#i guess?? otherwise why make her Like That and crank that shit up to an eleven

[aromanticasterisms]

my god lingsha's design is so ass. my god

[hms-no-fun]

Sarah, Do you hate Rose Lalonde? Not in like the heavy malicious way people associate with Andrew and his relationship with hussie but like, as a fan of godfeels for probably the wrong reasons (my autistic ass really likes the way you approach the character and also me when someone writes Dirk and doesn’t make him a irredeemable piece of shit and a active creep) something that’s stuck out to me reading your tumblr and thinking back on the story is that rose is, to me at least, one of the most unluckiest characters in godfeels, both from a writing and in character perspective,m.

she’s the first to display the kid’s transphobia and thereby the first to get reality checked by June (which, to be fair to both June as a character and your reason for that scene in your godfeels video, she deserved) and therefor the first forced to learn the lesson of “you can move on and continue being friends with people but still not forgive them for the shit they put you through” (which I will admit I might be wrong on) and I’m pretty sure the first one to die when June does the whole kill everyone (or at least everyone that’s considered gods) on earth c thing, and besides that, unless I’ve misremembered something, besides the first chapter of divergence syndrome, she doesn’t really do much until she gives her final message to kanaya and well, the shit all goes down.

I’m not a big big fan of rose Lalonde, but it just feels like there’s something like, there, like there’s something about rose that you’ve never agreed with, and thinking back on it I don’t hate it, but it feels like sometimes rose is a means to a end, which is what all characters are but I mean like, a means means to a end, “how do Segway into the beta kids transphobia of June” through Rose’s constant biased Psychoanalysis failing her in the worse way possible, “How to keep epigone in after Dirk’s absolute asskicking” possessing her corpse, “how to finally get Gerald’s halo out of the story” get her dead, “how do I pronounce death to all endgame ships” kill the lesser used part of the pair, it just, feels like there’s something there, not something outright malicious, but something just, there, like the reverse of the hussie Vriska stuff, creator’s Chew toy stuff.

I apologize for the rudeness this ask may give off, I do truely love godfeels and read up to date anything about it that gets released, this just has been negging the back of my mind for so long.

spoilers for godfeels 3 here but i guess that ship's kinda sailed if you read the question lmao

i don't hate Rose at all! i mean i think freudians are all cranks and it really bugs me how much mid-century and contemporary marxist theory is couched in freudian/jungian/lacanian bullshit, but that's not really got anything to do with Rose lmao. i can't say that i hate any of the characters in godfeels the way andrew seemed to hate, say, Jake English (though there *are* homestuck characters i dislike and wouldn't enjoy writing, which is why they're not in the fic). i'm of the mind that every character sucks in their own unique ways and that's precisely what makes fiction fun to read. that Rose doesn't have a ton of direct agency in the narrative just comes down to, in part, this being a story focused primarily on June. that i didn't really understand how to write Rose in gf1-2 certainly doesn't help. but it's also related to how i interpret her role as a Seer of Light.

her role in gf3 onwards is defined by the Epilogues, where she either needed to transfer her consciousness to a robot body that could contain her ultimate self before her physical body died, or otherwise exist in a universe untethered from canon where connection to her ultimate self is irrelevant. she's had visions of, presumably, a great deal of the events of chapter 8, and i think understood that VV's whole gambit (whether or not she knew it was VV specifically playing this game) was to split the difference between Candy and Meat by disconnecting from Homestuck canon while still maintaining existential relevance in the shadow of some other story.

a lot of the best narrative premonitions/prophecies, especially in Homestuck, use them for dramatic irony-- that is, by trying to avoid a projected future, you only end up creating it. classic macbeth shit. if there's anyone in this story who viscerally understands that vicious narratological cycle, it's Rose Lalonde. so rather than pushing back, warning her friends, trying to rally the troops, she instead accepts that her universe's survival requires sacrifice, namely Major Character Death.

in this way, her so-called suicide wind is an echo of Dirk's own suicide in Candy, albeit towards existentially opposite purposes. and in that sense it's an equally selfish act, because who knows! maybe they *could* have done something substantial to prepare for Epigone's coming if Rose had bothered to warn anyone! but such is the passive nihilism of our beloved Seer, whose death could never be anything less than a dramatic tragedy. this was, in fact, an exercise in absolute agency-- Rose chose to accept her fate rather than fight back against it, perhaps even vibed with how poetic it was to be decapitated by her own beloved wife.

all of this is very relevant to the future of godfeels-- i didn't put her at the center of a load-bearing polycule just to have her death be meaningless. :)

[pascalpanic]

Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Javier Peña x f!Reader)- Chapter One

Summary: You live in Bogotá in the ‘90s, and work odd hours. No, you’re not a DEA agent, but a nurse. These odd hours prompt odd habits, like working out at 2:03 A.M. after a shift. Odd hours attract odd people, and you have a chance encounter with one DEA agent by the name of Javier Peña. Warnings: language, blood and violence (both graphic), descriptions of death and gun violence Chapter 1 W/C: 2.3K A/N: you guys! I am so in love with this fic. I already have quite a bit more written and can’t wait for you to read it! I hope you love it as much as I do! Javi deserves some softness... but not too much. this can’t all be fluff when you’re Javier Peña. Okay, this is not super canon-fitting of Narcos, I’m just gonna be honest with y’all. This is between the time of Escobar’s escape from La Catedral and his final capture and death, but also… Connie’s still in Colombia. Additionally, I don’t really have a year in mind, it’s just somewhere in that period. Please note that this is not a very lighthearted story- it begins with a death, though not of a significant character. Javier and reader both have some trauma, so please check the warnings of each chapter before you start reading. If you’re continuing on, I hope you like it! For the most part, if I use italics here when someone is speaking, it’s indicating that it’s in Spanish. I’m okay at the language, but I don’t want to butcher anything, so… just imagine it. Otherwise, it’s just the way anyone would use italics I guess.

next chapter

Chapter One

You watched a woman you didn’t know die in your arms tonight.

 She was beautiful, all dressed up to go out and party, her makeup running down her face with tears. Her lips were the painted the color of the blood that trickled from the side of them, eyes glazing over as she coughed and coughed and ruined the beautiful dress she wore. The nurses had asked what happened, and she had told them, through gurgles of blood: she had slept with one of Escobar’s men. She got too close, learned too much, and they tracked her down. 

She flatlined not long after telling the nurses around you. You had stood in the corner, paralyzed at first. You were an experienced ER nurse, nothing was new. You had seen patients die, but something about her was different. Maybe it was the way she reached out to you right before her body went limp. You didn’t make it to her bedside in time to calm her, the panic holding you down, but you finally took her hand right as she took her last breath. 

After she passed, you threw up in the bathroom, shaking and clutching the toilet. The night air had grown unbearably hot and humid, causing your scrubs to cling to your skin, and the sweat from the heaving of your stomach didn’t make things easier on you. Lorena, a fellow nurse and your best friend at work, had found you and comforted you, rubbing your back and bringing you water. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t reverse what had happened. 

Now, you sit on a bench in the staff’s locker room, redoing the ponytail holding your hair from your damp face. Your shift ended a few minutes ago, but you don’t know what to do now. You don’t feel like drinking; that would only make the visions swimming in your head worse. You know you can’t go home, can’t attempt to find sleep tonight. You look up and spot a bag with tennis shoes and spare clothing and settle your mind on at least one thing: the gym could do you some good. You change into the clothes and put the blood-spattered scrubs in the laundry pile. 

As you leave, you give Lorena a little wave goodbye and exit the building. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings tonight, and you groan as you look at your watch and notice that it’s precisely 2:09 A.M. here in Bogotá. The walk to your fitness club is short, but your step is slightly extra hurried and your hand is on your pepper spray the entire time, extra vigilant to the fact that a hit went down somewhere around here just a few hours earlier. Surprisingly enough, no one catcalls or bugs you tonight. 

The little gym is run-down and dilapidated, and there’s no working air conditioning, but it’s the only one near you. You paid the small monthly membership fee to gain access, and you were going to use it to get in shape, you’d decided. As you swipe in and enter, the tiny fitness center looks more depressing in the fluorescent lights, no daylight to sugarcoat the atrocities of the center. There are two of every machine, a punching bag and a speed bag, two weightlifting racks, and a couple of benches. 

It’s nice that you get to work out alone tonight, you tell yourself. Even better is the fact that you now get to control the music. Desperate for a taste of home, you flip the large boombox in the corner on and begin scanning the airwaves with the dial. There’s a station in town that plays American music, and you need it more than anything tonight. You listen carefully and nearly start sobbing again as you hear Billy Joel’s voice through the speakers. With a sigh of relief, you lock your bag in the rusty lockers in the corner and head to the treadmill. It’s a beat up old thing, but this is the one you always use. It provides a little bit of comfort tonight, the familiarity of it. You turn it on low and start walking. A few moments later, you up it to a jog, mouthing along to the words of the familiar song. 

As the song ends, you push the buttons enough to enter a running speed. Your feet slam into the treadmill harder than normal tonight, feeling as overwhelmed as when you left the hospital. Your body finally works up a sweat, the physical stress overwhelming the mental stress. 

As the events of tonight replay in your head to some other song from the late 80’s, your eyes start to water. Everything was so overwhelming, and your mind is just starting to process it. You finally allow the tears to fall, mixing with the sweat coating your cheeks. It’s hard to tell which is causing more of the mess, but you let yourself cry it out as you run for the next few minutes. 

The next song that comes on is Venus by Bananarama. You almost chuckle at the fact that it’s a few years old by now, but the song is comforting. It reminds you of home, of a time before you had issues like these. You slow down the treadmill a little, singing to the words aloud once you catch your breath enough. Daring to do a little spin on the rolling surface, you groove along to the music, chuckling a little

After the first chorus, you hear a creaking noise and whip around to find a man standing in the doorway. “Jesus fucking Christ!” You shout before you can stop yourself, hopping off the treadmill and onto the non-moving one before you get flung off. Your heart is pounding from the running, only intensifying the adrenaline rush from the scare. 

The man chuckles a little, but the smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s tired- of course he is, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. “Lo siento,” you offer in Spanish, cringing at yourself and your reaction just now. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here this late,” you stutter, still panting from the running. He shakes his head lightly. “You’re American,” he says simply. In English, in a beautifully American accented voice.

Your sweaty brow furrows, a glimmer of hope sparking inside your chest as you notice that he speaks like an American himself. “So are you.”

He nods at that. “That I am,” he says as he puts his things in a locker, snapping it shut behind him. He looks at you for a moment. You’re not working at the Embassy, or he’d know you. It was rare to find an American down here that wasn’t working for the government somehow. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, looking at how tired he appears in the big mirrored wall. He’s curious, but he’s exhausted. 

You look at him for a moment. “You going to explain anything, like, tell me about yourself? Or do I have to go first?” You ask, hands on your waist as you hop back on the slowly moving treadmill, back into moving. He doesn’t respond. “Fine. I know you’re government. I’m not an idiot.”

He chuckles and tugs on his t-shirt, moving to the treadmill next to you and getting on. It’s been ages since you’ve held a conversation in English, and you missed this, missed how easily your first language flows from your mouth. “And you’re not.”

“Correct,” you nod, turning up the speed a little on the machine until you’re at a light jog. “My bigger concern was going to be why you’re here at 2-fucking-30, but I’m guessing I know the answer. You get called in around here for the hit?” He nods, starting the treadmill up and walking on it. 

“You don’t have to be so guarded, Jesus. I fucking hate Escobar, I’m on your side,” you scoff before turning up the machine until you’re running once more.

Javier shrugs. “Makes sense. How did you know-”

“She died,” you say quickly and firmly, keeping your eyes straight ahead and looking at the room around you. “Add that to your file.”

He nods, understanding a little more now. You knew her somehow. He doesn’t say a word either, cranking up the machine and heading into a jog too.

A few more minutes pass of the two of you silently running next to each other, the American music still playing throughout the gym. It’s a comfort to Javier too. Tonight was shit for the DEA- they had known Escobar’s men would be around here. They had the intel, they had everything ready, but the men somehow had escaped and left a victim in their wake. 

The frustration of everything, of the man being something close to home for you yet being a brick wall, threatens your eyes with welling tears again. “I just wanted to talk with an American,” you sigh and cross your arms, moving back into the walking stage of a treadmill. 

The man next to you gives a similar sigh, stopping his treadmill completely and offering you a hand. “Javier Peña.” You take it reluctantly, feeling the sweat of both of your hands mix, and tell him your name before retracting it and stopping the treadmill too. “So, what brings you to the gym at 2:30?” He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the center part of the treadmill. 

“I’m a nurse. I work the graveyard shift. Bad night, a patient died because she got fucking shot for having a boyfriend and not knowing he was a narco, I need to get something out, I come here,” you shrug, unconsciously mimicking him by folding your arms as well. 

He nods at that. “I’m here for the same. Shitty stakeout, I’m pissed off, I come here.” He leaves out the part about his favorite call girl being taken, and how he needed another way to get the rage inside of him out. He walks off of the treadmill and to the weight rack, pulling a bench beneath the bar.

You turn again and turn the machine back on, slowly jogging. “I see. Odd hours to be here, that’s why I asked,” you say simply. “And to see another American at such a time. I haven’t interacted with one since I came here.”

Javier nods, adjusting the weights on the bar. “Yeah. Weird,” he nods. “And that you’re an American who isn’t working for the government and you’re down here. What, you got a husband who works for us?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard for a moment. “No, don’t have a husband in the first place,” you admit, adjusting the ponytail holding your hair up. “It’s a long story.”

“We got time,” he shrugs as he gets on the bench beneath the rack, looking at you in the mirrored wall. Even with the sweat and the stress of working out, he notices that you’re gorgeous. You have a nice body, and even your face is pretty while you’re working out.

You shake your head. “Fine, if you really want to hear it.”

“Might as well. It’s that or more of this fucking Wham! music, and I’m sick of George Michael.”

“First of all, first person here gets the music, so mind your manners.” This finally earns a chuckle from the man, and you want to smile but it just can’t come. “I came down here with a man. He’s a citizen here. We were going to get married, but he left me. That was a couple of months ago now,” you admit, the tears beading in the corner of your eye again. “My work visa was still valid, and I renewed it so I can keep working at the hospital. I don’t really have anyone down here except the girls I work with, but I like helping out. They need me.” He nods a little as he listens, breaking his focus as he starts his reps with the bar.

“And you’re government, so that explains everything I need to know about you,” you continue to babble. “One of the girls I work with has a husband who’s at the Embassy. Murphy,” you say offhandedly. 

Javier’s attention is caught, and he sets the bar on the rack. “Murphy?” He asks, and you turn your head to look at him and give him a nod. “No shit. That’s my partner.”

You chuckle slightly and look back at him, stopping the treadmill. “So you know Connie?”

Javi nods. “Yeah, great gal. She could do better than Steve,” he says, sitting up.

You laugh softly at that. “From what I’ve heard of him, I agree. She’s a really great girl, you’re right,” you nod in agreement, looking back at him. “She’s never mentioned you. She says her husband’s in janitorial, but we all know that’s not true. What, you guys CIA? DEA?”

Javier nods again. “DEA.”

“I see,” you say, folding your arms and leaning against the machine. “Can’t make you many friends around here. I learned pretty quickly to keep my mouth shut about being a gringa. They can usually tell though.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles and cracks his back.

You bite your lip as you look at him, your voice watery when you can finally speak again, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion again. “It’s nice to talk to someone in English again,” you admit with a forced smile. 

He can read your eyes easily. You’re a nurse, and you told him that the victim died. You saw it. “It is,” he nods, reading your pain and trying to show you he empathizes with it. Your eyes are beautiful, he notices as he looks into them. So much more hope and trust than anyone else he works with, but the pain in them is unbearable. He looks away, leaning back on the bench to lift again.

“So where you from in the States?” You finally ask when the silence is too long. 

“Laredo, Texas,” he chuckles. “Yourself?”

[mymoonagedaydream]

Witness Protection (Part 1)

Summary: You'd only been living in New York for a few weeks when Natasha introduced you to James Barnes, the man who’d change your life forever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x y/n

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Language

Author’s Note: Mamma mia, here we go again

---

You were finally out of the small town shadow. 

It’d taken years, building up the courage to detach yourself from the countryside setting you'd known all your life, but now you were ready to dive into the city. 

Your new flatmate Sharon had, thankfully, turned out to be lovely. After finding her spare room advertised online it took a good few days to convince your parents that not all 'internet strangers' wanted to steal your kidneys. Meeting her and settling into your new home just made you all the more desperate to build a proper, comfortable life for yourself here. 

That's when you met Natasha Romanoff. 

Once you’d gotten to know each other well enough, Sharon offered to take you along to her yoga class. You didn’t give it a second thought. However, much to your surprise, on arrival she immediately recognised an older lady there and pretty much left you to your own devices. 

Nat took the spot next to you and the two of you got chatting. She was confident and bubbly, exactly the type of person you wanted to surround yourself with. After a couple more classes, meeting for coffee and then getting sloppy cocktail drunk a few times, you felt like Nat was already a close friend. Like you'd known her for years. So you decided to invite her over for drinks. 

---

A couple of hours before she was due to arrive, you were frantically trying to get a red wine stain out of the couch, when she messaged you.

-Is it alright if I bring a few friends? They're dudes.

-Sure, the more the merrier. 

-Oh also, your flatmate Sharon, the blonde- she's single right?

-Think so, why?

-Got someone I'm trying to get laid. 

-Brilliant. You classy bitch. 

-See you later.

You figured you should probably warn Sharon what she was in for... Then again, Nat’s in special ops. All the guys she knows should be hard-bodied stallions, right? 

Yeah, she'll be fine. 

When you opened the door you genuinely thought she'd brought two bodyguards with her. On her left was the predicted Action Man, with neatly coiffed hair and a thousand-dollar-smile. The other wasn't as traditionally good-looking, with longer dark hair and a slightly reluctant look on his face, but for some reason you found your eyes lingering on him a fraction longer. 

With a bottle of wine in each hand, Nat gave you a tight hug. 'Good to see you! This is Steve and Bucky.'

You moved aside and waved them in, taking the wine off Nat as she passed you. She already smelled like liquor, but you guessed she'd probably just shared some Dutch courage with whichever of her backing dancers she was going to set on your flatmate. Hearing the commotion, Sharon came out of her room. 

‘Oh hey, this is my flatmate, Sharon.’ You pointed towards her with an elbow whilst trying to uncork one of the bottles. 

Nat raised her eyebrows towards her entourage, before realising she'd left an uncomfortably long silence. She swiftly launched into an attempt at unbiased introductions, but it became obvious within seconds that it was Action Man she was trying to get laid. Sharon seemed into it, at least. 

You motioned them all towards the sofas, noticing Nat engineering their order so that Steve and Sharon ended up cosy on the two-seater. She took the seat closest to them on the big couch, prime wingman position. Bucky sequestered himself to the armchair on the other side of the room, seemingly uninvested in Nat’s mission, and in friendly conversation generally. 

Oh lord, you were a sucker for the quiet broody ones. 

‘Does everyone want wine? I have a load of beers too.’ You announced, taking everyone’s orders and then carrying the drinks over.

‘So, do you two work in specials ops too?’ Sharon tried to stoke conversation with your guests. 

Steve nodded, but you noticed Bucky smirk and raise an eyebrow at Nat. She returned a wide-eyed glare and quickly changed the subject to how much Steve could bench-press. Clearly something was up, but after a few more drinks you didn’t really care.

The first couple hours went well, Steve and Sharon chatted while you and Nat got steadily more wine-drunk. Bucky piped up whenever he was spoken to, but otherwise he just brooded in the corner. The more wine you had, the more appealing this dark, handsome stranger was becoming to you. Maybe Nat was trying to get them both laid? Wishful thinking. 

At some point, Nat decided to crank up the music and you commenced some impressively haphazard drunk dancing. You looked over to see Sharon grinning as Steve tried to waltz with her to Basshunter. 

The next thing you knew, Nat was attempting to yank Bucky up by the arm. He must’ve had at least eight beers but he barely even looked tipsy. After a few seconds of aggressive persuasion he stood up, almost immediately going to lean against the closest wall.

‘You are no fun, Barnes.’ Nat pointed an accusatory finger. ‘When was the last time you let go and had a proper laugh?’ 

‘1944.’ Bucky replied, casually. 

You laughed, quickly stopping when you noticed you were the only one doing so. Steve and Sharon were preoccupied with each other, but the other two seemed to catch themselves in their silence and force some laughter for your benefit. 

Weird as hell, must be the booze. 

Not long after, you found yourself wondering if maybe you’d be able to make broody dance. You eventually decided fuck it, worth a shot. 

You sauntered over and reached out for one of his hands, only then realising that he’d been wearing one glove for the whole evening. A fashion statement? He really didn’t seem like the type. No matter, you went for the other hand anyway.

He moved away from the wall with surprisingly little resistance, dropping his beer bottle on one of the end tables. You smiled at him, probably looking like a sweaty maniac by this point, but he didn’t seem to mind. His arms snaked around your waist and after a few seconds his chest was the only thing stopping you from tumbling onto the floor. Soon enough, you and Bucky were swaying silently alongside Steve and Sharon.

Nat collapsed onto the sofa, proudly surveying her handiwork before dozing off. 

---

You had no memories of what happened after that, but someone must’ve put you to bed cause you woke up fully clothed underneath your duvet. Not daring to sit up or move your head, you reached your arm out and fumbled for your phone on the bedside table. The light from the screen almost blinded you. You texted Nat. 

-What happened last night? I don’t remember anything after dancing...

-You fell asleep on Bucky’s shoulder, he carried you to bed. 

-Ah. Shit.

You threw your phone down and rubbed your eyes. You’d obviously made an absolute tit of yourself. On the plus side, needing to apologise profusely was a pretty good excuse to see him again.

---

Part Two

---

[itscalledreadingdarling]

You Weren’t Supposed To Get Hurt - Newt Imagine

Lines indicate time passes, enjoy :)

*Differs from both movies and books

~

Someone was bound to get hurt.

It was inevitable, really.

I just didn’t think it was going to be me.

I was untouchable, said the gladers. Throughout my 6 months I spent in the glade no one nor anything seemed to injure me.

When we escaped, people died. I was one of the lucky ones who made it out.

When we broke out into the scorch, I was never once bruised, scratched or otherwise.

When our position with the right arm was revealed and chaos broke out, I joined the fight, bullets flying left and right.

Still, nothing ever touched me.

Not when WCKD took loads of immunes, including Minho.

Not when we attempted to rescue him.

Not when the giant wall that separated WCKD and thousands of people started openly shooting.

Utterly untouchable.

It used to be a joke amongst the gladers.

There was no time for joking anymore.

Now, it became a gift. A strategy.

It would all come down to me.

In my hand was the one most important thing, a blue vial.

The serum.

The cure.

The only thing that determined whether Newt would live, or die.

I had to get it to him.

My lungs burned and my legs ached and still, I kept running.

I wasn’t used to it, running so much.

I was a cook in the glade, along with Frypan.

Now it seemed that I was running every day.

This time though, I didn’t think about it.

Instead, I thought about Newt.

The way he always managed to make me laugh, even in the times where laughing seemed unreachable.

The kindness behind every action, just wanting to keep his friends safe.

Always trying to make it to a place where we would be safe, fighting until there was no more fight.

Shit.

I couldn’t lose him.

I ran faster.

——

Newt was teetering on the edge of sanity when I finally reached where we agreed to meet up.

His humanity was almost gone.

The flare was him and he was the flare.

He was fighting Thomas .

There were only brief moments when he would realize what he was doing, and pause, begging for Thomas to kill him.

He wanted it to be over.

He didn’t want to become one of them.

A crank.

“Please Tommy, please. Please.”

I could feel tears spilling down my cheeks at the scene before me, but I didn’t let them deter me, still running, screaming at Thomas that I had it, I had the cure.

Thomas’s eyes flicked to me, unfortunately at the wrong time, as Newt took the chance to lunge at Thomas while he was momentarily distracted.

He was able to successfully pin him to the ground, Thomas stuck underneath him.

Newt had a knife, and was pressing it down towards Thomas’s chest, while Thomas was struggling to keep it from penetrating him.

I was quick, sliding to my knees, and pulling up Newt’s sleeve, which was proving to be difficult.

It took a few seconds, but I thankfully was able to get it up, a sick taste entering my mouth at the sight of the snaky black veins that crawled up Newt’s skin.

It was then that Newt noticed me.

I was surprised he hadn’t before, I wasn’t trying to be stealthy in any manor. I was prepared for a fight.

But I was so close, all I had to do was plunge the syringe into his arm, and all would be fixed.

It all happened so fast that I wasn’t aware of it.

I stuck the needle into his arm, and pushed down the top, the serum slowly draining from the tube and into Newts bloodstream.

I looked up, just in time to see the darkness fade from his eyes and a haunting look of horror flicker on his face before he slumped to the side, Thomas and I lunging to grab him before he slammed his head on the concrete floor.

Out of pure adrenaline, or perhaps hysteria, I laughed.

It hurt to laugh but I couldn’t stop.

There was to much adrenaline in my body that it felt unnatural.

I heard Thomas say my name, quietly. Scared.

I looked up at him with a bright smile. I expected him to look happy, we had just saved Newt.

But rather he looked at me, pain and fear freezing his features.

“What?” I chuckled.

He simply pointed to my stomach.

I looked down and like a button was pressed, my laughter cut off.

Blood.

Seeping.

Red.

To much of it.

I looked back up to Thomas, pain flooding in. It was strange, how the body worked. I hadn’t felt it until I was focused on it. Until the adrenaline shut off.

His eyes flickered to the knife that lay limply in Newts hand, blood coating the tip.

My blood.

I could see black spots in the corners of my eyes.

I was gonna pass out.

Shit.

“Don’t tell him.” I mumbled.

And then the world went black and the pain faded.

——

I opened my eyes to light.

Bright, blinding light.

A small groan left my lips as I slowly sat up.

What the hell?

I lifted up my shirt - different than the one I wore last time I was conscious - and my fingers hovered over the thick bandage wrapped around my abdomen.

There was a light red, excess blood seeping through the bandages, and there was a dull ache emitting from my stomach, but not as badly as I remembered.

I winced as I stood up from the bed, a sharp pain shooting through my body, and my hand immediately flew to my stomach, holding my arm around myself as if it would barricade the pain.

I could hear laughter outside of the hut, and I took a moment to take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The air smelled salty, such a stark contrast from the glade, that smelled of dirt and earth.

I slowly walked out of the hut, trying not to aggravate my injury too much.

When my eyes adjusted to the outside light, I was able to take in everything around me - from the blue of the ocean, to the tan grains of the sand, the giant huts and billowing sheets of white that covered them, and the abundance of people milling about.

A small breath of laughter left me, we had done it. We actually did it. We were safe.

I scanned the crowd until I saw a familiar face.

“Minho!” I called out, and I could see him turn to me, before jogging over with a smile wide on his face.

I guessed that he was aware of my injury, as he hugged me gently from the side, rather that his usual tight squeeze.

“We thought you were dead shank, how you holdin up?” He gestured to my bandages, hidden by my shirt.

“I’m doing alright. Hurts a shucking ton though.”

He let out a small chuckle, and called out for Thomas and a couple other of the gladers, each greeting me like Minho did.

It seemed all of them knew about my injury, hugging me with care, some looking concerned.

“Hey, where’s Newt?” I questioned.

“Oh, he’s over by the crops, helping Vince or something like that.” Minho replied, pointing to a group of people further away from the groups of shelters.

“Thanks.” I said, making my way over to the gardens in the distance.

I really hoped the serum had worked. It sounded like it had.

If Minho wasn’t worried then Newt should be fine.

I spotted him quickly, his blonde hair glowing in the sunlight, and his skin perfectly free of any black veins.

“Newt!” I called out, waving my hand at him.

He immediately dropped whatever was in his hands, and jogged towards toward me.

Newt was quick to wrap me in an embrace, holding me tightly.

So Thomas did hear my request.

Don’t tell him.

Don’t tell Newt that I’m injured.

Don’t tell Newt that he was the one who injured me.

It seemed Thomas had understood what I was asking, and complied.

For that I was thankful.

The rule back in the glade was never to hurt another glader on purpose.

I don’t know what Newt would do if he found out he had hurt me.

Found out that I was hurt.

I was supposed to be untouchable after all.

I never questioned his intense protectiveness over me - it made me feel loved, and safe.

He was never overbearing about it, knowing I could handle myself, but that’s just who he was. Always wanting to protect and save everyone. I would break him to know he failed his moral.

So I should’ve been prepared for a full on hug, but I wasn’t.

It was to late to hide my yelp of pain, a tight wince on my face as pain racked through my abdomen.

“Woah, are you okay?”

His face wore concern, but I decided to brush it off.

“I’m fine.”

Yet my arm still circled my stomach, clutching the thick bandages.

“You’re obviously not.”

“I’m fine, really Newt.”

I looked at him and he looked at me. He knew I was lying.

I didn’t have any excuse so instead I came up with the best idea I could.

I walked away.

I had expected him to follow me, but when I looked back, he stood there with a dejected look on his face.

This was not the reunion I wanted.

——

A huge bonfire was lit in the middle of the beach.

There was music, and dancing, and laughter.

I was sitting with some Group B girls who had approached me, laughing lightly with them.

It was nice to have some girl company for once.

“Woah, what’s happening over there?” Asked one of the girls, gesturing to the left of where we sat together.

My gaze flipped over to where she was directing her comment at.

It was Newt, looking angry at a flustered Thomas.

I looked at the girls and shrugged. “I’ll go check it out.”

They let me go with the promise to bring them back all the tea, and I agreed with a chuckle.

Newt was close to yelling, as once I got a bit closer I could hear each word loud and clear.

“What do you mean she was bloody injured?”

My step paused, and I glanced at Thomas, who had noticed my presence and looked sheepish. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed.

I saw Newts head swivel my way, looking at me with disbelief.

“Why the hell would you keep something like that from me?”

I didn’t answer, looking at him with silence, so he asked another question.

“What happened?”

At that, I lowered my eyes, and became very interested at a particular grain of sand just at the toe of my right shoe.

Newt was always good at connecting the dots.

“I.... I didn’t do that did I?”

His voice was soft, so that I could barely hear it over the chatter and crackling of the fire. The pain was evident in his voice, and I knew there ways no trying to lie my way out of this one.

“You were half delusional with the flare-“ I began to reason, but he had already stalked off. “Shit.”

I looked at Thomas who still looked sorry for spilling the secret, and Minho who was now whistling and looking anywhere but me.

I almost wanted to laugh at the situation, for believing that I could actually get away with the whole thing.

Instead I stalked off in the direction he went, ideas to try and make him understand that he shouldn’t feel like it was his fault running trough my mind.

I didn’t know how long I had been walking for to find Newt, and looking back, the bonfire was only a speck in the distance.

Here, it was just the stars and the waning moon lighting the cold beach sand.

I had taken my shoes off halfway through the walk, enjoying the tickle and peacefulness of being barefoot on a beach.

It wasn’t hard to find Newt, there was a trail of footsteps leading up to where he sat, off in the distance, and my injury made it hard for me to move at a faster pace, so I continued my slow treck - enjoying the moment alone while breathing in the salty air.

It felt wonderful.

Safe.

It was a rare feeling to come by in a predicament such as ours but we had done it.

And when I finally reached him, I laid down in silence, looking up at the stars.

It was silent for awhile before he began to talk.

“I had nightmares; when we first arrived and I was fully healed. Most of them consisted of you. You being tortured, you being dead. I remember there was one where you were screaming and I couldn’t get to you. It was like I was stuck. They’re all bloody terrible but the worst one was when I was a crank, fighting Tommy. You were trying to help me, give me the cure but - the flare - it consumes you. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I remember so distinctly taking my knife and running it across your stomach, deep... it always ended there.”

He pauses briefly, taking a shaky breath.

“I always thought they were just nightmares. I guess that last one was actually a memory.”

He was staring out into the distance, at the dark ocean.

I stayed silent.

“Can I see it?” He questioned quietly.

I sucked in a breath of my own, but nodded, knowing that he needed to see it for himself.

I sat up slowly, and lifted the bottom of my shirt, giving him access to where my bandage was tied up at the back.

I looked down and saw a noticeable difference from when I checked it earlier. The light red has blossomed into a darker one, coving almost the whole front of the bandage.

I hadn’t even seen it myself, and I wasn’t sure I wanted too.

I closed my eyes as Newt carefully unwrapped my bandage, until I could feel the sting of cold air hit the injury.

“Fuck.”

His reaction was enough to get me to look down and I could feel a bad taste in my mouth again.

Although stitched up, there was still blood oozing and so much red.

I looked up and closed my eyes again.

I had never done well with blood, always making Frypan cook the freshly cut meat, and turning down a part time medjack job after helping Frypan with a small burn he had recived from cooking said meat.

“I’m so bloody sorry love.”

I looked at him, tears in his eyes and his hand shaky, hovering just above the cut.

“Hey, Newt, it’s okay.”

“No it shucking isn’t.”

He sounded angry, force behind his words but it was only a short burst, his voice turning sad again as he cursed more.

His fingers trembled slightly as he carefully wrapped the bandage back up, asking if he needed to make it more loose or tighter.

Chills ran up and down my body when I felt his fingers brush my bare skin, and was disheartened when he finished.

I hadn’t talked much during the whole ordeal, not knowing what to say, and afraid to voice the wrong thing.

Mostly, I just wanted him to stop blaming himself, like I knew he was.

“I should’ve done something to stop it, I should’ve-“

“Nope, we aren’t doing this. Stop it.” I said firmly.

“No, it’s my fault, I should’ve just fought I harder, if I could’ve-“

And because I couldn’t think of any other way to get him to stop talking, I grabbed his chin, and pulled him down to me, gently colliding his lips with mine.

It was moments of pure bliss, before I pulled away and looked into his searching eyes.

“I told you to shut up.”

And it was like all traces of our previous conversation had dissolved when he mumbled, “Tell me again,” moving his hand so it was cupping my right check, and bringing our lips together once more.

It was soft, but I could still feel his anger and sadness and I pressed my lips harder to his.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing harder than normal.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt.” He said.

“I would’ve done it again. You’re alive Newt. That matters more than a cut.”

He just hummed a response, though I couldn’t translate what he meant by it.

“Wanna go back?” He asked.

“No.” I simply said.

So we sat side by side, watching the waves crash against the beach.

Simple.

Beautiful.

Peaceful.

Safe.

Together.

[turnaboutyandere]

Lightningbug here

problem with me and miles, franziska(as much as I love her), klavier, and godot, is that I admittably do not like bullies tm. Like I was bullied soooooo badly at school that even if one of them adored me, in the real world I wouldn't care for them...

So anyway the characters above with a person who was bullied:

Miles:

He is an asshole, but he is formal about it... I guess he gets points for that. When he realizes y/n doesnt like how he is with people he cranks the asshole low and cranks up the formal when theyre around

Franziska:

Is furious cause in her mind, those foolish fools from fooltown are why her crush wont look her in the eye. The reason their jaws set when they talk to her but they flinch when they see her whip. She will not take accountability for her actions in making y/n hate her. Instead she tries to explain to them that those people are idiots. Running her chances more

Klavior:

It makes him want to whisk them away. Thier so cracked. So hurt. Out of all of them he is most likely to learn to keep his damn mouth shut. Hes a smart man you know. He may even apologizes to apollo, in front of everyone.... too bad y/ns disdain for bullies makes them hard to forgive

Godot:

The first time y/n even bothers to look his way is when their standing up for wright. The jealousy boiling in him makes him increase the aggression. Increasing the cruelty has the added effect of making y/n stand beside wright more. If their a women he tells them that a sweetheart like them just cant depend on "trite" for protection. They slap him and tell him they trust Phoenix with their very life and also not to call them that.

Don’t worry, Lightningbug Anon, I totally get how you feel.

If we’re talking pre-redemption, then yeah, Miles is definitely gonna be an asshole. He may, like you said, tone it down around his darling but otherwise, he’s gonna be the same pretentious little shit he was in 1-2 and 1-3. Shitty behavior from post-redemption Miles, though, would be rare.

Franziska is in a similar situation as her brother, only her assholery hasn’t gone down nearly as much as his. She may try to change if her darling is adamant about it but I can’t see her taking the criticism too well.

Klavier is honestly the least douchy of the four. At worst, he’s a little mean *laughs in herr forehead* but otherwise, he’s a pretty alright guy. I think he’s probably the nicest prosecutor we’ve had besides Sebastian.

Diego, oh Diego... He is such a prick but I still love him for some reason. However, if he was bullying Phoenix right in front of me, you’d better believe I would throw hands with him. Square up, you discount coffee bean!

______

- Mod Dollie

[bondsmagii]

Less childhood fears than religious trauma, but the church I grew up in was pretty culty. Told me at 8 years old that queers (like me) deserved to die from aids. That god hated us until proven otherwise. That animals didn't have souls and couldn't feel pain. Used the kids for labor and locked me in the church attic one time at 12 years old to crank out props and art for church Projects. Also used to set young teens up with adults on creepy "mentorship" dates. It was bad, dude. Glad I got out.

oof I’m glad you got out too! that is so fucked up, but unfortunately it seems to be a common story for people raised in ultra-religious households. I don’t understand why people make a big deal about cults as though they’re these isolated groups of people who just go off the shits. anyone I’ve ever met who’s been involved in a heavily religious community for any religion has reported the same kind of things. religion in general is kind of a huge cult. personal beliefs and people individually working out what it means for them is generally OK, but any kind of organised religion? yikes.

I heard the same bullshit about animals not having souls as well. got into an argument with my religion teacher over it because it was just way too much. she was so cruel about it, too, in the matter-of-fact “god’s word, not mine!” way, and like... a girl in my class had just had her dog put to sleep over the weekend and she was in absolute floods of tears, and in the end I told the teacher to just shut up because like, come on. read the fucking room.

it blows my mind, to be honest. anyone who’s ever looked an animal in the eye knows it has a soul. like, @ these people, sorry you’ve never had an animal love you I guess :/

[skinks]

Please Please talk to me about Maggie Tozier and what she’s like and looks like and what Dilfworth Tozier loves about her and made him put a ring on it and in general how much her two boys love her and how she loves them.

[cracks knuckles] here we go

I was looking through my copy of the book yesterday to answer this ask but then I figured, y’know what? Canon can suck it. I tend to beat myself up over accurate characterisation for Richie and Eddie, but they’re main characters, Maggie and Went are not, so the details are inconsequential. Their ages in the Dilfworth fic mean that they’d have a pretty different life experience from their book versions, what with growing up in the 60s/70s, but imo all that matters is that they love Richie and are good parents. Canon is ours now!!!

- my no.1 headcanon rn is that Maggie sings like an angel, and sings all the time. In the car, in the shower, gardening, housework, cooking. She and Went have a pretty good record collection, but if Went is listening to something and hears Maggie singing to herself in another room of the house he shuts that shit off quick so he can hear her.

- I wrote in ithots that Richie busts out into song at the drop of a hat, right? well, where Richie gets encouragement with his Voices through Went participating, Richie gets his incessant singing from Maggie, because he grew up in a household where that was welcomed.

- Maggie doesn’t even notice she’s doing it until Richie joins in, or she turns around and sees Went gazing at her all dopey, and she gets self-conscious

- until Went is like “I don’t know why. You know I think you’re a songbird” and then grins and calls her Magpie. She says stop. He says, Maggie-pie? She throws a dishcloth at him but secretly loves it because she fell in love with how frank and practical he is most of the time, but also how silly he is only when it comes to her and Richie.

- he only calls her that when they’ve had one too many anyway, otherwise it’s all sweetheart, honey, darling, Mags. Marguerite, in Richie’s stupid French Waiter Voice. “Yes ma’am” for when he’s rearranging her guts. Maggie’s the one to call him “my love” the first time, but she said it kinda exaggerated and jokey, and Maggie just doesn’t joke the way Went and Richie do so Richie noticed the way his dad just cracked tf up and was like wow, Mom must be really, really funny

- so y’know how Richie calls Eddie “my love” in the book, and is generally quite physically affectionate? He picks all that up from his parents, watching their example. Wants to make Eddie laugh like that

- for some reason I always imagine she speaks like, French or Italian fluently. I’m stealing @honeyreynolds hc that her maiden name is Avery for Tex Avery, but maybe her own mother was European. She tries to speak French with Richie as a baby/toddler so that he’ll be bilingual, and she’s so proud/frustrated because he’s clearly smart and has a knack for linguistic imitation, but his attention span is just. Non existent

- still makes lil kid Richie giggle by doing exaggerated Italian and making him guess what she’s saying

- I think she’s pretty elegant and reserved and almost shy on the surface with a rly wry sense of humour, so people tend to think she’s snooty, but she’s just... so concerned with keeping the peace and not saying anything bad about someone. Tries to see the best in people. This can lead to a lot of embarrassment when Went is so upfront and medical-frank about stuff or if Richie’s being a dumbass in public, but really she just envies their typically masculine lack of inhibition

- this is because she’s got this killer wicked streak. Maggie’s got a hidden well of scathing diatribes and Went knows it because

- they met on a plane in 1971 when Maggie was flying back to college for her final semester of senior year, and the man in the seat next to her started having an attack of some kind. The stewardesses appeal desperately for any doctors on board, nobody answers. Anyone at all? We’ll have to land the plane! Maggie’s trying to slowly shift away from this man and his spasms without seeming rude when she hears a deep sigh in the seat behind her and someone saying “I’m ethically bound to admit I have a licence in dentistry,” in a voice like he’s in on some joke nobody else knows.

- this guy unfolds the longest legs she’s ever seen and comes to squat right next to her and her apparently dying seat partner, she notices he’s nice looking and keeps glancing at her, there’s banter. Eventually he shrugs and is like “imo this man has a bad case of wind.” And Maggie just TEARS Went a new one like oh nice diagnosis DOCTOR DENTIST where’s your seatside manner?!?! what kind of name is WENTWORTH anyway! and Went’s like 👀😳😍 and then the dying man lets out a giant fart and Maggie recoils, all her pretty poise and indignation turning to base disgust and Went bursts out laughing and offers her the seat next to him

- turns out his first residency is in the next town from Maggie’s college. She’s only dated preppy meatheads before who only ever tried to flatter her and stopped listening when she talked about her music theory degree or the books she likes. But Went always grins and side-eyes her and cranks the volume whenever Maggie May comes on the hits station, because then she’ll whack him with a book. She’s so SWEET he loves goading her into releasing some more of that plane rage, like one day she’s prowling on the edge of a rant about her TA and trying to be reasonable. Went’s like, do it. You’ll feel better. So she fuckin rants her head off for ten minutes until her hair’s all dark and wild like an Arthurian queen and she looks over at Went reclining all impressed on her dorm bed and he’s like. I have never been more in love in my life. Can you sit on my face and make fun of my name again

- so yeah they’re both like, quietly distinguished and outwardly calm model citizens of Derry but in private Went is the fuckin roastmaster and is Maggie’s outlet for frustration whenever housewife suburbia gets too much

- I always picture her as having dark and quite curled hair, sort of Lauren Bacall eyes, and she’s probably tall too. Like 5’8 to Went’s 6’0 or 6’1 which is why Richie turns out to be 6’2 lmao. A family of giants. Honestly the whole time I was writing the Dilfworth fic I was imagining Mary Elizabeth Winstead, that’s my early-30s Maggie that Went is so excited to come home he’s stocking up on condoms. God I bet she’s got some of those single dark beauty mark freckles on her stomach 🥵 Wears hats with big brims. Sundresses. Secretly likes to pretend she’s on a mysterious trip to Rome as she sits in the park watching Richie catch dragonflies. Maybe when she’s older and Richie’s a teenager she looks kinda like Olivia Williams, bc I’ve had a big milfy thing for her ever since she was the mother in the 2003 Peter Pan.

- most kids in Derry have a crush on either Richie’s mom or dad or both and this is unfortunately quite damaging to his self esteem, even though Maggie INSISTS he’s just so handsome. She hates seeing him so insecure

- she tried pot once in college and hated it. The only times she comes close to getting hammered is on book club wine because it’s the only way she can get through them asserting the female orgasm doesn’t exist, then she comes home mildly tipsy and joins in on Went and Richie’s raucous game of cards

- felt a bit left out when Richie was small, with how well Went was able to go along with the silliness. Went sees this and gets Richie to make up a game where she’s Queen Margaret of the Tozier Court and made Richie a knight. They all spoke in bad Medieval Voices all afternoon, and it becomes one of those super long-running family jokes, and Maggie still feels all happy inside whenever Queen Margaret comes up

- ruthless decision maker!!! She had to be, because Went’s so laidback he’s horizontal and is always like “idc what we do as long as you guys are chill” and Richie can’t concentrate long enough to pick what colour gumball he wants, so she has to be staff sargeant. They go to Disneyland and she’s like C’MON BOYS HUP HUP HUP and Went’s like “oh cripes son we’re being hustled!!” but they love it as much as she loves them doing what she says

- great cook because of her indeterminidely Mediterranean mother.

- she genuinely wants to understand Richie’s strangeness but is also stumped as to what to do to bond with him, since she can only think of things she’d do with a daughter. She WANTS to brush Richie’s curls and bake with him but she thinks he wouldn’t like it, so they stick with singing. Is delighted when Eddie very politely and very intensely asks for her help making Richie a birthday cake. She sees how different they are together, and remembers Richie coming home at 5 years old declaring he was gonna marry Eddie Kaspbrak when he grows up, and she thinks... well, if I must have a son-in-law, I would love this one as much as I love my son.

[inkribbon796]

Kiss and Tell

Summary: Yan and her favorite big brother are on a mission from Dark, and run into some brightly colored characters.

A/N: For Yan’s birthday. In terms of the timeline this happens almost right before (or at least a month before) Robbie becomes a zombie. Yan is 16 and Author is 18; Ethan is 17 and Randall is 15.

~::~ Five Years Ago ~::~

Yan and Arthur were sitting in a warehouse, talking to each other as they sat in a room full of crates. Dark had left them in charge while he was “talking” to the foreman. Arthur had commented, not so gently, that Bim was probably getting a new meal, but the conversation had changed topic to Yan’s newest boyfriend.

“Yeah, but does he have a nice ass?” Author asked, writing in his book about one of his newest “characters” that Dark had given him.

“Senpai is perfect,” Yan flapped her arms a bit in excitement.

Arthur made an unsure face, “Yeah, but can I bounce a quarter off that ass?”

A loud crash came from somewhere in the warehouse and both teens straightened up in their seats.

“Was that you?” Yan asked, looking at Arthur who with a couple quick words summoned his bat to his hand.

“If it was me I would have summoned your boytoy’s head and thrown it at your lap,” Arthur was already up and heading towards the noise.

Yan stuck her tongue at him, summoning one of her katanas and followed him.

At the other side of the building Crank was rubbing the back of his neck. He brushed back his bright blue hair out of his face.

“Oww,” Ethan almost laughed with the pain.

Randall jumped in after him, Bob and Silver were fighting a couple thugs outside and Ethan had accidentally sailed in through a window.

“You okay?” Silver called from outside.

“Yeah, I just misjudged my jump,” Crank yelled back.

Randall fixed his yellow tinted glasses, his outfit almost looked like a construction worker’s. A large YT on the side on an arm. While Ethan’s looked most like Silver’s almost spandex outfit but with more blues and greys, a mask covering half his face.

“I got him,” Randall promised.

A whistle trilled out as Yan and Arthur finally caught sight of their intruders. “Well what do we have here, this is private property, kiddos.”

“Shit,” Crank froze, rolling into a standing position.

“Are those heroes?” Yan asked, staring at them.

Arthur stared in disbelief, his jaw dropping a bit. “Holy fucking shit, the old man wasn’t exaggerating, they are in spandex.”

“I’m not,” Randall told him.

“Yeah this is nano-carbon fiber,” Ethan boasted, gesturing to himself. “Made by two of our smartest heroes.”

“Ehhh, looks and probably breathes like spandex,” Arthur dismissed, pulling out his notebook and leaning on the pommel of his bat.

“So do you work for Dark, because otherwise we’ll leave,” Randall interrupted, pointing to the window. “We didn’t mean to crash in here.”

“Nah, you’re staying,” Arthur ordered. “Besides this is a real chance to show the Old Man that I’m better than Philly.”

“Fat chance, he’s the only one who leaves town,” Yan rolled his eyes. “아빠 has his favorite and all.”

“Not for long, when I bring him one of their heads, he’ll love me more,” Arthur smiled, staring at Ethan with such intensity that the young hero felt a twinge of fear, taking a step back towards the window. Like the guy’s golden yellow eyes were digging their way to his soul.

“Okay, well you sound like you need to talk to this Ah-pah or whoever,” Ethan took another step back, Randall catching his unease and stepping in front of him.

“This’ll be fun,” Author smiled, tapping his bat to the ground. “I wonder how fun you are to toy with. You boys got names, or can I make them up?”

“Blank,” Ethan smiled, he hadn’t ever gotten to fight against people his age. He felt a little excited.

“Yellow Tape,” Randall told him.

Arthur frowned, already writing the two names in his notebook, “Well at least I get to make up some cool names.”

“I think the bigger one is cute,” Yan smiled shyly at Randall.

“So I can feed Dave and the twink to Junior?” Author smiled.

Yan let out a scandalized gasp, “How dare you?”

“Hey!” Ethan yelled.

“Is Junior your dog?” Randall asked.

Author just started laughing, “Oh, that’s great, I’m telling him that. That’s so good, I might not kill you, blondie.”

“What? Why would you want to kill us?” Randall asked.

Author chuckled, “I can see the headline now: Blondie Dies in Skin Tight Spandex, Cut Down in the Prime of his Life, an instant classic.”

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna kill him,” Yan snapped.

“Ehh, I’ll make up my mind halfway in,” Arthur shrugged. And then wrote the words: “And all the air left Crank’s lungs.”

Crank gasped as he felt something like a hand physically stealing the air out of his lungs and disappear down his throat. His panic consumed him as he could get another breath. He faintly heard Yellow Tape screaming in the background.

Then there was a sudden crash as Ethan hit the ground and his vision started to get fuzzy.

And . . . air returned to Crank’s lungs as Bob snapped a barrier around himself and the two apprentices.

Author looked confused and offended, scribbling the same lines over and over again. “Why isn’t this working? Why won’t you die?”

Yan raced in with her katana, trying to cut past the barrier but it didn’t give.

“You two okay?” Bob called down to them, a bit surprised at the strength of the auras assaulting his shield. His barriers managed to keep out the swords and knives that manifested out of thin air from both Yan and Author’s writing.

Ethan gasped for air, finally able to breath. “He just . . . He just . . .”

“I got you, buddy,” Bob promised him.

Author screamed in anger but as Silver was racing in, Dark’s aura appeared underneath the two young enforcers and pulled them through in seconds. He stood in their place, using his aura to knock Silver against a wall. He looked pissed.

“Gatling, get them out of here,” Silver ordered Bob.

Before Bob could even twitch, Dark used his aura and struck for them but all it did was push Bob and the two apprentices almost right at the entrance of the warehouse.

Then he turned back to Silver who was picking himself off the wall. Dark cracked his neck, “Shepherd, when are you going to be done using children to fight your battles? I thought you were better than this.”

“You have all kinds of teens in your network,” Silver reminded sharply.

“Mine don’t dress up in Halloween costumes and try and fight demons,” Dark reprimanded. “Gatling, if you leave with the kids, I’ll do you all a favor and forget they were even here.”

Silver looked over Dark’s shoulder towards Bob, “Gat take the kids, meet back up with Jackie, I got this.” He made sure to say that into his communicator so that Jackie knew to expect them.

Bob looked unsure, but nodded and used his shields to help get the two apprentices out.

“So what’s with the kids?” Silver asked when he didn’t get a warning from Bob and there were no distress signals. “You hate kids, you don’t even like looking at them.”

“My cut off point is fifteen,” Dark reminded, his tone dripping with disinterest. “You’ve found much younger working for me than those two.”

“Yeah, as drug dealers and thugs, they don’t look like your typical pushers,” Silver continued to interrogate. “Besides you don’t typically come to those kids’ rescue. You let them hang out to dry.”

“Well those ones don’t have powers, I keep the best for my inner circle,” Dark boasted. “It’s called planning for the future. My captains and lieutenants won’t live forever.”

Silver knew there was something else to it, but he couldn’t even guess what it was. Dark withheld information and lied as easily as he breathed. Instead he just looked around, “So what’s going on in here that you had two high school kids guard?”

“Lumber freight, they’re shadowing the foreman,” Dark answered, tapping a long crate with his foot. “If you want to bring Abe down to have his plastic soldiers search the place, you are welcome to help yourselves. I have business to attend to.”

“Lumber?” Silver repeated in disbelief. “The high school otaku and Mr. Golden Eyes were moving freight?”

“Obviously not,” Dark scoffed, “they’re helping do paperwork, who puts a sixteen-year-old in a lumber yard?”

“Apparently you, because they was here,” Silver motioned to where Dark had pulled the two twins through.

Dark looked at the spot he’d taken the two teens from and seemed almost . . . uncertain . . . or if Silver was imagining it right, uneasy. “Silver the older of the two teens here, if you happen to see him, do not engage him. Keep your apprentices away from him.”

“Why, so we can stay out of your hair?” Mark chuckled, floating a bit off the ground.

The Entity’s expression didn’t change, “Silver, there are many people in my network that are rather unfit for polite society, he is one of them. If you value the lives of those children you will not engage him. He is a tiger in his own territory. No jail can contain him, no weapon can harm him.”

“Yikes, sounds like a real winner,” Mark tried to joke. “Where’d you find him?”

But Dark didn’t laugh. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

“Hey, wait, I’m not done here,” Silver demanded, but Dark moved a portal and he was dumped out of the lumberyard.

“Yes, you are,” Dark told him and snapped the portal closed, opening a new one to take him into the Manor’s living room where Yan and Arthur were sitting with Illinois who was on the couch, Kay trying to sleep against him but cracked an eye open when Dark walked in.

“And then his fucking face turned blue,” Arthur recounted, he’d been telling his siblings about his encounter with the heroes, when he noticed Dark he turned and smiled. “Hey, old man, did you see me back there? I was amazing.”

“I was there too,” Yan reminded. “I helped.”

“What did I tell you all?” Dark demanded sternly. “You are not allowed to be within sight of the heroes.”

“Well they showed up and we were going to leave but then they just started showing up, and then you showed up,” Yan explained, looking frustrated.

“I could have taken them,” Arthur boasted.

“Really?” Dark scoffed as he walked over to fix part of Yan’s hair that was still sticking up from the fight. He pulled out a comb, Yan smiled up at him. “That’s not what I was seeing.”

“Another couple minutes and I would have had them,” Arthur proclaimed.

“Highly doubtful since Gatling’s barriers are aura-proof,” Dark slipped the comb back into the void. “All your powers are aura-based.”

“All our powers are,” Arthur spat angrily.

“Not Kay,” Illinois reminded.

“Hmm?” Kay stirred, still half-asleep.

“Duh, Kay’s fucking useless, he doesn’t have powers,” Arthur retorted.

“Hnnnm,” Kay grumbled angrily.

“That’s enough,” Dark snapped, using his aura to pick Kay up. The young man leaned against Dark just like he did when he was a kid. “Your brother is not useless. You will not call him that.”

Arthur glared at him but didn’t say anything.

“Yan,” Dark turned to his daughter. “Will has a surprise for you, your birthday is tomorrow after all.”

“Yay!” Yan jumped a bit and clapped her hands. “Are you introducing me to Davie?”

“Princess,” Dark began in a threatening, sweet tone, “He is 25, if that bastard so much as looks at you, I will skin him alive and fashion his ribs into a crown.”

The Entity ripped a portal open into Kay’s room and carefully stepped around the collection of stuffed animals. He magicked the young man into a set of pajamas and under his blankets. Then he walked back out into the living room to keep arguing with Yan out in the living room.

“You never let me have a boyfriend,” Yan pouted.

“Not until you’re old enough to stop chasing after older men who work for me,” Dark informed tersely, walking into his office with her following after him. “I don’t let Bim date within the network either.”

“Illy gets to date your workers,” Yan demanded.

Dark closed the door, “Considering they die on his missions I didn’t think you would seek to emulate him.”

“Just because he’s your favorite, he gets everything,” Yan reminded, frustrated.

“Don’t be absurd,” Dark told him. “I don’t have a favorite.”

Wilford smiled against the top of Dark’s shoulder, he had suddenly appeared behind Dark. “Everyone knows you favor him Darky, don’t worry about it.”

Dark’s aura bristled at the sudden appearance of his partner. “No I don’t. You’re all ridiculous.”

“Dad, tell him I can date Davie,” Yan demanded.

“Absolutely,” Wil encouraged, but when Dark glared at him he clicked his mouth shut for a second before saying, “well, Darky says no, so I’m guessing the answer is no.”

“Dad!” Yan complained.

Dark cleared his throat, and Wilford seemed to have a flash of memory in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, we’re here to . . . uh,” Wilford frowned and looked at Dark. His next words were whispered but Yan was too close so it didn’t stay between the two grown adults. “Why are we here again?”

“It’s Yan’s birthday,” Dark told him calmly.

“It’s your birthday, sweetheart!” Wilford spun around, arms wide before he gave her a giant hug. “Happy birthday, princess.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” Yan smiled.

Wilford released her and held out his fingers and a sheathed sword appeared on his fingers. The sword was in a pink colored steel sheathed, the hilt on the front was a red rose that had black leaves curved around as a guard. “Pour toi, mademoiselle.”

Yan squealed and jumped for Wilford, Dark quickly taking the sword out of his hands. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Thank your father,” Wilford smiled, hugging her and nudging her in Dark’s direction. “It was his idea.”

“Wil,” Dark warned.

The young teen smiled at Dark before racing over to hug him. “Thank you so much.”

The hug was short and Yan was too excited to notice that Dark’s hands were shaking when she grabbed onto him. She took the sword and just stared at the gems and hilt of the sword. “It’s so pretty.”

“All for our lovely princess,” Wilford smiled as Dark clasped his hands behind his back. Wilford rested his forehead against her head, a warm smile on his head. “Tomorrow is your day sweetheart, but we wanted to start the celebration off right, didn’t we Darky?”

“Of course,” Dark agreed and the two walked back into the living room with her where most of the family was to plan the next day out.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 261: Wakey Wakey

Previously on BnHA: The heroes decided that the only way to beat the villains was with an insane winner-takes-all gambit involving two simultaneous attacks, one on the Pliff base in Gunga Mountain, and the other on a quaint little hospital in Jakku that just so happens to be where Ujiko is keeping his Noumuraki in cold storage along with all his other evil science junk. We still don’t know what the fuck is going on in Gunga, but over in Jakku things are shockingly not really going according to plan! First Ujiko was stabbed by a Noumu space slug and melted away into nothing because HE’S A FAAAAAAAKE. Then a bunch of other Noumu came running out of the morgue to distract everyone while the real Ujiko scuttled about his lab in a panic in his lab and literally called the heroes “THOSE MEDDLESOME HEROES” because he is literally a cartoon villain, only with the evilness cranked up to 11. Thankfully before he could warp away and escape, Miruko, a.k.a. the queen of this entire arc, busted down the door and crushed John-chan like a bug (RIP JOHN-CHAN) and took hold of my heart and was all “THIS IS MINE NOW” and I was like “okay” and now she’s gonna kick Ujiko’s ass????! Or so we can hope anyway?

Today on BnHA: Well Miruko almost kicks Ujiko’s ass, and he almost doesn’t manage to punch in the activation code for his High End Noumus, and we almost manage to be spared the chaotic scene where they all come to life and wreak havoc. But unfortunately “almost” is as close as we get, mainly because every single other character decides to hang back in the hospital entrance fighting a bunch of nobodies rather than bothering to help Miruko out. Everyone that is, except Crust, who provides some assistance by (a) not mentioning to anyone how there’s a whole other tunnel that leads out of the lab and goes DIRECTLY OUTSIDE TO WHERE MY CHILDREN PRESUMABLY ARE, and (b) arriving at the lab and then not really doing anything else at all except shouting a bit. So apparently this is what we’re working with. Thankfully Miruko is somehow still alive, because it looks like she’s about to have to fight these guys pretty much on her own. Unfortunately Ujiko takes advantage of all the chaos to abscond the fuck out of there. And so the chapter leaves off with one of those “record scratch, freeze frame, yep that’s me you’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation” moments. Fun times.

so Ujiko got a new name last week; he is now Garaki Kyuudai. you can read all about the meaning of the name on Caleb’s twitter if you feel so inclined. so we are now moving on, and we’ll see how many times I forget this new name and have to go back and look it up (ETA: at least twice so far)

so hopefully today will be the day when we finally discover just how and why everything is going to go terribly wrong, because it’s getting stressful bracing myself for that shoe to drop every damn week. if you’re going to put my kids in terrible danger than GO AHEAD AND PUT THEM IN DANGER ALREADY THEN. please. I can’t go on like this

holy shit you guys

see, now this is the kind of fanservice I can get behind. too bad I can’t really focus on that at all right now because

well then. it’s only the thing I’ve been simultaneously anticipating and dreading ever since the start of the My Villain Academia arc! don’t mind me guys. I’m just gonna. sit here nearly frozen but also kind of vibrating/pulsing ever so slightly

OH NO MIRUKO WHAT DID YOU DO

holy shit you guys. I RECOGNIZE THAT BIG BLACK DOOR FROM BACK IN MY KHR DAYS. ONLY BACK THEN IT WASN’T A DOOR AT ALL, BUT A WALL. A GLORIOUS AND TERRIBLE WALL WHICH SINGLEHANDEDLY BROUGHT ONE OF THE STRONGEST CHARACTERS TO HIS KNEES DURING A DO-OR-DIE “HEROES INVADE THE VILLAINS’ LAIR” ARC VERY MUCH LIKE THIS. oh my god. and now he has returned, after all these years, to once again fuck up the heroes’ plans at a critical and devastating moment. curse you wall

also did we really need to see this

Horikoshi: “you know what I haven’t drawn yet that I’d really like to draw. brains. just some brains splattered around all messily. children love that almost as much as they love dead dogs”

ffsdsdlfkjl YOU KNOW WHAT WE ALSO DIDN’T NEED TO SEE, HOLY CHRIST

A FLASHBACK TO UJIKO “COMFORTING” A BLOODIED JOHN-CHAN AFTER A SUCCESSFUL TEST RUN OF HIS NOUMU CAPABILITIES, OR WHATEVER THE HELL THIS IS. DID YOU GUYS ASK FOR THIS? I SURE AS HELL DIDN’T. I HAVE NO REAL WAY OF KNOWING THIS FOR SURE, BUT I’M GONNA GO OUT ON A LIMB AND SAY THAT ABSOLUTELY NO ONE WANTED TO SEE THIS. LIKE, I CAN’T SAY THAT WITH CERTAINTY, BUT ACTUALLY I CAN THOUGH

ugh. anyway. “just Noumu Arc things,” Horikoshi says with a shrug. listen you son of a --

meanwhile if Ujiko gets all angry and tearfully sics all of the High Ends on Miruko in his rage, I will... actually I’ll sit here not being even remotely surprised at all, but still freaking out though. damn it, this is why I need that freaking shoe to drop already like I said. that thing is just sitting there like a loose snack in a malfunctioning vending machine and I’m standing here cursing and thumping on the glass and asking if anybody has a quarter

GODDAMMIT I DON’T NEED TO HEAR HIS FUCKING EULOGY FOR HIS PET MONSTER WHICH USED TO BE AN INNOCENT LITTLE CHILD UNTIL HE MAIMED AND TORTURED THE HUMANITY OUT OF IT

is that freaking All for One in the top right panel. YOU’RE ON MY SHITLIST TOO MISTER

looooooooool :’)

lol I think we finally got that shoe loose folks. sob. go ahead and activate them you crusty old fuck

also are these things in the little tubes... quirks??? like what the hell

so now Ujiko’s screaming (I guess if he’s upset we can take that as a good sign?), and meanwhile Miruko is all

still smiling even now. god how I love her. “I’LL FIND OUT IF I KICK HIM” GOD MIRUKO WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE. IS THERE SUCH A THING AS A FEMALE HIMBO. LIKE WITH LESS PEJORATIVE CONNOTATIONS THAN THE ORIGINAL “BIMBO” AND WITH MORE OF A “SOMEONE WHO’S REALLY HOT AND COULD CRUSH YOU WITH HER PINKY AND IS ALSO A FEW ICE BRICKS SHORT OF AN IGLOO” KIND OF VIBE TO IT. HERBO??? OR WHAT ABOUT... SHIMBO

anyway Endeavor is all “catch him” which is some great fucking advice coming from someone that hasn’t even made it inside the morgue entrance yet. what fucking good are you. at least he fried the space slug

but unfortunately that hasn’t quite solved all their problems yet

honestly though, he should still go after her. like, screw all the rest of this. get your priorities in order!! she just said there were a ton of REALLY STRONG-LOOKING!! Noumus over there too, and meanwhile she’s the only one there because none of these other dinguses seem to realize that if you want to stop the fucking Noumus you need to stop the guy in charge. otherwise they’ll just keep on coming!!

you know what, forget what I implied a couple paragraphs ago about Miruko being a few twists short of a slinky. she may have a straightforward “hit first and ask questions later” approach to things, but it’s increasingly clear that she’s still in possession of this team’s one shared brain cell right now

(ETA: the more that I think about this the madder I get. I count at least seven heroes in this shot. you’re telling me you couldn’t spare a single one??)

ooh we’re cutting to Mandalay!

she says the last of the civilians have just been evacuated from the hospital! I don’t know why she’s yelling this to them out loud and not thinking it at them like in the forest arc but whatever. the evacuation part got me thinking about the kids and now I desperately want to see how they’re doing but first we have to wait for this High End situation to finish spiraling out of control I guess

-- holy shit holy shit holy shit

okay so this guy, who was the closest behind Miruko -- I forget who he is but I remember he was one of the top ten... goddammit let me look it up... okay yeah, he’s Crust, the number six hero, whose quirk I don’t think we know yet -- anyway so he’s running down the corridor and, well...

first of all he says hmmm way too much. but more importantly he just confirmed that at least one of these corridors leads directly outside. without passing through the hospital at all. implying that the Noumus can bypass the squad of heroes entirely and escape to rampage out on the mountainside

so the one job that the heroes had today, which was to make sure that none of the villains escaped, has already proven a failure. there are Noumus outside. and who else is outside in the mountains of Jakku right now, you guys? EXACTLY

meanwhile this fucking boomer hasn’t even bothered to say this part out loud so that the other heroes can hear and realize that there are potentially escaped Noumus on the lam! like it would be nice to maybe mention that so that they know their plan has sprung a leak and also so that Endeavor can WARN HIS FUCKING INTERNS JESUS CHRIST

anyway so Crust has stumbled upon a group of Noumus and is attacking them and still not revealing a thing to his pals, thanks so much!!!

and now Miruko is leaping at Ujiko so that means ladies and gentlemen it’s finally TIME FOR SOMETHING BAD TO HAPPEN!

WHY IS THIS TAKING A WHOLE FUCKING PAGE

no fucking duh?? holy shit. he may be an evil genius but he’s really not that great at thinking on his feet

-- oh shit?!

A WILD RAY OF HOPE APPEARS?? looooool are you serious? that must mean that they’re so fucking powerful the heroes wouldn’t stand a chance if they were activated. so despite all appearances, Horikoshi is actually not throwing them to the wolves just yet and there is still a thin layer of plot armor surrounding them!

--but what the hell IS HE TURNING THEM ON ANYWAY?!

sob, he is. holy shit he’s gonna sic a High End on my wife and it’ll be the strongest fucking thing we’ve ever seen and meanwhile Ujiko will be watching all “hur hur it’s not even using 10% of its power” fucking fuck me

WHAT THE FUCK

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME THERE’S ANOTHER WARPING NOUMU JESUS

so he just left?? but turned the Noumus on first?? so now they have ten fucking hours before these things get strong enough to level the whole fucking planet are you shitting meeeee. and did he just leave Tomura there too or did he also warp him out?

wait a sec no he’s still there. lol what the fuck. so did Mocha-chan create a duplicate of him then and that’s what Miruko kicked?

I’m so confused lmao

(ETA: still confused tbh. but we have bigger fish to fry!)

but anyway. this is what we came for though

wakey wakey. hey can someone go slap Endeavor and all those other heroes for me for deciding it was more important to battle the “small fries” out in front rather than give Miruko some fucking backup so it wouldn’t be all on her to stop this shitclown from remote activating his unstoppable army of death? fucking Mic could have ended this whole show with one shouted “YODELAYHEEHOO~” down this echo-y corridor for fuck’s sake!! Aizawa could have stopped Mocha from using her quirk! god damn! I hope you’re all happy!!

LMAO HOLY FUCKING SHIT

THAT’S THE SCARIEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN?! HAHAHA MY HEART IS GENUINELY RACING, I’M DEFAULTING TO MY “HAUNTED HOUSE LAUGHTER” INSTINCT IN WHICH I KEEP LAUGHING BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS TOO FUCKING TENSE AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO

LIKE, THE ONE NEARLY BIT HER FUCKING FACE OFF BEFORE SHE KICKED ITS BITEY HAND IN HALF, BUT MEANWHILE THE OTHER ONE IS TRYING TO GRAB HER ENTIRE HEAD WITH ITS MASSIVE FUCKING HAND ATTACHED TO AN ARM THAT’S LITERALLY AS LONG AS MIRUKO IS TALL, AND THAT HAND IS BIG ENOUGH THAT IF IT CLOSED ITS FIST HER HEAD WOULD LITERALLY POP LIKE A GRAPE HOLY SHIT?!?!

NO THANK YOU I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING BUT THAT’S ALL RIGHT I DON’T WANT IT TAKE IT BACK PLEASE

oh thank fuck I think Miruko escaped?? or they just threw her into that wall, at least. well still better then getting your head crushed

and now these two are trying to talk because fuck me I forgot high ends can fucking talk

“h...hero...” took me a second to figure out what they were saying there but damned if that didn’t send a chill down my spine!

also Miruko really did kick its hand right the fuck off, god I love her. even if it is instantly growing back

you guys I literally can’t stop laughing lol

HAHAHA WE’RE SO FUCKED!?!

ALSO IS THAT ONE GUY CRIMSON RIOT?!!

hmm lol maybe not. idk though he just gave me that vibe

LOOK HOW HAPPY THEY ALL ARE LOL

THEY JUST WANT TO KILL THEM ALL THAT’S SO GREAT. THIS IS ALL SO WONDERFUL THEY KO’D MIRUKO IN 0.4 SECONDS AND NOW THEY WANT TO “GO BERSERK” WHAT A GRAND TIME WE’RE IN FOR

LMAO ARE YOU SERIOUS

FUCKING CRUST OUT HERE LIKE TROY WITH THE PIZZA BOXES. DO YOU WANT TO JUST TURN THE FUCK AROUND RIGHT NOW BOY. NGL IF THEY RIP YOUR HEAD OFF I’M NOT EVEN GONNA DO ANYTHING EXCEPT ROLL MY EYES. WATCH HIM NOT SHOUT A WARNING TO THE OTHERS EVEN NOW

(ETA: I s2g though. hello?! is your headset broken???)

and he’s being greeted by this big guy with a gear head and a weird lumpy spine

somehow at first I thought that first lump on his back was an “R” symbol because I’m bad at interpreting images, so now I want to call him Rusty because I’m also bad at coming up with nicknames on the spot. I’m sorry Rusty

anyway so Rusty and Crust are immediately getting into an argument and meanwhile Ujiko is just SITTING THERE BECAUSE HE CAN, NOW

because Endeavor, Aizawa, Mic, and the others all decided it was more important to abandon their most important target in favor of trying to contain the comparatively harmless redshirt Noumus in the lobby. which is also pointless, because they’re not actually containing shit, because there are other exits besides for just the hospital! which they would fucking know if Crust was capable of relaying vital information instead of strategically saving his breath for more important things like sarcastically calling this Rusty guy “clever”

in conclusion the heroes have all picked the absolute worst time to collectively shit the bed and I’ve had it with them and they all need to retire, except for Miruko. and the kids. who are now soon to be directly in the line of fire thanks to this shitshow

LMAO HORIKOSHI YOU PIECE OF SHIT SOMEHOW I FUCKING KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO PICK THIS WEEK TO ANNOUNCE A BREAK YOU GLEEFUL LITTLE TROLL

and two weeks from now is when I’ll finally be watching the new movie though, so I don’t even know how that’s gonna work lol. guess that’s why they put the extra day in February this year. ah well

anyway! so Miruko is still alive and more reminiscent of Katsuki now than ever, which is fucking great because Crust so far has been exactly as useful as you would expect some stupid old guy with the name “crust” to be, sigh. anyway I’m glad to see my girl’s spirits haven’t been dampened

meanwhile Ujiko straight up did leave Tomura there, which is interesting lol. and so now it looks to be Miruko and Crust (with the latter’s contribution extremely in doubt) versus Rusty, Jester, Max Rebo, Girl!Noumu, and Noumu!Riot. I’m strangely not worried for Miruko because I have decided that she’s invincible, and because Horikoshi has graciously nerfed these guys a bit (please accept my dripping-with-sarcasm “gee thanks”, Horikoshi)

but I am however worried about my three sons over on the edge of town who are about to be waylaid by god knows what. not to mention all my other kids 80km away! how will their day be ruined? we shall see!

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. vi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt vi: dark, and drenched in longing

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~4.7k

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5). Strong canon deviance from here on out. Mentions of blood/carnage, the frantic energy of people who both hate and are attracted to each other. Also, for this chapter in particular, the forced use of psychotropic drugs (also canon-typical?? I guess). John being himself. Per usual.

Notes: Hi! I'm going to keep these short and sweet because, basically, I have nothing to say for myself. I hope you guys enjoy! I mean it when I say every interaction makes my day. I swear I'm just as awkward in a real conversation as I sound in these notes and I'm not scary at all, so please feel free to come and say hi!

As always, thank you again to everyone who reads! I am so happy to be back in a writing groove with these two idiots again.

Theirs was a strange sort of allyship.

Tentative, to be sure, and certainly strained. But if four days ago you’d told John that he’d be sitting in a van with Junior Deputy Elliot Honeysett driving him straight to his brother, the man she'd slapped cuffs on and tried to arrest at the behest of a U.S. marshal, he’d have laughed in your face. The idea was ridiculous. Expansively, endlessly, incredibly ridiculous.

And yet, if John ignored the clink of the cuffs binding them together, and the knowledge that this van belonged to a strange, traveling band of cultists, he almost felt like he had been tricked into some kind of fucked-up romcom. As soon as they hit the highway, Elliot turned the radio on to the resistance’s repaired music channels, smoked her cigarette down, and leaned back against her seat as though she had not been viciously threatening to kill him just days ago.

Did she still think that? Did he care? John felt his brows furrow and he turned his head away, watching the treeline. He didn’t think he cared. He would say, so what if Elliot still wants to kill me? She needed him, and that was more than he’d gotten out of her in the whole time that she’d been under his thumb.

He didn’t care if she still wanted to kill him, and the thought that maybe she might did not thrill him, and he was not distracted by the stretch of her midriff when she shifted in her seat, and—

—And these were all things that he didn’t struggle with, certainly, because if asked, John would say that yes, he supposed that Elliot Honeysett could be considered conventionally attractive , but only when she wasn’t baring her teeth like a wild animal, only when she didn’t have a gun in her hands, only when she wasn’t making you say please to save the life of someone you didn’t even know the name of.

So, yes, he supposed, she was pretty: and John did not know why in particular he had to leap through those loops to get to that point silently, by himself, but, here he was.

“Oh, I love this song,” Elliot announced suddenly, turning the volume up and startling John out of the reverie he’d plunged himself into. His eyes narrowed when he recognized the song; the very typical back-water-town radio station playing Guns’N’Roses was not beyond his comprehension, and yet he found himself displeased nonetheless.

“Really, deputy?” John asked, staring at her across the console. “You love this song?”

Elliot dropped her glasses— my glasses, John reminded himself irritably—down the bridge of her nose so she could stare at him over the top of them. “It’s a classic, John.”

The radio blared the chorus of Welcome To The Jungle , and John said, “I cannot take you seriously with this music.”

She laughed, apparently pleased by his disdain, cranked the volume higher. Over the sound of aggressive guitar riffs sliding up and down and Boomer barking excitedly in the back, John shouted, “Why don’t we just alert everyone of where we are, hm?”

“Oh, you’re spoiling the fun.” She turned the volume back down, tsking her tongue, and John rolled his eyes. It was so very typical Elliot, to want to enjoy herself at the exact moment that he was trying to remind himself of all the reasons that he disliked her.

A period of silence stretched between them; tranquil, blissful, just for one moment, before John’s gaze slid back to her. She did look peaceful, at that moment, her ponytail smooth and adjusted, her brows relaxed, coughing occasionally into the crook of her elbow but otherwise breathing fine. Relaxed. At ease—with him, of all people. Wouldn't she be furious to know it?

John’s fingers itched. Soft, he thought, reminded of Joseph’s words; you have to love them, John. It wasn’t his style, not particularly, more suited to persuasion rather than fostering mercy as Joseph did. 

He kept his voice light and casual when he asked, “Where did you get your scars, deputy?”

He watched—and watched and watched —to catch her reaction. He couldn’t see her eyes through the reflective shades she wore, but he did see the way her fingers tightened on the wheel, saw the push and pull of her jaw muscle as her teeth worked in her mouth, grinding, perhaps crushing the words she wanted to say between them. He braced himself for the vitriol; it would certainly be something along the lines of, I got them from Go Fuck Yourself USA, John, I’m the goddamn mayor or any suitable string of expletives.

Instead, Elliot prompted, “Who’s asking?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Pardon?”

“I said, who’s asking?” she reiterated, not once looking at him. “Is this John Seed, or John Duncan?” Hearing her say the name like this—as though John Duncan were at all comparable to the man that John Seed was—made his chest prickle, anger and disdain welling up inside of him.

“That’s not my name,” John bit out. “Don’t play games with me, deputy—”

“I know your fucking cult psycho-bombing tactics, Seed,” Elliot replied, her voice sharp and quick as a whip. John opened his mouth to protest, but she went on, “You might think you’re being clever, waiting until I crack a smile to ask me an invasive question, but you’re not. First, you ask me where my scars come from, and when I open up about my past traumas—”

“So it’s a trauma,” John insisted, but Elliot was already railroading on; any footing he felt he’d was gone.

“—then you say some stupid shit like, have you ever really felt at home with your family, Deputy Honeysett? I could give you a home, Deputy Honeysett, which you would say, because for some reason you don’t understand the concept of someone being a Junior Deputy or having a first name—”

“It was just a question, Elliot ,” John interrupted, effectively ending her barrage. “I was only trying to make small talk with you. I noticed them back at the ranch, and since we’re in a car for several hours together, I thought…”

Elliot’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s your first mistake, then. You tried to form a cohesive train of thought.” Her voice dripped with a honeyed, pitiful timbre, “I know how hard that is for you.”

“Alright, thank you for this stimulating conversation, you literal child,” John snipped out. “And you’re still wearing my fucking glasses, by the way.”

“Take them back, then.”

John stared at her. The idea of putting his hand close to Elliot’s face was not only a dangerous one because it was in close proximity to her teeth—proven by her many run-ins with his acolytes before to be suitable weapons in a pinch—but because he worried.

He worried that the willingness for soft contact would make him soft, the way it had felt when Elliot tucked herself against his chest to combat the chilly Montana evening. He worried that getting familiar and comfortable with a feral and untamed creature like Elliot Honeysett would change him, and to be changed by someone like her —

“Consider them a gift.” He kept his voice clipped. “From me to you. They’re Gucci, you know.”

“Oh, very generous of you, Herald. What, little old me, nobody Elliot from Hope County, Nowhere-Montana, with her first pair of Gucci shades? Why, I’d never .” A little bit of a sweet Southern-belle drawl slipped in there, and John didn’t know if it was because of the dramatics or if it was an accent she’d mostly lost and only occasionally regained.

But his stomach twisted a little when she used his title, the patronizing drip of her tone going straight to the headache blooming behind his eyes. “You know, deputy—”

Instinctively, he paused; he waited for her timely interjection, as she was so comfortable doing, but yet again the moment he anticipated it she remained silent. Elliot arched a dark-honey eyebrow and waited. John cleared his throat.

“I think I’ve never met a more troubled woman than you,” he continued casually. “To suspect me of such foul intentions when I only want to know my driving companion better, I’m genuinely wounded.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Elliot acquiesced, and for a moment—just one teeny-tiny moment—John thought she meant it; and then she said, “But I’d prefer we not get too friendly, as you were just considering drowning me in a river filled with drugs just a few days ago, and...”

The blonde’s words trailed off. The van rolled to a crawl, and when he looked forward, he saw the remains of the fire assault that they had just escaped a day ago; two Eden’s Gate trucks, and flimsy barricades that had been pushed off of the road. No bodies in sight.

It was almost a relief, if he was being honest—he wasn’t sure how many more flower-stuffed corpses he could see before he finally decided to rip his own eyeballs out.

Any playful heat had died out of Elliot’s expression. She was somber now, the lines of her expression harder than before. In the back of the van, Boomer whined, and John could hear the swishing of his tail against the floor.

“I don’t like that they took the bodies,” she said after a moment.

“Me either.”

The next thirty minutes of the drive passed in strange, awkward silence. Elliot looked like she wanted to say something and wouldn’t; he could feel her gaze dipping over to him on occasion, but each time he thought her mouth was opening to let out what was on her mind, she’d just exhale. By the time they’d cleared the field where the tracks from their last ride had dug in and left the barricade far behind them, dark, heavy storm clouds had rolled in; he rolled his window down and felt the heady pre-storm humidity like a slap in the face.

No good, John thought, a few drops hitting his hand before he rolled up the window. He felt the thunder rumble deep in the marrow of his bones. The rain went from a drizzle to a steady silver sheet, and then to a torrential downpour by the time they’d been driving for just under an hour, and eventually Elliot pulled to the side of the road.

“We have to pull in somewhere,” she announced. “This van is great for toting cults around, but it’s not great for avoiding hydroplaning off of the road.”

“Well, isn’t off-roading your specialty?” John quipped. She shot him a glare, pushing his sunglasses up onto her head and nestling them into her hair.

“Yes, actually, now that you mention it,” Elliot replied tartly, “but not when I can’t see where I’m fucking going.”

“We’re only an hour and a half or so away from Joseph,” John insisted. “You really don’t think you can make it there?”

Elliot heaved a sigh. Her fingers fluttered over her forehead and the bridge of her nose like she had a headache that was a twin to his own, and every time he spoke, he was exacerbating it. That was probably true—and John was happier for it because the times when Elliot had been most compliant were when she was the most genuinely inhibited.

“I don’t like not being able to see who’s behind us or coming around the corner,” she insisted after a moment. “It doesn’t matter how close or far Joseph is. What matters is that there’s a group of nutjobs out there who apparently have insurmountable resources to take over a whole county in a single day, and I will not —”

She stopped, as though to calm herself, and John waited; impatient, but silent.

“I will not,” Elliot finished, “get kidnapped by one more fucking cult, John Seed.”

Lightning crackled in the distance, and the rain pelted the windshield violently. Another rumble of thunder went spiraling above them; Boomer whined, his ears flat against his skull. John could see Elliot’s fingers gripping the steering wheel until they went bone-white, but each time her grip loosened to let the circulation back in through her fingers, they trembled.

“Fine,” John said. “Pull off into the trees up there, then. We’ll take a break and pick up again when the rain lets up.”

“Thank you,” Elliot said, pulling down from the side of the road and winding her way out of sight of any traffic that might be coming; no venom laced her voice, only relief, and there was no follow-up jab, either. Under the shelter of the trees, the rain felt less violent, and already John felt the tension fleeing his own shoulders.

As soon as Elliot turned the van off, the motor ticking absently, John rumbled, “I think that’s the nicest you’ve ever been to me, deputy.”

She got up out of the seat, shimmying her way past the console and into the back where Boomer had been enjoying the right, pulling hard enough to yank John’s arm and force him to shimmy back with her. The gesture was awkward, and he only complied because he didn’t want to be sitting in the front seat with their arms slung at the angle to allow her back there.

“It’s incredible what a little decency can get you,” she deadpanned. She opened the back door of the van to let Boomer out, the dog taking off happily into the brush. Stretching out her legs in the more spacious, empty back of the van, Elliot wiped some rain from her face and made herself comfortable. John settled against the wall of the car, absently pulling at the cuff still locked around his wrist.

“I can be plenty decent,” he replied, almost sly, a little grin ticking the corner of his mouth upward. “But you already knew that.”

Elliot groaned. “You’re still on about the fact that one time in a bar like, three years ago, you hit on me when I was drunk and you might have had a chance?”

“I think we both know there’s a little more to it than that.”

She rolled her eyes. She could not have, perhaps, been more dramatic than she was in that moment, although John reminded himself that he had often considered Elliot could not be more of many things—impatient, infuriating, prone to violence—than she already was, and she had proved him wrong many times before.

“All I’m saying is,” John continued, “somewhere, deep down in that teeny-tiny heart of yours, deputy—”

“One time,” Elliot interrupted, holding up a finger to accentuate the number. “One time, many moons ago, I thought a man named John in a bar was objectively attractive. This was before I knew what your personality was like.”

John laughed. “You don’t need to like someone’s personality to fuck them, deputy,” he said and basked in the way her expression scrunched up, as though a particularly sour flavor had just seeped into her mouth.

“I do,” Elliot replied, “and every day, I thank God that Joey Hudson had the good sense to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“Amen.”

Her gaze flashed with something that might have been amusement. She coughed into her elbow, turning her face away from him to glance out the window at the trees, their branches and leaves swaying in the wind but becoming more and more still the deeper into the woods they went.

“So you think I’m attractive, then.”

“Please stop talking,” Elliot groaned, head lolling against the back of the driver’s seat. “John, if I tell you that I think you’re handsome when your mouth is closed, will you shut the fuck up?”

John’s mouth curved in a half-grin, his chest welling pleasantly at her words. It may have been more than a little petty, to like the words coming out of her mouth—Elliot Honeysett, who would probably strangle him to death with her bare hands if given the opportunity, admitting that he was handsome.

“I might be more inclined,” he offered, sly. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m closing my eyes,” she announced, kicking her legs out and nudging his foot out of the way.

Absolutely childish, John thought absently and without much fervor, compliantly moving his foot out of the way for her. “Just use your words, deputy.”

“Certainly, anything for you,” Elliot purred. “I want you to shut up.”

He flashed her a grin, leaning his head back against the window. Rain pattered against the glass, and somewhere out in the distance, he heard Boomer’s happy bark as he did whatever it was that dogs did in the woods; hunt smaller things, perhaps.

“It’s nice to want things, isn’t it?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot did not know how long she had been asleep when she finally woke up.

She knew that she had been allowed to sleep uninterrupted, which was the first red flag—there was no way that John would just let her sleep and sleep and let the day tick them by. As she slowly came to, through the corner of her eye she could see that he’d fallen asleep, too, shifting restlessly against the window.

The second thing she realized was that the rain hadn’t stopped, and the reason that she became immediately aware of it was that the back doors of the van were open. She hadn’t done it, obviously, and she couldn’t fathom why in the world John would leave the back doors of the van open, so then the question in her foggy mind persisted; who?

And then someone grabbed her ankle and pulled.

The back of her head hit the metal floor of the van with a heavy thud , the world spinning in her vision as she was pulled closer to the outside world, even as her legs kicked. Panic rose in her throat, violent and hot, and instantly her hand went to reach for John, his name spilling out of her mouth in a desperate attempt to wake him up.

His eyes fluttered open. Groggily, he said, “Elliot?” and as she was yanked violently down he got pulled, too, slammed forward face-first into the floor of the van, biting out a swear that only barely registered in her mind as she struggled to wake up.

She twisted to look at her attacker—a tall redhead with a nasty scar dragging his lip in a permanent sneer. Elliot recognized him as the same red-head that had been handling Faith for the woman from before, the same man who’d nearly rammed his van into hers on the road just a day ago.

His hand fisted in the front of her shirt; he drawled in his thick, round accent, “Go back to sleep, little one,” and slammed her head back against the floor with purpose, her vision going sticky, staticky black on the edges.

She felt the heavy pain blooming behind her eyes. The weight of it dragged her eyelids down; she swam in inky black, only vaguely aware of the sound of raised voices, the feeling of a damp cloth being draped over her mouth, the sensation of floating, as though she were drifting underwater with everyone else shouting above her; all of these things began to fade, slipping through her fingers like sand until there was nothing left except for the empty, hollow black filling her up.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Elliot?”

It was John’s voice, she thought, or maybe not; it was hard to tell. Hands pressed to the tops of her shoulders, the pressure a welcoming comfort. Her chin was tucked against her chest, and she lifted her head—not without significant effort—and opened her eyes.

The world pulsed around her, colors bleeding brightly and violently against her irises. She was in a field—

(I’m in a field? But the floor—)

—and John was kneeling in front of her, his hands coming up to take her face. There was no smugness, no venom in his expression; only concern.

“I was so worried,” John said. “I was so worried about you, Elliot.”

“John,” Elliot said, and when she said his name it felt like the letters were spilling out of her mouth, choking her on the way out. A warm breeze tickled the edges of her vision, and the sunlight hemorrhaged into the grass, into the ground, oscillating in time with her heartbeat. A strange, sticky feeling wound up inside of her.

John said her name again. When she looked at him, his eye sockets were blooming, beautiful purple blooms pouring out of them, brushing his cheekbones like eyelashes. The feeling in her chest deepened; grief, she thought, with desperation, agony, hollowing her out, dread , filling her back up again, nothing but a vessel for the deepest emotions to be carried in.

“I was so worried about you,” John said again. Soft petals tumbled out of his mouth when he spoke. He gripped the sides of her face and pressed their foreheads together, and she started to cry, shaking her head. “My Elliot,” he said, over the sound of her crying, his thumbs brushing the tears from her face, “my Elliot.”

She thought that her skin must be burning, from the inside out, everywhere his hands touched; sliding down her throat, along the slope of her collarbone, gripping her shoulders. Hungry, and burning, lighting her on fire as he murmured, “My Elliot.”

His hands skimmed her face. They felt different, then softer and more slender; she closed her eyes tightly, willing the horror of it to go away, for the clammy terror to slip off of her skin.

“Open your eyes, mor. Did the visions scare you? ” a soft voice asked, the words slinking across her skin, serpentine and cold. She did as she was told, even when she thought, I don’t want to open my eyes, her body operating obediently.

Soft, dark eyes. Wisps of dirty-blonde hair that curtained Elliot’s face. Her head was in the woman’s lap and the night sky stretched, cloudy and endless, above them. Ase smiled at her dreamily.

“I saw your color the minute I laid eyes on you,” Ase whispered. She said the words like they were meant to be treasured, kept between them, only them. Elliot’s eyes fluttered and she tried to will herself to move. Her body was non-compliant, heavy as lead, and the warmth of a tear moving haltingly down her cheek made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

With the touch of a doting mother, Ase wiped the tear from her cheek, the pad of her thumb sliding along the slope of Elliot’s cheekbone, and then brushed the hair from her face. Now, Elliot could see more clearly the way her pupils were blown wide, swallowing up the color of her irises, crushing it in the event horizon of her eyes. She murmured, reverently, “I saw your color, mor, I saw you. Have you ever felt seen? We waited for you, for so long.”

Elliot moaned, misery stinging in the sound. Her lip trembled. She thought, I don’t want to be seen, the way Ase reiterated it making her vulnerable. I don’t want to be seen, I don’t want this. But she couldn’t make the words come out, her jaw hanging slack when she opened her mouth, the knowledge that they had done something to her flickering only briefly through her mind before it was swallowed up by something else.

“I’ll let you go.” Ase’s voice remained silken, spinning around her, weaving a cocoon. “I’ll let you go, mor , but only because I know that you will always come back to us.” She skimmed her fingers lovingly across Elliot’s forehead and whispered into her skin, “Now go back to sleep.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John found her curled up, her fingers sinking into the earth like she was afraid she was going to float away, and sobbing.

His head was pounding; he felt disoriented, and panicked, the same kind of strange, distant panic that happened when he fell asleep during the day and woke up to it being night. He could only remember the sound of Elliot saying his name jerking him out of his sleep in the van, the sensation of getting pulled forward violently, and the feeling of someone slamming his head into the side of the van.

And then, waking up in a field, in the dark, alone.

He had struggled to his feet when he awoke. He had thought, the handcuffs are off . He had thought, I have to find Elliot. And then he’d started walking, saying her name, until he heard the sound of her crying and found her.

“Elliot,” he said urgently. His mouth felt incredibly dry; he was worried that if he spoke too much, his skin would split. He reached for her when she turned to look at him, and when she saw him she moaned, the sound that came out of her the same kind of sound an animal with its leg caught in a trap would make.

A slur of protests came out of her. A line of no’s that all blurred together, but when brought her to a sitting position she only shrunk away from him a little. He took the sides of her face in his hands and searched her for any sign of wounds or harm that might have come to her: but there was nothing. She was, it appeared, physically untouched.

“Hey,” John managed out. “It’s me, Elliot. I’ve got you.”

She blinked blearily at him. Her face was flushed, puffy, and tears dotted and darkened her lower lashes. Her pupils nearly ate up the entirety of those baby blues; clearly, she’d been drugged. She said, “John?” and he nodded.

“Yes, Rook. It’s me.”

“They did something to me,” Elliot said, her voice rising in her distress. “John—”

“They’re gone,” he said, without confirming her fears. “We have to move, though. Can you stand?”

The blonde hesitated for a moment and then nodded—he supposed she would have to fight through the remains of whatever they had put in her. He stood, taking her hands and helping her as she wobbled to a stand as well. It was hard to figure out exactly where they were, with no road in sight, but the haze of his sleep—which he now thought must also be medically induced—was still weighing on him.

“We have to move,” he said again, Elliot’s fingers clutching his hands so tight it almost hurt. He scanned the horizon of the field, touching on the dip of a hill, a river, and then a treeline. His eyes strained. He thought he might have seen headlights through the dim of them, but it was hard to tell.

It was also all he had to go on.

“Come on,” John said, her hands still locked around his like he was anchoring her to the earth. Unable to guess what they’d drugged her with, he imagined it probably felt like that.

“John,” Elliot said, her voice impossibly small as they began to walk, her steps halting and uneasy, “They did something to me.”

His jaw tightened. He hated this; he hated Elliot like this, emotionally wounded and voice wobbling, because all of a sudden he thought that this was not the Elliot he knew, not his Elliot at all. Where was the venom? The steel? Where had she gone?

Buried, he supposed, under psychotropic drugs, of which he knew not the origin nor the duration.

The rain clouds had moved along; the earth smelled wet, and fresh, the scent of it welling up inside of them, and as they walked his mind felt clearer and clearer. With clarity came the knowledge that they had been trapped; the cultists had had them, and had chosen to leave them alive. For what?

“I know,” John said again, his voice rough with his forcefully-induced sleep. Elliot’s fingers dug into his arm where they clutched, the feverish pitch of her body heat seeping through his clothes from how close she lingered. “You’re fine, deputy, I’ve got you.”

He tried not to think too hard about the voice that echoed in his head, for now.

[ikesenhell]

1985 Camaro

AMERICAN DREAM, Chapter 2. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTES: Brief conversation about prior death, otherwise safe. Thank you @missjudge-me for commissioning this piece!

---

They camped out on the back patio until the sun set. He cooked gyoza and rice balls and some pan-fried chicken, and she ordered ice cream delivery, and they nested their knees together and tucked into a pint of something labeled ‘Just Ask’ and when he asked, she wouldn’t tell him, not even when he tickled her (It wound up being a delicious caramel-Oreo flavor). She instead told him about her degree and moving out, about keeping in contact with Mitsunari as he served in Tanzania through hand-written notes on origami paper. They swapped curated Instagram snapshots and embarrassing anecdotes and reminisced. 

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “About your dad.”

Masamune shrugged. There was nothing to say. It hurt and always would, but that was his private journey. “Old bastard waited too long to have kids s’what. If he’d had me at a nice, respectable age, we wouldn’t be doing this, the old coot!” He waved a dramatic fist at the sky, relishing her giggles. “You fucked up!”

Overhead, his mother’s bedroom light flicked on. 

“Shit,” he muttered. She dropped her face into her hands to stifle the raucous laughter. 

“How—” Now she was whispering. Masamune wriggled closer, their legs reflexively entwining. “How’s that going?”

“Better than it used to. We can talk without yelling. Something something time and distance. I’m planning on hunkering down here for a little bit, and once all of the stuff is settled, I’ll probably go back north. The restaurant owners offered to hold my position for me, which is really nice.” 

“Hell yeah it is. Isn’t that kind of a cut throat world? They must love you.”

“Yeah. Good openings don’t stay open long in the restaurant biz, so that’s really cool.” Absently, he ran his thumb over the whorls of the deck. “What about you? What’s next?”

“Well.” And she paused, eyes luminous. “I got offered a job interview out east. It’s a good job.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Once upon a time, when she was too nervous to really settle her heart on something she wanted, she smiled shyly and fluttered her eyes away. Some things stayed the same. His heart surged as the familiar expression played out before him. “It could be a game changer for me.”

“That the case, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I have to do some logistics, and I have to interview, right? But if I get it…” She stretched up to the sky, wriggling her fingers long at the clouds, all the prickled flesh on her arms visible in the cold moonlight. Without thinking, he shuffled closer to warm her. “I mean, I have to actually get to the interview first, so there’s the first hurdle.”

Masamune chewed his lip. “How far out is it?”

“It’s in Virginia. Complete other side of the country. The plane tickets are outrageous.”

“Damn. Guess you’re road tripping, huh?”

A gust of warm breath huffed from her lips. “I mean, I hate going on them alone, but I don’t even have a car right now. Mine got totaled; kid hit me when I was driving down here. Guess I’m taking a damn greyhound.”

His first reaction was to say ‘yikes’, and then… well. Masamune paused, soaking in the possibilities. “So you need a car is what you’re saying?”

“Mmhmm.”

Back in the day, his dad often said that the universe lined things up. Masamune didn't exactly believe in fate—he believed in making things happen—but occasionally, he saw the reasoning. 

“How do you like eighties cars?” He asked. 

She eyed him, a smile in her eyes and voice. “Like the Camaro? Sure, it’s cool. Why?”

Masamune snickered. “Everything in the Date family is cool as hell. What if I told you I could get you a car and a road trip buddy?”

The click of her brain working was almost audible. “Don’t you have to be here?”

“Gotta wait for the death certificates, which is probably a week or so. Mom wants the Camaro gone, and if she has to be around me too long, she’ll probably get sick of me real quick. I might as well make myself scarce and hang out with a dear friend. Besides—I’ll cut you a deal on selling you it. Call it a test drive.”

“A test drive? For like, a week?” But she was grinning, her shoulders angled in toward his. “Weeklong test drives aren’t kosher, Mr. Date.”

“And I’m not Jewish.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Serious as my dad’s grave.” Masamume brushed a lock of stray hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Want me along for the ride?”

Once upon a time, years ago, the whole gang got into an altercation with an older man in a Ford pickup. They were only teenagers sitting on a dock, but the guy pulled up and screamed at them for ‘loitering’. Mitsunari tried to intervene, and when the man acted like he might hit him, Ieyasu almost threw hands himself. They’d retreated into the woods—and when the man left, Masamune, Mitsuhide, and she went back and lit the dock on fire to spite him. Right beforehand, she’d fixed him with the most mischievous expression he’d ever seen: mouth sucked into her teeth, eyes glittering, staring out from under her lashes. 

Now, she made that same expression, and it lit a fire in him. 

“We’d have to leave like…” She mentally calculated. “In three days to make it.”

“Or we could take the long road, do a little sightseeing, and leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She echoed. Only a half second later, that smile was back. “I’m game.”

---

At six a.m. sharp, Masamune tried to wake her by flinging rocks at her window. That didn't work. At last he resorted to calling her, discovering that she stayed in a completely different room now. 

“Could’a used that knowledge,” he chuckled, hopping in place to warm his legs. The fog pressed in around him, September chill early this year. “Don’t suppose anyone is using that room?”

Her voice was thin, but warm over the phone. “No, it’s a home gym now.” 

“Great! I didn't hassle anyone else. Get out here, Kitten, we got a road to get on.”

She emerged twenty minutes later, sweatpants fresh from the dryer, wet hair in a sloppy bun and a suitcase click-clacking behind her. She never was a morning person. Masamune snickered and popped the Camaro trunk. “Wanna drive, or wanna let me do it?”

“You start. Can we get some Starbucks?”

“Ugh.” He clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “All of the coffee places in the world, and you want Starbucks. My palate is crying.”

Rolling her eyes, she slid into the passenger seat. “Drama queen.”

They got Starbucks. She tucked her feet into fuzzy socks and folded them under her knees, clutching the large mocha. Only the rush of the road beneath their tires filled the silence. Asphalt and trees emerged from the mist like a benevolent ghost, Americana obscured. They’d only just merged onto the highway when Masamune realized there wasn’t an audio jack in the car.

“Shit,” he muttered. 

She opened her eyes, head lolling on the headrest. “What?”

He flicked the dashboard. Nope, no audio jack. Not even a CD player. No; amidst all the toggles and buttons of the dash was a cassette player. “I don’t have anything to listen to. This thing won’t hook up to the phones, and I don’t have any tapes.”

“Hm.” Taking a long sip of her drink, she mused, “Maybe your dad has some in here?”

“I guess that’d make sense. Take a look around, would you?”

Sure enough, she was right. Tucked away in the glove compartment was a treasure trove: Fleetwood Mac, Eagles, AC/DC, Prince, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen. “Damn,” she chuckled, “Your dad had good taste.”

Masamune took the copy of Rumors in his fingers, never taking his eyes off the road. The dust was thick under his thumb. “He’d play ‘Back in Black’ when he picked me up from school. It was cool as hell.” With a snap, he pried open the copy of Rumors and popped it into the player. The speakers hummed to life with strumming guitar, Fleetwood Mac echoing. “I know there’s nothing to say, someone has taken my place…” She rested her elbow on the center console, brushing his arm with her as she texted. 

“Guess what?” She murmured. “Mitsunari just got back from Tanzania.”

“Oh shit, really?” How long had it been? Masamune mentally calculated the dates. “I guess it has been two years, huh? The Peace Corps finally turned him loose?”

“Yeah. He’s apparently crashing at Ieyasu’s place—” Masamune barked a laugh, and she tittered, but continued, “—and wants to know if we’re going to head that direction.”

“He’s in Maryland, right?” Fishing out his phone, he checked it. “Yasu didn't tell me about this. Bastard. Well, we get there fast enough, then we can definitely hunker down there for a day or so and celebrate his coming back.”

Classic rock kept them company on the long drive. He didn't mind roadtrips. There was something sacred about them. Forget the American Dream; it was dead. Long live the American Road Trip, a rite of passage for the lost souls from sea to shining sea. Nothing cleared the senses like cranking up the heater on the floorboards and rolling down the window to a blast of autumn air. She let down her hair and it whipped wild in the wind. 

Thank God she was here. Masamune quietly relished her reappearance in his life. She was a gateway to an old world, one with his father alive, one where he still snuck out of the house at night and biked to the 7-Eleven for slurpees at 3a.m. They stopped at a Cracker Barrel for dinner and ordered root beer floats and roasted each other over the annoying ‘jump-the-pegs’ game perched on every table. Though you were supposed to reduce it to one peg, she couldn’t quite manage it. Somehow she kept getting two or three. 

“I got it down to one peg once,” she laughed, shoving it toward him. Masamune swirled it under his hand. 

“I can do it,” he commented. “But that’s because Mitsunari taught me the trick years ago.” He knocked the first peg out of the top of the triangle, moving it elsewhere. “That’s the one that’s gotta be empty. From there on out, there’s a set solution.”

She craned over it, investigating. “What’s the set solution?”

A long, hefty pause lingered between them as he slurped some of his float. 

“Dunno anymore.” He cracked a grin. “I forgot like, eight years ago.”

“Ass! Then you don’t know!” She swatted at his arm and grinned. “Liar!”

“Hey! I was just trying to look cool in front’a you, Kitten, I can’t look like some big dumb stud after all these years—”

“I love how you allow for the possibility that you’re dumb,” she cackled, “but not the possibility that you’re anything other than hot.”

“Am I wrong? Look at me.”

The roll of her eyes was exactly what he wanted. She shoved a biscuit at him over the table. “I think Mark Twain said something like, ‘it’s better to stop talking and appear dumb than open your mouth and remove any doubt’, Masamune.”

He clutched at his chest, but took the biscuit anyway. “You wound me, Kitten.”

As they were paying the bill, she split off and reappeared a minute later, plunking thirty cents onto the cash register and tucking a cinnamon stick into his jacket pocket. “Here.”

“My favorite!” He peeled back the plastic wrapper. “Thanks, Kitkat. You remembered.”

For the first time since they’d seen each other again, her expression evolved to one he’d almost forgotten. He’d only seen it once before. It was a moonlit night back in their senior year, after prom, when they were both lingering in the pool as everyone else passed out drunk. He’d wiped a leaf from her hair and told her she was beautiful, and she’d looked at him like that so long and hard that he wondered if he’d ever known her inner thoughts at all. 

“Of course I remembered,” she answered at last, soft and clarion clear. “I remember all kinds of things about you, Masamune.”

[humanmoodring-retired]

Back in Black || Solo

TIMING: Current.

LOCATION: The Bend 

NOTES: Violence, death.

 SUMMARY: Nadia just wants her bike back. 

For a vampire, Todd wasn’t particularly scary.

That may, of course, have been because he’d been caught unaware with a bullet to the chest, and another to the thigh. Being caught unaware made him whimper like a child, like an animal.

Following him into his apartment as he dragged himself inside, Nadia had a pleased smile on her face as she slammed the door closed. “Hey, Todd. Long time, no see, huh?”

“Fucking bitch,” he snarled, fangs flashing in the shitty fluorescent lighting of his apartment. It might’ve been scary if he wasn’t twitching in pain, his body trying to push the bullets out so he could heal.

“That’s no way to greet an old friend,” she mused, cocking her revolver and aiming at him again. It was about as fun as shooting a fish in a barrel; he was cornered, really, and that kind of took the exhilaration out of it. She didn’t know what she expected. Todd was more of a rat than a vampire. Still, she thought he’d try to defend himself, maybe attack her, bite her, do something classically vampire. But, no. Todd was a coward and probably the worst vampire in history. She’d have done better trusting an actual worm to fix up her stuff and take care of it in her absence.

Speaking of stuff. “Where’s my bike, Todd?”

He groaned lowly as the bullet in his chest popped out and rolled to the floor beside him. “I didn’t think you were coming back to pick it up, you fucking psychopath! Especially after you moved across town.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, babe.” She shot him again, causing him to scream in agony. Good thing they were in the Bend and no one gave a shit. “That makes it sound like you got rid of my Harley, and that’d be so, so bad for you.”

“It’s out back!” He threw something at her. Keys. “Fuck, I fixed it up and it’s been out back since you left! I kept trying to tell you about it, but you blew me off about three times, so I gave up! Then you kept fucking shouting at me through the goddamn wall and--”

“You deserved it,” she said, cutting him off. She had no idea what Nadia had been yelling at him about, but she could guess. She holstered her gun and reached in her jacket pocket, causing him to flinch. Instead of… whatever he was expecting, she pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills. She walked over to his kitchen and dropped it on the counter. “Thanks a million, Toddy. I really appreciate all your hard work.”

As she walked out, she thought a bit about vampires. The first time she’d met one, she’d wondered if they could feel anything at all. Obviously, facial expressions and body language disproved that, but still. It was strange not to feel someone. There was relief there, sure, but mostly it was unnerving. Everyone felt, and, for so long, she’d been used to experiencing that secondhand. She enjoyed it, in a way, like she enjoyed waking up from a restful (or restless; she wasn’t picky) sleep or that cramping feeling in her stomach when she forgot to eat. Sensations, human sensations that one doesn’t get when they’re dead. Maybe that was the problem with vampires, zombies. Maybe that was why she kind of pitied them. After all, she’d gotten her life back. They never would.

She went around back, doing her best to ignore the smell of garbage and death. People really didn’t give a fuck about the Bend, did they? But there was a bike shaped object under a sheet to protect it from the elements. She pulled off the sheet and grinned.

This was what love felt like, she just knew it. Love was a sleek, powerful machine that she’d put a good bit of money into to make it sleeker and more powerful. She caressed the side of the bike, appreciating that it’d been relatively well taken care of. It was warm, even, the smell of gasoline and hot rubber fresh. Unfortunately, that meant that someone had probably been riding it. Probably Todd.

This wasn’t going to be a good night for Todd.

She headed back to the apartment. The door was still open. Todd was picking himself off the floor. He bared his fangs as she entered, eyes red and demonic. She didn’t flinch, just pulled out her gun and shot him between the eyes. He dropped to the floor. She maneuvered herself into the kitchen. It was surprisingly well-stocked. His flavor of the month must like to cook. It was a shame they’d have such a mess to clean up.

“I told you not to ride my bike.” She walked over to the dining table and knocked a chair over. “Fix it, but don’t touch it otherwise, those were the instructions.” Snap! She broke off one of the chair’s legs. “I know it’s been awhile, my guy, but instructions don’t change.” Walking over to him, she watched his eyes twitch behind his eyelids. He wouldn’t wake up before she was done. “Really, Todd. I’m disappointed.”

Nadia would go to her grave, again, saying that she wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t a hitwoman. She didn’t plan out her kills. She did it because she had to, not because she wanted to. It was defense, a way to preserve her lives. It was retribution, a price to be paid. If she was paying someone, getting them to do something, they were expected to listen or pay the consequences. It was that easy. Besides, White Crest was better off without a bastard like Todd running around. She was really doing the town a service.

She put the broken side of the chair leg against his chest and shoved it in. No blood. Just dust. He wasn’t even awake when he died. It was almost peaceful.

Leaving the money on the table, she set down the chair leg and left. Someone would be around, either later in the night or in the morning.

Back out in the alley, she grinned, wiping the ashes off her clothes. Humming, she walked up to the motorcycle, getting on it slowly. It’d been a few months, but riding wasn’t something you forgot. It was muscle memory, cranking it and revving the engine. Nadia laughed, ecstatic. Another piece of her life was falling into place.

Speeding out of the alley, she didn’t even feel Nadia Diaz stirring beneath the surface. Good. She went back to the apartment in the East End. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too long before all the pieces fit together, and she wouldn’t have to worry about Nadia Diaz ever again.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Things Below

Voices. Voices, everywhere. Emily peered out the window from the backseat of the patrol car. Locked in, but free to hear all these confusing voices. She could hear the thoughts of the people the car drove past, picking up fallout from the minds of people on the sidewalk.

“He gave me too much change. Tough shit, sucker. I’m not telling and I’m keeping it. Those stores are insured against this kind of—”

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late; oh my god, I’m gonna lose my job. What about—”

“I forgot to lock the front door. To hell with whatever he’s saying, I’m sure as hell that I forgot—”

“Stop staring, dumbass. Jeeze, I think I need to jack off in a bathroom stall, otherwise she'll—”

Emily didn’t even care about reading the thoughts themselves. She used to figure people to be thinking drivel like this just by looking at them. No, the reporter wanted to see how well she could focus this ability—how well she could control it. As far as she was concerned, she had developed a superpower. With it, she could change the world.

Only one thing gave her reason for pause; gave her a reason to worry. If she wasn’t dreaming—if this all was real—then it meant the demon she had met at the delicate age of 21 had been real, too.

The edges of her vision turned into streaks, stretching into infinity, blending together in a wild blur of colors and shapes. She only caught glimpse of their faces, all unimportant and forgotten within seconds, but their thoughts reached her mind in fragments, like a rain of glass shards falling into a bottomless pit. Clipped, ripped out of context—like switching rapidly through radio stations and never hearing anything out.

Officer Stanton glanced back at Emily through the rearview mirror. Judging by his furrowed brow, he was concerned about her mental well-being. That was when she realized that her head kept bobbing erratically, moving on a constant swivel. She must have looked like a crazy person to this cop.

“Your nose,” he said after clearing his throat and training his eyes on the road again.

Confounded, Emily dabbed her nose, only to find blood on her fingers.

The splitting headache set in. Or it had been there all along, except that it now cranked the dial to eleven in the very second she stopped tuning in to the thoughts of all the passers-by. She muttered a short curse and a emitted a soft, nervous chuckle.

Looked like the superpower came with a little price tag.

But it had already paid off. Under other circumstances, she would have had to go out on a limb in trusting this “Officer Stanton.” Letting him lock her into the backseat like a common suspect or criminal. But what choice did she have? A bomb turned her apartment block into a blazing inferno, she woke up naked in a dumpster, and she had no phone, no money, and was now wearing the borrowed clothes of her friend Maria—who probably had her pegged as crazy and she should never talk to again.

Scanning Stanton’s thoughts had revealed a certain level of surprising purity. Blue-eyed, this shmuck hadn’t seen anywhere near the amount of horrid things Emily had seen in her time as an investigative reporter, looking into human trafficking and pedophile rings. He was as concerned as she was about Detective Tanner, her single only trustworthy contact in the police—who had gone missing.

Reading Stanton’s mind, Emily knew that this cop had his heart in the right place and was going out on a limb himself. She looked and sounded like a crazy person, had no identification, and lied to him first thing upon their meeting. He had a lot to lose himself.

And she couldn’t tell him everything she had witnessed.

“I was drugged and abducted,” she had admitted to him in that first encounter. Only part of the truth she could speak without sounding like she had lost every last marble.

The other part involved what she could only describe as a trip into hell, where she was hounded by an antagonistic demon she dubbed “Stinky Jim.”

Eight years ago, Emily met Stinky Jim for the first time, though she did not have such a name for the demon yet. Had she known it was real, she would have lost her mind. She would have been the Other Emily, the Lost Emily—the one sitting in a padded cell, rocking back and forth, gibbering, and disconnected from reality.

If her recent awakening—the event since when she could read minds and bend space itself—had taught her anything, then it was that reality itself was a strained, malleable concept.

Even human identity crumbled in the face of enlightened scrutiny.

Back when she was 21, working the sixth McJob in a row before she got smart, got her GED, and got into studying to become a reporter; she still hung out in a basement with the rest of the “gang.”

She remembered that night with stunning clarity. The edges on everything remained sharp. The dive in the basement of the home of Rodney’s parents had burned itself into the pages of her memory.

Her birthday—the night Emily turned 21.

Both on the surface and in all things below, she was a different person. Dyed her hair pink, piercings in her ears and on her brow, royal blue lipstick, torn heavy metal T-shirts. Loved ranting about politics, economy, and social justice; but never lifted a finger to do a damned thing about it.

Just like then. They were sitting in Rodney’s parents’ basement, sprawled out over ratty old couches and chairs with the TV set and old video game consoles, smoking weed, and the four boys listening to one of her many unnumbered tirades on LGBTQ+ rights.

“Shut the fuck up if you ain’t gonna do anything ‘bout it,” Chris told her. “Gay Chris,” as he was nicknamed, which didn’t bother him at all once they grew older—he wore the name like a badge of pride.

His voice cracked as he kept the smoke from the bong in his lungs and passed it on to Carlos, and Chris added, “The fuck do you know about any of that, straightie?”

That stunned Emily. That’s when everything clicked for her. When it all changed. Speechless, she silently agreed with him. Everything she knew about the gay experience was theoretical or secondhand, drawing from Chris’ experiences.

But that’s when she found her true calling.

She wouldn’t “shut the fuck up about it.” She refused to, because it would have been against her nature. She would do the legwork, and tell the world. She would relay the truth, even when it hurt, or when it got her and others into hot water. That would be her strength. Her destiny.

It would take till the end of that week and some feverish reading until she figured out that journalism was the way for her to go, but that was the same night when Emily really took the reins of her life into her own hands, and forged the path she now followed with furious determination.

Carlos chortled, then took a long toke from the bong before passing it on to Rodney. Emily remained silent.

With her most recent rant dead in the water, and the only active water being the one making the bubbling and churning sounds whenever anybody inhaled another hit from the bong, her thoughts drifted. The night of her birthday dragged on like many others in this very place, the matter of her birthday only standing out by the amount of weed they would have burned through by the end of the night.

She loved these boys like her brothers. Loved the countless nights they spent together, shooting the shit about their work, their messes of what could barely be described as love lives, playing video games together on the couch in this same basement and getting into swearing matches more heated than the actual gameplay, going to metal concerts together, or talking about philosophy and spirituality into the ungodliest hours of the morning.

Some time around 2 AM, Carlos had already passed out. He snored in the corner with a pile of empty potato chip bags and plastic bottles piled onto him like a work of art. Chris had gone home to get some sleep because of an early shift the next day. Only Jimmy, Rodney, and Emily remained. Stabbing Westward’s Ungod was playing back from the old iPod in a soft volume.

Rodney climbed back onto the couch and slid onto the cushions between Jimmy and Emily. His eyes were bloodshot from all the beer and weed they had been kicking back and he gave her a stupid grin.

“Got something special for this special occasion,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

He unfolded his fingers and presented three little things. To Emily, they looked like stamps or pieces of perforated cardboard just resting on his palm, each of them marked with a pastel yellow smiley face.

Before either Emily or Jimmy could ask, Rodney said, “LSD, hoes. Lucy seeing diamonds—in the sky—or something. So, uh, anyway, how about we go on a real trip?”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed and Emily snickered at him. Buff Jimmy over there, the racing car enthusiast who loved tuning cars and speeding in them, accustomed to acting like the biggest badass of their little gang, was now all skeptical and intimidated by this harmless-looking drug resting in Rodney’s hand.

“Fuck it, why not?” Emily asked.

“Nah, I’ll pass,” Jimmy predictably said. “Y'know what, you should too. Also, I should get back home and get some sleep.”

Jimmy scrambled to leave, looking half asleep already, and muttered a goodbye to Carlos who continued to snore away, oblivious to everything going on now.

“Pussy,” Emily called out after Jimmy just before he flipped her off and closed the basement door behind himself.

Rodney and Emily got a good laugh out of Jimmy’s departure. Then Rodney turned his head and waggled his eyebrows at her, holding out the three slips of LSD still.

“I could put one back, or one of us takes two of ‘em,” he said, letting his voice rise sharply towards the end in challenge.

Emily squinted and then snatched two of them out of his palm.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess,” she said, grinning with him in challenge, wondering if he wasn’t going to chicken out himself.

She stuck her tongue out at him like she was about to lick Rodney’s face, then placed the two pieces of LSD on her tongue and retracted it. Swallowed.

“How long?” she asked.

“My dick?”

“Fuck you.”

Rodney cackled and told her it would take two hours. They settled on re-watching Scream—one of Emily’s favorite horror movies. They talked over the flick, as usual. Laughed as Carlos turned over in his sleep at one point, knocking over the pyramid of junk piled onto him without even waking up, and they both wondered loudly if they weren’t going to have a horror trip if they watched a horror movie while tripping on LSD, like the idiots they were.

The movie ended and Emily still couldn’t tell if the drug was having any effect on her system.

“Get me another beer, beer bitch,” she told Rodney, softly kicking him in his thigh while she drooped lazily over the other half of the couch.

He got up and went to the small fridge in the corner of the room. She blinked and wondered why he did that without giving her any lip. Even on her birthday, Rodney wasn’t wont to do what she told him to. Returning to her, he uncapped the bottle of beer and held it out to her.

She took it and looked at him in disbelief. Rodney himself looked befuddled. He blinked and looked around. Was the LSD finally kicking in for him? If so, why was it taking so long for her?

If him tripping balls meant he was a compliant little sheep, she was going to have some fun with this. She pulled out her flip phone and started recording a grainy video on the device.

“Hey, Rodney, why don’t you stand on one foot and spin around in a circle for the audience,” she told him, biting her lip and sensing that he would do exactly as told.

And he did. Almost stumbling over the coffee table and falling onto his ass in the process, he did exactly that. Emily covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. She stared at him through the display of her phone, making sure to capture his dumbfounded facial expressions.

“Rodney, tell the world how much of a little skanky whore you are,” she said, mouth agape with a grin so wide that it almost hurt her cheeks.

“I’m such a little skanky whore that I’d eat Paris Hilton’s ass with whipped cream and a cherry on top,” he said, slurring it out as if his consciousness slipped farther away into a trance or delirium with each additional word.

Emily burst out laughing, “You will never live this one down when the others see the video, dipshit.”

Yet something crept up behind Emily. A dark, foreboding sense of something alien and sinister. It only reached the back of her mind with a delay: she heard Rodney’s thoughts before he did or said anything that she told him to. Or rather, she projected her self into him and he complied, pliable like a piece of wet cardboard.

These thoughts made more sense now, in the present, when she knew she could read minds. But back then, she had chalked it up to the acid trip. The day after, she would go back to her normal life, letting the details fade away into oblivion, dismissing them as nightmarish nonsense.

Except for the knock on the door.

Not the door leading in and out of the basement, but the door to the boiler room. A room where nobody should have been inside.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she stared at it, wide-eyed and terrified. Rodney followed her gaze because she willed him to pay just as much attention to it.

Knock knock. Again.

Or rather: THUMP THUMP. Deep, bass. Menacing.

“Rodney, go check on the clown hiding in there,” Emily told Rodney, not even thinking things through. She couldn’t even chalk it up to the booze and drugs.

All she knew was that she feared whatever awaited behind that door.

Like sleepwalking, Rodney approached the boiler room door. Twisted the knob. Opened it.

A soft red light glowed, engulfing him. A light out of this world. It flickered, danced—like flames. But no heat or fire awaited beyond the door. Only madness.

Emily walked there herself, intrigued by the mysterious light. Her whole body tingled with dread, yet she could not help but approach. She knew deep down, lurking beneath the surface of her thoughts, that something evil awaited there. Something that would drive her insane. She didn’t need to approach, should have turned and fled from Rodney’s basement. But curiosity won out over common sense.

She stood next to him and peered into the place beyond the door.

There was no boiler room there. Instead of the dingy little room with the big cylindrical something, some old plastic crates, and a bunch of pipes and valves—a flight of stairs stretched down, winding around a curve. The fiery red light flickered from the depths, beckoning her.

“Rodney, go lie down and sleep.”

He acknowledged her order, not speaking the affirmation out loud but just thinking it. Emily, however, didn’t even register how the thought had reached her like a spoken word. She could taste his dread riding on the back of those thoughts—salty, smooth, bitter, clamping his throat shut and cutting his breath short.

But her eyes fixated on these stairs. Made of obsidian, covered in strange, indecipherable symbols, bearing names on each step. Names of the lost and the damned. The forgotten and the famous. She could not read them, but she knew the names were important. She would read them again one day, but that was not this day.

Rodney laid down onto the couch and fell asleep within an instant. His thoughts turned into a soup of drugged dreaming and Emily shut them out, probing for any presence at the bottom of those stairs. To see if anything dwelt there, any things below.

“Come on down and find out,” something replied. Not in words, but thoughts. Smoky, crackling like wood in a fireplace, with embers rising into a dark and starry night.

Emily took her first step down those stairs in this other-space. Then another. And another. She tread down this path, and the stairwell narrowed as it twisted and turned on her way downward. She burned with curiosity to find what things lay hidden in the depths.

The door slammed shut behind her and something laughed. Something in a deep, bellowing baritone, like a monster straight out of some horror movie. The laughter died down into a chortle, egging her on to turn around and see for herself.

Fear overtook her and prevented her from turning to behold this demon. This madness. She knew it was there, right behind her. Fetid breath rhythmically struck the exposed skin of the back of her neck. The thing was huge, like a man two heads taller than her.

“If you don’t have the balls to look at me, then you better keep movin’, little girl,” the demon spoke to her, cackling some more. The words carried the air of a threat. “What are you afraid of finding down here, anyway?”

More laughter. Sinister. Knowing. Knowing her deepest, darkest desires, and secrets she would learn in the future

Her heart thumped against her chest, pounding so hard that it threatened to explode out of her rib cage any minute now. And whether she was tripping on the LSD, having an overly vivid nightmare, or this was indeed real, she dreaded turning around and instead continued on her descent.

“Welcome to the maze, Emily,” the thing’s voice crackled. Flames licked from its voice and the biting smells of charcoal smoke and sulfur filled her nostrils, stuck to her tongue. Way too real to be imagined, yet even now, she struggled to explain how this experience or even this memory could be real.

Because right now, she sat on the backseat of Officer Stanton’s car. But the vivid recollection of this memory sliced through time and space, reaching her in the now. The demonic presence still lingered, lurking behind her, occupying the space in her mind.

The unwanted guest renting one of the rooms in the mindscape of Motel Emily. The neon sign of vacancy flickered unsteadily.

Where the stairs wound down further, she reached a door branching out to the side. Or rather, the word “door” didn’t really cut it. It was a stone portal, covered in more symbols or otherworldly runes.

Without thinking, she pushed it open, hoping to find escape from this place, praying to reach Rodney’s basement again, or appear back in Stanton’s patrol car. The past and the present started bleeding together. Had she really experienced all this, back then? Was this the madness, overtaking her mind, surfacing now, tainting the present and overwriting reality?

“This is as real as it gets, bitch,” the demon said, cackling yet more.

The pink-haired Emily celebrating her 21st birthday and tripping on LSD didn’t understand what she saw beyond the portal once she strained herself, putting her legs and back into pushing it open, her nerves fraying with each inch accompanied by the sounds of stone grinding against stone.

Beyond that portal, she saw another Emily, stripped half-naked, handcuffed to a curtain rack, with some man with a painted face sliding a knife into her exposed back. Bodies of the dead and the dying littered the dark and ruined room of some derelict house in that place and Helpless Emily screamed in agony.

Younger Emily gasped and backed away from this scene of carnage and despair, recalling a memory of something yet to come, which Present Emily knew already and remembered as the time the Grinning Man came close to killing her.

The man with the knife, with the face painted to display a horrid grin over a face of cold and sociopathic indifference, turned to look at Younger Emily. She pulled, tugged at the portal with all her might, desperate to close it before something worse happened.

The Grinning Man, that serial killer, turned from Tortured Emily. He tilted his head, staring into the stone portal in disbelief, studying its frame. Before Younger Emily succeeded in fully shutting the portal, he approached with swift steps, ready to pass from one place into another.

But she slammed it shut just in time, just before she could decipher shouts from beyond the portal.

Worse, the demon remained. Right behind her.

She dared not turn around completely to look upon its horrid visage, but glimpsed it from the corner of her eye. Red like a devil, covered in spikes and horns and smiling at her with a maw lined with rows and rows of jagged, shark-like teeth. Blackened, knife-shaped claws opening and closing in anticipation, ready to rip her to shreds if she looked at it for too long.

It cackled again and Emily continued down the stairs.

“That was you,” it said. “That’ll be you, in the future. You fuck-up. Nobody’s proud of you, Emily. Accomplishing nothing of value. Only watching people die in squalor and misery. You are nothing but a worthless witness. A voyeur in a voyeuristic world.”

Hearing the demon speak in such a modern vernacular and imagining to be such a clichéd presence clashed in her mind, and she almost turned to confront the creature. But she read its thoughts and they mirrored her own.

The first time she realized that turning only meant embracing the madness, and ending up in that padded little room, all alone, locked inside her head with drugs—and not the sort that Younger Emily found fun.

Picking up the pace, she continued down the winding, hellish stairs. The walls drew closer together with each step, never moving, but converging in angles that made her descent more claustrophobic with each passing moment.

Present Emily knew she had to break free of this memory, because it was bleeding into reality. The demon was taking hold. She dabbed more blood from her nose and barely perceived the world outside the patrol car, rolling by. This memory was real, made even more real through recent realizations, and recalling it now was rendering it even more visceral than ever before. The knowledge of Present Emily collided with the memories of Younger Emily and they coalesced. They coagulated.

She passed by another stone portal, almost screaming at what she felt from behind it. Younger Emily did not know what awaited there, but Present Emily did not want to see it, and the two of them refused to push it open and look inside.

“Yeah, you keep walkin’, you hypocritical asshole. Eager to discover the truth, but just another chickenshit,” the demon said.

Instead of the inevitable laughter she expected to ensue, the demon growled with anger, reflecting a rage welling in her bowels, only overshadowed by the terror and fear now gripping her heart and driving her down the stairs, faster and faster.

“He’s dead, Emily. Julian’s dead, and it’s all your fault,” the thing snarled.

Its hoofed feet thundered down the steps behind her, keeping pace with ease, the hulking presence chasing her down deeper into this pit of insanity.

“No,” she finally dared to reply, but the demon mimicked her word, mocking her. Then she repeated herself, “No, that’s not my fault. Not like with the others. Not everything is my fault.”

“Maybe not directly, but what if you never entered his life? What if he hadn’t been on that parking lot, that day? He might not have had some crazy stalker cave his skull in with a two-by-four. So maybe it’s still your fault,” the demon growled.

“Shut up,” she said. Then screamed it. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up if you’re not going to do anything about it, right, Emily?”

The demon’s voice reached a fever pitch and now chased her. She ran, taking multiple steps down the well in strides, pushing through the narrow pathways, wasting no time to wonder how the demon’s sheer mass could fit through here behind her. The stink of fear erupted from her pores in a sheen of sweat, the heat of this hell engulfing her, and the stench of burning flesh rising from the depths.

The stone walls wriggled. They were not made of obsidian anymore, but worms. Millions and millions of pitch-black worms, things that did not belong in reality but were all too real. Slippery, alive. Writhing, as the mass reached out to her like walls of tiny fingers covered in myriads of chomping little mouths, provoking a shriek of terror to escape Emily’s throat, and the demon to laugh its sadistic laugh at her.

“Run, Emily! Run away, you disgusting fucking coward!” The demon spoke in many voices, those of Chris, her father when he slapped her cheek, the monster on her heels, and even herself. They all blended together. One of many, many in one.

There it was again: rocking back and forth, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth. White, padded walls all around.

Was she truly there? Was this even real? Was her entire life just a lie? Figments of her imagination, trying to make sense where none was to be made?

The stairs split into different pathways and Emily knew what to do. Present Emily wiped more blood from her nose and stared at her bloodied fingers in disbelief. Younger Emily had discovered her destiny, was glimpsing horrors from her future. Of the three possible ways to go, she squeezed into the narrowest one, screaming silently as she felt the wriggling mass of worms engulf her with the heat of a thousand fires, causing her skin to blister and painfully peel back. She clenched her teeth shut and feared the things entering through any orifices but pushed forward.

She had to live. She had to fulfill her destiny. She remembered all the people who died, or rather, those who would die.

She could change the world, but only if she didn’t give in now.

“Shit, I’ll give you a tissue once we reach the precinct,” Stanton said. His offer; his words helped, centering her in the now. The words he spoke bled through into that dark place where Younger Emily found herself, an unknown voice from a stranger from another world, or another time, piercing the veils of different realities, and guiding her through this horrid darkness.

The demon grunted and cackled and choked on the worms entering its maw as it squeezed itself through the narrow, suffocating passageway, following Emily without fail. It clawed its way forth, causing a cacophony of disgusting squelching noises, and sensations that reminded her of bones snapping to the point of sharp edges bursting through skin and protruding from human flesh, and teeth gnashing on exposed innards with blood spurting out, gushing, and the reek of feces in the air.

Her eyes long clamped shut, she dared not breathe but had to, and felt first worms trying to wriggle their way into her mouth. She sputtered and spat them out with an angry scream, controlling the rage that drove her, clawing her own way forth, mimicking the demon’s motions. Or it mimicked hers.

The stairs went upwards and she ascended, pulling her way through the narrowest spot of these walls of worms, fleeing up the stairs. The demon tumbled, but then continued giving chase on all fours, like the beast that it truly was. Like the beast in the back of her head, the madness always just a few steps behind her.

“You can’t get away from me,” Stinky Jim cackled, only to abruptly choke on his words, gagging and coughing up more worms. Through rows of bloodied, gritted teeth, he said, “I am always with you, Emily.”

She tripped, fell, scraped her hands on the jagged edges of the obsidian steps, right in front of one of the names inscribed upon the stairs: Xerxes. Younger Emily blinked, did not quite register what it meant until years later, first dismissing this memory and experience as a bad trip, induced by popping too much acid and being tired out of her mind.

Screams echoed through the infinite, infernal stairwell, bouncing off the walls and curdling her blood until she realized: the screams were her own. The demon’s growling matched them, blended in with them, and she screamed in pain as claws dug into her back, lifting her onto her feet and pushing her up a few steps until she ran on yet farther, stumbling forth and upwards, ever away from the madness that followed her wherever she went, ever away from the things below.

The things below the surface of her mind. The horrid things she pushed deep down to still her mind; the darkness she drowned in whiskey and cigarettes even as she grew older.

This could have been her awakening but she skidded right past it. It wouldn’t be for years until she had her world turned upside down. Never realizing the power she held. The demon followed closely, keeping her blood pumping and the adrenaline flowing like fire in her veins.

She reached a stone portal at the top of the stairs and pushed it open. Instead of meeting resistance and stone grinding upon stone once more, it swung open with ease. She burst right through it and stumbled again.

Catching her breath, wheezing, lungs screaming but only pained sounds emerging from her lips, she looked around. There was no demon behind her. Younger Emily, with her pink hair, and her piercings, and completely stoned, stood in Rodney’s basement. Behind her was only the door to the boiler room.

Rodney slept on the couch, curled up into a fetal position. Carlos slept on the chair, sprawled out, still blanketed by some empty plastic wrappers. Static on the TV screen.

Emily ripped the door to the boiler room open, needing to know if that had been real, but there was no hellish stairwell behind it. Just the regular old boiler room that it should have been, reeking of oil.

The demon’s laughter echoed in her mind. She checked the time, noting how many hours had passed and chalking this whole experience up to a bad acid trip after all. She didn’t go home, afraid to be followed or stalked out there in the dark and cold and wet autumn streets, all alone.

Even though she found blood when she wiped her nose, Younger Emily figured it fit. Demons and hell weren’t real. She didn’t have the power to control minds or enter strange otherworlds.

She curled up on the end of the couch, wrapping herself in a smelly old blanket that Rodney should have washed weeks ago. Although she thought the nightmarish imagery and things she had just witnessed would keep her up until the other two boys woke up, exhaustion dragged her into the realm of sleep within minutes.

Emily sat in the back of Stanton’s car, finally escaping from this memory. She looked out the window, at the people in the streets of New Haven. Instead of reading their minds, scanning their thoughts, and testing the limitations of her newfound powers, she decided against any of that.

“I’m still here,” the demon said—Stinky Jim. He sat right next to her, just out of sight.

The fear welled up again, churning in her guts as if the monster gripped her stomach with a claw and twisted.

“I’ll always be with you, Emily. Just one step behind. You ever want the security of that little padded room—to surrender all responsibility, let the world sort itself out and sink into darkness while you drool in the corner—you just turn back. Let me take the wheel,” Stinky Jim said. He cackled again, showing no hint of mercy.

“Or you keep going deeper down, scratchin’ at those wriggling walls, and dive into those lakes of blood and shit and fire. Find out what’s beneath the surface. Drown in the secrets of those things below, or spit ‘em out and curse the world with your wretched knowledge.”

More cackling.

Emily clamped her eyes shut. She willed Stinky Jim to shut up.

She centered herself. Pushed away every thought. Blocked it all out—she had gained that much control over it now. Focused.

Breathed.

Pushed the demon deep down, where it would lurk. And wait.

With the things below.

—Submitted by Wratts

[grandslambaeley]

Bayley’s Heel Turn

I think we can all agree that Bayley’s heel turn is something we’ve all been anxiously ancipating for years now. I personally knew she would turn heel eventually but I was always cautious about how it would be pulled off. What would her heel character be? How much would they change her image? What were going to be her motivations? Of all the scenarios I pictured in my head of a heel Bayley, what we got was the furthest scenario but in the best way possible.

The Seeds

I keep hearing people say that this heel turn came out of nowhere and was so surprising. If you had been watching Bayley ever since Wrestlemania you would've noticed a distinct change in her attitude. There were no more hugs and there was an intensity to her that was lacking before. She was stepping up more and making sure that she wasn’t being pushed aside even if that meant she had to push a few people around. She stood up to Charlotte even hitting her unprovoked in her match against Lacey Evans. She attacked Alexa and pushed Charlotte off her chair when they refused to respect her. She attacked Ember Moon. She was constantly knocked back every time she tried to elevate the Smackdown Women’s Division and her frustration was clearly showing. But for me, the moment I knew her heel turn was approaching was after Nikki Cross got involved in her match with Alexa at Stomping Grounds. After the match Bayley pushed Nikki out of the way, which made me say “huh” because it was not the typical actions of a babyface. She seemed noticeably annoyed and I could finally see the heel turn wheels cranking. I didn't know when and I didn't know how but at that moment I knew that the turn was coming. Everyone assumed that this was just a change in her babyface character, the attitude change that she finally needed when in fact the seeds were being planted for her eventual heel turn. Knowing the outcome now, if you look back at all the clues it was as clear as day that this was going to happen.

The Work

I could go on for days about Sasha Banks’ 4 month work before her return. The complete silence when the whole world was talking about her. The cryptic tweets that told us something but we weren't sure what.  The black and white photos that had the whole world guessing her hair colour. The constant change in hair colour from purple, to black, back to purple, to a blonde wig. The Kendrick Lamar lyrics. The butterfly. It was brilliant from start to finish but the most underrated part of it all was Bayley’s role. Bayley started to wear butterflies on her gear. The jacket with the hourglass that she wore during her entrance at SummerSlam. We all just assumed that this was all apart of Sasha’s return. We let our guards down because we thought the work was finished. Sasha was back and we could finally stop questioning everything, right? No. A particular twitter exchange told me that this work wasn't quite over yet.

We would soon come to realise that this work wasn't just for Sasha’s return and heel turn but Bayley’s as well. Everything was pointing to a Boss n Hug reunion. Storytelling at its finest.

The Character

Ever since she started in wwe we’ve had the same Bayley. She was happy, positive, kid-friendly but had the ability to bring the fire when she needed to and that’s what made everyone fall in love with her but we’ve always wondered what edgy Bayley was like. Deep down we’ve always wanted that devilish, nasty Bayley. We always assumed that if Bayley were to ever turn heel she would get rid of the side pony, the whacky inflatable tube men and her theme song and switch to something edgier but that isn’t what we got from heel Bayley. Heel Bayley hasn’t changed her image just her logic and it’s brilliant! At times people forget that heels are supposed to be hated and booed not cheered and adored. The biggest problem with Becky Lynch’s heel turn last year was that heel Becky became was the badass that everyone wanted her to be from the very beginning so everyone cheered for it. She was forced into being a babyface by the wwe universe even though she was supposed to be a heel. If Bayley had gone edgier after the heel turn. Got rid of the pony, got rid of the entrance and changed her look, she would’ve been doing everything the wwe universe (including me) wanted her to do and ultimately would be cheered. So when Bayley came out on Smackdown to the same entrance, same side pony, huge smile on her face, everyone was confused. This is exactly what people didn’t want, so they boo her. Exactly what you’re supposed to do to a heel. Right there she was able to draw heat before she even spoke one word. Amazing!

The Motivation

Everyone was curious to see what her motivations were. They were very simple. Loyalty. Loyalty to her best friend. Loyalty to the one person who’s been there for her from the very beginning. But she doesn’t understand why everyone doesn’t see that, why everyone seems to have a problem with what she did. They should be thanking her for showing their kids how to be loyal. It became clear to me quite quickly what kind of character wwe were going for. She’s the delusional heel. She believes what she did was right, she’s the good guy because she was loyal to her friend. She pretty much turns it on the crowd saying that if they can’t see why she did what she did then there is something wrong with their morality. I believe this heel character suits Bayley so well and reminds me of a comic book super villain who truly believes they are the good guy even though their actions say otherwise. It is a type of heel that we don’t see often these days and it makes her stand out from everyone else. And what about this character helps her get heat? HYPOCRISY. One minute she’s saying she’s a hero and a role model, the next she’s hitting Charlotte with a steel chair. There is nothing that people hate more in this world than hypocrisy and using it to get heat for a character will always be 100% successful that any “pipe-bomb”. This promo was crucial for Bayley. It would be the foundation for the rest of her heel run and she absolutely nailed it.

The Alignment

I am the first to admit that although I love Bayley and Sasha together, I was skeptical when Bayley’s heel turn aligned her with Sasha. Sasha is such a larger than life character than sometimes she would overshadow Bayley during their days as babyfaces. Heel Sasha is an even bigger character than face Sasha so I was concerned that Bayley’s heel turn was just going to be overshadowed by Sasha. But after watching Smackdown I don’t think that is going to be the case. Bayley and Sasha were equals, I’d even say Bayley was the one in control. I enjoy that they are two very different heels. Sasha is the selfish, narcissistic, arrogant heel and Bayley is the delusional, disingenuous heel. It makes them very intriguing as a duo and make me curious to see how their dynamics will play out. Now that I’ve had time to think about it I see Bayley aligning herself with Sasha as an opportunity to gain even more heat. Whether you want to admit it or not Sasha is not liked by a lot of people in the wwe universe. People either love her or they hate her, there is no in between and the people that hate her really HATE her. She’s confident, she knows she’s the shit, she knows she’s the best and that eats people up inside to the point where they cannot stand it. She can gain heat just by waking into the room. She doesn’t need to say a word or lift a finger, that’s how powerful she is. Aligning yourself with a heel Sasha, a cocky, arrogant, self-centred, money hungry Sasha is a guaranteed way to gain heat. And it is the cherry on top of the incredible Bayley heel turn.

I think we can all say that Bayley’s heel turn turned out to be nothing like what we were expecting and that is what is so good about it. If you had told me beforehand that Bayley’s image wouldn’t change, that she wouldn’t be become an edgier looking Bayley and that she was going to align herself with Sasha, I would’ve said that was everything I didn’t want from her heel turn but now that we are here and I’ve had the time the analyse it, this heel Bayley is better than I could’ve ever imagined.

[moonfire0mermaid]

‘I Am the Guy’ - Pt. 1

Author’s Notes: 1. I’m not totally sure what this is, if I’ll continue, etc., but it was inspired by the great #bourbon_neat’s “seducing your best friend’s dad” audios on Soundgasm - Part 1 and Part 2. While I took some creative liberties here, the events that happen in those audios make this story go, and I’ve indicated with an asterisk (*) in the text where they’d fit chronologically, should you want to have a multi-media experience. 2. I’m challenging myself to crank out content in an effort to just shake out the writer rust. This is super unpolished. 3. In the aforementioned audios that inspired this, you’re the main subject. In an effort to keep that immersive element in this drabble, I refer to the corresponding female character as She or Her in bold. It can get confusing, so I decided to go overboard with identification. 4. ENJOY! 

________________________

It was the stray volleyball that did it, all those years ago. She was moving in, Kimmie Johnson was walking out, and Her ball fell out of the big box of sports supplies she was lugging into the new digs.

“You play?” Kimmie had asked.

“Yes,” she had said, beaming. “I’m trying out for the team once school starts.”

And that was that. Even though they were freshly 18 and met at a time where friendships fractured after graduation – and hell, She was new in town – the duo spent nearly every waking hour together. Sleepovers, post-volleyball yoga, college applications, just hanging with each other’s families.

She especially took a shine to Kimmie’s dad. His insights about life were interesting, she thought, and he was kind and funny. He asked good questions and seemed to care about her opinions. He was a good guy.

It was something She’d try and remind Kimmie during conversations about the Johnson’s seemingly strained marriage. Kimmie was frustrated that the obvious cracks in her parents’ relationships were brushed under the rug, and that she was kept in the dark on important family matters. As a result, Kimmie would routinely lament her parents and the frigid situation at home.

“Go easy on them. Your dad, especially. It seems like he’s trying,” She’d say.

“Yeah, you’re just saying that because you’ve got the hots for him,” Kimmie spat.

She would just blush. Kimmie was right; She had an awful crush on Kimmie’s handsome, thoughtful father. She hoped Mr. Johnson didn’t notice how often she stared.

___________________________

Soon after, life quickly changed for the girls. Both decided on a gap year, which they had planned to enjoy together. It was not to be.

A month before the end of summer, Kimmie was sad to learn that her friend’s mother became ill and her father was being relocated cross-country for work. As a result, She would be following her family to help around the house, giving them time to find quality in-home care. Then, She’d return back to town to go to the nearby university with Kimmie.

Meanwhile, Kimmie would work the long year of separation at the volleyball clinic, trying to make sense of the newly announced divorce of her parents alone.

Saying goodbye was worse than they anticipated.

“We’ll miss you, kiddo,” Mr. Johnson said when She came by Kimmie’s house to say goodbye. Crying, She’d spent the 15 seconds in his arms realizing that her sadness was not just about leaving Kimmie.

____________________________________

The year passed quickly*, and the two girls were thrilled to be finally reunited and starting their college career together. But the time apart had changed them, and Kimmie especially was disappointed to notice her friend was often distant, busy and distracted.

“I’m seeing someone,” She finally told Kimmie. “And I’m … it’s insane, this connection. He’s gorgeous and kind and thoughtful and wise – ”

“’Wise?’”

“— Yes, wise --- and the sex, I just –“ Her bashfulness kept her from continuing.

“What’s his name?” Kimmie asked.

“His name?” She hesitated. “RJ.”

Kimmie was both excited and wary about the developments, as only a friend who fears being replaced can.

___________________

Those fears were not completely unfounded.

“I’m pregnant and I’m keeping it,” She told Kimmie with wide eyes. She looked strange, her face a holograph; fear, exhilaration, delight, and embarrassment manifested there in turn.

Kimmie could barely hide her despair. It was only a month after the Her confession regarding the mysterious beau. So much for the future of their beloved friendship. Who was this guy? Kimmie hadn’t even met him. Their lives would diverge spectacularly.

“Congrats,” Kimmie said tersely, swallowing all her objections. She looked so happy, joy being the emotion that finally settled on her face. But that didn’t keep Kimmie from stewing. It just was three months to the day that they’d gotten back in town and less than a month from when She had told Kimmie about the existence of RJ. This had all happened so fast.

“He must be some guy,” Kimmie thought.

______________________

“Girl! When am I going to meet this RJ?? You are CARRYING his BABY and you’re nearly seven months along! How is it that your bestie still hasn’t met the father of your child?”

She looked down at her bump, cradled between her two dainty hands. It – along with the rest of her – was weirdly small for someone so far along in their pregnancy.

“I’m just – we’re taking it slow.”

Kimmie snorted, looking pointedly at the crest of Her stomach.

“I know. I guess – I’m enjoying this just being the two of us, for now. Everything got so hard core so suddenly, so I’m just trying to make everything else as uncomplicated as possible,” She replied.

“How is me meeting RJ complicated? I want to meet him. You’re my best friend. If our relationship is going to continue – and it will, it has to  – I need to know the guy who knocked you up. It’s important to me.”

She bit her lip, thinking.

“Why does she look so nervous?” Kimmie wondered.

“Ok. You’re right. Next week, let’s meet at that restaurant your dad always takes us to. The one with the great Rueben? I’ve been craving one like crazy.”

Kimmie smiled, relieved. “Portside. Sure! Next week. Text me the time that works for you. I’m excited.”

She, on the other hand, looked terrified.

_________________

Kimmie checked her phone again.

“Where is She?” Kimmie wondered. “She’s never – ”

Kimmie’s thoughts were obliterated by the sudden appearance of her best friend. At least, that’s who she thought it was.

It had been a week. Just seven days. And in that time, her friend’s body had completely bloomed. Being pregnant, that was hardly a total shock, but the swiftness of the change was startling – especially considering that She had, until recently, been carrying so small.

“Act normal,” Kimmie told herself, rearranging her face to as neutral an expression she could muster. It took effort, and Kimmie was glad She noticed her yet; it allowed Kimmie the extra time she needed to fully observe the extent of her friend’s transformation.

There was the belly, of course, which had popped so powerfully that Her spine curved to accommodate its girth. It had become so conspicuous that Kimmie wagered had she not known who this woman was, she would assume She was due any day. Indeed, Her hips, legs and ass had ballooned proportionate to Her core, demolishing the girl’s (once enviable) hourglass figure and replacing it with pronounced pear shape.

“She already looks like a mom,” Kimmie thought to herself.

Those weren’t the only changes, Kimmie noticed to her disappointment. Jutting out from the apex of her friend’s stomach was the outline of Her fully popped navel, thick and rubbery like a third nipple under Her swollen fingers.

Speaking of nipples, Her breasts had blossomed into massive, milky teats at least two cups bigger than her typical size. Even though Kimmie could see the outlines of a bra underneath Her clothes, it did little to conceal Her hulking nipples, newly elongated and stout like bottle caps on Her chest. There was an ache-y neediness about them; to Kimmie, they screamed, “suck me dry, they’re so heavy it HURTS.”

Her heavy waddle – which She did NOT have to resort to when Kimmie had seen her just those seven short days ago – was a co-conspirator with Her attire in making Her look completely wanton. Every jiggle of her massive tits; every breath that stretched her belly; every shake of her thigh and ass; every step of her swollen feet in strappy sandals; every line of her heavy-duty bra and tiny lacey thong was given a spotlight by the forward thrust of her gait and the skin-tight pencil dress that somehow made it up and over the collection of globes that was once Her body. It didn’t help that moving required the forward thrust of her monstrous core, requiring her to splay her hips forward and balance a hand on the small of her back, a swollen rudder for her ripened form. 

“Why is she WEARING that?” Kimmie thought to herself, willing herself not to blush with the secondhand embarrassment.

It was then that She finally noticed Kimmie, her bloated face contorting into a nervous smile.

______________________

After having to move their seats from a booth to a table (She couldn’t fit), waiting through Her three bathroom runs, and ordering an ungodly amount of food (“I’m eating for two, you know,” She had wryly, with shy pat of her tummy), She and Kimmie were finally settled.

“So! I can’t wait to finally meet this guy. RJ! Finally!” Kimmie said, trying her best to normalize their conversation. She was met with silence.

“Um – you ok? Still glad you’re gonna be a baby momma? That dress sure doesn’t make it seem that way.”

“I know, right? RJ, he’s particular. He asked me to wear it today, otherwise I’d be in something elastic and stretchy and that lets me breatheeeee.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I mean, I’m huge now. It happened overnight. And it’s a strain on me, in a lot of ways, and the baby shit is happening quicker than I had planned. I mean, I’m a freshman in college, for fuck’s sake.”

She was babbling.  

“But this guy – RJ – he’s the love of my life and Kimmie, I want you to know that I -- ”

Kimmie was suddenly distracted from Her ramblings by a familiar figure waving and quickly approaching the table.

“This must be him,” she thought, only to realize with surprise it was her father, Randy. He hadn’t told her he was ordering out for lunch today. “He could’ve at least asked me if I wanted anything!”

“Dad! Hey! What are you doing here?” Kmmie said with a smile. “I’m about to meet the boyfriend. The one who She’s having the baby with! I told you She was pregnant, remember?”

He grinned, sheepishly, taking a seat at the table.

“That’s why I’m here, actually.”

Randy’s hope that his daughter would put two and two together quickly was immediately dashed.

“Oh? You … know the guy, or …?”

He swallowed a nervous laugh as he reached out his hands – one to clasp Her’s, the other to place possessively on her ponderous belly.

“Kimmie honey, I am the guy,” he said.