#i’m tired of trying to be cordial with you human shit stains

[hvly]

one more thing; THIS STILL ISNT ABOUT HAMAS !!!!!!!! it stopped being about hamas months ago and you zioshits and pro-israhellis are so tunnel visions on them that you’ve abandoned your humanity and compassion for carnage and bloodshed ! you don’t care about palestinian lives, you don’t care about minimizing damage, you don’t even really care about fucking hamas. there are people celebrating the fact that these people can’t return to their homes, they can’t get aid because they’re blocking the fucking trucks, the death of CHILDREN who succumbed to wounds, disease and starvation. you aren’t moral, you aren’t outraged, you aren’t a motherfucking human. it’s taking everything in me not to get vile and not say the same vitriolic garbage you fuck nuggets spew all up and down social media day in day out, but i hope when the time comes when you need someone to stand up for you, the world falls silent and watches you suffer. fuck you all, i wish nothing good on you

[thefreakydeaky]

Call Out My Name

Chapter One Title: All I Know

Characters: Negan x Plus Size Reader, The Saviors, The Wives, Eugene

Summary: You belonged to him.Try as you might to pretend indifference, Negan’s very presence has awakened feelings in you that you believed had died with the old world.Is the ruthless King of the Sanctuary still human enough to fall in love?

Warnings: Language, Canon Gore & Violence.

Word Count: 2,930

Careful to avoid making any noise, you pressed down on the stainless steel lever.As discreetly as you could manage, you peered into the communal living space.Sherri and a few of the other wives sat together on the large sectional speaking in hushed tones. Your prison guard however, was absent. You grinned. Dropping all pretense, you stood up straight and let the door swing shut behind you.

“Good Morning.” You called out cordially.

Her eyes gave you an appraising once over. They paused at the sight of the old flannel you had on over your dress.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Negan’s first wife asked sternly.

“Where ever the wind takes me on this fine day, Miss Sherri.”

The remnants of a southern upbringing scolded you for being rude.You knew well that all of these girls had to put up with the boss man same as you,but you couldn’t risk getting caught just to be polite.

“He’ll be angry.” You heard her call after you, but Negan was always angry. So you didn’t let that stop you.

There was no way of knowing how long you had, but you intended to explore as much of the sanctuary as possible. You had been out of the room before, sure, but you had only seen flashes of the place as you ran past.Then there was the mini-mission you went on two months ago to find out what was making Joey late. Once you figured out what day of the week Pastry day was, it was simple.Third day of every week, Joey headed straight for the bakers and stood in line for a good half hour. You left when they handed him the sweet bread and found you could beat him back to the room.That was the most you had seen of the sanctuary since your arrival and was not the best way, you were convinced, to get to know and appreciate the beauty this place might hold.

The Sunlight felt nice for the first few seconds after you stepped out of your building, but soon enough the humidity ruined the moment.

You stayed on the greenery beside the road to avoid burning your feet, following the gravel path to the market place.Careful to avoid the baker’s side of the warehouse, you walked idly passed stall after stall of goods and services.

Your eyes caught on a table of battered shoes. You recognized the pasty ex-alexandrian running the table.Eugene, he was called.You knew this from the stories Tanya told you at dinner time.He was nothing but a blubbering wuss from the sound of it, so you figured you could handle him.You strode confidently to the front of the line and smiled.

“Excuse me?” You found yourself demanding not two minutes later.You glared at Eugene until he looked away.

“You don’t have credit.”

“The hell I don’t!”

“How many more times do you need me to say it?”Eugene repeated a smirk on his lips.

He leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“How fucking dare -” You started to shout, your voice ringing out through the warehouse.

Calling attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted to be doing you reminded yourself anxiously. You scrambled to come up with a different tactic.The corners of your mouth pulled up into a practiced grin that you never thought you would have cause to use again.

“My my,” Injecting sugar into your voice, you leaned across the table until you were nearly close enough to touch him.“Look at you! You’ve been runnin’ with the big dogs long enough to do a halfway decent impression, Eugene.”

Eugene’s shifty eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Negan only ever talks about one genius with a mullet.”You lowered the volume of your voice conspiratorially, “How fortunate you are that my darling husband hasn’t seen through you yet.” You postured, taking a risk. “Maybe, I ought to help him see you for what you really are?”

“He will never believe you.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t make any sense for me to lie about a man I have never met. All i have to do is call into question your history with the people of Alexandria and make it seem like I feel concerned for his safety.”

Metal chair legs scraped against cement as Eugene pushed his seat back and stood.

“I’m g-going out for a smoke.Them shoes better be the only thing missin’ when I get back.” His trembling lower lip killed any affect his wrathful tone might have had on you.

You snickered at his retreat.

Your white dress fanned out behind you as you hurried away brown leather contraband on your feet, eager to begin your self guided tour.

Building after building of industrial rot, a few rusty tin shacks, and a sad row of herbs and spices later, you found yourself in front of the main building itself.

The Sanctuary’s weather beaten concrete face was made of cruel sharp angles. Her broken windows were yellowing jagged teeth.She stared brutally down at you until you couldn’t bare to meet her eyes anymore and turned, walking brusquely away from her frightening visage.

You turned the next corner only to freeze in your tracks.The wet raspy growling filled your ears before the smell hit you.

Walkers

Your eyes swept from left to right a few times trying to count, to keep track and then you realized, that they weren’t coming for you. There was a chain link fence separating them from you.Your brow knitted.They were tied down.They were, for the most part, stationary.Some chained up, some tied up, some stuck through with pipes. It took a twisted mind to come up with such a gruesome thing.

You wondered if Negan had come up with the idea himself.You shook the thought away. You didn't want to know. You made for the only corner of the god forsaken place you hadn’t yet visited.

The stolen too-big boots kicked up loose bits of gravel behind you as you headed for the backlot. Little did you know that you had an audience.Eyes followed your trek down the road from the loading dock behind you.

The field was inhabitted by broken wood pallets, a rusted up old mercury with bullet holes along the side, some old crates, a busted up head board, ruined tires, and tin sheeting. They lay rotting in the grass.Nearer the chain link fence, lay the final resting place for the few men who managed to stay on good terms with Negan until their last moments. Crude wooden headstones marked with paint stuck out in a bad attempt of making a row.

You slowed down as you reached the end of the pavement and waded into the living green sea of grass hoping not to encounter any snakes.The damp blades were staining the skirt of your dress, but it’d be worth the scolding. A long jagged claw snagged at your dress.You cursed. As you pulled it loose, you realized it was a foot and a half of wood that likely came off of one of the pallets.You tossed it aside and smirked.Now that you’d gone and torn the thing, he would be extra pissed. Hell if you were going to get him good and mad you had better do it well you thought, untieing the bright orange ribbon from around your wrist. Negan's latest gift to you. Each time you saw it, it reminded you of who you belonged to. You frowned as you let it flutter to the ground. It may as well have been a dog collar.

Negan was following you, keeping far enough away not to draw attention.He cursed Fat Joey for letting you out.That idiot was going to pay.He grit his teeth as he watched you wade into the tall grass.Flannel shirt or not you were ruining your dress.Where the fuck was he supposed to find you another dress as nice as the one you had on? The sight of you tugging on your skirt brought his eyes to your wrist. He saw you take off your bracelet and let it fall. Did you have any idea how hard it was to come by anything in bright colors these days?Of fucking course not!You were a spoiled selfish ungrateful untamable thing.He was not going to be taking it easy on you this time.He spotted you staring at the barbed wire topped fence and froze.

He didn’t have to imagine you attempting to clamber over the high fence, face full of determination fueled by spite.He would never forget it.Your last attempt to leave made it clear that you didn’t give a shit about your own well-being anymore.Negan cursed under his breath. God help you if you were stupid enough to pull another stunt like that.Yet he knew way down deep inside, somewhere primal, that you belonged to him.After three years and fifteen failed attempts to leave him, Negan had come to the conclusion that he had to do everything in his power to make you want to stay.

Despite the show and the accusations he had made, alternately burning and bashing some person or another, every time you fucked up Negan went easy on you.The second he’d laid eyes on you, he’d chucked his personal rule book out the window. He was afraid that this made him look soft and that burned his pride like nothing else could.

However, women with your body type had always been his preference and He knew, a figure like yours was a rare find these days. He wanted you. Negan wanted you badly. More than anything, he wanted you to want him to fuck you.It was a frustrating blue balls inducing shit show of a situation.Charming women had always come easy to him. It was his shit luck that you weren’t easily charmed. He followed you into the field. His eye caught the shine of the ribbon easily. As He pocketed the scrap of orange cloth, the memory of your first meeting came to mind.

Your hair pulled back into a braid, a lovely face, enough cleavage showing to catch his eye. Your faded jeans had holes in the thighs and your breathing was heavy from your attempt to out run The Saviors.

You looked so darn pretty kneeling before him.You’d had the audacity to meet his gaze. It pissed him off and turned him on in equal measure.Your eyes captivated him.They were burning with resentment, but no tears.Not his Y/n. You didn’t cry, didn’t beg, and didn’t flinch at the sight of Lucille.Not even after he’d dirtied her up a bit.Near the end of his speech,some traitorous switch inside him had flipped.

“Darlin’, You have got a look in your eyes that says you haven’t been fucked right in years.” He drawled smiling his slick easy smile.”Why don’t you come on home with me, I’ll show you how good it can be with a real man.”

“You expect me to believe that a bean pole like you can handle curves like mine? Honey, I would eat you alive.”

He laughed low and long.The genuine mirth startled everyone, but you.

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.I just wanna love you right.”

“Well, I am sorry, Mister Real Man, but your pick up lines are bad jokes at best and that mouth of yours...” You shook your head in disapproval. “So dirty.”

You were meant to be his. No doubt about it.

“Mmm, there are plenty of good things I can do with this dirty mouth and you are curious to find out, I can tell.”

Negan’s big strong hand had fisted into the collar of your flannel pulling you toward him. You stumbled onto your feet to keep from being dragged. Before you could catch your balance, his lips were on yours.

Unbeknownst to Negan, unlike his bat and savior show, the heated kiss he gave you impressed you.

He nipped at your lower lip and turned back to what was left of your group.

“We are gonna do just fine, Dollface. As for the rest of you sorry shits, You are going to bring me my stuff and then go out and get me something nice.”

His hazel eyes gleamed down at you. “We’ll consider it a wedding present.”

Your exclamation was drowned out by the saviors’ hearty laughter as you were forcefully led to his truck.

From the moment Negan made you a wife, you vowed that you would get away from him even if you died trying. After three years and fifteen failed escape attempts, you had come to the conclusion that making him hate you was the only way out of the wives club.

You rummaged through the crates and found quite a few empty glass bottles. They would do. You put them all in the same crate and carried it with you as you counted your steps. You waited until you were at least two yards away to throw the first one.

Thunk

Wading further into the tall weeds and grass he frowned at the unfamiliar sound.

“Well I’ll be damned.” You murmured to yourself as you bent to pick up another bottle.

You glared at the Mercury, closed your fist around the neck of the bottle, and swung. It grazed the roof, but landed on the other side of the car.

“Have you lost your freaking mind?”

Your shoulders tensed at the familiar deep baritone of your husband’s voice. You stood there clenching your teeth, frustrated with the intrusion.You schooled your features before turning to face him.

“Hey there, Sugar. What are you doin’ out here?”

Negan came to stand before you, but he didn’t ask the questions you had expected him to ask.Perhaps, Where in the hell did you get shoes? or How in the hell did you manage to escape a locked room with a savior standing watch?Instead, Negan swallowed his anger and made himself the very picture of patience.

“I could ask you the same question, Darlin’.” He replied.

You stared at him, curiosity battling the wrath within you.

“Well?” Negan prompted after a minute or two of your silence.

Your thoughts raced.

What the fuck?!Why was he being nice?!He should be letting you have it right now! He should be cussing up a storm!

“Just... keepin’ busy.”You said lamely.

“In the junkyard? Playing with glass? That’s a hell of a thing for a Queen to do.” He murmured.”You could have hurt yourself.”

You were disgusted by how genuinely concerned he sounded and cringed at him calling you “Queen”.For weeks now, you had been working on him, from picking fights, to ruining belongings, to giving him the cold shoulder.Until finally you’d been able to break out again.You wanted him good and mad and Negan was not cooperating.

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“Actually, I haven’t been here long.I walked the whole Sanctuary first then ended up here.”You shrugged and made to pick up another bottle.”It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Who do you think you are?”

You should have known his anger couldn’t stay contained for long.

“Beg your pardon?” You snapped.

“I said,” Negan growled pulling you toward him by your shirt collar, “Just who, in the fuck, do you think you are?” His eyes glowered down at you.

“Y/F/N Fucking Y/L/N.” You declared and kicked him.

The shock on his face turned to fury. Familiar though the expression was, Negan had never turned it on you.Adrenaline spurred you into action.You yanked out of his grasp and tore through the field.

“Y/n!” He bellowed.

You didn’t dare look behind you as you pushed yourself to run.

[yeet-imma-skeet]

Oh There’s The Sky

(Based on @starr-fall-knight-rise ‘s unique universe. Part 4 of the story.)

(Part 1: https://yeet-imma-skeet.tumblr.com/post/613232997621202944/the-sky-is-falling)

“Holy shit.”

“What a big ass spaceship!”

“Looks like right out of Star Trek.”

“Doesn’t it look like it’s broken though?”

The crewmen and marines gathered in the mess hall to recuperate murmured to each other in agreement as a wide projection of the strange vehicle outside spread throughout the ship like wildfire.

It slowly grew closer to them as they fumbled through space with what was left of their thrusters, showing evidence of damage to its hull. A jagged line the size of their own ship cut through its back end, nearly cutting off a winged structure.

"I bet the ones who built it are tiny."

Someone choked on their drink, "Pfft, how do you know that?"

"Well usually the smaller the alien, the bigger they make their stuff. You seen a Celzex ship? They're fucking huge."

"It’s best not underestimate whatever is in that monstrosity," A bright yellow Drev joined in, cradling a slinged arm.

The resting humans begrudgingly agreed until a sudden sense of caution flowed through them as the pearly ship towered close to their own. The few injured Drev in the room felt unease at the sudden restlessness the humans shown, especially those who were marines.

The yellow one asked, "What's wrong?"

"That." A young marine pointed at the display, "The vibes feel weird."

"The vibes."

"Don't underestimate the power of vibes, too."

The Drev shook their head in disbelief, but then again, humans were known for their strange power of prediction...

————————————

"Caldat!"

Thunk! Galia’s vision erupted into black and white splotches as she held her throbbing head. Dizzy and quite mad, she slid out from under a techy floor table on the fritz.

"Yerras! What?!"

"Report to the command room immediately!"

Sensing something wrong, she ignored the fading pain and ran out one of the gathering decks. Within a few minutes, she flew through the corridors to burst into the command room. The hovering orb projected a few panels of information around it as it connected to the master control panel. Then she heard it. It was a mix of lilting tones along with short hisses and abrupt humming not unlike her own voice. Curiously, she opened an arial, listening to the disconcerting yet beautiful sound.

Remembering why she came there, she asked, "What is up with that noise?"

"We've encountered another dolmier through short range communication. The noise you are hearing is an unknown language sent from it. It also sent data which I am working to translate by looking through their own systems. Their security is surprisingly weak, almost ancient."

Her eyes widened in shock, "Doesn't that mean—"

"We have met another sentient species."

A bombshell could almost be heard inside her head. Scientists theorized that there could be others in the vastness of space but no one found any interest outside their solar system. They had plenty of resources and had no shortage of companionship. The few who gazed towards the stars were only seen as eccentric and mostly worthless. Why would they look past their reach? Why would they try to find anyone else? What worth is there in another people?

Now that Galia is about to encounter another, she had no idea how to react. The past fifty cycles of training and combat did nothing to prepare her for meeting a whole nother alien species. Sure, some diplomacy would probably help but how would she know that it was appropriate for them? She sighed as she remembered that her comatose friends could've helped as they were taught to be the best diplomats. As numerous thoughts and improvised ideas past through her mind, the orb made a revelation through its translation.

"They are asking for assistance. Their dolmier is critically damaged and they have injured."

"What?" She was knocked out of her thoughts, "Show me the dolmier."

With a few moving around of its projections, a large image appeared. She was prepared to see something mysterious and powerful. Maybe discover a giant behemoth of a dolmier or one decked out in countless weapons. Instead, she found a stumpy, gray brick. A very beat up brick. Chunks of space rock were stuck in its hull. It was... quite small. She couldn't imagine living in such an enclosed space.

"Despite its appearance, it has a powerful engine called a 'warp core' made for deep space exploration."

"Exploration? Why?"

"After looking through some of their data, the makers seem to be an unusually curious species. Their dolmier's directive is to purposely find and record unknown things."

"Hmm." Her tail swished around in concentration, "We have no shortage of rooms but we have next to no food for others."

"...Our directive to keep the Royals safe and search for others. They may jeapordize our purpose."

"Yes, but we can't really do that in the middle of nowhere when we are running out of food and have a broken thruster. If we save them, they may offer us some assistance in return."

"...They ARE omnivores like yourselves and seem to have a better handle on food production."

She walked to the control panel, "Then we agree to assist them?"

"I shall send an affirmed message and instructions on docking. Though the translation isn’t perfect, they should get an understanding."

———————————

Captain Silva sat hunched over in his quarters, head in his hands as a heavy sigh slid from his lips. If anyone was with him, they would've smelled the faint aroma of rum from his breath. Granted he only had a sip, a shot-sized sip, but one nonetheless. He wanted to keep sipping, maybe from the bottle itself as the thought of the many deaths he caused weighed on his mind. As mich as he craved the feeling of freedom in the form of alcohol, he promised his crew that he would be back after a break. They wouldn’t find it very comforting to find their captain inebriated and he needed to do all he could to prevent panic.

A voice called from his com, “Captain, please report to the command deck. We have a reply.”

He heaved his heavy body off his untouched bed, combing his hair into place to look like he hadn’t just been pulling at it a few moments ago. Looking into a mirror as he almost left, he swiftly washed his face of any tear stains. He can’t let them see him like this just yet.

The weary officers on deck perked up at the sight of their captain entering the bridge, looking tired yet stern as always. A lingering medic, the head doctor in fact, narrowed her eyes at his flushed cheeks but paid no mind once he started giving orders as usual.

“What’s the reply?”

The communications officer stood as she reported, “They have accepted our ask for help and showed diagrams on how to board their ship. They apparently have a docking bay that can fit half of the ship though it is normally used for smaller craft.”

“Have you gotten anything about what kinda alien we are dealing with?”

“Well we received a bulky package of medical data. Some of it is unintelligible but we do have an image. It’s—um, well see for yourself. You too, doctor.”

The room grew still as the hologram of something not unfamiliar showed. The first thing they noticed was the face. It was very much like their own except for a lack of a mouth and nose, only a smoothened white face with red eyes which seemed to stare into nothing. They then saw the noticeable differences. The most apparent thing they all noticed was a long reptilian tail on their rump, ending with a tuft of hair the same yellow hue as the mane on their head. Something like bird wings grew from the sides of their head where ears would usually be. They were also bipedal, with legs resembling a prehistoric raptor’s.

Latinar stepped back at the sight, eyeing their three toes ending with sharp claws. He shivered at the thickness of their arms and even sharper looking claws from their six fingers.

“A predator species!” He exclaimed.

The room erupted into a flurry of whispers of surprise and awe as a few muttered in unease. Silva gazed at the rotating image as shock rolled into his mind. The commander and his crew were the only other ones to find a predator species. They were only just barely sentient with a young civilization but a predator species nonetheless. And he, Captain Silva, and his crew discovered another one!

“Now, now. Everyone quiet down.” He motioned with his hands, “Are they safe to approach?”

The officer read through the incoming message as she said, “The message they sent was cordial though some words were a bit off. Plus, they sent us their anatomy and medical records. I don’t see why not.”

“Hmm. Doctor?”

“Whoever is doing the translating is appearing to be accurate. The records are changing as I’m reading it and it shows biologies similar to us.” She answered, not looking up from her screen, “I suggest we wait a bit until everything is translated so we can produce vaccines as needed.”

Silva nodded, “Alright then. Send a message that we’ll wait for the medical records to fully translate and secure our safety before we come. Also, send some of our information to their side.”

———————————

“We received a message back and a data bank of biology records.” The orb wrote on a screen.

Galia stopped her pacing as she asked, “What did they say?”

The orb relayed the message as multiple squares of information projected from its form. The foreign characters on them changed into Farrisan ones as she skimmed through. Then her gaze landed on a 3D image of the dolmier’s creators within. They were almost like her own species! They had forward facing eyes with strange protrusions on their face and had small, strangely-shaped arials on their heads. Their legs were almost straight and gangly along with their arms. They also seemed to be clawless and only had five fingers on each hand. What surprised her the most was their lack of a tail. How the heck do they stay balanced without a tail?

She tilted her head at the sight of the strange creature, looking into its blank eyes. The image seemed empty, devoid of life. She couldn’t imagine it being real if it wasn’t for the fact that they were within orbiting distance of multiple. Another projection caught her eye, one completely different from the first creature.

It looked like a shiny, armored bird. They stood like Farrisans, with strong legs that ended in two stubby toes. They also had no tail, making her flick her arials in disbelief once again. What made up for the lack of one was an extra set of arms. An interesting thought crossed her mind as she imagined the creature in front of her. It would be quite interesting to fight with one, especially because of their extra arms and large stature like their own males.

“The first species which makes up the majority of their group are called humans. The one you’re looking at now are called drev.”

The unknown sound it said aloud for their names sounded almost musical. It would be quite hard for her to pronounce ‘drev’ but found saying ‘human’ much easier on the tongue.

An icon appeared next the the orb, “They are requesting for a live video call, caldat. Do you want to answer?”

Her arials perked up as her tail flicked around in thought, “You’ll translate?”

“Of course.”

“...Accept the call.”

———————————

The room of humans and a drev stood uncharacteristically quiet as the centuries old dial tone rang in the air. Captain Silva sat on his chair, dressed with his cap and uniform jacket as he anxiously waited for anything to happen.

Then it did.

The image almost blinded him with the sheer amount of white on the other side of the call. The room inside seemed to be of the same material one the outside of their ship, an almost obnoxiously bright pearly white. When his eyes adjusted, he finally saw what inhabited it. The creature was almost as white as the room with long dark hair. One of its golden eyes was closed as a pink scar ran down the left side of its face. Though he hadn’t seen them for long, even he could tell that they looked weary and cautious.

They hummed and hissed as words crossed below the screen, showing a translation, “Greetings human. I am Galia. May I know who this is?”

He spoke with practiced ease, “I am Captain Silva of the UNSC Esperanca. I’m glad to speak with you as we need immediate help.”

The being paused as they read their own translation, “Yes, I have seen but I also am in need of aid.”

“We have seen the damage to your ship as well. In exchange for sheltering in your ship, we can help fix it. There is next to no room left for our crew and we need to contact our allies.”

“That is a sound exchange though may I ask for help with provisions? My food supply is almost empty and its procurement is slow.”

“How many are in your crew?”

“...It is only me.”

Silva’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, “You are alone in that giant ship?”

“Yes, there were more but...” Her strange ear-wing-things drooped, “A sickness has killed them.”

The nearby doctor’s head shot up from her readings. Without any regard to the captain, she butted into the video, “A lethal sickness?”

The creature looked at her in surprise, “Yes, but the onboard AI has found a preventative medicine to combat it from my own blood. I was fortunate enough to be naturally immune to it. I will mention, however, that there is no cure at the moment if one does get infected.”

The captain and doctor looked at each other, a silent conversation passing through their eyes. The white being looked between them, confused yet intrigued at the staring contest.

The doctor asked with a serious expression, “Can you send us all the information about it?”

——————————

For once, Galia had no clear answer. Who would want to help them if they knew about the Infection? Saying ‘well you’ll find that it killed most of our population right after they gone mad and infected others and there no cure so please help’ is going to make them run for the hills. She did the best she could to not visibly look panicked but she had to say something, the hesitation was starting to show.

The orb interrupted, “I’ll send every known instance of the disease and my progress in its eradication. Forewarned, it can be graphic.”

The humans looked at the orb in shock as information poured into the doctor’s tablet, causing her to brush off her shock as she scanned it.

Galia openly gazed at the floating ball in disbelief, “Orb! What the h—“

“After looking through their data, I have concluded that they will not leave us behind.”

“H—Why?”

“Because they are human...”

(Part 5: https://yeet-imma-skeet.tumblr.com/post/616966577516150784/the-sky-is-in-pieces)

[yeoldontknow]

Shortwave

Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of Boogie Nights And Colombian White Creative Content Contributors: @baebae-goodnight (providing an INCREDIBLE moodboard for this installment) Rating: R Warnings: graphic violence; drug use; explicit language Word Count: 4,356 Special thanks to @kpopfanfictrash for letting me borrow her Baekhyun <3 and to @the-porcelain-doll-xo for a read through <3 Yixing - The Eyes

From great heights, it’s easy to see Miami the way it used to be. With the sea in view, somehow still iridescent and tantalizing in the dark, it’s easy to let time slip and drag him back. Back to the sixties, to before Yixing had even arrived, when South Beach was little more than something lazy, something pleasant, something almost hopeful. He can almost imagine it up here, chairs and chairs and chairs of geriatrics and maybe even some teenagers, stoned and old and killing time while they wait to die. Standing on the factory roof, he can see over the cranes and the high rises, the metal scaffolding stained and painted in equal parts blood and blow. Here, Miami becomes something little more than an idealized getaway, something little more than an empty plot of sand waiting to be paved. Something made of potential.

At this height, it’s easy to pretend he is flying. Standing on the ledge of the factory roof, Yixing looks down at his shoes as he balances and offers the stability of his knees complete trust. The weight of the recorder at his side could easily make him tip or stumble, would scare a younger, less trained man into stepping away. He simply stands, feeling like a gargoyle, feeling like this factory is his cathedral charge, and lets the pavement below test his will. Occasionally, like this, when the breeze picks up and threads through his hair, he thinks small fibers of his muscles are tempted to jump, fall, fly, or kiss the earth below. He thinks that would be easy, thinks that would be nice.

At this height, a lot of things are easy, but, at this height, it’s hard to be seen.

From where he stands, he looks out over the world and sees people. Lives pass by, insignificant and inconsequential, moving at slow paces and burned by ignorance. Lights in windows glow, people fucking over the city or fighting down below, and he can hear, see, smell them all. No one sees him, because no one expects to. No one sees him, because they are not looking, but he sees them.

Years of abandonment and neglect have taught him to observe, look for, and seek all the flaws in humanity that give him the upper hand. When eyes are not focused on him, he looks and looks and looks until every person is reduced to little more than cosmic waste, carbon and nitrogen soaked in nothing more than sin. He likes it this way, thinks it’s poetic - to be the prophecy all prophecies pass and ignore. The great undoing of everyone and everything, eventually even himself.

Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his lighter and juts his hip slightly to maintain balance. Pushing a cigarette between his lips, he relishes the sensation of his leather glove grazing his lips and lets the tobacco glide languidly into his chest and lungs. This moment could be soothing, he thinks, akin to a great wave of calm passing over his weary joints and mind. Could be.  

Would be, except for the entire length of his drag, someone is screaming.

Eight floors below, somewhere in the purgatory of the empty building, Minho is learning how to die.

Really, it’s his fault that he’s there, likely losing his ear and certainly losing his life - even if his heart is still beating. It was only a matter of time before the group found out he’d been poking holes in cocaine shipments, meeting the traffickers at the port and cutting slits in the bags to take kilo and after kilo to the Cubans. Yixing assumes that he was smart enough to know he’d be caught, though he probably never thought it would be a prostitute, still wet with come and sweat, who would give him away.

Minseok said his name like he was spitting acid from his mouth, disgusted with the mere idea of him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach into his back pocket for his knife. Itching to take his knife and cut off his thieving fingers but, well, Minseok has always had stellar self-control when he wasn’t tweaked or depressed.

Initially, they thought him the mole, connected him easily to every conspiracy they could imagine and fabricate, plot lines filling in like they’d been woven over years of planning and choosing. Logical. Made sense. Infuriating.

Jongin nearly punched a hole in his dash when Yixing told him not to kill the guy, instead to bring him in, back to Baekhyun who had some questions. Over a decade of working with and knowing Baekhyun had long ago taught him this didn’t mean a conversation, it meant he wanted blood, and, deep down, Yixing wanted it too. Minho got careless, reckless, and greedy - that’s what Jongin called it as he was guided through the streets, trying to talk himself down from the blind rage he found himself in. Yixing said nothing on the topic, oddly reserved for this time of night, barking out directions as he mulled over Jongin’s turn of phrase. Jongin was being kind, using gentle words, sympathetic words to describe this. Yixing called it disloyal, called it traitorous - that was his version of kindness.

Now, listening into the conversation, he’s satisfied with the words Baekhyun has selected. Their fearless leader, his childhood friend, ever the poet.

‘You know, I don’t like people.’ Baekhyun releases small grunts through his words, the effort of slicing through cartilage filtering through his speech. ‘People are cunts. Worthless pieces of come and pussy, self-servicing - fuck, I don’t even like Suho that much.’

‘It’s mutual.’ Junmyeon’s voice cuts through Baekhyun’s little sermon, sharp, pointed, and bored.

‘So what made you think that I liked you? That we were friends? Was it the money I was fronting you to push this shit? Did you think it was a fucking loan?’

Exhaling into the breeze, Yixing chuckles at Baekhyun’s nonchalant tone, almost cordial in its cadence. Any other man, he imagines, would use this opportunity to impose dominance or threat in their word choice. Treading carefully over their words, they would select the ones they find most sinister and brutal in the effort of exerting authority. For as long as Yixing has known him, Baekhyun has never felt the need to do this. He has never done this because he doesn’t need to, choosing instead to let his actions showcase his will. And his will, always and without fail, is lethal.

‘Answer me, I’m genuinely curious. I’d like to know.’

Soft whimpers permeate through the silence, intercut by howls of pain. Minho is losing his ear, and, in this case, he is lucky.

‘Oh, sorry, is my knife at your ear making it hard for you to speak? Let me make it easier for you.’

Minho screams, agony erupting out of his chest and sending Yixing back from the roof edge as he winces through the feedback in his earpiece. Laughter dances through, sounding splintered yet paradoxically gleeful, Baekhyun happily walking away with an ear.

‘There. Okay, tell me. What made you think we were friends?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Minho rasps, voice ragged and tilted with pain.

‘I don’t know,’ singsongs Baekhyun, boyishly weaving his way through the interrogation. ‘You started this whole Shakespearean shit. The Brutus to my Julius.’

‘Baekhyun, can we please hurry this up.’ Once more, Junmyeon bursts through, tired and irritated with the length of time this is taking. He’d rather go home. He’d rather have the body dump already arranged. Instead, he is playing rook to Baekhyun’s whim.

Yixing gets it, he truly does, but even he isn’t so forgiving, and so he decides to speak.

‘We’ve secured this building for two hours. There is plenty of time.’

‘Lay,’ Junmyeon says, feigning surprise. ‘I’d forgotten you joined us.’

Turning in a slow circle as he surveys the area, Yixing smirks. ‘Wish I could say the same.’

‘Shut up,’ interjects Baekhyun. ‘I think he wants to speak.’

Retching sounds become the soundtrack to a young couple fucking against an alley wall far below. Yixing smiles. Yixing watches.

‘What the fuck is that, is that tacos?’

Junmyeon sighs. ‘Looks like a burrito.’

Unable to help himself, Yixing laughs as he moves towards the opposite side of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Contrary to popular belief,’ Baekhyun announces, playfulness steadily disappearing from his voice, ‘my patience grows thin rather quickly. So, either you speak or I’m going to tell you what I think.’

With an intake of breath that sounds more like a hiss, Yixing braces himself for the oncoming storm. Now, it’s serious. Now, this kind of betrayal is a tangible reality and everyone is starting to feel it. Even Junmyeon, who is usually taciturn and stoic during all interrogations and meetings, releases a small, almost inaudible growl from his throat. Everyone wants some of Minho’s blood, and Baekhyun is sure to deliver.

‘Nothing?’

Baekhyun’s tenor weaves its way around the room, sounding soft and beautiful, and absolutely deadly.

‘Okay, here’s what I think: I think you got comfortable. You made your first million and you thought you could use me to make more. Because we’re friends, right? Friends would understand.’

In the brief pause, Yixing grits his teeth in anticipation. There’s a rhythm to the way Baekhyun handles his interrogations, a pacing similar to a dance, and he knows where this one is headed. As if by clockwork, he hears the cock of Baekhyun’s SIG Sauer before the trigger is pulled. The sound is loud, erupting through both the mic, giving sharp feedback directly into his brain, and out into the city. No one will notice. No one will care.

‘Shit man, you’re a cripple now.’

This simple sentence tells him Minho now has a bullet in one knee cap, though by the end of the night he expects he will have more in other, more important places.

‘Do you know what happens to cocaine when it makes contact with salt water?’ Footsteps follow Baekhyun’s words, signalling his movement through the pace of his speech; Yixing can almost see him circling the chair, eyes impassive behind yellow sunglasses and mouth set in a straight line. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you, well, it does but mostly I just want to know if you know. You’re a smart guy. Community college. Some bullshit like that.’

‘He dropped out after a year,’ he provides, leaning over the roof to watch Jongin turn a corner, circling the perimeter without being obvious.

‘But he went!’ Baekhyun exclaims, feigning pride. ‘That’s gotta mean something, right college guy? So, tell me. What happens to cocaine in salt water?’

Minho spits. ‘Fuck you.’

‘My sex life is fucking incredible, thanks, but that’s not my question.’

Another gunshot rings out in his ear, unexpected and brash, making him bend down and open his mouth in a silent scream of shock.

‘Sorry, my hand slipped. But hey, at least you know you aren’t walking out of here, right? You can relax now.’

Tired of playing games, Baekhyun is moving forward at an unprecedented speed. Yixing can sense it, even the air that moves around the roof is saturated with his wrath, and, soon, he thinks the whole of Miami will be caught in its tides.

‘Here’s what happens,’ Baekhyun says, sounding almost too pleasant for the details he’s about to provide. ‘Coke in water? Shitty, but if you evaporate the water it’ll still be there and it’ll work. Won’t work well, but it’s enough to get you addicted. Coke in salt water? Whole other story. So, when you’ve been dropping my shit into the sea, did you think this would eventually come back to you?’

For a while, the only sound Yixing can hear is Minho’s whimpering. He hopes Minho is suffering. He hopes he never goes numb to the pain.

There’s a sudden fury of movement: the tearing of bags, the pushing of a chair, fabric thrusting and moving in nondescript motions. He can’t make sense of it, his brain trying to picture each action and rounding itself back into a fog. Speech dies on his tongue, choosing not to interrupt Baekhyun as he works and instead keeps all his complaints to himself.

‘I want you to try it.’

Now, he gets it. Now, he feels almost sympathetic towards Minho. Almost.

‘Look, I’m sorry I don’t have a nice mirror for you to snort this off, but I think your ear makes a fine dish don’t you?’

More movement occurs in vague patterns: thrusts and grunts, sounds of inhales blocked by powder in nasal passages. Minho coughs, loud and sputtering and gagged, and, soon, he’s reduced to little more than a mess of uncomfortable whining.

A small sigh, one of insincere platitudes falls from Baekhyun’s mouth. ‘Your nose is bleeding. Suho, do we have a tissue for his nose?’

‘No,’ Junmyeon says, plainly. ‘No, we don’t.’

‘Sorry man. But hey, now we know what happens when you snort impure blow. Fucking sucks, doesn’t it.’

Below, Jongin circles back around, appearing as a lost driver attempting to find the highway entrance. Below, the world is moving, dollar bills are circulating in the Florida economy that are laced with cocaine simply by passing through the fingers of Miami’s lawyer’s, doctors, car salesmen. Below, a woman walking home alone is crying.

Above, Yixing is watching. Above, Yixing is listening. Above, Yixing is waiting. He knows the bullet is coming, and so he takes his ear piece out and rests it calmly on his shoulder. Without Baekhyun in his ear, the world seems calm. Miami seems calm and quiet and soft. Without Baekhyun in his ear, Miami seems colourless. Without Baekhyun, Miami seems hollow.  

‘I’ve got one more question for you,’ Baekhyun says, voice in a loud whisper. Baekhyun is leaning over Minho now, close and low and breathing heavy into his wire mic. ‘What happens to dead bodies in salt water?’

‘I don’t know,’ weeps Minho, pathetic and sad and aware that these are likely his last words.

‘Me neither. Will you be sure to tell me?’

‘Wh -’

A third and final gunshot breaks through, and Yixing smiles. He smiles at the moon and the sea and the city, but it is neither content nor is it pleased, it’s simply relieved that one half of their problems has been eradicated. It’s simply relieved that he can go home and not sleep, just think without this weighing heavy on his mind.

Minho is dead and Yixing is now free, at least for the next six hours.

‘This was all well and good, but we still have a mole,’ Junmyeon says, wires moving and indicating he is about to disconnect and arrange disposal of the corpse.

‘His brains are on my shoes,’ whines Baekhyun, sounding childish. ‘These were a gift.’

‘I’m sure your pretty piece of pussy will be able to get you another pair.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Baekhyun states, voice stern. ‘And don’t call her that. I’ll put a bullet in your mouth if you do it again.’

‘You won’t.’

He likes it, this banter. It makes him feel as though he isn’t on his own or alone, operating like the satellite he is. It makes him feel distant from New York City, the mob and the cops and the lonely way he had to move through the night to steal a car or a kilo to make a quick buck. It makes him feel distant from the thing he was before.

He likes this banter but now, he is tired, and now, after thirty-six hours, he is going home.

‘I’m leaving,’ he announces, and all sounds on the other halt as he commands attention. ‘I’ll leave the tape with Kai. I-95 should be clear until four.’

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. There are three deadbolts and each is more imposing than the one that comes before. When he suggested this, you laughed and called him paranoid. He simply agreed. When he suggested this, you said it was a tell, a give away that something serious was happening inside. You said, we’ll either look crazy or criminal, and I don’t know which is worse. He simply agreed, but he said it would keep you safe. He didn’t include himself. He doesn’t really care, not really about anything, except you.

When he walks through the door, like usual, he is ambushed by you. Whole heartfuls of lust and sentiment flare up and outward from his chest, rising through his throat to linger on his tongue. When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, standing in the center of your living room.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, and you are pointing a gun at him.

It reminds him of the first time he met you, when you pointed a gun at him and called him a fed, called him a cunt, called him a lot of things that made him laugh until he pulled a wire out from a car and hot wired it for you. You called him a lot things that night, held the gun to his head as he drove you through Brooklyn, while he told you he didn’t care the AV equipment was government grade or that it was hot, just that he wanted in the on the money if you were going to make him drive. You held the gun to his head all night, only put it down when he fucked you on your bed, dad sleeping in the next room an arms reach from a rifle - the riskiest sex he ever had.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you. You are pointing a gun at him, and you are shaking.

Instantly, words rush forward and fall from his mouth, tearing through him before his mind can assess his surroundings. Something feels off, slightly amiss, but he doesn’t care. He cannot care, because you are there with wide eyes and looking at him as though the world is in a state of collapse.

‘Nocti,’ he breathes, hands flying up in defense. He knows you won’t shoot, you never shoot, but you’re severe and strong, and your hold on the gun was always better and more stable than his. ‘Nocti.’

Just hearing the nickname seems to make you relax, your shoulders drooping and defenses falling just enough for you to come back to him, to peek around your shell and let him know this fear and this rage is not directed at him. And seeing you soften, seeing that you are neither hurt nor fighting with him tonight, makes the atmosphere shift and the flesh of his arms tingle.

‘Someone’s been in the house.’

You say it together, at the same time, and he’s at you before you can even move to investigate. Running his hands over your face, your hair, your waist. He looks at you as though you are bleeding, hemorrhaging in his hands even though he knows you are whole and complete and vital.

‘I’m fine,’ you state, though you cling to him tighter than usual, and it makes his jaw clench with disdain that someone could have this kind of power over you and his home. One and the same, really. ‘I just got home. I felt it when I walked in.’

Furiously, he pulls away from you, sure and calculated in every moment of his limbs. He tears through the house, inspecting rooms with his knife clutched tightly in his hands while you, with your Harballer, point at the furniture as though it is preparing to devour you whole. The silence is deafening, both of you reverting to hand signals and instead listening for sounds of footsteps unfamiliar with various weak spots in the floorboards. Yixing is looking for shadows and he knows you are looking for flesh, tendons to tear and shoot, men to cripple. Yixing is looking for shadows, feeling much like the moon as he tries to draw them out of the dark and give shape to phantoms already long gone.

Eventually, you both discern that nothing has been taken nor moved, the only real difference being the weight of the air in the house. It’s sticky and damp, a swamp dripping down the walls - though, he cannot tell if it’s the Florida air finding a way in or if it’s the rapid beating of his heart making him feel as though the earth is trying to suffocate him. And while this should calm him, the fact that everything is the same and as it should be, he is only able to manage a further, excessive panic because someone got in to do just that: be inside.

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. With no obvious signs of force at any entry point, this means someone followed him, likely for weeks, and made keys. With no obvious signs of forced entry, this means someone has known about his home, his life, his space for a long time. With no obvious signs of entry, this means it was planned.

‘We have to leave,’ he says, walking into the living room to where you are holding your gun at your side, defeated. ‘We need to get the fuck out.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ you retort, putting the safety back on and tossing it to the couch. ‘Leaving means they win.’

Yixing releases a scoff at your indifference to this plight, taken aback by how firm you are in your stance. ‘Nocti, you stole a lot of shit for us. I’m not embroiling you -’

‘For you,’ you interrupt, scowling and pointing a finger into his chest. ‘I stole that shit for you, not your boss or the whores he collects. You.’

Always, you are stronger than him. Will of iron and teaching him to be fierce, unwavering, brave. ‘If they found us,’ he begins, pulling you to him, ‘they’re onto a hell of a lot more than a pimp and a club owner who might be involved with racketeering.’

‘If they find us, you can put a bullet in their brain and I’ll search their pockets for loose change.’

For a while, you both fall quiet. Still, even with the discovery that nothing was taken, the house feels awkward, the bubble of privacy and clarity wholly removed and replaced with something foreign, something he hasn’t felt since Queens and the night a dead cop turned up on his doorstep. He’s used to running, leaving shit behind until his trail goes cold. He’s used to observing, never being observed unless it was your eyes only, and he can’t help but feel as though this is the beginning of the end.

Eventually, your mouth finds his neck, kissing a calm sort of fire into his skin as you speak. ‘Besides, you have a deal in a few days to scout. We can’t leave before -’

And then he’s gone from you, pulling away from your hold and running down the hall to the back spare room. It’s mostly empty, filled with boxes of office supplies neither of you use but keep merely to give the appearance of planning, converting, using, living. He moves a box to the side and tears at the wallpaper, revealing a small panel with a lever. Tugging the metal rod, he listens to the latch release and watches the wall slide away to reveal the radio room.

This too is small, but is the single most important thing his first million ever made him. With only two tables, two chairs, and three short wave radios, the room looks like an unassuming broadcast radio station at best but it’s the eighty foot tower less than three miles from the house that makes this room lethal. This is where Baekhyun talks to Colombia, this is where traffic routes are detailed, this is where Yixing listens to all the ways they’ve learned to live and speak and survive, and no one has never heard him. Not even once.

Inspecting each radio with a careful, quizzical eye, Yixing finally finds the thing that’s changed. One small detail that any other man, a careless man, would miss.

On the second table, sitting small and green and wholly unassuming, the knobs of a shortwave transmitter have been turned, sitting now in different positions than when he left them.

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he rests his weary body in the chair and he looks. He simply looks and looks at the dials and knows that, now, everything has changed. The information of a mole is no longer a rumour, something to be treated as mere investigation, but something that needs to be handled as though a warrant for execution has been issued. The mole is no longer a rumour, and they are inside, crawling inside all of Yixing’s private spaces and making him feel young, out of control, and completely unlike himself.

Like this, he thinks he could be reckless. Like this, he thinks he could be dangerous, publically and vocally, and he never liked the idea of either.

It’s as these thoughts pass through his head that he notices the pad of paper, yellow and legal and long. Impressions, erratic, unfocused and illegible, remain in the center of the pad, and suddenly a great wave of relief washes over him. This is the relief he had been seeking from his last smoke, the kind he had been seeking the moment he stepped through his door and held you in his arms.

This is the relief of control.

Flipping the pages up, he tears the last sheet out and lays it over the top, grabbing a pencil and sketching whole dark lines over the top. He makes one large dark cloud, big, almost circular, and lets the indents be the only white lines in the center.

When he’s done, he’s left with coordinates.

When he’s done, he’s left with handwriting.

When he’s done, he’s left with the truth.

Taewon.