#i mean went in 2020 to this doctor he made me do a bunch of tests and concluded everything was fine but just to monitor the issue I should

[garciapimienta]

I hate doctors so much

[sunmoonandeddie]

who you are and who you’ve been

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 8,490

summary: Sometimes love takes a little longer to find you.

warnings: SMUT.  Mention of past abusive relationship, drinking, swearing.

a/n:  Thank you so much to @zeilenkrieg for commissioning this and being so patient while I wrote it!!

“Mama!  Mama!  You here?”

You sighed as you looked up from your coffee, seeing your daughter coming through the living room.  She had on that pair of daisy dukes that she stole from your wardrobe—the ones you used to wear in the heat of summer, a white shirt tied to let the sun on your tummy.  You used to scandalize your own mama with that outfit… 

You had argued with her that she had worn the same kind of outfit back in the seventies, and that vintage was in.  But she liked to wear hers with cowboy boots and you preferred it with a good pair of sneakers.

God, you missed being young…  Your twenties had been absolutely wild, even if they had started out with that horrible pandemic in 2020.

You still washed your hands after touching almost anything.  An instinct that never went away.

That year and the couple years before had been… insane.  But at least it incited real change in the world.  The people had learned from their mistakes, at least for now.

History did have a habit of repeating itself.  Humans were fickle, forgetful creatures like that.

“Yes, honey bun?” You said as you stood up, moving to hug her.

At thirty-seven years old, she was the only good thing that ever came out of your marriage.  That, and knowing how to wash blood out of clothing.

The only problem was that by the time you’d finally left him, you had no friends left.  You were in your forties by then, with no family besides your daughter, and no friends left to speak of.  You hadn’t even had Facebook at the time to keep in touch with old schoolmates from university.  And by then, what was the point?  They were all leading completely different lives and probably hadn’t spared you a thought in at least a decade.

“When’s the last time you left the house?” She asked, her hands on her hips in a stance that reminded you so much of yourself that it scared you.

Now that… that was hard to answer…  You honestly didn’t think you’d be able to remember.  You got practically everything delivered, you worked from home… 

Shaking your thoughts away, you shot her a look.  “I’m fine right where I am.”

“Your doctor called and said you haven’t been taking your medication.”

“Fuckin’ snitch,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned back to the window, staring down at the now cold coffee.

Josephine rolled her eyes.  “He said you haven’t picked up your refill in over two months.”  She came over to stand next to you, staring out the window with you for a long time.  “Mama, you’ve gotta take your medicine…  You remember what happened last time…”

Ah, yes, the infamous incident.

Which was an incident in a long line of incidents.

There had been a… few times when you’d stopped taking your medication—either intentionally or simply because you had forgotten—and it had resulted in a stay in the psych ward at the local hospital.  It had happened far too many times for your daughter to not be in contact with your doctor so she would be informed if you had stopped getting your refills.

You didn’t blame her, of course.  But it did make you feel like a horrible mother.  One who couldn’t even take care of herself to the point where your daughter had to.

“Yes, I remember last time,” you sighed, staring at a cardinal.  “You know, my mama used to tell me that if you see a cardinal, a loved one who’s passed is visiting you…”

“Mama, I signed you up for a seniors’ social club.”

You blinked.

And then, you blinked again.

You turned to look at your daughter, disbelief written all over your face.  “No the fuck you did not.  I swear to all that is holy, Josephine Ann, if you signed me up for one of those… those… pre-death support groups, I’ll tan your hide!”  You gasped as some of your coffee splashed onto your sweatshirt.  “I brought you into this world, and I sure as hell can take you out of it!”

“You’ve been saying that since I was two,” She said, taking your arm and guiding you to sit down at the kitchen table.  “And it’s not a pre-death support group.  I feel like that’s offensive somewhere so make sure you don’t go running around the group saying that.”  Josephine used a paper napkin to dab at the coffee on your sweatshirt, muttering about throwing it into the wash and getting you a new one.

This was what you meant by your daughter taking care of you.

“Josie, really, I can get my own sweatshirt.”

“Doesn’t mean you gotta,” she said as she came back with a new one, helping you change.

Sometimes you felt like she thought you were a hundred years old.

“Honestly, mama…  I just want you to be happy…  You should have friends.  You shouldn’t be cooped up in this house all day, all the time.”

“What do I need friends for when I’ve got you?  And Danny?” You asked.

But you had been hit with the sudden reality that except for Josephine and her girlfriend, you were alone.  Completely, and utterly, alone.  Hell, they were the only people you had ever invited over to the tiny one bedroom you owned.

Repairmen didn’t count because they were there to do a job, not keep you company.

God, you had wanted more than this, once upon a time.  You had once had dreams, of maybe being a writer and making the New York Times’ Bestsellers List, of a husband who adored you and brought you flowers every Friday, of lazy Sundays eating waffles on the couch with the love of your life.

But life didn’t end up the way you had dreamed it.  There were no book signings or meetings with editors… there were no gardenias… and there was no smell of waffles and syrup.

And you’d made your peace with that.

Sort of.

Josephine’s arms wrapped around you as she rested her head against yours.  Like a mirror of yourself, she was, from her face down to her toes.

Thank god.  She didn’t deserve to have to look in the mirror and see reflections of her father.

“Will you at least try it?” She asked gently, her hand running up and down your arm, her freshly manicured nails tickling your skin.  “It’s not like a pre-death support group, as you call it…  It’s for seniors or people who are approaching seniority and are still active and want to go out and have fun, but maybe need some friends to do it with.  Please?”

And how could you say no when she wanted something so badly?

“Alright,” you said after a moment.  “I’ll go once.  And if it’s horrible, I’m not going back.  And I’m gonna tell Danny how you forced me to meet a bunch of strangers.”

She squealed excitedly, running off to your bedroom and going through your closet.  “Okay, the first thing the group is doing is having a first meeting at a bar, and we’re gonna get you all done up.”

Oh, good.  She was going all in.

“When’s the first meeting?” You asked as you sat on the bed, leaning back on your hands as you watched her.

“Tonight.”

Uh.  What?

“TONIGHT?!” You shouted in shock as you jumped up.  “What?!  You didn’t think to ask me about this a few days ago?!”

She snorted, picking out a few tops that you hadn’t worn in what felt like decades.  “I signed you up this morning, I didn’t know about it a few days ago.”

You watched in exasperation as she threw article after article of clothing onto the bed for you to try on.  “I don’t think I need to wear four pairs of jeans to a bar,” you said, beginning to pick up a few of the pieces.

Josephine gave you a look as she continued.  “Considering how long it’s been since you’ve been out, I think it’s fair that some of these might not fit anymore.”

Well, you had lost some weight…  Not necessarily in a healthy way, but she was right.

In the end, she ended up shoving you into the bathroom and forced you to do a full shower—which meant body and hair.

You hadn’t even gone to such lengths when you were going on your first date with her father.

She spent hours on your hair and makeup, chattering away excitedly about the vacation her and Danny were planning.  A South American cruise.

Josephine had never married, never had kids.  Never wanted to after seeing what her daddy had put you through.  It left a sour taste in her mouth, and even though it was legal now, her and her girlfriend hadn’t breathed a word of a wedding.

Though, you suppose they had a common law marriage at that point, if lesbians were included in it.

“Perfect,” she said as she got you to slip on an old jacket of yours that was a little too big.  “Come on.  I’ll drive you and pick you up.”

“Oh, honestly,” you snorted as you grabbed the purse Josephine had shoved all your things into.  “You’d think I could take an Uber.”

The bar wasn’t what you had expected when she had first told you that’s where the meeting was going to be held.  The last bars you’d been to had practically been nightclubs.

But this was… upscale.  Sophisticated.

Now you understood just why she had put so much work into making you look presentable.

It didn’t look like anyone else was there yet, even though most of the patrons were around your age, so you took a seat at the bar, the group’s site pulled up on your phone.

“What can I get for you, miss?” The bartender asked as he set down a coaster in front of you.

A snort erupts from your throat as you look at him.  “You always call women as old as me miss?”

“Oh, come on, you’re a catch,” he said, shooting you a playful wink.  “My dad’s single, you know.  If you were… looking.”

“Thank you, but I’m not,” you said gently, your cheeks flushed.  “Can I get a Manhattan?”

The bartender nodded, gracefully backing off the subject of you possibly dating his father.  And barely a minute and a half later, there’s a perfectly made Manhattan set on your coaster.

You’d barely taken a sip before someone came up beside you.  “Do you have Macallan’s 18 Year Sherry Oak?” A man asked.  At the bartenders confirmation, he hummed.  “Can I get a double on the rocks?”

The bartender dropped a large ball of ice into a glass before pouring two shots of whiskey over it and handing it to the man.

“Macallan’s, huh?” You said softly, your heart pounding.  Josephine had told you to make friends.  That was the whole point of this, even if the man wasn’t part of the social club you’d been forced into.  “You know your whiskeys.”

The tall man took a seat beside you, his eyes boring into the side of your face.  You hadn’t dared look at him yet.  “I’ve always preferred those who choose a Manhattan over a martini any day.”

“And why is that?” You asked, finally looking up at him.

And oh, you wished you hadn’t.  He was… stunning.  The very definition of male beauty.  His salt and pepper hair reminded you of the photos of the men in the forties…  The 1940s, that is.  Blue eyes so striking that you lost your breath, and broad shoulders that you knew would haunt your dreams.  He was wearing a glove on his left hand for some reason, but you didn’t linger on it too long.

But at least he was at least your age, if not a little older.  You’d die if you’d just sort of flirted with a twenty-something asshole who just bought expensive whiskeys for the sake of buying expensive whiskeys to show that he had money to blow.

“Martini drinkers think they’ll get some kind of award for their choice of drink,” he said, “as though choosing a drink that generally tastes like shit is some kind of accomplishment.  Unless you’re just taking a shot, a drink should taste good.”  He looked you up and down, letting his pretty blues linger on your lips.  There were faint crow feet at the corners of his eyes, but they just seemed to make him even more handsome.  “And a Manhattan doesn’t need a fancy whiskey.  It is steady and sure even with the cheapest five dollar bottle you can get from a gas station.  Someone whose drink of choice is a Manhattan is sure of who they are and what they want.”

You hadn’t felt this hot under a man’s gaze in decades.  “Really?”  Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you took another sip of your drink to buy you a moment.

“Mmm…”  He stole one of the two cherries from your drink, biting it off the stem.  You were transfixed as he slipped the stem into his mouth, sticking his tongue out about thirty seconds later with a perfect cherry stem knot on display.  “Really.  I’m James.  What’s your name?”

Butterflies filled your stomach as you gave him your name.  God, you felt like you were sixteen again and being flirted with for the first time.

His eyes flicked down to your open phone that rested on the bar, the social club’s page still up.  “You’re here for the meeting, too?”

“Um…  Yes,” you said, ducking your head.

“But, doll…”  He leaned towards you, a charming smile on his lips.  “You don’t look a day over thirty-five.  Are you sure you’re a senior?”

Blinking, your mouth hung open in a soft o.  “Are you planning on flirting with every woman in the club like this?”

James looked around dramatically, his gloved hand resting over his heart.  “A club?!  Is that what you call this place?” He asked, mockingly serious.  “Damn, what does that make all those dirty, gross places these young kids go to now?  Brothels?”

For some reason, you felt comfortable enough to shove his shoulder, surprised a little at the feeling of metal under his jacket sleeve.

For the first time, he looked a bit… uncomfortable.  He had flinched a bit, his bright eyes focused surely on his drink.  “Um…”

“You’re the Winter Soldier.  James Barnes,” you said curiously, your head tilting to the side as you looked at him.  “I thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Mmhm,” you drawled, taking the cherry left in your drink and biting it off in a way that you hoped was alluring.  “Though, I gotta say, it is a bit awkward to meet the man I wrote two papers about in high school.”

Shit, his laugh was beautiful.  Everything about him was beautiful.  Like Apollo or something...

James’s head was thrown back in laughter.  His cheeks were flushed, his eyes squeezed shut.  “Did you actually write two papers about me?” He asked as he tried to catch his breath.  At your nod, he smirked, leaning in close again.  “What did you write about?  How devilishly handsome I am?”

You couldn’t believe you were saying this.  “I mean, I can show you the papers and actually let you read them, but they’re at my place.”

Before he could pick his jaw up off the ground, there were other seniors in the group coming up to greet you.  Your throat was dry as the Sahara as you turned to face them, plastering on a smile as you tried to ignore the heated gaze on your face and the way he licked his lips.

The meeting was… long.  Boring.

Or at least, that’s how it felt when you had James’s dark, sultry eyes on you the entire goddamn time.

Mind fuzzy, you vaguely remembered agreeing to come to the next meeting, and even signing up for a hiking trip they were taking the next weekend.

As you headed outside, you felt Bucky’s hand slip into yours, his long, calloused fingers intertwining with yours.  “So…  Am I gonna get to come over and… read those papers?” He murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

God, you could practically feel yourself bursting into flames.  You weren’t gonna survive.

Thank god your daughter had forced you into a full shower.

But what about how dirty your house was sure to be?

“Um…  Y-Yeah,” you said as you turned to look at him.  “But, my daughter is gonna be driving me home…  I don’t want her to know I’ve got someone coming over.  She’s nosey.  Real…  Real nosey.”

“Of course, darlin,’” he chuckled.  “Here, why don’t I give you my phone number, and you shoot me a text with your address when you’re ready for me to come over?”

Your head was swirling as you got into your daughter’s car, your phone burning a hole in your purse.

“How was it?” Josephine asked nervously once you got about halfway home.  She couldn’t tell from the look on your face.  “Did you like it?”

“Hm?  Yeah.”  Swallowing, you shot a text to James with your name, telling him you’d text him when it was all clear.

“Are you gonna go again?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She seemed both dissatisfied and pleased by your vague answers.  At least you were getting out of the house.

Once you got home and said goodbye, it was a mad dash to ensure that your house was clean as could be.  Josie had put in some work while you’d been gone, it seemed.  She’d done the dishes and the laundry, as well as dusted.

Thank fuck.

You struggled for a solid twenty minutes to put fresh sheets and pillowcases on the bed, lighting two candles and placing them in a manner that you hoped seemed natural.

“Shit,” you cursed as you smelled under your arms.

Okay, quick body shower.  It seemed all that flirting had made you a tiny bit sweaty.

You turned the water to scalding and scrubbed your body down, exfoliating and using your best scented body wash.

And to be quite frank, you’d never shaved your lady bits as quick as that.

As you texted him your address and that it was safe to come over, you pulled on your clothing from the bar (though, you did put on nicer, matching lingerie underneath.)  By the time he’d gotten there, you’d downed two shots of tequila for a bit of liquid courage and had poured yourself a glass of wine.

“Hey, baby doll,” he said, a crooked grin on his face as you welcomed him inside.  His glove had been abandoned, and black metal fingers lined with gold glittered in the light.  “Woah…  You know, I wasn’t sure how your place was gonna look, but this is very… you.”

“Oh, really?” You asked as you offered him a glass of wine, which he gratefully took.  “How so?”

“I don’t know,” he chuckled as he swirled the deep red liquid in its glass.  “It’s cozy.  Sweet.”

Your throat was dry as you watched his adam’s apple bob as he took a drink.  “Um… so those papers…”

Bucky whispered your name, moving closer to you as he set the wine glass down on the counter.  “Baby girl, I’m not really here for the papers, am I?” He asked as your back hit the island.  “If I am…  If I am, then just tell me, and I’ll stop this.”  His slightly chapped lips ghosted against yours like the tease he was.  “Am I here just for the papers?”

“No,” you breathed out, before pressing your lips against his in a firm kiss at last.  His breath was minty and cool, with just a touch of the wine you’d been sharing, like he’d brushed his teeth before coming over just like you had.

Could it be possible he was just as nervous as you were?

But he was perfect?  Why the hell would he be nervous?

Your thoughts were cut short as he reached down, his hands firmly grabbing your ass as he lifted you up and set you on the counter.  “That’s a good girl,” he growled as he kissed down your neck, his hands working at your blouse.  “Couldn’t stop thinking about you during that whole stupid fucking meeting.  Just wanted to kiss you.  Just wanted to… to touch you.”  He pulled back, kissing you fiercely as his hands moved from your blouse to hold your face again.  “You gonna let me touch you, angel?”

A whine escaped your throat as you nodded, desperately yanking at his shirt.  Once it was off, you didn’t hesitate to run your hands over the broad planes of his chest.  He wasn’t quite as toned as you remembered from when you were younger, when you used to (occasionally) stalk (lightly) his social media accounts.  There’d been so many pictures of him on vacation with the other Avengers… all tanned and toned…

But you liked this better.  There was a softness to him now, a gentleness.

You were so distracted by his physique that you didn’t notice he’d gotten your shirt and bra off until the cold air hit your chest.  “Fuck,” you mumbled as his lips found your neck, trailing down to your breasts.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been kissed, let alone the last time you’d had such… attention.

Especially when his hands worked your pants off and he stood between your legs, moaning as his fingers tickled your thighs.  “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his lips wrapped around one nipple, suckling at it and teasing until it was diamond hard, and he moved on to the other.

Gotta be fair, after all.

“James…”

“Fuck, baby girl…  Never been with a woman as beautiful as you,” he growled, kissing down your tummy.  “You’re not making it out of here without orgasming at least twice,” he warned jokingly.  He was half bent over in front of the island, watching in wonder as he slowly pulled your silk panties down your legs and revealed your aching core to him.

“I-If you’re not comfortable standing like that, w-we can move somewhere else,” you stammered, suddenly growing self conscious.  What if he thought your pussy was weird?  Granted, you’d overcome thinking that when you were in your early twenties, after learning that each one looked different.

But he was born in the forties.

But that meant he’d probably seen an exponential amount of pussies!

Oh, god, there was no way you’d have anywhere near as much experience as him.  The only person you’d ever been with was your ex husband, and he wasn’t exactly the paradigm of lovers.

“Hey.”

You refocused with a shake of your head, your eyes meeting James’s.  “Yes?”

“You’re in your head,” he said softly, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly ran his fingers along your sensitive folds.  “There’s no need…  It’s just you and me, okay?  And you’re absolutely perfect.”

Your heart was melting inside your chest as you nodded, stealing a tentative kiss.  “Okay…  Just you and me.”

James nipped at your lower lip as he lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.  “Come on.  I don’t want our first time to be on a kitchen counter.  Though I make no promises I won’t help christen every inch of this house after,” he said with a playful growl.

You whispered directions to your bedroom as he held you tight to his chest, his lips finding purchase on your neck.  “And here I thought you said the super soldier serum was wearing off,” you joked.

The man snorted as he pushed you up against the hallway wall.  “Trust me, doll, no lack of super soldier serum is gonna stop me from fucking you right,” he said, his voice husky and deep.

Before you could even open your mouth to reply, two thick fingers were slipping inside of you to slowly tease your cunt, his lips ghosting over yours.  “Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

You couldn’t find it in you to be embarrassed at the whimper that fell from your lips.  “Y-Yes.  Yes.  Please, I need more, James…”

James smiled into the kisses he’d been giving you.  “I’ll give you everything you want.”

“That’s a tall order.”  You threaded your fingers through his hair, shivering at the way his metal fingers dug into the plumpness of your ass.  “You sure you can fill it?”

He doesn’t respond with words, growling as he kisses you fiercely, carrying you to the bedroom.  You don’t have time to think before he’s crawling over you and kissing up your tummy to your lips.  “I need to be inside you,” He whispered as he stroked his length.

“Please…  Don’t wanna wait anymore,” you said.  Vaguely, you’re aware of the twinge in your knees from all the physical activity, and you knew you’d be sore as hell in the morning.

Fucking worth it, though.

James didn’t hesitate to line himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.  When he finally pushed in, unison moans fill the air.

“I…  I haven’t done this in… so long,” you finally admitted as he slowly pushed in more, taking his time.  Eyes locked, your mouth fell open in a soft ‘o’ as he bottomed out, his hips meeting yours.  “Oh, fuck…”

“Then I better do a real good job fucking you right.”

You weren’t quite sure how long you two lasted, but you do know he manages to pull three orgasms out of you in the space of just a few hours.  There’s snack and water breaks in between rounds, his cool metal hand running up and down your spine to cool you down as you two whisper in the dim light of your desk lamp.

You can’t remember a time that you’d felt so at peace.

A spark had been lit inside your chest as you two laid there in bed, legs intertwined.  Both of you were quiet, his fingers moving to caress your cheek.

There were no words that needed to be said.

His sea blue eyes are sparkling in the dim light, and your hand runs over the sharp stubble that lines his jaw.  It had certainly marked up your neck.

“I had intended on asking you on a date,” he said quietly as his hand found yours, bringing it to his mouth.  Chapped lips kissed each of your knuckles like you were something precious, something to behold.  “I didn’t think the five minutes or so before the meeting counted…  But I’d still like to take you on that date, if you’ll let me.”

“That sounds nice,” you said, a grin twinging at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah?” He asked, sitting up a bit as his fingers brushed against your forehead.

“Yeah.”  A giggle escaped your lips as he playfully tackled you, starting yet another round as his hips rolled down against yours.

The next morning, you woke up alone.  The sheets beside you were mussed, though the space James had been occupying was still a bit warm.

Jazz music floated down the hall, through the cracked door, and you could vaguely hear the clinking of pans.

It took you a minute to gather the will to get yourself out of bed and find your robe, but you finally did it.  As your feet hit the ground and you pushed yourself to a stand, you winced.

You had been right about feeling it in your knees.

You forced yourself to walk smoothly down the hall, despite how much it hurt.  Embarrassing yourself in front of James was the last fucking thing you wanted to do.

He was in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove and humming along with the old jazz song playing on the Bluetooth speaker.  He had a pan full of pancake batter in front of him, a whole stack he’d already made on the side.

Standing in the doorway, you couldn’t help but grin as you watched him.  He’s so handsome… and he seemed so at home in your kitchen.  In your home.

Maybe he’d like to move in…

You shook your head, knowing that it’s already too much.

But the thought was nice.

Him in his pajamas, making coffee…  Him in your shower…  Him in your bed every night…  

Yeah.  It’s a really, really nice thought.

“Hi.”

James jumped, his eyes wide as he whirled round to face you.  “Hi.  I thought I had another thirty minutes before I had to go and wake you up,” he said.  “I’m making pancakes.  For you.  For us.”  His cheeks flushed, turning a bright red as he turned back to the pan to quickly flip the pancake.  “I hope you don’t mind that I used your flour and shit…”

“Oh, no, I…  I almost never cook,” you admitted as you moved over to stand next to him, watching as he made two more pancakes.

As he carried the huge plate to the kitchen island, he teasingly grabbed your ass and squeezed.  “Maybe I’ll have to stay the night more often, if only so you get a homemade breakfast.”

It was sweet, and domestic, and somewhat terrifying.

You hadn’t had a man do anything for you like this since you were in your twenties, when your husband was still sweet and loving.

But even so, this was somehow better than anytime your husband made his famous burritos.

Maybe because James’s cooking actually tasted good.

Your first date was to a movie, a drive in.  Something that’s designed to be vintage but really just looked cheesy as all hell.

But it’s perfect.  Perfect and cheesy and romantic.

Your only complaint was that he didn’t kiss you at the door when he dropped you off.  He pressed his lips to your cheek and whispered a goodnight, and that was it.

It took two more dates within the same week for him to kiss you again.

Bright and early on the next Saturday morning, he knocked on your door, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“I figured I should make up for you having to be up so early with this,” he said as he came inside, kissing you quick before moving to put the flowers in a vase.

At this point, he knew your house almost as well as you did.  It felt good, when you two moved around like you were part of a team.

“Have you gotten your coffee this morning?” You asked, already pouring two travel mugs full of the good stuff.

He came up behind you, kissing your shoulder.  “I have, but you know I’ll never say no to more, doll.”

The rest of the group eyed you curiously as you got out of the same car, a few elbow nudges and whispers in the air.

“At least I know no old ass dickheads are gonna come hit on my girlfriend,” James growled in your ear, his calloused flesh hand squeezing your hip.

“Jamie…,” you whined, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.  No one had ever claimed you in such a way that made you feel so desired and… and worthy.

James made you feel worthy.

Which is something you’d only ever really gotten from your daughter.

It sent a bolt of arousal through you, and you were tempted to drag him back to the car so you could bring him right back home and do something about it.

Also…  Girlfriend?  Were you his girlfriend now?  Officially?

That just made you wanna find somewhere to fuck him even more.

But alas, you pushed the thought away as the lot of you boarded one of those white airport vans that took you out of the city to the closest state park.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed out as you stared out the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass.  The morning air was a bit chillier than it had been lately, signaling the coming onslaught of winter.

Maybe Bucky would wanna make hot cocoa together… go sledding…  Would him, Josephine, and Danny would all come over for Christmas and New Years and—

Would he even want to meet Josephine?

Would Josie wanna meet him?

She had no idea that you’d found a—A boyfriend?

“Not as beautiful as you,” Bucky murmured against the shell of your ear as his vibranium fingers intertwined with yours and squeezed.  His stubble tickled your neck as he rested his head on your shoulder, watching the passing scenery with you.  “I’m really glad I met you, doll…”

“Me, too,” you said, grinning as you squeezed his hand back and leaned your head against his.

It was strange, falling so hard for someone so quick after everything you’d been through.

But you had a gut feeling.  One that you had never had with your ex husband.

James was a good one.  A really, really good one.

That reminded you.

When were you meant to tell him about all the shit you’d been through?

Despite the amount of time you had spent together already, you hadn’t found the courage for it.

Soon, you decided.

But first, you had to get through the damn hike.

Bucky was glued to your side the entire time, even though you were a lot worse at hiking than he was.  He would hold your hand, guiding you anytime there was a fallen tree or a creek.  His blue eyes were soft as he murmured encouragement, quietly praising your every move.

It was intoxicating.

So when you two fell behind from the group, watching them go around a curve and down a hill, you dragged James behind a large rock formation.

“Baby doll?  Darling, what the hell are you doing?” He laughed as you pressed a fierce kiss to his lips.

“Can’t a girl be spontaneous?” You teased as you dropped to your knees, ignoring the way a twig was poking into your left knee.  “Need to taste you.”

His eyes locked on you as you worked at his jeans, getting them down and off, his nails scratching at your scalp as he got a good grip on your head.  “Fuck…  Are you really this needy for me, angel?  Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous…  Look at you.”

Your heart pounded against your rib cage as you finally freed his length, a grin on your lips as you wrapped your hand around him and slowly stroked him.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back as your mouth wrapped around the head of his cock.  “Fucking shit…  Good girl…  Suck me off real good, baby.”

The group probably would notice your absence, not that you particularly cared.

Not when you had your man so weak for you.  And all you’d had to do was get on your knees.

His metal and flesh hands guided you to take more of him in, going at a slow pace so as not to hurt you.  He was so big there was no way you’d get all of him down your throat but what you couldn’t take in your mouth, you pleasured with your hands.

Pleasuring your partner like this was addicting.  You’d never felt the desire—no, the incessant need—to please your ex husband.  All you could think about was getting Bucky off, making him feel so good that he couldn’t see or walk straight.

You choked around him as you took him as deep as possible, your eyes glassy.  When you popped off, you stroked him as you moved down to carefully suck at his balls, fighting a grin as he gasped, his hips stuttering.  Before he could orgasm, you took him back in your mouth, wanting to swallow him down.

“Fuck, fuck—  Oh, shit…  Baby—  I’m gonna…  I’m gonna—”  Bucky broke off with a shout as he came, spilling down your throat.  His large hands stroked your cheeks as you swallowed all of it, barring the little bit that had gotten on your lower lip.  “You did so good, darling,” he cooed as he helped you stand, pressing you against the rock behind him as he kissed you.  “Are you okay?  I didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No, you didn’t,” you said, a faint smile on your lips as you helped him put himself back away.  “You were perfect, James…”

When you finally caught up to the group, a few of the others shot you knowing looks.

But Bucky just had a satisfied smirk on his lips, his hand tightly intertwined with yours even as you flushed in embarrassment.

“Once we get home, it’s your turn,” he whispered in your ear as you all headed back for the van.

Your relationship with James was… wonderful.

It was easy in a way you’d never had before.

Within just two months, he was living at your house almost full time, to the point where you’d been thinking about asking him to move in.

It was like you two were magnets.  Even when you both had work to do, you did it in the same room, slowly gravitating towards each other until you were sitting close, your foot running up his calf.

And he’d gotten you to start writing.

“It’s your dream, doll.  You’re never too old to chase your dreams,” he said one night as you two laid in bed.  His metal fingers were tracing shapes on your spine, a chill from the cracked window ruffling his sweaty hair.  “If you don’t mind me asking…  Why did you stop in the first place?”

Ah.

The conversation you’d been avoiding for so long.

Sitting up, you pressed your hands to your face as you tried to find the words to say.  “Um…  I was married before…  I know you know, but, uh…”  Your fingers fiddled together nervously.  You swallowed around the lump in your throat.  “My husband…  He wasn’t…  He wasn’t nice.  At all.”

Bucky immediately sat up behind you, his vibranium hand resting flat on your back to reassure you that he was there, and to give you something to focus on while you spoke.  He didn’t need to speak for you to know.  He was there and he wasn’t running.

“I married him young… and I had Josephine young…  He’d always been so… possessive, but I just considered it protective,” you continued, pulling strength from his touch to keep on going.  You needed to tell him this.  You needed him to understand.  “Then after Josie was born, he started getting violent.  He’d always been mean, but he’d never hit me until after I gave birth…”

James was tense behind you, slowly scooting over so he could wrap his arms around you, his legs resting on either side of yours as he held you.  He needed you close.  Needed to know you were safe in his arms and that man was long gone.

“Put me in the hospital a few times…  He at least didn’t do it in front of Josie.  That’s the one thing I asked of him that he listened to.”  You couldn’t help but snort as you slowly relaxed back against him.  “She always thought all the bruises and shit was just a side effect of how clumsy I am…  But she came home one day during college, to surprise us…  She walked in on him holding a frying pan above his head, about to swing again.  She jumped in between us and told him if he ever touched me again, she’d kill him.”  You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as his lips pressed to your bare shoulder.  It was soothing, feeling his skin against yours.  “She moved me out of that house and into her apartment, helped me get the divorce, get back on my feet…”

“Remind me to tell Josephine thank you,” he said quietly as he squeezed you close.  “Thank you for telling me, doll…  I…  I can’t imagine how hard that was…  But he’ll never touch you again.  No one will ever touch you again if you don’t want it.”

“I know.”

He nuzzled into your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo.  “I love you.  So much…”

A peace settled over you as you rested your head back against his, allowing yourself to truly fall into him, to relax.  “And I love you…”

After that night, Bucky slept over at your place five to six nights a week, only going home to get more clothes and do his laundry really, even though you’d told him a million times he could do it at your place.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” he murmured in your ear one morning, pushing your hair away from your face.  “Time to get up…  I’ve got breakfast ready for you…”

Groaning, you tried to pull him down for more cuddle time, but he wasn’t having it.  He always woke up before you, too many years a soldier coming into play.  He’d go for a run and make breakfast before waking you up.

“Come on, doll,” he chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your lips as he got you to sit up, your vision blurry from sleep still.  “Medicine,” he said, pressing your pills into your palm and putting a glass of water in your other. 

Ever since he’d found out about your prescriptions and how you had a hard time remembering to take them, he’d taken it upon himself to make sure you did, every morning and night without fail.

“What’d you make this morning?” You asked sleepily after swallowing your pills, letting him pull you to your feet.  His t-shirt clung to you as you followed him down the hall.  Your hand was tucked into his as you rounded the corner to the kitchen.

What neither of you had heard was the sound of the front door opening.

“Mama?!  What the hell?!” Josephine demanded, standing in the kitchen with Danny right behind her.  “Who the fuck is this?!  What is he doing here?!”

Oh.

Yeah.

You’d neglected to tell your daughter, afraid of how she might take it.

“Hello.  I’m James.  Or Bucky,” your boyfriend said as he held out his hand to you, clearly unashamed and standing his ground even though he was only wearing a pair of pajama pants.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Your daughter repeated angrily, ignoring his hand.

“Josie,” Danny began, trying to soothe her.

But your daughter was nothing but determined when she was in her protective mode.

Before you could open your mouth, Bucky supplied, “I’m her boyfriend.”

You felt a flush coming over you as she stared at the two of you, slack-jawed.  “He is,” you said, wrapping both of your arms around his metal one.  You were so nervous, you were shaking.

“When did this happen?!” She demanded, beginning to pace back and forth around the kitchen.

“Um…  The first meeting at the bar… for the club,” you said.  Seeing her so upset made your anxiety spike, and you knew James could feel it, could hear the way your heart rate increased exponentially.

Josephine whirled on you, her eyes—so much like yours—wide with disbelief.  No.  Betrayal.  “You’ve been seeing someone for almost three months and you didn’t tell me?”

“I…”  Tears pricked your eyes as you tightened your grip on Bucky’s arm.  This was not the way you wanted them meeting to go.  “I was scared… of how you’d react…”

At that moment, Bucky turned to meet your eyes, his forehead almost pressing against yours.  “Darling, I feel like this is a conversation you two should have alone, yeah?  So I’m gonna take—Danny, right?  Yeah—Danny to the living room with some coffee so we can get to know each other, okay?”

After a nod, and a squeeze of his hand, he got two mugs of coffee and led your daughter’s girlfriend to the living room.  You could see them sitting down from the corner of your eyes, but you were much too focused on Josephine.

“Mama, I—”

“I love him,” you said, before she could say anything more.

Her eyes were shining, locked on you as she waited for you to speak.  In her gut, she knew this was something you needed to get out.

“I love him more than I’ve ever loved a man.  More than I loved your father,” you whispered, your voice cracking.  “And I know…  I know you’re as protective as you are because you saw how he treated me.  You saw how much I hid that he was hurting you, but Jamie isn’t like that.”  Your fingers fiddled as you tried to keep yourself from pacing.  “He’s kind and adoring and gentle and…  and he loves me.  More than I thought anyone could ever love me.  And I know you feel like you need to take care of me and I am so grateful.  And I still need you.  Everyday.  But Bucky…  I love him.  I love him and he loves me and we take care of each other.”

Josephine reached out, slowly taking your hands in hers.  “He…  He makes you happy?  He takes care of you and you’re safe?” She asked, voice trembling as a few tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Yeah.  He takes real good care of me,” you insisted with a weak laugh.  “And I’ve never been so happy before, honey.  I promise.”

“Okay…,” she said, taking a deep breath.  “I’m still giving him the shovel talk.”

Bucky looked up as Josephine entered the living room, looking much calmer.  He wasn’t sure what you’d said, but it had seemed to placate her for the time being.

“Can we talk outside?” She asked him, keeping her chin high.

God, she looked so much like you.

He nodded stiffly, getting to his feet and leaving his mug behind as he followed her to the front door and out onto the porch.  The former super soldier watched as she paced back and forth, biting her thumb.  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

Josie stopped in her tracks, listening quietly.

“Your mama loves you something fierce.”  Nervously rubbing his hands on his pajama pants, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous meeting a girl’s family.

Though, he supposed it was a bit different when it was meeting your girlfriend’s daughter.

“And I love her.”

Your daughter, your mini me, stared him directly in the eyes.  “I’m sure she’s told you about my father.  What he did.”

“She did.”

“So you know that if you put one fucking foot out of line, I’ll filet you?”

“I do.”

She eyed him for a long moment.  “What are you in this for?  What’s the long term?” She asked.  “I’ve heard of elders just… settling for someone because they don’t wanna be alone in their twilight years.  Is that what this is?”

Bucky tried really hard not to feel a little bit offended.  He wasn’t that old.  “I’ve been alive since 1917,” he said slowly.  “I have no doubt you know who I am.  But I’ve been alive a hundred and something years, and I’ve never met someone who makes me feel the way your mom does.”  His heart clenched inside his chest as he thought of you, seeing your shy smile in the mornings, how you clung to him when you went out in public, the sound of your voice as you read an excerpt of your writing to him, so nervous about what he would think.  “And I…  I can say that everything I’ve been through…  Everything I’ve ever been through was worth it, because I got to meet her.  And I get to be hers for the years I have left.”

She looked absolutely speechless.  “Good,” she said, coughing to clear her throat.  “Good.  I just…  I can’t see her get hurt again.  Not after everything.”

“Trust me, I don’t plan to,” he said, his mouth dry.  “I…  I actually have something to ask you about…  Been waiting to meet you to talk to you about it…”

Inside, you paced the kitchen and living room, going back and forth and back and forth, sometimes moving to the window to try to hear what they were saying.  But they were keeping it all very hushed.

“It’s gonna be fine, mama,” Danny said, standing up and moving to wrap her arms around you.  “Josie’ll see how much you two love each other, and it’ll be fine.  She’s just gotta have her protective moment.  You know how she is.”

Sniffling, you hugged her tightly.  “I shouldn’t have kept it from her for so long…  I was just so nervous…  They both…  They both mean the world to me.”  You paused, snorting.  “I knew you’d approve of him.  I wasn’t so worried about you.”

“Oh, please, the way that man looked at you?” She said, laughing as she kissed your forehead.  “Mama, there’s no way in hell that man would ever hurt you.  He looks at you like you’re his entire universe.”

Heart warm, you glanced towards the front door, wishing they’d just come inside already.  “I’ve never felt something like this…  But fuck, if the whole shit show that’s my life wasn’t worth it for him…  I wouldn’t change a thing, as long as it means I get to end up with him.”

You broke out of her grasp as the front door opened and they came back inside, looking relaxed and even… happy?  “Well?  You aren’t gonna kill him?” You asked Josie as you moved to James, heart racing.

“Nah…,” she said, giving him what seemed like a secretive smile.  “As far as dads go…  He’d be pretty nice to have.”

“What?” You said, brows furrowing as you looked between the two of them.

Bucky chuckled, winking at Josephine as he led you to the stove where breakfast was still waiting, making you waddle as his arms wrapped around you from behind.  “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, baby doll.  It’s all good.”

You still couldn’t help but feel like the two were planning something as he made your plate for you, cutting up your pancakes and filling up your coffee.  “Why do I feel like you two are gonna end up ganging up on me?”

“Oh, come on, mama,” Josephine said with a smirk on her face.  Her and Danny had made their own plates and joined you and Bucky in the living room.  “How could you ever accuse us of such a thing?”

“Yeah,” James said as he fed you a bite of pancake.  “How could you ever accuse us of such a thing?” He asked, before leaning in and stealing a kiss.  “I love you.”

You’d never felt more relaxed, surrounded by the people you loved the most in the world.  What you’d said to Josephine had been true.

“I love you more,” you said, leaning back in for another kiss.

You’d never been so happy.

[ohblackdiamond]

back to the garden (paul and peter) (pg-13)

“You’re wrong, y’know. You’re wrong about never getting the crowd. The next couple months are gonna tell us everything. If we’re able to hold those postponed concerts this year… if we can do that, we’ll be able to book Madison Square Garden in 2023. Five nights.” In 2021, Paul reaches out to Peter with one last offer.

“back to the garden”

by Ruriruri

Note: Special thanks to @hillsofuhhtennessee, @specktacularstuff and @bangbangyou for their wonderful feedback and encouragement; I could not have finished this story (which has been in the works since June of 2020) without them.

 Yes, we all use each other and that's what we think of as love, and not being able to use each other is what's--hate.... --Tennessee Williams, “Suddenly Last Summer”

It’s like, at the end, there’s this surprise quiz: Am I proud of me? I gave my life to become the person I am right now.  Was it worth what I paid?  --Richard Bach

There’s still tape lines on the supermarket floors, and plastic sheeting cutting off the cashiers from the customers, more than a year after COVID. Peter doesn’t see quite as many people wearing masks anymore, these days, outside of the hospital and doctor’s offices. They’re mandated, depending on the area, but that gets willfully ignored. Supermarket and fast food chains still require them out of employees. The doctor’s, too, of course, and last time Peter went into the dentist’s for his six month checkup, there was a sign on the door about the COVID risk, and he had to sign some kind of waiver before the brunette hygienist could start scraping the plaque off his teeth.

Peter wears his mask out in public. He’s had the vaccine already, both doses, but there’s already all that pushback about efficacy and whether it works against whatever new strain is out there. It doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to end. It doesn’t make him happy, but he can’t kid himself anymore. He hasn’t made a public appearance in close to two years, anyway. Not since that Miami bit. He ended up with the predictable bunch of old KISS Army members making the rounds. Have him sign some albums, then go see Ace at the Kruisefest, then see Paul and Gene and Tommy and Eric hacking their way through the same old setlist twice in a row on the ship. The sorriest of pilgrimages.

One of those fans told him what he already knew, that it was the first time in five years the four of them were in the same city. He’d surprised himself by not snapping back; he knows that’s still what some people want out of him, him tearing into the KISS conglomerate one final time like a weird Hail Mary pass.

He knows that’s what Paul wants out of him, and that, more than anything, keeps Peter’s mouth shut.

“It’ll probably be the last time,” he’d said instead, and his handler waved the next fan through. Even then, he’d been almost certain of it. But that had been a different world, a world where people went to movies and concerts, a world where a sudden cough didn’t mean everyone expected you to be on a ventilator two weeks later. It’ll be five, maybe ten years before people really get comfortable around each other again, if they ever do. Stuff was getting bad enough anyway, what with people glued to their phones. And that’s only gotten worse these days, something that never fails to make Peter irritated and disappointed. His own smartphone doesn’t seem to work the way he wants it to half the time, and the battery dies after three or four days of having it on. Worse than a landline ever thought about being. He can’t understand the appeal.

Peter pushes his cart through the grocery store, picking through the usual staples. A few canned goods. A plastic-covered wad of broccoli, a few tomatoes. A slab of pork from the meat department. Him and Gigi don’t really eat much. Eventually, he cuts through the baby food aisle to get to the bread aisle just past it, realizing that Jennilee hasn’t come over in a month or more, just done the Facetime bit. He wishes sometimes that she’d had a kid, a little grandchild he could spoil rotten, but it looks like his legitimate legacy ends with her. From what he’s heard, the other guys aren’t faring any better there. It’s really too bad. Maybe that’s part of his divine punishment, part of all their punishment for knocking up dozens of girls without giving a damn about it. Dying without any grandkids.

It’s when he gets his bread—just a cheap loaf of Wonderbread, same as he used to eat as a kid—that he starts to register that someone’s behind him.

He doesn’t turn around. He’s got more than forty years of experience being tailed, with and without a bodyguard there for protection. He knows the best way to avoid getting bothered is to avoid ever giving an opening in the first place. One glance is really all the more obnoxious fans need to start jumping into their life stories. It doesn’t annoy him as much as it used to, but it’s still just something he’s not up for when he’s just trying to get his groceries.

So he keeps walking. Gets the peanut butter and strawberry jam. Pretends to pore over a jar of orange marmalade, staring at the ingredient list until he’s almost sure whoever’s following him has backed off. Then he pushes the cart to the aisle prior instead of the aisle ahead, looking through boxes of snack cakes. Hostess cupcakes, Twinkies, cosmic brownies. God, sometimes, if he lets himself think about it, the excess is a little disturbing. He picks up a box of Twinkies, almost puts it in the cart out of weird nostalgia, then sets it back on the shelf.

He doesn’t make it any farther before he realizes someone’s still trailing behind. Peter still doesn’t turn around this time, just strains his hearing past the sounds of carts and motorized scooters and the dim easy listening piping through the store, trying to parse out the footsteps. Decide as best he can without turning around if it’s some fifty-five-year-old kid or, more preferably, one of those little ten-year-olds who likes her grandparents’ music.

The steps aren’t too heavy, but they’re clipped and short. Eerily familiar. It’s the sound of a guy walking around, for sure. Peter sighs and turns around, curiosity getting the better of him after all.

The guy’s maybe ten feet from him, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, holding an empty shopping basket. Unlike almost everyone else in the store, everyone else but Peter and the employees, he’s wearing a mask.

Not that it matters. Peter would recognize those big, droopy brown eyes anywhere. Five years down the line, ten years, and it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if Alzheimer’s ate his brain into swiss cheese while some nurse wheeled him into a retirement home; he’d still know who that was right up until he finally keeled over.

“Paul.”

Paul puts a finger to his masked mouth almost immediately. Like it’s 1978 and people really, truly give a shit anymore. Like too much of anyone normal on the street has ever really cared enough to fucking recognize Paul Stanley unmasked after about 1980, outside of a KISS Konvention or L.A. or Hollywood or New York or maybe Disneyland, and gone out of their way to crowd around him. Like KISS was ever half as big as they all pretended. It has to kill the guy, even now, that Gene’s still the only one regular people notice offhand. Everyone else only gets that terrible line about looking like, no, being, an old hippie, from people who weren’t even alive when hippies were around. 

It’s exactly what Paul deserves, really. Everything’s shook up exactly how each of them deserves. Ace, easily the laziest of all of them, stuck on the eternal concert circuit. Gene forever horny and unable to do a damn thing about it with anyone but his wife these days, groupies gone and every rockstar a second from being blacklisted. Paul, always so utterly desperate to have the crowd in his palm, blowing his voice out ten or fifteen years ago.

It’s a bitter bunch of thoughts for a midmorning shopping trip. But Paul brings it out of him better than anyone else.

Peter rolls his eyes, looking Paul up and down for the first time in years. He’s not any more impressive or depressive than expected. He’s letting his hair gray out, finally, the streaks unnaturally even. It looks funny short; it always kind of has. He hasn’t gained any weight that Peter can readily notice, though it’s hard to tell with the loose t-shirt on. The mask is probably a cheaper alternative to Botox at this point, honestly, but from what Peter can see, Paul looks—he looks okay. A little weird. Too much plastic surgery. But Paul always looked a little weird. His features always seemed vaguely askew, penciled in by a wayward, trembling hand. Even in the old 16 magazine pinups, compared to guys like Barry Gibb and Rick Springfield, he barely wavered on the border of handsome.

“What are you doing here?” Peter snaps out.

“Getting groceries.”

“You live in California.”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re not moving here.” No. Paul’s left any Yankee pretenses behind more than thirty years ago. He’s got to keep remaking his image. He never had one to begin with that wasn’t painted on.

“So? I can get groceries wherever I want.”

“You’re not here to get groceries.”

Paul pauses, and then he reaches for the Twinkies, placing them in his shopping basket.

“I might be.”

“You’re not.” Peter exhales. “What do you want, Paul?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. What do you want?”

“Nothing!”

“Then I’m gonna get the rest of my groceries.”

He starts to walk off, eyes on the red lines taped to the floor, those six feet of recommended distance. Six feet. More like six years. The cart’s wheels creak a bit, and he walks a little faster, pushing the cart a little harder. Unsurprisingly, it’s no good. Paul’s short, quick steps are right behind him in seconds.

“Peter, hold on, okay?”

Peter swerves the shopping cart into a turn at the next aisle, nearly running into a wizened woman with a cane. He mumbles out an apology, and of course, Paul’s there, one hand on the back of his cart.

“Pete, would you talk to me?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Listen, I--”

“What are you planning this time?” Peter grabs a few cans of cream of mushroom soup off the shelf. Part of him almost wants to hurl one at Paul already. “You wanna take a couple of those selfies with me? Promote your new album?”

“No!”

“I turned down the A&E shit. So what else is there? You wanna dangle one last concert in front of my face?” Peter snorts “Get us back to the Garden? You can’t. You’ll never get the turnout. How much did you and Gene lose over that End of the Road shit—”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Enough to go after me. What’ve you got, anyway, eighty million now? A hundred? Can’t have really hurt your wallet that bad, just your ego.”

“This isn’t about the band!”

“It’s always about the band with you.” Peter exhales. “Why should you give a shit when there’s no profit to it? Where the fuck were you when I had cancer? Where the fuck was Gene?”

“I—”

“Better yet, the fuck were you when Eric Carr—”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Paul snaps out, louder than he’s been the whole time, loud enough that some mother with her kid in a stroller shoots them both a dirty look as she passes by. Paul’s grip on his shopping basket tightens up.

“I’m not shutting up. I’ve had it with you. I’ve had it with both of you, you understand that? You haven’t meant shit to me in more than twenty years.”

“As if I’m gonna believe that one.”

Christ. Paul has the gall to think he still occupies any space in Peter’s mind. Maybe Paul really does believe it’s still ’78. Maybe that’s how he gets through every rotten day. It’s got to be how he’s slogged through all those tiresome concerts. KISS’ life support is only plugged in by ego, after all.

“You better.”

Peter stalks off to the checkout counter, even though he’s only gotten half his groceries. Paul’s still following him. Right behind him, the shopping basket looking downright comical on his arm as he reaches over. Peter wants to look away from him, turn his attention to the bland-eyed checkout girl, but he can’t seem to manage it.

“Let me get that for you.”

“I can take out my own goddamn groceries.” And then Peter realizes, in a sudden, churning moment, that Paul doesn’t mean just putting the bread and the peanut butter and so on onto the conveyor belt. Paul’s actually fucking offering to pay for them. The humiliation, the indignation, seems to sear his skin. “You think I’m that broke?”

“No!”

“You think there’s anything I want out of you? You think I’d crawl to you for any goddamn thing at all?” He reaches into the cart, yanking out every sorry staple, setting it down. His eyes barely move from Paul’s face as he empties the cart. The only sound beyond the low din of the store and the piped-in music is the mechanical ding as the cashier rings up his groceries.

“Peter, just calm down--”

“Get out of here.” Peter shoves his credit card into the machine. He hardly raises his head when the cashier prints out the receipt for him to sign. He scrawls something down the way he’s done a hundred thousand times and pushes it back at the cashier, and then he puts his card back in his wallet, piles the bagged groceries back into the cart. “I’m done with you.”

He doesn’t listen for Paul’s footsteps. He doesn’t really expect to hear them.

--

But he does, of course. Paul thinks he’s too posh to make a scene in a parking lot. Peter sits in his car, waiting on Paul to come out of the grocery store. Surely he wouldn’t have taken any highat precautions. Shit like bringing along a handler, or making sure he could get out through an employee exit. Peter’s stomach churns at the thought that Paul won’t even leave a store like a normal person anymore. He watches; he waits, and just when he’s about to drive off, he sees Paul walking out of the store. Paul has his phone in hand. He’s texting someone. Then he stuffs the phone back in his pocket, heads over to an unassuming gray Honda, and drives away.

Peter leaves after that, heads on home, but it doesn’t feel as good as it should. It feels even worse than that stupid Vault meeting with Gene, the one where Gene was practically begging him to hang around for a few minutes more. The thought had come to him then, slick and awful, that he’d finally reached a time and place in his life where he couldn’t be bought off. That it really no longer mattered to him what Gene and Paul were doing, right as both of them decided he mattered to them, or, at least, to their bottom line. It had been a cold thought. He’d headed down to the basement, to his dwindling supply of KISS merchandise and paraphernalia, and looked at it, trying to-- trying to summon something. An hour or two after that he’d gathered up some of it and called up John 5 and asked if he wanted an early Christmas present. John had barely seemed to believe any of it, staring at the box of old sentiment like it was the Shroud of Turin.

“Peter, you can’t really want me to have all this.”

“Take it.”

“It’s worth a--”

“Hell, it’s just molding over here.”

John had hesitated, then taken everything out of the box, carefully snapping a picture of each piece on his phone before putting it back.

“Thank you.”

“I should thank you. Gigi’s been wondering for years if I’d ever get this place cleaned up.”

“It’s not about the stuff.” John had a strange look on his face. Peter had seen that look plenty over the years. John had been one of those kids that dressed as KISS for Halloween. Had the lunchbox, the comics. All of that. John was almost fifty. “You and the guys meant the world to me. You still do.”

Peter comes home to no one. Gigi’s out for brunch with a girlfriend. He puts up his groceries and turns on his phone, figuring he’ll try and text her. Let her know he didn’t get half his list. He’ll tell her about Paul when she gets home.

It turns out he’s got three texts already, but not from her or John 5 or Eddie or any of the small handful of people he tries to keep up with. They’re all from the same number, a number he doesn’t recognize. An area code he does.

“Here’s my hotel address.

“I’ll be here for three days. I’d like to see you.

“I can have someone pick you up.”

--

He doesn’t text Paul back. He taps the address and the Waze or Google map or whatever application was already on his phone starts trying to give him directions already. Paul’s only half an hour away. The hotel doesn’t look as ritzy in the photos as Peter would have expected, but Paul can be a cheap asshole when he wants to be. Paul’s lived out of a suitcase for damn near fifty years anyway. There comes a point where the hotels don’t get any better, the food doesn’t get any better, hell, the drugs don’t get any better. Peter tries to push aside his own musing-- none of that shit concerns him anymore-- and paces the kitchen, trying to decide.

Three days in that hotel. He wonders if Paul’s brought his family and decides he couldn’t have. It has to just be him there.

He should wait on Gigi to come home. Tell her what happened at the grocery store. She’ll make the decision for him, tell him not to talk to Paul, that Paul just wants something out of him, that this is just another over-the-top gesture out of him, the same way Paul had started reaching out to him months and months before they ever did that MTV special. The restaurant dinners and Starbucks coffees. All that fucking pretense. And yet even in his mind, some part of him wants to argue her over it. You weren’t there. You don’t know.

Peter hadn’t been as stupid as Paul must’ve thought, back then; he’d known Paul was angling all those years ago; he’d known Paul was thinking about getting the band back together. He’d done angling of his own, made all sorts of pretenses about his drumming ability even when he knew Paul knew better. Pretended his finances were in a dozen times better shape than they were. And Paul, Paul had done the same. He remembered Paul’s array of designer jeans and hats and that old watch Bill had given him still strapped on his wrist. He remembered Paul tipping twice as generously as he ever had back in the seventies, just to try to show Peter that he had money to burn.

He remembered, one dinner, talking about girls. Laughing about a threesome they’d had. The first one they’d ever had. They’d only had dirty magazines to go off of for positions, so they’d decided to try a spit roast. Only the chick had managed, somehow, to choke on Paul’s dick while Peter was fucking her from behind. Paul hadn’t wanted her mouth near his cock after that and ended up settling for letting her jack him off. All the decadent hedonism Peter had assumed was part and parcel of the rockstar lifestyle dissolved with every thrust into the chick and every glance up at Paul’s hilariously disappointed face.

Shit like that. And Paul had been the one to bring it up. Paul knew all the stories better than he did. Remembered everything, just everything. Peter had found out over the years that most of Ace’s memory had faded out to bare impressions. Gene would mix things up or inflate them, never wanting to let the truth get in the way of a good story, even for a guy that was there. But Paul could still conjure up the old days as they were. At least back then, he could.

It’s not worth it. An hour or two talking about a shared past isn’t fucking worth it. Paul doesn’t really even want to talk. Paul just wants to do whatever he has to in order to get Peter in his pocket again. He won’t let Paul treat him like that. He doesn’t give a shit. He really, truly doesn’t give a shit. Paul can just keep on being a fucking joke on his own time. Peter’s carved out his own life. He’s beyond KISS. He’s beyond Paul.

It ought to feel great to ignore him. It ought to be so satisfying to refuse a guy who’s refused him so much, who’s cheated him out of so much, berated him, put him down in front of anyone who’ll listen. Peter ought to feel so secure. He ought to feel like he’s won, yet he doesn’t at all.

Up until the grocery store, he hadn’t seen Paul since the Hall of Fame back in 2014. Not in person. He hasn’t even seen Paul’s face on a screen since December, that twenty-second happy birthday message Paul had rattled out like another interview. Twenty seconds that Peter had played back five or six times just because he couldn’t quite believe Paul could say anything kind about him without a gun to his head or a million-dollar check in front of his face. He’d wondered what Paul was wanting from him, who’d put him up to it, and then he’d decided Gene had probably guilted him into it. Now he’s not so sure.

It’s not worth it. It’s not fucking worth it, but he’s seventy-five years old. Paul’s sixty-nine. There might never be another chance. And-- and he can keep turning Paul down. He’ll keep turning Paul down. No grand final show. No bringing him in like a museum exhibition, there in a t-shirt and jeans, singing “Beth” to the crowd while Eric mimes on the piano wearing his makeup. No screwed-up deals. He doesn’t need them.

His hands are sweating as he texts Gigi, telling her he’ll be back sometime this afternoon. No elaboration, no explanation. He takes a look in the mirror, and then he drives to the hotel.

--

He has to shove his ID in a valet’s face before he’s convinced that he’s Peter Criss. From there, a masked hotel clerk walks him to the elevator and even to just outside Paul’s room, as if she thinks he’s too dementia-ridden to remember the room number.

He thinks for a minute that he might’ve missed him, that Paul’s gone off somewhere else to lick his wounds, but no. Paul opens the door-- still masked, and still in that t-shirt and jeans-- letting him in without a word. The hotel room’s set up apartment-style, of course. A pair of long white couches, a flatscreen T.V., and art on the walls just basic enough to appeal to Paul’s wannabe sensibilities in that first room. It opens up into a bedroom, though Peter can’t see much from this angle. It’s just as well. He’s positive Paul hasn’t bothered unpacking.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Paul’s eyes dart off to the side.

“I try to be.”

“You think everyone’s so damn desperate to be around you.”

“Not everyone.”

“Are you gonna come out with it?” Peter pulls his mask off, watching Paul for a response, but there isn’t one at all. Paul doesn’t even flinch at the sight of Peter’s bare face. Part of Peter’s perversely glad.

Peter hasn’t sat down yet. Paul’s still standing, too, hand half-extended and curved, as Peter presses on.

“Go ahead. What’s your plan here?”

“You’re wrong, y’know. You’re wrong about never getting the crowd.” Paul starts talking quickly, like he thinks he’s on a timer. Like he thinks Peter’s going to leave. He pulls off the mask as he talks, but he doesn’t come any closer. “The next couple months are gonna tell us everything. If we’re able to hold those postponed concerts this year… if we can do that, we’ll be able to book Madison Square Garden in 2023. Five nights.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Five hundred grand a night just to sing ‘Beth.’ You won’t have to do anything else. You won’t have to do any press releases. You won’t have to be around me or Gene or anybody. We’ll take care of it.”

“You’ll take care of it.” Peter repeats the words and they feel like mud under his shoe. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Maybe I don’t want you and Gene to take care of it. Maybe you’ve taken care of enough.” Peter’s lip twitches. “I never was real good at reading off your scripts.”

“Then… then bitch all you want. Bitch all you want as long as you come.”

“You that concerned over your bottom line?”

“What?”

“You heard what I said.” Peter’s not sure what’s possessed him. Why he’s picking this tack, something so stupid to fight him over, when there’s a million better buttons to push. There’s a hundred scenes he’s witnessed out of Paul, a hundred he could mention that could turn him into fucking Jello. Leave him writhing like a worm for all his millions. He knows the truth about Paul, every rotten aspect of him, culled from almost a dozen years of living on the road with him, and fifty fucking years of watching that face age. “It won’t be five minutes. That’s not enough.”

“It’s all you got, Peter.”

“Five real minutes outta two full hours of the tape player. You and Gene--”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t want five minutes. I want at least two songs.” Now he’s talking faster, too, the demands spinning out of his throat. “I want to get in the gear again. I want you fuckers off the stage when I’m singing ‘Beth.’ I want everyone in the same dressing ro--”

“You got nothing to argue with.”

“I got everything to argue with. I got five shows.” Peter swallows. “How much would one ticket to those shows be, Paul? Fifteen hundred bucks? Two thousand? More?”

“You’re not bargaining with me.”

“I am or you wouldn’t be over here.” His throat’s tight. “What did you offer Ace?”

“I haven’t talked to Ace.”

“Bullshit. He’d crawl on broken glass for the Garden.” Peter can hear himself get louder. “What did you offer him? Three songs? Four? How much, Paul?”

“I haven’t fucking talked to Ace.”

“Then you made Gene do it.” Peter snorts. “And when Ace says he wants more than I’m getting, what’re you gonna do?”

“We’ll make it fair--”

“He’s the same as he was twenty-five years ago. So are you. So is Gene. Just hungrier for a slice of the pie the closer you get to your graves, that’s all.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” Peter looks at Paul carefully. Paul’s simmering and stiff, and there’s sweat beading on his face. Paul’s whole body always clams and curls up whenever he’s cornered. For a weird minute, Peter wants to hate him for it, then and now, for never being willing to throw a punch to end a fight, for always couching everything in barbed-wire words and indefensible contracts instead. “It’s not really Ace you’ve gotta work with here. It’s me.”

“I’m not working with you here. I’m telling you my offer.”

“Then here’s mine. Three songs and seven hundred fifty thousand a night.” Peter’s lips are dry, heart pounding. “‘Beth,’ ‘Black Diamond,’ and ‘Rock and Roll all Nite.’”

“The drums--”

“Trigger the fucking drums. It’s less fake than what you’re doing already.”

He expects Paul to tell him to leave after that one. There’s no way he’d take Peter up on an offer that ridiculously high, and there’s even less reason for him to after that insult. Paul’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t answer back for a while.

“My lawyer’s going to get in touch with yours,” he says finally. “Have them draw it up.”

“Your lawyer’s going to cheat me.”

“Then read over everything beforehand,” Paul snaps. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve been bitching about me cheating you for twenty fucking years when you’d sign anything you got handed.”

“Anything I got handed by a friend, Paul.”

Paul’s mouth twitches. Now Peter’s certain he’s going to be shown the door. He’ll get a call from his lawyer in another day or two, a saccharine reach-out from Doc and all the other mealy-mouthed cronies Paul and Gene have lined their stables with like manure, and a headache on his hands for the next two years. He’ll have five shows, five shows for a hundred thousand old men with more money than sense, five shows and no band dinners, no fooling around, no dressing room cracks. Nothing. The rock and roll business turned as sterile as an operating room. A check to cash. A legacy to take to the bank. He won’t be able to conjure up anything new on that stage. But then, he’ll be in good company. KISS hasn’t conjured anything in years.

“Sit down.” The words don’t seem like a great struggle out of Paul’s throat-- and that’s bizarre. “Stay here awhile. I’ll have lunch delivered. What do you want?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sit.” Paul sits like he’s trying to demonstrate. Peter hesitates, then sits on the couch opposite him. “I-I don’t want things to be this way.”

“Bill ain’t gonna walk through that door and pass around a joint, Paul. The kumbaya shit’s over.” Peter clears his throat. “You can’t say you don’t want things to be like this when you’re only here because of money.”

“I want--” Paul hesitates, shaking his head. “I just want--”

“What?”

“I’m running out of people that know me, that’s all.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, starts to scroll through. “Pick something. Anywhere you want. We’ll eat it here.”

Peter really isn’t hungry at all. Part of him still thinks he should walk out and leave the rest to the lawyers. But maybe there’s something pathetic in those droopy brown eyes of Paul’s. Maybe there’s something desperate.

And maybe Peter’s the same fool he’s always been. The past still comes his way no matter what, like a cork bobbing in the ocean. Every autographed album, every one-off drum recording. Every expression that crosses Paul’s face.

“Just get McDonald’s,” Peter mutters finally. “Double cheeseburger and fries.”

“Peter, you can get something real--”

“That used to be real enough for us.”

Paul hesitates.

“Want something to drink?”

“Iced tea.”

Paul types it into his phone. Peter wonders if he’s ordered anything for himself-- it’d be just like Paul to order from somewhere far nicer, just to be a snob-- and then Paul sets the phone down on the table and starts to talk again.

“I’ve been trying… since COVID, y’know… I’ve been trying to go vegetarian.”

“Then don’t tell me to order anything I want.”

“No, I… Jesus, I just-- I ordered a cheeseburger too, all right?”

Paul’s expression is so strangely guilty that Peter can’t help himself. He starts to laugh, just a little, cutting himself off as quickly as he realizes what he’s done. He tries to rearrange his face back into as indifferent an expression as he can manage, but another glance at Paul and he can feel his mouth twitch up again.

“Doesn’t take much with you, Paul.”

“I guess not.”

Peter’s still smiling, and he shouldn’t be. He tries to remind himself that he’s just playing into Paul’s hands, reading into things too much, acting like one slip of Paul’s mask is enough to forgive everything. Acting like he hadn’t just sliced into Paul as hard as he could. They’re not friends. They haven’t been friends in forty years. So why--

“You used to eat so bad on the road. I swear for a whole tour, almost all I ever saw you put in your mouth was candy and cake.”

“The portions weren’t that big. I wasn’t like Gene, I never ate a whole lot of it--”

“No, but I…” Peter snorts suddenly. “I was always surprised you still had teeth in your head.”

Paul makes a dry sound.

“Well, you can’t take them with you.”

“Hell, you can’t take anything with you.” Talking to Paul shouldn’t feel this normal. Peter wants to bring some bite back to the surface, just-- just so Paul knows he can’t weasel his way back into his good graces, just so Paul’s certain this is only going to be business, the way he’d claimed it always was. His gaze shifts to the coffee table, and he silences himself. Makes Paul burst in with an awkward bit of small talk.

“Is Gigi doing okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“Jennilee?”

“Jennilee, too.” Peter’s still staring at the coffee table, Paul’s phone resting on it. He just has a plain black case. Not even obnoxious animal print or the Rock and Roll Over jacket art. He almost comments on it, but instead he falls into the pattern he made Paul set up. Cordiality. Formality. “Your kids-- you’ve got four now, right--”

“They’re doing great. Evan had his own band for awhile. I’ve gotten him some studio space….” and Peter nods along at Paul’s tiresome trailing off. Most of Paul’s kids are young enough to be his grandkids, another embarrassment, but Peter doesn’t feel like bothering with a blow like that.

“You didn’t bring them,” he says finally, once Paul’s gotten to a stopping point.

“How do you know that?”

“I would’ve heard them by now.”

Paul shifts uncomfortably.

“There wouldn’t have been anything for them to do here. Plus with the COVID restrictions, I didn’t--”

“Come on, Paul--”

“It would’ve been hard. And-- look, I didn’t know if you were gonna really show. Better for me to come out here a couple days myself than drag them with me.”

“I don’t think I’ve even met your wife.”

“Do you want to?” Paul looks genuinely taken aback. “I can FaceTime--”

“No, it’s all right, I was…” He’s not sure if it’s worth explaining, or if explaining would only expose another crack Paul might want to exploit later. But already, Peter’s tiring of his own paranoia. He’s tiring of looking for motives, of trying to play his cards too close to the chest, of robbing himself of company. Even if it’s Paul. “I knew every single girlfriend you had for seven years, but I’ve never met your wife.”

“You’d like Erin. Everybody does.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I know you, but I don’t know your family.You shut me out of that. We-- we shut each other out of that.”

Paul doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him, just glances over at his face-down phone. For a moment, Peter thinks he’s pushed it too far and he’s about to suffer through the most tense lunch of his life, but then Paul nods his head.

“You haven’t even seen Jennilee since she was a teenager.” He shouldn’t keep pushing, but the realizations are hitting him with every word out of his own mouth. “You were there at her baptism. She’s almost forty years old, for Christ’s sake.”

“Pete, we haven’t been–” and his mouth twists. “Jesus, what do you expect?”

“I’m not expecting anything. I got a good kid that you never got to know, you’ve got good kids I won’t get to know, either.” Peter bites his lip. “I regret it, that’s all.”

Another silence, then Paul nods again.

“You’re right. Bill’s not walking in with a joint.” Paul reaches over and flips up the phone, looks at it, and flips it back over. “No one left but us.”

“Paul–”

“He used to make us shake hands after every band meeting. KISS and make up. Four Musketeers. Of course, he was dipping into our profits–”

“He gave us the clothes off his back, Paul.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t deserve them.” Paul’s mouth pinches; Peter’s reminded of a raisin. “Nobody left but us,” he repeats, oddly, like he’s talking to himself. “Bill, Sean… J.R.’s dead, Pete. And Bob Kulick, too. Makes you think.”

“You’ll outlive everybody. You and Gene.”

“I don’t think I will.”

There’s a knock on the door not long after. The DoorDash kid, black mask on his face and two McDonalds bags and a soda carrier in his hands. Peter’s surprised when he sees Paul tip him with fifty bucks in cash. He’d figured Paul cared too much about germs for that.

“Let’s eat,” Paul says. Peter unwraps his sandwich and starts in, while Paul picks at his own fries and drink before finally taking a bite of his cheeseburger. Maybe he’s already regretting reneging on his vegetarianism. It doesn’t matter to Peter regardless. “I haven’t had McDonalds in a long time.”

“How long?”

“Probably a couple years. My kids used to make me go through the drive-thru when I picked them up after school.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“They’re still doing virtual.”

“Oh.”

Paul takes another bite.

“I worry about it. But I don’t know what to do about it, either,” he admits suddenly. “I never used to think that… that my kids might not have it as good as I did.”

Peter’s tempted to tell him they have it a billion times better. He knows the apartment Paul was raised in. He knows all of Paul’s old foibles and where they came from. Getting the tour to pay for his laundry. Stealing toilet paper and towels from hotels. Paul grew up closer to poverty than his kids could ever fathom.

“It’s not the money. It’s not even just COVID. I mean that there’s no… glamor anymore. There’s no magic.” Paul sets his cheeseburger down and rubs at his neck, index finger touching the edge of his chin. “There’s no good time I could show anyone. Everyone’s got the whole world right in their pocket.”

“Yeah, and you see what they do with it. Waste their whole goddamn lives in front of a screen and think they’re doing something big.”

Paul looks like he’s trying to smile. His head dips down for a brief moment as Peter clears his throat.

“Why don’t you talk about anything that makes any sense, Paul? Why don’t you talk about anything that matters?”

“Pete, I--”

“Talk about the band, talk about me and you, but for fuck’s sake, don’t go on about--”

“I don’t wanna talk about the band anymore.”

“Then what are you still here for? Why buy me lunch?”

“I told you.”

“Paul, the band’s the only thing left we’ve got in common.”

Paul stiffens, and then he shakes his head as Peter takes another bite. The cheeseburger feels like concrete going down his throat.

“If it was, it wouldn’t be this way.”

“Christ, you--”

“I’d be able to call you up like Bruce, y’know? If all we had in common was the band, I could just call you up and--”

“And tell me what to do and how much I was gonna get out of it. You like them that way, Paulie. You like it when they don’t have the balls to tell you to go to hell.”

“It’s easier.”

“It’s lousier. You made life worse on yourself.” Peter pauses. “What do you really want out of this?” 

“I told you already. I just wanted to see you.”

“You saw me. Your lawyer’s gonna be in touch with mine. You got what you wanted.”

Paul shakes his head again. His tongue peeks slightly from his too-even, too-white teeth. Even those aren’t original, Peter realizes suddenly. But he recognizes the quirk all the same, from all the old band meetings. Paul’s biting something back.

“I didn’t. I thought-- fuck, I thought you of all people would understand.”

“What’ve I got to understand, Paul?”

He searches Paul’s face, not sure what else he wants to see there. What he’s hoping for. Regret, maybe. Another lapse into emotion. Instead, Paul sighs, and goes for another bite of his cheeseburger, and another swallow of his drink.

“What it’s like to be over.”

“Over?”

“Yeah, over.” Paul puts down his drink. “No shows. No one giving a shit anymore.”

Peter laughs again despite himself.

“You don’t gotta talk to me to know what that’s like. You saw it yourself.”

“Over for good, then. Retired. You hung up the heels three times, Peter. I haven’t done it once.” Paul’s looking away. “I’ll be glad. I’ll be so fucking glad the last night they strap me in that goddamn costume.”

“You don’t mean that, Paul.”

“I mean it.” He’s staring at his cup on the table. “I’m sick of KISS. I’ve been sick of KISS for fifteen years now. It doesn’t serve me anymore. It doesn’t feed me.”

“It feeds you pretty well.”

“It’s a dead end now. Dead songs. I look out at the audience and I wanna laugh at them. They don’t mean shit to me anymore. Meet and greets,” and then Paul laughs sharply, “fucking meet and greets, we’ll be doing those behind plexiglass this year. And some idiot’ll still buy them. Hundreds of idiots. Like we’re fucking zoo animals. No magic. No use. It’s not real anymore. I’m not giving them anything real.”

Peter takes his half-eaten sandwich and wraps it back up in the paper, puts it back in the bag. His throat still feels lodged with wet concrete.

“Then quit, Paul. Shut it down right now.”

“I can’t. It’s too much to lose.” 

“Gene’d let you.”

“Gene doesn’t understand anymore. Can’t even stand to look at me. He feels sorry for me, Peter. I hate anyone feeling sorry for me. And Ace-- fuck, Ace, all I am to him now is a cash dispenser that’s not putting out. They don’t know. You’re… you’re the only one I could ever tell. You know what it’s like to be out there like I am. You know what it’s like to…”

“To what?”

Peter asks as if he doesn’t already know. It’s cruel to want to hear it, cruel to want to watch Paul fall apart in front of him. It’s cruel to be even a little satisfied with how it’s all played out in the end, Paul crawling his way one last time for a little money and a little sympathy, like a dog dragging a hurt leg. 

Paul-- 

Paul’s eyes are watering up, and he shakes his head, starts to turn it away. His fingers are trembling, holding the sandwich wrapper, and a shattered look passes across his face that Peter hasn’t seen in more than forty years.

All at once, Peter’s satisfaction disappears. Suddenly, he can’t muster up any ugly feelings, any disgust, any cruelty towards Paul at all. It’s evaporated like dewdrops in summer. He’s not looking at Paul the way he did in the supermarket, like he was only a mass of flaws and ego, without an inch of real humanity underneath. He can’t see him that way anymore.

“You’re still such a kid, Paul.” Softly, gently, like Paul’ll startle otherwise, he reaches over, puts a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it.”

“Don’t pity me. I can’t take that out of you.”

“I don’t. You’ve got enough pity for both of us.”

He’s thinking of the car accident. The cortisone shots that tore up the cartilage in his arms. The first awful signs of carpal tunnel before he was even thirty. The slow, horrible realization that he couldn’t hit the toms like he had only a year or two before. Numbness and tingling and finally stiffness and awful, awful pain every day on the road that even heroin only deadened for awhile. 

It had made him more hateful. It had made him want something just as rotten to happen to them, too. They didn’t deserve to just go on and on while he was struggling. They didn’t deserve to be confident and secure when he wasn’t-- didn’t deserve to be in their primes while he fell apart, didn’t, didn’t--

Time yo-yoed helplessly as he kept his hand steady on Paul’s shoulder. Back more than forty years, back to a limo after a show, hurt flooding every pore. Paul had cocked his head, annoyed, when he’d followed him inside and sunk down on the leather seat. 

(what is it?)

(nothing)

(you hiding out from deb, then?)

(no)

(then what is it?)

Peter had looked at him almost incredulously. He really didn’t know. A whole setlist played together not an hour before, and Paul didn’t know. A drum solo he’d dragged through like a member of a chain gang, eyes watering with almost every measure. “Beth” stammered through, his hands shaking as he struggled to hold the microphone. And even before that, Ace putting his makeup on for him backstage to try to save him half an hour of pain. Paul didn’t know. Paul was so accustomed to faltering, shitty performances out of him now that he hadn’t even noticed. 

(i can’t do it anymore, paulie)

(i can’t even move my arms right now)

(i can’t keep on i can’t keep on the tour god paul if you ever if you ever gave a damn about me you’d cancel the tour i can’t do it anymore)

(i don’t know what i’m going to do)

(i’m sorry, paul, i’m so sorry)

His face found Paul’s shoulder, pressed against it as he sobbed like a lost child. Helpless. Torn open, somehow, all the raw, slimy insides laid bare and disgusting in front of him. No rockstar bravado as he cried himself empty.

He hadn’t expected Paul’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him close as he shuddered, the sticky, stale smell of sweat and leftover greasepaint and hairspray and cheap drugstore cologne overwhelming. 

(i’ll talk to gene.)

(we’ll get in touch with bill. we’ll cancel the rest of the tour.)

Paul must have held him for ten minutes at least. He never said anything else. Just let him cry in his arms the whole rest of the limo ride. And then he’d done exactly what he’d promised. Walked right into Gene’s hotel room and got Bill on the line and canceled every last show left on the tour, never saying a single word about the profit losses. For years, it had been the only kind thing Peter had ever credited Paul with.

It had been the only kind thing Peter had wanted to credit Paul with.

Time’s not linear anymore. Maybe it never was, for them; maybe it was always circulatory, the past feeding into the present like a heart pumping blood. Every moment a painstaking recreation of memory. Twenty years, forty years. It doesn’t matter. Peter stands up, crossing the few feet of distance between them. His hand only stays on Paul’s shoulder for a second or two before he pulls Paul into an embrace, there on the couch.

Paul’s stiff for a few seconds. Peter almost thinks he’ll snap at him, but he doesn’t. None of the old scents are on Paul now, nothing at all. No teased-up curls going past his shoulders, just limp, peppered waves in the corner of his vision. None of his old strength when Paul finally clasps him back, arms warm and tight around him. That’s all right. It’s all right now.

“You-- you don’t have to.” Paul doesn’t lift his head when he finally speaks again, the words muffled against Peter’s shirt. “You can let go. I-I’ll be… it’s fine, I swear.”

“Give yourself a minute, Paul. I’ll be here.”

Paul shudders a few times against his shoulder. Like a kid who ran out of tears half an hour ago. Peter doesn’t know how long he’s cried over his own wreckage. Paul peels himself away like he thinks he has to, and even then, his watery gaze barely holds steady on Peter’s face.

“You don’t feel sorry for me.”

“No.” 

“You don’t-- think I got what I deserved-- you don’t think it’s all a big fucking joke--”

“No.” He exhales. “I used to. I don’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

“It don’t work like that. It never has. We don’t ever get what we deserve here.” But that’s not really what Paul’s asking. He knows it. He can feel it vibrating in the air around them, like the hesitation just before an opening number. “Both of us, we had something once. We had something that helped us really make it. Take that away, and all we got left to live with is ourselves.”

“Peter--” 

“Pretty rotten, right?” Peter can feel his lip start to tremble. “But you gotta remember, you gotta understand--”

“There’s nothing to understand. I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing? ’Cause you blew out your voice?”

“I--”

“How many guys do you know who did the same thing? Elton John, Neil Diamond. Meat Loaf. Shit, more guys lose it than keep it.”

“I’m not them, damn it.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I didn’t-- do it like they did. Maybe it’d be different if I had.”

Peter waits, expecting an explanation, but Paul doesn’t offer one.

“That doesn’t matter. You gotta live with it, Paul. It’s like anything else. Listen, you--”

“I’ve tried! I’ve tried for years!” The words spill out in a cracked frenzy. “I started painting again. I started cooking. I got into fitness again. Any distraction I could. Any fucking thing. Pete, I can’t even sing my own kids the Happy Birthday song without my voice cracking. My youngest don’t even know how--”

Paul’s eyes aren’t just glassy now. The tears are dripping down his cheeks. Peter watches him wipe viciously with the back of his hand, hears a sharp swallow. It’s deeper than just hearing his own deterioration onstage, deeper, even, than the fraud of the concerts. What Paul’s mourning is a piece of himself. 

“Your kids don’t give a shit what you sound like. They give a shit about whether you’re there for them.”

Paul opens his mouth like he’s about to argue. Then he closes it.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. You never let me finish.” It takes him a second to gather his thoughts back up again. “What you gotta remember, Paul, is that you ain’t a pair of vocal cords any more than I’m just a pair of arms.”

“I know that--”

“And maybe you can replace singing with something else, and maybe you can’t. But don’t tear yourself up over it. Don’t hate the band because you can’t do what you used to.”

“You hate the band.” The accusation sounds a little feeble. Maybe Peter’s not the only one who’s kept trying to turn the conversation back to its familiar coldness and snipes. But Paul’s heart doesn’t seem to be in it.

“No. I just hate what you turned it into.”

He picks up his paper bag, there on the table next to Paul’s. Takes a glance at Paul, who nods his head just slightly, and then he gets up and tosses both bags in the trash can in the corner of the room.

“Take care, Paul.”

“You don’t have to leave yet.” Paul’s blinking quickly. “Stay awhile. I’ll get some real food brought up--”

“Don’t worry about it. I guess I’ll see you at the Garden.”

“Y-yeah. You will.” 

Peter’s hand is on the door already, mask an afterthought in his other hand. He feels Paul touch his shoulder from behind, and he turns, and Paul’s expression, still too lost, too vulnerable, stops him once more.

He could leave him there just like he’d left Gene, back at the Vault event. Deny him what he really wants and walk out justified. But he doesn’t want to. He’s tired of hurting and tired of trying to hurt.

“Come on over,” he says suddenly.  “Come home with me.”

-- 

They’re sitting on his front porch swing. They’ve been there for two hours now. Gigi’s home, and Peter had thought she’d be frostier, ever-ready to defend him from Paul and Gene and every bit of the KISS machine, but instead, she’d looked at them like she understood, and offered them both a Pepsi and leftover cake. She and Peter had tried to get Paul to come inside, but he hasn’t budged from the swing yet. Peter thinks, just briefly, of his grandparents, sitting around in rocking chairs, his grandmother snapping peas and talking about all the long-dead people she used to know. It’s not so bad to be where she was. It’s not so bad at all.

Paul still remembers all the old times better than he does. The lousy milk truck that broke down on the way back from a concert. The worst of the motel rooms. Gene stealing a bedspread and being surprised when the hotel charged Bill with it. The drag parties. Ace’s purse full of makeup, pills, and autographed pictures of himself. JR. Sean. Bill.

“Bill always dressed so smart,” Paul says. “Just polished as hell. Nothing out of place, even when he was coked off his ass.”

“Sean was about the same.” Except Sean held his coke worse than Bill. Peter takes a swallow of his drink, then sets it down on the floor. “He looked great.”

“Sean would relax a little more. Bill… when he was in that suit and tie, you’d believe anything out of him, you know? He made you believe. He made us believe, too. I never got that from anybody else.”

“Like he was in your corner.”

“Yeah, exactly. You know, Ace,” and Paul starts to laugh, “I saw in a couple interviews where he called Bill ‘my manager’ like he was exclusive to him. I almost got pissed over it. Then I realized we all kind of felt that way.”

Peter’s never thought about it. He’d been Sean’s favorite, really, so he’d never tried very hard to be Bill’s instead. The porch swing creaks with every small movement. Paul’s eyes are brighter than he’s seen them in years.

“He gave me a gold watch once for my birthday. Back… aw, hell, maybe ’78 or so.”

“I remember that.”

“It broke. I only got around to getting it fixed awhile back.”

“Do you ever wear it anymore?”

“No. I get funny about things like that. It’s almost like I think if I touch it, it’ll break again.”

“You’re not that rough with anything, Paul.” He pauses, eyes on the potted plants Gigi has hanging on the front porch. “I don’t have much left from back then.”

“What’ve you got?”

If he’d asked him that four hours ago, Peter would have been sure Paul was trying to get an inventory list going, figure out what else he could siphon away from him. He doesn’t think that anymore.

“Nothing you don’t. Knickknacks, stuff from the tours. I don’t have any pictures.” He pauses. “But I still have Gene’s bass. He gave it to me back in ’80.”

“I’m awful on bass,” Paul says absently. 

“I have a couple acoustic guitars down in the basement.”

“Really?”

“Really. John likes to jam when he’s over. It’s just convenient.” There’s an itch of impulse going up his arm as he says it, remembering. He had been afraid to get his drum kit out around John, at first, years ago, not wanting to shatter the childhood image John had had of him, the ferocious Catman that had graced his school lunchbox. John had been so kind. He’d just wanted to hear him play anything at all. For the first time in ages, Peter’s limitations hadn’t mattered.

“You jam out a lot?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we used to. I think when COVID gets a little better he’ll start coming by again.”

“I haven’t had a real jam session in…” Paul trails, gaze straight ahead, instead of on Peter’s face. “I can’t even remember.”

“You remember everything.”

“I remember everything I wanna remember.” He seems to hesitate. “I just… can’t think of a pure time anymore. When we weren’t even trying to do anything special, just fooling around. Not for an audience or anybody. Just us. It must’ve been way back.” 

That impulse is still buzzing its way through his arm. Way back. Back to Ace’s wedding or maybe even before, back at that crappy loft. Pieces of songs that never made it, and pieces of songs that did. Carrying on, dreaming of stadiums full of fans when they could barely get their girlfriends at their gigs. Peter glances at Paul, realizing the distant, wanting look on Paul’s face must match his own.

“You wanna try?”

“Try?”

“You wanna jam?” Finally out with it. Laying it on the line. Paul pushes his foot against the concrete floor of the porch, slowing the swing to a stop.

“It won’t be like it was.”

“I know.”

“I can’t sing anymore, Peter.”

“That’s all right. I can’t play anymore.” Eyes back on Paul. There’s no bitterness in Paul’s expression now. A little nervousness, a little fear, and a lot of longing, but nothing bent and twisted up. Nothing at all. Peter takes a suddenly sharp breath.“But I… I can still sing. And you can still play. And maybe, between the two of us, that’s…”

He trails, half-expecting Paul to turn him down. He wouldn’t blame him if he did. Nearly twenty years since he’s sung beside him. More than forty since his peak. It’s far easier offering the Garden than offering himself. But then he feels Paul’s hand on his arm.

“You still know ‘Hard Luck Woman’?”

“Yeah.” Peter’s mouth twitches up. “Do you?”

“Might’ve wrote it.” A sliver of bravado in the hesitation. “Might’ve hit the top fifteen.”

“I know. I might’ve sung it.”

“Get… get your guitar. I’ll play for you.”

Two hours on the front porch, Paul demurring every time Peter tried to urge him inside. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have had Paul get any closer than his mailbox. But now it’s different. Now, he’s starting to understand.

“No. C’mon in.”

“Pete, I--” 

And Peter gets up from the swing and opens the door.

“Come in.” 

Paul’s hesitant, so hesitant. But that’s all right. It’s all right because they’ll make it all right. They can’t have the forty years of friendship they both threw away. But they can have whatever moments are left to come, and whatever magic’s left in an acoustic guitar and a raspy tenor.

It was enough once, after all. And as Paul walks through the door, hand grasping his shoulder, Peter decides it’ll be enough for the time that remains, warm and quiet, like a ballad’s last bars.

[praphit]

A message from Reverend Candyman

Before I even entered the theater, I was mad. I was mad due to certain people on social media stating that this film is "too woke", "super-woke", "BLM propaganda", etc, etc.

I'm not saying that they're right or wrong, at this point, but how did those people not know what they were getting into? Did they not watch any "Candyman" films before this? Do they not know of Jordan Peele's previous film productions? Have they never seen any of Key & Peele? It's mostly race stuff!

Some of them were probably only hate-watching. There a re a handful of pundits I like to hate-watch. Sometimes, getting heated by their takes fuels my work days. But, I know what I’m doing to myself... *smh* but these people.

I didn't stay mad for long though, because Nia DaCosta, the director of "Candyman", is on point! This whole movie, strictly from a cinematic view, is very cool. How bout that?? "The Rambling Praphit says Candyman is VERY COOL." :) She'll be working on the next Capt Marvel movie. 

Most people did not like that movie (I'm excluded from that crowd). Marvel is so scared of the public's dislike of that movie, that they're not even calling it "Capt Marvel 2". It's just called "The Marvels"; leaving the first movie's "captain" as far away from the title as they could. I bring this up, cuz after watching "Candyman", I have high hopes for "The Marvels".

In the trailer we see some shadow puppet type action going on to tell Candyman's story.

So, if you haven't seen the 1992 film, you can get mostly caught up. A creative way to knock out exposition.

They still didn't get into why Candyman rocks a pimpish coat. Or why he's called "Candyman". I mean... they address the name, kinda... (Razor blades in candy - also seen in the trailer) but there's a bit of a hole in the timeline of that story. Plus, how would Candyman (a vengeful spirit) even have the time or patience required to put razor blades in hard candy? If he were an actual pimp named "Candyman", it would make more sense... but anyway...

The main character (Anthony, played by Yahya Adbul Mateen II) 

needed more of Candyman's story , so he went into the depths to find more horror, and he found it. Now, there's a white woman, who's the main character in the 1992 version, who does the same thing, and... let's just say things end poorly for her, and Anthony is foolishly following in her footsteps.

He's a broke visual artist, but thankfully he's got himself a suga mama (played by Teyonah Parris) , 

a not-so-broke art gallery director named Brianna. Lesson number one, you broke artists - gym membership. 

Follow the path of Yahya. He’s the only hard candy mama needs! Keep that suga mama money coming to fuel your art.

I appreciate this couple though - a lot of times (in movies) we see black couples where the woman is struggling to feed the kids with like 3 or 4 jobs, while the man juggles cheating on her, being involved with drugs, and dreaming of one day being the greatest rapper there ever was. We've been there and done that with black movie couples enough.

But, Candyman can't allow this couple to be too happy, so the killing begins!

Say his name 5 times! He dares you! After the fifth time, he appears to brutally kill you. What kind of game is that? I could see if it was a 50/50 chance - win some money or die, but straight up 100% death? Who would play such a game?? 

"Let's go to the top of a snowy, slippery mountain. Let's slide down it with crazy speed and immovable objects in our way." Who’s game?

(white people)

"Let's take a detour through the woods, at night, right pass the area where those teenagers were murdered, LAST NIGHT... I don't think they ever caught the perp. Oh, well... let's go!" Who’s going?

(white people)

So, who will play the candyman name game? - white people, of course :)

I heard someone say that Candyman is only killing white people. That’s not true #1, but #2 - they’re the ones mostly playing this game.

No, this isn't just some movie about a black, pimpish, man with a hook, killing white people. We've got story as well.

Three parts to this story, actually:

The look -

Which I mentioned is great! The gruesome horror elements and the killings are well done. In fact, the kill scenes are so good that I wanted to see more of it. A lot of the kills effectiveness come from NOT showing you the gore. There's plenty gore as well, but the balance of times when you have to imagine what's happening as people scream is also dope.

The horror part to the film is kinda slowed down though by the social commentary. part to the film: The 1992 film has this as well, but it's more subtle, and flows with the story better. This... well, I can see why some hyper-sensitive conservatives might cry "wokeism!" I disagree with their sentiment, but I get it. If this movie had come out before 2020, perhaps the feeling would be different. There's a scene that's directly addressing gentrification. It's a group of four people (three black people and a white dude) talking. The movie shows how the seemingly enlightened and likable white dude was involved in the convo, but still didn't really get it. Perhaps that's how they see a lot of their audience with this, cuz there's no subtlety going on here at all. It's more of an "F U" at times. It's effective hate-watching though.

Lastly there's the psychological part to the movie. Something has clearly gone wrong inside of Anthony, and no one seems to be taking it all that seriously.

Something is also wrong outside of Anthony as well.... as seen in the trailer, he gets stung by a bee. One of those Candyman Bees! (Not a thing, but it should be) It's... maybe... infected (they never really explain), and gets worse and worse. Why doesn't anyone demand that he go to the doctor?! Not even his suga mama says anything! You know damn well, that no matter how sexy one may be, if you've got some sort of creepy Candyman infection, that's gonna mess up that sexy-suga-money flow, y'all feel me?? And if there is some sort of ghostly infection, shouldn't we be more scared of the bees than even Candyman? He only appears when you say his name! The bees on the other hand...

I guess it's kinda real though - I could certainly see people these days getting "the candyman infection" I speak of, and saying proudly "It's not real! And I will NOT be treated!" while waving a flag, with their clearly infected hand.

These three parts collide, sloppily. It's funny, cuz the film, as I said, is heavy-handed with hot topics, but the story (particular in the third act) will confuse you. I mean, I get it, cuz I saw the original film, but had I not... ??? There's a scene when Candyman is summoned and he proceeds to kill a bunch of cops. THEY didn't even summon him! They said “Defund the Police” not kill’em!  Idk if Candyman had been listening to nothing but Louis Farrakhan and Marvel’s Kilmonger nonstop during 2020, and it's all spilling over or what?? Some people are overachievers. Then he says "Spread my message" What message is that?!

Imagine if you say my name 5 times, and I appear in your kitchen, drink all of your beer, walking into your living room, and pee in the corner... then I say to you, before disappearing "Spread my Message".

You'd be like "What the hell?"

Despite this movies' flaws, I still enjoyed it. The social commentary really is important to the times we're living in, and should still be discussed, and not just discussed, by acted on. Plus, I truly am impressed by director Nia DaCosta. I do recommend that you see it, but you should probably watch the 1992 one first. Or who knows what message you'll leave with :)

Grade: generous B-

I doubt that there'll be a sequel, but if there is one, i really do hope that we can finally get to the bottom of this name thing. With Candyman, I'm still thinking drug dealer. It's not that scary of a name. Maybe CandyHOOK! Hooks wielded by maniacs are always scary.

No? Yeah, it does make me think his hook is made out of candy.

With the bees involved, perhaps "Bee Guy", or "Bee King", but... they're not really his thing. Plus, that's lame, and kinda sounds like he's buddies with Ant-Man. That could hurt his street cred. The 1992 film gets into a honey type of scenario as to the etymology. But, then, it should be "Honey Man", right? - that sounds kinda like a gigolo though. But, perhaps this is a good thing! That gives me an idea that could add some surprise to this whole name game thang! Call his name 5 times and either receive drugs, murder, a confusing sermon, or sweet, sweet lovin. Now, that's a game!

[sadselfhelp]

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks. 

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me. 

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing. 

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble. 

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one. 

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me. 

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

[dana-chan-the-control-brain]

Happy new year everyone 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

I know 2020 has been hard for everyone.

And I want everyone to know, suffering isn't a contest and we all suffer in different ways. But I feel I should give my year in Review. Just some things that happened to me personally.

This was an intense, and long and spiritual and emotional journey for me...

I really discovered what it meant to have community, family and what my life means to me.

But I feel I need to get this in writing cause I can remember the year with vivid detail and I will probably forget if I don't get it down.

Do I have to share this publically online to my tumblr account for a bunch of strangers to see? not really.

Do I want to?

Yes. I think so. Just from how so many people on tumblr and real life have touched me.

This is kinda long and no one needs to read this.

(idk how to do a readmore on mobile. But this is where I would add it later. No one needs to read if they don't want to.)

January/February: (and some background on the last five years of my life cause.....well. it's important.)

As people knew, I got way into Invader Zim last summer. I spent most of my waking life working a dead end job at a grocery store. I lived a sad lonely life, going straight home to a single dark studio apartment. With not many material possessions outside of games, my laptop and my tablet to my name. Half of my material loves, such as home furnishings and books were still in boxes from when I moved in. In case I ever had to move again, or get some "big screenshot or copywriter" job in the city.

....

I lived in that city in the same dead end job and apartment for five years.

No friends. No social life. I often refused to make doctor appointments or attempt to establish myself in that city. I didn't even talk to anyone in my workplace.

Work. Go online. Go to sleep.

I lived like that for five years.

I thought it was good.

Even my therapist thought I was doing well.

When I really wasn't. My main character flaw I struggle with is motivation.

I can talk to someone about very detailed plans I have to fix a problem... But I tend to never follow through.

Just because I can describe in detail how to fix my personal problems, it doesn't mean I will do it.

(I have gotten better at this but it's a major struggle)

I might have been a Zombie during the day...

But by night I was pouring my soul into my AU and my analysis.

After being so thoughly ignored or overlooked by the Naruto fandom and the Undertale fandom, I felt like I had finally found my home and was settling into a community there.

I just loved that people loved what I had to say.

Especially my AU.

It's no secret that a lot of themes in my au revolve around found family, grief, and loss.......

Fatherhood, in particular.

What it means to be a father, how much do you need to try when you mess up, how willing should a child forgive their parent, especially those that have wronged you and how much of it is factually accurate and simply a self projection of what children want their parents to be and visa versa... What amount of forgiveness and change is nessasary...is it needed?

....

It's no secret that a lot of my AU is a giant coping mechanism for my Dad's death. Espessially the falling out and growing closer with a lot of my family members throughout the years following his death. (Most of the time I keep it ambiguous to how it relates to my personal life unless I include a readmore that states so outright. I feel my au can be enjoyed by a variety of people in the fandom who don't need to know me as a person or my life story.)

My Dad passed away in 2016 in February and my family still feels the aftershocks to this day.

It's part of the reason I moved to the city, alienated myself from my family and people that loved me and refused to experience life for five years.

My entire world was Zim, and I was okay.

March: When America finally realized and started to feel the effects of the pandemic....

A lot of people got scared.

Me included.

I didn't have any streaming services or access to the news. So I only heard accounts from my mom.

I didn't understand why the store was so dead quiet and empty for a few days, then it went into mass chaos and panic in the span of two days.

It felt like Retail black friday in the worst way. Everyone was packed like sardines. Everyone was yelling. The lines at the registers bled into the clothing department.

I was witness to customers shoving others for toilet paper, being rude to cashier's and just overall unpleasantness.

At the time, I didn't even fully grasp what the pandemic was, and I feel a lot of people at the time didn't either.

I ended up absentmindedly scratching my eyebrow in front of a customer and she screamed and villanised me for it. That they didn't want groceries touched by my "unclean hands"

I ended up breaking down into tears.

The customer behind me gave me a hug and told me I was doing a great job.

But the damage was done. It was the final straw, I couldn't stop crying and I was breaking apart.

Thankfully my Boss (the one who likes me) pulled me aside and asked what's wrong.

It was then that I quit. No notice. Same day. I had to get out of there.

I was planning to move to an apartment with my sister in the summer, but my Mom offered for me to move back in with her temperarily just so I can get out of the city and away from the pandemic.

So I did.

I got scared, broke my lease a month early and quit my job of five years that gave me nothing back.

He told me, "take care of yourself and your family, I won't keep you here, do what you need to do."

So I did.

April-June:

A very eventful few months.

My mom offered for me to live at her place, but for some reason she was acting like I would live there forever. That this wasn't a temporary arrangement, and that I didn't have an apartment set up already.

This was in large part to my sister, who had lived with my mom taking advantage of her for years.

Even though my sister and I were going to move in together, I was just never sure about it cause of how she never packed her stuff or made any effort to find a job.

My mom often acted like I was lazy and not searching and was treating me like... Well, an unruly teenager instead of a woman of 29 years. She acted like I was a failure for returning home when it was her idea in the first place.

I would have just been petrified in the city.

Like usual, I retreated to my au again.... And in the spring, something eventful happened.

In may, 8th 2020:

I was invited by @rissynicole to join an invader zim discord.

Now, I've never really used discord before. I always thought it's interface is too confusing.. and I'm a member of a few other iz discords and I usually don't follow them that closely.

Rissy assured me it was different cause some friends of thiers made it and it was smaller.

Before I knew it, I was sharing memes and getting to know everyone there.

It wasn't long after I invited my partner in IZ crimes, @paketdimensioncomic who was genuinely wary of iz servers due to a bad experience with the last one they were a part of.

But soon they were sharing memes and laughing with everyone else.

My eyes were starting to open and I was able to connect to fans of my work in an interpersonal way. And I was able to discover new artists and aus I never knew about.

I was also able to meet so many others of the community and invite them to the server myself.

The moo-ping 10 server kept me sane while I was living with my judgmental mother.

Not only that, the summer was very productive for my au.

Drawing was all I did, and it was a huge break from the job as a cashier I had.

Not only that, June came, and with it, me and Ceph's first collab fic:

A result of us just going back and forth in our DMs constantly about Professor Membrane and how he changed in ETF for the better and how much we adamantly stan "trying-to-be-a-good-dad-brane" and how much of his ETF development has to be implied off screen in order for the emotional resolution in the movie to matter.

The only reason I never professed my love for Membrane as a character in the fandom before the fic dropped was.... Well....

Membrane can be a decisive character in the fandom and I was so worried people would hate me if I did an analysis on him, simply because he's not the best parent in the world. (As an understatement)

Ceph and I really encouraged each other to scream our love for the science himbo loud and proud more frequently and so often.... I actually start to see less Membrane hate posts and breakdowns then their used to be.... I like to think it's a combination of Me and Ceph's influence, along with ETF and the Quarterly's painting Membrane in a slightly more nuanced light then he was previously.

I never wrote a collab fic before and it's such a rewarding and fun and unique experience that I don't think I'll ever have again. And I love working with Ceph on our fics so much.

So much so we did it again...

July-August:

I never thought I would be one of those people who writes NSFW IZ fic... But here I am.

The Brainbrane au started.... An au of my au where Membrane and the Computer fall in love and Membrane makes him a body.

This ship was based around the idea where we joked that Membrane and Zim's Computer would have funny interactions if they ever met, under the pretense Membrane thinks Computer is Zim's parent.

Our headcanons morphed and shifted until we just full blown started shipping them.

Just because Membrane and Zim's Computer have overall REALLY entertaining chemistry.

It's a character dynamic never seen in the show or comics (yet) and I imagine thier interactions to be nothing but entertaining banter.

The fic was also born from spite... Making fun of the troupes and cliches that we found personally destestible in some questionable zadr fics.

So an angry ace and a demi-bisexual collab on a porn and end up blessing the fandom with

Compapa headcanons,

Computer being recognized as a more common used fanon character,

The ship of Brainbrane.

The fandom having a crisis of "oh God, not only are we xenophiles we're technophiles too!!!" Or "why you gotta give Zim's Computer an ass"

More android Computer designs

It was an eventful summer.

In the midst of all this, I moved into my new place, got a new job, and I was able to see my friend (who is def my platonic straight soul mate) who lives in Indiana.

She came to visit, showed me how to decorate and how to take care of my body better! Things were looking up! It was great.

September-November:

My job was at a boat store. If was approaching the fall and my hours were being severely cut.

I was getting into a rut of depression again.

I thought things were changing but the same routine I was trying to escape from was the same thing coming back.

But instead of letting it take hold, I decided I was going to do something about it... I was gonna visit a museum and go with my sister. Just... variety stimulation.

Well that didn't happen.

I talked about this shortly in my au itself...but..

My sister had a complete mental breakdown.

She stopped taking her meds, went off the deep end and was in the hospital a total of five times throughout November.

A lot of it was acting out and the perfect storm of environmental factors that made her scream and act out so she would keep going back to the hospital.

It was traumatizing for me.

I just can't explain what it's like. For her and for me to be in that position.

I'm not telling the full story and a lot of bullshit things happened I won't share here.

She got diagnosed with bipolar one and my mom expected me to be a caretaker for her.

I threatened to disown my family and move away out of state.

It was just too much for me to handle.

So much I was a nervous wreck.

I tried to pick up a second job... Cause my sister was in the mental ward so frequently and couldn't pay the bills.

But I was fired within a week cause I was so stressed I couldn't retain the basic information they were training me for.

It was an office job.

My dream.

It could have been.

I was fired from something I really wanted.

I was only there for three days.

I could not retain any information.

I was a mess.

My sister was a trigger, my mom wanted me to live with her. I couldn't live like this.... I had to get out.

I had to get out.

December:

Remember my Indiana friend?

Well the first week of December is my birthday.

My 30th to be exact.

While I did pick up a seasonal position at Target (not my first pick)

I took the first week of December off so I could spend time with her. Cause she agreed, I needed a break from this crap.

Surviving 30 years is cause to celebrate and if I had to celebrate with my sister I would have cried.

I know there was a risk traveling out of state during a pandemic...

But I needed out, I needed a friend..

And I kinda wanted to look at the place since I was considering moving there.

My friend's mom was sick so she avoided me and her daughter and got us a hotel room.

It was fun! I got to swim in a salt water pool, we talked about Naruto, I showed her the iz and su art books I brought, also Computer and Membrane tea.

I also got to meet her other friends and get crunk. And her bf who is super nice and funny!

I had a super fun birthday....

Until her mom told my friend that her grandparents had covid and that was what she had. And my friend got sick within that same day.... As did I.

I owe so much to her family.

I was an entire state away...about a ten hour drive from home.... She let me stay at her house. "The covid house" we called it.

Cause everyone (except the father. He avoided everyone and booked a hotel immediately cus he was an ER doctor) had covid within a day.

I called in, the test results were positive and I had to stay with her family for ten days quarantine before I could work again.

Which would have been fine....

If my tumblr didn't log me out perminately of my old account. @dana-chan325 .... Which really sucked cause I had a constant headache and was too sick to engage with tumblr or much of the fandom. I didn't want to make a new account when my head was in a bad fog and I could barely breathe or smell.

It's not like I saw much of my friend either.... We all slept at different hours and she had more symptoms then I did.

It was just netflix, danganronpa v3 and cry.

I was miserable, but at the same time.... Not?

I really feel like God himself was the one who pulled me off from tumblr, and my living situation.

Maybe a whole extra week feeling like a bobblehead was what I needed.

It gave me some much needed clarity on my relationships with my mom and sis and friend.

Running away to Indiana was not the solution here.

Once I was better within ten days and no longer had a leave of absence, I drove home.

I am glad I fully recovered (but from how I understand it, my dear friend is still ill. I'm praying for her)

I might have gone to work a bit too soon, cause I had an asthma attack after trying to unload a single cart in the span of six hours.

My boss lectured that my speed was unacceptable, and even though I explained the covid situation and breathing problems many times, she threatened that I'd be fired if I'm that slow again.

Que the next few days of work where they put me on register.

Instantly I was sent into a panic remembering the last time I was on the register and how that panic attack caused me to quit.

I even asked if I could go back to stocking, since my breathing had improved. My boss assured me that I was put on the register cause they needed help and nothing to do with my covid thing.

Then as December concluded and the new year began, my boss said that this was the last shift for me cause my position was seasonal and they were letting a lot of people go.

I then asked why I was on the schedule for Sunday, and he told me to ignore it and I'm free to reapply for full-time.

I mean.... They can act smart about it...

But putting your general merchandise stocker onto register after she had an asthma attack and missed working the first two weeks of December due to covid.....

Not a good look.

So once again, I'm jobless once more.

Will probably continue to live with my sister for awhile.

But I do not feel as if it's a bad thing....

I met so many good people this year....

My friend's family even gave me 500 usd to cover my rent since I couldn't work for a majority of December.

I've seen evil and good from humanity this year. I've seen acts of god, good friends and what my real family means to me as well as friends I consider family.

This year really made me look back at the person in the mirror and say,

"I deserve better."

And actually worked for it this time.

Oh and after Christmas I got a horrible yeast infection that burns over most of my body currently.

Very accurate doodle to the pain I'm in right now.

(seriously my body is a fungus.)

But hey, good news, I respected myself enough to go to the doctor about it!!

So that's progress.

I really hope 2021 holds good things for me.

Thank you to the mooping 10 server for always being there and keeping me sane,

Thank you tumblr for liking my au and everything.

AND A SUPER SPECIAL THANK YOU TO @evartandadam and her family for housing me and my dumb diseased ass. Everyone, she is an angel and I can't express how much she means to me. Please check out her art and buy her stuff on redbubble.

Anyways... Byebye 2020.

I look forward to what I can accomplish for myself this year.

[annakie]

Patchy

A little under two years ago I made this post, a chronicle of Patchy, the outside feral, turned inside kitty who took ten years to learn to love being petted.

Today we got some bad news.

TW for pet illness under the cut.

Patchy’s always been a bit of a puker, usually oh, say, once a month or so she’d have a good puke for no reason.  I’ve had other cats that are pukers so it’s not that surprising.

In the late winter/early spring I started to notice more frequent pukes.

I’d decided around that time that I needed to find healthier food for my cats, with Leela, the oldest turning 16, Fry turning 11, Pemily turning 7 and Patchy turning, I don’t know, 12 or 13.  No way to really know.  They already got decent food, but I did my research and had started looking at Blue Buffalo, American Journey and Dave’s canned food. 

Patchy had been on a mostly canned food diet since she went to the vet back in early 2020 and had a bunch of teeth pulled.  Also, as a note, Patchy’s brief flirtation with hanging out in the rest of the house ended after like a month.  She and Fry fought too much, and eventually he claimed the rest of the house is his.  He also still thinks the master bedroom should be his, but, Patchy defends that territory well if anyone else encroaches. (The door just stays closed most of the time.)  I really wish they could have all gotten along, I loved having Patchy out, but both Fry and Patchy agreed it wasn’t going to work.

The food she’d been on was pretty junk-food-ish though, which she did love and eat. But I wanted everyone on more or less the same diet and the highest quality food I could readily get them.  So I bought a lot of cans of different kinds of food, and kept a list of which ones seemed to be hits and misses. (I still have a dozen cans of the kind nobody liked -- Blue Buffalo Wilderness Salmon -- I’ve been meaning to take to the city shelter).

Around halfway into this experiment I noticed Patchy puking more, so I decided to try to stick with her favorite kinds, which, I thought was helping.

But once I was fully vaccinated this year, it was time to get all the pets to the vet.  I noticed Patchy had still lost some weight, I thought it was due to switching around her food too much earlier, and tried to stick with the things I felt she really liked.

Then, of course, Leela got sick, spent two and a half days in the pet ER and almost died back in April, and then it was like... yeah we’re done being afraid of COVID, we’re done waiting.  It’s time to get them all their checkups.

My regular vet was doing COVID restrictions so no pet owners inside the clinic back then, so they took Patchy (and the others) in without me.  I thought Patchy had lost some weight, but Dr. B. sounded alarmed when he called me with how much lost she’d lost in the last year, about five pounds.  He wanted to do some bloodwork for Patchy, and I said of course go for it.  

He called back, sounding much calmer and was like “her bloodwork couldn’t be more perfect.  Let’s try switching up her food, get her on some sensitive stomach food and let’s see how she’s doing in a couple weeks.”

So two weeks later it did seem like she was doing better, I called Dr. B back and he said to bring her back in a month.

It was my plan to take her back next week when I had some PTO coming.  I admit, later than planned... my last couple of months have been mucn more focused on Leela... who, thankfully, continues to thrive.  But feeling like my time with her is running out, she’s been my main area of concern.

The last few days though, Patchy has really not been eating well.  Sometimes she does OK, sometimes nothing at all.  And then puking every day.  I swapped her back even to a few cans of the Junk Food (Whiskas) I still had laying around.  She’d eat it... and then puke it up.  And also she... stopped sleeping with me.  I thought... well, it’s summer.  It’s probably too hot to cuddle.  But she stopped laying on the bed.  She stopped coming up for pets when I come to bed and hang out for awhile specifically to spend time with her and pet her.  She runs under the bed again when I come into the room.  It’s like we regressed to three or four years ago... just two weeks after our two year anniversary of getting to pet her.

So this afternoon we went to the vet.  Getting her into the carrier sucked.  I tried nice methods, then I had to scare her into the closet by running the vacuum, and then pretty roughly grab her.  I have scratches and a pretty deep bite on my thumb which either maybe hit a nerve or is infected, may have to go to the doctor for it tomorrow. (Yes, washed it thoroughly with soap as soon as I could.)  I also hated betraying her trust that badly, but it’s for her own good.  But it was rough.

Dr B. wasn’t working so I saw one of the other vets.  I liked him. Also COVID restrictions are gone so I got to go inside. But after talking to him for a few minutes, going over her history and what changes I’ve made, he spent a long time rubbing her intestines (Patchy was perfectly behaved, at least.)   Then he looked concerned.  Then he said let’s do an ultrasound.

A few minutes he came back in and showed me her scans. 

Lymphoma.

I was a bit stunned for a second so I missed a bit of the technical speak he said next, but it came down to the best thing we could do is give her some medicine that may buy her more time.  It doesn’t sound like Chemo or Operating is even really an option.  I’m going to call back tomorrow and see if Dr. B or the vet I talked to can talk me through it a little better now that I’ve had a chance to digest.

If I can get Patchy to take the medicine, and if she responds well to it... she may have 3 - 6 months left.

If she won’t take it, or if she doesn’t respond, it’s at this point, a matter of her comfort and quality of life.  So... weeks.  And I’m worried about getting her to take the medicine, especially since she won’t even come let me pet her and we just had a huge trust betrayal today. I don’t know if I could take her spending her last few weeks hating me, especially if the medicine doesn’t work.

The vet also told me that... I didn’t do anything wrong.  And we did the right thing six or so weeks ago by changing her food and seeing if a few other things worked. Especially with how good her blookwork looked.  He barely felt the cancer today, he said six weeks ago Dr. B wouldn’t have been able to feel it at all.  And for this particular type of lymphoma... there’s not a lot to be done, anyway.  That made me feel better, at least.

(As a really dumb side note, after I got her home, I sat down to eat dinner and watch an episode of Star Trek to take my mind off of all of this since I’d been crying since I found out, paid my bill, and drove home, stopping at a drive through so I didn’t have the mental load of cooking.  And I’m in the middle of my rewatch of Enterprise.  I bet any trekkies reading this can guess what episode was next in my rewatch because yep I’m in season two and A NIGHT IN SICKBAY started playing, of course, so obviously I NOPED THE FUCK OUT OF THAT EPISODE.  For the non-Trekkies.... the Captain has a dog on board, an adorable beagle, Porthos.  The dog gets sick and almost dies and spends his night in Sickbay.  He does pull through.  But the ONE episode centered around a beloved pet getting sick and almost dying... and that’s the episode that fate decreed I was supposed to watch tonight. I did not.  I don’t know if I can watch it anytime soon.)

So now for the next few weeks I will spend my time being grateful that Leela is alive and thriving and pray she keeps doing so -- I will continue to give her extra love and care and attention, and also I will need to do the same for Patchy.  I can’t even do it at the same time because Patchy will not come out here, and will not allow Leela in her room. 

I am low-key freaking out that there’s the possibility of the nightmare scenario happening to me again.  In winter 2016, after months of being sick, I woke up on Christmas morning and my 16-year-old cat Jim had died overnight.  It was terrible, and traumatic, and I had to deal with everything all alone because anyone who could support me was... well, it was Christmas morning and my family was all out of town, too.  Posting about it on Tumblr... actually really helped me, since it’s the only place I felt like I could talk about it.

That Christmas was on a Sunday.

Wednesday morning I woke up to hearing my dog, Cebu, moaning in pain.   I rushed him to the vet, but whatever happened overnight, it was too late, maybe there wasn’t anything we ever could have done even if I’d been awake when the puking started.  The vet said the kindest thing we could do was put him to sleep.  And we did.

Also I just, JUST now realized that the vet who helped put Cebu to sleep was the same vet who I saw today about Patchy.

But I lost two of my pets within 3 days of each other.  I was very lucky that my job let us have the week between Christmas and New Years off that year.  I had a few days to pull myself together, and I needed it.  It took months to recover totally, though.  Every once in awhile I think about that week and I still cry, though.  I miss them both so much and they both had deaths that were less than ideal.

I remember thinking then “I have like, five years of reprive.  Leela will be sixteen in five years, and that’s when I have to start to worry again, when I have to be ready to say goodbye again.”

I thought then that even after that I’d have two or three years until Patchy would leave me, and two or three years past that until Fry.  And then five more years with Pemily.

Right now I’m realizing that I will likely lose Patchy, very best case in six months, but possibly before July is over.

I need Leela to keep thriving.  I don’t know how I would handle losing another two so close together again.

Patchy is... she’s the one who chose me.  I chose my other cats.  Fry and Pemily I plucked from the backyard when they were tiny kittens and brought them inside.  They didn’t have a choice.  Leela I adopted from a rescue, she didn’t have a choice.  Patchy chose to stay.  She chose to stick around when she realized I’d feed her.  It took years but she learned to trust, she chose to come inside when it was cold, when it was hot, when it was storming, and when she was pregnant.  She chose me to help raise the last litter of kittens she’d ever had.  (My entire Rescue Kitties tag is full of adventures in finding, raising and usually adopting out strays. Lots and lots of posts about Patchy and her final litter.  Been awhile since I’ve done it, though.)

I used to joke that Patchy was my roommate, not a pet.  She ate, drank, did her business, and kept to herself for a long time.  Don’t get me wrong, she was a very good, quiet, considerate roommate and I loved her.  But it wasn’t until that wonderful day she let me pet her that I felt like she was my pet. 

I loved having her just hanging out living in the house since 2014, but the last two years especially have brought me such joy.  I’ve tried to never take Patchy’s trust in me for granted.  It was EARNED.  Every small step forward was a milestone to be celebrated. I worked for every bit of trust and love Patchy has given me, and have been rewarded.  And it was worth it.  Every minute.  Every long, patient year.

Even now I’m telling myself... without me, she would have died years ago.  Probably violently, or starved, maybe frozen to death.  Getting to die of cancer brought on by older age is not something that most feral cats ever get to do.  Getting to become an inside kitty where she’s loved, and comfortable for the second half of her life was something remarkable, brought on by her wiles and will to survive for so many years, bolstered by the food I left out for her.  She’s had this much time, this much life, this much comfort and love that she would have never had otherwise, and that’s something to be happy about.

I’ve watched dozens of ferals come and go through my neighborhood throughout the years.  I feed them, I work on seeing if I can get them to trust me enough to let me TNR them, but even those that I have, I don’t keep seeing for much longer.  There’s one right now, I jokingly call him Patchy’s Boyfriend.  He still won’t trust me and never has fallen for the trap when I’ve tried.  But he’s there most nights when I feed him around 11.  He’s getting terribly thin despite the quality food I leave out.  I’ll miss him.

But none of them were Patchy.  None of them became what she is to me. None of them survived long enough to adapt and decide to live another life.

Also?  I wouldn’t have Pemily without her.  Pemily is literally Patchy’s Granddaughter and that is one more thing I love Patchy for.

I feel guilty sometimes, both because I don’t spend nearly enough waking hours with her I feel, but I have three others who need me, as well. One who’s time is growing short, as well.  And they don’t get to sleep with me, she does.  What a joy it was all winter when I would wake up and she’d be sleeping on my chest.  I’d get a bit annoyed when she’d sleep with her backside to my face and her tail would tickle my face and wake me up.  I’m a side-sleeper half the night and she hated that it was harder to get comfortable on me that way.  She still doesn’t want to have my hand just stay on her, she wants pets and skirtches, no long-form touching.  That’s ok.  I sleep better with her weight on me.

I don’t know what the next few weeks or months will hold, but at least pet-wise, it’s going to be rough.  I’m going to wrap this up and give these three out here a good pet, then go hope Patchy comes and asks for love, too.  Tomorrow is one more day with all four of them, and for that, I’ll be grateful, for every remaining day.

[weloveabigblackcar]

I’d just like to introduce you to these random characters my siblings and I made up on a long car ride. Last year they had to go through the atrocity of being quarantined with the rest of us.

Without further ado... meet these absolute weirdos.

Quarantine from Adam’s Point of View

March 14, 2020-Day 1

So, the whole world is under quarantine right now because some geniuses decided that eating bats would be a good idea. Yeah, that wasn’t the smartest way to go guys. We have a pandemic now… Thanks…

Anyway, I have decided to document the IQ of me, James, and Garth as it slowly decreases. Not that we had a lot to begin with, but having us all cooped up for a long time in one place is bound to go pear-shaped at some point.

We didn’t really do anything today other than process the fact that we’re going to have to stay in one place for who knows how long instead of driving around the country. But I’m sure things will get more interesting as time goes on.

March 18, 2020-Day 5

Today, we braved the outdoors and went to the store to stock up. It was like the entire population was at the store, it was awful. We ended up buying lots of things we needed, and a lot more that we didn’t need. Today has been a lesson to never bring Garth shopping. We lost her a total of six times, and when we did have her with us, she kept pulling puppy eyes whenever she wanted something even though she’s 17. There’s got to be something about her being an alien that makes it so you can’t resist it. Dang it Garth.

March 27, 2020-Day 14

James keeps asking if deer can get the virus because he’s been worrying about his family. In case you were wondering, no, James is not a nature freak, yes, I said his family are deer (kind of), and yes, James is a deer... on occasion. It’s kinda weird, but so are Garth and I. I mean, she’s an alien and I’m English so there really isn’t that much of a difference.

Also today, I read an entire 900-page book. It was really nice until I realized I hadn’t been interrupted yet. So I went on an adventure to go find the children, aka James and Garth, and found them playing Monopoly. Neither of them knows how to play Monopoly, and they lost the rules, so they resorted to using the money to gamble for pop tarts. I don’t think they know how to gamble either because usually, you’re gambling for the money, not the other way around. But thank you, James, for gambling away all of my pop tarts. I can never forgive you.

April 7, 2020-Day 25

So we’re trying to make our own food today because we ran out of Eggo waffles. It’s been interesting so far. Garth pulled out all the Kool-Aid from her stash that we bought like two weeks ago that she said she’d use, but hasn’t. So now we’re making Kool-Aid pickles, and we haven’t even had breakfast yet.

Upon realizing we couldn’t eat the pickles yet, we decided to see how many different foods we could make with Kool-Aid. We made some cookies and popsicles, but then, after accepting the fact that none of us can really effectively make food, resorted to adding to our mess of flour on the ceiling and eggs on the walls by making finger paint (out of Kool-Aid) and painting the counters. We made a huge mess, obviously, and spent the remaining hours of the day cleaning and realizing that we actually don’t have anything better to do with our lives.

April 15, 2020-Day 33

Today James learned that Garth doesn’t know how to use a toaster. We had no idea she didn’t know how to use it, and I guess we just assumed she did because she looks human enough, but she’s not… They had a conversation from across the house that went along the lines of this:

James- “Garth?!”

Garth- “What?”

James- “The toaster’s on fire!”

Garth- “What?!”

James- “The. Toaster. Is. On. Fire!”

Garth- “Well yeah, I heard you.”

James- “Garth..?”

Garth- “...Yes?”

James- “Uh… How many pieces of bread did you put in the toaster?”

Garth- “Three…? I think.”

James- “Garth, you can’t put three pieces of bread in the toaster!”

Garth- “Why not?”

James- “Maybe because it’s only made for one piece of bread? Maybe because if you put in more than one it catches on fire?”

Garth- “Well, that’s dumb. What if I want three pieces of toast?”

James- “Buy yourself a bigger toaster Garth, buy yourself a bigger toaster. Or cook them one at a time, but you should just buy a bigger toaster so I don’t have to cook my toasts individually.”

And then James walked away leaving the toaster on fire. It was kind of entertaining. Who am I kidding, it was the most entertaining thing that’s happened all week even though the house almost burnt down and I had to clean it up. If I’m being honest though, I’m glad that I was the one cleaning it up because after last time... I’m the only one I trust with a fire extinguisher.

April 29, 2020-Day 47

I can now say that I have mastered the art of knitting, and I am not too proud of it. I’ve made sweaters, socks, and hats for the three of us because knitting takes up a lot of time, and I have run out of other, even slightly productive things to do. I also made little caps to stick on the ends of James’s antlers just because I can. Garth thinks they’re absolutely hilarious. She also thinks the fact that I taught myself how to knit from YouTube is hilarious too. She’s just jealous that I can do something she can’t.

May 4, 2020-Day 52

Today, my friends, is Star Wars day. We merged today and tomorrow so that we could eat tacos in our ship. It’s taco day tomorrow, also known as Cinco De Mayo, if you didn’t figure it out already and yeah… we built a ship. It’s in the living room, correction, it is the living room now, and it probably won’t leave for the rest of quarantine. We made it out of a bunch of cardboard and it took all of yesterday to put together, but it was totally worth it. We put the tv in there and a bunch of pillows and blankets. There’s also a table and a bunch of junk food. Not like we have anything else at this point. Well, we have the pickles… but no one is brave enough to try them yet. The ship fort is pretty cozy though. Garth said that she wants to live in it until this thing is over and I honestly won’t be surprised if she does.

May..? 2020?? Day… I’ve Lost Count

We haven’t been outside in the past two weeks and we’ve been living off of the Kool-Aid pickles that we made a while ago and Garth’s hoard of Pop-Tarts that are technically mine. I don’t know what day it is anymore, I’ve stopped keeping track because there really isn’t any point in doing so. I don’t even know if it’s May anymore. It might be June or maybe it’s September, who knows. It might even be 2021 I don’t know.

Garth now resides on the ceiling of our spaceship in a blanket cocoon and hasn’t come out since the week of Cinco De Mayo. She only lets me and James in sometimes for movie nights and if she needs food. I think she’s trying to hide the fact that she hasn’t slept in a month (which honestly doesn’t surprise me) and has binge-watched all of Doctor Who and is now starting on Supernatural. Aside from Garth, James and I have kept ourselves somewhat entertained. We learned how to play the spoons last week and it turns out that in you do it by ‘Garth’s’ spaceship, the creature will emerge and socialize for a few minutes. We’ve also learned how to do a bunch of random things like saying hello in 48 different languages, how to properly tie a tie (even though we’ll probably never exercise that skill again), how to cut an onion without crying, and how to escape being mummied with duct tape… that one took a while and a lot of tape.

I think it’s official that we’ve gone completely stir crazy and even when we get out of this, we’ll probably still be mentally impaired from this experience. I won’t be able to write anymore because I’ve run out of space and James needs as much attention as a newborn so farewell until… another time.

[deliberatelyvague]

This Too Shall Pass(obey me)

Prologue (1/?)

Started: April 15, 2020 at 9:47pm

Ended: April 15, 2020 at 10:54pm

Word Count: 2,069

Pairing(s): none yet

Trigger Warning(s): mentions of an eating disorder

Author’s Note: man I didn’t know where I was going with this one, either, but it seems like I’m making a series now. I was pretty much just ranting at the beginning about my life, and decided, yeah, that’s a good place to start, and viola, here we go.

Request/Prompt: nope, just my mind telling me to do it.

————

You had always been on the heavier side when it came to your weight. Ever since you were in elementary school, you always weighed more than everyone else. It was never a big issue to you until you hit middle school and your doctor started saying something about it.

You knew it was for your better health, so you didn’t try to take it to heart. She laid out a plan and you, along with your family, tried to stick to it.

But the gnawing, guilty feeling in your gut made you want to just stop the diet. It was obviously weighing hazardous on your parents, then being forced to buy ‘healthier’ options which in turn made them more expensive options, and your family was never the most rich, just having enough to live moderately comfortably.

So, the next time you went to the doctor and you had lost around 30 pounds, you were praised. Your doctor was proud of you, your parents were proud of you. And you thought all was fine.

But you gained the weight back. By eighth grade you had gained it back and more, by ninth grade you weighed 20 pounds more than your original weight in sixth grade.

“Are you stress eating?” Your mom asked you. Around this time of your life was stressful, you were being thrust into a new school, a whole new teaching environment, not to mention any clubs you had decided to join. Your depression and anxiety has also ridden you. But you told her you hadn’t, because you really hadn’t been stress eating, you just didn’t think much about what you ate.

The doctor wasn’t as nervous about this weight gain, though, because you had joined a ‘sport’, and you would most likely be losing some of that weight.

But you didn’t lose that weight, you stayed the same. So you made your new year’s tradition to lose weight. You started counting calories, making yourself a minimum of 1,300 and a maximum of 1,500. It worked great! The next time you went to the doctor, which was when you had a sickness and needed to get medicine for it, you had lost 15 pounds, and you were proud of yourself, and your parents and everyone around you were proud.

You didn’t feel like you needed to lose weight. But, the next year rolled around, and you were trying to get closer to your crush. You tried to text them and just talk to them, but they eventually just said

‘I’m just putting this out there, there isn’t anything going on between us and there never will be’

It stung, oh it really stung. You hadn’t even implied anything, and they still told you that. You played it off like you were trying to get anything, but you knew you were lying to yourself.

Then you found out they had a crush on a girl that you were friends with, who was noticeably skinnier than you. You took that to heart. They wanted a skinny girl, not one that was double the size of her.

So, you started counting calories again. But this time, you didn’t set a minimum, you were eating at most 1,300 calories, but some days you were eating less. Nothing below 500, but then you noticed how quickly the weight dropped. So, you cut out breakfast, snacks, and lunch.

Your friends were worried, but your parents didn’t notice. Your mom and dad knew you were counting calories, and they cheered you on, thinking you were eating the proper amount, and you didn’t tell them anything different.

But then, your mom started making little remarks here and there. You didn’t think she meant them to be actually mean or hurtful, but they were like a dagger in your already sore back.

“Yeah, she just measures her food, and half the time she has more on her plate than I do!” You cut your meals in half after that. Her saying that made you feel fat. But she was right, a lot of the time you did have more food on your plate, but not anymore.

Then you hit a wall in your weight loss.

“It’s probably because all you do is lay in bed all day. You need to start exercising.” Again, she was right. You were just laying in bed all day. So, you started going on walks, using an app to help you keep track of how many calories you burned.

Then you realized how easily you can cut down more calories and also burn fat off, so you continued to exercise. The weight started to come off again.

But you were still fat. You were still heavier than most people your age. You hated it.

You had gone on your daily run. You were tired of being trapped inside, so you put on your shorts and a tank top and grabbed your phone, some sunglasses, and your earbuds and went running.

Now here you were, standing in a new environment after being zapped from your world. You wore a black jacket, with an almost turquoise turtleneck underneath, a skirt that hit your mid-thigh, tights, and flats.

Your eyes met with a pair of golden ones, and a man wearing almost the exact same jacket as you but in a crimson color was looking at you. A grin adorned his face, and you couldn’t help but give a small smile back.

“Welcome to the Devildom, [Y/N],” he greeted, his voice coming out younger than you thought it would.

‘Wait, Devildom?’ You thought to yourself. ‘I must have passed out due to low sugar, I knew I should have drank a Gatorade before I went on my run, but-’

“Oh, pardon me, feeling a bit shocked, are we?” His smile was quickly replaced with a frown. You had just met this man and already you felt your heart start to flutter a little bit at his concern. “Well, that’s understandable, you’ve only just arrived, after all.”

‘Calm down, [Y/N], he’s not interested in you.’ You told yourself.

“As a human, it will probably take a little while for you to adjust to things here in the Devildom,” he said, his face going stoic again. You stayed quiet, just choosing to look at him. You sure as hell were not going to feed into this low-sugar induced dream. “I suppose I should start by introducing myself. My name is Diavolo,” he gave a smile again. “I am the ruler of all demons and all here know of me. And someday soon, I will be crowned king of the Devildom.”

You had a flash to a vision outside, a city outline met your view and a bunch of dark shades of red, blues, and purples flitted across your vision.

“This is the Royal Academy of Diavolo, though we just call it RAD. You’re standing inside the assembly hall, the very heart of RAD. This is where we officers of the student council hold our meetings and conduct our business. I’m the president of said council.” He tells you, looking directly at you after admiring the room.

“Why am I here?” You questioned, your arms crossing over your chest.

“I will explain everything to you,” another male voice sounded next to Diavolo. This man was shorter, leaner, and had a black jacket on like yours. He had black hair and an almost angry look on his face, but he seemed like he was one to have a resting angry face.

“[Y/N], this is Lucifer. He is a demon and the Avatar of Pride.” Diavolo introduces him, and you shake your head. This isn’t funny anymore, you just wanted to wake up.

You weren’t going to let your subconscious guilt-trip you into believing in that stuff anymore. Your church had cast you out, and you vowed to do the same to them.

“He’s also the Vice President of the student council and my right-hand man, and not just in title, I assure you.” Diavolo explains more, and you looked between the two of them. Were they lovers? You weren’t going to judge them, they would make a cute couple, but that’s one of the worst ways to tell someone that someone else is taken that you think you’ve ever heard. “Beyond that, he is one of my most trusted friends.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Diavolo,” Lucifer says with an uninterested look on his face. He turned to you. “Speaking on the behalf of the entire student body and this great and storied school of ours, I offer you a most heart full welcome, [Y/N].” He smiled after you.

You only frowned.

“On behalf of the students?”

“Diavolo believes that we demons should start strengthening our relationships with both the human world and the Celestial Realm.” No, you refused to believe this is real.

Maybe you had died? You had always been told that you were going to hell, maybe you pushed yourself too hard and you hit your head when you passed out and died. That would make much more sense than this being a dream. It seemed too, lifelike almost.

“As a first step toward this goal, we’ve decided to institute an exchange program. We’ve sent two of our students to the human world and two to the Celestial Realm. And we’re welcoming four students to ours: two form your world and two from the Celestial Realm.”

You purse your lips. Yeah, you had to be dead, there’s no other way to explain this. You guess when you die, you just become an ‘exchange student’ and your place gets taken by another being. Is that some twisted type of reincarnation that your church never taught you about? Your church falsely taught you a lot of things, so that was probably just something they hopped over because it didn’t fit their agenda.

“So, I take it you’ve probably put two and two together at this point, right?” He asks. “You’ve been chosen from among the people of the human world to participate in this program of ours. You are our newest exchange student.”

A feeling settled into your stomach. No, this was real. You weren’t dead, or passed out. This was real.

“Your period of stay is one year. You will have to work on the tasks that you will receive from RAD. After one year, you will write a paper about your exchange here in the Devildom.”

You were taken aback. Hold the phone for a moment.

“Write a paper?” You questioned, taking a step back.

“I am not telling you to write a doctoral thesis. You can take it easy,” he tried to semi-comfort, hit also giving you a ‘tough luck’ look. So you gave him one back, and glared at him. “Don’t glare at me like that. It’s not like I will abandon you all by yourself here in the Devildom. You need someone to look after you, and I think that someone should be my brother Mammon.”

He took a breath, almost as if to collect his thoughts.

“He’s the Avatar of Greed and how should I put it..” he paused again, thinking, with an unamused look on his face. “Oh, well you’ll understand soon enough.”

You opened your mouth to say something, a frown yet again covering your face, but you couldn’t get anything out before a phone-like item was thrust into your grasp. You just now realized that you didn’t have your phone on you.

“Take this device, it’s called a DDD. It’s a lot like the cell phones of your world. This will be yours to use as long as you’re here. Now,” he says gently. “Go ahead and try calling Mammon with it.”

You eye him suspiciously before going and tapping on the icon labeled ‘Mammon’.

————

This was written by me in no way trying to romanticize mental illnesses. I try to write what I feel would help me in the moment. I completely understand that mental illnesses don’t just ‘disappear’ when you’ve figured out that someone loves you or someone helps you once- that’s why I don’t write what happens after in most cases. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust, or call a hotline.

[writersrealmbts]

Joining His Pack: Trials

Description: Sanctuary Series: Joining His Pack. Things have been crazy since you fell ill, and there isn’t really an end in sight.

Warnings:

Posted: 05/12/2020

Tags:  Hybrid Namjoon, Wolf Hybrid Namjoon, Wolf Hybrid Reader

Angst/Fluff: 2,845 words

A/N: Only one part left after this one!

You looked around with wide eyes, wrapped in a thicker coat than would normally be necessary for this time in May. But ever since your mini-heat reaction to the suppressants—which just meant you’d have a bigger one in a few months, that’s how you always reacted—you’d been a little temperature sensitive. You walked around Namjoon’s apartment wrapped up in blankets, and wore lots of sweaters and all of his sweatshirts (he didn’t seem to mind).

But you were starting to get better, finally. And court dates had been set.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Namjoon replied, grinning.

You huffed and leaned back.

He turned down a gravel drive.

You sat up straighter, frowning slightly, until finally a house came into view.

Your house.

Your den.

Home.

You looked at him excitedly. “Is it...?”

“It’s ours, baby. We closed the day after you were discharged, but I wanted to get the windows in before I brought you.” He parked, and turned to grin at you.

You’d still been out of it when discharged, but it wasn’t anything that the doctors were concerned about. Just more side effects from the suppressants, but it had kept you mostly bedridden and groggy and not too aware of the passing of time. The pack had been visiting to keep you company while he was at work and whatnot, especially the pack pups because they helped give you more clarity throughout the day. Plus, who wouldn’t want to cuddle pups?

But this was exciting. This explained why the past couple of days you couldn’t find things that you swore you knew the locations of. This explained why he didn’t want you going to your place to get things.

“We’ve got it fixed up enough to live in, not perfect, but enough. Enough for us to be comfortable. And we moved your stuff in already. My family has been sneaking stuff out of my place all week.” He looked pretty proud of having surprised you with this.

You squealed and threw yourself across the console to kiss him. “This is the best surprise ever. I love you. I love you. I love you.” You peppered his face with kisses, ignoring his embarrassed laughter and finishing with a quick peck on his lips before you hurried out of the car to take in the sight of your house.

Even though he said they’d only done a few things, you could tell it had to be more than that. The windows looked completely replaced, the siding looked like it had a fresh coat of paint, and the porch had temporary supports. Everything looked cleaner, and the garden beds had been cleared of weeds and carefully planted.

“You happy?” He asked softly, wrapping his arms around you.

“Aren’t you?”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I’d carry you over the threshold, but—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You already re-injured yourself while taking care of me during that mess, I’m not risking your well-being now.” You hit him lightly, then bounced. “Let’s go in!”

He laughed and took your hand, leading you up the porch and to the (brand new) front door, unlocking it and letting you enter first.

You looked around, breathing in air that smelt slightly of your pack, slightly of cleaners like pine-sol, and fresh air. Then lilac, from the bouquet of lilacs on the fireplace mantle. “Just enough to live in, huh?”

He was quiet, and when you looked back, he looked just as shocked at the sight of new flooring, and freshly painted walls. “I…they…must have worked on it more since last time.”

You grinned and wrapped your arms around his waist to just take it all in for a moment before gasping and rushing through to see the kitchen again.

The thorough cleaning made your adorable kitchen even better. They’d replaced the dingy light-fixture with a new one, which was really nice because if you remembered correctly it didn’t even make it to the counter below it.

And the master bedroom had a bed in it—that you promptly flopped on—and the room smelled like you and Namjoon, with subtle undertones of the pack (especially the littlest two of the pack pups, which you figured wasn’t too surprising since this blanket was the softest one you owned.

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” You exclaimed into the bedding, breathing in his scent. The way it mixed with yours. The slightly milky smell of pups.

He flopped down next to you.

“But…what are you going to do about your apartment?”

“Oh, well, Jimin’s landlord actually is a jerk and he tried to rip them off, so they’re going to move in there for now. Save up for a place they actually want for a while, and then Yoongi’s said he wants it if he can manage to get a transfer.”

You made a happy sound, and wiggled closer, resting your head on his arm. “So, are we sleeping here?”

He nodded. “If that’s okay with you?”

You nodded. “Do we have clothes here?”

“You definitely do. I’ve got some clothes here. Enough to supply me for work for the next few days.” He sighed as he relaxed. “But I can also stop by after work tomorrow and get more of our stuff.”

“You’re sure they’re okay with you missing as much work as you have?” You asked quietly, resting a hand on his chest.

“They understand, and I’ve been working from home most days where I couldn’t leave you, so I’m not exactly behind. Actually, they seemed pretty happy to let me have Tuesday off because apparently I’m ahead of everyone.” He stretched, making your head drop to the bed.

You sighed, pouting slightly at the loss of your pillow before rolling back to your feet and bouncing out to the kitchen. “Do we have food here?”

“Knowing my family? Probably.”

You opened the fridge and freezer simultaneously and grinned. “Your pack is the best.”

“They’re your pack too, baby.”

“Not yet.”

“You know I couldn’t mate you while you were sick,” He called softly.

“I know. And I do consider them my pack, but it’s still more natural to call them your pack. Oooh! Ice cream!” You grabbed the container and hugged it briefly before putting it back. “So, I was thinking.”

“Uh oh.” He came in and leaned against the counter while watching you pull out one of the dishes someone left for you two.

“Preheat the oven? 375,” You told him, reading the instructions. “Anyway, Ariel mentioned that her one friend just started her own little shop where she sells jams, preserves, candies, and ice-creams and that she was looking for someone to help for the summer. Maybe I could see if she would hire me?”

“Are you sure?”

“I mean, I’m basically fired from the clothing shop, and even if it is just for the summer, it would still be some little bit of income. Enough to help us with groceries, because lets face it, we eat a lot of meat.” You went to him and kissed him gently. “Besides, how crazy do you think I would go without something to occupy my time? I mean, we’re going to have some gardens and I really do want to work on our Christmas trees, but it’s going to take some time.”

He was smiling down at you softly, and his fingers gently brushed your cheek. “This is the most rational you’ve sounded in a while, baby. It’s nice to hear.”

You hugged him. “Sorry I’ve been such a mess.”

He chuckled. “Hey, you put up with the messes I make.” Then he kissed the top of your head. “You’re my little wolf. I would cross the world for you. I can handle a little messiness.”

You relaxed, breathing him in until the oven beeped to let you both know that it had finished preheating.

He put the dish in the oven while you set a timer and got out the strawberries and started washing them.

“But the store thing, good idea or not?”

“As long as it doesn’t become too stressful for you, baby, I think you should try for it. After we settle all of this legal stuff.” He took a strawberry and popped it into his mouth.

“I didn’t take the stems off,” You said, staring at him in surprise. “I mean, they’re edible...but probably pretty bitter.”

He nodded, turning away to pull the stem from his mouth.

You smiled at your mess of a mate. “My dorky baby.”

He chuckled, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Hungry, honey bunch?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You ready to eat?”

“Isn’t that why you’re washing the strawberries?” He countered, but he was still flustered as you pressed flirty little kisses to his neck. His hands found your waist.

“Mmhmm,” You agreed, on your toes to nibble on his ear.

“Babe…you’re still recovering.”

You nodded, humming agreement before sliding your hands over his torso and promptly turning away and running with the bowl of strawberries. “Mine!”

He sputtered, then laughed and chased after you, catching your waist and then pulling you to sit down beside him on the couch. Then he stole a berry and took a bite.

You giggled and took your own berry, looking around the room. “This is a nice couch.”

“We needed a second for this room, especially if we’re going to have family visiting. Micheal said he’d get our furniture moved this weekend. He’s got a couple of guys he needs to train, and Becca’s going to oversee it all for us. But I thought it’d be best if we weren’t around. Don’t want to wolf out on them.”

“Maybe we should go visit Yoongi and Taehyung,” You said between bites.

He smiled. “I’ll see if they’re free. We’ll have to take Eunyeong something.”

“Of course, she’s the cutest kitten and deserves all the love,” You chirped, snuggling up to him. “But maybe don’t check until after the meeting with the lawyers and the court stuff on Tuesday.”

He nodded, smile fading. “Yeah. Probably a good idea. Might want to stay home. Near the majority of the pack.”

“In which case we’re going to Emma’s and cuddling the twins.”

He nodded again, but looked distracted.

You watched him, just admiring his face while also trying to guess what he was thinking. “Are you worried about Tuesday?”

He took a deep breath and held your hand. “The last time anyone I loved was part of a court case…it was Emma. And it ended in this town giving the rights back to hybrids. Jin was the only one that went with her, he was certified as an aide-hybrid. Not because Emma really needed him, I mean, she did, but mostly because she wanted to give him as much freedom as she could. Yoongi-hyung and I were watching…but Hoseok, Jimin, Jungkook and Taehyung couldn’t sit and listen. It was taking too long and some of it hit too close to home. They were outside, working in the garden just to avoid it.”

“I remember,” You whispered, squeezing his hand.

He squeezed it back. “That day changed our lives and…whatever the outcome on Tuesday…that will change both of our lives. Again. And I’m hoping for the better, I do trust these people. But…if we lose…I think I’ll lose more than I would have if we lost that day.”

You hummed. “You’re going to have to be on your best behavior.”

He nodded, but he didn’t seem very confident.

“But Namjoon, I think…I think you might need to stay away. Other than when you’re called upon. This is going to be…bad. It’s going to be really bad. And if either of us misbehaves we risk everything.”

He sighed, eyes closing and holding you tighter. “I know.”

“Maybe they can arrange for a separate room for you to watch in?”

“Maybe, I’ll ask Emma later.” He sounded a little relieved, and managed to relax a little as you snuggled in, scenting him a little.

You sighed softly, enjoying this moment, just in case.

His fingers lightly caressed your hair.

You frowned. “The fireplace mantle is crooked.”

He started laughing. “House still needs some improvements, baby.”

“But how is the mantle crooked!”

————

“They can’t prove it!”

“Neither can we,” The lawyer said calmly. “We can deny any false evidence they bring forward and hope our true does as well. We can only hope that the judge is as upstanding as they say and that the jury can see past the falsehoods created by the opposition.”

Emma huffed and sat down again, crossing her arms and thinking.

Jin calmly rubbed her back. “Y/n, is there any sort of concrete evidence you can provide?”

“Bank statements and pay stubs, which would show that I didn’t have any money other than what I was paid when I opened the account, and that she wasn’t originally on my account. The rental agreement with the Sanctuary. That’s about it,” You answered quietly.

Namjoon looked up. “All of these are trumped up charges. Theft? Assault? Public indecency? Disturbing the peace? Prostitution?!” He stood and went to the window, obviously angry.

“These papers will help disprove many of those charges. However, the one I’m most concerned with is the assault charge. We’re countering their charges with our own charge of defamation and wrongful arrest, but the case for the assault is fairly solid.”

“How so?” Emma asked, sounding tired.

“They have medical records from injuries incurred by here—or so they’re claiming. And they have a video of her attacking someone.”

You frowned.

“What?” Namjoon growled.

“Y/n, I need you to tell me right now, have you ever stabbed anyone in the leg?” The lawyer asked.

“No, I threatened to, but only because he was was being an asshole. I never did it and I left to make sure it would never happen.”

“And this video of you punching a security guard at the Sanctuary.”

Namjoon growled. “He understood. They’re twisting the situation.”

“Which security guard was it?” Emma asked.

“Yugyeom,” You answered. “And I gave him cookies to make up for it.”

Jin nodded and pulled out his phone.

Emma rolled her eyes. “He probably deserved it. But we can get him here and have him testify. I’m sure JB and Mark will sign off on that.”

“Is he still under their guardianship?” Namjoon asked.

Emma nodded. “All of them are, technically. But since they’re close it’s not an issue. It just means that they’ve got a safety net. Same as you all, we freed you but we also adopted you as our children.”

Micheal nodded. “They’re more like brothers so they didn’t want to go that route.”

Jin was talking lowly and you were grateful you couldn’t hear the conversation. You were stressed enough.

Emma quietly took your hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Alright, he’s on his way.”

The lawyer nodded. “I’ll go notify them that I have another witness.” He gathered his things and walked off, signaling Micheal to walk with him.

Namjoon was taking slow, deep breaths. “I hate this.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know,” Emma said softly, lightly smoothing your hair. “I know you’re both frustrated. I am too. But we’re going to take care of this, even if it takes us more time than we originally thought.”

Jin was watching Namjoon. “Sit down, Namjoon,” He ordered, a slight edge to his voice.

Namjoon did as told, only hesitating for a second before complying with the pack leader’s order.

“You’re making me anxious just watching you,” Jin explained, sounding relieved now that Namjoon was sitting. “Emma, why don’t you stay back here with Namjoon and I’ll go back out.”

She nodded. “I’m going to call and check on the kids.”

He pecked her on the lips, then met your gaze. “It’s about time to head back.”

You nodded, getting up with extreme reluctance and nuzzling Namjoon’s head before following Jin out.

Jin waited until you both were out of earshot before pausing, turning to you. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You have every right to be more frustrated and upset than any of us.”

You sighed, looking at the ground. “I just want to go home. We thought this would all be settled on Tuesday. Last Tuesday.”

He reached over and adjusted your scarf—bathed in the scent of your mate to help keep you calm—then rested his hands on your shoulders. “I know it’s asking a lot, but please try to bear with us for another hour. Okay?”

You nodded, feeling safe at the very least with your pack leader looking out for you.

“But if they try to take you anywhere, you get over that barrier and behind me. They can’t legally take you anywhere, okay?”

You closed your eyes and nodded. “Okay.”

“Hey, court’s in session,” Micheal called.

You followed them back to the court, awaiting your fate.

——

Previous Part.   Next Part.

Masterlist.  Series Masterpost.

[innytoes]

Self-Insert January: Let’s Go Steal A Protégé

Yes I did write a self-insert fanfic of my own fanfic. Most of this was written in December and then um, January happened. This takes place December, probably before Christmas (and is obviously not canon).

Happy Self Insert month!

Being with Leverage, Jamie had seen a lot of weird stuff. Done a lot of weird stuff, too. But all the breaking into highly classified places and museums and pretending to be a circus performer and jumping off the Eiffel Tower did not prepare them for the magic portal that opened up in the ceiling of the Leverage Offices, or the lady that fell through it.

Luckily, their startled yell had summoned an Eliot, which meant that if this was the beginning of an intergalactic space war or some kind of mutant criminal rival of Parker’s, Team Leverage was going to come out on top.

Except Eliot actually put away his knife and greeted the lady, who struggled out of the squashy purple beanbag chair she landed on. “Hardison, Parker, Inny’s here!” he called.

“What the hell is an Inny?” Jamie asked. Was it a species of alien? Was Hardison’s Doctor Who obsession because they literally knew The Doctor? Honestly, it wouldn’t really surprise Jamie.

“I the hell am an Inny,” Ceiling-Lady said, before gasping and pointing at them. Which was concerning, to say the least.

“That’s Inny,” Hardison said, coming into the office and handing the lady one of Jamie’s Mountain Dews. Rude.  “She’s from a darker timeline and drops out of the ceiling once or twice a year to catch up. And get inspiration for her fanfiction. Apparently we’re like, a TV show over there. What’s up, girl?”

“Is that why nobody is allowed to move the beanbag chair?” Jamie asked. They had thought it was some weird Parker thing. Or perhaps that it was on top of some kind of secret trap door to Hardison’s BatCave or something. They ignored the part about the fanfiction and the TV show. That was too Truman Show to think about. Though their brain was already going over actors they’d cast as the team. Eliot would totally be played by Chris Evans, right?

Inny stopped chugging the Mountain Dew long enough to shrug. “They used to live somewhere with way lower ceilings. Nearly broke something falling from this one.”

“Yeah, me,” Eliot grumbled. He nearly broke something again when Parker dropped down from the ceiling onto his back. “Dammit, Parker!”

“Inny!” Parker proclaimed. “How is Deeks?”

“Good!” the lady fished a beaten up phone out of her pocket. “He met some alpacas, wanna see?” Parker snatched up the phone and made delighted noises. Jamie peered over her shoulder. They had to admit the dog was pretty cute, and the alpacas looked very intrigued by their small, same-coloured, short-necked friend.

“How’s life in the darkest timeline?” Hardison asked.

“What date is it here?” the lady asked, looking around. “I mean, if you still know.”

“Why wouldn’t we know?” Parker asked, still swiping through dog pictures.

“Well, I mean, 2020, am I right?” Inny said, waiting for a reaction. She looked incredulous at their blank  faces. “It is 2020, here, right?”

“Um, yeah?” Hardison ventured carefully.

“How dark is this timeline of yours?” Jamie asked carefully. Sure, it was a tumblr joke, usually reserved for stuff like the however-many-renewed-season of Supernatural when great shows were cancelled or whatever creepy feature FriendCzar had tried to impose that month.

The woman paused, frowned, then took a deep breath. “In response to the global pandemic of a deadly respiratory virus, President Donald Trump suggested on television during a briefing that people should inject or ingest bleach to kill the virus.”  She took another big breath. “And that’s not mentioning the fact that he downplayed the seriousness of the virus while knowing how deadly and contagious it was, called it a hoax, made taking safety precautions a political thing instead of a public safety thing, and held massive super-spreader events.”

“Donald Trump?” Jamie asked. “The ‘you’re fired’ dude?”

“Oh my sweet summer child,” Inny responded, before taking another swig of her Mountain Dew. “Yeah, I mean, I thought the fact that Australia was on fire at the start of the year was going to be the only terrible thing I was going to tell you.” She laughed and shook her head ruefully, like that was some kind of funny joke.

“Australia was on fire?”

“Yeah. Parts of the US too, for a while. Orange skies. But since the country was basically on lockdown anyway, it wasn’t like it was very different to stay inside for that…” Jamie stared at the lady, then back at the adults. Parker didn’t look overly concerned, but then, she never really did. Eliot and Hardison were both frowning, though. There was no sign that this was some kind of elaborate prank Hardison was pulling on them with the help of one of Sophie’s acting friends. Besides, he was good, but not ‘fake opening a magic portal in the ceiling’ good. At least not within the five minutes Jamie had been in the other room.

After a litany of horrible things, which were apparently not even all of them, the woman stopped. “On the upside,” she said. “I perfected my banana bread recipe, Deeks met some alpacas, Leverage is getting a reboot, and I figured out why I probably keep dropping in here.”

“To remind us that things aren’t so bad like some messed up version of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’?” Hardison guessed.

“Because Jamie is my OC,” she said, dropping a fucking bombshell like she just dropped out of the fucking ceiling. Jamie felt their brain fill with static, because no, they were a real person, and that either meant that this lady was full of bullshit, or, well, basically god. The Truman Show feeling returned ten times over. “This is my fanfic.”

Hardison recoiled a little. “No,” he whispered, fully understanding the implications of that. Hell, it was probably even weirder for him. Sure, knowing they were a TV show was probably cool, even more so with the reboot. But Fanfic Land didn’t fade to black and Jamie was pretty damn sure some kinky shit went on behind the soundproofed doors of their bedroom.

“Now, there’s two prevailing theories about this, as far as my internet rabbithole searches can tell,” Basically God Maybe continued. “Either I wrote this world into existence, because the multiverse is ever expanding and that is one of the ways it expands, or I just got some vibes from whatever crack between worlds keeps bringing me here and wrote down your shenanigans.”

At Parker and Eliot’s blank looks, Jamie clarified: “Basically, she’s either God or…”

“Some kind of shitty false prophet,” the lady on the beanbag chair beamed. “Probably the second one, honestly. My subconscious turns everything into a zombie apocalypse sooner or later, and you guys seem to be fine.”

Jamie whipped around to look at Hardison and Eliot, hopeful. “We’re fine, right?” they asked quickly. If anyone knew about a starting zombie apocalypse, it would be those two. Between Hardison poking around in basically every intelligence agency’s server ever and Eliot’s contacts, they’d know. God, Jamie hoped not. They were so not ready for a zombie apocalypse. Eliot hadn’t even taught them how to murder someone with an axe yet.

“We are definitely fine,” Hardison assured them.

“Yeah, I figured,” Not-God agreed. “If I had my say, Eliot would have stopped pining long before he did and kissed you guys.” Eliot grumbled and glared, probably because she was right. Parker patted him condescendingly on the head, which wasn’t helping matters.

The ceiling started crackling and glowing ominously. The lady put her can down as she slowly drifted off the beanbag, alien-abduction style. “Well, it’s been real. Be good, guys. Have some fun adventures. Ruin some rich douchebag’s day for me.”

“Will do,” Parker promised. “Say hi to your dog for me.” She got a thumbs up.

“Let us know how the reboot turns out,” Hardison said. Jamie figured it would probably fuck with the space-time continuum if she downloaded the show and brought it to them, but who knew. Maybe there was some kind of loophole for that, too. They were kind of curious to see what a Leverage show would look like. It probably had kickass fight-scenes.

“Stay safe,” Eliot said seriously. He’d been the most concerned about the talk of the pandemic, probably because you couldn’t punch it.

“Will do,” Inny shrugged. “I mean, 2021 can’t possibly be any worse, right?”

The portal crackled louder, which Jamie hoped wasn’t a sign. The lady was almost at the ceiling. She looked concerned, like she realised she just totally jinxed herself and the new year.

“Hey, just in case you are god,” Jamie called up. “Can you give me superpowers?”

The portal closed to the sound of laughter, and then there was silence. All that remained was a dent in the beanbag and an empty can of Mountain Dew.

“What the fuck,” they told the room at large.

“Yeah, you get used to it,” Parker said, before wandering off back to the blueprints she had been studying.

“I’m just gonna… check some things,” Hardison muttered, making a detour to the kitchen to grab a ginormous bottle of orange soda before getting behind his computer. “And buy a bunch of disinfectant and toilet paper, just in case.”

Eliot rolled his eyes, before bumping his shoulder against Jamie’s. “Come on,” he said.

“Come on where?” Jamie asked. “I’m having a bit of an existential crisis here.” If they were someone’s OC, did that mean that they didn’t have free will? Did it mean that all the cool things they had done the past year had only been because of some weird lady that fell out of the ceiling? Or did it mean-

“I’m gonna teach you to throw a knife so you can take out a zombie,” Eliot said.

Fuck that, the existential crisis could wait until 2am. They had more important things to do. Knife throwing would be fun and useful no matter if there was a zombie apocalypse or a pandemic, or they got superpowers.

[anhed-nia]

10/18/2020: STREET TRASH

I just caught myself trying to avoid writing about this movie. I was looking right at my Blogtober setlist, and I still managed to convince myself that I was all caught up, and I had earned my right to move on to the comparative luxury and ease of CATHY'S CURSE. I was well into that project before I realized that I was just subconsciously trying to shirk my 10/18 responsibilities. So, now I'm on punishment, but luckily, just trying to deal with this film is enough punishment in and of itself, if you are not one of this movie’s many passionate fans. I always feel like I'm making a big confession, even to myself, when I admit that I just don't like STREET TRASH.

For some reason, my failure to get down with this movie always makes me feel like a prude and a poseur. It's such a Thing for so many people, and such a grandiose act of rebellion against decency that I feel like I should like it. And I mean, I'm no prude; I'm a fan of a lot of movies that are fairly described as a bunch of sleazy, nihilistic, rage-fueled nonsense. When I try to say what I don't like about STREET TRASH, I find myself delivering a list of problems that is almost identical to the list of reasons I do like a lot of other movies: it's ugly, mean, tacky, offensive, depressingly cheap, grim, anti-social bordering on evil, and on top of everything else, it doesn't really make any sense. It's a little hard for me to explain where and why I draw the line between STREET TRASH and beloved favorites like LAST HOUSE ON DEAD END STREET, ISLAND OF DEATH, BEYOND THE DARKNESS, or EBOLA SYNDROME (ok so EBOLA SYNDROME isn't actually one of my favorite movies, but I definitely admire its...er, guts). My aversion to Troma movies--another thing that makes me feel like a stranger in a strange land--might help inform some of what I don't like about STREET TRASH. There's a way in which a willfully offensive movie can seem to cross over from being contemptuous of society, to contemptuous of its own audience, and that's what bothers me: Troma's insistence on its own laziness and prurience, accusing the viewer of getting off on failure and inferiority, and garnishing its pridefully crappy production with shitty jokes about smearing queers and killing whores. But, while STREET TRASH has a similar brand of extremely shallow nihilism, much of it is meticulously put-together, which is usually a movie's saving grace--not that it's expensive and beautiful, but that it is made with evident passion. Which is exactly why this movie is such a confusing experience for me.

Maybe I can find some further clarity by attempting to describe what the plot consists of. A Brooklyn liquor store owner finds a case of ancient malt liquor called Tenafly Viper in his basement that, for some reason, causes anyone who drinks it to melt down into human sewage and/or explode. Just when it seems like the mysterious action and origin of Viper will be at the center of the plot--after all, it is STREET TRASH's main claim to fame--we drift into the dour drama between a pair of young homeless brothers, Freddie and Kevin, living in a shack in the back of a junkyard. These guys are relatively wholesome compared to the surrounding encampment, where the absolute dregs of humanity exist in a HILLS HAVE EYES-like fiefdom under a deranged Vietnam vet. Their collective troubles begin when Freddy brings home a blind-drunk mafia moll, who is subsequently raped to death by the other hobos. This brings the heat down on the whole camp, as a violent cop tries to find the connection between the derelicts, the mob, and the melting corpses sloshing around in the streets. The results are, needless to say, a mess.

STREET TRASH is relentlessly hostile to all forms of life, salting its own festering wounds with a dash of brutally unfunny comedy. Writer and producer Roy Frumkes has said of his script, "I wrote it to democratically offend every group on the planet, and as a result the youth market embraced it as a renegade work, and it played midnight shows."  It’s hard for me to imagine what form of pleasure people derive from this film, but as Frumkes correctly notes, it does exist. The utterly debased narrative and its many scatological set pieces go so far above and beyond the call of flipping the bird to society, seething with bitterness and loathing in every frame, that one could wonder if the filmmakers weren't clinically depressed. The noxious brew of rape jokes, casual racism, miserable 'Nam flashbacks, and full-body incontinence foments such entirely bad vibes that you might feel like flushing yourself down the toilet by the end, just like the first victim does in the movie's admittedly spectacular opening salvo. 

But th brings me to my point: STREET TRASH is not just a bad movie made poorly. The execution of its signature scene, an elaborate splatterpunk version of the once-popular Goodbye Cruel World novelty knickknacks, is a genuine labor of love, monstrously creative, and one of the most indelible images in horror. If that's my favorite thing in the movie (besides an all too short appearance of the wonderful James Lorinz), my least favorite thing might be its second-most notorious scene, in which the junkyard’s demented denizens play football with a guy's severed cock--but as I just read, even this sequence is rendered with some amount of thoughtfulness. Apparently three separate dildos were used to pull off the gag, including an extra large version that was required for the shots of the dick hurtling through the air in slow motion, warping and wobbling as it soars towards its next receiver. I am strangely beguiled by the idea of director Jim Muro experimenting with how to shoot this scrimmage for maximum effect, choosing dongs that were the right size and weight for the type of motion that he wanted to capture on camera. This shows a decided lack of the kind of laziness that I have come to expect from movies that are this grimy and dejected-feeling. A too-long genital mutilation joke is the last thing I want to give anyone credit for, but here, I feel kind of forced to.

A hot bondage scene with Doctor Jersey Boy!

Why did I put myself through this, you might ask, clearly knowing what I was in for? STREET TRASH is in a small group of movies that make me feel like I'm missing something. They're so well-loved, and they do so little for me--without my being able to completely denounce them as worthless--that I feel this nagging obligation to check in on them now and again. Maybe this is the year that my horizons have expanded to the right degree; maybe I've finally seen a vast enough number and variety of movies that my whole context for something like this will have changed. For the most part, it seems like the days of that kind of radical change are behind me, as a grownass woman with many thousands of hours of viewing under my belt. I still don't feel whatever specialized joy people seem to get from STREET TRASH, and I expect I never will. I really don’t know what else to say at this point, except that in my brief research for this piece, I discovered that the director went on to a substantial career as a cinematographer whose work includes CRASH. No, not the Cronenberg one. The incredibly sappy, pretentious, and witlessly tasteless social justice one from 2004. And there is something I find perversely satisfying about that fact. I guess Muro is really fucking things up from the inside now.

[flowerfan2]

Group Texts Are Ridiculous (Or, Five-0 Starts a Group Text)

McDanno, T, A03, 6k so far

Summary:  After Steve leaves Oahu to go find himself, Five-0 starts a group text to keep in touch while Steve’s away.  Picks up after the end of Season 10.

Notes:  This story is set in the present, following 10x22, but there’s no COVID in it...  I wanted it to be fun.  The story is complete and will be posted over the next few weeks.  Many thanks as always to my awesome beta, @perryavenue.

Chapter 3

June 25, 2020

JR:  What’s the name of Steve’s vet, the one he sort of dated?

QL:  If you and Tani were considering a threesome you could have let me know.

TR:  News to me.  But I suppose we could talk…

JR:  Shut up.  Eddie’s hurt, do you know the vet’s name or not?

TR:  Oh no, what happened?

JR:  I’m not sure, we just got back from a run and he’s limping a little.

DW:  Don’t go anywhere.  Keep Eddie still, I’ll be there in ten.

JR:  Shouldn’t I take him to the vet?

DW:  Just called them.  Stay right where you are.

JR:  Danny, Eddie’s fine, I can just put him in the truck.  He probably just stepped on something sharp.

QL:  Is he bleeding?  You should elevate his leg.

JR:  No, he’s not bleeding, it’s not that serious.  

TR:  Can you tell which paw it is?

JR:  Of course I can tell, it’s the foot he’s holding up when he tries to walk.

DW:  Did you not understand the part about keeping him still?  Walking is not keeping him still.  Sit with him, don’t let him move.

 JR:  We’re sitting on the couch, don’t worry, Eddie is fine.  He’s licking my face.  Normal Eddie behavior.  I think he actually forgot about his foot.

 TR:  Doesn’t hurt to be careful.  Junes, where did you take Eddie anyway?  Just the beach?

 TR:  Junes?  You there?

 JR:  Sorry, had to let HPD in.

 TR:  Wait, why is HPD there?

 JR:  Apparently Danny sent them.  With flashers and sirens.

 TR:  Of course, that makes sense.

 JR:  Um, no it doesn’t.  Eddie is fine.  And Five-0 isn’t supposed to use HPD for personal stuff.

 TR:  Yeah, we never do that.  

 SM:  What the hell happened to my dog?

  July 5, 2020

 LG:  I hate all of you, but especially Tani.

 TR:  It was just lemonade, Grover.

 LG:  No, it was iced tequila with one lemon slice floating on top.

 TR:  Party lemonade.

 LG:  It’s not very patriotic to get your elders drunk.

 TR:  No one said you had to drink it.

 LG:  Pretty sure you said anyone who doesn’t taste my lemonade has to go home.

 TR:  I had already had some lemonade when I said that.  I can’t be held responsible for my actions.  Face it, you’re a lightweight.

 LG:  Clearly not true.

 TR:  Then why did Renee make you leave early?

 LG:  We had another party to go to, as I told you last night. Where is everyone, anyway?  I thought Junior and Quinn were on today.

 TR:  I’m sure they’ll turn up any minute.

 LG:  Junior is still asleep, isn’t he?

 TR:  The lump under the blankets just cursed at me when I thumped him, so no, not totally asleep.

 LG:  Tell him to get his ass in gear and get to work.

 TR:  He says his head is exploding and he wants to die.

 LG:  Requesting a sick day, then?

 TR:  I’ll come in instead.

 LG:  Seriously?

 TR:  It’ll be better than listening to Junior puke all morning.

 LG:   I didn’t need to know that. How come you’re all chipper?

 TR:  I drank a bunch of water before I went to bed.  Like you’re supposed to.

 LG:  Hey, did Danny ever show up last night?

 TR:  Nope.  

  July 11, 2020

 LG:  I’m at the dock, which way should I go?

 DW:  Towards the boats.  The big floating things.

 JR:  I can see you, keep going the way you’re facing, then head south when you get to the end of the

row.

 LG:  South?  Sorry, forgot my compass.  

 DW:  Just listen for the music.

 TR:  I can’t believe you know the words to Taylor Swift’s greatest hits. At least my music is relatively current.

 DW:  Grace was just the right age.  It got stuck in my head.  

 JR:  And now it’s stuck in ours.

 <i>TR has changed the name of the group text to</i> <b>Shake It Off Dance Party</b>

 QL:  Be there soon.  Just found Jerry wandering in the parking lot.

 JG:  I wasn’t wandering, I was organizing my gear.

 TR:  What kind of gear do you need for a boat ride?

 LG:  You do realize you are asking Jerry this.

 JG:  By the way, thanks for including me today.  I’ve missed you guys.

 DW:  We miss you too.  But if you could all hurry up, that would be great.  I’d like to leave the dock sometime before it gets dark.

 QL:  Do you guys do a Five-0 summer outing every year?

 TR:  Nope, first time.

 QL:  Really?

 TR:  Yeah, generally we get enough excitement at work.  And Danny has some issues with boats.

 DW:  I actually enjoy boats, when there isn’t any gunfire, or sharks, or poison. I only have issues with <i>Steve</i> and boats.  Steve isn’t here, so we’ll be fine.

 QL:  So much to unpack there.

 JR:  Didn’t Steve set this up?

 LG:  He surely did.  The boat belongs to a friend of his.  I think he thought we all needed some cheering up.

 TR:  You mean he thought Danny needed cheering up.

 DW:  If Steve wanted to cheer me up he wouldn’t have sent me on a boat trip with all of you.

 LG:  Ouch.

 JG:  We may have a slight delay.

 TR:  What did you do?

 JG:  I didn’t do anything.  But Quinn was texting and walking at the same time and tripped.

 DW:  Is she ok?

 JG:  She didn’t fall in the water.  But her phone did, and she’s kind of pissed.

 LG:  Well we’ve got beer, that might help.

 JG:  Now’s she in the water.  She’s trying to find the phone.

 JG:  Quinn can hold her breath for a really long time.  Kind of impressive.

 LG:  For pete’s sake, what’s the point?  She’s never going to find it, and it’ll be ruined anyway.

 JG:  I said the same thing, but she didn’t listen.  Now she’s going to talk to the harbormaster.

 TR:  To report a dropped phone?

 JG: I don’t know, she just told me to wait while she went to talk to the harbormaster.

 TR:  It’s not like we need our phones for fishing.  We probably don’t get service out there anyway.

 DW:  Hardly matters.  At this rate we’re never leaving the dock.

  July 17, 2020

 SM:  Send help to this address ASAP. My phone’s dying.

 DW:  WTF Steve?

 SM:  Tow truck kind of help.  Flat tire.

 DW:  It’s four in the morning here.

 SM:  Oh, sorry.  Got up early. Not that early.

 DW:  Way to give me a heart attack.

 SM:  Sorry, didn’t mean to.  You okay?

 DW:  Course I’m okay.  I’m in bed, asleep.  Or at least I was asleep.  Now Eddie’s awake too and thinks it’s time to get up and go for a walk.

 SM:  Wish I was there.

 DW:  What?

 SM:  In bed, I mean.  Instead of stuck on the side of the road.

 DW:  Where are you, anyway?  You haven’t mentioned lately.

 SM:  Near Yellowstone.  Been camping. Did some hiking into the backcountry.

 DW:  Sounds suitably outdoorsy.

 SM:  Yeah.

 DW:  Your phone doesn’t seem all that dead.  You could have called AAA yourself.  

 SM:  I wasn’t sure how long it would hold out.

 DW:  It’s okay.  I miss you too.

  July 18, 2020

 JR:  So we’re all ignoring that conversation, right?

 TR:  Yes, because we work for them, and we have better things to do today.

 TR has changed the name of the group text to Luau Luau Luau

 JR:  Good to know you’re excited.

 TR:  Just cross your fingers there aren’t any murders in the next six hours. I want to be there when the pig comes out of the pit.

 SM:  You guys are doing a real luau?

 TR:  Yup.  Kamekona dug the imu.  Or had someone else dig it, probably.  But that sucker’s been cooking for hours already.

 JR:  Hey Commander, how’s it going?

 SM:  It’s good, Junior.  Thanks. How’d you get Kame to cook you a pig?

 TR:  It’s to thank Danny for helping him with some kind of permitting problem for his new place in Kapolei.  Kame found out Danny had never done the whole pig in the ground thing, so he decided to show him how it’s done.

 SM:  You’re telling me Danny got up at dawn to put the pig in the imu?

 TR:  I can’t swear to it, I wasn’t there.  But that was the plan.  

 LG:  I was there.  And no, Kame didn’t do any actual digging, he got Nahele and his friends to do it.  We did have to carry some rocks.

 TR:  What do you think, Lou?  Pretty cool, right?

 LG:  I am in favor of anything that combines fire and meat, you know that about me.

 SM:  Danny must not have gotten any sleep at all.

 DW:  That’s why they invented coffee.

 SM:  How much did Kame charge you for it?

 DW:  Nahele brought us all coffee from Island Vintage.

 SM:  What, did he come into some money?

 DW:  I paid him back, you dunce.

 SM:  I can’t believe you guys are putting together your own luau.

 DW:  Makes you miss home, doesn’t it?

 SM:  Sure does.  Danny, you’ve really never been to a luau?

 DW:  Not really.  Seemed kind of touristy.

 TR:  That’s why you have to do it yourself.  I made chicken long rice last night, and Junior’s bringing the lomi lomi salmon.

 JR:  I wanted squid but Tani likes salmon better.

 SM:  Good luck getting Danny to eat squid unless they’re deep fried.

 DW:  I’ll have you know I haven’t had a fried fish in ages.  I’ve been grilling mahi almost every weekend.

 SM:  You have?  That’s awesome.

 JR:  He does a good job with it, too.  It’s never dry.

 DW:  Thanks, Junior.

 SM:  Clearly my healthy eating has finally made an impression on you, Danny. I’m so proud.

 JR:  I think it was his doctor that forced him into it, but whatever.

 SM:  What do you mean?  What’s wrong?

 DW:  Nothing’s wrong.

 SM:  High cholesterol?

 DW:  Shut up, I can eat whatever I want.  I’m just choosing to be more aware of what goes in my mouth, that’s all.

 LG:  Right, that’s why you banned malasadas from the office.

 TR:  Maybe he’s just trying to maintain his girlish figure.  

 JR:  Are you really trying to lose weight, Danny?  Because you’re as thin as I’ve ever seen you.

 LG:  I’m not sure they sell those slacks in extra-slim, you better be careful.

 DW:  Can we please stop talking about me?  

 SM:  Seriously, is everything all right, Danny?  

 DW:  You guys are ridiculous.  See you later at the beach.  You can ogle me there as I stuff my mouth with kalua pork.

  July 21, 2020

 JR:  Tani, you up?

 TR:  You know you can just come home and get into bed with me, you don’t need to say dumb stuff like that.

 JR:  Honestly I just wanted to know if you were awake.  It’s one o’clock in the morning.

 TR: LOL sorry.  Yeah, Quinn just left and I’m trying to clean up.  We tried to make fancy margaritas and it looks like Whole Foods’ fruit section exploded in my kitchen.

 JR:  What’s a fancy margarita?

 TR:  You know, you add in something that tastes good and something that tastes bad.

 JR:  That can’t really be the recipe.

 TR:  It seemed like it.  Grapefruit and rosemary – who wants rosemary in their margarita?

 JR:  Ok true.

 TR:  Strawberry and jalapeno was pretty good though.  But we put too many jalapenos in.

 JR:  Sounds dangerous.  How many have you had?

 TR: A good amount.  When are you coming home?

 JR:  Don’t know.  Adam and I are still parked down the road from the restaurant where the victim died yesterday.  Danny thinks whoever was responsible, the assistant chef probably, will break in tonight.

 TR:  Sounds fun.

 JR:  I’m bored out of my mind.  Ran out of things to talk about with Adam about two hours ago.

 TR:  Let’s play fuck, marry, kill.  

 JR:  Okay.  But let’s text just us, okay?

 TR:  Smart.  Okay, you go first.  Celebrities, fuck, marry or kill.

 JR:  Any celebrities?  That’s kind of broad.

 TR:  Ok, celebrities named Chris.

 JR:  You’re really making me go first.

 TR:  You’re the one who said you were bored.  I could just throw all this crap into the sink and go to bed.  But I’ll go first if you want.

 JR:  Okay.  

 TR:  And obviously no getting mad, right?

 JR:  Obviously.

 TR:  Fuck Chris Hemsworth, marry Chris Evans, kill Chris Pratt.

 JR:  That was fast.

 TR:  I may have thought about it before.  Now you go.

 JR:  Fuck Christina Aguilera, marry Chris Evans, kill Chris Noth.

 TR:  Very enlightened.

 JR:  Everyone wants to marry Chris Evans.

 TR:  Agreed.  Okay, next. Marvel characters.  

 JR:  That’s kind of an overlap, isn’t it?

 TR:  Only with a few of them.  We’ll say no repeats.  You go first this time.

 JR:  Fuck Wonder Woman, marry Black Widow, kill Loki.

 TR:  Sure you didn’t reverse Wonder Woman and Black Widow?

 JR:  Nah.  If I’m going to spend my life with somebody I want her to have some depth, you know?

 TR:  I’ll revisit that when I’m less drunk.  Okay, fuck T’Challa, marry Tony Stark, kill Fury.

 JR:  Fury?  He’s a good guy.

 TR:  I didn’t like the way he faked his death.

 JR:  You confuse me sometimes.

 TR:  I think that’s okay.  Any sign of the assistant chef?

 JR:  No.  And Adam seems entranced by some game on his phone.

 TR:  Animal crossing?

 JR:  I think it’s some kind of card game app.  Jerry mentioned it.

 TR:  Why play cards on an app instead of in person?

 JR:  Maybe because you’re stuck at work at one in the morning.

 TR:  Fair.

 JR:  Okay, let’s do another round.

 TR:  Fine.  Five-0. Present or former members.

 JR:  No way.

 TR:  Come on, you must have thought about it.  

 JR:  No getting mad?

 TR:  Obviously.  And we can’t say each other.

 JR:  Obviously.

 JR:  You go first.

 TR:  Fuck Steve, marry Danny, kill Catherine.

 JR:  Again, you do this really fast.

 TR:  These answers aren’t hard.

 JR:  Didn’t know you hated Catherine so much.

 TR:  She screwed over my imaginary fuck buddy and my imaginary husband, so, yeah.

 JR:  I feel like you know more about this situation than I do.

 TR:  As with all things.  Come on, your turn.

 JR:  This is hard.  And very unprofessional.

 TR:  You cannot leave me hanging.

 JR:  Fuck Quinn, marry Steve, kill Adam.

 TR:  He’s that boring?

 JR:  He’s that boring.

 TR:  You know Danny thinks I’m just like Steve.  In the good ways.

 JR:  I’m aware.

 TR:  You only said Quinn because you couldn’t think of any other women on Five-0, didn’t you?

 JR:  Ok fine.

 TR:  Be honest, who would you pick?  Really?

 JR:  There’s no way you’re getting me to put that in a text.

 TR:  It’s just us, come on.

 LG:  No it’s not.  

 TR:  Oh shit.

  July 22, 2020

 DW:  Ok, regarding last night’s text message fiasco, I’m incredibly disappointed and have no choice but to run this by HR.

 TR:  Wait, we have HR?

 DW:  No, actually.  But I talked about it with Steve and we laughed our asses off.  Try to rein in the sex talk just a bit, okay?  And maybe don’t mention actually killing people in our group text.

 JR:  Sorry, sir.

 TR:  Sorry, boss.

 DW:  And Junior’s right.  Everyone wants to marry Chris Evans.

[hollenka99]

2020, According To My Tumblr Archive

January

Like many, freaked out about the Dhawan!Master reveal

Unus Annus reached 2 million subs

Ethan finally saw his sub count reach 1 million

Reblogged the elf pussy post with a version of the elf practice meme and now every time I see that meme, I think of that post

Finally made my Dyspraxic!Chase post

Fleshed out Creator!Jackie a little in terms of Nyesha (his girlfriend) and his prosthetics

February

Got really into Take Me or Leave Me for a short while which led to me watching RENT for the first time

Finally made that follow up to A Talk With The Creator I’d been meaning to write for months (aka A Day Long Overdue)

Started posting Unus Annus trigger warnings for a few weeks after the video where they demonstrate how they’d kill each other as a joke

Reached the 100 follower milestone after nearly 4 years on this site

Got very into WTNV again and binged like 60+ episodes in the space of 2 or so weeks

March

Watched Starkid’s Black Friday

Posted The Doctor on the anniversary of The Friend’s posting

Made some posts about the women of TLoJJ for International Women’s Day

Bupine received an anon ask teasing her about a typo which is common in our friendship group. Usual suspects were accused until the true culprit revealed themself via an acrostic (aka me being extra and I loved every second of it)

Went to the cat cafe in Nottingham

Made sure people were aware of World Puppetry Day by sending anon asks to people I thought might get a kick out of it

Posted Fighting Stolen Breaths

Steven Universe Future ended

Having been in the beginning stages of creation since ~Oct 2019, Jumbled AU content starts appearing

April

Spent the 1st doing an ask event for the Jumbled AU as a way of properly introducing it

Confused a bunch of people outside the Jacksepticeye community when I made a post saying how great it was that $400k had been raised in 2.5 hours during the HopeFromHome stream

Posted The Vlogger for Chase’s birthday

Got hyped to write a Śmigus Dyngus fic featuring Jumbled!Chase and his kids but got sick (regular illness, don’t worry) and therefore never finished it

Norbert Moses existed for 24 hours but he will exist much longer in our hearts

Managed to stay up to see 4:20am on April 20th

Posted the prologue and officially began the story of Jumbled

Watched Ghost for the first time

May

Fanders finally got the continuation of Selfishness vs Selflessness (Putting Others First aka SvS Redux) and learned Deceit’s name

Started talking about The Fall of Naesia

Pretty sure I hyperfixated on Queen for a week or so

Got introduced to ‘Storp Chorleigh, this game has gorn on lawng enuff’ and my life has significantly improved

CumGate happened

Got into ATLA

Black Lives Matter

Created the ‘it’s gonna be gay’ post that would destroy my inbox for the next few days

Had my first experience behind a wheel

June

Posted Flag, the response to which has made me proud of it

Poland scares and disappoints me part 1 (queer rights edition)

Sean posts another blooper video which causes me to make edits that subsequently inspire me to write Little Interruptions

Created an entire mythology purely because I thought a winged humanoid/merperson pairing was a cool concept

Reminded my friends why I should never be allowed to stay up until 4am because I just start talking nonsense

July

Finally watched An Inspector Calls and immediately wanted to make a Sanders Sides au with it.

Started talking about Creator again

Had another ask event to celebrate Jackie’s birthday

Also posted Photographs for his birthday which I love

Reached 150 followers around the middle of this month, I think

Discovered Kipo but wouldn’t fall for it head over heels with it for another month

One Direction celebrated their 10th anniversary and I was possessed by my 15 year old self for a week

Posted The Mediary which properly brought Creator AU back to my blog for a short while

August

Eddsworld came back after years

Posted The Creator and officially completed the main part of the au

Poland scares and disappoints me part 2 (queer rights edition continued)

Finally revealed Jumbled Anti’s identity to the world and got threatened on my birthday because of it

Discovered the Unus Annus video I’d been waiting all year for would be centered around them chewing on dog toys but it did feature “I’m the Unus to your Annus” so that was cool

Binged the first 2 seasons of Kipo in like a day and correctly predicted the Mega Monkey’s identity ages with very little foreshadowing to go off of

September

Started showing my love for Puppet History

Among Us was a thing

Got back into Playchoices

BBC Ghosts came back for series 2

Watched Pride twice in 24 hours and made sure everyone knew I’m heart eyes for it

October

Trump got sick

Family friend took one of my teeth

The world was blessed with Patton in a dress

Replayed Septiscape ahead of Soulscape’s release and liveblogged it

C!Thomas got a love interest and I’m really happy for him

Kipo season 3 came out

Literally the next day, the Dream SMP brainrot officially began

Discovered Thanzag existed and fell for the angsty side of their relationship despite knowing barely anything about the game

Poland scares and disappoints me part 3 (abortion edition)

Started bingeing The Magnus Archives and got through 150 episodes in about 2 weeks

Halloween was an eventful night for both the Jacksepticeye and Unus Annus communities

November 

Unus Annus began its epilogue period

Watched V For Vendetta for the first time which was probably the least eventful thing to happen on the night of November 5th 2020

Destiel became somewhat canon and people found out Putin was thinking of resigning because of that

US elections

Unus Annus died following a 12 hour livestream

Somehow, my mad attempt to summarise every video of Unus Annus kinda paid off

Supernatural trended again because of its finale

Went through a period of questioning whether I’m asexual but settled on ‘sex ambivalent allosexual’ for now

Destiel became canon again but reciprocated and Spanish this time

Discovered Webtoon and Castle Swimmer

December

The monolith saga began

Elliot Page came out as trans

Mark went to hospital for an obstruction again and the community became very invested in his recovery process

Scotch eggs with your drinks became a brief meme over here in Britain

Your New Boyfriend was released

Destiel’s canon status was brought back to the spotlight once more

Watched The Godfather for the first time

Reached 200 followers

We got somewhat of a Dan and Phil video after so long with Phil trying on clothes while Dan reacts behind the camera

BBC Ghosts came back for Christmas to say Tories suck and you should make the most of your time with your family

Got into Mother Mother after Wilbur played the intro to Hayloft and I decided to see what the fuss was about

Watched Bridgerton and immediately felt the need to write something historical

The Mishapocalypse returned

[disastrousjest]

Confessions of 2020..

(tw: covid mention, mental health mention)

I wanted to post a little something that might put out some insight for my followers, friends, mutuals alike. With the recent battle I had with some personal blogs attacking me over some posts I made because of the images, regardless of the purpose of the post. I just wanted to let everyone aware of why that sent me over the edge and why I handled it the way I did. Please note: I will not be apologizing for what I said, I do feel as though those that tried to reach out to me did not realize the purpose of the post. And while I understand now I should just tag things like that differently, I will not be apologizing for stating the fact that this is a rp  blog and I do not appreciate personal blogs attacking me over something like that. That being said, I will not be bullied off tumblr or this account. Because I love JJBA and Joseph Joestar. So for future reference, if you don’t like my content, unfollow it. Don’t bother sending me nasty remarks because I do not have the time for those types of things.  But I wanted to open the doorway to some insight for you all who have been paying attention or who just might care to know why I came off so incredibly outraged by that little bit. Because to me it was just the topping of a whole bunch of bullshit as is 2020.  This whole shithole of a year began in March. I got promoted at work to salary. That’s 35k a year my friends and that’s a hell of an upgrade for someone who barely makes a living wage right now and came from a working poor family. I really thought my life was gonna turn around. For once my fiance and I wouldn’t have to struggle so hard and we could afford to do everything we talked about doing. Well guess what--2 weeks after the announcement of my promotion my work place shut down because of Covid-19. Nothing new, lots of people and places were shut down. So fine, it pushed back my transfer and such. That wasn’t a big deal.  Enter June 2020. We re-open and my manager calls me into his office to talk to him about said mentioned promotion. They are suspending it, means it could be pushed back until we could lift the restrictions. Understandably so, I would just have to keep my old position, an hourly one, until they were called back. Now the months pass, June becomes July and enter August.  I find out about a week before the company announces it at the start of August, the position I was promoted to has been eliminated indefinitely. There is a chance they could come back, but right now they have no idea when or if that’ll happen. Which means that whole part of my department no longer exists at my place of work. I mean it’s a good thing I had my hourly position to fall back into or I’d lost my job. But that salary raise? Gone. 

Rewind back to July. I get very very VERY sick. And have to test for covid-19 the first time. Only because I am so sick and have a roommate with asthma I have to quarantine myself for 14 days. So 14 days I am locked in my bedroom alone, sleeping alone after 3 years of being with someone in bed. My meals are being left at the door for me and the only room I am allowed to enter is the bathroom, but only after it has been sanitized. Only for my results to come back negative. And now... we enter September 2020. Two major things started in September. The first, our old, senior dog became very ill. Started losing weight, wasn’t eating, losing hair, etc. So we knew his time was coming soon enough. Mid-September, I wake up one morning while our dog is dying mind you, and I cannot move my body from the waist down. Every time I tried, I’m greeted with a shot of pain straight up my spine that feels something like a hot poker being stabbed right through my spinal cord. Very very painful. I end up bed-ridden for a day or two because I cannot move. So once the pain subsides, I go see a chiropractor. Shocking (not really) announcement that my sway back--to which I was diagnosed with 10 years prior from a bad car accident--has gotten worse. What does  that mean exactly? Well--my spine bends in like a S for those who don’t know, which means my lower back dips inward deeper inside my body and my tail bone curves out. Now along that dip there are 3 or 4 vertebrae that are especially messed up. The bones have become staggered out of place on top of one another, just from the muscles pulling the bones out of shape since my spine doesn’t flex the way it’s supposed to anymore. (And it hasn’t for years). The pain before this was tolerable, it would ache from time to time but never like this. Now I am crippled more or less.  Here’s what that means: my mobility became extremely limited. At first in the am when I woke up I couldn’t move from the waist down for the first hour or two after I woke up. Then when I was finally able to move, I had to use my forearms to literally drag my lower body upright (still painful). Once I was able to manage that, I had to gage how strong my legs were to support my weight. And at first walking wasn’t terrible, but as the treatments began--doctor appointments, spinal adjustments, and physical therapy--to correct my spinal issue, nerve damage became clear. So now on top of this horrible pain, I had to deal with weak legs. Because of nerve damage, my right leg especially became weak. On days my back would hurt especially bad, my right knee would collapse out from under me. Which meant falling to the ground and not being able to stand up or walk for sometime there after.  Now imagine dealing with not being able to support your own body, not being able to hardly walk and your dog dying at the same time. So while I”m trying not to focus on the fact that my mobility is limiting me on what I can and can’t do, my fiance is upset about this. Our dog (then weighed about 100 or more pounds) could no longer walk either. His back legs and hips were giving out as his health declined. I did not have the strength in my own legs to help carry him because his weight hurt me too much and would cause me to collapse. I had to watch my fiance struggle with this practically all by herself while I sat on the floor, only able to use my arms to help with what I could because my legs and back were too weak to do the work.  This carried on into October. Our dog passes away and that alone is hard for me. I still kind of wonder if I wasn’t so weak when he got sick if I could have helped prolong his life just a little longer. I couldn’t hardly look at him when he passed and I couldn’t look at anyone else. I was very angry that my legs and back had failed me. They had failed everyone. So yes, that weight still lingers over me. It was so bad that when it came time to take turns digging his grave, I struggled with the shovel. Because I couldn’t stand up or be bent over to move the dirt, I got on my hands and knees and I took that shovel in my hands and used my arms and shoulders to dig. I wasn’t going to continue to be useless because of my limited mobility. I felt I already let him down and everyone else by not being able to help take care of him while he was still alive and sick. This was the least I could do.  November comes. Things are calm now, for a while. Not bad. I finally get some braces to help with my back issues (which still continue). I keep on with my physical therapy, trying to heal and help my fiance through her mourning over the dog. My mobility slowly begins to improve, though the doctor informs me it will be a very slow process. Small steps he says. But he is still confident he can fix my spine without back surgery so I can walk again, like a regular person. The limit I am able to stand and walk increases with the help of my braces and I begin taking herbal supplements and drinking herbal teas to increase the rate of my recovery. It seems to be working better than over the counter medication. The rest of 2020 seems promising.  Here comes December. On the night my fiance and I decide to go out on a date to celebrate our 5 years together. I get a phone call from work. One of my co-workers tested positive for Covid-19 and I was exposed. I am now suspended from work without pay until my test results come back negative. A real mood killer for the night. It gets better, we get home and despite the dinner being pretty somber the rest of the night seems fine. We watch movies and spend time together, finish wrapping gifts for Christmas. Then we realize the cat is missing. He’s been missing all day and all night. Nobody has seen him.  Two days prior, I had taken my cat to the vet because he was sick. Again, weight loss, losing hair, etc. I was worried he may be sick. Well it’s cold outside and here it’s been snowing so it’s very cold. I set something of mine outside and a literbox for smell. And then a plate of food. ....that was almost 4 days ago. There’s been not a sign of him. I called the county shelter and they didn’t have him. My fiance suggests he was sick so... maybe he got out of the house and went somewhere to die. My gut tells me he’s not coming back. And my heart is breaking, again. Again. I am wondering if I did something wrong. If I would have kept a better eye on him, I knew he wasn’t  feeling right. I somehow feel like I let him down.  And  then I logged into tumblr and saw those comments. Those asks people were sending about the damn images I posted for the 12 days to Christmas. And they just kept coming. I deleted the other ones, I stopped replying to them and finally just deleted the post. The Christmas spirit had been sucked out of me. I feel as though the world has began to mock me for believing the year could get better back in November. I know one thing, the holiday won’t be as bright this year. Not for me. I hope everyone stays safe and has a good holiday. Maybe 2021 will be more promising, but I”m not banking on it. Not anymore. Thanks for reading.  I hope you all understand now why I have been so slow with my replies lately. As my mood goes up and down because I have been struggling with the weight of all this and depression, just trying to hang on from losing hope that for one I will be able to walk again normally and then just the loss of my animals... everything. I can’t write and I refuse to send bad quality responses and starters for you all. I hope this puts some insight  on why I was so horribly upset the other day.   So thank you to all my friends and everyone who has been so patient with me on all my blogs. Jotaro (dmgdstar) and Johnny (rotatingstar) and this one of course. I will be catching up to everything very soon. I’ve already made a good dent in them.  Your patience is always appreciated. 

[guacameowle]

Random Storytime!

February 14, 2020 is the 23rd anniversary of my becoming a vegetarian! 

Most people wouldn’t have this day memorized; it’s not as though I actually celebrate in any way. The only reason I remember is because how I became a vegetarian happened in such a ridiculous way (& semi-traumatizing for myself as a child) that it has remained a very vivid memory of mine to this day. 

When I was in 2nd grade my family up & moved across the country to Texas. As we settled into our new home, my mom took up a temporary job as a substitute teacher for the school district my older brother & I were enrolled in.

On February 14, 1997, a Friday if I recall, my mom happened to be the substitute teacher for my 2nd grade class (Cheers to my 2nd grade teacher for ditching her class of children to leave a whole day clear to get dicked down for Valentine’s Day. Respect.). This wasn’t the first time my mom had been my substitute teacher (my hometown was very small at the time) so I didn’t think it would a day different from any other.

Our teacher had left us with a bunch of busy work - random worksheets to fill out, drawings to finish, stories to read. My mom wasn’t required to teach any lesson plans, just to move us from one task to the next after a set time. 

One particular worksheet required that we “connect the food to the animal it comes from.” The left column had various foods (eggs, hamburger, steak, sausage links, chicken nuggets, & a ham) & the right column had a few animals listed (cow, pig, chicken, ostrich, & horse). 

What kinda fucking worksheet????

Should have been easy-peasy, right? Yeah, the rest of my class thought so as they were all zooming through the worksheet without being confused as fuck like I was. I spent a good few minutes sitting in my chair looking around at my classmates & back down to my paper several times, wondering why nobody else seemed to not need any help. After a while I thought maybe since I was new to the class, as I had only recently moved to Texas, that I had missed the lesson explaining this concept. 

No big deal. I’d just go up & ask my mom since she was my substitute teacher that day. I brought the paper up to the desk where my mom sat, handed it to her & said, “I don’t understand.” She took one quick glance at the page & simply repeated “connect the foods to the animals they come from.” Blink blink. Blink. Yeah, I can fucking read, mom. Thanks. What does that mean exactly? I asked again, “What does that mean?” My mom took a pencil & drew a line connecting the hamburger to the cow on the page. My exact words to her were, “A cow poops a hamburger?” 

I will never forget the look on my mom’s face when she fucking realized she had never taught me what meat or animal products were or where they came from, particularly how they were obtained. ‘Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit’ doesn’t even being to cover that expression she wore.

Now, at this point, I should make it known that by the age of 8 years old I was deadset on becoming a veterinarian; it was all I had wanted to be since I was 3 years old (at the age of 25 I officially became one, heyoooo!). I loved animals more than anything else. I had once beaten the shit out of my older brother because I saw him try to kick a pigeon - I went into a blind murderous rage! Even after my dad had pulled me off of him & held me upside down I didn’t stop swinging & kicking. Point being - I LOVED ANIMALS MORE THAN ANYTHING. I would never do anything to hurt them. 

My mom wasn’t gentle when she dropped the earth-shattering knowledge on me that some animals were used for human consumption. 

“No, a cow doesn’t poop a hamburger. The cow is killed and cut up for meat to make a hamburger. *she draws a line from sausage links to the pig* Sausage comes from pig meat. *she draws a line from chicken nuggets to the chicken* Chicken nuggets are made from chicken meat. *she draws a line from eggs to the chicken and ostrich* Birds lay eggs, some kinds that we eat. *she draws a line from the ham to the pig* Ham comes from pig meat.”

Here is where I finally overcame my absolute shock & horror at all this new information that had been thrown at me about my precious animals... & broke down crying, very loudly, then proceeded to run out of the classroom because I remembered that my dad had packed me a ham sandwich intended for lunch that day. Wasn’t fucking eating that anymore. Nope.

My mom gets a neighboring teacher to look after the class & goes off after me. It was easy to find me, just had to follow the noise of the wailing & sniffling little girl in the bathroom stall.

I don’t exactly remember how she coaxed me out of the stall back into the classroom, but I do remember yelling at her that I thought her & dad were liars & monsters for letting me eat animals & that I would never trust food ever again, lololol. 

She didn’t make me finish the worksheet. Years later she told me she finished it for me so I’d get the credit, but she figured I’d been traumatized enough.

Lunch time rolled around a short while later. I had a packed lunch that my dad had so lovingly made me, the monster-liar-animal-eater that he was! I refused to eat anything that was packed for me until I asked a bunch of questions about it. I sat with my mom in the classroom during lunch & pointed at everything that was packed for me & everything that she’d brought for herself, asking if it came from an animal & which animal. The only thing I’d deemed safe eating were my carrot sticks, some grapes, and my apple juice - but even then I was still suspicious. I glared at my mom the entire time she ate her own ham sandwich. 

On top of that, it had been Valentine’s Day! Everyone in my class had exchanged chocolates, my absolute favorite food! Which animal did chocolate come from? Monkeys? Penguins? Turtles? I didn’t fucking know! My mom explained it came from a bean grown from the ground, but that it was sometimes made with milk from cows. Alive cows that were only milked & not killed. I was suspicious & no longer had any trust in me, so I didn’t eat a single piece anyway. Do you know how it was for me to not eat any of the chocolate that day???? IT WAS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER DONE! 

It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that people ate animals. I was very upset & offended, but decided that just because they all did didn’t mean I had to! So, I became a vegetarian that day. My parents thought it was a phase, that I’d grow out of it. At first they joked that I liked meat too much to give it up forever. After a few weeks of that not working, they took me to a doctor to have him explain the importance of having a balanced diet for a growing child, but I didn’t care to listen. I did get sick a few weeks after that - surprise, iron deficiency! A different doctor helped me make a list of vegetables I needed to eat more of if I wanted to stay healthy. 

So that’s how I became a vegetarian; a shitty ‘connect the foods to the animals’ worksheet that traumatized me. A day that was meant for love was the day of my worst heartache. At the time it was horrifying, but now it’s become a funny family story my mom likes sharing with people. Occasionally she will randomly say “a cow poops a hamburger?” & laugh at me.