#fun and not that difficult to draw. who woulda thought

[chiefatticcreator]

original reddit thread here

[Comic books] That time Wonder Woman became a BDSM dictator and ruled the world, ending an entire series of comics

If I had a nickel for every time Wonder Woman launched a fascist state and took over the world, I'd have two nickels. Wait, no, there were the Justice Lords, so I'd have three. Oh, and the vampires, so four. Flashpoint also counts, so five. And I guess DCeased half counts, since she was a zombie dictator? Wait, there was also that time she became a Nazi after Hitler won...

OK, so I'd have a lot of nickels. Maybe Batman has been making contingency plans for the wrong friend.

But forget all those, because this time is special. Fascist Wonder Woman variants are a dime a dozen, but this particular one was sexy. Which apparently made it all OK, and her dictatorship was framed as a complete positive.

As per usual, I've included various TL;DRs in bold throughout in case (for some weird reason) you don't want to her about how Amazons conquered the world via hogtie. If you want to have extra fun, take a shot every time you see the phrase "submit to loving authority".

(You may have read this writeup before when I posted it in the scuffles thread a while back, because it didn't fit the requirements for a full post. I then read the rules, and realized I was a dumbass and that it did fit the rules. So, here we are.)

It takes one to Earth One

The Earth One concept was pretty simple: Streamlined, revamped versions of classic characters, given a few new twists, kinda like how Batman movies “start from the beginning” every few years with the basic stuff that everyone knows. It was a pretty clear attempt to copy the success of Marvel’s Ultimate Universe, with one major change: instead of being long running comic series, they’d be full graphic novels, written and illustrated by some of the best in the business. The obvious problem with that was that the best writers and illustrators needed a lot of time to make a full book, especially given that they had a full time job with other series in the meantime. That meant that the series has been going for twelve years, with only thirteen books released over that time, and certain characters having four to six year gaps in between each graphic novel. However, the comics were a success. Not a massive goldmine like Ultimate comics, but they all had pretty solid sales, and got high critical reviews. Turns out, giving skilled writers the time and space they need to achieve their vision produces some pretty good content. Who woulda thunk?

And then along came Morrison

Grant Morrison is one of the most successful and respected writers in comics today, known for taking on more difficult or philosophical narratives. They were placed in charge of Wonder Woman’s Earth One story, which came out several years after Batman’s and Superman’s. The first graphic novel was pretty much what people expected from Earth One: similar story with some fun new twists. Diana was canonically bi with a girlfriend now, fulfilling years of coding and hinting (also, all Amazons are super duper constantly gay), as well as being the offspring of a rape by Hercules (rather than a child of Zeus). She also got a relatively regular body, with more time being spent drawing her muscles than her boobs, so that was nice. Overall, it brought back a lot of the classic Golden Age version of Wonder Woman, like the frequent bondage (SFW) and weird ideas of what 1950s men thought feminism was, but in general, it was a good comic.

Side note, which is kind of disconnected but is too bizarre not to share: Morrison explained in an interview that

Wonder Woman’s Invisible Plane is now shaped like a vagina, it’s the most incredible thing. It opens up in the back and it has a little clitoris hood, everything is a female-based design. It’s all based on shells and natural stuff.

Honestly? Hell yeah. Pussy plane it is.

The real issues wouldn’t start until the second book, and would culminate in the third. Although the publishers of DC repeatedly hammered home the idea that Earth One comics would never cross over or impact one another, Grant Morrison stated they felt such a crossover was “inevitable”. That opposing idea may be partly behind the drama that unfolded next. If you don’t have the time or inclination to read all this, the best way to sum it all up is a quote from a review of it:

“Wonder Woman: Earth One Vol. 3" is literally the phrase "I want Wonder Woman to step on me" extended into an entire book.

TL;DR: Earth One was a series about classic DC heroes reimagined in a more modern world. It was never a smash hit, but maintains a steady popularity. Grant Morrison was in charge of Wonder Woman's Earth One version, and took her back to her 1940s roots.

The Plot (or lack thereof)

You can feel free to skip ahead past all this if you don't have the time or inclination to read. However, I highly recommend you do. Partly because it'll help you understand how truly bizarre this was, and partly because I must free myself of the curse of this knowledge by passing it on to another. And remember: no matter how crazy or wild this may sound, this recap is somehow less bizarre than the actual comic.

Wonder Woman Deuce (Both the number and quality)

The second books started off a bit weird, with Nazis invading Paradise Island, home of the Amazons. And they were lead by a weird sexy Nazi girl because of course they were. Surprising no one, the heavily militarized Amazons kick their asses using orgasm guns, and Queen Hippolyta told them that they would be taken to the “Space Transformer” where

They will be transported to Aphrodite’s world where Queen Desira and her butterfly-winged Venus Girls wait to purge them of their need for conflict. They will be taught to submit to loving authority. They will learn to embrace peace and obedience. They will be as happy as men can be.

Yes, that is a real, unedited quote. It was revealed that apparently, the Amazons had a magic butterfly black ops site where they’d be brainwashed. Not the most… ethical concept, but hey, it’s Nazis, who gives a fuck. Sexy Nazi girl then tries to take on Hippolyta, but has her entire body weakened by Hippolyta’s… aura of control? I guess? Hippolyta then gives her a magic girdle that encourages obedience, causing her to renounce Nazism, and tells her

If you truly long to be a slave to the ideas of others, well… we can find you a loving mistress to explore your desires in a healthier context.

Remember that thing about BDSM subtext from the first one? Yeah, it wasn’t really subtext anymore. Nazi lady (aka Paula) then developed an obsession with getting dominated by Diana. Remember that, because the thirsty Nazi submissive will be important later. (Sweet holy fuck above, what has my life come to? Why does this sentence exist?)

Oh, also, Wonder Woman’s pet kangaroo Jumpa was made canon, which automatically makes this the best comic of all time.

Speedrunning through the rest of the comic: Wonder Woman became a celebrity on Earth, pushing an idea of female empowerment (which included trans women because Wonder Woman is fucking based) and also encourage the submission of all men (because Wonder Woman is fucking based?). The whole thing came off as a bit ��Achieve all your dreams by buying my book and following these 11 principles for life, but there were some decent messages involved.

However, Leon Zeiko (aka Dr. Psycho), the most cartoonishly sexist man to ever exist, was hired by the US government (and a guy called Maxwell Lord) to seduce Diana and take her down. The government was threatened by the military and technological superiority of the Amazons, and wanted to take them out, or seize their knowledge.

Psycho pretends to be a harmless negotiator who Diana saves, and slowly seduces and draws her in, playing up how weak and helpless he is before her, before slowly starting to challenge her ideas. Some of his points are genuinely good (like how a society revolving around an ultimate authority using mind control and eugenics is a tad evil), which are immediately made meaningless by the uber sexism he then reveals in inner monologue or to the military. To get a general picture of how it went:

Psycho: Diana, you have to understand that people are going to be afraid of a bulletproof superhuman wielding a magic sword who says she's going to tear down their society. Just... take it a little slower. Also, maybe don't kill government officials. Psycho's inner monologue two seconds later: Foolish female, as all women are. She will be a slave to me, because that's what women should be. Consent is meaningless. I'm the bad guy.

With the military, Maxwell Lord builds the totally-not-Iron-Man, aka the Armed Response Environment Suits (get it? It’s like Ares, but it’s modern and related to the military industrial complex. Subtlety of a brick.)

Also, his Dr. Psycho villain name is revealed to be his username on their version of 4chan where he posts misogynistic Andrew Tate style rants. Honestly, as much as I hate most attempts to “modernize” comics, this is absolute gold and should always be canon.

Psycho then somehow proves immune to the lasso of truth, lying to Diana and turning her against Steve Trevor and her girlfriend. He then manages to lasso her and touch her creepily while she’s tied up. Surely that straight up sexual assault will impact Diana later, right? Believe it or not, no, it's just kinda forgotten. Also, he mind controls her, because he can do that I guess. Mind control Diana punched out Steve Trevor, and called her mom Hippolyta, who gave some vague shit about Diana being a weapon and her own impending death. Also, Nazi super lady was drawing swastikas everywhere, but I’m sure that won’t lead to anything.

The swastikas everywhere lead to something. Shocker.

Two seconds later, the Nazi girl confirms her mind control was activated via radio by Maxwell Lord and kills Hippolyta. Also, Hippolyta spends half her death talking about how “all is proceeding as planned”, which will definitely not lead to anything.

Mind controlled Diana gives a speech about needing to overthrow the world of men, giving Lord the power he needs to effectively launch a coup. Diana breaks out of it, her girlfriend beats Psycho’s head in, and Diana beats Nazi girl, who reveals the whole thing was because she was super turned on by the idea of Diana enslaving all men, and wanted to kick start that by killing her mom. Psycho is sent to the magic butterfly brainwashing dimension, and Diana declares war on the world of men.

It’s good to note that this was a first for Earth One books. They’d had continued plots across books before, but generally, each story could be read on its own (given that it could be years before the next one, and they were never 100% sure if they’d get to keep writing). So a big cliffhanger and completely unresolved story were very new.

TL;DR for the second book: Lots and lots of BDSM stuff happened. Diana got dominated by a super sexist guy and used to start a war, and her mom got killed by a Nazi submissive. Diana then beat the everloving shit out of everyone, and prepared to do the one thing that the Nazi girl wanted.

​

The Queen is dead! Long live the totalitarian state!

The third book kicks off with a utopia called Harmonia set a thousand years in the future, with “Diana Day'' celebrations preparing. The day celebrates the end of all patriarchy, and women taking charge. Also, every man shown in it is basically what Fox News anchors think gay men look like. A hooded speaker steps up to recite their history, of how they took power.

In the past, Diana cremates her mother, then goes to get advice from her butterfly mind control aunt, who tells her that

Long, long ago we tamed the beast in man. Here, as you’ve seen, our men are pampered and subdued creatures. Domesticated, content with their privileged lives, their all-consuming hobbies … perfect submission to a loving authority.

It’s basically a Tucker Carlson/Jordan Peterson speech about masculinity, but framed as a positive. Diana is then shown the imprisoned and tormented Dr. Psycho who tells her that her black ops brainwashing island is why everyone feared the Amazons, which… honestly, fair. Again, you really hate to agree with the guy, but they keep having him make perfectly reasonable statements in between all the insane sexism.

The Amazons then set out to recruit allies in the war, revealing that their entire cavalry rides kangaroos, which makes all other issues with the comic meaningless, because it’s the best thing ever. The leader of the rebel Amazons, Artemis, points out that a monarchy is probably no longer relevant, that the war is Diana’s own fault, and that Wonder Woman’s anti-violence stance doesn’t fit much for a person walking around with a sword and massive army. Aaaaand then she goes off the rails and starts talking about killing all men. Because Kirby forbid we have a single reasonable person in this story. Diana then defeats Artemis through the power of BDSM and making out, and gains her alliance.

Also, the Nazi girl is there too, and she’s super chill now guys. Because they believe pollution is worthy of death, but an ethnic cleansing is just quirky.

The battle of the sexes

Maxwell Lord then launches all of the ARES suits, and reveals that he is Ares! Whoa! Who could have guessed. He then has all the women protesting violently attacked and imprisoned, all while repeatedly mentioning “fake news”, “deep fake liberal media”, and all kinds of other political commentary with the subtlety and maturity of a brick through a window.

Then comes the massive battle. Mechanized suits of ultimate war against ancient Greek super soldiers. A devastating battle ensues, neck and neck with neither side having a clear advantage. A vicious struggle for their home, their people, the whole world, a story that had been built up since years ago–

Oh. It’s over in like two seconds. The Amazons realize the suits are piloted by remote control and unleash their full power, with Diana destroying nearly half personally. No Amazons died, because they have insta-heal ray guns.

The world is then 100% on Wonder Woman’s side because sure, I guess America is the only country that exists. She offers complete liberation and free shit for all women. On a side note, she mentions “the women of Lysistrata”, which enrages the classicist in me. Lysistrata wasn’t a place, it was the name of the play. It felt like they googled “Greek women stuff”, and just included it without reading the full Wikipedia entry.

Oh, we're still going? There's more "plot"?

Diana then goes on a spirit quest to Hades in order to get her mom back, which immediately fails. She almost dies, but Steve Trevor saves her. They kiss (which ruins the fucking point about this version of them having mutual respect instead of romance), and then he dies for some reason. They can’t use any of their magic healing on him because… unexplained reasons. I'm gonna be honest here, it felt like Morrison realized the day before the book was due that they needed five or six extra pages to get paid and went "Shit, shit, shit, uhhhhhh... people tell her not to go to Hades, she goes to Hades, she immediately fails".

Ares then sends a second, bigger robot, which lasts about five seconds longer, and he dies in the process. Diana reveals their island is actually a flying island, and goes forth to conquer the whole world, and bring them into submission to a loving authority (there it is again). Diana goes full dommy mommy on the world, and women seize power. There’s one mention of mind controlling half the population being “problematic”, and it’s never questioned again.

Remember that initial framing device, of the future utopia? It cuts in and out, showing a “manly party terrorist” coming into the speech with a suicide bomb, talking about how the Amazon takeover and control was morally wrong. He then talks about how the superior male sex should take over again, because there can’t be a single fucking rational person in this comic. He fails, because “You just can’t get good bomb parts in a utopia”, and is arrested by the “love police” to be taken to “reformation island”. He makes very valid points about how mind control is basically slavery, and how a matriarchy isn't much better than a patriarchy, but he's ugly and cowardly, so he's wrong. It basically gets reduced to "Nice argument, but I have drawn myself as the chad and you as the soyjak"

Also, Steve Trevor is alive again? There's no explanation for how the guy they specifically said could never be brought back to life got brought back to life. It ends with Diana showing that she’d used her mother’s indestructible heart with clay to sculpt herself a mother-daughter hybrid, because why not at this point?

TL;DR: Wonder Woman kicks the entire world's ass with the power of love and BDSM. Steve Trevor dies (but not really), Hippolyta dies (but only partially), and the entire world becomes a utopia ruled by women who have fucked men into submission.

Even more TL;DR: It's 1984 with pegging.

So, what the fuck did I just read?

William Marston, eat your heart out

Marston was the original writer for Wonder Woman, and Morrison heavily drew on his views while writing Earth One. As most people have pointed out, the entire Earth One debacle is basically what would happen if DC editorial hadn't stopped Marston from letting Wonder Woman conquer the world.

Marston's views on women and gender relations... exist. They certainly are things that a person believed. This would usually be the point where I talk about how the 1940s man had some really dated views on women, but Marston's views are genuinely bizarre enough to exist in a vacuum.

He was a pop psychologist (and inventor of the lie detector), who came up with a theory about human nature and sexuality based on studies with his wife and their polyamorous partner called DISC (Dominance, inducement, submission, and compliance). His wife and their mutual girlfriend were also a massive driving force behind Wonder Woman, and their theories were heavily influential on her and the Amazon society, as you can see here. Remember that "submission to loving authority" quote from earlier? Yeah, that was a direct quote from him.

It'd take way too long to get into his views, but the very short version is: Some people are submissive, some are dominant. Society would be super-duper cool if all the submissive people just realized that the dominant people were right, and let themselves get tied up. To his credit, he acknowledges women are every bit as capable of being dominant as men, and that men can (and should) submit to ferocious pegging loving authority.

OK, but why?

The fact that Grant Morrison chose to address Marston's beliefs shouldn't be all that surprising in retrospect. They have a history of taking weird elements from decades old comics and experimenting with them. The weird part is that... there's no "Morrison twist". There's no statement on it, no parody of Marston's values, no critique of 70 year old pseudo-science which has been widely discredited, and is very dubious on consent. It's just "Hey, remember this shite? It's right fuckin' weird mate."

In an interview, Morrison would say that

It wasn’t even so much about trying to be timely. It was about trying to honor Marston’s original vision, and saying, ‘What would this really be like?’ The Wonder Woman: Earth One books are very much set in a contemporary, believable world. The simplicity here is about what would happen if Marston’s ideas were taken seriously, and some of those are very strange ideas.

Ok, yeah, but why? "The guy obsessed with bondage wanted everyone to be in bondage" isn't exactly a surprising twist. Not to mention, again, Marston's views on sexual consent really aren't great. People have also pointed out that choosing to make Steve Trevor a black American, then having Diana lecture him on how him being bound and submissive is the rightful order has some really fucking messed up implications. Finally, there's no mention of what happened to gay or asexual people. Again, while it probably wasn't intentional "gay men get sent to a camp where they're 'fixed' and are sexually submissive to women" has some... troubling implications.

Personally, my thought is that somebody snuck LSD into their lunch for months, but we’ll never really know.

(It’s also more than a little ironic that an author who is proudly and openly nonbinary created a future divided squarely between men and women, with no mention of what happened to everybody else).

TL;DR: William Marston, Wonder Woman's original creator had a bunch of views on sexuality and dominance that he included in his comics, which Morrison then picked up. However, many of those concepts are deeply fucked up, and Morrison plays them entirely straight with no real critique. The only guy who questions them is the uber-sexist who gets mocked and basically raped.

​

Wait, why don't people hate this?

I find it truly, utterly, and deeply hilarious that all the Gamergate and Comicsgate people who have been whining about "muh women taking over" have apparently all ignored the comic which has literal feminazis in it. There is a woman. Wearing swastikas. Who says all men must be conquered. And the edgelord crowd just kinda... ignored it.

As for the rest of fans, while a decent number of people pointed out the myriad weird shit involved, everyone else... well, it's Wonder Woman in high heels stepping on you and telling you to put on the leash and submit. It checks a lot of boxes.

And, to be fair, it had some absolutely gorgeous artwork and fight scenes, so you could just kinda skim over the pretty pictures and purposefully block out all the weird shit in the speech bubbles. There's also a decent number of people who think that Morrison did a good job exploring Marston's ideas. As you may have noticed (although it was subtle), I strongly disagree with that, but to each their own.

Finally, there are the fans who just went "Man, this is an absolutely batshit kinkfest with kangaroo armies and sororities undermining the government, hell yeah". Honestly, nothing but respect for those people. DC can often wallow in grimdark and grit, so it's nice to get a bright and fun comic that revels in the weirdness of the medium.

Goodbye Earth One

This also functionally may very well end the entire Earth One line. Green Lantern could continue in space, and they managed to squeak out the third Batman a few months later (because it was already 99% done, and they just said it was set a little while before Wonder Woman). The issue is pretty obvious: if Wonder Woman established a global utopia free of crime and struggle, there’s really nothing for anyone else to do. Gotham is a lot less dark and gritty for Batman when the Riddler is too busy putting on his catboy costume to rob a bank.

They may decide to go the same route as before, and just retcon that the Wonder Woman story takes place years after everyone else’s stories, but the future is left uncertain. The creators for Batman Earth One mentioned that they thought they were continuing the story, and had plans for the future. In a particularly shitty move, DC didn't tell them that the Batman series was canceled until after the third book was released, which may spell the end for the whole series. They had also been planning an Earth One Aquaman book, but insiders have revealed that it was most likely scrapped and repurposed for other comics. DC is keeping quiet on it, and is claiming they'll release the same Flash book they've been promising for years, but they may use Wonder Woman as an excuse to end the line.

​

So, I guess the moral of the story is that if you want to have a successful authoritarian state, just make all its rulers hot dominant women in speedos and people will be cool with it.

Edit: I can't believe that I almost forgot the best part of it all. This was Morrison's last comic with DC. After decades of working there, Morrison agreed to make one final comic... then went "Hey, Diana fucks now, deal with it", dropped the mic, and left.

[pact-valkyrie]

bad posture queen resents her own redemption arc. more at 6

[livesincerely]

[Bits & Bobs] take a shot (but how's your aim?)

For the life of him, Jack can’t figure out how the situation went south so quickly.

Tucked underneath his arm, Maggie pushes a bit of corn nervously around her plate and says, “So, how do you all know Jack?”

It’s her fourth attempt at starting a conversation, and it goes about as well as all the others have. The boys remain silent, throwing each other side-along looks or ducking their heads towards the table; Racetrack goes as far as to let out a dismissive snort.

Thoroughly fed up, Jack aims a kick under the table at Albert, who’s closest. Albert grits his teeth but he still doesn’t answer. Jack kicks him again, even harder.

“We’s all Newsies,” Al says shortly. “So we live together and we work together.”

Maggie latches onto this barren statement like a life line.

“And what’s being a Newsie like?” she asks eagerly. “It must be exciting, getting to roam the city, meeting different people everyday—“

“It ain’t exactly fun and games,” Racetrack scornfully interrupts. “It’s workin’ in the sun all day and gettin’ spat at and havin’ta fight for weeks justa get treated decent by folks who should know bett’r.”

“Oh,” Maggie says. “Of course. The strike.” She takes a breath and determinedly continues, “Yeah, it was incredible! The work you all did—you inspired so many people! How did you manage to keep protesting? It must of been really difficult—“

“I thought ya said ya worked at The World?” Racetrack says, cutting Maggie off again. “You must not be payin’ enough attention—it was front page news.”

“Race,” Jack says in warning.

“I’m just sayin’, it was right there in black and white.”

“Racetrack, I swear to god—“

It’s Davey that saves the day. “So, Maggie,” he forcefully interjects, a smile plastered woodenly across his face. “Tell us a little more about yourself.”

Maggie blinks at the sudden friendliness after a half hour of painful silence and cutting remarks. Tentatively she answers, “I’m one of the type setters in the inking office. It’s a good position—they need girls with small fingers to adjust some of the fiddly bits on the different machines.”

Davey nods. “You must be good with your hands,” he offers. “Is that a knitting project, there in your bag?”

Maggie looks startled, then pleased at change in topic. “Oh, yes! I’m working on a scarf for my Grandmother.”

“Ain’t it a little hot for a scarf?” Romeo comments, to no one in particular.

“But it’s never too early to get started,” Davey firmly redirects before things can turn sour. “You know, Buttons here is really into crafts and such.”—Buttons glances up, clearly surprised at being thrown into the conversation—“I’m sure he’d love to hear more about it.”

Buttons mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Jack to make out. Then it looks like Davey pinches him just under the armpit.

“...What kinda needles are you using?” Buttons reluctantly asks.

Maggie answers, her enthusiasm starting to grow as the conversation continues more or less smoothly, and Buttons expression turns grudgingly interested.

Jack attempts to throw Davey a grateful smile but can’t quite catch his eye for some reason. He makes a mental note to do something nice for him, as a thanks for not being a complete ass like everyone else.

Speaking of everyone else, Jack uses the moment of calm to look around at the others.

It’s a sea of dissatisfaction: Albert’s wearing a sullen frown, Racetrack’s got his arms crossed over his chest, Specs is doing that thing where he keeps cleaning and re-cleaning his glasses, Crutchie keeps glancing at him like he’s lost his damn mind— what the hell is wrong with everyone? Even Katherine seems to be in a bad mood, though she’s doing a slightly better job at hiding it, lips pursed and fingers drumming against the table’s edge.

Jack’s still trying to figure it all out when the sound of his name catches his attention.

“—I’ll have to see about making something for Jackie too,” Maggie is saying, and she tugs playfully at Jack’s collar. “Maybe some fingerless gloves, so he can wear them while he draws.”

“Aw, you don’t gotta go outta your way for me, Mags,” Jack says.

“It’s not going out of my way,” Maggie says. “I want to do something nice for my boyfriend.”

She leans up a kisses him, a sweet little peck on the lips.

There’s a clatter and the screech of silverware scraping against ceramic. Jack pulls away just in time to watch Davey jump to his feet—it looks like he’s upended his plate all down his front.

“Excuse me,” Davey mumbles to the floor. “I just, I gotta—“ He makes a beeline towards the bathrooms.

Jack leans forward in his chair, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Racetrack shoots him a truly venomous look and Jack falls back into his seat before he’d really even begun to stand.

“I’ll go help him,” Racetrack declares, then darts up to follow Davey.

“Is everything alright?” Maggie asks uncertainly.

“I’m sure Racetrack’s got it handled,” Jack says, though he’s not too sure himself.

Without Davey to facilitate, the conversation stutters and stalls. Maggie hesitantly asks Katherine about her latest article; Katherine has the decency to answer her, though her expression is still incredibly pinched around the edges.

Jack lingers for a few minutes, knee bouncing the entire time. He says, “I’m gonna see about gettin’ another glass of water,” then gets up before anyone can stop him. He heads towards the front counter, glances behind him to see if anyone’s watching, then sneaks over to the bathroom.

He lifts a hand to knock, opens his mouth to say, “Are you doin’ alright in there?” but the sound of Racetrack’s voice makes him pause.

“—it’s gotta be hard on ya.”

“Of course it’s fucking hard,” Davey replies, and Jack’s shocked at the bitterness in his tone. “But you guys aren’t making it any easier.”

Racetrack again, low and soothing. “We just want ya to know we got your back.”

Davey laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “That wasn’t having my back, Race, that was making me do all the work when I’m the one who shouldn’t have to!”

Silence. Jack cranes his head even closer, ears straining to hear.

“Davey,” Racetrack starts, and there’s a world of apology in his voice. “Davey you gotta know, if I’da known, if any of us had any clue, we never woulda—“

“I know, Race.” Davey says quietly. “I know, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. We were just... wrong, I guess.”

There’s a sound like a sob, then Davey’s voice comes again, quivering and wet. “I just feel like such an idiot—“

“Oh, Davey.”

[icyharrington]

Xavier x female reader x Ray, getting caught by Montana and Brooke and Chet. Reader has handcuffs and a bong.

okay so i forgot to incorporate the whole handcuffs thing but uummm yea. lol 

tagging @voidkasey @gremlinkween @our-mrlangdon @alinastrawberry @kpopmademedo-it @alicecooper20 @wroteclassicaly @thebrunchbitch @hecohansen31 @smolbwean @bigstudentpatrolbonk @anemia-doll @s7venwonders @melodylangdon @xoxoeevee @junebennett @bloodyantichrist @softmoonboi @mallorys-winter @imjustasadhoe @aradevil @aradevil @venusxxlangdon @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @trelaney @langdonsboots @rosesometimeswrites @gracebtw @1-800-bitchcraft @codycrazy @littledemondani @bahsasblog @monster-manual-5e @billielourdings @confettucini @thewalkingtrenchcoats

wc: 1.3k 

pairing: xavier plympton x ray powell x reader

warnings: m/m/f threesome, vaginal sex (spitroasting), blowjobs (m/m and f/m), handjobs

 //

“Truth.”

Ray looks up at you from under dark eyelashes, thumb flicking at the lighter as he positions his lips over the mouth of the bong. He takes the hit like a champ, sucking an impressively massive tuft of smoke into his lungs without so much as a grimace.

When the last of the gray smoke has left his throat, amalgamating with the rest of the dreary fog that hangs low within the walls of Xavier’s van, he screws up his face in thought.

“Was kinda hoping you’d say dare.” He tilts his head to one side, passing the bong to Xavier, whose hooded blue eyes are already droopy and bloodshot. “Okay, I got one. It’s lame though. Out of everyone in the group, who would you most wanna bang?”

Too high to scoff at the perverted childishness of his question, you actually think about it for a minute. You’re deep into staring at Ray’s expectant expression, admiring the smoothness of his velvet-deep skin and fullness of his lips, when you accidentally let it slip: “You.”

His eyes widen and you hear Xavier laugh, low and lazy, into the mouth of the bong. Your heart skips a beat once it registers what you’ve said, but the pot has made it near impossible to care.

“No shit! Never woulda guessed.” You can tell Ray is trying to suppress a self-satisfied grin, white teeth digging into his plump lower lip. “Honestly was expecting you to say Chet.”

“I was expecting you to say me,” interjects Xavier with a joking twinge to his voice, one hand positioned behind his head, handing the bong to you. “And to be totally honest, I’m a little offended.”

You stare down at the bong, for a moment forgetting how to use it, and you wonder whether the hazy atmosphere of the van is due to the amount of smoke that’s built up, or your intoxicated state.

“Aw, don’t be, Xavy Gravy,” you nearly slur, using the intentionally cringe-worthy nickname you’d thought up for him when you’d first met. “I’d totally fuck you too.”

Xavier’s lips fall open into an exaggerated look of surprise. “You would?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “Why not?” You’re being serious, too. You have a thing for guys who wear earrings.

Ray stretches, the hem of his shirt lifting and exposing a sliver of his smooth, sculpted tummy, and you find yourself licking your lips (and maybe it’s just the weed, but you could’ve sworn you just saw Xavier do the same).

“I mean, we’re all alone, right?” Ray says, eyes flashing from you to Xavier and then back again as he moves to lift his shirt up over his head. “Why don’t we try it out?”

Xavier’s pink lips curl up into a mischievous smirk, his cross-shaped drop earring swaying as he turns to poise an eyebrow at you.

For a moment, you’re almost apprehensive, before the feeling is overtaken with a much more poignant wave of arousal. There are two good-looking guys in front of you propositioning a threesome; you’d be an idiot to turn them down.

You grin. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

//

“I ain’t ever gotten head from a dude before,” Ray says, looking down to Xavier, who’s craning his neck up from where he lays to take one of his balls into his mouth.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” mumbles Xavier against Ray’s sensitive skin before delving back in, one large hand moving to entangle with your hair. Xavier’s on his back with Ray knelt by his head, while you’re settled on your stomach, using one arm to prop yourself up while you use the other to pump your fist up and down the blonde’s thick cock; Ray looks almost godlike as he jerks himself above Xavier, his head falling back as a moan of ecstasy escapes his full lips; You’re mesmerized, observing the way Xavier’s apt tongue forms shapes along the underside of the dark-haired man’s enormous erection, and quickly you come to the conclusion that this can’t have been the first time he’s done something like this.

Letting go of Xavier’s length, you spit crudely into your palm before resuming your prior motions, this time moving exponentially faster than before.

Xavier hums contentedly, the vibrations traveling to Ray’s cock, who groans and reaches down to grip tightly at the head of tousled blond hair beneath him.

“Shit, man, you gotta slow down. I’m about to bust and I still wanna fuck (y/n),” Ray sputters, drawing his hips back slightly. You and Xavier let out a unanimous giggle, your (e/c) eyes matching with his, and he shoots you a seductive wink.

“I’m that good?” he drawls, voice husky, causing Ray to groan in frustration when he pulls away. “Go on, then. Lemme see you fuck the shit out of (y/n).”

Ray stands, and eagerly you roll onto your back, making quick work of your linen shorts and flinging them across the van. You can hardly believe this is really happening, but it’s all moving too quickly for your drugged-out mind to comprehend, so you decide to just go with the flow.

“I don’t like you in that position,” Xavier remarks, coming up behind you to flip you back onto your front with ease; you nearly moan aloud at the rough feeling of his calloused hands on your sides, looking up at the blonde with wide, innocent eyes as he kneels before you. “C’mon, sweetie. Let’s see how well you can suck dick with a cock inside you.”

You take the cue to shift onto all fours, arching your back for Ray, whose hard-on is resting against your inner thigh. He places a hand on your hip before easily sliding his cock inside you, all the way to the hilt, until you can feel his balls slapping harshly against the tops of your thighs. You scream out, mouth falling open at the intrusion, tight walls stretching wider than you’d ever experienced before; Xavier takes the opportunity to shove his cock deep into your throat, muffling your cries as Ray begins to adapt to a fast, hard rhythm of thrusts.

You suck Xavier’s cock to the best of your ability, but it’s difficult, with Ray pounding into you like his life depends on it. You gurgle pathetically, a string of spit dripping from your lower lip and down your chin, knees raw and red from pressing into the hard floor.

“Fuck yeah, take my cock,” Ray murmurs under his breath, his fingers digging into your hips so harshly you’re sure you’ll have a few bruises to show for it tomorrow. “Taking me so good.”

You’re so wrapped up in the pleasure that you almost don’t notice the stream of soft evening light that cuts through Xavier’s dimly lit van, your eyes only opening when Xavier removes his cock from your mouth, sending you into sputters.

“Ho. Lee. Shit,” comes Montana’s voice, and you fall forward, scrambling around to face the source of light; to your horror, it isn’t just Montana standing outside the van: she also has Brooke and Chet in tow. Xavier and Ray scramble for their clothes, the van bobbing back and forth at the sudden rapid movement of three bodies. “I just made a joke about you guys having a threesome, but I didn’t really think it’d actually happen!”

She sounds almost gleeful, bouncing on the balls of her feet while Chet stares forward, emotionless; Brooke looks vaguely traumatized.

“We’ve been looking for you guys. We were starting to worry that you got captured by Mr. Jingles or something.”

“Ha, nope,” Xavier mutters, a flush of pink dusting his porcelain cheeks. Ray can hardly speak, his gaze fixed on the floor, refusing to face the very same people who’d just been face-to-face with his bare ass and balls.

“Well, now that we know you’re safe… don’t let us ruin your fun!” Montana wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before partially shutting the door of the van, poking her head through the open gap that remains. “Be safe, kids!”

And with that, she slams it all the way shut.

You almost would rather that Mr. Jingles had been the one to find you.

[softlunars]

unholy.

60 things ; things you said that i wish you hadn’t & things you said with clenched fists. — bang chan ; stray kids

demon au! —fallen angel!chan x demon!reader

requested: [yes!]

(a/n): “nunc ostende te” is latin for “now show yourself.” i didnt,,, wanna look up an actual demon summon cause i’m a whole ass scaredy cat so that’s the most i did sjzknaksmz

technically, chan shouldn’t be doing this. he shouldn’t be drawing a pentagram on his apartment floor. he shouldn’t be opening a summoning book. and he definitely shouldn’t be flipping to the demons section of said book.

this would’ve all applied to him if he still had wings on his back. but he didn’t — they were clipped off months ago, and chan was sent to tumble down to the earth, forced to make his own path from then on. did it bother him? well, maybe if he thought about it enough, it would. he doesn’t allow himself to drift off to the past, though; things are left in the past for a reason, and sometimes, they’re better off there — to be forgotten.

chan thumbed through the demons section, his eyes flitting across the hundreds of pages until he found what he was looking for.

how to summon a demon.

he scanned the page, looking for the ceremony that had to take place. he skipped over the descriptions of demons — different types, kinds of powers, different demon specialities. chan wasn’t interested in all that; he just wanted to summon a demon. did he have any reason? no, not really. maybe he wanted to spite God further or something, he didn’t know.

the book, which was filled with descriptions of supernatural beings and different summons, materialized in front of him in the early dawn. the ancient literature acted as if it were a magnet, reeling in chan’s interest until he finally picked it up. which is how he found himself in the middle of a pentagram.

he set the book down, outside of the pentagram’s reach. a nervous huff of air left him. why the hell was he doing this? he didn’t want to come face to face with a soul-eating creature from the depths of hell, and he certainly didn’t want to be ripped to shreds before his soul followed suit.

chan continued anyways. he’s already finished the preliminary setup — there was no legitimate reason to stop now.

he took a deep breath in a futile effort to relieve his nerves. was chan stupid? going through with this, yes, he most likely was. did he lose his mind? most definitely.

chan took a quick glance at the sentences he needed to utter. he had to get them right; if he didn’t, he might as well sell his soul to the actual devil.

he began the chant, albeit very shakily. chan was certain he was going to die tonight. his few months spent on earth were going to abruptly end as soon as he finished.

“nunc ostende te.” as he uttered the final sentence, chan snapped his eyes open. if he were going to die right now, he might as well look his killer in the eyes.

the dim flicker of the candles’ flames were the only things he could see. nothing moved, nothing changed, not even the air felt different — something chan thought to be the first aspect to dramatically shift after chanting a summon this dark.

he breathed a sigh of relief. thank the heavens that didn’t work.

the candles were extinguished. the air became bitingly cold. and suddenly, chan feared for his life.

“i don’t know who’s coming out but you don’t have to show yourself — i’d be more than happy to just go to sleep.” he spoke into the still air, trying to convince whatever spirit entered his apartment to leave him the hell alone.

“you summoned me, man. it’s your fault you asked for a demon.” a dark voice bounced off his living room walls. as it stopped speaking, a body materialized at the edge of the pentagram. well, chan thought, it was a nice couple months.

the gaze that met his eyes was apathetic, empty and almost… entertainingly bored. there were no visible horns, no bats’ wings or pointy tail chan could make out. if he didn’t know any better, he’d assume the person in front of him was just a mortal.

you spoke again, this time with an amused edge decorating your speech. “i don’t take fallen angels’ souls, if that’s why your mind’s traveling twenty trillion miles an hour. i don’t even collect souls in general, dude. i just fuck with people.”

“how did you know i’m a fallen angel?” chan’s eyes glinted with a curious apprehension; he knew demons could read minds — angels were granted that ability, as well — but he didn’t know they could differentiate immortal beings from mortal ones. this was something angels weren’t granted the gift to do. unless they made themselves known to each other, angels weren’t able to tell supernatural from human.

“you got a funny aura ‘round you. i usually only see that with fallen angels or whatever. but what’s a former God’s kiss-ass doing in the middle of a pentagram?” you raised an eyebrow conspicuously. the few times you were summoned before, you’d only been greeted by a handful of fallen angels. their reasoning for summoning such a dark creature was simple — they were bored and wanted to tell their former ruler to “fuck off.”

chan shrugged his shoulders at your question. he didn’t have a response; he didn’t even know why he did it himself. your head rolled back on your shoulders as a sharp laugh echoed throughout the room.

“your thoughts are fucking hilarious, just thought i should tell ya.” your comment made a blush furiously form on chan’s face. maybe this was a really shitty idea.

“listen, fallen angel, i gotta make other rounds, so i’m gonna strike a deal with ya.” you watched as your summoner’s eyebrows rose, prompting you to continue.

“i ain’t gonna do some typical demon shit, alright? but i wanna mark ya — it isn’t a bad thing, man, calm down!” you really were entertained by this. what a hell of a fun time this was making itself out to be!

chan’s eyes squinted as he stared you down. he had his apprehensions, of course — he didn’t know what the hell a mark was; he was never taught that! what if this was a way for you to siphon his soul from him, bit by bit, until you drained it from his body entirely?

“it’s just so i’m the only demon that’s allowed near ya. no one else can come anywhere close to you with this. so, while you’re protected from other nasty lil’ shits, you got your own lil’ shit that can annoy you until the end of the universe.” you observed the former angel’s face, gauging his reaction to your offer. you were pleasantly surprised when he nodded his head.

“fine. mark me.”

after you marked the fallen angel, you found yourself constantly appearing at his side. he would almost jump out of his skin every time, which always provided you with an intense laughing session.

you learned quite a bit about chan. you were informed about the difficult schooling he was put through as a child; he’d reveal small bits and pieces about his life in the clouds, like how one time he almost made a fellow angel kick his ass past recognition.

“i was a really shitty angel, now that i think about it.” chan laughed out once, on one of the times you accompanied him at nightfall. “maybe you shoulda been born a demon.” you had joked that night, but chan took it harsher than you intended. the shift in his emotions was evident, as he turned colder toward you until you left him alone for the following week.

you chose your words more carefully after that night. sure, you were a demon — a supernatural entity born for the sole purpose of evil. but being a creature formed from pure hatred didn’t hinder the conscience you owned, regardless of how small it was.

your efforts weren’t always fruitful. tonight was one of those times.

chan had turned colder than ice just moments before, a comment you made angering him once more. the fallen angel became mute, barely even acknowledging you were still in his apartment. it hurt your feelings — pissed you off more than anything. you never intended to attack him with your choice of words. but, regardless of how cautious you were, so many things seemed to set chan off.

“chan, i dunno what your whole… issue or whatever is, but you ain’t gotta be a dick to me ‘cause of it.” you felt the boiling pit in your stomach grow as chan turned to face you. if looks could kill, both of you would have been reduced to dust.

“my problem, (y/n), is your heartless comments about how i ‘should’ve been born in hell.’ i was born an angel for a reason, just like you were born a demon for a reason.” his voice sliced through the air, making the fire in your stomach pour out. if chan wanted to see why you were a demon, oh, was he going to see why.

“okay, kid. your wings were torn off your back for a reason, and you wanna know why? ‘cause you fucking failed at being an angel! you couldn’t appease God, you couldn’t reach the standards he set. you. fucked. up.” your aura darkened as you continued spitting words at chan. flames seemed to form around your body as your fury fueled you.

“which means, angel boy, that you weren’t cut out to stay behind those damn pearly gates! you weren’t a good fit. you weren’t meant to stay at God’s ‘holy fucking side.’”

chan’s gaze filled with hatred and indignation as your jabs reached his ears. how dare you say that to him? how dare you act as if you know anything about heaven, about God?

his fists clenched and unclenched by his side as he listened to your tyraid. finally, chan snapped after your last insult hung in the air.

“you might as well have been banished to hell, ‘cause at least you woulda been surrounded by people who fucked up just as bad as you did, and people who were just as shitty as you.”

“stop acting as if you know anything about heaven. you’re a lowlife demon, for fucks sake!” his words felt hotter than the flames that licked at your skin down in hell.

“you’re the scum of the supernatural world. you hold no good in your heart, no light in your soul — nothing!” you watched as the glint in his eye grew into a ball of fire, aimed to hit you and reduce you to nothing.

“God wanted me at one point, which is the difference between you and i. someone wanted me, no one ever wanted you.”

chan’s words slammed into your brain. these thoughts — they weren’t new to you. you were well aware that no one wants a demon around. no one would ever want a demon around.

you could easily push those facts to the side if you or a fellow demon voiced them. but hearing them from chan, a former angel, someone God handpicked to serve him, lit you up.

“you’re just as terrible as us demons. you have no fucking soul, bang chan.”

“you deserve to rot in hell, just like the rest of us.”

with that, you disappeared from chan’s apartment. the fallen angel never saw you again.

[kawaiikatanabushi]

Belated

I know I'm late. I am so belatedly late, I am ashamed. I have been bombarded with struggles, migraines and other reality issues. I know it's no excuse, but I thought Saito-san would allow me a belated birthday story! Set in a modern day AU where touken ranbu swords are sons to their masters. Please enjoy this incredibly late piece! I love you, Hajime-kun! Happy (very late) birthday you tofu loving beauty!

"Happy Birthday, Cousin Hajime!" Two small voices chorused upon opening his apartment door.

Blue met green as Saito Hajime quirked a brow to Okita Souji, who was smiling all-too-innocently. The quiet swordsman sighed, and refrained from rolling his eyes.

"My birthday is February, Souji. March has just begun,"

"Daddy didn't remind us, or else we woulda made you this tofu cake a whole lot sooner," squeaked out the voice of Yamatonokami, whose younger brother Kashuu cut him a glare.

"Yami! That's a surprise!" Kashuu corrected with a hiss.

Saito smiled down goodnaturedley to the two Okita boys. Oftentimes, he was at a loss around children. They were irrational and difficult to maneuver, yet the sons of his cohorts, even the bodacious Izuminokami who was recently four and had a mouth rivaling the speed of a bullet train, always managed to put a smile on his face. Perhaps, it was the reflection of their fathers within them that endeared him to them. Yamatonokami certainly had Souji's playfulness and Kashuu was just as shrewd as his father at the tender age of five.

"Why don't you all come in?" Saito offered politely, stepping aside in the doorway, "It's rather chilly today,"

"Thank you for your hospitality," the two young boys chirped in tandum, bowing slowly before giddily hopping into the tidy apartment.

Souji cast his friend an indulgent smirk, his arms laden down with assorted boxes and bags.

"You spotted the saké, nee, Hajime-kun?" He questioned his friend, a brow arched playfully.

"I suppose you intend to stay the night?" Saito replied with an inquiry of his own, a smirk pulling at the corner of his own lips.

"Their futons are in the car," Souji responded, wriggling his eyebrows with a devious smile, "Once their asleep, the real fun begins,"

His friend brushed past him, handing Saito half the load upon entry. It was atypical, but that gave it a sense of familiarity. If anything, the familial atmosphere warmed his heart and gave him a fond feeling of belonging. It was enough of a gift to him, knowing that he was unconditionally adopted as cousin Hajime. Though a second cousin by blood to Yamatonokami only, he firmly adhered to the title. It held a powerful persuasion should the Okita brothers start a tussle. If cousin Hajime was displeased, everyone was.

His tidy apartment was soon decorated in a bombardment of homespun decorations. Crooked origami animals, paper lanterns and children's drawings were taped about sporadically, giving disorderly joys. Hajime found himself smiling continuously. He even allowed Kashuu to place a paper hat upon his head. The group of four made a humble and enjoyable party. The boys shared funny stories from school, they played charades and Souji feigned ineptitude with nearly every game. It was a refreshing sight, seeing Souji so at ease with his sons. Recently, he had been more snide and stiff at the dojo. Hajime wondered if the presence of Yukimura Chizuru had created the guarded behavior within his friend. He, himself, had been uncertain as to having a secretary to Hijikata-san. His reservations were slowly being eased, as she was such a hard worker. There again, with Souji's recent tragedy, he could hardly blame his cold demeanor. He knew his friend would be hesitant to let outsiders into his pain, he had known Souji since grade school. Still, if she could see Souji's tenderness with his sons, perhaps she would stop flinching around him. There again, she was developing a crush on their Fukucho, so that certainly would exacerbate his mood. It wasn't that Saito was match-making. It was simply more efficient if everyone remained civil.

Hajime shook himself from his thoughts and focused on the present. Though incredibly late, the Okita family was delivering an appreciated birthday party. These issues would straighten themselves out. Besides, worrying over it changed nothing. He would keep Souji's teasing to a minimum and Yukimura would adapt. If anything, she was quick to learn and that was an admirable trait.

After the games had finished, he was kindly forced to open all their gifts, prodded by tiny hands and pleading wide eyes. The presents were few in number, but he remained grateful. Even if white tabi were commonplace, Yamatonokami had been thoughtful and surprisingly practical. The scarf Kashuu had chosen was of a deep blue and though the gold pattern was a little extravagant, it was certainly from the heart. Even if it was intended to goad him, he did want his cat calendar. It was adorable, even if he did not wish to express it. The assorted teas and fruit he was able to thank Souji for more graciously. He could only imagine the expenditures on a household with one parent and two growing sons. Still, it was the friendship he appreciated most.

As dark drew near, Kashuu began to nod from his perch upon Hajime's lap. Without a word exchanged, the adults settled the boys upon the living room floor and Souji bid both goodnight with a kiss to the forehead. Before the two men could slip away with the alcohol, Yami demanded a goodnight kiss from Saito, which Kashuu begged for in turn. It caused him to blush, but he acquiesced as best he could. It was still a new experience, being regarded as family. The two wished him a cheery goodnight and were soon snoozing away.

"Thanks, Hajime," Souji sighed as he settled onto his bedroom floor, "You mean the world to them,"

"I do not understand what I did to achieve their admiration, but I regard them as important as well," he gave a light smile, allowing a cup to be poured for him, "I wish them every happiness,"

Souji swirled the saké in his cup, a small frown growing as he stared at the clear liquid.

"You don't have to do anything for them to love you, you know. You're you, and they think that's beyond cool,"

Hajime glanced up to observe his friend a moment before sighing himself. He could almost read those thoughts.

"Have you heard from her yet?" He asked softly, hoping that Souji wouldn't mind his asking.

"You mean from Akatsuya?" Souji scoffed, shaking his head dismally, "No, Hajime. Almost five years of marriage, gone just like that. No phone calls. No email. Not even a note. I was stupid to think she'd stay. She became mother to Yami and Kashuu was the best mistake we ever made. Literally. It's been eight months now. I thought she'd attempt to do something for Kashuu's birthday, but nothing,"

Hajime knew the answer to the question he had to ask. Perhaps, it was more for Souji's benefit than his own.

"Do you still love her, Souji?" He asked gently, concern etching his features.

He watched tears mist at the corner of his emerald eyes. The heartbreak was evident as shoulders sagged and alcohol was unexpectedly downed in one shot. Okita Akatsuya was the mother of Kashuu and once Souji's wife. She had left unexpectedly last Summer, never to return. Souji had given no one any particular details, but blamed the departure entirely on himself. If anything, Hajime assumed the bullying Yukimura endured was tied to her departure. Souji wasn't particularly fond of women and Yukimura's presence served as an unwitting reminder.

"Would you care to get drunk, Souji?" Hajime offered, unable to offer any verbal solace.

"Just a little," Souji smiled up bashfully, a rare sight, "I know Hijikata-san would have my head, but will you keep it a secret? I won't make a habit of this,"

"Certainly," he smiled back, his features growing wryly, "You enjoy your control far too much to be a continuing drunk,"

"Screw off," Souji huffed playfully, shoving at his knee with a foot, "You're a hypocrite, Hajime!"

He smiled passively, enjoying the victory for a fleeting moment. He had always felt more accepted and at ease with Souji. Even after his first cousin had married her high school sweetheart, he had been grateful to call Souji family. He was, admittedly, his near opposite in almost every regard. Still, he had qualities that made Hajime ever grateful. Though his temper was volatile and his habits slovenly at times, there was a loyalty and protectiveness that never dimmed within him. He wished he could learn to laugh and relax as easily as Souji did. Even after fighting cancer with his first wife and the loss of that battle, his friend still managed to report to work and raise his unruly sons. Hajime wasn't sure he could possess such a strength as to continue on in laughter. If he had lost a first wife only for his second to leave, there would be more lonely nights at the bar. There again, Souji was more drunk on the love of his sons and their well-being than anything. His family made him strong, and Hajime nearly envied him.

Conversations took a more pleasant turn once Souji had enough alcohol to tint his cheeks pink and nostalgia took hold. There was plenty to reminisce and they did so to the fullest. Just for the night, worries were cast aside. Just for the moment, they would laugh as high schoolers. It was a temporary reprieve from reality. They suspended their woes and let friendship remain. Their hangover, especially Souji's, was imminent and yet glanced over. It was true that this was in honor of his birthday, but Hajime knew Souji needed his commaradery. If he could ease the burden of raising children alone, he gladly accepted the responsibility. Souji was as a brother to him and no matter how much he antagonized others or chose to be overly playful, he would remain in that esteem. After all, even a belated birthday was best spent with family.

[desdemonafictional]

You Will Remember That

Telltale batjokes, slots into place during Season 1 Episode 4

Or, That Thing We Were All Thinking About

On AO3

When Leland says that she’s going to find you a room with fewer bloodstains, you don’t expect that room to be occupied. Leland stands at the door, signing off on some slip that she hands off to a passing orderly. “It’s unorthodox,” she says,“ but I promise you it’s only for one night. Two at the most.”

You glare at the bed they’ve dragged against the wall of this cell, slightly askew on the tile. “This can’t be ethical. This isn’t a state prison.”

“Truthfully, Bruce?” she says, with a grim eyebrow lift. “We weren’t supposed to be assigned any more patients this quarter. Your room was the last available one until we discharge our next ward.”

John, lying back on the opposite bed with his feet kicked up on the wall, adds, “Actually there’s two, but one of them has black mold and the other one has a chunk taken out of the wall.”

“John,” Leland says.

From underneath his hand, like it’s a secret, he adds, “Maxie took a disliking to the décor.”

Leland sighs. “Our biohazard maintenance is off the clock and the union won’t let us call him back in until tomorrow. I promise you, as soon as we have your room scrubbed properly, you’ll be back to your accustomed level of privacy.”

“My accustomed level of privacy doesn’t involve twenty-four hour surveillance,” you point out, eyeing the camera mounted in the corner of the room.

John laughs, a little harder and darker than you are entirely comfortable with. Quite a lot of things seem to be funny to him.

“More or less,” Leland amends. She scribbles something final looking on her clipboard, and then she says, “John, make sure that Bruce stays on the straight and narrow. No more riots. I’m trusting you to be a good influence.”

“You can count on me Doc,” he says.

“Lights out at ten,” Leland says to you. “Doors lock then. Group therapy is at 8 AM, but I think it’s better if we avoid introducing you to that kind of environment while things are still so tenuous. You’ve have one-on-one with me at 9.”

And then she leaves, the door open and taunting behind her. You guess you should be grateful that they’re still giving you open door privileges, after you threw yourself into the middle of a brawl, but you’re having a hard time being gracious about any of this. It’s taking all you have just to remain appropriately civil with Leland, who is genuinely innocent of your situation here. If only you had been able to make that call. Some distraction John made you.

As soon as the sound of her footsteps have disappeared, John leaps out of bed. He throws himself out of bed, lunges almost, throwing himself into orbit around you like a comet caught in the sun’s gravity. He circles you.

“We are gonna have so much fun, Brucie,” he says.

For the umpteenth time today, you force yourself not to track him as he circles you. He has this vulture-tiger-coyote fascination with your unprotected back, and you are pretty understandably prickled by it. You can feel him like a wave of electromagnetic interference over your skin.

“What’s your idea of fun?” you ask.

It has not escaped your attention the way he says certain things, the meaningful lowering of eyelids as he insinuates—what? Well, you can make a guess. This may not be a prison exactly, but in every way that matters, you haven’t detected much of a difference. Now, after everything he’d hinted in the rec room, you’re not as sure that you know what he wants, but you’re still waiting for the shoe to drop.

John throws himself back onto his bed (not yours, you notice). He crosses his legs. “Well, the rec room was pretty fun today, don’t you think?”

“I don’t generally categorize being shivved that way, actually,” you say.

“You don’t?” he says, tapping the corner of his mouth in a thoughtful way. “I was thoroughly entertained. Let me just say, it is a pleasure to watch you work. You really got right in there! And Zsasz, he’s no toddling bedwetter like some of these numbskulls. He’s a real piece of work!”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thank for that.”

He sits forward. “Tsk tsk, there’s no need to take that tone with your good buddy. It’s not my fault you missed your window of opportunity. Not that I’m not glad to have a little more quality time with you, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve got places to be, people to see.”

You say nothing. He’s right, it’s not his fault. That is to say, his plan would have worked if you had only chosen to go along with it. But you didn’t, and now you’re here, sharing a cell with him until your lawyers can manage to tie this place up in enough red tape to open up another fleeting window of opportunity. You’re confident that Alfred is out there working on it. He never lets you down. It’s just time, which you don’t have anywhere enough of.

“Anyways,” John says. “I think you do like it.”

“Like what?” you say.

He twists back and makes a motion like slamming a bat into something, throws his whole body into it. “The violence, Brucie. The action! I saw you out there, you’re a livewire,” he laughs. “I like that about you. You know just what to do with that body of yours.”

     I couldn’t just ignore it      No one could enjoy that      >it wasn’t that impressive

You cross your arms. “I’m hardly some kind of action hero. Recreational judo—some boxing, whatever’s new in town—I just do enough to keep fit.”

John plants his chin in his hand. “Come on now,” he says, “you can lie better than that.”

You find yourself speechless.

“You wanna give it another try?” he offers, helpfully.

“I’m-” you say, “I’m tired of talking about myself,” you say, which is not untrue.

John nods. “That’s fair,” he says.

And that’s it. He seems satisfied to leave it there, digging in his mattress to find a skein of red yarn which he twists around his fingers in a bizarre cat’s cradle, quietly manipulating the threads until they resemble a mandala.

You clear your throat, not sure that you like the silence any more than you liked the conversation. “Isn’t that banned?” you ask.

“Oh sure,” he says. He glances at you, eyes glittering like a window full of television displays. “But you won’t tell on me, will you?”

“…No,” you say.

He gives you a bright smile. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re gonna get you out of here. When one door closes—” he draws the cradle tight, with a twang, “—another one opens.”

 Wake up call at 7:00 finds you already up and pacing beneath the window of the room that everyone else is too polite to call a cell. John slides into his slippers and coaxes you out, leads the way to the kitchen full of undercooked hash and cold eggs. He doesn’t seem interested in the food, but he watches with a weirdly maternal zeal as you finally scoop up a serving for yourself, not quite moving out of your way until you fill the whole plate. He sits you down in a seat at a mostly empty table, across from a small nervous man pushing his eggs around and around.

“What’s the news, Tech,” he says. “Seen any rabbits lately?”

“No,” Tech says, without looking up. “What do you want?”

“I want you to meet the new guy!” John says. He slaps you on the back, nearly knocking you into your food. “Remind you of anybody?”

Tech glances up at you, watery blue eyes and a vagueness that seems to be looking right through you. “No one,” he says. “Nothing.”

“Come on now,” John cajoles, pushing the plate out from underneath Tech. “It’s good to confront your compulsions.”

Tech considers the table, for a long moment, and then he looks up at you again. This time he really seems to be looking. You don’t know what to say—the whole thing bewilders you. You can almost see him clicking on somehow, clear instead of cloudy.

 “White knight,” he says. “The white knight.”

“Really?” John says, with his eyebrow cocked. “I woulda said the opposite.”

 “With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,” Tech murmurs, “Who seemed distracted with his woe…”

“Oops,” John says. “There he goes. Looks like he’s not as far along in his therapy as I thought.”

You give John a look. It’s difficult to tell if he just likes setting people off, or if there’s some method to his madness. Zsaz was clearly a case of using what tools were available, but you remember the inmate in the hall too, and John thumping the locked door like a child tapping the glass of an aquarium.

“Come tell me how you live,” murmurs Tech, “and what it is you do…”

“Forget him,” John says, turning back to you. “He’ll get it together before group. Speaking of which, you get to skip don’t you, you lucky duck?”

“Dr. Leland was right,” you say. “It’s not a good idea, after everything yesterday.”

You look around the mess hall, counting the pairs of glaring eyes centered right on you. Security doesn’t seem to have been stepped up much. You spot some orderlies in the wings, but they’re only orderlies. Either they don’t have the resources to protect you, or they just don’t care. Or worse.

But it’s staying quiet isn’t it? You give the room a second look. Despite how many people are trying to drill your head open with their eyes, not a single one of them is making any moves. In fact, no one has made a move since that first brawl with the taser. With Zsasz, it was John who opened fire. Your gaze slides to him, to find him watching you back, and keenly.

“Nobody,” you say, “messes with you much, do they John?”

“Oh, I’m a model patient,” John says, casually. “Who would want to mess with little old me?”

There’s still blood splattered on the floor of the room that was meant to be yours. You don’t buy that misdirection for a moment.

“I was just thinking…” you say, “how everybody’s given me a pretty wide berth since Leland assigned you to me. Since you intercepted those guys, really.”

John drums the table with his fingers, not quite irritated but certainly not calm either. “They know better,” he says, no longer looking at you. “They know better. Hazing is the tool of a cult mentality.”

“I don’t think that was hazing,” you say.

John shrugs you off. He’s definitely agitated. “They’re lucky,” he mutters, “if you hadn’t needed checking up on, I would have—If I’d heard about it later, I’d have ripped their nails out.”

You kind of want to ask how he’d expect to manage that, but you are also a little bit afraid of the answer. He perks right up, anyways, before you can settle on whether to push it.

“But you’re fine!” he says, still watching you even as he pushes Tech’s plate back into his distracted hands. “And you’ll keep being fine, don’t you worry about a thing! Just leave it all to me.”

He’s smiling. His mouth is so wide you could count his perfect teeth. With every minute you spend in his company, you suspect more and more that he isn’t any ordinary patient here. You think of his cat’s cradle, the space at the center of the mandala that every twist of string orbits. But maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself.

There’s a distorted bell over the intercom. “Ah,” he says. “That’s group! Catch you later, buddy.”

When the orderly comes to escort you back to your cell, you follow him quietly. There’s a lot to unravel in this place, you’re quickly finding out.

 In your therapy session, Leland wants to know about your childhood. You are vague without being dishonest, disinterested without being rude—you tell her what she already knows. She wants to know about your relationship with Oswald. You’re candid enough. It feels good to tell someone what he’s done to you, although you obviously can’t tell her the whole story. She doesn’t stump you until, out of nowhere, she bring up John.

“And how are you getting along with him?” she asks you. “Any concerns?”

“Concerns?” you say. “Isn’t he your favorite patient?”

Leland frowns, as if she’s disappointed with you. “Bruce,” she says. “I’m a professional. If John has made you uncomfortable somehow, I need to know about it.”

     John is bad news      I can handle him      >I’m not sure what he wants

This is your chance to get out of the whole fraught affair. Or it would be, if you took it. But you don’t take it. Part of you thinks that you ought to; John is trouble, and you don’t at all like the way he talks about your father. But the other part of you, the part that wins out, is begrudgingly intrigued. You didn’t realize it until someone offered you an alternative, but—you’ve already been planning to see him again, you’re drawn back to him in some way that feels remarkably literal. As if you are physically being tugged at. You think again of the cat’s cradle.

“Is he like this with all the new patients?” you ask her.

She considers that for a moment. “He takes an interest, generally speaking. He’s been here the longest of any non-catatonic patient, so he sees himself as a sort of mentor. But no, to be quite frank, it isn’t usually like this.”

“How is it different?” you ask, leaning forward in your chair.

Leland regards you with her cool doctor’s eyes. “This is the most engaged I’ve seen you in nearly fifty minutes, Bruce. What are you thinking about?”

You flatten your features. “I just want to know that I’m safe with him, doctor. Sharing a cell with an inmate—”

“Patient,” Leland says. “Room. And judging from what I’ve seen, John is the one who ought to be worried for his safety, not you.”

You sigh. “I’m not dangerous,” you tell her. “You’re not… seeing me at my best. I promise you, once I’ve had a chance to get this stuff out of my system, you’ll see how stable I am.”

Leland flips through her copious notes. “Bruce, it’s not just the violence. Which, by the way, speaks for itself in my opinion. In less than half an hour you’ve told me so many unhealthy things about yourself that I’ve almost run out of paper, and I don’t think you even realize what they were.”

You pull back. “I haven’t told you anything,” you say.

“Yes, you’ve been less than forthcoming with the details of your day to day schedule, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s your attitude. Look, ten minutes ago you told me that you often go full days before actually sleeping. You do realize that’s a kind of self harm, don’t you?”

“I’m a busy man,” you tell her, helplessly. “I have to. Sometimes there’s just too much to do.”

“And you have to do all of it?” Leland remarks.

“Yes,” you say.

She shakes her head. “Why?” she says. “Why, when it’s clearly wearing you down to nothing?”

You’re still thinking about that as you make your way back to the room. Because nobody else can, you want to tell her. Because that’s what you’re for.

John looks up from a book as you pause at the door, feeling all at once like such an outsider that not even your body wants to go any further. John immediately sets his book off to the side, page unmarked. The cover of says House of Leaves. It’s a suspiciously heavy book for an environment like this.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” he says. “Therapy didn’t go so good?”

“It was fine,” you say automatically.

John gets to his feet and ushers you inside, toeing the door closed behind you. He leads you over to his bed and sets you down on the mattress, crawling up to sit beside you like a cat. “Hey, you can tell me about it,” he says, patting your knee. “Don’t be shy. Honesty is the backbone of a healthy relationship.”

You give him a sideways look. His hand is still on your knee, as if he’s forgotten it there.

“Dr. Leland and I just disagree about some basic underpinnings of my personality,” you tell him. “It’s fine. I don’t expect her to understand.”

“Ahh,” John says. “She started asking you about that nasty little dark thing inside you, huh?”

“I don’t have a nasty little dark thing,” you say, scowling. “I’m not my father, whatever you think he was. I don’t know how to make you people understand this.”

“Daddy issues,” John says, sympathetically. He squeezes your knee—definitely not forgotten, then. He ignores the way you’re glaring at him. “Okay,” he says, “you’re your own man, I understand.”

“Do you?” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, bumping your shoulder companionably. “It’s always just you, at the end of the day. Nobody can live your life for you, Dr. Leland says.”

You look away. Sometimes that life feels like its sheering off bits of you with each choice. It seems like it’s always one bad option from a pile of worse.

You have a feeling he already knows what you’re thinking.

 Lunch passes without incident. You meet more inmates. You meet more staff. Most of them seem to be giving you the evil eye as they talk around you and over you. You certainly have a legacy here, in this forgotten old building, whether you want it or not. You think a lot about the Arkhams, and about your father—allegations, memories, a hesitance that is starting to feel cowardly in your own throat. In the afternoon they have optional crafts for people with recreational privileges. Someone tries to stab you with a magic maker in a fit of pique and ends up framed for worse by the time John is done with them. You feel like that was unnecessary. It was only a magic marker. But John is livid and already done with the deed by the time that you even realize there was a plot—he grabs your shoulder with a grip tight enough to leave bruises as they drag the inmate away. You don’t think he’s trying to hurt you. It almost feels like he’s afraid someone will rip you away from him.

During dinner, you get in a shouting match with someone who has opinions about your company and your life choices and your mother’s sexual history, and a couple orderlies swoop in to break it up just before it can spiral into an out-and-out altercation. Your vision is swimming by the time it’s all done, blue and red and nonsense like a 3D movie in the raw. You dig your nails into your scalp and try to calm down.

“Almost had it there,” John whispers, closer to your ear than you remember him being.

You grit your teeth. The fight broke up before it could start, there’s no one for you to take a swing at. You’ve got to hold it down, you’ve got to—

John is saying something to an orderly, and then he’s guiding you up from your chair, down through the hallway, back into the semi-privacy of your shared room. You feel a surge of gratefulness that froths and presses at your insides in the middle of all this rage, unable to find a release valve.

You spend a long time just breathing. God you hope this wears off soon. You’re angry enough without having Vicky’s chemical irritant making a mess out of your brain.

“Thank you,” you manage, eventually.

“What’re friends for?” John says brightly, unbothered by any of the episode. You realize he’s been absently rubbing small circles into your shoulder for a while now, as you lean against the wall. “We should really do something about that mouthy little toad,” he says, voice flickering dark for a breath. “If he thinks he can talk to a friend of mine that way—”

“It’s fine,” you say. You sound ragged in your own ears. “He’s got enough on his plate, living in this hellhole.”

John tuts. “That’s awfully negative,” he says. “You’re homesick, I bet.”

Maybe you are. You miss Alfred’s stolid support, his dry understanding. You miss the people at the office, the office itself, the freedom to get up and go wherever you want to. You’re homesick, you guess, but only in the sense that all of Gotham is your home. You miss the streetlights and the gargoyles and the sounds of traffic as much as you miss your own dusty house.

“Mm, I knew it,” John says. “Don’t worry, it’s normal. You’ve just got to ride it out. Eventually you’ll see Arkham is a kind of home too.”

“I’m not going to be here that long,” you remind him.

He pulls back his hand. “No,” he says, “no, of course not. I just meant that you would! If you stayed. Which you won’t.”

You give up and sit down on your bed. You can feel every single spring in the mattress, and you know that it doesn’t like your weight. Last night you half expected one of them to pop through the plastic sheeting and stab you through the heart, like the vampire that you are not. Tonight you’re tempted to just sleep on the tile.

John’s bed is just as bad, unsurprisingly. You could hear him toss and turn every time you surfaced from sleep, startled by an unfamiliar sound. There is something about hearing a springs squeak and murmur under another person’s body that feels uncomfortably intimate to you. It reminds you of college dormitories and one night stands.

“Cheer up!” John says, “I have big plans for tomorrow. I don’t want to give away the surprise, but think: hall phone.”

“Are you going to engineer another murder?” you ask him, startling yourself a little with the sharpness of it.

“It’s a surprise!” John laughs. “Jeeze, did you try to unwrap your Christmas presents early too?”

You sigh. You already know that if he tries something like that again, you’ll do the same damn thing. You can’t just let someone get stabbed in front of you, regardless of how lethal it might or might not turn out to be. Your mission is important, but it’s not important enough to change that fact.

John sidles over closer. “Do you mind if I…?” he says.

You stare blankly at him. Mind if he what? Murders someone tomorrow? Yes, you mind.

He gestures uncomfortably at the spot beside you on your bed. “I’m learning to respect boundaries,” he tells you, looking all at once more abashed than you’ve ever seen him. You marvel at the change in him, his lowered head, his hunched shoulders, his anxious expression.

“You want to sit down?” you ask him.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Your bed is your personal space, and I respect that. I wouldn’t want you to think I go in for that kind of,” his voice goes from urgent to pitch dark, “horseplay. Not me.”

You squint at him. You have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You can sit down,” you tell him, for some reason. Better not to ask yourself why.

Immediately he’s at your side, perched close enough to breathe in the air you breathe out. “Maybe when I’m out, you can show me around!”

It’s getting easier to know what to say to him. It doesn’t even hurt you, really, to say: “I know a couple good bars downtown, I guess.”

The way John lights up makes you feel like maybe you just passed a test. “I just knew,” he says, “the moment I saw you. Friends forever.”

Then he sighs. “Shame you’re going tomorrow. I still have so much to show you. You haven’t even met Crane!” He folds an arm over your shoulder, laying his cheek on his brightly colored sleeve. “What we need to do,” he says, “is go out with a bang.”

“A bang,” you say. You are imagining improvised explosives. Out of all the people you deeply and viciously want to hurt lately, the unnerving thing is that John doesn’t make your list. Not even at all. You are trying to figure out what the hell you’ll do if this man tries to blow up a building full of mental patients.

“A little something to remember me by,” he says. He looks up from underneath his pale lashes. His hand falls across your leg again, like an afterthought.

Oh.

Oh, so this is where the shoe drops. You really did not expect it to go anything like this. You take in the eagerness that practically oozes off him, the way he almost seems to vibrate with it as he leans forward, all but falling into your lap. What in the world do you do with this.

“John,” you say, carefully, “are you suggesting that you want to have sex with me?”

John pulls back a little, makes an offended little hmph. “That is strictly against Arkham policy, Bruce. I’m a model patient.”

“I’m… confused,” you admit. “What is this, then?”

“Wellll,” John says, opening up the hand that hangs between you, “this place is full of rules, rules, rules, but there are always… grey areas….”

Several things go through your head in that moment: one, you really don’t care at all about Arkham policy one way or another. You’re not a real inmate. Two, you’re not sure how much is actually riding on this moment. Three, what would John’s overwhelming enthusiasm look like underneath you, or over you, even?

“What if I say no?” you ask him.

Immediately he disengages, showing you his open palms in the universal sign language for I come in peace. “Hey,” he says, “no problem, buddy. I was kind of hoping, well, maybe you’d be excited about it, but if you want to do something else instead, no worries.”

Actually he seems kind of put out now. You regard him carefully, the way he’s rubbing anxiously at his palm with the ball of his thumb, the way he doesn’t seem to be looking at you anymore.

“What do you mean by grey areas?”

He perks right back up. “I could show you,” he says. “Arkham policy is no penetration, period, under any circumstances, but they’re not too specific about the rest of it!”

You give him a doubtful look. Just like handing a shivv to an inmate isn’t technically against the rules, huh? Just the part where you make it, or you use it.

“Sure, a couple of the other guys got yelled at for trying it, sure, but not me. So anyways, nobody’s ever told me it was against the rules. I’ve never tried anything in here.” John purses his lips. “Slim pickings,” he adds.

You decide to level with him, since he’s been nothing but helpful since you showed up. Even if his idea of help is sometimes worse than the alternative. “John,“ you say, "my head is pretty messed up right now. I don’t like what happens if I get my heart rate up while this poison is floating around inside of me, let alone a sudden surge of hormones—things could go very badly. I could wind up hurting you.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” John says. “I’m tougher than I look, ya know.”

You eye his lean form, the rangy muscles down his arms. “Even if that was true,” you say. “No. I don’t want to risk it.”

John jumps up and paces the room, his bare feet skating over the tile. “That’s fine,” he says, “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll think of something else to do for you. I’ll just have to get creative!”

You frown. If he’s just trying to do something for you, to make you like him, the weird thing is that you kind of already do. There’s no point in all this. “Come here,” you say.

Instead of returning to the bed, though, he drops like a demolished building, landing on his knees at your feet. You wince. It doesn’t seem to bother him, but you know that would absolutely kill you. Maybe it’s the surge of sympathy, but what you do here is put out your hand and brush it over his swept-back hair. You watch him lean into it.

“How would you feel about it,” you say, surprising yourself, “if I were to just touch you. Just that?”

John laughs nervously. “Um,” he says, “why?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “It just feels like something I might want to do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he surges forward, hands pressing down into your thighs. “Well if you’re offering,” he says, “it’d be rude of me to say no.”

Last chance to back out. Who are you kidding? You’re not a passenger in this sinking ship, you’re the captain.

“I’m offering,” you say. “Please, get up off the floor?”

He does. He throws himself back onto your bed, in a protest of a hundred tiny shrieks. You swear, if he breaks your bed, you’re making him sleep in it. He starts wriggling out of his shirts, tossing them across the room in quick succession. He opens up his arms, as if he’s reaching for you. With a knot in your stomach, or maybe something worse, you climb up over him.

You’re starting to worry that you’re going to get yourself in trouble with Vale’s poison after all. Your heart beat—the way he hooks his arms over your neck, the way he looks up at you like you hung the moon, like you can do no wrong—

“What a view,” he says, with a quiet whistle.

What a view, you think, with an alarming mixture of apprehension and desire.

 As John comes, he clutches you to himself, all his needy whining noises quieted to a single reedy gasp. His nails buried in the back of your scalp seem ready to crack you open. If your vision is swimming, you know it’s just the poison, but you also know that the poison is triggered by arousal—deep inside your blood, part of you wants him to crack you open.

He slumps, but his grip barely flags. Against your ear, he murmurs: “I knew you would be fun.”

John will remember this

 What actually happens in the morning, which is not a bomb thank god, is that first thing John simply opens up the door that should have been locked and makes a sweeping gesture at the hall beyond. He winks at you, his hair still mussed. You don’t know how he did that, and when you press him he just shrugs mysteriously and returns to his strange book. The pages you catch a glance at have the helter skelter twisted formatting of something a patient might have written. You definitely get the feeling Dr. Leland wouldn’t like him to have it.

You make your phone call. Alfred picks up immediately, even though it’s five in the morning and you know he doesn’t get up for another hour. You reassure him, you lay out a solution, and then you resign yourself to a goodbye. Your heart aches for the stress you’re putting him under.

By the time evening rolls around, Leland has gotten word from the commissioner’s office that you are being released in order to testify in an upcoming investigation. If there is some way to make her understand that this isn’t just a rich man buying his way out of justice, you wish you knew what it was. She hands you your discharge papers with an air of disappointment so thick it nearly makes you choke. As frustrating as she’s been, she’s clearly one of the good ones. She’s trying. You respect that. It doesn’t change the situation.

Alfred seems to be focused on getting you out of the building as fast as possible. He doesn’t stop to look at anything or talk to anyone, staying cleanly out of range of any grabbing hands as he marches forward. It’s you who stops, just as you’re about to pass into the nurse’s office to drop off your uniform. The gate to the rec room is just a few feet away, and behind it, with his arms through the bars, John is watching you.

He winks.

You find yourself drawn his way. When you’re long gone from here, living your real life out there, and you think of this place, you suspect that you will think of him more than anything else. Already you can feel his presence swallowing all memory of halls or rooms or schedules, of the very building itself. John reaches up and pats your cheek, which is odd because you don’t remember walking all the way over here. 

"Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he says. “Still, can’t say we didn’t show you a good time!”

From beyond you, Alfred says, “Master Bruce, are you coming?”

John leans his head against the bars, smiling one of his knowing, dark smiles. You take a step back, and then another. You turn and catch up with Alfred, where he’s holding the door to the office open for you.

“Have fun out there, in the madhouse!” John calls after you. “Remember, they’re not all as nice as we are!”

As the door swings shut behind you, Alfred says, “Who was that fellow?”

But you don’t know where you would even begin, and so, ultimately you say nothing at all. 

[chipotlepepperspokemonandother]

Just putting this out there...

I made it in honor of Second Pride Month !!!! Happy Second Pride:)

 I put it below the “Keep Reading” thing too for people for like options. I hope you like! Let me know if I failed.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon

Description: A Oneshot that takes place years after the anime has ended and there is a decent truce between Jessie, James, Meowth, and the twerps. The trio and some OCs go to a pride parade.

Rockets at Pride

Sixteen-year-old Annastasia stood before her mother's full-length mirror, her eyes gazing at the multi-colored shirt and black top hat covering her body. She sighed, took the clothes off, and then looked to her audience.

"Jay, I've changed my mind."

"What? Why, you look great," Jay said as he got up off of the ground.

He took the shirt in both his hands and attempted to force his older sister back into it. Their Togepi, Lillipup, and Altaria laughed at their struggle and play-argument. Jay retired rather quickly; Annastasia's a tall teenager, and he's still months away from ten. Annastasia gave her brother a sympathetic look; he only wanted to help, but she pushed him away, literally.

"It's just that last year, there were so many misogynistic assholes there," she told her brother.

"But you told mom and dad that you had fun."

"I did, after my friends and I ditched the parade and went out for vegan hot-wings."

"It's like, you never give up, and an hour ago you were pumped. Meowth even swiped that cool shirt for you. I like it. Ace of Hearts. Those colors—awesome aesthetic."

"Awesomely pathetic."

"Lillipup?"

"Tarrri?"

"Toge to?"

Annastasia and Jay's companion Pokémon were as concerned as the nine-year-old boy. Annastasia is not the kind of girl who lets other people—especially men—push her around. Jay followed her to her room. She made no effort to bar him from entry.

"You're not pathetic, A. usually if people insult you, you push back. Why are you not doing that?" Jay asked his sister.

"I feel like I probably don't belong there."

"You've gone every year for the last three years."

"Last year, and the year before that, I thought I was a lesbian."

"You're not a lesbian?"

"I don't think so. I'm more Ace of Hearts. Remember I told you about that night with Rita? Well, as you know, she had a lot more fun than I did."

"Oh, yeah, I guess I sorta understand," Jay half-lied. "If you won't go for yourself, will you still go for me?"

"Yes, I'll go for you."

XOXOXO

"I really hates it when people are late when dere not 'spossed to be," Meowth grumbled as he stood at the bus stop. "Dis waitin' is demeanin'."

Lucy rolled her eyes at Meowth. She and Meowth have been together for years, so she was used to his complaining. She complained too, though everyone would say she's more of a doer than her mate.

"When are people ever 'sposed to be late?" Lucy inquired.

"Not now, dat's fere sure," Meowth grumbled.

"It's your fault we are here," Lucy pointed out. "Jessie and James offered to pick us up, but you insisted that we find our way there on our own."

"Dat's a little true."

"It's fine. Someone will be here to come get us."

Meowth and Lucy waited for an hour. Then an hour and a half. It was the longest that either of them have ever waited for anything. They talked about their mischievous kittens, Logan and Lily, and about food, and about the pride parade; neither of them knew what to expect. Neither of them had ever gone.

Eventually, Jessie pulled up in her familiar magenta convertible. Arbok, Mimikyu, and Wobbufet were dangling their heads out of the passenger side seat.

"Get in, losers. We're going to pride."

"Dat's original, Jess. Say, where we 'supposed to sit?" Meowth asked, annoyed by Jessie aloof tone.

"Wobbaffffetttt!" Wobbufet cried out as he clung to his seat.

Jessie returned Arbok, Mimikyu, and Wobbufet to their balls despite their protest, and the Purrloin and Meowth shared the spot next to Jessie.

"What took yous so long? We told ya where to drive," Meowth mumbled as he helped Lucy buckle their seatbelt.

"My son was having a meltdown," Jessie murmured.

"Awe, Jay…is he still…embarrassed? Is that the right word?" Lucy asked Jessie.

"Yeah, I think he's embarrassed. I told him not to go if he didn't want to, but he is still emotional over the whole thing. James and Annastasia are working on him."

"And Jocelyn?"

"Still with nanny and pop-pop."

They drove down the highway. Meowth realized that they weren't that far from Cerulean, the celebration destination. They could have walked. No one commented on that though. They were too busy thinking about Jay and the parade as they sat in traffic.

"How come Pallet Town don't have their own parade? Dere wouldn't be so much traffic dat way," Meowth complained.

"There are five queer people in Pallet, and they all live under the same roof," Jessie pointed out.

"Weeze now gotta enough dough to throws our own party and have de whole town come."

"I don't want a bunch of people flooding my peaceful little village."

"Dose are some nice words. It's a good ding I convinced us to live in Pallet. Yous two woulda been miserable in a traffic-y city like Cerulean."

"We moved to Pallet for Annastasia," Lucy reminded Meowth.

"And because Delia isn't as big a jerk as her son. She gave us a place to live, and we took it. Jari-boy's house is small but that hotel is ten times the size of any place I've lived before we moved in."

"Yous still callin' him Jari-boy? Yous like de twerp. Yous never gonna admit it now, are ya?"

"Never. There is nothing to confess," Jessie shrugged.

"Sure, yeah, right."

Jessie yelled out the window and honked her horn. Meowth and Lucy slouched in their seat in order to make themselves difficult to spot. Jessie's lavish vehicle and the yelling was drawing lots of negative attention. An officer Jenny pulled them over and asked her to 'cool it'. Not long after that, they found a parking spot and headed to the large fountain in the center of the city; the place they had planned to meet the rest of their party. But the rest of their party wasn't there. Just two redheaded twerps, a Pichu, and an Azumarill.

"You sure know how to make an entrance," Misty smirked.

"You were kinda obnoxious," her nine-year-old daughter added.

"Amber, don't be rude," Misty chided. "I got a call from James. Jay is acting a little…"

"Mom, I told you already. Jay's embarrassed, especially since you and dad came," Amber interrupted.

"I don't get it. He's so expressive…this is Jay's domain. All these rainbows and spiky hair…and I saw like five drag queens already. He loves this stuff," Jessie sighed. "He gets so overwhelmed."

"Hey, it's supposed to be a parade. Let's not rain on it," Lucy suggested. "Annastasia and James will convince him to come out. If not, we stay, get some free food, and then go back home."

"I want to hang out with Jay, not you guys," Amber told the adults.

"Jessie, I think I should take Amber to your house. She can help Jay out," Misty suggested.

"Totally," Amber agreed.

"If you want to drive through all this traffic, it's your choice," Jessie responded.

"Please, mom? I can help Jay," Amber told her mother.

"Okay. We'll head to Pallet. The train can get us there in twenty minutes," Misty said as she looked at her watch. "Amber, let's hurry so that we can get the next train."

"Okay, mom!"

"Pichuuuu!"

"Azuuurill!"

Lucy, Meowth, Jessie, and Jessie's Pokémon hung around the fountain longer after the girls and their Pokémon left. Ash showed up, and they explained what was up, and then proceeded to ignore their least favorite twerp. There was music and food and even though Jay and Annastasia were their motivation to come, they didn't mind staying. They knew that Amber has a way of getting Jay to take chances.

XOXOXO

James picked Misty and Amber up at Pallet Town's tiny train station. He updated them on Jay's status as they drove the winding country road to their home located near the Oak Lab. When they got to the house, Amber was the first to run inside.

"I am here to remind you that you're gay!" Amber yelled the moment she entered the house.

No one responded. She made her way to Jay's bedroom. It was closed, so she knocked a bunch of times. Annastasia let her in. Jay was under the covers.

"You stood me up," Amber told Jay as she crawled onto the bed.

"Pichuu pi," Pip added as he slipped under the sheets.

She lifted the sheet to look at his face, but he was keeping himself hidden. She was patient. She is used to her best friend's roller-coaster emotions.

"Amber, I changed my mind. I don't like being gay," he told her.

"Why not? You liked it last week."

"I told Jay about my experiences at Pride, my point was to warn him that sometimes it isn't all fun and games 100% of the time. I wasn't trying to deter him, I just want to make sure he knew to be safe. Now he's afraid he'll get mugged or harassed or made fun of."

"Jay, Pip and I will be there. We'll thundershock 'em if they try and hurt you. Please come. Look, I wore the rainbow shirt you bought me last week. I added your name in pink glitter."

Jay looked up and stared at his friend's attire. He couldn't deny how much he loves looking at clothes. Or Amber. He loves both of those things.

"Jay + Amber in pink glitter. Nice touch," said Annastasia.

"Thanks, A."

Togepi hugged Jay's arm. Jay sat up and held his one and only Pokémon in his lap. Tears continued to drip down his face.

Annastasia and the adults let the two kids talk alone. The teen and her Pokémon joined James and Misty in the kitchen.

"How's he?" Misty asked Annastasia.

"I don't think he's going to go. He's confident and expressive, but he's also impressionable and introverted. He is self-conscious about being out. Up until recently, no one other than our family and your family knew, and he gets picked on at school. I don't blame him for backing out," Annastasia sighed.

They drank tea and watched television until Jay and Amber finally came down the stairs. Jay was wearing his matching rainbow shirt and had his backpack all prepared. He was smiling, and so were Amber and the Pokémon. Everyone stood up.

"I'm gonna go," Jay announced. "I'm ready."

"I'm so proud," James and Annastasia said together.

Amber linked Jay's arm on one side and Annastasia's on the other. They shut off the TV and then drove back to the train station. They made it just in time to catch the next train to downtown Cerulean.

"What made you change your mind?" Annastasia asked her brother as they took their seats.

"Amber pointed out that I am not going to find a boyfriend by sitting in my room and crying," Jay shyly replied.

"It's true," Amber defended. "I mean, he'll probably not get a boyfriend anyway…"

"Hey! Before you called me a catch!" Jay exclaimed. "Are you saying that you were kidding?"

"No Jay. I'm am just sayin'…never mind. I'll shut up."

"Good idea," Annastasia giggled.

They looked at the activity guide together. Though Jay had read it a dozen times, he was so nervous, and couldn't think of anything else to do. Ash and Misty were here, and Meowth and Lucy, and even though these people are like family to him, he was still nervous. He wasn't entirely sure why. He knew he was safe. But still, this was a big step, a turning point in his life.

"Mom!" Jay called when he saw his mother through the crowd.

"Jay!"

Jessie's softest spot is for her and James' three kids. Though the youngest was away, Annastasia and Jay were very much present. James and Jessie lifted Jay so that he could see over the crowds.

"Whoa!"

Tsareena and Primarina danced on an Alola-themed float. Jigglypuff and Cottonee floated like balloons. Smeargle painted faces and murals. There was fireworks and music and confetti.

And for once, his parents let someone else steal the show.

XOXOXO

The Morgan's didn't return to Pallet Town until late at night. They had spent six hours at the parade, and the high-energy event drained all of them. Still, Annastasia had enough energy to join her parents at their hotel's bar. The Pallet House restaurant and hotel were silent as James prepared drinks for Meowth, Lucy, Jessie, Annastasia and himself. Then they reflected on the day.

"Rita didn't stay long," Jessie commented after she took a shot of whiskey.

"She works for Giovanni, mom. He's not the kind of person who gives agents time off so that they can attend gay parades," Annastasia replied.

"Yere her partner, but yous still got to go," Meowth remarked.

"She was falling behind on some things. I prepped ahead of time, knowing I'd have to donate at least seven hours of my time to this thing."

"K…Hey, Jess, I was wonderin'…yous said dat dere at five queer people and they all live here. What do you mean?" Meowth asked.

Everyone looked to Jessie she shrugged and took another shot. Then she held up her hand, and started counting off the fingers.

"An ace, a bi, a gay, and I mean, do you and Lucy really believe that your two trolls are straight?"

"I don't know, don't care," Lucy retorted. "By the way, have you seen them? A didn't see any Meowth or Purrloin there other than Meowth and myself."

"Dey went to nanny and pop-pop's estate with Jocelyn, remmeba?"

"I had no knowledge of this. Whatever," Lucy responded. "Who's the bi?"

"Jessie."

"James."

The two rockets had spoken simultaneously.

"So…?" Meowth inquired.

"It doesn't matter," Jessie asserted. She stood up and turned to James. "You ready?"

"Yeah. 'Night guys," James yawned as he lifted himself of the barstool.

"Goodnight," Annastasia said before they walked out the door and towards their home, located just across the street.

Annastasia contemplated going with them. She decided to have some red wine instead.

"Humans are so weird. They have parades for everything. Who really cares about all these identities? I don't see a 'talking Pokémon appreciation' parade, yet I think that would be more significant," Lucy ranted.

"Start a movement," Annastasia suggested.

"Too much work," Meowth sighed.

"I agree," said Lucy.

"Then don't complain," Annastasia reasoned.

"Yere a little crabby," Meowth noted.

"I…it's almost midnight, and I have to work at nine."

"Yous don't have to work. Weeze got a whole lotta cash now."

"Believe it or not, Meowth, but there are people in this world who like to feel productive. Why do you think my parents bother to take care of this place?"

"More money," Meowth guessed.

"I don't think that's the only reason," Annastasia responded.

She stuck the bottle of red wine back into the mini-fridge underneath the bar. She opted for water instead and thought about what Meowth had just told her.

"I guess I am also crabby because…I feel guilty for ranting to Jay. I made him feel like gay guys are all jerks. It's not that, I just didn't want my little bro to get hurt, ya know? He's so trusting. I trust him, but he's a little kid, and he's easy to take advantage of. Next year, I'll be in charge of him and his friends as I lead them through their first Pokémon journey. I want him to learn some of these lessons now because I can't be watching him every second of every day. I think my timing was off. We should have had this talk a while ago."

"He's fine now," Lucy commented.

"Yeah."

"I gots I question though," said Meowth.

"Hmm. It's quite humble of you to ask anyone for information," Annastasia smirked.

"Yeah, well, normally I know everythin' about everythin'…but…never mind."

"I want to know what your question is," said Lucy.

"I just…never mind, I'll figure it out. 'Night."

Annastasia and Lucy watched him jump of the bar counter and saunter over to the exit. They were both somewhat amused.

"Meowth, what's your question?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Okay…."

Lucy joined Meowth by the exit. They said 'goodbye' to Annastasia. The teen sat there, alone at the bar except for her two sidekick Pokémon.

"He totally doesn't know what gay, bi, ace, or any of those words mean, am I right?" she asked the Altaria and Lillipup.

"Tarrrria."

"Lupp."

They both nodded as they chanted, then laughed a little. Annastasia laughed too.

"It's okay. Humans are complicated. Maybe not quite as complicated as Pokémon, but Meowth isn't as clever and knowledgeable as he thinks."

She finished a second glass of water, and then went back over to her own room. She assumed that Jay heard her come in, because he joined her and her Pokémon in the hall the moment she reached the top of the stairs. He was holding Togepi and smiling.

"A, I wanted to say 'thanks' before we went to bed," Jay whispered.

Annastasia hugged him, then reminded him that little brothers are supposed to be annoying and rude, not adorable and sweet.

"I'll never be the way I'm supposed to be," he responded.

"Mom and dad taught you well, then."

"You think that next time we go, we can invite my friends?"

"Totally."

"Good. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She took a look at some of the pictures she took on her phone before preparing for bed. Her and Jay, her and Misty, Jay and everyone, food, people eating food…she didn't regret going at all. And those assholes she warned Jay of, she was quite certain that her Pokémon were out defending her, and that her mom possibly scared them away.

"Next time, we'll bring friends," Annastasia whispered to her Pokémon.

"Lillll."

"Tarri."

XOXOXO

AN:

+Jay, Annastasia, Lucy, Lily, Logan, Rita, and Amber are OCs. Jessie, James, Meowth, Misty, Ash, Nanny, Pop-pop, Giovanni and all the Pokémon species I mentioned are cannon, and therefore NOT MINE.

+Please Read and Review, and Follow me for more next generation Poke-tales:)

+Happy Second Pride!

[cclother]

Response to pop-up assignment

Chelsea:

I experienced your effort as a synthesis of polarities - work/play, motion/stillness, focus/distraction, normative/absurd. I think it is wonderfully absurd to try to render a landscape while straddling a surfboard. Your efforts were continually disrupted by the motion of the surf - I imagine you developed a strange rhythm with the waves as you worked toward drawing a legible scene. Your project came across as more of a pop-up in your particular life rhythm rather than in a public context, and I missed the potential involvement of an unassuming audience. To me, your project feels like the initial indication of how art can be invited into the pleasures of life, but it stops short of connecting the art to a broader audience. Your project would not be dissimilar from someone who loves walking down the sidewalk pausing to make a drawing on their shoe, or something to that effect. I think this tests the bounds of how we understand ‘pop-up’ as a methodology. Either way, it looks like you had a rewarding experience doing this, and I had a nice time watching the movie you posted.

Daphne:

I think it is a challenge to activate an audience in an art show context - viewing static images on a wall can be so passive and contemplative that an art show vibe can wind up somewhat distracted or shallow. Folks stick to engaging superficially with each other because processing the work verbally can be a high hurdle to clear (that’s how I experience it anyhow). Your intervention worked against this pitfall, and I experienced it as effective in its approachability and inclusivity. Your pop-up was light in execution, using questions printed in large font on standard sized paper, with neon post-it notes provided to the audience. I’ve been in organizational ‘vision’ meetings where I work, and your pop-up reminds me of those sessions where everyone is meant to contribute ideas and responses to an organizational topic. It’s an efficient way to collect ideas. The downside is that the presentation is somewhat disheveled and lackluster. If the printed questions were somehow presented with more care (i.e. Nicer paper, framed, handmade, etc.), perhaps the responses would have been more robust.

Melissa:

I think this is a kick - like your giving your work away to an unassuming B&N patron, as a gift. You wrote the names of the magazines on acetate using graffiti style lettering and then slid them onto the actual magazines, like book jackets. I think the visual effect is fun insomuch as you couldn’t predict the final visual outcome (as the cover content was unknown to you). I’m curious as to why you wrote the name of the magazine rather than writing something subversive - perhaps you wanted potential patrons to assume the acetate sleeve was part of that month’s issue?

Chris:

Thank you for what responses I’ve gotten to this work so far. I feel confronted by an oversight committed: namely the presumptuous nature of the work. I presumed the community for which I made my cairn wanted me to do something for them. I didn’t ask anyone, I didn’t receive consent - I just decided to do it. This kind of gesture can act as a rights violation of sorts. If I were to attempt something of this nature in the future, I would need to consider the initial leg work before I act. Sarah’s project embodies the importance, and potential challenge, of requesting and receiving consent for artistic intervention.

Jean:

This project shows me how sanctioned graffiti and mural painting act as pop-up art in a public context. I hadn’t thought of these art forms as such. With mural painting or graffiti, I imagine a certain degree of premeditation, if not submitting outright proposals, goes into the creation of the final work. Your project is different in that regard.

Gillian:

I thought this was nuts - the epitome of ‘pop-up’ as liberation. The movements of the participants and the inclusion of a musical elements did a lot to suggest improvisational jazz, the individual elements coming into and out of syncopation. The green screen colored outfits suggest the pursuit of anonymity and the intent of taking on the image of something/someone else. What do you think about editing the collected footage? It could be an interesting task force yourself to choose parts of the performance to include/exclude from the finished film.

Rachel:

For me, the project subverts the inherent brevity of a pop-up event by including seeds as a component. I suppose one could extrapolate the content of any pop-up endeavor to see the far reaching ripples of a brief event, but this project does so explicitly. I appreciated the cleanliness of the mud painted letters - woulda/coulda been a drag if the letters had been at all difficult to read. I also thoughts it was a good a choice to present the quote a single long line of text rather than, say, a paragraph. I think this was another decision that invites legibility and increases the chance that an audience will engage the project.

Sarah - The project that could have been. I admire that you sought engagement and approval for your work - if I’ve observed something about your personal practice, it is that you seek respectful engagement with your collaborators and audience - you are never exploitative and/or condescending in your methods. Even if you seek to work subversively, you would invite any and all to join in, allowing the systems/establishments of humans to stand separate from the humans themselves. Your proposed work reminds me of a Beuys work, I Like America and America Likes Me, where the coyote seems to stand for the untamed and resourceful qualities of America, specifically the American West. Inserting a taxidermy diorama in the manner proposed, it’s like your reclaiming square footage for the landscape, trying to give the room back to nature.

Nicole - Such a quiet and sensitive approach to the assignment. I think projection is perhaps the most delicate and naturally ephemeral method of image sharing, and using this mode to share pictures of beautiful natural scenes in an otherwise dingy space feels appropriate based on your expressed intent. It seems like you are fighting to give people an experience of what is lovely in the world.

Ama:

Your pop-up worked on many levels: creating consciousness for the degradation of nature, an expose for your work, and a community gathering. I’m glad that your work engaged in dialogue with the environmental concerns of the space, pulling your audience in with your technique as a way to highlight the issues at hand. And your technique! So interesting to have something antithetical to the scale and rigidity of industry - wool craft speaks to me of intimacy, gentleness, and sensitivity; adjectives that stand in direct contrast to the qualities of the challenges facing the site.

Erin:

I am so impressed by how you turned an assignment into an opportunity to do a solid for your neighbors. Suggesting the leaves had been stolen changes the interpretation of your act of kindness - all of a sudden, the raking of leaves becomes an illegal act/a cause for concern. It gives the audience an opportunity to engage your kindness with a degree of remove - they don’t need to feel obliged to thank you so much, but rather can just giggle at the audacity of the proposition.

Sam:

How lovely and tender, and melancholy - the depiction of a romance that, by its physical substance, is ephemeral. The artist builds it up and the elements/natural phenomena wipe it away. Who was the audience for this piece, I wonder? I can’t help but assume that there is a personal element to this piece.

[livesincerely]

take a shot (but how’s your aim?) ch. 1 - not with a bang

Also on Ao3

00000

For the life of him, Jack can’t figure out how the situation went south so quickly.

Tucked underneath his arm, Maggie pushes a bit of corn nervously around her plate and says, “So, how do you all know Jack?”

It’s her fourth attempt at starting a conversation, and it goes about as well as all the others have. The boys remain silent, throwing each other side-along looks or ducking their heads towards the table; Racetrack goes as far as to let out a dismissive snort.

Thoroughly fed up, Jack aims a kick under the table at Albert, who’s closest. Albert grits his teeth but he still doesn’t answer. Jack kicks him again, even harder.

“We’s all Newsies,” Al says shortly. “So we live together and we work together.”

Maggie latches onto this barren statement like a life line.

“And what’s being a Newsie like?” she asks eagerly. “It must be exciting, getting to roam the city, meeting different people everyday—“

“It ain’t exactly fun and games,” Racetrack scornfully interrupts. “It’s workin’ in the sun all day and gettin’ spat at and havin’ta fight for weeks justa get treated decent by folks who should know bett’r.”

“Oh,” Maggie says. “Of course. The strike.” She takes a breath and determinedly continues, “Yeah, it was incredible! The work you all did—you inspired so many people! How did you manage to keep going? It must of been really difficult—“

“I thought ya said ya worked at The World?” Racetrack says, cutting Maggie off again. “You must not be payin’ enough attention—it was front page news.”

“Race,” Jack says in warning.

“I’m just sayin’, it was right there in black and white.”

“Racetrack, I swear to god—“

It’s Davey that saves the day. “So, Maggie,” he forcefully interjects, a smile plastered woodenly across his face. “Tell us a little more about yourself.”

Maggie blinks at the sudden friendliness after a half hour of painful silence and cutting remarks. Tentatively she answers, “I’m one of the type setters in the inking office. It’s a good position—they need girls with small fingers to adjust some of the fiddly bits on the different machines.”

Davey nods. “You must be good with your hands,” he offers. “Is that a knitting project, there in your bag?”

Maggie looks startled, then pleased at the change in topic. “Oh, yes! I’m working on a scarf for my Grandmother.”

“Ain’t it a little hot for a scarf?” Romeo comments loudly, to no one in particular.

“But I’m sure it’s never too early to get started,” Davey firmly redirects before things can turn sour. “You know, Buttons here is really into crafts and such.” Buttons glances up, clearly surprised at being thrown into the conversation. “I’m sure he’d love to hear more about it.”

Buttons mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Jack to make out. Then it looks like Davey pinches him just under the armpit.

“...What kinda needles are you using?” Buttons reluctantly asks.

Maggie answers, her enthusiasm starting to grow as the conversation continues more or less smoothly, and Buttons’ expression turns grudgingly interested.

Jack attempts to throw Davey a grateful smile but can’t quite catch his eye for some reason. He makes a mental note to do something nice for him, as a thanks for not being a complete ass like everyone else.

Speaking of everyone else, Jack uses the moment of calm to look around at the others.

It’s a sea of dissatisfaction: Albert’s wearing a sullen frown, Racetrack’s got his arms crossed over his chest, Specs is doing that thing where he keeps cleaning and re-cleaning his glasses, Crutchie keeps glancing at him like he’s lost his damn mind— what the hell is wrong with everyone? Even Katherine seems to be in a bad mood, though she’s doing a slightly better job at hiding it, lips pursed and fingers drumming against the table’s edge.

Jack’s still trying to figure it all out when the sound of his name catches his attention.

“—I’ll have to see about making something for Jackie too,” Maggie is saying, and she tugs playfully at Jack’s collar. “Maybe some fingerless gloves, so he can wear them while he draws.”

“Aw, you don’t gotta go outta your way for me, Mags,” Jack says.

“It’s not going out of my way,” Maggie says. “I want to do something nice for my boyfriend.”

She leans up and kisses him, a sweet little peck on the lips.

There’s a clatter and the screech of silverware scraping against ceramic. Jack pulls away just in time to watch Davey jump to his feet—it looks like he’s upended his plate all down his front.

“Excuse me,” Davey mumbles to the floor. “I just, I gotta—“ He makes a beeline towards the bathrooms.

Jack leans forward in his chair, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Racetrack shoots him a truly venomous look and Jack falls back into his seat before he’d really even begun to stand.

“I’ll go help him,” Racetrack declares, then darts up to follow Davey.

“Is everything alright?” Maggie asks uncertainly.

“I’m sure Racetrack’s got it handled,” Jack says, though he’s not too sure himself.

Without Davey to facilitate, the conversation stutters and stalls. Maggie hesitantly asks Katherine about her latest article; Katherine has the decency to answer her, though her expression is still incredibly pinched around the edges.

Jack lingers for a few minutes, knee bouncing the entire time. He says, “I’m gonna see about gettin’ another glass of water,” then stands up before anyone can stop him. He heads towards the front counter, glances behind him to see if anyone’s watching, then sneaks over to the bathroom.

He lifts a hand to knock, opens his mouth to say, “Are you doin’ alright in there?” but the sound of Racetrack’s voice makes him pause.

“—it’s gotta be hard on ya.”

“Of course it’s fucking hard,” Davey replies, and Jack’s shocked at the bitterness in his tone. “But you all aren’t making it any easier.”

Racetrack again, low and soothing. “We just wantcha to know we’s got your back.”

Davey laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “That wasn’t having my back, Race, that was making me do all the work when I’m the one who shouldn’t have to!”

Silence. Jack cranes his head even closer, ears straining to hear.

“Davey,” Racetrack starts, and there’s a world of apology in his voice. “Davey you gotta know, if I’da known, if any of us had any clue, we never woulda—“

“I know, Race.” Davey says quietly. “I know, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. We were just... wrong, I guess.” There’s a sound like a sob, then Davey’s voice comes again, quivering and wet. “I just feel like such an idiot—“

“Oh, Davey.”

Jack’s pulse is pounding in his ears. He wants nothing more than to throw the bathroom door open and demand to know what’s wrong, demand to know who he needs to destroy on Davey’s behalf. His hand curls around the door handle, ready to kick the damn thing in if he has to—

But something causes him to hesitate.

His heart hurts as he listens to Davey sobbing on the other side of the door, torn between the instinctual need to comfort him and the growing guilt over eavesdropping on a private conversation. Davey won’t want to make a scene, and as much as Jack wants to, barging in will make a huge fucking scene.

His mind races: Did something happen while he was out? Is that why everyone’s so on edge? Did Jack do something to hurt Davey, and that’s why they’re all pissed at him?

Jack dismisses that last one. He can’t have done something—he hasn’t even seen Davey since last night. 

He lingers for one more second, then forces himself to go back to the table. He has to get through the rest of this disastrous lunch, then he can figure out what’s going on.

Racetrack returns just a bit after Jack does, Davey conspicuously absent. He leans down to mutter something in Finch’s ear as he passes him—Finch does a double-take, his expression incredulous. Racetrack shakes his head, insistent.

Jack tries to pretend like he’s not watching Race like a hawk, searching his face for any sign that he needs to take some kind of action. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a telephone chain of whispers and murmurs moving along the rest of the Newsies; Racetrack must’a told them to pass a message down the line. 

It’s gotta be something to do with Davey—the reason he’s so upset or the reason he hasn’t come out yet. It must be.

“Hey, how’s Davey doin’?” Jack asks, as casually as he can.

“What are you, the pissin’ police?” Race mutters as he sits down, still looking mutinous. “He’ll be back when he’s back.”

“I’m just askin’,” Jack says carefully.

“And I’m just answering,” Racetrack shoots back. He meets Jack’s gaze and lifts an eyebrow—almost like he’s daring Jack to keep pursuing the question.

Jack can feel himself starting to lose control of his temper. He tries to remind himself that Race is just worried about Davey, that everyone’s defenses are up because Maggie, as nice as she is, is a stranger to them and not someone they feel comfortable dropping their guard around—especially when one of their own is hurting.

Don’t make it any less irritating though.

Eventually things start winding down. Plates are cleaned and glasses are emptied. Maggie gathers her things and stands, gracing the table with a nervous smile—she gets a series of nods and smiles in return, some more genuine than others, but everyone making an attempt.

Jack blows out a breath. Maybe there’s hope yet.

“Hey, Maggie... I’m real sorry about all this,” Jack says as he walks with Maggie towards the entrance, scrubbing a hand down the back of his neck. “I dunno what’s gotten into them—they ain’t usually like this, I swear. I think somethin’ must’a happened at the distribution center this morning and it’s got ‘em all twisted up in knots.”

Maggie shakes her head, her dark curls swinging around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Jack. Everyone has bad days, we just got unlucky that today was one. But I’m sure I’ll have more chances to get to know them better—some other time when tensions aren’t so high.”

“You’re a gem,” Jack says, relieved at her understanding.

“I try,” Maggie agrees. “Will you walk me back?”

Jack hesitates. He knows he should say yes—it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, especially after the shit show that just went down—but he really wants to check in with the others and really needs to check on Davey.

Katherine comes to his rescue.

“Oh, are you heading back to the World?” she asks Maggie. “I’ll walk with you, I need to speak with my father about an event.”

She loops an arm through one of Maggie’s and pulls her along and out the door before Maggie can even begin to protest. 

Jack can barely make himself wait for the door to swing closed behind them before he’s jogging back to the table,

“Okay,” he announces, gazing sweeping over each one of his Newsies. “What the fuck is up with all’a youse?”

There are a few grunts and grumbles, but no one answers.

“Well?” Jack demands. “A whole hour of some’a the meanest remarks I’ve ever heard directed at anyone other than a DeLancey and now you all done lost ya damn tongues?”

“You can save the lecture,” Albert mutters, kicking at one of the table legs. “Davey already told us we was bein’ shitheads.”

“Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ say,” Jack says with a humorless snort. He glares at them for a few seconds longer, then his shoulders soften. “That’s what’s got ya all on edge, right? Somethin’s up with Davey?”

“Oh, sure, now he notices,” someone gripes, though Jack can’t tell who.

“Alright, someone spill,” Jack says. “What happened to Davey?”

More shared glances and sullen silence.

“You’re gonna have to ask him yourself, Jack,” Crutchie finally says. “It’s not our place to tell ya.”

“Fine then,” Jack says. “Where is he? Still in the bathroom?”

“He left,” Racetrack says. “He wasn’t feelin’ good so he went home.”

“What’d ya mean he went home?” Jack asks. “I didn’t see him leave—what’d he do, climb out the bathroom window?”

He doesn’t actually mean it, but Racetrack’s expression flickers and Jack realizes that his guess must be closer to the truth than he thought.

Jack rubs at his face with a sigh. “Okay, I’ll go by his place and check on him. But seriously, you all need to chill out, yeah? Just ‘cause youse upset don’t mean you should take it out the next person ya see—Maggie ain’t done nothin’ to deserve how ya treated her.”

That gets a few strong reactions. Romeo’s nose scrunches up, Finch lets out an incredibly loud huff, and Albert’s expression goes sour, but none of them argue out loud.

“You’re right, Jack,” Racetrack agrees, giving the others a significant look. There’s something strange about his tone. “Next time, we’ll be sure to put the blame where it’s due.”

“...Good,” Jack says, suddenly uneasy, though he can’t quite pinpoint why. “Make sure ya do.”

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Chapter two here