#i still am at least better off in the family department can i just say that

[cutielando]

out of line | r.c.

synopsis: in which you stand up to Ward and Rafe can't be prouder

my masterlist

Ever since you could remember, Ward had always been hard on Rafe. It might have been because he was his only son, it might be because he wanted him to mature early on, or it might be just because he hated his son.

At least that's what Rafe had come to believe.

Nothing he did ever seemed to be right. His father would always find faults in every single thing Rafe did, crushing the boy's morale every single time.

"I don't know how to please him anymore" he would always say when he came to you, all sad and unmotivated to even live.

You hated seeing your boyfriend like that. You hated the way Ward acted towards his son. You hated the fact that he always made Rafe feel bad about your relationship, always filling his head with thoughts that he didn't deserve you, that he should do you a favor and let you go because you would be better off without you.

It made your blood boil.

As you were laying on the couch in Rafe's home, his body laying on top of yours and your arms wrapped around his body, you were hoping to God that his father would not ruin your night.

"Rafe?" hearing Ward's voice made the both of you tense.

Rafe got up from laying on you and sat upright on the couch just as Ward walked in.

Eyeing you, you could see him clench his jaw and swallow harshly.

"Yes, dad?" Rafe said, clearing his throat and looking up at his father.

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking between the both of you.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, and you knew that Rafe was desperately weighing his answers to make sure he wouldn't say the wrong thing.

That is precisely why you decided to be the one doing the talking tonight, hopeful to finally give the older man a piece of your mind.

"We were watching a movie before you interrupted us" hearing you speak made Rafe's heart start beating rapidly.

He wiped his head around to look at you with wide eyes, but you kept eye contact with the older Cameron man.

"Excuse me?" his voice was dangerously low, but you weren't afraid of him and had no intention of backing down.

"You heard me. Do you want something with Rafe or not?" you asked, now standing up and stopping while face-to-face with him.

"You better watch your mouth, young lady" his threats fell on deaf ears, you were done cowering in fear of him.

Your family was the second richest one on the whole island, so you were also entitled to speak your mind seeing as you weren't a poor little Pogue afraid to speak in front of a Kook.

"That's funny, coming from the guy whose ego is so big he has to belittle his own son to feel better about himself" that struck a nerve.

Ward took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. His fists were pulsing, his veins were enlarged, he was on the verge of exploding.

But he knew better than that, he knew better than to make an enemy of your father. While Ward must think he's got the dangerous associates on the island, your father was by far more versed than him in that department. 

Your family might not have been the richest, but it was for sure the most dangerous one. And Ward knew that.

"How dare you?" 

"How dare I? How dare you look at your son, your own flesh and blood, and belittle him like he's a stranger to you? How can you stand there and insult him, make him feel worthless after how much he does to impress you, to satisfy you? And nothing ever seems enough. How dare you fill his head with lies about our relationship when you and I both know I am the only person who loves him and takes care of him. I am the only one who wants the best for him, not even you as his father? What the fuck is wrong with you?" you felt so good getting everything off of your chest.

Rafe was still speechless, still sitting behind you on the couch.

He was grateful for every word you had said, having conveyed everything he had been feeling but was too afraid to tell his father.

"You are way out of line here, bitch" he spit with venom in his voice.

Your eyes darkened and you stepped even closer to him, being almost face to face with him.

"Call me a bitch again and see what happens. We don't want to repeat what happened at Midsummers, now, do we? Or did you forget what my daddy did?" your voice now being dangerously low, knowing you had struck another nerve.

Ward visibly tensed, having remembered that your father had almost killed him in a fight when he insulted you at Midsummers while being intoxicated.

He cleared his throat and nodded, taking one last look at Rafe before turning around and leaving the house.

"Thank you" Rafe's small voice said as you next back next to him on the couch, unpausing the movie you had been watching.

"Never thank me for that. I want you to feel safe, and I was just telling the truth. You know my father has your back, he loves you and he would do anything for you" you told Rafe, who nodded.

Your father and him have had a very close and special relationship ever since you started dating almost 3 years prior. 

Due to the fact that you were an only child and your father had always wanted a son too, he treated Rafe like he was his own. He knew about his situation with Ward and always made sure he was being taken care of.

You sometimes thought your father liked your boyfriend more than you.

"I know, but still. Thank you for everything, you don't know how much I love you, baby" he leaned his body back on top of you, savoring your warmth and delicate touch.

"I love you too, so much"

comments and re-blogs help us grow!

much appreciated!!

REQUEST HERE

[impandgnomes]

As much as I grimace at the thought of considering what this says about me (even though my earliest posts on this account alluded to it) you are probably into something

The world would be a better place if we all understood Butters. Look at me, I’m intensely anxious and depressed but have been doing so much better since my Butters understanding posts got praised

[chronicangel]

be cute, be dumb, be wise, be young

Link to this fic on AO3. Words: 3009 Date posted: October 20, 2024 Summary:

“Pacifica, tell me you didn’t get a tattoo just to seduce me,” he groans. “I didn’t,” she says, extremely matter-of-factly. “I got a tattoo, and now I’m seducing you.”

This is based on @flxnce's tattoo artist/barista AU, which is so so good and you should check it out!!

“Are you sure you want to put this on your body forever?”

“Oh shut up. You and Mabel have practically been harassing me to get a tattoo for the last six months and now the first idea I come to you with, you try to change my mind?” Pacifica glares at him, and it’s not quite as intimidating as it was when she had black hair, but he holds his hands up in surrender anyway.

“Not trying to talk you out of it!” He says, and his face flushes at how fast it peeps out of him. So it’s still a bit intimidating. “I just don’t want you to regret it and get mad at me or anything.”

She rolls her eyes and blows a cloud of smoke in his face in what he guesses is supposed to be a retort, but it’s hard for him to be anything but mildly annoyed about it because that was his cigarette a few minutes ago. “Look, I’m not gonna get into the whole tragic backstory or whatever to make this make sense to you. I thought it was a cool idea.”

Dipper wonders if there is a tragic backstory or if she’s just speaking metaphorically. He’s noticed that she doesn’t talk about her family. He figured they just weren’t close and didn’t think prying much further would be polite, but now that he’s been presented with the possibility that there’s something messed up about it, it connects some dots.

Before he can ask, she holds the cigarette back out to him, half-gone with the filter covered in her lip gloss. “I thought you were quitting,” he grumbles, taking a long drag while she just smirks at him. There’s not much left after that, and he puts it out on the railing. There’s no ashtray and he doesn’t want to litter, so he stuffs the butt in his pocket, where he’ll probably forget about it until it’s time for laundry and Mabel yells at him. “Why do you want me to do it, anyway? Wouldn’t Mabel be better for that sort of thing?”

“I’ve seen the tattoos you guys do. Mabel’s art is amazing, but your lettering is better.” Somehow, she manages to say it like none of that was a compliment, though she doesn’t make it sound like an outright insult either, so it’s at least better than it would have been a few months ago. He knows that she thinks his art is good, anyway, because he’s seen the way that she stares at his arms when he’s in short sleeves and he can’t think of any other reason she’d do that. “Do you not want to do it?”

She looks vulnerable in a way he’s never seen. She’s not making eye contact with him, and she picks at a loose thread in her ripped jeans, threatening to make them look a little less intentional and a little more ruined.

“Yeah,” he says somewhat absentmindedly. Then, realizing that that’s the wrong answer to the question she actually asked him, he adds, “I mean, yeah, let’s do it. Why not? I think my book is a little tight this week, but—”

“Oh, there is no way you’re getting me on that table during daylight hours for this,” she says, and he stares at her for a second.

“Uh, what?”

“I am not doing this in front of Leo, let alone a bunch of strangers. Don’t you have a tattoo gun at home or something?”

“Well, yeah, but my apartment isn’t exactly up to code for—”

“Don’t care, didn’t ask.”

He snaps his mouth shut, cutting off his lecture about sanitization and how he could lose his license if anybody heard about this. It’s not like he didn’t do his own tattoos in his bathroom when he was 18 years old and thought he knew better than the health department, and it’s not like his apartment is some sort of crack den or anything. Mostly, though, he just doesn’t want to have this argument with Pacifica when she’s clearly determined to do it no matter what he says.

It turns out that his apartment is within walking distance of hers. He shouldn’t be shocked, since most of Gravity Falls is within walking distance of most of the rest of it, but he is, a little. It feels like they should have met sooner.

Mabel isn’t home, which is a blessing. There is no way that she could be normal about this. He doesn’t know where she is, though, or when she’ll be back, so he gestures for Pacifica to follow him to his room.

This is the first time in his life that he’s ever regretted not listening to Mabel when she lectures him about tidying up his room. There’s all sorts of papers and soda cans at varying degrees of fullness littering the surfaces of his desk and his dresser, and he’s got various articles of clothing strewn about the floor.

“Wow, you live like this?”

His embarrassment immediately gives way to annoyance, and he shoots her a glare over his shoulder. “Okay, I don’t have to give you a tattoo just because you’re in my apartment.” Still, he picks up a few pieces of laundry and tosses them into his hamper as they pass. He knows the gun is on his desk somewhere amongst all of the mess.

It takes a few minutes of digging, but he manages to find the tattoo gun his great uncle had bought for him to practice with when he was 17 and decided that he wanted to go into the profession. His parents had not approved, but since when did his parents approve of anything Grunkle Stan did? And it worked out in the end, didn’t it?

Of course, he almost drops it when he turns around to see that Pacifica has taken her jeans off, standing in his room in a t-shirt, underwear, and a flannel she’d stolen from him about two hours ago like it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing. Fortunately,  he’s fumbled a lot of things in his life, so he’s able to catch it before it hits the floor and breaks.

“Um,” he says, his voice at least an octave higher and his face so red it burns. “I guess you can lay on my bed?”

If he wasn’t prepared for the sight of Pacifica half-naked, he’s definitely not prepared for the sight of Pacifica half-naked and laying on her stomach on his bed, her arms folded under her cheek, face turned so she can look at him over her shoulder. “Is the staring a part of the tattoo?” She asks, with a raised eyebrow and a tone that says she definitely knows it is not.

“I’m mapping it out,” he bluffs. He keeps that excuse in the back of his mind as he runs his eyes up and down her legs. Pacifica is not especially tall, but her legs are proportionately long. He can understand the appeal of the tattoo she’s asking for, at least in an abstract sense. If he was her, he’d want to draw attention to his legs, too. And it’s definitely going to draw attention.

He grabs her ankle and pulls her leg into his lap, or at least, he tries to, but she lets out a single snorting laugh and jerks her leg away from him. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she turns her head to hide in her arms and his pillows. “Sorry. Ticklish.”

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” She doesn’t answer him out loud, just nods against her arms and settles her leg in his lap. When he grabs her ankle this time, her muscle barely flexes under his fingers. “This isn’t going to feel great,” he warns.

To Pacifica’s credit, she doesn’t seem to react to the pain very much. When the needle first makes contact with her skin, he hears her hiss through her teeth, but after that she lays as still as anyone who’d gone under the gun a thousand times. The other thing he’ll credit her with is that the design she’s chosen for her first tattoo is extremely simple, all lines and letters. She didn’t give him a specific font, so he writes it in his own handwriting, and he tries not to think about the fact that his handwriting is going to be on Pacifica’s body forever.

When he gets up to the back of her knee, he offers her a break, but he’s a little surprised when she takes it. “Can you get me a glass of water?” She asks, and when he stands, she adds, “Or maybe a beer?” He laughs, which he knows is what she really wanted. Pacifica knows him and Mabel both too well to think there’s beer in their apartment. Mike’s Hard, maybe.

She sits up to drink her water, bending her leg so her calf isn’t against his sheets. He appreciates it, though mostly because he doesn’t know what kinds of germs are on his sheets to cause some sort of infection. When was the last time he washed them?

“Maybe you should let me wash and wrap those before we get started on the second half?” He suggests.

“You’re the expert,” she says with a shrug, and something about it strikes him as odd. It’s only when he gets back with the stuff for it that he realizes she hasn’t made a snarky comment since she took her clothes off.

“Are you doing okay?”

She tilts her head at him, flexing her leg like she’s testing out the muscles. “Yep, everything seems to be working fine,” she confirms. He just stares at her for another second, and he’s not sure if her face falling is because she realizes what he means or she realizes that she can’t pretend she doesn’t know what he means. “I’m okay,” she says.

“But?” He asks. There’s something about her tone… He doesn’t have the words for it, but he can hear it. There’s something wrong.

She heaves a dramatic sigh. “Well fuck, Dipper, can I just say I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Of course you can,” he says, faster than he means to. She doesn’t have to tell him anything that she doesn’t want to. But he’d like her to talk to him.

She stares at him for another second, and then her eyes drift over to his desk, and he feels another surge of embarrassment. He should have tidied it up after he found the tattoo gun, but he was so eager to get back to her, and then she wasn’t wearing any pants and he kind of forgot about everything else. “I still don’t want to get into the whole tragic backstory,” she says with a warning tone, and he holds his hands up in surrender as if he’d asked. “But my parents were—are the worst. And I guess this kinda feels like taking my body back from them. It’s… cathartic. It’s weird.” She laughs.

“I think a lot of people feel that way,” he says. Of course there are always the people who never thought that hard about it, the people who come in on impulse, but more often than not, he sees people who are very conscious of their bodies.

She looks down at the marks on her leg, twisting it around experimentally. “Is this the worst of it?”

“I can’t lie to you, the back of the knee is gonna suck. Like, one of the worst parts of the whole body to get tattooed suck. But it’s all uphill from there.”

“Guess we’d better get it over with then, huh?”

“No going back now,” he agrees. She sets the glass of water down on his end table, still half-full with marks from her lip gloss on the rim.

He holds her leg down against the bed while he works on the back of her knee, and he can feel her push up against it a couple of times. The only thing that keeps him from fucking the tattoo up is his own expertise, but he’s not about to scold her about it, not until it becomes a real issue anyway. That’s the reason that she asked him to do it, anyway, isn’t it? Well, this and his handwriting, he guesses.

He gets so absorbed in the work that he almost doesn’t notice the fact that he’s working his way up Pacifica’s leg, his fingers sinking into the flesh of her thigh. The room is quiet—just the soft buzzing of the tattoo gun and their breathing. Well, mostly Pacifica’s breathing. Dipper’s breathing is never more steady than when he’s working on someone, but his ears catch on every sharp breath and gasp she makes.

“Almost done,” he says in a way that he hopes is reassuring as he works on the last of the lettering under the swell of her ass. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here—he thinks it can only have been an hour or two. All lines and letters, it seems impossible that it could have taken any time at all. He knows the only reason it feels like any time has passed is that it’s Pacifica he’s working on.

When he pulls away and immediately sets about getting it cleaned and wrapped, he glances up at her face to check in on her again. “Still doing good?”

“Do you worry this much about all of your clients, or is it just because we’re friends?”

“You know, I think that might be the first time you’ve ever admitted out loud that we’re friends,” he teases.

She gives him a curious look—not curious as in she looks curious, but curious as in he has no idea why the fuck she’s looking at him like that. “We’re friends,” she says, voice soft. Something catches in his chest. His breath? His heart? He’s not sure. “Of course we’re friends,” she adds, and he’s suddenly very aware of his hand against the back of her thigh.

He clears his throat and pulls away from her. “I think that’s, um, pretty much all taken care of,” he says, looking anywhere but at her while his cheeks burn. “You can remove the bandage after 24 hours, but make sure to moisturize it whenever you wash it and—” She reaches out to rest a hand on his arm, and his eyes flick over to her.

“Dipper.” She’s sitting up now, her leg bent up again to keep it off his sheets again even though the tattoo is all bandaged up.

He watches her leg slide around so she’s on a knee instead, and he barely has time to look up at her face before it’s right up against his and oh. She’s kissing him. She tastes like coffee and cigarettes and lip gloss, which are all flavors he’s extremely familiar with—some moreso than others. After a second of hesitation, he slides a hand up to cup her jaw while he kisses her back, and she doesn’t waste any time in climbing over him.

“Mnh… Mabel. I didn’t hear Mabel get home, but I don’t know when she’s—”

“She’s not coming home tonight,” Pacifica says hurriedly, her mouth hardly an inch away from his, and he blinks a few times.

He pulls away even though she whines about it. “Pacifica, tell me you didn’t get a tattoo just to seduce me,” he groans.

“I didn’t,” she says, extremely matter-of-factly. “I got a tattoo, and now I’m seducing you.”

“Then how do you know that Mabel isn’t coming home tonight?”

“Because I texted her while you were getting me water. Will you stop talking?” And, well, she doesn’t exactly give him a lot of room to argue. He doesn’t especially want to argue about it, anyway.

When he wakes up in the morning, closer to noon than usual, he hears the shower running in his ensuite bathroom, and it takes him just half a second to figure out who’s in it before he remembers, shit. Oh, shit. He gets up and scrambles to start putting his clothes on, whatever’s closest to the bed regardless of how dirty or clean it might be. He’s got boxers and one leg of jeans on before the bathroom door opens and steam comes rolling out of it.

She’s wrapped up in one of his towels, and that visual alone is enough to make his cheeks flush. (It shouldn’t be. He’s seen her naked, now. He’s done things to her. But it is.) “I was starting to think I killed you,” she teases, and he blinks a few times.

“Huh?” He says dumbly. Then, “Oh. Right. Because I…” He gestures vaguely at the bed behind him, but trails off. He’s staring. He should stop. He doesn’t.

She just stands in the doorway of his bathroom for a long minute, and he wonders if he’s supposed to be doing something here. He doesn’t… It’s not like he’s got no experience here, but he doesn’t have an abundance of it. “Do you like it?” He eventually manages to ask.

She looks confused for a second, and then her eyes drop down to her leg. “Oh.” She turns to let him see it, and the whole thing is visible with the length of the towel. She already took the bandages off, but he can’t find it in him to scold her.

Trailing up her leg are a series of lines with labels like “prude,” “flirty,” and “slut.” When she had told him about the idea, she explained this picture she’d seen circulated on social media a decade ago that had stuck somewhere in the back of her mind since. It was like a reclamation, she’d said. He’s not sure he gets it, but it’s hard not to let his eyes trail up her legs.

“Yeah,” she says eventually. His eyes snap back up to her face guiltily. “Yeah, I think I like it.”

[senorablack]

Big Boy Purchases

Words: 1028 Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Humor, adulting like pros Summary: Our boys buy some things for their house. That's it, that's the fic.

Leather looks nice and it’s comfortable as hell, but it’ll be a pain in the ass come summer. “But it’d be metal as fuck.” Eddie argues. “It’s, I don’t know, impractical. Come on, man, three seats? Nah, at least if we get the brown sectional we have more space annndd we could pull off the cover to wash it.”  “Expect a lot of fluids to sully our couch, aye, Stephen?” Eddie squints. “It’s Steve.” He replies, then walks Eddie to the sofa in question. “And yeah, you’re the clumsiest person I know. And we’ve both met Robin.” “God said, you can only have good hand-eye coordination or those deviant, sinful genes that makes a guy wanna blow another in the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly. Not both.” “Is guy suppose to be you?” Steve asks with a raise brow. The back of Eddie’s knees are at the edge of the sofa. “Duh, man, I’m the most clumsiest person I know. And we’ve both met Robin.” “Cute.” Steve says, and all but throws Eddie into the cushions.  Eddie whimpers. Melts. Groans so inappropriately that Steve has to kick him in the shin to get him to simmer down. “Dude, this is a family place so would you keep it g-rated?” “Out of body right now. Leave a message.” Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “After. The. Beeeeeeep.” “So?”  “I concede. I surrender. I god damn yield.” Eddie says. “Is this—am I dead?” “See? Imagine kicking off your shoes after a long day of running around the restaurant.” “God? Is that you?” “No, but I get that a lot.” This opens Eddie’s eyes. He frowns. Shakes his head. “Nah, man, you can do better than that.” “What I keep telling myself, but for some reason I still keep you around.” Steve says, offering Eddie a hand up. Eddie takes it and immediately pulls him into a side hug. “Atta-boy.”

Quilt and wood? That’s summer camp. That’s visits down at the his parent’s lakehouse for the Fourth of July. That’s grandma sneaking you her kitchen sink cookies when your parents aren’t looking. It’s stealing whatever you can find from the linen closet and making forts in front of Saturday morning cartoons. It’s a—

“Hell no.” Eddie scoffs.

“Dude, can’t beat a classic.”

“Its antiquity is not being questioned here, Harrington.” Eddie says, face scrounged up in disgust.

“Why are you shitting on all my suggestions?”

“Because we’re two young twenty-somethings who binge drink on Thursdays, and not Ethyl and fuckin’ Bethyl settling down from a wild night of bingo at Cedarwood Senior Home.”

Steve crosses his arms and mutters, “I was just joking about the floral print pillowcases.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re done. My turn.“ 

Eddie doesn’t give Steve the chance to protest. After a quick peruse around the selection of comforters, Eddie finds a dark grey one with light grey stripes. It’s thick and heavy, and looks soft as hell.

Steve, still sore about being knock down, doesn’t say that though.

“If this was up to you, our bed would be on the ground with two sheets and a pillow we have to fight over.” Steve says. 

Eddie turns on him and cocks his head to the side. Narrows his eyes. Steve glares.

“You forget to eat or something?” Eddie asks.

“Fuck off.” Steve pushes at his shoulder. 

“Will a Swedish meatball calm you down?” 

“The blanket, Eddie.”

Eddie grabs Steve by the wrist and places his hand on the display comforter.

“What’dya think?” Eddie asks.

He rubs a bit of its cloth against his cheek. Steve pulls off, giving the hovering department attendant an apologetic smile. 

“I dunno…” Steve says, but he can’t keep up the lie.

“It’s simple. It’s practical. It’s like, so nondescript that it’s almost a statement.” Eddie says in a rush.

“That sentence meant nothing but we’ll circle back to that,” Steve says and is at a loss, because it’s nice. It is. And he really doesn’t want to agree.

“Fine, it’s not bad.” He says.

“Not bad is as good as a maybe. And sweetheart, your maybes always lean yes with the right push.”

“Calling me a push-over, Munson?”

“Course not, man.” Eddie says, throwing in their new bedding into their basket. “I’d never.”

-

He isn’t sure that’ll fit, but he wants it real bad. It’s silly, but he even thinks that he’s never wanted anything this badly. Which means he’s officially an adult. With adult appetites. It’s gross how much he’s excited.

“How bad,” Steve asks between pants, “do you want it?” 

They are both soaked and out of breath. And no matter what, it’s just not going in.

“Well, if you’d grab a better hold of that leg…” Eddie tries, but he’s also struggling. They both pause their work.

“Look, I know I talk big game, but I feel like my body is on fire back here, man, can’t we just—“

“Thought you said you could go aaaaall afternoon, big boy?”

“That was before I knew it was going to be ninety-eight degrees out.” 

“What if it like, warps, or I dunno, fades in the sun while we’re gone?”

Steve groans and tugs off his shirt. Eddie watches because who the hell is going to stop him?Steve’s not wrong, it’s fucking searing out, but he really is worried about their new purchase. Sure Steve was the one to find it, but Eddie was the one that had to have it—it being this ridiculously long, 6-person, solid walnut table that could extend out to 8. It’s everything he wanted in a dining table and a son of bitch puzzle to get into the damn house. Once they figure it out, he’s drafting up a new campaign. 

“Okay, okay. We just have to adopt a new strategy. We take off the table legs. Then it’s extender pieces. And boom.” Steve says, and then points at Eddie before he can argue, “But boom after beer break.”

Eddie ties up his hair. Most of it falls back down again. He gestures for Steve to walk before him with a hand out and a deep bow. 

“Boom after beer break.” He sighs.

[maxfandoms]

Day feelings towards Night

Hi, Hello! I see a lot of people who see Day blame Night for the accident and are like but "Day's actually the one at fault in the end for taking his eyes of the road" or "Day is just taking his anger out on Night" and you're right but

Day know it was accident, he know deep down that Night didn't do anything and it also not just as simple as Day taking out his anger on Night, it is part of it but it's more complicated than that

So as someone who is familiar in the department of "Being angry/furious with family members who did sh*tty things but are trying to move on or be better" and also as someone who has been right about Day's emotion before I'm just here to give a rambly perspective on things. So Let's Start

(Also side note: I am going to talk about how Day's view Night more and not actually how Night is because this two are so completed different things for now at least)

We know that Day's know it was accident, and even if it was in someone choice it was Day's. Day choose to go the club and Day choose to take his eye off the road and the things is even before this episode, and even when I wrote my thoughts on Night & Day i kind of knew that would be Day's choice that lead to the accident in a ironic way (I was thinking that maybe Day knew he shouldn't be playing because that could risk his vision as well but that didn't happen) But I still understand because

What Day is actually angry about

Let start bit by bit, First with this line by the dad especially this part right here "You once wanted him to be". Combine this with Night saying "Who's the big brother?" it paints a picture of relationship where Day was the more responsible of the two (the national badminton player, seems good at school) while Night feel like maybe he was lost and maybe partying so Day was the one taking care of Night

It says a lot that the first flashback we got about Night & Day is Day in the role of taking care of Night, making sure he's will get home safe when now it's Night doing that

Also just look at difference in the way Day looks hearing Night, like in the first one has a bitt of annoyance, but there's a care and fondness that make me cry a little bit since I knew what was coming

With this dialogue, Day makes it clear that he doesn't feel Night's action are genuine, that they don't come from Night's care and love for him. And can I just say, Day is not completely wrong on that assumption

Night loves Day? Yes. The thing is though Night's guilt is def a factor in the way he's behaving right now and despite the fact that Night's recklessness was about his own struggle than his feelings towards Day's. Day doesn't know that, what he does know is that after the accident, Night became more caring, gentle towards him.

What think happen in Day's mind every time that Night is kind is this: "Now you can be a good brother? Now that you think you hurt me so much you can be what I wanted you to be? Now that the spot of the 'golden child' is vague? Not out of love on genuine care? Why couldn't before? What was stopping you?"

And a lot of you may be thinking that is should be easy to connect the dots, however it's not. Because I think Day thinks that if he were to try and reach out towards Night, it would just go back to the way things were and Night would fall back in the same recklessness behavior (Could this be a little projection? Yes but let's not talk about that)

This part can be interpret in a lot of ways, because from what asked around Day uses ‘เสียใจ’ which means ‘sad’ but it could also mean ‘feel sorry for something’. So this could be that Day's is feel like he taking a responsibility for the accident, I think that could be one way to interpret it

But what if it's more than that? What if he's also feeling sorry than he can seem to let go of his resentment, that despite Night's trying Day is not ready to trust him to be a good brother?

TL:DR Day's anger is not about the accident, but about everything that Night is doing after it. Day blame Night for not being able to be a good brother BEFORE the accident which it unfair because Night was dealing with own thing before but Day needed a big brother for long time that he is hurt from the waiting

[toomanyplotbunnies-sendhelp]

Hello and welcome to Day 11 of "Let's Explore My Plot Bunnies"

Today I wanna talk about a plot bunny that has been on and off inside my brain and that, currently, has been going nuts ever since I explained the MDZS Magic Kaito AU.

The fandom for this plot bunny is not one I have spoken about on my blog yet - Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

More precisely, I have this as a Kakeyo Hitman Reborn (Detective Conan AU).

Working title: (A Mafia Boss?) No, I am a detective.

The idea starts with a change brought by the sealing of Tsunayoshi's Sky Flames.

Basically, instead of stunting his growth and clouding his mind (and you can't tell me those symptoms weren't at least halfway caused by the seal), Tsuna's seal acts a bit... weird. Weird as in, Tsuna ends up with "Kudo Shinichi Levels of Luck in Finding Dead Bodies."

Because of this, not only is Tsuna constantly encountering criminals (big or small), but also he is pretty much adopted by the police department of Japan. Yes, all of it. (Don't ask him how he ended up with more uncles and aunts than there are kids in his class.)

Tsuna, since he is pretty much followed by death everywhere besides his home and Namimori School (where Tsuna doubts even Gods would try to start shit because Hibari Kyoya is scary as fuck), ends up gaining an interest towards the law and towards the work of a detective. Hibari Kyoya, whose family is part of the police force, definitely approves.

In fact, he approves so much that he is giving lessons in self-defence (read: beating up) to Tsuna from a young age. All Kyoya has to say is that the "sky omnivore" is promising.

As the years go on, Tsuna ends up with a rag-tag team of kids that help him (read: get themselves involved) in solving murders/kidnappings. Tsuna even has a phantom thief that he faces every other week against. (I DO want to make that phantom thief be Kaito KID just because he is definitely a Mist Flame with Lightning secondary and Cloud Tendencies.)

The end result is that when Reborn comes to tutor Tsuna for the position of Vongola Heir, Tsuna has already (mostly unknowingly) gathered a separate set of Guardians on his own; is already trained by Hibari Kyoya in hand to hand combat and trained in armed combat by the police and, most importantly, IS part of the police force... and is vehemently against taking the position of Vongola Heir.

(Reborn is really going to kill Iemitsu for his blatant disregard towards his family's daily affairs. The idiot COULD'VE stopped his own child from joining the police force if he cared enough.)

Things to note:

Tsuna can still get his canon Guardians in this, but the way and the order in which he gets them will be different.

Hibari Kyoya is still scary as all hell in every universe, this one included. He is just more Alaudi (or was it Alaude?) coded than before cause handcuffs are more prominent in detective/police work.

Byakuran is probably gonna start laughing like crazy for about half an hour when he learns Tsuna is with the police force. Why? Because the irony of World's Best Mafia Boss (in other universes) being a detective and member of the police force in this universe is killing him.

Let Tsunayoshi have friends. Like seriously. Let him make friends through this profession/curse of his. (Whether the friends he makes OUTSIDE of Japan are part of the Mafia or not is another story)

Iemistu fucked up by not being around his family more. Now, he is definitely paying the price... Reborn wants to take his kneecaps as compensation for the bullshit he has to deal with now.

So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Let me know!

Honestly, I have soo many ways through which the seal could affect Tsuna and make him go a different path in life. But the Mafia still catches up to him. At least in this AU, Mukuro should be more... chill towards Tsuna cause he makes it clear he is part of the police - which isn't that much better in retrospect, but at least Tsuna is not ,nor does he want to become a Mafia Boss. Also, Tsuna probably has memorized all laws of Japan but mathematics still give him a headache (mostly because of his teacher).

Either way, I will end it here for today. I hope you guys have a great day/night and that you take care of yourselves!

See you tomorrow,

-TooManyPlotBunnies-Send Help

[notstilinski]

The Fall of the House of Usher Starters !

Taken from the Netflix 2023 series, The Fall of the House of Usher! Some of these have already been edited. You can change them however you see fit! There may be some light spoilers present!

“Listen, I’m sorry… For your loss. For your losses, rather.”

“Have a glass. See what a few years of your worth tastes like.”

“Don’t lecture me on family values. You’re just as shit in that department as I am.”

“The gates are always open but that doesn’t mean you answer the phone?”

“Don’t mention them ever. They don’t exist. Do you understand?”

“They will love you because I love you, and the only thing stronger than love is how fucking scared they are of getting cut out of the will.”

“All good. Right behind you.”

“You guys, we should really get together more often. It’s just a balm for the soul.”

“You know what a resolution is? It’s a deal you make with the future.”

“You’re basically 80% cum, I can fucking smell it on you.”

“Jesus, (Name), when you get going, you get going.”

“The oven mitts come off and the nail polish goes on.”

“It’s better, I promise, in the moment just before than in the moment after.”

“You are consequence, (Name). And tonight, you are consequential.”

“You are a pretty, pretty little thing.”

“Opportunity doesn’t give a fuck what you’re going through.”

“(Name), damn it, everybody knows that edible arrangements are what you send to people you hate.”

“If you start thinking this is reality, you’ll just slip into the abyss.”

“You shouldn’t be here and you don’t have to be here. That’s all I was saying.”

“It’s amazing how far you can get on denial.”

“Christ, no one knows they’re the fall guy until they’re falling.”

“Don’t complain about the drugs.”

“He throws us the food and watches us fight for it. You know that.”

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I didn’t want to think it but… you’re all fucking monsters.”

“Don’t have to be smart to be dangerous.”

“You gotta be smart. You have to realize, you can’t trust people. Not you. Not anyone.”

“Don’t stand there and look all hurt, you asshole! You think I don’t know?”

“Shut your mouth, get your shit together. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Both of us lucky in one way, at least. Got good people at home who love us anyway. Let’s not let them down.”

“I trusted them, so I trusted you.”

“All of the best of (Name) without… without the broken heart.”

“You don’t have to be a tyrant, but if you don’t want to be consistently cruel, then you have to be sufficiently brutal at least once to establish authority.”

“I’m sorry. Why the fuck would you do that, sweetheart?”

“No, I’m afraid you’re ringside for my reckoning, old friend.”

“You’re a collection of impeccable, elaborate masks in orbit of a stunted heart.”

“You’re a monster, you know that?”

“Should’ve died here, honey. It would have made you an honest person.”

“You only ever wanted to be loved by them. You only ever wanted their approval. And it’s still no fucking excuse.”

“If I die, this stops?”

“Outsourcing intimacy.”

“I look at you and I see… you. The poverty of you.”

“We’re a… Virus, I think. People, I mean.”

“It’s a slap on the wrist that comes with a blowjob.”

“I say this with love. Let it go. Let it all go.”

“I knew I would climb to the top of the tower on a pile of corpses.”

“Because it don’t matter in the end why you did any of it. I don’t fucking care why you did it.”

“We don’t want your confession, or your rationale, or your explanation. So take all that with you, why don’t you.”

[italianpersonwithashippersheart]

4 Minutes Ep 1 Thoughts

I really liked the first ep. It was intriguing and well done.

First official braind deal 4 minutes and it's about a cat, lol. What is it with bls and cat food brands? Also showing off that Bible can speak English super well right away.

Intellectually I understand that this is probabrly part of a character arc™️ unfortunately as a disable person in a family of disabled people and with countless of horrible doctors expieriences between us Thyme is getting on my very last nerve.

Korn's dad just springing the secret department on him with no contex and then he finds out that it's illegal stuff on the fly is insane behavior. Just what? why? what if he had morals? I do realize I am asking a lot from a rich kid but still.

FUAIZ!!!!!!!!! My baby is here, and he is still adorable, and still baby and somehow still dating a massive red flag. Can someone please give this boy a love interest that is green flag, just once.

Also good on the BOC for fucking up the pair, at least for a bit, not sure if Fuaiz and JJay are a thing in this too. But at least Korn and Tonkla are dating, kissing and fucking (Can you fuck me raw and LUBE!! 👀👀👀🤯🤯🤯🤯🔥🔥🔥😳😳🥳🥳🥳🥳). There are production companies in the BL/QL space that could never (not just GMMTV, domundi almost went there in two worlds but then didn't Nat's character never slept with the other guy).

Nothing better happen to my boy. I want to see his character happy and in the best releationship possible at the end understand. I know my fellow DFF watcher know what I am saying.

Side note I didn't realize that Bas and Bible were playing sibilings. That's so funny to me.

I do realize I am jumping the gun calling Korn a red flag but honestly his nonechalent response to secret illigal gambling being dumped on him was a red flag, at least to me.

He seems to be a nice enough brother at least. Curious to know if the fact Korn's mother is dead will play a factor. I'm having Kinnporsche flashback.

Yes Yes I understand Thyme is poor and a has good gradma and is a good boy™️ at heart. He is still being a dick at work to his patients. Maybe when he starts remembering their names I will be impressed.

Nice ending. I am very curious about the fact that there are more people who can do thing. I can't wait for the next episode. I am seated.

[greenninjagal-blog]

Smoke and Mirrors

Hi :D Who's ready for this monster? Welcome to my Big Bang for this year! Special thank you to @tss_storytime for putting this together and giving me the opportunity and @dragonsarecats for being my amazing fantastic artist partner who created this cover art!

Summary: Roman and Remus don't have and never have had reflections. Logan has been betrayed by someone, but he’s not sure who. Patton's been dead for sixteen years and counting.

Somehow, all of these things are related.

Words: 3637

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Master List

“I’m just saying—” Remus says, almost sounding excited at this new revelation of his, “—the next step would definitely be an apartment building! Think about it, Roman!”

“I am thinking about it,” Roman says, tiredly. “I don’t want to be thinking about it, but I am.”

“So many people live there, you know? There’s, what, sixty units in your building, right? At least twenty of them have got to be families with little brats, then old people with their pets, other college students with friends over. On a Friday like today there’s got to be, like, over two hundred people. And then you have the narrow staircases, which Grandma and Grandpop can’t get down in a timely manner, and I bet with all the mold in the walls—”

“Remus,” Roman says, tilting his phone so that the microphone clearly picks up on how incredibly not-amused he is with the conversation.

“...the elevator is basically already on its last legs. Remember how it shook when I jumped in it last time?”

Roman remembers it really well actually, probably better than Remus, since Roman actually has a healthy dose of self preservation. Remus had just been finishing laughing his nasally, crackling chortle when the elevator doors opened again finally on Roman’s floor, and the sight of the bruising on Roman’s face when he saw him again was enough to set him off periodically throughout the rest of his three hour stay. 

Still, Roman knows that Remus has a point. Not that he’s going to admit it before he’s actually in a casket, because Remus would never let him live it down.

Roman side steps out of the way of a cyclist who seems to think the whole sidewalk belongs to them, and readjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder that is currently cutting off the circulation to his fingertips. The city isn’t entirely busy, nor the weather too terrible, but Roman is regretting choosing to do the hike back to his apartment building. His knockoff vans are hella cute today, but they were not made for long distance walking, and there’s a rock in his left one that he hasn’t managed to get out no matter how many times he’s stopped to take it off and shake.

“I’m just saying,” Remus repeats, “If I were—” 

“I hate to be the voice of reason here,” Roman says, “but you are not a serial arsonist, Remus!” 

“I could be. You don’t know everything I do in my free time.”

“You don’t have time to be an arsonist. Between all your comic deadlines and the various licenses you have accrued, you don’t spend enough time on this plane of Earth in order to have set fire to anything other than your toaster,” Roman rolls his eyes. “And that’s only when you remember to eat, Rem.” 

Remus blows a raspberry back at him directly into the receiver so that Roman can hear exactly how wet it is and cringe away from it. 

Remus had a talent for getting himself into trouble and trying new things that skirted the edge of legality, but he’d given up fires back when they were tweens. Whoever or whatever was doing it now seemed to be doing it with much more intention: a rental car in a half full parking garage, an abandoned warehouse in the industrial area already set to be demolished, a newly built, still for-sale two-story house in the suburbs (casualty: one, injured six). The most recent event had been two days ago when a department store nearly exploded right as it was closing, killing two employees, three customers, and a firefighter and injuring far more. The fires were slowly getting bigger and gaining more traction, as if gearing up for a grand finale and the news hadn’t been taking it easy.

The police and the FBI were apparently hot-on-the-case and the tip number line was almost engraved into Roman’s retinas from how it was plastered all over the place, begging for Cyra City civilians to stay aware, keep a close eye on things, and report anything that seemed suspicious.

So far no actual details about the whole thing had been made public (on the very valid worry of copycats), but the lack of information had left people far more options to gossip about it. So far Roman’s physical chemistry class was split between it being a handful of rowdy teenagers “rebelling” and it being a serial murderer winding up for an enmasse attack that would go down in history along with the “greats”. Most of the stores had started selling mini fire extinguishers in the checkout lines and Roman’s mom had called last week to see if he had already bought himself one, and Roman wasn’t embarrassed until he answered yes.

But Remus already knows all that, and had texted him a string of mocking emojis until Roman had asked if he should sell it. 

It’s currently sitting in his apartment next to his bed, in easy access if he spontaneously catches fire while sleeping. ((His last hook up had called him prepared, and well… Roman had been eager to show the guy just how prepared he was.))

Luckily, his beloved apartment building is around the corner and he can feel his second wind coming at even the thought of taking his shoes off and collapsing face first into his bed. He starts patting through his pockets for his keys, stalling his walk behind two older women in jogging outfits, and switches his phone to his other hand so he can check through his bag frustratedly. He’s found at least three chapsticks he thought he lost months ago, and his extra hairbrush, and about twenty seven receipts (one of which has the number of the cute barista and he makes a mental note to put that in his phone later). There’s a crumpled flier for some niche religious group that that Roman accepted partially because the guy handing them out looked a bit desperate for interaction, but mostly because they were outside of the boutique Roman likes, blocking the entrance. He tosses that one in the nearby trash can as he walks by.

Roman pins his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, using both hands to sift through his bag. His brain tumbles through the previous conversation trying to remember what they were talking about. 

“Did you eat today?”

“Huh?” Remus says, which is a Remusian for ‘What day is it?’ “Hey, how many people do you think I could murder and get away with?”

“Remus.”

“Probably like fifteen right? At least to start. Once I figured out how to do it. Gasoline and a lighter and I could probably get a full apartment building—”

“Honestly, going from no murder, to a few murders, to about a hundred is an insane jump. Even for you.”

“Well it wouldn’t be a full hundred. At least a few people would get out, right? Unless I barricaded the front doors, or like… chain-and-padlock-ed it closed.”

“The point still stands that— and I can’t believe you’re making me argue this— you didn’t set those fires and you aren’t going to set them in the future!”

Remus makes a disagreeable tone and Roman smiles graciously at the women nearby who probably just overheard that whole conversation and might call the police on him for it later. Lovely. He turns away quickly leaning into his phone.

“In fact, right now I bet I can guess exactly what you are doing!” Roman continues. “Sitting in your drawing chair, with both your computer monitors on. The left one has the sketches for the next page of your comic, half lined, and the right one has the character sheets for Anton and Pryce and the Dragon Witch. Your drawing pad is in front of you, and you’re spinning your pen in your hand aimlessly while we talk, and everything is the same way it was this morning.”

“You forgot the part where there’s a super hot stripper giving me a blowjob right now,” Remus says with the tell-tale clack of him putting down his digital art pen, which is as good as him admitting to it all. Roman pauses just enough to roll his eyes so hard he’s certain that Remus gets the vibe from his own apartment.

“Damnit,” he huffs, checking his pockets again. “Why can’t I find anything today?”

“Are you still looking for that compact mirror?” 

“Keys, now,” Roman says. “But I swear I had that mirror this morning when I left the apartment. I was late because I was cleaning it!”

Or well. Because he was trying to put on makeup via guesswork, but he didn’t need Remus knowing that was the real reason. 

“You know you could have made the jump with the right angle at the windows in your fancy science school, right? No one would even have noticed. All too busy being boring lame losers with no life, just like you.”

“I don’t like traveling without another mirror.”

“Um, hello? Phone screen!”

“I’m not going to leave my phone behin— found it!” 

“The mirror?”

“My keys,” Roman twists his keychain around his hand, and waves at the other college students loitering at the corner before he heads towards the entrance to his apartment building. “Look, Remus—”

“Yeah, yeah, homework, physics, blah blah blah, you’re not getting laid, blah blah—”

“Between the two of us, who walked in on the other in the middle of—”

“Between the two of us who forgot to return my copy of 2005′s Just Like Heaven and made me come get it myself?”

"You didn’t even like it!"

"I don’t like you either," Remus says. "And jeez for someone who looks exactly like me there are some startling fucking differences. Like length—”

“Tony didn’t have a problem with it.”

“I thought his name was Kyle?”

Roman frowns, pulling his key out of the door and catching it with his knee, thinking that night over. “No. He was definitely a Tony. His hair was… you know, Tony hair!”

“The fact that you had to rely on his hair is sad,” Remus states. “You get how that’s sad, right?”

“I’m hanging up—”

“Wait, wait! Just… you’re sure that…you’re not going to, like… burnaliveinafire?”

Roman blinks, and swallows back the ridiculous amount of softness that appeared out of nowhere, and hits like a sucker punch right through his ribcage in a way that is so very Remus.

“I’m not going to burn alive in a fire,” Roman says.

“… promise to jump over the second anything looks sketchy."

"There's, like, nine other apartment buildings and two hotels within walking distance! And like ten others around this district in the city!" Roman says, just short of whining because inside the building there are people who recognize him and he does not need them thinking all he does is whine and complain. At least the air conditioning in the lobby is running, offering relief from the horrible ten minute walk he was forced to endure. He does not get how normal people do this, all the time, every day!

"Fourteen, actually. I looked it up this morning and I don’t need your fancy math degree to know that’s a one in twenty-five chance. That’s a non-zero percentage," Remus counters, with that mocking tone that borders on awe because even after all this time he can’t imagine how Roman had gone from center stage to knee deep in calculus problems, willingly. He’d only made the mistake of asking Roman once, and since then both of them pretend that Roman had always dreamed of solving differentials. 

“It will take hours to find something that’s close to your apartment,” Roman says instead.

“At least you’ll be alive,” Remus says.

“Fine, fine….are you still wearing those dog tags?”

Remus makes an affirmative noise and Roman sighs. They had been polished relics of their childhood: something their parents had insisted that they have at all times for emergencies and that Roman and Remus had complained about endlessly. They hadn’t been allowed phones until they were nearly twelve years old because every argument of “we need it for emergencies” was countered by “you have necklaces that allow you to travel miles in a handful of inches”.

"And don’t use the elevators at all,” Remus adds. “I’m serious about this. They’re deathtraps in a fire. I’ll come over there and hide all your mascara.”

"Yeah, yeah," Roman stifles a yawn. "And if something happens, meet at that ugly gas station at the state border between us, don’t tell anyone where we are going, and don’t accept any rides from strangers."

"Don’t make me sound like Mom."

"Nag me a little less."

"Bitch."

"Dick."

"Dork."

"Geek."

"Loser."

"Dumbass," Roman says, far more affectionately than he meant it to come out as, and so he clears his throat quickly and he heads towards the elevator. “I’m hanging up now. Remember to eat something and I’ll see you in two days.”

“Two days? What’s.... ah, fuck me,” Remus says. There’s a loud creak of leather and Roman imagines Remus throwing all his weight back in his chair and staring at the ceiling as if he’s personally challenging fate itself. He breathes out heavily in a way that ironically mirrors how Roman’s own bones feel at the realization.

“Another year,” he says.

((He does not ask if Roman ever thinks it will get easier to bear. Roman does not answer him that no it probably won’t ever. It doesn’t make either of them feel better.))

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Roman says, forcibly shoving away the deary aura that descended on them as easily as he could. If he takes a breath and swallows away the lump in his throat he could pretend that they were talking about visiting each other for a birthday celebration.

He might not ever get to be an actor, but he’d always had a passion for acting. Is it any wonder? When he’s playing a part, he can shed the skin of a no-named nobody from somewhere so remote no one thinks it's a real place, and he can be someone with a name standing on center stage.

Roman breathes out so heavily that he almost misses Remus’s quick response.

“I already attempted to swan dive off the roof into a spoon today,” his twin says, flippantly. “Bruised my eye and split my lip and probably broke my collar bone.”

“Wait, what—” 

“Later, Prince Charmless.”

“Remus, you did what?!”

But by then he’s talking to the end call screen on his phone, staring into the picture of the flaming dumpster that he used as a profile picture for his idiot brother, with his heart racing. Logically, he knows that Remus is joking.

Probably.

Uh, maybe? 

Roman suddenly remembers a lot of leaping off the backyard shed until Dad came out screaming at them red in the face with worry, followed by tag games that ended with a leap through a window wrong and three hours worth of sitting still to get the glass shards pulled out of his arms, and then racing through the upstairs hall to jump the stair railing into the strategically placed hand mirror to make it to school on time.

In all honesty, Roman bets that Remus did try it, as part of a morning routine that their parents hadn’t been able to beg out of him. One would think the first time the jagged edges of a break had shredded his skin, Remus would have learned to be more careful, but somehow it seemed that Remus had fallen in love with webbed cracks in his mirror.

Roman sighs, placing his phone into his pocket. And then he presses the elevator button and leans against the wall next to the panel to take off his shoe and look for that stupid rock again. 

His keys jangle in his other hand, annoyingly loud in the otherwise still entrance alcove. It’s times like these that he can appreciate that most of his neighbors dislike the other people in the building and therefore make extra effort to not be caught outside.

The only person Roman really ever has to worry about is the guy on the third floor who he thinks might be a weed dealer and is constantly hinting at giving Roman a first time discount. Great guy, really! He just always manages to catch Roman right next to a reflective surface. It’s pure coincidence that he hasn’t noticed yet.

The elevator dings and the doors roll open with a gentle rumble that does not betray any of the unreliability of its innerworkings. Every other week it’s out of order and Roman’s pretty sure at least 80% of the building has complained to the owners about it, but the solutions never last more than another few days.

Roman doesn’t even usually take the elevator! But the walk was long, and he lives on the top floor, and serial arsonists aren’t going to set fire to his apartment building in the two minutes it will take to get to his floor. 

It’s fine.

Roman slides on his shoe and hobbles into the elevator, breathing in the musty stench that smells like it’s coming from the corpses that might be buried under the building. Part of Roman entertains the idea that ghosts haunt only the elevator, sadly floating around and gaining their small enjoyments from watching people get stuck in between floors when it inevitably breaks.

Roman hasn’t done anything to annoy the spirits recently, at least to his knowledge, so he should be okay. 

He leans back against the railing just in case though.

It takes another long moment for the elevators to start closing again; definitely long enough that Roman gets the impression that he shouldn’t have gotten on at all. The longer it stays open the more likely it is for someone else to suddenly show up and want to get on as well. There are only about three things Roman can think of that are worse than being in an enclosed space, with a stranger, while his compact mirror is MIA. 

Last time something like that happened, the other person got agitated enough that Roman had seriously thought they were going to attack him. Roman knows he’s unsettling to be around; it’s not simple to catch what is off about him at first, but most human brains can pick up that something is distinctly wrong. Knowing something’s wrong with a situation, but not being sure what and being trapped in a small compartment without a sure way to defend yourself? Yeah that’s a recipe for disaster. 

Across the alcove, the door to the stairwell opens just in time for Roman’s heart to leap right into his throat: his brain screaming that oh hey! People to join you inside your small box that Remus just told you not to get into! Even when it wouldn’t make any sense to go down the stairs just to take the elevator back up.

There’s three of them, all dressed in the very uniform pest control jumpsuits that make Roman’s insides shrivel slightly. He’d been meticulous about keeping his apartment clean and if he saw a single cockroach, Roman would be turning into the next arsonist, no other incitations required.

They’re all carrying various equipment items: a thick duffle back with the pest control logo (an ant ironically burning under a magnifying glass), a bulky backpack that nearly doesn’t fit through the doorway, and a thick leather briefcase that seems out of place. The first guy is saying something in a language Roman doesn’t recognize, with a smile on his face that is very charming, despite him being at least a decade older than Roman, as he holds the door open for the others. The second rolls her eyes, tugging the brim of her hat lower over her head.

The third has a scar from running from the middle of his left cheek all the way down his face to his neck in a way that barely seems more than a few months healed. When he makes direct eye contact with Roman, the man’s thin lips twisting into a grin, like he knows how fast Roman’s heart is beating at the sight of him. He waves and Roman catches sight of a cheap industrial bike lock in his other hand.

Please please please, don’t suddenly realize that needs to go back upstairs, please don’t get in here, pleasedonotcomecloser—

But in the end the doors close fitfully, locking out that man and his smile and his friends, and Roman sags against the railing. He presses a hand to his chest trying to regulate his panicked heartbeast back to something manageable and sustainable. 

Say what you will about Remus, but he knows best how to make Roman paranoid for the rest of the day.

The gears shudder, and the mechanical whirl of the elevator fills the whole area as it begins its ascent. Roman pulls out his phone again, swiping through the notifications that he accrued during the walk. A few responses to his Snap Chats streaks, three emails (two junk and one from a classmate asking about studying together for the test, which would be great, if Roman hadn’t already turned her down twice), a reminder to play one of his mindless phone games, and something must have happened in the group chat he has on instagram with a few other Math majors. Roman double taps the notification and swipes in his passcode (it’s an R, it’s always been an R. Remus has been able to hack into his phone since they were eleven, but Roman is horribly, secretly afraid that if he changes it now, he’ll forget it by tomorrow). 

The elevator shudders. 

And somewhere, distantly, Roman thinks he smells smoke.

[Next Chapter? Find it on Ao3 now!]

[m0chitown]

🕷 Redback Spider | EARTH-90605: Manila, Philippines, 1968.

It's a change of scenery, hm? Welcome to Manila. It's 1968, and it's as hot as you can imagine it to be in a tropical nation. Oh, yeah, no, don't expect yourself to be slick and sneaky with your arrival-Word can get around everywhere in a second! And within those seconds, you're already family.

"Anak, meron kang alikabok sa ulo mo, halika dito, aayusin ko lang your buhok mo."

(My child, you have dust on your head, come here, let me just fix your hair.)

"Ang ganda mo talaga!"

(You're so totally pretty!)

"Foreigner ka ba?"

(Are you a foreigner?)

"Gutom ka ba? Gusto mo ba ng Halo-halo?"

(Are you hungry? Would you like some Halo-halo?)

I love Halo-halo...Anyways, allow me to introduce myself! I am known as RB. I was bitten by an extraterrestrial Redback spider. His name is Kanan, and what makes him extraterrestrial is his Symbiote form he injected on the right side of my neck, hence his name. He bit me when I got caught in my own web, being cornered by my boss and his subordinates from a mafia I work for...

Let's rewind a bit...

I work as a sketch artist for the police department. Can't do much with the pay that I have, especially with my circumstances of being both a woman and of a lower class. my Tito(Uncle) Aaron, works as a bartender at a pretty okay saloon. Our pay is enough to allow us to sustain ourselves in this grand, lively city despite the state of our economy so, it works out. Thing is, my Papa, my grandfather, was KIA during WWII and left me and my uncle a large sum of money we keep for absolute emergencies. As far as we knew, we were the only ones who knew about his inheritance until a little later down the line when I'd get surrounded and pinned to a wall by men in suits in a dark alleyway. Cliche, I know, I told them that too. They introduced themselves as Papa's former subordinates who were left with distasteful lives because of Papa's business with them. Until this day, I have yet to find out what tainted my Papa from being someone other than a sweet military guy but they threatened to hit the nail on my own coffin and harm my Tito in addition if I declined their offer to not only provide my Papa's old documents but to become their hitman. Someone who could do their dirty work for them in order to take down other mafia rings and eventually rise to the top as millionaires.

...

So...I took the option to withdraw those threats. I joined the mafia as their new hitman, all while having to keep this all from my Tito. It was rough, I couldn't take anyone's life just like that, and that is where we left off. With Kanan, such a transformation as such into a Spider-Person was gorey and unsettling, to say the least.

Kanan told me not to worry about it. Not to worry about them.

And the next thing I remember was my vision blacking out and gaining my own conscious back to shaking my boss' hand surrounded by the pools of mixed blood around us.

I'm still a sketch artist, and I'm still a hitman. And I'm still the RB. Needless to say, I've grown desensitized to my double life. I've gotten to be a better hitman, but it's not something I'm proud of and it's never going to be something I will be proud of. And one day, I'm going to bring this entire mafia down with me.

I'm just glad I'm not alone.

And, well, you know the rest!

Thanks, Kanan.

AAAAA This was super fun to write! And I'm so excited now that my Spidersona is finished!! :,,] It was a tough process seeing as I had to do a lot of self-reflection within myself as I don't typically have a reason to study myself and how I'm structured. It was especially difficult before as I used to shy away from analyzing myself too much due to past insecurities so putting everything I have in a character and realizing how pretty she truly is makes me want to cry :,0 I can't change the way of how I look much, not like I can play Tetris with my bone structure LMAO but it feels really good to be able to put my insecurities off and make a character I now love a lot :,,]

Translations of Baybayin: "Kanan," "Grabe...," "RB"

[musubi-sama]

Amazing Grace

This isn't edited, it's hardly coherent. But this is 2.7k words on what happened 17 years ago as I experienced it and how it's the weight I still carry today.

4/16/2007

TW: School shooting, video links of a poem reading and a piece of music.

Snow. It was snowing. In Spring. How weird is it, that of all the days, that this Monday when the flowers are trying to bloom and the trees are spreading their wings, that it is snowing. What a beautiful sight to see. My quiet campus blanketed in the serenity of a late and fluffy snow.

Grabbing my laptop and stuffing it into my bag, opting for a heavier coat this morning. Slipping my phone into your pocket as you make your way out of your dorm suite and off to your advanced freshman chemistry class. Stepping outside and taking in a deep breath, the chilly air feels good in your lungs.

Mornings are always bustling, but you don’t notice that it’s calmer on this morning. You miss the hushed whispers and skittering students and staff getting back to their dorms and offices at 9:30 am. Instead, you pull out your cell phone and call home.

“Can you BELIEVE that it’s snowing today? Oh, there was an alert sent in email saying there was a police call to a dorm, but it was handled. Yeah I’m safe. But this snow, it’s April! How crazy!” your mother requests you call your father just to check in. He would be worried otherwise.

“Hey dad, yeah there was a police alert about something in one of the dorms, but they said it was handled. SNOW ohmygosh it’s SNOWING!!”

The budding bushes are covered in ice. The walkways and staircases were slick and uneasy. Better be careful crossing the drillfield, don’t want to slip and fall!

Hey, why are there flashing blue lights back there in the academic buildings? Why is there a cop SUV in front of Buruss Hall and why is that cop pulling out a shockingly large gun?

Don’t pay it any mind. This is a big school, a school with a full police department because any number of things can go wrong or they’re training or…

Why is it so quiet over here? You know classes aren’t typically over for another 10 minutes, but it should be busier this time of day.

Hm, the lecture hall is mostly empty. Where is everyone? Is that an email? Is class cancel-no that’s the professor walking in right now. At least class isn’t canceled, it sure would be frustrating to cancel a 10:10 am class at 10 am.

Oh, there is an email.

ACTIVE SHOOTER SITUATION. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY

Wait, when did that arrive? 9:50 am.

What the fuck did you see walking to class? What the fuck was that. Is that why the lights were flashing?

Fortunately one of your classmates was several steps ahead of you and already pressing your professor for answers. No one knew what the questions were other than if we were safe. Your professor was the department chair, surely he had a better line to finding an answer than waiting for another email to arrive?

You figure that we can distract ourselves with frivolous viral videos in the meantime blasted on the hall’s projectors.

But who cares about oh my gawd shoes and being kind to Brittney when the emails start to arrive about how there are dead students in the dorms and in the lecture buildings. Please let us out. Please let us run to our dorms and our apartments and to our families both found and blood.

Finally, we receive the “all clear” email and we rush back to our rooms.

Buildings are locked, suite doors typically left open to foster community are shut and locked.

Stumbling into your room, no one is home. But you have a message from your roommate that she is with her boyfriend and they are leaving soon for her home. You check your other messages. Your instant messenger is blown up from every contact asking if you’re safe. Oh good, everyone is safe. You even logged into that Facebook website to check on friends. Wait. What did they say? Who?? Oh no, and an email from your Band Director.

Gutted. Your head sinks to your desk, you’re slumped over in pain. He was mere weeks from graduation. 3 degrees. Honors for all. A light, a bright smile, a comforting hand. He just complimented your socks at the blood drive in….that dorm. Just a few weeks ago. What happened. Why is Stack dead.

One of your friends in the next suite comes over, you share an embrace, shoulders and arms as tissues.

“We should get food. Come with me?”

You drag yourself and a few other friends in the neighboring suite with you down the stairs to the closest dining hall. The award-winning food is bland, you’re not hungry. You all sit in relative silence trying to figure out what to say, who to look at, how to process. Returning back to your dorm, you friend invites you to his suite. You sit on the couch with others, your upperclassmen friends, all from band. All with stories extolling how wonderful Stack was. You agree to leave your computers alone and step away from your email for a few hours. You watch TV, do anything to distract yourselves. You think someone might even be having sex in the next room.

By dinner time someone brings by food they picked up off campus and everyone picks at it. At this point people have come and gone all day, with some saying their farewells as they choose to go back home until school opens up again.

Checking your email again, you see a long list of updates adjusting the death toll. The names of known victims. The gunman. Why does the number keep going up? Is it really over 20? What happened. You read a heartfelt email from your band director. You let yourself go, crying in your dark dorm room under your lofted bed. Tomorrow there will be a service for the community to gather. Those still on campus are suggested to attend in uniform and to stick together, there is comfort in the group.

Sleep is fitful that night.

Waking up, you have a missed call from home. “I heard classes are canceled. Do you want to come home?” offers your mother.

“Um, hold on. Let me check my email,” you climb down off your bed and open your laptop. Another name you recognize pops up in your email. “Please I want to go home. Erin died.”

She was your very first roommate. You moved out of her room before Spring semester because your friend had a spot open up in her suite and it was nicer accommodations. You didn’t really get to say goodbye to her. She was a good person. Energetic, smart, made friends everywhere.

“Your father and I are on our way, NOW.”

Unzipping the bag containing your marching uniform, you put it on with the same reverence as always, the comfort of knowing you are part of a larger group. One that is sharing the burden of this trauma. 330+ shoulders to cry on.

You make your way, linked in arms and hands with your friends as you head to the service. Extra security, the President of the United States is joining to make a statement. If you’re honest with yourself, you don’t care that he is here. What a load of good it is after the fact.

Groups of students in shared apparel holding each other, chants of school cheers ringing out in solidarity. You get swept up in the fervor. It’s never felt this intense, and you’ve been on the football field when it really counts.

Nikki Giovanni reads a poem and it strikes every one of your hearts with passion. The entire gymnasium silent, save for sniffling and crying.

We are Virginia Tech. We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning. We are Virginia Tech. We are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly, we are brave enough to bend to cry, and we are sad enough to know that we must laugh again. We are Virginia Tech. We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, neither do the invisible children walking the night away to avoid being captured by the rogue army, neither does the baby elephant watching his community being devastated for ivory, neither does the Mexican child looking for fresh water, neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy. We are Virginia Tech. The Hokie Nation embraces our own and reaches out with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness. We are the Hokies. We will prevail. We will prevail. We will prevail. We are Virginia Tech.

And then, all at once. She finishes and an eruption of gratitude. Shouts, and cheers. In that moment, we start to heal.

LET'S GO HOKIES *clap clap clapclapclap*

Eventually you leave and depart back to your dorms. You need to tidy up and pack, your parents will be here soon. One of your friends joins you in your room for company. It’s comforting to not be alone.

Your parents give you the tightest embrace you’ve ever felt. And they whisk you home. You’ve sent off emails to concerned former teachers and others, setting up time to meet with them over the coming week.

But otherwise you just want to sit at home and sleep in your childhood bed.

The rest of the week passes by. You visit your high school to chat with some of your old teachers and you’re reminded why they were your favorite educators. They care, they listened, they gave you space.

During the week while classes were canceled, you begin to receive updates on how the rest of the semester will play out. Ultimately you are able to take a step back from your studies and attend lectures as you feel you can handle. It’s a nice gesture. You won’t come out of this semester with the best grades, but you won’t have to worry about failing because you’re too distracted.

Returning to school is surreal. There’s a bustle and buzz of activity - with 25,000 students there always is a constant hum of people. Last week excluded. But there’s a tingle at the back of your neck. Your brain jolting into alert as soon as your parents turn onto campus. Would this happen again? Could this happen again? All of your friends stick together as the semester plays out. You spend time with them next to the volleyball courts (you’re far too clumsy to get any enjoyment out of playing), playing video games in the dorms, and just avoiding the hard stuff. You can make it this last month, one day at a time. Besides, you have plans this summer! You’re taking a road trip to Canada, leaving the country for the first time ever!

Summer, everyone departs to seek the comfort of their families and bury themselves in summer jobs and internships. And maybe that’s a good time to seek professional help? You’d rather just spend time with your fiancée, particularly in his bed and at night. That trip to Canada was refreshing and just what you needed to get your head out of the dark and stormy clouds.

Ah but your mother wants you to come home at night. So that’s how you end up in therapy, for a suspected PTSD diagnosis manifesting in your desire, as an 18 year old who is 4.5 years into dating her boyfriend/fiancée, to spend alone time in bed together. You play along because you are a people pleaser, but you do make your opinions known to the therapist. She invites your parents into your third session where you have a charged discussion. And the ultimate guidance the therapist suggests? That you are not acting out, or in an unusual manner. You sigh in relief, immediately making plans for that night.

When you returned to school in the fall, a class of victims had graduated and freshman joined a shell-shocked and scared community. One that is healing by holding on to each other, by remembering those lost. And ready to embrace the hope of the new class.

But you are forever changed. You and your Marching Virginians. You return and pass your auditions and receive a new piece of music, “Amazing Grace.” Arranged specifically for the ensemble, specifically for April 16, 2007. In the peak of the song lives a set of chords to represent the 32 lives lost. The dissonance is uncomfortable, painful, harsh. The first time you played it, you cried. We all did. But the resolution, it is warm, it is the breath after holding it in. The deep inhale you take when the tears start to fall and you let your emotions out. It is a hard piece of music, but it is a necessary piece of music.

The band took it to several dedications and remembrance events that year. They played it less and less as the years went on. It’s a special piece, reserved for those moments taken to hold space for that day. But every time, the audience gives reverence and somehow make it to the end with a stiff upper lip. After exiting the performance space, there is comfort for those who are caught in emotions.

The semesters come and they go. It gets easier, but you aren’t the same person anymore. You keep telling yourself you have it handled, the therapist at home said you don’t have PTSD. So then why are you triggered with an uncomfortable regularity? You need to get into therapy.

Oh, good for you, finally scheduling an appointment to see the school therapist. Ah, but it takes three triage visits before you can start to talk to him about anything. Momentum, farewell. You don’t open up about what is swarming in your brain. The bad thoughts, the scary ones, the tragic ones. You’re sure it’ll work itself out eventually. You famously have a bad memory, so surely you’ll just forget the worst of it?

Four years at Virginia Tech completed. But do you have a degree now? Ha, funny. You never managed to pull together enough credits to graduate so you get the participation trophy of random class credits you can take home with you and apply to some other school and attempt to get that piece of paper you came here to achieve.

Four more years later you finally have a degree. Even better, it’s one you’re proud of. Time to put college behind you and start the next step of life. Get out of the East Coast and leave it all behind. Fresh start in California, you can finally get married and live with your fiancée.

Another April comes and goes. And like every year, you run away for the day to escape your demons. It works less and less each year. At least the alcohol dulls the cries.

And 17 years later, you’re still carrying that weight. You dread April. You can’t listen to any version of Amazing Grace without falling apart. You can’t watch any scenes in a movie or video game with a candlelight vigil or similar scene. You dread the days you have to explain this to your daughter and why you are terrified of how she may want to attend school in the US.

And 17 years later, you can’t stop telling people this tragic story and shrugging it off like it wasn’t the single most defining moment of your entire fucking life and you were only 18.

It’s fucked up. And nothing has fucking changed.

[gnomeyflamingo]

✮ Regaining Confidence ✮

And (finally) we return to the same room we left Atreo in, around 3 sim days ago...

Brielle: “Atreo? Sweetie?”

Atreo: *depressed silence*

Brielle: “I know you’re struggling sweetie but you can’t stay in your room forever… It’s Acco’s birthday party today, it would mean a lot to him if you could be there-”

Atreo: “Go away Mum. I can’t face the world without Asmara.”

Brielle: “But you haven’t broken up, or argued, or even talked since-”

Atreo: “I know what I did to her. I cheated on her even though I said I never would. I wasn’t strong enough-”

Brielle: *sighs* “Oh sweetie… Can you at least have a shower?”

Atreo: “No, it’s all too much.”

Alejandro: "Atreo's still not coming out of his room?"

Brielle: "No. By the Watcher, it can’t be a moodlet issue right? We don’t even grieve our departed loved ones this long. Could he be glitched?”

Alejandro: "Maybe? My turn to try I guess.”

Brielle: “Good luck honey."

Alejandro: *knocks* “Atreo, it’s me, Papi, I’m respecting your privacy by knocking, but I’m still coming in no matter what you say.”

Atreo: “Ugghhhh no just let me be.”

Alejandro: “Oof, it smells SO bad in here-”

Atreo: *sarcastically* “Thanks Alejandro.”

Alejandro: “Buddy, we’re all worried about you, please talk to me.”

Atreo: “Fine. I messed up and now my life’s ruined.”

Alejandro: “It can’t be as bad as all that…”

Atreo: “But it is! I cheated on Asmara with Derya and I then turned one of the Watcher’s friends into a dragon toy.”

Alejandro: “Uhm okay, is that teenage slang for something or-?”

Atreo: “No, I was rude to her in my dream and she turned into a dragon toy! And then the Watcher and their other friend cursed me.” *sobs*

Atreo: “Right… You’re definitely going through a lot-”

Atreo: “Yes! And nobody understands! I’m all alone, just screwing up everything!”

Alejandro: “You’re not alone. Your family’s here and we love you.”

Alejandro: “So the Watcher, what do they want from you exactly?”

Atreo: “For me to complete my aspiration!”

Alejandro: “And you don’t want to?”

Atreo: "I used to at but then Asmara became my gf and now... I don't know anymore."

Alejandro: “You need to trust yourself buddy. Fight your doubts. You’re a self assured romantic! Go out there and convince Asmara that you want to work on your relationship, or ask her to be just friends for now while you figure things out.”

Alejandro: “You’re still a teen. Being confused and finding yourself are all part of your life stage.”

Atreo: “That’s…Good advice actually. Thanks Papi.”

Alejandro: “Was that ironic or-”

Atreo: “No, I meant it.”

Alejandro: “I am the happiest sim in the world right now."

A little later downstairs…

Acco: “I don’t get why Atreo’s depressed? Did Asmara catch him cheating?”

Brielle: “Nope.”

Acco: “So…Uh why is he sad?”

Brielle: “Your Papi said he isn’t glitched and the Watcher cursed him, so I assume it’s all part of a story arch.”

Atreo: *sigh* “I’m here.”

Alejandro: “What a relief!”

Brielle: “Oh thank goodness. Remember to be nice to your brother Acco.”

Acco: “Don’t worry Mum, we bonded over collective trauma.”

Alejandro: “Did the shower and changing out of your 3-day old nightwear make you feel a bit better?”

Atreo: “I guess so… I’m still upset but you were right, I’m a self assured romantic. It’s time to act on my traits and moodlets. I also ran out of days I can be off school.”

Brielle: “I’m happy you’ve come downstairs sweetie, I was worried sick. Do you need anything? A moodlet solver? A happy potion? I have SO many reward points.”

Atreo: “No thanks Mum, I’ll be okay.”

Alejandro: “Happy birthday sunshine. You excited about your party at the Pier?”

Acco: “I am!”

Atreo: “Yeah happy birthday accomplished stink bottom. May your party suck less than mine.”

Acco: “Really? You’re starting with the name calling again? I thought we were good now!”

Atreo: “We are! I’m using it as an affectionate tease. Believe me, I no longer blame you for the problems in my life. It’s all the Watcher and their annoying friends' fault”

Acco: “Okay…”

Brielle: “Woah sweetie, dial back the Watcher blame please.”

Atreo: “I don’t care anymore. I’m following Papi’s advice and I’ve decided I’m now very confident.”

Alejandro: “Papi… Still music to my soul.”

Acco: “Can we go to my Pier party soon? I’m starving!”

Brielle: “Here take this gift from the magical pile first, I wonder what it’ll be this time.”

Acco: “Hope it’s not dog poo again, I won’t be particularly happy about it.”

Atreo: “Wh-What is that dragon toy doing here? I sold it, I know I did!”

*Dragon toy stares in silent, sinister judgement*

Brielle: “Huh? But that’s Spicy Dragon!”

Acco: “He’s losing it.”

Atreo: “Omw no! Papi, I told you about this, it’s one of the Watcher’s friends!”

Alejandro: “Don’t be silly buddy, you’ve had Spicy D since you were a baby!”

Atreo: *mutters in growing terror* “What kind of dark mind bending magic is this- AHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

*family hovers and T-poses*

Atreo: “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Alejandro: “Buddy are you okay?!”

Brielle: “Sweetie can you tell us why you’re suddenly cowering in abject horror?”

Acco: “What’s happening? Did you get a fear of birthday décor or something?”

Atreo: “Oh no THIS is the curse isn’t it? How… Annoying!”

To be continued...

(for app) >> Next Chapter >> Previous Page

(for browser) >> Next Chapter >> Previous Chapter

❧ Back to the Legacy Archive

[emaanwritesandwrongs]

In the half hour before sleep overcame me 2/8/23 Midnight Well Doctor. What is the Diagnosis?

Well Mr. Phelps. I’m sorry, but as I’ve said before, we’re going to need a lot more detail of your symptoms to really understand what’s going on. At the very least something beyond just your stubborn rocking back and forth and chanting “something is wrong.” 

An awkward silence hung as if Mr Phelps found nothing of concern, or any invitation to respond or dig deeper into that comment. He acted as if he had just been told that the president of Azerbaijan had a rather pleasant breakfast this morning. 

The Doctor raised an eyebrow and continued. 

Your vitals came back looking in spectacular condition, your bloodwork panels came back healthy, and CT scans show no signs of defect or trauma... Could we please get more detail into what you may be feeling at this moment so that we may direct you to the appropriate specialist. Um, my current recommendation would be to schedule an appointment with our psychiatric department. We have some of the best care in the North Central Tri District Metroplex! I assure you - 

That’s enough, Doctor. It sounds like the results of your test confirm my very fears. There is something deeply wrong with me in that there is nothing wrong with me. I lied on your intake form earlier. I am not thirty-four, that is not even a third of my age in fact. I should be withering and folding forward. Huddled and stiff! I should have been on a deathbed many decades ago surrounded by family. Yet here I am, suffering still. 

I don’t understand, Mr Phelps? Still? What I mean is. When am I going to die? I’ve tried all i can to whittle myself down. I starved myself, laid in a desert without water for days. Instead the barren land around me started growing green, while I remained unchanged.  I’ve tried other more gruesome methods. But the skin on my neck breaks fishing wire, and the bullet bounces off my head like a pong ball. I’m not invincible. I get paper cuts like any other person, and occasionally my stomach will be upset. I figured the intention of mine to die was the problem. I hired many hitmen to assist my own suicide yet their plans all backfire and they end up hurting themselves! You better believe those hitmen on the dark web would not even touch me with a ten foot pole. 

As a demonstration in one swift movement the patient pulled a needle he had snuck out earlier from the doctor’s drawers and crushed it against his neck where his jugular vein would be. Before the doctor could react in shock, the needle shattered and spread across the floor like cheap confetti. The white walls of the Doctor’s office turned iridescent, and the informational posters on lung cancer changed its content. Instead there were only moving pictures of cats dancing in a ring-a-round-a-rosies style.  Fascinating. Let’s say I don’t humor the idea of revealing the secret of your death resisting body to science - and instead I ask - well why do you want to die so badly? If what you say is true that your mere intention to die intervenes with the fate of death, and your age hasn’t naturally overcame you. You must be in a constant and unstoppable state of wanting to perish. So as a doctor, I must dig into the root of this cause. Why, yes why do you want to die so badly? Is life all suffering to you? Are you a big philosopher Mr Phelps? No. Forget about all of that. I could never really get into any of those books. Well I want to die because... 

The doctor could’ve sworn he saw a hint of red flash over Mr Phelps, but if it was ever there at all then it was gone in an instant. 

I want to die not because I think life is suffering. It may or may not be. I never paid attention to that aspect. I want to die because my greatest deepest dream since childhood is to have the most beautiful eulogy about me read aloud to a big crowd of people! People who love me! People who would remember me! And I believe the gods would allow me to listen to it too while I lay peacefully in that embrace of death.  I’ve waited very patiently night and day like a good boy. You see, mama taught me patience as a virtue. That Noah waited thousands of years for God’s signs! So what was it for me to wait a few decades? But naturally I grew impatient, but in the healthiest manner. I didn’t jump straight to attempting to end my life as a mere seven year old! What would there to be remember about me?  I grew possessive over my eulogy. I wanted more control.  Day by day I decided to insert myself into people’s lives.  I saved Paulas cat from the tips of that flimsy tree in the seventh grade! That would’ve been a wonderfully tragic death had the branch snapped and in turn so my neck.  I defended little Johnny boy from that troublesome locker room bully Pocketknife-Mike. My actions weren’t all risk. It was also out of seeking to be remembered.  I asked Nancy to the homecoming dance even though she wasn’t quite all that pretty. But I knew I would burn right into her mind the most compared to all the other underclassmen girls! What? Don’t look at me like that Doctor, I’m not even finished yet.  I ran that progressive campaign to protect our minority communities on our campus, and then served as student body president.  I gave up any of my feelings to that ungrateful Sarah and instead married that poor yet at least grateful girl Jeanine. I fed and raised my children. But made sure to be just enough tastefully absent except for the times I was there and needed, so that they’d not just grow tough and resilient, but remember my rare cherishing moments.  But now all of them: Paula, Johnny, my children are all dead and gone.  You may think I sound cruel, selfish, narcisstic, lacking a soul.  Perhaps yes, and for my lack of a soul I cannot die.  But how can you call me empty and heartless if all I have done is brought good into this world? And all I ask in turn is to be recognized for it? A eulogy! A real eulogy! One that I hear as a song from the other side of consciousness, while I’m locked away, frozen into place underneath coffin doors. 

The Doctor pictured this man as so for a second. He could see it. Mr Phelps’ hands clasped stiffly together and a smile curled artificially into place.  Phelps continued

Why there is no other perfection quite as near to the one of a lovely man’s tragic death. All his sins are forgotten and forgiven. And we rejoice over the good he has done in the world. That’s all I want Doctor. If there is suffering of mine, then this is the cure for it. I didn’t do any of this good in the world in exchange for money or power. And I am not sure how yet I will reap any personal gains from my eulogy post mortem. So tell me, should you really have that look on your face? Now that I am immortal I suppose. I find no reason to do good. I’m afraid doctor you may want to reveal the secret of my body’s ignorance to laws of biology to your torturous friends in science. Perhaps I deserve it.  Mr Phelps I believe you have been born once again just now.  How so? I do not want to! I propose that you now have a choice to turn your life around. Maybe instead of navigating life with a compass locked to the magnetic pull of death, try living for the sake of living! Be selfish outwardly. Break some rules. Of course I doubt you will spiral into evil. But it’s about finding a balance! Take this as a prescription for your condition and we’ll get started on a treatment plan right away!  I have high hopes, Mr Phelps, that death will come to you when you are no longer seeking it.  Well I’m unsure if those words give me comfort Doctor. I am unsure what I am feeling at all right now. But, very well, I’ll give it a try.  I only have the rest of my life to after all. 

[mt-musings]

Bluebell

Chapter 26

After being abruptly transferred to the BAU at what she suspects was Gideon's request, Cassie Boann struggles to find her footing. Shy and solitary by nature, the transition is made all the more difficult when Dr. Spencer Reid seems to take an almost immediate dislike to her. Unfortunately for them both, their respective areas of expertise leave them paired off more often than not. But when Cassie's past literally starts hunting her, Spencer is forced to consider that he might, in fact, not hate her at all.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Spencer Reid x OC

Warnings: Canon typical violence, kidnapping, stalking, drug use, blood, injury, death, PTSD, eventual smut, more tags to be added

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

26. All Apologies

Cassie leaned her head back against the train window and let her eyes fall shut, her keys fisted in her hand. Her head was pounding from lack of sleep, her stomach rolling from all the coffee she’d forced down to keep awake. 

She hadn’t bothered to try and sleep once she’d gotten home the night before. She’d merely hopped in the shower and changed for work, glad that the hot water could at least remove the tear tracks from her cheeks. 

She hated seeing Spencer high like that, hated the way the Dilaudid dulled everything that made Spencer Spencer. She hated seeing him in so much pain, hated that she knew exactly what he was escaping from. 

She had just wanted to help him. 

She knew he hadn’t meant it, not really. She knew it was the drug and the anger and the fear and the shame talking. But it didn’t stop the pain in her chest when she remembered the venom with which he’d snapped at her, the malice. 

It was dangerous to hang around profilers, because they knew what to say to cut the deepest. 

Before Spencer she would have never considered herself to be lonely. She didn’t have time to be—she never stopped moving long enough to even consider it. 

She’d moved from Virginia before she’d had a chance to make any real friends and then she’d been homeschooled in Montana. Her parents had been her whole world. Then she’d bounced between foster placements so often that she’d given up on even trying. In college she’d been so much younger than everyone else and even if she hadn’t all she ever did was study. Gideon had always been a surrogate father figure but she’d seen him maybe a handful of times a year before she joined the Bureau. 

She hopped off the train, turning the opposite way from her apartment, towards the clinic. It was easy enough to get a handful of doses of Narcan, easier still to find a pair of little black makeup bags to stash them in. 

She pulled out her phone to call Spencer, only for it to begin to ring. She checked the number, fumbling when she recognized the number for the detective in Voron’kiv. 

“Hello?”

“Yes, Miss Boann? This is Detective Melnyk. Do you have a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, there’s an issue with the exhumation orders. We need the family to consent and we are having a hard time tracking down next of kin, so it is going to take a while. I am not sure if your State Department might be able to put some pressure on the process—“

“What if—what if I could get you next of kin?”

“I assure you, we are doing all we can.”

“I am sure, I am not doubting that—I just. I ran through the evidence on my end and there is a familial link to one of my victims. I’ve put in the paperwork to run a full profile but that will take several weeks. So—the victim was my mother. I ran a panel on myself and—I think he’s my grandfather.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Then a sigh. “I—This is highly irregular, but let me see what I can do. Send me the results and I will forward them to the required authorities. Chances are, though, we will need to repeat the test here to confirm. You understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course. How long would that take?”

“I would have to ask. But the quicker we could run the sample the better.”

“Okay. I’ll get those files sent over to you right away.”

She dug a pen out of her bag and scribbled an email and fax number on the back of a receipt before hanging up. She stared at her scribbles for a moment before tucking it into the pocket of her laptop case and flipping back through her favorited contacts. She hesitated a moment before putting her phone back in her coat pocket and heading back towards the train. 

---

Spencer paused as he turned down the hall of his apartment building, spotting a brown paper shopping bag hanging from his doorknob. It had been hastily taped shut with yellow masking tape, his initials scrawled on in blue ink. He pulled it off the handle, hefting in his hand before he unlocked the door and stepped inside. 

He crossed to the counter  and dumped both the bag and his satchel on the counter before digging in his drawers for a pair of scissors. He sliced through the tape and unpacked the bag, brows furrowed at the seemingly disconnected contents. 

There was a container of take out from an Indian restaurant in NoHo that was still warm, a worn copy of Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman, a small black zippered pouch and a manilla file folder. He flipped open the folder, finding a familiar scrawling handwriting. 

Hey Spencer—

I know you don’t want to talk about what happened. Not with me, and that’s perfectly understandable. But you should talk with someone. Maybe a therapist or a counselor or a psychiatrist. You might not think that you need to, or that it would help, but I can promise you, it does. Not right away, but it makes things easier. Helps you find ways to ground yourself, to break out of the panic. 

I’m not trying to be holier than thou or judge you or anything. That would be laughable considering how badly I handle my own trauma. I just don’t want you to suffer alone when you don’t have to. When things can be better than they are. 

The Dilaudid won’t help. Especially if it’s the stuff from Hankel. I pulled his files, I know it didn’t end up in evidence. It’s nasty, Spence, nastier than you think. It’s blended with hallucinogens that have poor interactions with the Dilaudid. 

I’m here if you ever do want to talk. I get the whole held-captive-and-tortured thing, if that’s helpful. I get the guilt that comes with surviving when others don’t. I get the rage that comes with the world continuing on as if nothing ever happened. I’m not good at talking about it, but I can try, if it would help.

I keep my phone on all night and I’ll always answer. I don’t want you to keep doing the Dilaudid, but if you do, I’d rather know so I can at least make sure you don’t stop breathing. 

I’m sorry I didn’t see how much you were suffering before and I left you alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying enough attention. I’m sorry I got mad at you for lashing out when you had every right. I’m sorry I didn’t do more. Tell me what you need and I’ll make it happen. 

I can’t lose you. 

Please—

C

Spencer swallowed hard. He flipped through the rest of the folder. It was printed lists of therapists that specialized in trauma covered under their insurance, some crossed out, others crossed out and annotated with thinks like ‘Dickhead’ and ‘pill pusher.’ Under that were lists of support groups in DC and the surrounding areas, lists for Recovery groups, for Narcotics Anonymous chapters. A handful of grounding techniques. The toxicology report on Tobias Hankel, outlining the composition of the drug. 

He unzipped the pouch. There was two vials of Narcan, a spray version, and a handful of safety needles along with an instruction card outlining how to administer it. 

He didn’t know when he’d started crying. He swiped at his cheeks, digging through his bag for his phone. He clicked through his speed dial until he landed on her name, pressing the phone to his ear. 

She picked up on the second ring.

“Cass?”

“Spencer?”

“Hey—um, are you free right now?”

Previous Next

[thebittercorvus]

There's only one light on, right in the middle of the interrogation room.

It seems stereotypical, yes, but the department's been having many budget cuts as of recently. So, one light is all they get. One recorder is all they get. One chance is all they've got.

In front of him, there's a taxi driver.

Detective Melendez wasn't having a very good month.

Out there, the city was up in flames, and it wasn't even the fun kind of chaos, the ones in which he gets to simply glance at somebody's records and still throw them in the pit simply because they were at the wrong place in the wrong moment. He gets bonuses for keeping the streets clean after all, not for actually paying attention when he reads files.

No, the suppression forces had to be deployed. Soldiers were up in the streets. Entire zones had to be evacuated. Super-humans were rioting and it was more dangerous to get in their way than to simply allow them to make their way to the capitol.

The reason? Extraordinaire supervillain from the old guard, Mecano, was found dead. Or, more accurately, his body was finally recovered, half buried alongside the railroads, three weeks after his decapitated head was exhibited in front of everyone, at the doors of the capitol.

He still wishes he hadn't had to go meet the superintendent that day.

So there he was, three weeks later, actually working overtime to find a clue to Mecano's murder, so that the supers wouldn't have his head. He hasn't done this in a decade, which matches up nicely for when he finally understood that the higher ups didn't give a shit about justice. So what if the streets were on fire?

Which brought him to Yuu Fujimori, also known simply as Herocab by people in certain circles.

"So, mister Fujimori," he says, looking at the man on the other side of the table with feigned interest. "It says in here that you have a bit of a peculiar profession."

The man only gives him a blank stare. "Get to the point already," he says. Or, more accurately, growls at him. "You pigs already got everything there's to know about me, don't'cha? What's with the bit? You all are watching. Always watching."

Oh so he's one of those weirdos that think the government is always watching, or whatever, he thinks quietly to himself. Better play the part then. John's better at this than I am, the fucker had to go and take paternity leave though. Snots nowadays barely work as is.

"Well then, if you really refuse to disclose the information willingly," he says, closing the folder swiftly and getting up, "I guess I'll just have to write down in the report that you didn't cooperate with the investigation. You do know there are charges for obstruction of justice, right? Y’know, just saying."

And so, he simply watches the man.

It always goes that way. Even those lowlifes, no, specially the likes of them, have something they can't bear to be far away from. Their family. A lover. Some hooker. They've got a debt they absolutely need to pay off. Maybe a kid.

What are your secrets, taxi driver?

"Man, y'all got me fucked up alright," he says eventually, leaving out a miserable laugh. "Alright. I'll talk. You won't like it though."

"Thanks for cooperating, mister Fujimori," replies Melendez.

"But, I'll request to be put into witness protection," he goes on. "... Don't look at me like that man. You'll see. You won’t like where this ends. Now, it's sort of a long story alright? It all began like, twenty-two years ago. The golden days, you know? My father had been recently jailed and so me and my sister were on the run--"

***

I was speeding down the highway, the radio host read the hour and it was around thirty past ten in the night. It was the middle of the summer. My car was a 64's red Beetle, a family relic that was entrusted to us as soon as our dad figured out that he was being chased.

My dad was a great man. Not everyone can say that. At least I don't think you can, detective.

Way before supervillains were even a thing, the Slagheap was already crumbling. And after, it just gave the special forces a reason to knock down the wrong door and take away the wrong person, over suspected affiliations with supervillains. That’s when they took him.

It was my sister and I, aboard the red beetle, against the world.

I couldn’t tell you exactly when it all began. It was an accident. We found someone by the highway, injured, and they told us they needed to get downtown as soon as possible. We were going there too and thought, y’know, worst thing that could happen is we get killed by a hitchhiker. So we took them in and drove them.

They paid two hundred for the ride. At the time, we had been without any food for two days and were about to run out of gas as well. It saved us. So, to thank them, we gave them our number, and told them to call us whenever they needed a quick, discreet ride.

It sort of took flight from then on. They gave us so many names. The Ghost Ride. The Getaway Beetle. The Herocab was just the lamest one, somehow it was the one that stuck for the longest time.

Everyone thinks we only took heroes in, misleading name and all. But in the beginning, we were barely making do. Beggars can’t be choosers. We were in everyone’s phone, you could find us in the yellow pages, any name you can think of, if they couldn’t fly, we were driving them. Eventually we bought a second car, a newer, safer model. My sister took that one. I kept the beetle.

But on that day, I had just finished driving an usual client to a dead-end alley, in the industrial district. Nowadays he’s a known menace, but back in the day? Nobody knew who the fuck Mecano was. And those who did, didn’t give a shit.

Back in the day another hero was also around, with a different name too.

I think you might have heard of her.

He paid me a good buck. We had been saving up my sister and I, so one day we would be able to move out of the Slagheap and find a safer place to live, especially since a lot of people were starting to follow our tracks to interrogate us. We’re simply third-parties, we don’t affiliate neither with heroes nor with villains. We’re just the drivers.

And I was about to drive away. But then, I heard shooting. Then an explosion. And then there was yelling.

My phone rang. I knew it was them before looking at it.

I couldn’t ignite the beetle fast enough, the poor thing needed maintenance but we were behind in rent and utilities. Being poor is expensive, y’know?

So, the man returned from the shadows, half carrying and half dragging a woman, both covered in blood. One of his arms– and this is something that I will remember, until the day I die– was caught inside a machine. Crushed. I’m no medic, but that’s a lost limb if I’ve seen one.

They got inside. The man looked on the verge of death. She looked near catatonic, muttering to herself, speaking to shadows, just about to pass out. She kept repeating somebody’s name. Sammy, I think. I wondered if that’s her child.

He said, take me to the clinic. I will give you the directions. And, I valued my life a little bit more back then, so I swallowed dry and nodded.

“Is she… alright?” I asked, after a good five minutes of silence.

“She will be.”

“Who is she?” I couldn’t look at his face through the rear mirror. He was wearing a suit, but it wasn’t one I could recognize back in the day.

One day we’d learn to fear him.

“You don’t know her,” he said. “But she calls herself The Undying.”

“A hero?” I adventured, and he nodded, even though nothing in the situation spelled out Hero. “What’s your power, sir?”

“He’s got no powers,” she muttered, sad. Angry. Desperate. He looked mighty uncomfortable, besides her. “Not that I know of. No, he’s never been a super. He was– he was special to me. We were going to be together forever, the two of us against the world. If only he had listened– I didn’t mean to get that angry. I can usually control myself. I didn’t mean to scare him away. I didn’t mean to– This shouldn’t have happened. I told him to stop this. I told him to get away! Why didn’t he listen to me?!”

“Why wouldn’t you listen to me instead?! Look at you! They did a number on you! Is this because he died? Look at me, Jess! It doesn’t matter how strong they can make you, you can’t bring back the dead!” He yells. The adrenaline must be at an all time high, for him to remain conscious.

But she wasn’t listening. In fact, she was probably also out of it. You know the look, the unfocused gaze, the blown up pupils. I would’ve said she was high on something, but I couldn’t tell you what was it.

She knocked him out cold. He fell like a doll on her lap, and she only looked at me through the rear mirror.

“Not a word of this,” she said, cold as the winter. It was almost as if somebody else suddenly took over.

“Hey now, come on, accidents happen, right? He’ll be fine.” I tried to cheer her up a bit. She looked back, with bloodshed eyes. “Accidents… accidents happen, right? Miss?”

“It’s doctor for you,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, pulling a needle from god-knows-where and injecting herself in the neck with it. The change was noticeable, but I just kept driving in silence. Inside my car was somebody who could turn my insides into outsides and I like everything where it is. “Accelerate. The next exit will take us to Emerald Hills.”

I drove to the emergency entrance of a private clinic. She got out, dragged the unconscious man with her and left five thousand in cash in the shotgun seat. I thought it was a mistake, for the better part of a year. Didn’t even touch that money for that long of a time, but eventually one has to cave in.

Three weeks later, an explosion on the west of Emerald Hill, between the Ninth and the East Street, left twenty three injured and no mortal casualties. But it was no miracle, because from the chaos, a hero arose.

She called herself The Undying. Now people were listening.

Eventually the name would be dropped, as she never really kept her identity secret. She was the beloved doctor turned miracle hero, Jessica Darling, the city’s new hope. The Shield of Lionsgate. Former Undying, now simply called Darling.

But within the debris, something far darker remained.

A man that should have died scrawled away from under the fallen pillars and the concrete on fire. A man missing an arm. He called my number, and I went to the scene. Everyone was hush-hush about it, told the police to say that it was a gas leak and the journalists parroted it like good little puppets. But he told me the truth.

You see, that clinic, Saint Bernard’s Clinic, works alongside many sponsors. You know a few, maybe. World Mediterranean and Lenses are two I can name. Jessica Darling is also a very generous sponsor, but she also keeps good money to keep her name out of it. Burning the paper trail and all that.

They’ve been experimenting for a while. There’s a young man in there, not quite alive, not quite dead. They got help from the government, they’re very interested in knowing how to make their own supers, how can they engineer the perfect little soldier. Darling was their first attempt, but her fits of rage are an unfortunate side effect.

That man was their second attempt. In paper he made it out better off, no side effects, no rage outburst.

In reality, they gave a man with a motive, a weapon for murder.

The record has it that The Accident of the Lion Express was Mecano’s first attack. A big debut, deaths by the dozen, a showcase of a power never seen before. Bending metal, they called it, and if only it had been that easy.

But in reality, it was that explosion in the Saint Bernard’s Clinic. It got covered up as a gas leak, so that everyone involved with the experiments could cover their asses. It was an accidental outburst, and they thought, that he died in the rumbling. He didn’t. I got him out. I didn’t know. I only saw an injured man that wanted to get away fast without being noticed, and that’s what I did.

Darling and Mecano go hand in bloody hand, they share a past you see. If you spot one, the other’s always close by. There’s nobody out there who wants Darling dead as much as Mecano does, and in exchange…

…

I told you, detective, that you wouldn’t like where the story would take us.

***

Melendez couldn’t sleep.

That man– he got what he wanted. Melendez pulled all the stops, brought in all the contacts. They needed him alive, they needed whatever information he could give, but they needed to keep him hidden.

It’s common nowadays to see a superhero execute a supervillain. It usually comes with consequences, yeah, but the court usually sides with the hero if there’s enough evidence. They get a fine and a slap in the wrist and a suspension from their heroic activities. They’ve been trying to reinforce as much as they can, that the hero’s duty is only to incapacitate the villain so they can be taken to justice. At times, it can’t be done. Melendez can’t blame them. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to keep the streets clean, such is the way of life.

But Darling, she was different. She never killed anybody. Almost as if she physically couldn’t. They always remained in a weird comatose state, and whenever they woke up, would do so without their memories and without their powers. Just a common citizen. And it worked, for the most part.

So, to have her as the prime suspect, really wouldn’t do well with the press. Or the court. Or everyone else she sponsored. It was no secret, that she was a philanthropist and often donated to public causes.

She’s untouchable.

Melendez looked up. He needed a smoke.

But instead of the moon, he saw the shield of Lionsgate smiling at him.

“Good evening, detective."

And froze.

“I got word that you’re searching for Mecano’s murderer,” she said quietly. Something about her voice was overwhelmingly powerful. He couldn’t even look away. “We had our history, but if there’s someone more dangerous than him that wanted him dead, I’d like to be the first to know.”

“Hello, doctor Darling,” he said, making an immense effort not to shake. “Your sources are correct, I’m leading the investigation. So far we’ve come up with no names.”

“A shame,” she replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “But, you know, I know of a few people that could’ve wanted him dead.”

“Is that so?” He could see the game a mile away. He could also see his own head displayed right in front of the capitol if he refused. “Well, all information is appreciated, specially when it comes from such a reputable source as yourself.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me too much, detective,” she said, giggling. And then, it stopped. She flew in front of him, looking at him straight in the eyes. “Seriously. Do not flatter me.”

“Apologies, doctor.”

“You can call me Darling, it’s alright. We’re friends here, aren’t we?” She said, fixing his suit carefully. She straightened his tie, and if she really wanted to, he realized, she could simply lift him then and there and drop him fourteen stories to the sidewalk. And it would be written off as a suicide of a stressed detective, who might’ve been threatened to take such measures. “I’m looking out for your best interests, detective. You have a daughter in college, don’t you? I think she’ll be an amazing journalist one day. But crime is so rampant in this city, wouldn’t you love if she could study abroad? Somewhere… safer?”

And to think, he’d one day end up getting threatened by the city’s greatest hero.

“I… Really have no clue, who could’ve done this,” he says, and her frown deepens. “So, if you– I mean, if you’ve got an informant who could kindly grant me some names to investigate. I think, the department would be glad, if an anonymous informant left us a clue.”

And so, she smiled again.

“I’m happy to see our hearts beat the same, detective,” she said, flying higher and higher up, until her heroic figure overshadowed the moon. “The department will get a call tomorrow. Make sure to pick it up.”

And as soon as he blinked, she was gone, like a mirage.

The next morning an anonymous informant called, detailing the full names and alias of a villain-adjacent group, known as The Seventh Backdoor, and before dawn, a notice was sent to every newstation to release the wanted list.

The next morning, Yuu Fujimori, also known as Herocab, was found dead inside his apartment. A shot in the back of his head. They wrote it off as a suicide and moved on with their days.

He found fifteen thousand in cash inside his desk, later that day, and took his daughter to a fancy dinner to break the news.

The smile on her face almost made the deal with the devil worth it.

He hoped this was the right choice.

You are a cabdriver. But you don’t drive any cab, you drive The Herocab, a cab that any superhero can call if they need to be somewhere urgently. Today you were called, only to find the hero a bloody mess on the ground and a villain, the hero’s phone in hand, standing over them.

[bh-writingdump]

Divine Punishment

Part 2: Jackal [5]

[1st draft, reframing]

You race to the elevator. If you keep at this pace, you’ll make it to the golf course in time to put 24 holes by dinner. the hallway parts preemptively for your arrival.

Only for a voice like whip shouts. “Mx!” Why of all thing did you hire a senior manager with the voice of a bullfrog? “Jameson & Co just acquired Davi’s Pops.”

Internally, you groan. That’s bad. Davi is financing a venture that they couldn’t follow through on without help. There’s no way Jameson & Coo wouldn’t shut it down long before the product release. They’ve been notorious of undercutting prices and finding every single way to pour salt in your wound. And you already moved the cheapest labor you could overseas. There aren’t any more corners that can be cut.

Heavens and Earth, this mess will take month to balance out… unless.

“Mix, we’ll be in the red by next—”

“Dissolve 25% of the earth department, shut down all experimental projects with a risk about 10%.”

Your assistant close behind, scribbling. While the upper manager stares in disbelief.

“You have your orders go.”

You push the elevator button with more force than strictly necessary. Several others gathered by the elevator. Looing at each of them, you say. “this one’s mine.”

Your upper manager leaps into the elevator after you, “But that’ll mean laying off at least several hundred to make the—”

“Nobody’s getting laid off if I can help it.”

You send them a hard look, shutting them up instantly, but it’s too late. The folks waiting for the elevator eye each other, already ready to pass around the newest gossip that will screw with productivity further.

“Whatever comes out of your mouth better be damn worth it. the drop in morale alone, possible rats jumping ship before I can lay them off…

“Sorry, Mx, but that was only one of our allies acquisitioned. Several root beer family packs deals have fallen through picked up by Rip Tide Inc. 40% of our profits will be from those partnerships.

“Who signed off on those?”

By the lack of a response, you can only assume it was a shareholder or member of the board you pressed an executive behind your back. Those sluts will bend for anyone. “Of course they did.” Exasperated, soon as the elevator hits the market floor, you grab the manager. A pear shaped fellow with a penchant for polos and bandanas like some sailor-wannabe greets you.

“We need a new plan yesterday. There’s several flavors a rook proposed. Jade Yumenes, call nem and set up a plan of how to market those by Monday.”

The manager open his mouth to argue but one look over your shoulder and he sighs. “Yes, Mx.”

You glance over your shoulder finding not your upper manager there but your assistant typing away at xyr tablet. “That’s unfortunate.”

“What now? Another acquisition?”

“You fired Mx Yumenes last week.”

“What? Lemme see that? Sue enough the termination papers were signed by you. “call them and tell them they—”

“I’ll tell nem.” Your assistant still hasn’t looked you in the eye. Whether scared you’d fire them to or equally bogged down in the details of saving the company, it doesn’t matter.

“The factors will be closed overseas. Do we have any left locally?”

For several moments, you assistant doesn’t response, tapping away.

“Hey! You snap.”

Xe doesn’t even finch. Taking their time setting xyr tablet aside. “I’ve already sent word to the factories but it’ll take time to—”

“I don’t want to hear how you do it, make it happen. I am not losing this popsicle stand to some live streaming teenager.”

You march back toward the elevators. Canceling the golf, it can wait. For all you know your private golf courses will be something that has to be sold as well. A pity, it’s good to have a backup.

* * *

Late into the night, you make calls. Call in favors. See to it managers are back in the office and consulting executives how to expunge nearly 200 employees in a day.

Signing another form, you find yourself nodding off. you fill up another cup of coffee, it barely peels open your eyes. you stare into the gourmet fresh grounds. The murky brown bean water spins and swirls beneath your spoon. Until your head feels light and all of a sudden, you yourself being pulled into it.

You nose elongates to a sharpened point. Each swirl of your spoon sending it in a spiral, taking more of you with it. You try to yank yourself out, scream for help but by the time you do, you’ve face has stretched too far. It comes out as a whisper.

The sparse chatter of overtime workers flows through the door. Loud enough to drown out your whispered pleas as your dragged into your coffee.

Amongst the boiling juice, all your senses infused with the smell. You try to climb out. Something drags you deeper. Its scaley and smooth, a snake? How is there a snake in your coffee?

Never mind that, its tail rattles. The sound deafening beneath the surface. You kick, pulling. It’s too tight.

It’s then when your body starts to burn from the heat and oxygen starvation that wave rolls through the coffee.

A wave runs through the coffee. Then, you feel the snake pause in its tugging. The wave comes again, this time strong enough to force you further back. The snake yanks on you even harder.

Not until the third time the wave rolls by, this one enough to pick you from the water and throw you against solid ground. You cough and sputter, desperately climbing up the shore and away from the water. A V-shape comes toward you.

This time you hear a harmonious whistle in the distance. Whoever was after you, disappears. So does the muddy water until its clear enough that you can see the bottom. Shale like rock lines the floor, all the way to the bottom. Unless it’s hiding beneath one of the decaying logs or in the mud at the bottom, you doubt it’s there.

As you recover, it strikes you as strange. You were certain you’d inhaled some of the coffee-water—whatever that was. Yet, your throat doesn’t burn, much less did you spit up the coffee. In fact, you’re entirely dry, in an entirely different suit than you came in. Your favorite from back when you declared your first company to the public and began collecting shareholders.

The dark green matched with a treefrog green tie and stripped shirt with limited edition Oxfords that you’re certain you lost years ago. Not only that, but it doesn’t have that tiny stain nobody managed to get out on the inside of the sleeve.

A chill rolls down your spine.

However you got here, someone must knew your routines, your history and gotten past 50 people without any raising the alarm of seeing a stranger, then somehow drug you and get you here…

But it felt so real..

You pull up your pant leg but there’s no mark of the creature.

Could it be a hallucination?

You glance around the rolling fields of wild flowers popping up between the rocks and patches of fertile soil. You’re sitting on the edge of a glacial lake. The cool wind as it rolls off the water despite the direct sun. You don’t recognize.

Whatever they gave you, it must’ve been strong.

But who?

You climb up a nearby hill. The walls of the lake steep but you manage to scale the uneven terrain to its lip. The view nearly makes you fall back again.

It’s no wonder you didn’t recognize the mountain. You’ve got to be in the middle of a whole range of them. Somehow at the top of one, you the slope in front of you is so sheer, no human could drop down it.

You blink, staring at it. “How… is that… even?” You glance back. Only to see something long and green crawl out of the water in a serpentine fashion. You gasp, stumbling back.

You feel yourself tipping over. You close your eyes, already knowing that’s it. You’re done.

Dying of the most convoluted assassination ever.

Fantastic job, you.

Just as you expect to feel the crushing embrace of jagged rocks, you hit something soft. You open your eyes to be staring at a blue sky though waves of golden grain.

It’s as if someone knocked you out again. The sun’s a little lower in the sky. The winds hot, everything’s warm. You wander through the grain. It stretches on endlessly all the way to the horizon. Except a little hill with someone waiting beneath a tree.

At a distance, you’d have assumed the strange to be of a pale complexion. Upon closer examination, you realize it’s because they literally are a shade of off white. Bones. A skeleton. Admittedly, you’d never seen a skeleton before. You’d heard of them in old myths but you assume they all died off awhile ago in the wars.

Clambering up the hill, you notice another figure beside em. This creature smaller, partially obscured what has to be a great deal taller than you.

The skeleton with the face of a jackal waves eir companion, a cat monster, back. By the time you summit the hill, amazed you hadn’t broken a sweat, eir companion had disappeared beneath the tree.  You only catch a bit of their conversation “I can handle Skylar. Ze’s just surprised.”

Skylar? You look behind you? There wasn’t anyone else. Or did they think you were this Skylar. E got your pronouns right though… which is concerning.

“Skylar, it’s been awhile. Do you remember--”

You close the distance, grabbing the stranger’s tie and yanking em down to eye level. Fuck all these god damn tall people. They’d look you in the eye for once. “I don’t know how you got the drop on me but if you want to escape with a single penny to your name, you’ll get me to the nearest police station. Right. NOW.”

For lack of a name, you call em Jackal. Jackal hums as if encountering a tricky conundrum. “Huh, you should’ve remembered upon seeing… how queer. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think you understand the situation your in.”

Jackal smiles pleasantly. “Likewise.”

“You drugged me. KIDNAPPED me. Then kept drugging me! I don’t care if you’re from Jameson & Co or some other half-baked scheme, you’re lucky I don’t tear you apart as it stands. There’s a tracker within me, they’ll find me any minute now.” You cross your arms, memorize this hustler’s features for eir time in court.

“Skylar…” Jackal sighs.

“My name isn’t Skylar! Do you even know who you kidnapped?”

“Enlighten me.” You wait for the sarcasm but none comes.

“Soon to be your worst nightmare. Where’s your car?  You’ve got to have a car somewhere to be in butt fuck nowhere?”

Jackal remains silent as you search the nearby fields. There aren’t even game trails. It’s as if nobody has been out here for years. You don’t even see any signs of animals. Just the grass.

Whatever this place is, something is very wrong with it.

“I have nothing to hide. I could’ve told you I live here.”

Before you realize it, you’re fist flies, hitting em square in the jaw. The move seems to surprise you just as much as em. You’d never hit someone before. Yet, it came so easily.

“Oh, that’s rich. You’re wiping minds too? Think I wouldn’t notice how I forgot I took self-defense classes?” You bounce on the balls of your feet. It doesn’t feel natural, not like punching him. Didn’t have to be. All you have to do is convince this bozo e picked the wrong joy to kidnap. “How about I ruin that pretty little suit of yours?” It hadn’t been lost on you the accoutrement. It’s an exact replica from a fictional frog from a picture book you loved as a kid. “Unless you want to fess up and tell me how the hell I got here?”

Jackal’s shoulders drop. “you wouldn’t believe me.” In eir moment of looking away, you charge.

Instead of fighting back, the jackal ducks beneath your arm. Quite a feat for someone a foot taller than you, like it was a game. You turn on your heel, racing at him again. E pulls at the fabric of eir suit like it suddenly appeared, Sniffing it, Jackal murmurs while examining a pocket watch. “You have strange tastes. This was outdated even in my day.”

The next time, you dive for a tackle. This time Jackal disappears entirely, as if being corporal was a distraction. You whirl around, half expecting em to drop out of a tree only to find em further down the hill. Long strides graceful, unlike you as your stumble on your hands and knees, practically tripping over yourself.

“No matter, I’ll make do.” E shirks off the coat, letting it crump to eir feet along with removing eir socks and shoes like some wild child as your father would say. Burying eir feet in the loose soil, e sighs.

You stalk up behind the Jackal.

E sighs, “You can’t expect to meet me and dress me unannounced. It’s rude.” Jackal holds up the pair of sleek leather boots, glaring at them. “Your people’s ideas of footwear verge on torture, are you aware? Or do you just, make do?”

“What?”

Jackal shakes their head. “Never mind, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“What is wrong with you?” You growl. “You kidnapped me for a ransom or to eliminate me right?”

“No. Why would? I was the one who invited you here.”

It’s akin to mixing gummy candy and soda. “Fine. You don’t want to help me. I’ll find my own way home.”

“I wouldn’t advise that.” Eir voice comes from beside you.

You definitely don’t scream. Instead, you leap back, tumbling down the hill. Jackal shouting after you. When you finally stop, Jackal’s leaning over you. “Are you—” E sighs, disappearing to dodge you from kicking em. “Of course, it’s all fun and games before someone checks up on you.” Jackal rolls eir eyes. “If wrestling would help, I would’ve initiated.” E dodges, not even bothering to pretend e was cheating.

“Then leave me alone!” You shout.

This time you throw your hand, Jackal catches it. You freeze as Jackal pats it. “All right.” A sad sort of smile spreading over eir serene features. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

Next thing you know, you’re snoring on your desk. Coffee spilling all along the floor and someone knocking at the door. You groan.

It was just a dream. None of it was real.

You can’t help but laugh, somewhat hysterically.

Of course it wasn’t real! You fell into your coffee, suddenly woke up on a glacier. Then fell into a meadow hundreds of miles away that had no bugs or people in any direction but a jackal headed skeleton cosplaying as a child’s book character.

You let yourself laugh for awhile. Evening ignoring your secretary’s calls until finally you get a grip. It has to be the stress of managing this transition. That’s it. The headaches, the dreams, it’ll all go away once this blows over.