#doing his best on the high seas with the shitty hand life dealt him

[robthegoodfellow]

Billy, to fandom in general and that stupid game in particular: I have one regret. I regret ever coming to this place with the assumption that a reconciliation could be found. That reason could be a bridge between us. Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.

I feel like at this point we should just reclaim irredeemable for Billy. Like you know how “the Terrible” used to have a totally different connotation as a cognomen than it does now? Like that.

Billy the Irredeemable. A sin-eater, maligned and punished endlessly, not only for the wrongs done by him, but also for those done to him. A sacrifice on the altar of the Heroes’ self-righteousness. A martyr who need not be mourned.

[loverdrew]

You Found Me 2 | J.M

Summary: John B and Sarah Cameron are lost in the Bajamas, the pogues are having a hard time living life as normal, the Outer Banks have never been so quiet. But someone new comes into town looking for some answers, and a new life that she never imagined.

Warnings: some angst, some bullying, sexual assault

Part 1 Here

Into the night, we ended up at the boneyard, the groups main hangout spot, with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. Every time I exhaled the smoke it instantly calmed my muscles and made my body feel like jello, my mind relaxing in the cold air of the beach. A bonfire was illuminating our bodies enough to keep us warm, but I still rubbed my arms and legs that would fill up with goosebumps. 

Kiara and Pope eventually went down by the water to splash in it for a while. I found out one of Kiara’s favorite feelings in the world is the 50 degree ocean water wiggling between her toes and hitting her ankles, while the sand kept her grounded. She would do it even in the winter. And of course Pope went with her, he would give anything for a moment alone with her. JJ and I stayed back, both on our second beers and a high filling our bodies. I kept bobbing my head to an imaginary song in my head, while his eyes scanned me up and down, wondering so much about the life I had before the Outer Banks. I had no intention of telling him any time soon.

“If you keep looking at me I might kiss you.” I joked, taking another sip of beer.

“That wouldn’t be so horrible.” He smirked. “C’mon Y/N, give me something, a last name, your first pet, parents and siblings names! Just something!” I swallowed hard at the last one, painful feelings clouding my mind.

“JJ, you’ll find out all of that eventually, so quit it-”

“No please, I just want to know more about you, I don’t know there’s just something so interesting about you.” He scooted closer to me.

“You don’t know anything about me.” I stared into the sea where Kie and Pope played, not a care in the world. JJ sighed and leaned back on a log, ruffling through his hair. I took a breathe, feeling defeated.

“My moms name is June, my dads name is Eric.” I spoke, a little above a whisper. JJ’s ears perked up, leaning a little more into me. “They’re back in New York where I’m from. The upper east side to be exact.”

“Whoa whoa whoa wait! You left the richest part of New York to come to a shithole like this? Why!” He exclaimed. I tried to shush him so Kie and Pope wouldn’t hear.

“Look, you wouldn’t understand. Just because you have money doesn’t mean life is perfect, I never fit in, I needed to get away. So, naturally, I left.” 

“So you’re just like Kie. You’re a fucking Kook!” He laughed, pushing me slightly jokingly. I laughed too, looking down at our forearms that were too incredibly close for comfort. A shakey breathe fell from my lips, not daring to move. His touch instantly made goosebumps appear on my arms and made my hearts thump against my chest. He looked back up at me, a slight smile on his lips. He kept his arm next to mine, moving against my own as a sign of comfort, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Just so you know, my family life isn’t perfect either. This cut on lip-” he points to his mouth with his other hand, “not from a fight with another guy, but a fight with my dad.” I turn more towards him to look into his eyes.

“I’m so sorry JJ, nobody should go through that ever. I wish there was more I could do to help your situation, but I know it’s never enough.”

“Hey, hey it’s okay. My friends help me get away from those feelings by distracting me, taking me out everyday to remind me at least they care for me and would never hurt me. So, that’s what you can do for me. That’s what you’re doing right now.” He’s looking down at me now, our eyes never leaving each others.

“What about those other girls? The ones you fuck around with for a day-”

“They help for a moment, but then it doesn’t matter. I actually feel kind of shitty after, makes me feel worse, but you didn’t hear that from me.” We both laughed together again, our arms fully engulfed in each other. 

“Secrets safe with me Maybank, but now I feel bad for every girl from this moment on.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, trust me.” He rubbed my arms, his hand stopping at my hand. His pinky toying with mine then using his pointer finger to draw circles on my palm, tickling me in the best way. Just as we were locking eyes, a few male voices could be heard from down the beach. The same 3 boys from The Wreck were slowly coming up on us, sounding obviously drunk. They were loud and kept pushing each other while laughing. JJ stands up and moves in front of me, Kie and Pope coming back up from the water noticing the 3.

“What are you guys doing here, this isn’t even your side of the island.” JJ said with confidence, muscles veins popping out from his biceps. I could tell his hands were hurting as they formed into fists, so I stood up and lightly placed my hand over his, trying to get him to soften them.

“Shit JJ, you forget we still run this place, oh shit-” Rafe eyes me, coming around to stand in front of me. “It’s little miss new girl.” He was getting uncomfortably close that I backed up too far and accidentally burnt the back of my legs. I jumped forward falling into his arms. He pushed JJ back with much force, giving him a mean glare.

“C’mon girl, you’re too pretty to be hanging out with these pogues. Come to our side, I’ll show you a good time.” He moved a peace of hair from my face, sending a shiver down my body, signaling that I was in danger.

“Guys don’t do this, let’s just leave and now cause trouble.” Topper tried to intervene, backing away from the situation.

Rafe again tried to grab ahold of my waist, and without even blinking I took my free hand and smacked him across the face, a long sound emulating from the quiet beach. Everyone went silent and Rafe whipped his head back to me, his face turning red.

“Get off of me.” I said through gritted teeth, pulling away from him.

“You little fucking bitch. You think just because you’re new here that you can do whatever you want, well face it, you’re just a nobody that has no one there for them, that’s why you came on this island alone right?” He stared me down, a smirk dancing on his lips. 

“Please, Rafe just go fucking home! Leave her alone!” Kie yells.

“No, she started a war. So I’m going to tell her the truth. Nobody wanted her, nobody cared for her, she was someone else’s trash that was dumped here.” I could feel the tears burning in my waterline, but I wouldn’t give Rafe that satisfaction.

“She’s another let down that is going to die alone and by herself because she’s all by herself, and guess what when you’re gone, no one will even remember your fucking face!” And that’s when I heard a loud pop and before any of us could even wince, Rafe’s nose was bleeding, and gushing in a matter of seconds. JJ’s fish falls to his side squaring up to him, an unapologetic look graced on his face. I took this time to start to walk away and eventually run away back towards John B’s house, trying to flee the scene. I could hear screaming between the two boys get louder and my chest started heaving.

Hearing everything Rafe said about me brought back unresolved feelings about myself and my own family. I left New York because I didn’t belong, I left the Outer Banks but not by my own choice. I felt like I didn’t have a place for myself anywhere, nowhere wanted me. People weren’t permanent in my life. Friends went and gone, leaving me alone always. I never had someone to call my own, that was all mine. Tears were filling my cheeks, blinding my vision as I stopped and leaned over my knees taking in deep breathes.

“Y/N!” I heard Topper’s voice getting closer.

“No please, stop. Don’t-don’t come any closer to me.” I turned back around to see him, confusion written all over him.

“I-I seriously don’t know what happened back there and why he said all that Y/N believe me I wasn’t in on that, that wasn’t suppose to happen!” He tried to reason with me, stretching out his arms towards me.

“No, Topper you guys are all the same! I’ve dealt with guys like you and I’m not getting roped into that again. I don’t know what I did my first day here to be treated like this!” He genuinely seemed sorry, but with guys like him, they know how to manipulate. I just couldn’t trust him, not like I instantly trusted JJ.

“I’m nothing like him please believe me, yea I was back then but after Sarah and John B I really tried to change!”

“People like you don’t change!”

“Please believe me, Rafe is just on edge I mean his sister could be dead at sea, his dad is in fucking jail he doesn’t have a mom there for him he’s just in a tough spot. He lost his whole family pretty much!” 

I didn’t even have time to register what was I going to say next, but it just came out.

“John B is my brother!” Topper’s eyes go wide, almost not believing me at first. I was sick of being told I didn’t have a right to be sad or mad about his disappearance, but when I heard about it back in New York it broke me more than anything. I had been keeping up with him via Sheriff Peterkin, but once she passed away things stopped. I had to find out more, and then the news came out about him being a murderer and I just didn’t believe it. I booked a ticket to here as soon as I could get things together. Completely leaving behind school, my adoptive parents, and everything I ever had. I had to find my brother.

“He didn’t just lose someone Topper I lost the only real family I have! I came here to find John B and this is what I get! Rafe was right, I was never wanted that’s why I was put up for adoption and why my life in New York never worked out. I am a nobody! But I at least thought John B would accept me since I am his only family left.” Topper came up to me but didn’t dare to touch me. He was searching my face for any indication of lying, but he couldn’t find any. His face softened, sympathy filling his heart.

“You know I have to technically hate him because of what he did to me, but just for you, I hope he’s found alive.” As he finished his sentence, he ran back to the group, pulling both Rafe and Kelce by the collars of their shirts. Pope was holding back JJ as he was lunging towards the group. Once they were gone, I slowly walked back to them 3, arms held loosely across my chest. JJ ran up to me, his hand caressing my face. I looked up and saw only one bruise on his right cheekbone.

“Hey, hey did he try to do something to you, I wanted to go after both of them but you know, I’m only one man.” He slightly laughed, eyes wondering mine to find his answers.

“I’m fine, I promise, thank you, all of you, you didn’t have to defend me, you’ve only known me for a day really.” I looked sadly at all of them. Pope rubbed my back, while Kie pushed JJ aside and gave me a big much needed hug. 

“You’re one of us now, we’ll always be there for you.” She said into my ear. I knew I couldn’t live with the fact that I was keeping the biggest secret from them, seeing all they’ve done for me thus far. I let her go and we walked back to the house, laughing about how badass JJ was for taking on both Kelce and Rafe.

As we entered the house those damn pictures of John B on the wall I swear were talking to me. I could hear them saying tell them, they wouldn’t be mad at you for keeping it from them. That maybe they can help you and have even more of an incentive to find John B and Sarah. My finger grazed over the frame, the group stopping to watch me, trying to pull me into the kitchen to eat some dinner. 

“Y/N what’s wrong?” Pope asked, as I began to cry again.

“I have to tell you guys something...”

I told them everything. 

From what I knew from Peterkin, our mom and dad could barely take care of John B as a baby, and suddenly fell pregnant with me. They decided to keep the pregnancy but after looking at finances, they both agreed adoption was best for me. They didn’t tell him he was having a sibling, and as soon as I was brought into the house, I was taken out.

In New York, I was a social-lite to say the least. My dad was a well respected author, my mom a plastic surgeon. Both had some kind of fame associated with them. My mom couldn’t have children, so she adopted me and raised me since I was a little less than a year old. They gave me everything. I went to private schools my whole life, was a cheerleader, was in yearbook committee, even up for prom queen. I had a lavish car, phone, and my room was 2 stories. I ate with celebrities at the best restaurants. I had gotten everything I had ever wanted, but it wasn’t what made me happy. 

Soon my parents started fighting about my college plans, they were deciding my life for me. They were even trying to choose a guy for me to date. My dad started to drink a little more than usual, and soon would call me an ungrateful bitch that didn’t deserve anything I had been given. I would cry myself to sleep every night. 

I had one boyfriend, but he didn’t last. He was nice, handsome, a football player on the road to play for Notre Dame. One night at a party he got too drunk, and started touching me after I said no. I was getting sleepy, falling onto a nearby couch, but not even a few seconds later I felt hands under my dress. I never like talking about it, but I couldn’t do anything to stop him. I started to blame myself for it. People at school called me the new prude turned whore, and I got made fun of for being so drunk and out of it that someone assaulted me. I refused to go to school for days.

It all got too much, so I packed a bag behind my parents back, left my phone, and only took about 50$ out of my wallet that could help me for a few days. I honestly didn’t have a plan, but I knew I wanted to come here, find out where I really came from, and discover it myself. Do something for me, for once.

Kie started hugging me even harder, some part of her thinking she was hugging John B again. Pope’s head hung low, still taking in the fact that John B had a full blood sibling. And JJ walked outside, pacing on the back porch.

“Talk to him, I think he’s just trying to processing everything. John B was like his brother.” Kie told me with a slight smile. I squeezed her side, opening the back door with a squeak.

“JJ...” He didn’t dare look at me. His hands rest on the railing overlooking the dark night. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it. You have his nose and smile.” He slowly faced me, looking at exactly that, the porch light shine bright on my face. “You’re really his sister. I can’t believe I’m really meeting you.” Quickly, his arms engulfed me, my head falling at his chin, his lips right at my hair line. I hugged him back even tighter. I began to stain his shirt with my tears that just couldn’t stop flowing. The overwhelming support from everyone made my heart swell.

He pulls away only to look at me. I could feel his fingers once again moving up and down my sides, the tingling energy between both of us building. His face turned serious and he began nodding at his own thoughts. 

“We’re going to find him Y/N, I promise you.”

Tag List

@paaaam97​ @pink-meringues​ @5am-cigarette​ @prejudic3​

[smolbiotic]

Flowers and Thorns Ch. 2

I’m probably way too late in the game to be writing OC headcanon fanfiction for Mass Effect, but here we are. At least it’s fun to get it out of my system?

---

Loathe as she was to admit it, Molly knew that she had completely misjudged Avinthus Flos. She wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, but at some point in the past two weeks he had grown on her. They spoke occasionally at Nova, but he often acted instead as a quiet buffer for her while she studied on her breaks, sitting nearby and people-watching so he wouldn’t disturb her. It was during one of these now-familiar encounters that she swiped away her notes for the evening and caught herself watching the snow-white turian watch the crowd, wondering what he was looking for in a sea of strangers. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, but at the same time he seemed so focused, almost as if he could hear every conversation happening around them. 

Huh. 

“Something on your mind?”

She searched his face for the slightest hint of his mood, a challenge thanks to his limited range of expressions. The best clues were in his habits: he had a tendency to wring his hands, and sometimes he fussed with the hem of his coal-black shirts.

“Mmmm,” the sound that came from him was ponderous and purring, and she felt it thrumming through her in a way that made her avert her gaze, skin flushed. No fussing over hems tonight, it seemed, but he was determined to keep her off-balance with that damned voice of his.

Turians and their damned voices. 

Ice-blue eyes fixed on her, took in her reaction before he let go of whatever train of thought had passed through him. She was grateful for that, because every time Avinthus looked straight at her she felt as though he could read her thoughts like they were projected on a screen in front of her.

“I don’t understand you,” the answer finally came, something in the turian’s subvocals shifting and finally releasing her from her momentary captivation, “Why you’re working so hard in a place like this to go through a brutal and unforgiving program when you’re already so good at something you love. Something you could make a career out of.”

Tilting her head at him, Molly’s small fingers instinctively went to her hair to comb through her long, auburn locks, a habit of hers when she started mulling over her thoughts. Huh. She hadn’t expected that from a turian, even an unemployed turian who didn’t seem to have a place in the Hierarchy. After all, Molly would be a much greater benefit to society as a xenomedicine surgeon than she would as a dancer, and weren’t turians all about that sort of thing? Die for the cause and all?

After a long pause the dancer shrugged. 

 “Well, it’s nice to hear you think I could make a real career from the silks,” she smiled up at him warmly, catching him watching her twirl her hair. He glanced away and she shrugged it off before continuing, “And I’d be happy enough doing that, sure, but…”

“But?”

Pale grey eyes glanced at the time on her omni. She wasn’t really sure she had the time to get into all the details. Looking over to Valla, who confirmed her doubts with a nod, Molly found herself leaping into a decision she hadn’t taken the time to consider. 

“If you have it in you to stay until we shut down, I’ll tell you. We can go somewhere after I change, if you’re up for it.”

His face hadn’t changed, but an energy rang through his subvocals that was hard to miss, almost like a quickening in his blood. A quick glance downwards revealed he was picking at the loose threads of his burgundy pants. Nerves. His mandibles twitched and he nodded, apparently not trusting himself to say anything aloud. 

“Good then,” Molly smiled at him again, relishing the way it gave pause to his fussing talons, then released her hair and stood to make her exit. She wondered fleetingly if she was making a bad call here, the guarded and mistrustful voice in her head calling out for attention. Avinthus was still a stranger, after all, even if they went someplace public she still felt a thrill race through her at the thought of being someplace outside of Valla’s watchful gaze with him. She was so used to being on her own on the Citadel, so used to keeping people at arm’s length, and yet...

“I’ll tell the guys to let you hang around until I pick you up.”

.

If only the second half of Molly’s shift had been as forgiving as the first. It was as if the universe was punishing her for trying to make a new friend when she still had countless responsibilities to juggle. The moment she had told Valla about Avinthus (ignoring the scathing arch of the asari’s bald, blue brow) she was dealt one shitty hand after another. Firstly, a foul-breathed batarian booked her for a dance, barely left her a tip, then dared to grab her ass as she was walking away. The bouncers got him, sure, but the moment they turned their backs on Molly some young asari who couldn’t hold her liquor opened her mouth to flirt and wound up puking on her instead. It left her red, sticky, and horrified in a way she had no words for, if only out of concern for what the poor thing had been drinking. Something with too much sugar, no doubt. 

That was on top of a wicked headache and a growing pain in her chest which seemed determined to remind her that dancing on a pole while her ribs were healing was a huge mistake. By the time she had clocked out and grabbed a shower in the changing room Molly was ready for bed, ready to leave her crap evening behind and sleep in. She didn’t have any classes the next day and the idea of cozying up at home to study was the only thing that had kept her going all night.

The silhouette of a huge, broad-shouldered turian leaning against the roundbar while the bartender swept up was the final nail in the coffin of her rotten night. 

Right, she thought miserably, Vinth. 

Deep down, she knew no matter how sorely tired she was that if she bailed on the guy it would crush him and the resulting guilt would crush her. The nervous way he was wringing his three-fingered hands was proof enough of that, so she forced a weak smile when she shouldered her duffle and slunk up to him. “Rough night?” He looked her up and down, clearly startled by her appearance. Very few outside of Nova’s staff saw Molly Thorne after a shift, with her wet hair braided back from her face and not a trace of makeup covering the purple bags under her eyes. When she caught his eyes lingering on her mouth a violent flash of doubt raced through her until she realized that he was probably just noticing the angry red scar that Briggs had given her. Shrugging it off, she simply nodded and headed towards the door, pausing only to look back when she felt the heavy weight of her bag lift from her shoulder. “Er, let me?” the worried trill that rung through Avinthus’ tone immediately crushed whatever argument she was about to slap together, so she let him take her duffle and sling it across his chest (a little awkwardly, considering his cowl and long fringe) and kept walking. “Thanks, Vinth,” she said instead, yawning, “I’m exhausted.” “How about I just see you home then?” he asked, his tone equally pleased with the nickname and disappointed by his own proposal, “You have class tomorrow, don’t you? I appreciate you taking the time, but-”

Molly waved a hand to interrupt him, “No classes tomorrow,” she corrected, “I’ll spend the whole day studying, but I can spare an extra hour or two tonight.” Truth be told, no matter how exhausted and miserable she felt, a part of her really wanted to stay up a little later to spend time with him. Even if she had her guard up high and tight she was enjoying getting to know this strange man, or more aptly she was enjoying having someone to talk to who wasn’t a coworker or a classmate, someone who just wanted to know her. When she had lived on earth, Molly had an abundance of friends and a very active social life, and the isolation of life on the Citadel had been wearing on her. She didn’t have much free time to meet people outside of work or school, but the people in her xenomedicine program were too competitive to afford getting close to. Her program was a shark tank and she couldn’t trust them not to use anything they learned about her against her, something she wouldn’t put past any of them. 

There were the girls at Nova, of course, but she never wanted to spend more time in that place than she had to. This was mostly out of fear of Briggs and his thugs, who wandered about the place prowling for easy entertainment. Easy entertainment normally meant scaring the dancers, so Molly was always quick to leave when her shifts clued up. They all loved and looked out for each other, but they were all quick to leave when their shifts were done too. There wasn’t much time for small talk. 

So here she was, strolling through the quiet wards with Avinthus Flos, a strange turian that had taken a liking to her thanks to his fascination with the acrobatics she had a knack for. Perhaps she was just eager to spend time with him because she was starved for companionship, but at the very least the prospect of making a real friend on this accursed station was chasing away her foul mood. Besides, a part of her that she was still too stubborn to listen to was reminding her that Vinth hadn’t actually done anything terribly suspect. All of her doubts around him came down to the fact that she judged him based on what she expected of a typical Nova customer and the fact that she wasn’t particularly adept at reading turians. “You sure?” Molly snapped out of her thoughts and looked up, blinking hard. Vinth was standing in front of the exit, buffed talons kneading her duffle while he stared hard at her with ice-blue eyes. The small dancer simply smiled up at him and punched his arm playfully before charging out of the club, softly enough to avoid hurting herself on his plates. Some of his tension eased away with that simple gesture, at least. “Not really, no,” she teased with a wicked grin, ”but I’ve answered so many of your questions now that it’s about time you answer some of mine.” The bright chuckle that rumbled in his chest made the hair on Molly’s neck stand on end, so she made a point not to look back at him, fearing that he might read her a little too easily. Some of the sounds he made resonated with her too well, something she was not very eager to unpack or reveal to him, though if he turned that discerning gaze of his on her she might not be able to keep that to herself. 

“Hmm. I guess that’s only fair. Can I at least ask where we’re going?”

“There’s this hole in the wall pub near my apartment that’s levo/dextro-ish and has these really plush booths,” Molly’s mood was improving with every step that carried her away from Red Nova, even if she had to take longer strides to keep up with her turian companion, “I could use a cushy seat right about now, and the old guy who runs the place never charges me for tea, even if it’s all I drink. Er, I’m not sure what the dextro options are like though. There’s a really heavy emphasis on the ish of levo/dextro-ish.”

“Hey, as long as the beer is cold I won’t complain,” he turned to look down at her and slowed his steps so quickly he almost stopped in his tracks altogether, “Er, sorry, I’ll slow down. I forgot how small you are-”

“Watch yourself, snowball,” the dancer cut him off, narrowing her gaze into a challenging glare, “I’m a little shorter than average, sure, but I am not small.”

She hated the way his laughter seemed to echo and flutter in her chest, so she donned a haughty air and raised her chin indignantly. That only seemed to knock his subvocals up an octave while he laughed, which made her bury her face in her hands and release an agitated groan. Thankfully he seemed to think her frustration was because of his teasing, not because she hated the way his voice moved through her like liquid gold. 

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry,” he trilled, “But you have to admit that by comparison…”

“That by comparison you’re freakishly tall, even for a turian?”

Another chuckle, “Not freakishly, just above average. It’s pretty useful, too. There’s always a great vantage point from up here.”

The way he looked down at her, bright-eyed with his mandibles half-cocked, she could have sworn he was smirking. Unfortunately all of her lessons in reading turian body language for proper bedside manner revolved around delivering bad news and delicately navigating fatal injuries or terminal illness. She never learned to recognize a smirk, but she was convinced that was what she was looking at.

“Stuff it, snowball,” she sniffed, “And be careful where you’re looking with that vantage point of yours or I’ll get the wrong idea about your intentions.”

She watched his eyes roam away from hers and trace down towards the generous curve of her breasts peeking out of the v-neck of her loose, lilac tunic. He just shrugged and looked ahead once more, completely disinterested. 

“No worries there, Thorne,” he sounded far too amused, “Turians don’t much care for those flesh sacks you humans seem so fond of.”

Shuddering at the hideous implication that her breasts were just empty sacks of flesh, Molly groaned, “Be still my heart. I’ve found the most charming turian on the Citadel. I can feel it in my flesh sacks.”

“They feel? Disgusting.”

“Wow. I’m so happy I decided to stay up late to spend time with you instead of taking advantage of a day where I can get a little extra sleep.”

“Er.”

Right on the mark. The moment Vinth wondered if he had taken his joke too far he was wringing his hands again, whirring apologetically. That was a tone she knew in turian subvocals, if only because of how many times she had heard her classmates grovel for a professor’s forgiveness after butchering a surgical cadaver. 

“Come on snowball,” she punched his muscular arm again, winking so he’d catch on that she was just trying to meals him squirm, “We’re here.”

Avinthus looked up at the door she had stopped in front of. A stuttering pneumatic hiss from a failing mechanism was the first thing to greet every patron, and judging by the way he squinted his pale eyes the turian’s first impression was a poor one. He studied the door that was struggling to slide open for them with its jarring sounds, the handle that was bolted on so haphazardly it was a wonder it was still in place, and the buzzing fluorescent sign overhead that read Len’s. A skeptic’s trill sounded within Vinth’s carapace but Molly shrugged off his reaction and moved to push the door open, gasping at the lance of pain that sparked through her chest when she leaned her weight in. 

“You okay?”

His confusion was apparent and replaced his distaste almost immediately. Sure the door was a little heavy but Molly was hardly frail and he knew that very well from having seen her hold her entire weight up by her hands while she danced on a pole. A door shouldn’t be able to stop her. She waved him off, not wanting to get into any sort of explanation as to why she was nursing some cracked ribs. 

“I sprained something at work,” her tone was dismissive but not convincing enough since it made him narrow that ice-blue gaze of his on her. She felt him staring straight through her lie and looked away guiltily; she had always been a decent liar, but apparently not enough of one to fool Avinthus Flos and his sharp senses. 

“Uh-huh,” it was clear he wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t push. Instead he got the door and held it open for her, that discerning gaze following after her, seeking the truth the way a hunting dog follows the scent of its game. 

“Really, Vinth,” she reassured him, “I’m fine.”

“Right,” he conceded, voice whirring with soft tones that she felt sure were meant to comfort her, “But if you’re ever not…”

A ping came up on her omni shortly after he pulled the door closed again, his name and contact card flashing on the screen and causing the dancer to fall still. Wordlessly, she saved the info and peered up at her new friend, her grey eyes wide and soft. Her heart was fluttering warmly, a pleasant feeling she hadn’t known in...well, since she had left earth years ago. 

“Look, I’ve heard the rumours about Nova and its owner. It’s no secret how he runs that place, Moll,” the nickname sounded uncertain on his tongue as he tested it, but he stopped faltering when she touched the rough hide of his forearm, reassuring him with the shock of an unexpected touch and the gratitude in her expression. 

She couldn’t help herself. She was so worried about letting anyone see her weakness for so long that she forgot how good it felt to have someone in her corner. At school she had to stay strong to stay on top of her classmates for every opportunity presented to them, and Nova was a den of criminals and monsters. There was always Valla, of course, and Dineen, but when they got too close Briggs’ thugs always intervened. Violently. They weren’t safe lingering around that place before or after their shifts.

Vinth was the first to see straight through her lies to the frailty she had been guarding so carefully for years, and instead of exploiting it he was offering to help her. If she could rely on him… well, that thought was something that simultaneously unearthed and burned away the loneliness she had been harbouring for years. She knew she was rushing into the comfort of his offer, his friendship, but she didn’t care. She had denied herself long enough, and now she just wanted a friend.

Vinth looked down to where Molly’s hand rested on his arm, her fingers small and frail in comparison to his size and build. It shifted his subvocals to something indecipherable, and for a moment they lingered in the shadowed doorway, her eyes held captive by the intensity of his icy stare. 

“I’m, ah, between jobs,” he finally spoke up, watching with keen interest as she skirted her soft touch down his arm to clasp his large hand in hers, “And I’ve got an impressive military record. If you need anything-”

“You’ll put yourself on Briggs’ radar to spare me another scar just to end up bleeding out on the dance floor days later?”

Her smirk was hollow and lifeless as she wrapped both of her small hands around his large palm, kneading the tough skin with her thumbs as she sighed, “It wouldn’t be worth it. But I appreciate it all the same. I really do, Vinth. It’s been a while since I’ve had a friend I could rely on.”

If I can rely on you. 

He opened his mouth as if to speak, intensity burning in his eyes while his mandibles twitched, but some thought she could never know silenced him. He kept his mouth shut and sighed, shoulders sagging. Her words had come out far more bitter than she intended or felt, but it was too late to take them back, and things left unsaid hung heavy in the air between them. 

“It’s fine, snowball,” she did her best to reassure him as she pulled him through the dark hallway by his hand, “I’ve only got a couple of months left before I start at Huerta Memorial.”

A protective hum sounded through the darkness behind her as she tugged him into the low, yellow light of Len’s, a dingy little pub with a small bar and just a few plush, round booths. The comfortable seats she had praised earlier were wrapped around circular tables, with wild green plants hanging overhead and nik-naks cluttering every inch of free space in the joint. Len was behind the bar cleaning glasses when he spotted them come in, and when he looked up he beamed at Molly. He was dressed in worn old clothes, his mustard-yellow shirt peeking through holes in his knitted navy cardigan. 

“Hey Len,” she greeted him warmly, finally releasing Vinth’s hand so she could go and pry one of Len’s hands away from his work, planting a gentle kiss on his gnarled old knuckles, “I brought a friend. Would you mind dusting off the dextro?”

“You’ve got it, little duck,” came the gravelly, affectionate response as the old man looked up, and up, and up again until his watery brown eyes finally landed on Vinth’s face. He let out a low whistle, impressed (but mostly amused) by the turian’s height as he hunched down to avoid hooking his sleek fringe in any of the plants hanging in pots from the low ceiling. 

“Welcome, ah-”

“Avinthus Flos,” the pale turian filled in, reaching out a massive hand to shake Len’s.

“Welcome, Avinthus Flos,” the gent chuckled before pulling away and stooping to open the cooler, running a hand through wisps of thin, white hair, “All I’ve got worth drinking is Sphaera Frigus.”

“Ah yes, brewed in the furthest reaches of the coldest planet of turian space, guaranteed to refresh even the most battle-worn turian soldier,” Vinth tapped a buffed talon against the bar top, “Their ads are shit but it’s good beer. That’s great, Len.”

The old barkeep cracked open a bottle and set it down once he was standing at the bar again, then winked at Molly when he clicked the kettle on. 

“Tea will be ready soon, love,” he informed her before nodding at the speakers hiding between the unchecked hanging plants, “Requests?”

They both laughed, leaving a very confused turian looking between the two of them as he stooped low to avoid hitting his head off of low-hanging clay pots. 

“Len only has one playlist,” Molly explained, grabbing his hand again and pulling him towards the corner booth so they could talk out of sight of the bar, “All old Earth classics. Real jazz, the stuff from a couple centuries ago. From a time before humanity had even reached our moon.”

Avinthus’ eyes widened inquisitively at the thought and Len called out after them as they slid in an old, plush booth, “From a time when the stars were little more than the lights that shone down on our dreams.”

Ah yes, Len, ever the romantic. 

Neither one of them had a chance to respond before the volume crept up from the speakers, filling the room with a bright bop punctuated by wild drums and purring vocals. Vinth finally released himself from Molly’s duffle while the music picked up. He left it at the edge of the booth before scooting in close enough for them to talk. 

Molly watched him for a moment as he slipped the slim neck of the beer bottle between his rigid lips and sharp teeth, tilting his head back to take a swig. Despite the limited range of turian facial expressions it was impossible to miss the fascination that gleamed in his eyes and had his mandibles flicking open every time the music went off the beaten path. 

Right, Molly noted with amusement, turian. 

The uninhibited improvisations of jazz, the revelry of charging outside the realm of strict musical structure, it was probably something completely foreign to her new friend. He didn’t seem to have a lot of experience with art for art’s sake, so this was likely just as far outside of his scope as her silks were. 

“This is music?” he interrupted her thoughts, a thrill buzzing in his subvocals, “There’s no...where’s the structure?”

Molly chuckled and pulled her braid apart, combing her fingers through her damp hair to encourage it to dry, “You ever listen to anything that wasn’t an anthem?”

“Er.”

“These guys knew the structure and the rules,” she continued without waiting for a proper answer, eyes lighting up, “Well enough to know how to shape their raw expressions in a way that was informed and unrestrained all at once. Jazz is alive, or was if you ask Len. There’s new, evolved stuff out there but he won’t have it.”

“Because it doesn’t have the same soul,” Len interrupted them when he set down a tray with a large periwinkle teapot, packets of cream and sugar, and a white cup painted with flowers, “It’s not bad, just not for this old fool.”

The lovely scent of bergamot curled out of the teapot in ribbons of sweet steam and Molly grinned up at the barkeep, “Thanks Len.”

“Anything for you, little lady Thorne,” he winked at Vinth before hobbling away, back behind the bar and out of sight. Vinth was leaning over the teapot, plated nose scrunching as he pulled in the richly perfumed steam. Molly arched a brow at him and tilted her hair. 

“Pretty bold of you. No levo allergies then, I take it? Or just tempting fate?”

He shook his head before pulling back, drumming his talons along with the rhythm bouncing from the speakers, “I checked before I left Palaven. Seemed like a good idea.”

“It was. How many rounds have I shadowed where the doctors here were dealing with levo/dextro reactions?” she tapped her chin thoughtfully and shrugged, “Too many to count. It happens, living in close quarters on the Citadel. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about it as much.”

“What about you?” 

Molly paused for a moment, wondering at the curious expression her friend was wearing, “I’m also fortunate. No severe dextro allergies. But I’m not going to try to steal your beer if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He chuckled and took another long pull while Molly set about making her tea, filling her cup with earl grey then adding a generous splash of cream and sugar.

“Smells good,” Vinth commented, and she noticed his nose was scrunching and pulling at steam again. She grinned and slid the cup to him, her amusement clear as day. 

“Did you want to try it?”

“Er,” his response was eloquent as always, “Well, yes, but I have no idea how to use that tiny cup...I’d just make a mess.”

The subtle drop in his subvocals reminded Molly of a whining pup, which made her chuckle. Her eyes were crinkling from the force of her smile when she slid her cup up until it was just below Vinth’s face. He peered down at it, mandibles flicking. 

“You just want to taste it, yeah? Just use this.”

“Uhhh,” he pulled back and eyed the spoon she balanced on a fingertip before him, the drumming of his talons now more anxious than rhythmic, “Are you sure?”

Odd, to be nervous over a sip of tea, but she assumed it had more to do with him having spent little time around humans and human utensils than anything else. She nodded and handed him the spoon, politely averting her gaze while he filled it with tea then slowly tipped it into his mouth. He did this a second, then a third time. 

“Good, huh?” she asked when she set her cup down again. 

“Not as good as it smells, but yeah.”

“Too rich?” she chuckled and traced her thumb over the lip of the cup idly. She liked her tea sweet and creamy. 

“Mmm, a little.”

“So.”

Molly rested her chin in her hands and peered up curiously at her large turian companion, who looked back at her just as curiously. He was waiting for her to continue. 

“So.”

“Well, you didn’t come to the Citadel just to sip human tea, right?” she turned the cup around on the table, “So why? I can’t imagine why you’d leave your supposedly impressive military background on Palaven to be jobless on the Citadel. Hanging out at Nova must feel pretty bleak with your background. Supposed background.”

She let that accusation twist through the space between them like bitter smoke, arching a brow at her new friend. 

Avinthus’ subvocals stopped and switched to something more energetic, more difficult to place. His posture hadn’t changed, but she knew she had struck a nerve. She didn’t know what that sound was saying exactly, but it resonated with her, made her feel alarmed. Curious. Was that how he was feeling?

“Would you believe I’m having, mmm, a crisis of identity? That I don’t know what I want?”

“Good turian like you? You want what’s best for your people on principle, right? So no. I don’t believe it.”

He drummed his talons nervously again, “If I said I don’t feel up to talking about it?”

He seemed to want to, though. Molly didn’t know how she knew, but she did, or at least felt confident that she did. 

“You know a hell of a lot about me, Vinth,” she grumbled, “And I’ve agreed to tell you more. Did it occur to you that I might want to get to know you as well?”

He looked away from her challenging gaze, shame-faced, or at least she assumed so by the way his plates shifted downwards. 

“I just...can’t talk about work. Not right now. I fucked up bad, Moll.”

She stared hard at him for a moment, rolling his words around her mind the way one might roll wine around their tongue, testing the sincerity. 

“I won’t push, then,” she gave in, deciding to believe him, then sipped her tea and made a decision.

“I came to the Citadel when I was a kid.”

Her announcement startled Vinth and he stilled his drumming talons to pay attention, pale gaze bright with curiosity.

“And I almost died. But, ah, I guess I should start a little earlier than that,” Molly fussed with her hair a little as she pondered over where she should start, until eventually she nodded to herself and continued, “I grew up in a little town nestled in the cliffs by the ocean back on Earth. A small town on an island in Eastern Canada. We didn’t have much, and really the freak school was the only unique quality our town had compared to other rural communities. 

“Freak school is what we called the school where I learned acrobatics. It’s an affectionate nickname. The woman who ran it was actually a part of Cirque du Soleil, the oldest staple in circus culture back home. Cirque is the pinnacle of acrobatic arts, and she was a big deal during her time. When she retired she just wanted to live somewhere quiet, so she came to our island and started a school for kids. It was just supposed to be a fun school for us, but there were enough talented kids that she started bringing us to competitions. 

“When I was fourteen we won enough competitions that we were invited to come represent humanity for an expo here on the Citadel. None of us ever expected we would end up here, so when we got the news we were thrilled. Turns out we were just a big PR stunt for humanity.”

She wrinkled her nose at the memory, recalling the way the human ambassadors belittled them to make a good impression. They were from such an isolated place that people assumed they were just hicks, so it was all the more impressive when they climbed their silks and flew from their trapezes like birds taking wing. After all, with leaders like Mia Ripley (a Cirque veteran), humanity could flourish anywhere they chose to live in space. That was the shallow and weak take-away of their performance , that humanity’s leaders could shape the galaxy for the better and uplift even the most rugged and uncultured communities. 

“Even with all the bullshit politics, though, we had a blast. I even dreamed of opening my own circus here on the Citadel. Briefly. On our way back to our hotel after the expo the cab I was in got flattened by an asari trying to run from C-sec. She had been smuggling drugs and was speeding to get away. One minute I was laughing with my friends, the next I was trapped in a car that was hanging out the side of an office building with a huge piece of glass wedged in my lung.”

Avoiding the snowball’s worried expression, Molly fussed with the long sleeves of her tunic, revealing glimpses of her tattoos. That pulled Vinth out of the story for a moment, but she charged on and ignored his curiosity. 

“I was saved by a salarian doctor. I remember feeling terrified because how could an alien know what to do to save me? Except he was so calm and he seemed to understand what I was thinking because he told me just how many humans he’d treated. He did everything with practiced hands and he explained it all step-by-step so I’d understand it. Soon enough the fear melted away and just like that I forgot about bringing a human circus to the Citadel.

“I picked his brains so much during recovery, too, that he started visiting me and sharing some of the work he was doing, some of the research. I was completely blown away by...well, all of it. I had always been able to evoke feelings from people through performance, but he had made me feel safe, something I could never do by dancing, so I had a new dream that was only fuelled by all of his visits and his vast knowledge. I wanted to make people feel safe the way he made me feel safe, I wanted to know all the things he knew, so I asked him what I had to do to be a doctor like him, then when I got back home I recovered and did it.”

Silence stretched between them when Molly went back to her tea, letting the heat and the sweet flavour soothe her dry throat. Avinthus was looking at her, his thoughts indiscernible once more, though it didn’t bother her. This quiet was a comfortable one, with a softer song from the speakers overhead filling the space between them. 

“That’s quite the story,” he finally said, his tone soft, “And pretty impressive.”

“Tell me about it. It seems unbelievable, huh?” she chuckled, still a little raw with the vulnerability that followed sharing so much of herself with someone new. It had painted her cheeks a pretty shade of pink, “The circus freak turned doctor who shakes her ass to pay the bills? I’m surprised anyone at Huerta was willing to give me a chance.”

“I imagine you interview well,” his turian mouth couldn’t grin like she could, but his tone of voice said it all. 

Flatterer. 

“One of the asari doctors remembered me. Dr. Farrhe, the one who saved me, had been their lover. I think they just wanted to give me a chance.”

“No way,” he waved away her words, “There’s no chance they’d risk their reputation to hire you based on sentimentality, no matter what kind of impression you left on their lover.”

“Hmmm,” Molly hummed over her cup, pouring out some more tea, “So you’re saying I’m just that good, are you?”

“Of course.”

It was Molly’s turn to be disarmed. He was looking straight at her, no trace of his bumbling discomfort or his uncertainty to be found. Once more she felt as though he was staring straight through to the truth of what she was thinking and who she was, as though her whole self was laid bare and he could see it all. She had to break away from it, from the way it made her stomach flip and her nerves fray.  Ironically enough, Molly hated feeling exposed. 

“So then,” she fiddled with her cup, lowering her gaze, “Tell me about Palaven.”

The intensity of his gaze broke away from her as he drifted back through his memories, searching for something to talk about. 

“I don’t have any stories worth telling. Not like yours,” he shrugged, an apology ringing through his tone, “Which may sound like a cop-out, but...well, my parents taught me how to fire a rifle when I was a kid, taught me how to keep in line. Then I just followed the path that my family set before me. We’re old military. More than a few names from the Flos bloodlines have been generals, spectres, you name it.”

“And what did you do for fun?”

“Uh...I learned how to fire a pistol?”

“For fun.”

“Mmmm, shotguns are actually pretty fun, too.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I prefer dutiful.”

She arched a brow but didn’t voice her thoughts. Unemployed yet dutiful. There’s definitely a missing piece here, one that will make sense of this overgrown snowball when it clicks in place. 

Momentarily, she entertained the idea of organized crime, but...nah. Somehow that just seemed terribly ill-suited to her mystery turian. 

They stayed in that booth far longer than either one of them intended. They exchanged stories from their childhoods or from past jobs, filling the gaps between stories with idle chat. It took a while to coax it out of him but Molly did eventually manage to hear a bit about Vinth’s time as a soldier. Mostly those stories had to do with tough survival situations, rationing, impressive killshots...not a whole lot of insight into who he was outside of the military. She had a sneaking suspicion he never really gave himself the chance to figure that out for himself, given his background. Maybe he left work or fucked up because of some identity crisis after all?

They talked their way through countless pots of tea and all the Sphaera Frigus that Len had on hand. Eventually the bags under Molly’s eyes deepened until they were nearly bruises, and even Vinth’s spartan-straight posture began to sag. Neither one of them seemed willing to be the first to break the spell, though, to call it a night and head home. It wasn’t until the small woman found herself fading in and out of consciousness that it occurred to her she had stayed out too late. Even then, she didn’t move. 

Long, pointed fingers wrapped firmly around Molly’s arm, jostling her lightly. 

“Moll?”

“Mmmmrrrrnnnnn.”

“Hey, Moll.”

She buried her face into the hot, tough nook she had curled up into, hiding from the gentle light that was trying to poke through and interrupt her sleep. When the hands squeezed her again she tried to bat them away, her efforts amusingly pathetic. 

“Spirits! Wake up,”

The jostling was no longer gentle and sleep was no longer within reach. Groaning, the small woman moved curtains of auburn waves away from her eyes and pushed herself up from where she was lying.

Wait. 

Wasn’t she with Avinthus? Why was she lying down? Blearily, she blinked until the details started filtering back in and she clued in to her surroundings. Dim lighting, a wild growth of barely-tame house plants, and the smell of bergamot told her she was at Len’s. And beside her-

“Oh,” she turned an impressive shade of pink, “I am so, so sorry.”

Molly had fallen asleep in Avinthus’ lap, which was the nook that she had been trying to burrow into. The unfamiliar staccato of his subvocals seemed vibrant with nerves, not that she could blame him. She had effectively just attempted to squirm her way into his crotch, leaving them both miserable with embarrassment. 

“How about I take you home?”

A momentary flash of panic traced through her. Nobody, not any of her classmates nor any of the girls at Nova, knew where she lived. 

“That sounds like a good plan.”

The panic had disappeared as quickly as it had sprung to life. Avinthus had earned her trust by now, or at the very least he had won enough of her favour that she no longer felt compelled to push him away. 

They squared up with Len, who beamed and waved them farewell as they crawled back into the pale lights that warned them the day cycle would be starting soon. Molly let Vinth place a steadying arm around her shoulders, leaning into him as she told him where they were heading. Luckily her apartment building was a stone’s throw away and it was only a few moments before they were at her door. 

After she punched in a long code the door sighed open and the smell of flowers and herbs rolled out to accost their senses. They both hesitated, wondering if they could steal a few extra moments in each others’ company. Molly smiled up at her tall new friend sleepily before a yawn bubbled up with so much force it caused her to wobble. He steadied her again, this time letting his talons trail along her arm for a moment until they could push up her sleeves. 

“Your uniform covers these up,” he commented quietly, “I had no idea.”

When she didn’t protest, he had pulled the sleeves of her long tunic up far enough to expose both her forearms. There was something different in the way he was moving and looking at her, something she was too tired to catch onto. A blunted talon delicately traced the lines of black flowers dabbed with colour on her left arm, his subvocals rumbling so deeply that she felt them swallowing her heart. She gulped. 

“I like them,” she was so tired she just let herself tip forward to brace herself against Vinth’s wide chest. He picked her up with ease, walking her inside with vague directions. Through a haze of exhaustion she told him where her bed was and apologized for the state of her apartment. 

It was tiny, crowded with plants that Len had been giving to her over the years. She had a very small kitchen area where she kept a cot (that was covered in data pads and study materials), and all of her possessions aside from the plants were kept in a suitcase. A tiny bathroom was the only extra room she had, and she knew her life looked pretty bleak inside her home. Vinth said nothing, however, instead he pushed aside her data pads and laid her gingerly down on her cot, tugging her sleeves back over her forearms. He did take a moment to read some of the text on her right arm, however. 

“My grandma wrote down all of her recipes before she died,” she explained sleepily, “I had them tattooed all over my arm, illustrations and all.”

Another indiscernible rumble sounded within his carapace and he crouched next to her for a moment. She reached out a small hand and placed it on his chest, her pale skin practically glowing against the rich black of his shirt thanks to the lights filtering in from outside the apartment. The rumbling grew a little louder and a giddy part of her was reminded of a purring cat. 

“Are you far from your apartment?” she managed to get out despite how heavily her words were slurring together. When he shook his head she moved her hand from his chest to his face, tracing over the hard ridges of his plates, “I’ll probably be asleep by then, but message me when you’re home safe anyhow?”

“Sure thing, Moll.”

And just like that he was gone, leaving her apartment still and cold. As she drifted off to sleep she longed for Vinth to come back, for the comforting presence of his subvocals to flood her cramped and lonely apartment, speaking to her in ways she could not grasp yet yearned for all the same. 

Instead, she pulled her blankets around her to drown out the chill and the loneliness she was left with once he had gone. Funny, that. She slept alone in her cramped apartment for years, never dwelling on the emptiness or the loneliness. Now, after one night in the company of Avinthus Flos, it felt like something was missing. 

When she finally managed to drift off, the slow crescendo of the morning bustle was just starting to reach its peak. People going to and from work, chatting over coffee, or just taking calls on their omnis was the usual lullaby that saw Molly off to sleep. It just took a little longer for it to pull her under this time.

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

[alkhale]

Crackpot Theory Extension on the Dabi is a Todoroki

okay, hear me out

as crazy as this may sound and maybe it’s not because someone else thought it too we just need to put both our crazy brains together and talk I have this idea that what if, WHAT IF--

It’s not that Dabi is a Todoroki

But Dabi’s best friend/closest compatriot was Touya Todoroki.

“How the fuck did you get to that idea--” So this is what I’ve been thinking.

1 - The Backstory

- Dabi and Touya Todoroki were classmates in school, whether all throughout elementary, middle and high school, debatable but possible, dunno. They were best friends and Dabi’s watched Touya come back to school, dejected and useless and somber and clearly lacking in the love and attention he deserves in a proper household. Dabi knows it’s because of the fact that his father’s Endeavour and Enji doesn’t even give this kid the time of day because

Touya’s Quirkless.

How could the man striving for the top position, instilling his hopes into his next generation ever want anything to do with his firstborn being Quirkless? (cause this is all pre-enji being a better guy anyway)

the eldest and unidentified sibling is significantly shorter than both Fuyumi and Natsuo. I kinda can’t help but wonder if this meek and quiet, clearly nervous looking kid with body language has more to be nervous and afraid about because, well, he’s Quirkless, he didn’t even stand a chance.

- When they get older, Dabi suggests and talks Touya into running away with him. Their society isn’t worth a fucking dime anyway so the two of them, with some coaxing on Dabi’s part, leave their homes and try to live life on the streets the best way they can (this covers the bases where the Todoroki family isn’t aware of Touya’s current state and why Natsuo goes and says ‘and what happened to big bro Touya...’ Shouto would be too young to really properly remember the face of an elder brother who’d run off)

“Let’s run away.”

The abandoned clubroom isn’t really much of a secret hideout. It’s musky and there’s dust on some of the shelves, but they’ve stashed old gym matts and magazines in here to keep them entertained and comfortable. The small window that opens up to the outer edge of the school is propped open with a slab of broken wood and there’s a bit of sunlight streaming in, dark orange and molten with the evening coming.

It hides them from the rest of the world and that’s enough for him.

Touya makes that funny face he does when he’s heard another of his crazy ideas and is pretending like he didn’t hear it right. He feels a crooked grin starting to crawl over his lips as he watches Touya. The sunlight just barely ghosts over the top of his head, turning his red hair ruby.

“I think Okinawa’s nice around this time,” Touya says finally. “I’ve always wanted to bring one of those lion statues home for my mom. They ward off evil, y’know.”

“Wherever the fuck you want to go,” he says, sitting up straighter and turning toward him. “Just as long as we go.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

Touya puts the book in his hands down. His eyes are a ridiculously pretty shade of turquoise, like chips of the sea frozen over. Touya hates them though because they remind him of his dad.

“C’mon,” he tries again. Now. It’s gotta be now, Touya. “Think about it for a second, it doesn’t sound so bad, right? We’ll take whatever we can carry and just go. My old man doesn’t give a shit about me with that broad around and your asshole father won’t even blink an eye. Let’s just go.”

Touya bites his bottom lip. The look on his face tells him everything he needs to know that this plan might actually work--Touya’s making the face that says he’s thought of it before.

“I can’t,” Touya says.

“You can,” he says firmly, coaxingly. He plops down beside Touya so they sit shoulder to shoulder and he leans into him a bit. “What, you don’t want to rough it out on the streets without those nice maids and fancy food at your beck and call?”

Touya laughs and he knows he’s getting somewhere. “I can’t because I’d have to be rooming with your smoking ass--”

“Cause I’m hot?”

“Cause you literally smoke, dumbass. And plus...” Touya trails off, staring at his hands. “What about Yumi and Natsu? I barely even talk to Shouto and...”

Touya stares harder at his hands, lacing them together. “What about mom?”

“We go away for awhile then,” he says suddenly and Touya watches him. “We go away for awhile. We get older. We come back and we sweep your family out from right under his thumb and we live happily ever after. How about that?”

The smallest smile stretches over Touya’s lips and he knows he’s almost there, he just needs that final push. “When’d you get so optimistic?”

Since you gave me a reason to actually want to be someone’s hero. He shrugs, tugging on one of the piercings on his ear. “I’m the brains and the brawn, remember? I cook up the plans and you tag along with my stupid shit.”

Touya turns his head toward the window. A little breeze tugs at tufts of ruby red. He turns his head a little too to see what Touya was looking at and sees nothing but the school’s concrete wall isolating them from the next street over and a short stretch of grass. There’s cigarette butts scattered on the floor from his bad habits and Touya always tells him to clean it up before he’s caught.

“It’s going to be hard,” Touya says.

“We’ve dealt with harder.”

“I don’t know if I can handle your dumb, smoking ass.”

“I’ll become a rich hag’s call boy and warm her bed up a bit and then we’ll be living the good life, nice and cozy.”

“You can’t even cook.”

“But you can.”

Touya laughs. It’s the happiest sound he’s heard come from Touya’s lips in forever and then he turns those pretty sea eyes his way and he smiles at him. His inky black hair brushes against ruby red and he sees Touya’s eyes take him in and then they go somewhere far again.

So he calls him back.

“He’s never given a damn about you,” he says, a quiet, husky whisper, “you don’t owe him anything.”

Touya’s eyes see him again and he knows then that’s he’s finally beaten Enji Todoroki, the Number Two Hero.

“Okay.”

- They live like this for awhile, maybe even stooping to the occasional petty crime but they’re happy and Dabi thinks this is the best fucking thing that could possibly happen to both of them in this shitty word

- a tragedy strikes, some punkass villain or psycho ormugger or whatever happens, Touya gets hurt so bad and it’s too late for them to get to a hospital, Dabi’s stuck cradling his best friend in his arms screaming for heroes or for someone to do something please but no one comes

- Dabi breaks down and kills the villain/mugger himself, takes Touya’s body away and makes the turn to follow Stain’s ideology because what kind of world is it where the people who were supposed to save and do good won’t even lift a finger unless there’s a paycheck behind it, Enji won’t even miss his son because he wasn’t worth anything anyway

- the villain Dabi is born

2 - The Reasoning

- With their current society, there could actually be a really fair amount of the population wielding fire related Quirks, this is cemented during USJ attack when the villain holding Kaminari mentions their electric type Quirks and Jirou’s like yeah your type have it easy

This scene:

- Being because Dabi’s heard plenty of stories of the cute youngest brother who’s their father’s prodigy now because he’s finally the result Enji wanted. Touya isn’t bitter, maybe sad and wistful because he, being Quirkless, could probably never be a good enough older brother for a kid like that

- Dabi thinks its ironic and laughable that the perfect son is here, failing before him now and he just thinks of the huge hole losing Touya has left inside him

- I’m all aboard the Dabi is a Todoroki theory and heavily lean toward it too, but just for the sake of this crackpot theory, what if this whole confrontation is easily explained because, well, Dabi fucking hates Enji. He abused his son, Dabi’s best friend, forced him into a corner and never gave him the time of day, doesn’t even know that Touya’s gone and you know what? It’s time to pay

- Dabi could have easily let even just a little more slip about this whole thing and we would’ve gotten the confirmation that he is a Todoroki, and it’s either because Horikoshi just wants to tease this big reveal OR it’s because Dabi isn’t a Todoroki but just has a vendetta against them because of Touya

3 - The Conclusion

Dabi probably is a Todoroki since Horikoshi’s stalking tumblr anyway, but in the off chance this crackpot theory is actually plausible

Dabi’s just this guy who lost his best friend and now he wants to see the world burn.

- I finished my astronomy final and this is what I came up with

[petrolstationflowers]

Happy Storyteller Saturday! Which of your characters has the whump/tragic Backstory that you're most proud of writing?

@justahufflepuffnerd 

Ooooh this is a fun one. Just gonna signal post that there is mention of mental health struggles, sectioning, suicide attempts, and suicide in this one. 

I mean it’s Trin. Because it’s always Trin. Merin comes in close second but Trin gets a shitty hand dealt to him in pretty much every work I do for him. To specify, this is Fates AU Trin, but canon Trin don’t get it much better. 

Trin grew up in a very isolated part of Northern Permacier which is essentially a tundra. It’s very difficult to grow stuff there so the village he lived in was made up of fisherfolk who solely make their living this way, selling their catch, harvesting sea plants that have medicinal properties or cold-climate plants you can’t get elsewhere, stuff like that. The problem is that this little spit of land unfortunately marries up to fey territory. And they want it. Like now. 

The head of the village refused, and that got the faeries mad, so they poisoned the land and corrupted the sea, sweeping the entire place with a plague they had no idea how to cure. It killed pretty much everyone; by the time the mainland were notified and sent help, Trin’s mother, older brother, twin sister, and two younger sisters had all died in front of him. When help finally came, his father sent Trin to go and get food, and hung himself, which Trin then came home and found.

(I’m sorry you DID ask for tragic backstory)

After that it goes from bad to worse, because there are only like ten survivors of this massacre and they can’t take him in, so Trin gets shipped off to Novasco State Orphanage, which is hundreds of miles from anything familiar, and has an entirely different fucking language. The monks don’t speak Ancient Permacien, they shave his head, and they change his name and fucking hell they meant well but OH MY GOD could they make this any worse on a traumatised 11 year old. Thank god for Ena’s benevolent interference. 

Trin’s mental health continues to go south, with anxiety manifesting as extreme outbursts of anger and high energy, which basically means a hyperactive feral child who has no qualms about getting into fights and doing reckless shit. His default response is to lash out when he’s frightened, and the monks do nothing apart from lock him in a room or tie him to a bed and let him scream it out. No wonder the poor kid tried suicide twice before he was 17. Ena eventually adopts him and Sil and takes them West, since Trin’s attempted getting into the military to enroll as a witch and support them all. And, y'know, get him much needed mental health treatment. 

This culminates in a perfect storm of Trin being afraid to let everyone down and his steadfast refusal to go to therapy because THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM and screaming matches between him and Ena about it. And Trinity does what Trinity does best and lashes out, and breaks Ena’s arm by accident (Ena was trying to restrain him and his arm got yanked the wrong way). So while Sil is hauling Ena off to get his arm set and to lie very convincingly to social services and “yes officer I’m definitely a 20 year old adult who fell down the stairs,” Trin gets it into his head to try and kill himself again, and this time very nearly succeeds. Which winds up getting him sectioned.

This does turn out to be the best thing for him, though, after he’s stopped throwing chairs at the psychiatrists. He’s hospitalised for about a year and once he’s had a fuck ton of counselling, the right medication, actually being able to grieve his murdered family, and stability for the first time in his life, he improves dramatically and is actually able to cope and be given back control of his life. He still has scars all the way up to his elbows on both his arms. He still takes the day off work and hides in bed on the anniversary, but y’know what, he doesn’t smash all the plates in the house because he doesn’t understand the Vilandran in the textbook he’s reading or shout at Sil for being home late because that’s thrown him into a panic of losing someone else. He’s allowed to hurt, he’s allowed to be sad, he’s allowed to speak his native fucking language. 

I am so incredibly proud of Trin. And yet another post where I want to throttle the monks. 

[weneverlearn]

R.I.P. Grant Hart

When some kind of celebrity death occurs -- and that “celebrity” can be Prince or Paul Hamann -- there’s often a genuinely heartfelt and/or morbid need to reach out and tell someone. Add the internet into that instinct, and this human action takes on more strange, conflicted, even narcissistic layers.

I woke up yesterday to a text about Grant Hart having passed away. I told myself my girlfriend was awake, and gently tapped her on the shoulder to tell her. She has been working a lot lately, and it was probably best to let her sleep and talk about this later. Telling her, telling anyone wasn’t going to bring Grant Hart back. Basically I just confused her, though she sweetly said “Sorry,” and went back to sleep, somehow.

The emotions were flooding through me, and it was one of numerous deaths that have occurred in my sphere of late, so the usual sinking heart feeling sunk as low as it’s been in awhile (and that’s saying something in this Trump era). One song popped in my head, “Think It Over Now,” from Hart’s excellent 1999 solo album, Good News for Modern Man. In a sea of great Grant Hart songs, it’s Ronettes-meets-rainstorm ramble makes it one of my favorites of his, and it’s positive message helped instantly assuage some sadness. I posted it on Facebook for whatever fucking reason, and went to work, unable to think about much else the rest of the day, into today, and I don’t know, maybe from now on.

It feels awkward to make a celebrity death personal with some tossed-out Facebook post. But I am at that point now in my life where the passing of such monumental artistic figures starts to occur closer to you, more frequently, and it’s inevitable that it spurs you to seek comfort from just telling others why this death is monumental. I mean, in my early 20s, if I had heard the bassist in the Johnny Burnette Trio died, oh, that’s sad. But had that bassist been close to my age, had I seen that bassist play live, got to hang out with him a bit, cranked his records through headphones throughout my teens, well...

It was early summer, 1985, I was 17, about butt-deep into a growing pile of records, increasingly punk records, and my au currant desire was to “get into hardcore.” I mean it was all over college radio, Cleveland had a decent scene of it (although in that odd Ohio-y, weather-beaten way), and I just thought, well, that’s what a guy like me should be doing right now. So I went to my local rack jobber and asked him for a great new hardcore album, and he hands me New Day Rising.

I took it home and played it, but I was a bit nonplussed. This wasn’t the bald-head dude screaming in a circle pit shit I thought I was searching for. It was loud and fast for sure, but not the polka-beat, the government and your parents suck spiel. Instead, as I noticed while I self-surprisingly kept playing the record over and over for the next week, was an instantly recognizable melancholy, damp atmosphere, and intense energy I’d already loved from midwest acts. Husker Du just felt like me and lots of strangers I was starting to get to know at Cleveland punk shows -- already a bit beaten by long winters, mall jobs, and terrible sports teams we didn’t care about, but you live in Cleveland, so you’re going to hear about the fucking Browns whether you like it or not. My image was the three Huskers sitting in their dank basement, from about the first week of October until the first week of March, with a space heater sparking in the corner, complaining about fucking jocks, drinking the cheapest local beer, excited only about the tunes they were coming up with, grasping for hopes maybe winter will end early this year (the last week of February), but knowing for sure it’s just gonna come around again anyway, so whatever, let’s go through that new one again.

I already knew enough about the California-based SST Records to know a shlubby band from Minneapolis with cutoff shorts and an almost sobbing seriousness to their loud fast rules, featuring lyrics about folklore and summer ending, was not that label’s raison d’etre. No doubt most of their bands had shitty lives, crappy parents, drug problems, and whatever. But to me, nothing I’d heard on that label (save some Black Flag), had this depth of pathos and seething spirit. I mean come on, it’s California. You don’t spend your teens hanging out on beaches and seeing pretty girls all the time all year and think, “Damn, remember those good times we had? Fuck! Where’s my copy of Being and Nothingness?!” (Well, maybe the Minutemen did.)

Indeed, from what I understood through the grape, er, hops-vine of the time, many diehard SST fans didn’t dig Husker Du. (Someone did, because I think Husker Du was the best selling act on SST, but you record scholars can correct me on that.) To me they were a sudden, jarring connection between the jangle of ‘60s folk and garage rock -- meaning they were contemporaries more with R.E.M. than Saccharine Trust or what have you -- and a huge leap into some fuzzed-out new world of extreme emotional and sonic confessional. Even moreso than the, truth be told, kind of cute Replacements, Husker Du were the gnarled heart pumping to where punk could grasp towards, to survive not just the winters but encroaching adulthood abyss. Even their name, from an old board game (fun!) that translated to “Do You Remember?” (sad), was reflective. They were 20-year olds and already nostalgic, wistful. But their own apocalyptic Reagan-era shakes were vibrating them out of that basement. They toured like fucking crazy, rust belt work ethic and all; and with hooks that finally put a relevant nail in skinny tie power pop’s coffin.    

New Day Rising has mostly remained my favorite Husker Du album since, the opening title tune being my favorite opener on any album (save maybe “I’m Stranded” by the Saints). But their whole catalog is worth churning through. And it wasn’t just Grant Hart’s massively manic drum pounds that hit you hard, but his and Bob Mould’s strained, splitting-at-the-edges voices. Like their Minneapolis contemporaries (Replacements, Soul Asylum, Magnolias), they sounded like they were incredibly pissed off and ready to fight, to the point of tears. Not to belabor the midwest/California dichotomy, but the Offspring never struck me as tearful guys.

Of course soon enough I gathered, via unexplainable gut impressions and gossipy fanzine articles, that there were gay men in Husker Du. And there’s no doubt that the usual animosity towards jocks for this punk band left larger scars.

The scar I personally got from their records was a band. When I first met New Bomb Turks’s guitarist Jim Weber at our college dorm, one of the earliest conversations centered on how Jim couldn’t get to the Warehouse tour stop in Cleveland, and hence never got to see Husker Du. I’d seen them twice, regaled Jim with some details, and made tapes of the Husker Du albums he didn’t have. You can ask him, but I think Bob Mould was his biggest early guitar inspiration. And further discussions involved the gender identity of the band, though being early-20s guys in the late ‘80s, we probably didn’t talk about “gender identity” as much as how/when we were called the ol’ “f”word in high school, and how the Huskers must have dealt with tons of awful shit from the more unseemly sides of the hardcore scene. 

Husker Du was a favorite band, but also our introduction to really thinking about these issues that were still pretty swept under the turkey at the family Thanksgiving meal back then. We were both raised Catholic, so...

So, Grant Hart. After the Warehouse show at the Phantasy Theater in Cleveland in summer 1987 (they would break up soon after the end of that tour), I made my way to the adjacent upstairs bar, whose backroom was being used as a backstage. I saw Grant and said, “Great show!” He looked at me a little cockeyed, then turned around, asking, “Does anyone have any heroin around here?” So, that was that.

I loved his 2541 EP from 1988, the first post-Husker Du release. By then I was best friends with the first friend to ever come out to me; and that happening right around the release of that EP, well, one should always appreciate life’s teachable serendipity.

Then, the first time I ever went to New York City and first time I went to CBGB in 1989 with said out pal, the first band I saw there was Hart’s Nova Mob. (Well, technically Run Westy Run opened up.) They were pretty good, and I was glad to see Hart still going at it, but it seemed soon enough that he wasn’t. Didn’t hear much except sporadic solo stuff after Nova Mob split up, and given the usual rumors, figured he was done. But then my band was pretty busy those years, and I was soaking up tons of new bands, so who knows.

Then, in mid-summer 1999, I get a request from an editor at the Cleveland Free Times to write a preview for Grant Hart’s solo show in Cleveland, and found out he’d be playing Columbus a couple days before. So we hooked up a meeting, which is a whole other story for another post, or if I had the power, a movie. It was a strange couple of days, involving breaking into the trunk of the early ‘80s Cadillac he was touring in (”Got it from Rent-a-Wreck, seriously”), the club, Bernie’s, not paying him what they promised, Hart rightly taking a monitor as payment (probably not worth the $250 he was guaranteed), and me getting a call from him at 3 a.m. asking to be a character witness in court on Monday. Nice dinner with him in there too.

After relative (college) radio silence for a few years, I didn’t know what to expect of the show, and without going into details, let’s just say this seemed like a “rent tour.” Hart was fairly disheveled, but super nice. He’d recently become close with Patti Smith, and I guess she told him her parents last names were Grant and Hart, and that once she heard of him, she took that as a sign from the stars to work with him. Anyway, standing in Berne’s with like 10 other people watching him, I was utterly floored once again. His voice was just teeming with the weight of all those slushy winters. I just kept thinking, this is unbelievable how intense he is, and how good these songs are, and how no one even in my circle of music heps even knew this show was happening, in the middle of summer no less, when campus is pretty dead anyway. Unfortunately, a horrible flu had also floored me, a 102 temperature, and I could only stay about four songs of his set before heading home to sweat in bed. “Ah, I’ll see him again.” That was the last time I saw him play.

R.I.P. Grant Hart.

[patrononfire]

What follows is simply an account of what I found helped my state of mind while I was getting crushed by repeated 100+ hour weeks one after another. I am writing this in the spirit of trying to help another guy trying to get through a tough and miserable time - if it comes across as preaching or condescending then that is unintentional. If it comes across as braggadocios alpha-male bullshit then that is not intended either. I was a soldier for nearly a decade and I guess that colors how I look at a lot of situations. Here goes:

1. Adopt A Survivor Mentality.

There are some extraordinary stories of people that have survived in the face of incredible odds against them. I am talking about being stranded in the wilderness or adrift at sea - that kind of a thing. There has been a certain amount of academic research and a number of books filled with awe-inspiring stories. Movies too; "127 Hours" is a recent example that comes to mind. Those that survive exhibit a number of common personality traits. Fortitude and an absence of self-pity are among them, but the one that really resonated with me is: Acceptance. Those that got their heads down and prevailed against an awful situation accepted the hand that they had been dealt. That was just how it happened to be for them. They accepted that this was the situation that they'd got themselves into, they accepted what resources (or more importantly what constraints) they had, and they made the best of what they had to work with. Getting frustrated or angry about things that you simply cannot change is an enormous waste of energy. Save that energy for something that will actually help you.

2. Put It In Perspective.

I am wary of becoming preachy here so I will keep it short: there are many, many people whose lives are a fuck's-sight worse than yours. Nothing highly original here, but what put it in perspective for me was reading a well-written book about somebody roughly the same age as me who is having an altogether different, and worse, experience. Apart from the fact that reading is an enjoyable and enriching escape - even for 20 minutes before bed, it can also give you tremendous perspective. [I had the Kindle app downloaded onto my work computer, and sometimes inconspicuously read between 9am and 3pm while I was waiting for a turn of edits]. "Unbroken" and "Matterhorn" are two books that I recently read. I also taped a small picture of Nelson Mandella to my monitor. When I was really hating life I thought about what he described in "The Long Walk to Freedom" and it put things in perspective for me. Once one of the Directors asked me who the picture was of - I told him it was my uncle and he seemed to believe me, the ignorant fuck.

3. Rationalize 2 Years.

I know its hard when you are there, and at the time of being an Analyst its not much less than a tenth of your life, but two years really is not a long time. If you get caught with a small amount of weed and are unlucky you can get sent to prison for more than two years, soldiers go to Afghanistan for nearly 18 months. I know that these are downbeat examples but you can get through two years if you can keep the end in sight and break it down into chunks. I created a fancy spreadsheet with loads of date functions that broke down how far through my stint I was and how much money I had made so far. This can sap your morale as well as boost it so decide for yourself and obviously never let anyone see it! Two years all at once can seem overwhelming so break it down into milestones that work for you: Thanksgiving, when bonuses get paid, your one-year point - whatever. Focus on getting to the next milestone and then pick another one. Somehow it makes things seem a tiny bit less shit.

4. Be Strong.

carry yourself with purpose and aplomb - do not look like a victim and never complain. It is a shitty life right now - everyone knows that it is. The Analysts that tearfully drag themselves about the floor like zombies mark themselves down as bitches and it becomes a downward spiral of disrespect from there. It is an ugly, "Lord of the Flies", side of human nature and I am not endorsing it but if you mope around and visibly hate every moment then it gets noticed and it becomes the legacy that you do not want.

5. Create Options.

If your current job genuinely is the only current opportunity that you have for gainful employment, then yes that sucks and you feel trapped. Forgive me for the blunt analogy, but being a junior investment banker is in some ways akin to being in an abusive relationship. You can be the victim that's trapped in the trailer park and regularly beaten by your drunken spouse and for as long as you let it be so that will be your life until such a time as you chose to make it otherwise. Nobody will help you get out, nobody cares and the cycle of victimhood will be perpetuated for as long as you let it. I'm not saying its easy to switch jobs, and as we all know, it takes time, persistence and good fortune to make a smart career move. But every outreach, every networking email, every informal coffee meeting creates optionality for you and makes you feel a little bit less trapped each time you make some headway. There are alternatives and if you proactively go out there after them, each small success even if it doesn't directly result in a job opportunity will take you down the road and make you feel a bit less trapped by where you are now.

6. Think Creatively About Your Career.

I accept that this might not the same for everyone, but I found that the abject crapness of being an M&A Associate actually made me really think a lot more than I ever had before about what I valued in life and what I wanted from it. Despite working 100-hour weeks, in what little downtime I had, I actually was able to think incredibly sharply about the career that I wanted and what interested and motivated me. No longer having the luxury of idle time for thought made me use what scarce time I had very carefully. I tagged ideas, whims and fantasies in Evernote (both on my browser and on my iPhone) and this led me to my current career (soft commodities) and pursuits (for example Krav Maga and cookery) that would probably never have occurred to me beforehand. I also went through my alumni network, a handful of headhunters and LinkedIn to build a CRM database in Zoho of people that I wanted to make contact with. It was surprising how much progress I could make even just putting in an hour or two a week - people were also very understanding about my current situation.

7. Exotic Jobs.

If you are pre-MBA and really need to re-set after a couple of years as an Analyst, I would encourage you to think about parlaying your skills into a business-related function but for an altogether different organization. I'm thinking places like Peace Corps, MSF, Red Cross, War Child, LeapFrog Investments etc. People with business, finance and consulting experience are in demand in such places - friends of mine have worked at all of the above. Pros: its only a year or two commitment, it gives you a chance to live healthily and get tan, if you're in any way bullish on emerging markets its great exposure, you get irreplaceable experience in a foreign country, your MBA application essays are going to write themselves. Unless you are smitten to taking your chances with a mega LBO-fund (which with all due respect I don't sense that you are) I really don't think that it is going to hurt your career in the long run, and on the contrary could open a lot of doors in interesting parts of the world where there are some fantastic opportunities to participate in their economic growth.

8. Heroes And Mentors.

When I was on my second tour in Iraq, a 36-year old Major that I knew was killed by a roadside bomb. He was ten years older than I was at the time, and left behind a wife and a couple of infant children. It was around this time that I decided a long-term career in the military was not what I wanted. It's a bit of a stark example, but my point is to look at guys who are a bit further ahead in the same career as you are now in. Ask yourself whether you would want their life, and whether you would want to go through what they did to get there. Perhaps you do, in which case it is fairly clear-cut what needs to be done next. If you balk at it then that's a message to you - it's a message to start redirecting your career to somewhere that you do want to take it. Additionally, I cannot be too encouraging of seeking a professional mentor.

You'll get differing opinions from everyone, but what has worked well for me is NOT reaching out to some crusty septuagenarian who plays golf with your Dad - this rarely works unless he is exorbitantly well-connected and happens to love you like a son. Find someone with whom you have some commonality who is 4 to 6 years further in his or her career than you are. Use your alumni network, LinkedIn, WSO whatever. Pick someone that you are able to meet in person in NYC or whichever city you live in. Buy them a beer and make it clear that you are not looking for them to find you a job - you are just grateful for their advice and suggestions. They will drop their guard when they realize that you are not trying to pump them to find your next job for you (as just about everyone else is) and if they are a half-way pleasant kind of a person they will take some satisfaction from giving you a leg-up and helping you get ahead in your career.

Other guys have commented on alcohol and office politics so I will only briefly add my 2c. I would advise against hitting the bottle too hard. Like you, I found it quite a good way to depressurize although it is obviously injurious to your health and can all too easily get out of control. Understand what a "high functioning alcoholic" is, and if you identify with any of the symptoms I'd recommend giving it a break for a bit. It won't do you any favors in the long run. The best move I made was not keeping any alcohol whatsoever in my apartment; when you get home at 5:30am you simply don't have the option of having a quick and easy nightcap before bed. I would also recommend, if you possibly can, talking to your Associate and appealing to them to manage you in as humane a way as they can.

Unless a direct promote, they have learnt all that leadership, man-management BS at business school and a sincere appeal for empathy ought not to fall on deaf ears if they are a half-way decent human being. I would try to send Analysts home early when I could, and I know that other Associates tried to as well. Ultimately it's a give-and-take relationship between Analysts and Associates - a bit of goodwill is always repaid before very long so you shouldn't be too hesitant about being asked for a small break now and then.