#maybe actually fucking work on this goddam piece

[rheebydeeby]

.

[supernaturalgirl20]

Pairings: Frankie Morales x reader

Warnings: sexual references, Smut 18+, cursing, fluff, angst, mentions of cheating.

Summary: Frankie is your best friend, has been for the last eight years. After catching the man you thought you’d marry in bed with someone, you think the best way to get over him, is to get under someone else. What happens when you suggest something that could change the dynamic of yours and Frankie’s relationship forever?!

A/N: this is a short Frankie series I’ve been working on. Love the idea of friend with benefits and Frankie 🥰 hope you enjoy!

*Comments and reblogs appreciated*

You were banging on the bathroom door, anger flowing through your veins, ok maybe anger was to strong a word, frustration.

“Frankie, Frankie goddam it, I know you can hear me.”

You hear the shower turning off and you stumble back slightly as he opens the door. He’s wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

“I knew it! How many times do I have to tell you not to use my towel. Buy your own, Jesus, it’s not that hard.”

He just stands there dripping wet, hair damp, staring at you with a sly smile on his face.

“Come here conejito,” he says pulling you into a hug.

“No, don’t your wet.”

He’s laughing now and before you know it so are you.

“Your a dork Frankie, but I love you anyway.” You stick your tongue out at him before walking off.

Once he’s dried off and dressed he joins you in the kitchen.

“So, plans today?”

“I do actually, big plans.”

He raises his eyebrow in a questioning look.

“I’m going to surprise Caleb, he’s been studying so hard lately we’ve barely seen each other. I’m going to head over to his place, wearing something sexy and cook dinner.”

“Lucky guy.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“What are you doing today? Going to con another women into your bed?!”

“Hey I don’t con anyone. They all want a piece of Morales.”

“Oh god please stop, your embarrassing yourself”, you say while trying not to laugh.

***

Arriving at Caleb’s apartment, you let yourself in with the spare key he gave you. Once inside you place the bags on the counter and take off your coat. As you start to unload the shopping, you hear a noise making you freeze. Strange Caleb said he’s be in the library. You hear it again. Moving towards his bedroom you can clearly hear what’s going on now.

“Oh baby, harder, don’t stop.”

You don’t wait to hear anymore before bursting in the door. Sure enough Caleb is in bed, some blonde thing riding him.

“What the fuck Caleb?”

Shocked, he pushes her off him and grabs his boxers, trying to frantically put them on as he makes his way to you. You don’t know what to feel or how to act, so you quickly grab your coat and bag and head for the door.

“Baby, no wait please. Let me explain.”

You turn around and point a finger at him. “Don’t you fucking dare say it didn’t mean anything or so help me I’ll…ugh! How could you? We’ve been together for five years, I loved you.” He goes to speak but you put your hand up to stop him. “ I’m done. Whatever we had it’s over. I’ll send someone to get my things. Do not try and call me.” Without another word you leave him standing there staring after you. When your outside and finally alone, you break down in tears. What were you going to do now? The only thing you can think of is to call Frankie. After two rings he answers.

“Hey conejito, how’s the dinner coming along?”

You don’t say anything but Frankie can hear you sobbing.

“Hey, what’s wrong hermosa?”

“Frankie will you come get me please?”

“Hey yeah of course.” You can hear him talk to someone in the background.

“I’m sorry I forgot you were going out , it’s ok I’ll get a cab home.”

“Hey no I’m coming to get you.”

“I don’t want to ruin your night.”

“Your not ruining anything ok? I’ll be there in ten.”

When Frankie pulls up he gets out and pulls you into a tight hug. Pulling you back so he can look you in there eye, “hey tell me what happened.”

“Caleb…he….he…was….in bed…with someone else.”

You can see the switch flick in Frankie face, he’s furious. “That fucking prick, I’ll kill him.”

You grab him by the wrist to stop him. “Please Frankie I just want to go home.”

“Ok conejito, let’s go.”

***

When you arrive home you sit on the couch as Frankie makes you a tea. Coming to sit beside you he wraps you in his arms.

“Why wasn’t I enough? I’m never going to get married at this rate.”

“Hey none of that talk. You are more than good enough hermosa, any guy would be lucky to have you. As for marriage you know I think it’s overrated but you will find the right guy I promise.”

You snuggle into him feeling safe in his embrace, his scent calming you. Your suddenly hit with an idea. Jumping to your feet you turn to him, “ I know what I need, I need to get laid. I should have known something wasn’t right, we hadn’t had sex in two months.”

“Two months, Jesus that’s one hell of a dry spell.”

You give him a look that says really? “Says mister I have a different women every night. What’s a dry spell to you like two hours?”

“Hey that’s not true, maybe three.” You both burst out laughing.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Yes, I need to get laid. I need to be like you just have casual sex. It can’t be that hard.”

“Ok, we’ll if your sure why don’t you come out with me and the guys tomorrow night. Shoot your shot?”

“Yeah I’d like that, thanks Frankie your the best.”

“You know it.”

***

The following night you join Frankie and the guys at the local. You like his army buddies they’re fun and also all quite handsome.

“Ah fish you brought our girl, how long has it been?”

“I know Benny I’m sorry I was busy. I’m here now though.”

“Let me buy you a drink.”

The night flies by and you’ve tried chatting up some guys but you weren’t really interested. “Ugh this is never going to happen.”

“Your not trying hard enough, you got to be smooth.”

“Oh so you could do better?”

“Yeah I could. Let me show you.”

You all watch as Frankie approaches the blonde at the bar. It doesn’t even take him five minutes and there leaving.

“What the fuck? How does he do it?”

“He knows the right things to say. Hey you can always hook up with me?”

You stare at Benny slacked jawed. “Eh….I…”

Suddenly Frankie appears out of nowhere and pulls you up out of the seat.

“Come on conejito, time to go home.”

“I thought you scored.”

“Wasn’t interested.”

“You or her?” He gives you an incredulous look.

“Ok point made.”

As you put your jacket on Frankie gives Benny a look. Your oblivious to the interaction as Benny puts his hands up in surrender. Saying your goodbyes you walk towards Frankie’s truck with his arm on your lower back.

***

Once you make it back to the house, Frankie pours you both a drink and you sit together on the couch.

“Ugh I’m never going to get laid. The guys were either to creepy or they weren’t interested in me.” Your suddenly struck with an idea, jumping up out of your seat you startle Frankie.

“Hey are you ok?”

“I have an idea! What if we hook up?”

Frankie coughs as he nearly chokes on his drink, “what?!”

“Hear me out. We’ve been friends for years, we know each other inside out.”

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t do this. What if it ruins our friendship.”

“We won’t let it. We just have sex, and if we meet someone we stop. It’s just sex Frankie.”

It’s not just sex for me. I love you.

“If your sure?”

“Yeah I am. So where do we start. I mean….I…”

Frankie pulls you down into his lap so your straddling his waist. He puts a hand behind your head and pulls you close. His lips are slightly rough and he tastes of whiskey but damn if he isn’t an amazing kisser. You can feel him harden underneath you so you start to grind against him, pulling a moan from him. Frankie pulls away slightly, “I think we should do this in a bed for the first time.”

“I agree we can go to my room.”

Frankie lifts you up and carries you to your room, he lets you down gently on the bed. Your clothes are thrown on the floor except your underwear. He’s lying on the bed, your legs either side of his hips as you straddle him. His fingers run up and down your spine, sending sparks of electricity through you. He moves to unclasp your bra, “you won’t be needing this anymore.”

Your nipples are hard as they meet the cold air and you let out a gasp as he runs his tongue over its peak.

“God your beautiful.”

Flipping you over so he’s on top, he moves down your body until he’s eye level with your core. His gorgeous face is now buried between your legs. You grip the sheets in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself as a wave of ecstasy courses through you. He’s like a man starved as his sucks on your clit, you moan his name as you come. He kisses his way up to your lips, settling his body against yours.

“You taste so sweet baby.”

He reaches to grab a condom and rips the foil wrapper, before sliding it on. Lining up at your entrance he looks down at you, “are you sure you want this?”

“Yes, please Frankie, just fuck me.”

With one thrust he is fully sheath inside you and you let out a gasp as he fills you completely. It’s obviously been awhile and Frankie is bigger than average. He waits for you to tell him to move. You wrap your legs around him pulling him deeper.

“Move.”

He begins thrusting in and out of you, setting a steady pace. You can feel your orgasm building already. He’s amazing at this! Your nerve endings tingle with pleasure as you writhe beneath him, your hips gently bucking. He grips your hip and begins pounding into you, his face buried in your neck, masking his moans.

“Your so fucking tight, nngh….not going to last long. Want you to come with me.”

“Come Frankie please.”

You come hard, your whole body shaking with the force of your climax. Frankie follows you over the edge with a groan as he spills himself into the condom. Panting and sweating you both lay beside each other.

“That was amazing. How have we not done this before?”

“I know right!”

Frankie turns on his side and runs his fingers along your stomach, “wanna do it again?”

“God yes.”

Next

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[what-the-witch-stuff]

Landings Through the Grapevine

Chapter 2: Unfulfilled Expectations

Masterpost: here Go to:  Ch.1   |   Ch.2  |

_________________________

"I have news for you. One good, one bad" Shane said hours after the dance, when everyone was busy cleaning the place up. "Wait! Help me with that table first...Allright. Shoot". Shane grabbed the other side of the table and together they heaved it off the ground to carry it back to Marnie's farm. The path that led to the narrow bridge which divided the forest clearing from the rest of the village, was not large enough for them to carry the table side by side. So Shane volunteered to walk backwards while Riley gave directions. For a few moments Shane didn't say anything but occasionally looked at something over her shoulder. Then he lowered his voice:

"Ok, so...Mr. Darcy" – that was code for Elliott – "has been mingling with my aunt for almost the entire festival and now they both keep looking over at you".

"What?"

"Don't look! I didn't want to say it earlier, because I wasn't sure. But given how Marnie has been really chatty today, I bet she's playing matchmaker again"

"Oh for fuck's sake! What about Elliott?"

"Don't know, maybe he finally figured out that you don't understand his poems, or something"

"Shane!"

„I'm kidding. Don't act so horrified. Also, it's true!"

„No! It's not."

„Okay. Remember the poem he 'gifted' you at the Feast of the Winter Star? What was that about?"

Riley was preparing to answer him in a know-it-all manner but soon realised that she had actually no idea what to say. She hoped her death glare would shut him up for good. Alas, it didn't.

„You can give me the evil eye all you want. I already cringed to death when he started performing it in front of the goddam tree."

„Maybe a few metaphors and references go over my head sometimes, but that's because I never read much poetry before.

„Or maybe his writing is as inflated as his ego"

„Stop! For Yoba's sake, just tell me what's up with him!

„How should I know?"

„Then why tell me?"

"I thought you would want to know these things"

"Well, what does he look like? Does he look upset or anything?"

"Ehm",– at that Shane peeked back over her shoulder, looking rather pained as he tried to awaken his interpersonal skills: "Well he looks like a schmock, so nothing new there. Maybe that's just his –oh shit!"

"What?!"

"He's coming"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Stop! Jesus, Riley have you never been to highschool? You don't look at people you're talking shit about."

"Ok! ok, act natural !"

"You're the only one acting like a headless chicken", he hissed under his breath.

"Well, maybe I would be calmer if you –"

Shane dropped his side of the table. It came to the ground with a soft thud and Riley almost lost her footing from the sudden yank it caused on her side, forcing them to an immediate stop shortly before the bridge. This interrupted Riley's tirade and in hindsight saved her some embarrassment, as Elliott appeared by her side soon after, brushing a strain of hair behind his ear : "Good day, you two. I am so very sorry I didn't get to chat with you sooner. Can I help you with that?", he asked, having seen them struggle but obviously mistaking the situation at hand. Before Riley could even say anything, Shane intervened again : "Glad that you ask!" he said in an overly friendly manner while stretching theatrically and making a face: "My back is killing me! If you don't mind, I'd rather go see if I can help with something else" and with the blink of an eye, Shane and Elliott had switched places.

"You're welcome!", Shane murmured while brushing past her and he was gone. Meanwhile Elliott was getting into position and testing the table's weight while Riley could do nothing but watch him dumbfounded. When he noticed her staring, Elliot winked: "Shall we then?"

"YES! I mean, sure. Thanks for the help", If Riley's face looked as flushed as it felt right then and there, Elliott was gentleman enough to pretend not to notice. "Please, don't thank me! I should have been more involved with the preparations to begin with. I was just so caught up with my newest draft, that I had forgotten all about the dance until a few days ago. Oh, also, I hope I wasn't interrupting anything between you and Shane?", he added, leaning slightly towards her in mock-conspiracy.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it did look like you've been arguing, before I came over. I hope it was nothing serious"

"Ehm... I was just worried. His, eh... his 'back pain' is quite bad, but he didn't want to bother Harvey during a holiday", Riley lied between her teeth, as they made their way over the narrow bridge.

"Poor fellow, no wonder he seemed rather miffed today. But he danced like a champ!", Elliott stated sympathetically.

"Yes, he knows how much it means to Emily and didn't want to let her down"

"See, I was wondering about that a little. I did expect the two of you to be dancing today"

At that, Riley tripped over nothing, looking at Elliott with such astonishment that she almost forgot to warn him about the slight slope the path would be taking, shortly after the bridge.

"Sorry, who?"

"Well, you and Shane….?"

"Huh?"

Elliott then must have come to some sort of realisation, for it was now his turn to look flushed and embarrassed.

"Oh, Let the greater part of the news thou hearest be the least part of what thou believest." he exclaimed ruefully and smiled at her apologetically: " I should have known better than to make assumptions. I am sorry, Riley. It was something I overheard, please pay no mind to it!"

Riley suppressed the urge to ask him if he had been quoting Shakespeare again, as in 5 times out of 7 she had already been wrong. And by now, she had the nagging suspicion that Elliott chose anything but Shakespeare, just to mess with her. Instead, she stammered: "N-No, it's fine! Shane and I are close, but we are just friends...'', and almost Riley would have given into the temptation of adding something like: '...just as you and Leah, if I am not mistaken?'. But she discarded that idea as soon as it came to her. Too obvious. Though Riley was dying to get her hands on any piece of information about what kind of relationship he and the artist were cultivating, she had to be careful. The last thing she needed was the awkwardness of unrequited feelings or the loss of a friendship because of it. However, remembering Shane's assumption regarding Marnie, she continued : "...Though I do believe Marnie wouldn't mind me as her niece-in-law. But neither Shane or I see that ever happening,". She then laughed. But, following her gut instinct, she kept an eye out for Elliott's reaction, who, still dealing with his own embarrassment, couldn't help but wince slightly.

Bingo.

Shane's words were practically echoing in the back of her mind: I bet she's playing matchmaker again.

– ‘Yes she is and you won't like to find out with whom exactly', Riley thought grimly.

To say this was news to her would be a lie, sadly. Last year it had been just a few questions, if Riley was seeing someone, or if she fancied someone from the village already. Before long, Marnie had gotten more obvious about her actual motivation: "Have you met my nephew, yet? Shane. He is from Zuzu-City too. Oh, I need to introduce you to each other, next time you visit."

But said introduction flopped big-time. It had been difficult. Well, Shane had been. But Riley now knew that this wasn't anything personal. She had involuntarily witnessed his downward spiral until the fateful day at the cliffs, where Shane had finally hit rock bottom. Since then he was getting the help he needed and they could manage having a conversation that wasn't ending in a disaster. Nevertheless, as she and Shane clearly never hit it off, Riley thought that Marnie had moved on and was satisfied with talking her up to some other bachelor instead. Apparently, she had been wrong. "Please, do not believe that I usually engage in petty gossip." Elliott exclaimed and Riley knew, if his hands were free, he would probably underline his words with some dramatic gesture: " This is not why I wanted to talk to you. I would never bother you with such shallow conversation!". They finally reached Marnie's farmhouse and were greeted by Gunther and Clint, who were busy sorting Marnie's belongings back to where they belonged. Soon Elliott and Riley were relieved of their task and hurriedly shooed away. "Riley, you did enough! You've been here all day and surely your farm does not run itself", Gunther called over his shoulder as he and Clint disappeared into the house, leaving Elliott and Riley to themselves. „Well, I don't want to keep you from your duties..." Elliott eventually said rather deflated, after some seconds of them just standing there.

„It's fine! Really. I have time to chat."

„Are you sure? I would hate to inconvenience you", though Riley could easily tell that Elliott was just saying that to stay polite.

„You aren't, believe me. What did you want to talk about originally?"

Elliott immediately straightened his posture, his demeanour getting more relaxed as Riley's question offered him the chance to return their conversation back towards familiar territory.

He suspensefully cleared his throat.

"I wanted to thank you, for you have played a significant role regarding my latest draft. Well, draft is a bit much. It's more of an outline, actually."

"Really?!", Riley could not believe her ears. This was like the beginning of some obscure fever dream, where Elliott would finally announce her as his muse and declare his undying love for her…. Totally hypothetically of course, because Riley would never fantasize about such a corny situation! Ever.

"Yes! For as much as I frequent the library, I just recently noticed the marvellous collection of exhibits you have been providing to the museum. I would've never thought for our tiny valley to be such a place of wonder and history! I must be honest, my latest works were getting nowhere and I dreaded starting a new manuscript. I had gotten quite far with my latest piece. But all these treasures have ignited a new spark within me. Now I can hardly put my pen to rest. But I need more inspiration!". Elliott got more excited the more he talked. It was no longer just polite enthusiasm but an almost childlike delight that made his eyes sparkle in a way she rarely got to see on him.

"Oh that's wonderful! But how can I help you with that?" Riley was getting somewhat confused. If Elliott needed more information on the artifacts, he would be better off talking to Guntehr instead. And following that line of thought, Riley couldn't really fathom what Elliott needed of her, to fuel his newfound inspiration.

"It's about this Adventurer's Guild..."

The answer was: absolutely nothing.

"Oh", Riley tried not to sound or even look unhappy about this revelation and Elliott seemed too fixated on his own issues to notice anything, for he continued talking: "I have seen you standing next to that older gentleman, today. What was his name again?"

"Marlon?"

"Yes! He is the guild's leader, I suppose ?"

"Eh, yes, you could call him that."

"I would like to ask him a few questions. I would love to hear some of his adventures. He looks like a man who has many stories to tell. However, I struggle to get a hold of him!

Surely, I tried asking around. But before today, I didn't even know whose company he keeps. I have never seen him in town either, other than during holidays, which is why I had hoped to talk to him today. But shortly after the dance I lost sight of him and he was gone! I could tear my hair out, Riley! That man is like a ghost. How am I supposed to write about fantastic tales of danger, when I have no authentic experience to write from?!" Elliott had talked himself into such a frenzy, that he ended up being short of breath. While he needed a moment to collect himself, Riley used this pause to talk some sense into him.

"Well, you will be happy to hear that the guild building is actually very easy to find. It's right next to the entrance to the mines.", she informed him, trying to push away the feeling of disappointment. "Office hours are between 2 pm to 10 pm. Normally, entrance is only allowed for adventurers only, but technically you would be considered a potential client. And If you really cannot get in, then Clint, Willy and I see Marlon often enough that we can relay a message to him." "Is that so? Thank you so much, I knew I could count on you! I will seek him out first thing tomorrow!". With that he made his goodbyes and hurried back towards the meadow, presumably to find Leah and share his progress with her. She looked after him until his silhouette disappeared from her sight and with a groan Riley decided that it was indeed time to head back to her farm. The gleeful excitement she had felt at the prospect of being alone with Elliott, had vanished to sober disillusion. She wasn't even in the mood to get worked up over the whole Marnie-situation. Therefore, she decided to no longer think about whatever had transpired today. That would be future-her's issue to deal with. When Riley entered the premises to her own farm, the sight of the seemingly endless plot of land filled her with awe, like it did everytime. Proudly, she watched her cows, chicken and ducks peacefully napping in the sun and listened to the faint rustling of leaves above her head, as she finally made her way towards home.

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

U obviously don't understand the multi verse idea kiddo. its speculation on mephisto from a 3 min trailer which makes sense (IF U HAVE READ THE COMIC'S. OBVIOUSLY U DIDN'T) on top of that saying people a hyped about the billings from 20 years ago of course !!!! They grew up on them kid ITS A MULTI- VERSE they ! Can be different versions of the villians too so they won't destroy the characters from 17 years ago kid

 First of all I’m thirty goddam years old so who the Hell are you calling a ‘kid’, son?

Second of all I’ve been a Spider-Man fan for at least 25 of those years and a comic book fan for about 20 of them.

During that time I even worked for a British publisher as an image researcher for officially licensed Marvel and DC guidebooks. Whilst working there the higher up editors on occasion came directly to me specifically to explain or proofread various confusing pieces of comic book lore to them (and on occasion write scant pieces of copy for the books). This included who various characters were in the Spider-Verse arc, a storyline constructed around the concept of the multiverse. My work also included communicating with representatives of DC who laid out for me their internal policy for defining when one version of one character ends and another begins because the nature of their own multiverse has included reboots.

 So where the FLYING FUCK do you get off claiming I’ve not read the comics and don’t understand the multiverse? I’ve written a goddam 30K fanfic around the concept of a multiverse. I was introduced to the concept as a child in the very first piece of Spider-Man media I ever consumed, the 1994 Spider-Man cartoon. I’ve got a wardrobe full of Spider-Man trades and organized them by which universe the stories take place in and in what order those universes were first published. And I’ve got an entire side blog dedicated to ESSAYS about Spider-Man and know Spider-Man lore you’ve never even mother fucking thought of. I know Mary Jane’s canonical ringtone!*

 Don’t you EVER test me on my fan credentials kiddo, I will goddam wreck you every time.

Moving on, yes it is speculation. It’s speculation that Mephisto, a character who’s introduction into the MCU has been discussed in fandom since early this year with WandaVision, who’s a villain who’d fit perfectly into the world of Doctor Strange, who Marvel now definitively have the rights to and who was the main villain of the storyline that is the direct inspiration for a major plot point in this movie.OH NO! How foolish of me for raising the idea they might  include him! Marvel would never use a Spider-Man movie to introduce plot elements for the wider universe that aren’t directly connected to Spider-Man himself... like Skrull impersonators...

Next, if you bothered to read what I wrote, what I said was:

 “P.S. It says far too much that the things getting people hyped the most for this movie is stuff that was in older Spider-Man movies from nearly 20 years ago…”

 “P.S. It says far too much that the things getting people hyped the most for this movie is stuff that was in older Spider-Man movies from nearly 20 years ago…”

 “P.S. It says far too much that the things getting people hyped the most for this movie is stuff that was in older Spider-Man movies from nearly 20 years ago…”

 “P.S. It says far too much that the things getting people hyped THE MOST for this movie is stuff that was in older Spider-Man movies from nearly 20 years ago…”

 “...THE MOST...”

 As in, yes they are getting hyped for the other stuff but it says something derogatory about the other, newer, stuff that people are the most hyped about the OLD stuff from this entirely different version of Spider-Man. Almost like it’s cheap nostalgia bait on Disney’s part (just like the Star Wars Sequels) and that people actually liked those older Spider-Man movies more.

 “They grew up on them kid ITS A MULTI- VERSE they ! Can be different versions of the villians too so they won't destroy the characters from 17 years ago kid”

 You know how sentences work right? You were supposed to say: “They grew up on them kid ITS A MULTI- VERSE, they can be different versions of the villains too! so they won't destroy the characters from 17 years ago kid!”

So, for starters if you are referring to villainS in the plural, i.e. Green Goblin and  Doc Ock, Green Goblin was from the first movie which was 20 years ago. But maybe you are too young to remember that, son.

More importantly, I fucking mentioned this in the original post you imbecile:

“I’ll settle if we learn that Doc Ock and the other Raimi villains are in fact from a universe merely similar to the Raimi movies (i.e. where Doc Ock never died) but I’m not hopeful for that.”

If you weren’t still learning how to read you might’ve noticed that I didn’t say they couldn’t be alternate versions of the original movie villains. I specifically raised that possibility but also said I wasn’t hopeful of that.

You can try and respond to me again junior if you want. I’d love to smack you down some more. But if you want to actually try and own me you are about 20 years too early and 100 IQ points short of doing that.

*It’s the musical cues from the film ‘Clone Encounters of the Third Kind’ as established in Amazing Spider-Man volume 2 #53, just in case you want to test me. Go ahead and check for yourself, it’s on the very first page of the issue.

To lazy or in experienced with the comics to do that? Okay, then let me pull up the page from my giant goddam digital archive of nearly every Spider-Man comic book ever:

[fairytail-ship-obsessed]

To everyone denouncing ao3, and telling me to donate elsewhere.

One, it’s 230 in the morning and I’m goddamed tired, excuse my grammar and overall mood.

Two Consider: I can donate to ao3, AND other causes. Consider: if you're really so deadset on not using ao3, dont. Go onto the website, download their free source code, buy a webaddress, and run the code on your new site, and you can proceed to mod it however you'd like. don't be shocked when things don't go smoothly, and there are glitches and crashes you need to fix. In the meantime, I'm gonna stick with ao3, an organization that refuses to engage in censorship, and as a gay writer, that’s fucking IMPORTANT to me. Do yall remember when FF net would take down fics for queer ships? or that you'd start reading a fic only to get shocked by an un-tagged trigger, because the author couldn't properly tag it for fear of getting sued? That’s right. You don't. As great as purity culture might sound in hypothetical, the fact of the matter is that you don't know authors and readers, you're not in any position to judge them, and you're CERTAINLY not in any position to interrogate them on their life story and TRAUMA just to know whether or not they are "valid" in their writing. The fact of the matter is that heavy topics have ALWAYS been written about and addressed in writing, long-form and short story fiction especially. Stories have ALWAYS included the prejudices of their writers. But the fact of the matter is we're not burning the works of HP lovecraft or stephen king's It. And that’s because 1) censorship is NEVER a good thing, and 2) because critical reading is fucking important. We NEED to be able to read things that make us uncomfortable, and think about WHY they make us uncomfortable. To read a tragedy and understand WHY it’s a tragedy.

A 150k fic involving what you call "child porn" could actually be an intensely well-written piece about abuse survival and healing. It could take a very serious and emotional dive into the effects of such trauma on the mind, and how the healing process can be messy, and feel entirely hopeless at times. It could be a work very much worth reading. It’s also a work that "content bans" like you propose would prevent from ever being published. Either because the author is scared to publish it, or because the mods take it down, or because it gets mass-reported in bad faith by the community (don’t say it doesn't happen, cause it happens right here on tumblr, and used to happen CONSTANTLY on ff net). Censorship is dangerous because art, and writing IS art, is subjective, everyone is going to view something differently. and "Moral" lines get blurry, because a piece that might disturb you bad enough to click out of the fic, might have an ending that's cathartic to someone else, and is something they needed to read that day: someone going through what they went through, growing up, healing, and thriving. Maybe a way they can come to terms with their trauma, who knows. Certainly not you or me. The fact of the matter is that the line between a piece that addresses heavy topics, and a piece that just, IS a heavy topic, is uncomfortably fuzzy when we start talking about the "content" of a fic, and what the owners of a sponsored website are willing to allow to exist. A fic addressing racism in society could get taken down simply because it CONTAINS racism. And if that seems wrong to you, that's because it is. It's also what used to happen on sites like ff net, CONSTANTLY. Hell, one time I had a songfic taken down for "breech of copyright" and "sexual content" the content in question? Character A found out they were being cheated on by walking in on their bf with someone else. NOTHING graphic. Just Character A's shock and distress at the whole thing. Censorship is never clear-cut lines, and the literary world as a whole has agreed that allowing "problematic" content to exist is much better than the alternative of living in a sanitized world. There’s a reason we call the nazis evil for burning books, a REASON Fahrenheit 451 was written and read in classrooms to this day. A reason BANNING BOOKS is BAD. And listen, if you don't wanna take this from me, some random internet gay literature minor student, don’t. But I’m BEGGING you, go do some research on censorship in fiction, on books like Lolita and the color purple, step off the internet and look at the real issues facing literature, and subsequently, fanfic. and hell, listen to people who were THERE as fanfic evolved, and became more mainstream. They saw the horrors of censorship and advertisement-based websites firsthand. in fact, you can still see the horror of adds on wattpad and ff net. And one more thing, if you need an example of "bad censorship with good intentions", just look at highschool. Look at how many topics we were discouraged or flat out banned from addressing, even with the books in front of us: Ophelia's depression. lady McBeth’s guilt. Hamlets overt and violent disdain for his mother for her marrying her brother-in-law. Sapho, full stop. Achilles and Patroclus being gay. Teenage sexuality in YA novels (john green, but also authors like Michael grant on the Gone series, and Libba Bray in the Gemma Doyle trilogy). Anything LGBT or non-monogamous. Mental health beyond baseline depression. Was I alone in feeling frustrated by how much highschool censorship held back their literary discussion? Because I know for a fact I'm not. The fact of the matter is that the kind of censorship you see in american highschools is the EXACT same type that websites use to avoid getting sued, and stops the intellectual freedom of the artist/writer, AND prevents the start of important conversations. And not that I owe it to anyone on this website, but personally, fanfic has helped me work through a LOT, from my own trauma, to the fact that I'm not cis. A lot of that came from fics that would almost certainly get caught in the crossfire of content bans, and personally, I'm not willing to sacrifice that. So, go ahead and make your own website if you want to, I'm certainly not gonna stop you, but in the meantime, I'm gonna go tell paypal to confirm my 10$ donation, Finish reading His Dark Materials, then go finish the childhood abuse growing up/recovery found family fic I've been working on for months, because it helps me be hopeful, and because thanks to ao3, I CAN. Maybe I'll get some sleep, too.

Just, step off the internet for a few hours, and look at the issues surrounding censorship, and look at the legal issues fanworks have ALWAYS and CONTINUE to face. Once you’ve done that, then you can go make your own decisions.

[flyingupward]

i’ve been thinking a lot about alma v. hearst lately

there are so many moments i love, including the whole thing in general because i love that alma a. stands up to hearst at all ( because history and society dictate that she shouldn’t ) and b. that she does it in her own way ( not in the way ellsworth insists she should, which i think is very important ), and a way that is uniquely feminine and just as simultaneously poised and underhanded as she is. and i love that.

just wanted to talk about a couple of my favorite things/moments because they give me joy so here we go:

one is ironically the scene in the final episode when she’s signing the papers. it’s obviously not a victory, it’s a devastating loss, but it’s written beautifully and there are a couple of moments where hearst actually gives alma power without even knowing it and it gives me such joy. for example,

HEARST: Have the gold seen to her bank, Newman. Have its purity assayed. Let her or her seconds choose the man.

what’s particularly interesting about this slip to me is that hearst’s entire power dynamic with alma revolves around gender. he uses the misogyny of society and his “superiority” within that system to justify everything he does in his relationship with alma. when she so much as dares to negotiate with him instead of just immediately giving him what he wants, he threatens to rape her. why ? because he just can. because it’s the ultimate misogynist trump card and why wait to play it ? but to his surprise, alma doesn’t give in. so he kills ellsworth as revenge. to force her hand. because no matter what, alma isn’t going to stand by and let innocents die, even deadwood’s version of them. so she sells. even this is a very masculine way of persuasion. his power is wrapped up in gender.

and yet here, her puts seth and sol, two men, in an inferior position to alma, a woman. he calls them her seconds. and yes, granted, this could be done to intentionally emasculate them, especially given the anti-semitic remarks he makes right after this towards sol, but even so, to willingly, even verbally, put any man as second to a woman, especially those in positions of power (seth, soon to be sol) when he himself depends so much on his gender for power, is fascinating.

the second is the auction scene from the movie. i just love this scene because it is such a triumphant reversal of the first. hearst takes alma’s land away from her by physical force, but alma takes land back from him by outwitting him. yes, she makes a bit of a show of force, but it’s only because she has the support of the entire town behind her ( after being away for a decade, mind you ) that she can do that.

(Seth breaths hard looking defeated; Alma closes eyes then slowly opens them) Alma: $7,000. (man whistling; murmuring; Seth and Alma exchange looks; Hearst mouth opens) Hearst: 7,200. Alma: (stands; states matter-of-factly) $7,300. And neither, if you continue, sir, will you find yourself unaccompanied.

now let’s break down for a moment why this moment is so badass, shall we ? aside from the fact that she dropped over the equivalent of 200,000 dollars to buy charlie’s land when she legit only came back to town for a party, she literally threatened a goddam united states senator, a symbol of society, of the government itself, in front of the entire town and was a fucking hero for it. in fact, it wouldn’t have worked if the town didn’t support her. and this is what hearst has never understood about deadwood: the establishment can’t win here, not forever. if you come to deadwood from the outside and you take what the town doesn’t give, you will be expunged.

deadwood gave a piece of itself to alma. it never did so with hearst. and that, in the end, is why she is victorious. it’s a delayed victory, yes, but it is a victory.

it makes me wonder if, maybe, it isn’t a coincidence that in spanish, alma means ‘soul’. 

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 12

“Mak,” Peter is saying to me, but I’m way, way too busy heaving to pay any attention. I can’t get the image of the fucking amalgam out of my head, writhing bodies glued together, pictures of agony. My insides shudder again and more of my dinner spills out into the pool, but I have my eyes screwed shut. If they were open it’d be worse, I could see the vomit drifting on the current and I’d puke more, but with them shut I can see the amalgam.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter thickly. I spit, trying to clear the taste from my mouth; it doesn’t help much. I can feel how tacky and sticky my tank top has gotten beneath my suit all of a sudden and I reach up, unzip it about partway. I’ve been so damn stupid, I never should have fucked Peter, it wasn’t the time, it wasn’t the place, it was a bad omen…

I can feel my lips draw back and a laugh, a mad, insane laugh, scrambling up my throat, but this isn’t a time for laughter. I want to stay here bent over a little while longer, my hands on my knees, but Peter reaches back blindly and taps at me. “Mak,” he says again, and I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them and spin around, glare at him. “What the hell is so important?” I start to bark, but then I see what Peter’s looking at and I stop thinking.

The amalgam isn’t dead; it’s right there, rearing up at us, a mess of bodies, animal, bird, even a few fish, and people, so many people. I look upwards at the ruined mess of the ceiling and realize that all of these people must have gotten stuck there, must have gotten trapped in a digestive gland in their mad panic to escape, they must have slipped under a fence somewhere and ventured out into the Pit when the convulsions started, trying to find their way out.

The amalgam is looking at us. I don’t know what kind of conscience lives in there, nor how many, but none of its gazes are even remotely human. I stare at the eyes set deep in the sockets of an old, grubby-looking man, a thin goatee coating his limp mouth, and he looks back at me. One of his eyes has a thin trickle of blood leaking from it and in the other it seems as though the pupil has popped as though it were the yolk of an egg and is now merging downward, staining the iris like black ink…that isn’t how pupils work, though, so –

“Help me,” the man whispers. I see his mouth move, I barely hear him speak over the lapping water and the sound of very close, very heavy breathing that I realize after a moment is my own.

“Oh my god,” I say.

“Makado, we need to –“

I can hear more of them now, begging, pleading, crying, confused, angry. They’re all starting to wake up. I can see horror on the face of one of them as she looks down, as she looks at her new body, jutting flopping halfway out of the flank of the roughly quadruped amalgam. I can see the face of a bear, its neck and shoulders free of the rest of the creature, turn and with purpose bite into the neck of the man growing just below it, sending a geyser of blood into the air, making half a dozen various faces cry out in pain.

I’ve already taken a step or two backwards and I reach out and tug at Peter’s sleeve, but before I can do much more than jostle him I hear a noise, a small, subtle noise, somewhat like a pin dropping, and I look around before I realize that I didn’t actually hear it, it was just there popping into existence in the middle of my head. There’s a trickle of liquid down my upper lip and I reach up and wipe at it and my hand comes back daubed in red and I realize that the nosebleed is back, whatever the hell is going on is back, and fear stabs me in the gut and shakes me.

Peter finally turns and without a word I turn as well, and we sprint to the door to the Dome, pressing out of the oversized double-door shoulder to shoulder. I can feel my head throbbing in time with my heartbeat, each pounding pulse sending another minute trickle of blood down my face, but I can’t worry about that right now – the amalgam is stomping after us, crying out a myriad of voices, calling for us to come back, begging us with palpable anguish to come back and help it, telling us that we can’t leave it here like this. We make it to the stairs before something seems to change, a stealthy sort of decision comes over the amalgam’s voice, and it tells us in a thousand different voices that it won’t let us leave it here like this, and the way they say the same thing but echo in a discordant unity, some ending early, some trailing off menacingly, sends a chill scurrying up my spine, and I shake my head, the blood from my nose spattering.

“Goddam it,” I say, glaring back down the stairs at the monster. We’ve managed to get a little bit of a lead; despite its size it’s able to fit up the stairs, it can compress itself. I heard a few different voices cry out as it did, along with the snapping of bones, but clearly that isn’t bothering it too much. It’s still down there, seething, digging its many, many hands into the chain-link grating surrounding the stairwell, surging upwards at us. It stumbles and falls but a thousand feet catch it, it missteps but a thousand hands push it upwards again.

“Come on,” Peter tells me, grabbing my hand and tugging me upwards.

“Peter,” I say, my voice heavy, “where the hell are we going to go? The –“

“No time,” he says. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

The amalgam is only two landings below us now. We make it another three, it makes it another two.

“We’re gaining on it,” I tell Peter. “Oh!”

“What is it?” he starts to ask, but I see that same dopey blank look steal over his face, same as before, I know that it’s happening again. My forearm is twitching, all the muscles in it contracting seemingly at random, my fingers flashing curious gang signs beyond my control. My foot whips forward and I nearly fall but Peter, with a great effort, reaches out and steadies me.

There’s a whining scream from below us; it sounds confused and piteous. It seems the amalgam can feel it as well; maybe that’s why it hadn’t fallen upon us the instant we’d entered the Dome, maybe it had been knocked out by the - by the whatever it was.

I spit; my head is throbbing and that combined with the nosebleed is making me feel glassy, like if I move too quickly I’ll shatter. “Keep going,” I say, trying not to let my mind linger on how ragged my voice sounds. I can feel my heart pounding in my throat when I swallow. We make it another flight before it gets too intense and we have to catch our breaths, try to control our rebellious bodies. I keep laughing, just like I had before, the sound ripping itself out of my mouth even though I try to stop it. The convulsions have spread down the entire left side of my body and I have to hug my leg to myself to keep it from jabbing me in my chest.

An unpleasant thought occurs to me and I wonder for a moment whether this is what the Pit feels like. Those convulsions haven’t stopped; if anything they’ve gotten a little stronger. Not enough to knock us off our feet like before, but if I put my hand flat on the ground I can feel the world rocking beneath me.

Peter is laying on the grimy floor of the landing, staring at the ceiling above; I glance up while I still have full control of my eyes. We’re about three landings from the top, and then from there it’s through the bathhouse, and then upwards…

My shoulderblades nudge each other and then my back arches. I manage to grimace before my mouth twists into a snarl. I can feel a very strange sensation in my mind, something abstract, like sparks flying, like what I imagine a short circuit might feel like. “Peter,” I moan. He looks over at me, utterly blank. There’s another groaning whine from below us but I can’t make myself get up to look over the edge of the railing to see if the amalgam’s recovered yet.

“Help me,” I tell him, reaching out for him as best I can, and he rolls, his face contorted with some unknowable internal effort, and slowly, carefully, comes to his knees. He gets to me and scoops me into his arms and even in spite of everything I feel a delicious little thrill in the pit of my stomach as he rises, gripping on to me tightly as another sweeping convulsion pounds at me, stretching my leg out and then bringing it snapping back into his arm. He grunts and I wince as best I can. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“’S’okay,” he slurs. I look at him carefully but I can’t tell how this is affecting him exactly. It makes me wonder what’s going on up on the surface, whether it’s only happening inside the Pit or –

There’s a sound like shattering glass and I look around wildly for a moment before Peter stumbles and we nearly fall. “Goddam it,” he growls. The blank look is gone; in its place is worry, fear, determination, a rapid flutter of emotions like he’s making up for lost time.

“You good?” I ask. He nods.

“Yes. Can you walk?”

He sets me down and I put weight on my legs gingerly, but when they don’t immediately betray me and send me flopping to the floor I flash him a thumbs-up. Below us the amalgam cries out, and we can hear the telltale crunching and skittering as it resumes its climb up the stairs, and then there is nothing to do but take one step at a time and hope that we remain faster than it is.

We manage to maintain our lead through the bathhouse, but it catches up when we emerge out into the long, heavy corridor that would ordinarily lead back to the LVC. It stands there, its ‘legs’ compressing outwards to bear the weight, bleeding blood and ichor from cuts and abrasions and bruises. Some of the pieces of it have succumbed already, I can tell; I see several men and women with their necks snapped, heads turned at odd, unnatural angles, made even worse from the way they sprout from the flesh of other people and other things halfway down. The ones left alive either whimper or moan or cry but a few, mostly the ones situated higher up, are still looking at us with something of the hunger they’d shown before, down in the Domes.

Amalgams aren’t known for longevity. A wolf bloodstream and immune system isn’t really happy with trying to hook up to a human one, or one that a bear uses. It can function for a time but infections and autoimmune responses are common. That’s what usually does the more stable amalgams in, the ones that have a regular enough body plan and enough coordination that they’re actually able to gather food.

There’s a tendency, supposedly, towards centralization, when an amalgam fuses together. You might have a dozen bodies flopping outwards like a grotesque pinecone, like the upper body of the one before us, glaring daggers at us down the corridor, but whatever it uses for a stomach to feed the many metabolisms each trying to survive as though they were still disparate units, that’s going to be somewhere inside it, somewhere important.

This is the biggest amalgam I’ve ever seen. Usually they’re pretty pathetic things, just a couple of animals fused together, unable to move, unable to do much more than frighten tourists. Even the larger ones usually aren’t much of a threat; it takes a lot of luck for the amalgam to fuse in such a way that it can actually move around in anything resembling an effective manner, and most of the time they’re unsuited for being the sort of ambush predators they’d need to be to thrive as unmotile lumps of flesh.

Usually.

“This thing’s going to be quicker than us on a straightaway,” I mutter to Peter out of the side of my mouth. He has his pistol out, holding it down at his hip, but I don’t think it’ll do much to the monster.

“This whole fucking corridor is a straightaway,” he mutters back.

“Please,” a dozen voices babble at us, a hundred chests heaving, greedily sucking down air.

“We need to go,” I say.

“Where the hell are we going to go?” Peter asks, glancing behind. It’s another couple hundred feet to the end of the corridor and with no turns, no corners, not even any debris laying around to put between us and the creature. This tunnel has weathered the convulsions remarkably well. “Even if we make it to the end of the corridor,” he points out, “we’d have to climb up the –“

“Accessway 34-B,” I tell him. “Goes straight to Bronchial.”

“And if it’s collapsed? It’s a dead end.”

“What other option do we have?” I ask, trying not to sound annoyed. I keep my eyes locked on the amalgam down the corridor, retreating when it advances. It seems unsure of the reinforced glass bottom of the corridor, prods at it gently as it moves, half its eyes and faces angled downwards to snuff at it. “We can’t climb up quick enough, we only have one kit, one axe, only a couple pitons. It’s either 34-B or nothing.”

“We could go through the Cord.”

I shake my head. “We’ll never make it there in time.”

The amalgam ripples, tremors running through its flanks, and ambles into a walking pace. Peter raises the gun.

“You’re just going to make it mad.”

“We’re running out of options,” he says.

“I don’t even have goddam earpro, you’re going to –“

The amalgam shrieks and rushes at us and terror seizes me in its jaws and shakes me around like a dog with a toy and Peter is shooting and it’s so goddam loud but I don’t care, there are more pressing issues at the moment, and I seize him once he’s run the magazine dry and the gun is just clicking uselessly when he pulls the trigger. I look over at him and his eyes are wide and frightened and he looks nearly mad with fear and together we sprint down the corridor, our reinforced cleats making ugly, clanking noises on the glass, noises I’m terrified are going to turn into crunching shatters any moment with the force I’m putting down with each step.

As predicted, the amalgam doesn’t give a damn that it just ate twelve bullets straight to center mass, they might have stung but they certainly didn’t put it down, just made it angry. It scrambles now, extra ‘limbs’ branching off of it to seize onto the ceiling and the walls and hurl it forward even more quickly. It’s gaining on us; whatever lead we built up during our mad rush up the stairwell is evaporating too quickly. I still have my gun and a full magazine in it but although my hands are itching to pull it out and spin and just unload on the thing I’d lose way too much goddam time for no reward. I can feel a stitch in my side like how I’d imagine a knife would feel.

Next to me Peter’s labored breaths are getting more and more ragged, and then he stumbles and in an instant I’m a dozen feet ahead of him and turning, skidding to a halt, and I see the amalgam rearing up over him as he scrambles to his feet, but he isn’t goddam quick enough, nobody could be quick enough, and the amalgam reaches out and seizes him in one bifurcated, multiplicative appendage, hauling him off the ground. Peter screams and amid the scream I can hear his leg snap like a twig and something in me snaps as well and as an orifice begins to open in the amalgam’s center of mass, a ragged irregular hole, red-lined and wet and weeping, opening with a small pop of anticipation, I can hear a feral growl rumbling in my chest, a noise I wasn’t aware I was able to make, and then I find myself sprinting towards the amalgam and it pauses, reassessing the situation perhaps, and it drops Peter and he howls with pain but I can barely spare him a glance. I’ve drawn my utility knife, rarely used, out of its sheaf, hidden in a cleverly recessed slot in the ranger suit’s breastplate, and I’ve got it in a reverse grip, arm raised above my head, and then I’m in the air, jumping a little awkwardly with all the goddam extra weight clinging to me, the armored plates, the cleats, the utility pack slung around my back, but I jump regardless. I’m hurtling towards the thing and then I land on it, warm spongy flesh beneath my fingers and arms and feet and teeth and I’m plunging the knife into it again and again, stabbing and tearing and twisting and the amalgam is roaring and batting at me with its arms but they’re too large and I’m right on top of it so it can’t reach me.

“Run!” I scream at Peter. I manage to get a glimpse of his face, pale, wide-eyed, mouth a raw grimace of pain. I can see him hesitating, I know he doesn’t want to fucking leave, goddam it, every fucking hormone and impulse is screaming for him to save me from the fucking amalgam.

I twist the knife again and the amalgam roars and finally grabs ahold of me. I can feel a dozen hands and hooves and paws and wings clenching painfully around my torso, I can feel a couple of ribs splinter and break as they dig in.

Peter’s eyes are very bright.

“That’s an order,” I tell him, and then the orifice closes around me and a thunderous wave of peristaltic action drags me down roughly into the belly of the beast.

Inside the amalgam a thousand hands and tendrils and creepers are writhing over me fleshily and it smells like death and rot and decay. The walls of the thing squeeze at me and shift me down further and I realize that they’re studded with faces, with faces of people that have ingrown into the thing, pressed inwards at crazy angles. I can feel the outlines of faces against my back, my chest, rubbing against my face like a dog snuffling against me. I can hear nothing from outside the amalgam, no sound, nothing to indicate whether Peter’s managed to get away or if the amalgam is currently in the act of ripping him to pieces, all there is is the soft sound of liquid gurgling and straining flesh. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to whimper.

I manage to snake my arm down to my waist, wincing as the motion tugs on my ribs and another stab of pain echoes through me, and flip open the pouch there. I find the three cloth slots within it. One is empty, two is empty, three is…

My mind goes blank. I run my fingers over the slot again.

Three is empty. I gave my distress beacon to Fitzroy and never got it back from him.

I slide down the amalgam’s gullet further. My knife is still sticking inside the damn thing’s hide somewhere on the outer skin of it. I’ve got my gun but I don’t relish the idea of blowing my own eardrums out. I could -

“M-Makado?” a voice whispers and my eyes snap open.

“No,” I mutter. “No, no, no, no.”

“I can’t – I can’t move, I can’t feel anything, where am I?”

I reach out for the face pressed against my stomach, feel a cheek spread out into a smooth ribbed flatness. “Makado?” the voice asks again and then I wrench downwards again. I find my flashlight and manage to navigate it to my mouth and turn it on and then the light is shining straight in Eileen’s face and she shuts her eyes, or tries to; part of her face has been eaten away by acid. I can see teeth through the thin membrane of her cheek and one of her eyes no longer has a lid, it’s only barely recognizable as being her, but her voice is the same, a little slurred, a little incoherent, but still her, still the girl I had tried so hard to save.

“Oh my god,” I say, looking at her, the flashlight falling out of my mouth. I try to catch it but a twinge in my ribs makes my hand snap backwards, and then we’re back in the dark. I reach down with my other arm, across my body, and unsnap the holster, then take the gun out, bring it up, clutching it tightly as the amalgam swallows again and churns me downwards. My feet are getting warmer and I kick them experimentally; that must be its stomach down there, they’re passing through liquid. I reach up, find Eileen’s face again.

“It hurts,” she tells me. I press the gun to her forehead and pull the trigger. The noise is deafening and once I’m done all I can hear is ringing. The amalgam roars, so loudly I can hear it from inside, and then it’s pulling at me, arms are tearing at me, the tendrils are wreathing up to my face. I try to scream but someone puts their fingers in my mouth and I choke and spit and bite down and then there’s another, smaller roar. One of the faces surrounding me opens its mouth and vomits on me and I realize from the smell that it’s ballast, it just vomited enough ballast on me to nearly drown me, and then a fleshy cap covers my face and I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything but scream, and when I open my mouth to the tendrils race down my throat and I convulse and try to heave but I can’t, I can’t do anything, they’re forcing my mouth open, and even if I could bring my arms up to try and claw the thing on my face off of me it’s too thick and too strong, I don’t think I’d even be able to scratch it. The tendrils flicker over my face and force one of my eyelids open and then I feel something hard and sharp press into my eye and I scream and scream and scream until the amalgam freezes and I freeze and for a moment I don’t know why, but then I hear it, like a door slamming somewhere very far away, a sound sprouting in the middle of my brain.

The organic plugs in my nose feeding me oxygen quiver and withdraw and I can feel the bone pull away from my ruined face, and the familiar sizzling feeling of ballast starting to repair damaged tissue, but inside my head this is all very distant. I feel as though I’m being drawn magnetically someplace, as though I’m about to bend in half and rip out of the side of the amalgam like a missile, but there’s no actual motion.

One of the faces near me screams, and then another and another. I can hear them very dimly through my ruined ears. “Shut up,” I murmur in a horrible, slurred voice, “shut up, shut up, shut up –“

There is a sound like glass shattering, and the echo of it resounds off the curved walls of my skull, and all the faces cry out one last time then fall silent, and I am jostled as the amalgam falls heavily. I can feel the horrible, horrible catch as one of my ribs pierces into my lung and all the breath rushes out of me. The sound is still echoing and growing louder and louder and I scream uselessly, barely more than a vibration in my throat, and just when I think my head will burst with the pressure of that titanic sound it subsides and so do my thoughts.

 * * *

 “Jesus,” I breathe. Makado nods. She glances at her watch again and shrugs.

“Anyway,” she says, “after all that…unpleasantness, I spent a very long time in a hospital, and came out of it looking like this,” she gestures to her face.

“What happened to the amalgam?”

Makado starts to say something, then stops. “Heart attack,” she says finally. My eyes narrow and she grins at me. “There are some things I really can’t tell you,” she says.

“Alright, that’s fair. You recovered pretty well, it seems.”

She shrugs again, makes an indeterminate gesture. “So-so,” she tells me. “My depth perception is fucked and the nerves in the eye socket are dead so I can’t even get a prosthetic. And I have to wear hearing aids,” she adds, turning her head to the side and tucking her hair back so I can see the off-brown lump of it lurking in her ear.

“I’m a little surprised,” I say after a moment, “that you ended up back here. Peter too, I don’t know why you’d come back and work for this place.”

“There are different motivations,” Makado says, shrugging. “At the most basic, the benefits and pay are good. Much better than practically anywhere else in the National Park System, and that’s even assuming that you could have found a post elsewhere. Say what you want about government jobs but if you show up with the Pit on your resume a lot of places will give you the cold shoulder.”

“Why’s that?”

“Trauma, mostly. The Disaster was…” she starts, then stops. There’s something far-off in her eyes, something unknowable. I watch her quietly, waiting for her to speak, committing every moment to memory with the familiar mental stomp I used studying in college. “It was hell,” she finishes. “And everyone had their own little share of it.”

“I thought Peter had said something about a pension, or a settlement or something.”

“Oh, there was one,” Makado nods, “but it didn’t last forever. Only if you were permanently disabled cause of the disaster. Which neither of us were, although in my case it was a near thing.”

I lick my lips, think about how to phrase my next question. “Peter…told me some things about what happened to him after the disaster. Mentally I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“I, uh. I just wanted to know if, well, if he’s okay. While he was telling me his story I never would have guessed that all that happened, he seemed perfectly normal, but, like…I guess I just wanted a different perspective. I didn’t know the guy, I mean, but…”

As usual I make a complete hash of it. Makado stares at me and I can feel my cheeks coloring. “I didn’t mean –“ I start, but she cuts me off.

“I know what you mean. While he was in treatment his personality evaporated. He was like a robot. I’d call him every day and talk to him and it was like talking to a pre-recorded message. Exact same intonation every time, no creativity, no nuance. It was painful, for both of us, I think. He doesn’t like to talk about that time and I know that he still feels bad about not being able to be there for me while I was recovering from all the repair they had to do on my face. I’ve told him over and over again that it doesn’t matter but he still feels guilty.

“He was lucky, though. He got discharged with a clean bill of health a week before a full-on outbreak. Funnily enough the mental hospital burned down about a week after that. They managed to get out most of the people working there but couldn’t save any of the patients.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Now isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

“Are you implying that –“

“I’m not implying anything,” she assures me, too smoothly. “Just pointing out what an odd and timely coincidence that was. Now, was there anything else you wanted to know? I have a meeting in a half hour.”

“What’s the job you’re getting Peter to do?”

“Use your imagination, I’m sure it’ll be more interesting than the truth.”

I shake my head, bewildered. “You really don’t believe me, do you? You really think I’m –“

“You’re a journalist,” she explains. “How could you not be writing a story on this? Only reason I told you what happened to me is because I think you’re probably a decent person. But you’re still a journalist, and that means you’re going to write a story.”

“I have HIV,” I tell her. She looks at me. “I found out two days before I first heard about the Pit. I figured nothing matters any more so why not just – just enjoy myself? I got a plane ticket and flew down here just because I’m goddam curious, took some photos and shit, but I’m not writing a story.”

“So it’s because of the ballast, then?”

“No!” I say, trying not to get angry, and then I shake my head. “Yes, I guess. I don’t know. I read about it and I thought that maybe…I don’t know what I thought.”

I can feel myself flushing and I look away, glare at the wall, stamp down mentally on the feeling until it falls away.

“There are easier ways to control HIV, you know,” Makado points out.

“Not for me.”

Makado frowns. “What do you mean?”

I explain briefly what I mean and her face falls. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Makado nods. “Well, ballast might do it. It might not, I don’t know. They never tested it on diseases like that.”

“Do they even still take any out?”

“Oh, a little bit,” she says. “But it’s so, so little. If you’re really lucky and the hospital you go to is a very big, very important one, and the department is trying to justify its budget for the year, you might get some. Otherwise…for instance, I would have trouble getting some even if I was seriously injured. God,” she groans, “that sounded so bitchy, I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t sound bitchy,” I tell her. “I knew it was a stupid idea. I didn’t have a plan or anything, I just thought…I don’t know. Maybe someone in town sells it,” I laugh.

“You know,” Makado says, taking another surreptitious glance at her watch, “I didn’t even know you could be allergic to HIV medicine.”

“It’s really rare, apparently, is what the doctor said. Didn’t make me feel much better.”

“That’s a shame. And there’s no other treatment, no other medicines?”

“Oh, of course there are. Experimental, expensive ones that my insurance company would never fucking pay for.”

I can tell I’m sounding bitter and I try to clamp down on it, but I know it’s going to come leaking out anyway, poisoning my voice with a taste of rust and iron, like I’m choking on blood.

“You could pay for them out of pocket,” Makado suggests in a muted voice, as though she doesn’t want to argue with me.

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Take out a loan,” she says. “Pay with a credit card. I mean, there are options.”

“I don’t –“

“Why don’t you –“ Makado cuts herself off. “Never mind,” she says. “It isn’t my place.”

“You can say it.”

“I don’t want to get in an argument with you.”

“You think I’m giving up.”

Makado looks at me and I stare back into her one good eye. I can see what Peter liked about her, what he still must like about her, why he still loves her. She must know, surely. One eye gone, specks of – of pre-digestion, I guess, on her arms and probably the rest of her body, who knows what her hand looks like beneath that glove, and Peter would never have wavered, not even once.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I don’t understand why you’d give up. Maybe it’s because I never would. I never did.”

I nod slowly. “Somehow I didn’t think it’d be in your character.”

Makado laughs, a little gusty snort from her nostrils. “Why’re you giving up, then?”

“I’m not.”

“It seems like you are.”

“I’m not!”

“And this,” she says, pointing at me, glove finger extending out and then back down again, lip curling upwards in a lazy grin, “is why I didn’t want to talk about it. Because I knew you were going to get angry and defensive –“

“I’m not –“ I start, then stop myself. “Alright,” I say, trying not to smile at her. “I get your point.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” she says, starting to rise.

“One last thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Is that thing about the disease…about how it spreads, is that true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And is -“ I shake my head. “Is this really the best way to deal with it? Let people sneak in so they can - kill themselves? And Peter, is he…I don’t know,” I shake my head. “Why didn’t he just get as far away from this place as he could? Why didn’t you?”

My voice cracks on the last bit there. I swallow hard, hold Makado’s gaze.

Makado blows her breath out. “That’s a difficult question,” she says. “I think – okay. I think there are two different ways to deal with trauma.”

I raise an eyebrow. She sees it and laughs. “I’m making a point, I promise. I think that you can either take the hit and get up and not dwell on it, I think you can, you know, accept that something terrible happened to you and accept that your life will have to change because of it, and then make adjustments and move on. The other option is to dwell on it, to let it become you, to let the trauma become who you are. Not that, you know, you shouldn’t acknowledge it at all, that you should pretend it never happened, cause I don’t think that’s healthy either, but I think there’s a middle ground that you have to strike in. And I think I – well, I think I tend towards maybe the upper area of that middle ground. I don’t think Peter’s in the middle ground at all.”

“You think he dwells on it.”

“Yes,” Makado says. “That’s why I came back here, that’s why I started as a supervisor in Security, that’s why I put my time in and when Bruce retired I took his spot as head of the department. Cause I do feel for these people. I really, really do. But I think you can effect more change working from within a place like this,” she says, gesturing at the walls around us, “instead of trying to work at it from the outside. It might not be perfect, it might be deeply flawed, but there’s still a system, and it’s easier to work with it than against it. It’s easier to change it if you’re embedded inside it.”

“But don’t you think,” I say suddenly, just as I think of it, “that if you’re embedded inside it, it might also become embedded inside you?”

“That is some Nietzsche shit that I’m not going to entertain,” she says, grinning at me, but I think that for a moment I can see something in her eye, a ghost lurking there, that might agree with me more than her bluster would suggest.

She reaches into her bag and takes out a smaller plastic bag and tosses it to me. I catch it and look inside; there’s my phone, voice recorder, and camera. “I’ll be back tonight to get you out of here,” she says from the door. “Like I said, I’ll run interference with the Feds. You should be fine. Just don’t come sniffing around again, alright?”

I laugh, trying to mask the sound of my hope dying. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“And you’ll have to log on to the wifi if you want to do anything and it’s pretty closely monitored, so you know, don’t fuck up.”

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

“You’re smelling what I’m stepping in?”

I snort. “What the fuck, who even says –“

“Me, I say that.” She tells me the wi-fi password and reminds me she’ll be back to collect me at ten or so and leaves me to my own devices, the door clicking softly behind her. I look at my phone, look at the distorted reflection of myself glowering back, and then I shake my head lightly, let the planes of my face scatter and refract off the glossy surface.

I spend the next hours getting halfway through Jane Eyre before it’s dark and my stomach is rumbling and Makado comes and hustles me into a tan Desert Storm surplus Humvee and then we’re making our crawling way along the road towards the gate, and I look over at Peter, sitting next to me in the back, and he smiles at me but even though he looks excited, I just give him a little half-hearted grin cause everything is settling into me now, everything is starting to ache, and I can already tell I’m going to need a lot of time to digest what I’ve seen and done the past couple of days, and then of course I’m probably never going to see Peter or Makado again.

But I keep that to myself and we make the ride in silence. I look out the window, watch the weird, industrial shapes of the sedative plant and then the angular block of the administrative building slip by on the other side of the glass, watch the way Peter keeps looking over at Makado and the way Makado occasionally catches the edge of that glance in the mirror and looks away quickly, smiling secretly to herself, the corners of her lips turning up just a little before she smothers it.

The Humvee nudges outside of the gate and the same guard in the same MP helmet is there in the gatehouse, and he does a doubletake when he sees me wave at him after clambering out of the back of the car, and then Makado pops her door open and slips down, managing to look dignified as she does, and he snaps a salute that she returns with an eyeroll. “I’m not in the damn National Guard,” she says, sounding tired, and he puts his hand down sheepishly. Then she summons a rugged grin, and shrugs at him. “At ease,” she tells him. “And you can even go back in and sit down; we won’t be more than a minute.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Always makes me feel old when they call me ‘ma’am,’” she mutters.

Peter puts his hand out to shake and I pull him into a hug which he returns after a moment. “Take care of yourself,” I tell him, and then Makado shakes my hand and I don’t pull her into a hug. “Last chance,” I tell her.

“For what?”

“To hire me for – for whatever you guys are doing.”

She laughs at that one, but quietly. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she tells me in a low voice, and shake my head at her.

“I would never,” I say. I try very hard not to see the bullet puncturing the back of Rey’s head as the words pass my lips but I can’t stop the vision from bubbling up out of some crevice in my mind. I force a smile and she doesn’t comment on it. Her phone buzzes and she draws it from her pocket; I can see her eyes darken as she reads who it is. Peter and I are both giving her a questioning look but she shakes her head.

“I have to take this,” she says. “Back in five.”

We nod and Makado climbs back into the Humvee, giving me one last lingering glance as she does. She knew, of course, I wouldn’t have been able to hide it, that smile was fake as hell. But she doesn’t question it at least, she lets me have my dignity. The door shuts and I can just barely make out her silhouette through the tinted glass, bringing her phone to her ear.

“You doing alright?” Peter asks, and I nod.

“Yeah. It was, you know, a little scary but it seems like everything’s worked out as well as it could.”

“It definitely has,” he agrees.

“Any chance you’ll tell me what she’s got you doing?”

“Not a chance.”

I nod. I could say something biting, something about his guerilla spirit being so easily quashed, but that’d just be pathetic and petty. I feel like something’s dying inside of me but then that’s just being dramatic.

I am a blob of human meat standing here, slowly dying, wondering at what the electricity in my brain means. I smile at Peter, really mean it. “I’m happy for you,” I tell him. He looks at me, trying to judge if I’m serious.

“Yeah?” he asks, and I nod.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I don’t know what I expected the end of this story to be but this is a good one.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you the rest.”

“Makado did.”

He raises his eyebrows, surprised, looks back at the Humvee. “Well,” he says. “I guess I changed her mind about you.”

“Don’t fuck it up,” I tell him.

“Huh?”

“With her,” I say, cutting my eyes over at the Humvee. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“I don’t –“

I let a little amused gust blow out of my nostrils. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just be – be yourself. I know you still love her.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I can see in his eyes that he is reevaluating me, twisting apart the jigsaw puzzle he built of me inside his brain and rearranging it in a different shape. He opens his mouth to say something but before he can the door to the Humvee bangs open and we both jump and Makado hops down, her mouth a grim line, the phone clutched loosely in her hand, her eyes fixed on me. “Change of plans,” she barks. I’ve already got my ears pricked up, but then Makado looks over at Peter, and then back at me. “Are you sure about her, Pete?” she asks him. Then there are two pairs of eyes on me and I feel uncomfortably like I’m a rather bruised and sorry-looking apple being picked over at a supermarket.

Peter says something to her that I can’t hear and then Makado shakes her head. “Fine,” she says. “You’re in,” she calls to me. “We need you.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she tells me. “This is your one chance. You either turn around and go back to your hotel and forget about this place, or you get in the Humvee, and then you can see how deep the rabbit hole goes. I don’t have time to let you phone a friend about it,” she says. Her eye is boring into me like a laser and I can’t for the life of me tell whether she’s helping me or hurting me.

I look back behind me at the long, dusty walk back to Gumption, and then I turn. “What the hell,” I say, and then Peter is grinning at me and Makado gives me a look that’s supposed to be dangerous, that’s supposed to be a ‘don’t fuck this up’ kind of look, but she still looks a little pleased in spite of herself.

Peter puts his hand out and I grab it and he hauls me back into the Humvee and the gate yawns wide ahead of us, and then we pass through it, and it shuts behind us like a mouth closing, like before me the worst is yet to come.

And yet if I believe that, why can’t I stop myself from grinning? Why can’t I stop my heart from racing like I just won the lottery?

The driver turns the radio on as he rounds the bend and heads along the road with the signpost reading ‘Barracks’ and for an instant, just an instant, I think I hear the very end of We Didn’t Start the Fire, grinding to a long, shuddering, 80s-fade exit.

END OF BOOK 1

Continue with Part 13

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[lady-divine-writes]

A Change in the Weather AU (inspired by Cacophonylights's A Change in the Weather) - Chapter 34

Notes: So, here's the second half of that chapter that I promised! In Cacophony's author's notes, she mentioned liking the book 'Good Omens'. And since it's one of my favorites, I put a nod to it in here. If you can find it, you'll win my respect :D There’s only one more chapter left, so if you could be so kind as to spread this around, I would really appreciate it <3

Read on AO3.Kurt trails behind Blaine up the long staircase that leads to the second story of his house - and his bedroom - at a safe distance, traveling a path he knows so well he could walk it with his eyes closed. Kurt used to race up these stairs, full of excitement, knowing Blaine was at the top waiting for him with hugs and kisses. Blaine’s touch always made Kurt feel at home here even when the rest of the Andersons were stand-offish and seemed irritated by his presence.

Kurt keeps his eyes trained one step ahead as he makes his way up the staircase. He can’t look at Blaine. He doesn’t feel like he knows him anymore, which is the strangest feeling of all.

Kurt had refused to go up the staircase first. He didn’t want Blaine looking at him.

He didn’t want Blaine admiring him, as conceited as that sounds.

Blaine doesn’t have permission. Kurt doesn’t belong with him anymore.

They get to the top step and turn right. Halfway down the hall is Blaine’s room. They reach it in twenty paces and Blaine opens the door.

“Come on in,” he says without turning around. He crosses the room, switches on a desk lamp. Soft, white light hits Blaine’s face and he looks tired. Worn down and tired, his curls a disheveled mess atop his head, like he’s been running his fingers through them incessantly, maybe even tugging at a few. He drops down on the edge of his bed, still freshly made from the morning he left. Kurt helped him make that bed, right before Blaine’s parents drove him to the airport and out of Kurt’s life for the summer.

Kurt wishes Blaine had had the dignity to stay in San Francisco till August. What the fuck did he think he was going to accomplish by coming home? Isn’t he risking his spot at his music camp by leaving? Did he request time off?

Or is there something else tangled up in this?

Is there a chance they kicked him out?

Kurt can dislike Blaine all he wants over his cheating, but he’s a talented musician. Too talented for any music program to kick him to the curb.

No. Blaine came home to see Kurt.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Do you want to sit down?” Blaine asks, having the nerve to pat the space right beside him.

Kurt doesn’t answer. He stands off to the side between Blaine and the door, arms crossed over his chest, not even removing his coat.

Sebastian’s coat, actually.

He’s making his intentions clear. He’s not about to stay for any longer than necessary.

He’s going to get his answers from Blaine, and then he’s going to go.

“Explain yourself,” Kurt says, snappier than he was going for, but his body is done keeping calm about this.

“Wh-what … what do you mean?” Blaine looks up at him, hazel eyes pleading, hands folded in his lap, back bowed as if this is all too much for him to bear.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Kurt originally thought he was going to be more patient than this, but the patience he had built up is wearing thin. He’d even worried that driving Blaine home, then following him up to his room, would soften his heart to him, bring old memories rushing back, make what Blaine did seem forgivable – a lesser offense. No, he wouldn’t kiss him or sleep with him, and not just because Blaine cheated – BLAINE CHEATED! But because Kurt has something in his life so much more wonderful now that he holds dear, and there’s no way in heaven or on earth that he would jeopardize it for the fairytale Disney prince that was Blaine Devon Anderson.

“I … I don’t want to hurt you,” Blaine says.

“Too late, because you’ve already done that!”

Blaine nods, eyes drifting to his folded hands. “If I … if I explain, if I tell you everything, would you consider taking me back?”

Kurt’s throat goes dry, a simmering rage rising in the form of red splotches on his cheeks. “You do realize I have a boyfriend now, right? I mean, I’m sure Cooper told you. He can’t seem to keep his mouth shut about things like that.”

Blaine’s eyes close, his brow pinching. Kurt should feel Blaine’s pain tug at him, every wrinkle furrowing his brow should pluck at his heartstrings and make his chest ache. He remembers a time when nothing hurt quite like watching Blaine cry. Not even his own world falling to pieces. But there is no tug. There is no ache. “You can’t … you can’t be serious. I thought you were just dating Sebastian to hurt me!”

“It’s not all about you, Blaine!” Kurt snaps. “I’m dating Sebastian because I like Sebastian. In fact, I love Sebastian and he loves me! So no, I have no intention of breaking up with him to go back to you, a boy who broke up with me for the summer and then slept with someone else after just NINE DAYS! And when you did, when I felt like my life was over, when I felt like I was going to die, do you know who was there for me!? Sebastian! So you’re going to sit there and explain to me what you did and why you did it because it’s the decent thing to do! No other reason!”

Blaine’s eyes open again, moisture clinging to his lashes, but he doesn’t say a word. Why did Kurt think this would work? That he might get some answers? And that it might be easy? This innocent schoolboy act of Blaine’s that Sebastian had said he found so hot really rubs the nerves raw after a while, Kurt has discovered. How did he not see it before?

Because he was in love. That’s the answer. So very much in love with Blaine that the feeling overwhelmed him. It felt like a dream come true when the two of them met on that staircase at Dalton, like the answer to prayers he’d never admit to praying.

“You know …” Kurt decides to start since Blaine is leaving him no other choice. He focuses in on something that happened at the beginning of all this that has bothered him since day one “… I always wondered, the day you left, when you drove away, you had this look in your eyes. I couldn’t explain it at the time, but it’s haunted me.” Kurt watches Blaine’s reaction to those words as they land, sink in. His back bows further, his head sinks deeper – a confirmation that the theories Kurt had been entertaining all summer were true. His eyes narrow with repressed anger. “You knew, didn’t you? Before you left, you knew you were going to hook-up with someone? This wasn’t a ‘let’s do a trial separation and see what happens’. You had a plan!”

“I didn’t!” Blaine says, meeting Kurt’s eyes. “There … there was a guy, I’ll admit it, but I didn’t break up with you to be with him! I swear!”

“But you were going there to meet someone, weren’t you? Someone you’d already met?”

“Kind of?” Blaine sighs. “Yes. I … I met him on the camp’s Facebook page. He was … cute. And flirty. I was interested in him. But that’s it. I wasn’t planning anything.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Kurt feels an uncomfortable heat building beneath his collar. “What we had was love, Blaine! Love! It’s supposed to mean everything! It’s not the kind of thing you dump because some other guy is cute and flirty and pick up again when it’s convenient! That’s not how it works!”

“I know!” Blaine says louder than he expected because he clears his voice and repeats in a softer one, “I know.”

“We talked about spending the rest of our lives together, and you threw that away for some guy on Facebook you thought looked ‘interesting’! And it only took you NINE DAYS!”

“I’m sorry, Kurt! I am so so sorry! I really am!”

“At the very least you could have told me the truth from the beginning instead of leading me to believe we were going to get back together when the summer was done!”

“But I wanted to get back together with you!” Blaine implores. “I didn’t want this break up to be permanent! That life we talked about, living together in New York and all our plans – I wanted that to happen! I still want it! More than anything!”

Kurt shakes his head, trying to rectify the idea that Blaine thought he would ever be okay with getting back together if he slept with someone else, especially under the circumstances in which they left, even if they had broken up. How did he honestly think Kurt would ever …?

Kurt stumbles back a step when it hits him. The answer is so simple, Kurt is surprised he didn’t figure it out sooner.

God! Why did he have to be so damned naïve all the good Goddammed time? He thought he was such a smart guy, so savvy.

But when it comes to Blaine, he’s a complete idiot.

“You had no intention of telling me about your little friend, did you?”

“Wh-what?” Blaine pretends not to understand, stalling to buy more time, but Kurt gets it. He doesn’t need Blaine to tell him to know it’s true.

“You were going to come back here, pretend everything was fine, pick up where you left off, and never tell me a thing, weren’t you!?”

“No, Kurt! I …”

“Were you going to get an STD test at least before you fucked me again?”

“Well … wh-what about you?” Blaine deflects, losing his patience.

“What about me? I didn’t cheat on you!”

“Oh really?” Blaine wipes tears from beneath red-rimmed eyes with his fingertips. “I saw the pictures on Facebook, Kurt! From what I hear, you were dating Sebastian pretty much from the moment I left!”

So it appears Cooper did tell him some things (even though he’d promised Julian he wouldn’t) but he didn’t tell him everything? Was he preparing Blaine for what he might see? Then why not tell him everything? What did it matter what he promised Julian, if Blaine was threatening to hitchhike across the country? Did he still want Kurt to have the chance to tell him?

Or did he explain, and Blaine chose not to listen?

Whichever one it was, that’s Cooper Anderson for ya - helping from the bottom of his heart in the worst way possible.

“For your information, we were fake dating!” Kurt explains.

“Fake dating!?” Blaine repeats with an incredulous laugh. “What the heck does that mean?”

“It means that he was paying me to pretend to be his boyfriend! To get his parents off his back about … stuff!” Kurt refuses to go into any more detail than that. Blaine is the last person who deserves to know. But a spark ignites in Blaine’s eyes at Kurt’s admission, as if he’s found an opening. As if he still has a chance. Kurt rushes to stomp that spark out before it turns into a full-fledged fire. “But that changed. It became real! And I’m happy now. Happy with him!”

“I know I was with someone! I know! I know I hurt you and I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did! I had every intention of coming back to you, Kurt! Of moving to New York with you, of living happily ever after with you! But I didn’t ruin that, Kurt! You did! You did because what you did was way worse!”

Kurt stares at Blaine like he’s gone insane. “What!? What did I do that was way worse?”

“You fell in love! And with Sebastian Smythe!? You hate him, and if memory serves, he hates you, too!”

Kurt jerks back, the words Blaine hurled at him like hands against his chest shoving him. They carry with them so much past pain, so much humiliation, so many insults and schemes and conspiring, all against him. But they don’t make him back down because if Sebastian has proved anything to Kurt it’s that people can change.

Sebastian has changed.

Sadly, so has Blaine.

“This was your bright idea! You were the one who said that if we could survive the summer broken up and still wanted to be together, we’d get back together. If not, if we decided we’re better off apart, then we’d go our separate ways. Did that only apply to you and not me? You made up all these rules that only applied to you when there were two of us in that relationship! You wanted to be broken up, so we broke up! You wanted to sleep with someone, so you slept with him! Now you want to get back together, and I’m supposed to dump a boy I care very much about to go back to you, just because it’s what you want!?”

Kurt wants to go on and ask him, ‘Did you think of me at all when he kissed you? When you were fucking him or he was fucking you, did you almost say my name? Was my smell still on your clothes, or did you make sure to wash them twice before you packed them so it was gone completely?’ But none of that matters anymore.

Kurt is sorry it ever did.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Blaine mutters, shaking his head. “I knew that if he found out I was gone …”

Kurt catches that, and more cogs of this story start fitting into place and turning.

“What does that mean?” Kurt asks. “Did he … did Sebastian say something? Is that why you stopped talking to him on Facebook? Is that why you didn’t tell him that you were leaving for the summer? Because you thought he’d run to Lima and hit on me? And you didn’t trust me to say no?” Kurt’s hands fly to his face, covering his mouth, appalled at the words preparing to race off his tongue before he has a chance to say them. “Oh, but you can go off to San Francisco to meet up with some guy, even break up with me to do it, but I don’t get a chance at spending the summer with someone who maybe likes me!?”

Blaine doesn’t confirm nor deny, just stares off into space as if every word out of Kurt’s mouth is cruel and unfair, tearing him apart for no reason that he deserves.

And Kurt has had enough of this. He’s had enough of the self-pity. Enough of the emotional manipulation. Enough of the distrust.

He’s just plain had enough.

“Look, Blaine …” Kurt puts his hands over his face, breathes into his palms until his calm returns, then drops them to his sides “… we loved each other so much. But we’re so young, so immature, made so many bad choices …” He says that word we, we, we over and over even though he doesn’t entirely mean it. But deep down, there’s a part of Kurt that’s culpable. He let Blaine make that decision instead of taking ownership of his own feelings. He let Blaine command the conversation when he had so much more to say. Blaine controlled how they communicated, even with their mutual friends, but Kurt went along with it. The best he can do now is try to leave the hurt feelings in the past and let it go - not necessarily for Blaine. Not to make Blaine feel better. But so that Kurt can walk away with his head held high, into a future that he deserves … with someone he loves. “Let’s just … remember that and part as friends. Like you said. No mess. Just good friends.” Blaine drops his head and looks off to the side, turning his back on the conversation. It’s a signal to Kurt. Whatever he wanted to accomplish here, he’s done. "Maybe we weren’t meant to be together, but that’s not a horrible thing. It’s not going to … not going to kill us.”

Ironic, since that’s how Kurt felt for the first month Blaine was gone, but now he sees how ludicrous that was. He’s young. They’re both young. And this, too, shall pass.

Kurt waits for Blaine to speak - to agree, to argue, to try and win him back, to sing - but he says nothing. He stares at a far wall – a wall with pictures of Blaine and the Warblers and his family … and Kurt smiling back at him, putting Kurt’s words together. Or maybe shoving them away.

Kurt puts a hand to his aching forehead. Too much drama and too little sleep, bouncing around in his brain like sheep wearing stiletto heels. He doesn’t need this. What he does need - or correction, who he needs - is driving back to Westerville this very moment.

And Kurt wants to be with him right now, more than anything.

Why did he offer to drive Blaine home again? It’s getting harder to remember with every minute that rolls by.

Kurt looks at the boy in front of him - the boy he pined over; the boy he obsessed over; the boy he loved, for a while, more than he loved himself. But that’s over. He has someone else in his life that he needs to return to.

"Relationships are about trust,” Kurt says quietly. “And I don’t trust you anymore. Goodbye, Blaine.” He doesn’t reach a hand out to hold him, to hug him, to give him any comfort. That’s not what their 'relationship' is anymore. Even if they manage to become friends again in the future, even if Kurt finds some way to trust him, it probably won’t be about physical contact for a long, long time. That’s heartbreaking since Blaine has been the one he’s reached for when times were tough since the day they met.

Now, he has a new hand to hold, one just as sure and steady as Blaine’s used to be.

Kurt walks toward Blaine’s bedroom door when he hears his voice, shaking with fury, maybe some embarrassment, and thick with tears, talking to his back.

“Wh--what do you expect me to do now?”

Kurt stops a foot from the doorway, itching to leave. “I expect you to grow up. I expect you to learn from this. I expect you to accept that we’re over. And maybe, in time, we might go back to being friends again.”

“No.” Blaine sniffles through gritted teeth. “I … am never … going to forgive you for this, Kurt. Never.”

There’s a harsh sound in Blaine’s voice, one Kurt had only heard once before - when Blaine fought off Dave Karofsky in the halls of McKinley on the night they went to watch the New Directions perform.

When he fought Dave off to defend him.

Now that anger is directed at him, and it makes Kurt’s blood run cold. Not out of fear. In anger. In disbelief. It zaps any sympathy he might have had for Blaine straight from his body.

So much for not ending badly, Kurt thinks, remembering what Blaine said to him when he first told him about his asinine break-up plan.

“Good,” Kurt says, stepping out into the hallway, more than ready to go, the relief he gets from that one action telling him it’s the right one. “Now you know how I’ve felt most of this summer.”

***

Kurt half expects Blaine to follow him down the hallway to the stairs when he leaves his room, begging him to change his mind, but he’s relieved when he doesn’t. He doesn’t want another discussion like the one they just had. In fact, he never wants to have another discussion like that with anyone. He doesn’t need that kind of negativity in his life.

He prays that they can hop back into Sebastian’s Mustang and drive back to the beach as soon as possible. He needs the sea air and the warm sand on his skin scrubbing him clean again.

The house is eerily quiet as he make his way to the staircase, only the ticking of a grandfather clock on the opposite end making any noise. The Anderson house has never been particularly festive or warm before, but it’s never felt like this - like he’s the only person there.

Where are Blaine’s parents? he thinks as he hurries down the stairs. Do they even know that Blaine is home? Kurt gets an answer five steps from the front door. He speed walks across the foyer, nearly lunging for the doorknob, when a voice stops him.

“So does this mean you’re finally gone for good?”

That voice puts a chill in him, but more for the words that it says than its tone, which is sinister all its own. “Mr. Anderson?” Kurt turns to look at the man standing on the staircase behind him. “Wh-what does that mean?”

“It means that I was never happy with Blaine dating you,” Blaine’s father says, taking one step at a time down the staircase while he talks. “You’d have to be an idiot not to realize that.” He strikes Kurt in this moment like a superhero movie villain, expositing his master plan with the staircase as his prop. Kurt almost laughs out loud at that image, all the tension the night has heaped on him making this little performance of his surreal. How did he not notice that the Anderson family is full of drama queens? Tunnel vision, he supposes. “I mean, it took me a while to accept my son’s orientation and whatnot. His mother coddles him in that regard. I fought to fix it, but there was little I could do.”

Kurt bristles at the word fix. Regardless of the bullshit that went down between him and Blaine this summer, he feels sorry for him if that’s the way his father sees him. As broken. “I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.”

“I send him to the most exclusive private school money can buy, and still, among hundreds of boys from renowned families, he ends up dating you – a mechanic’s son.” Kurt notices right away how Mr. Anderson says it, with a heaping dose of contempt - so different from the way Greg talks about his father’s profession. “The idea of you became more palatable when your father was elected to congress, but not by much.”

Kurt’s face scrunches as if he just ate something sour, then bit his tongue to boot. Kurt has been called a great many insulting names, and by people he’s respected more. But this one might take the cake. “Palatable?”

“You come from nothing,” Mr. Anderson spits, stopping at the halfway point. He leans a hip against the banister, planting himself there as if he doesn’t want to come any closer. “You have no money, no pedigree ...”

Pedigree? What am I? A horse? Kurt crosses his arms over his chest. Sebastian had told him, hadn’t he? Money, status, family tree - these things matter to the Andersons.

They don’t matter so much to the Smythes.

“And that’s important because …?”

Mr. Anderson clicks his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth. “The fact that you have to ask that question shows why it’s important! You don’t come from the same background as my Blaine, the same breeding! He’s too good for you! But the only person who couldn’t see it was him!”

“Is that so?” It’s a lame comeback, Kurt will admit, but at this point, he can’t hear himself think, his ears burning so hot they’re whistling like a tea kettle. Whether Mr. Anderson knows it or not, he’s hit on the only thing he could say that could hurt Kurt.

He isn’t good enough for Blaine.

Blaine is too good for him.

Because Kurt felt that way in the beginning, thought everybody felt that way every time they looked at him.

Kurt’s breath hitches.

Didn’t Sebastian say that exact same thing to him at The Lima Bean about a dozen lifetimes ago?

“That’s so,” Mr. Anderson repeats, mimicking Kurt’s delivery. “It cost a pretty penny to send Blaine to that camp in San Francisco. He got in on natural talent,” he says smugly, “but I was willing to donate tens of thousands if he didn’t to ensure him a spot and get him away from you. If he insists on being a homosexual, at least he can be more discerning about his options. So I found him a place with better options.”

“I think we’re done here,” Kurt says, turning on his heel and resuming his walk to the door. He has to get away from this man and this house. There are some very expensive statuettes and vases on pedestals by the door.

Kurt doesn’t want to accidentally start throwing any of them.

“I hear you’re going out with the youngest Smythe boy,” Mr. Anderson tosses at Kurt’s back.

Another chill races down Kurt’s spine. How in the fuck would Mr. Anderson know that? Except, considering what Sebastian has explained about the circles his family and the Andersons run in, it would probably be weirder if he didn’t know by now. At the gala, the news that Gregory and Charlotte Smythe’s youngest son was dating a congressman’s kid made quite the buzz. Though Kurt can’t help wondering if Cooper told him, threw Kurt and Sebastian under the bus to distract his father from any possible news of him and Julian. If that’s the case, Kurt will forgive him.

For Julian’s sake.

And just this once.

“Have you now?” Kurt asks, turning back to face him. He refuses to have the man talk to his back. If he’s going to insult him, his lifestyle, his boyfriend, he has to do it looking Kurt in the eyes.

This way Kurt remembers how much to hate the man.

Mr. Anderson tsks. “He’s just as vulgar and classless as his brother. The two of you belong together.”

“You know,” Kurt says with a superior chuckle, one that he knows is going to burrow underneath Blaine’s father’s skin and irritate the shit out of him, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I just need to find a way to keep Cooper away from that Julian for good, and the Anderson family will be back on track.”

“You see, you just said the wrong thing to the wrong person,” Kurt says. “Because now I’m going to make it my life’s mission to ensure that Julian and Cooper live a long, happy life together, whether you approve of it or not. Good day, Mr. Anderson.” Kurt turns on his heel for the final time, muttering asshole under his breath, and strides confidently out the door.

***

To Sebastian (11:41 a.m.): Well that went down like a lead balloon.

To Kurt (11:42 a.m.): That bad, huh?

To Sebastian (11:43 a.m.): Yup. Just to let you know, I’m leaving Blaine’s house now.

To Kurt (11:44 a.m.): Really? That was quick.

To Sebastian (11:45 a.m.): As it turns out, he didn’t have anything more compelling to say than everything is my fault.

To Kurt (11:46 a.m.): At least he took responsibility for his actions.

To Sebastian (11:46 a.m.): …

To Sebastian (11:47 a.m.): No. Everything is MY fault. As in he’s blaming me for everything that went down.

To Kurt (11:48 a.m.): Oh really?

To Sebastian (11:49 a.m.): A-ha.

To Kurt (11:50 a.m.): And what, pray tell, was your heinous sin?

To Sebastian (11:51 a.m.): I fell in love with you.

To Kurt (11:51 a.m.): …

To Kurt (11:52 a.m.): I … don’t know how to respond to that.

To Kurt (11:52 a.m.): Should I say I’m sorry?

To Sebastian (11:53 a.m.): To who?

To Kurt (11:54 a.m.): To you.

To Sebastian (11:55 a.m.): Don’t you dare!

To Kurt (11:56 a.m.): Alright! Alright!

To Sebastian (11:57 a.m.): More happened, but it’s too much to text. I’ll tell you when I see you.

To Sebastian (11:58 a.m.): I’m going to swing by my dad’s for a bit before I go to your place. Okay?

To Kurt (11:59 a.m.): You could always borrow some of my clothes, you know.

To Sebastian (12:00 p.m.): I know. Mostly I want to say hey to my dad. Let him know I’m not dead. Tell him the good news.

To Kurt (12:01 p.m.): What good news?

To Sebastian (12:02 p.m.): That I’m going to NYADA in the fall ;)

To Kurt (12:03 p.m.): I love you, you know.

To Sebastian (12:04 p.m.): I know.

To Sebastian (12:05 p.m.): I love you, too.

***

Kurt pulls up to the curb in front of his house and turns off his SUV. He sits a moment, takes in the view of this modest, suburban house that they’ve only lived in a couple of years. It’s nothing special on its own, but it became a home when he, his dad, Carole and Finn moved into it. He should probably take more time to appreciate it while he has the chance.

After all, how much time does he have left here?

He grabs his bag and heads up the walk, unlocks the front door and creeps into the living room. “Dad?” he calls into the emptiness. “Dad, are you here?”

He should be there. His truck is parked outside. But not Carole’s car, which means they could still have gone out somewhere. He should have called ahead, but it was the last thing on his mind - one of those tasks he would start to do, then get distracted by a humongous metaphorical asteroid heading straight for him.

“Hey, kiddo! Is that you?” he hears coming from the kitchen.

“In the living room!” Kurt puts his bag down on the floor and suddenly his dad is there, all open arms ready to give him a proper hello.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Burt squeezes his son tight, pats him hard on the back. “Are you home for good?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Kurt says, hating to disappoint him. “Just for the day. We’re planning on heading back.”

“Oh.” His father’s smile dips, but he recovers it and rolls on. “Well, okay then. Do you have a minute? Because I need to talk to you.”

“What a coincidence,” Kurt says, “because I need to talk to you, too.”

“Should we flip a coin to see who goes first?” Burt teases.

“No.” The smile Kurt gives his father’s joke trembles at the corners. Because he misses his dad. He misses him a great deal. “You go first.”

“Okay …” His father clears his throat. He shifts his weight on both feet and puts his hands on his hips, getting into what Kurt affectionately refers to as lecture mode, and Kurt knows immediately what his father is about to say “… when were you plannin’ on tellin’ me about that NYADA bill?”

“I …” Kurt should have a better response to that than one syllable and a choke, but it hasn’t been a morning conducive to answering questions “… probably … never?” Burt sighs heavily, rolls back and forth on his heels. “I didn’t want to add another thing to your pile of stress!” Kurt explains. “I was trying to figure it out myself!”

“Well you don’t have to worry about it now,” his father says stoically.

“Wh—what do you mean I don’t have to worry about it?” Oh God, Kurt thinks. I’m not going to NYADA. It doesn’t matter that Sebastian gave him the check. He ran out of time to get the money to them and now his acceptance is null and void! But they said I had till the 10th of September! the logic side of his brain argues. Did they change the rules out from under him? Can they do that? Or did they find someone better, someone more talented last minute and decide to give them his spot? Wait - they can’t do that either, can they!?

It doesn’t matter whether they can or can’t, it might already be done, which means he failed at the one thing he wanted more than anything in life.

His dream, the one he put his pride on the line for, is officially over.

“I mean I talked to the girl down in financial aid and I handled it,” his father clarifies.

Kurt's eyes open so wide he genuinely fears they'll pop out of his skull and roll across the floor. “Come again?”

“Now before I explain, I want you to know, I didn’t open any of your mail. That would have been an invasion of privacy, no matter how nervous that last one made me. I guess the financial aid department has been calling you for the past week, and when they couldn’t get a hold of you, they contacted me. They wanted to know if you were still getting the last of the money together, or if you wanted to forfeit your spot to someone on the waiting list. Since I knew you’d never do that, I went ahead and took care of it.”

“But … how?” Kurt asks, begging his dad for an answer, how it was so damned simple for him to clear up when Kurt has been suffering all summer long!

Well, not suffering.

“I need details, Dad!”

Burt grins, proud to have gotten a smidgen of the upper hand over his kid for once. “Kurt, I know we haven’t talked about it much, but becoming a congressman has raised my net worth considerably. Nine plus thousand dollars has been a struggle for us in the past, but it wasn’t as huge a stretch this time.”

“I … I guess I didn’t realize that.”

“Well, maybe you should have talked to me about it first before running around, half-cocked, trying to find nine thousand dollars.”

“There’s a lot of things I should have talked to you about,” Kurt admits, ashamed that he not only didn’t talk to his dad about this, but that he hasn’t been talking to his dad most of this summer.

Not the way they used to.

His father leans closer, raises his eyebrows like he’s about to impart some wisdom. Or a secret. “Like about you and that Smythe boy?”

Kurt doesn’t even have to ask.

That question, mostly rhetorical, tells him that his dad knows. How all these people figured them out is unbelievable! Kurt thought he and Sebastian were doing a good job acting like a couple. Too good a job. Were they really that transparent? “How long have you known?” Kurt asks, sucker punched by a rousing case of deja vu. Maybe his third case so far? He’s lost track.

“It’s more of an I suspected than an I knew. You’re an extremely compassionate person, Kurt. You have high moral standards, always have. You get that from your mom. And like I said before, I know you and Blaine both forgave Sebastian for the things he did but …” His dad pinches his lips together and shakes his head, like there’s a two and a two he’s having a difficult time getting to add up “… I couldn’t see you dating him. But you told me you were happy, and you didn’t give me any reason to doubt you. If you did this, you must have had your reasons.” Burt pauses, hedges on this point. “And now that I know about this school debt, I’m thinking that might have had something to do with it?”

Kurt bites his lips together, so close to tears he can taste them in his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the squeak that should have been a much better answer from escaping his throat. He’d thought it himself, that dating Sebastian for money made him an escort … or worse. But his dad putting the pieces together this way and then making an inference to them out loud makes Kurt want to dig himself a hole and bury himself in it. It’s a little too much - much too much for this day in particular.

Burt puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, gives him a comforting squeeze. “No one’s judging you, Kurt,” he says softly. “And I’m not gonna interfere in the particulars of your life. You’re going to do what you’re going to do. I just want you to take care of yourself. Look out for you. Because you …”

“I matter,” Kurt finishes. “I know. And I am. I promise. If it’s any consolation, that’s all over.”

“You guys broke up?” his dad asks, strangely upset. “But I thought you said …”

“No. No, we didn’t break up. Actually …” Kurt smiles. It’s completely subconscious, springing up on his face as if in response to a private joke, or a sentimental story “… we’re dating … for real.”

“Good.” Burt pulls his son in for a hug. “That’s good. He seems like a decent kid all things considered. Comes from real good stock. Has a good head on his shoulders.”

“How do you know that? You’ve only met him a handful of times!”

“He’s dating my son. He must be a flippin’ genius!”

Kurt laughs and Burt joins him, not stopping or letting go of one another until they’re both in tears.

“Thank you for calling the school,” Kurt says, “ and for paying that bill. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did, Kurt. Look, I know you’re an adult and everything now, being all of eighteen, but I’m still your dad. I’m gonna help you out when I can.”

“Are you disappointed in me?” Kurt asks, and yes, it might have been cowardly of him to wait and ask when his father was riding high on his good mood, but Kurt can’t take too many more emotional upheavals today.

“No, I’m not,” his father says. “Maybe a little hurt, but not disappointed. But I understand. Dealing with small, basic financial matters are scary enough. Balancing a checkbook, making a budget, socking away for emergencies, getting a car loan. They don’t teach you those things in school anymore and they’re terrifying. I can imagine how you felt getting this news. And then feeling like you had to tackle it alone?”

“That’s … not all I mean,” Kurt admits, even when, for the sake of his sanity, it probably would be better to stop while he’s ahead.

“Kurt, I love the fact that you value my opinion,” Burt says. “As a parent, I know there’ll come a day when you won’t need my advice anymore.”

“I’ll always need your advice, Dad,” Kurt says, holding onto his dad, holding on to this moment for as long as he can. Father-son talks tend to do this to him, fill him with a sense of melancholy, especially lately, which is probably why he’s been avoiding them. Because way too often, they feel like goodbye. “No matter how old I get.”

“Then let me give you a little now.” Burt holds his son at arm’s length so he can look into his eyes. “You have to make the decisions that are right for you. Nobody else. Whatever makes you happy. As long as you’re not hurting yourself and it’s legal, I’m behind you all the way. I want you stop worrying for once and enjoy your life.”

“You’re right,” Kurt agrees, but rolling his eyes at the legal remark. Are private escorts legal in Ohio? What’s the sentence if you’re found guilty of being one? He hates that this is now something he’s going to Google when he gets back to his SUV. “I’m going to go do that right now.”

***

“Jesus, Kurt!” Sebastian moans, rolling his hips up, rubbing what’s left of his spent erection along the crack of Kurt’s rear. “I love your ass!”

“Thank you,” Kurt says, pushing back against him. “I’m rather fond of it myself.”

“So … Blaine’s dad said that to you?” Sebastian wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s naked body and holds it against him. He buries his nose in Kurt’s hair, breathes him in deep. “And he still has a neck and two testicles?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Kurt melts into Sebastian’s embrace, into the sweaty skin pressed against his own. “I’d call that growth, wouldn’t you?”

“I knew Blaine’s parents were a mess, but I never would have thought …” Sebastian shakes his head against Kurt’s shoulder. “I’d say you dodged a bullet there, babe. I mean, can you imagine that man ten, twenty years from now …”

“I can imagine him flat as a crepe because after the first year with him as an in-law I would have run him over with my SUV. Repeatedly.”

“We still can,” Sebastian says with an excited wiggle, as if he’d started thinking about it in earnest. “I know a place where we can hide a body.”

“I’m sure you do,” Kurt says with a patronizing pat on his arm, taking Sebastian’s murderous fantasies in his stride. But the joke washes aside, and Kurt sighs. “Do you think there’s any hope for Julian and Cooper? You were with Cooper when they saw one another. Do you think …?”

“Yeah.” Sebastian doesn’t interrupt Kurt. Kurt can’t seem to finish his sentence. The past few days have taken such an emotional toll on him, his whole body aches, down to his bones. “I think they’re going to be okay. They have a lot of talking to do … which I’m sure they’ll get to after all the fucking they’re doing right now.”

Kurt tilts his head back an inch to see Sebastian’s face. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, babe.”

Kurt’s left eyebrow arches as he continues to stare. “You know, I question the way you talk sometimes.”

“It’s a hazard of having a brother and sister almost a decade older than you.”

“That makes sense.” Kurt turns away, inching his way back against Sebastian’s body so that he can feel more of his skin around him. Sebastian seems to know this and hooks a leg over his. “Sebastian, I need you to promise me something.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he says, kissing Kurt’s cheek, his skin hot to the touch.

“I know everything that’s happened in the past two days has been … intense.”

Sebastian makes a small sound that’s part genuine laugh, part huff. “You can say that again.”

“And I know that if you decide to leave …” Kurt’s voice, which he tries to keep calm, rational, pragmatic, splinters a hair “… take a break from all of this … and me … you’ll come back, but you can’t leave. If I wake up and you’re not here …”

Sebastian shushes him gently, puts a hand to his head and draws him to his chest. Kurt turns into it, rolling towards him and resting his forehead against his shoulder. “I’m still here, Kurt. And I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not running away from you. Not anymore.”

[haddonfieldproject]

<<PREVIOUS⏺<<CONTENTS>>

CHAPTER TWO CONCLUSION

Haddonfield, Illinois

The ambulance driver took a swig of his coffee thermos and looked over to his partner, “So then Carlson for the Sox hits this ball on a rope...I mean on a rope..to right field and you think the things gonna be all over right?”

His partner laughed, he was biting his thumbnail and spitting the flecks of nail out—a disgusting habit, but good for killing time on runs. “Yeah.”

“But the right fielder for the Cubbies, Santos, he dives into the ivy...I mean straight into the goddam ivy and comes out with it. End of inning...it was incredible.”

“I can't believe I missed it,” his partner said, looking out of the window. “I just passed out.”

“How the hell you just pass out?” The driver asked him smiling.

“Well you remember me telling you about that girl, Lawrence's friend who works at the cellphone store?” He looked back at the driver with a grin.

The driver's eyes grew wide, “The hot broad with the little tattoo on her wrist of the teddy bear or somethin'.”

“Butterfly.”

“Yeah yeah, butterfly. What's her name?”

“Darla,”

“Yeah yeah Darla,” the driver laughed, “You didn't get with that! No way man.”

“Oh I got with that,” the partner smiled.

“No way.”

“Way man,” the partner pulled out his cellphone, “I got pics man, she came over about eight, and we carved a pumpkin and shit, hung out, watched a scary movie.”

“You carved a pumpkin with her?”

“Yeah look,” he said, holding out his phone, “I carved a sick ass little Jack-O-Lantern, take a look.”

The driver leaned over and looked down at the screen. “What the hell is that?” He asked laughing.

“It's a goblin or some shit man.” The partner replied.

“Didn't look like no goblin,”

“Well fuck you then man.”

“Well just sayin'.”

“Well check this,” the man scrolled on his phone with his thumb, “Check out the little outfit she was wearing. Seriously, look at her titties in that?”

“She does have some nice titties,” the driver said, peeking over again.

“Oh yes,” he said, admiring the cleavage in the picture, “So you got to...”

“JESUS FUCK LOOK OUT!!!”

The partner screamed way too late to have changed anything. The ambulance had come up and over a small hill, on the other side of which lay the trailer of Gabriel Couture's Semi-truck. The driver of the ambulance's foot didn't even hit the brakes and the ambulance smashed right through the relatively thin outer skin of the top of trailer which, given that it was laying on it's side, was facing them. The wood floor of the trailer on the other side, was supported by steel beams and was therefore much stronger, so when the front of the ambulance struck this, the engine exploded immediately, turning the cab behind it into one huge smoldering fireball.

🎃

Reverend Taylor had just come back down from his bedroom when he heard the explosion. He had gone up earlier to try and force himself to sleep but that had not worked. He used a large box-fan as a sound machine when he slept, and the noise of that had prevented him from hearing the first accident involving Brad’s mustang, the Chumway Brothers, and Gabriel Couture's truck. Now as he looked out of his front windows, through the trees, he could see flames and smoke rising up in the distance.

The Rev went to the little closet beside the front door and pulled out his boots. His house sat in the center of a large lot on the top of the hill. The bluff adjacent to the park—the hillside Kyndra Bailey had fallen down, was to the rear of the property, and the highway, now strewn with smoldering pieces of car parts and bodies like a scene from the Terminator, was about twenty yards from the front of the property.

If it's a bad wreck, someone may be trapped in a car or something, he thought. He went back upstairs to his bedroom and retrieved his cellphone and his shotgun.

For all I know its another stupid prank from some stupid delinquents setting off homemade Molotov cocktails or something in the street.

He checked to see if the gun was loaded with shells...it was.

Better safe than sorry.

🔪

Amos Yoder sat straight up in bed again.

This time his wife wasn't next to him, but she soon appeared in the door way.

“Did you hear that?” Esther asked.

“What was it?” Amos asked, throwing back the quilt and reaching over to pick up his pants.

“Sounded like an automobile accident,” Esther said, wringing her hands. Gideon circled around her legs excitedly. “And you smell that horrible smell? What is that?”

“It's gasoline,” Amos answered, pulling his pants up and tying the ties on the inside. No buttons, the Amish did not believe in buttons.

“What are you going to do?” Esther asked her husband as he moved passed her.

“I guess I'm going to have a look,” he answered, “is it still raining?”

“I think it's pretty much stopped now,” she answered, “put on your thicker shoes though, I'm sure the ground is completely soaked.”

🎃

The monster awoke. It was dark...and Its face burned. Its eyes hurt and It realized that It couldn't open them...Its eyelids felt like they were glued together. It strained Its' face muscles. That brought even more pain, but eventually the eyelids did open a bit. Everything was still dark...and now a little cloudy.

The monster sat up. It knew It was sitting on a hospital gurney. It knew the feeling of it, even if It couldn't actually see it. The monster had been put on many hospital stretchers over the years. But most of the time the monster had been tied down. This time there were no ties.

The monster stood, and Its' head bumped the ceiling. The monster raised Its' hand, bringing pain. To move was painful...every inch of the monster's body was still burning. Only figuratively now—a few hours ago, it had been literally on fire. The monster rain Its' hand over the ceiling, feeling cold steel.

An ambulance. The monster knew. In an ambulance.

The monster could smell something too.

Gasoline.

The monster cocked Its' head to one side.

Could be on me, from the explosion.

The monster didn't think so.

The monster sidled forward, passed the stretcher, seeing the dim outline of the rear doors through blurry vision. Just making out the two rectangles of the door windows.

The monster lifted Its' leg and gave a kick.

BAM!

The doors were stuck tight.

BAM!

BAM!

🔪

Reverend Taylor's head popped up when he heard the noise coming from the back of the ambulance. He was kneeling over a corpse, so badly burned, it was almost unrecognizable as human. He had a dark feeling come over him.

I don't think I wanna know what's in the back of that ambulance for some reason.

He couldn't quite explain it. Maybe it was being saturated with all of the sick news all night and into the morning. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep.

It could have just been nerves.

He slowly stood up.

BAM!

My some miracle, the fire in the cab of the ambulance had extinguished almost immediately, and had not spread to the back. The vehicle had struck the floor of the trailer and bounced backwards, so now the front end sat crushed and smoldering within the trailer and the back lay hanging out in the roadway.

BAM!

To survive a crash like that, the Reverend thought, leveling the shotgun and taking a step toward the back of the ambulance. Can't be human.

BAM!

I should call the police. He thought.

BAM!

He or she could have been tied down back there, maybe survived that way.

Rev didn't think so.

BAM!

Stop it! It's a patient and they're probably hurt. His mind raced. You need to open the door and help them out.

BAM!

Rev didn't think so.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

But if you haul off and shoot somebody, people are gonna think you went insane.

Reverend Taylor turned the shotgun around as he came up alongside the ambulance doors. The vehicle was literally shaking on it's axles with every BAM! Rev gripped the barrel.

Just in case, he thought. I can just give em' a whack if they're dangerous.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

The door broke open.

The Shape staggered out.

The Reverend swung the shotgun.

NEXT>>

[galadrieljones]

writer’s review

tagged by @ma-sulevin and @a-shakespearean-in-paris. thank you! i’ve never done this one before.

I will tag @thevikingwoman @shallow-gravy @littleblue-eyedbirdchirps @roguelioness @pikapeppa and anyone who’d like to do this. Please tag me if you do!!

Rules: Post two snippets of your writing. The first should be one of the oldest examples of your work that you can find (the older the better!), and the other has to be an excerpt from something more recent. Compare the two side by side to see the difference between what your writing looks like now and how it did then.

Since I have way too much old writing from my life, I am just going to stick with my fanfiction. I chose to compare an excerpt from my older Solavellan work The Dead Season (2016) to my current The Last of Us fic As You Were (2020). 

I put this under a cut, as it’s a little long!! 

From The Dead Season - Chapter 8: The Emprise du Lion

For the first three nights, they’d had to camp in a quarry surrounded by the dead lit veins of red lyrium. The lyrium glowed through the fire, illuminating the snow, keeping everyone awake, bandaged and bruised, all four of them piled into the Inquisitor’s tent where nobody wanted to be alone. Death was too nearby, they decided. Things were better together. Exhausted, hardened, dirty, cold to the bone. Drinking warm ale brought in by Scout Harding’s people, gnawing pieces of rabbit Sene had hunted herself and then cooked on a spit. Iron Bull tried entertaining with mad stories from his stranger youth. He and Solas played whole games of chess through the power of memory alone, and Sera braided Sene’s hair, and asked her all kinds of questions about her childhood and her love for the elven man. She told her about Dagna, that the two had started a quiet affair, and she had such stories of Red Jenny and her foreign life as an elf of the city. Sene listened eagerly, all the time, finding Solas with her eyes, and he would give a small touch. Security in a place of death and blood in the snow.

Despite Sene’s dreams, whenever they slept in the Emprise du Lion, Solas held her with serious possession. He slept deeply when he drifted, without stirring, and his arms hardened around her as stone. A carefulness and new severity imbued them, each movement guessed and exchanged as mind-reading. Somehow, it felt new. Sera noticed one morning, as Solas helped Sene into her jacket: “You do that like it’s all you’ve ever done,” she said to him.

“Perhaps it is,” said Solas. “Perhaps each night I help Sene out of her jacket, and then each morning, I help her back in again. Would that shock you?”

“The two of you,” said Sera. “Like green on sky. Eggs on toast.”

“Interesting perspective,” he said.

From As You Were - Chapter 6: La Crosse (Pt. 1) / The Lapp Farm (Pt. 1)

Joel and Noah drove until they hit what looked to be the town. They parked at an O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, hauled their backpacks onto their backs, and loaded their guns. The signs continued, most of them nailed to other kinds of signs: COTHS, they read. C.O.T.H.S.

C O T H S.

La Crosse had never been a big city. Joel didn’t know a lot, but he could gather as much. It wasn’t big, but it was a college town, and that college was big enough to have a football team. It would have been home to a lot of people during the initial Outbreak, probably forty or fifty thousand, and it was probably a metro-hub for these little Driftless, farming towns, too, with a good hospital, warehouses, factories, and some semblance of a retail industry. It would have been a lot of meth, he thought. Maybe not so much in the city proper, but in the outskirts, in the tin cans and the trailer parks. As a city on the banks of the Mississippi, it would have pretty pockets but mostly, it was just franchises and mini-malls, like anything else.

But this was strange, thought Joel. The goddam of it was, it seemed empty. Really empty. Like, god no longer smiled upon this place, as if something evil had given up on this place, gone on its way. There was nothing. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just the trees, and the nature noises, the grasses, which had grown so tall, they engulfed the cars abandoned at the side of the road. There was a McDonalds sign, growing out of a massive, twisted heap of vines and bramble and it made Joel think of small things that still broke his heart from childhood. He pushed it down.

“This is fucking weird,” said Noah. The air smelled ripe in some places. Rotten. Like an overgrowth of mold in the washing machine. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Something bad happened here,” said Joel.

“Hey, look,” said Noah. He was headed toward another one of the signs. It said: COTHS.       

“Yep, another sign,” said Joel.

“No, look,” said Noah. He got closer. He had to snap a couple saplings to get to it. This sign was on the ground, leaning against a tree. He pushed back the tall grass, and the milkweed to reveal the rest.

Comparison: I settled on these excerpts because they are both descriptions of places and situations that are new to the characters involved. The biggest difference between my writing in 2016 and my writing now, as shown here, is that I have hugely simplified my prose and my approach to descriptive writing. Four years ago, I was still very flowery, and the dark, magical setting of Dragon Age only encouraged my dreamy, expansive sensibility. I used a lot of adjectives, figurative language, and fragments, and I tended to write big, sweeping descriptions of situations, rather than setting simple scenes. Tbh, I hadn’t really figured out scene-writing yet, at that point. It took me a while to realize how to make scenes do a lot of work in a short amount of time. Notice how I barely enter the scene in that first excerpt. It’s vague. It’s all happening at once. There is not really a specific scene being set in a specific setting at a specific time. I try to avoid that sort of thing now. While I don’t hate my old writing, and I think sometimes I do a nice job of hitting on the right atmosphere, my unwillingness to just enter the scene concretely is a little sophomoric and noncommittal here. Setting scenes is actually hard as hell. In doing this, I was avoiding the hard stuff without even realizing.

Now, I will say that while I am still improving, my writing has become much more concrete and to the point. I use figurative language, but I am much more judicious with my metaphors and similes. I prefer realism, it turns out. I want to describe true things, not ideas. Most of what I describe is there to build setting, whether it be through concrete description of place or a character’s actions in a place. Sometimes I will use my language to evoke a certain kind of atmosphere, but I try not to go overboard. I want my language to be practical, not tricky and overblown. I like strong, complete sentences (with the occasional fragment) and descriptions of specific actions and scenes in real time, rather than fragmented, dreamy language or a style that is overly stream-of-consciousness. I still use Free Indirect Style at times, and I will narrate thought, because I like going into my character’s heads, but I now practice much more stoicism. I do not let my readers know too much directly about what my characters are feeling. I find that this is much more true to what I want to evince with my writing. I now try to imply thought and emotion via what my characters do, what they don’t do, what they say, and what they see. Moving away from Solas, a very “talky” and intellectual character has helped me do this. While I love Solas, writing Joel and Arthur really improved me tenfold, as they tend to speak very little. They are not terribly ponderous in all they decide. They choose their words wisely and let their actions speak most of the time, helping me do the same.

In the past, my focus was almost always on language, ideas, and atmosphere. I wanted to evoke bigness at every turn. Drama, beauty, unfolding abstract ideas and feelings made of synesthesia, using my language to elevate simple feelings and ideas into something epic. But now, and maybe it’s just because I’m getting older or I have less time, idk, but I just want things to be what they are. I want to reveal feelings and themes, not evoke them through force. I want the scenes to speak for themselves. I let the reader do a little more work. I withhold much more. In fact, I rarely write interiority these days. Inner-monologue and emotions come sparingly. One sentence here and there. Never in rambling, abstract, unfurling paragraphs, which The Dead Season is full of. I am always reaching for economy now, and efficiency. It is better for me! Though I do play around still, from time to time, with my language. I will always be a little playful.

[quatschmachen]

Rainbow

You might not believe it due to my inactivity, but this week is Monmongary week.

Here is my one small contribution following the prompt of Rainbow.

This takes place early 2000s.

XXXX

It was awkward. It was worse than awkward.

It was that tightrope between the past and the future, where he wasn’t sure how to reach out, or understand what was going on. It had been about nine months since Edward had come out, two weeks since Edward emotionally exploded at him, dragged his soul down to the seventh level of hell and left him there with no way out.

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. He deserved it he knew, he knew, he knew, but why did Edward have to come out and make everything so damn complicated. To make it all worse they were forced into this situation, where running no longer was an option, where instead they were trapped together in the truck.

He may be living in the 7th level of hell, but even he knew that despite everything, a perfect gentleman would pull up and help someone out. He had simply assumed it was the sparkplugs or something. Edward’s sleeves were rolled up, hands black with oil, a smudge on his nose, and his tools out on the ground as he attempted to do the repairs himself. Calvin wasn’t sure how he felt when he realized it was Edward’s truck. A truck he knew, one that had him slowing down before even any conscious thought asked him what he was doing. They were on shaky ground at best, and perhaps this could help build that bridge one spaghetti piece at a time. Swallowing as Edward looked up, his hair damp from sweat, eyes in surprised recognition, Calvin wondered why the hell his heart was beating so nervously. Must be the fear that Edward had discovered an eighth layer of hell to drag him in to.

The whole point of an older truck, Edward tended to argue, is that one is able to fix it. Get it back to running. Except whatever had gone wrong, it had really gone wrong, wrong enough for Edward to take the rag and wipe down his hands and agree to Calvin’s help.

Edward sat beside him, smudge still on his face, purposefully looking out the window, not giving him the time of day.

It was driving Calvin crazy being ignored. He kept shooting glances at Edward, heart somehow pounding in his stomach area, mixing with the acid of guilt.

“Bet you’re not bitching about how I got the latest upgraded truck,” Calvin finally started, his cracking voice breaking the tense silence between them.

Edward’s eyes didn’t even flick towards him. A prickle of irritation ran through Calvin.

“Seeing as I’m towing your piece of shit truck back to the old folks’ home.”

Usually Edward would react to insults to his truck, but nothing.

He couldn’t keep silent. They were far enough out for the radio to be patchy, enough to have it turned off. He began to whistle, trying to fill the silence between them, wanting to get some sort of reaction out of Edward.

Casting another sidelong glance at Edward, taking in his dark tan, (was he working outside?), his more toned body (he had heard rumours that Edward was working up north, but Mac would neither confirm nor deny), the smudge on the cheek (somehow instead of silly, it looked… he didn’t know what he was feeling, better ignore it.)

The sky was getting dark, too early for night, it was the rushing clouds of a storm of some sorts, and Calvin hoped to be getting out of the mountains sooner rather than later. He sped up.

It happened faster than expected, the wind howling, the rain pummelling down onto the cab, barely able to see a foot ahead of them.

“Pull over.” Came the abrupt command. Edward was tense all over.

“’fraid of a bit of rain?”

“I’m worried your speeding ass is going to make my truck a tin of tuna,” came the growl, “pull the fuck over, McCall.”

“We’re fine!” Calvin exclaimed as loud thuds started to occur on the roof of the cab, and baseball sized hail bounced off the windshield. He screamed, swerved, slowed down, and pulled over. Hands shaking, he turned the truck off, attempting to breathe normally. The hail continued to fall, the wind rattling at the windows like some vengeful ghost attempting to come in. “We’re fine,” he muttered, then slightly more hysterical, he looked over to Edward, who had a slightly amused expression, as he squeaked “we’re fine!”

“I’m fucking not,” Edward dryly replied, “I think I’m going to have to get a soft rubber mallet to get the dings out of my truck.”

“Dings?” It was then that Calvin noticed the pockmarks on the front of his truck, and he had the sinking feeling it was not just the front of the truck. Almost as if to add insult to injury, a large hail stone, the size of an ostrich egg, plapped down onto the windshield, making a sickening cracking sound, and Calvin watched in semi horror as small cracks spiderwebbed across the glass.

A soft hysterical laugh escaped Calvin, “Shit shit shit shit, I didn’t get the extended warranty and I’m sure it ended like yesterday, shit shit shit.” His shoulders were heaving, from laughter? Trying to keep in crying? Why the fuck was he having some sort of tiny breakdown in front of Edward when he was trying to project the exact opposite. Be cool, suave, act like a fucking adult – directly above them cracked the loudest thunder, it felt and sounded as if it was a sword slicing through the truck to murder him, and he screamed loudly, tears (stupidly) springing to his eyes. Quickly he looked away from Edward, Edward could not see him crying due to fear from a stupid storm!

He heard a huff behind him, and let out another scream as he felt Edward grab his shoulder, forcefully bringing him into an awkward half hug, trapped by the seatbelt, leaning uncomfortably against the driving stick, head angled strangely against Edward’s shoulder.

“Idiot, you always cried during storms,” Edward’s voice was soft, as Calvin sniffled, some inner damn releasing as the tears began to flood out.

Unclicking his seatbelt, Calvin shifted, as he buried his face into Edward’s shoulder, crying for more than just the storm. Whatever Edward was doing in his hair felt good, some sort of soft petting, as if he was some goddam dog, but he didn’t care damnit, Edward was talking to him, and maybe this storm was the eighth layer of hell, but somehow even though he was dying of embarrassment, he felt lighter.

Just as quickly as it came, the storm passed, and Calvin pulled away from the awkward embrace, rubbing his eyes and attempting to calm down. His skin tingled from where Edward had touched him, and while he should be feeling bruised pride, all he could think about was thank god for the storm.

“Feeling better, champ?” Edward asked, genuine concern in his voice and face.

“Yeah of course,” Calvin couldn’t quite look at him, feeling too embarrassed.

Edward unbuckled his seat belt and slipped out of the truck, doing a full walk around and making sure the damage was mostly minimal.

By the time Edward hopped back in, Calvin had managed to pull himself together.

“Other than your windshield it’s fine. We should be able to drive… Actually… I noticed you’re heading to Calgary, why are you taking me there?”

Calvin shrugged, “Can’t you fix your truck wherever?” a sly smile appeared, “Unless you plan to finally scrap it?”

“Watch it McCall,” Edward growled punching him on the arm.

Yeeping in pain, Calvin teased in return, “I would love to watch it get crushed out of its misery!”

Narrowing his eyes, Edward looked as if he was about to say something, until he said instead, “You owe me a steak dinner.” Edward shifted, head against the rest, but no longer fully turned away from the other man, “I’m gonna take a nap, wake me when we are near food.”

Calvin nearly asked what the hell the steak dinner was for, but shut his mouth. Maybe it was a good thing Edward was willing to spend some more time with him, and maybe if he took Edward to one of his favourite restaurants – the ones specifically used to woo top-tier clients, they could add another strand of spaghetti to their wobbly bridge.

Turning a corner, Calvin smiled as he saw the rainbow spread across the sky, the sun shimmering on the wet mountains. He was going to take that as a good sign.

[hellzyeahwebwieldingreviews]

Untold Tales of Spider-Man 03: Celebrity – by Christopher Golden and Jose R. Nieto

Well this story sucked.

Peter Parker is hanging out at the Daily Bugle flirting with Betty Brant when J. Jonah Jameson orders him to head to Angelique's, a Fifth Avenue French restaurant where Johnny Storm is escorting starlet Heather Fox "to an early dinner...before her big premiere tonight." The Bugle is doing an article comparing "the heroic Torch to the criminal insect" Spider-Man. Jonah promises Pete two-thirds of his usual rate because "these paparazzi things are a breeze." (An amusing comment considering what's going on in ASM these days.)Peter positions himself on the sidewalk at the restaurant and is nearly trampled by the professional paparazzi when Johnny and Heather show up. He wonders how Johnny ended up so famous while Spider-Man ended up so infamous.Johnny and Heather aren't the only ones dining at Angelique's. William Baker is there with his date Candace. The menu prices are almost more than he can afford but it's worth it to him to impress Candace. He met her when he was casing the jewelry store at which she works but had to wait until he was out on parole to ask her out since he is the Sandman and had been captured by Spider-Man. But Candace doesn't know any of that and, spotting the Torch, she moons and sighs over him so much that William's jealousy gets the better of him. He attacks the Torch, trying to prove to his date who the real man is. Soon, Spider-Man joins the fight. The Sandman thinks this is great. It gives him more opportunity to prove himself to Candace. He doesn't know that she is mortified, that she is experiencing her worst date ever. She ends up side-by-side with Heather who is "looking bored and exasperated." The women talk. Candace fawns over the Torch only to learn that Heather thinks Johnny is a boring kid, that she'd rather go out with a different member of the Fantastic Four ("I mean, a girl has to be curious," she says) and that she thinks the Sandman is a "sandy hunk".In the fight, Spidey lets the comments of the crowd get to him ("Ya can't expect real heroes like the Torch to keep bailing you out!"), which translates into him letting the Sandman wallop Johnny from behind. Sandy realizes he has ruined his date. When he sees the rest of the Fantastic Four arrive, he skips out. Spidey hears the crowd cheer and thinks they are cheering for him until he sees the Fantasticar with Reed, Sue, and Ben in it. The recovering Torch angrily tells Spidey, "You need to relax, buddy." Spidey, unrepentant, tells Johnny to get back to his date. "I'm sure she's really impressed by your feats of derring-do," he says. "Not particularly," says Heather who has approached the two super-heroes. As the paparazzi snap photos of Johnny and Heather, she tells him that she is ditching him to go have café au lait with her new friend Candace. She only joined the heroes because she wanted to ask Spider-Man "if there was any way he could put me in touch with that Sandman guy." Hearing this, Johnny's face turns bright red ("For once, the change in color wasn't brought on by fire.") and, seeing that, Spidey swings away whistling a happy tune.

I really hope we didn’t peak with the second story in this anthology. This story is by far the weakest of the three I’ve looked at thus far and bears more similarities to the first story than the second.

This was another Marvel Team Up issue except one weirdly more focused upon the Sandman than the Human Torch. We get things from Peter’s, Sandman’s and Sandman girlfriend’s point of view in that order.

The majority of the story consists of  a super powered brawl in a fancy restaurant. Were this a comic book it’d be good enough for maybe a backup story or at a push a filler issue. Here it’s downright unacceptable.

Prose is (aside from maybe radio) is the weakest possible medium to do action set pieces in. Whilst the likes of Horowitz or Fleming can pull it off it’s notoriously difficult and especially so when you have characters designed for a visual medium in the first place. Spider-Man action set pieces typically involve a lot of punching, kicking, dodging, etc. in prose that just isn’t that interesting to read about. You just find yourself lamenting that you can’t see what is happening. Although a part from a neat trick where Torch burns Sandman the action we get is bog standard.

Sandman attacks the Torch, the Torch retaliates backed up by Spidey, they go back and forth, Spidey uses the fact that he is made of sand against him, he escapes. That is the sum total of the action here and it constitutes half the goddam story if not more.

Like the first story, this one isn’t much as a Spider-Man tale because it doesn’t really get personal at all and it doesn’t involve the two halves of his life really impacting upon one another. The closest we get is that Peter’s day job positions him to be at the scene of Sandman’s attack. Frustratingly the story doesn’t start like that as we actually visit the Bugle and get what might be our third exposition dump about Peter’s status quo in the whole book. Here at least we see Betty Brant and the story seemed like it was going to touch on her and Peter’s relationship somehow but it’s pure filler.

Spidey is also weirdly out of character here. It’s like if they took the jerkass Spidey from ASM #8’s backup story and used him as the basis for this story. He’s not quite as bad but he kind of enjoys Human Torch’s rejection, is seriously jealous and frustrated by the public’s lack of appreciation. Him being upset that the public hate him is one thing, but here he’s almost back to being AF #15 Spidey.

The story also makes little sense in regards to the Sandman. First of all there is a mind boggling line about how when he isn’t in his sandform he’s literally flesh and blood. Nooooooooooo he really isn’t. As Spider-Man 3 wonderfully demonstrated, he’s always sand 100% of the time. He can make himself look and like a human’s senses, but even if he looks human you can’t knock him out as though he was a normal guy. And Spidey doesn’t even do that when he gets the chance because he alerts him like a moron.

The plot is also dumb because Sandman, a repeat felon who is also now super empowered was released on parole…for good behavior. Not only is it unbelievable for Sandman to act that way at all, but why the fuck would the prison allow him to leave given his record and more importantly his super powers?!

Just about the only good thing about this story was the brief insight into Sandman’s mind where we learn how he’s grown resentful of normal life’s rules given his power and the brief scenes of his and Torch’s dates chatting. But the latter is purely because it was something vaguely different that broke up the dullness of the fight scene.

The experience was made all the more unpleasant by DeSantos ear grating performance for this story. His Sandman isn’t too bad but everyone else sounded subpar at best and unbearable at worst (chiefly the female characters).

All in all this story was rather pathetic and skippable.

P.S. This story’s placement within Spidey canon is vague but it seems to broadly happen towards the end of Peter’s high school career. It is clearly influenced by ASM #21 even if it’s placement in relation to that issue is not clear at all.

[eloarei]

Reaper, ch... I dunno, 7?

I was tired of not-writing, so I started what is probably roughly chapter 7 of the Reaper novel I haven’t actually properly started or plotted out yet.  words: 2,169 (T-rated, f/m, gen) chapters: ??? I dunno fandom: original characters: Vanessa Mattock, Theocritus, Mr. Mattock  ship: Vessa&Theo, Vessa/Theo (implied) tags: some supernatural nonsense, the difficulty of just living, adjusting to humanity, alcohol,   notes: hey I wrote this in like 2 hours maybe? That’s the charm of not having to follow any rules I guess. Even though it takes place in the middle of the story (so I guess technically it’s chock full of spoilers?), it probably reads just fine if you have no idea what’s going on.  x So there was a reaper living on her couch. Well, he wasn’t a reaper anymore, she guessed, but what was she supposed to think of him as? Theo. Theo was living on her couch, after he’d outstayed his welcome at Sid’s place. They’d had a nice, self-pitying afternoon together when she’d found him there, borrowing some of Sid’s bottom-shelf whiskey in the hopes of dulling their respective traumas. But in the end, Sid had grouched at them that his place wasn’t a goddam hostel and Vanessa needed to find a new place for her boss to slump in half-drunken misery-- he’d already put up with enough weird shit the past day, what with Camille straight disappearing on them after summoning a horde of demons and zombies to his door. (Theo later explained that that was an exaggeration; it was only one demon and the zombies hadn’t even made it anywhere close to the antique shop. Still, as Sid was mortal and mostly normal, it wasn’t a surprise that that was a bit much for him.) 

Vanessa’s dad wasn’t going to be super pleased that she brought a ‘strange man’ into their house (boy, he didn’t know the half it-- like the fact that that strange man had saved his life), but he definitely wouldn’t stand the two of them getting drunk in the living room with all the shades drawn and the TV set to some trashy reality show, which was what she really sort of wanted to do. So instead of taking Theo back to her place right away, she’d walked them through the outskirts of town, off toward the seaside. 

There was… a lot to say. Primarily she wanted to berate him for not being there for her when she really needed him, but now that she knew he’d been having a rough time of his own her sense of betrayal had mostly faded off. It wasn’t like he’d been ignoring her on purpose (though what was she supposed to think at the time? He always came when she called him, and sometimes when she hadn’t called him and he’d just fucking sensed she was thinking about him or whatever). And yeah, she was still pretty shook about realizing that her mother was probably still alive (and maybe even in the city), but becoming human again after at least a couple hundred years of weird immortality was… possibly even harder, she admitted to herself. So she tried to be supportive of what her boss (or maybe former boss?) was going through. “You, um… doin’ ok?” she’d asked, as they’d strolled down the street, staggering slightly on the occasion. He looked the long way down at her, probably hurting his neck in the process. He was a little bit draped over her, arm slung over her shoulders like an old pal, but even with his current slouch they didn’t even nearly match up in height. Back when he’d been his usual reaper-y self (the last time Vanessa had seen him before Tawney helped her track him down at the antique shop), he’d seemed to absolutely tower over her and everyone else, almost lost in shadow. Now he was just plain tall-- although it was still pretty freaking tall. “I… will probably survive,” he’d replied, sounding all the more pitiful in his proper English accent. “Well I fucking hope so,” Vanessa had said, at a loss for anything more substantial or kind. Be kind of dumb if he just died after all of this, she thought. Especially when there was still so much she was just starting to understand about this shadow world he’d dragged her into. (Well, ‘dragged’ was not totally fair; she did kind of offer, after all.) They hadn’t really talked much after that, until they’d ended up in front of her house, and Theo had cocked his head at her and said, “Why are we here?” Vanessa gave him a deadpan look. “You got kicked out of Camille’s friend’s place, remember? What, were you gonna sleep on the street?” “Sleep…” he’d said softly, like he was testing the word out, or the idea. “I hadn’t thought…” “Yeah, obviously.” And on purpose, too. Why else would the first thing he asked for have been alcohol, other than that he didn’t want to have to think about his new lowly position in life? But he was obviously tired-- eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with the mystical and everything to do with physical and emotional exhaustion. She’d seen herself looking like that on more than one occasion, especially before he’d rescued her from the hellscape universe where her father was dead and there was nothing she could do about it. They’d gone inside, just walking like normal people instead of that vaguely-irritating appearing thing Theo had used to do before. (It was like he just hated doors or something, she sometimes thought.) Her father wasn’t home yet, and wouldn’t be for another few hours at least, Wednesdays being his longest work shifts. She took advantage of his absence by not sneaking around the house, guiding Theo to the living room couch and sitting him down. He sat there in the dusky darkness while she rummaged around in the kitchen for snacks. They didn’t have any alcohol in the house, but junk food could be just as good a balm. Sitting down next to him in the dark, Vanessa handed him a package of Oreos and a cola, while she dug into a fresh bag of cheese puffs and a Sprite. Theo looked down at the junk food in his hands. “What do I do with this?” he asked, apparently perturbed for some reason. She pulled the cola out of his hand with little resistance and popped it open, replacing it in his grip. “Drink,” she said. “You know how to do that.” Diligently, he took a swig of the chilly can, but his face morphed into a vague distaste as he swallowed. (Vague only because he was hardly emoting at all right now, she knew. At his normal rate of emotion, it would definitely be at least a scowl.) “This is far too sweet,” he said, and he set it aside on the end table. “Yeah, well,” Vanessa responded, grabbing the Oreos and ripping the package open. “You’re living now, okay, so you need calories and junk.” She pulled a cookie out and jammed it into his mouth. He seemed a little surprised, but he chewed on it anyway, and the tenseness in his shoulders faded a little. She didn’t know if that was because he liked it, or just because it was something to do. After a minute, she turned on the TV, keeping the volume low and just letting the colors wash over them. Theo was staring in the right direction, but she’d have bet he wasn’t really seeing the reality-TV shenanigans. (Probably a good thing, in this case, because it would have just annoyed him if he realized how stupid it was.) An episode or two passed, and she was starting to feel pretty drained. “Hey,” she started quietly, not wanting to shock Theo out of his trance too badly. “I think I’m gonna go crash. You should sleep too.” She got up to go find a blanket for him, but his gaze followed her, a little lazy, a little lost. “I don’t know how,” he said. “You don’t--” Vanessa blinked, and she blinked again. God, why was it her responsibility to teach him how to be a human? Shouldn’t it be Camille’s job since he was the one that took Theo’s powers? (Not that she thought Camille was great at being human either, but still.) She took a deep breath. “You just… Just close your eyes and don’t do anything. I dunno, pretend you’re dead.” A flicker of emotion crossed his face, probably unrelated to her suggestion. It was something she’d describe as ‘confused and annoyed about it’; maybe consternation. “I don’t know if I can do this, Vessa,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t talking about sleeping. Not exactly, anyway. “I mean, that’s…” She shrugged. “That’s life, right? You just have to take it a day at a time. A minute at a time.” He was zoning out a bit, staring at a spot on the wall, but she managed to catch his eyes and noted that they didn’t glow like they did before, that pale white-gold that always seemed to loom out of the shadows of her room. They were just light brown now, and tired. “Hey look… You know I’ll be here to help, okay? I’ve gotten through like ten thousand days. I’m sure I can help you through a few.” “Seventy-two hundred and sixty-three,” he said. “The days you’ve been through.” She scoffed and turned away to hide her smile. “Ok well that’s still a lot more than you.” She walked off to go find a blanket, wondering for a minute if Theo was going to be hot or cold natured, before she decided on an old course hand-woven thing her mom had picked up from somewhere, ages ago. She didn’t know if it’d be too hot or too cold, but if she was feeling as bad as she thought he was, that was the one she’d pick for herself. Ironically, he was out like a light by the time she got back. “Hey,” she said, draping the blanket over him. “Old man?” There wasn’t even the slightest downward twitch of lips, so she knew he was really finally asleep. Maybe his first sleep in a thousand years. She hoped it was a good one. She couldn’t say what exactly possessed her (maybe it was just that he couldn’t shy away or judge her), but she reached down and smoothed back that little piece of hair that always fell forward onto his forehead, and followed it up by pressing her lips to the empty space it left. She took a deep breath and inhaled his new, living smell. It wasn’t anything really specific. Just… warm. Smelled like hair and body oils and a little bit of lingering whiskey. Compared to the too-clean nothingness she’d whiffed before, when he pulled her close enough to teleport them someplace, it was just… better, more real. Smelled like a man who was living some kind of life, step after step, not… two feet on the wrong side of a grave. “Sleep well,” she said, even though he wouldn’t hear her. Then she tottered up the stairs and fell into bed, with just enough energy and presence of mind to kick off her shoes. Of course she didn’t hear the front door open, or her father cautiously step around the strange man sleeping on the couch and up the stairs in the desperate hope his daughter would have some explanation. “Nessie,” he said softly, settling his hand on his shoulder and just barely rousing her. She turned and glanced over her shoulder at her father, miles too tired to remember anything other than the fact that she was stupid tired, but there wasn’t a moment in her life where she ever thought of brushing off her dad, so of course she shook herself awake. “Dad. What’s up?” “Do you know why there’s someone sleeping on the couch?” Vanessa sighed. “Uhh, yeah. That’s my friend. Theo.” “Theo doesn’t have his own place?” her dad asked, raising an eyebrow just a little bit, just enough to show he was skeptical, but not mad. She tried to get her brain back in order and remember the excuse she came up with earlier. “Uh, well, his place had a f- flood, like a bad one, and they made everybody get out, but he’s kind of new to the area. I mean, he just moved from England, so he doesn’t have any family or friends to stay with.” Mr. Mattock’s face wasn’t hard to begin with (it never was), but it softened to hear his daughter trying to help a friend in his time of need. “That’s nice of you,” he said, and Vanessa knew he was being genuine, though he still seemed just the slightest bit uneasy. “He doesn’t really look your age though. He’s not… your professor, is he?” Vanessa grimaced, and she could tell her face was turning a little red. “No! No, he’s, um, he works at the library on campus.” Her father hummed, but he didn’t seem to be really criticising her story. “Well, alright. I’ll let you get back to sleep and then maybe we can talk more in the morning. G’night, sweetie.” “Night, dad,” she responded, and she managed to hold back her heavy sigh until he was out of the room. And then she fell back to sleep. She wanted to stay up and think about all the stupid little details she was going to have to probably remember for his cover story, but she was too tired to think anything other than ‘screw it’. xXx

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Amazing Spider-Man: Full Circle #1 Thoughts

Well...this was odd.

I’ve never read a Round Robin before, not in comics or any other medium.

I think the first thing to acknowledge is that this wasn’t intended to be taken strictly seriously (let alone canonically) and certainly wasn’t treated as such by the creators. It’s more a creative exercise or experiment, the reading equivalent of a theme park ride I suppose.

That makes critiquing it weird and tricky. Thus I’m going to treat this more like an anthology book than one big story as the creative teams were not put in the best position to make everything hang together. I’m going to briefly talk about if I liked the art, the characterization of Spidey (and any other regular characters who pop up) and really that’s it. I don’t think it’s fair to lambast a this comic for taking Spider-Man into space or into a mystical direction as it’s supposed to be weird, wacky and fun, not taking itself seriously.

Also I’ll be writing about each part immediately after I’ve read it and before I’ve read the next part.

Awaaaaaaaaaaaay we go!

Part 1

Didn’t care for this one. Perhaps it’s because it’s the opening chapter and gets to set the stage, I can’t give it as much slack as everything else.

I’ve never liked Hickman and whilst the stuff about his work that annoys me wasn’t present here, his characterization of Spider-Man was very off. It felt ripped straight out of Brand New Day in how buffoonish and infantilized Spider-Man was (he even unmasks in the corner for no reason), the art not helping in this regard.* The art itself wasn’t very good because...well it’s modern day Bachalo and he’s literally leaving panels blank for no reason. Plus in some scenes I genuinely couldn’t tell what was happening.

The final thing to not about this part is that it might be set in the 1980s as Spider-Man is wearing his black costume and the recap page claims this to be an untold tale for Spider-Man. plus it features Hasslhoff Fury instead of Jackson Fury.

Big take away.

Hickman shouldn’t write Spider-Man in the future.

*Not to mention other people were treating Spider-Man as a joke.

Part 2

I liked this one much better. There was one moment of buffonishness with Spider-Man where he was in his underwear, but the other gags (like Spider-Ham and Fury shooting a ferret) I thought were earned enough. I also liked that Duggan provided a way to allow for the black and the red costumes to appear in the story. I adored the reference to the Florida Spidey theme park ride and the art was beautiful.

The only questionable parts were Spider-Man’s webbing working in space (how, there is no gravity?) and the werewolves kind of coming out of nowhere. Maybe that’s a little too harsh on my part given the nature of this story though.

My takeaway is that Smallwood should draw more Spider-Man and Duggan might deserve another shot at Spider-Man as this wasn’t all that bad.

Part 3

Wow.

In a project that was supposed to just be silly fun Nick Spencer put in way more effort than he had to.

First of all the art is lovely even if the human faces are a tad stiff.

Second of all, if you were in doubt that Spencer is qualified for the job as ASM writer, this should dispel those reservations.

Whilst the story has some wacky comedy ala Superior Foes it also has a dash of depth and plot development too.

In a story that thus far has featured Spider-Ham, falling from space and wacky hijinks, BAM, Spencer organically brings up Spider-Man’s origin in a way that’s logically consistent in a story inherently illogical in the first place.

More than this he throws in another brief yet organic reference to Man-Wolf and even uses the continuity of the book itself by referencing the previous two stories.

He ties this all together with the theme of choice and the random unintended consequences of those choices, thus delivering a meta commentary upon the inherent premise of this comic book. It’s actually rather ingenious and he did it in like 10 pages!*

Also I hope and suspect that werewolf MJ will become a fondly referenced moment in the future of the fandom.

*It also touches upon similar themes of quantum theories present in the current 2099 centric storyline in ASM.

Part 4

Mixed feelings.

I really liked Thompson’s Rogue/Gambit mini-series and whilst I’ve not gotten around to checking out her Mr. And Mrs. X ongoing, I made a point of buying the book.

But she’s never written Spider-Man before to my knowledge and whilst this isn’t awful...my eyebrow was raised.

Putting aside how we’re in Forest Hills when the last story clearly didn’t leave off there, there are some lines early on which don’t ring true to Spider-Man at all.

Case in point.

Spider-Man treats his problems like nails he has to hammer because he’s an Alpha super hero. Um...what character has Thompson been reading for 55 years? How many times has Spider-Man NOT tried t resolve problems via simply punching it, even in the Ditko days?

Peter feels like he’s always been alone? Aunt May and Mary Jane are literally in this story!

And where did the man in the box’s psychoanalysis randomly come from?

A part from that the art was beautiful here and I loved Peter’s upset over werewolf MJ and his consideration in subduing her. I also really liked the ending and the main action set piece.

Maybe Thompson could do better with a second bite at the apple, but this wasn’t a strong first impression for her grasp of the character.

Part 5

Holy shit that was awesome.

Al Ewing to my knowledge has never really written for Spider-Man before but goddam I’d love for him to do it more often!

This was fantastic, the first story in this comic book to dive into who Peter Parker is.

It retained the wacky humour the rest of the comic possesses via the inclusion of the Spider-Hams, but it used them for deeper purposes.

Classic Spider-Ham represented Peter’s more positive impulses, or positive assessments of himself.

Black Spider-Ham represented the more negative impulses, the times Peter has questioned himself and wondered if he’s nuts or doing the right thing.

Bag-Ham represented Peter’s humours side.

Seeing Ham and Black Ham argue over Peter’s nature was rather meta as it has often been debated in fandom about whether Peter’s driven by guilt or by the desire to be good, whether he’s fighting the good fight to make him feel better about Ben’s death because he can’t move on, or if he’d do it regardless. There is an answer to that, but I’d rather not dive into it here.

But it is simply brilliant writing on Ewing’s part to include it at all, and he continues the character exploration in the form of Peter’s conversation with ‘the man in the box’. Apart from some funny dialogue and the further debate about Peter’s life style, the conversation lays new layers of intrigue into the story. Could the Man in the Box be the weapon? Or could it be Peter? What if the Man in the Box isn’t real at all?

Ewing also takes the weird wacky situation thrown to him and actually brings things together a little more with a plan for world domination and world order that, whilst comic book mad science, kind of makes sense. It’s impressive that he made such great lemonade out of the lemons handed to him frankly. I also liked he made the werewolves thinking and rationalizing rather than feral animals, as that’s something you rarely see in werewolf stories.

Aaron again, brings it all back around to Spider-Man’s character though because Peter’s presented with a situation that echos his origin story. He has the chance to stop bad people doing a bad thing, but this time the end result could be something positive.

Like Spencer’s story it’s just brilliant and demonstrates a writer who cares enough to put in way more effort than they had to.

The art was quite nice too.

Part 6

Nice art off the top.

And a funny ending.

Considering this was Zdarsky this wasn’t that bad. The worst stuff I could say involves the idea that Peter was psychoanalyzing and second guessing himself earlier, but of course those stories were not written with the intention of being a future version of Peter.

I guess that makes Zdarsky bad for retroactively screwing stuff up but really I’m not holding that against this type of story.

What did make me confused though was that the idea of Nick Fury being an imposter beginning at the end of Part 3 seems weird because, the story lines up. Fury’s eyepatch was on the wrong eye but does that mean this comic was more planned out that it was letting on??????????

I don’t know.

I do know that I’m not fond of Fury and Logan turning this into a Marvel team-up/Zdarsky Spec Spidey story.

Also I don’t get why Fury was unaffected by the transformation and why Peter randomly reverted to normal.

Finally...fuck...I hate the High Evolutionary in Spider-Man stories. I really do.

Part 7

I don’t know how to feel about this one.

I’ve never been fond of Aaron, and his take on Spider-Man is very much from the BND era of ‘he’s a loser we can trash on’ camp.

He does however embrace the Round Robin nature of this comic book like perhaps no other author before in this story.

He does this by simply upending half of everything up until this point (the man in the box is retconned again and dispatched with little ceremony) and then he throws a hell of a cliffhanger for the next person to resolve.

Essentially he did random stuff that ignored the random stuff before him then did more random stuff to make it harder for whoever to bring it home.

You also got the impression that he was throwing shade at how dumb and insane everything had been up until this point, hence he summed up most of it in the final lines of his story.

All of which can be forgiven due to his utterly hilarious Kraven’s Last Hunt homage.

It totally doesn’t jive with what came before but it’s so great I do not care.

The art though, whilst getting the job done, is the weakest after Bachalo’s.

Part 8

Jesus Christ!

I wasn’t expecting that at all.

Walking into this I thought I might get some good art with some funny moments and wackiness upon wackiness due to everything becoming deliberately convoluted.

I wasn’t expecting great craftsmanship like Spencer’s story or a an outright GEM like Al Ewing’s story.

And I certainly wasn’t expecting a grand summation about Spider-Man as a person or life in general.

Now look...it doesn’t really make sense, let’s not pretend it does. There are plenty of loose ends.

But whilst I was never expecting this story to deliver a coherent narrative (that was if anything the opposite of the point), I was equally not expecting the whole thing to wind up being as good as it was.

Al Ewing’s story set up a debate about the nature of who Spider-Man as a person is and as weird as it is to say once you’ve read through the whole comic book, this final instalment essentially answered it. It folded in the convoluted nature of it’s premise and tied it in with Spider-Man’s origin.

Having read the e-mail chain at the back of the comic the resolution to the story makes a lot of sense.

Essentially Ewing provided the basis for a resolution that Spencer tweaked and then made work via Spider-Man’s character and emotional journey. The hypothetical dialogue he proposes as a resolution is almost identical to the finished product.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the best element of this final part, the part that nails Peter as a person, came from Spencer but there you go.

This story, whilst honestly not worth $10, is very much worth a read.

[mrsspidermanmaryjanewatsonparker]

Oh, I have so many people to respond to with all this talk regarding Michelle, being an MJ ‘purist’ (lulz) and all that other garbage when it comes to the MCU but for now here is a something to think about.

If Michelle is indeed the MCU Mary Jane Watson, and she will thus fill the role of being Peter’s endgame love interest/life partner (whether or not that results in marriage way down the line or not) then her personality being unrecognizable to comic book Mary Jane’s, whether you say it’s a ‘composite’, an OC, or whatever, is a humungous problem.

And I don’t mean on the principle of it’s an adaptation by it’s nature it simply should strive to respect the source material.

No, I mean on an innate storytelling function level her personality being nothing like comic book Mary Jane’s breaks the role I spoke of above.

Mary Jane was never ever simply the inserted love interest for Spider-Man, the character there because the hero needs a girlfriend. She wasn’t a template inserted into Peter’s life nor was she the character who happened to stick around long enough or be portrayed in the right way at the right time that she became iconically associated with the male hero.*

I’m not even talking about how she wasn’t originally intended as Peter’s girlfriend but evolved into that anyway.

What I mean is…Mary Jane’s personality is actively the best possible match for Peter Parker’s.

I’ve spoken about this countless times but I’ll try to make this short. Peter and Mary Jane realistically and creatively perfectly complement one another by having a good balance of similarities and differences.

MJ is outgoing, sociable and can be goofy at times. Peter in his civilian identity is more reserved, sociable but less so, and much more serious. She lightens him up and he can make her take things more seriously when needs be.

They’ve both lived double lives, Peter through his costumed persona, MJ though her party girl act.

They’ve both seen their family’s shattered and had to step up to pick up the pieces. Peter’s parents died and so did Uncle Ben. Mary Jane’s parents divorced, her sister’s marriage fell apart leaving her to care for 2 children and her mother died when she was just a teenager. Peter had to provide for himself and Aunt May by working at the Bugle. MJ had to provide for her mother and sister by working fast food jobs and stuff like that.

Through these similarities and differences they fulfil one another’s fundamental emotional needs.

Peter needs someone to help ground him, to enable him to ‘be normal with’, but who is also strong enough to carry his secret and defend herself. MJ meanwhile wants someone who understands pain, guilt, living a double life and who knows about power and responsibility (because her father, a figure of power, used that power irresponsibly by abusing her).

What I am getting at is…if you want Spider-Man to be Spider-Man but also want him to have an endgame love interest then that love interest needs a personality and a history broadly similar to 616 MJ’s. Maybe not beat for beat the same but broadly similar yes.

Put it to you like this, were Michelle an adult with the same personality and she met comic book Peter Parker of the same age they would never wind up together. She isn’t his type and her personality traits and background (whatever the fuck that is) would not jive with his long term to form the foundation of a strong ongoing relationship.

Now of course the counterargument I can already hear is that MCU Peter is different to 616 Peter, therefore if he was to have an endgame girlfriend she doesn’t have to/shouldn’t have the same personality as 616 Mary Jane.

The problem with that line of thought being that the personality MCU Peter has ALSO doesn’t jive with Michelle’s.

Yes to an extent they are different but beyond an entirely presumed notion of them both being ‘smart’ (we don’t really see this in Michelle beyond her reading a lot in Homecoming) there isn’t a healthy balance of similarities and differences.

We’re simply left wondering why either of them like one another beyond looks.

What exactly is it about Michelle and Peter’s personalities and life styles that help balance one another out.

I mean real talk is Michelle exactly down to Earth? She’s a macabre misanthrope who revels in that and revels in that. She’s like a step or two removed from a goth, possibly just so she can seen attractive to mass audiences.

From a practically POV Peter’s job as Spider-Man would be steeped in a fair amount of violence and death, or at least the very real possibility of it were it not for his intervention.** The MCU are too pathetic to acknowledge that though so instead we get ‘jokes’ involving his teachers, but if Peter was really a crime fighter in the MCU he’d encounter violence and death a lot. This is another reason why MJ’s ability to empathize and her own zest for life is important in terms of their relationship in the comics.

But in the MCU realistically if Peter just saw Sin Eater blast away innocent civilians and then he comes home to Michelle’s macabre art and shit like that best case scenario it will bum him out more. Worst case scenario he’s going to call her out as extremely pretentious as she is over here revelling in the fact that loads of people got executed at this historical landmark whilst he just saw some old guy bleed out from a gun shot wound or got beaten half to death averting Doc Ock’s scheme to blow up New York with a nuke.

I’m not even saying people with those interests are bad people or shouldn’t take an interest in that stuff. I’m just saying the person Peter is, even in the MCU, wouldn’t believable have a long term relationship with that type of person. I mean it’s especially bullshit in Far From Home. He’s just seen Tony die after he himself literally experienced death as did the whole universe but he’s randomly got the hots for this girl who’s all about being macabre? Is that really the healthiest thing when he’s grieving?

And for her part based upon what we know of her besides his looks or the mystery surrounding him or the innate danger and glamour of him being a superhero (so you know nothing about who he is as an actual person) why would Michelle like Peter? Why is this very macabre person interested in someone who seems very upbeat, who she knows to be all about preserving life, cracking the odd joke, etc?

Opposites attract sure, but healthy relationships have a balance of differences to balance one another out and similarities through which people connect.

In summary:

a)    Mary Jane’s particular personality and personality traits are important in so far as her role as Spider-Man’s romantic partner as they actually make her a good match for him

b)    MCU Peter and MCU MJ’s personalities as established do not make them a good match, rendering their romance you know...shit.

But then again I’m just one of them goddam filthy purists aren’t I. 

*For example….Dick and Babs. I ship Barbra Gordon and Dick Grayson I really do, but real talk the reason she and Dick are regarded as an iconic couple is because of Batman the Animated Series and comic book people incorporating that and enforcing it into the comic canon. From an emotional and more organic POV Dick and Starfire make more sense.

Or for another example Rogue and Gambit. Rogue was around for years before Gambit showed up and had had prior romantic flings but because of the 1992 cartoon Rogue and Gambit are forever tied together romantically. 

**Death always had a presence in Peter’s story. Whether you identify it as his being an orphan, Ben’s death, May’s advanced age and poor health or the numerous deaths that occurred in the early adventures. I’m not even talking about Gwen Stacy either, Bennett Brant, Mendel Stromm, George Stacy, Frederick Foswell, the Finisher (who Spidey essentially killed himself) and that’s not even counting people who died in flashback stories to that era.

[mvssmallow]

Bloodline, Part VIII

Previous Chapters Soundtrack: The Hills 

He probably should’ve known by the way his skin itched. There’s a looming chaos in the distance. 

He’s escorting Mrs Lee, his 87 year old osteoporotic patient, out his clinic room when his neck itches. Just as his fingers reached up to scratch it, he notices the blurry blob of gray through the window panel of the clinic’s back door and well, shit, his stomach just drops. 

He pauses to mentally thank every God out there that his consult room is right out the back and the closest one to the exits. Hardly any of the staff bother to venture this far, which means it’s easier to smuggle Alleged Criminals in and out without being seen. 

Not that he’s thinking of doing that again but still, he’s grateful for the location. 

None of that gratefulness does anything to stop that rush of adrenaline, tinged with both hopeful anticipation and panicked dread. He’s not prepared for this. 

But when is he ever?

There’s a haze of smoke and where there’s smoke, there’s fire. In the back of his mind, that old clichéd saying floats around, mocking him with its cloying melodrama. 

Smoke. Fire. Jiwon. 

Yeah, that’s sounds about right. 

“You can’t smoke here”. 

So many things to say and that’s what comes out. It’s what his arrogance, ego and pride lets him say. Self Preservation wraps around him like a suit of armour because maybe he’s not prepared for this whole conversation but he will damm well make sure that he’s not gonna walk away with another wound this time. 

He sees Jiwon’s smile, downright feels it hitting his gut, before he sees the rest of his face, which remains shrouded in the gray fabric of one of those oversized hoodies that’s somehow too familiar by now.

“Gonna call the cops?”

Don’t take the bait, Hanbin. Don’t play with this. You’re a goddam professional remember? He knows he’s glaring pointedly while his head screams loudly at him but still, it can’t drown out the involuntary stuttering of his logic or the way he just wants to shake Jiwon’s shoulders and ask him where the hell he’s been for the last 3 weeks or how he still finds Jiwon’s presence so intoxicating in the all the best and worst ways...

“What?” Jiwon asks with a smirk, taking a slow drag of his cigarette before blowing the smoke towards the sky. “Smoking a crime now?”

Gathering whatever frayed nerves he has left, he feels his arms crossing over his body in a move he knows is defensive. “Not if you put that out.”

Another smile; wide, knowing, amused. Like this was playing out just as expected. 

There’s no protest though, just the stupidly arrogant roll of broad shoulders and crack of a neck as Jiwon snuffs the almost new cigarette against the wall of the clinic. It leaves behind ashy specks of grey that float to the ground like dead snowflakes and his eyes follow them for a moment before looking back up and locking straight into the fire of Jiwon’s eyes. 

He really wants to punch that smirk off his face. Stitches and scars be dammed.

“What are you doing here?” 

And just like that, the arrogance slides right off the face in front of him. He really should’ve known. The pit of ‘badness’ in his gut is rarely wrong.

“Just wanted to ask you a question.” Jiwon looks somewhere off into the distance and shrugs, the action could’ve been interpreted as casual or uncaring but Hanbin dares to let himself think otherwise, as stupid as that is. 

“Okay?” He says warily.

“The antibiotics you gave me didn’t really work. They did shit all actually.” 

Oh. This is about medicine. Of course it is. Why else would Jiwon be here?

“Are you still sick? I could-”

“It’s not me.” Jiwon interrupts harshly. “They weren’t for me.” 

There’s a frustrated grumble that he really doesn’t expect and a grimace that he does. The words are ground out of Jiwon’s mouth so emphatically and miserably, as though they’re taking a whole lot of effort and sacrificed pride. 

He immediately thinks of the worst things because negativity is his preferred mode these days. Maybe it’s Jiun. Maybe it’s a friend. Maybe it’s that girl-

“It’s my mum.”

Shit. 

That’s even worse. 

It’s probably comical really, how stupid and dumbfounded he looks with his mouth open, poised to say something that he can’t quite decide on. But just then, the clinic’s back door clicks open behind him and every muscle in his body tenses into hot panic. Jiwon takes a step backwards, hand suddenly reaching for something in his hoodie pocket, posture locked and loaded, ready to either fight or leave. 

Shit. 

“Er, Dr. Kim? Could I have a word?”

Jin. 

Relief floods through him in an exhilarating rush. Okay. It’s just Jin. He can deal with Jin. Maybe.

“Sure. Of course.” He replies, keeping his voice as civil and neutral as possible. 

Jin shoots him an equally neutral expression, nodding once before ducking back inside and closing the door. 

Letting out a loud sigh, he turns to Jiwon with an apologetic look. “Give me a minute? I’ll be back.” 

Jiwon’s gone back into Evasive-Mode again; his eyes dark and dead, his face an unreadable blank slate, his posture staying tense, even the hand in his hoodie stays there, seemingly unable to relax or let down its guard. 

“Jiwon?” 

Shutters boarded up, head already shaking, body already moving away. This is all too familiar. No no no, not again. 

“Jiwon? Can you wait a few minutes?.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll come back later. I gotta go pick up Jiun anyway.”

His watch tells him it’s 1230pm. School doesn’t finish until 3pm. So now they’re back to lying to each other again. It’s just so stupid and futile. Every conversation just goes round and round, like a dog chasing its tail or water circling down a drain. He wonders why it’s only him that’s getting frustrated by this. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Please....just wait.” He huffs out, tone accidentally more irritated than he intended it to be. Jiwon opens his mouth, probably to protest, but no, he’s not going to wait to hear it today. 

“For God’s sake, not everything is about you okay? Think of your mum and just wait for me! You came all his way, you can wait for 5 minutes!” 

Shit. Too far, Hanbin. Too far. There goes his professionalism. 

There’s a brief glaring-contest. Fire meets Fire again. But then, the last thing he expects to happen actually happens; Jiwon shakes his head, shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit and sits back down on the steps in silence. 

“Thank you.” He sighs in annoyance.

“Whatever.” Jiwon mutters, quietly but equally annoyed. 

He turns quickly, making his way inside before anything else happens.

“Are you seriously right now?!” The corridors are empty but Jin appears out of nowhere to hiss at him as soon as the back door clicks shut. “What the hell is he even doing here in the middle of the day?! Donghyuk is in his office! He could’ve seen you!”

A painful grip closes over his elbow as Jin drags him into his consult room and shuts the door. 

“Before you say anything-”

“Oh no! Don’t start with me! I’m talking first!” Jin interrupts, face livid with disapproval. “Deal with whatever he wants fast. He can’t be seen here and you’ve got three people waiting for consults. You are not fucking up your career and job for him. You’re not. Okay? I’ve seen this shit before and it never ends well. They’re all the same, Hanbin. You know this. Stop thinking with your dick on this one.”

He flushes with both embarrassment and indignation. “That is not what I’m doing!”

Jin just rolls his eyes and fixes him with a terrifying parental glare. “I’ll stall the clinic for 5 more minutes but after that, you’re on your own. Fix whatever he wants then tell him to fuck off or come back at 6 when everyone else has gone. I swear to god Hanbin, he’s doing this shit on purpose to piss us off. Since when has he ever come here early anyway? I swear to GOD!”

Jin yanks the door open, still ranting under his breath as he makes his way back out towards the front of the clinic. 

He rubs his eyes tired, willing his heart to slow down and his nervous system to chill the hell out. None of that actually happens. 

He half expects Jiwon be gone by no, there he is, still sitting on the back steps of the clinic and staring into the parking lot with a hypervigilant look on his face. 

“He yell at you?” It comes out gruff but oddly sympathetic. 

“Something like that.” He replies in resignation. “Listen. I need to get back to work but what do you need me to do for your mum? If she’s not well, I can see her here for an appointment? After hours if you want.”

Jiwon shakes his head. “She can’t leave the house. She’ll freak out.”

He doesn’t do house visits, especially not in this part of town but....

“Do you want me to see her at home?” It’s blurted out before he can stop it.

“No.”

“Then what?” He pushes, tired and anxious about the minutes ticking by. 

“I don’t know! Isn’t there anything you can give her? She’s coughing every fucking night and Jiun can’t sleep so he turns the TV on full blast, which means nobody is sleeping either so he’s missed three days of school and I can’t keep babysitting him instead of working.” 

For a moment, Jiwon sounds like a normal guy just trying to do his best for his family in the face of a bad situation. It’s so raw and honest and endearing that something thaws inside him. The coiled ball of irritation in his gut unravels in one fell swoop. Jiwon is just a guy. Like any other guy. 

Just a guy. 

But stupid, stupid, stubborn guy who might be good at killing and crime or whatever else they accuse him of but he’s useless with everything else. Hanbin doesn’t fully trust him, he’s still on edge and doesn’t feel completely safe yet but the dark shadows of worry that flashes across Jiwon’s face, for barely a second, is just enough to help him make his decision. 

He takes a pen and piece of crumpled paper out of his coat pocket and holds them out in front of Jiwon’s shocked expression. 

“What?”

“Write down where she is.”

“What? No. You’re not-”

“I’m not asking. Just do it. I have to get back to work.” He drops the items into Jiwons hands and wills his legs not to shake too much. This is so unprofessional. You’re an idiot Hanbin. 

Jiwon looks down at the pen and paper before standing up and making to give them back. “Look, I get you wanna help or whatever but I think she just needs some different tablets-”

“And you’re not a doctor.” He interrupts bluntly, folding his arms across his chest to stop them from trembling. “If you didn’t want help then you shouldn’t have come. So what’s it gonna be? Write it down or just leave Jiwon. I’m not standing here arguing with you all day.”

Part of him thinks he might’ve pushed this way way way too far today, his words coming out harsher and more aggressive than what he actually feels like on the inside. If Jiwon wants to stab him in the gut just for pissing him off then yeah, he probably deserves it. 

After a long pause, it comes as a shock to him that Jiwon just grunts out a quiet ‘fuck!’ under his breath and scrawls hastily on the piece of paper before turning so they’re looking at each other again.

Fire meeting Fire. 

“Here!” The crumpled scrap of paper is pushed against his chest. 

Jiwon’s gaze doesn’t shift from his. The once dark and dead eyes are now shiny and so sharp in a way that he didn’t know was possible to see in a human. 

“You heard about me?”

"What do you mean?”

“You heard about me.” Jiwon repeats. It’s not a question. More of a statement. “You know about me.”

“I don’t....” He shakes his head, his argument suddenly weak and not convincing anybody. “It’s just rumours...”

Jiwon laughs but the mirth doesn’t each his eyes at all. They’re still hard and piercing right into him. “You heard about me. So I don’t have to tell you what that piece of paper means do I?”

He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, letting go of the charade. Yeah he knows. Yeah he’s heard all about Jiwon at this point but whether there’s any truth in the stories and myths remains to be seen.

“Alright then.” Jiwon nods, stepping back. “Come alone. If you think you’re being followed, just go straight home. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

The order terrifies him for some reason and a sick dragging feeling of unease settles into the pit of his stomach again. 

“Don’t fuck me over.” 

A violent shiver tears down his spine. There’s no politeness in the statement. No consideration spared. Whatever niceties they’ve exchanged before is forgotten. There’s nothing here now but menace and intimidation. 

It works. 

And in that moment, the cold, sobering, fucking terrifying realisation finally hits him: the rumours are true. This is Jiwon at ‘work’. This is what he does. 

He can’t even speak after that. Jiwon is still staring sharply at him in expectation and it’s not until he forces his head to nod that Jiwon regards him one last time before turning to walk away without saying anything at all. 

He doesn’t stop shaking for the next five consults and is so nauseated that he skips lunch altogether. Jin is still pissed so he’s left to have his mental breakdown alone in his room. 

The crumpled piece of paper burns a hole in his pocket and by the time 6pm ticks by, he feels the heavy, draining exhaustion right in his bones. He doesn’t even bother to stop his hands from shaking as he pulls the paper out to read the messy scrawl. 

Fuck. 

Here goes nothing.