#but uh. otherwise that shit reeks real bad

[ssaltlicker]

Ti/mebomb is just arcanes version of re/ylo dont @ me

[doubleddenden]

Second review of the 3 anime finale on Toonami: Rick and Morty the Anime

I will preface this by saying (and I humbly ask for no personal attacks on this) that I honestly do not like normal Rick and Morty to begin with.

Don't read if you don't vibe with that. RnM fans tend to be very... extra, in some regards, taking too much after Rick- so that's the warning, you'll be in for a bad time if you like the base show and wanna read further.

The reasons I dislike regular RnM is because the art style is gross and ugly for the sake of being gross and ugly, and the writing reeks of depressed nihilistic cynicism that shits all over any character that dares to want something normal or even happy, and the comedy writing is just not really that funny beyond a couple of jokes. I hate Rick- I have seen episodes, multiple before, and I just can NOT stand him. "Oh great you didn't know this very impossible to know thing and now you fucked up, great, real classy, you should feel bad and or kys" or "I personally don't like you and I'm going to make it the multiverse's and my family's problem" are not traits I find admirable (and no, he doesn't really get much better, he's still an asshole no matter how much development he gets). The family isn't really much better tbh and all hate each other, something I hate about modern adult cartoons including the ugly art style and grossness just to be gross. That's just my opinion, I get that people like the show (it's been renewed for like a seasons 8, 9, 10, and 11 already), but I honestly cannot grasp it.

So why watch the anime? Well, it was on Toonami, may as well, and I thought with different writers it might be different too. I did mildly enjoy some of the tone shift from one of the other anime shorts, which made Rick vaguely less of an asshole and more like someone that actually cares about his family beyond how they personally benefit him- so I wanted to give it a shot.

Its............ it's uh..... well, it happened. I think I can say that. That's not good or bad. Just... yeah. Mid.

There's a severe tonal shift from (badly written) adult comedy with an ugly art style that thinks "Morty, we gotta fight the Dick Clenchers of Splotchulon 5, Morty, you'll never guess why they're called that, Morty, its- it's because they clench your dick, Morty. Now help me work on my shit machine that shits actual shit" is funny, to something that REALLY tries to take itself super seriously with a ton of angst and drama- like if Family Guy (also hate it) suddenly tried to make a live action season without its bad comedy and references and instead decided to make a dramatic, murder mystery plot line over a season without a SINGLE joke or flashback, played completely seriously. In other words, it is really unsettling to see a show so disingenuous try to be genuine, but just come across as weird and off putting.

And while I can say I didn't hate some of the aspects of it, I can't say I really enjoyed or understood most of it either. Elle is a pretty fun character for a bit, but doesn't really have much personality beyond being in love with Morty and being some kind of time perceiver. The other characters are also weirdly characterized to be less consistent with their regular counterparts- I mean there's still a couple of moments where Rick is an asshole to Morty or Jerry or where Summer is vaguely a bitch like usual, but otherwise they may as well be completely different characters. I guess the canon material would allow this as an AU in the multiverse, but it's still... weird. Very weird. I would prefer anime Rick over real Rick because again, he's LESS of an asshole and kind of mysterious- but mid overall.

The plot is also weird and overly complex for what it's supposed to be. I mean it's better than a plot device powered by an infinite wall of tortured Morties, but we're talking about some sections that confuse me so much, that Kingdom Hearts makes more sense to me.

I wish I could say the animation and art style were better, but this is like saying a piece of stained printer paper is better than a dirty toilet. The animation is just blocky, and the characters transition weirdly to this style- like it's an anime, but they want to maintain the gross art style of the original in a vague way. Elle is actually just fine and looks cute in both her versions, but she is also directly created for this series and isn't adapted for anything. Idk I know I'm an outsider and some RnM fan is really tempted to tell me to kms over that, but hear me out on this: if your thing is to make an ugly American cartoon into an anime, maybe try making it look genuine instead of weird and off putting. I mean, it worked for the Simpsons Death Note episode.

Personally, I feel like this anime was just made as a way to get around the Writer's Strike from last year. In fact, I half expected from this episode or a future one for the real series to look at this and be like "oh yeah, that'll show the writers to demand a fair wage. Good thing that's not canon, right? Looks like shit. " it does not feel like anybody's best work and serves more like a fan's overly angst filled AU.

Well anyway, a 5/10 feels fine. Mid as fuck.

[sinnamonn]

Welcome to Hell Ch2. “Meet Mammon”

Gia meets their new guard demon, “Mammon”. It does not go well. Also because this is my fic and I can do whatever I want Obey me is now in the same universe as It’s Always Sunny.

Word count: 1.7 K

The demon pointed an accusatory finger at the redhead.

Gia resisted the urge to bite it right off.

“Listen up, because I’m only gonna say this once!” He barked, “If you value your life then you’ll hand over all your money now! And anything else of value!”

Was this guy for real!? This bitchass was trying to rob them!? Oh hell no, Gia was not going to get robbed by some twink that still used fucking axe body spray!!

“Otherwise I’ll wipe that—“

“Fuck that and fuck you!” Gia yelled, cutting the demon off mid-threat, “Listen here, asshole, I’m not getting robbed by some twink!”

“Who’re you callin’ a twink!?”

“You, dumbass!”

“You don’t know what you’re dealin’ with, little bitch.” He spat, snarling down at them. Gia only bit back,

“I’m dealin’ with a punkass that’s about to get their shit rocked!”

“Mammon! Shut up or I’ll punch you!” Lucifer snapped, “And Gia, language!”

And then Lucifer just punched Mammon, causing him to stumble back a bit while gripping his head.

“GAH, OW! Hey, what’s the big idea!?” Mammon whined, “I thought you were actually gonna give me a chance to shut up before punching me!”

Satan gestured to his older brother, “Gia, meet Mammon, Avatar of Greed. He oversees all forms of it,” he explained, “whenever he takes a liking to someone they suddenly find themselves awash in money.”

“And he’s a masochist, that part’s important~!” Asmo added, “So I can’t wait to see you put him in his place some more!”

Ok. Ew. Gia didn’t need to know that.

“I didn’t need to know that.” Gia replied flatly.

“And it just so happens I have a job for my masochist of a brother.”Lucifer stated, only to be cut off again by Mammon.

“Quit tellin’ lies! I ain’t asked for that punch and I ain’t a masochist!”

“Mammon, you are going to be charged with seeing to this human’s needs during the exchange.” Lucifer ordered, “I expect your full cooperation.”

“WHAT!?” Both Gia and Mammon yelled at the elder demon.

“Wha!? Why me!?” Mammon exclaimed.

“Yeah, why him!? He literally just tried to rob me!” Gia argued.

“As, lucky you, Mammon! I’m so jealous.” Asmo pouted.

“Then you take them!”

Wait no, Gia got the feeling staying with Asmo might just be worse than Mammon.

“Huh? Hell no. Watching them match your energy is too funny.” He replied quickly.

“You just said you were jealous!” Mammon all but screeched.

“Just give up Mammon. There’s no getting out of this.” Satan looked at though he was holding back laughter, “You know you can’t deny a direct order from Lucifer.”

“But why me!? Why can’t Beel do it?” He whined

“If we hand Gia over to Beel we might as well just tell him to eat them.” Asmo said, now scrolling through his DDD.

“Yeah, I can’t promise I wouldn’t.” Beel agreed.

“...Mammon?” Lucifer asked lowley , his tone was dangerous.

“W-What?”

“Surely you’re not going to tell me you object to this arrangement, are you?”

For the first time, during his introduction, Mammon was quiet. He only held a sour look on his face before loudly groaning, “Ugh, I hate you guys! Fine, I’ll do it, ok!?” His attention turned back to Gia, “As much as I don’t wanna look after you, I’ve got no choice. It’s a huge pain in the ass and I’m too important for this kind of thing.”

Sure buddy, keep telling yourself that.

“But Lucifer told me to do it, so I will. But in return you better not cause me any trouble, got it?!”

Gia took back what she first thought of Mammon. He was worse than the high school boys that got stupidly mad when you didn’t stand for the pledge.

“If you can stay off my dick,” Gia sneered, “we might have a deal.”

“Fine by me, human. Just don’t forget whose boss around here.” Mammon shot back.

“Now that that’s settled,” Lucifer cut in before Gia could say anything else, “Mammon, show them to the house and try not to kill each other.”

‘No promises.’ Gia thought, reluctantly following Mammon out of the hell.

———

That lack of depth perception was really biting Gia in the ass. They felt more like a bird trying to escape a hall of mirrors, bumping into and bouncing off of walls. It also didn’t help that Mammon was practically speedwalking away from them.

“Oi! Human! Would ya pick up the pace, we don’t got all night!” He shouted over his shoulder.

“Oh sorry! Lemme just pop my eye back in and magically gain perfect vision!” They sarcastically called back, “OH WAIT! I can’t!”

Mammon stopped mid-step before turning on his heel and striding over to Gia.

“Wait...you’re missing an eye?” He questioned.

Oh great, was he gonna do that mock-sympathy schick they got more than enough back in their world?

“Damn, Lucifer couldn’t even get a human with all their parts!” He cackled, clenching his gut, as if this were the funniest thing in the world, “He had to grab some broken fucking human! That’s hilarious! ”

Broken....

Did he really just call them BROKEN?

Gia saw red, their lip pulled back into a venomous snarl. How fucking dare he! They were a lot of things but broken was not one of them.

“Oh, I’ll show you broken!”

The redhead kicked the demon’s kneecaps with all this might.

“OW! YOU BITCH!”

Satan and Asmodeus watched as the two left for the House of Lamentation, absolutely transfixed on the two’s interaction. It was like one of Asmodeus’ trashy reality tv shows came to life, neither of them could look away.

“Uh, Lucifer, they’re already fighting.” Satan said, earning a groan from the eldest. Lucifer could feel a migraine coming on, a bad one.

“Oh my god the human just kicked Mammon’s kneecaps!” Asmo laughed, he was recording the entire interaction, “Oh he’s mad!”

“Shit, do I need to intervene?” He asked with only mild concern.

“Hmm, maybe..” Satan watched as Mammon grabbed for Gia, “wait, no he’s just carrying them back to the house.”

————

“PUT ME DOWN!” Gia beat on the demons back, “This is demeaning!”

“Just be happy that the Great Mammon was kind enough to help you!” Mammon shot back, “If you think this is demeaning then imagine how I feel! Why should I have to look after some human !?”

“ Um,bitch, I got isekaied to hell without my consent and now I’m stuck with a bunch of rich boys who reek of ‘I peaked in high school’!”

Mammon gasped, “I did not peak! The Great Mammon only goes up!I’m practically a golden god!”

Why did they feel like they heard that somewhere before? Maybe...back home? Oh shit yeah, Mammon talked exactly like this one guy who owned a bar they’d always go to when they were bored. Wasn’t his name Denny or something?

“And just so we’re clear,” Mammon continued, “it’s not like I can’t say no to Lucifer, okay!?”

Gia didn’t ask.

“I only agreed to babysit you because, um...Well you know, because…...uh…”

“It’s ok, take your time.” Gia said

“Grr! It doesn’t matter! Just don’t go thinking I’m scared of Lucifer or anything! Because I’m not!” He snapped.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Mammon finally put them down when the two got to the house.

Gia whistled, taking in just how...elegant? No, elegant wasn’t the word they were looking for? A better way to describe the house would probably be maximalist. When they entered they were met with a double stairway accented by two gigantic gargoyle statues. Purple wallpaper clung to the walls littered with paintings of people, Allistar Crowley being the only one Gia recognized.

“This is the House of Lamentation. It’s one of the dorms here at RAD.” Mammon explained, stepping forward, “Well, it's not just one of the dorms. It’s the dorm reserved for student council members….and you I guess.” Mammon prattled on, mostly about himself, “Lucifer, Asmo, and the others take every chance they can get to insult me. Callin’ me scum, sayin’ I’m a money- grabber and stuff…..”

Gia was really only half paying attention, they opted rather to try and figure out who the other people in the photos were. Cultists, perhaps?

“...In other words, I’m a big shot. A real big shot. Like, even other big shots are impressed by—hey are you even listening!?”

“Hm? Sorry, what? I got distracted by the pictures.” Gia gestured loosely to the walls.

Mammon growled, “I was just saying, don’t you go thinkingI’m just some ordinary demon. I’m nothing like those other peons walking the halls here.”

“Ok, cool. Figured as much.” Gia shrugged

“So I suggest-wait what?”

“I figured all of you were pretty powerful, why else would Diavolo leave me with all of you? Demons eat humans, so you put the human with your most powerful and loyal demons as protectors.” Gia elaborated, “So that implies that you’re the most trustworthy and capable of this task, right? Even if you did..try to rob me. But why else would Lucifer and the rest of your brothers leave me in your care?”

Mammon stared wide-eyed down at Gia, they could practically see the gears turning in his head—wait did his cheeks get darker?

He turned around before Gia could really tell, “Well-I’m—I mean!—Duh, of course the Great Mammon is capable!!” He sputtered, “B-But don’t think flattery is getting you anywhere! You’re still just some stupid human!”

“I wasn’t trying to, it’s just logic.”

“SHUT UP. Just-! Let’s just go to your room, OK!?”

Instead of lugging Gia over his shoulder, Mammon instead grabbed their wrist and began dragging them up the stairs, avoiding looking at them.

“Ow! Fine! Lay off the dragging, though!”

Gia’s room was cottagecore as fuck. That was the only way they could best describe it. The room looked like it had been taken out of a fairytale book, it wasn’t exactly Gia’s style but they could appreciate the aesthetic. Objectively, the room was very pretty. That idea was hammered in the more Gia explored it.

It was bigger than the apartment they shared with their mom. In truth, it was more like a closet that somehow fit a bed and dresser.

“Holy shit this bed is soft.” Gia commented once they flopped onto the comforter, “And these pillows! They’re not flat! I forgot they could be fluffy.”

“Oi, human, I got some advice for you,” Mammon leaned over the bed, “ If you wanna survive even a day here in the Devildom, you’d better listen real close to what I’m about to say.”

“Aight.” Gia turned their attention back to the demon.

“If it ever looks like a demon is about to attack you..run. Either that, or die.” Mammon said grimly.

“That’s...Honestly not the worst advice I’ve ever gotten.” They replied.

“How about I vote you to die, Mammon!”

Gia jumped at the new voice, shooting up out of the bed and looking towards the door frame. There stood a pissed off looking guy with purple hair, glaring daggers at Mammon

“AH..! Levi…!” Mammon exclaimed.

[rhydium]

Info dumbo about the StarFinite story?

aright u asked for it anon GET READY [cracks knuckles] this is gonna be long so obligatory cut in 3, 2........

...1!

so the uh, the au! the story!! w/e yall wanna call it! full disclaimer, i only began working on this whole thing a while ago, but it's totally taken over my fukn brain. like, we're talking big hyperfixation hrs. am i cringe for being this invested in my own content? yes? cool i do not Care >:3€

i should also throw it out there real quick that i am kin w/ infinite, n this is actually one of my two canons (both of which are my own aus lmfao wow). i didn't go into it expecting it to be but sfsfsgdfs here we are ig!! for that reason it's got extra importance to me n this definitely contributes to the euphoria i get from it!! it's a lil odd writing ur own canon,,? but i kinda just go w/ the flow!

the au n, the story that i will start Eventually, revolves around infinite n starline (obvi) n it's honestly just ... the tl;dr is big healing momence n, what's this? uh oh sisters !!! they are falling in love 😳😳😳

uhhhh so infinite is an android, made by eggman. that's like, the most notable canon divergence here! super important context to have. i've got a whole big theory on the possibility of sega originally intending infinite to be an artificial being (which i explored in the works for my Other canon too), stemming from not only the scene in forces wherein infinite comments on sonic's "data", but a line of dialogue from tails in one of the last stages of the game where he Literally Says "so this is where eggman built infinite". that ... i mean. that contrasts w/ episode shadow pretty hard don't it?? would explain why that dlc was so rushed, n the comic too. ANYWAY adsfsfs um that's a seperate ramblepost. yeah!!!

they are also agender n use they/them (primarily) as well as he/him!! so i'll be refering to them w/ those pronouns!

after the war, infinite is taken in by the resistance n, instead of being dismantled, they're basically given a chance to rehabilitate themselves. it's agreed that they won't be reprogrammed, as despite the potential risks, it feels wrong to do so; like a violation of their free will, individuality n thinking. if infinite is to be a good person, it's not gonna be bc other ppl recreated their entire personality, it's gonna be bc it's what they themselves truly want. robot ethics idk man!! u can't tell me that sonic n co wouldn't offer this to infinite if they offered it to metal in IDW,,,, i am Standing By This!!!

it's, yknow, a bit rocky, at first. infinite has to really fight the urge to return to eggman (something they already tried once, before the resistance found them; they were cast out). it's a struggle against what they were built to do, against giving into unhealthy familiarity over facing a, while healthier, unfamiliarity. new faces, a new life, turning their back on their mission n creator, it's like, a lot.

they work for/with the sonic crew, rebuilding the world they tore down as deemed fitting justice, being closely monitored for a bit as a natural precaution. as it becomes apparent infinite truly no longer has any ambition to harm others (they don't have much ambition for anything, really), they're then granted more freedom, n start taking on more important missions!! it at least gives them something to do, keeps them occupied. they have issues with dissociation, unreality, whether they're truly a real person bc, well, android. feeling purposeless, n a lack of worth, especially. a need to prove themselves. heavy stuff. i'll kinda go into that a bit more in a sec. their work grounds them, if only temporarily.

n soooooo... IDW comic stuff happens. metal virus time. starline gets kicked out of the empire.

now, as the comics are ongoing, n as this is already an au, there's gonna be divergence, n i must admit i haven't planned out all that yet. there's a lot i have to consider!! infinite being w the resistance/restoration is a big game changer ... tho i Do believe that they were absent, likely on a far out mission during most of the chaos. eggman doesn't know abt them, nor does starline or anyone else other than the sonic crew; n some civilians that recognise them.

i'm not 100% sure of Exactly when it happens, but i think it's just after bad guys, that infinite is sent to locate n bring in starline. it doesn't prove too difficult. there's a whole, starline realising "oh fuck it's you???", some bickering n, the two don't hit it off right away. they're both kinda like. not mentally stable ddgddgdds,,,

so uh. starline ends up essentially going thru the same sorta shit as infinite. careful watch, rebuilding, all that jazz, making sure he can be trusted. he's like... very very lost, quite like infinite is. the world has kinda calmed down, in the meanwhile.

it's at this point i'm gonna go ahead n drop a bit of a ramble i subjected my friends to a while ago, to articulate the way i see the two, n their dynamic together!! i was considering making this it's own post a while ago!

analysing their characters a bit... let's look at starline. Like. so we have this, in bad guys, which SENT ME tbfh;

i feel like it's the moment that triggers starline onto the path he is rn canonically,,, he's clearly like. rly mad n bitter. the core of this?? he wants his work n his efforts to be acknowledged.

he's big angry. still kind of in denial at this stage. he has himself obsessed w/ the idea of making eggman see him as Worthy, that if he just tries hard enough, that'll happen. he's dependent on eggman's validation, n i mean, it's no surprise; he's followed him a Long Time by the sounds of it.

then in the recent issue, hold the fuck up, bc we got, This;

god. my god it's all comin together now homies. this???? this right here??? it is the CLASSIC "i have to do this to prove i'm strong n powerful n smart n worthy n should be respected please Give Me Acknowledgement" ..... n who else is Like That? can u see where im going w/ this?

i think most ppl are aware of infinite's character being extremely indicative of self worth/esteem issues n the need to prove themself, right?? the extreme adversity, repulsion, perhaps even fear toward the idea of being weak. the compulsion to prove otherwise, to show their strength, to become powerful, to conquer to make a point. their theme exudes this same energy as their behaviour in-game; an aggressive attitude, trying to assert themself, while if u rly listen...? the lyrics are actually really sad in places. it reeks of cover up, although composition wise, a v interesting thing to note is a lot of the more telling lyrics are prominent while some of the affirming ones are in the background. indicative of a desire to have their true feelings be heard but caught in a vicious loop?

okay okay that's yet Another different analysis. AHEM.

not to get deep on main (oh who the hell am i kidding that's the point of this entire thing) but i think starline has issues w/ his worth in a similar way to infinite. they both seem to have this need to Prove something, whether it's to others or themselves, n get caught in a toxic spiral of doing worse n worse things for Some kind of validation or acknowledgement. they'll go to really big lengths chasing that, n both of them ultimately sought validation in the wrong place n wrong way.

this is a big part of my starfinite dynamic,, n so, what happens, as they get closer n open up??? we have them BOTH realising together that they don't have to do fuck all to prove anything to anyone. they don't need to do all this to show they're strong n smart n worth something, not to anyone else OR themselves. they're enough as they are. they bond over that shared feeling that they have to do xyz, to prove themselves, n that desire to just finally be acknowledged n appreciated n help each other thru it. to help each other understand that other ppls approval, or lack thereof, doesn't define them, their strength, intelligence, and worthiness.

i feel like they have an interesting parallel between them in like... the above could be taken as a general analysis, but to go more in depth on this au specifically?? ...

starline followed eggman for presumably a long time n it no doubt left him feeling a heavy and deep regret for all that time wasted n spent on an unhealthy path. infinite kinda teaches him that what matters is what he's doing Now n also reminds him that if none of it happened, starline wouldn't have learnt a lot of the serious skills he has. n while starline still feels bad, he also realises himself that, he likely never would have crossed infinite's path if none of it happened. for that reason, he wouldn't take it back.

infinite has only been recently made, on the other hand. they haven't really existed long, yet, but so far their experiences haven't been very positive n it can be .... discouraging. starline sorta, shows infinite their limited experiences w/ the world are a very tiny fraction of what's out there, n things can absolutely change, yes, including for the better; that's the essence of life, a neverending, constant flow of change.

it's a big tale of moving on n letting go, honestly; made easier as they're doing it together. n as they heal n grow, well... these bitches gay. sfshshdgds like, ig that's putting it p bluntly but!! they start to trust each other, understand each other more. as they get to truly know who the other is, they both start developing The Feelings. they're both pretty oblivious n the reveal is totally unknown so far!! yeah, i know, bummer. i suck. boo. adafsfsds however i can say there will be lots of content in the making!! if that soothes the soul! i've got of ideas i hope to bring to life.

ofc there's still a lot of more specific things i haven't covered here so! if y'all want more juice hmu w/ more focused questions but !! this is the overview n i hope it was a decent read now that gave some uhhh! Cool Insight! yea!!! ✌

[vixensheart]

Butter or No?

.

.

.

Sticky ass tables are the worst. 

Katsuki scrubs the offending mystery sticky shit with a worn, threadbare washrag. It’s not coming off, and he grits his teeth and growls. Fucking shitty ass parents, not watching their damn kids. Somehow, Katsuki knows it’s the kids’ fault, here. It’s always the kids that make a mess in the theater. It doesn’t even matter where, either- in the auditorium, the mini arcade, the fucking lobby- kids are little shits that cause chaos wherever they go. 

He huffs a sigh and sprays more soapy disinfectant shit onto the mess to let it soak a bit. Then he scrubs again, harder this time. The little round table rattles a bit under the force, but the sticky shit’s coming off so Katsuki doesn’t stop until it's gone. 

“Damn, dude, you good over there?” 

Katsuki’s head whips up. Across from him, some dude’s watching him with raised brows and a wry grin. He glowers. “M’fine.” It takes a bit of restraint to keep from flipping the dude off, but Katsuki really doesn’t feel like getting bitched at again by Iida. So he bites the inside of his cheek and attempts to resume scrubbing. Except mister fucking chatterbox has apparently decided to ignore Katsuki’s rather blatant cold shoulder. 

“You sure? You kind of look like you’re about to break that table.” 

His temple throbs. Fucking hell. Is it too damn much to ask to just be left alone? Katsuki grits his teeth and huffs again and decides fuck it, it’s clean enough anyway. He stalks off without another word, because any other words used would definitely have curses in them, and as Iida constantly wails at him, it’s apparently frowned upon to use such words. 

“Well, bye, then…” mister dumbass mumbles, and Katsuki stops. Fucking asshole, what, did he want a fight? He tosses a glare over his shoulder, snark at the ready, only to pause. And stare. Because oh. Oh, fuck. Dumbass mcLoudmouth is...actually kind of really hot. 

Even slouched in his chair, Katsuki can tell he’s built as fuck, with arms muscular enough that he could probably crush his head open with his biceps and Katsuki would thank him. He’s got a nice jawline, wide, pretty eyes, and a head of ridiculously styled, firetruck red hair. It’s all spiked up with some sort of gel, and would look atrocious, yet this dude’s somehow pulling it off. It almost pisses Katsuki off. 

Almost. 

He sighs and turns to the table beside him, giving it a squirt from his disinfectant bottle. “Why’re you sitting out here by your damn self, anyway?” Katsuki asks, voice low. The guy perks up. 

“Oh. Well, uh, I’m meeting someone! Or, I was supposed to…” He deflates, and looks at his phone. “I guess they’re running late... They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” Hot guy looks absolutely miserable, and Katsuki feels something twist in his chest at the sight. Fuck. Katsuki doesn’t even know this guy’s name, and he’s already ready to punch someone in the face, just for causing that frown. 

What the fuck even. 

“Well, why don’t you call them, or whatever?” he mutters, as he swipes the rag haphazardly over the already cleaned table. That he wiped down ten minutes ago. It’s fine. Fuck off. 

Hot guy chuckles, but it’s hollow. “I would, but uh. I don’t have their number? It’s a date…” He rubs the back of his neck, rueful, and sighs. “I met them on a dating app my friends made me try. And, well. I guess I’m a bit nervous?” 

Katsuki bites his lip. Of course he’d be here for a date. The dude’s hot. And as much as Katsuki is loath to admit it, he can’t entirely quell the bubbles of disappointment in his chest. Which is stupid. He’s wearing a shitty-ass red polo that reeks of popcorn butter and sweat, and he’s cleaning tables. What chance in hell would he even have to begin with? So, Katsuki swipes at the too clean table and grunts. “The fuck’re you nervous about? It’s just a date. Buy them popcorn and hold their hand and shit.” 

Hot guy laughs, real and genuine this time, and goddamn, is it a pretty sound. Katsuki’s no poet, but fuck, it’s like all the mushy shit they talk about in the cheesy-ass romcoms they play every summer. Gross. He hates how much he likes it, how much he already wants to hear it again. Katsuki flushes and tries to hide the fact with a scowl. 

“Thanks, dude. I’ll, uh, try, I guess.” He beams at Katsuki, as if his beautiful laugh didn’t already strike arrows through his heart. “Oh, I’m Kirishima, by the way,” he says. “Thanks for humoring me.” 

Katsuki throws the towel up onto his shoulder and shrugs. “S’whatever.” He turns to stalk off again, because he’s at work, dammit, only to pause again. “Bakugou,” he mutters over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima perks up. 

“Huh?” 

He scoffs. Fucking dumbass. “My name, shitty hair,” he says. He doesn’t really wait for a response, this time, and storms off instead, face heated. Katsuki feels like he’s got a bunch of stinging nettles rattling around in his stomach, and it’s fucking embarrassing how much he wamts to turn back around and try to fumble his way through asking Kirishima out. But he’s working, and Kirishima’s here for a date with someone else anyway. 

So Katsuki stomps his way back to the supply closet and trades his rag and spray bottle for a damn broom and dustpan. 

Time to sweep some fucking auditoriums. 

~

Forty-five minutes and two cleaned auditoriums later, and Katsuki’s trudging his way back to the lobby, bent broom in hand. 

“Iida’s gonna kill you for breaking the broom. Again.” Jirou snaps her gum, gaze glued to her phone as she trails behind him. Katsuki huffs. He has half a mind to chuck said broom at her, but it’d be a waste of effort. 

“S’not my fault guests are fucking gross,” he says. It’s the truth. There was so much goddamn popcorn on the floors and under the seats, it’s like no one actually ate the damn stuff. So of course he had to sweep that shit up. And it’s pretty fucking hard to get the broom under the chairs so. He bent his broom. 

Again. 

“Put mine away too, and I won’t say anything,” Jirou says, holding hers out to him. She doesn’t even look up from her phone, the bitch. Katsuki grinds his teeth. He wants to tell her to shove it, but this is the twelfth broom he’s bent while sweeping, and Iida really gets up in his damn business about that sort of shit. So, Katsuki swipes it from her with a growl. Jirou looks up at him from beneath her thick, purple bangs and grins. “Thanks.” She pops a bubble and turns on her heel, leaving Katsuki alone in front of the damn supply closet. 

Stupid fucking coworkers, being lazy and shit. He knows she’s texting her damn boyfriend and girlfriend in their weird little group chat instead of actually working. She does it all the damn time. But her girlfriend is friends with Iida, so she gets away with that shit. Which. Is bullshit. 

Katsuki yanks open the door and tosses both sets of brooms and their dustpans inside, hardly caring if the contents spill out or not. He can always blame fucking Mineta, if he has to. Damn pervy asshole is always getting on everyone’s nerves anyway. He slams the door shut and drags his way back to the lobby.

It’s quiet, now.   

He can hear the tinkering of the soft classical music Iida insists on playing, claiming that it’s “professional” and “calming”, or some shit. Katsuki doesn’t really buy it- he’s been yelled at enough by one too many angry guests over dumb shit like popcorn. If the music was as calming as he claimed, that sort of bullshit wouldn’t happen. 

Katsuki sighs, gaze sweeping across the many empty tables, checking for any garbage, when a blaze of red hair snags his focus. His brows furrow, and he whips his phone out to check the time. 

Eight o’fucking clock. And Kirishima’s still here…? Katsuki frowns. He thought the guy had a date. Why the hell is he slouched over the table like he’s asleep? Unless… 

Something dark twists in his chest, and Katsuki finds himself striding over towards shitty haired-muscle boy before he can stop himself. Kirishima doesn’t seem to notice his approach. He’s sprawled across the tabletop, cheek squished into it, phone laying face up beside his nose. There’s a soft snore accompanying the rise and fall of his shoulders; he’s really asleep. Damn. Katsuki clasps his shoulder and gives him a shake. “Hey, shitty hair.” 

Kirishima groans, face scrunching cutely. He blinks awake and shifts, sitting up. “Bakugou?” And, oh. His voice is rough, making Katsuki’s heart thud in his chest. He gulps. 

“You fell asleep.” 

Kirishima’s eyes go wide at that. “Oh!” He taps his phone with a frown that only deepens as he gazes down at it. “Oh.” His shoulders slump. “I...I guess they’re not coming, huh?” 

And fuck. Katsuki stares as Kirishima droops, that painful twisting ratcheting up a few notches. Kirishima runs a hand through his hair and huffs a pained laugh. “I guess it’s a good thing I waited to buy tickets, huh?” he asks, voice wobbling. The next chuckle is wet, sad, and Kirishima reaches up to scrub at his face. “Otherwise...I-it would have been a waste…” 

It’s instinct that has him reaching out, again. Katsuki grazes his fingers on his shoulder once more in some vain attempt to comfort. Which. Hell, Katsuki is bad at this sort of shit. But there’s a burning need to try that he can’t quite explain. 

His gaze darts back up to the digitized showtime board. There’s another showing of...some dumbass action movie in like. Ten minutes. An idea, a stupid, weird, dumb idea blossoms in Katsuki’s mind, and he grabs Kirishima by the wrist and tugs. “C’mere,” he says. He tugs again, and Kirishima fumbles to his feet and lets Katsuki drag him over to the ticket counter.

“Hey, earphones!” 

Jirou looks up at him from the stool she’s perched on, brow raised. “What?” She snaps her gum, looking very unimpressed. 

“I...I need two courtesy tickets or whatever to the next showing of…” He trails off and squints up at the board. “Cars and Explosions.”

He’s met with an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious right now.” 

“Does it fucking look like I’m joking?” Katsuki snaps. He sighs. “Look, I’m off in ten minutes, anyway.” Which is the fucking truth, and Jirou knows it. She looks from Katsuki to Kirishima, who’s lingering behind him like a lost puppy, arm limp in Katsuki’s grasp. He’s not sure what Jirou sees, but something in her expression softens, and she shrugs. 

“Whatever. Just make sure you clock out on time.” There’s a bit of typing, and then she’s thrusting two tickets at him with a sigh. Katsuki takes them and drags Kirishima away, muttering his thanks under his breath. He knows she hears it, because she doesn’t try to give him shit. Which. 

Thank fuck. Because Katsuki kind of has no idea what he’s doing. 

“Uh...dude?” Kirishima tugs his arm a bit. “What’re we doing?” They’ve stopped at concessions, and Katsuki turns to peer at his unwitting companion. Kirishima’s brows are notched, bottom lip poking out in a pout- he looks cute, and Katsuki wants to scream. He huffs and gestures to the snacks. 

“Pick something.” 

Kirishima looks from him to the snacks, and back again. “Um…popcorn, I guess? But, dude-” 

Katsuki jumps the counter. Yeah, sure, maybe it’s dramatic, but hey. He didn’t feel like walking around, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want to figure out where Koda is. Besides, if you want shit done, you’ve gotta do it yourself, or whatever. So, he grabs a popcorn bag and starts scooping some into it.

“Bakugou, dude!” Kirishima’s gawking at him with wide eyes. “Seriously, what are you doing?” 

“The fuck does it look like?” Katsuki says. He makes a point to scoop an egregiously large shovel full of popcorn and stuffs it into the bag. “Butter or no?” 

Kirishima just chews on his lip and looks around. “Is this even allowed?” He looks a bit like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, which is both adorable and irritating. Because like, fucking hell. He’s not doing anything wrong. Neither of them are. 

“You didn’t answer my question, dumbass.” Katsuki sighs, and tosses the scoop back into its cradle. His gaze lingers over Kirishima’s flushed face, and he sighs again. “I’m not a damn delinquent, I am paying for this shit. Now tell me what you want or I’m just gonna dowse it in butter.” 

“Y-yeah, uh, butter is great.” 

Thank fuck. Katsuki can’t stand assholes that insist on no butter. Like, that’s the whole damn point of popcorn. No butter means the salt isn’t going to stick, and while heavy salt is gross, Katsuki needs some flavor on that shit. So, he pumps some butter into the popcorn and expertly sprinkles in some salt. “You want any drinks or whatever?” He glances at Kirishima, who just shakes his head. Katsuki shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He swipes a small cup and fills it with some coke, because he’s tired as fuck, sue him. 

One quick transaction later, and Katsuki’s dragging Kirishima to the theater. Or, pushing him. It’s pretty fucking empty, too, with a single couple in the middle and some dude in one of the front few rows. Katsuki leads Kirishima all the way to the top, right beneath the projector, because that’s the best spot. Fuck off. He flops down into the cushioned chair, Kirishima settling in beside him. 

“You...you didn’t have to do this, ya’ know.” 

Kirishima’s voice is soft, quiet enough that Katsuki almost misses him speak. He pointedly trains his focus on the cheesy pre-show scrolling across the screen, face heating up. “Just sit down and watch the movie,” he mutters. Kirishima hums, but doesn’t say anything. His gaze lingers, though, and Katsuki can feel the warmth of it. He shifts a bit, blushing even harder. 

“I wanted to,” he says then, after a moment. 

“Why?” 

It’s the million dollar question of the night. Why the fuck does he even care? But then he looks at Kirishima, and his heart stutters in his chest, and he jerks his gaze away again for fear of a heart attack or some shit. “Your sad mug was pissing me off.” It’s a safe answer, but the sharp breath tells Katsuki that Kirishima understood what he meant. 

I wanted to make you smile. 

The lights darken and the movie starts. There’s a gentle touch on his hand, and Katsuki’s gaze jerks to see Kirishima sliding their hands together. And, oh, shit. His heart pounds, and an unsteady smile warms his lips. 

.

.

.

END

[greatfay]

controversial opinions?

Cold pizza actually not good. Tastes like angry bacteria.

There’s a completely separate class of gay men who are in a different, rainbow-tinted plane of reality from the rest of us and I don’t like them. They push for “acceptance” via commercialization of the Pride movement, assimilation through over-exposure, and focus on sexualizing the movement to be “provocative” and writing annoying articles that reek of class privilege instead of something actually important like lgbtqa youth homelessness, job discrimination, and mental health awareness.

Coleslaw is good. You guys just suck in the kitchen.

Generational divides ARE real: a 16-year-old and a 60-year-old right now in 2021 could agree on every hot button sociopolitical topic and yet not even realize it because they communicate in entirely different ways.

Sam Wilson is a power bottom. No I will not elaborate.

Allison’s makeover in The Breakfast Club good, not bad. She kept literally and metaphorically dumping her trash out onto the table and it’s clearly a cry for help. Having the attention and affection of a smart, pretty girl doing her makeup for her was sweet and helped her open up to new experiences. Not every loner wants to BE a loner (see: Bender, who is fine being a lone wolf).

Movie/show recommendations that start with a detailed “representation” list read like status-effecting gear in an RPG and it’s actually a turn-off for me. I have to force myself to give something a try in spite of it.

Yelling at people to just “learn a new language” because clearly everyone who isn’t you and your immediate vicinity of friends must be a lazy ignorant white American is so fucking stupid, like I get it, you’re mad someone doesn’t immediately know how to pronounce your name or what something means. But I know 2 languages and am struggling with a 3rd when I can between 2 jobs and quite frankly, I don’t have the time to just absorb the entire kanji system into my brain to learn Japanese by tomorrow night, or suddenly learn Arabic or Welsh. There are 6500 recorded languages in the world, what’s the chance that one of 3 I’ve learn(ed?) is the one you’re yelling at me about. Yes this is referring to that post yelling at people for not knowing how to pronounce obscure Irish names and words. Sometimes just explaining something instead of admonishing people for not knowing something inherently in the belief that everyone must be lazy entitled privileged people is uh... better?

Stop fucking yelling at people. I despise feeling like someone is yelling at me or scolding me, it triggers my Violence Mode, you don’t run me, you are not God, fuck off. Worst fucking way to "educate” people, it just feels good in the moment to say or write and doesn’t help. Yes I’ve done it before.

Violence is good actually.

Characters doing bad things ≠ an endorsement of bad things. Characters doing bad things that are unquestioned by the entire rest of the cast = endorsement of bad things, or at the least, a power fantasy by the creator. See: Glee, in which Sue’s awfulness is constantly called out, while Mr. Shue’s awfulness rarely is because he’s “the hero.” See also: the Lightbringer series, in which the protagonist is a violent manipulator who is praised as clever, charming, diplomatic, and genius by every supporting character (enemies included), despite the text never demonstrating such.

Euphoria is good, actually. It falls into this niche of the past decade of “dark gritty teen shows” but actually has substance behind it, but the general vibe I get from passive-aggressive tumblr posts from casual viewers is that this show is The Devil, and the criticism of its racier content screams pearl-clutching “what about the children??” to me.

Describing all diagnosed psychopaths as violent criminals is a damaging slippery slope, sure. But I won’t be mad at anyone for inherently distrusting another human who does not have the ability to feel guilt and remorse, empathy, is a pathological liar, or proves to be cunning and manipulative.

It’s actually not easy to unconditionally support and love everyone everywhere when you’ve actually experienced the World. Your perspective and values will be challenged as you encounter difficult people, experience hardship, are torn between conflicting ideas and commitments, and fail. My vow to never ever call the cops on another black person was challenged when an employee’s boyfriend marched into the kitchen OF AN ESTABLISHMENT to scream at her, in a BUSINESS I MANAGED, and threaten to BEAT the SHIT out of her. Turns out I can hate cops and hate that motherfucker equally, I am more than capable of both.

Defending makeup culture bad, actually. Enjoy it, experiment, master it, but don’t paint it as something other than upholding exactly what they want from you. Even using makeup to “defy the heteropatriarchal oppressors!” is still putting cash in their pockets, no matter how camp...

Not every villain needs to be redeemed, some of you just never outgrew projecting yourself onto monsters and killers.

Writing teams and networks queerbaiting is not the same as individuals queerbaiting. Nick Jonas performing exclusively at gay clubs to generate an audience really isn’t criminal; if they paid to go see him, that’s on them, he didn’t promise anyone anything other than music and a show. Do not paint this as similar to wealthy, bigoted executives and writing teams trying to snatch up the LGBTQA demographic with vague ass marketing and manipulative screenplays, only to cop out so as not to alienate their conservative audiences. And ESPECIALLY when the artists/actors/creators accused of queerbaiting or lezploitation then come out as queer in some form later on.

Queer is not a bad word, and I’ve no clue how that remains one of few words hurled at LGBTQA people that can’t be reclaimed. It’s so archaic and underused at this point that I don’t get the reaction to it compared to others.

People who defend grown-woman Lorelai Gilmore’s childish actions and in the same breath heavily criticize teenage religious abuse victim Lane Kim’s actions are not to be trusted. Also Lane deserved better.

Keep your realism out of my media, or at least make it tonally consistent. Tired of shows and movies and books where some gritty, dark shit comes out of nowhere when the narrative was relatively Romantic beforehand.

Actually people should be writing characters different from themselves, this new wave in the past year of “If you aren’t [X] you shouldn’t be writing [X]” is a complete leap backward from the 2010s media diversity movement. And if [X] has to do with an invisible minority status (not immediately visible disabilities, or diverse sexual orientations and gender identities, persecuted religious affiliations, mental illness) it’s actually quite fucked up to assume the creator can’t be whatever [X] is or to demand receipts or details of someone’s personal life to then grant them “permission” to create something. I know, we’re upset an actual gay actor wasn’t casted to play this gay character, so let’s give them shit about it: and not lose a wink of sleep when 2 years later, this very actor comes out and gives a detailed account of the pressure to stay closeted if they wanted success in Hollywood.

Projecting an actor’s personal romantic life and gender identity onto the characters they play is actually many levels of fucked up, and not cute or funny. See: reinterpreting every character Elliot Page has played through a sapphic lens, and insulting his ability to play straight characters while straight actors play actual caricatures of us (See also: Jared Leto. Fuck him).

I’m fucking sick of DaBaby, he sucks. “I shot somebody, she suck my peepee” that’s 90% of whatever he raps about.

“Political Correctness” is not new. It was, at one point, unacceptable to walk into a fine establishment and inform the proprietor that you love a nice firm pair of tits in your face. 60 years ago, such a statement would get you throw out and possibly arrested under suspicion of public intoxication. But then something happened and I blame Woodstock and Nixon. And now I have to explain to a man 40 years my senior that no, you can’t casually mention to the staff here, many of whom are children, how you haven’t had a good fuck in a while. And then rant about the “Chinese who gave us the virus.” Can’t be that upset with them if you then refused to wear your mask for 20 minutes.

Triggering content should not have a blanket ban; trigger warnings are enough, and those who campaign otherwise need to understand the difference between helping people and taking away their agency. 13 Reasons Why inspired this one. Absolutely shitty show, sure, but it’s a choice to watch it knowing exactly what it contains.

Sasuke’s not a fucking INTJ, he’s an ISFP whose every decision is based off in-the-moment feelings and proves incapable of detailed and logical planning to accomplish his larger goals.

MCU critique manages to be both spot-on and pointless. Amazing stories have been told with these characters over the course of decades; but most of it is toilet paper. Expecting a Marvel movie to be a deeply detailed examination of American nationalism and imperialism painted with a colorful gauze of avant-garde film technique is like expecting filet mignon from McDonalds. Scarf down your quarter pounder or gtfo.

Disparagingly comparing the popularity and (marginal) success of BLM to another movement is anti-black. It is not only possible but also easy to ask for people’s support without throwing in “you all supported BLM for black people but won’t show support for [insert group]” how about you keep our name out your mouth? Black people owe the rest of the world nothing tbh until yall root out the anti-blackness in your own communities.

It is the personal demon/tragic flaw of every cis gay/bi/pan man to externalize and exorcize Shame: I’m talking about the innate compulsion to Shame, especially in the name of Pride and Progress. Shame for socioeconomic “success,” shame for status of outness, shame for fitness and health, shame for looks, shame for style and dress, shame for how one fits into the gender binary, shame for sexual positions and intimacy preferences, shame for fucking music tastes. Put down the weapon that They used to beat you. Becoming the Beater is not growth, it’s the worst-case scenario.

Works by minorities do not have to be focused on their marginalized identities. Some ladies want to ride dragons AND other ladies. The pressure on minorities to create the Next Great Minority Character Study that will inevitably get snuffed at the Oscars/Peabody Awards is some bullshit when straight white dudes walk around shitting out mediocre screenplays and books.

Canadians can stfu about how the US is handling COVID-19 actually. Love most of yall, but the number of Canadian snowbirds on vacation (VACATION??? VA.CAT.ION.) in the supposed “hotbed” of my region that I’ve had to inform our mask policies and social distancing to is ASTOUNDING. Incroyable! I guess your country has a sizable population of entitled, privileged, inconsiderate, wealthy, and ignorant people making things difficult for everyone, just like mine :)

No trick to eliminate glasses fog while wearing my mask has worked, not a single one, it actually has affected my job and work speed and is incredibly frustrating, and I have to deal with it and pretend it’s not a problem while still encouraging others to follow the rules for everyone’s safety and the cognitive dissonance is driving me insane.

It’s really really really not anti-Japanese... to be uncomfortable with the rampant pedophilia in manga and anime, and voice this. I really can’t compare western animation’s sneakier bullshit with pantyshots of a 12-year-old girl.

Most of the people in the cottagecore aesthetic/tag have zero interest in all the hard work that comes with maintaining an isolated property in the countryside, milking cows and tending crops before sunrise, etc. And that’s okay? They just like flowers and pretty pottery and homemade pastries. Idk where discourse about this came from.

You think mint chip ice-cream tastes like toothpaste because you’re missing a receptor that can distinguish the flavors, and that sucks for you. It’s a sort of “taste-blindness” that can make gum spicy to some while others can eat a ghost pepper without crying.

Being a spectacle for the oppressive class doesn’t make them respect us, it makes them unafraid of us. This means they continue to devour us, but without fear of our retaliation.

Only like 4 people on tumblr dot com are actually prepared for the full ramifications of an actual revolution. The rest of you just really imprinted onto Katniss, or grew up in the suburbs.

Straight crushes are normal. They’re people first, sexual orientation second. Can’t always know.

The road to body positivity is not easy, especially if what you desire is what you aren’t.

You’re actually personally responsible for not voluntarily bringing yourself into an environment that you know is not fit for you unless you have the resolve to manage it. Can’t break a glass ceiling without getting a few cuts. This one’s a shoutout to my homophobic temp coworkers who decided working a venue with a drag show would be a good idea. This is also is a shoutout to people who want to make waves but are surprised when the boat tips. And also a shoutout to people who—wait that’s it’s own controversial opinion hold up.

Straight people can and should stay the fuck out of gay bars and queer spaces. “yoUrE bEInG diVisiVe” go fuck yourself.

[raywritesthings]

Bird in a Storm 13/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, John Diggle, Tommy Merlyn, Athena, Carly Diggle, Moira Queen, Thea Queen, Malcolm Merlyn Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

If there was one thing Carly hated the most about closing, it was taking the trash out back. And not just for the smell.

The back of the building let out into a darkened alley with no street lamps. It reeked of garbage thanks to all the times the truck just simply hadn’t shown up, and was usually populated by all her smoking coworkers during a rush.

This late, the alley was empty. Or so she’d thought.

Just as she heaved the bags up and over to throw in the dumpster, she felt the barrel of a gun press into her side. Carly froze.

“Who’s inside the restaurant?”

“My- my manager. Couple customers.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Please, I have a son.”

“Give me your tips,” the mugger growled.

“He’s not even ten years old, father shot on the job. I’m all he has, I swear to you,” Carly continued as she slowly reached into her apron for the money. Her mace was in her purse hanging from a peg in the back of the restaurant.

“Give me the money!”

Her hand closed around the bills, shaking in fear and anger. Didn’t anyone in this town have compassion? Pity at the least? “I’m begging you. It’s for his lunches in the cafeteria. They don’t give him food if he’s in debt.”

“You think I give a shit? Give me the money!” The gun pressed hard enough into her back that she thought it might bruise.

Carly took her hand out of her apron.

Whack!

Suddenly the gun left her back and she heard a thud of someone hitting the ground behind her. She whirled around, backing up several steps.

Her attacker was on the ground with a woman all in black standing over him. She carried a long stick which she’d clearly used to knock him out and wore a mask over her face.

“How- how did you?”

The masked woman looked up at her and gave a nod but no answer before running down the alley and out to the street. Carly stood there gaping a few moments after.

Had that really just happened? And to her? Sure she’d been grabbed earlier last winter by that military whacko who knew John, but this was something else.

The man on the ground gave a groan of pain, and Carly hurried back inside. She quickly explained to her manager, and the other woman agreed to phone the police.

John had stopped by in the time she’d been outside, it seemed. She was glad he wasn’t staying too far away even if their sort of date hadn’t worked out. A.J. needed a good role model.

Her brother-in-law stood from the booth he was waiting at and came over. “Everything alright, Carly?”

“For the most part. The police are gonna be here in a little while. This guy out back tried to jump me.”

John’s fists clenched at his sides. “Where is he?”

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to get in trouble over this. Anyway he’s already hurting pretty bad. There was this woman.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah. She was all in black except her hair. A blonde. And she wore this mask. I guess she must be some other vigilante?” Carly shrugged. “Least the guy’s still breathing.”

“Yeah. Guess so.” John frowned. “She say anything to you?”

“No. I don’t even know how she knew to be there. I mean I’ve been hearing things about a woman — wasn’t sure if they were true. But I’m so glad it is.”

Getting mugged tonight wouldn’t have been the end of her world. But it would have been a setback she would have struggled to come back from for a long time, even if she’d borrowed from John for a time. Now she didn’t have to. She had her own money and her pride along with it.

If that’s what these vigilantes wanted to be about, she couldn’t say she’d complain about it.

---

John didn’t get home until after the police had left with Carly’s statement and her would-be attacker. They’d asked her to come in the next morning to describe the woman who’d saved her to a sketch artist as well, so he’d be taking her there. Just as well, since he hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her about his success in finally taking down Deadshot with Oliver’s help. Lyla had been mad as all hell at him for showing up until the Hood had kept what had ended up being a setup by Lawton from turning too ugly. Then she’d just pretended to be mad, though John was pretty sure he could still tell the difference.

In the present, he placed a call to Oliver to update him on the situation. “I’ll be late getting to the house tomorrow. Have to help Carly with something. Police matter.”

“Is she okay?” His friend asked.

“Fine. But she wouldn’t have been if that Woman hadn’t shown up tonight. She’s definitely real, Oliver. Carly’s giving them a description tomorrow.”

Oliver didn’t speak for a moment. “See if you can sit in on it. I don’t know if this Woman’s done enough to get her sketch on the news.”

They both knew busting up the odd small crime here or there didn’t drive up ratings. Then again, perhaps the novelty of a woman being the one doing so might be enough to pique media interest.

“You think it’s time to step in?”

“I’m not sure,” Oliver admitted, and he sounded discomfited to do so. “She’s not the Savior, she doesn’t look to be doing this for her own gain… I’m not sure what to make of her or how to find her except to get lucky and spot her out some night.”

“Well, luck be a lady,” John remarked. “And ladies tend to be mysterious.”

Oliver snorted, then said, “Keep me updated about the police sketch.”

“Alright.” He hung up and eased himself back up out of his chair. If he was going to the precinct tomorrow, he wanted to have some research already done to see if he could pick up on anything else they might be talking about regarding this Woman.

He went looking through some recent reports out of the Glades. Just as Raisa, Detective Lance and Carly now said, there were rumors growing about a woman in black. Taking on gang bangers, putting a stop to a rash of bus hijackings...the more he read, the more it sounded familiar.

John went through each of his suits, digging deep into the pockets until he came across a folded piece of paper. The list Laurel had written up for Oliver weeks ago.

It was almost identical.

He sat back on his bed, hand running down his face. It wasn’t definitive proof, but it was a damning coincidence at the very least. And what was he going to do if it was more than a coincidence?

He’d warned Oliver that the problems in this city were many and varied, that people wanted to see more than some billionaires getting knocked down a few pegs. Laurel had warned him, too. Now it seemed she — or someone — had taken matters into her own hands. And he couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree.

That was the trouble that came in signing up for this kind of crusade; it was a slippery slope. How did he support Oliver while condemning Laurel? The key, he supposed, was in learning what her motivations were. If she was even the one doing this.

One thing was certain: there was no way he could suggest the Woman and Laurel were the same person to Oliver unless he had real evidence or a confirmation. It would only start another argument otherwise, judging by how fiercely protective he’d become of his mother. So he was going to have to confront her on his own.

He kept his suspicions to himself while he sat in a chair at the precinct with Carly. The sketch artist drew up a picture of a beautiful blonde in a black mask. It didn’t look just like Laurel, but it didn’t not look like her at the same time. Still, no reason for him to voice his concerns just yet. Especially when doing so would paint a big target right back over Oliver, and himself by extension.

He kept his eyes on the road as he drove Carly back to her apartment, still unsure how to address the news he’d intended to give her last night. Eventually, he said, “There was an Op the other night. The Feds. And, uh… they got him.”

“Him?”

“Andy’s killer.”

He heard Carly turn her head and chanced meeting her eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. He’s in custody now.” Lyla had held him back from doing something he knew he’d probably regret, as much as his anger was telling him Deadshot should be dead in the ground for good just like his brother. “He was wanted for a lot of stuff by the government. Sensitive stuff. So there’s not really gonna be a trial or anything, but I wanted you to know.”

He pulled the car to a stop outside her building. Carly didn’t get out right away.

“Were you there?”

John nodded.

“Thank you.” She leaned across the seats and hugged him. “I don’t know what I’ll tell A.J., or when, but… I’ll sleep better, knowing he’s getting what he deserves.”

John swallowed down the little of his disappointment that remained. If Carly was satisfied, then that would have to be enough.

She got out, and he continued through the neighborhood to his next stop. He’d have to hope she was in.

John knocked on the door of Laurel’s place but received no answer. Soft music from around the back drew his attention, so he circled around to the small yard.

Laurel was crouched beside a very rough-looking bike, looking to be struggling with a tuneup. She sat back with an exhale.

“Roy, great, I could really use some help—” Laurel stopped when she caught sight of him.

“Sorry, not Roy,” he said unnecessarily. “But I might still be able to lend a hand.”

Laurel stood rather than keep working, wiping her hands off on a towel that had seen better days. In the tank top she wore, John could definitely tell she had truly dedicated herself to the training Oliver had mentioned she’d picked up.

“Is Oliver okay?”

“He’s fine. Was glad to get your tip on Rasmus.”

Laurel nodded.

“Surprised you didn’t just take care of him yourself,” he added casually, watching her freeze for a crucial instant. John nodded to the bike. “Is the Woman gonna be spotted on this any time soon?”

Laurel hung her head for a moment, then leaned over to switch off the music playing from her phone sitting on the ground.

“Okay, great. Everyone knows I’m a vigilante. I guess Oliver has a better handle on the whole ‘secret’ thing,” she muttered as she straightened up.

“There’s a reason he acts the way he does in public,” John pointed out. “But you wear your heart on your sleeve, Laurel. Of course you’d be doing this.” He took a step closer, looking out to make sure they truly were alone. “What I have to ask is, why didn’t you say anything?” Did she really not want them to know? And was it because she wasn’t interested in working with them or some other kind of reason?

“How do you think Oliver would react if he knew?”

John grimaced. “Not well.”

Laurel nodded. “Exactly.”

“But, him finding out you decided to take on the problems you pointed out might make him decide to take them on himself. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not anymore.” She heaved a sigh. “Since doing this, I’ve realized just how much it is, and expecting one person to tackle it all would be impossible. Oliver has his mission, and I get why. If that’s what he needs to do to absolve himself of survivor’s guilt over his father, he needs to do it. And it does help the city.”

John frowned, unable to deny her point. He was privy to just how overwhelmed Oliver got at times. Expecting him to do it all was an unfair burden.

“It’s the only way left I have to help, too,” Laurel added. “Isn’t that why you work with him?”

“Yeah, but I work with him. However he would react, he’s going to find out eventually, Laurel.”

“I know,” she admitted, looking down. “But I’m not going to stop.”

“No, I didn’t think you were. You got the same look in your eyes when you talk about going out there that he does.” He wasn’t sure he understood it fully, how two otherwise civilians could decide to throw all caution to the winds night after night in an effort to clean up the streets. Maybe it really wasn’t about the training; maybe it was just about the person. “If he asks, I have to tell him.”

“I understand.” She at least didn’t look angry with him, merely resigned. So there they were.

John bent down towards her toolbox. “This wrench will work better for what you’re doing.”

The corner of her mouth lifted as she took it from him. “Thanks.”

“So who all knows? This Roy?”

“Yeah. My old trainer, Ted. And you. That’s really it, but you know, not great for that number to keep going up.”

“From what I can tell, it only keeps going up. Secrets always get out.”

“Maybe. That’s a risk I knew going in, I guess.”

“Have you thought about what happens when your father might be forced to arrest you some day?”

“He’ll have to catch me first. And it can’t hurt worse than a rubber bullet, so.” She shrugged. “Believe me, John, I’ve thought of all the reasons not to do this. You don’t need to walk me back through it.”

“Guess I can’t help trying.” He turned and began walking back to the street. “Be careful out there.”

“You too.”

John still hadn’t decided if he was going to wait for Oliver to bring up the topic or if he was going to just get to the point on his own by the time he reached the base. But then it didn’t really seem to matter when his partner of sorts was already gearing up for a serious brawl.

“Felicity thinks she has a hit on Walter,” Oliver said the minute John cleared the steps, hope in his eyes for the first time in a while when it came to talking about his stepfather. “There’s a large sum in Dominic Alonzo’s account that’s dated the same night of the abduction. If we can get to him, we might have a lead on what happened.”

Faced with Oliver’s rare optimism, John just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Telling him about Laurel would only throw him off of what they were working on now, and the information on Walter wasn’t getting any more recent. They needed to act as fast as possible if they had even a prayer of finding him alive.

So John held his tongue and told himself what Laurel was no doubt telling herself: Oliver would just have to understand.

---

Tommy stood by his father’s bed, fingering the vial in his pocket. According to the woman who’d called herself Athena the other night, the contents of this vial were all that could save his father from death or from life as a vegetable. But could he risk it?

He didn’t have a way of verifying her word or her identity. But she had at least shown him her face. That was more than the Hood had done. If she wanted to poison his father, she likely could have snuck into the hospital and done it herself, considering how she had slipped past the mansion’s security team with ease.

Visiting hours were almost over, which meant that he needed to choose. What did he have to lose? He knew, active as his dad had always been, he would hate spending the rest of his days on life support, stuck decaying in a hospital bed. And Tommy did not want to pull the plug until he had tried everything.

So, with a look to the door to ensure he wasn’t about to get walked in on by a nurse, he took out the vial and added the liquid inside to the IV feeding down into his father’s arm. Tommy watched the liquid slowly descend and disappear beneath the paper tape covering the needle. He held his breath for as long as physically possible. Watching, waiting.

No change.

He deflated, even as he reminded himself that Athena had said it would take time. He needed to let the vial’s contents work through his dad’s system before he decided if this had been a waste of time and hope.

For now, he returned to his new office inside Merlyn Global. He both loathed and craved being in this place at the same time; this was where he had nearly lost his father. Yet that same night had shown him just how much his father loved him, that he had fought and even killed to keep Tommy safe. 

If this mysterious cure worked and he had the chance to speak with his dad again, Tommy knew he would apologize for ever assuming his father hadn’t cared. They had grown a lot closer in the time before his father’s injury, and he wanted that to continue. He wanted to understand him. Perhaps this Athena, if she was sticking around, could help him.

With one call on the special phone he had been given, it was not long until the very woman he had been thinking of entered his office. “Very elegant,” she remarked.

“That’s down to my father’s good taste,” Tommy said. “I gave him what you told me to about an hour ago. How long?”

“It is not an exact science. I am confident he will show signs of improvement before the night is over. Now,” Athena said, walking further into the room. “What is truly on your mind?”

Tommy smirked to himself. Was he really that obvious?

“This wall,” he answered, walking up to it. He revealed the panel of buttons hidden under a piece of artwork. “It’s false. My father was keeping something behind here, but I didn’t see what. I also didn’t see what code he put in.”

“I have been trained in code breaking,” Athena said. “But I do not think it will be necessary in this case. You are your father’s son, Thomas. You know him better than those who think they have seen his true face. What drives him?”

That was an easy question after the speech his dad had given shortly before the attack that had landed him in a hospital bed in Starling General. Which could leave only two dates, though Tommy quickly dismissed the birthday. Neither of them had felt much reason to celebrate that milestone, not without her there with them. It was the death date that he entered in on the panel instead.

1-0-0-3-9-3

The light turned green for a moment, and the wall slid aside.

What waited behind the wall caused him to back up with a startled cry. It couldn’t be real.

But the evidence remained before him. A black suit with a head covering, a quiver of black arrows and a bow. The copycat archer’s armaments and more were in his father’s possession.

“His uniform,” Athena said with warmth and reverence. “I knew he would keep it close.”

“His? He’s — he can’t be,” Tommy insisted, even as his mind went to the two Triad men his father had fought and killed without a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you your father belonged to an ancient order,” Athena repeated. “It is one based on the oldest form of justice known to man: evil must be replaced by death.”

“But the- that’s — he took hostages!” None of those people to his knowledge had been criminals, not even of the embezzlement kind.

“And were any of those hostages harmed?”

His mouth snapped shut.

“Your father waited to engage the Hood until after the hostages had been sent back to the authorities, according to the reports I have read. Their only purpose was to draw this vigilante out.”

“But… why? Why do any of it?” He just couldn’t seem to grasp that his father had taken on that crazy vigilante at Christmas.

“Your father has been attempting to retrieve Starling City from the brink of decay. Crime, corruption and apathy rule its citizens. Even the attempts of the local relief efforts have failed to improve its citizenry. Your mother learned this the hard way.”

Tommy swallowed. Yes, he could agree that Starling City was a festering pile of shit most days, and the Glades most of all. Something should have been done about it a long time ago. But the idea of taking that knowledge and acting upon it with violence in return, was that really the way?

The Hood seemed to think so, he supposed. And Laurel believed that particular killer was a hero. There were rumors of others beating the snot out of these gangbangers and robbers. Was his father’s old form of justice really so far removed from their society when they were letting Robin Hood and his ilk roam free?

“You said you had knowledge of his plans,” Tommy began slowly. “What were they?”

“There is a phenomenon referred to by your National Park Service as ‘natural fire’, she explained, walking away from the secret room and instead turning to the windows overlooking the city. Tommy followed. “In order to revitalize nature and the lives of those creatures who dwell in such places, humanity allows these fires to burn away the parts of the forest filled with debris and detritus. They then flourish anew. So too will the Glades in your father’s vision.” Her eyes were fixed on that part of the city, which always stood out as an ugly mar beyond the tall, pristine buildings and clean streets of downtown.

“He wants to… burn them?”

Athena’s lips quirked. “Not quite. But a similar act of nature will do the job.”

If the copycat archer’s suit — his father’s suit — wasn’t standing in a case behind him, he would think she was making this up. But there was evidence to back up her claim. His father had closed his mother’s clinic after how many years of increasing crime in the Glades — why now unless he knew something was coming?

“These aren’t trees or animals, though. There are people down there. Families, children.” Laurel, he thought to himself.

“People who have chosen lives of crime and substance abuse. You have multiple stories in your culture’s religious tract of various peoples being punished for the actions of the collective evil. Is this not so different?”

“Nobody’s even sure those things really happened. They’re stories or warnings. I don’t know.” He hadn’t really done the whole Sunday School thing after his mother died. “Look, the Glades are beyond saving. The Hood and anyone else who thinks so are just delaying the inevitable. But this isn’t the answer.” He backed away, leaving the office and placing his head in his hands as he rode down in the elevator.

Was this really what his father wanted? Tommy wouldn’t know, not until his dad healed enough to ask. All he had was Athena’s word, and the matter-of-face way she spoke of this unnerved him.

He needed to get out of here, needed to think, needed — a friend.

He didn’t have very many of those. And after their last conversation, would Oliver even want to see him? But he didn’t know who else to turn to.

Tommy jumped in his car and traveled the familiar route to the club. Inside, he asked around for his friend, avoiding Thea’s busboy friend, and learned Oliver had been around but had gone down to his private office as per usual.

Tommy had never been to that part of the building himself. Oliver had been a much more private person upon returning from the island, and he had always gotten the impression that he was not exactly welcome. But after the attack on the club by that deranged firefighter where Oliver had gotten lost in the building, Tommy had had a copy of each of the door keys made for himself to make sure that he could get to his friend in an emergency if need be.

So he went around to the outside of the club and the back door he had never used. It took a few moments for him to find the right key, but he turned it in the lock and entered.

“Ollie?”

The room was dark, which likely meant no one was in. Tommy searched around for the light switch on the wall.

“I could really use some— advice,” he finished, the last word dropping almost soundlessly from his lips as the lights came on, suddenly illuminating the space.

The room was sectioned off into smaller areas, one with what looked like a mat like the kind the gym teachers put down when they were practicing tumbling in grade school. Other workout gear was around there as well. Then another section was made up of a table with computer monitors and other technology.

Tommy’s eyes, however, were fixed on the last section. A table upon which stood a row of arrows not unlike what was waiting back in his father’s office, but tipped in green. The Hood’s arrows.

Oliver was the Hood.

He wanted to reject the evidence before him, and yet it was all too obvious now that it was staring him in the face. Why would the Hood have been around in the middle of the day to rescue them from those thugs? Oliver had killed them himself, then made up the story. Why was Oliver always making excuses to be somewhere else, leaving his mother and sister behind to worry? Because he was out there in the streets hunting his chosen prey. Why would Laurel have fallen for him so completely? Because it was the man she loved.

And he had left her to fall, Tommy realized, his shock disappearing in a flash of anger. Oliver had been the one to lure her onto that roof, get her shot at, taken her away while Tommy had searched and worried — probably to this very place.

She knew. Laurel had known Oliver’s secret from at least then on, and kept it from Tommy. They both had. It was the two of them as always, shutting him out. How could he have ever dared to think Laurel even cared about him, when she would throw her own career and life away for Oliver’s sake, even after all he had done and become? They deserved each other, and it was a vicious thought. He almost wished his shot hadn’t missed the green-clad archer that night in his father’s office — that night Oliver, his own friend, didn’t save his father. He’d been lying this whole time to Tommy, pretending to be a sympathetic ear all the while never telling him the role he had played.

He needed to leave. If Oliver discovered him here, what would he do? Was Tommy allowed to know, or would he be silenced? He couldn’t say. He didn’t know his own best friend anymore. The man he’d thought of as a brother had truly died out at sea, and a monster had taken his face.

Tommy sat in his car, having no idea where he could go. His friends had all betrayed him, and he still didn’t know how to feel about what Athena had told him. He needed guidance, yet there was no one in his life who could provide it.

His phone range. And Tommy answered it with a weary, “What?”

“Thomas Merlyn? This is Dr. Adams from Starling General.”

He sat up straight in the driver’s seat. “Is my father okay?”

“He is. He’s doing better than we truthfully expected. He seems to be responding to some stimuli. We think it would be helpful for you to come in and sit with him, at least for a little while. Coma patients respond best to family and loved ones.”

“I’ll be right there.”

It had worked. The miracle liquid Athena had given him had worked. Or was working. He raced to the hospital and up to his father’s room, heart in his throat.

“Dad?”

His father’s eyes were just barely open. Tommy was ushered into the chair at his bedside, and he took hold of his father’s hand. “It’s me, dad. It’s Tommy. You’re gonna be okay. You need to be, cause we have stuff to talk about, alright? Stuff to do. I know- I know everything now. And it’s okay. It’ll be okay when we can talk.”

Very slightly at first, and then more rapidly, his dad’s eyelids fluttered. The hand Tommy held squeezed his fingers.

Grateful tears sprang to his eyes. “He’s really there. Oh, thank God.”

He stayed another hour, keeping up a constant stream of chatter about the company and the house, old forgotten childhood memories. His father never quite managed to fully open his eyes. Eventually, the doctors decided it would be best to leave him to rest some more and asked Tommy to come back in the morning.

“I’ll be here first thing, dad. We can talk then, okay?”

Getting back into his car where he’d crookedly parked it in the garage, Tommy wiped at his eyes and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. No matter what shocking things he had learned today, he had meant what he had said to his father; it would be okay now that he was getting better. Tommy could talk to him, reason with him about just what this whole plan was and if it was truly necessary. They could work it out together as father and son.

If nothing else, he had his family.

---

Moira wished she had her family here at home with her, but life seemed to find its ways to make that impossible. 

Oliver kept incredibly late hours thanks to the club he was running out in the Glades. She worried about him and knew that hiring Mr. Diggle to protect him especially as he traveled in and out of that neighborhood had been the right call.

Then there was Walter. At times, she didn’t know how she kept breathing let alone kept up her day-to-day obligations and appearances all the whole fretting over where he was, what he might be thinking. Horrid as it was, sometimes she had to force herself to stop thinking about his situation in order to just make it through the next board meeting or the next meal.

Thea was home tonight at least, though she’d been staying out rather late as often as not. It had begun shortly after she had started the community service at CNRI. Moira suspected a boy might be involved, but considering how little she had done to curb Oliver’s dalliances with the opposite sex, she couldn’t reasonably do so to Thea.

Were things different, she might have been worried about all the time her children were spending in the Glades and how to make sure they were not there once Unidac completed its work. But that had been one less worry on her mind for the last month now, even if the attack at Merlyn Global had not ended precisely with the result she had wanted.

Best not to think about that, either, Moira reminded herself. She and Thea were both relaxing in the sitting room after dinner, the television on low for something to look at more than anything.

The front door opened, and two sets of footsteps indicated her son and his bodyguard had finally arrived home. Moira looked up as they entered the sitting room, but whatever wry remark had come to mind died on her lips at the sight of both their expressions. She stood. “Oliver?”

“Mom. Thea.” His voice, normally quite steady and strong these days, barely carried. “There’s um, something we need to talk about. About Walter.”

Beside her on the couch, Thea perked up, but Moira felt frozen.

Mr. Diggle spoke next. “I reached out to some contacts I have in the FBI on Oliver’s behalf a while ago to see what they might be able to turn up for the case. The thing is, they’ve gotten word back.”

“No.” It took her a moment to realize she had been the one to speak. “No, it can’t be.”

“Did- did they find a body?” Thea asked, her voice breaking on the last word.

“He’s gone, Thea. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Moira repeated. Oliver stepped towards her but she got up and moved back. She couldn’t allow him to comfort her. That comfort would make it real when it obviously wasn’t. There was a mistake or a misunderstanding of some kind. She knew Walter was alive, had to be, because of her deal with Malcolm. And yet, could she really trust Malcolm to begin with?

Her first impulse was to leave, to seek out someone, something to set the record straight on what had to be an error. But who could? Malcolm could not answer to anything, and she had no way of her own to contact his associate. No one at Merlyn Global would either. Malcolm had always kept everything separate from the company, and Tommy of all people was running it. Tommy had no idea of the things his father had done.

No, as far as she or anyone else knew, this was the truth.

Standing as she was, Moira instead retreated up to her room to get away from her children and their stricken looks. She knew they thought she was crumbling. Well, she wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Not until she had had a moment to think. How could this be happening?

Had Malcolm’s people killed Walter once he had fallen into the coma and been unavailable to command them? Or had her husband been dead all this time? Either way, she was a widow once again, and the blame lay at the same man’s feet.

The blood pounded in her ears as one thought echoed through Moira’s head: no more. She was done being the victim, standing by as her family was picked off one by one. Malcolm slept in a hospital bed, utterly helpless. Why hadn’t they followed through? Why shouldn’t they?

Part of her had been afraid, but what did she have to fear now? Another part of her had thought leaving him to his fate in the hospital was enough. After all, without Malcolm in charge, she could put the Undertaking off indefinitely under the presumption that they should wait for his recovery. The rest of Tempest would have fallen in line. But it was not enough to scupper his plans now. Oh no; Moira had promised Malcolm what would come were he to harm her family, and Moira, at least, was a woman of her word.

She got out the phone she used for these sorts of discrete communications and dialed the number Frank had given her to arrange for the contract hit at the award ceremony. She waited three rings before it was picked up.

“Jade Dragon, how can we be of service?” A woman’s lightly accented voice spoke.

“Yes, I placed an order about a month ago that was never completed. I’m asking for it to be done now.”

She had waited too long to save her family from Malcolm’s madness, but Moira would protect what she had left and avert his horrific vision for the city in one fell swoop, the way she should have done years ago. For Robert, and now for Walter.

[kashimos-hajime]

if i time it right, the thunder breaks

Summary: “And he hated himself and hated her, too, for the ruin they'd made of each other.” 

WARNINGS: swearing, it’s getting bad, mentions of (sexual, if you interpret it that way) child abuse, violence, angst, these idiots dont know how to take care of themselves but they know how to take care of each other Pairing: Detective Loki x Reader Word Count: 6.1k

A/N: thank you for the crazy response babes. truly thought this would flop and y’all proved me wrong. this is an important chapter and there’s a lot to say. i am open to tagging people so just lemme know if you want to be by sending an ask. GIF not mine

01 | ... | 03 | 04 | 05

“Stop eating my shit.”

“Fuck off,” you snap, tossing the container of gummies onto the dash. It’s only half-empty and it’s not like you won’t buy him more. “God, I fucking hate this case.” You pinch the bridge of your nose as he slams the door, shaking rain off his coat. You swallow the gummy, feeling it all the way down to your stomach. The list of level-three sex offenders is like your death sentence as you cross out another name on the list with jagged black lines. “Nothing?”

“Just some German porn. Fuck.” His palm collides with the steering wheel as you try to sink into your chair. The air is stuffy in here but you don’t have the strength to open a window. “Fuck.” He sucks in a breath between his teeth, the cord of his throat pulsing. You lick your lips, turn away.

“You need some coffee?” You lean forward and pull out the giant thermos you have filled to the brim with coffee from your bag, and he snatches it from you, letting the black roast scorch his throat. You press your temple against the cold window before he nudges your shoulder. He offers the open thermos back to you and you down it, the bitterness waking up your mind as you twist the cap on shut again.

“Where next?” Your nose twitches again as you sniff, trying to see straight at the list. Reading out the address, you fold it back into your pocket and lean into the window as the Sedan rolls into motion.

It is raining now, a gentle pattering that you could fall asleep too if you were home instead of here.  David sends you a glance but otherwise focuses his gaze on the road. It’s a long night before you, and you can imagine the thermos would be empty before long.

David’s fingers tap the steering wheel when he drives. You know you’re not supposed to notice such a habit of his, but it’s a part of him, like how you know when he’s under stress, he blinks like someone squirted lemon juice in his eyes, or how he takes his coffee black because he nearly choked on watered down sugar for coffee once when he was fifteen. 

But, you do. You can’t help that he’s part of you and you can’t help but smile at his young face, spitting that awful coffee into the street, one of the brightest memories in your head, surrounded by so much smoke and shadow that pulls, claws, tugs you in and then you are spiraling.

“You’re thinking loudly,” he comments, banishing the smoke for mere moments, and you toss him a look from where it had drifted into the dark trees. Bundling your coat around yourself, you recline into your chair. 

“I’m just thinking about us,” you reply and he lets out a sharp breath, a gesture often paired with him shaking his head in irritation or disbelief or something. You don’t want to look at the ruins of what you’d done. “When we were younger.”

The fingers on the steering wheel pause, wrap tighter instead, and you close your eyes.

“Really?” He is stiff, every inch of him. You’re sure the cord of his neck is hard as a rock against his skin. The line of his reflection is just visible in the glass and you press your temple against the window, looking into your lap. 

“The years you were at Huntington,” you begin, and this time you must look at him. There are only some times you can bring such a time up and by the twitch of the muscles in his jaw, this isn’t the best, but it bottles up inside you that you might… you just don’t want to think about it anymore. “Those were the worst years of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

“You haven’t.”

“Well, I hated seeing you there. I hated seeing what they did to you.” 

You can see it play before your eyes, a mere spectator to some biopic film that you are forced to see.

Two figures under the shade of the church, one tall and thin and, another carrying a can and bags and stale bread that spilled over tiny arms, food that could’ve gone to those who didn’t have a home like he did. He’d insisted you take it back, but you simply dented a can against the rock until a tiny hole formed and told him to suck the juice from the mangoes before it leaked into the moist dirt. Moonlight bathed two figures even under the shade of the church as the taller one helped the tiny one over the fence.

“I’ll come back,” you promised in harsh breaths. He held the rest of the food in his arms, granola bars he could eat quietly, bread he could rip apart in small bits and chew on, and you grabbed the front of his ratty shirt desperately despite how much he must feel, a purple and blue plethora underneath his little church uniform that’d been torn in all the wrong places. “My uncle won’t notice. I’ll come back for you.”

You thoughts drift even further back. 

A hospital waiting room, reeking of antiseptic and too much bleach. This boy you met just an hour ago, sitting with his respective social worker in that antiseptic waiting room was the most interesting person you’d ever met. He had cards, and said he’d taught himself magic tricks if you wanted to see. You nodded but played goldfish instead. 

“They’re not my real parents,” he’d told you almost angrily, and you’d balked at the thought. “I’m only here because they have to do something before they bring me to a Huntington Boys Home. They think I have ‘problems’.”

“Oh.” You had frowned artfully and he asked if you had a seven. You shook your head and said goldfish. “Where are your real parents?”

“I think they died.”

“Oh.” You remember the disappointment, the utter sadness compelling you to watch the boy as he looks into his cards.

“Why are you here?”

“My mom can’t take care of me anymore and I don’t know my dad.” Your shoulders had risen, fallen indelicately and the boy smiled with the teeth he had. He was missing one of the lower ones and you had smiled back faintly, nervously. 

“That sucks.”

“I guess. I didn’t like her that much.”

You swallow and close your eyes as if that’ll help bat the image away but it only serves to show you the bloodied knuckles, the bruises on pale, milky thighs and the scars shown in the mist of hot showers and empty locker rooms.

“You, uh, you liked the canned fruit the best. I remembered.” Your voice is faint, barely heard over the rain and rumble of the engine that’s already just a whisper.

He swallows, too, eyes burning into the windshield. You know he’s trying his hardest not to swerve or stop the car, or even look at you, because his arms shake from the strength he holds the steering wheel. You’re quite sure it might detach if he goes any longer. 

“You told me there was life outside of priests and sick fucks like them.”

“Well, I didn’t know. It was just something I heard my uncle say, when he was sober at least. He said there was a life outside of your shitty circumstance,” you reply with that indelicate shrug. You haven’t thought of the man who’d offered a roof over your head and nothing else in a while. “It was one of the few things I learned from him, not because of him.”

“You shouldn’t fucking be here,” he says softly. Your eyes trace the arch of his neck, a feather-light gaze that flickers across his cheeks, the slick-back hair, the hands that loosen on the steering wheel as you travel over a bump on the road. “This town will never be good enough for you.”

“It has you in it.” You know it’s something you shouldn’t fucking say but you can’t help it. That boy in the hospital room with the gap-wide smile sits before you and you can’t do anything about it. You turn your body inwards, towards him, and his hand finds your knee on its own accord as you settle into your new position. “I fucking hated seeing you there.” “I know.”

“I’m glad you left when you could.”

“I know.” His hand, a heavy heat on your knee, squeezes before he lifts it and your eyes dart to the warmth he’s left on you, a warmth that spreads through your body like warm wine. “I’m glad you did too, either.”

Terrible, ugly, screaming and the smell of vodka spits in your mouth. You shake off the feeling and you know that David saw you shudder. He doesn’t say anything more. Neither do you.

Time does not heal all wounds, and you wonder if love could’ve ever built a palace on sand.

.

You can’t sleep. Even with the father in custody, you can’t sleep. David’s arm tightens around your waist as he sleeps, but you know he is uneasy in his slumber. 

Fuck.

“Sleepin’?” he mumbles suddenly and you close your eyes as if that’ll help you. “Me neither.”

“Get some sleep,” you murmur back, burrowing your face deeper into the pillow. You can still see the dead man’s body in the father’s basement and your nose twitches. You had held the father above the hole, made him look at the darkness of his basement, at the bones of his work. Made him look into David’s eyes, made him see.

Not his work, a voice in the back of your mind whispers. The devastation beside you is not this man’s work. The smell of dust and cobwebs still lingers. So does David’s voice. The boys home. Sweet fruit nectar and the taste of blood form a strange cocktail in your mouth.

That’s justice unserved, too. You suppress a shiver.

“Come on.” His voice warms your neck as he pulls himself closer, nose pressed against the back of your shoulder. You tug his arm tighter around you, fingers slipping to interlace with his. “Close your eyes.” “They’re closed,” you promise. His lips brush against the bare skin of your shoulder before a feather-soft kiss lands on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His legs press underneath your thighs and the warmth his body radiates drowns you, melts you away until you’re nothing. He digs his fingers into your bare stomach and you can feel him blinking hard against your skin. “Sleep. Please. Don’t think about that anymore.” You utter the words so softly, so desperately you barely recognize your own voice.

“Fuck,” he whispers and something wet touches your skin. You open an eye to stare through the window, at the moon nearly blocked out by the branches outside your window as he holds onto you tighter. You feel the fire burning, an ice cold fire that makes you hurt so much. Makes you want to throw him off and rip those memories from his head. Anything to make it stop. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it is unheard over the sounds of his harsh, hot breaths. More wetness tracks down your bare shoulders as his arm goes taut around you. You twist around immediately, and pull him close to your chest. Your eyes are closed, your hands clutching into his hair, fingers digging into his skull, salt rain sliding over your cheeks. 

He tries to speak, puffs of air that could’ve been words had he not been so choked, and you merely let him try and break you, let his hands grip bruises into your skin and trace the scars people have left behind. You trace every crack in the porcelain of his back, every fissure that you know reaches from his neck to his legs.

Why couldn’t you have chosen something other than some broken little thing? Something that does not remind you of pain and sick and ache.

You don’t know whether you ask this of yourself or to him.

.

When you wake up, it is hard to even get your eyes to open. You don’t remember when you fell asleep and you wonder if you even had at all.

Three days. Has it really been three days already? You screw up your face to wake yourself up as David shuffles around the room. He’s already awake and you glance blearily at the clock. It’s only 4 AM, that means…

Shit. An hour or two of sleep if you can even call it sleep. Fuck.

Pushing yourself up, you drag yourself out of bed on unsteady legs and wade to the bathroom. 

You’re done in record time and when you leave, David is out of the room and in the kitchen preparing coffee. You begin to poke your head through one of his shrunken dress shirts. You’d stuff it into a pair of looser pants and tie it with a belt today. You just need something looser than one of your own tightfitting blouses. Maybe it’d help you breathe easier. 

He returns moments later to button up his own dress shirt. You can see his eyes rake over your figure, over the shirt you wear, but David doesn’t say anything as you dress. The shadows of the room playing tricks on you, you pull your hair out from underneath your collar and your nose twitches. Sniffing, you try to chase away the exhaustion pulling at your ankles, trying to chain you at your bed. Your hand rubs deep into your eyes as you gather your raincoat and stuff your feet into your boots in the living room.

When the two of you are ready to leave, you a cup of black coffee already in your system and David a piece of chewing gum in his mouth, you grab your bag.

“Here.” You look up. Your huge thermos is filled to the brim with coffee, twisted shut, and you slip it into the bag. 

“Thanks.” 

Letting David press a lingering kiss to your temple before he opens the door, you dig through your bag to make sure you have everything. 

“Let’s head to the station,” he mutters. “I’m not fucking hungry.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Adjusting the straps on your shoulder, you follow after him, locking your apartment door behind you. Neither of you speak the ride to the police station, because there is nothing to say.

Last night is already forgotten.

Not really.

.

Fiddling with your phone, you run a hand through your hair. You can’t describe the uneasiness, the nausea that swirls in your stomach for the first time in years. Whilst David had left in search of the owner of the home where the RV was parked, you are stuck at homebase. You rewind the tapes, watching the interrogation of Alex Jones. It’s ten hours worth of tape, worth of footage that can mean absolutely nothing and a waste of time, or be a breakthrough in the case. You scroll back as the police officers work outside your dark room.

You can hear them talking, the little tap-tap-tap of their keyboards or the sounds of them laughing at some little joke made in the break room and fight the impulse to scream.

When did you get so fucking tired? When did invisible weights chain you to a desk, make the remote effort of rewinding a task as you watch the footage reverse?

“Detective.”

You raise your head, turning only just enough to see Chemelinski standing at the door. That ugly artificial light streams in behind him and you squint at how bright it is outside the dark room. 

“We got something.”

“What?” You stand abruptly and black dots invade your vision as you blink, hand finding the back of the chair as casually as you can. Chemelinski keeps talking and you catch bits and pieces as you walk after him, knuckles brushing the wall just in case your legs decide to give out on you. “What’d the father say?”

“Something. I dunno if you got the sense to make it fit, but it’s something.” The older man opens the door to the interrogation room and you walk in, eyebrows knitting together. The father is sitting there in his grey cardigan, looking rather pathetic for himself, and you sit down.

“Good morning, father.” You lace your fingers on the table, sitting upright as Chemelinski closes the door. “Detective over here tells me you said something specific about the… the child abductor we found in your basement. Care to share it with me?”

“He was… waging a war against God.” One eyebrow rises as you send a glance to Chemelinski who clenches his jaw so visibly you wonder if his teeth are gonna crack. You return your gaze to the father who has yet to look at you. Leaning back into the chair, your hands roll into dragging fists over wood.

“Anything else? About how they were kidnapped or…”

“He said… he took them in daylight. Sometimes, more than one child at a time.”

“Great.” Your knuckles rapping against wood, you wait for anything else. Nothing. Prompting him will have to be the way to go. “Did he act alone? Did he ever mention any family, partners?”

“He said he had a family. He was suffering from a great loss.”

“That’s it?” A numb nod. You stand, the chair scraping against the scuffed floor and you send Chemelinski a foul glare. Blackness swarms your vision and you blink, trying to get rid of it before he notices. “Great. Thank you for your cooperation, father.” Opening the door, you adjust the handcuffs stuffed along the back of your belt and walk down the hall. Chemelinski follows after you but you ignore the detective in favour of jotting down what you’d learned and sending it in a text to David.

Child abductor — took them in daylight, more than one child at a time, had a family. Father decided to talk. 

Text me when you can. -xx

You pause, staring as the text goes through. XX. 

XX.

You hadn’t thought about it before you sent it. It was merely an instinct that took over you and hollows you out now as you stare at the letters. Two simple taps of the same little shape, but it means a world of things both of you buried. You pause in the hallway, staring at that tiny screen, the pixels forming the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet. Chemelinski sends you a strange glance, passing by you, but you ignore him as you wait for his response.

I will. -D x

He replies in a manner that means he hasn’t forgotten either. You hold the phone tightly in your fist and lift your head to the ugly artificial light as if heaven has washed you in a golden glow. Leaning against the wall, you press the phone to your chest and suck in a breath, hoping that the wind will not whisk you away.

.

Heading to the candlelight vigil. Could be a lead. -D x

What makes you think that? -xx

I dont know. Just something I wish we had. Ill see you soon. -D x

Stay safe. -xx

.

“Fuck.” 

You press the ice pack against the bruising on his shoulder, sniffing with a twitch of your nose as he let out a long, drawn out moan. The coloring isn’t bad; you assume the jacket got the brunt of the damage, but you are sure it’s gonna be worse tomorrow. 

“I should’ve been there for you,” you whisper, fingers brushing over the crisp gelled curls that fall into his eyes. He groans, leaning forward on his knees. The locker room is empty and you leave the ice pack on his shoulder for a second to get the elastic bandage and vitamin K cream. David lets out a huff as you return, moving the ice pack to unveil the red and purple.

“It’s fine. Shit.” Your fingers dipped in vitamin K cream, you smear it gently over the plane of his broad shoulder. “You couldn’t have known someone would’ve jumped onto me.”

“Yeah, but…” you trail off. You don’t know how to argue a point you are too tired to make. “How’s that feel?” you murmur, spreading a thin layer over his skin as he turns to watch your work. You wipe your hand of the excess and ask him to raise his arm a bit. Beginning to wrap his shoulder, you hum to yourself as you work.

“Too tight,” he occasionally says, or he’ll comment on the looseness of a certain round and you steadily make your progress. Forming a figure-eight pattern around his arm, shoulder, and chest, you murmur for him to take a deep breath before continuing. “Thank you,” he utters as you near the end of the elastic bandage. Your fingernails scratch against the fabric as you unfold a lip in the bandage.

“What for?” Grabbing elastic tape, you follow the same pattern to secure the bandage. The rip of the tape fills the silence David does not and you pause to look at him. “Loke.” The nickname feels fucking weird on your tongue. By David’s expression, he feels the same. He doesn’t even look at you as you smooth over the black tape.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What do you mean?” You take hold of his arm, curling his hand into a fist to test bicep size. Sticking a finger beneath the bandage, you check for room and mobility. “Is it too tight?”

“No.”

“Okay, try moving it for me.” With your support, he eases into full mobility and you suppress a small smile. “Good.” You cross your arms and move to stand before him. “You need to get some sleep before the Captain calls you in.” 

“You don’t have to do this for me.”

Uncrossing your arms, you step forward and run your hands through his crisp hair. He looks up and, with you between his legs, rests his chin on your stomach. His fingers interlock on your back, his arms swathing you in the heat of his shower.

Your hands run down to his cheeks as you stare into his porcelain blue eyes, all at once so dark and fragile. Purple half-moons threaten to swallow up his eyes whilst you trace the hollows in his cheeks.

There is so much you have to say. So much you need to say. But you can’t. Not now. Not in the middle of this case. You know it’ll utterly destroy the pillars of what you two are if you do and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Your eyes search his, and you sink down to a crouch before him. He looks so much older in your arms and you wonders if that is your fault, too. Your fingers drag from his cheek to the robin on his ribs and he lifts your inked hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles where you are marked.

“Get some rest, Loke. Go home and eat.” The words taste like blood and wine in your mouth, all at once bitter and sweet and sour. You draw away and his arms fall around you as your lips find the spot between his eyes. His eyelids flutter shut, and you wonder about many things that you can’t put a name to. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Come with me.” He grabs your arm, fingers snagging your wrist and your gaze, torn from the door, lands on him. The shadows are there again, and he pulls you towards him. Your boots brush against the tile as you let him pull you between his legs. “Don’t stay here alone.”

“Loke—” Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, and the rough scratch of the bandage on one palm, the silky skin of his other, topple you from within. You remember once, once some version of you would straddle him right here and now and make him yours. When you had room inside your heart for childish little tricks and David and your work. How had you ever done it in the first place? “Loki.”

“Stay with me.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Your heart stops in your chest at the wide eyes, the marble of his cheeks. You can’t. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“We don’t do that shit,” you let out in a breath, tearing yourself away. He stands and you close your eyes as if that’ll stop the heat of him from enveloping you. Even so, David Loki has the body temperature of a nuclear radiator and you can sense him from a mile away. “David, I—” Your words ghost against blazing lips as he presses a severe kiss against your mouth. Your eyes open and you gasp, trying to breathe. He suffocates you, eyes squeezed shut. Urgent and desperate and pleading, his arms hold onto you as if the world will swallow you, take you away.

You wish to tell him that’ll never happen, so you do. Your arms loop around his neck on their own accord, your lips pushing back against his in an agonizing battle of your desire and his as you tug at his skin, fingers raking red over his back. Your palms flatten and touch the scars, tiny little things, the bullet hole from the heist in ‘08, the stabbing from the breaking and entering on Holder Street, some much older than that.

But then he pulls away, and your eyes open, cold air conditioned wind breathing against your burning skin as he tries to stop himself from kissing your aching mouth again.

He only succeeds on the second try. 

His eyes are shadowed with fear and anguish, and you close your eyes, You don’t want to see that again. Not again. You hate the feeling in the very core of who you are. It feels like a personal attack, a graverobber digging up a coffin you want to remain hidden as his hands, on your neck, slide to your waist and he leans forward to kiss your cheek. His breath whispers over your chin. His thumb brushes away smeared lipstick from the corner of your mouth and you press your lips together, desperate to hold it in. Your eyes search his face, soak in every little blemish as his forehead knocks into yours. 

His other hand plays with your wrist, gently pulling until your fingers interlock and he swallows, looking down at the chasm between you two. Your chests barely brush and yet you feel he is at one end of the world and you are at the other. You are at a stepping off point, and he sits on the other end of the lake.

The smell of him is everywhere, stale coffee and gum and Bearglove deodorant he buys whenever it’s on sale. You inhale sharply, softly, and all too quickly when your gazes meet. It catches in your throat, and you don’t know when your eyes began to burn but they do. His hand holds your face like a fragile little thing, and you find yourself grabbing at his arms, his waist, inked skin that runs for miles and scars that once gave you comfort and now give you heartbreak. You hold him because you are desperate and he holds you because he knows.

You beg, you beg him because you can read his mind and know his tongue, his eyes, his taste. You know his heat and wishes and darkest desires. It is why you cannot hear this — it’ll make it too real.

Do not break a broken thing, you plead. Do not stir up dust in the ruins of the dead. We know, we know, we know. We can live in denial. Don’t do it. Don’t, don’t, don’t— 

“I still love you,” he mumbles forlornly, deliberately, at last, and your breath rattles in your chest. The weight that lifts is only momentary before it slams into you and you rip your hands away, fingers burning from lightning. The words barely sink in before your mouth opens, the response so automatic you nearly let it slip out. But he doesn’t let you. He merely kisses your forehead, and his lips press into some sort of smile written in the language of heartbreak and tragedy. It’s a language you wish you didn’t know so well. “You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.”

He grabs his black pullover and shrugs his injured shoulder. You’re left standing there, lips barely parted and still pulsing from the heat of his kiss despite how much you want to yell at him, scream for him to stay for just a moment more.

I want to say it back. I want to. I want you. I will.

I can’t.

Your legs are frozen to tile as he pauses at the door. Your head dips, eyes slipping closed as hot wet tears stream down your nose. He’s waiting. You know he is. He waits for a thing you cannot give him once again.

“I love you,” he whispers again, and this time the words bounce across walls and lockers, metal and ceramic before it reaches your hollow heart. The door swings open and shut.

You wonder how you can patch a broken heart with the very thing that broke it.

.

“Are you serious? Loki and I specifically said that we need surveillance on this guy.” It’s a bright 8 AM when you spit these words, collar twisted in your fist. “I know you’re stretched thin, but you gotta keep your word.” Your other hand grips a cup of steaming coffee you want to throw into the man’s face. Instead, you toss the dog collar onto his desk and hope the poison in your voice is enough.

“You said he was innocent.”

“And we also said we wanted surveillance on him. Look, you could’ve called either one of us. We’re a team for a reason. I could’ve went out and kept an eye on him. This was a stupid mistake, and I don’t want this to happen again.” You lean forward, fingers digging into the wood as you make sure the Captain is nearly shitting his pants.  “You fucking know how important this case is to the both of us. Don’t fuck it up again.”

“What do you want?”

“You think we can do something different, tell us.”

“Detective, when’s the last time you slept?”

“Unimportant. We need to know where everyone is.” You slam your hand hard against the desk and the pens clatter before you straighten up, taking a long pull of your coffee.

“Point made.”

“Good. Communication lines—” You gesture between yourself and the Captain— “need to be open. I’m gonna work on finding the guy. Communication. You have my number.” Whipping around, you brush past your… the man who had confessed feelings he shouldn’t have and you sigh, leaning against the wall farther down the hall. You suck down the rest of your coffee, the warmth of it chilling your stomach.

He’s in a foul mood, you know, and you’re sure it’s about the dead dog you found last night. Or it could be the fact that you slept in a motel last night. TBD. 

You hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night. You had sweated and tried sleeping naked, then got too cold and the covers hadn’t been enough. You tried to blame it on the shitty heater in the motel, but your body ached in a way you had only known to happen once before so you’d instead gone out for a late night stroll around the block to jog out the energy. 

In the break room, you find it empty and you sigh, opening the fridge to check for food that hasn’t been claimed. Nothing. There’s a stack of icecream, but you’ll eat that later. Slamming the door shut, you catch your warped reflection in the metal. Your eyes are sunken and red, purple smearing your skin like someone punched you right in the sockets and your skin is dull and weepy. You gently probe at the swollen eyebags, tossing your coffee into the trash.

“Morning.” Spinning around, you spot him leaning against the door, hands shoved in his pockets. Concern is etched onto his face, but so is every hour he didn’t have as sleep.

“Good morning.”

Your eyes drift back to the trash can. You’d rather get tossed into a dumpster then face him right now. “I have… work to do.” You fucking hate this. No matter how much you try, you know that if your eyes meet his for even a split second, you won’t be able to control what happens next.

“Yeah, so do I.”

And you walk past him as if he means nothing. As if he does not stare holes into your back. As if you will not seek him out later because the two of you are moths and flames, gold to a thief, the moon and ocean, an inexplicable pull that defies the laws of every science.

.

“You’re only three hours into the tape.” 

The man whips around in the office chair and you cross your arms, the corner of your mouth twitching. He turns around, pressing his face into his fingers as you walk into the dark room. You can see the tapes he’s watching, the ones you’ve obsessed over, and you blink, nose twitching at the sight of Alex Jones.

“You know this shit well,” he mutters. You place a hand on his injured shoulder, you don’t feel the foam padding but he stiffens and not from the pain. Cramps crawl up your arm and your fingers roll into a fist when you peel yourself off of him. “Fuck. I don’t… I don’t know if there’s something there that I’ve missed or—”

“You get any sleep last night?”

“Did you?”

Silence. He runs a hand over his face, leaning into his chair and you look down at him. All hard lines and soft edges, you want to touch him even though you know you’ll burn.

“Why’d you say it?” you ask softly. He doesn’t turn to look at you and you wrap yourself in your arms, squeezing hard enough as a reminder. “We agreed.”

“I know. I know, but— ”

“Detectives.” The two of you spring apart like you’re highschoolers caught fucking at prom and David digs a finger into his swollen eyes. He looks as fucking tired as you feel. “You’ve got a call.”

Sighing, he pauses the tape. “Right. Fuck, you… you don’t have to go.” You step back to give him room, and when he stands, you hate how much he towers over you. Hate how much you want to tell him he’s wrong. But instead, you nod.

“I’ll stay. You, go.” 

Your eyes meet for just the briefest of seconds and he blinks hard. Running a hand over his mouth and chin, he nods and turns to go.

He’s muzzling himself. You hate it when he fucking does this, but now, you can’t do shit about it. Words that threaten to spill out of your mouth slam against your lips as you watch him leave, and you sit down where he did mere minutes ago, the warmth of him still lingering like a mist, a cloak.

You pretend you can’t think about him anymore. Love is not for men and women like you.

.

He goes to Value Mall every week, buys different sizes for kids -D x

Pays with cash, messes with mannequins. Gave her both our numbers. -D x

Thought I should let you know. -D x

I know. Thanks. -xx

Alright. I can go to a motel or whatever. -D x

No it’s okay. I wouldn’t mind if you were there -xx

.

David crawls into bed with you for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. His back presses against yours tentatively and you turn, the sheets twisting around your legs. Your arm wraps around his waist, eyes closing. His heart thuds underneath your ear, an echo that fits into the hollow of your ribs.

Peace lasts for two hours before you’re done pretending trying to sleep. For lunch, you grab a coffee from the cart near the hospital on the way to the station.

You don’t talk about what he said, pretend it never happened in some unspoken agreement, but you can read it in his eyes every time he thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if things were different, would he have told you still? Or would he have doomed himself to silence forever instead?

The answer to your question is ashes in your mouth.

tags: @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki

[gail-hq-archive]

◖◖ headcanon. bring it all down so you can finally start over       tw: alcohol abuse       with special mention of @nataliechanghq @dianaxsmythe @therealstevee       @spencer-hq @casey-hq and a minor mention of @connorhq◗◗

► word count: 3881

Summary: Being the headstrong petulant brat that Gail Weston is, she didn’t let anyone tell her what to do; not even her own subconsciousness. So she did what she does best: hurting people.

It’s been two hours since Gail cracked her phone screen in a fit of rage and raided her own alcohol stash. Her mind had long been hazy, but still it wasn’t enough to get the incessant nagging thought of her mother out of her head. When she first broke out her bottles of vodka and various other liqueur, she had bothered with cups and tumblers, but after downing two bottles of whatever fancy stuff she had stowed away, she didn’t care much for propriety or whatever. It was peaceful and loud all at the same time. Gail sat on the floor next to her bed, staring distantly at her own white walls. How did everything get to this point? Does it matter? Does anything?

The sudden vibration from her phone sitting by her side shook Gail out of her spaced out moment. She squinted her eyes and checked the caller ID: Natalie. Panic and dread fills Gail, did she forget about some standing thing they might’ve had? Unable to think clearly, Gail picked up the call and tried her best to sound sober. 

“Hey Nat.” Yes, keeping it short and sweet. The less she talked the less chance Natalie will know she’s drunk.

“M’not feeling ‘kay.” Atta girl, she was so proud of herself for her enunciation. She was after all, first place for moot when she was still in law school. She’s practically nailing this phone call. 

“Wha-at?” Red Alert, Red Alert! Natalie sounded entirely too suspicious, did she blew her cover? Shit- shit. How did she know?! Gail cast a suspicious gaze around her, not trusting that there weren’t some ninja around her that’s reporting back to Natalie. 

“M’not slurring!” Denial of the charges, that’s right. She needed to establish a position first, and that’s she was not drunk. 

The opposition thought otherwise, but she wouldn’t give up without a fight. So while Natalie started to berate her about drinking in the broad daylight, she wracked her brain for a good defense, but all she could come up was:

“Fuck you, Nat!” Which followed by a swift thumbing of the red phone icon. Well, it wasn’t as swift as she’d like, Gail only fumbled with the phone for a second or two, but nobody’s keeping count.

Gail sat quietly for a moment, looking confusedly at her phone. Had she really just hung up on Natalie? Well, she started questioning her sobriety first, so really, she deserved it. But then in the middle of Gail’s alcohol driven mind, she realized that Natalie would most definitely come looking for her. And she’s basically a sitting duck in her apartment right now.

She tried to stand up quickly, only to regret it as a wave of nausea attacked her sense of balance. Once she’s regain more or less most of her faculties, she grabbed her phone and the bottle of Jack that she’s been drinking and ran out of her condo, albeit unstably due to her heels.

---

Gail wandered around the streets for a little while, she barely had the wits to pick up a straying paper bag to cover up her booze a few blocks ago. Where could she possibly go? She’s got no friends, Natalie doesn’t count because right now she’s being a giant pain in the butt butt. She’s got no real home, never had. All she had was her slowly draining Jack and a phone that’s been turned to silent when Natalie couldn’t take a fucking hint. A crack in the sidewalk made Gail tripped and stumbled in her step. Holding her hands out, her savior managed to keep her upright. Uninhibited, Gail gave a grimace that shouldn’t pass as a smile. “T’anks.” She mumbled, her breath reeking of alcohol. She tried to place her newly minted savior, Gail was sure she’s seen her before. From law school? From high school? No, no. Maybe from work? Yikes. 

Clearing her throat, Gail tried to stand on her own, only to stumble once again. This time she gave up and hang onto Diana. She seemed nice enough of a person, maybe she won’t be like Natalie ‘Snitching Mom’ Chang and start lecturing her on all the disadvantages of drinking.

“I know you,” Gail brought her index finger up and booped Diana’s nose, giggling the entire time. It was so funny! Her nose is meant for booping. 

“Did you know cats sleep 16 to 18 hours a day?” She said, interrupting whatever spiel Diana was going off on. Something about wanting to talk? Pffftt, does it look like Gail’s a talking type? Like sure, she argues for a living but otherwise, talking is like a big no no. Nuh uh. Non merci. 

Gail let Diana droned on and on about her own little past history and honestly, Gail was getting really bored of this conversation. There was a really pretty blue bird that just flew by and she wondered where it went... Maybe it got killed by a car, her thoughts drift to the dark side as easy as ABC. All pretty things tend to end up poorly. 

Finally, when Diana tried to reach for her bottle, Gail has had enough. “You’re killing my mellow, man.” With that said, Gail gave Diana a quick shove off to the side, not as effective as she hoped, but the fact that she hopped into a cab immediately after seemed to do the trick to get herself away from Diana. From the window, she could see the distressed face of the blonde and Gail sneezed at how positively face-contorting it looked.

---

Gail had just shouted at the cabbie to drive when she first got in, but the longer she sat in the back of this dubiously smelling cab, the less she wants to remain there. Pulling out her phone, she squinted and with some effort, she managed to call Kronk. She quickly barked out the name of her usual bar and then ordered him to meet her there in 5 minutes before hanging up just as abruptly. As the cab driver wasn’t made of brains, Gail had to repeat herself and their destination to him once more. 

It took Stevie an extra five minutes before he got to the bar and Gail had been sitting in the cab waiting for him all this time. When Stevie came running through the streets, Gail stepped out, not as gracefully as she normally would, but it can only be considered as such given the state she’s in; she stopped him with a hand on his arm and told him to pay the cab man. She didn’t stick around to look at Stevie’s baffled face and his reluctance in fishing out his wallet and paying the hefty bill, instead she walked purposefully into the establishment and took a seat by the bar. 

“Finally, that took you fooooorever.” Gail rolled her eyes when Stevie finally joined her. She poured them a few shots of vodka and glared at Stevie until he acquiesced. They sat together for a while, it was mainly Stevie talking. Which was a nice change of pace since normally it’s Gail telling him what to do and him delivering marginally acceptable results. She actually didn’t mind listening to Stevie talk, his voice wasn’t grating... yet. 

-- She spoke too soon. Not a minute after Gail thought she might finally be able to get some peace and drunkenness out of the night, Steven Kronk Evans opened his mouth and started nervously rambling about how Gail doesn’t look ‘alright’. What the hell does it even mean to be ‘alright’? 

“Shut your whore mouth, Kronk, nobody asked you to have an opinion.” Gail threw back harshly at Stevie’s concern. She’s not here for concern, she’s here for the alcohol, she’s here to drown herself as deep and as far as she can humanly tolerate. But if she was capable of being honest at that point, she knew she was beyond the point of no return. If she kept drinking the way she’s been drinking, either her liver will give out or she’ll need to be hospitalized for alcohol poisoning -- which the latter doesn’t seem so far fetched a possibility.

Stevie, not cluing into the the fact that Gail might not be in the mood to talk about anything, or maybe his balls finally dropped and he wanted to grow a spine for once, kept on. Gail didn’t want this, she didn’t ask for any of this, she didn’t want any of this. She just want everyone to shut up and for everything to be quiet. A small voice at the back of her head shouted This is what you want, you want someone to care. He cares. Let him.

Being the headstrong petulant brat that Gail Weston is, she didn’t let anyone tell her what to do; not even her own subconsciousness. So she did what she does best: hurting people.

“Oh fuck off, Steven. I only asked you here because though you can’t do anything right, you at least knew how to listen. Now it’s like you don’t even know how to do that. Is there anything you can do?” And since the knife isn’t embedded deep enough, Gail forged on.

“I should’ve just called your sister or brother, at least they look competent. Hell, a garbage man can do a better job than you right now.”

Turning her head away from Stevie, Gail ordered another glass of gin and told the bartender to leave the bottle. 

“Just get out of my sight, I don’t want to breathe around useless garbage.”

Gail didn’t pay any further attention to Stevie. She didn’t even know if he left right away or he lingered and looked at her with those sad beady little eyes that sometimes creep her out. All she knew was she finally had some silence to go with the gin. 

---

It must be closer to midnight at this point, and that would’ve meant Gail have been drinking on and off for about half a day. When Stevie left, she had the forethought to order something to eat, something chicken and greasy. It was a bad decision given how it almost immediately sobered her up. She washed the dinner down with gin. As time passed by, Gail had slowed down in her drinking. She only sipped at her drinks instead of knocking them back like a champ. 

She was so lost in the haze of nothingness that she didn’t even realized someone was calling her name until she felt someone shaking her. Unfocused, she lolled her head over to the figure next to her and hummed. 

“Wha..” She slurred off. There was a pretty cute guy looking at her, except he’s sporting one of those ugly worried expressions. She reached up with her hand and tried to smooth away the frown. It worked for a moment when he smiled, she smiled right back because who wouldn’t when a cute guy is smiling at you and holding you like that. 

She didn’t know what was going on but he said something to her, and she nodded. She nodded and her eyes fell closed on their own. She have been having trouble keeping her eyes open wide, and she was finally in a good spot. Her head was spinning so much, but at the same time she was floating... she felt like she was in the clouds -- or at least if she knew how it felt to the in the clouds, this would be it. She was weightless, as though nothing was tethering her to anything. She was free. 

Opening her eyes, Gail saw the cute guy pay off her tab. Pretty and rich. She hummed happily, she would gladly sleep with this guy, she decided. Through the haze of the alcohol, she managed to catch his name: Spencer. It sounded familiar, but nothing popped out at Gail. So it must be fine. Spencer, the cutie, helped her up and out of the stool and walked her to his car -- or so she presumes. It’s too shiny and smelled too nice for it to be a cab. The whole car ride took too long and also not long enough for Gail. But the moment they got out of the car, Gail was all over him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulder as she leaned up to kiss him. She had the alcohol, and now she wants the regrettable sex. 

Gail’s attempt to jump Spencer’s bones in the hallway was only half successful as she was repeatedly pushed away in favor of walking, of all things, by Spencer. It took yet another forever and a day before they were behind what Gail supposed to be Spencer’s apartment. In her haste, she didn’t gave her surrounding a clear look, for if she did, she would realize that she was back to the IHQ campus or at least recognize the layout of the apartment. Now that they were in an enclosed space, Gail tried once again to fuck Spencer. Try being the operative word. He kept pushing her and stopping her at every other kiss, won’t let her take off his clothes, and certainly won’t let her take off her own clothes. 

Straddling his lap, Gail looked beautifully angry. With arms resting on his shoulder, she huffed.

“Are you gay? Is that it?” She flipped her hair away off and over her shoulder. His denial of her statement caused her to be even more frustrated. 

“So what’s wrong? Isn’t this why you brought me back here?” 

Yet another stuttering denial.

At that point Gail was tired, tired of playing these stupid games with stupid boys. She pushed herself off of Spencer and plopped down onto the couch. She then asked him if he had more alcohol. When the response she got was a worried look and pursed lips, Gail grumbled and crossed her arms in defiance. Spencer tried to pry her with a warm hand on her thigh and soft spoken words, but none of that would ever work. Finally, Gail look stock of where she is and realized that if she stayed here any longer, she might end up committing homicide and suicide. Gail gauged the distance between her and the front door, thanks to the fact that they were stumbling and making out the whole time coming in, it wasn’t locked, and she was still close enough to make a run for it. So Gail switched tactics, she sighed deeply before turning to smile sweetly at Spencer, asking if he could actually bring her some water - just so she can start the process of sobering up.

Gail waited like a cheetah readying to strike, the moment Spencer’s silhouette disappears behind the kitchen wall, she made a run for it. Without her heels, Gail managed to escape the would-be prison with big success. She heard a distant yelling of her name but by that time, Gail had already slammed the door behind her and ran down the stairs. Adrenaline can do wonders, especially for someone who is entirely inept at anything sportive like Gail. 

--- 

Still, Gail had her limits -- especially physical ones. She only managed to go as far as the front door where she promptly fell onto her ass panting like a dying zebra. Glaring at the blond doorman and barking at him to mind his own damn business, Gail fished out her phone from her bra. She scrolled all the way down to ‘C’ and selected Connor’s name. At least he wouldn’t rat her out to Natalie or do anything untoward... or maybe she could even convince him to have sex with her again. That certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. 

‘im diwnstsirs cm ppixk mr up’ 

So maybe her texting abilities weren’t topnotch right now, but she thought she did pretty well, all things considered. Firing it off, she hid off to the side of the entrance where she kept her glare on the ugly doorman, not trusting him to not do anything fishy. It only took minutes, but it felt like hours to Gail, for someone to come bouncing down and opening the door behind her. Gail was about to berate Connor for his tardiness when she looked up and found that it was decidedly not Connor who’s standing there.

“You’re not ugly Connor.” She deadpanned. 

Nope, it was Casey bloody Rose.

Gail was tired, her feet are sore, her back hurts, her head is spinning and she’s suddenly lost sight of what she wanted anymore. So when Casey took Gail’s hands into hers and invited her up, Gail did nothing but allowed herself to be led like a child. 

The trek up to Casey’s place was slow, but it was... nice. She stared confusingly at their joined hands and wondered why it felt so nice to hold hands with someone. Once they were behind Casey’s apartment door, she settled Gail at the couch before going off somewhere. Gail opted to sit on the floor and leaned back against the foot of the couch. She cooed over Nala, who came sniffling at her the moment she sat down. While she still felt like she was floaty and all around unstable, the dog helped make Gail feel a little less spun out of control. Or wasn’t that what she wanted? To be out of control? To feel nothing? To not be tethered? Gail frowned and tried to make sense of her head. 

Movement at the corner of her eye took a while to register, but when it did, Gail looked up from Nala’s resting form on her thighs to meet Casey’s eyes. The blonde looked at her so gently, like any sudden movement and Gail would be flying off and out of the apartment. There’s still worry, but it wasn’t as suffocating as when everyone else looked at her. 

Gail beckoned for Casey to approach. She was so pretty... Gail had thought that when she saw Marley in that bar, and again when she saw Casey when she was a ball of anger rushing towards her. The Rose sisters were undeniably beautiful, but Casey was a conundrum. She’s so happy and silly all the time that it’s hard to imagine her ever being anything but -- but Gail does. Gail knows exactly how her face contorts prettily with rage, and how all that disappears into regret and worry. Casey’s face was extremely expressive... and Gail has the biggest crush on it.

When Casey was close enough, Gail reached out and tugged at her arm. She leaned up and captured Casey’s lips into hers. Her lips were soft but unmoved. And almost instantly, Gail felt hands on her shoulders gently pushing her off. She looked up, scared and crushed at the same time, fearing that Casey would yell at her, shouting for her to leave. No, she needed to leave. She needed to leave before history repeated itself and left Gail with the broken pieces again. Gail scrambled to get up and the whole time she mumbled her apologies and other incoherent things. 

She could barely step past Casey before she was stopped. Gail looked at Casey’s hand on her arm but didn’t lift her gaze to meet the blonde’s. Casey said in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want Gail to leave. Gail stood there for a moment before muttering that she needed to use the washroom. 

Shut behind her little temporary safe haven, Gail padded over to the sink and stood in front of the mirror. She hated what she saw in the mirror, she hated everything about it. All she could see is everything that’s gone wrong, that’s gone bad. She was rotten. Flipping open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, she found a small pair of scissors and a razor. For a split second, her hand hovered over the razor as thoughts ran through her mind. It was too dark, even for her, so instead she reached for the scissors. 

Closing the cabinet, she was faced with the abomination that is Gail Weston again. Everything about her is in order. Everything about her was planned. She was just her mother’s glorified barbie doll. She didn’t own a single part of her body, not her looks, not her life, not anything. Gail grabbed her hair into a ponytail and in a few chops, she cut off a good 7 inches off of her hair, leaving them fall shortly below her shoulders. She didn’t really comprehend what she had done until she was staring at a fistful of hair. She suddenly found herself sinking to the floor, her knees were too weak to support her weight any further. Gail let the pair of scissors fall clattering off to the side as she continued to stare at her handful of hair. 

The clattering of the scissors was probably what drew Casey to check up on her, or maybe it was the sheet amount of time Gail was in the washroom and the distinct lack of water running that clued her in. But either way, Gail only noticed Casey had came into the bathroom when she was kneeling in front of her, with a hand over hers. 

Gail looked up from her fistful of hair to Casey. She opened her mouth and closed it multiple times before she knew what to say.

“I cut it all off.”

“All the bad things,” 

“It’s all gone now.”

“It’s all gone.” Gail’s voice hitched at words. One tear, then two, then it was as though the floodgate had opened. The sobs started to pour out of Gail the moment Casey wrapped her arms around Gail and pulled her into her embrace. On one hand, Gail held tightly onto the chopped up hair and the other clung onto the front of Casey’s shirt like a lifeline. Gail sobbed and cried and screamed. It was as though she was finally letting herself cry after years of suppression. Gail cried without abandon and she did it all while Casey held onto her.

After a long while, after Gail’s cries dwindled down to sniffles, Casey took care of the mess and led Gail to bed where she was told with certainty that she wasn’t going to move an inch until Gail had fallen asleep. It took some time, but soon the exhaustion from crying and the enormous amount of alcohol she had consumed finally took over her. 

---

The next morning, Gail woke up with the headache of the century as the memories from the day before washes over her like a tidal wave. Gail, with great force and effort, managed to tear herself out of the bed where Casey was now sleeping soundly, and made her way out of the apartment. She couldn’t possibly stay there and face Casey, not when she practically violated her autonomy and forced herself on her. That was before she made a huge mess of herself crying like a baby in front of her. No, this won’t do at all. 

She’ll need time away from all of this, from everything and everyone -- and the best place to do that is to retire back to the gigantic emptiness that is her condo, where all this shit began.

[theoldsilverartistcat]

Let’s Go To Dreamland

a lil thing that i want to post because it sounds pretty good.

(words: around 1270) 

xxxxxxxxxx

He was a ghost watching his life unfold.

He knew because he could see through himself, a glittering shadow, his past self so real yet so untouchable.

"Hey, you're here. Finally!" The watcher started. He didn't expect that voice.

What th-- the watcher thought. Hmm, said something else in return.

A little girl ran to his past self, giggling along with two other boys. "Blaise, there you are! I've been looking for you!" "I came first." "Nu-uh I did. tell 'em Rennen."

The older boy beside his past self brushed the younger kids away from him. "Come on, get these pesty kids away, I need to tell you somethin'"

Blaise (that was his name) huffed a breath. "Give 'em a break, they have equally important things to tell me. Right guys?"

The trio looked at him before shrugging. "We may be annoying, but we just want to talk to you. It's not really that great." Finn said.

"See, you can learn a thing or to from them, Kainan. Humility is an eight-letter word that needs to be in your dictionary stat. Anywho, what is so good that you need to tell me now?"

Kainan (that was his name) rolled his eyes before replying. "Okay, if you don't want to know how a humongous army about yee wide is going to tear apart this town to get the crystal, then be my guest. Oh, and don't forget about the traitor telling them about all the hideyholes we placed our traps in. If you want kids to babble about how the sky is a little darker today, then fine."

Dashiell looked over him with a critical eye. "Just because it sounds stupid, doesn't mean it isn't bad. Get your head out of your as--"

"All righty then. No need to mouth off Dash, we get your point," Blaise winced before looking back at the other older boy next to him. "And the sky getting darker is a problem as well. We're running out of time."

Kainen snorted in derision. "I don't see them doing much apart from star-gazing. I'm actually doing the work."

Blaise took up his bag (somehow it ended up on the ground, stirring dust). "There is no point trying to persuade you otherwise. All I came here for, other than to hear you rant and warn me, is to warn you to watch out for your other friend. A boy that bright can only be holding great secrets under their tongue, beware of the poisonous fangs that guard it well." He blinked, before shaking off the vision-induced stupor. "Sorry, I never get used to that. But be careful, he isn't to be trusted."

Gone, the only trail of him a trail of a young and unthinking trio.

A mirror watched his reflection fix up his sleep-tousled hair. Another boy, one with a cat curling around his feet watched him warily.

"Don't worry Kitten, I'll make sure there isn't any trouble."

Kitten barely responded, his orange eyes slitted in the low light. "I mean it. You may not trust him, but I know for a fact that those kids are no cretins. And he has done nothing but good."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," he all but hissed, something shifting on his head. The hoodie around him fell off to reveal the feline ears that bended back in mistrust. His tail swished, once twice, and the other boy had the common sense to be horrified as he heard the first words uttered from the former. He never knew...

"Of course you didn't," a bitter laugh, "no one did. No one knew of my ears, my tail, my claws. Even now, they bleed and the reek lingers. Just remember what I said; one of us is a liar, and you may never know till your last breath."

One night of confessions to wipe away the pain, he thought, no one would know.

The watcher watched, tears blinding them, but there was no escape. They were forever cursed to watch the same sins play out again and again an--

"Hell, they're, like, bigger than we thought."

"What the fuck did you expect." Dash looked through the binoculars, scanning the metal army turning wheel and claws in an aching melody of creaks and whines.

Blaise massaged the bridge of his nose. "For one, a cleaner mouth. You still never listen-"

"You can bet your ass I ain't taking that shit again. I'm entitled to say as I please considering it's going to be our final hours," he huffed in the frigid air.

"-and there you go again. And it should have taken longer for them to come. There is definitely a traitor here. Still, have you got everyone to safety?"

Dashriell gave him a stern nod. "I got Finn to escort the others who can't go. Rennen is up the tower ready to fire the arrows at your command."

"And Kainen?"

"Still no sign of him. Newbie is gone as well as Catguy."

The older boy pulled a hand through his tangled brown hair. Recently, a red stripe has accented it, as well as some sort of power thrumming under his skin, eager to do his bidding. He still doesn't know what to make of it.

Dash noticed the nervous tic. "Don't worry bro, we'll protect this with our lives. And if you want..." he left the sentence hanging.

"No way in the seven rutting hells am I going to abandon you guys young man, so clear that out of your head before I get a soap bar to clean it from you." A grin shared within the moment, so tentative, so easily broken.

"But if you guys want to.." "Nope. No fuckity fuck way am I going to budge."

A shrug. "Fine by me."

Towervel was falling.

He was not fine (or maybe he was, time moves slower, the feeling dragging out to a monotonous hue, bleeding-)

Out. He was out of time. Time to make a stand, make one now, or risk his wards and everyone else feeling the cool skin of metal choke out the warm blood and bone of them.

There he stood, one boy against an army, a sword forged by the hands of his partner (partner, lover, which one)

Is it. That was the answer. He walked a step forward, knowing (the poison took everyone before them, the lethal gases of human bombs a deadly kiss, sharing breath with the dead, magic cannot do without purpose) the answer.

In one hand a sword. It glowed with light, light from his love, light from his ambition, love from the past and present and future, and hope (sweet on the tongue, feel it's honey melt on the throats only to trick you).

For them, he will sacrifice everything.

And deep in his still-beating heart, he knew it.

The oil made his hand slick, the metal cut into his skin, and black and red mixed upon him (a blank canvas).

He killed. He didn't know how many (dully he knew that the dead were in those machines, clocks ticking to destruction, mothers and fathers and children and lovers and friends, lives stolen and squirreled away)

"--- can you hear me?"

A needle was angled at the little girl's exposed neck, a vial forced unto her mouth (a push and her spirit will rise from her cage of bone to join the others).

What is this happiness (control, he knew, was a dangerous thing).

He knew no more (a machine, he knew, had no feelings)

But the watcher watched. He had no choice. But still...

[bastionkeeper]

Kintsugi

@mykindofcontent and I wrote this fic together. Kravitz expresses a concern about how dating Taako has made reaping hard, as his bounties always threaten the love of his life. Taako, always the drama queen and emotionally repressed elf does what he thinks is a solution and only makes things worse. Will breaking up really help things?

Kravitz paced hurriedly across the bedroom floor. One arm folded over his chest, the other gripping his chin, his eyebrows were furrowed as he thought. He shouldn’t have been home yet, not really, but it had been the third time in two weeks he’d had to call Lup and Barry to take over one of his cases. It was getting out of hand. He never needed help before. Now he had to rely on his two new subordinates just to bring in a small fry bounty.

He scowled at himself. The ones he had to give up all had one thing in common.

They all knew him as Taako’s trophy man.

Some amount of fame was expected when getting involved with the seven extraplanar beings that saved all of existence, but Taako seemed to thrive off the attention, and death worked better in the shadows.

It shouldn’t have mattered, really. He should have been able to date whoever he pleased and have it not matter at all. If only it was that easy.

There were those that simply didn’t take him seriously because of his romantic position and that was easy enough, even the most well-read gossiper wet their pants at the sight of a flaming skeleton.

Then there were those that made things personal, made it clear that if he continued to track them they would take the man that set his heart beating and break him.

He could have trusted that Taako was strong enough to take care of himself, but part of him refused to take that chance. He let them go each time, and it was starting to get dangerous.

His love was his weakness, and that was a terrible thing to say. Kravitz hated the idea that a person could be a weakness, it was selfish and cruel...but it also had a truth to it.

His nervous pacing came to a stop as he heard the front door opening. Taako was home. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. There was no reason to breach this subject yet, not when he didn’t have any solution in mind. It would just make Taako worry.

He couldn’t help a small part of himself that felt guilty. Taako had been acting distant and Kravitz knew the elf well enough to know it was because of his own behavior. Taako always drew back and guarded himself if he thought something was wrong, he would never confront it until Kravitz was ready.

“You home early again?” Taako’s voice came from the living room. “You keep slacking off just to see lil ol’ me and Lup will be employee of the month before you know it.”

Kravitz tried to laugh, still feeling preoccupied as Taako made his way into the room. “I believe we’ve been over this dear, the Raven Queen doesn’t have employee’s of the month.” “That’s because she hasn’t had more than one employee before~” Taako spared a moment between the banter to press a kiss to Kravitz’s check. Kravitz was aware of the way Taako’s eyes searched him suspiciously, knowing things were not as calm as they seemed. He had the eyes of a rabbit ready to run at any second, back to hide in its burrow.

Kravitz hated seeing him so on edge, and even more hated being the cause of it. He wanted to be Taako’s safe space, somewhere he could drop his act. Taako normally trusted Kravitz enough to show him his real face, the one behind the glamour that hid dark circles and scars. Lately though, the magical and emotional glamour had been intact.

Maybe it was time to get it out in the open, he didn’t want Taako to agonize over an invisible problem for weeks.

“Sweetheart, can we talk?” Kravitz said, steeling himself. “I promise it’s nothing bad, please don’t worry, something has just been bothering me and I’m sure you notice... “

“Krav, honey, nothing makes a man worry more than the phrases ‘we need to talk’ and ‘I promise it’s chill don’t sweat it’,” Taako joked, masterfully hiding any signs of nervousness. “But you know you can tell me anything anyway.”

Kravitz tried to laugh off the comment, but he could tell he wasn’t fooling anyone. “It’s...about work. About why I’ve been...home more.”

“Did bird mom fire you since Lup is so much better?” Taako’s words came out teasing, but his stance tensed. He forced himself to keep the playful smile on his face.

“She might,” Kravitz said, only half kidding. He didn’t think he could be fired per se, but he certainly would be in trouble if this kept happening. His Queen was patient, and she understood the position he was in, but it couldn’t last forever. “Things have gotten… difficult since the news we’re dating started spreading. Some of my bounties have started using the knowledge to their advantage.”

“Like...no more flirting with death?” Taako made another joke, but Kravitz could see it in his eyes. He knew what this was about and he was already making an escape plan, a way to fix it all without ever having to talk about how he felt. The joking was just stalling for time while he planned. He loved his boyfriend, his silly complicated boyfriend who never just took the straightforward way out.

Kravitz shrugged. “It’s just been hard. Not so much hard as it is frustrating.” He confessed. “I’ve been doing this job for so long and suddenly I feel almost incapable. I’m not used to-” He stopped himself, thinking over his words.

“Not used to people having stuff against death huh?” Taako helpfully added.

“Yes, exactly! I was this mysterious being of Death, everyone was scared of me. It was better that way, my job is supposed to be straight forward. I’m not supposed to get nervous whenever someone knows your name and threatens you.” Kravitz sighed. “Back before I had attachments...just had the job, that wasn’t an option for them.”

Taako took a step away, trying to feign a look of boredom to cover his hurt. “So I’m a problem then?”

Kravitz groaned. “You know that isn’t what I meant, Taako.”

Taako shrugged. “Alright my man. Well...I have to go get some stuff for dinner, okay? Can we finish this later?” Taako couldn’t stay in that room much longer without showing his cards. He had to go think about what to do about this.

“W-we don’t have to talk about it any further,” Kravitz said, “I’m just...venting about a bad day. You don’t have to try and fix it.”

I want to fix it, I want to help the same way you always help me. Taako thought as he backed towards the door. “Cool, cool, because I hate talking about your work no offense.” He didn’t know it yet, but that was just the first blow he would deal tonight. He tried to ignore the hurt look on Kravitz’s face. “I’m gonna get stuff for dinner.” He said quickly, making his escape.

Taako made his way to the store automatically, not really thinking about it. He wasn’t after any ingredients, he was after a solution. He didn’t want Kravitz to suffer because of his “big Taako personality” that always sucked everything up like a black hole. Kravitz deserved a better life than that, his own life. How could he give that to him?

As he passed the liquor aisle an idea sprouted in his mind. He shook it off at first, it was too painful to even consider...but...he loved Kravitz right? Loved him enough to….let him go? Taako always did fine on his own...right? Would it be better if he just wasn’t selfish about things and toughed it out on his own again? Besides, he had his sister back, and his family. If this meant Kravitz could be happy, that was worth it… right?

Taako made up his mind, he started filling his basket with wine that he wasn’t going to really drink until much later, after he’d already ripped off the band-aid.

It didn’t take much to disguise himself as a selfish drunken asshole. A little dab of wine behind his ears and on his tongue to make him reek of booze, a bottle half emptied into the gutter, and the sharpest words from his repertoire.

He stood in front of the door to his….to their house gathering up the will to do what needed to be done.

He made a show of stumbling through the front door, freezing as he saw Kravitz.

He was used to this by now, having come home a thousand times to see his boyfriend just humming to himself as he cleaned or read or did nearly anything else, but somehow this time it felt different. This time he could feel his heart ache when he heard Kravitz stop humming, when he came over to Taako with a concerned look on his beautiful face.

“Taako?”

Taako took a deep breath, and he started. “Wha’ are you still doin’ here? I thought you were married to your work.” He took a swig from the open bottle in his hand, pretended to stumble in an attempt to lean against the doorframe.

Kravitz tried to reach out and take Taako’s arm to steady him, but he jerked away. “How much have you had?” He asked.

“Not enough.” Taako took another drink, knowing he’d need it. “Hey, no big deal if I...uh...if I overdue it right? Since you’re sooooo much better off without attachments.” he made air quotes with his fingers. “Ha, just like meeeee. No wonder we hit it off, bone-man. We both don’t need...any...anybody.”

Kravitz sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache come on. “You’re twisting my words, and I really don’t think we should have this conversation while you’re drunk.” He paused. “Or maybe we should since you won’t talk to me otherwise.”

Shit Taako thought. Kravitz was about to be the good guy, cart him off to bed and be there in the morning with a cup of coffee to talk it out open and honestly when he was sober. He couldn’t let that happen, he had to push him past the point of forgiveness.

Taako drew his arm back, and being careful not to hit Kravitz or anything near him, he threw his bottle at the wall and watched it shatter, spraying red all over the room.  “Fuck you! Not my fault I can’ talk to you unless m’drunk!”

Kravitz had flinched away, now he whipped his head back around to look at Taako with wide surprised eyes. Taako could see fire dancing in his eyes, the way it did when Kravitz was staring down a bounty, not his boyfriend. “What is the matter with you?”

“Fuck off, I’m perf...Taako brand, baby,” Taako stumbled forward, pushing Kravitz roughly aside. He moved to the kitchen, pretending he didn’t care enough to stick around and watch Kravitz react. He just pretended to search for more booze. It also gave him an excuse to not look Kravitz in the eye and see the hurt there.

Kravitz grabbed Taako’s arm, pulling him away from the fridge. “If you want to talk, then talk. Clearly something is bothering you enough that you...You...went and got yourself pissed." He sounded frustrated, slipping into his cockney accent without thinking.

Taako struggled against Kravitz’s grip. “Lemme go you ass.”

Kravitz let go, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. He didn’t want this to escalate any further. He could feel his frustration from the past few weeks at work threatening to spill.

Before he could think his actions through, Taako shoved Kravitz hard. “Fuck you! You think you can put your hands on me? I get you were super lonely before yours truly but don’t forget who I am, I have a million suitors, I could drop you easy.”

Kravitz practically snarled. “Oh yes, how could I possibly forget who you are when no one will let me forget! I may as well be dust next to the great self-important Taako!”

Taako bit his lip, he’d done it. He’d broken down his sweet loving boyfriend....pushed him past the point of forgiving him. He could do this, he could break Kravitz’s heart in such a way that it would mend but never again trust Taako.

“I might have been lonely before I met you, but at least I actually had compassion even without a working heart. What’s your excuse for being so horrible?” Kravitz continued.

Any heart Taako had shattered into a million pieces. Maybe he was pushing this too far? He started to panic, his breath picking up as he remembered all the horrible things he’d said and done tonight. “A celebrity who saved the goddamn universe doesn’t need a heart, just more fucking alcohol.”

Kravitz drew away, a disgusted look on his face. “How could I have been so blind to have fallen for someone like you. I should have known when I met you that you were just what you appeared to be. A selfish, cruel, ignorant little mortal who couldn’t give a damn if his life depended on it. Or maybe only if HIS life depended on it and nobody else's….”

Kravitz looked Taako dead in the eyes “...I should never have gone to that pottery shop with you.”

Taako broke then, he had to turn towards the counter to keep Kravitz from seeing the tears in his eyes.

“Fuck, Taako, was this some game to you? Did you just want to charm me for immortality? I… I loved you.”

Taako pressed a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to remain still. Did that mean Kravitz stopped loving him? So easily?

“...Leave,” he whispered, barely audible.

“What?”

“I said leave!” at least Taako had an excuse for crying now, he could turn around and face Kravitz without giving it all away. He whirled around, tears flying from his eyes. “Get the fuck out of here! I never want to see your stupid face again. Especially not in my house.”

Kravitz wordlessly summoned his scythe without ever looking away from Taako. He cut open a portal and just like that he was gone.

Taako stood there for several heavy seconds after Kravitz left, his whole body shaking. He fell to the ground soon after, and had just enough presence of mind to struggle back up to his feet and get a glass of water. He threw it back, coming up gasping for air with a throat made raw by stifled tears.

Breaking up with Kravitz wasn’t what made this hard. What made it hard was hearing Kravitz’s angry, honest thoughts. Did he really believe Taako was using him? After all this time?

Had he done the right thing?

“I love you Taako and...I think at this point everyone in reality is going to love you and...nothing’s gonna change that.”

Fuck this, Taako was ready to get drunk for real. He wasn’t stopping until he didn’t even remember his own name let alone Kravitz’s. He was going to get void-fish drunk and then he was going to sleep until it stopped hurting.

Lup suspected something was wrong when Kravitz didn’t show up for work, but her suspicions only grew when Taako didn’t answer her call.

Taako always answered, sometimes even when Lup rather he didn’t. She spoke into the stone again, hoping to get him. “Taako come on, whatever sex you’re having can’t be THAT good.”

She frowned at the stone in her grip, looking over at Barry. “I’m gonna go check on him. I don’t care if I get scarred for life.”

Stepping into Taako’s house was like stepping into a nightmare.

First of all, she nearly broke her neck when she stepped out of the portal and onto an empty bottle. Then there was the glass shards everywhere, and the dirty dishes no one had bothered to do with food no one had bothered to finish still on them.

Panic seized her. “Taako?!” She called loudly, floating over the disastrous floor towards her brother’s room.

There was no answer, but she realized as she entered the bedroom that that was because Taako didn’t feel like answering.

He was awake, sitting in front of his bed with his back against the frame. He had the blanket wrapped around him like an enormous cloak, and he was staring deep into a bottle of vodka as if it was a magic mirror. He looked gaunt, and the bags under his eyes were terrible. His hair looked unwashed and was tangled to hell. He didn’t look up as his sister entered.

“Taako, talk to me,” Lup said, kneeling down and grabbing her brother’s shoulder.

He tried to speak and ended up coughing instead, his throat sore. He tried again. “Why does doing the right thing hurt so fucking bad?” He whispered.

“What did you do?” Lup asked, but Taako only looked down at the ground in shame. “Taako. What. Did. You. Do?”

Her brother started crying, soft and slow like he’d already used up most of his tears. Lup felt her heart ache, and she stood up.

“Alright. Shower. Now.”

“Lup…”

“Taako I swear to god I’ll strip and carry you if I have to, get your ass in the shower and you don’t get to take that.” she snatched the bottle from his hands and before he could grab it back she walked to the window and poured it out.

“Hey!” Taako yelled, wobbling to his feet. It wasn’t hard for Lup to grab him and toss him over her shoulder.

“Alright, since you wanna be difficult…” she carried Taako to the shower and dropped him inside, flicking on the water and drenching Taako and his clothes.

Taako groaned. “I can do this myself, just toss in some new clothes.”

“Use soap, don’t just stand there and pout!” Lup ordered as she left the room.

First she searched the closet and found a simple pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt she suspected was Kravitz’s to toss into the bathroom. Then she set about cleaning the mess her brother had made of his expensive house.

The uneaten food broke her heart. Not only was Taako not eating, but he wasn’t even really cooking. It was all instant food, convenience store crap. The broken glass was bad too, it looked like Taako had tossed a whole bottle at something or someone. That was the only bottle he’d wasted by the look of all the other empties around the place.

As the water turned off she heard a screech that sent her running back into the room.

“Literally any other shirt!” Taako yelled as he threw the shirt at Lup and slammed the bathroom door shut again.

Her stomach twisted. Now she had a better idea what had caused her brother’s breakdown, even if she didn’t know the specifics. There was only one reason why Taako wouldn’t want Kravitz’s shirt.

She found another shirt, one she remembered clearly was Magnus’s. She left it on the doorknob and went to the kitchen to make something that might soak up all the alcohol in her brother’s stomach. As she cooked she sent a quick message to Barry, telling him she wouldn’t be working today and to try and find Kravitz if he could.

Taako took awhile to come out and Lup was pretty sure it was because of his outburst from earlier.

He lurched like a zombie into the kitchen, giving her food a baleful look before getting himself a glass of water and retreating back to the bedroom.

Or at least he tried to before Lup hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt and stopped him in his tracks.

“Sit.” she ordered, pointing to the nearby table.

Taako obeyed his sister’s order but just buried his head into his arms once he’d sat down. Lup filled a plate for him, she’d made some simple breakfast foods guessing this would be Taako’s first meal of the day at….well, well past noon.

She placed it in front of him and then sat in the opposite chair, steepling her fingers in front of her and waiting patiently for Taako to sit up.

“C’mon Ko, we both know you can’t resist my cinnamon walnut pancakes,” she said, letting her tone become playful. “Remember cycle 43? You died trying to get walnuts from the local and very mean natives just so I could make them.”

He sat up and stared at the pancakes, then back at his sister. “I’m not hungry.” He said simply. “I don’t want to talk Lup, I don’t want to eat. Just let me drink and rot away in peace.”

Lup slammed her palms against the table, jostling the silverware and startling Taako.

“Taako, I know you’re feeling real shitty right now but just look at me for a second?” she said, her voice like a fire raising up. “Do you see my face? Same as your face, right? Because we’re twins. We’re siblings. We shared the same womb, we shared the same life, and we share everything else we have because that’s what siblings do. What siblings do not do is let their brothers drink themselves to death because of some breakup.”

At the mention of the break up Taako looked away, using one hand to cover his face. “You can’t, you can’t just say that like he’s any other guy! You can’t, he’s not dust like everyone else was okay?! Don’t treat him like that.”

“Why did you break up, Taako?”

“He wasn’t happy.” He choked out, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Did he say that to you?”

“He didn’t have to…”

“Oh, Koko… “ Lup sighed. “He was never happier than when he was talking about you. What could’ve made you think differently?”

“My track record for the first part,” Taako laughed coldly. “He told me...people were using me to get off scot free from death. He told me no one feared him anymore and that he wasn’t able to do his job, and that he was too busy worrying about me to...feel anything else.”

There was a pregnant pause before Taako spoke up again. “I made myself the center of his universe...just like I always do...and I ruined it for him.”

Lup reached across the table and took Taako’s hand in hers. “Why didn’t you say that to him then?”

“Because he’d just find a way to tell me I was wrong?” Taako laughed a bit, tears in his eyes. “Because...he’s such a good guy he...he always makes me feel better...but I needed him to feel better this time. I needed him to move on and not miss me so he could be happy...that’s why I…” he trailed off, pursing his lips.

Lup frowned. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think he’s very happy… He hasn’t been to work in days.”

“What?” Taako’s ears lifted in surprise, the highest Lup had seen them since she’d arrived here.

“No one knows where he is,” Lup said. “I kind of assumed he was here… But he clearly isn’t, and hasn’t been.”

“Well, we have to find him,” Taako said, standing up quickly.

“Should be a bit easier now that I know how you were living,” Lup said. “He’s probably hiding out somewhere being miserable.”

Taako swore softly. “I fucked up… Lup I fucked up so badly.”

She patted his shoulder. “We all do it, you guys just need to talk it out like fucking adults.”

“What, like you and Barry do that?” Taako raised an eyebrow at her.

“Honey, Barry gets an update if I wake up feeling mildly discontented,” Lup said. “Which, to be honest, might be unhealthy in the other direction, but at least we’re honest with each other. You can’t hide how you feel and then expect the other person to understand. You’re setting yourself up for failure coding everything.”

“Can we please find Kravitz and then you can lecture me on how your relationship is so much better than mine?”

Lup rolled her eyes. “Alright, but be prepared to take notes, sucka,” she teased. “Why don’t you stay here and call him?” She suggested. “Barry and I will keep looking for him.”

Taako swallowed thickly. “Yeah, sure, no problem, I can absolutely call him.”

Lup smiled at her brother and summoned her scythe, opening up a portal.

“Oh, and Taako? Eat your goddamn pancakes or I’ll force them into your mouth.” she grinned sweetly, baring canines, and then vanished.

Taako did indeed eat his pancakes, washing them down with some pinot grigio. He couldn’t just call Kravitz up out of the blue. Not after everything he’d said. He’d just top off his buzz a little to take the edge off, give himself some liquid courage so he could do this. So he could fix things. If sober Taako fucked things up then drunk Taako would glue them back together.

He sat on the couch, watching as the sun set through the window and cast an orange light over the living room. His palms were sweaty, and he kept running a thumb over his stone of farspeech saying to himself: “okay call him...now….now...call him...NOW”.

As he tried to tune into Kravitz’s frequency he heard a crash, like glass shattering. He stood, turning towards the source of the sound.

“What, you assholes couldn’t even be bothered to check the door? It was unlocked! You had to just break my window?”

Before he could get anymore drunken snark across, one of the intruders: a man in a dark cloak, pinned him to the wall by his throat.

“Tell the reaper we have his boy toy,” he said to another intruder.

Taako struggled against the man’s grip, trying to reach for the spare wand he kept tucked in his pocket but it was no use. He felt lightheaded already, losing his grip on his stone of farspeech so it clattered to the floor.

The other intruder busied himself with some sort of ritual preparation. He was spreading out raven’s feathers and onyx. Taako knew enough about this school of magic to know they were going to try and speak to Kravitz through a spell, most likely to tell him that if he didn’t leave them alone they’d kill Taako.

Well, at least I fixed this problem, right? Taako thought wryly.

His ears flickered. He could hear the faint static from his stone, meaning it was tuned to someone else’s frequency. He had to say something, had to warn him.

He tried to speak, but the man pushed his forearm deeper into Taako’s throat. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes as his lungs struggled to inflate.

“Are you almost done? Will it work if he’s passed out?” The intruder asked.

The other one grunted. “This stuff takes time, don’t make him pass out or we’ll have to wait longer and we’re running on a time limit as is.”

The man eased up, and Taako’s feet touched the ground again. He coughed, and tried to think with a muddled oxygen deprived and wine soaked brain.

“He won’t come,” he said. “He won’t come, I broke his heart he doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Yeah, okay,” the man holding him scoffed.

“No, really,” Taako said. “I kicked him out of the house, that’s why he’s not here.” he subtly dropped his location into the sentence. “I told him I could have anyone else if I wanted. Got him real mad. He won’t come back.”

The guy’s face screwed up. “Wow that was kinda assholeish dude. Why would you say that?” Taako looked at the stone of farspeech, then he closed his eyes. Maybe it would be better if Kravitz didn’t come, if he could be free. “...because I love him.”

“Jerry, get your shit together, this isn’t some gossip time sleepover party we need him for this ritual.” The guy setting up the summoning circle said. “Aw come on! He’s clearly hurting, I’m just talking to the guy.” The man - Jerry- whined in protest.

“He’ll be hurting a lot more if his ex doesn’t come for him.”

Jerry brought Taako over to the summoning circle, pushing him down to his knees. “What do we do with him if death doesn’t show?”

The other intruder looked up, a knife in hand, and gave a sinister smile. “What, you never heard of lucky elf’s ears?”

“That’s pretty fucked up… This is why I married ya~” Jerry replied, blowing a kiss.

Taako rolled his eyes. He was gonna die, and to add insult to injury he was gonna die at the hands of true love. Great.

They waited there for Kravitz to show, and with each passing minute Taako’s heart sank. Eventually, Jerry’s husband sighed and stood, lifting his knife. “Well, guess that’s it. Search the house, take anything expensive or magical. I’ll strip the elf of his ears and whatever other parts we might ne-”

Suddenly there was a sound like a snap, amplified so loud that Taako’s ears rang. A portal opened up on the floor inches away from where Taako was kneeling.

A dark cloaked figure soared out of the portal, black wings pounding against the air and sending feathers flying. Taako’s eyes widened: he was still so fucking beautiful.

Kravitz stayed in the air just inches off the floor, his face furious, eyes glowing. He raised his weapon, swiping it downwards in a deadly arc that swiftly dispatched Jerry. Jerry’s husband tried to get a spell off, but it glanced off Kravitz’s wings harmlessly. Kravitz raised his scythe again and with a sickening sound he separated the man’s head from his shoulders.

Kravitz grabbed the souls now freed from their bodies, his hand turning skeletal where it touched the immortal essence. “No one touches him.” He growled before sending the souls off to the eternal stockade. He could feel the tension still in his shoulders as he willed his scythe away, landing on the floor softly.

He didn’t vanish his wings, not yet. He wasn’t sure if he was staying, but he needed to see Taako.

The elf was still on the floor, staring up at Kravitz with watery eyes.

“Are you okay?” Kravitz asked gently.

Taako looked at him in disbelief, then his face slowly contorted into the biggest frown Kravitz had ever seen as Taako burst into tears at the idea of the man whose heart he broke asking if he was okay.

Kravitz’s heart twisted as he rid himself of his wings to kneel in front of Taako. He reached out hesitantly towards him, a reflex, but paused. “Taako… I- I need to know what’s going on. Please, talk to me.” He offered his hand to Taako, allowing him to make the first move if he wanted to.

Taako didn’t need any more prompting. He grabbed Kravitz’s hand and pulled himself into Kravitz’s chest, wrapping his arms around the reaper. “I’m so sorry, I fucked up and i'm sorry.”

Taako just kept going from there, words falling from his mouth like a waterfall as he explained the whole thing. “I just w-wanted you to b-be happy, and I thought...I thought t-that I was making you m-miserable, but all I-I did was scare you a-and make it worse, and make you n-not love me anymore,” he sobbed.

Kravitz held Taako tightly in his arms, rocking him back and forth as he cried. “Shhh, please calm down, it’s alright.” It was a lie, what Taako had said days ago had hurt, but hearing his Taako sob hurt much worse now that he knew the truth. “Breathe darling, please.”

Taako took a few desperate breaths, and scrubbed at his eyes. He tried to make himself look presentable for Kravitz. “I did something so shitty...I’m so sorry...I should have just talked to you instead of...fucking acting out a way to push you away. I’m everything you said I was...I’m selfish, cruel, and ignorant.”

“I wasn’t any better.” Kravitz sighed. “I wish you had just talked to me, but I should have been more clear. I’m sorry I ever made you think that I was miserable because of you. I was angry, I wasn’t thinking. This is just different, being with someone is different, but it’s ultimately a good thing.”

“You’re saying...I’m worth it?”

“You’re worth everything to me, Taako.”

Taako looked at Kravitz, gently running the tips of his fingers along the reaper’s jaw. “Where were you this whole time?”

Kravitz sighed. “I just...went to an old bolt-hole of mine. I was angry at first, I just hit the wall until I was tired...then I was sad. I couldn’t think or stand...I just sat there thinking about our fight over and over again. Then...I heard your voice.”

“Why would you come to help me? After everything I said?”

“Taako I don’t- I don’t care if we break up, or if you’re horrible to me. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You might be a weakness but you’re one of my greatest strengths. My love for you keeps me going.”

Taako traced Kravitz’s lips with the tip of his finger, relishing the feeling of his boyfriend’s arms around him. “I...I don’t ever want to do that again. I love you...and I’d give you my everything.” He bit his lip. “Can we ever get back to how things were?”

Kravitz ran a hand through Taako’s hair in a soothing motion. “We can’t just undo what we said, so not quite.” He smiled ever so slightly. “But we can keep talking, keep being honest with each other. We can grow and heal and learn, together. If… If that’s what you want.”

“Kravitz, there’s nothing I want more, than being happy with you.” Taako crawled further into Kravitz’s lap and nuzzled up against him. Kravitz smiled, feeling himself warm at Taako’s touch, feeling his heart start beating again.

The house was still trashed from the home invasion, and Taako and Kravitz were still raw and vulnerable from the fight, but it was nothing they couldn’t fix.

[zucca101]

Response: The 2nd

I again ask of my viewers and followers NOT to attempt to seek this person out or cause them any inconvenience. This is my thing to tackle and had they not blocked me, I would be able to respond within the confines, but I felt it was neccesary to allow this debate to be in the public forum.

It's funny how you still try to worm your way out of having to accept that maybe, just maybe, you fucked up. Democrats aren't even fucking leftists, and never were; historically they were the more conservative party all around, over the course of the 1930s to the 1960s the parties' relative positions switched around, today they're liberals. Every other country in the world considers liberalism a right-wing ideology, at best a centrist one for a reason (hint: it has something to do with being vehemently pro-capitalist)

Incorrect. That is a pernicious and commonly held myth that does not hold up to scrutiny.

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Also, Sargon, left of center? Reads-the-headlines-and-nothing-else-of-the-articles-he-cites Sargon? Constantly complains about The Left™ like you do and constantly apes the same rhetoric coming from the far right Sargon? That Sargon? Yeah, no.

He is on the Left. He’s become disenfranchised with the Social Justice angle it’s adopted and the Islamophilia as well. And God only knows, there’s enough I disagree with him on to fill a book, but someone who actively challenged him and pored over his vids, found one thing Sargon got incorrect, and it was something he had already retracted.

I don’t agree with him on everything. But I trust him due to his intellectual integrity. Same with Teal Deer, same with the others I watch.

"And I CHALLENGE YOU to show me where I said that women should not have access to healthcare. Or even hinted at it." That's not even what I said, and you damn well know it. My implication was that you're in favor of restricting healthcare access to the poor, which guess what, if you're going to be in favor of repealing shit that makes healthcare more accessible to them, basic logic would dictate that's going to happen. You manage to go off on an entire tirade about abortion when what I was addressing was the supposed line of thought behind it.

Fair to say, but that’s not what I’m in favor of either. The Affordable Healthcare Act was like a shiny used car sold by a constantly smiling, charming salesman. It ran fine for the first stretch, but broke down after you got around the bend. Libertarian that I am, I believe such an act was foolish because it was nothing more than a scam by the insurance companies lining up to get all the business they could ever ask for because signing up for healthcare became COMPULSORY. Which is bullshit.

Also? I hate to be the one to give you the newsflash, but jobs aren't going to save society. We already work far more than we need to to keep things going, or even to afford a high living standard - most jobs that currently exist do because either it's marginally cheaper to severely underpay people for them rather than to automatize them, or otherwise only exist as an artifact of capitalism itself - many different corporations that require management, marketing that simply wouldn't exist under literally any other economic system.

I’d love to see citation for that which doesn’t reek of Socialist claptrap. Automation is progressing, to be sure, but progress is progress, right? That doesn’t mean there isn’t work to be had if you either look for it or try to find it outside of your comfort zones. I had to work at a Wal-Mart of all places, but I swallowed my pride and I did it. Didn’t enjoy it, but I did my job.

Between this and the ongoing trend towards atuomatization? Those jobs are going to disappear, and there aren't going to be new ones in sufficient numbers to avoid giant swathes of people in permanent unemployment. That's not me doomspeaking, that's a logical consequence of what's going on today.

It tickles me something fierce that you don’t actually address the automation. You think SOCIALISM would fix that? By making things so shitty that automation isn’t an option, perhaps. No, Socialism would cram everyone into a job and regardless of whether they want it or not, they MUST do that job.

By the way, speaking from years of first hand and second hand experience here: unemployed people don't actually sit on their asses all day, contrary to what you've been led to believe by people who have a vested interest in keeping everyone working for scraps.

Speaking from second hand experience myself, I’ve had friends and friends of friends who NEVER got real jobs and instead collected food stamps they bartered for room and board. I’ve known people who have chosen to panhandle and beg on the street rather than go to a job. (And to be fair, that’s non-taxable income…) So I’m afraid anecdotal evidence from either of us is not enough to conclusively prove this one.

Therefor…

http://www.epi.org/publication/missing-workers/

http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/03/07/employment-vs-unemployment-different-stories-from-the-jobs-numbers/

Jobs aren't the only way to contribute to society, most artists do work that can't support itself under capitalism (and that logically the artist themselves wouldn't be able to keep themselves fed on without at the very least some sort of social safety net), and if we only kept going with that art that proves to be profitable enough to support someone, thereby only appealing to the lowest common denominator?

And…. And you think COMMUNISM or SOCIALISM will let you art the way you want to? At least in Capitalism, an artist can make money for their work! Hell, the internet and Patreon has made it easier than ever for someone to make a living with their art or at least supplement their living. I know HUNDREDS of artists who balance art for its own sake, art for income and a normal job. And they’re not unique in that sense. Art enriches a culture, absolutely, but when it’s dependent on the government… then why would one go BACK to a normal job if they can make a period blood painting, throw it on the wall and demand money from the government? Art should be independent of governmental meddling.

And if you ask Joe Average if he would rather be COMPELLED by the government to pay forty bucks every month to contribute to art or fill his car’s gas tank, buy a few bags of groceries for his family or get used shoes at the Thrift Store, what do you think he’d do?

Art flourishes when free of meddling.

You’re an artist, yes? Suppose you got a check from the government for creating art… but suppose your art did not hold up to some arbitrary definition? It’s taxpayer money after all. So you would have to create art… but only as the government sees fit. Which is no different than making art by commission… except for the fact that under capitalism, you can create art as work, you can create art after working hours, you can create art just to make someone smile. You aren’t beholden.

I can tell you right away this world would be an immensely darker place for it, and all that precious inflation art would vanish overnight.

Heh, the one I had in mind at the top of my list when mentioning those hundreds of artists is a very prominent one. He works a daily job, he makes money with his art, and he makes art for its own sake.

Take a look at this picture…

https://zucca-xerfantes.deviantart.com/art/Berlin-Wall-piece-from-Reagan-Library-612126840

Riddle me this…

The side you see if colorful and full of art and vibrant colors and the other side is matte gray, untouched.

Take a WILD guess which side was the Commies’…

In addition to that, it's beyond unethical to force people who can't work to beg for scraps from charities that both A) impose their will on them (like the Salvation Army), and B) even if all perfectly good natured, wouldn't collectively have the resources to support everyone anyway, especially not when it's entirely within the state's means to give those people a decent standard of living.

Uh, I think I already said that I’m not against government assistance for those who are literally unable to work.

As for your examples, the Salvation Army’s policy is NOT to deny service to trans or homosexual people. A same sex couple can be permitted, but as separate individuals. I don’t hold to that part, but hey, their house, their rules, and they’re not turning them away outright. Now while it’s true that SOME SA people refuse service, that is not the organization’s policy. And considering they saved the life of an IRL trans friend of mine, I am STRONGLY disinclined to believe smear stories.

As for the second, See first paragraph in this section.

"Constantly pretend to…. universally bad…? WHAT….?" You know damn well what I was talking about. The constant "oh, Muslims throw gay people off of buildings all the time! You should be thankful!" takes? The kind of bullshit that you spout to propagate hate against them in the name of "protecting us" when you subsequently turn around and support people like Mike Pence who wishes we'd all vanish, one way or another? I see you, and your cutesy "but I have black friends" argument doesn't fucking work here.

If you can prove me wrong about how Islam as a whole feels about homosexual people and transsexual people, then I will apologize right now. Imams view the murder of homosexuals as A MERCY for fuck’s sake. That is some kind of bona fide evil. Yet for some reason, your fluffy Social Justice Totem Pole places a Death Cult’s feelings above YOUR RIGHT TO *LIVE* SO JUST EXCUSE THE SHIT OUT OF ME FOR CALLING IT OUT.

And supporting Mike Pence….??? I couldn’t give less of a crap about him if I tried. The dude is an advocate of conversion therapy, which does not work. Case closed. Frankly I think Trump picked him for the same reason Obama picked Biden. Assassination prevention! ‘You might kill me, but SERIOUSLY, look at THIS guy… you want HIM instead?’

Jokes aside, I don’t agree with Pence. If, God forbid, he became president, I’d support the office but if he started making life harder for the gay people for no reason, then I’d be fundamentally opposed.

Again, you know this, but damned if you’ll permit that to get in the way of a good strawman whoopin’, eh?

And I find it ASTONISHING that you lie to yourself that Pence is the one to be feared when there is nothing he can legally do to hurt you, but the Death Cult wants you to actually die and are SANCTIONED in such acts.

Pulse Nightclub ring a bell? Fifty innocent people murdered by a guy whose religion told him that his only salvation for his sins was to become a martyr.

By the way, you also don't get to decide who's actually trans and who isn't. Trans people detransition or don't bother transitioning for any number of reasons. Doesn't mean the person underneath isn't transgender, most of the time it's just because society is so fucking harsh against us that they decide living in the wrong body and being seen the wrong way by others is less painful than the outright hostility we can expect on a daily basis.

I’m speaking real here… I cannot possibly understand what it’s like to be Trans. I cannot appreciate the struggles that a trans person is forced to go through. A friend of mine lost her wife and her children because she transitioned. And she’s one of the most gentle and decent souls I’ve ever known.

But she is a real Transsexual. Not some idiot child enamored by the idea of being Transsexual. Not some teen who wants to piss off their parents, or some snowflake who wants to be that much more special. What they do is an INSULT to the Trans people who struggle with it. Who, as you have pointed out, have a ton of shit they have to put up with without their struggles being trivialized..

I’m not of the notion that Trans people have it easy because PC culture has elevated them above others (Except for the fanatical Death Cult that wants to kill them) or anything like that.

I disagree with that notion which is held by a large number of YouTube personalities I watch regularly.

However… in the same way I have nothing but contempt for idiotic children and childish adults who pretend to have Multiple Personality Disorder because they think it’s some kind of fun game where The Doctor and Loki play around in their head, I can’t stand the same kind of idiot children who think they can switch their gender like a toggle and to be SUPER SPECIAL AWESOME have a fantasy word to describe their nonexistent gender.

But oh no, I’M the scientific illiterate. >_>

As for "you don't have the right not to fuck a trans person" (lol), literally nobody is actually saying that - those takes are about dismissing the idea of having sex with someone who's trans out of hand, not saying no if the opportunity were to actually come up.

…

Honest question, you haven’t heard of Riley Dennis, have you? Very prominent Trans YouTuber who has numerous videos now shaming straight people for not wanting to get into a sexual relationship with a trans person.

Riley is of the mind that straight people don’t have a right to refuse, lest they be bigots. >_>

And if you think that’s an absurd thing to say, then bless you. We’re in agreement.

And if it were just Riley, that’d be one thing, but here on Tumblr and on Twitter, there are posts saying much the same, but not in the weasely, round-about way Riley did.

Do I think that’s the majority opinion? No.

But it is not a case of ‘Literally no on believes that’.

And if Christians have to be lumped in with wretches like the KKK and Westboro, well then... what’s good for the goose ought to suffice for the gander, hm?

As for where you're anti-science? Ho boy, where do I begin. Those hot anti-climate change takes of yours are a good start, dismissing everything that happens in that regard as "just the weather" when sea level rise, melting ice in the polar areas as a result of it, and year after year of hottest yearly average temperatures have not only been happening for at least the past century, but have also been accelerating more recently. I'd know, I literally live in one of the places directly affected by this. Most of this country is below sea level, we keep having to build up our dams and dunes even higher to avoid flooding the damn place like what happened back in 1953. To dismiss all that as "the weather" is beyond foolish.

I never said Climate Change isn’t real.

Nor have those I’ve reblogged.

The notion of manmade Global Warming is what is contested.

See, there was a smart way to go about spreading the message and a stupid way to go about it.

The stupid way was to let hypocritical hacks like Al Gore dominate the stage.

The smart way would’ve been to appeal to everyone’s common need to save money and how many green tech save water, electricity and gas bills.

But nope…. Shaming was WAY more fun and satisfying. And now it’s become politicized.

I’m a wildlife conservationist of a sensible variety. Sharks, whales, rhinos and cheetahs are being driven over a cliff and it needs to stop.

And there are more than a few Conservatives on the same boat. Michael Savage, radio host, for instance.

But stereotyping and shaming is SO MUCH MORE SATISFYING TO THE BASE URGE OF APPEASING ONE’S INNER RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.

ISN’T IT?

"Capitalism gives everyone the same shot at living" is an even more ridiculous take if I ever saw one. Yes, I'm sure my disabled, mixed and poor ass has the exact same chances as Reginald who can simply ask daddy for money to start up any business he likes, or hell - just live off of that, put it all in stocks, hire some people to make sure his investments don't go to waste and be set for life! He doesn't even need to work! At all! No rich person does!

Step away from the Marxist teacher, amigo. They are NOT your friend…

You’re full of shit.

I’ll out and say it right here.

You are so full of shit on this one that your eyes are turning brown.

You’re just barfing up the same politics of envy nonsense that every single frakking Socialist hack barfs up.

“I can’t work because there’s some rich guy out there who has more stuff than I do!!!! HARUMPH!!!!!!!!” Do you hear yourself...?

Does the nature of your disability preclude you from doing ANY work? If so, then that is a case wherein you should be lent aid.

But if you have your hands… you can work. If you have your legs, you can work. If you have your eyes, you can work. If you have your wits, you can work. If you can’t find work, look harder. Or make your own. That’s what I did. I was destitute only seven years ago. And I’ve built myself up. And that was all done with clinical depression weighing me down like lead.

Self-determination? Ah yes, being forced to slave away at a minimum wage job because you simply can't get hired elsewhere for the rest of your life, or starving. That's self-determination in the same sense that having the choice between following orders and maybe be allowed to live, or don't and be killed when someone holds a gun to your head is. Venezuela, or any other socialist country in the world is/has been hardly perfect, but you know what's not helping?

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WORK AT A MINIMUM WAGE JOB FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

Sorry, sorry… you’re like the fiftieth person whose thrown that at me and it gets cringier every time I hear it… I apologize.

But seriously, if you think that min wage is for life, you’ve not made very good decisions.

You start at the bottom and work your way up. Just because you spend a few years flipping burgers doesn’t mean you’re stuck there!

Fuck… you can apprentice with a plumber and be making SIX FIGURES in FIVE YEARS!

I kid thee not!

Fascist protestors literally burning supplies that are already hard to get by. Action taken by the US to undermine pretty much any socialist country that has ever existed. As for more internal problems? Guess what, those can be improved upon. It's an economic system, not a religion.

Can be? Doubt it, but maybe.

Will be? No.

And as for being an economic system and not a religion…

That’s a mighty tall claim, considering the fact that Socialism tends to butt out religion and replace it with itself. Take China for example. All their rich culture, their ancient heritage, their majestic architecture, their thousands of years of history and artifacts…. FUCKING RUINED BY A LITTLE SHIT WITH HIS LITTLE RED BOOK.

The very basic premise you utterly fail to process here is that this shit is subject to constant rethinking and revision, something made impossible when some strongman figure decides to take power, no matter what side of the political spectrum they're on - that said, the right loves those far, far more than anyone left of center will, as a matter of basic principles that define either side.

Which is one of the fundamental flaws in Socialism and Communism. You can’t build off of that when the foundation is garbage. And how many MOUNTAINS OF CORPSES do you wish to produce before we ‘Get Socialism right’?

Thanks, but Capitalism has existed LONG before Socialism.

Otem from the Mountain People went to Trajk of the Plains People because the Plains People make masterful spears. He traded a basket, which the Mountain People make better than anyone, including the Plains People, for a spear. Both people are wealthier as a result.

And that also leads us to why I consider right-wingers universally shitty people: plainly speaking, they simply are.

And you call ME the bigot…?

It's at best ignorant, at worst astonishingly hypocritical as can be to act like you care about the poor, only to deliberately make their lives harder using the political apparatus in place.

You know that is not the motivation of capitalists. And if that’s what you think, then you are simply incorrect.

You can't say you care about groups of people, then vote for those who are all too happy to take their rights away.

I DO care and I disagree with the ban. While I find it iffy to put people who deal with what Trans people do into severely high-stress situations, if they believe they can hack it, I believe they have a right to stand proudly beside the other defenders of the country.

Actions speak louder than words, and actions that affect an entire country weigh far more heavily than those taken on an individual basis - giving money to individual homeless people simply doesn't counterbalance supporting the people who make sure they can't sleep anywhere by putting spikes out in public places.

Spikes out? It’s the LABOR PARTY in the UK who want to fine homeless people a thousand pounds for sleeping in public.

See my above points for further rebuttal. I’m not repeating myself.

Don't bother acting like I'm saying all this out of ignorance either - I've been there myself. I've had a right-wing phase, I only need to look back at my own past actions to see the hypocrisy that lies underneath.

I’m not going to say that everyone one the Right are Saints. You know that’s not my position. I also don’t think everyone on the Left are foolish. Fuck, I don’t even think the majority of them are bad people at all! I think they’re people whose hearts are generally in the right place, but feel rather than think. But you are, inversely, able to forgive EVERY sin of the Left while, and I quote, labeling every right-winger as universally bad people.

That is some FRIGHTENING SHIT right there, amigo. That you can de-humanize EVERYONE on the opposite political spectrum because you’re so high on your own moral superiority that you’ve willfully blinded yourself.

And while ignorance itself is forgivable, you've repeatedly shown not to care in the slightest for anything that would lead you to reconsider your ideas, nor do you have any interest in actually putting your money where your mouth is on the grander scale with just about anything you mentioned in your post.

HAH… if you only knew…

So yeah. Come back to me when you've learned to genuinely care about other people beyond those in your direct personal sphere.

So you’re moving the goalposts, huh?

I contested that I’m not the evil strawman you have created and now you’re saying ‘Well, you may care about the people around you, BUT WHAT ABOUT EVERYBODY ELSE?!’

Friendo… I can’t care about everybody else. Everybody else are adults, or will be someday. Then everybody else can care about everybody else. They’re my neighbors and I genuinely wish them well. I’ll help a stranger’s reasonable request just for the asking. But I am not Atlas. I cannot take on all the problems of the world. I can voice my opinion on how they should be dealt with, to be sure. Because I have that freedom.

I care for my country and fellow citizens, and I will vote according to how I believe they can best be helped. But it is *not* my responsibility to solve all of their problems for them.

Even if I could, I would not. Because it’s our problems and our struggles that make us grow.

The butterfly cannot fly if it doesn’t struggle its way out of the cocoon. A well meaning person may peel the cocoon away, but that dooms the butterfly to a flightless life.

Buddha said that life is a struggle. And he wasn’t wrong there.

But while we can help our friends, our neighbors and even strangers, that does not mean that it’s relative across the board.

Poverty in the West is a child asking his father why he’s crying as he weeps over a stack of bills on the table. Poverty in the third world is emaciated children with rice-bloated bellies.

Both are heartbreaking, but both are unique to their places of origin and therefore are not comparable.

You can lie to yourself all day about who I am, what my motivations are and what my heart is like.

But if you found out who I am, what I’m like, how I behave, then you may be willing to face down your other prejudice against an entire group of people you have frighteningly labeled as universally evil.

[in-the-bookish-dark]

That First Story

The avocado colored formica with sparkles that was around the sink would’ve looked nice if it weren’t for the cigarette burns all down the edge.  Well, maybe nice if it was twenty years newer or wasn’t chipped all over or actually had places where the finish itself hadn’t gotten rubbed off by the maids.

Richie took his teaspoon of asthma medicine and brushed his teeth fast to get the taste out of his mouth. He rapped on the bathroom door and yelled to his mom in the shower, “I’m going to sit over by the car until you’re ready!”

He didn’t wait for an answer.  The answer would be either yes or no, but either way he was going out the door.  She wasn’t going to bother to stop her shower just to chase after him.  

He ran past the cigarette half-burned out on the credenza, and the one burned down to the filter on the little table next to the window. They stank the worst when they were down to the filter.

The parking lot reeked of diesel fumes from Santa Fe Drive, all of it drifting toward the bluff right behind the motel.  Santa Fe was the one route into Pueblo from the mesa, and usually the first road people hit on their way from the CF&I.  The road was thick with trucks, sometimes so much that it looked like a convoy, bumper to bumper, belching out black clouds.

It was still better than sitting inside.  Whatever chemicals were in the diesel clouds burned his lungs less than the decades of built-up cigarette smoke inside the motel room.

He dropped down on the curb next to Johnny’s Olds 88.  Johnny had gone next door to the EZ-Stop while his mom was showering.  Richie would wait on the back side of the car until then.

He counted the trucks and tried to calculate how many trucks a minute it was.  He imagined himself walking, steady as a metronome, like he always did. A hundred and twenty steps a minute.  He ticked it off in his head as he watched the road, and popped up a finger on his right hand for every semi.  For every handful on his right, he’d pop up a finger on his left.  If he made it all the way through the fingers on his left hand, he’d cock up his right foot and keep going.  Both feet would give him a count of fifty trucks, and he didn’t think it could be more than that, however busy the road was.  By the time his brain got to a hundred and twenty, his hands and feet had gotten to forty seven.  That would be just a little more than one semi every second and a half, which was a lot more than he guessed.

Johnny came past and was almost to the motel door when he stopped and looked over at Richie.  He eyed the corner of his car that Richie was nearest to. “Hey, kid – do yourself a favor and don’t get anything on the Delmont.  That’s a custom paint job and I don’t want some snotnose fucking it up.”

Johnny always talked like that when they were alone. When Richie's mom was around, though, Johnny was polite and friendly.  He sounded like an English teacher or something then.  His mom never saw the difference and never even heard Richie when he tried to explain.

Johnny popped the motel room door open and yelled in. “Doris!  Hey, baby – we gotta get a move on, sweetie!  Times a wastin’ and money ain’t gonna make itself, like I say.”

Richie didn’t hear what she said.  Johnny had already stepped inside and closed the door.  They didn’t say much, though.  There was a little back and forth, muffled by the wall and the drapes, then silence for a while, then moans.  They did it like five times a day, it seemed.  When the last sound died down, Richie started his clock.  A hundred and twenty beats a minute.  He’d only hit seventy when Johnny poked his head out the door.  “Hey, kid, you stayin’ here or goin’?”

Richie read his face.  All he really wanted to know is what Johnny had already decided. “I get to say?”

“Don’t be a wise-ass, kid. You’re stayin’ here.  Watch cartoons or some shit. We’ll be back in a while.”

Then Johnny turned, “Hey, Doris – Richie says he wants to stay, maybe watch some tv while we’re out.  Sounds okay to me.  I told him to call if something came up.”  He yelled it. Doris had the hair dryer already going.

Ten minutes later, they walked out the motel door and left it cracked.

“We’re going now, baby – be good while we’re gone.” Johnny was making “yadda-yadda” faces behind Doris, but Richie ignored him.

“I left the number for the place on the pad by the phone.  Call me if you need anything.”  Johnny shook his head.  

She walked toward the car door.  Johnny said, “Sorry, babe, I need some extra smokes.”  He was in and out of the door in a flash, then opened her door for her.  He slapped her ass as she stepped to get in.  He gave Richie a little smirk and a wink as he went around to his own door.

Richie was back in the room before they were out of the parking lot.  He checked the pad by the phone and wasn't surprised there wasn't a phone number written down. Maybe she didn't actually write it down or maybe that was Johnny's real reason for going back in.  

Richie turned on the bathroom fan and opened the window to get some fresher air.  Even so, with the two of them smoking, it was like there was already ash and gunk building up in his lungs.  When they walked into the room the first time, it was like people had been smoking in there for a hundred years.  Every inch was browned; every piece of paper felt sticky.  When he put his head on his pillow the first time, it wheezed out an invisible cloud of tar and nicotine.  

The best thing about Johnny’s visits was they made him go outside while they fucked.  Otherwise, she kept him inside, saying it wasn’t safe out there, even though staying inside there was ten times as bad for his asthma as sitting on the curb, and twice as bad as sitting around at home, wherever home happened to be.  

He laid back on the bed, legs dangling down.  He didn’t feel like turning the TV on. He kicked his heels against the box spring.  It was an old bed, and when he kicked it, the insides rattled a little, like a slinky when you stretch it and shake it hard.  

A gate clanked somewhere outside the window. It took him a moment, then he remembered the little chain link area opposite the office.  The vinyl slats blocked off everything but the tops of two vending machines.  He knew his mom and Johnny would be gone for hours.  She told him not to leave the room, but she’d never know.  Nobody would ever know.  Nobody would notice if he went out or stayed in or got swallowed by an earthquake.  The last thought sat him bolt upright.  He grabbed his spiral notebook and a pencil and was out the door in an instant.

On the other side of the fence, there were the vending machines and two metal tables the awnings had blown off ages ago.  There was a funny picture frame area in the concrete center of the space.  He’d seen it before in a friend’s back yard and knew what it meant  There used to be a swimming pool right there, but it was a tiny one.  More like an in-ground wading pool.

Even with a pool, he couldn’t imagine anyone coming there because they wanted to, but then he was there, so what did that say?  Not only that, there was someone else there – an older girl, maybe two or three years, maybe in the eighth grade.  She was reading, but she glanced up.  She looked down and then back up and waved him over with two shy fingers.

He didn’t even remember walking over.  She waved and he was there, sitting in the chair opposite hers.  He opened his book to write or draw, or do something with the pencil that hung over his paper, suspended by the hints of red in her hair and the chocolately brown of her eyes.  He was embarrassed just to be thinking those things.  He didn’t know where they came from and he prayed she couldn’t see it on his face.

“Who are you?”

She couldn’t see that, but she was looking at something on his face.

“I’m Richie” like it explained everything, but he didn’t know what else to say. You don’t just read a strange girl your whole life story.  He didn’t even have a life story, though, so just his name was probably the best thing anyway.

“Hi, Richie. I’m Natalie. What are you doing?”

“Ohcrap-ohcrap-ohcrap …” he didn’t say it out loud, but it was plenty loud in his head.  “I was just – I wondered what was back here, so I ... I mean, I didn't know anyone ~”

“Uh-huh.  What are you doing there? On the paper?” Her eyes pointed down at his blank notebook and her eyebrows went up.

“Oh, nothing, I was just …”

She closed up her magazine.  “Are you a writer?”

“I’m … kinda …”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

His mouth just hung open. How would she know?  Even if she could read upside down, both pages where blank.

“Talking. You’re not good at talking to people.  Are you a better writer than a talker?”

“I … I’m just shy sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.  What do you write about, Hemingway?”

He had no idea how to answer.  He wrote about stuff, about things happening. He wrote a story where a boy named Carlos went to the fair and rode all the rides and went to the rodeo.  There was a story where a boy ran away to the mountains and then came back after a few days.  

“I wrote a story about a kid going to the fair.  Like that? Is that what you're asking?”

“What happened to him there?”

“He just … he rode rides and went to the rodeo, and had all kinds of food, burgers and hotdogs and desserts and stuff."

She was looking at the gate while he said that, and her eyes swung slowly back to his, with a small smile.  It was a smile he got from grownups sometimes.  What was the word? Condescending.  But not in a mean way, just … like they felt sorry for him about something.  Like there was something big he was missing.  Like they were up on a mountain looking down.

She broke the gaze and opened up her magazine again, just flipping through the pages.

Richie just watched her.  His pencil was in the exact place it was when he sat down.  He wanted her to say something, to acknowledge his presence, but maybe she was done with him and his lack of stories.

“Do you live here … Natalie?”

She shook her head and kept reading.

“Are you visiting?”

She shrugged at that.

“Who else is with you?”

“My dad.”

He started doodling on his page, which got her attention for a moment, before she brought it back to her own page.

He made little boxes and filled them with tiny circles and then shaded some of them in.  He kept doing it.  It was easy.  He could do it for a whole page without paying much attention.  Even though he wasn’t looking at her, his attention was on Natalie, wanting her to say something.  He thought she was beautiful, but he couldn’t say exactly why.  Her hair or her face or her eyes, or something?  The way she sat?  The way she was being quiet?  He knew she could tell he was focused on her, but she didn’t seem like she minded.

He started drawing mountains at the top of his page. Two mountains with shading, then a little valley between with a stream coming down.  That was all he knew to draw, so he did it again, and then a third time.  The page was almost full of boxes with circles and mountains with streams.

“Veronica!”

That made him jump, but not her. She didn’t even twitch.

“Veronica Carmelita! Where are you!? We’re leaving, girl! Get in the car!”

“Yes, sir.”  Her words were gray, like the shading on his mountains.

She folded her magazine slowly and scooted her chair back.

“Your dad?”

She nodded.

“You’re going a long way?”

She nodded, then shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“You’re not really Natalie?”

“I am sometimes. When I have to be.”

"What do you m~" She shook her head and he stopped.

"You wouldn't understand."  The one thing he did understand all of a sudden was that she was right. It was something he wouldn't understand until he had to understand, and then it would make every piece of sense in the world.

She walked slowly.  She paused at his chair.

“Here’s something to write about.”

She bunched up her t-shirt and started lifting.  For the tiniest of moments, he thought she would show him her bra and her breasts. He didn’t know why she would do it, but what else does a young boy hope for?

She stopped, though, when her belly was displayed.

It was flat and smooth and ordinary. She had little clumps of freckles scattered around, and a few bruises.  No.  No-no.  She had a lot of bruises.  She turned a little and he could see more freckles. He also saw two long wide strips of red like a belt would make.

“Those ~”

“Shut up. Shh! Uh-uh.”

She brought her shirt back down and went straight out the gate and latched it.  In seconds, a car door slammed and gears whined.

Everything Richie could think of doing felt stupid. He wanted to run out and stop the car and jump on her dad, to yell and get other people’s attention.  He wanted lots of angry people running out and doing something to her dad.

He got up and peeked through the slats woven through the chain link.  There was a really old station wagon just pulling out and heading east out of town.

Richie watched until it was gone, then went back to his seat.

He made slashes through the doodles and flipped to the next page.  

There it was, clean and empty, and waiting for a real story.