of the watering systems in the fields, etc. Grian is just a straight up celebrity darling, beloved by the people for his pranks and personality. Late at night, he runs a TV talk show. Jevin has a seat on the city governance, one of thirteen “elected” chancellors. Bdubs is another chancellor, low-key the one in charge, as it was his idea to create a city of white, one that ran on clean energy and lawfulness, who drew up the first blueprint and built much of the city himself. It’s said that there’s no corner of it he isn’t aware of, no part that he didn’t have a hand in designing. While this isn’t quite the case, one thing is certain- BDubs certainly has “designs” and they are very grand indeed. After these hermits fall the ones who are upper to middle class. Stress is a well-trusted doctor in the city’s finest hospital. She believes in the system that saved her life so long ago with all her heart and does her best to keep the city and its people running as best as they possibly can. Compassion and lawful goodness fall into the same boat for Stress, which can sometimes end poorly for criminals who go to her for medical care, thinking that surely a doctor as kind as Stress would never turn away someone, even if they have broken the law. What they forget is that becoming a doctor takes a spine of steel, and Stress has gone one step above the rest- she has a spine of chrome, and she will do what she must to keep her city running strong. (Incidentally, that chrome spine of hers? Not hyperbole, an “accident” at 6 made sure of that.) Vintagebeef runs a butcher shop and is mid to low ranking. He serves the best sandwiches in the city, as attested to by his best customers, Rendog and Falsesymmetry. Rendog is a happy go lucky reporter who spends equal time chasing skirts as he does chasing his next scoop. False is a beat cop, one of the best, and she’s gone viral at least once for dumping criminals who think that just because she's a girl that means she can’t fight. She’s particularly embarrassed (and a bit proud) of the video of her literally picking up a criminal and dumping him the nearest trash chute. Welsknight, the unfortunate garbage man, was quite unhappy to have to remove the criminal from the chute, as for all of False’s strength, she wasn’t quite strong enough to pry the man loose again. He now low-key follows False around to clean up all of her messes as while the media at large is quite fond of her feats, the local infrastructure isn’t.  Somehow, he always ends up at the right place at the right time. Scar is a bit down on his luck, but overall is doing pretty well for himself. He’s one of the architects for the city, was in fact famous for a time for creating a specific style of sheer white skyscraper that allowed for more solar panels to be placed along its side. However, 2 years later and people are starting to realize that for some reason, his buildings aren’t as efficient as they ought to be and his designs have since fallen out of favor. Rendog had taken great joy running his name through the muck, unfortunately, as a man’s got to eat and for all the Scar is a nice guy, a renowned architect falling from grace makes for quite the scoop. The two don’t like each other much, but they’ve actually seen each other’s faces. Anyway, Scar has been living off of his savings, hoping that someone up top would care enough about him to fix the issue and find out what went wrong. After 2 years of nothing, however, he has realized that if he ever wants to figure out the mystery of his buildings’ lack of efficiency, he’ll need to find out himself. Little does he know, Keralis, the architect that replaced him, has been doing quite well for himself and the last thing he wants is to lose his position to the guy he had replaced. While a generally nice guy, Keralis has had a taste of the high life and now there’s no going back. He knows what Scar is up to, and is quite… invested in keeping the status quo. No. Matter. What. Joe Hills runs a bookstore. A completely normal bookstore. Yes, really officer, I promise. Just like how XB, his best friend and right hand man, employee of the month, every month, is entirely average in every way and has never done anything wrong in his life, ever. There is one more among the hermits who has wings- Etho. Or rather, had. Etho had his wings cut off for undisclosed crimes against the city and now works in a toy shop on the outskirts of town. He’s thoroughly mysterious and always looks tired, but his toys and trinkets business does surprisingly well and he always seems happy, behind that mask of his. The only hint that this isn’t quite the case is the tightness around his eyes. A secret? When they told him that the pain would never stop, that awful night when they burnt his wings off? He didn’t believe them. (Oh god, the way it smelled.) He really, really should have. 

You’ve heard about the shining white walls, the perfect healthcare, the love the people hold for the city and the rigor with which they defend it. The quiet, the peace, the wonderful golden silence found in its streets and reflecting from its windows. Even the light seems quieter there. If you’re smart, you may have picked up that something isn’t quite right with the city, that 2/3s of our cast seems to be missing. You’d be right, almost. Mumbo, Cub. Cleo? They aren’t missing- they’re hiding. And they have very good reason to do so. 

The city’s name is Sky’s Limit, and it is built on a foundation of marble and hard, cold law. It is a city of white… and black. And lurking in its shadows are all those that do not belong, those whose colors do not fit, those who can’t afford the brilliant marble towers or the plastic smiles popularized by the rich and famous. It is a city choked into silence by its secrets and one thing it cannot abide is the humming electric whine of redstone. And those who practice it are criminals in the eyes of the law, to be persecuted to its fullest extent and often, even beyond. Even to the grave, if needs must or the council orders such. And BDubs is so very, very fond of his restful, quiet beauty sleep. Not everyone agrees with these laws however, and brewing in the black, sunless shadows of the city’s underbelly are those determined to see the city shine red. Zedaph is the closest to legal of the underground hermits- he has to be when he has two more mouths to feed, Tango and Impulse. Although the latter two are redstone geniuses and do well in making food stretch and and make their ramshackle rented apartment livable, it is Zedaph alone who  fake any marketable skills. While Impulse and Tango do their best to keep the lights on and use redstone wiring to steal power from the city’s solar- and wind-powered electrical grid, Zedaph peddles the doodads and toys he makes to the poorest children of the city. Many of them still contain some measure of redstone, as it's nigh-impossible to ignore its thrumming call entirely if you are born to do the stuff, but his target audience is usually too young, too uneducated, and too scared of the law to recognize it or say anything about it. And if a bit of redstone Impulse or Tango put together can help someone make it another day, and Zedaph can make it look passably legal? Well, some of the poorest housewives and mothers can look the other way The trio are happy together, but making ends meet is hard and with summer coming, resources are soon to be harder to get than ever. (A city of light and pure white? Things start to heat up fast, and water becomes more precious than ever. And with summer coming, it means less water gathering in puddles and drain pipes in the city, and thus less water for the underground redstoners and hybrids to tap into.) Little does Zedaph know, however, he’s caught the attention of another toymaker in the city. In addition to this, Tango is getting restless, frustrated with the trio’s lot in life. Even under normal circumstances he can’t sit still, and being cooped up inside all the time because his glowing red eyes give him away as being both a hybrid and really in tune with redstone? It sucks. A lot. Impulse tries to keep his buddy distracted, but there’s only so much he can do, and now, Tango has been disappearing at odd hours, frequently when he and Zedaph are trying to sleep, and coming back with an odd look in his eyes. Just a few days ago he had found the remains of a charred pamphlet in their dumpster out back. Something is coming to head, and Impulse isn’t sure he’s going to like the outcome. Not that he’d ever mention the mounting tension to Zedaph, of course. His buddy has enough to worry about. ZombieCleo… runs a speakeasy/burlesque show underneath Joe’s bookstore. She has his full approval of course, and they’re fast friends under the merits of he’s one of the only decent men she’s ever met. It helps that he’s hardcore aro-ace and has no interest in her or her girls. Cleo, being a zombie hybrid, knows all too well about the tough life being a hybrid is and how it can make people turn to awful things just to make ends meet. She knows that doing sex work is the last thing her girls want to be doing, not that they have a choice, and she does her best to do right by them. She protects her workers viciously, and if any of her patrons try to treat her girls too roughly, or try to skip out on payment? Well, being a hybrid comes with a few perks and a nice pair of teeth and nails is all part of the package. Coincidentally, Joe is awfully good at hiding a body. Doc is perhaps the most down on his luck of the hermits. As both a redstoner and an obvious hybrid, he can’t find work, he can’t find anyone willing to rent to him, he can barely even find food enough to eat. He’s resorted to petty theft and squatting, and if it wasn’t for his ruthless determination that this city would not be the death of him, he would have laid down and given up long ago. Not even the occasional rendezvous with the local garbage cans is enough to deter him (courtesy of the local beat cop. That woman has no right to be as strong as she is). It’s on one such day, trying to pry himself out of yet another trashcan far too small for him, that Doc finally gets his lucky break. The old man to whom the trashcan belongs to comes out, hoping to dispose of his waste for evening, and instead finds the creeper hybrid there, cursing up a storm and angry enough to kill. The sight would almost be threatening to TFC if, you know, he hadn’t seen worse and the hybrid in question looked like he hadn’t had a good meal for years. TFC invites Doc inside after helping to pry him loose, and Doc, while suspicious, accepts. TFC low key makes Doc move in with him and treats the man well, seeing as the poor hybrid reacts to every little thing as if he had never seen kindness. TFC also begins to tell stories to Doc about the time before the city was built, before redstone was outlawed and hybrids were looked down upon as lesser beings. And Doc, utterly enchanted by the concept, begins to have… ideas. Iskall was in the same position as Doc for a while, but they too get their lucky break. They get picked up by Mumbo Jumbo and is introduced to the Cotillion, the rebel group who are out to shake the city to its very foundations and bring about an age of redstone dominance. Mumbo and the hundreds of people under him plan on breaking the social order and instating redstoners and hybrids as the top dogs, and Iskall finds themself shocked that the rebels seem to have the organization and resources to actually do it. Mumbo is witty and charismatic, seemingly always having a plan and a silver-tongued speech to go with it. He also installs Iskall as second in command, much to their shock. Time will tell if the Cotillion is going to succeed. Cub is living in one of Scar’s buildings, along with many other redstoners. Just... Not entirely legally.

This is pretty much the end of the world-building section, I’ll come out with a post on the general plot as soon as I can. TBC :)

[itsclydebitches]

Is buying the new Harry Potter game supporting transphobes because I've been seeing a lot of that on twitter? Not playing it. Pirating is fine, but actually paying for it.

Hi, anon!

I’ve seen a lot of the same and had initially thought to post my thoughts on the issue… before I got a very angry ask condemning me for a post where I admitted that I thought the game looked great and was excited to play it. I can no longer link to that post because I deleted it: a late night, impulsive decision made in an effort to try and protect myself from further flaming. Thus, I considered ignoring this ask under the same justification… before realizing that it might not matter in the long run. The Harry Potter: Legacy trailer has been out for just a few days and already I have gotten that furious ask, been told off by a friend for mentioning the trailer, and was questioned (antagonistically) about why I had added a Harry Potter related book to my Goodreads list. They’re small and potentially coincidental anecdotes, but it feels as if any engagement with Harry Potter is slowly coming under scrutiny, not just the (supposed—more on that below) crime of purchasing the new game. Given that I will always engage with Harry Potter related media, if there’s any chance such subtle criticism will continue regardless of whether I make the “right” choice to boycott the game or not, I might as well explain my position. Especially for someone who asked politely! Thanks for that 💜. 

Which leads to the disclaimer: Any anon hate will be unceremoniously deleted. This is a complicated issue and I intend to write about it as such. I ask that any readers go into this post with good faith and a willingness to acknowledge that this situation isn’t as black and white as they may prefer it to be. If that’s not something you can emotionally handle—which is 100% fine. Some subjects we’re simply not inclined to debate—or if you’re just looking to get in a cheap shot, please hit the back button.

Right. Introduction done. Now here’s the tl;dr: saying things like “Buying this game is inherently selfish/transphobic” isn’t the hot take people want it to be. Is boycotting Legacy one (very small—we’ll get to that too) way of showing support for the trans community? Yes. Is buying the game proof that you’re a selfish transphobe?  No. This isn’t a bad SAT question. Legacy boycotters are to trans supporters as Legacy buyers are to  ___? The argument that someone is selfish for buying the game is basically that you are choosing a non-essential video game over the respect and lives of trans individuals, but the logic breaks down when we acknowledge that purchasing a game has no real life impact on a trans individual’s safety, support, etc.   

“But Clyde, you’re giving Rowling money. She is then using that money to support anti-trans organizations. Thus, you have actively put more harm into the world.” Have I? I’m not going to get into whether/how much/what kind of money Rowling is receiving from this project because the fact is we don’t know and we’ll likely never know. Suffice to say, she probably will get some portion of any $60/$70 purchase. The real question is whether those sales have any meaningful impact. Reputable information on Rowling’s net worth is hard to come by, but it seems to be somewhere between 600 million and 1 billion pounds. Or, to put it another way: a fuck ton. And money keeps rolling in from a franchise that is so, so much bigger than a single video game. It literally doesn’t matter how much money you might put in her pocket via Legacy because she’s already so goddamn rich she can do whatever she wants. If Rowling wants to give a million dollars to the heinous “charity” of her choice, she can. She will. You are not directly contributing to this horror because that money may as well already exist. Every person in the world could refuse to buy this game and she’d shrug, going about her disgusting life because it literally does not affect her in any meaningful way. You’re refusing to give the murderer a knife when they’re got direct access to a knife-making factory. Horrible as it is to hear, you can’t stop them from doing something horrific with that tool. 

For me, this is the straw argument of the Harry Potter world. Not straw as in strawman, but literally straws. Remember how everyone was talking about plastic straws, swore off them, and subsequently deemed anyone who still used one to be selfish people who didn’t care about the environment? It didn’t matter if you had a certified “good” reason for using one (disability) or a “selfish” reason (carrying straws everywhere on the off chance you wanted a drink is a pain in the ass)—you’re a horrible person who wants the planet to die. Same deal here. If you can swear off straws, great! Do what tiny bit of good you can. But if you can’t or even don’t want to give them up, the reality is that your “selfishness” doesn’t make a significant difference in the world. The amount of plastic corporations are pouring into the ocean makes your actions inconsequential. It’s not like voting where every small, individual act adds up to a significant total. This is your lack up against others’ staggering abundance. It’s not adding a few drops of water until you have a full bucket, it’s trying to un-flood the boat with a teaspoon while someone else is spraying it with the hose. Have you, on the most technical level, made a difference by moving that teaspoon of water out of the boat? Yes. Is it a difference that holds any meaning in regards to the desired outcome? Not really. Now apply all that to Rowling. She is so phenomenally wealthy—with additional wealth coming in every day—that your purchase of Legacy is a teaspoon of water in her ocean of funds. It’s inconsequential.

“But Clyde, buying this game would support her and supporting her sends the message that what she believes is okay.” Exact same argument as above. JKR’s fame is so astronomical that no video-game boycott could ever make a dent in it. For every 100 people who swear off her work there are another 1,000 who continue to engage with both her writing and the writing related to her world because she is that prominent. Harry Potter is one of the largest franchises of all time, second only to things like Pokémon and Star Wars. This isn’t some indie creator who you can ignore into silence. The reality is that Rowling is here to stay and we have to take far more substantial acts to counteract that influence. 

Even more importantly, buying the game is not evidence that you support her views and the black and white belief that it does is an easy distraction from those harder “How do we improve the lives of trans people?” questions. I started compiling a list of stories with problematic authors only to realize the number of incredibly popular texts with awful histories attached to them unnecessarily increased the length of an already long post. Everything from Game of Thrones to Dr. Seuss—if you love it, chances are one of the authors involved has a history of misogyny, racism, homophobia, etc. Which I don’t say as a way of excusing these authors, nor as a way to silence the justified and necessary call outs on their work. Rather, I bring this up to acknowledge that engaging with these stories cannot be concrete evidence for how you view the minority group in question. The reasons for consuming these stories are incalculable and at the end of the day no one needs a “correct” reason for that consumption (my teacher forced me to read the racist book, I only watched the homophobic TV show so I could call out how horrible it was, etc.) If fiction were an indicator of our real life beliefs we’d all be the most horrifying creatures imaginable. I may be severely uncomfortable with the queer baiting in Supernatural, but if a friend says they bought the DVD collection my response is not, “How dare you support those creators. You’re homophobic.” In the same way, someone purchasing Legacy should not generate the response, “How dare you support her. You’re transphobic.” There’s a miles’ worth of pitfalls in connecting the statements “You purchased a game based on the world created by a transphobic author” and “You yourself are transphobic.” 

So if buying Legacy does not add additional harm to the trans community from a financial perspective, and it doesn’t make a dent in Rowling’s platform, and playing a game is not evidence of your feelings towards the group the author hates… what are we left with? “But Clyde, it’s the principal of the thing. I don’t want to support a TERF” and that is an excellent argument. Your morals. Your ethics. What you can stomach having done or not done. But the “your” is incredibly important there. People need to understand that this is their own line in the sand and that if someone else’s line is different, that doesn’t mean they’re automatically a worse person than you. For example, I have made the choice not to eat at Chick-Fil-A. Not because I believe that me not giving them $3.75 for a sandwich will make a difference in their influence on the world, but because it makes a difference to me. It helps me sleep at night. So if not purchasing Legacy helps you sleep at night? That’s a fantastic reason not to buy it. But the flipside is that if someone else does purchase it that is not a reliable reflection of their morals, no more than I think my friends are homophobic for grabbing lunch at Chick-Fil-A now and then. Sometimes you just want a sandwich. 

“But Clyde, why would you want to buy it? Rowling is such a shit-stain I don’t understand how anyone can stomach supporting her—whether that support has an impact or not. Maybe someone eats at Chick-Fil-A because it’s close to them and they’re too busy to go elsewhere, or it’s all they can afford, or they don’t know how homophobic they are. There are lots of reasons to explain something like that. But you’re not ignorant to Rowling’s problem and there’s no scenario where you have to play this game, let alone spend money on it. So why?”

The reality is that I will likely be buying Legacy, second-hand if I can, but new if it comes to that, so I’ll give some of my personal answers here, in descending order of presumed selfishness:

5. Part of my work involves studying video games/Harry Potter and as a researcher of popular culture, my career depends on keeping up with major releases: good and bad. I often engage with stories I wholeheartedly disagree with for academic purposes, like Fifty Shades of Gray.

4. I find the “Just pirate it!” solution to be flawed. I’ve spent the last four months struggling to get my laptop fixed and I currently have no income to buy another if it were to suddenly develop a larger problem. I am not going to risk my $2,000 lifeline on an illegal download, no matter how safe and easy the Internet insists it is. 

3. We’ve been told that Rowling has not been involved in Legacy in any significant manner and I do want to support Portkey. No, not just financially because I know many others have insisted that everyone good has already been paid. Game companies still need to sell games. That’s why they exist. There’s a possibility that a company with just two mobile games under its belt will be in trouble if this completely flops. Is my purchase going to make or break things? No. Same reality as whether it will put new, influential money in Rowling’s pocket to do horrific things with. But I’d like to help a company that looks as if they put a lot of heart and energy into a game only to get hit with some real shit circumstances outside of their control. Even if they’re not impacted financially or career-wise… art is meant to be consumed. I know if I wrote a Harry Potter fic and everyone boycotted it because they want nothing to do with Rowling anymore, I’d be devastated. Sometimes, you can’t separate supporting the good people from supporting the bad. Not in a media landscape where thousands of people are involved in singular projects.

2. I’m invested in reclaiming excellent works created by horrible authors. That’s fandom! We don’t know much about Legacy yet—this is pure, unsubstantiated speculation—but this new story could be a step forward from Rowling’s books, giving us some of the respect for minority groups that she failed at. That’s the sort of work I want to promote because Harry Potter as a concept is great and I think it’s worth transforming it for our own needs and desires. The reality is that as long as Rowling is alive she’ll benefit from licensed material, but if that material can start taking her world in better directions? I want to support that too.

1. I literally just want to play it. That’s it. That’s my big justification. I think it looks phenomenal and I was itching to get my hands on it the second the trailer dropped. And you know what? I’m not in a good place right now to deny myself things I enjoy. I don’t need to tell anyone that 2020 has been an absolute horror show, but for me certain things have made it a horror show with a cherry on top. Not a lot gets me excited right now because we’re living in the worst fucking timeline, so when I find something that makes me feel positive emotions for a hot second I want to hang onto it. I have no desire to set aside that spark of happiness in a traumatic world because people on the Internet think it makes me selfish. Maybe it does, but I’m willing to let myself be a bit selfish right now. 

Which circles back to this issue of equating buying a game with active harm towards the trans community. It honestly worries me because this is a very, very easy way to avoid the harder, messier activism that will actually help the queer community. When someone says things like, “You’re choosing a stupid video game over trans lives” that activism is performative. Not only—as demonstrated above—is purchasing a game not a threat to trans lives or ignoring the game a way of protecting trans lives, it also gives people an incredibly easy out while still seeming ‘woke.’ Not all people. Maybe not even a significant portion of people, but enough people to be worrisome. “I’m not purchasing that game,” some people post and then that’s it. That’s all they do, yet they feel like they’ve done their duty when in fact they’ve made no active difference in the world. Are you donating to trans charities? Are you speaking up for your trans friends when someone accosts them? Are you circulating media by trans authors? Are you educating your family about trans issues? Are you listening to trans individuals and continually trying to educate yourself? These are the things that make a difference, not shaming others for buying a game.

All of this is not meant to be an argument that people shouldn’t be absolutely revolted by Rowling’s beliefs (they should) and that this revulsion can’t take the form of rejecting this game wholeheartedly. This isn’t even meant to be an argument that you shouldn’t encourage others to boycott because though the financial impact may be negligible, the emotional impact for you is very real. I 100% support anyone who wants to chuck this game into the trash and never talk about it again—for any reason. All this is meant to argue is that people shouldn’t judge others based on whether they purchase this game (with a side argument that we can’t limit our activism to that shaming). That’s their decision and this decision, significantly, does not add any real harm to the world. Your fellow Harry Potter fan is not the enemy here. We as a community should not be turning our visceral on one another. Turn it on Rowling. She’s the TERF, not the individual who, for whatever reason, decided they wanted to play the game only tangentially related to her.  

If Twitter and Tumblr are any indication, I can imagine the sort of responses this post may generate: “That’s a whole lot of talk to try and convince us you’re not a transphobe :/ ” For those of you who are determined to simply things to that extent, there’s nothing I can say that will change your mind. Please re-read the disclaimer and consider whether yelling at me over anon will benefit the trans community. For those of you who are still here, I do legitimately want us to think critically about the kinds of activism we’re engaging in, how performative it might be, whether it harms the community in any way, and (most significantly) whether it’s actually moving us towards a safe, respective world for trans people to live in. Personally, I don’t think telling Harry Potter fans that they’re transphobic for buying Legacy will generate any good in this world, for them or for the trans community. 

At the end of the day only you can decide whether you can stomach buying this game or not. Decide that for yourself, but make that decision knowing that there’s no wrong answer here.  

[bookandcranny]

Little Angels

One]

It is dark inside a wolf’s belly, but up here the air is clear and bright. Atop the tower of Paradiso, above the city of mist and gray. The roof is all caved in and shattered, scattering brilliant prisms through the fragmented skylight and across the floor. A man stands alone in the wreckage, inside the skeletal remains of this holy animal. He sifts through the books that were left behind until he finds one with a red cover and no title, but the letters A-D embossed along its spine. He flips to a certain chapter, and begins to read.

It was in another kind of tower that it happened. The Detective entered into the penthouse apartment of the Deeds family, a couple from the upper crust who were in a state of panic over their missing teenage daughter. From that first frantic phone call with the grief-ridden Gloria Deeds, Sacha knew the shape of this case inside out, backwards, and upside down. It was a classic. 

Teenage girl from a wealthy family, sheltered her whole life, the type who could do no wrong in the eyes of her doting, overbearing parents. One night she leaves without warning, to chase some guy or some band or some misplaced sense of adventure. The reasons didn’t matter as much as what they were willing to pay for the reassurance that their precious little angel would be home safe and sound.

There were just a couple of details he hadn’t counted on.

Sacha sat idling on the side of the road, looking down at the photo the Deeds’ had given him. It was a little roughed up at the edges and faded at the crease where he’d folded it. He’d forgotten how fragile these old-fashioned print photographs were. Despite the damage, the face of thirteen year old Renee Deeds still looked up at him with those same gentle brown eyes and private smile. 

The girl in the photo, however accurate it was to real life, had her hair pulled back in a crowd of twin braids that crested over thick dark curls. She wore what Sacha presumed to be church clothes-- tidy blouse and long skirt, an heirloom brooch-- and a pair of crutches braced to her forearms. Her ankles were crossed and tucked limply to one side, away from the camera’s focus.

The girl’s disability put a complication in the narrative he’d been concocting. According to the Deedses, Renee could only go so far on foot without intense pain and she disliked using her chair. It remained in the hall closet, untouched since her disappearance. Mr Deeds worked from home most days so rather than send her off to school, she was homeschooled by a well-vetted private tutor under her father’s occasional supervision. She had few friends, being a reserved child, they said. Sacha thought it probably had more to do with the gilded cage she lived in, lined with bubblewrap and goose down lest she ever bruise her precious knees. But it wasn’t his place to say.

Regardless, this left him with a very limited pool of suspects. And suspects they were indeed, since the Deeds were certain Renee had been kidnapped. Such a good girl would never have just wandered off on her own. 

If that was indeed the case, the culprit had done a remarkable job of covering their tracks. Renee was last seen by her mother who had put her to bed at 9 'o'clock on the dot. The security system had been armed all night and there were no signs of tampering. Besides which, the only way out of the penthouse that didn’t involve a several story drop to a very unhappy ending was through the front lobby and the cameras in and outside it didn’t detect anyone unusual, coming or going. 

The parents’ first move, naturally, was to call the police. The cops questioned the other residents and scanned the security tapes but turned up empty handed and after a few weeks of daily calls the officers on the case all but told Mr and Mrs Deeds that their hands were tied. For once, even money and social standing couldn’t hasten the hand of justice. That was when they had called on private investigator Sacha Ferro to get the job done.

All these facts laid out before him, Sacha found himself no closer to the answer than he had been at the start. The difference between then and now was not information but desperation, the heights of which had brought him here. Orphan’s Hollow.

The last few years had hit this city hard, same as it did all of them. It wasn’t a single sudden thing, but rather a combination of natural disasters, a virulent epidemic, and the consequential economic collapse that left entire districts barren, now inhabited only by clustered communities of the homeless. The handful of city blocks now known as Orphan’s Hollow was one such district, named so because it was, if stories were to be believed, populated entirely by children. Hollowed out department stores and office buildings and, most notably, the abandoned fairgrounds of Fun Town West became a tragic Neverland for runaways and other parentless youth in hiding from the overburdened childcare system.

Recently, there had been an epidemic of another kind in many of the nearby boroughs. Kids were going missing, just like Renee Deeds had, except most families weren’t fortunate enough to be able to hire someone to track them down. From what Sacha could pick up, most of them-- those that were reported-- were girls between the ages of six and sixteen. Other than that, the demographics were all over the map: black, white, rich, poor, healthy, sick. Missing posters spawned and spread like mold across the billboards and telephone poles, while the local government processed statistics with dead eyes and shrugging shoulders.

The unspoken truth seemed to be that if they were anywhere, if they were alive, the missing girls were somewhere in here. But the kids of Orphan’s Hollow were protective of their own and wouldn’t likely allow any cops to sift through their ranks even if they did trust their motives. It became one of those open secrets that everyone knew about but no one wanted to touch. 

On top of that, not every orphan was some scrawny Dickens novel side character; there were rumors of gang activity and even some sort of cult that made the teenagers who ended up in this part of town vicious towards outsiders. Orphan’s Row was a name with more than one meaning, they said, because if you took those kids lightly they’d turn yours into orphans as well. None of that mattered to Sacha though. At this point, he had little left to lose.

There was a gun in the glovebox of the Detective’s hatchback, unloaded, and he hoped it would stay that way. The idea of turning any weapon on a kid, no matter their alleged viciousness, turned his stomach. He would bring it with him to be used, in only the most absolutely dire circumstances, as a threat. Leverage. If it came down to it, he could rationalize that.

As he turned down another vacant street into the ghost town, the weather began to turn as well. It had been drizzling steadily since the evening prior, making the humidity all the more unbearable, but now the rain relented and in its place a clotted mist settled low over the city, like ink diffusing in water. Sacha kept his lights low and foot barely pressing on the gas pedal. Though it was irrational he felt uneasy at the idea of making himself any more noticeable than he was already.

When the car jolted it was like being shaken awake from a dream. At first he thought it was another pothole-- the roads were a wreck after so long untended-- but then there was an audible crunch and a lurch as his front-left tire burst. Without bothering to pull over he got out and found the problem right away. Deep in the tire, lodged between the wheel and its socket, was a doll. Or at least, something that was trying to be a doll.

The body was made out of metal; scraps from perhaps an aluminum can worked together with screws and painted to give it the look of a hoop-skirted dress. Its head was a christmas ornament. He recognized the pink painted cherub cheeks and curling synthetic hair. Some broken edge of the makeshift toy had punctured the tire, and of course Sacha didn’t have a spare on hand, even if he could figure out how to rip the damn thing out of the wheel well. 

He muttered a curse to himself. He’d have to leave it here and keep going on foot. At least there wasn’t anything in the car worth stealing, and he didn’t exactly have to worry about getting a ticket.

A sudden shriek made Sacha jump, hand going blindly to the holster under his shirt.

“My doll!” the child cried again. “You killed Jessika! My dolly!”

Sacha turned around and saw a young girl, barefoot and wearing what looked like an old halloween costume, standing across the street from him like a specter out of the fog. Appropriate, since she was so keen on howling like a banshee.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about your dolly,” he gentled, crossing to meet her. 

The girl seemed to be considering running away from the strange man, as would well be her right, but stood her ground instead as her face grew redder.

“You killed her,” she said again. “She was a person and you killed her.”

Sacha dropped to one knee. “ I’m sorry about your Jessica--” 

“Jessika!”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, really. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She sniffled. “I’m Princess Ladybird,” she said, as though it should have been obvious. She gestured at her costume, a pink sparkly dress studded with plastic gems around the collar. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“My name is Sacha. I’m a private investigator-- a detective,” he corrected, seeing her confused expression. “I’m looking for someone. They’re not in any trouble, I just need to make sure they’re safe. Do you think you could help me, your highness?”

He kept his voice low and comforting. Dealing with kids wasn’t exactly his specialty, but he knew what he was doing well enough.

“No! No!” the girl cried, more agitated than ever. “No grownups allowed! You’ll just hurt them, just like Jessika!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he insisted, growing frustrated. “And I told you didn’t mean to break your doll. I could buy you a new doll? A nicer doll.”

She shook her head adamantly. “The store dolls aren’t alive. I only play with alive dolls.”

Play along, Sacha. “Okay, where can I get you a new ‘alive’ doll?”

“You can’t make an alive doll, you’re too old,” she huffed. 

Sacha was not going to let himself be offended by a six year old. He wasn’t. “If your dolls are so precious, maybe you shouldn’t leave them in the street!”

“Maybe you should look where you’re going!” With that, she stomped on his foot and ran away. Sacha barely felt it through his shoes, but that was a small consolation. In a blink the princess was gone again.

He sighed. It was no less than he expected, but it still didn’t feel good. With the world they’d been living in, it wasn’t any surprise that the kids here were a bit strange. At least this one had seemed healthy enough, certainly energetic. That meant there was probably someone making sure she was kept fed. 

He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do for these kids. Better to focus on what he was here for.

Two]

Sacha walked along the sidewalk without any real sense of where he was going. He occasionally saw clusters of children playing games or jumping in puddles in the street, but most were inside keeping out of the weather. When he looked up he sometimes saw tiny faces peering down at him from high windows or crouched on fire escapes. The ones on the ground didn’t spare him a look except in fleeting disgust. There was a girl reading fortunes for her friends from a dented pack of playing cards who went abruptly silent when he passed by, and Sacha came to realize that they were deliberately ignoring him, hoping to shun him into leaving the way he came. 

When he tried to approach a pair of tweens doing some sort of craft project in a sheltered doorway, they quickly picked up their things and scampered away, leaving only a trail of paint droplets behind them. They didn’t look too terribly hard-off; their clothes were sometimes dirty but they were all in one piece and their eyes were bright and lively. It was sort of amazing, Sacha thought, how they’d really managed to build something of a community here, away from adults. Part of him almost envied them.

“Excuse me,” he tried again with a girl who was a bit older than the last. Her age didn’t make her look any more mature really, only sharper, as if she were growing but growing into the wrong shape. “I’m looking for--”

“Everyone knows what you’re looking for,” the young woman said. “You’re loud enough about it.”

This one wasn’t exactly friendly but at least she hadn’t run away yet. Sacha went to pull out a photo. 

“Put that away, man,” she hissed. “You’re not going to find any girls who look like that here, and the wrong fledgling might just eat you alive for having it.”

“For having a photograph?” He didn’t bother to ask what a “fledgling” was supposed to be. Some sort of weird slang he was too dated to recognize, he guessed.

“For keeping another girl’s face! All you need is a face and a real-name and you can make that person do and say whatever you want.”

“Is this some kind of game you kids play? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not a game,” she said gravely. “You don’t understand anything. Walking into this world when you don’t know the rules is as good digging your own grave.”

“Help me catch up, then. Level with me,” Sacha pressed. “I can make it worth your while.”

He didn’t have much money on hand, but he had medicine credits set aside for emergencies and that should be worth its bytes in gold in a place like this. Or if not, she could pawn it and buy some earrings or animal crackers or whatever kids liked.

“Save it, I don’t have an account. Legally, most of the kids here don’t even exist. You’ll have to trade for what you want the old fashioned way, outsider.”

Exasperated, Sacha rooted around in his pockets and came up with a protein bar and a keychain that doubled as a bottle opener. The girl didn’t look impressed.

“Okay look, hand over the picture and the rest of it and I’ll tell you where you need to go, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Outsiders don’t survive long here.”

Sacha wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all some intimidation game, but he folded up the photo of Renee and handed it to her anyway. If he really needed the visuals he had pictures on his phone. He’d turned it off shortly after setting out, when the calls and texts from his sister started pouring in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it behind in the car. He could just picture Maria pacing around the house scowling at his number as another message failed to go through. 

I’ll make it up to you, he promised her silently.

“There’s a spot two blocks that way,” She pointed. “Left, left, right, down some steps, and you’ll see a sign for The Love Nest. It’s hard to miss.”

Something about the name said through her lips made him want to recoil. The girl scoffed at his unease.

“Relax, it’s just the name left from the old owners. It belongs to the brood now. It’s a good place, a sacred place.” She sighed, looking up and around as if projecting to an imaginary audience. “Not that someone like you would get any of that, I guess. A lot of fledglings hang around there. If your girl can be found, you’ll find her there. If not, she’s already gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” he demanded.

“I mean gone.” she held up the photograph, still folded. “Gone like this.”

She tore the square neatly in two and let the halves flutter to the ground.

“I’m not even supposed to tell you this much, so if you missed your window don’t even think about hanging around here trying to dig out more information. You’re pushing your luck as it is.”

What an angry kid, Sacha thought to himself as he departed. He wasn’t too different when he was that age, but outright threatening someone who was only trying to do good seemed a bit extreme, especially when that someone had a good head of height on you as well. Was it the conditions they lived in that made them so temperamental here? Or just adolescent angst? Hopefully he wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.

And just how was he planning to leave, even if he was successful, he wondered. He’d have to drive them out on three tires. Ruining his car would be well worth it though if it meant ending this.

Angry girl’s directions turned out to be sound and soon enough Sacha found himself at the door of a closed down club that proudly announced itself as “The Love Nest” in faded pink letters above the door. The windows were boarded up but there were still some old posters for the upcoming live entertainment pinned to the plywood. It appeared the place had been at least marginally more legitimate than Sacha had guessed by the name, while it had been in operation.

Pushing through the double doors the Detective found himself in a gloomy ballroom, styled vaguely like a vintage cabaret club or perhaps someone’s romanticized idea of a 1920s speakeasy. There were a few tables-- standing only by virtue of the bolts that held them to the hardwood-- a bar, and a large circular stage in the middle of it all. Sacha toed aside what he’d thought was a trash bag only to hear a grumbled complaint and find another of the hollow’s orphans crawling out of a sleeping bag on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” the kid asked, with such pointed accusation you’d think he’d personally wronged them. They were wearing an oversized “Fun Town” t-shirt and flannel bottoms with a paw print pattern.

Roused by the noise, some other children began emerging from their own napping spots to investigate.

“Are you a cop?” one asked.

“No, I’m more of a detective,” he replied.

“Sounds like a cop to me. And you look like a cop.”

Sacha frowned. “How so?”

“You’re old,” the kid said. “And you have blood on you.”

He looked down at his hands, his clothes. He saw brown khakis, dusty black loafers, pale patterned button-up shirt. No tie; he’d spilled coffee on it on the drive, hands already shaky from the ill-advised extra caffeine. To his embarrassment, he noticed a faint dampness where the weather and his own nerves had painted sweat across his collar, but no blood.

“It’s okay,” said the first child, yawning. “Snowy sees blood on everyone.”

“I don’t see it, I smell it,” challenged Snowy. She took a deep breath through her nose. “And you stink of it. Dirty blood, blood that wasn’t ready to be shed. Have you ever killed anybody, Mr Detective?”

Sacha fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Have you been talking to a girl in a princess dress?”

“You mean Princess Ladybird?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, as if simply mentioning that ridiculous name might conjure up her horrible wailing. “I’m looking for someone. Two someones actually.”

He considered taking out his phone but, remembering how Angry Girl had reacted to the photo, decided to try a different approach. 

“I was told I might find them here. One is named Renee Deeds and the other is Ana Ferro-Silver, eighteen and fifteen years old. Anything you can tell me about either of them would be a huge help. I’m sort of hoping one will lead me to the other.” He forced a smile. 

Kid in the pajamas frowned. “There’s no one with names like that here. You woke us up over something as dumb as that?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb to want to find two girls who might be in a lot of trouble,” he said tersely. “And why were you asleep anyway? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Growing makes us tired,” Pajamas shot back. They rolled their shoulders. “And sore.”

“And hungry!” added a third child. “Did you bring us any food?”

“Why would I have any food?”

“I heard the gargoyles say you gave Singing Finch a candy bar.”

“It was a protein bar,” he said before he could think to deny it. “What kind of name is ‘Singing Finch’ anyway?”

“It would’ve been Evening Finch, but she tattled so now she’s Singing Finch,” they explained patiently. “She tattled on us and then she tattled on you to the gargoyles and the kestrels. She can’t help it though. She’s a songbird, it’s what they do.”

“So you don’t have any candy?” the other cut in. Sacha put out his empty hands so she could verify and she bit him.

Pajamas laughed as he pulled away with a curse and a cry. “You are dumb. There aren’t any girls in trouble here. You’re the only one in trouble, but that’s because you’re an outsider and a cop, so you probably deserve it.”

Sacha felt a muscle in his jaw tense. He was beginning to think this had all been a huge waste of time. These kids operated on their own kind of logic, their own language, one which was foreign to him. 

“Please,” he said. “Please. I know a lot of you are without families, but these girls still have people who care for them, who are looking for them. I have to bring them home.”

The children looked at him, and then a few of them looked at each other, huddling together in hushed conference. The one called Snowy, who was sitting on top of the bar, glared at him, tilting her head as if she were trying to read something written on the side of his head in very small print. He caught himself raising a hand to touch his neck and let it drop self-consciously back to his side.

“If you keep going like this, you might die,” she told him innocently. “Did you know that?”

The presence of the gun against his stomach, empty though it was, made his skin tingle. “I considered the possibility,” he said, and it was the honest truth. 

“When you die, will you go to paradise?”

“You’re too young to be thinking this much about blood and death.”

“I’ve seen death.” Her voice was without intonation, no defensiveness or accusation anywhere in her tone. She couldn’t have been any older than ten. “My mom died in front of me. She had a fever, but I stayed cold. That’s why they call me Snowy.” She paused, shrugged one shoulder. “Also because I can eat a whole mouse in one bite, like a snowy owl.”

“Oh,” Sacha said lamely. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

She gave another shrug. “S’okay, I’m with the brood now and they take care of me just as good as mom would. I’m just saying, you don’t really seem like a guy who’s ready to die for anyone.”

Amongst all the riddles and nonsense, this at least was something he could understand. 

“I promise you, I am.”

Pajamas tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, hey Detective, have you ever been to Fun Town?”

He blinked, reeling from the non sequitur. “Excuse me?”

They pointed at the garish logo on their shirt. “‘Fun Town: It’s the funnest place on earth!’ Maybe your friends are there.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should just turn back now? That I’m dumb and the kids I’m looking for are gone forever?” he couldn’t help but snark.

“Don’t listen to Finch, she’s a liar. Nobody’s gone. Different, but not gone.”

Fun Town was an amusement park franchise with a handful of locations all over North America. Had been, that is. They’d had to shut down all their locations more than ten years ago, due in part to the outbreak at the time as well as some unsettling information about the eccentric late founder that came out after his death. Something about swaying elections and pouring company funds into an illicit genetic engineering project. Another day, another megalomaniac billionaire exposé. It had been big news at the time but now it was just another piece of pop culture trivia.

The Fun Town West fairgrounds were now little more than a fancy animatronics graveyard. The rides-- what of them hadn’t been torn down and picked clean by opportunistic scavengers-- were sparkling rusted monuments. Any sense of childhood wonder that remained had long since been siphoned off and sold. The kids didn’t seem to mind though, for how they’d congregated around the place. Maybe Pajamas had a point. It was a big, bright landmark, impossible to miss, and as good a place to search as any.

Three]

The Detective left Snowy and Pajamas and the other strange flock of The Love Nest behind, feeling a grim sense of determination The puckered bite mark on his hand throbbed; the little creep had managed to break skin! 

As he navigated his way to the outskirts of the district, Sacha mulled over the interactions he’d had so far. Reluctantly he pulled out his phone to take some notes, ignoring the voicemail notifications cluttering the screen.

The kids call themselves “brood”-- some sort of gang name? The younger ones and/or newcomers to their group seem to be called fledglings. Everyone has a nickname; real names and pictures of faces have some sort of negative significance. And what of the “songbirds”, “kestrels”, etc? Songbirds: spread information. Kestrels: Unknown.

He huffed. None of this was bringing him anywhere closer to the truth about the missing girls. None of it was helping him find Ana.

By the time he power-walked to the long neglected fairgrounds, the hazy sky was becoming downright dour. The clouds had turned the color of smoke. Combine that with the stench of burnt plastic wafting from some of the attractions, it made for an unpleasant effect. He felt that a storm was brewing, and hoped that whatever came he’d be able to find shelter before the sky opened up around him.

He’d been here only twice while it was still in operation; once just him and his parents and once with Maria. By the second visit he’d already lost his sense of wonderment when it came to a day at the fair. The weather was hot and the crowds were annoying and all the games were rigged. Yet there was still a part of him that felt deeply sad to see what Fun Town had become. This was the sort of place that should’ve been beautiful forever, even as the children grew up and out of their love for it.

As he wove through the rows of darkened kiosks, the fairgrounds suddenly erupted into light. Sacha startled and shielded his eyes. The tired bulbs cracked and fizzled and when he looked up again the desiccated corpse of Fun Town had been revived in a great pulse of electricity. Against the backdrop of perpetual gloom the friendly colors were all the more headache-inducing, and somewhere a tinny recording of calliope music began to play. It all made Sacha’s skin crawl.

Against his every instinct, he let the music lead him to a shack next to the arcade with a mounted loudspeaker, the door marked with a firm “employees only”. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Inside, another brood girl in coveralls was fiddling with a fuse box and leaning her hip against a desk with an old CCTV. The security system was so antiquated that it didn’t look like it should turn on at all, yet there upon the pixelated screen Sacha could still make out the shape of himself entering the park on a loop. 

The girl turned around, flipping a frizzy head of hair over her shoulder. Although, it turned out she wasn’t so much a girl as a young woman, pushing against the line between teenage and adulthood. His gut reaction was relief. This might be the closest thing to a rational adult he would find around here. Hopefully she’d be of more help than the others.

Come to think of it, he realized, he’d never considered what happened to the Orphan’s Hollow kids once they grew up. Surely there must be some adults here, somewhere. But then, everyone who’d met him so far had treated him as a foreign invader. Were all adults so unwelcome, as he’d assumed, or was there something about him in particular? 

The most rational assumption was that the homeless kids simply became homeless adults. No need for any additional fanfare. They would graduate from the Hollows and go on to squat in other parts of the city. There was certainly no shortage of slums these days, he thought glumly.

Did any ex-runaways ever try to go home, those that still had them? Did that Renee ever think about home? 

“What ho, outsider!” the teen greeted. Sacha felt himself relax despite himself, so glad to be met with at least one friendly face.

“‘What ho’?” he parroted lamely.

“It’s theatre-speak for ‘wassup’. As in, what the hell are you doing in brood territory?”

She moved quickly. He didn’t notice the knife until it was tucked under his chin, pointed at his throat. 

Sacha’s back hit the wall and he put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. She wrenched up the front of his shirt. “What’s this then? A prop? If I shoot it, will a little flag come out that says ‘bang’?”

She un-holstered the pistol and pointed it at his forehead.

“That’s not a toy,” he said slowly. “Just a little insurance. Like your knife there, I’m sure. I don’t think either of us wants anybody to get hurt.”

“This?” She tossed it in the air and caught it. “Nah, this is part of the act. Tonight, I’m a knife thrower. I’ve never been a knife thrower before. I hope it goes well.”

Sacha tried to speak, but the girl pressed the cold flat of the blade to his lips.

“The older girls put on shows for the fledglings. Sometimes here in Fun Town, sometimes over in the Nest, or up on the rooftops when the weather is nice. I’d invite you, but I don’t think you’d be welcome.” She adjusted her grip again so that the knife was touching the tip of his nose. “All day there’ve been whispers about some kind of detective guy putting his nose in our business.”

“I don’t care about you brood kids do here.”

“Liar.”

“I swear, I don’t. I’m just trying to find someone. I’m not even a real detective anymore,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’re doing here. Even if I did, no one would believe me. I’m nobody.”

The knife thrower gave a big, hearty laugh, and Sacha’s throat tightened with fear. He didn’t consider himself a violent person, but over his career he’d come to blows with enough unruly targets and bitter clients alike that he knew when someone was posturing, and when someone was really out for blood. Normally there was a clear indicator of one kind or another; a tightening of the jaw, a certain nervous tick, a look in their eyes. 

But this girl he couldn’t get a read on at all. He hoped that meant she was still on the fence about the subject.

Struggling to keep his voice level he said, “You don’t have to do this. Something like this will haunt you your whole life, you know, and you’ve got so much life left. You’re still just a kid--”

She reared her hand back and struck at his head with the butt of the pistol. Sacha dodged. It slammed into the fuse box she’d been working on instead and the lights went out. Taking advantage of the darkness, he shoved past her and in a stroke of blind fortune found the door. There was a sound then, like the rush of wind in his ears. Then a sharp flash of pain as a flying knife split the cartilage of one ear.

He stumbled and hit the pavement. When Sacha turned around, hand clutched to his head, he saw the young woman’s silhouette bracketed by two iridescent black wings. Again that sound, ferocious wingbeats stirring the air. All he saw were two but it sounded like hundreds, a massive flock taking off in perfect synchronicity. 

“It’s really frustrating when people don’t take me seriously,” said the winged creature as she approached him. Maybe it was an effect of the many colored lights, but her skin appeared to have a glossy sheen to it, like an oil painting in motion. “But you look like you’re starting to get it now.”

“What the hell are you?” Sacha asked with a mix of horror and feverish reverence.

“What do you think I am?”

The thought came to him unbidden. It was an insane thought, one he didn’t even truly believe in, yet this was an insane situation. “The angel of death.”

That gave her pause. “You’re not right, but you’re not really wrong either I guess. Truth be told, I’m heaven on earth. Maybe I’ll cut you some slack if you worship me”

A wing brushed over his skin, however faintly, and it felt warm and real as the blood cooling on his skin. Not ethereal or dreamlike as he might’ve expected but so real, and all the more hideous for it. He shuddered and said nothing.

The false angel, this predatory animal, took a step back. She spun the pistol around one long finger until it slipped and fell to the ground. She looked at it for a moment, as if surprised.

“Huh. It was lighter than I expected,” she said. Then she kicked it aside. “You win this one I guess. I’ll let you go.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, sure it was some trick.

“What? You don’t believe me. I put it in fate’s hand, and for some reason it looks like fate wants to keep you alive a little longer. It’s not how I saw this going, but I can roll with some improv.” She put up her hands. “Don’t bother groveling. I won’t kill you even if you beg. I know guys like you love punishment. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Here… in Fun Town? Or, are you asking why I’m alive?”

She laughed. She so loved laughing. “Morbid! You’re morbid, man. I mean, why are you here among the brood? At… what do the outsiders call it? The Orphan Hole?” she snickered. “You kind of stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Sacha repeated quietly. He’d said the line so many times he felt it was starting to lose its meaning. “And to make up for something I did.”

“Well you should’ve said so in the first place! If you’re looking to atone you need to meet with the broodmother. If you hurry, you might still be able to catch her. Tonight’s going to be kind of a crazy night once it kicks off, but if you plead your case I’m sure she’ll hear you out. 

“I have to keep setting up here. You go on ahead.” She pointed out in the direction he’d come from. “It’s a straight shot to Paradiso. You can tell her the angel of death sent you.”

She spared him one last smirk and then shot up into the air like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring.

Or a bullet from a gun, even. Sacha considered the discarded pistol for a moment. It seemed so useless now, just a hunk of metal and plastic, just a prop. He walked away without it, pain pulsing dully from his ear. His journey was nearly over.

Time dragged on as he walked, but not enough for him to find the space to contend with what he’d seen. That girl, that creature. She was no angel, that much he was certain of. Angels didn’t attack strangers with a knife, he didn’t think. 

What he wasn’t certain of was… just about everything else. Was he meant to understand that all these girls, these brood, were some kind of bird-beasts taking human shape? Was everyone he’d met an imposter masquerading in the form of a child? Or did they start out as ordinary children and then transform somehow?

He half hated himself for even entertaining such wild ideas, but he had little other choice. “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth” wasn’t that so? In any case, speculation did him little good at this point. He could only hope that this paradise and “broodmother” the girl had spoken of could give him some answers.

Four]

Just when Sacha was beginning to wonder if the knife throwing angel imposter was fully fucking with him, he found his destination: The Paradiso Hotel, although the damaged neon sign now read only PRDIO. 

The building was tall and narrow, so wedged between its neighbors that it looked like any moment it might be crushed. The brickwork was crumbling as it was. Creeping plant life climbed the sides and snuck in through broken windows. The ominous, weathered shape of gargoyles watched from above, jutting strangely out of high corners. This place must have been in dire straits long before it had been taken over by the brood. At the same time, looking at it Sacha got the impression that it had been something glorious in its heyday. 

There was something almost inviting about the faint glow that came from the topmost windows, filtering pink light through heavy red curtains, and yet Sacha was terrified. His hands trembled on the railing as he climbed the winding stairway. 

The higher he went, the more his surroundings began to change. The carpet beneath his feet grew soft, damp, dipping slightly with his weight, and when he looked down he found it thick with patchy moss. Mushrooms sprouted from the junction where the floor met the wall. Sacha tore his foot from a tangle of roots he’d caught himself in and wondered, when was the last time he’d seen so much wild living plantlife in person? 

Finally he reached the top of the tower and opened the door not onto identical hallways and bland hotel decor, but onto a sprawling private library.

The detective could hardly see the walls for the shelves, lined top to bottom with books upon books upon books. There was a desk against the far wall piled high with precarious stacks of paper. They overflowed and spilled onto the loamy floor, whispering under his every step.

Beyond a towering skylight, storm clouds billowed, but that wasn’t of any concern to the flock of brood congregated in their wake. The scene looked like something rendered from stained glass, at least a dozen girls with wings of all colors stretched out and fluttering idly behind them as they sat around some sort of shrub or young sapling that was, quite impossibly, growing out of the floor. Its tender boughs bore tiny fruit, several perfectly round red orbs plump and shiny with juice.

The room smelled like a greenhouse, like heat and green growth, flowers and fruit. Intrigue drew Sacha nearer and he detected an undercurrent of something metallic as well. He rounded the desk and his stomach plummeted. The tree was not growing out of the floor. It was growing out of a human corpse nested in a bed of soil.

The Detective choked on a gasp and the brood children looked up. Their hands and knees were dark from their work. A flash of gore passed before Sacha’s eyes and he flinched, expecting to be struck down where he stood. When no killing blow came, morbid desire took hold of him and he took a second look. The tree was still there, and the body, but the body was not as he’d thought. It looked dry, mummified, more root than rot. Still staring, one of the brood girls plucked a berry and crushed it between her teeth. The smell intensified, iron and something sweet, heady as any wine.

One of the girl-beasts stood, and she seemed older than the rest somehow, not just in body but in her eyes, gray as the growing storm and so clear that Sacha feared if he looked too long he would fall through them. Her face was smooth and free of wrinkles or worry, but the long hair that fell about her shoulders was white as bone. She wore something like a shawl that hung lazily off her shoulders and down past her knees. Unlike the others, she had no wings.

“So you’re the one all my girls have been making such a fuss about,” she said, and her voice was a choir, her words an indictment.

Sacha felt a strange spike of anger at this creature that looked like a woman and talked like a mystic and was neither. “And you’re the broodmother, whatever that means! Your girls make you out to some kind of god. But you’re not a god, and you’re not their mother. I don’t know what you are and I don’t care. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re- you’re taking them!” he stammered furiously. The pieces were coming together, albeit in a hectic jumble. “All the missing girls! You abduct them, or call them to you, or something! It changes them!” He flung his hand out towards the body. “You’re a killer! You're some kind of crazy death cultist and you turn these kids into killers!”

The broodmother quirked her head to the side, not quite smiling. “You talk with a lot of confidence for a man with only half the story.”

“Then explain it to me,” he demanded. “Make it make sense. Because I’ve been running around this madhouse all day and so far, nothing does.”

She hummed to herself, considering. “If you’re so eager for a tale, let’s start with yours.”

One of the other little brood leapt up and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Is it time for a story, Nightingale?”

“Yes, I think so. Do you know which book to get?”

“D for Detective!” she cheered.

“Very good.” 

The girl scampered off and returned with a big book bound in red. Nightingale took it and ran her thumb over the pages, flipping it open with a calm certainty that boiled Sacha’s blood.

“Let’s see… Detective Sacha Ferro. You were born in this very city, had a fairly normal childhood until,” She traced the tip of her finger along the page and Sacha noticed for the first time how it curled, a ghastly hook-like talon. “Oh, that’s right. There was an accident. Your parents… Tragic. Just terrible.”

Astonishingly, she sounded as though she meant it.

“You were in high school at the time. But your sister, Maria, she was still just a kid. You always struggled to relate to her as a brother, with her being so much younger than you, but after that day you had to become like a parent too. You really stepped up, it looks like. That didn’t change the fact that you were still a kid yourself. You made mistakes, and the two of you grew apart.”

Shame curdled in Sacha’s gut. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The most he was capable of was curling his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“Get out of my head.”

“I’m not in it. Frankly, I’m not that interested in your editorializing. This is the truth. Now, where was I?

“You’d always dreamed of being a police detective, like the ones on TV,” she continued. “But became disillusioned with the idea once you grew older. So you became a private eye, but that too got old. You were tired of acquiring blackmail material for shady characters and helping angry wives catch their cheating husbands and so on. Meanwhile little Maria had grown up and moved on and the neighborhood you’d lived in all your life was going more and more downhill by the year. You wanted out.

“Then you got a call from a Mrs Gloria Deeds.” Her eyes widened dramatically. “She wanted you to track down her poor missing daughter. The Deedses were wealthy, desperate, and just perfect. You requested an advance payment, a big one, big enough for a down payment on a new life and the gas to get you there. They didn’t even blink as they pulled out the checkbook. It was all so easy.

“You took the Deedses money and you ran away. Forget the kid, chances were she’d turn up on her own in a week or two after getting whatever rebellious phase out of her system. That’s not what happened though, is it? More and more girls started disappearing. Renee wasn’t the first though, or was she? Could she have been the catalyst for all this? You’d never know for certain. The wondering ate you up inside, but not enough to make you turn back.

“You got yourself a new apartment and a regular nine-to-five job. You quit smoking. You adopted a dog. You started letting people in. You even called up Maria begging to be a part of her life again and shockingly, she agreed! You started spending weekends with her and her wife Kara and their sweet little girl Ana. Your mother’s name, wasn’t it? Well, anyway.

“Everything was all going so terribly well until just a few days ago. Nearly five years on the dot since you took the Deeds case and Maria calls you in tears, tells you that Ana has gone missing. You drop the phone, your blood running cold. She’s fifteen. Just a year or two and she’d be out of the target demographic. Neither you or your sister has set foot in this city in years. What are the odds she got taken? But you can’t let it go until you know for sure.

“Feeling frantic, you pull up the stuff from the Deeds case for the first time in what feels like an eternity. You do some digging. Renee Deeds was never found, nor were any of the others who vanished after her. The cops are still as apathetic and incompetent as you left them. They’re blaming it all on an epidemic of gang activity stemming from somewhere the locals have started calling ‘Orphan’s Hollow’. It didn’t used to be called that though, did it? Do you remember? How gutted you were when you found out? No way you could tell Maria where you were going. Back home, back to where it all started.”

“Stop.” Sacha found his voice at last, though to what end?

Nightingale looked up at him, feigning shock. “But don’t you want to know how it ends? Whatever does happen to the guilt-ridden detective trying to right a wrong? Hoping against hope that if he can fulfill the promise he broke that all of this will be set to rights, and little Ana will return home with him safe and sound.”

“Please, please, stop.” He covered his ears and felt the cut throb against his fingers.

“You’re not really in any position to be making demands, Detective. You came to me. You followed my song. It doesn’t usually work on grown-ups, you know, but you were always sort of a special case I think. I’m glad I kept an eye on you. This has turned out more interesting than I thought.” 

She crossed the room to stand before him, cupping his hands with her own. “You never really stopped being that kid, did you Sacha? You run and run and just keep him right there, locked away in your chest. Look at me Sacha. Look at me. You need to be a grown-up now. I don’t have her, Sacha. I don’t have Ana.”

Slowly Sacha’s hands dropped to his sides, his eyes wide and wet. “What?”

“That’s right,” the broodmother said cheerily. “Ana isn’t here. In fact, she’s at home with her moms right now. Maria’s been trying to call you for days now. You were too ashamed to pick up, couldn’t tell her how this was all your fault. It’s not actually, by the way. You were a self-serving bastard, but not enough to bring down that kind of karmic wrath.

“Although I’d’ve been happy to have her, Ana already has two loving mothers, and an uncle that… has his moments.” She patted him on the shoulder. “The children who follow my song aren’t like that. They come willingly, and they change because change is what they need. I won’t pretend it’s not a messy process. Sometimes blood needs to be spilled to create a paradise. But ‘be not afraid’, Detective. I would never let my little angels get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand,” he all but wept. “What about Renee Deeds?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Nightingale groaned. “‘What are you? What are you? Where’s the girl? Pow! Blam! I’m a big scary action hero and I’m here to save you or kill you trying!’” 

She shook her head. “You’re not the hero of this story, Detective. The girl you knew as Renee doesn’t exist anymore, but she’s alive, not because of your intervention, or lack thereof. Not even in spite of it. What am I? What is she? And what are we when we’re together? A thing that lives without your permission. You need to understand for it to be true.”

She looked at him then with all the sympathy of a mother comforting a crying child. She handed off the storybook to one of her young attendants, and as she turned around she swept aside the cover of her shawl to reveal her bare back. Her skin was twisted with badly healed scars, the flesh raised in the shape of two jagged cuts curving around the shape of her scapula.

“Here’s another story for you. Once upon a time,” she said. “A ship of men was cast from its course and lost at sea. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, they found themselves on the shores of a mysterious island full of the tallest, greenest trees they’d ever seen. The people there had wings like a bird, and they were so beautiful and kind that the men decided they must be angels, and this was paradise.

“The angels let them stay there a while and lick their wounds, but warned them that they couldn't remain forever. At first they accepted this, but as the time to leave for home grew nearer they became obsessed with the wonders of the island and couldn’t bear to go without taking a piece with them. 

“So enamoured by the beauty of the angels, yet fearing their heavenly wrath, they lured away the smallest one and imprisoned her in the lower decks of the ship. When she realized what had happened, she tried to escape, so they broke her wings until just moving them caused her horrible pain. She did get free in the end, but only once the ship returned to port and by then she was far, far from home and knew not how to find her way back. 

“She knew she wasn’t safe among the wingless people, so she hid herself away until nightfall, singing her song by the light of the moon in hopes that one day someone would return her call. When someone finally did, it wasn’t at all who she expected. It was a young human girl, a daughter of man, who recognized her song of pain and loneliness because these were things she knew well herself. When the angel and the girl finally found each other, the angel bid her to cut her useless wings and drink her blood, and together they escaped on new wings.”

As she spoke, the storm outside grew stronger until the wind rattled the very walls, knocking books loose from their shelves. The brood, with their many colored wings and many sweet voices, began to sing in wordless harmony, a hymn from such unfathomable depths and dizzying heights that Sacha’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. 

“Don’t be sad, my mourning dove. This is a happy story. The Nightingale fell in love with the Swiftlet, the song and the storm, and they carried each other to a place where they could make a new paradise, a garden of their own.”

That was when the ceiling began to cave in. Sacha fell to his knees and covered his head with his hands, blinded by what he was sure was a bolt of lightning. When he looks back on it later, he won’t be so sure.

Again came that sound, the torrent of wind and a hundred wings beating within it. Sacha forced himself to raise his head, squinting against the light, and there he saw dancing in the open air above the wreckage-- for dancing was the only way he could think to describe it-- a girl he once knew. Though they were less than strangers, especially now, he recognized her kind dark eyes, her secretive smile. 

Her hair was loose, a halo of electrified black curls, and her wings a dusky brown with the sharp, precise plumage of a swift. Her legs still didn’t move so freely as the rest of her, but she wasn’t bothered. She didn’t need them.

Nightingale ran and leapt and took her in her arms with a lover’s embrace. Off a ways behind them, their brood took flight as well, swooping and shrieking their delight as if they were a single entity, metamorphosing into something new, something so nearly divine.

Sacha did weep then. His vision blurred with the shape of his grief, then his longing, a child and a man and a hair’s width away from paradise. Eventually the storm subsided, but he didn’t see the angel and her love again after that. He thought perhaps that was for the better.

The sky cleared. The sun came out. Elsewhere, young girls planted gardens and played games and put on shows. The world went on, however changed.

This is where past and present collide. In the aftermath of a mystery, a man named Sacha Ferro picks up a book from in amidst the rubble and holds it up to the light. He flips to D for Detective and begins to read, anxious to find out what happens next.

Epilogue]

“Everyone settle down. Places! Starling, for the last time, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ doesn’t call for a knife thrower.”

“And why not?” She wiggles the blade in her direction. “This show’s so boring. Everyone already knows how it goes. Let me spice it up a bit.”

Finch rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just, don’t jump ahead of your cue this time. And stop making up extra lines. You almost blew it last time.”

Starling sticks her tongue out but she has a skip in her step when she returns backstage. On the other side of the curtain, the audience is starting to take their seats. There aren’t enough chairs-- and most of the “chairs” are actually old boxes and things to begin with-- so some of them have to stand. An older brood allows Pajamas to climb up onto her shoulders, reminding her to be mindful of her wings, which are still fairly fresh and tender where they join with her back.

“Greetings, Princess,” says the fortune teller Resplendent, dressed in her good theatre clothes, as she sits down beside her. “Who’s this?”

Princess Ladybird holds up the dented ornament head. “This is Jessika. The doctors managed to save her but she needs an emergency body transplant, stat! I’m going to find her a new one after the show.”

She nods. “Greetings, Lady Jessika. I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

Ladybird holds the doll head up to her ear and hums as if in response to something.

“Can I hear too?”

She obliges, and Resplendent listens. There’s a quiet buzzing from inside the hollow tin skull and it echoes hauntingly in the emptiness.

She whispers, “There’s a bug inside of Jessika’s brain keeping her alive. That’s why she can still talk without a body. If Jessika dies, the bug will get out. Ick!”

The other girl chuckles. “Your name is a kind of bug, you know.”

“No! It’s a bird! Lady-bird!”

She bites back another laugh and points towards the stage. “Shh, the show’s starting.”

Sure enough, the songbird choir starts up, bidding the chattering spectators to quiet down and listen up. A girl comes out on stage wearing a corner of the curtain as a makeshift hood. She says,

“It is dark inside a wolf’s belly.”

[meflemming]

Nothing Changes || Solo

TIMING: After this 

SUMMARY: The mess at Devil’s Gullet has been taken care of, but not the mess that Miriam has made of herself

CONTAINS: Emo vampire and a dog

What’s done, what’s done, what’s done is done That’s the way the river runs

Though the mess at Devil’s Gullet had been cleaned and properly disposed of, nothing remaining of the act that Miriam and Morgan had committed but acrid smelling smoke and torched plastic, Miriam still did not feel settled. She couldn’t find a way to feel settled after everything that had happened.

Miriam had parked her car back at her house and sat in it, the engine still on, for as long as she dared. She couldn’t go back inside, couldn’t dare face Evelyn with that man’s blood still on her face. She wiped away at it, though most of it had dried. She’d need water to clean herself off properly. She saw a shadow move, inside her house. No, she wasn’t going inside. Not right now. Not like this.

Leaving her car door open, Miriam vanished out the garden gate, the rusty metal squeaking as she left. She made a mental note: she needed to get that fixed.

Miriam had made it partway into town when she realized she still clutched the man’s phone in her hand, the screen cracking under the pressure but not shattering completely. She looked at the screen, the picture of the dog staring back at her. Miriam had never had a pet, had never been allowed one. It was probably for the best, seeing what she’d become, but she’d always loved animals. The dog in the picture seemed to be smiling at her behind behind the cracks.

“You have choices, Mim! You have fucking choices. We all have choices! We don’t have to be like this, it’s too fucked.”

Morgan’s words echoed in her head like it was that damned cavern, and Miriam tried to shake the thoughts away. She had made her choice. It didn’t matter, in the end, whether it was good or bad or something in between. She’d made it, and she would deal with it. She always did, and she always came out on top, didn’t she? Miriam Flemming, successful business woman, charming, filthy rich, witch hunter extraordinaire. Capable of catching her prey without them even realize they were being led to their end. She made a choice to kill and hurt and feast on whoever and however she pleased. Even if she didn’t need to. Even if she didn’t particularly want to.

“I could have stopped myself if you’d given me the fucking chance,” she whispered out loud and through sharp, gritted teeth. She could have stopped herself. She made the choice not to. Why was this so hard.

Even from a distance, Miriam could hear that there was noise coming from the Common, shouts and screams and Miriam didn’t want to deal with that, couldn’t deal with that, especially not when she still needed to clean herself up. Instead, she made a choice: she turned the phone over, saw the little pocket that had been attached to the back. Inside, there were a number of credit cards, a dollar bill, a picture of the man and his dog, and the man’s driver’s license. Thomas Klein. She wondered if his friends called him Tommy, or Tom. She shouldn’t be dwelling on this. She looked at the address on the card, committed it to memory, and started walking.

“Tell me you can feel how wrong this is.”

Of course it felt wrong. Of course there was a part of it that was always nagging in the back of Miriam’s mind that maybe she could stop. And she had stopped, hadn’t she? For almost twenty-five fucking years, she’d stopped. But stopping made her anger, her hurt, scream louder and louder until she had to start up again. And, really, she told herself she was doing good. She was making sure no one else ever got screwed over in the name of magic like she had. Wasn’t that worth it? Wasn’t that enough? It was hard for her to believe that, though, when she thought of all of the spell casters she’d known that had been kind, that she’d loved and cared for. The Wildes had been her family just as much as they’d been Theo’s, until the end. Until they’d decided to collectively hate her for taking out one of their own. Until they’d decided not to hear her side of the story, to try and understand her rage and anger and, fuck, she hadn’t been able to stop herself with him? Why couldn’t they have understood that?

She hadn’t been able to stop herself with any of them ever since. If she pushed it down, the wrongness of it no longer felt so wrong.

She arrived at a tiny, empty house with the lights off. She checked, the address was correct. This was where Thomas Klein lived. The front door was locked, and Miriam could only hear one living thing inside. She knew what it had to be. She walked around to the side, snapped the lock on the window as she forced it open, and slipped inside.

The padding of clawed feet met her ears. Darkness meant nothing to a vampire, and Miriam clearly made out the warm, coppery-blonde color of the dog as it cautiously approached her, letting out unsure woofs.

“I know I’m not who you expected,” Miriam said, then frowned as she realized she was talking to a dog, of all things. She bent down, and stuck her hand out. The dog approached and sniffed, though it let out a whine and moved away from her. “I… probably smell like your owner in the worst way possible, don’t I?” Of course she did. She was covered in the man’s blood. She’d held his throat between her teeth. Moving over to the sink, She washed her face off, watching the final traces of blood swirl down the sink.

“You are so terrified that things could be different, because it would mean you and everyone else has suffered for no good reason and it really was as shitty as it felt this whole time!”

Miriam forced the water to shut off and gripped the edge of the sink, a snarl working its way out of her mouth. The dog backed away from her, whining again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the creature. “Sorry.”

Smearing her fingerprints so that no trace of her remained on the counter, Miriam turned her back to it and slid down to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said again. Her throat felt dry, tight. It shouldn’t feel like this, not after such a large meal. She should be sated. Instead, she felt empty. Something like shame wormed its way into her stomach as the dog walked closer. Miriam held out her hand, and the dog sniffed it again, licking her fingers. She felt tears prick at her eyes. Miriam gripped the dog’s collar. “Penny?” she asked, reading the name off the collar. The dog perked up at the sound of its name. “Penny.” The dog was the color of a copper penny. “I’m afraid your owner isn’t coming back. I’m afraid I’ve been rather bad, tonight. I’m so very sorry.” How sad, that she could more easily apologize to a dog than a person.

“You’re only incapable right now because you’re a fucking coward. But you know what? Mission accomplished! You win! You’re a monster and a liar, but it’s not because of the magic boogeyman universe that made you. It’s just you. Alone.”

It was just Miriam, wasn’t it? A successful business owner of a company that should have died off with her parents. Charming, but only on the surface. Filthy rich, but where had that gotten her? Wrapped around a pole with a broken heart, all because the person she loved couldn’t see past her dollar signs. And a witch hunter? She was ripping herself apart just for a meal, just because she was broken on the inside and didn’t know how to fix it. She lived in a mess of her own making.

Happy fucking holidays.

She would tell herself, later, that it was out of boredom that she wandered around Thomas Klein’s house, learning about his life. He was a part of some odd gaming group that enjoyed strange comic books and cartoons that she didn’t understand. He had a nephew that was prevalent in a number of pictures littered around his sparse home. He was probably a spell caster, based off of the numerous books on witchcraft around his home, but that didn’t seem so damning, anymore. He had friends, a family. So many of her victims did.

This changed nothing. There was no going back, no biting her pride and allowing the poor bastard to live. She’d seal his fate, as well as hers and Morgan’s. If only the damned woman hadn’t told her to stop. If only she’d trusted Miriam. Miriam would never earn such trust now. Did she even want to? Or would that hurt all the more?

Miriam snapped off the tag on Penny’s collar that showed off Thomas Klein’s address. “I cannot keep you,” she told the animal. “I have a friend who is staying with me, and I don’t know her opinion on animals. I don’t believe surprising her with one of my victim’s dogs is considered a nice gift for the holidays. I’m sorry.” She stroked Penny’s fur, the feeling of it soft between her fingers. “I cannot bring your owner back, either. What’s done is done, and it is cruel to you. But I will stay with you, until I can have you taken to the shelter. I will compel someone to ensure you get a good home, the best home.”

This was proof, Miriam decided, that she should hunt alone, or only with people who could possibly understand her. This was proof that perhaps she should cut back more, only feeding when absolutely necessary. This was proof that she shouldn’t trust nice people with strong moral compasses.

Stroking Penny’s silky ears and sitting back down on the floor of a dead man’s house, Miriam Flemming did not allow tears to fall down her cheeks. She didn’t allow herself to lose control of her emotions, not even for a moment.

[stinkysam]

Hey hey. I was wondering if I could ask for some help. My writer's block hit me like a brick, and I wanted to know if you would help me come up with some good ideas.

I have a character list and prompt in mind, and if you could, could you please tell me what comes to mind when you get those characters and prompt.

Characters:: Amajiki Tamaki, Sukuna Ryoumen, and Ukai Keinshin.

Prompt:: Alternate Universe- Mermaids.

If you'd like to do this, please tell me whatever comes to mind, and I'll be sure to tag you once I write out the fic.

I honestly had no ideas and then when i started typying i couldn't stop lmao. hope it helps you somehow ?

s/o is a merperson

Amajiki Tamaki

I don't really think an AU is necessary for that one since either he or reader could have a mermaid quirk. But if you don't want a world with quirk, it could be like him spending a lof times around fishes like in public aquariums, or maybe he works there. And one day he sees something new, a new specie that wasn't there before ? Yet he can't seem to actually see them. Maybe he just didn't recognize the fish or a weird reflection of people around him ? Though he keep seeing it. He vaguely asked his colleagues or guides but no ones knows what's he talking about. He finally manage to fully see the new fish, but it's not actually one : a mermaid.

Sukuna Ryomen

He's a fisherman. He's still a bitch tho. He don't care much about fishes, he just wants to be away from dumb people (aka the whole world) so he fishes and sell what he gets without really caring if it's good or not (some people got sick because he gave them old stuffs). He doesn't care what he catches, if he has to put them back in the water or not. "theyre just fishes, fuck off". One day he catch a big one though. Maybe he should keep it to eat it like a selfish glutton. Or sell it at a high price. indecently high price yeah. except its a mermaid. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that shit ? his first idea is to sell them to get rich. the only reason why he doesn't do it is because somehow that "fish" is not that stupid. Like, the two friends that look like they hate each other, always nagging and challenging and insulting one another.

Ukai Keishin

Basically like in the manga. But one night he sees something in the water by taking the kids to beach training camp. Sure he had a few drinks but not to the point of hallucinating. So next night he comes back and sees the thing again and he's fucking panicking because what the fuck is that ? is it dangerous for the kids ?? throw his sandal at the thing to make it go away except it throw it back at him ???? he goes to apologize when he sees an human form except it wasn't an human. So each night he comes back awkwardly placing stuff in the water as an apology, and if you could avoid killing them, that would be very nice. You throw a fish at him yelling that you get it, he's sorry, can he stop giving you food that you're not even fond of now ? The whole thing feels like a huge fever dream because, hello, he's talking to a mermaid/merman, what the fuck ? Ends up coming here every week-end to see them.

They're the merman

Hamajiki Tamaki

he fucked up. you weren't supposed to see him. and now he's panicking that the whole world knows about mermaids. He's going to be hunt down and he will be studied or fried to be eaten. fuckfuckfuck. Except you knew about him and his kind since a long time. in a panicked state he plans a way to kill you so you can't speak. But you know because you can hear his bones shaking lmao so like, he tries to stab you, but you had replaced the knife by a face plastic one, so you "die". But he panics a little because omg he's a fucking murderer, so you finally speaks, scaring him shitless, but you end up explaining yourself and so does he, and turns out you've been helping him for years on, sending fishes or food his way, making sure people don't go too much where mermaids are.

Sukuna Ryomen

He eats flesh. fish or humans or animals he doesnt care. meat is meat. he's heckig pissed because the water he's in is dirty af. there's floating trash. There's legit a floating fridge. Your plan was to clean the area because c'mon that's discusting. except something grabs your leg and bite you, you have no choice but to throw hands. you survive but you're as pissed as him because a fucking fish bit your ankle ffs. you're still cleaning the water but you're making sure to not even have a single toe touching it. sukuna is near, watching you, ready to drown you if you fall. you have big stick in your hand to bonk him if he goes too close. though he appreciate you cleaning his water, "please don't call it that, its not diapers" he's hungry so on top of that you have to throw fishes at him. maybe one day you spot someone taking a piss in the pond or lake- and let's just say poor soul won't ever piss outside anymore as something darted out of the water to almost rip his dick out and something else knocked the first "thing" away while also kicking him and insulting him for being gross. with that sukuna and you became acquintances.

Ukai Keishin

People knows mermaids and mermen are real. which is good because man gives zero shit about being seen. plus some human stuffs seems really interesting (beach volley). and he kinds of love screaming at hyper kids (hinata, nishinoya, tanaka.....) to scare them as they don't know who's yelling at them. and the human who's often with them is kinda nice to the eye. so he discreetly tries to get your attention without really showing himself. just really cute. okay imagine his wet hair please i would die please thank you sir

[cieloxcnco]

yo te haré mía (cnco) - ch13

Chapter 13

Words: 4,100+

Warnings: language and angst, no smut this time.

A/N: i work a full time job and have been dealing with too much to really write, but COVID-19 quarantine is a gift in some ways.

chapter 12 is here if you need to catch up.

-

Richard craned his neck from side to side, willing the bones in his stiff and stressed spine to crack, rolling his shoulders forward and back when nothing else seemed to work. “I’m not sure what time we’ll be done but I’ll text you and let you know what’s going on, okay?” Jasmyn bounced Miguel on her hip, dipping his bottle in the warming water on the stovetop to heat it.  “Amor, this doesn’t really have to deal with you. If you don’t want to deal with the stress, don’t go.” His straight spine slid back into his typical swagged slouch. “Baby, how would it not deal with me? This is about the band, and the band is my life. I have to go.” She nodded resignedly. “I get it. I just hate that you had nothing to do with all the downfall and now you’re suffering.” He shrugged. “I gotta go deal with this. They’re my brothers.” She shrugged back. “And they’ve got to figure their own shit out. You’re all in contracts you’re all fucked if you break, so they’ve just got to man up, have one good fight, and get the fuck on with it. At the end of the day it’s a job with coworkers you either like or you don’t but you still make it work. You don’t have to fucking mediate.” Richard grit his teeth. “It ain’t like that at all, Jas,” “Then how is it, Rich? Chris did Zabdiel dirty and now everybody has to deal with the consequences of them fucking around? It’s not just the band that has to face the consequences of it, but you guys are taking the brunt of it. It’s fucked up,” she hissed, trying to control her infuriated force as she gingerly strapped Miguel into his high chair. Aaliyah and Joaquin tried to stay quiet as they peered from the playroom into the kitchen, trying to translate the heated and tense words into small terms they could comprehend. “Why is everyone going to see Tio Chris y Papi?” Joaquin whimpered softly. Aaliyah pulled his arm back to bring him out of earshot of the adults still bickering. “They all got mad when Tio Chris got hurt before they went to see your baby sister.” “Is that why they’re mad?” Joaquin asked quietly. “He’s feeling better and they all got to see mi hermanita en el hospital. There’s no reason to be angry then.” Aaliyah took out the plastic plates and cutlery from her kitchen set and began to set her playskool table for a meal. “Daddy said Tia Isa had the baby but didn’t tell me- what’s her name?” Joaquin pulled one of the seats at the table back a little too far and just leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his palms. The memory of his new little sister was already bitter, her arrival just triggering a series of events that now seemed to have everyone tense and angry. And with that sort of welcoming introduction, he didn’t exactly smile at the mention of her. “Xiomara.” Aaliyah’s head cocked to one side. “See-oh-what?” Joaquin counted the syllables on his fingers for emphasis. “See-oh-mah-ra. Abuela showed me it starts with X, but that sounds like X-ray so I don’t get it,” Aaliyah shook her head adamantly. “But X makes the Z like xy-lo-phone sound, so it’s just weird. Must do the ‘see’ sound too. Or they got it wrong and just don’t spell right.” Joaquin hardly took the effort to shrug his shoulders. Aaliyah started stirring the imaginary ingredients in her stovetop pot. “But everybody came home sad from seeing her, and Tio Zab was really really angry. What happened?” Joaquin’s face went white and his hands trembled around the play fork he’d been toying with, letting it clatter to the floor. The last thing he knew that had happened before Zabdiel had frustratedly screamed at everyone in his path was he’d hugged his father’s legs and asked him for help. He’d been too needy, he hadn’t asked nice enough, he’d been too annoying. Zabdiel being upset was his fault. Joaquin knew he was the reason his papa was angry and that had set this all in motion. The light in his eyes faded and he stared straight ahead. Aaliyah, not having turned to see the expression on her cousin’s face, waddled back to the doorframe to eavesdrop. “Maybe Daddy and Jazzy are talking about it still and we can find out. Shush.” Jasmyn smiled softly at Richard as she walked to where he stood, kissing his furrowed brow. “I know, baby. Just don’t take their problems onto you. This is tearing everyone else up - don’t allow it to bring you down, papi. Te amo.” “Yo también te amo,” he whispered as he kissed her cheek in return. “You gonna be good with the kids by yourself?” “You know they’re never a problem, amor. We’ll be fine. You want to help them sort this, go do it, and I’ll see you later.” She silenced them both with a chaste kiss on the lips while Miguel impatiently hit his palms against the tray table of his high chair. “Missed it,” Aaliyah groaned as she stomped back over to her toy refrigerator, pouring herself a pretend glass of juice to sip while her pot simmered on the stove. “Missed what, traviesa?” Richard asked with a wink as he turned the corner into the playroom. Aaliyah giggled and ran into his waiting arms to be scooped up in a hug and have her cheeks peppered with kisses. “What are you doing? You making lunch?” “Yuh-huh,” she squealed, half laughing from the tickle of his hand on the side of her hip. “Arroz con habichuelas in the pot. Tienes hambre, papi?” Richard looked down and saw Joaquin staring at his own feet at the play table, speaking to his daughter but keeping his eyes on his distressed nephew. “Not now, princesa - I have to go to a meeting with your tios but when I get back I’d love some.” He set her down on the ground to tend to her simmering pretend meal and turned to Joaquin who immediately stiffened in his seat, turning his eyes lowly to his tio. “Tu ta bien, Quin?” He barely nodded. “Si.” He instinctively held a hand against his back and Joaquin’s eyes went wide. “You gonna have fun with Aaliyah today while I’m at Clara’s office with tu Papi?” The nod was more sharp this time. “Si.” Aaliyah turned away from the play stove and looked to her father. “When you talk to the tios, is it going to make them all stop being mad at each other, Papi?” Richard sighed heavily, not able to find any words appropriate to explain the damage to a child so young. “We’re gonna try, amor, pero sometimes making it better doesn’t make it back to the way it was.” Joaquin tilted his head down further towards the floor to hide the tears that were welling in his eyes. “You guys be good for Jas today, okay? Que disfruten,” Richard said with another press of his lips to the crown of his daughter’s head. “Si,” Joaquin whimpered, but so lowly that Richard left the room without hearing. “Bye, Papi!” Aaliyah waved as he went out the front door, but her attention was immediately back on Joaquin. “Hey, you okay?” Joaquin didn't react, afraid that the slightest movement in either response would have him let the tears flow. Aaliyah put her oversized plastic cooking utensils down and kneeled in front of his chair in an effort to force eye contact. “Quin?” “La culpa es mia,” he murmured beneath his breath, so lowly that she hadn’t distinguished the words. “Que?” She tried to clarify but now he shut his eyes tight and his shoulders began to shake. It was all too much. Tio Richard had seemed calm, but he’d heard the discussion with Jasmyn- he was angry. They all were angry. And he didn’t know what he'd done, but this was his fault. Whatever he had done to make his father upset had now spiraled into everyone being frustrated and acting differently. His parents went sour at the mere mention of each other, abuela had been acting distant and different, and, on top of dealing with the idea of his new sister, he was simply overwhelmed. The tears finally poured out, cascading down his cheeks one after the other, more frightening for Aaliyah to watch because they were so completely silent. Did Quin get hurt? What happened? How did he break? “Quin, que paso?” Aaliyah stepped to him, reaching to touch his shoulder. Joaquin immediately recoiled at the contact, placing his palms on her chest and knocking her backwards to the ground. Tipping backward, she hit the back of her head against the kitchen playset cabinet and immediately yelped, bursting into tears. Jasmyn ran into the room, reaching for Aaliyah to lift her up. “Aaliyah, amor, que paso?” “Quin pushed me down!” she screamed, still nursing the back of her head with her hand. Checking first there was no real visible injury, she soothed Aaliyah with a hand down her back and immediately looked at Quin, noting that he was crying too but visibly trembling. “Joaquin, that’s not nice at all! Why would you push your cousin?” Joaquin fell off the chair and down onto his knees, gripping tightly onto the hem of his tia’s shirtsleeve and burying his face against her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tia. Please don’t tell Papi. He hates me, I don’t want him more mad. I’m sorry.” Jasmyn’s head was spinning between soothing her stepdaughter’s sobs and trying to bounce from how her nephew had gone from saying goodbye to Richard to being so hysterical over his father’s nonexistent reaction. As the pieces began to fit, she struggled in her thought process of how best to explain the present situation to the mindset of a child. All she could do was hold them both close against her chest as the crying slowed to a stop and pull out her phone to text Richard. ‘I told you it was more than just the band. Call me when you can.’ - Clara and Ali, for the first time that anyone present could ever recall, were sitting at the conference table, completely silent. The blonde scrolled idly through her phone, fighting the urge to again anxiously bite off the end off her nail. Clara fidgeted with her insulated coffee mug as her eyes darted between her apple watch and her nails clicking against the cup. She began tracing her fingertip along the cursive glitter design of Boss Lady written across the stainless steel, and the irony was not lost on her that for all her usual prowess, she had absolutely no control. These pollitos were under her care, her charges, and she had no say in what happened next. She could try to set up the surroundings to arrange the least explosive impact, but that couldn’t change what resulted. She just knew if something wasn’t organized to move this to the next stage, there would be either nothing but silence or another trip to the hospital. Erick was quietly sipping from a paper coffee cup, his eyes focused on the liquid swirling around when he set it down but his mind off in the distance. This band was his entire world and it was going to be made or broken by the moves of two men he deemed brothers that now wanted each other dead. Joel was equally quiet, drumming his fingers across the tabletop in nonsensical patterns. He had reverted to a place in his mind where his emotional valves had been completely shut off. His face was expressionless, his breathing almost inhumanly slow. His mind should have been on how he had returned to his home the night before with Kaja and a lot of her things gone, and he hadn’t even felt any sort of reaction. He had shut the lights off and drifted into a dreamless sleep. Clara squinted her eyes and slammed a heavy palm against the table, drawing all eyes to her. “How the fuck did none of you know? This makes no fucking sense.” “You didn’t know either,” Ali, usually Clara’s sidekick and support, shot back. Clara glared in her direction but couldn’t negate it. Joel shrugged, his voice monotonous. “They hid it from Zabdiel for this long, what makes you think they weren’t just as good at hiding it from us?” “There had to be a slip up,” she seethed. “This all didn’t just unfold at once.” Erick nibbled at his lower lip, the confession ready to burst free, but the chills from the daggers in her eyes kept him silent. But she knew him too well for that. “You fucking knew?” She nearly screeched, her glare venomous. And with that, the dam broke. “I saw them that night at their party at Zabdi’s house… We talk and he say please have respect, that he talk to Zabdiel first, for me not to say. And that was same night that we go to the club. I did not know before.” Clara scoffed and rolled your eyes. “After all this, and then he’s the one that asks for respect. Unreal.” “But I didn’t know hardly before you guys. No looking at me like I kept a secret,” Erick defended, crossing his arms over his chest. Joel grumbled beneath his breath, “Can we stop fucking bickering? There’s no fucking point.” Clara tilted her head, shocked at the usually mild-mannered Mexicano was using such a biting tone. “Joel, de que hablas?” He shrugged and pulled on his hoodie strings. “We can’t do anything about this until they get their shit together. What’s the point of us even being here?” Clara shot daggers at him, but all eyes were drawn as the conference room door opened and Zabdiel entered, Richard behind him with his eyes darting as if ensuring Zabdiel wouldn’t make an off move on his way in. “Everything okay, Richuki?” Clara questioned in attempts to ease his tensions. “Yeah, no, we’re fine,” he reassured. “Zab was just having some coffee in the parking lot and needed a little persuasion to come upstairs.” “Zab,” Clara began slowly, “You alri-“ “Don’t even ask me,” he snapped, sitting down at the chair furthest away that was still facing the door. “You know I’m not alright.” Everyone was silent and stone-faced, anticipating his next move. “What do you expect me to do?” he growled, leering up at Clara. She sighed, looking down at her clutched hands. “Pollito,” she attempted to calm him, but it had no effect on his rage, “you know that to continue with the group the way we need to, this has to be discussed.” He crossed his arms over his chest, huffing out an angry breath. “Right now, I’m trying to deal with being in the same room as that hijueputa. I can’t imagine sharing the stage with him.” Clara clicked her acrylic nail tips against the tabletop again. “Zab, this impacts more than just you. This impacts your record deal, your management, your fans, your networking, your-” “Oh, I’m sorry,” he scoffed, “I forgot that I’m the one who was fucked over and now I have to forgive him to keep everyone in the world happy but myself.” “Zabdiel-” Ali began, possibly intending to soothe him but sounding gruff and exasperated. He roared out his interruption. “So now I have to not only make decisions about my family and my life, but my reaction about him has the band hanging in the balance? Sounds fair to me.” “You’re right, pollito, that’s not fair,” Clara murmured apologetically. “Todavia tenemos que hablar, todos nosotros juntos,” Richard said beneath his breath, but loud enough in the silence. Erick’s eyes were darting back and forth, watching the tense tennis match of banter across the table. Joel hadn’t even looked up. Zabdiel was frighteningly quiet when he finally spoke. “My career, what I’ve worked my life for, now is at risk because my best friend and wife betrayed me. My life is not my own. My family is not my own. Everything is out of my hands while you’re saying everything is my decision to make.” Ali opened her mouth, abnormally ginger, but snapped it shut when the doorknob slowly turned and the man in question carefully slipped through the small gap between. He hesitated in shutting the door behind him, contemplating if he needed it slightly open as an easier escape route. Richard straightened his shoulders, stiffening and preparing to jump between the two. Clara stood, her arms up as if to hold the two apart, although still distanced. “Chris, entra. Sientate.” His eyes focused on Zabdiel’s white-knuckled fists as if ready to jump back out, but clicked the latch of the door shut behind him and sat directly across the table from his raging friend. Clara clicked the lid of her travel mug shut. “Okay, we all understand that massive things have happened that impacts not only you two and your relationship with each other, but how the band is supposed to continue on from here. Now I know that you two haven’t discussed any of this, and there’s obviously things that need to be addressed. But I know that you both are mature enough to understand this and-” “Ese puto? Obviamente no,” Zabdiel snarled. “Silencio,” Clara hissed in his direction. Zabdiel’s teeth visibly began grinding together but he allowed Clara to continue. “And,” she went on, “You both need to set the ground rules before we know how any of us can proceed.” “Pendejo, hijo de fucking puta,” Zabdiel grumbled. “Oye!” Clara exclaimed. “Bastante! You can be pissed, but stop being so aggressive! It won’t get us anywhere!” Zabdiel shot up, his knuckles still white with his palms flat on the table. “How am I the aggressor when this animal is the one at fault? You treat him like he’s fragile when none of this would be happening if he hadn’t taken advantage of all of us.” Clara’s eyes were understanding, but still attempting to be firm. “Zab, ya lo sabemos, pero te tienes que callar.” He slowly started to sink back down into the chair behind him. Chris stammered, “E-en realidad, yo-” Zabdiel shot immediately back up. “Que fucking mentiroso!” Clara finally screamed. “Enough!” All eyes widened and turned intently towards her. Only Joel remained transfixed on his hands. “Do you care at all about the band?” she questioned, her voice audibly cracking. “Do you want your career as CNCO to continue?” The fire in Zabdiel’s eyes calmed and  the tremors of Chris’ shoulders slowed. “You two have to decide if you can agree on where we all go from here. This is all up to you. We can’t be involved. And it’s easier if we’re not. Come on, guys, everyone except them.” Everyone rose out of their seats and went to follow her, but she stared Zabdiel down one more time. “You already beat him up once. When we’re gone, don’t try it again.” Zabdiel’s eyes shifted to his enemy across the table. “He’s not worth the time it would take to wash the blood off of my hands.” “Zab,” Ali barked, “seriously.” His fingers still shook with rage but he obeyed and sat back down. Chris hesitantly pulled the chair before him out and sat across from Zabdiel, still eyeing the exit. Ali sighed. “You both have to solve this together. We’re here to support you, but you both have to talk.” Clara held the door for everyone to exit, watching the two of them intently. “We love you. Text me when you’re done discussing.” Quietly shutting the door, she turned to Ali. “Sit right here and listen in. Use your judgment- if there’s only arguing, let them talk, but if it sounds like it’s getting too intense, you call Jose to get in there to break them up and call me to come back.” Her attention turned to the Dominican and Cuban in front of her. “You guys, go grab a coffee downstairs and hang in the interview space to just clear your heads.” The last of the group seemed to have already made it halfway to the elevators when Clara shouted his name. “Joel!” His attention turned to her and she pointed to the empty conference room across the hall. “In here. Now.” Joel shut the door behind him and didn’t even look Clara in the eyes before he sunk down into the first available chair. Infuriated more by his lack of focus, her attitude leapt to its heights. “What the hell is the matter with you?” He clicked the fingertips of his right hand against the tabletop while his left hand cupped his cheek and elbow supported the weight of his head. He almost looked bored and unaffected by the surrounding conflict, but Clara knew him too well to believe that facade. “What the hell is the matter with you?” He shifted and finally met her eyes before rolling his own to interject, but her voice sounded over his scoffing. “You’re all my boys, but don’t think I don’t have a code with your mujeres and know what happened with Kaja. And don’t think for a fucking minute that I don’t see through you acting like you don’t give a fuck because this is breaking you and you’re trying to be alone so you can implode in peace.” His stoic expression flickered to shock and back to guarded, transparent to only the woman who stood before him. “Clara, I’ve got my own shit to handle rather than be here for shit that doesn’t affect me.” She laughed and slammed her mug down. “You think that this doesn’t affect you? This is the band that you all fought for, and that band became a family. Now that two of them have had a falling out, that affects the rest of you. This affects your future, your career. How do you think that doesn’t affect you?” He almost snarled like an animal at the blunt attack. “So why don’t you focus on them and how to keep the group together rather than worrying about me and my personal life?” Her eyes went alight at his ferocity, but the lioness that she was wouldn’t allow her to back down. “Why are you telling off the only people who want to help you through this?” He kicked his feet up on the chair beside him and crossed his arms across his chest. “I don’t need help. I can fall back on my own. All this happened without me being a part of it, they don’t need my help, so I don’t need anyone else’s.” She nearly growled. “And then you have a woman who not only loves you but is,” she stopped to emphasize her words by slamming the back of her hand against her other palm with each syllable, “preg. nant. by. you, you want to suffer alone and make her feel worse? When you need support you push her away?” She kicked the chair beneath his feet backwards to force him to sit straight and she leaned over the table to have them eye to eye. “Look, you can be unnerved by this, you can be hurt and confused, but she doesn’t deserve to deal with you having a tantrum. You gave her a ring promising her your life together. You made the choice to create a family with her, intentional or not.” He pulled uncomfortably on the sleeves of his hoodie sleeves, his arms still protectively across his chest. “I’m not a toddler. I’m not having a tantrum. I didn’t see us working so I ended it. It wasn’t meant to work. None of this seems to. As far as the rest of it, I’m not stressed. They need to do what they need to do. I’m not bothered.” Clara pushed herself up off her place leaning over the table and scoffed. “Really? Because you don’t seem to even realize - you not trying to feel anything is because you’re too hurt to function. If you want to live in your little isolated bubble to try and get through this, that’s your choice, but I’m telling you that if you don’t rectify this now, you are going to be the one that destroys your chance at having love in your life when she could be the one to prove your theory wrong.” Not having a retort for her point, he sat unmoving, staring absently at the window on the opposite wall. She picked up her mug and began to storm out of the room, muttering almost more to herself than him. “I just hope you haven’t hurt her enough to already have lost her. And haven’t pushed us all away enough in the meantime for us all to be done with your shit.”

-

feedback is always appreciated. chapter 14 already in progress because quarantine has me held up.

stay safe and healthy, guys.

[jungkookiebus]

the future is not fine | jhs

Genre: dystopian au, smut Pairing: club scene!Hoseok x club scene!reader Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: heavy drug use (the reader takes acid), mentions alcohol and smoking weed, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, hallucinations, this is the dark future where people have ruined the Earth and are paying the consequences. Summary: In a world where everything went downhill after 2020, people are itching to forget and live lives without care. For some, that means going to mysterious parties hosted by an anonymous donor. The text comes through in a group chat, with numbers you’ll never save or remember, and you drop whatever it is you’re doing to go. In the future, when the world is rampant with economic disaster and war, you can self-medicate yourself with the flick of a wrist and succumb to the music. That’s when you meet him, the mysterious dancer that brings color into your dull life, if just for a moment.

The sky was a burst of oranges, purples, reds, and bright yellows. The salt of the ocean was fresh on the air as you swayed to the music in the breeze. You opened your eyes momentarily to stare out over the water, watching the sun ripple across its diaphanous surface. ‘Party starts at sunset.’ the invitation had said. Yet another rather anonymous party at some rich kid’s house. Everyone came to these parties, but only when you ran with these crowds. The only way someone could be indoctrinated into this “elite” club of sorts, was to be brought on by someone in the chain. Most people realized this life wasn’t for them amongst the drugs and alcohol. So, they left. Which was all good and fine because it kept the numbers even; making it easier to host at more anonymous venues. But there were those who had been around for a while, like you. Two years into this scene and there was no end in sight. You’d exchange knowing glances amongst those that stayed, between you and the drug dealer who never changed as you made an exchange for ecstasy, and sometimes the rotating bartenders. The beach house you were at this time looked to be someone’s winter home and your party was its squatter. The invitation came through the group text, none of which were saved to your phone because you had no need to know these people. You had smiled when you’d gotten it, smiled sweetly at your date across the table and said, “I’m sorry, this just isn’t working.” Watching his face contort into total shock as you stood from the table, grabbed your jacket, and winked before leaving the restaurant. Pulling a joint from the pocket on your dress, you held your hand in front to block the wind to light it, and took a long, burning drag. You didn’t need to look at your phone again, having memorized the address the moment you read it.

So, here you were, among the others who all showed up as soon as the sun kissed the horizon. A low, thrumming beat pulsed up from your feet, tingling in your fingertips, and left a numb feeling across your lips. You had smoked more once you arrived, wandered outside, and that’s where you currently found yourself. The sun still warmed, but the more it slipped, the cooler it got. At some point someone had turned on the outside heaters, but you barely noticed the people around you. The second time you decided to open your eyes is when you saw him. The sun glinted against the natural blonde highlights in his brown hair. His eyes were closed too as he danced to the music. His body moved like water and he moved so fluidly that he had you hypnotized instantly, swaying on the spot as your eyes kept up with his movements. He wore a loose white t-shirt, baggy pants, and expensive sneakers that moved just as smoothly as him. He moved as if he came out of the womb dancing. Your eyes slid shut as the…third? Fourth? Fifth? Hit overtook you. When you remembered him again, he was gone, and he slipped from your memory along with all your other thoughts.

The next text came through on the shittiest of Tuesdays. You were sitting at your desk when your phone vibrated across your desk. The address was given, a previous venue hosted by god knows who, and was one of your favorite spots. It was an old, abandoned telescope that was once part of the now defunct space program. That one president, back in 2020 when he had gotten re-elected, had pretty much ruined the world as you knew it. That’s why these parties existed, to forget and move on. So, here you were, standing in front of the door ready to flash your invitation to the masked bouncer. He nodded once at you and stood to the side to allow you in. The lights were off, but soft lights, inlaid into the floor, shined upwards, not even reaching more than six feet. Every now and again a strobe light would come on as the beat picked up tempo. That was when you saw him again and your memory was jogged. Under the strobe lights, he looked downright mechanical in his movements. Again, alone. Again, eyes closed and feeling the music. This time you wanted to watch. The bar wasn’t far from the dance floor and you wanted to appreciate him. When the strobe lights ceased its assault on your eyes, you saw him lit from below. It threw his features, half hidden under a cap, into sharp contrast. You watched as he spun, arms lifting towards the heavens, and saw that even his fingers were as elegant as the rest of him. That’s when Sam came by, of course his name wasn’t really Sam, but the local drug dealer needed something for people to call him. He sauntered up next to you, having seen you hundreds of times, half of his face hidden under a highly detailed fox mask.

“Anything for the lady tonight?”

“One sheet please,” you said waving your scanner bracelet over his.

“Open up,” he said.

You turned as he pulled a small, plastic container from his bag. Pulling a small sheet from it he reached out towards you. You opened your mouth, lifting your tongue, and let him drop the sheet there. Closing your mouth, you smiled at him as winked at you from behind the mask before walking away. Thirty minutes later and the strobe light was starting to look like a rainbow in your vision. Trails of multi-colored light followed the man as he danced, creating beautiful patterns in his wake. Your body seemed to melt into the floor as you watched him, but you wanted to touch those light trails. With some effort, you pushed off the bar, and trudged through what felt like jell-o. He shone brighter the closer you got, and the light was almost close enough to touch. Focused on the bright blues, reds, and greens in front of you, you reached out. A jolt of electricity coursed through you as he caught your wrist in his hand and pulled you forward. His hand caressed the back of your head, pulling you in closer so that he could lean into your ear.

“How long were you going to watch me until you decided to come over?” He leaned back as he ended the question. A pattern of suns moved across his black shirt, circling around, and coming back again in a celestial march. His eyes sparkled under his cap and you swore you saw stars there.

“Turn him into stars and form a constellation in his image.”

“And the first thing she ever says is a line from Shakespeare,” he chuckled.

“I can’t help it when you dance like that.”

His hand was still firm on the back of your head as he pulled your hips into his. You didn’t really have to dance. No one would question it; everyone was here for different reasons, but under the one unifying rule that everyone kept to themselves. The second you stepped into his personal space however, you were his. He had you dancing with him, nothing technical, but you still felt as if you were in a pool and he was pulling you through its depths. His sugared skin blurred into the soft glow behind him and he leaned forward again, placing his lips to your neck. The feeling struck like a meteor against your skin, warming the spot and spreading outwards in a shock wave. Peace flooded your system as he moved down your neck, kissing again.

“What’s your poison?” he asked as he ground his hips against you.

“I’m flying with the golden dragon,” you smiled.

“How are the lights?”

“Rainbow prisms and you have trails of it following you.”

“How poetic,” he smirked.

He placed a searing kiss against your lips, and it felt as if your skin had melted through his arms and onto the floor. You were still holding your breath when he pulled away.

“Breathe.”

The sigh you let out had him pulling you closer against him.

“Can I take you to a room?”

These venues always had rooms. Or, Rooms™. You had never heard anyone talk about rooms so reverently than when you were here. There were several of them scattered about depending on the location. All were equipped with brand new mattresses, linens, sometimes drugs, low lights, and fashioned to be soundproof. Everyone only went to a room for one reason.

“Yes.” You were still holding onto to him for dear life. He grasped you firmly around the waist and led you off the dance floor and into the dark halls of the building. Several rooms were fitted with two, small fuzzy lights of red and green. Occupied and unoccupied. He finally reached one with a green light and pushed the door inwards. It emanated a soft pink from within. A pink neon heart hung on the wall above the mattress. To the left was a shiny, low table laid out with more drugs and alcohol, ready to be scanned and taken. Speakers in the room played the music still pumping into the room of dancers. An old Grimes song poured through the speakers lazily. His lips were on yours as the locked slid shut in the door. He pushed your jacket from your shoulders, and you let it fall to the floor. Caressing that perfect jawline, you pulled him in closer to you as you pushed his cap off with your other hand. His soft brown hair came cascading out over his eyes as he leaned in to kiss you. They were the softest lips you had ever felt to date. His tongue was hot against yours, claiming your mouth as his own. He expertly undid your belt and pants, hooked his thumbs in both them and your panties, sliding them down and kneeling as he went. The light from the neon sign spread around the room in a blur, washing the palette absolutely in pink. Below you, his hair had turned a dark pink with lighter highlights. His tan skin had the lightest dusting of that rosy tone as he looked up at you with dark eyes. His fingers dragged down your hips leaving trails of pink honey, left to drip down your skin in jagged ribbons. His lips were on your hipbone now, tongue trailing along your skin. He placed a kiss above your clit and flicked his tongue on the hood. You moaned softly as you moved your hips against him. He gently moved your lips apart to lick at you more fully. You reached for his hair and you swore you saw glitter fall from those pink strands. The music changed then, from the slow melody to a fast paced track that had your heart racing. He pushed your hips against the wall behind you hard and you felt your breath leave your chest in a huff. He started to devour you as if you were the drug he had chosen for the night, forgetting about his woes as he buried himself in your cunt. You tugged at his roots as you doubled over. The stimulation had your thighs shaking and your knees buckling. His fingers dug into your hips as he forced you over the edge quickly. The room burst into light, glowing bright, and you closed your eyes against the burn. You felt as if you stood under a waterfall, drenched from head to toe in pleasure. Somehow, he had you from against the wall to your back on the soft mattress with minimal movement. The taste of you flooded your taste buds as he kissed you. The heat between the two of you was scorching. You tugged at his shirt until he pulled it over his head, revealing a well-toned body. The top you wore was cropped and what was the use of a bra tonight, so it was easy for him to just push the thin fabric up your chest. He wrapped his lips around your nipple as he ran his fingers down your stomach, leaving paths of light. Pushing two fingers inside of you, he sighed. You wrapped him in such warmth and wetness that he couldn’t wait to feel more of you. You reached between the two of you and worked his pants over his ass, enough to free him and have him in your hand. He moaned against you as you wrapped for fingers around his length, silk against silk, pre cum leaking at its tip, and becoming harder in your touch. Out of the corner of your eye you could see that the walls were rotating slowly around the room. The heart slipped into your vision before moving back out, creating a pink spotlight on the both of you wherever it went.

“What do you see?” he whispered against your chest.

“Walls are rotating.” You hissed as he sucked your nipple between his teeth.

“Fast or slow?” he asked as your nipple grazed his teeth when he pulled back. Your chest heaved forward, chasing him on its own will before you let out a breath and sunk back among the sheets.

“Slow.”

“Good.” You knew what he was doing. He was keeping your mood as calm as possible, having you focus on the pleasure and the absolute happiness coursing your veins. He knew exactly what he was working with.

Your hand fell from him as he sat up, but his fingers stayed firmly inside of you. He twisted them and hooked his fingers against your g-spot and pumped slowly. He managed to kick his pants off the rest of the way and sat up between your legs. Looking down, he was admiring what was laid out before him. Reaching out he grabbed your hand and pulled you to sitting. The walls rotated a little faster for a second before settling back into that steady rhythm. It was almost hypnotic, watching the neon heart travel the edge of the room.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes fixed on his and they shined just as bright as earlier. They were clear as night; small slivers of pink shown like tiny Milky Ways in their black depths. He looked at you as if the moon shown down on you and you alone. His fingers were out of you now, squeezing your thigh. He caressed your cheek sweetly as he brought your face to his. Your lips chased his as he moved back slowly, smiling as he went. His warm hand never left your cheek as he kept a breath’s distance away from you.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“_____.”

“_____.” He let your name roll off his tongue seductively and it fell out of his mouth like diamonds.

“Yours?” you were still fixated on his eyes; the pink Milky Way had grown brighter the closer it got.

“Hoseok.”

“Hoseoook.” You giggled lightly at the way it sounded coming from you.

His smile was bright, and he seemed to glow in the fuchsia monotony of the room.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice like caramel.

You did and started to get on your hands when he spoke.

“No, no, no. Sit up.”

You turned your head to look at him. He grabbed your hips and pulled you closer until you felt his cock nestled in your ass cheeks. More of the pink honey cascaded across your skin as he ran his hands across your chest. One of his hands was between your legs from behind, pushing you upwards. You felt him nudging at your entrance and, adjusting yourself, you sat down. He gasped as you sunk down, your body taking him in as if he always belonged there. He kissed along your shoulder as you moved your hips, his fingers pressed firmly into your skin.

The music was a low pulse with a synth playing a slow tune accompanied by some electronic drumbeats. The neon heart was just sliding into view again when you closed your eyes. Your movements felt slow, but everything felt so good. He kissed the back of your neck as he too started to move. You gasped when he thrust up into you, while barely letting you move with his firm grip on your hip. His name fell from your lips in soft moans and you heard him sigh in satisfaction. When you opened your eyes again you saw geometric patterns of random pulsing color decorate the still turning walls. Your body was strung like a bow, tense, and you refused to breathe. He brought you closer and closer with each thrust and your pussy felt as if it were getting hotter. When your orgasm hit, so did the full force of the hallucinogen. What you weren’t expecting was the explosion of neon animals that now rotated around the room, but they weren’t just any and all animals, there was a wide array of sea creatures swimming around you as if in an aquarium. A neon great white swam by followed closely by a sea turtle and a school of small fish.

“What do you see?” he was still thrusting into you steadily as he spoke.

“Neon octopus…and fish.”

“Do you feel good?”

Your eyes closed, letting the cool water you believed was there to wash over you.

“So good,” you whispered.

He moved you from his lap, rotating you lithely, and he was soon hovering over you. Behind his shoulder and across the ceiling swam a large neon whale, but you weren’t focused on it right now. Hoseok was above you, studying your face intently as he bit his bottom lip. He slid into you with you barely noticing his movements, so he didn’t miss the way your eyes widened before slipping shut, mouth open in ecstasy as he worked you open again. He was up on his hands so he could still watch you writhe beneath him and the expressions on your face.

He leaned down again after a moment, propped up on his elbow, and his lips were at your ear. “I want you to see the universe.”

He reached down, two fingers on your clit as he rotated his hips into you. Fresh tears welled up in your eyes and your body warmed from within. Your fingers dug into the sheets as he expertly worked his cock and fingers in tandem. A scream was trapped in your throat as you came, and your eyes opened as it peaked. You could see that he was still watching your face but behind him, the scene had changed. The room from the floor to about four feet was unchanged. The rest had turned into the night sky and what you would have described the Big Bang to look like. Explosions of color flashed before your eyes as stars formed and died out. Green, pink, and blue gases hovered around a small Milky Way. Comets passed by and so did passing constellations. You felt as if you were seeing a symphony personified, the music of the universe laid out before you.

When you came down and was able to focus somewhere else, you looked at him again. You no longer felt him inside of you. Reaching for his arm you looked at him alarm.

“What about you?” The stars twinkled behind him, moving slowly across the night sky.

He smiled. “What did you see?”

The way he looked at you made you think he could see the stars reflected in your eyes, content to view the night sky and still be able to look at you.

“So many stars.” Your eyes searched his as you spoke. “Everywhere. Stars.”

He smiled at you as you looked at what he could not see.

“You never told me your poison.”

He smirked coyly before speaking. “I didn’t take anything. I did this for you, and I wanted to remember.”

No one ever came to these parties sober. They all came here to forget, so what was he doing?

“What?”

“I’ve been coming to these parties for months. How you haven’t noticed me I don’t know.”

You wanted to know why you hadn’t seen him either.

“But why?”

“I’ve seen your misery. Those moments before the drugs hit, I see you. Then you move to music like it comes from inside of you. But when the parties were over you didn’t look nearly as satisfied with the night as the others did.”

He was right. The weight and misery of the world always weighed heavy somewhere. The increase in drugs never helped fully, but it did help you cope.

“I wanted you to feel something for once.”

Your heart thudded hard in your chest. You realized that the anxiety usually thrashing in the corner of your mind had been told to stay quiet. Suddenly, everything didn’t feel so bad. The stars still steadily floated by.

“Thank you for letting me see the universe.”

“Thank you for letting me see that these parties aren’t the only thing that can make me feel.”

Leaving as the sun came up, he stepped out of the building at your side. The bright yellow of morning was peaking over the mountains and you looked up at Hoseok beside you. He seemed at peace as he gazed over the sleeping valley below. No, the future was not fine as they had promised but there were still people in the world that made it feel that way.