#i'm liking this gasoline alley though

[terrainofheartfelt]

my mother raised me on listening to the series of Rod Stewart sings the great american songbook so it was a while before i even learned that he was a rock guy first. but to me he's a crooner first!

[skazoo]

fire to the rain.

↳ min yoongi x f!reader x jung hoseok

a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

length. 2.3k

genre. angst, thriller!au?? i REALLY don't know how to label this, agust d and jack do their own thing ig

warnings/tags. language, mention of mental illnesses, murder, arson, implied organized crime, dark themes overall. in this fic's seoul mental hospitals still exist, like arkham asylum/ahs: asylum stile idk it doesn't really serve anything but i imagined it this way.

networks. @kflixnet k-labels

notes. i finally get to publish this fic after soso long can i get an hallelujah?!?! also jack and agust d need to be in a movie together i really need it.

last but not least infinite thanks to the best beta reader i could ask for <3 @l00pyluluo7 MY angel 🫶🏼

hope you like it!

i'm desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

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a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

you think back to yesterday and you have a hard time recognizing which part of the so-called joke is funny but it was one of the rare times yoongi laughed when hoseok said it so you guess it’s just a you problem.

rain falls relentlessly on seoul’s concrete streets, the raindrops biting into your skin like needles. you walk slowly, hands in your pockets and the hood of your jacket pulled over your head, almost covering your vision. you let your eyes scan the dark alley you’re about to enter, but you see nothing other than a few plastic bags from the restaurant in the front of the building and a stray cat looking for something to eat.

according to the message you received in the dead of night from a —ironically— familiar unknown number, the meet-up is supposed to happen early in the morning but as of right now the sky is dark, the rising sun completely hidden behind a thick layer of ominous clouds. a milky mist bathes the city that has yet to wake up in a gray hue and morning seems nowhere to be seen. 

you grimace. 

if anyone were to ask you, seoul doesn’t deserve anything. 

the freezing cold in winter, the scorching hot summer, the rancid smell, its unforgiving nature, the city you were born in has never done anything for you. not when you grew up in foster care, not when you were denied the same opportunities as your peers because of your ‘slightly disturbing’ nature, not when you joined the police. if anyone were to ask you, in all the years you’ve been alive, seoul has never shown kindness and you’ve come to the point you’d rather see it burn than be a silent victim of its cruel ways. 

no one ever asked you, though. not until you met him first and the other second.

they knew what you were talking about when you told them what went on inside of you and be it in loneliness or personal gain, they enabled you in the only way they knew how. with gasoline. setting fire to the rain.

the phone in your hand says it’s 5:26am. you still have time.

you fish for the unopened pack of cigarettes in your pockets. 

it’s weird how the first thing you think about is sergeant kim and his passionate hate for your addiction. sergeant kim and the conversation you had almost four hours ago.

his voice was a quiet thing when he found you outside of the police station when it still wasn’t raining.  

“detective L/N.”

“sergeant kim.”

“the fires are getting more frequent.”

you let the smoke wash soothingly over your lungs. kept it there before lazily pushing it out. “they are.”

he stood in silence, leaning on the other side of the door, looking at you with a grave frown.

“it’s dangerous, detective.”

you buried yourself further into your jacket and turned your head in his direction, a minimal movement that spurred him to go on.

“and it’s arson,” voice low as he looked around the outside of the station. it was late. uncharacteristically so for him but your case must have been keeping him up at night more than you thought it would. maybe you underestimated his love for the job or his fear for his failures, you don’t know. you don’t particularly care either.

“i thought we’d already agreed on it when we took the case, sergeant. it is malicious. it is arson.”

he frowned and shook his head.

you’ve noticed he often gets these fits of frustration in which he struggles to make you understand exactly how certain things make him feel, as if he needs to explain the reason he’s not comfortable. you think he does it unconsciously but you wonder if sometimes he catches a glimpse of what goes on in your head and his desperation it’s just him trying with all his might to pull you away from something you both know is not pretty. something he knows would put a premature end to whatever relationship he created between the two of you. 

“it’s murder,” just above a whisper. “Y/N, we’re looking for a single man, a madman, a psychopath that uses the same brand of matches every time he burns something down but i’m starting to think it might be a group? do you think it could be possible? i just can’t think about the actions of a single person causing so much pain i–”

“what? so it would take this case from having a chilling lack of ethics to just being ethically questionable? would it make you sleep better at night?”

he stared at you as you let out another puff of smoke that curled around itself and vanished in the night air. it smelled like rain. you thought you saw a gust of lighting from behind a building.

“Y/N, i’m worried about this. i’m worried about you.”

that was a weird thing to hear, naive too, you thought.

sergeant kim namjoon. you’ve known him for years. polite, respectful, driven, maybe too driven. your partner in this last case. he took a particular liking to you after you helped him catch an abuser his first year of being sergeant and as much as it was inexplicable to you it was very easy for him to consider you in no time something more than a mere coworker, a friend, even. you realized with time that he craved human connections no one around the station or the city was eager to give him and he found in your uninterested passivity a sign of acceptance of a new friendship. but you don’t think he’s the clueless, clumsy man he portrays himself to be most of the time. you think he’s just a person who’s so desperate that he’d turn a blind eye, a deaf ear to the wolf in sheep’s clothing working alongside him if it meant he could keep someone close to his pathetically lonely heart. you think he’d be considered wretched and rotten and insane just like the rest of you.

when you didn’t answer he shook his head again. a slow hand passed over his tired face as if to wash away the stuff of nightmares you both have to work with.

“whatever organization or– or crazy person– i don’t know but whoever is doing this knows we’re looking for them. you and i, Y/N. and i’m used to your indifference but i’m worried you’re not taking this seriously. they’re getting closer, i can feel their eyes everywhere i go and i–  this group is–” 

“sergeant…”

he squeezed his eyes shut. to avoid tears from falling from his watery eyes? to ground himself in the shitty reality he’s cursed to live in?

“will you ever call me by my name?”

fuck, he really was naive. still is. always will be.

“sergeant,” you smiled more to yourself than anything but you saw him clinging to it as if it was his lifeline. “don’t compromise yourself over things you wish were true because they’re easier to come to terms with.” he hung from your words. he alway does. “don’t compromise yourself. you’re all you have, sergeant.”

on that occasion you don’t know why you said those words if to really speak to him and reassure him or to drive him away from your business. you just know you did and it seemed to free him of something and burden you of something else. you just know that sergeant kim namjoon passes through your mind numerous times in the weeks that follow the conversation.

you’re walking further in the alley when you’re forced back to the rainy present by the sound your ears capture in the drowsy silence of the early morning. you take off your hood to listen.

someone is following you. you can hear their footsteps, speeding when you are speeding, slowing down when you do the same. you stop in place. you can feel their presence, hear their breathing, their arms stretching out towards you, a hand coming from behind and reaching out. 

a single lit match floats in front of you held by a bodiless fingers.

“surprise.” barely audible, whispered into your neck.

your mouth pulls into a small smile as you stretch your neck to light the cigarette you’re keeping between your lips.

“it’s 5:37.”

a silent kiss is placed on the exposed skin between your jacket and your hair.

“i know.”

“you’re late.” you muse. a drag of the cigarette and you gently blow the smoke in the dark in front of you.

the voice talking to you finally gets a face when the man behind you slowly circles you. he lets his hands travel from your shoulder to your waist as he comes standing in front of you. his eyes are crinkled with glee, his usually mischievous grin softens when he sees how you’re looking at him: amusement hidden by a thin veil of annoyance.

he takes your face in his hands, a rough thumb swipes over your cheekbone. the smell of sulfur hides his usually earthly perfume. 

“seven minutes, love.”

“seven minutes late.”

he huffs out a laugh and lets his hands pass through the wet strands of his hair.

he looks good even with ash in them and eye bags under his eyes. 

it makes you feel weird when you think about these things. when you find yourself admiring him as if you’ve finally found something worthy in the pool of mediocrity you’ve been swimming in since you can remember. it never occurred to you that people —insipid, dull, hypocritical— could make you feel like you didn’t want the world to end anymore. 

they both made you change that about yourself and at first it was alarming how quickly you fell into them. you don’t know what it was but for the first time, you felt seen. not understood or full, no they couldn’t do that with you just as much you couldn’t understand or fill them, but you were visible. you were there, and they were too.

hoseok lazily looks around the dark alley one last time before taking your hand in his and gently pulling you along inside the building, to the flights of stairs that take you to the roof. 

you know that with his silence he’s giving you the time to come back to yourself, to hide again what you know he’s already seen time and time again. it’s still hard for you to freely show what you feel but they’ve never pushed you and often you find yourself wanting to tell them how glad you are about it.

“he’s late too, you know. i hope he gets the same treatment when he arrives, mh?” he quips once you reach the roof and the other man’s dark mop of hair is not standing there, tapping an impatient foot on the cement floor. 

“he has responsibilities. he’s gonna be late sometimes.”

hoseok gasps, “and i don’t?!”

“your only responsibilities are lighting a match and hiding from whatever mental hospital you ran away from, jack. stop whining, you know i don’t particularly like it when you do it.”

he pouts as you blow smoke in his face. you know he wants to argue against words that are nothing more than simple truth but he settles on whining more. “and i don’t like it when you call me jack.”

“i know.”

“then why do you do it?”

“you’re cute when you’re upset, hobi.”

he sputters out something about indulging crazy people just as the rusty door of the rooftop creaks open.

he stands there. the healed scar on his eyes casts a dark shadow on his porcelain skin. he looks the part, you think. born and raised in the same city that doomed you from the start. you also think that’s why you found him and he found you. you’re not that different.

you take the last drag of the cigarette and throw the butt on the floor, putting it out with the heel of your boots.

“did you finish the job?”

you look up at him as hoseok stands behind you. his hand sneaks to your waist. you know he’s sending a proud smile to yoongi.

“you know we always do,” you answer calmly, truthfully. it’s just facts. you always do. you always follow through with his requests. this time it was seoul police getting too comfortable snooping around his business, the next time could be one of his allies threatening his authority a little too much. he trusts you. you trust him. it’s a mutual act of something akin to what people call love. it’s not even that absurd if one thinks about all the things people say they do for love. you’re just humans like the rest of them. fragments of decay.

“and they said i had ‘behavioral issues’” hoseok scoffs from behind you.

yoongi smiles at the picture in front of him. he takes your hand in his, kisses your knuckles. does the same with hoseok. sweeps a thumb over a dark smudge of coal on his cheek. 

the sun must have risen behind the thick layer of clouds —the bubbling of the tempest can be heard in the distance. the three of you stand there, huddled close, subtly holding hands. dark smoke, the blaring siren of an alarm, and faint screams rise from the police station in front of the office building you're in while the rain still cascades unforgiving from the heavens.

a crime lord, a mental hospital escapee, and a sociopath detective enter a bar.

you still don’t get it but you let out a silent chuckle anyway. if it made your partners laugh that much in bed last night then it truly must be funny.

end note. i didn't want to put this at the beginning bc i didn't want to spoil anything but i started writing joon's texts/ voicemails to Y/N after the 'incident' and if you're curious pls tell me i can finish them and maybe do a little drabble spin off on that! lmk <33

[x0x0charlie]

A gale swept through Hell, the dark strands of hair framing his face swayed with it, almost the same as the first time he set foot here, except that the caress was acutely different. What once was a scent that carried curses and the liveliness of a young man, was now akin to the sigh of an old man brimming with regret. The boy gazed down at his lap, a heaviness, breathing and aching, fast asleep; wincing at the uneven brown bangs getting in her face as she tussled around.

He then looked up at the dying sky, it was a shade that he once believed to be found only behind her shut eyelids. Fickle time had— no, it was his mind that was fickle, wandering within the memories of a bygone life.

“She can't pronounce her S's and T's clearly. Not that it ever stopped her from talking her ass off,” The young boy paused, absentmindedly staring into the comic book under him on the bed, carefully considering his words, “Around me, at least.” He added as an afterthought, fiddling with the pages using his right hand and resting his chin on the left.

“You talk about Akira as if you really love her.. do you?” Calliope asked, her head titled to the left. Her hair was as vividly crimson as he remembered it to be. The question made his eyes widen back then; after all he'd never expected to be asked something like that. From Calliope too, of all people.

He let out a little laugh as he rolled around, shutting the comic and tossing it aside.

His amused blue eyes bored into Calliope's green, upside-down as his hair fell from the bed towards the ground, just sly of touching it. “What even is really loving something?” He deadpanned. And before she could answer, he began again, “I love Nii-Nii, I love cats, I love my mom, I love winter, I love Akira, I love the smell of gasoline, I love Arthur, I love the cheap spicy fries from the alley next to our arcade. What do you make of this, then, do I really love these?”

He had said it all so.. simply, as if it was just that easy. It all felt so recent, as if the distance between the girl on his lap and him hadn't existed to begin with, as if the little girl with brown pigtails was still somewhere in there, hidden in those shallow breaths. Though, even if she was, it wouldn't change the fact that what used to be a harmonious melody is now a broken cacophony.

It wouldn't change the fact that the star guiding them home had died.

He bit his tongue, feeling the bitterness envelope him and when he looked down once more upon sensing movement. He fully expected those grey eyes to be star-lined like they once were, only to be met with stoic grey clouds, a mere hull of what it was. The boy blinked at her, slightly caught off-guard.

Right.

Things have changed. Her hair was now shorter and his longer. They've lost each other, and they keep drifting farther and farther.

The same could be said for Akira too. As she looked up at Louis, ready to embrace a blue as free as the sky, only to find the deepest of the ocean trenches. The fault was engraved within her; damned were her efforts as the girl who only knew how to break things, and when they needed fixing, she could only break them further in hopes of something fitting right, it was the same for her heart, for Louis' and—

...

It was laughable, and pitiful in all honesty.

She tore her mind off past grievances, “What's for dinner.. something sweet hopefully?” Akira asked, rubbing her eyes; her S's and T's still unclear. Just as before, her words brimmed with just as much foolishness as yesterday.

“Ugh. No, don't ask for such things when I'm cooking.” Louis gruntled, knitting his brows.

“What's the point of eating spicy everyday? My stomach is going to catch fire one of these days." Akira yawned at the end of her jest. Louis rolled his eyes hearing that, their meals were sufficiently seasoned with the spice, it was enough. (According to him.)

“You're free to cook for yourself,” He replied with a flatness thwarting his words.

“Your kitchen is gonna come burning down.”

After a few moments he clicked his tongue in defeat. “Fine.”

Some things remain unchanged, barely a remainder of what it was. A fabricated normalcy.. all for the sake of normalcy.

[jade-of-mourning]

hiii so uh I just found ur account but I see you post a decent amount of mako stuff,,,

are you planning on putting any of that on ao3 (finished fics or blurb ideas turned into fics) or is it solely tumblr? and would you possibly mind some short stuff based on some of your posts? idk he’s js my newest hyperfixation and your acc is so coolll :3

-🐌

HI ANON!!!! mako has been in my brain so much for the past few months; i just restrain myself from posting seven times a day and instead, i aggressively brainrot in my discord server with a single person in it. (it's me — i'm the single person)

i've been juggling a couple fics for ao3 on him lately (account, mostly atla writing), though tragically i've been at a bit of a writing block. it's probably from overthinking story structures, but trust that i'll get at least a couple of them out eventually haha. the main one is a post-canon fic called rose beds and gasoline veins at 11.9k as of now, followed by a silly 10-chapter 14-year-old-avatar!mako au called snowglobes don't shake on their own which i've spent some time casually outlining (featuring jinora and asami!). there's a post i spontaneously conjured up that would roughly act as half of the first chapter. i'll post the summary if you're curious lol

i've also got a couple random/short oneshots that i spontaneously wrote and completed, before promptly forgetting that i can post them, so… maybe i'll do that soon. one of them is a slightly different take on mako & bolin's family in ba sing se, on some of their cultural differences and traumas through hot pot (which i might expand into a longer oneshot on ao3 after i finish rose beds). the other one was initially a joke about him (who i like to hc as aro lol) accidentally being a really big fan of sex. it's very vague but it turned out kind of angsty in exploring how mako deliberately gives up control in an attempt to frame himself as his mother rather than the man who killed her (coping fr); it's not really up my usual alley, but i might post it somewhere sometime idk. i didn't ever really flesh it out in my head but i have some inklings for a mako & kai oneshot on forgiving yourself as a kid, a mako & lin beifong oneshot on his recruitment featuring better characterization than that spontaneous shitpost i made, and a half-written expansion of jobs in an actually comprehensible story-ish format focused more on pre-canon backstory of him and bolin. also, last night i kind of accidentally started an essay arguing the case of reading mako as "this is a male female character somehow", but that's a whole other brainrot. my friends think i'm insane for wanting to write an essay for fun :P

thank you so much for stopping by!!! i love to hear that people love this random fictional character too — it makes me really happy especially considering how many people do not love him haha. literally anyone please send me asks about writing or headcanons or brain thoughts and enable me to talk about mako because i can actually talk about mako so much.

and for the record, sorry for responding with so many words oops. i have a lot of thoughts.

^^ summary for the avatar!mako au that i might never finish but i think it's a really funny mix of crack and seriousness that i would love to write. maybe after i finish my marimba solo!

[red-riding-wood]

Time in a Bottle

Pairing: Emit Flesti x Female OC (not a well-established one, though)

Fandom: Faraway, So Close! (1993), sequel to Wings of Desire (1987)

Summary: A fallen angel bargains with Time for immortality after realizing how beautiful yet transient life is.

WARNINGS: explicit sex/smut. But it's the most poetic smut I'm ever gonna feckin write WC: 5677

This fic is a part of my Willem Dafoe Challenge.

Tag list: @glitter-and-gasoline, @giona45-5

Read on AO3 if you prefer. Otherwise, story below cut!

Time is hunting me.

An old, cadaverous woman collapses from her electric throne beside me, eyes glazing and thin lips stretching pale, crinkled skin taut over bony cheeks and hollowed eye-sockets as she wails her final, silent words.

I was taught to see the beauty in everything of Father’s creation – even death – and although, now that I’ve fallen, now that my world is a wondrous palette of colour, and I can feel the kiss of the sea against my skin and the warmth of a fire when my bones ache from cold and fatigue, I still cannot seem to find the beauty in the absence of life. Maybe that was really why I fell, perhaps to learn a lesson.

The woman is barely clinging to life – life, that is beautiful, that is fleeting, yet potent; life, that is the kindest gift and the greatest curse one can receive. She is afraid, she is weak, she is crumpled in a ball on the unforgiving concrete like a fetus that has never left the womb.

I do not see the beauty in death. I do not see the poetry in its inevitability or its balance.

Half of the crowd around me carry on their way, casting no more than a quick glance at the dying woman. I cannot blame them; I would not want to waste a second of my life on death, either.

The other half converges, like a tide crashing around me, their shouts tangling thick into the air as they scramble to aid her. Don’t they know, it’s useless. Don’t they know, this will be them in twenty or thirty years and they’re wasting those years ordering coffee that doesn’t have enough sugar and reading the front page of useless drabble and diving to save a stranger whose last breath has already left her withering lungs.

A glimmer winks on the ground, and catches my eye; I bend to pick up a compact that fell from her purse, and everyone is either too unconcerned by the tragedy or too deeply-swallowed by it to notice.

I flip open the compact to reveal a polished mirror as clear as the crystals I’d spotted in a shop window not even five minutes ago, and in its clarity I glimpse the pockets of grey that have formed beneath my vessel’s bottom lashes, the furrow of a brow sewn by stress, the eyes that, in life, are so absent of it. 

I am left standing in the midst of the crowd, suddenly feeling numb, and I roll my head back to glimpse a figure emerging from around the corner of a shop, his shoulder leaning against the brick.

His eyes are a cold blue that pierce my soul. His suit is black as death. His hair is a deep brown, like when people soften their coffee with a dash of cream. His gaze is haunting, eviscerating, lingering.

Someone jostles my shoulder, and I swing my head to regard them. They are rushing to the old woman’s aid.

When I look back, he is gone.

Time is running from me.

I follow him down the long stretch of the alley, the black of his suit blending with the drab colours the passerby citizens wear, but I keep my eye trained on the glimpses I catch of his shoulder bobbing in the crowd. There is a festival being set up in this alley; paper lanterns brush my cranium from where they are loosely strung from the side of each building, vibrant hues of violet and red and blue. A man, with tangled dreadlocks and tattered clothing and nails imbued with grime, plucks away at the metal strings of his guitar, casting wonderful notes to the air that smells of scented candles and exotic food; if I had a dime, I would stop for a moment to listen and plunk it in the tin that sits in front of him for change.

If I had the time, I would also stop by the railing that borders the sea, let my fingers curl around the metal railing and suppress a shiver as the ocean breeze caresses my skin and blows the hair back from my shoulders. The man in the black suit leads me out here, along the bricks of the pier. The crowds are thinning now, but I cannot seem to keep pace with him.

He effortlessly traverses the uneven steps of a small bar. SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET. The black of his suit is swallowed by the door that swings shut with a chime of shrill bells.

The same bells announce my presence as I pull open the door, the tang of seaweed and the sharp bite of the ocean winds blanketed by the bitter notes of rum and whiskey, and the slightest trace of smoke that is expelled by two candles sat either side of the bar.

Tick.

The cruel, piercing sound of a clock drills itself into the marrow of my bones, the synapses of my mind. It nearly makes me flinch. Why is it so loud?

The bar is silent, but not even the creak of my boots against the flooring is enough to cause such a great stirring of unease. It is silent because it is empty, void of even a bartender, despite the neon OPEN sign I read outside its window.

At least, it would be empty, if it weren’t for the man who turns to face me, steely blue eyes meeting mine and his expression passive, until the slightest quirk of a smile pulls at his lip, creasing a sharp cheekbone.

Tick.

I take another step forward, and the floorboards creak as if to warn me, but I didn’t know fear until I fell, and I’m not about to start bowing to it now.

“You’re – “

“Emit Flesti,” he says, and outstretches a hand for me to shake. His blue eyes come alive, glitter like how the sun dapples the surface of the waves on the ocean.

I eye his hand cautiously, and, after exactly three more ticks of the tenebrous clock, finally reciprocate, finding the exchange awkward. I don’t know how long to hold his grip, or how quickly to move my arm, but his flesh is warm against mine, and he guides me through the motion as if he’s done this a million times.

Emit straightens his suit jacket once our handshake breaks, and eyes me with that sea-gaze. “And I know exactly who you are. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Is my kind really that predictable?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

His eyes narrow a fraction as he studies me, and he says, “You’re lost. Scared. Confused. Trying desperately to cling to a world you have only just discovered, a life that has only just been birthed.”

Tick.

I swallow, and say, “You’re right… but how do you know? You’re not able to read minds.”

“I’ve been around a while. Learned to grow observant. And you angels are all terribly easy to read. You want something only I can give. That’s why you’re here.”

I rake my gaze across him, across that polished suit, that matching black tie, that neatly-styled hair that retreats primly over his ears and teases the line of his neck, that ever-so-slight twinge of a smirk that curves his lip upward as if he knows something I don’t. Dressed and presented more like one of Satan’s glorified businessmen than one of the ancients.

I meet his gaze again, and step forward. “And if you’re smart…” I say, chin high and tone imbued with confidence. Angels are threatening when they want to be, and though I have fallen, I am certain I haven’t lost my edge. “… you’ll grant me my wish.”

Emit mirrors my stride, bringing the two of us closer. His scent is sweet, and irritatingly familiar. The smirk disappears from his features, and he says, “Your very existence here defies the natural order, causes an eddy of disruption and chaos in the cogs of a machine that are designed to function without your interference. Why would I bend the natural order for one fallen angel?”

Tick.

The cruel incipience of wrath begins to bubble in my stomach, and I bring myself another stride closer so that I am only an inch or two from him now; mousy lashes flick down, those steely blue eyes studying each groove and ridge of my face, before landing in my own, piercing through them and wrapping their icy tendrils around my soul. I swallow, a weight inexplicably forming in my throat, and glare up at him.

“Because if you don’t…” I growl. “I will get my wings back, if only to spite you. And I will rain all of Heaven down on you – or all of Hell, if I have to.”

The corner of his mouth curls upward again, creases his sharp jaw, and he speaks around a gleeful smirk as his eyes remain latched to my soul, “You angels are always smite first, ask questions later. But you, you’re only human now. You’re only bark, no bite.”

My nostrils flare, and my wrath churns in my gut, effervesces into the pockets of my chest that have been stripped bare of what I cannot define, nor can I find.

“I think you’ll find my bite to be equally as vicious,” I hiss from between clenched teeth, my gaze darting madly across twin blues that are so still frustratingly still, so disconcertingly locked onto my own. Does he even blink?

His smirk broadens, those twin blues glitter and narrow, and he says, “In the long run, I’m usually the one that does the biting.”

Tick.

His breath is hot against my face, flutters my lashes, and I swallow again as a new sensation – foreign to me, peculiar, rather disquieting yet strangely exhilarating in nature – tickles at my ribs. For a moment, I am lighter; I am free of the wrath that chains me to the earth.

But then I am heavier, as the weight of his words sinks in; I deflate, my shoulders sinking along with my exhale and my chin dipping, dragging my eyes from his. I am reminded of the transience of time and of my limited opportunity to experience my father’s beautiful creation.

Time is poison.

I turn my shoulder and start towards the wide, spotless windows that frame each side of the door. Outside, I glimpse the ivory of the seagulls cutting the pastel blue of the sky, the sea frothing at the hull of a sailboat, the tides that glitter like diamonds below the warm caress of the sun.

The final pillars of my wrath topple, and the pockets inside of me erupt into an abyss that aches to be filled with something anew. I am hollow. I am lost. I am helpless.

My disconsolation strings itself thick into my words as I breathe, a tear rimming my eye, “The world is so much more beautiful down here than it was up there. I don’t ever want to part from it. I want to paint it, limn its happenings into magnificent stories, to traverse its every mountain and canyon.”

My fingertips brush the glass of the window, and the tear rolls down my burning cheek. I am called by the restlessness of the waves, by the warmth of the sun, by the freedom of the gulls that ride the air currents.

“I have been rebirthed,” I tell him. “And I will not let this slip away. In Heaven, I was a soldier, a cog. Here, I am…” I shutter my eyes, and bite my lip; the saltiness of my tear on my tongue tastes like the ocean. And then I turn back to face the man, and I finish, “… alive.”

He is silent. But he blinks.

Tick.

I step forward again, though without the same portent weight, and I say, “If I do not bring you terror, do I at least stir in you some form of pity?” I am begging, pleading with my words now. “Do you have any ounce of humanity? Or do you just make sure that the cogs keep turning in the clock?”

We are maybe an inch apart now, and as I stare into those eyes, so swathed in steel-blue mystery, I wish that I could read minds again, if only in this moment, to read his.

And then, as if my wish comes true, a dash of sadness, streaking so fleetingly across them like a shooting star, manifests, and I seem to hold my breath in my chest, surrendering my soul to their intense stare.

“You’re forgetting that I have always seen in colour,” he says, his pride vanished along with but a vestige of his smirk. His face seems to soften around sharp features. “I have witnessed the joy of a doting mother. I have glimpsed the turmoil of loss. I have felt the cold on my flesh and the sun on my face. But it is not my job to pity. If I did, the clock would cease to function, and the order would fall into chaos.”

Tick.

And then suddenly it feels not as if I am searching for the answers in his gaze, but he in mine; his countenance is unnervingly solemn, his eyes no longer of impenetrable steel, but of a feather: delicate, wandering, listless.

And he says, “Have you considered, little angel, that I too am as much of a cog in the machine?” A challenge washes over the somber blue of his eyes, sparking something between us that is so suffocating palpable, it threatens to crush what little thread of hope there is in my chest, constricts my throat so that my disquieted swallow must be audible to his ears.

Tick.

The clock must surely be mocking me. I cannot seem to find my words, cannot seem to find a solution in the maelstrom that is my mind, cannot find solace in my florid thoughts or the life that is passing so pointedly one second at a time.

And I find myself with no solution, no wrath, no hope – lost, to a reality that I cannot smite. All I can do now is string out this one word, so feeble in its whispered impotence,

“Please.”

Time is cruel.

He doesn’t have to speak to tell me my answer, and I choke out my next breath on that crippling absence of hope, gaze lowering to the aged floorboards as if in submission. They too have become a victim to time, and must rot in debility.

“I cannot grant you immortality,” he says. “It would cause too much of a disturbance down here, upstairs. But perhaps I can give you something -- a token, for your will.”

My head rolls back, my eyes seeking his in confusion and wariness. His visage glimmers past my shimmery veil of unshed tears.

“Tell me…” he says. “… if you could stretch one moment into a thousand, if you could relive it as many times as you desired, what would it be?”

I blink, and the tears fall, and his visage sharpens. “A token? Minutes ago, you were mocking my will. Is this some cruel trick?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a trick. Now, answer my question. What would it be?”

Tick.

The clock is drilling deeper than my mind or my marrow now; it is burrowing itself into my soul, withering its light, and past its deathly pursuit I cannot seem to find an answer to his question. I want everything that I described to him – I want to live, want to be eternal. How can I possibly choose one moment of my barely-beginning and so swiftly-ending life?

“You seem to be the expert,” I say, my tone so bitter in contrast to the sweetness of his cologne. “What would it be?”

Perhaps only time will tell.

The curve of his mouth pulls back into his smirk that could rival the Devil’s, and his glittering eyes drag across my face as if he is painting it into his mind for eternity. A thread seems to materialize between us, pulling taut and drawing me closer to his warm breath and toothy grin. I recognize his scent now – vanilla, the bean they grind in the coffee shops for their specialty brews with exorbitant prices.

A sharply-pitched sound snaps me from my heady trance, and I flinch, my lips parted in a silent gasp as I watch his lip curl over his teeth in a whistle.

And the world falls silent; the relentless ticking finally ceases, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that the clock’s hand has frozen.

His warm breath is mingling with mine now, his lips soft yet burning hot as hellfire against my own. Blackness coats my eyelids as I shutter them, and though tentative, I melt into him, drawing my vessel closer to his by that thread that I discern now to be desire. I move my lips against his in an uneven rhythm yet insatiable intensity, and I draw my hand up along his suit, fingers grasping insensibly at his tie. He is much more assured with his touch; one hand is fastened around my waist, while the other explores my breast through the fabric of my shirt, dragging a thumb across a perked nipple and stirring an unbridled breath from my lungs. He turns me like the hand of the clock, and presses my lower spine against the edge of the bar.

When we draw apart, I am weightless again, and that foreign feeling once again teases my ribs, flutters my stomach and pools magma between thighs that squirm against the hardness of his slacks. Lust, I ascertain; I have never experienced it because I have never been kissed, or touched in this way that seems to electrify every nerve and raise goose-bumps along my flesh – or even think, really, about this element of humanity. Life is so full of surprises, so faceted in its pleasures that I fear I may never uncover all of them.

His eyes are half-lidded, blue tides turning darkly with want that mirrors my own, and his warm breaths come swifter, panted against my flushed cheeks. The effulgence of the sun, as it had just begun to dip into afternoon, washes the finer strands of his dusky locks in a buttery, chestnut-gold, and shadows the sharp features of his face, every line bold, purposeful, sculpted as fearlessly as an angel’s blade. And in our proximity, I find a flaw in his design; his teeth, at first distractingly white, are gapped, slightly crooked, but it makes him more human than a cog, completes the artistry of this moment in such a way that makes my heart ache with yearning.   

Time is beautiful.

“Is that it?” I ask him, raising a brow as my tongue darts hungrily between my lips and I let my hips rock with explosive impatience against his. I am as greedy as I am wrathful.

He smirks, and takes this as his cue to continue, for he lifts me onto the bar, both hands now cradling my waist, his body gliding between my legs; I part them in eager acceptance, hips once more seeming to have a mind of their own as they rut against his. I link an arm around his neck and pull him to me in a kiss that I have every intention to deepen to its farthest limits. My other hand slips from his tie and reaches for the buckle on his belt; I yank the leather past its loop as fiercely as I would shed armour after a battle.

He breaks our kiss, my teeth snagging his bottom lip as he pulls back, and I expect him to chastise me for not being more careful with what is likely an expensive belt, but he grins at me and says, “There’s no rush. In this moment, time is all yours.”

If this isn’t all some cruel trick, then he is right; I should savour this, relish in its sordid bliss.

My fingers reach almost instinctively to his jaw, brushing the sharp line of bone in reverence, my touch more delicate than it had been even with Father’s most treasured artifacts. They linger there for a moment, before dipping below his chin, running down the lines of his throat and thumbing the ridge of his clavicle beneath the collar of his shirt.

But I find myself blocked by the fabric, by the tie around his neck, and so my fingers thread through the weave of the tie, tugging gently as I swallow, almost ashamed, my cheeks ruddy and warm.

He smirks, but says nothing, and loosens his tie in one fluid motion, undoing the two ends so that they fall around his neck. He knows I’ve never done this before.

I unfasten the first few buttons of his shirt, my fingers now gliding across flesh that burns hot, that burns living – flesh that thrums, steady, with the beating of a seemingly-mortal heart.

Though fascinated, I let my hand travel some more, leaving the volcanic veneer of his flesh and letting it slip back over his shirt, running down the thin fabric until my fingertips tease the hem of his slacks, and I notice his eyes flutter, irises darkening with ink black, as I begin to grope at him through fabric that is frustratingly denser than his shirt. I feel him twitch beneath my palm. I bite my lip, a jolt of electricity shocking me from the depth of my core to the top of my skull, and a demur smile quirks at the line of my mouth as he moans out a beautiful sound, hot breaths fanning my already-burning cheeks.

Fingers tighten around my waist, and he leans in again, our lips brushing and our breaths panted fervently against each other’s teeth before I pull back, only half an inch or so, to smirk and say, “What happened to ‘no rush’?”

“That was before you decided to take advantage of the situation,” he huffs, mousy lashes shrouding those ocean eyes as his gaze darts to my lips to the line of my breasts to the hem of the fabric that he thumbs above my hipbone. For someone who can command the clock with a mere whistle, he is surprisingly impatient in this moment that he can stretch to eternity if he so desires.

“I’m only making use of my token,” I tell him, a thread of mischief entwining itself into my tone, and I notice him catch his teeth in his lip. Our noses are brushing, breaths still entangled, and I bring my hand up to undo the slacks that have been forgoing my descent into debauchery.

He is eager to shed my clothing; my shirt comes down at my elbows from buttons that may have been popped, my boots clatter to the floor, my trousers are slipped from the bare of my legs and goosebumps raise along the flesh, the lacquer of the bar colder than I had initially thought.

He looks me in the eyes as he sidles my panties down my hips, oceans seeming to catch fire, surely turning mine to molten rock.

I shiver, not from the cold, but from the light fabric that brushes the crest of my toes, and then he has all of me before him – all of my vessel, in her battered, bruised flesh and her sunken eyes but her purity.

Long fingers pry my legs apart, and he breaths his question down the nape of my neck, setting the fine hairs on end, “And you’re sure you don’t want your wings back?” His voice has dropped into something husky, something dark. But it does not bring me fear. Only want.

I swallow, tongue dry, the moisture perhaps evaporated from the magma that bubbles from the very core of me to the top of my head, and I spare the thought only a moment of consideration.

I never want to go back. To go back would be to live an eternal nightmare. And would that be any better than a fleeting dream?

And his touch, it feels too heavenly to be a sin, the sharp, sun-kissed lines on his softened face too angelic to be of Hell.

“Yes,” I breathe, running my hand down the bare trail I had revealed of his chest, fascinated still by the faint thrumming of his heart and the flesh that has become volcanic as mine, still burning to the touch.

His lip twinges into a smirk, the flash of gapped teeth and sparkling eyes in my vision before it undulates, seems as if I have been thrust underwater, staring through the surface of the waves and catching the glitter of two suns tinted by blue.

I am no stranger to pain, but even I gasp as he seems to split me in two; the magma in my gut seems to solidify, crack, fragment into fiery ropes that slice through me.

I grasp feverishly at his loose shirt, but it only tugs him closer to me, his shattered breath fanning across my collarbone and the strip of hot flesh down his chest meeting mine. I am whelmed by fire, thrust into the deepest pit of Hell only to emerge above the highest clouds of Heaven as new sensations begin to race through me, from where he buries himself inside me all the way out to my forearms, up to the crest of my tingling skull that falls back as lips part in panted, ardent breaths.

His warm lips are on my neck, his hot, shattered breaths coming against it, the graze of his teeth against my flesh as his fingers brace my hips, the chafe of my thighs against the lacquer barely a fragment of the entire innervation.

My muscles seem to tense, my legs kicking upward to engulf his waist, currents of electricity pointing my toes and my loins burning hot as they tuck around him, as if to pull him closer into the inferno that is our lust. My hands have resorted to gripping his shoulders now for stability, though one slips to cradle the hammer of his heart against his ribcage, as if it is mine to hold, if only for this moment.

Though there are no words spoken between us, we create music; there is a rhythm to our fevered breaths, a beauty to our moans that seem to echo their yearning for more, voracious yet elegant.

That is until I am plunged into rapture, my soul grasping at my ribs as if begging to leave my body, my head lost in the ether, my spine a gateway for the streaks of bliss that envelope every nerve, every fiber of my being, and for a moment I am almost afraid that I will combust; my insides burn hotter, and I collapse over the man’s shoulders, my chin settling limp into the groove of his neck.

The guttural sounds that are cast to my ear seem to ground me, bring me back down from my blithe, though I am undone; and so, it seems, is he. I am not sure which one of us is trembling, but despite our plummet back to Earth, we are alive with a hum of energy, and that ethereal thread that had once pulled us close seems to tether, knot. My soul is not reaching for the sky at all, but for him, for the beating of his heart, and for what may as well be an eternity, I let the remnants of what I have been reduced to remain captive against its pulse, let him remained buried inside of me so that that thread never frays.  

When he does leave me empty, I ache; my own heart freezes in my chest, and as I pull my head back, strands of messed hair cut my vision as I seek out his eyes.

They are there, their tides finally calmed, but still alive and glittering, still entrapping my soul. His thumb comes to brush along my jaw, and I can feel the tease of his lips against mine, feel the way my soul reaches for his as I sink into the kiss eagerly.

But he pulls away with that gloating smirk, and his sharp whistle stirs the unruly strands of hair from my face. The light moves again across his features, and the faint lamentations of gulls echo in the backdrop of our little, seemingly-separate existence. But it is not the high pitch of his whistle that instills dread heavy in my gut or animates my spent body with a horrid flinch, but the tenebrous note of the clock. 

Tick.

---

Humans talk about Heaven as if it is an escape from life, some craved destination that they are all too eager to reach. But they don’t know what they have.

I wouldn’t trade the sunset for anything, the brush of magenta beneath the darkening clouds, the soft glow of fire as the sun melts into the ocean. I wouldn’t trade the touch of a man, the warmth that seeps into every pore, the elation of mind and body. I wouldn’t trade the tinny yet resonating notes of the vagrant’s guitar, the way your soul leaps at every note, the way they become your lifeblood if you allow yourself to sink into them.

I linger a while at the festival in the darkened alleys, trying to mimic some form of dance beneath the glow of the paper lanterns as I bump shoulders with people of all shapes, sizes and energies; once a concrete sea, the city is alive, bursting with colour and music and heady aromas of perfumes and spices.

But as much as I attempt to sink into the lovely notes of the song, the buzzing of life, the lurid yet enchanting lights strung in the air above like pigmented stars, the weight of Emit’s token seems to lift me above it all, the incessant feel of it in my pocket. He had given it to me before I left the bar.

I freeze in my languid motion, my body and soul snared by the steel-blue gaze that peers at me from the sea of bodies. Still swathed in a black suit, he would be almost invisible if he were to step from the glow of the lanterns and into the shadows of the alley, but against the colourful robes and costumes of the crowd, I am amazed that no one else seems to notice him.

A sigh of air crashes from my lungs like a tide, and my shoulders loosen, as his gaze flits down to a pocket-watch that he holds in one hand, the brass winking in the glow of one of the lanterns.

Past the soothing notes of the guitar, I can almost hear the faint yet drilling sound…

Tick.

I blink, and he is gone, and I wonder if he was ever there.

Time is haunting me.     

I leave the festival, enter once more the wasteland of the drab streets lit by simple, white lights; I pass by the shop in which I had glimpsed the crystals, know that I am close to where the old woman had perished.

The sidewalk where she fell is empty. The crowd, having dwindled in the absence of light, pass by, as if she had never even existed. The only semblance of her left are the bitter threads of fear that slither across my heart.

I never want to be emptiness, never want to be gone.

The thought is enough to make me look around, casting glances at the shadow of each alley, seeking out the blue-eyed man as if in comfort. But he, too, is gone. And his remnant lies in my pocket.

The air is stale, though the fresh yet salted kiss of the ocean still lingers on my tongue; the sweetness of vanilla seems to have seeped into the fibers of my clothing, and as I settle into the abandoned building I have been subsisting on, hear the patter of the crying roof, the creak of the rotting boards beneath my boots, I keep these gifts with me, bringing my nose to the fabric of my shirt once I free it from my body, roll my tongue in my mouth as if to savour that kiss of the ocean forever.

A storm had broken the dark clouds of the evening, and the patter of rain against the floor seemed to grow louder each minute, seems to mimic that wretched clock in its perfectly-timed beat.

At last, I dig Emit’s token from my pocket. It is a bottle, barely the length of a small dagger. I can just faintly catch the reflection of my vessel’s hollow eyes in the dull sheen of the flickering candlelight that dances across the glass.

The bottle itself is empty, save for a small, folded note.

“Take this,” he’d said, his hot breath raking down the side of my neck as he slipped the bottle into my pocket, that sea-gaze catching mine once more. “Open it whenever you wish to relive the moment.”

I look out the cracked glass of the window, at the newspapers and wrappers that swirls, rampant, in the storm, in the deadness of the street. My soul aches; it yearns to become alive as it stares into the empty.

So I open the bottle, popping the cork and letting the note fall into the palm of a hand I hadn’t realized was shaking until now.

My heart is in my throat as I unfold the note, my breath trapped in my lungs. The unending rain patters against the floor.

It reads:

SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET.

Something in my soul stirs, quirks my lip into a smile, and my breath is released from the cruel cage of my lungs, and the pockets of my chest that have been stripped so bare begin to warm with the faintest trace of feeling, of hope, of what I have sought ever since my fall.

Time is mine.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Did you see Key's desktop type layout of the promo material for the mini album (with all the folders etc? ? And in general the office worker type aesthetics?

I did! I'm so excited for it. I mean, I always am, ever since I started paying attention to Key. The level of storytelling and attention to detail for each of his concepts is right up my alley. I'm a big fan of Bad Love, but I didn't buy the album at that time. I do have Gasoline though, the VHS version which is incredibly cool. Key has been playing with the camp horror/SF aesthetic in the last 2 years and he managed to incorporate all the references into something that is completely his own.

Anyway, moving on to present day, I'm intrigued 👀 At first, before knowing about the office setting, I thought Key might portray some kinky prison guard and build a story around that, something similar to Jean Genet's Un chant d'amour. I mean, my mind obviously went too far, but how couldn't it based on that first teaser poster?

Now that we know he's an office worker, it changes things quite a bit. I like the minimalist approach and the dark tones, but I can't possibly imagine how the music video will actually be. I was also laughing at this caption this morning:

"A song for all the workers in the world". With lyrics inspired by the Communist Manifesto or what? 😂 We'd need a new anthem anyway, it's been too long since Dolly Parton released 9 To 5.

There's a new teaser as of today, Key is keeping us on our toes. I'm most excited about his album in September

[dearestdeeer]

Guy's I'm cooking. Idk how to call this au? Tim acually replaces someone hm? What will you say abt that Jason, not so special are we? Maybe crime alley Tim au idk Anyway --->

Timothy Drake disappeared on July 15 ten years ago just four days before his seventh birthday. He was found three months later covered in mud and dried blood that wasn't his own. His parents assumed the child's change in behavior was trauma related and didn't pressure him, the slight change in his eye color also didn't raise their suspicions. Things like that happen when kids grow up. It's only natural. They didn't remember buying him a digital camera though so he must have brought it with him from where he disappeared to. The therapist said the memories would come back and to not pressure him too hard while he was recovering.

So Janet Drake never turned it on perhaps If she did she would find the pictures of her boy strapped to a chair, slowly bleeding out from a gash on his young, pale neck.

But she never did turn on the camera. Maybe she knew deep down that her son was long gone, stiff and cold on the bottom of Gothams River.

His parents moved on with their life and departed on another trip three months later.

Tim had mostly forgotten about the deep blue eyes hunting him, so similar to his own paler color of sea. That is until Timothy Drake's body washes up ten years later, still six years old and still dead.

And Tim's reminded of who he was before what happened on that one cold night. He's reminded of the name he thought was buried with the boy and his gasoline soaked documents.

Alvin Draper. Forgotten. Gone. Never loved and never mourned, much like Timothy Drake.

He- He should visit his own grave again, he may no longer have the name Draper but it was still his grave.

Tim was getting fucking sentimental.

He took a last glance at the body or rather bones squeezed into an old suitcase filled with rocks and trashbags. Tim took a breath and retreated to continue his patrol after waving goodbye and good luck to Commissioner Gordon.

"Re-" He squeezed his eyes shut. "-ed."

"Red Robin, do you copy?" Oracles' voice cracked in his ear followed by Nightwing.

"You okay there Baby Bird?" Dick asks with a hint of tease, masking the concern. Tim tries to open his mouth but he finds himself unable to say anything more than a simple. "Yeah."

"That bad?" Dick asks and Tim frowns, unable to comprehend what the older one means.

"Wha-" He cuts him off. "The body, Oracle says it was a kid." He sounds sad and a bit resigned.

"Yes, about five to ten years old from the looks of it." Tim replays simply thinking of Timothy's choked sobs at the blood slowly drained from his neck. His brother hisses in sympathy. "Don't worry." Tim assured him, plastering on a forced smile to make his voice sound less dead. "It was just bones, nothing too spooky."

There is a noise from the com it sounds like Nightwing is deciding on something. "So we got an old case hm?" He blinks, scrunches his brows and slowly asks.

"We?"

"I might be staying home for a while… It would be nice to work on something together, what would you say Red?"

First time Dick makes an effort with brotherly bonding and it has to be over Tim's own death. Or well… Other Tim's but still.

He's fucked.

Fic idea: Tim Drake is actually Alvin Draper who stole Tim's Identity when he was little after finding Tim's body and Tim's parents never noticed.

🧍

[queenchaos]

So...I did a thing....

Ahhhh I’ve been so bored during these times that I went back through old art n my many DED DeviantArt accounts. I found this old beauty from 2013-14.... and I decided to redraw my girl in the middle

It’s me and two old friends during our TMNT phase in middle school. Kelsi (Sophie), Ella (Me Emma), and Tara (Sara). We’d actually call each other by these names and have over text Role plays....

Wrote fanfics bout us n everythin! Here’s the only one that I help with:

Kelsi gave a tiny wave to Donatello as he left with his brothers for patrol. He turned around and looked at her with pleading eyes. He had tried to convince them he needed to hang back, but now that Tara was here they decided to let her take over on watch patrol there. He glanced between the Shellraiser and his friend.

"You sure you don't want me to-"

"Nope! I'm fine, Tara will be here, and if I run into problems I can call. Just go, I can handle myself!" Tara gave a sharp nod and motioned with her hands for him to move along.

"Go on Don, I've got her." He hesitated before slipping inside and driving off. There was a moment of silence between the two cousins, smiles beginning to form on their faces.

"Is he gone?" Kelsi stretched her neck in an attempt to get a closer look. Tara ran over and peeked out.

"Gone, the taillights just disappeared." She looked back with a grin. "Ready?"

"Ready!" She snatched her laptop from underneath her wheelchair and opened the lid, browsing through the list they had made an hour earlier, complete with links and information underneath each case.

It wasn't that they were hiding this from the turtles they just…they wanted to do this on their own. If any of them figured out what it was they were up to, they were toast. No doubt that they would immediately be banned from continuing their new pastime, and life would go back to its former dull throbbing. There were nine pages worth of things to look at, and they couldn't choose for the longest time.

"We might want to start with something easy." Tara sighed, leaning back and scanning her eyes over the list. "I don't know, like maybe a missing cat."

"That's way too easy."

"Not for you." She teased. "But yeah, I know. What are you thinking?"

"Maybe bump it up a notch and try missing person?" Kelsi scrolled the cursor over the link to the site.

"You do realize you're on that list right?" Tara smirked. "Lucky me, I found Kelsi, how much money do I get?"

"Shut up." Kelsi threw her head back and laughed. "Just shut up, that's not funny."

She turned back to the screen while her cousin gave a fake pout. "Seriously, they'll be back in a few hours we need to pick something." She opened a link up to a case involving a missing car. It was merely out of curiosity, she had a feeling their first job would end up being a cat after all. She skimmed over the article and blinked in confusion, mumbling to herself.

"What is it?"

"Just reading, according to this article the car disappeared last Sunday when some hijacker stole it, but according to the owner, the car never left his garage."

"Pshh, well it's gone now, it had to end up leaving at one point or another." Tara leaned in closer to read the tiny print. "Footage? The guy kept six cameras in his garage? Must be quite the car."

"Yeah, it is actually." Kelsi opened up the picture attached. A cherry red Corvette that shone like the sun came up on the screen, and Tara could only cringe and suck in air through her teeth.

"Ouch, talk about money down the toilet."

"If there's a reward of over 1,000 dollars then he's not too hurt over it."

"One thousand?! For a Corvette?! This guy's trying to pull off some bargain, nobody's going to look for a Corvette with only one thousand dollars to gain."

"Nobody…except us."

"No."

"Tara! Come on!" Kelsi whipped her head around and pleaded, whining and shaking the monitor. "One thousand dollars, we can get it if we try!"

"Absolutely not. Not for that much money."

"We could weasel more out of him when we're done." Kelsi gave a grin. She wanted this really bad, Tara could tell. Though she didn't blame her, she spent a lot of time down there after all. The smell was beginning to become the norm for Tara. That was new.

"You are evil." Tara laughed.

"Come on, are you in or are you out?"

Tara hesitated. She wanted the money out of it, she wanted the adventure out of it, and she wanted to completely defy all rules she had been given in the past week. And finding that Corvette with her cousin could give her all of it. Kelsi held out her hand and raised an eyebrow, giving another annoying whiny plea. Tara sighed and shook her hand, letting another smile spread across her face.

"I'm in, let's go get that car."

Tara had her head phones plugged into her phone, simultaneously FaceTiming Kelsi as she walked down the streets of New York. It smelled like gasoline and crap, but she had started the mission and she was fine with it. The boys were on the other side of town, nothing could bother her as of right now.

“Okay, the garage should be coming up on your left,” Kelsi said. She was peering at the directions on her laptop and looking up to check on her cousin every two minutes. “There’s an alarm planted on every angle of it though, watch it.”

“How am I going to get in then?” Tara replied, making eye contact with her cousin through the screen. The resolution was fuzzy still, but she could manage. “I can’t take down all of the alarms, there are probably hidden ones.”

“Yeah, there are.” Kelsi began squinting at the screen again. “But you might be able to take them all out if you could disable the mainframe on the top floor.”

“I don’t know how to disable the mainframe Kels’, I’m not that smart.” Tara approached the building and crossed the street, leaning up against the side of it and pretending to smoke with a fake cigarette she had made a few minutes earlier. “I wish you could take it out for me.”

“I can’t, I would have to be there in person, besides, I’m not even sure I could accomplish that, I’m not terribly good with computers outside of error code fixes.”

“Then what do I do? I’m lost as to what you want from me here.” Tara peeked down the sides of the alleys, hoping nobody was listening in on their conversation. The feed went static, then came back in.

“You need to climb up the fire escape on the tattoo parlor next door and hop across to the roof of the garage.”

“Hop across? As in, jump-in-mid-air-and-land-on-the-other-rooftop across?”

“Yes, that kind of across? Cool?”

Tara swallowed a lump in her throat and shrugged, stuffing her fake cigarette back into her pocket. She found the fire escape and swung up trying to make as little noise as possible. It was really dark outside, but a few people roamed the streets checking out street vendors. Her main fear was either falling from the building or getting caught. She couldn’t choose which one was worse.

“I’m at the top.” Tara’s hair blew off to the side and she looked back down at her phone. Kelsi had her eyes fixed on her cousin with a weak smile and twitchy hands. “I’m going to jump now.”

“Just pray you don’t end up like me.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Her heart pounded as she approached the edge of the building and scuffed her foot on the concrete ledge. It definitely wasn’t comfy below, but she had to jump now or the entire mission would end. Was this even worth it? Self-doubt was incredible.

Tara gripped her phone tight, took in a deep breath, and pushed off. The first few seconds were slow motion, she couldn’t even tell she was falling or flying through the air. She didn’t dare open her eyes, she shut them tight enough for them to split. Her legs flailed around uselessly. She landed on the other rooftop with a solid thumping, and all the air in her lungs whooshed out with a grunt. Concrete again, she had made the jump.

“Yes! Tara you made it!” Kelsi clapped and gave a cheer.

“I…I need a moment.” Tara’s body shook with fear and her limbs ached, but she was more than proud that she had made it. She was okay now, she could complete the mission. After thirty seconds she managed to stop shaking and stand up again.

“Okay Tara, see the entrance?”

“No, there’s an air vent and weeds up here.” Tara said. “And a few dead cockroaches, ew.”

“About that air vent…hehe…”

“NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS KELSI!” Tara glared at her phone, her cousin rubbing the back of her neck and whistling awkwardly.

“That’s the only way into the mainframe com-“

“NO! I AM NOT SQUEEZING THROUGH SOME DUMB AIR VENT, THINK AGAIN CHAPMAN!” Tara shook her head furiously. No way in no universe was anyone, especially Kelsi, going to force her down a stuffy air vent where she couldn’t breathe, and where she would get her arms stuck a moment later.

“Tara, there is literally no other way to get in, I’m sorry.”

“Then the deal’s off, I am not climbing through an air vent.” Tara shook her head and pursed her lips. “Not today, not ever.”

“Tara!” The whiny voice had come back, Tara hated that voice. “Please, don’t you want that money?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t worth a trip down that death hole air vent.”

“Tara, I didn’t want it to come to this but…climb down that air vent or I will tell Raph.” Kelsi had a slightly amused face now.

“I don’t really care if you tell him.” Tara shrugged.

“We aren’t talking about the same thing Tara. I’m talking about this mission, here and now. He will kill you.”

There was a moment of silence where they just stared at each other making strange faces and giving glares. “Don will kill you too to be honest.”

“No he won’t. I didn’t leave the lair. He would kill you though for leaving me down here alone. Options Tara, tick, tock.” Kelsi seemed really amused now, she had the worst poker face known to mankind. Tara stared at her with a hard glare.

“What if I told Donnie that you did something illegal?”

“I didn’t do anything illegal. That argument is invalid.”

“You’re assisting my break-in into some rich guy’s car garage.” Tara gave a smirk and crossed her arms. “So much for ‘invalid’ sister.”

“Why are we even talking about this, get into the air vent and get those tapes!”

Tara really hated this. She really hated this. There was nothing else for her to do, she didn’t fancy the idea of jumping across the buildings and climbing back down the fire escape again. She didn’t fancy sitting there waiting for the cops or Raph to find her either. She could always try climbing down the side of the brick building though. “I’m climbing down the side of the building and coming back, let’s get a new mission.” Tara headed over to the side and stuck one leg over when-

“Tara you’re a coward! Get in that air vent or I’ll tell them all you were a wimp when I reveal our mission!” Kelsi shouted.

“THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU KELS’!” Tara swung her leg back over and punched the lid off the vent, sliding her body inside. Hot and stuffy. Delightful. She crawled further down and it got cooler though, before she knew it she was directly above the entrance to the mainframe security, and she dropped in as quiet as a mouse. “What now?”

“There should be a power switch on the wall, flip that down.”

Surely enough, there it was, a big red switch she took pleasure in killing. The lights flickered out, leaving Kelsi’s FaceTime as the only source of light. “Now turn it back on, the computer should have corrupted.” And corrupted it was, error messages flashing on the screens, security cameras twitching, and not a single alarm going off.

“Genius. You’re a genius Kels-“

There was a soft thump behind her and she whipped around to face another girl about her age with medium length dark hair. She wore a jean jacket and black leggings, and she brushed off her legs with a huff. Tara’s heart leaped and she took a staggering step back. The girl looked up with a crooked smile and shoved her out of the way, opening the door to the garage and slamming it behind her.

“Get back here you punk!” Tara stuffed her phone in her pocket and ran after her, trailing the ear buds on the ground and nearly tackling the stranger on the concrete if it weren’t for her quick dodge and arm lock. “Let go of me you idiot, I will kill you right now!”

“Yeah, sure.” Her voice was soft and delicate. “I’m guessing you’re looking for the tapes on that Corvette too? Well they’re mine, thanks for taking security out for me.” She dropped Tara and ran to the back wall, stumbled up and freed one of the cameras from its plastic holders. Tara was red in the face and ready to kill.

“What right do you have?!”

“Every right, the same rights you have.” She landed softly back on the ground and gave another grin. “But your nerd forgot to tell you that there was only one camera working that night. And that’s this one.” She pointed at the device and sighed. “Such a shame you missed out on that money. Well, I’ll catch you later!”

“NERD?! EXCUSE ME!” There was a muffled shout from Tara’s pocket that she ignored. She reached in and hung up the call. Kelsi couldn’t bother her right now.

She made a dash for the exit but Tara grabbed her by the arm and slammed her into the ground. “No thanks, I think I’ll catch you later!” She snatched the camera and sprinted out the door and down the stairs to the exit. Her feet practically flew across the cement, but the same girl flipped over her and landed in front of her, hand outstretched.

“It was mine first.”

“I don’t care.”

“Who do you think you are?” She crossed her arms and glared.

“Tara. Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She ducked in-between her legs and kept running. “I have business to take care of!”

Tara hated this girl, she wanted to put a good nineteen feet between them and get back to the lair before any of the turtles came back. Patrol time was almost up. She could hear the footsteps behind her though, that idiot was going to follow her. She needed to lead her in the wrong direction.

She reached the bottom and skidded across the ground to the fire exit, but the girl yanked her hair, stole the camera, and pushed ahead again. Tara shouted and cursed, waving her fist and chasing after her, but the dark haired girl disappeared into the dark alleys across the street before Tara could catch her. A small piece of paper fluttered in the breeze, Tara figured it were just a shred of a magazine or newspaper. But instead it had handwritten words on it in silver sparkling pen ink. She snatched it from the wind’s grasp and fumbled picking her phone back up to redial Kels’. The note made her even angrier.

Have a wonderful day!

~Ella

Tara crumpled up the scrap and stomped on it, her breathing heavy again. She slipped back into the sewers and trudged through the raw sewage all the way back.

Ella was going to regret messing up her chance for the money.

She was going to regret it.

[h3l10tr0p3]

Headcanon: Deku, the Serial Shipper

Contains- Mentions of sexual activities, established relationship - Bakudeku; Crack pairings- TodoIna, JiroMomo, UraTsuyu, UraTenya, DenkiSero, Kirimina, platonic Kiribaku etc.

(Beware- Long post)

Jesus Christ, I just had this HC and now I gotta spill, otherwise I won't be able to sleep tonight. Here's another annoying Long Post for y'all)

Deku, as a Pro Hero and Katsuki's Duo Partner, has a pretty hectic life since the media are crazy bloodhounds, the villains are a pain in the ass, interacting with fans becomes exhausting at times, and the critics are demons wailing for his blood.

Yeah, very hectic. And on top of that, there's very little time to relax. Most of the days he sneaks some solace in the gym, if he can buy more time he likes to read and immerse himself in his notebooks and research. Fighting Katsuki to blow some steam is a last resort to shed off weeks of frustration and only reserved for off-days or desperate times - because something like that inevitably devolves into gratuitous rough sex or worse, day-long fuck-a-thon. Not that Deku doesn't enjoy it, he simply doesn't have the time to indulge and he knows Kacchan doesn't either, so they try to keep their hands off each other unless the occassion begs for much-needed violent release.

But sometimes, you just want instant relief. Sometimes Deku just wants to kick back and relax like a normal person, go on the internet, without everyone hounding him for a piece of his mind.

So he does.

Under Anonymity.

Et viola @allmight9000 comes alive on several media platforms including Tumblr and Twitter. At first, Deku masquerades around as a hardcore All Might fan fighting anyone who dares to diss the retired Symbol of Peace . But since his retirement, his popularity has gone cold, not many heated debates take place around him anymore and as sad as this makes Deku, he decides to discover new venues.

Now, Deku knows there's this dark void of fanfiction lurking on the net and there's no escape from it should he ever set foot into it. He is also aware of the dark things that beckon him from the sewers like Pennywise the Dancing Clown (eg. All Might/Endeavour, Hawks/Endeavour, All Might Bowl, All Might/ Hero Harem, All Might/Midnight, All Might/Aizawa/Present Mic and so on), things he should rightfully keep a safe distance from. But this is fucking Deku we are talking about- ofcourse he dares to dip his foot into the murk of fanfiction.

For science, he thinks, and takes the plunge.

It all goes downhill from there.

One day, Katsuki comes back from his shift to find Deku face-planted into the sofa, he hasn't eaten lunch, hasn't bathed and is claiming trauma, repeatedly insisting that he has sinned and he is going to hell for it, then he shakily holds up a 367k word fic of Villain Might/Endeavour. Katsuki has to slap him back to his senses. Later that night, Deku calls up Toshinori and asks him for forgiveness, when Toshinori asks him worriedly, 'For what?', Deku assures him he DOES NOT wanna know.

After obsessively going through various tropes and completing every Enemies to Lovers / Mutual Pining / Unrequited Love fic there is (and there is a lot, Deku hates himself every day for it), waiting torturous weeks for dead authors to rise from the ashes for a teeny tiny update, Deku finally gives up his small lake of unfulfilling All Might ships (because frankly it's hard to find a fic that suits his tastes and convincingly fleshes out a love story around a man who has pointedly avoided romance for the better part of his LIFE or a find a fic which is COMPLETE) and sets out into the sea of Ships.

Bad Idea.

Very VERY Bad Idea.

(We know it, he knows it. Katsuki is the only one who is blessedly oblivious because he chooses not to wade into Deku's mental shit and compromise his own sanity.)

Strangely, Deku has come to take an odd satisfaction of returning to fan mentality of shipping two people without restraints (rarely more than two)-it's simple, senseless, easy. It gives his head a break from all the overanalyzing it does and gives him a small dose of endorphins when he cant work out, eat out or fuck out the frustration. He was adverse to it first, since these are strangers trying to ship two random people (people he is friends with), and it was unsettling to find so many people shipping them when they've BARELY had any interaction in canon real life! What's the premise of shipping them at all? He just didn't find any allure to it back then. So he kept his reads under fluff and under mature ratings because he feels uncomfortable reading smut about his friends.

But Deku had a 'Oh my God they were ROOMMATES' moment when Jirou and Momo announce that they are dating to the U.A. Alumni, that too after reading a really fluffy Creati/Earphone Jack fic which accurately referenced their public sightings together and spun it into plot-points quite masterfully. ( the author did a real good job on it) And the most horrifying thing about the fic, Deku finds, is the fact that NO ONE, not even the AUTHOR knows how correct they were in their estimates! No one except Deku.

That realization shakes the foundations of Deku's beliefs and morality as he wonders how many fics out there , sfw or smut, requited or unrequited love, enemies to lovers or lovers to strangers, fluff or smut have come so so close to the truth, been so damn close - like an alternate course of their love-story? and WHY IS NO ONE GIVING IT MORE KUDOS?

This is how Deku ends up being the most irredeemable Shipper of the universe- with a mission in hand:

To curate proof of all valid ships and to supply aforesaid proof of it to the world (as subtly as he can of course, so as to not compromise his own identity or the privacy of the Shipped.)

He begins to scour through the net for paparazzi photos, indulges in gossip, pries out information of who is dating whom from his Hero contacts, authenticates it, creates folders and subfolders of photographic 'proof' (they are just teasers really) and whenever anyone writes a fic that comes anywhere close to the real thing he makes sure to tag them in his tumblr/twitter post with photos which basically pour gasoline over their fiery passion to continue dreaming and writing fics around those Ships. Like:

You wrote a fic of Fluffy Iron Fist x Real Steel? Here you go- an obscure pic of them leaving her apartment together

Uravity x Ingenium and Uravity x Froppy? A love triangle that could possibly end in heartbreak?!! Damn, sistah, who knows? (She's confused too, imho) So here you go- Uravity getting tipsy with Froppy and Uravity snuggling to Ingenium under the rain.

One-shot of Chargebolt x Cellophane getting frisky in an alley? Honey, I gotchu. Here's a pic of them arriving at a villain scene together with dishevelled clothes.

All Might x Endeavour Slow Burn? My dear friend- here's a picture of the Symbol of peace roasting marshmallows with Shouto on flaming Endeavour merch. Please don't make me block you.

All Might x Midnight? Here's a pic of my mom, me and my Dad AllMight. Midnight, Who binch?

Celsius (Shouto) x Gale Force Stripper AU? Oh, hey, look I'm totally that one lucky guy who was in the right place at the right time, okay? I dont know these guys personally, OKAY? Not. At. All. But I have some Opinions™ about your fic? and pics to support it. Just wanna show you that maybe...i mean...MAAYYYYYYBEEEE...the stripper is Galeforce, not Celsius? Yeah? Don't worry though, You're doing good. Love the slow build, keep up the good work!

Deku becomes a sensational fic-writer-enabler and often gives inspiration to writers who are looking to write for a new fandom. Deku's got their backs.

He sinks so deep into this Shipping business that one day Katsuki catches wind of it. It was becoming painful to keep ignoring Deku's descent into madness. Katsuki was okay with it as long as the nerd did his job well and fucked him even better (which Katsuki will never admit to enjoying, even at gun point. Pull the trigger, you coward). So, yeah, Katsuki could have accepted all of Deku's weird stalkerish behaviours (even if they weren't fixated on him all the time anymore and the 'Kacchan, sugoi!' comments had plummeted drastically....who needs the shitnerd to validate his worth, right?! Right...it didn't make him pissed AT ALL. because admitting that would mean he enjoyed it, WHICH HE DID NOT, MIND YOU)

What Katsuki couldn't accept was Deku accidentally using his official Hero twitter handle to post a very platonic (but in the eyes of rabid fans- borderline homoerotic) pictures of him and Eijirou and posted it as #Ground_Riot. The fucking flood of Zeku-haters and pro-GroundRioters had the comments section on FIRE. The post goes VIRAL.

Deku, fucking DEKU, the man who is secretly ENGAGED to him, is promoting GroundRiot like NO ONE's business and HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HE DID WRONG.

Katsuki finds Deku happily puttering around their shared apartment completely oblivious to the PR hell that has been licking at his heels. He immediately attacks Deku's account and is completely gobsmacked. Lo and fucking behold- every fifth picture in his blog is fucking GROUND RIOT.

Not just that, apparently, THIS MAN, his fucking FIANCE, is not only a renowned peacemaker in inane Ship wars, but is hailed as a Soothsayer of Ships for always correctly prophecizing "Ships that will Sail into the fucking Sunset', he is basically some minor god in the Hero fandom who is extorting excitement out of fic writers and fans alike so that 'the crime of incomplete fics' can be eradicated once and for all. And Deku's fucking commited to it.

(perhaps more commited to Ground Riot than his own betrothal because there isn't A SINGLE POST of ZEKU on his blog)

There's even a post where he answers an ask from anonymous. The question: "Are you also anti-Zeku? I have never seen you post anything related to that ship. Is it because you think it won't Sail?" And Deku answers shortly how he isn't explicitly Anti-Zeku, but doesn't like the idea of reading fanfics of that ship. He clearly witholds his opinion if the ship will sail or not. Katsuki also finds the chat which started all this shit.

Chat-

Hey! @allmight9000. I wanted to write a GroundRiot fic? Could you give me some inspiration?

Aww, sure! It's my favourite Ship tbh. I love GroundRiot. I have a whole gigabyte of inspirations in my laptop. I'll send you some when I get back home, okay?

Yup!!! I am actually a hardcore Zeku fan. But recently my friends got me into Ground Riot and I am addicted!! But Zeku will always have a special place in my heart <3

I see. :)

Do you wanna try it out? I know you mentioned you don't like it. But I know some REALLY good fics.

No thank you ^_^ I make it a point to not read those fics. I just can't visualize it working, you know?

Oh...np. Each to their own. But I really hope one day you try reading some if you can?

I don't think so ...😅...uh...but..Any preferences for your inspiration though? or genre youre interested in?

Fluffff!!

Haha, okay! Look out for the new post on my twitter!

YASSS!! Love ya!

You too!

Katsuki sees red, he's about to flip his shit when he decides to give Deku one LAST fucking chance to explain WHY THE FUCK is he promoting Ground Riot when he should be shipping Zeku and demands of him if he really wants their Fucking Ship To Sail Or Not.

Deku gets defensive and says of course he does. Katsuki asks why he has been trying to push him onto Eijirou all this time if he wasnt serious about it. Deku doesnt want to answer. Then Katsuki gets fruatrated and asks WHY the fuck didnt he post Zeku.

"Because I don't want to support it"

"We are literally fucking engaged, you moron. What the FUCK do you mean you don't support it?!"

"I support Us, Kacchan! I just don't wanna support Zeku-shippers! Those two things are different!"

"WHy dont you wanna support them?! tHere is No Difference!"

"There is! I am not obligated to do anything for you. But if I admit to shipping Zeku out loud to the shippers, then I'm obligated to post pictures of us and I know that if I start posting that then my blog will literally be a flood of just Us all over!!"

"What is WRONG with that?!!"

"WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ENGAGED IN SECRET! NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO KNOW! you said it yourself! That you don't like the useless yapping of reporters about your love-life where it isn't their business!"

"YEAH? WELL FUCK THAT!"

And Katsuki whips out his phone, takes a selfie of french kissing the hell out of Deku and immediately posts in on his twitter. Deku has hardly reeled back from that intense kiss when he realizes what Katsuki has done and he practically explodes in shame.

"Kacchan!! Our secret!"

"Your fucking fault, Deku. If I have to deal with the shitty extras at all, it better be for the right Ship, you dumbass. I'll punt you straight to China if I hear Ground Riot from your mouth ever again...capiche?"

"But I like Ground Riot...It's a valid ship, Kacchan. You cant diss on it just like that. It has wonderful scope, and the fluff in this ship is AMAZING. I think I have a soft spot for Uke!GZ and Soft!GZ now... and it is a really mutually productive ship unlike- hrmff!", Katsuki shuts him up with a smack to his mouth and sheds his shirt.

"Shut your mouth and strip, shitnerd. I'll fuck the Ground Riot out of you. Also, let's make this fucking clear that if you mention ANYTHING that goes anywhere near Eijirou's dick,ass, balls or mouth", Katsuki shivers, "then I'll wreck your dick, ass, balls and mouth. Remember that. Now STRIP"

"But what about platonically? That's a solid ship, right? Right, Kacchan? Also It doesn't mention Eijirou's- fuck!!!"

Deku gets wrecked thoroughly.

(Let's observe one moment of silence for his Shipping ass 🙏)

(r.i.p. Deku)

Katsuki later asks him why Deku doesn't read Zeku fics either, cause pretending to not like it to weasel out of obligation is fine, but it doesn't explain why he refuses fo read any either.

"A fic, especially the ones that I like, always are these perfect little stories which always have a happy ending. Can't help it, I'm weak to it, Kacchan- it's why I read fics at all, you know? For the rush of happiness and feels! It's always written with the intention that it will be perfect! And it is. But it doesn't come close to the real thing. There can be fics out there that come really close to what we really have though - but I refuse to accept that any fic could be better than the imperfectly perfect things I have with you, Kacchan. No matter what anyone insists, what I have with you is perfect to me. You are perfect to me. And that's all that matters."

Katsuki calls him an incorrigible sap and turns away to hide a violent flush that turns him red like a stop sign.

Omake:

Katsuki's #Zeku goes Viral too. But at this point no one understands what is going on or WHY. Because GZ appears to be a Zeku shipper when Deku is a GroundRiot shipper. Confusion abounds. Zac Efron memes agonize over Both ships, Captain America Japan Civil War Memes make a comeback. And for some reason, Deku keeps posting Ground Riot afterwards too and everytime he does, the next day he is seen limping.

"Did you have a hardtime with Zero-san at training yesterday?"

Before Deku can answer the one who asks him that, Eijirou comes up, winks and answers in his stead, "Very hard", and runs away to Mina's side before Deku has a shame-filled meltdown.

(The Ground Riot thing stops only when Mina and Eijirou get finally married.)

[100yearoldcomics]

February 4, 1922 Gasoline Alley by Frank King: "A Flexible Credit System"

[ID: A man with a roll of money talks to Avery in the garage. Avery seems to have been caught in the middle of fixing an engine. /end] Money Man: I have here a little item of $1.50 for battery charging. I'd like to take it off the books. Avery: I haven't it with me, but I'll get it for you.

[ID: Avery goes up to Bill for help. Bill hoists around an inner tube. /end] Avery: Bill, have you got $1.50 till tomorrow? Bill: I haven't, Avery, but just a minute. I'll see what I can do.

[ID: Bill goes up to Doc, who's filling his radiator with fluid. /end] Bill: Doc, let me take $1.50. Doc: Sorry Bill, but I'm flat. I know where there's that much, though. Wait!

[ID: Doc walks up to Walt and lays a hand on his left arm. Walt happily reaches into his pocket. /end] Doc: Walt, I've got to have $1.50. Walt: Sure, Mike!