#my issue with guns in starbucks is people pointing them at me

[onbearfeet]

I didn't consent to see other people's terrible fashion choices, obnoxious bumper stickers, profanity-laden Trump flags, or guns in Starbucks, but remarkably enough my disapproval of those things doesn't count for shit. Those are the chances you take when you go outside, because your disgust is your problem and no one else's.

Frankly, if we're going to start restricting what is allowed to exist in public, I'd start with the guns, but nobody listens to me.

[kiridarling]

𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎.

thank you so much to @daisy-bakugo for letting me participate in her vice city collab! i had a blast writing this piece, and i’m terribly sorry this is so long that was a mistake (and congrats on 2k!!) also, the phattest of thank you’s to @eijishimas for brainstorming/beta-ing :) you saved me ☺🤲🏼

katsuki bakugou and eijirou kirishima | f!reader, time travel sex, guns, prostitute/stripper idrk!reader, tw!blood (non-descriptive), dacryphilia, squirting, spit roasting, d-penn, shower sex, multiple rounds. minors dni!

— 5k words (yikes)

"Say, Sweetheart. You wanna get outta here?"

Las Vegas, Nevada. April 15th, Year 3036.

"You ready?"

Mina shoots you a look through the golden-lit mirror, wiggling her eyebrows. You roll your eyes and finish dusting the powder off your cheeks before rising to your feet and tugging at the belt of your silk robe. "My answer's the same every night."

Vice City. A strip club and casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, where opposites collide—the poor and the rich, the beautiful and the ugly, the smart and the stupid. There's no judgment because here, they're all degenerates looking for a good time, and you're just a pretty face with a good body.

As your silk robe hits the floor, it's kicked to the side with a heel, and you saunter through the beaded entrance to your private room and into the vibrating club. Giving your bodyguard a solid pat on the shoulder as you watch the sea of bodies shake, you complete the ritual.

"No creeps?" You demand more than request. He nods curtly.

"No creeps."

You give him a cute little smile and let your hand linger for a little longer than necessary before stepping into the neon red chaos of the strip club. Because what do the rich and the poor have in common?

They're all addicts.

Surprisingly, humanity doesn’t kill the planet.

Mother Nature's still standing strong—though the sun is a bit swollen—and space exploration solved that overpopulation issue. Bill Gates taught us all how to avoid a climate disaster and Tesla put Ford out of business. Humanity is much bigger than earth now; we're no longer people of the planet, but an intergalactic species that still eat Costco pizza rolls for dinner but killed Cable along with cars with wheels. Costco still exists—Starbucks doesn't.

Still no aliens, though.

"See something you like, Cutie?"

In your defense, he's been standing over here with his friends for ages—almost like they're casing the damn place—but those ruby red eyes kept floating your way regardless, and you'd rather bag it with someone your age before you're requested by another seventy-year-old. The redhead blinks like he's shocked you came over here in the first place—like he didn't watch you sashay yourself to the other side of the club just for him. You suppose the name fits. Cutie.

He looks at you with a strangely giddy look on his face before he's licking his lips and swallowing, eyes flickering to the blondie to his right.

"I'll be back in like, twenty minutes, man."

The blond gives him an exasperated look and groans—his other two friends don't notice. "Eiji—"

"Twenty minutes!" The redhead yells over the music as you not-so-subtly pull him away. Your regular GILF looks your way, and you suppress the queasy feeling in knowing that at least you'll be able to fuck someone from your decade.

"You got a wallet, Cutie?" You purr as you two approach the back room. The redhead winks, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the fattest black leather wallet you've seen in a long time.

"Don't go anywhere without it," he says, but falters when your bodyguard holds his hand out with a request for fifty bucks. "I—whoa dude, why am I paying you?"

"Because that's how it goes. The young lady gets her share," your bodyguard clarifies. The redhead looks at you for what seems to be for confirmation. You nod.

"Alright," he resigns with a shrug, stuffing a fifty into your bodyguard's sweaty hand. The man grunts but clears some of the beads guarding the entrance to your private room anyways, giving you two enough space to go inside.

"No door? That seems a little...exposing," the redhead snorts to himself before he's holding his hand out, despite the fact that you’re already nestling comfortably in his lap. "Eijirou, by the way."

You take his hand apprehensively, and he snorts at your confused frown. Eijirou's big—painfully so, and you feel small sat upon his thick thighs because you are in comparison—and he has to curve his back a bit so you're at eye-level. "What? No one's introduced themselves to you before?"

You shake your head, "Usually they just throw me onto the bed and get right to it."

Eijirou rolls his eyes at that, and you don't realize he's guiding your hips into a smooth roll until the harsh fabric of his jeans brushes against you in the best way. He moves you in time with the music vibrating the walls, "I guess that makes me more of a gentleman, then."

His lips hover over yours and yet he never advances, doesn't move to kiss you on the lips, nothing—it nearly has you buzzing. So does the hand he pins you to his lap with. "Are you going to kiss me or what?"

"What's your name, Sweetheart," he asks lowly. You give it to him, and he grins.

"Y/N,” Eijirou tries on his lips before he confirms it with a nod. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."

"Aren't you the flatterer," you purr, coiling your arms around your neck. His hand finds your ass and you're almost positive he's going to close the gap between you two until he says:

"Who were you runnin' from, Y/N?”

Years in the business help build a mask and you wear yours well, with that cute little smile as you cock your head to the side and ask, "I'm afraid I'm not following."

"Oh, I think you are," he says, looking you dead in the eyes. The gravity in his face doesn't falter. "Who was it."

As he stares into your soul, your own eyes avert to the sheets. "What's it to you?"

"It's nothing to me, really," he shrugs off his jacket and places it on the bed next to him before returning to his initial position—or perhaps, closer. "But I happen to find you real cute, and cute things deserve to feel safe, no?"

"In case you haven't checked, this isn't a very safe place," you scoff, removing your arms from his neck to cross them over your chest. "And I don't appreciate idiots like you trying to save someone like me just 'cause you wanna get your dick wet more than once."

Eijirou raises an eyebrow but he never stalls, "Oh? This happens often then?"

"I—" you falter, "...No."

"C'mon, Sweetheart," Eijirou tugs you by the waist and you have to press your hands to his chest to keep him from falling forwards. "You don't wanna stay in this place, do you?"

"It's my job," you defend with a huff. The redhead shrugs.

"Sure, but don't you want a little adventure? A little excitement in your life?"

"Like there isn't enough excitement right here?" You snort. Eijirou teeters his head back and forth, though the daring look never fades.

"But something tells me you're bored," he says with a near sarcastic face, clicking his tongue. "Something tells me you find the idea of something new exciting."

You open your mouth to respond but he keeps you from doing so, finally pressing his lips to yours. You nearly squeal in surprise but somehow, you find yourself kissing back with a passion you've never kissed another client with before—and maybe, just maybe, the idea of something new doesn't sound too bad.

Eijirou pulls away with a cocky grin like he knew you'd like it. Like he knew that'd be the catalyst for your response to what he says next, and maybe, he's not as much of an idiot as you thought.

And maybe you’re more of an idiot than you thought.

"Say, Sweetheart. You wanna get outta here?"

"Yes," you breathe, like an idiot, because you were wholly and utterly unprepared for what happens next.

Eijirou gives you the cutest smile, before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a gun.

He sees your expression change and lifts both hands, pointing the black pistol towards the ceiling, "I—hey wait, you're gonna be fine, okay? I won't shoot you."

You cower and he pouts. Apparently, this wasn't the reaction he was expecting at all.

"I swear! I'm mentally stable, see?" He flips it sideways with a grin, "the safety's on."

You hate it that his comment makes you trust him. Slightly.

"C'mon," Eijirou smiles, reaching his gunless hand out for you to take. You do, albeit reluctantly. "I won't do anything too stupid. Just...shake things up a bit."

Shake things up a bit, Eijirou says, and yet the first thing he does is when you two exit the room is press the pistol to your bodyguard’s head.

"Eijirou," you hiss. Luckily no one in the club has noticed, yet, but you doubt their ignorance will last for long.

"I'm gonna need my fifty back, buddy," Eijirou pats the man on the back, and it's strange—you've always thought your bodyguard to be a big guy, but he looks rather petite next to the redhead. Your bodyguard reaches for his walkie-talkie, but Eijirou tuts, tapping his hand away with the tip of his gun.

"Hey dude, I'm not gonna shoot you. See? The safety's on," He repeats, flashing the barrel. Your bodyguard's eyes widen, and so do yours.

The safety isn't on.

"So, that fifty," Eijirou purrs, and your bodyguard stuffs the bill into his chest with a grumble. Eijirou hums, satisfied, and gives the crumpled bill to you without a second glance, too busy nodding to his friend on the other side of the strip club. A noirette from across the way nods back.

Pop-pop!

It's fucking chaos, as anyone would expect when blindly firing into a crowded club. Eijirou keeps a tight hold on your hand as he and his other three boys storm towards the pit bosses working the casinos with guns a-blazing, demanding they fill their pillowcases like a bunch of C-class thugs.

What the fuck did you get yourself into.

"This is not what I meant by excitement," you hiss through grit teeth as a terrified pit boss fills Eijirou's bag like he's a greedy kid with an attitude on Halloween, while your co-workers cower under the bar and pool tables. Eijirou sticks his tongue your way.

"This isn't the exciting part, Little Miss Excitement."

It's the steady sound of sirens that has your eyes widening, and the fact that you're positive they're getting louder. You catch sight of your bodyguard on his walkie-talkie, big body cowering behind the smallest trashcan, and turn back just in time to see Eijirou squint as he aims and shoots bullseye.

"That is."

The police have lost sight of two vehicles carrying the four armed men who robbed Vice City Casino and Club tonight at roughly 2:53 am. Witnesses say they came in a group of four but left with an exotic dancer named—

The moment the blondie from the club sees you walk through the door, he’s tossing the stack of bills in his hand with a sigh.

"Katsuki, Y/N. Y/N, Katsuki."

Katsuki looks nothing but happy, and refuses to acknowledge your presence as he crosses his arms.

"Ei. What the hell did we say about witnesses."

"Um," the redhead rubs his lips together before wearily looking at you, and you hike his jacket further up your shoulder. At least he was decent enough to give you that. She's an exception?"

"Not a fuckin' thing," the blond grunts, turning to you to flash a tight smile. "Goodbye."

"I—wait," Eijirou skates until he's stood over the ash-blond, with a hand on his shoulder and the other braced against the table. Speaking in a quieter voice, he says, "C'mon man. The poor thing was practically begging to get outta there."

The ash-blond does nothing but sigh before shoving a palm into a pile of money to push himself into the kitchen—and subsequently further away from you.

"She's gonna call the cops," Katsuki grunts wearily from the island, eyes narrowed. Eijirou follows.

"She's not gonna call the cops, dude," the redhead scoffs at the outlandish idea. "You heard the radio! At this point, she's as deep in it as we are."

As they continue to go back and forth over the island, you let your eyes wander. It’s a penthouse, and rather homely, with near egg yolk lighting, high walls, and big windows. You can't help but think about how you're in a strangely expensive part of the city before remembering this evening's events. No wonder they can afford such a nice place.

You find yourself smiling at a particular corner with a frustrating amount of photos stuffed on a little glass table, one that contains a selfie of the two housemates in high school uniforms. There's a ring sat in front of it, one that glints gold when you hold it up to your face, and if you squint you can see little flecks of green in the red of the ruby. It looks scarily close to an engagement ring.

"Hey, what's this?"

Both of their eyes rocket from the conversation to see you slip the delicate thing onto your ring finger.

"Don't touch it!" Eijirou tenses before realizing it's much too late for that. "Er—at least don't twist the top."

"The...top?" You ask, lifting your hand until it's at eye level.

"Yeah like, the jewel thingy," the redhead gestures to the ruby—and you can't stop thinking about how it's almost the same color as his hair. Waddling into the kitchen with your eye still trained on the thing, you ask:

"What is it?"

"A time-travel device," the ash-blond grunts. Eyes still full of suspicion, he watches you and the redhead interact over the island with arms crossed over his chest and reclining against the sink. You frown.

"Aren't those usually...bigger?" Because even though it's 3036, time-travel is still fairly new (space exploration took a long time, okay) and all the machines you've seen are at least the size of a shower. And yet, this one can sit on your pinky.

"Kats has been working on some stuff," Eijirou beams and it edges on proud; you notice the ash-blond near blushes with a huff as you hop to sit on the marble counter.

"'S nothin'."

You stare at the thing in faint amazement, and Katsuki kicks off the sink to near the island. Lifting an eyebrow, you say, "You know you could get rich off something like this? Instead of robbing strip clubs for a living.”

The ash-blond scoffs, and you wonder if someone else has told him that before. "If I gave that to the public, I have no fuckin' clue what they'd do with that shit."

And you shrug, supposing he's right—time-travel devices are hard to get your hands on, and that's for a reason. If everyone starts jumping around in the time-space continuum, fucking with shit, the world will promptly and utterly collapse. Sounds fun, doesn't it?

"It doesn't work with a big time range," Katsuki defends with a shrug, sliding his forearms on the counter. "The most it can do is a few hours"

"Not that it makes this any less cool," Eijirou says with a slight bounce. "I personally think it's really fun to play with."

Katsuki rolls his eyes. "That's 'cause you use it to fuck."

You nearly choke.

"I—what?"

"W-Well, okay," Eijirou chuckles sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "But also other stuff! Like when I'm really hungry, I might go to the future and take some of my fries. Future me's fries, that is."

"Or you'll try to take future-me’s goddamn burger," Katsuki growls. You flip the ring over like there's anything left to see.

"How often do you use it?"

"Nightly," Katsuki answers for him. Your eyebrows lift. Oh wow.

"It—it's not nightly," Eijirou defends weakly, huffing and puffing. "Weekly maybe, but—"

"Almost every night," Katsuki sums for him, giving you a little grin. You snort back before your eyes drop to the ring again.

"Uh oh," the redhead almost gasps, fingers thrumming on the island on either side of your being, "She's thinkin' about it."

"I'm not thinking about it," you huff, though your eyes never leave the ring. It's an...interesting prospect.

"Oh, you're totally thinking about it," Katsuki grunts, and you struggle to find where his enthusiasm came from. What happened to goodbye?

"C'mon," Eijirou tempts with a casual toss of the head. He touches your shoulder—Katsuki touches the other. "See what happens."

"What if—" you stare at the ring with pursed lips, fingers grabbing the ruby. "What if it's random? Or if we're not where we expect to be in a few hours or something."

Eijirou shrugs. "It's always a gamble, but that's where the fun is, no?"

You look down at the thing with a sigh. You suppose.

In one quick move, you twist the gem and screw your eyes shut. At first, you feel nothing, but then there's a sudden head rush, and you can easily see how someone can get addicted to this.

You hear a faint sound, one that could be excused as a rush of wind past your ears, before you feel your knees against a hard surface and your body in a different position.

"Oh, I like this much better."

You open to your eyes to a much different sight than you closed them to.

Katsuki and Eijirou look gargantuan when you’re on your knees, your back flush against the refrigerator and eyes watering due to the cock nestled halfway down your throat. You choke in surprise from the sensation, hands rushing to keep Katsuki from cutting your oxygen supply off for good as Eijirou stands impatient, cock hard in his hand and drooling for attention.

"F-Fuck," the ash-blond wheezes, seemingly just as taken aback from the position as you are. "Your mouth is fuckin' heaven."

"C'mon Sweetheart, don't ignore me now," EIjirou purrs, chuckling as the head of his cock hits your cheek with a wet slap. "At least give me a little something."

You grab his cock harder than you would've out of slight indignance, grinning around the other when it makes him hiss; Eijirou joins Katsuki in resting a hand on the fridge door for purchase.

You weren't the best at Vice City for nothing, after all.

"Shit, loosen that grip a little, will ya?" Eijirou wheezes—you don't listen, and his chest shudders when you seem to only move faster.

"'M too fuckin' close, where's that ring," Katsuki blabbers more than he grunts, and you lift your hand just in time for him to twist the jewel again, sending you three rocketing into the past.

You cough and splutter atop the kitchen island, chest heaving as you finally get the air Katsuki's cock allows. The head rush definitely doesn't help, and you find yourself getting dizzy enough to grab for someone's hand.

"Breathe, Princess," Katsuki says, and Eijirou lifts your hand to his chest so yours can rise and fall with his.

"So that's," you wheeze once you're able to get some semblance of a breath back. "That's time travel sex, huh?"

"Yeah," Eijirou says, a little breathless himself. "Addictive, right?"

"A little," you giggle, and find yourself looking for the ring again. Katsuki snorts.

"What, you wanna go back or somethin'?"

You flush red, eyes darting to the walls guilty, "A little bi—wah!"

There's a rush and the room morphs again. You would’ve fallen headfirst into a set of white sheets if it weren’t for the fact that you’re sat on Eijirou’s face.

"Hello beautiful~" the redhead singsongs from below, and you can't help but notice your bra is MIA as Katsuki takes a seat behind

you to run his hands up your sides to put the underside of your breasts.

"Pervert," you snort, though you figure you’re just as bad as he is with two of Eijirou's fingers deep in your pussy and Katsuki's hand on your clit. The redhead's leaving hickey after hickey on your inner thighs and you just try your damnest to not fall.

"Only for you," Eijirou winks cheekily, scissoring his fingers, and your hips stutter against his face when he slides his tongue in between.

"Fuckin' love the sounds you make," Katsuki grunts, before his other hand finds your neck and tightens. "And fuck you're so goddamn wet—you love this, don't you?"

You keen with a nod (and suppress the urge to say no shit, Sherlock), and Katsuki's pinching your clit between his two fingers, licking a fat stripe up your neck and chuckling when you shiver.

"What, your clients don't make you feel this good, Sweetheart?" Eijirou practically moans into your cunt, eyebrows folding when you thread your fingers through his hair and yank. "Bet that fifty was worth it, wasn't it?"

"Y-Yeah I—" you whimper, unable to get a sentence past your shuddering chest. "Guys, I'm gonna—"

The bedroom melts back into the kitchen, you're back in Eijirou’s jacket and not sat on his face. Your thighs and neck are hickey-less and yet, you're still so fucking horny.

"I hate you," you seethe, almost immediately, and Eijirou's grin is so wide it bends his eyes.

"Awe, you love me," he giggles and your frown only deepens as you reach for the ring—Katsuki snatches it out of arms way with a tut.

"Ah ah Princess, don't be greedy now," he purrs, but you couldn't give a shit about being greedy, and it shows in the way you quickly grab for it again. Katsuki passes the ring to Eijirou and it easily becomes a game of monkey in the middle.

"Give it—"

"I don't think so, Sweetheart," Eijirou says, pressing a big hand to your face to keep you from going any further. With a smirk, the redhead twists the ring, and suddenly you're full of him on the kitchen counter.

"Fuck baby, you're so tight," he curses behind grit teeth, sweat practically dripping off his shoulders in rivulets as he pushes your face into the kitchen island so hard it's numb. So are your knees. "You're so pretty like this—shit—"

You barely have the room to whimper, let alone answer, and you find Katsuki perched on the opposite counter, weeping cock in hand. The redhead chuckles as you struggle to take all of him, hips squirming as he aims for places you've never been able to hit on your own. "I'd stick your tongue back in your mouth if I were you, Sweetheart. The money’s a little dirty, don't you think?"

And that's when you realize your knees are elevated upon two stacks of green, possibly some of what Katsuki had been counting earlier, and a twenty swims in a pool of drool under your cheek.

"Oh, but I don't think you care," Eijirou grunts, shoving your face deeper into the marble countertop as his hips speed up. "Dirty fuckin' girl. Bet you'd do anything for a fifty."

"I wanna fuck her," Katsuki rushes as if his mouth moves before he can speak. Eijirou wheezes a laugh.

"What, I can't enjoy this?"

"No,” the ash-blond grunts.

"Hmm..." Eijirou debates, though his hips never stop as he gives Katsuki a look and goes, "How about no?"

Katsuki growls at that, and you find your fingers clumsily twisting the ruby on the ring that sits on Eijirou's finger, sending the three of you flinging further into the future.

"Fuck!"

"This isn't the future I was referring to, but I'm not complainin'," Katsuki grunts with a feral grin. You nearly slip due to all the water in the shower and you're positive that you see the sunrise through the window paint Eijirou's skin gold.

"I gotcha, Sweetheart," Eijirou soothes, rubbing a hand up and down your arms while your nails dig into his shoulders, the red lines jagged from how roughly Katsuki fucks you from behind. "Fuck—you're doing so good for us, taking him so well."

You whimper and Katsuki lands a heavy slap on your ass—heavy to the point where you nearly knocks both you and the redhead into the tile behind him. Eijirou's calloused hands find your clit fairly easily, and that's enough to almost send you over the edge, pussy fluttering around Katsuki's cock.

"She's gonna cum," Katsuki grunts. "Can fuckin' feel it."

"Uh oh," the redhead singsongs, turning to you with a grin. "Were you trying to be slick, Sweetheart?”

Though it's difficult, you lift your head, eyes swimming in unshed tears as you choke, "I—n-no, it's jus—"

You're in the bedroom again—this time your back comes in contact with a dresser, metal rattling from the weight Eijirou slams you into it with. The redhead supports you both with two feet planted into the floor and a hand around your waist, grunting into your ear with an exhaustion that implies you've got to be at this for hours.

"Ei-Eiji—"

"I know, Sweetheart," the redhead coos breathlessly, licking up the sweat that runs down your neck. "Just a few more times, okay? Hold on for just a little longer."

You sob, head thunking against the wall as you realize you have no idea where Katsuki is. Though it's only a fleeting thought because before you know it, Eijirou's dropping you to your feet, bending you in half, and railing you into the wall.

"Goddamn," he grunts, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip, "this is—this is the best lay I've had in a fat second."

You pant a laugh, hands pressing into the wall to steady yourself, "Good—good to know the fifty bucks was worth it."

"Oh baby, it was more than worth it," Eijirou hikes your leg up as high as it'll go for a deeper angle and he gets it, his growl melting into a semi-chuckle as you squeal, thighs jumping.

"Fuck Ei!" You scream, and he's tugging your hair to straighten your back out.

"You like it rough, Sweetheart?" He pants into your ear, grabbing your neck for a better grip. You nod as much as you can.

"Y-Yeah—I—" Eijirou drops you until you're stood at a perfect 90-degree angle, "I need—need'ta cum, p-please—"

"Twist the ring, Sweetheart," He pants, resting his hand on the wall next to yours. It still glints gold on his fourth finger in the moonlight, "Get us there together, yeah?"

You don't have to be told twice.

"Mph!"

"Fuck!”

Your knees dig into a mattress again as Katsuki fills your mouth. With his cock down your throat and Eijirou's buried deep in your cunt, there isn't much you can do but take both of them at the same time—though you're positive that's what they intended.

"Shit, me too." Eijirou wheezes a chuckle as his hips piston into you, his sweaty chest sticking to your back while he reaches between your thighs to rub your clit. That’s enough to send you flailing over the edge, moan muffled by Katsuki’s slowly softening cock. Then, with a devilish grin (and before the redhead can cum) Katsuki reaches for the ring on Eijirou’s finger and twists it.

“You asshole,” Eijirou groans, and suddenly you three are back in the shower, with Katsuki’s hips battering into yours as the redhead supports your weight from below. Katsuki chuckles before his grip tightens and he’s filling you with another load.

“C’mon Princess,” Katsuki grunts, reaching for your clit. “Come for us again.”

You choke again before you’re digging your head into Eijirou’s muscled chest with a moan, shaking from the aftershocks Katsuki continues to fuck you through them.

Until the room morphs, and you’re face down on the kitchen counter.

“Fucking finally,” Eijirou wheezes with a bitter chuckle, casually flipping Katsuki the middle finger as he's sat on the opposing counter. “Fuck, you're shaking baby, you gonna cum with me? Yeah?“

Eijirou batters into your cervix and that's the catalyst for your third orgasm. You squeeze so tight you think you may have knocked the wind out of the redhead when his chest crashes into your back, and you open your eyes just in time to see the kitchen melt into the bedroom again—in a time you all have yet to visit.

Your legs are thrown over Katsuki’s shoulders as he pushes your back deeper into Eijirou’s chest, both of their cocks filling you so much and so well it brings tears to your eyes. As your thighs quiver with an impending orgasm, Katsuki’s the first to fall off the edge, eyebrows furrowing as his nails dig into the meat of your thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, voice fucked hoarse and lips bit pink. Eijirou nibbles into your shoulder with a gasp as his sweaty hand finds your clit again, neither of their hips ever stopping.

“Cum for us one more time, Sweetheart,” he pants into your neck before adding another hickey to the collection. Your chest shudders.

“I—I can’t—“

“Oh yes you fuckin’ can,” Katsuki growls, and you squeal as he tweaks a nipple. “I know you got one more in there. Give it.”

Your legs kick against his chest with a curse as you orgasm for the final time—this one much wetter than the last.

“Holy shit,” Eijirou nearly laughs, looking at where the three of you are connected. “Did you just squirt?”

“I—“ your face blends red when you see the absolute and utter mess that sits in Katsuki’s lap, before looking away with a determination to never see it again. “...Maybe.”

“Clean up?” Eijirou asks, eyes flickering to the ash-blond. Katsuki shrugs.

“Nah.”

A rush of wind and you’re sat on the kitchen counter. Eijirou’s jacket protects you from getting goosebumps due to a drop in temperature and though you do shiver, you find your body much more unscathed than it was.

“Hi,” Eijirou chuckles a little breathlessly.

“Hi,” you giggle back, a little nervous but in the best way. “So um...we do all of that tonight?”

“I guess so,” the redhead says a bit cheekily, raising an eyebrow. And then, with a wink, “Probably more.”

You stare at the ring on his hand in awe. Whoa.

"I fuck—fine, we can keep her, Shitty Hair," Katsuki grumbles from his spot near the kitchen sink, and despite the sour look on his face, you can't find a hint of it in his voice. Figures.

"Told you he'd say yes," Eijirou beams with a thumbs up.

"Can we...go do that stuff now?" You ask, albeit a bit hesitantly because...well, usually people are asking to have sex with you. Is this how they feel?

"Of course we can, Sweetheart," the redhead beams, before taking the ring off to place it onto the counter. "It was all a part of the future, after all."

[master-sass-blast]

Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter One.

AT LONG LAST, THE PLOT FICS ARE BACK, BAY-BEE!!! AND B O Y ARE WE KICKING OFF WITH A DOOZY!!!

As you can see by the title: this is chapter one of three for this fic; I had to chop it up due to length.

Also, this fic as a whole makes for my 100th part of the CHC! I feel like I should do something to celebrate. Let me know if y’all have any suggestions.

Summary: It's been months since anyone's seen or heard of Allison Ricci. At last, you think the storm might be over. 

And then Karen Page gets kidnapped again.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, and Frank Castle x Karen Page.

Rating: M for kidnapping, attempted murder, attempted suicide, canon-typical violence, gun violence, and depictions of injury. Like I said, we’re kicking off with a doozy.

Word Count: 4.9k.

Set after “Children of the Gods: Part Two.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @leo-writer, @emma-frxst, @sadstone-s

There’s no mention or sighting of Allison for nearly six months. Every trail you had for her before goes stone cold. The apartment is cleared out and abandoned. She doesn’t show up in the fighting rings, and even Karen and Frank don’t report anyone following them.

You start to wonder if she died for good this time. That maybe she revived and got herself and her mentor out, but didn’t survive after that.

(You wonder who’ll bury her body, if she’ll be lain to rest next to her family or in a random patch of ground somewhere.)

The storm seems to be over.

And then Karen gets kidnapped again.

***

Wade and Nathan are the ones that technically call it in –by showing up on your doorstep with Frank in tow.

“Allison’s back,” Nate says when your eyes bug out of your head. “Figured Xavier would want to have his people try and round her up, rather than there being an issue with mutant control.”

You blink rapidly, then nod. “Uh… yeah. Let me call Piotr.”

***

The perks of being on a technically-special-law-enforcement team with fancy jets: you can get to the scene a hell of a lot faster than conventional authorities.

You, Wade, Nathan, Frank, and Piotr meet up with Illyana, Mikhail (the two Rasputin siblings are there to “assist” with Allison’s specific powers, considering how things went last time), and Neena in the mall parking lot. After a brief rundown of the plan –get the civilians and Karen out of harm’s way, then detain Allison before the actual cops show up—you all split up and head in through the four major entry points.

The mall is packed when you walk in –go figure, it’s a weekend. Shoppers stroll from shop to shop, vendors at the pop up stands call out to passersby, music plays on the overhead speakers.

“The picture the kid sent me had a pretzel stand in the background,” Frank growls through the speaker in your earpiece.

“Food court, then,” Neena replies –in perfect, crystal clear audio, no less. “The kiosk map doesn’t show too many food stands outside there.”

Illyana tugs on your sleeve and directs you to the left. “We are close.”

You dodge to avoid a cluster of shoppers. “There’s a lot of people here. If she –if she has… weapons, like last time—”

“We’ll deal with it,” Nathan growls over the comms system before softly reprimanding Wade for trying to detour into Hot Topic. “Our goal right now is to capture Allison before she escapes again.”

“Civilian lives still matter,” Piotr insists before putting a hand on the small of your back to usher you around a “Wet Floor: Caution” sign. He’s armored down, but he’s wearing his X-Men suit under a black sweatshirt. “We must consider their well-being.”

“And if we tell them they’re in danger, we’ll make a panicked stampede, and that won’t help us or anyone else,” Nate says tersely. “Just stay calm. Our best bet is to try and talk Allison down without alerting anyone around us.”

“If she tries to hurt Karen—" Frank grits out.

“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we get there,” Nathan declares, tone permitting no room for argument.

The lot of you round another corner, passing by a shop that boasts having “all the latest console games at all the best prices” and a Victoria’s Secret—

“I see her,” Neena says. You hear thuds her footsteps pick up, and a second later you see her jog around a Starbucks stand and head down the hall to the food court. “Twelve o’clock, dead center of the court.”

Twenty meters away, sitting at a little food court table, are Allison and Karen; the former is dressed in all black, leaning back in her seat while staring down the latter –who, all things considered, doesn’t seem too much worse for wear.

Frank inhales sharply, then appears through the crowd a few minutes later, walking so fast he’s practically running. “Too many people here.”

“We’ll talk her down,” Nathan says, rounding the corner nearest the Macy’s with Wade.

Illyana tenses, then grabs your arm before breaking into a run. “We need to move. She has seen Castle.”

Sure enough, Allison’s scowling. She shoves her chair back hard enough to knock it into the table behind her; she stands, ignoring the complaints from the nearby diners. Her eyes start glowing blue as she glares at Frank.

“Ah, shitfarts,” Wade grumbles.

“Everyone down!” Nathan bellows before yanking Frank back and erecting a telekinetic shield.

A massive shockwave of blue energy erupts across the food court, sending shoppers and tables alike flying into the air. The glass, domed skylight over the food court shatters, raining shards of windows and broken lights down on the panicked, shrieking bystanders.

Illyana erects a shield before the shockwave can hit the rest of you. She grits her teeth as debris and a few of the shoppers closest to the epicenter bounce off it, tumbling along the tiled floor. “Still think we will ‘talk her down?’”

No, you think, gulping when you realize that some of the blast victims aren’t getting up. I think we’re well past that.

“Karen!” Frank charges towards Allison, shotgun –loaded with bean bag rounds—in hand. “Get down!”

Karen dives behind a toppled table.

Illyana charges at Allison, clothes shimmering as they morph into black body armor. She leaps over an overturned table, then extends her hand and fires a blue bolt of magical energy at the younger girl.

Allison ducks. She stumbles briefly, but quickly rights herself. She grits her teeth, then screams as she unleashes a volley of azure-colored energy blasts at Illyana.

“Go! Get out!” Piotr waves a few stragglers –with their phones out to film the ruckus, go figure—away. He ducks another round of fire from Allison, then armors up and strides towards her. “That is enough—” 

Allison whips her head to the side, then back at Illyana. She quickly fires a blast at Illyana –successfully knocking the older girl off her feet, then turns and unleashes a beam of blue energy square into your husband’s chest.

Piotr sails into the food court’s Subway stand with a groan and a resounding clang.

You cram down the urge to run after your husband –he’ll be fine, he’s taken a lot worse before—and focus on the fight at hand.

Nate, Wade, and Frank are pinned down; they’re using some trash can stands as cover, but Allison’s got enough firepower to keep them from risking getting any closer.

Piotr and Illyana are both down for the time being; your husband’s tangled up with the condiments trays, while the youngest Rasputin’s on the floor, groaning.

Neena’s working the perimeter, getting shoppers out while setting up to flank Allison from behind.

And Mikhail’s… disappeared—

No, there he is, you think when you see him blink into existence. You let out a short sigh of relief when you see him take Karen’s hand and teleport to a safer distance, then do a short run before launching yourself in the air. Alright, let’s get the boys some cover.

Allison’s head jerks back as she follows your trajectory. Her eyes glow, bits of blue smoke wafting off at the corners, and then she fires another bolt of energy at you from her eyes.

You flit out of the line of fire, then fling an arc of wind at her.

Allison topples onto the tile floor. She yelps, then disappears into the ground to avoid being ensnared in one of Illyana’s spells. She pops back up a few feet away moments later—

Just in time to see Wade duck behind an overturned table.

Your brother snarls, cursing and panicking when Allison renders the table to a pile of ash with a flick of her wrist. “Something tells me that murder baby’s leveled up!”

“Gee!” You holler back. “What was your first hint!”

“Go!” Nathan hollers when Allison uses a bolt of magical energy strong enough to rip through several store fronts. He waves Karen and Frank off. “Get out of here! We’ve got this!”

Allison whirls. She bares her teeth when she sees Frank and Karen escaping, then slaps her palm against the food court floor.

Brilliant, bright streaks of azure energy zip along the floor, twinkling against the tiles before disappearing a few feet ahead of Karen and Frank.

The floor –from edge to edge of the hall, leaving no area untouched—crumple into ash, leaving a pit more than twenty feet deep. The ground between the doors behind Allison and the girl in question evaporate as well, along with the spaces in front of the emergency exits.

“Just when I left my rock climbing gear at home,” Wade grumbles, sounding somewhat winded.

Allison charges towards Karen and Frank, rendering tables, chairs, and random debris to ash as she runs to get a straight shot. She knocks Wade off his feet with via chucking a bolt of energy at him, forces you to duck behind a Pizza Hut counter with another one—

And then runs smack into Mikhail when he teleports right in front of her.

Mikhail wraps his arms around her, then leans back so he clears her feet off the ground. He stumbles a little while Allison rages and snarls. “Got her!”

Allison swears –then twists and drives her heel into Mikhail’s crotch.

Mikhail drops. He curls in on himself, groaning. “Kroshechnyy kon'… O Bozhe, moi yaytsa.”

Allison tumbles to the ground. She dodges more wind strikes from you, then lets out a feral snarl as she charges towards Frank and Karen.

Frank yanks Karen behind him, then shouts as he barrels towards Allison.

He has no game plan. You can see it in his eyes.

You vault yourself over the Subway counter, intent on tackling Allison, or knocking her over with a wind slice, or –something.

Before you can do anything, a blue circle forms around Allison, glowing brightly before expanding into a domed shield.

Allison skitters to a stop. Her dark curls jerk and bounce as she looks around wildly. She seethes, then launches a blast of energy at the shield, only for it to bounce off the veil of energy harmlessly.

A few feet away, Illyana lowers her hand. She smirks. “There. Much better.”

“Will –will that hold her?” Karen asks, voice rough and shaky.

“Until we can find way to transport, da.” Illyana reaches up her sleeve, then pulls out a spell book. “I have potent sleep spell. Will take but moment to find proper runes for casting.”

Behind you, Piotr groans as he finally disentangles his head from a –now very crushed—oven. He staggers, shakes himself, then turns and sags with relief when he sees Allison in the shield bubble. “Oh. Good.”

“Are you okay?” You jog over to him as he armors down and all but collapses into a nearby booth. “Babe? What’s wrong?”

“Ears are ringing.” He groans and clutches his head in his hands. “I hit my head very hard.”

You rub his shoulders, reassuring yourself as much as you are him. You can only imagine where else he’s hurt if Allison managed to concuss him while in defense mode. All you want now is to get back to Xavier’s so your husband can get the medical treatment he needs. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be—”

The ground shakes.

You steady yourself on the booth opposite Piotr –then suck a breath between your teeth when it happens again, harder than before. “Shit.” You whip your gaze back to Illyana. “What’s—”

You see Illyana, teeth gritted and eyes glowing blue as she holds both her hands towards the shield. 

You see Nathan, Neena, and everyone else slowly backing away from the dome of energy.

And, inside the containment bubble, you see Allison, flinging attack after attack at the walls of the shield.

Your eyes widen when you watch Allison unleash a sustained burst of energy at the shield walls. Fuck.

Glowing, white cracks form along the shield.

Oh holy fuck.

“Get down!” Neena screams.

Piotr all but tackles you –despite his head injury—to the floor just as the shield gives way. He armors back up, then covers your body with his.

Magic energy explodes through the food court, flinging the remaining tables and chairs into the walls. All the windows –in the skylights, the automatic doors, and the nearby shops—blow out, spraying glass everywhere. The ground shakes, cracking and dissipating into clouds of ash in various places.

Allison crawls out of the crater left by her explosion. She pants, shoulders heaving with each breath. Her mouth tugs into a fierce scowl; her eyes glow so brightly that they’re almost white.

Cracks form on the ground next to her, glowing white and smoking. They widen into gaping holes, with vortexes of energy swirling inside them.

And then these… beasts crawl out of them. Snarling, slobbering monsters with fangs the size of your arm. Their claws shatter the tiles underneath their massive paws. Their eyes glow red, not unlike hellfire. They almost look like wolves, if wolves had crossbred with the Hulk and had ichor and tar dripping off their skin.

Your jaw drops. “What the…”

Mikhail lets out a whoop. “Puppies!”

“Do puppies normally look like they want to turn humans into sausages?” Wade yelps, skittering out of reach when one of the hellhounds lets out a howl that sends a plume of fire into the air.

Illyana swears up a storm. She flicks her wrist, summoning the Soul Sword to her hand.

Before she can do anything else, though, one of the hellhounds charges her, knocking her off her feet and into one of the nearby shops.

“Snezhinka!” Piotr shoves himself to the feet, armors up, and barrels off after his sister –with Mikhail hot on his heels.

The other hellhound stalks towards Neena, Wade, and Nathan. It growls, acid dripping from its teeth and onto the ground, corroding whatever it touches.

“Should’ve worn the brown pants,” Wade groans. “Okay –anyone got a plan?”

“Duck!” Neena shouts when the hound unleashes another fiery howl.

You don’t duck –or run, or attack, or anything useful. No, you freeze, torn between going after your husband and siblings-in-law, helping protect Wade, Neena, and Nate, or trying to get Karen and Frank away from Allison.

Speaking of which…

Allison is lobbing bolts of energy at Frank and Karen; she’s closing in on them fast, quickly cornering them against the crater she’d made between the food court and the rest of the wall.

Frank whisks Karen behind his back. “Hey, hey, hey!” He extends a hand towards Allison in some sort of desperate attempt to get her to stop. “Just calm the fuck down!”

“Go to hell!” She rears back for another attack –and there’s no cover, nothing for Frank or Karen to hide behind or grab onto—

The choice makes itself for you.

You jump over the booth Piotr had pulled both of you behind and whip a wall of wind at her.

The blast launches her off her feet. She shrieks, sailing behind a pile of rubble before disappearing from view.

“Come on!” You leap over to Karen and Frank. The sounds of the hellhounds are too close for comfort –and, judging by Wade’s shrieks, the general amounts of swearing, and Piotr’s groans of exertion, the beasts are winning. “Let’s get out of here.” You get an arm around Karen, then start to put one around Frank, intent on lifting them over the crater and flying them out of here—

There’s a scream, and then a thin, whip-like strand of blue energy wraps around Frank’s neck.

His eyes go comically wide as he flies backwards. He lets out a choked shout, then groans –guttural and rough—when he hits the ground.

Allison stalks towards him. Her teeth are bared, and she looks entirely done with the situation. …And then she pulls a knife out of her jacket pocket.

You level another blast of air in Allison’s direction.

She manages to deflect it with a shield, then fires a volley of energy bolts at you and Karen.

Karen dodges.

You don’t.

You careen into the crater, narrowly dodging exposed bits of steel bar reinforcement and some leaking water lines before hitting rock hard dirt. You grunt, wind going out of you as you crumple against the ground. Fuck.

The hellhounds are still snarling nearby. You can still hear their ghoulish howls, accompanied by the crackling roar of the fire they unleash with each snap. Above the hellish din, Wade’s swearing and shrieking about his ass, Nate’s firing his future gun, Illyana and Mikhail are arguing—

Dammit. You shove yourself to your feet, panting and swearing the entire time. Once you’re upright, you launch yourself to the mall floor—

Which is when a new sound makes itself known to you.

Frank is screaming. That in and of itself isn’t unusual –he does it quite often—but now he’s doing it on his back, hands wrapped around Allison’s forearms, trying to keep her from sinking her knife blade into his right eye.

You’d think it wouldn’t be much of a fight –but she’s winning. She’s using her powers for leverage against Frank’s strength. You wouldn’t think a teenager with arms like noodles would have a shot, but Frank’s arms are shaking as Allison slowly, inexorably, pushes the knife towards his head. 

Frank shouts –and Allison shrieks right back at him; she sounds like a pissed off barn owl.

You stumble forward, wincing and collapsing to your knees when your left leg screams in protest. Shit.

Allison bares her teeth at Frank –and then she freezes. Her body goes stiff. Her eyes roll into the back of her head –and then she collapses against the ground, limp as a ragdoll.

Karen Page stands behind her, stun gun in hand. She lets out a hard breath when Allison drops against the ruined tile floor, then turns the stun gun off and reaches to help Frank up. “You okay?”

He grunts by way of response.

Allison starts squirming against the ground, trying to push herself upright.

She yanks the barbs and wires connecting her to Karen’s stun gun out of her shoulder, seething and snarling all the while. She staggers to her feet, lurching wildly as she tries to regain control over her body. She whirls, dark curls flinging back and forth with abandon.

Frank snaps into action. He immediately throws Karen behind him, forcing her back and away as Allison storms towards them. He holds one hand out, keeping some space between him and the teen. His gaze snaps back and forth, searching wildly for some sort of obstacle to put in her path or some sort of cover to duck behind—

There’s a dull thud, and then Allison lets out a choked shout as she tumbles to the ground.

Behind her, standing in the wreckage of one of the shops, Neena lowers the repression cuff gun your dad created to help capture rogue mutants.

You bend over, panting as you brace your hands against your knees. “Cool. Awesome. Holy shit.”

The snarling of the hellhounds disappears, too; the only sign they were there to begin with are the mounds of ash they leave behind. 

Slowly, your dad, Wade, and the Rasputin siblings come staggering out of the surrounding shops.

You sidle up next to Piotr, who’s already armoring down and looks beat to hell. You nod at him when he nods to you, then focus on the scene at hand.

Allison crouches on the floor. She snarls, yanking at the repression cuff on her wrist.

“Okay –ow, fuck!” Wade cringes as he resets his dislocated arm, then limps towards Allison. “Alright, murder baby. I’ve been chewed on, used as a tug toy, had a shop light fall on my nuts, and I’m pretty sure my third cervical vertebra is never going to feel whole again. Your whole ‘vengeance blood lust’ was pretty cute, but I draw the line at spinal reconfiguration. Time for you to head over to Xavier’s Home for Extraordinary Children and do group fucking therapy like the rest of the X-Dweebs.”

Allison bares her teeth at him, then kicks him square in the crotch.

Wade shrieks, doubling over and dropping to the floor. He curls into a fetal position, whimpering over his “dangly unmentionables.”

“Enough, Allison,” Nathan grits out. He uses his telekinesis to drag her across the floor, steadily sliding her towards him. “It’s done. Let it go.”

“Eat –eat shit!” Allison scrabbles against the floor, searching for a handhold –then snags a loose gun (most likely dropped by Mikhail at some point) and fires at Nathan. She struggles to her feet when he ducks –breaking the telekinetic hold—then whirls and aims at Frank.

“No!” Karen flings herself in front of Frank –which results in a lot of protesting from him—and holds out a hand. “Allison, no! Killing him isn’t what you want!”

“Like hell it is!”

“No, it isn’t. He’ll be dead and you’ll be in jail, and you’ll still have all your anger with no outlet for it,” Karen insists, voice ragged. She fixes Allison with a hard stare. “Let it go, Allison. Killing him won’t change anything.”

Allison sneers. “Fuck you. Like this is about ‘change!’ My family’s never coming back, and I have to live with that every single day. I have to remember waking up to them being gone, to their brains on the walls, to his—” she whips the gun wildly to point at Frank “—stupid graffiti tag on the floor. No, fuck you! I’m the one who has to go through the nightmares and the loneliness and the grief and has to bury my family! I don’t care that this won’t change anything. I’ll feel good for five seconds, and that’s better than the past few months have been!”

Your stomach clenches. Shit.

Frank gulps. Eyes shining, he steps out in front of Karen –even though she tries to stop him—and puts himself right in Allison’s line of sight. “You want me dead? Do it.”

“Frank,” Nathan says, voice sharp with warning.

“Pull the trigger,” Frank says, stepping closer as Allison’s hands shake. “Take me out. I killed your family. I did the same thing to you that happened to me. I’m a hypocrite; I deserve it.”

Allison seethes, body trembling as Frank slowly approaches her. “I will! I’ll do it!”

“Pull the trigger,” Frank says, voice soft and thick with emotion. “Do it, kid. Take me down if you want it so bad.”

Wade pushes himself off the ground. “Castle, I swear to God—”

Allison growls –and lowers her gun. She sobs, shoulders slumping. She falls to her knees, body shaking with each gasping breath she takes. “You couldn’t just… kill me? Do me the favor of not having to live without them?”

Frank flinches, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows reflexively. “I don’t do shit like that, kid.”

Allison looks up at him –and her gaze sharpens. She smiles, sharp and manic. “Oh. So that’s what it takes to break you.”

And then she put the muzzle of the gun under her chin.

“No!” You fling yourself at Allison, colliding with her before she can pull the trigger. You tackle her to the ground, wrenching the gun out of her hands before hugging her tight against your chest. “No, sweetheart. No. No, no, no—”

Allison shrieks. Tears stream down her face once more. “Just let me die! Please! Why won’t any of you just let me die!”

You shush her gently, rocking her back and forth. You cast your gaze over your shoulder, looking to Piotr.

He’s scrubbing at his face with his hand. He meets your gaze, eyes widening before he shrugs, as though to say, “I don’t know how to handle this, either.”

“Okay.” Nathan crosses the distance to you and Allison. He crouches behind her, cuffing her hands behind her back before helping her and you stand. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s… let’s get you some rest. Okay?”

“I –I need Ar-Artemis,” Allison sobs. Her body heaves with each step she takes. “I need Artemis, I need her—”

“Okay, munchkin,” Wade says as he walks Allison in the direction of the jet. “We’ll get her called for you. Do you have her number? Anyone else you want us to call?”

“My law-lawyer.”

“That checks out.”

You hang back, letting Wade take over. You feel fried; pain aside, your mind is utterly void, a swirling mass of black and gibberish and too much and screaming and—

Neena hooks her arm around yours. She smiles at you when you look up at her, then gently ushers you after Wade and the others. “Come on. Let’s get back to the mansion.”

***

“I’m gonna fucking murder you, Castle!”

You wince as another angry shriek bounces off the walls of the jet’s cabin. You’re sitting on one of the benches, injured leg propped up on your husband’s lap.

Allison snaps and rages as Mikhail, Neena, and Wade try to buckle her in; somewhere during the walk to the jet, she’d switched from broken weeping to insurmountable rage once more.

Next to you, Frank keeps his eyes trained on the ground. He’s got an arm around Karen, who’s watching Allison in cautious silence.

“You’re fucking dead! I will hang you up by your fucking intestines! I’ll put your fucking sniper scope up your ass, you emo wannabe piece of shit!”

Wade snickers. “‘Emo wannabe piece of shit.’ Good one.”

Now that you’re up close to her, you can see just… how not well she’s doing. Dark bags hang under her eyes, stark against her pallid skin. Her cheeks and neck are gaunt –and, under her dark clothes and slapdash body armor, you suspect the rest of her body tells a similar story of grief and an inability to cope.

Who could cope, with everything she’s been through? The only person in this jet who has a similar understanding is the one that put her family in the ground –and he did that to cope with losing his own family and being shot in the head, so that pretty much says how well he’s doing, technically speaking.

Piotr squeezes you gently when you sigh. “We are almost home.”

Not close enough, you think as Allison all but foams at the mouth while she hurls insult after insult at Frank.

Wade rears back, shaking his hand. “Not the middle one! I need that one! Motherfucker!”

Allison spits his finger out of her mouth. She plants her feet, then tries to launch herself at Frank again.

“Enough!” You stand, careful to keep your weight off your bad leg. “You’re in a jet and you don’t have use of your hands. Either let yourself be buckled in or we’re sedating you!”

“This is bullshit,” Allison growls, even as she lets Neena and Mikhail sit her down and strap her in. Her eyes never leave Frank. “He’s the one who killed my family, and I’m the one in handcuffs.”

You march over to Allison as best you can. You’re not sure what your face looks like right now, but given the way she shrinks back you’re certain you look pissed. You plant your hands on the wall behind her, one on either side of her head, then lean in until you’re almost nose to nose with her. “You’re handcuffed,” you spit out between gritted teeth, “because you tried to kill yourself in that mall. The restraints are for your own safety; they have nothing to do with Frank.”

“But he—”

“Isn’t in our jurisdiction,” you tell her, voice hard. “We picked you up because you’re a mutant engaging in criminal activity. It was either us or the DMC, and if it’d been them, you’d be in the Icebox or dead. Frank only came because you kidnapped his girlfriend –and, frankly, it’s reasonable that he’d want to come along to save her.”

The dark-eyed teen pouts up at you. “But –my family—”

“Is gone,” you finish, voice softer now. You lean back a little so you’re not so in her space. “And I’m sorry you lost them, Allison. I really am. What Frank did was wrong. But you can’t keep on this path. You’re endangering yourself, and you’re endangering the rest of the community by reinforcing the belief that mutants are dangerous through your actions.” You straighten up. “If you don’t calm down, we’re going to have to lock you in one of the changing rooms until we’re at the mansion. Do you want that?”

She glowers, but shakes her head.

“Neither do I—”

“We can go into one of the changing rooms.” Karen stands, and Frank stands with her. She flashes you a sympathetic, appreciative smile when you look at her. “We’ll be fine in there.”

You heave an internal sigh of relief when Neena ushers Frank and Karen into one of the changing rooms, then slides the door shut.

Allison glares after Frank. She sniffs, chin trembling. “He killed my family. I woke up and –and they were gone.”

“I know, sweetheart.” You smooth her hair away from her face as she starts crying again. “I know.

“I want Artemis,” she sobs, skinny shoulders shaking with each breath she takes. “My phone –on my phone—”

“We’ll make sure we call her for you,” you reassure her as you stroke her hair. You grimace as she collapses –as much as the seatbelt lets her—against you, weeping against your neck. You hold her as best you can, trying to ignore the twinges in your leg or the creeping sense of ‘we’re in over our fucking heads… again’ crawling up your spine. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

[sweetsassymusic]

The Long Kaz Rant I Told Myself I Wouldn’t Write, But Here We Are

This is probably an unpopular opinion. And I hope it doesn't come across as confrontational or anything because I don't mean it that way. But I've always been super confused by the way Kaz is accepted, basically across the entire fandom, as either morally gray or straight up villainous? He doesn’t really seem like either of those things to me. On a surface level, obviously there are things he’s done that are normally considered evil. He’s stolen, he’s killed, he threatened a child, he gouged out someone’s eye. And that’s all pretty bad, right? But it completely ignores the context given in the books. (More after the cut because this got too long...)

There’s a difference between doing something evil and doing something that’s shocking, “dark,” or difficult to watch.

Before I read the books, I heard fans discuss all the horrible things Kaz does. And the way people talk about him, I was expecting him to be… Feral Kaz – someone who delights in doing horrible things because he’s just so twisted and angry. The author herself even referred to him on her blog as being utterly despicable. Wow! This guy must really go out of his way to hurt innocent people, huh? So when I sat down to actually read it, I was so surprised. Most (if not all?) the killings were done on some level of self-defense. His “murder victims” were actual evil people trying to kill him or someone he loved. And the reason he threatened a child was because the only alternative was killing her – something he would never want to do. You know, because he’s not evil.

I don’t know if I just have very different definitions of these terms than most people? But to me, the idea of Kaz being “utterly despicable” should not even be on the table to begin with (Leigh Bardugo, you good?) and even the idea of him being “morally gray” is questionable.

When I think of a morally good character, I don’t think of someone who never does anything questionable or always perfectly makes the correct choices. I think of someone who is on a mission–either to protect the world, a loved one, or simply pursuing a personal goal–who at least tries to conduct his mission in a way that either does no harm to others, or (when that’s not possible) does as little harm as necessary to get the job done. 

Whereas, when I think of a villainous character, I think of someone who has no regard for others at all. Someone who either relishes in harming the innocent, or pays zero consideration to whether he harms innocents while pursuing his goals (which are usually, in themselves, harmful to innocent people). 

And finally, when I think of a morally gray character, I think of someone directly between these two. Someone who is a little bit evil, a little bit sadistic, but not entirely evil. He’s got a few good points too. Maybe he’s someone who keeps switching sides, unsure if he wants to be a hero or villain. Maybe he has hurt a lot of innocent people unnecessarily, but he joins in with the good guys for personal gain, and people don’t mind him there simply because he doesn’t interfere with the protagonist’s goals. Or maybe he’s the “Bad Cop” to someone else’s Good Cop: someone who uses more violence than is necessary, just for fun, but still helps the good side in some capacity, so everyone chooses to look past it.

Under these definitions, Kaz (to me) seems more like a good character. While pursuing his personal goals, he protects people he loves, and yes, he does do “dark” things. But he doesn’t relish in doing them (despite his reputation in-universe of being a chaotic sadist. His reputation is not accurate; he invented it for his own protection). He does them because he has to. If he can get the job done right without hurting anyone, that’s the route he’ll take. But that option isn’t always available. And he’s not the type to lie down and die just to avoid getting his hands dirty (nor should he, imo). 

Again, maybe I just have a different idea of what constitutes being morally gray. But I always thought it was meant to be a judgment on the choices you make when you actually HAVE a choice? A morally gray character has the choice to be good or evil, and they choose to do both (which one depending on how they feel that day). 

Whereas, if you do something “bad” because circumstances force you to do it–because you or someone you love will die otherwise–that’s pretty much the same as having a gun to your head. You’re not morally gray. You’re doing it under duress. It’s survival, not a reflection of where you stand on moral topics. Like, if you trap a vegan in a room with only a piece of meat, and you leave them there for days, weeks, that person doesn’t suddenly become a “fake vegan” if they eat that meat to avoid literally starving to death. You forced them to do it. When it comes to their moral beliefs, they would still be a vegan if they had the freedom to make that choice. You just put them in a situation where those choices aren’t available to them. Your lack of freedom in a situation shouldn’t define you.

The same can be said for placing a starving, homeless orphan boy alone in the dog-eat-dog world of Ketterdam. The option of being a sweet little law-abiding citizen is not available to him. So is it really fair to define him by something in which he had no choice?

I’ve come across so many GrishaVerse fans who, while sipping on their Starbucks in the comfort of their own home, go “Ugh, Kaz. He’s so DARK, so EVIL!” (Fun fact: while my mom was watching the show, she said Kaz is evil because “he seems to always have a plan.” Oh no! Not PLANS!)  “He must be some kind of monster to be able to do the things he does and still live with himself! I could NEVER do those things!” Well…you’ve never actually had to do those things? Your life has never depended on it? Idk, to me, it’s just a very privileged take. And I’m not trying to make this into a big social issue. It’s not like criticism against a fictional character is anywhere near the same level of importance as the issues marginalized people are facing in real life. I’m just saying, it’s very easy to condemn activity you’ve never been forced to engage in for your own survival.

One of the biggest reasons people have given me for why they think Kaz is evil is that he is “for himself.” Even the author said she thinks Kaz is worse than the Darkling (who, I’ve gotten the impression, she believes to be irredeemable) because the Darkling has communal goals (he wants to bring positive change for other people/the world at large) while Kaz’s goals are just personal (he wants to bring positive change for himself and only himself). And for one? It just isn’t true: many (if not most) of the things Kaz does is either for his Crows or for his late brother; he just disguises it with supposed self-interest for the sake of his reputation. And second? It’s…not actually wrong to have personal goals or to act in self-interest. Bettering your own life is a valid desire. It’s not the same as being selfish. Not everything you do has to be for other people.

(And, tbh, this is something Leigh Bardugo seems to have a problem with in general, not just in this scenario. I could write a whole separate rant about other characters that were demonized in-narrative for engaging in “too much” self-care, and how her unforgivingly black and white morality ruined the Shadow and Bone trilogy for me. Worst of all, she even seemed to imply recently that the only reason real-life antisemitism is wrong is because “the Jews didn’t fight back”? [Like, if they had met her criteria of “fighting back”, would that make antisemitism somewhat justified to her? What? Idek, but she should really clarify.] Basically, she seems to take “non-selfishness” to an extreme. I don’t know her personally, I don’t want to make assumptions, I don’t have anything personal against her, and I’m not trying to get her cancelled or anything, I promise. But please, when you read her books, please don’t accept all her ideas at face value, because there’s some Weird Shit™ in there sometimes.)

Anyway, another reason people say Kaz is bad or morally gray is that he wants revenge. “Revenge is a bad coping mechanism! You should want JUSTICE! Not REVENGE!” And again, this argument is wild to me. I mean, yes, there are situations–especially in real life, modern, western contexts–where revenge is a bad coping mechanism someone has developed, and transforming their anger into a desire for justice is a way for them to overcome that and express their anger in a healthier way. But that’s a very specific scenario. When we’re talking generally, the line between revenge and justice is a lot thinner than people think (and in some scenarios, there is no line at all). 

For example, real life victims and their families often say they can’t wait to see the perpetrator rot in prison, even wishing (sometimes even fantasizing) that the guy gets abused in prison by fellow inmates. For them, justice and revenge are wrapped up together in one big court-issued sentence. And while some people find that disturbing or take issue with it, it’s…generally considered valid outrage? This guy is evil and hurt them, so it’s okay for these people to want him to suffer. And most importantly, these people called the cops instead of taking matters into their own hands, therefore they’re Good, right? They’re good citizens who obey and rely on the established authority, therefore they are handling their anger in an Acceptable™ way?

But in the world of Ketterdam, if someone has victimized you, or is trying to kill you or someone you love, you can’t just call the fucking cops (and let’s be honest, looking at irl cops, it’s a questionable idea here too sometimes). If we’re analyzing Kaz’s outrage and how he handles it, we have to analyze it in the context of where he lives, not where we live. We have options in our lives that Kaz doesn’t have. So we have to ask, what are the most productive steps he could realistically take in his world?

I see activists and bloggers on websites like this, publicly fantasizing about gouging the eyes out of certain politicians and right-wing figureheads. And they would probably do it for real if they could. On Tumblr and Twitter, this is generally considered righteous anger. The politicians are evil, so it’s okay to hurt them, right? That’s how the logic goes, anyway (I know some will disagree, but it’s a common take here). Well, imagine if, instead of just being a bigot, one of these evil people personally stabbed–possibly killed–your girlfriend. And there were no cops to call, no news stations or social media to turn to, to show people what this guy did. No authority or community on your side. No way to ensure this guy faced consequences for his actions. There’s just you, your dying girlfriend, your helplessness, your anger. What would be the appropriate way to handle this situation, so you were acting out of justice instead of revenge? What does “justice” even mean in a world like that? It’s a world where either you hurt others or you lie down and just let others keep hurting those you love (which, in itself, would be evil). I can’t think of any “appropriate” response Kaz could take. Which, for better or worse, is probably why he just went for the eye. You probably would too in that context. Are you morally gray? I doubt it.

It’s really weird to me how people seem to hold Kaz to this high standard of absolute Moral Purity, but they don’t hold other characters to it. Like, was the dad on Taken being “feral” or “morally gray” when he told his daughter’s kidnapper that “I will find you and I will kill you” and then pursued him with fury? His motivations were personal and not communal. He was coming from a place of revenge, just as much as justice. But most people consider him a hero. He’s not controversial or “dark.” There are plenty of other heroes who do terrible things (sometimes to innocent people! Even when it’s not even necessary!) for the “greater good” or just because it’s convenient. People call them a “badass” and then turn around and say Kaz is just “bad.” Idk, it just seems really arbitrary the way people draw these lines.

If we’re expanding the definition of “morally gray” to include anyone who’s ever done anything questionable, made a mistake, been forced to do something they wouldn’t normally do, done something for personal reasons instead of for the world at large, or wanted revenge for something, then there literally are no heroes in fiction (except maybe a few cardboard cutouts) or in real life.

(Ironically, the most morally gray thing Kaz does, imo, is something most people don’t even have a problem with: the fact he runs a gambling house to “take money from pigeons.” And even that is really mild [no one is forcing the “pigeons” to gamble their money away]. But yeah, that’s one of the few instances I could think of where he actually hurt innocent people unnecessarily. That and the time, as a kid, where he stole candy from that other kid...and even that might be mostly-but-not-entirely excused by the fact he was starving to death. But yeah.)

[96thdayofrage]

The push prompted a series of sweeping apologies and broad action plans, shifting the goalposts for what would be expected of corporations in their relatively new status as “corporate citizens.”

Nearly a year later, many major corporations have assumed a similar posture following Chauvin’s conviction on murder charges, reminding the American public of their purported commitment to diversity, equity and inclusion. Amid mounting evidence that many police departments routinely display both implicit bias and outright racism, reports show that corporate America continues to pour millions of dollars into the police.

One way corporations funnel money into law enforcement is through police foundations. As nonprofits, police foundations allow police departments to raise unregulated slush funds from undisclosed sources, generally meaning corporations or private foundations associated with wealthy families or individuals. Police have historically used this money to expense weaponry and special equipment that is not covered by their municipal budgets.

“Police foundations are really good at hiding what they’re actually spending their money on,” Arisha Hatch, vice president of Color of Change, told Salon. “These foundations exist completely off the books.”

According to Nonprofit Quarterly, there are about 251 police foundations across the U.S. A report last year by the government watchdog LittleSis found that a whole host of well-known corporations have been intimately involved with police foundations throughout the nation.

One notable example is AT&T. Last year, Sludge found that AT&T was “an active donor” to the Seattle Police Foundation, which according to IRS filings amassed more than $1.5 million in contributions and grants in 2019 alone. Gothamist reported in 2019 that AT&T made an appearance as a “deep-pocketed donor” at the New York City Police Foundation, which collected $9.2 million in contributions and grants over the fiscal year ending in June 2019. Because these foundations are not subject to typical IRS disclosure laws, neither of them reported how that money were spent.

AT&T is also a “Platinum Partner” of the National Sheriffs’ Association, a pro-police lobbying group that fights to preserve the 1033 Military Surplus Program, a government-run initiative that distributes surplus military-grade weaponry and supplies to police departments throughout the nation. In order to become a Platinum Partner, a corporation must donate at least $15,000.

Asked about the company’s relationship with law enforcement, an AT&T spokesperson told Salon that the company supports “many civil rights organizations” and is “working with them to redefine the relationship between law enforcement and those they serve to advance equitable justice for all Americans.”

Kevin Walby, an associate professor in the Department of Criminal Justice at the University of Winnipeg, told Salon that any company that makes strong rhetorical commitments to racial equality should not donate to police foundations at all, saying that in doing so, “they are actually backstopping very racist policing practices.”

Target is another corporate giant with deep ties to the police. On Tuesday, Target CEO Brian Cornell postponed a speaking event in anticipation of Chauvin’s verdict, later telling his employees in an internal memo: “The murder of George Floyd last Memorial Day felt like a turning point for our country. The solidarity and stand against racism since then have been unlike anything I’ve experienced. Like outraged people everywhere, I had an overwhelming hope that today’s verdict would provide real accountability. Anything short of that would have shaken my faith that our country had truly turned a corner.”

One might assume such concern for racial justice would translate to the company’s spending habits. However, according to government watchdog LittleSis and Sludge, the Minnesota-based retail giant has donated to at least nine police foundations since 2015, including those in Atlanta, New York and Los Angeles. Back in 2014, Target quietly donated $200,000 to the Los Angeles Police Foundation so that its affiliate department could gain early access to surveillance software engineered by Palantir, a company accused of whitewashing systemic racism with its supposed data-driven solutions to policing. Target has also supplied thousands of dollars in grant money to various law enforcement agencies throughout the country. The company reported that by 2011, it had given “Public Safety Grants” to over 4,000 law enforcement agencies. In that same year alone, Target said it had distributed more than $3 million in grants to “law enforcement and emergency management organizations.”

A Target spokesperson declined to provide more recent figures on grant money. The company also declined to clarify whether its relationships with police foundations remain active, instead providing the following statement: “We also believe that team members and guests should feel safe in their engagements with law enforcement. We support holistic changes in policing that advance more equitable, community-centric policing that is grounded in innovative law enforcement reform best practices.”

Numerous tech giants, including Amazon, Google, Facebook and Microsoft, also support the police in ways outlined above. Amazon, for example, which claimed to “stand with [its] Black employees, customers, and partners” following Chauvin’s verdict, has supported the police in a variety of different ways. In 2019, the tech giant reportedly donated up to $9,999 to the Seattle Police Foundation. A company representative told Salon that the company has not donated to the Seattle Police Foundation within the last two years. Salon was unable to confirm this, since the foundation reportedly scrubbed all information pertaining to its corporate sponsors shortly after LittleSis released its report.

Additionally, Amazon board member Indra Nooyi serves as a trustee on the board of the New York City Police Foundation, according to digitally archived information on the foundation’s website from last year.

Meanwhile, AmazonSmile, the company’s charity initiative — which allows Amazon to donate 0.5% of proceeds from a sale to the buyer’s chosen charity — has helped pass along donations from customers to numerous police foundations, including those in Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle and Cleveland. (This relationship has been publicly advertised via Twitter.)

A company representative said that Amazon defers to guidance from the U.S. Office of Foreign Assets Control and the Southern Poverty Law Center on what organizations meet AmazonSmile’s eligibility requirements. These requirements state that eligible organizations cannot “engage in, support, encourage, or promote … intolerance, discrimination or discriminatory practices based on race.” Just this year, however, the SPLC published a feature calling racial bias in policing a “national security threat.”

Neither the Seattle Police Foundation nor New York City Police Foundation responded to Salon’s request for comment.

Coffeehouse giant Starbucks has visibly attempted to go above and beyond in demonstrating its commitment to racial justice. Last year, at the height of the racial unrest following George Floyd’s death, the coffee chain said it would distribute 250,000 shirts bearing the “Black Lives Matter” slogan to employees, flouting its existing ban on any apparel that “advocate for a political, religious or personal issue,” according to the Wall Street Journal. Just this year, Starbucks invested $100 million in “small business growth and community development projects in BIPOC neighborhoods.”

Following the Chauvin verdict, Starbucks the company released a statement from CEO Kevin Johnson, which read in part:

Today’s jury verdict in the murder trial of ex-police officer Derek Chauvin will not soothe the intense grief, fatigue and frustration so many of our Black and African American partners are feeling. Let me say clearly to you: We see you. We hear you. And you are not alone. Your Starbucks family hurts with you … We will be here for our partners in the Twin Cities and for each and every BIPOC Starbucks partner as we try to understand the systemic wrongs that lead to inequality.

One might argue these “systemic wrongs” have been exhibited by the Seattle Police Department. In a 2019 “Use of Force” report released by the Seattle Police, the department revealed that it used force against Black residents at a disproportionately higher rate than white residents. According to the report, more than 31 percent of cases of police force used against males involved Black males, even though they make up around 7 percent of the city’s population. A subsequent “Disparity Review” that year found that residents of color were frisked at higher rates than white residents, even though white people were statistically more likely to be carrying a weapon, and that Seattle officers drew their guns in encounters with residents of color at a higher rate than with white residents.

In that same year, Starbucks donated two grants totaling $15,000 to promote “implicit bias training” within the Seattle police and help the department host its “2019 banquet gala,” a spokesperson told Salon. The company also “contributed $25,000 to the New York City Police Foundation to help provide protective equipment such as masks, gloves and hand sanitizer, and coordinated the delivery of meals to precincts.” The representative did not say whether there were any accountability mechanisms in place to ensure the money was used appropriately, but did note that the company does “not currently have any funding with the Seattle Police Foundation.”

When corporations like Target and Starbucks give money to police foundations, it not only presents an ideological contradiction; it also presents a conflict of interest within the department itself, noted Walby, of the University of Winnipeg. “We only hear about donations” to police “when corporations want to celebrate them,” he said. “They want that halo effect. However, there are lots of instances in which the transfers and purchases aren’t made public. It’s an even bigger problem if they’re spending it on money that pertains to the corporation.”

In 2014, for instance, the Los Angeles Daily News reported that the Los Angeles Police Foundation received $84,000 in donations from stun-gun maker TASER International (now known as Axon) prior to TASER’s contract with the LAPD. In another case, Motorola, a donor to the New York Police Foundation, was later awarded several NYPD contracts, as reported by Politico in 2017. “There’s a real potential for private influence in public policing through police foundations,” Walby said. “It’s appropriate to call this money dark money. Because we can’t really see this money going in. We can’t really see this money going out.”

As the negative impact of police violence and criminalization becomes increasingly apparent in communities of color, Walby and Hatch argued, continuing to donate to police undermines corporations’ claims to awakened social consciousness. “Police departments across this country have plenty of money,” Hatch said. “They are well-resourced in a way that undermines other programs that could lead to safer and healthier communities.”

“Any money for police reform just enhances the power base of police as an institution,” Walby said. “The institution can’t change conduct that is institutionalized. The funds should be given directly to community and social development groups, groups that actually have a chance of creating something like equality in our world.”

[theliterateape]

The Orwellian DoubleSpeak of Anti-

by Don Hall

Everybody's talking at me I don't hear a word they're saying Only the echoes of my mind People stopping, staring I can't see their faces Only the shadows of their eyes — Harry Nilsson

Upon the road to Damascus I encountered a Christian.

He smiled. "Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior, friend?"

I smiled back. "No. I was in to all that when I was younger but have found that the societal constructs that surround that belief system don't make much sense to me."

He stopped smiling. "So you are anti-Christ?"

"No. Not anti-Christ. Just not pro-Christ, I guess."

He launched into an increasingly angry monologue. Highlights of this polemic were a few simple concepts. If I wasn't pro-Christianity then I was, by his definition, against it. By refusing to see and capitulate to his faith, I was his enemy. By not joining him in his beliefs, I was actively denying them.

I decided to walk on, his taunts and rage following me for a half mile before he got tired of yelling.

✶

Upon the road to Starbucks along Clark Street in Chicago I encountered a Cubs fan.

He smiled. "How about them Cubbies, huh?"

"I smiled back. "I don't really follow sports. Not my thing."

"So you hate the Cubs? Why do you hate the Cubs? Are you one of those fair-weather fans or what? Motherfucker!" He spit on me as he stormed off.

✶

Upon the road to Circa on Fremont Street in Las Vegas I encountered a transgender woman.

She smiled. I smiled and continued walking.

"What? Are you fucking transphobic or what? What's your fucking problem?

I turned. "I don't know what you're getting pissed about. All I did was smile."

"But I could tell. You're transphobic, right?"

"No. Not transphobic."

"You didn't even ask for my pronouns!"

"Oh. I don't really care what your pronouns are because I don't know you. It seems you assume I'll be talking about you to someone. Otherwise, your pronouns are irrelevant to me."

"TRANSPHOBE!" she screamed and pointed. She collapsed on the cement walkway. "I can't take the micro aggressions!"

✶

The further into the tribal mindset we submerge ourselves into in America, the less likely we are able to communicate effectively.

I recall, years ago, as I was directing the very popular series of DADA Soirées in Chicago, realizing that the nonsense poetry and onstage chaos required a certain set of rules the DADAists needed to grasp onto lest the shows become a bunch of poorly improvised faux-German moments.

Each DADAist performed nonsense poems but I directed them to have each poem mean something that they are trying to communicate to the audience but the audience doesn't understand the language and thus cannot receive the meaning. It made the characters of the DADAists frustrated and angry and made the show increasingly confrontational.

We're now entering the DADAist stage of American dysfunction as we are all desperately trying to communicate ideas to others who simply aren't using the same language. It sounds the same but meanings are changing and it fuels more frustration and anger and results in an almost non-stop confrontation.

✶

Ricky Gervais, on a radio talkshow, makes a point that racism is horrible but, in his opinion, it is the intent that makes it racist rather than the reception. "That's why," he added,"wearing blackface is racist but wearing a mud mask is not."

The caller rejects this and claims that Gervais is practicing white supremacy. He continues to tell Gervais that racism and white supremacy are the same thing which Ricky disputes. They talk over each other until one of the hosts get frustrated and dismisses the caller as being completely full of shit.

✶

As used in 1984, doublethink is the ability to hold two completely contradictory thoughts simultaneously while believing both of them to be true. In Orwell's book, doublethink was critical to the success of the Party as it supported the state-imposed practice of language control, or newspeak.

Our new version of doublethink proliferates itself as different tribes redefine ideas and intentionally confuse communication.

How bizarre that when cops kill people, we blame cops but when 108 people are shot in Chicago over the July 4th weekend, we blame the guns. Which is it? The doublethink holds that both are true with no explanation. It's either guns or the people or perhaps a far more complicated cocktail of reasons that include cops, criminals, poverty, and the proliferation of guns but, fuck, isn't that too many problems to solve so let's simplify it down to cops and guns are bad, criminals have excuses, and what the fuck does this all mean?

How malfunctioning is it that for half the U.S. population cancel culture means holding the powerful accountable but for the other half it means online bullying to punish people for stupid things they did or said 20 years ago. For every Weinstein there is a Franken, for every Louis C.K. there is a James Gunn.

"Equality" is now "equity" but only for 50% of the country. For a tiny but increasingly vocal bunch the term "mother" has been replaced with "birthing person". "Riots" are "protests" or "rebellions" unless you are on the other side of the issue. Blacks who marched on the Capitol with the predominantly white mob are now considered to be suffering from "multicultural whiteness."

Even Orwell would've had a hard time imagining this bullshit.

✶

We are not speaking the same language between tribes these days. There has to be common understanding of usable terms and insisting upon preferred definitions only makes it more difficult to communicate. No communication, no unity of purpose. No unity of purpose, no society.

For me, given my completely unexceptional position in society, I will go with the definitions I prefer and do my best to be respectful of the lunacy of others.

No matter what you call elbow pasta with cheese sauce, it's still Mac n Cheese. And bullshit is bullshit even if you want to have it identify as stroganoff.

[drowninginblox]

Thrown into it (2)

Part 2- Am I crazy?

It was always an effort to distract yourself from your thoughts. You remembered when grandma passed away you would go days without uttering a word. That time was hard for everyone but you had it the worst. You’d space out randomly. You would find yourself glued to a spot for hours on end. It took over a year, but you worked your way through it. Youtube was a godsend. This was gonna be like that, but last time you checked the universe of My hero didn't mention a site like youtube. So automatically this was gonna be harder. But that didn’t matter right now. In this moment you needed to get up.

----

“Hey.. hey it’s okay.” His voice rang in my ears. He must be so confused. Why out of all people did it have to be purest boy Mirio. “It’s gonna be alright.” He says as he rubs my back. Why is it that he’s so good? This world truly does not deserve him. I wish I can tell him what the actual fuck is going on but the only things that will come out of my mouth are pathetic hiccups and even if I could I would be in the same predicament as him. Fuck I’m such a mess. This is such a mess. Why does this happen to me? “I know it’s hard right now, but can you tell me what's going on?” He tries. I shake my head into his shoulder. “N-no..” I mumble. I hear him sigh. He must be so tired. Not only of work and school, but of this one bitch that cant read their own situation. “And why might that be?”  He adds to his question. Through all of this, his voice is so calm. Not a hint of anger or annoyance towards me. He must be hiding it. Just because I haven’t seen Mirio mad, doesn't mean it’s impossible. I wonder if he’s like Katsuki and wrecks shit or if he just holds it in until he can't anymore. 

“Helloo? I know spacing out is an issue but please stay here with me okay? I wanna know how I can help.” Oh god bless this sunshine boy. Fuck overhaul, this boy must be protected. “I'm sorry..” I mumble. “You’re.. You’re not gonna believe me.” I grip onto him and close my eyes before letting go of him slightly. “The agency you work with will lock me up in a looney bin.” From my grasp he tries to loosen himself from my grip. I oblige his actions and let him go. When we face each other he has a smile on his face. I can just barely see it in his silhouette. Damn it’s bright. Tamaki wasn't lying. “Now that's ridiculous! You don't have a weapon on you, from what I know you’ve been trapped in here for a while so you couldn't be with those yakuza guys- to be honest you look too squishy to be one of them- who are deadly as all heck, and you haven't attacked me so.. I don't have a reason to arrest you!” My eyes widened a little at that. He chuckles lightly before getting up. As he does so he offers his hand. “Do you mind coming with me though?” With the light shining around him, it almost made him look like an angel. Wait- hold up- the fuck man! Stop with that fangirly shit. 

I blink a few times to see his smile faltering a little. “I-I’m sorry!” I apologize before taking his hand. “I just.. Y'know when you look at something and your mind goes somewhere else?” He stares at me for a moment. He blinks himself out of it though. “Oh? Um.. yeah I think I get it.” He mumbles. Slowly, he helps me up from the cold floor. Almost immediately the air around seems to grow warmer. The light coming from outside seems to grow brighter. The blonde of Mirio’s hair, the white of his suit, the red of his cape, it all suddenly grows more vibrant. What is this feeling?  “M-Mirio!” A voice belonging to someone you knew too well called from down the hall. I glance behind Mirio to see the door frame still empty. When I look back to Mirio his eyes are still on me. “Um.. M-Mirio..? You okay?” I squeeze his hand to try to get him out of it. It must’ve worked since he made a noise similar to that of a weeb meeting their favorite voice actor at Starbucks on accident before jumping away from me. Not that i would know or anything..

“Oh my god! Mirio! Are you okay!?” Tamaki called. In a second the room is filled with men in bullet proof vests, heroes of all shapes and sizes, and a definitive figure outside of Mirio and Tamaki- the boss man himself- Sir Nighteye. All I can do is back up a little. “Put your hands up!” One man barks while the others ready their guns. I glance at a now concerned Mirio as I slowly raise my hands. “P-please! D-d-dont shoot!” I plead as I get on my knees. “Honest to god the most illegal thing I’ve done is ship sanscest and I was ten!” My eyes screw shut out of instinct.

An overwhelming silence encapsulates the room only cracked by the shuffling of gear. “Mirio.. What happened for you to yell?” Sir Nighteye prompts. “N-nothing sir! I just- I can't really put it into words..” he eventually trails off. What is up with him? I open one eye only to be blinded by too many flashlights. A groan escapes my lips while I rub my eyes. “For the love of crap..!”

“Keep your hands up!” someone shouts. I snap in the direction of the quip. “All due respect- to the person that said that- shut the hell up. You would want to rub your eyes if you had flashlights shining in them.” That didn't seem to ease the tension that filled the room but it did get my point across. “Who are you?” I hear Nighteye ask. A chill runs up my spine at how cold his voice is. “My name is Y/n, Y/n L/n.” I hear footsteps come up to me. Although my mind is telling me to run, I remain in my spot. “Do you know where you are?” He questions. His tone eases a little. My eyes open to see right in front of me, him. Weird isn’t the right word to describe meeting him. More so, awkward than anything. Probably because he’s very professional hence his stature commands respect. If only people would look closer though. His suit is clean but very wrinkled and some hairs were out of place. “Excuse me?” He prompts, making me look him in the eyes. His quirk is activated. “Sir, I just know I’m too far away from home to get back the same way I came.”

[merlins-hurt-comfort]

I’ll be here until you’re okay

Fandom: TS Sanders Sides Warnings: parental emotional abuse, talking about violence (only talking, though), food mention, Roman swears once, Remy’s mother is kind of transphobic and sugarcoats anxiety. Pairing: Remy/Emile Characters: Remy Sanders, Emile Picani, Patton Sanders, Logan Sanders and Roman Sanders Wordcount: 3511

A/N: so first of all, this is for @shut-up-emrys​, i love you lots. the thing with this fanfiction is that it’s kinda personal, i basically put my mother in this story and made Remy go through some of the things i had/have to go through and have them comforted in the end. because that is what hurt and comfort fanfictions are for, isn’t it. whatever. i do feel better after writing this, though.

The early morning sun shone through a little window in Remy's room, lightly waking them on this mild Tuesday morning.

After a few times of turning around, trying to get ahold of the sweet warm sleep, Remy stretched their body and slowly sat up, leaning against their bed's headboard.

They rubbed their eyes and blinked a few times to get their eyes used to the bright rays of sun, lighting up their room- or more accurate- their mess of it.

Remy breathed in deeply but the heavy weight on their shoulders didn't ease. They felt their throat hurting, warm anger rising as they remembered last night's events.

No surprise their mother was involved. Remy remembered trying to open up to her, telling her about yesterday's therapy session. Not to get them wrong, they loved their mother. And their mother loved Remy. At least that's what they were sure of. But sometimes Remy couldn't think of her anything other than hurtful, then again they immediately felt guilty about thinking that way. Their mother was a good mother. She was. Even though Remy felt like her hatred towards certain groups of people outweighed her love for her child.

Remy didn't want to get up. Not this day. A long work day was ahead of them and their motivation non-existing. But since not coming to work due to emotional issues was "just being lazy" and "not going to happen", according to their mother, they slowly got out of the warm bed to get changed while thoughts about other events, similar to last night came crushing down. Like that one time, years ago, when they took all the courage they got. They wrote their mother a letter, explaining being non-binary in all it's details.

Remy started shaking, just as they had been shaking back then, as if they were reliving the whole scenario instead of simply replaying it in their thoughts. They didn't get support. They didn't get thrown out either but that could not be where the bar for acceptance was. Instead, after getting interrupted, their mother tried to talk Remy out of it, brushed it off as a phase and neither of them brought up the whole conversation ever again. That day Remy swore to never come out to her ever again.

But their mother was a good mother, she let them visit a therapist to manage their anxiety issues. After six months of all of their professors talking to her, she finally agreed. She didn't like her child going to therapy. It would not look good on college or work applications, she said. They would never get an "actual full-time job", she said. It would ruin her good reputation, she said. Almost as if that was more important than Remy learning to deal with their anxiety. Almost. She loved them, Remy knew it. They just didn't feel it. But she was a good mother, right? She was. She had to be.

Remy shook their head, trying to get rid of all the memories as they dropped the clothes they slept in on the floor. After last night's argument, Remy didn't manage to do anything else other than walk into their room, slam the door shut and lie down on the bed hoping to fall sleep before the growing heartache would tear them apart.

They picked a blue jeans and a white shirt from The Chair™, put them on and turned around to look in a mirror hanging on the wall to fix their sleep hair. One look in the mirror made them stumble back in shock. All those thoughts, racing and stumbling through their mind, made them forget that this day was their eighteenth birthday.

Usually, they didn't care about their birthdays. What's so great about them? Remy was glad their friends respected their feelings and didn't bring it up. And every other birthday would have been just another ordinary day. But not the eighteenth. On one's eighteenth birthday they would get a black mark somewhere on their body where their soulmate would touch them first. Or next- if they already knew each other.

After a few seconds, Remy stepped closer to the mirror, carefully touching their left cheek with their fingertips. There was a black handprint on their face covering half their chin and lips and the cheek they were so delicately touching right that second. In awe and confusion Remy traced the print of the thumb to below the left eye and the other four fingers just below their left ear. All those thoughts about their mother disappeared, that stain was the only important thing in this moment, until-

Remy was outraged. So their soulmate would slap them? Was that what was going to happen? They scoffed, of course other people got friendly touches and they were left with this.

"Seems like, it's just what I deserve," they mumbled to themselves. For a short moment they considered covering the mark with make up but they decided not to do such thing. If people knew, people knew. And they would know- one way or another.

They put on their black leather jacket and grabbed their phone to leave the house, not bothering to say good morning or goodbye to their mother. She didn't bother either.

On their way to work Remy put in their headphones and let the music take over, trying to ignore the strangers looking at their face, now decorated with a black handprint.

A few miles away Emile stared at his right hand. Today was his eighteenth birthday as well and he couldn't help but overthink it. When he woke up this morning, his right palm was all black.

Emile's thoughts have been creating dozens of possible scenarios already. It could be a handshake, or a high-five. It could be a mark from holding someone's hand. Nonetheless, he worried a little bit. What if he would slap his soulmate? Could happen, right? Less likely than all those other possibilities but with his luck, that's what it was going to be.

He just took a shower and got dressed, a black jeans, a light blue sweater and his brown coat. He then grabbed his phone and backpack and left for uni, hiding his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Halfway there, Emile stopped at the local Starbucks and entered the café. It was a busy morning but to see his best friend Remy behind the counter brightened his mood. Somehow, Remy, as the most sarcastic and pessimistic, also unquestionably short-tempered person, always managed to cheer him up. As a psychology major, college took a lot of Emile's time and Remy covered many of their coworkers shifts, but they still managed to spend time together. Remy was working on one of the coffee machines with their back to Emile but their coworkers already noticed him.

From the other end of the long queue Emile watched Patton say a few words to Logan, then take a paper cup from the counter and make his way through the café to the psychology major.

Patton was older than Remy and Emile and already got his mark months ago. Two fine black lines on his forehead, looking like someone would touch him while brushing some hair out of his face. Logan didn't have his mark yet.

"Good morning, Emile. Remy already prepared your daily order!" Patton pulled them in for half a hug and light pats on his back before handing Emile the cup.

"Patton, hey! Thank you for bringing me my hot cocoa." Patton smiled so brightly, it was literally contagious, then pushed up the glasses on his freckled nose.

"Always my pleasure. We wish you a very happy birthday! Let's see your mark!" Emile took his right hand out of the pocket of his jacket and opened it, showing Patton the black palm.

The café employee was fascinated. "That is so cool!!" His eyes widened. "I bet it's a high-five! Or you shake their hand." Emile chuckled lightly, stepping out of the way for some customers exiting the Starbucks. "I hope you're right about that."

"You should see Remy's mark. But I feel like it's not my place to tell you about it." Patton's voice got softer. "They wish you a very happy birthday, they said they will text you after work." Emile raised an eyebrow in confusion. Where could Remy's mark possibly be? He was tempted to just walk over to the counter but even the fact that they're his best friend didn't change that right there and then would not be a good place or time to talk about soulmate marks.

Patton interrupted him spacing out. "Now off you go or you'll be late for your first class." He stopped while making his way back to the counter, turned around and made finger guns, pointing to the hot beverage in Emile's hands. "The cocoa is on us, by the way. As a birthday present."

Emile left the café, thinking about soulmates.

Remy's shift took forever. Even though they had a lot of work, time still refused to pass. They knew every customer at some point stared at the fresh black soulmate mark. And no one said it out loud but Remy knew they all shared the same thought. Their soulmate would hit them in the face. They tried their best to get on with work as if it was any other given day and forget about the handprint adorning their face but with every single new customer looking at them, they got reminded of what would inevitably happen.

After a long day of serving people all different kinds of drinks and cleaning more tables than they could count, they finally registered the cash and Patton locked the store. Logan's shift had already ended earlier that day.

The freckled boy put the keys in one of his pockets, then encouragingly looked Remy in their eyes. "Don't worry about the mark too much, Remy. It does not look like a slapping hand to me." Patton gave them a soft smile. "It's your soulmate, it will be alright."

Remy sighed and buried their hands deep in the pockets of their leather jacket. "I hope you're right. I don't think so, but I hope."

"Kiddo, you need to tell me as soon as you meet them!" Their customers couldn't exactly tell but Patton, Logan and Remy weren't only coworkers, they also were good friends, knowing each other almost as long as Remy and Emile knew each other.

"Of course I will. But only if you'll tell me about yours, and don't kiddo me, you're only a few months older!"

Remy put in their headphones after the two Starbucks workers said goodbye and went their separate ways.

At home Remy carefully walked into the kitchen, stopping close to the door. They watched their mother cutting some carrots for dinner before quietly speaking.

"Mom? I wanted to talk-" Their voice failed them.

Their mother put the knife down and sighed. "Speak, Remy. I don't have all evening." After eighteen years with their mother, she still managed to take away all of their courage the moment they tried to talk about something that was important to them.

"I-" Remy started, but it felt like all the sentences they formed on their way here were gone as if they didn't know any words, as if their head was empty, making room for anxiety to slowly fill their body limb after limb. Remy's heart raced, their body was so cold they felt it in their bones. They already regretted trying to get their mother to make up for last night.

She turned around, impatient of their child's silence, but of course noticed the mark before anything else. She raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like someone's gonna get slapped."

Remy started fidgeting with their fingers, took all the energy their racing heart provided them with to say it as quickly as possible. "I wanted to talk to you about last night." This was supposed to be about last night, not about the mark.

Their mother sighed again, crossing her arms. "Remy, there is nothing to talk about. I get it, your therapist diagnosed you with an anxiety disorder." She took a deep breath, like what she just said had cost her all of her energy. "Listen, we all get nervous sometimes and I could help you just as well, I don't see why you have to see a therapist for that."

Remy tried their hardest to not show their hurt as it climbed up their throat.

"But, mom-"

Their mother cut them off. "Well, thank you for the conversation, I was not done talking. I taught you better than speaking out of turn." She massaged her temple and closed her eyes, letting out an exasperated sight. "You don't understand my situation. What will people think? I need to get used to this."

She turned around, picked up the knife and continued cutting the carrots. A few seconds passed. By now Remy's chest felt like a rattling nest full of angry wasps, their breathing short and uncontrolled. "Don't tell me you're crying."

Remy was close to crying. But they knew their mother- crying was for weak people and they were not weak. They couldn't be weak. They tried to swallow the hurt, pushing it all down to wrap the angry wasp nest.

"I am-", they cleared their throat, taking a deep, long breath. In a voice, as steady as possible, they continued. "I am not crying."

"Good. Adults don't cry." Their mother put the cut carrots in the pot on the oven. "Do you want to help me cook dinner?" she asked, in a tone implying that this whole conversation didn't happen. Remy knew she simply couldn't stand the atmosphere she created. They wanted to cry.

"Actually, I am going to meet Emile."

Remy's mother aggressively grabbed the tomatoes. "I am doing everything for you, Remy." She almost threw them in the sink. "And I ask for help one time, just once, but no." She washed them quickly and started cutting. "I have to do everything myself. You're making me break down, do you hear me? I'm going to break down. You don't ever help me."

"Gee," Remy wondered while closing the kitchen door on their way out and leaving the house. They wiped their teary eyes, then pulled out the phone to text their best friend. "I wonder why."

This didn't go the way they planned. But then again, with their mother, things would never go according to plan.

Emile sat on his favourite table in the local library when he got a text notification. He tapped twice on his dark display to wake it up and read the message.

"Hey, can we meet?" Remy. Emile got excited. So their shift was finally over and they got to spend some time with each other.

He leaned back in his chair and typed. "I am in the library. Do you want to come here?"

It only took seconds for Remy to answer. "On my way."

Emile often came to the city's local library, sometimes to read but most of the time to study for an exam. Just like this day. He shifted in his chair to get comfortable and continued reading and making some notes.

After another ten minutes, he heard the big front door opening and quietly closing. A distant. "Hello, Remy!!"

Emile looked up from his book. Remy was here and that made him so incredibly happy, even though it was kind of late already and he was exhausted from hours of studying after a complete day at uni. He heard a weak "Hey." in response to Roman's greeting.

Emile's heart dropped. That did not sound good. The bad feeling in Emile's gut got confirmed when Remy appeared in his vision.

Head down, hands in the pockets of their jacket, walking with slow, tired steps. As if something had drained them for everything they had- or someone. Emile knew about their mother, she was something Remy had been dealing with their whole life, much longer than Emile knew them.

He stood up and walked around the table to Remy, softly pulling them in for a hug. Remy slowly put their arms around Emile as well and buried their face in the taller boy's neck, holding him close. Emile carefully put one hand on the back of Remy's head as he slowly rubbed their back with his other hand. Neither of them moved.

Remy was safe now. They could cry now. Feeling Emile's beating heart so close to theirs, his warm-sunshine presence all around them, feeling his hands holding them, his steady and calm breathing, Remy finally felt like they could give in to the hurt stinging in their chest, poking the angry wasp nest everytime they breathed in.

The words just spilled over. "Emile, you need to know that I love her. I do." They paused, getting quieter with each word they said. "She just makes it so hard for me. And- and I think she loves me. I mean, she has to, she just has to-" Their voice cracked as tears filled their closed eyes. Remy was glad their face was hidden, that no one could see them this vunerable, even though Emile kept telling them, crying was healthy and human. "I just can't- I just can't feel it."

Emile closed his eyes, fighting back his tears. This was Remy's moment and he knew they didn't get many of those.

"Remy, it's alright. You're here with me now, only with me." Emile's reassurance was nothing more than a quiet, soft whisper, and that was all Remy needed.

"I'll be here until you're okay." As Emile felt their shoulders trembling, he pulled them even closer, holding his sobbing friend in silence. Minutes after minutes passed, neither of them knew how long they stood there, until Remy had cried all that there was for them to cry.

"Thank you, Emile." Remy mumbled, definitely sounding like they were feeling better. Emile slightly loosened up, not enough to break the comforting atmosphere, but enough to have their foreheads almost touch. He cupped their face, carefully wiping away the tears. "Always, Remy."

"Heeeyyy, guys. I just wanted to tell you it's almost closing time."

Emile waved Roman hello as Remy turned around, startled by the librarian who popped up out of nowhere as he continued talking.

"But if you want to stay a few- uh more minutes that's- that's not a-." Roman's words failed him, leaving him speechless for a few seconds.

"Woah. Those are fucking magnificent marks." Helpless faces stared at him, as if he just spoke in a different language. Roman cleared his throat and gestured at the stains. "Yea, your soulmate marks, don't tell me I am the first to see them!"

Emile looked at his hand, the palm no longer black but instead looking like white marble. At the same time Remy carefully touched his face, right where Emile's hand was just a moment ago while they turned around to their best friend again.

They looked at each other. Emile's heart grew warm as he saw the young adult standing in front of him. His best friend with not only a clueless look on their face but also a handprint in the most beautiful blue Emile had ever seen.

Roman was sure, at this point Emile made actual heart eyes at Remy. He smoothly stepped forward and handed them a tiny mirror. He believed it to be of great importance to always carry one with you. Roman then left them alone to put a few more books back in the shelves. It appeared this day he could not close on time, but it didn't bother him at all.

Remy couldn't trust their eyes as they saw their reflection. The hand print that shocked them so much this morning, that made them so angry, that they slowly knew they would grow to hate was now as blue and deep as the sky.

They looked back at Emile, delicately waving his right hand, the palm like white marble. He had a smile that bright, it could easily compete and win against the bubbly-sunshine Patton.

Emile raised his hand and carefully put it on his friend's face. That touch alone was enough to make Remy burst into tears of happiness as they fell into a tight hug. They could have spent hours standing there, holding the other as close as physically possible, if it weren't for Roman.

"Guys, I am having a Déjà vu here." They let go of each other, just then being able to stop laughing.

Emile looked like he would pass out from excitement any second as he very proudly declared: "Well, looks like I have the best freaking soulmate on this planet, huh?"

Remy took Emile's hand in theirs, tracing the grey lines. "Emile." They cleared their throat as they met their soulmate's rich chocolate brown eyes. "I don't need fate to know we're meant to spend our lives together."

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you have a sensitive gag reflex? Yes. Certain smells will trigger it, too. Like, the smell of old food for example. The other day my mom was cleaning out some leftovers from a few days prior from the fridge, so she dumped the food in the sink and used the garbage disposal, then cleaned the containers the food was in. The smell was so overwhelming to me when I went into the kitchen that I started gagging really bad and had to get out of there. She ended up pouring some cleaner stuff down the sink to try and get rid of the smell, but I still had to stay out of the kitchen for awhile. No one else was bothered by it. I’m really sensitive to smells.

Where are you the most ticklish?  My neck.

What was the last situation to upset you?  Well, it was more irritating and pissed me off, but last night while I was eating some stupid annoying gnat kept coming near me and my food and when it would land, I’d try to kill it, but it kept getting away. THEN, something buzzed by my ear and I saw a fly flying around my room, too! It finally landed on my table next to my food, but of course I couldn’t find the fly swatter. So, I was just super annoyed at that point and quickly finished my food. Later on I’m in the living room and I had placed my cheesecake on the TV tray I was about to eat, which thankfully it was packaged, and stepped away briefly to get something. When I came back, the stupid fly was on it! I finally found the fly swatter and swatted the hell out of that thing. Take that fly! Don’t mess with me. lol. I’m so glad my cheesecake was packaged because I would have been PISSED if it landed ON the cheesecake. I swear they like to taunt me and only me.

Have you ever had an online argument? Yeah.

Do you like to listen to music while filling out surveys? I listen to ASMR videos while doing them.

Do you ever eat/drink while you fill them out? Not eat, but yeah I always have something to drink nearby, even if just water. 

Have you ever done a survey whilst high or drunk? How’d it go? Yeah. It went fine?

Are you at risk for any medical issues?  I know there’s a history of diabetes that runs in the family as well as different cancers. <<< Same.

The general subject of your last text conversation? My mom asked me what I wanted for dinner.

Is there anything near you that’s considered dangerous? No.

What is just down the hall from where you’re located? The bathroom and my parents’ room.

Do you ever do surveys at other peoples’ houses? No. I’ve always just done them at home by myself.

Do any of your friends know you fill out surveys? I don’t have any friends, so.

What is your least favorite question to answer? In a survey? Questions about exes, who I last kissed, who I like, relationships, getting married, having kids... they’re in every survey it’s annoying.

Do you like the controversial/​political surveys?  Nooo. I don’t do those.

Do you tend to answer with only a phrase or word, or do you elaborate?  Some questions don’t require much, but I definitely elaborate where I can and feel like doing so. Makes it more interesting.

Who/What did you last spend time worrying about? My pain doctor wants me to get a CT Scan for some ridiculous reason. Like, we know the source of my back pain, I’m a paraplegic with scoliosis and metal rods who has had 2 spinal fusion surgeries.. it’s really no mystery. And some other things that have already been determined by other xrays and doctors in the past that contribute to my pain. It’s an ongoing, chronic issue; nothing has or will change. I’ve been going to this place for almost 3 years and the previous doctor saw my medical records and knew my history, she didn’t need to order more xrays. Well, last month I was given a new doctor cause the previous one left for whatever reason and this new one wants to order xrays, tests, and physical therapy??? It’s ridiculous. She just comes up in here and orders random stuff, ignoring everything previously. She also told me last time if I don’t get the CT Scan she won’t prescribe my medicine. She wasn’t a pleasant woman at all. It’s so fucked up. It’s all for money.

Has anyone ever told you that you needed to get a life? Did you? Not to my face, but I’m sure people think that. I’ve said that to myself numerous times. But no, I’m still lifeless. How does one obtain “a life”, exactly? Is it something I purchase? 

How long do you spend on the phone each day, on average? I rarely talk on the phone, certainly not daily. If I talk on the phone, it’s very brief. My parents or my brother are the only ones who call me and it’s just to ask or tell me something, or my mom calling me on her lunch break to talk for a bit.

How about in the microwave? Are you more likely to use this? I haven’t had to use it much in awhile. 

Is anything in your hair right now, like gel, hairspray, &etc? Nope.

How do you typically style your hair? Does it take long? Ha, style my hair. By style I just throw it up in a messy bun or pony tail. 

Would you try to be a hero in a hostage situation? I don’t think I could. :/ I wouldn’t be of any use or help. 

When were you last offered something illegal? I don’t get offered illegal things.

Did you accept or decline that offer?

When was the last time you were up before the sun? For most of this year since I haven’t even been going to bed until like 7 or 8AM. :X

What are you most confident about? Most insecure about? I’m confident that I’m a mess and insecure about everything.

When was the last time that you saw fire? Last December in the fireplace.

Do you like wearing sunglasses? Why or why not?  I don’t wear sunglasses. I have to wear glasses all the time or else I can’t much for shit. I could get prescription sunglasses, but nah. I’ve had transitional glasses in the past, but adding that gets pricey and I’m honestly fine without it. 

What do you think in general of girls with short hair? I don’t think anything?

How about guys with long hair? Do what you want. 

Where’s the best place to get your favorite dish? Wingstop.

When are you most likely to fill out a survey?  Between like 3-7AM. Sometimes a little later. My sleep schedule is a real mess.

What’s the last thing you put in your mouth? Starbucks Doubleshot energy drink.

Last person you rode in a car with under the age of 20? Uh, my brother before he turned 20? lol. He’s 21 now. I’m not around any teenagers or kids. 

Last time you walked further than a block? Uhhhh.

Can you play guitar hero?  I rock out on easy mode, ha. I wanna play now.

Name the last person that made you laugh?  My mom.

What brand of digital camera do you own?  I don’t. I just use my phone’s camera.

If you could move somewhere else, would you? Yes, my family and I want to.

Have you ever seen somebody get shot? No. I’m a victim of gun violence, though.

Where are you at right now?  In my room on my bed.

[lovestrucked-again]

Run - BamBam Mafia

Based on a short BamBam Mafia dream I had...

Summary: If you listened to BamBam then maybe things wouldn't have been as bad as it went. 1000 Words

                                                     Masterlist

________________________________________________

“You need to learn to defend yourself.” he groaned, annoyed at having to repeat himself about the same thing.

“I can,” you argued, looking out the window of the car.

“Running and hiding doesn't count babe,” he sighed, tapping against the steering wheel. You knew what he was talking about though. Recently, the amount of incidents occurring weren’t coincidental anymore. People were starting to gossip about your relationship with a mafia member and you were gaining more attention as a target. Personally, you weren’t a fan of his job but you also didn't feel like you had a say in his choice.  

“Why are we going shopping anyway, you have heaps of clothes,” Bambam asked.

“Well, I’m going to meet up with Jenna, I haven’t seen her in ages.” You could pretty much feel the intense eye roll he was giving.

“So remind me why I’m coming along.” He smirked, “Has she been getting on your nerves recently?” he continued, tapping the side of his jacket where his gun is usually hidden.

“No Bam you’re not killing anyone, ESPECIALLY not any of my friends.” You stated, pointing a finger at him.

“Fine, but if she says one more thing about us being together, I’m not going easy on her.” He said, pulling into the underground carpark of the shopping mall you were meeting at.

“She’s just worried about me, she means well.” You argued, pointing to the 1 free parking spot among the floor in sight. Bambam followed your direction and pulled into the spot.

“I mean well too,” he said all sulky as he switched off the engine.

“Yeah I know,” you laughed.

You both got out the car and started walking into the building. This was one of the most popular shopping centres that happened to be owned by one of Bambam’s friend so you had a few benefits including reserved parking spots. Bambam had a couple of cars, some that stood out like crazy and others that blended in a little more with the public. He kept a few cars everywhere, including in the underground carpark here. You had your own car of course but he refused to let your drive it claiming that it was a safety issue. You had a spare key to pretty much all of his cars but you barely drove.

“I’ll meet you here in a few hours, give me a call when you’re done,” Bambam says, standing in line at a Starbucks café. He was planning to do a few ‘business’ calls while you were shopping.

“Yeah I’ll see you soon,” you say, giving a quick kiss and bouncing off on your way.

You and your friend, Jenna, hadn’t seen each other in ages thanks to Bam’s strict rules about staying hidden from the public. You knew he was just trying to protect you and that was one of the things you were aware of before you started dating. However, as he always says, nothing ever goes well when the two of you are apart. The sirens of the shopping mall had started blaring followed by a big shake in the ground and a loud bang. You looked at Jenna who was just about to pay for a cute dress.

“Jenna did you drive?” You asked immediately.

“No, I was dropped off.” She yelled over the speakers.

“THE BUILDING IS CURRENTLY IN AN UNSTABLE CONDITION, PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE STAFF, THANK YOU”

“Let’s go!” you screamed, grabbing her hand and dragging her with you. You ran towards the carpark without thinking, focusing on getting your friend out of the building as quick as possible.

“Aren’t you coming!?” Jenna asked in disbelief as you tossed her the keys to one of Bam’s cars.

“No, I have to find Bambam,” you shouted. Another explosion somewhere went off and the ground shook again. “Hurry up and go!!” you panicked, pushing her into the car and standing back. You pulled your phone out and pushed your speed dial for his number. Your phone didn't even dial; the service had been cut. Goddamn it

You started pushing against the crowd that had started swarming into the carpark, heading back to Starbucks. However, you noticed a mother and child who seemed to be in a complete frenzy and tapping away at their phones.

“There’s no service. You have to leave!” you yelled, running towards them and waving your hands. Another bomb went off. The roof of the carpark was starting to collapse and gunshots were now going off. You looked towards the sounds of the gunshots and a second later, you could see a few figures walking towards you, a definite presence within them. You stood in front of the mother and child, taking a fighting stance but also knowing your likelihood of surviving this. However, before they could raise their gun at you, the roof collapsed and blocked off the distance between you and them. The child screamed and you turned around, hovering around them, using yourself as a shield. But you didn't get hit, instead you felt someone covering over you. Once the movement stopped, you looked up and saw Bambam over the three of you.

“Are you okay?” He asked, standing up fully as he gripped you into a hug.

“Yeah I’m fine, did you get hurt?”

“No, I’m okay.” He was scanning you up and down, turning you around to look all over you for anything.

“I’m fine, seriously.”

“Where’s Jenna?” he asked a little confused.

“I gave her the keys to one of the cars and had her leave.”

“Why didn't you leave with her!? I told you before, if anything like this happens, don't find me. I’ll find you!” He says. But before you could say anything, a gunshot goes off and Bambam pulls you closer to him. He makes you stand straight in front of him. Holding the sides of your shoulders and looking dead into your eyes. “Listen closely to me Y/N, take the mother and child, drop them off somewhere safe and go straight to the safe house. One of the boys should be there.”

“You want me to leave?!” You squeal in disbelief.

“OF COURSE I WANT YOU TO LEAVE. NOW GO!” he yells, handing the keys of the car you came in. You look at the mother and child whose eyes are now focused on the conversation between the two of you. You look back at your boyfriend whose now holding a handgun and a dead serious expression on his face. You look at the approaching men.

“I’m giving you 2 hours, be home by then.”

[translightyagami]

Lawlight+ all the numbers? Pls quench my thirst

1) who can outdrinkthe other?

If we’re going off canon, I’d say both of them are under thetable after one and a half drinks. There’s no way they’re not lightweights. Theyare getting sloppy drunk on a big shared drink of red wine mixed with Coke anddying in bed the next morning.

2) who says “I loveyou” more?

L, as a power play, but it never works as good as Light’smeasured response which is always a hand on L’s upper arm, squeezing, while hesays “How much?” He likes a sure thing, some love he can quantify, and that’swhat L will give him.

3) who has troublesleeping alone?

Both. Previously, they were single sleepers who hatedsharing beds w anyone, Light a little more amendable bc he’s had to share withSayu before but just as unhappy when forced to share at all. Yet, after severalyears, they suffer when not in the same bed and so they will facetime wheneverseparately sleeping. Light goes to sleep with the laptop still open on theright side of the bed, snoring as L keeps working and checking the screen incase Light says something funny in his sleep.

4) who swears more?

Already answered

5) who does more ofthe housework?

Watari

6) who forgets theiranniversary?

Neither of them. Light keeps a schedule the way you mightbuild a gingerbread house—every piece cut precisely and put in place with theknowledge that to miss anything would be inviting the structure’s collapse—and Lhas a photographic memory so if he sees a date on a calendar, he remembers it.

7) who steals theduvet in their sleep?

Light, but it doesn’t really count as stealing if L neveruses the duvet in the first place. He even turns it over to Light whenever theyget in bed because he doesn’t like sitting on it. Too cushioned to be a stablespot for work.

8) who keeps theother awake at night with their snoring?

Light doesn’t snore but his nose does whistle while hesleeps. L was awake anyway and he enjoys the sound—like a flute but thinner andmade completely of Light.

9) who finds strayanimals and begs the other to let them keep them?

Oh for sure Light. Who else but the boy who kept a Shinigamilike a pet for years would pick up rain soaked cats and see an opportunity formore loyalty? Who else but Light, who loves to be loved, would keep bringinghome those cats to feed them, wash them and keep them warm until they followhim around wherever he goes? But he doesn’t beg L to keep them. One day theydon’t have cats and the next they do. L doesn’t really care, as long as thecats don’t bother his pet rat. That’s the deal.

10) who usually makesdinner?

Watari.

11) who plays theirmusic out loud?

L always forgets his headphones aren’t in and suddenly thewhole building is treated to wall shaking Brockhampton being played from hiswireless speakers.

12) who hogs thebathroom?

Answered already!

13) who gives themost compliments?

I see them having a fair exchange of compliments, altho itsprobably weighted more toward L who knows Light loves to be praised. He candrop any number of compliments on Light’s work ethic, deductive reasoning orhow he sounds, so strong in his convictions. They all give him different butsimilar outcomes: a smile or laugh, both small. Enough to know Light issoftened, even a bit.

14) who usuallystarts/causes arguments between them?

Neither of them need or want a routine cause for arguments.They enjoy the freshness of getting into arguments about any and all things.They got into a fight about which Starbucks pastry is the best (Light firmly inthe chocolate croissant corner, L defending the vanilla cake pop) which endedin a light dry humping in the car home. The bigger issues aren’t arguments.They’re more like bills that still have to be edited before they pass. The “Youmade my dad hold me at gun point” and “You may have committed mass murder”clauses aren’t being argued, they’re being…..discussed. heatedly.

15) who isn’t afraidto embarrass the other in public?

L doesn’t get embarrassed because he doesn’t think aboutother people. Light is only embarrassed by overt shows of physical affectionbut doesn’t mind it when L kisses him. They’re both just a little too full ofthemselves to really get embarrassed by each other. Idk. This could’ve beenfunny but like I can’t see either of them acting in an infantile way toembarrass the other. It’s poor sportsmanship.

16) who gives theother cringeworthy pet names?

Light hates all pet names so when L calls him babe he’s like“don’t call me that infantile name” and L is like “okay. Can you hand me thechapstick, adult man?”

17) who fusses overtakes care of the other when they get sick?

Already answered!

18) who finds itimpossible to stay angry at the other for long?

L is willing to compartmentalize his anger to get stuff doneand rlly forgets about past offenses. He does the same with other people heworks with and he’s more willing to do it for Light than most because, ofcourse, they’re kissing. Light, however, can stay angry for so long. Crazylong. An unbearable amount of time. Just look at fucking canon. He kept a sixyear grudge against L, who was DEAD and BURIED, held in his heart even whilereal shit happened.

19) who clings to theother for comfort when they’re sad or scared?

Neither of them rush to physical comfort but L leans into itduring very emotional times. He also does it because he knows that clinging isa signal to Light about how bad hedoes feel.

20) who is more‘physically passionate’? (hugs, kisses, or maybe more…)

They both can’t keeps their hands off each other. It’s afree for all. At all times, emotionally and physically, they are engaged witheach other. That’s how it be!

[sgnolivia]

weird flex— are you okay??

two days into maybe-olivia’s eat-pray-love-crush-enemy-skulls pillage of cleveland, she’s struck by a migraine so searing that she has enough presence of mind to google psnn hesd dyig strook e ? before she’s left twitching in a trash heap behind starbucks.

two days into maybe-olivia’s eat-pray-love-crush-enemy-skulls pillage of cleveland, she’s struck by a migraine so searing that she has enough presence of mind to google psnn hesd dyig strook e ? before she’s left twitching in a trash heap behind starbucks.

it’s still light out when her brain stops trying to design, manufacture, and detonate it’s own atomic bomb. maybe-olivia isn’t sure if it’s been three hours or three days. the double chocolate chip frappe she bought t-minus five to blackout (ha!) has solidified on her pants. she can taste seafoam under her tongue.

she stares up at the sky in muted exhaustion. 

god, it’s me, she thinks. i would like to invoke my right to choose. 

perhaps if the zygote tube had been pro-choice, none of this would be fucking happening. 

the lizard takes over all executive functioning at that point, forcibly ejecting her from the drivers seat. when she blinks down at her shirt it’s neon green and has a fun i love chicago! written across a black skyline. 

maybe-olivia wonders if she saw the blue bedroom and doesn’t remember it. hopefully the lizard wrote it in the unicorn book.

not that it matters. what’s another forgotten thing in the grand scheme of it all? it’s a fifty-fifty shot she’ll remember anything she’s written in the notebook, anyway. her memory is half a step above melted swiss cheese. 

from that point on, every decision is like russian roulette with a gun that’s fully loaded. maybe-olivia has no fucking idea what’s going to set her spinning into a migraine or send her flying off the realm of human existence or remind her, hey, she fucking loves macaroons. it’s a lot of calculated risks and maybe-olivia discovers that she’s very bad at math. 

it goes on like this for an indeterminable amount of time. 

she tries to balance her world-wide assassination tour with her brain’s need to self-destruct every seventy-three seconds. it is difficult. 

after the act of dying her hair a soft brown sends her tripping into a panic attack, shivering violently and puking all over the nice bathroom of the vacation home she’s squatting in, maybe-olivia decides this isn’t working. 

the unicorn notebook is full, so maybe-olivia unpacks the glittery purple one she bought to replace it. the pen that lights up was lost somewhere in bolivia so she has to settle for a fatter pen that holds four different wells of ink. she feels traitorous for liking it more than its predecessor. 

option 1:

die. 

honestly, this is the easiest and most cost-effective route. at this point she’s ninety-five percent sentient machine gun. there wouldn’t be much lost. blackout was set to be decommissioned after operation foxtrot anyway. maybe-olivia would just be finishing what was set into motion a long time ago. 

she switches the pen into the blue inkwell and sets up a t-chart.

pros:

no more migraines.

won’t wake up in romanian hostel.

stop randomly puking.

permanently get rid of lizard.

cons:

maybe-oliva sits back in the chair. this list is marginally harder. 

agency is exhausting and confusing. some days she’s completely post-verbal and other days she can only speak argentinian spanish, despite having no memories related to argentina. some days she physically can’t wake her body up for more than six minutes at a time. most days she throws up everything she tries to eat. 

maybe-olivia wishes she was strapped back into her holding cell in the unnamed facility, twelve floors below the earth. 

this transforms her body into a wet chihuahua. it takes four hours to pull her bones back inside her skin and another two just to get off the floor. 

jesus, she thinks, and adds keep bones in skin to the pros list. 

she ruminates on her death for a bit, losing time to daydreaming about the endless sleep that might await her. none of her training covered the afterlife so this is as much a guess as everything else in her life. maybe it’s an endless blank void. maybe it’s burning in a pit. maybe it’s a another shot. maybe-olivia hopes not. she doesn’t know if her spirit can handle another go-round of this. 

but, her brain lizard pipes up, then they would win!

maybe-olivia growls out loud and pointedly tells it to shut the fuck up even if she begrudgingly admits that it has a point. 

if she dies, then director howard lives. 

this alights something hot deep in her gut. it feels like she has to puke and run fourteen miles at the same time. there’s no way in hell marcus fucking howard gets to live over her. fuck that. fuck that. 

and really, doesn’t she deserve that? doesn’t she deserve the right to drag howard out of his villa safehouse, shove a piece of rubber in his mouth, break all his fingers, and ask what her real goddamn name is?

project sisyphyus has been trying to kill her— the real her— for eleven fucking years and they still haven’t gotten it done. she wins, they lose. they’ll have to try harder. 

she writes fuck that in the scrawling, bunched together lettering she’s beginning to associate with her own personal handwriting. it’s nice. it feels like she owns something.

fuck that.

if they want me dead, they better fucking find me.

option 2:

get it the fuck together

there are no cons to this. she doesn’t need a t-chart. 

getting it together proves to be a con all on it’s own. her brain is a glorified vegetable but it’s all she’s got. it’s not like she can swap it out for a new one. it needs serious repairs though, and short of hooking her scalp up to a car battery, maybe-olivia isn’t sure how to go about this. 

google is, though.

and google doesn’t care if she has to look something up four times an hour. it points her towards helpful websites. searching how do i get my memories back and following it with who the fuck am i six times in half as many hours points her to a self-help thread which leads her to a diagnosis forum. she has acute brain trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder, dissociative episodes, panic attacks, and sometimes seizures. also, maybe arthritis. she has to ask google what dissociation means. 

maybe-olivia is struck with the overwhelming knowledge that other people know what she’s going through. there are other people who fell head first out of a plane with no parachute and have been hurtling towards the ground for as long as they can remember. sure, they haven’t been tortured and brainwashed and denied the basic human rights that are allocated pretty much across the board but she doesn’t care. she feels connected to these people who live half outside of their skin, wondering the earth like zombies chewed up in the garbage disposal. 

they teach coping strategies. ways to fake normal existence so that it seems like they’re living in the same reality as everyone else. how to breathe when her lungs collapse. how to avoid physical contact in day-to-day situations. 

a lot of them gently suggest finding creative outlets for her feelings. she tries writing but after penning an expansive four page letter in cantonese only to suddenly forget how to read cantonese, she gives that up. 

she decides she isn’t really ready to sift through her emotions. her bodies fucked up instincts are enough without trying to decide if she’s depressed, furious, or anxious on top of it. 

google assures her that recovery happens in stages and at her own pace. if you aren’t ready today, try a little bit more tomorrow. 

her brain still jerks her around like it’s the worlds most aggressive dog owner and she’s the runt of a teacup poodle’s litter, but it works to her advantage. no one can track her if even she has no idea where she’s going next. the targets come in migraines, in hallucinations, in dissociative fits, but they come and maybe-olivia dutifully follows, even if she can’t remember doing it. it’s admittedly a reckless strategy but if there’s a part of her that isn’t a screaming disaster then she hasn’t recovered that part yet. 

she reviews her notebooks every few days, now. they look like they’ve been written by at least four people, one of them being a small child. there’s a variety of languages, handwriting styles, codes, and small illustrations. one page just says fuck licorice in increasingly bold font, fiercely underlined and surrounded by aggressive exclamation points. 

it doesn’t do much except reaffirm that she has the minimal amount of control required to be a human being, but that’s okay. 

a lot of her problems sort themselves out once a helpful blog post points out that she’s eating about a third of what’s required of adult women. this is mostly because she constantly throws up anything that tastes more flavorful than wheat bread but also because she’s never really had to feed herself before. hunger is just another loud, shrieking signal her body sends at her to inform her that something’s wrong, but it sends fifty of those a minute. how’s she supposed to know where the problem is?

a steady combination of pedialyte, muscle milk, and a bottle of gummy vitamins becomes the solution. she has to set alarms to remind herself to drink them and it isn’t ideal, but it keeps her caloric intake up, and solves the arthritis issue. 

it also makes it easier to actually keep the memories she recovers which is a huge win. 

that doesn’t mean things are smooth by anyone’s standards, including her own. random things still absolutely kneecap her— a dad yelling at his son, a lawn mower starting up outside the motel, her own abilities blinding her first thing in the morning. but every incapaciting moment gives a clue. 

a car backfires on the road and maybe-olivia darts behind a minivan, seeing both the tan metal under her hand and white sand beaches. 

239948S462569W

maybe-olivia has never infiltrated a fully-staffed enemy facility on her own before. that’s alright. it can be a learning experience for everyone. 

[navpike]

it’s that time of year yet again folks! time for me to round up the lot of everything i wrote this year and throw it at you all like a proud parent! this year i managed to publish 217,613 words across 22 fics, with an untold number more unpublished (some of which belong to an original novel i started at the beginning of the year, and an autobiography i dipped my toes into as well!) let’s dive in! 

(a ** denotes some personal favorites!)

DC FICS:

Time And Again (28303 words) [batfam, bg dickwally, jayroy, superbat]:

Dick Grayson comes to live with Bruce Wayne on a Tuesday afternoon when he’s nine years old. It’s a Tuesday like any other, so Bruce settles the boy in and leaves him in Alfred’s capable hands after dinner and heads out for patrol. Gotham’s underworld does not take a day off, and therefore Batman cannot either. Dick awakes in the middle of the night and Bruce isn’t there. Alfred calms Dick down and sits with him and assures him that Bruce would have been there if he could and Dick believes him. Alfred's words can only maintain that belief for so long. Or, the one where Bruce doesn't tell Dick that he's Batman at first and things spiral out of control until people start communicating like adults.

Gold-Plated (1279 words) [batfam]:

It starts like this. Dick follows Jason into the cave, shouting at his brother’s back, while Jason roughly tugs at the release for his helmet. “I mean, I know you’re not going to stop dealing with all of your problems by shooting at them, but could you at least have the decency to not do that while I’m around? Could you at least pretend you still follow some sort of-” “Shut up!” Jason roars, whipping around to hurl his helmet at Dick’s head.

**Every Fiber of My Being (21376 words) [dickwally, batfam, bg timkon]:

As much as Dick and his siblings have argued, Bruce has never budged on his "Keeping Secrets Policy". There's not a person alive outside of the family that knows the secret identity of any of the Bats. Not even Dick's boyfriend. Dick understands the need for some secrets, knows that keeping their identities safe keeps them and their loved ones safe, but when he takes up the cowl, team dynamics aren't the only things that begin to change.

Tremble, Tremor, Shake (2118 words) [batfam]:

Tim doesn’t answer. He lurches like he’s going to go for the toilet again, but he doesn’t quite make it, instead dry heaving once, twice and then slumping against the wall again. Dick thinks that’s the end of it. He’s wrong. Tim slumps against the wall and immediately starts seizing.

**My Brain Occasionally Malfunctions (2243 words) [batfam]:

Dick was shot in the head. Such a serious injury is not without consequence. In which Dick's gunshot wound causes him to develop epilepsy and Jason has some thoughts on the fact that Dick tried to hide it from them.

Teenagers (1280 words) [dickwally]:

Dick and Wally have just found out that their twins have abilities and Damian's been training the twins behind their backs. Looks like everyone's revealing a secret tonight.

**Sign Your Life Away (23927 words)[timkon, batfam, bg dickwally, batcat, clois]:

The Wayne family is a good one, well known, well off, charitable, likable, politically unaffiliated. So when a treaty with Krypton is hinging on an arranged marriage, the Wayne boys are some of the first they approach. Tim is very, very aware that the name right underneath 'Wayne' on the UN's list is 'Luthor'. He can't allow some poor stranger to be forcibly bound to Luthor for the rest of their lives. So when they ask him, he says yes, before he can stop to think if this is actually a good idea.

MARVEL FICS:

**Project: Light (54526 words) [stucky]:

When Steve and Sam finally track down the Winter Soldier, the last thing they’re expecting is to find Bucky with a girl who’s calling him ‘Dad’. Steve doesn’t quite know how to handle that. The others know how to handle it only marginally better. Or, how to win over children and influence monsters: how Bucky’s surprise daughter helps the Avengers help Bucky find himself again, and how he finds Steve again along the way.

Always So Certain You're Fine (2252 words) [gen]:

They're grieving, sure, but they have a war to win, still, and by some miracle, they do it. Or, the Infinity War fix-it that no one asked for.

Suffer in Silence (6416 words) [thundershield]:

Five times Steve Rogers was in pain, and one time he finally wasn't.

**A Hero, Like Spiderman and Better Hawkeye (4286 words) [gen]:

If pressed to answer how he’d gotten to the top of the Avengers’ list of preferred babysitters/dog watchers, Peter’s not too sure he’d know what to say. In which MJ, Ned and Kate Bishop get roped into helping Peter babysit/dog watch, and things spiral wildly out of hand in a Starbucks.

Unexpecting (1893 words) [thruce, valsif]:

When they find themselves largely alone on Earth, tasked with preserving Asgard’s history and her people and working with Earth’s governments to settle political issues, and it seems like battle in another form, Thor and Brunnhilde find themselves seeking comfort in each other. It is harmless, (mostly) innocent fun, until they find themselves staring down at a little indicator, telling them that Brunnhilde is pregnant. In which Thor, Brunnhilde, Bruce and Sif raise a child together, and grow a little themselves in the process.

**What the Desert Will Let Him (5471 words) [samsteve]:

There’s an itch at the back of Sam's mind, that tells him to stay in DC and he thinks maybe this has something to do with The Voice and why he was thrown ass over tea kettle back into this world when he desperately didn't want to come back. In which Sam dies with his wing-man, but something sends him back to live out the rest of his life, because he's not done. There are people who need him, even if he doesn't know it yet.

**Wake Up Calls (4379 words) [gen, bg stucky]:

Bucky Barnes wakes up in Wakanda, the first time, and the second, and the third and fourth and twenty-eighth and sixty-first... Shuri starts out as an ally, and becomes a friend, and then might as well be his kid sister. Bucky and Shuri's relationship told through a few wake-up calls.

Dead Men Walking (16629 words) [gen]:

They don't always show it, but they've each got their own demons to battle. Peter keeps happening upon these battles. OR a bunch of times that Peter was there for the Avengers in a moment of need, and one time they were all there for him.

LGBTQIA(vengers) (3656 words) [stucky, natpepper]:

Steve Rogers comes out on a Tuesday afternoon. By Wednesday morning, it's hit every major news outlet. Twitter has some opinions, and Pepper Potts is taking no prisoners.

**Impact (6087 words) [winterhawk]:

Clint Barton is not born with wings. He is not a mutant, though he doubts that would have helped his case. He is an ordinary boy, until he, one day, is very suddenly not. Or: the wingfic nobody asked for, in which Clint's wings have brought him nothing but trouble until one day, they suddenly don't.

Perfect Men and Other Crimes (2069 words) [stucky]:

Bucky Barnes knows that he is lucky. He still cannot help but feel decidedly unlucky when he hears the New York Police Department’s new policy on partnering regular cops with enhanced ones. Bucky doesn’t have anything against enhanced individuals. He really doesn’t. But he is still profoundly uncomfortable around people who could snap him like a twig. Detective Steven Grant Rogers is exactly that.

Same Monster (2610 words) [gen, bg thruce]:

After returning to Earth, Bruce goes to visit his cousin when a case brings her to New York City. It doesn't go as planned. Or, the one where Jennifer Walters becomes She-Hulk, Bruce feels guilty, and Thor is a good boyfriend.

HAWAII FIVE-0 FICS

Can't Help DNA (5146 words) [mcdanno]:

The first time that Steve McGarrett and Danny Williams meet, Danny Williams is not holding a weapon. He has his hands in fists and Steve’s skin is singing in that way it does whenever he’s around someone else with the SuperGene. Steve, for his part, is pointing a gun at Danny’s chest and screaming at him which probably isn’t helping the situation, but he’s not going to admit that. He’s shouting, and then Williams is shouting and they eventually get their IDs out without Steve shooting anyone and without Danny’s Gene flaring up. It’s a win in Steve’s book.

Situational Awareness (6461 words) [mcdanno]:

Steve McGarrett has a soulmark from the moment he’s born. He has a mark that his dad covers up when he’s a baby, an ugly black thing in the shape of knuckles splayed across his cheekbone. Danny Williams gets his mark a few months after he’s born. There’s a black smear across the back of his hand and down two fingers and Danny dreams of the day his soulmate will touch him for the first time and set the mark alight with color. Steve McGarrett grows up hating his soulmark, Danny Williams dreams of the day he'll meet his soulmate. Somehow, against all odds, they find each other.

Things Unseen (15206 words) [mcdanno, bg konocat]:

Steve's known almost his whole life that his anchor was going to be one of the Kelly-Kalakaua family, the only ones strong enough to tie him to the Seen when he needed to talk to a spirit. What he did not know was how important a cop from Jersey who doesn't believe in ghosts would end up being. In which Steve and Kono are peak mlm/wlw solidarity, Danny is a wreck, Chin is tired and there are some ghosts.

[akocomyk]

June 5, 2022

I couldn't sleep last night. Lots of thoughts were flooding my head, and not all of them were good.

I usually cook our food during weekends, and because of my overthinking, I couldn't think clearly what to cook for Sunday.

So... To escape that responsibility, I decided to date myself. I kinda missed that. That era when I go out to eat dinner on my own every Friday after work, and go window shopping in the mall—or really do some spontaneous buying of random stuff.

And I didn't do it just every Friday back then. Sometimes I did it on weekends too... Coupled with me watching a movie I know none of my friends would dare to watch.

For today, I had a simple plan.

I went to SM Bacoor. I was to go first at Starbucks for breakfast and read Fire and Blood by George R. R. Martin, but when I was outside the café, I couldn't load up my card. I then went to Watsons across Starbucks to buy dental flosses and managed to load my card while I waited on queue.

At Starbucks, I ordered a grande salted caramel cold brew and sausage roll. I sat on a high table with stools at the far corner and finished my breakfast while reading my book. I was there until 12 noon.

I then went shopping at the department store. I bought a new french press, the zip ties my dad asked me to buy, and some other stuff.

Afterwards, I went down to the lower ground level, at the supermarket.

I left the shopping bag from the department store at the package counter, and placed the tag inside my left pocket along with my phone.

I tried to call my sister a couple of times while walking around the supermarket, asking if there's anything she'd like for me to buy. The signal wasn't okay below ground, so I sounded choppy from her end, but we finally got to hear each other clearly when she called me through my number.

So... I went on to buy some almond milk, cooking oil, chorizo, laundry soap, and fabric softener.

I then remembered the tag that I placed on my pocket. And voila! It was gone. I searched all the four pockets of my shorts, took out my wallet, phones and all, to no avail. I even tried to look inside my bag, even though I knew that I never placed it there. I tried to keep my cool, but I was panicking on the inside.

All I could think of was, "Wasn't there a fine for lost tags?" I was anticipating around 300 to 500 pesos. I was already thinking of any excuse to not pay for it, but I don't usually do that.

Hence, I didn't try to buy more than what was already in my grocery basket. I also tried to console myself by thinking that I wouldn't even be able to carry a lot of groceries since I'm on my own.

Anyway. I rushed to the cashier and went back to the package counter. I saw the sign that lost tags are only fined at 50 pesos. Half of my panic drifted away, and so I told the guys there that I lost my tag. They directed me to Customer Service. I reported my issue to the personnel, who then accompanied me back to the package counter for us to identify my package. I described to her what my package was.

When we arrived at the counter, I saw my shopping bag and pointed at it. The personnel took it and handed it over to me. I asked if everything's good, and she said yes. Apparently, someone found my lost tag and surrendered it to them. I didn't have to pay a fine.

That's when I realized that I haven't eaten lunch yet, and it's past 1:00 PM. I looked for a place where there's enough choices for tables where I can sit on my own comfortably. Banapple was it.

I ordered their crunchy chicken caesar fillet sandwich.

Although I was already done with everything that I've planned, I didn't want to go home yet because I knew it would still be pretty hot outside.

I thought about watching a movie, Top Gun: Maverick. But I remembered that people have to show their vaccination cards before entering the cinemas. I left my vaccination card at my backpack the last time I worked at the office.

So... I ditched the idea. I didn't want to go back to Starbucks, knowing that it's gonna be filled with people, but then I remembered there was a Macau Imperial Tea branch somewhere in the upper levels. When that branch was newly opened, people flocked it. But that was years ago, so I hoped that there would be fewer people.

And apparently, there were, and I saw a couple of empty tables.

I ordered a cream cheese osmanthus oolong tea. And the cup was really cute.

I'm a low key We Bare Bears fan, and so is my sister. I sent a picture of it to her, and she asked me to buy one for her.

I stayed at Macau for a while and continued reading my book while I finished my tea. At past 3:00 PM, I got up from my chair and ordered a no-ice cream cheese with pearl tea for to go.

That's when I went home.

What a day. And the day wasn't even finished yet.

[dont-doubt-dopple]

I'm ... Alive? (Ohmtoonz GTA AU)

A/N: So, I only partially blame me writing this to @poly-bus (great blog, check them out!) for getting the gears going and my brain for coming up with so many ideas for this. So, don’t panic, more is coming. Especially since this one is only Ohmtoonz and there is no Del or Bryce yet. They’re later, I promise. But enjoy!

Also, I’m stuck between doing another Ohmtoonz next or upgrading to H2O Ohmtoonz. Let me know which one you guys prefer.

~•~

“Do you know why I’m here?” Luke asked as he pinned the former client against the wall. The man was shaking like a leaf, his five eight stature seem like nothing compared to Luke’s six flat stance. The latter had to lift the quivering man just to get him to eye level.

“Because I owe you money?” Luke rolled his eyes quick before pushing his silenced pistol against the other man’s forehead. His eyes seemed to bulge out of his sockets at the inclusion of the new element.

“You don’t seem to learn, do you? This is a business, not a charity. I need the money NOW. Plus interest, of course.” Eyes never left the gun as beads of sweat dropped down.

“Listen, man. I can get it back to you. Just … give me time! I need more time.” The gun buried itself deeper into the man’s forehead.

“Times Up.” CaRtOoNz deadpanned, just as he heard another gun cock. It pressed itself against the back of his head.

“That goes for you as well.” A new voice, steady, replied. Luke pulled the trigger on the pistol, making sure it was only him and his aggressor in the alley. He made sure to the corpse up so there were no squealers. “Drop the gun.” Luke complied, holding the weapon out before dropping it a considerable distance away from himself. “Now drop the man.”

“Gladly~” Luke replied, dropping the lifeless body to the ground. “Although, it’s not so much a person anymore as it it a body.” The other person seemed to growl under their breath, and the smirk on Luke’s face only seemed to grow. “Mind if I turn around to see your pretty face?”

“Why not? Last face you’re going to see anyways.” Luke scoffed at the statement.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that phrase.” Luke took the time to reach around and grab the gun pressed against him. He twisted left, making his assailant loose his grip on the weapon as he pulled it foreword. He quickly turned, pointing the attackers weapon back on him.

Luke was met with a fine specimen. Hazel eyes stared back at him with determination not to give up anymore ground. His expression was hidden behind a gray bandanna painted with an omega symbol on the front. He was built, that much he could tell from his natural guns as he raised his arms.

“Who. Hired. You?” Luke punctuated, making sure his lust for the man in front of him didn’t show through his words. Luckily for him, he was able to hide his emotions very well.

“Can’t say. Clients are very scarce these days, and I don’t want to betray them.” The man in front of him smirked, just a little. “Not everyone can afford me.” CaRtOoNz frowned. High profile hitman, obviously.

“Why aren’t I dead than?” He blurted, trying to connect pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite for. The hitman raised an eyebrow, and hesitated a moment before replying.

“Your profile said you were the leader of one of the most prominent gangs in this city. Wasn’t going to eliminate another potential client. After all, this is a business.” He felt like the whole story wasn’t being told, but he left the issue slide. He needed to get out of here, before anyone realized a complication had occurred.

“Name?”

“Ohmwrecker.” Luke had heard the name floating around before, though he’d never had a need to use it. He’s always had confidence in his own abilities and those of his gang to get things done. He already had an ex-assassin on his side anyways, so what was the point of a hitman anyways?

“Alright then, Ohmwrecker.” Luke said, bending down to pick up his silenced pistol from the ground, before tossing Ohm’s pistol behind him. Ohm didn’t make a move to retrieve it as it was clear that Luke had control of the situation. “I would kill you, but you’re too handsome of an offer to pass up.”

“That supposed to be a compliment?” Ohm asked, and Luke laughed.

“Call me sometime, Ohmie~” Luke smiled, and walked away from the hitman. He didn’t need to look back to know he’d won that.

~•~

He was still stuck in Luke’s head. Ohmwrecker plagued his thoughts and left him with a sleepless night and a tired morning. Here he was, trying to drown his tiredness in coffee at a local Starbucks, all while a hitman that tried to kill him dominated his mind.

“Seat taken?” Luke looked up to stare back at familiar hazel eyes, and lips finally not concealed by a bandana. Luke matched Ohm’s warm smile, and gestured to indicate the seat was free.

“Well you obviously didn’t need my number to find me.” Luke stated, quickly taking a sip from his drink. Ohm laughed, while tried his hardest not to make out with him right then in there.

“A hitman must know how to locate his target, CaRtOoNz.” He purred. Luke held up his hand.

“We’re in public, baby. Call me Luke.” He could practically feel the sweat forming on his brow. Some of his best men didn’t even know that much about it, and here he was spilling it to a complete stranger that he’d managed to become infatuated with in under 24 hours.

“Well, in that case.” The hitman held out his hand. “The name’s Ryan. Pleasure to meat you.” Luke smiled and took the hand.

“The pleasure is all mine.” They broke away, and the two began talking. Talking as if they didn’t have a gun pointed at each other not a day earlier. Like their friends had set them up because the sexual tension was too much. If anyone looked their way, they would see two dudes trying to stubbly lean towards each other at a Starbucks table because they’re totally gay.

“So … is this a date then?” Ryan asked, hopefully.

“Yes.” Luke didn’t stutter, but the quick response had the other nearly choke on his drink. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Ryan waved off, pounding his fist twice on his chest to make sure everything was clear. “I just wasn’t expecting such a … direct answer.”

“Well, I’m a very direct man who is about to ask you a very direct question.” Luke proclaimed, before leaning his body toward Ryan as much as he could. “You want to be my boyfriend?”

Ryan pretended to scoff. “At least take me to dinner first.”

“Sorry if I wanted me to claim that ass of yours before anyone else did. Though, I didn’t quite get a good view of it yesterday.” Luke stands, trying to get different angles off to see Ryan’s butt. “I bet you got some good shots of my ass yesterday.” Luke turned around, and proceeded to strike poses while flaunting off his ass. He glanced at Ohm’s reddening face on his over the shoulder shot, and quickly morphed into a more … hinting pose.

“Luke…” Ryan whined. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“First off, if I’m embarrassing anyone it’s myself.” Luke explained as he retook his seat. “You’re not the one flaunting themselves off in a Starbucks. And second of all, you’re not inviting anyone of these people to your next family barbecue. So I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.” Luke leaned back in his seat, finishing off the drink he had ordered. “Still didn’t tell me if you got some good shots of my ass.”

“That’s … actually the reason you’re alive.” Ryan muttered, loud enough for Luke to hear but soft enough that nobody else did.

“Care to … elaborate maybe?”

“The deal you had the day before yesterday. I was on the roof of the building across the street from where you meet. I had just gotten you lined up in my scope when you turned around. I … I couldn’t pull the trigger. You were so goddamn HOT. Honestly the rest of the time I was staring at your ass. It’s a nice one; I have to admit.”

Luke blinked. “Well, … who know the mighty Ohmwrecker’s weakness was the fabulous CaRtOoNz’s booty.” Ryan playfully slapped him.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” Ryan smirked.

“Okay.” Before Luke knew what was happening, Ryan had grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss. After the initial shock, he let himself melt into the softness of Ryan’s lips. They said firing a gun had the same reaction as a passionate kiss. But Luke had fired tons of guns and nothing compared to this. Ryan broke away, there was a moment as both stayed silent. They could hear each other breaths as their foreheads remained touched.

“At least take me to dinner first” Luke finally said to break the silence.

“Shut up.”

[ruminativerabbi]

Guns in America

We give hurricanes and tropical storms names—or the World Meteorological Organization does—primarily to make it possible to reference them without having to remember their precise dates and where exactly they made landfall: talking about Harvey, Irma, and Maria is a lot simpler than trying to reference them as “that storm in Texas back in August…or was it September?” or “that hurricane that ended up on the other side of Florida from the one they expected it to savage.”  But although naming them surely does make it easier to talk about them, it also personifies them in a strange way that makes them sound less like unavoidable natural disasters and more like unwanted visitors whose arrival could presumably have been prevented had we only thought in advance to turn off the porch lights and pull in the welcome mat. (By the way, did you know there are only six lists of names used for storms in each separate ocean region, each series repeated every six years other than when super-storm names like Katrina are permanently retired and a new name starting with that letter is chosen? Click here for a list of the names of future storms through 2022.) Still, the practice is probably more useful than wrongminded, and it is at any rate here to stay.

We don’t have a similarly adorable way to refer to the perpetrators of mass shootings, however. Partially that is because the shooters actually have names and so hardly need new ones assigned to them. And using their real names feels right for another reason as well—because it is makes it feel more natural just to blame the shooter for the shooting and be done with it than to ask if society itself bears any responsibility for these horrific acts of bloodshed. And that impetus to look no further than the shooter to explain the shooting is incredibly strong. Indeed, when the President said the other day that the massacre in that Texas church was “about” mental illness and not guns, he was merely giving voice to the siren sentiment that Sutherland Springs had nothing to do with society itself, just with some crazy person who ran amok with a Ruger AR-556 semi-automatic rifle in his hands. And what could that possibly have to do with anyone other than the shooter himself?  Yes, it is true that there is the horrific mistake made by the Air Force in this specific case to take into account—an error that allowed a man with a criminal record for uncontrollable violence to purchase a gun he should have been forbidden by federal law to acquire—but that detail, for all it is truly upsetting, is also strangely re-assuring. It was just an error, you see: if the Air Force had correctly entered the shooter’s domestic violence court-martial into the proper federal government data base, then he would indeed have been barred from purchasing the weapon he used to murder all those innocents at the First Baptist Church last Sunday and his victims, including a dozen children, would still be alive. So it’s all about Devin P. Kelly, the shooter. And it’s a little bit about the Air Force. But it’s easy to insist that it’s not about anyone but the shooter…and particularly not about people who hadn’t heard of him or Sutherland Springs, Texas, until last Sunday.

That, however, is only one way to interpret things. If the President is right that this and similar crimes are all manifestations of mental instability on the part of the shooters and thus unrelated to questions of gun safety or gun control, then our nation—that had thirty times as many gun murders in 2015 than Canada, Australia, or Spain—should also have thirty times as many mentally-ill citizens. But I cannot find any survey that suggests that that is even remotely how things are. France, for example, is just behind us in terms of percentage of citizens treated for mental illness, but had one-thirtieth the number of gun murders that we did in 2007 (the last year for which I could find accurate figures)…just the same as the countries mentioned above.  So, whatever these figures ultimately mean, they clearly do not mean that we have thirty times the gun murders that other countries have because we have thirty times as many deranged citizens in our midst. (For two interesting surveys comparing the prevalence of mental health issues in various countries, click here and here.) But if that is the case, then why do we have these endless mass shootings to contend with in our country?

Part of the answer does indeed have to do with craziness, but not with the craziness of the shooters. In a Pew Research Center poll conducted last March and April, a full 11% of Americans responded that they did not feel that it should be illegal for mentally ill people to purchase guns. In a Quinnipiac University National Poll conducted last month, 12% of the respondents who live in households with guns responded that they saw no reason for a nation-wide ban on the sale of guns to people convicted of violent crimes. The response from respondents who live without guns was, in a sense, even more astounding: 15% of those responders—all of them people who themselves do not own guns—agreed that there was no need for such a national ban of gun sales to violent criminals. But even harder for me personally to fathom is that 7% of people who live with guns and 4% of people who don’t feel that there is no need to subject would-be gun purchasers to any sort of background checks at all—in other words, that guns should be sold in America in roughly the same way Starbuck’s sells coffee: to whomever walks in and has the purchase price in hand. And one final statistic to ponder: when asked if they agreed with the thought that a ban on the sale of guns to people convicted of violent crimes would reduce gun violence, 39% of people who live in “gun households” disagreed, as did 25% of people who live in households without guns. (Click here to see these statistic in more detail.)

I find all of the above unfathomable. Who are these people that don’t think that keeping guns out of the hands of violent criminals would reduce gun violence? It’s a good question, too: if 25% and 39% average out at 32% of our American population, that would be about 104 million people who don’t see a clear correlation between criminals owning guns and crimes that involve the use of guns being committed. Clearly, I’m missing something here. But what could it be?

The right to bear arms is part of our national culture, part of our distinctive American ethos. The Second Amendment guarantees the right of citizens to belong to armed militias—presumably envisaged by the founders as state-wide fighting forces called into existence to defend the citizenry against outside aggression—but already in our nation’s infancy this was interpreted to guarantee the right of individual citizens to bear arms even outside the framework of organized fighting forces. And the notion that reliance on a central government to make and keep the citizenry safe is invariably going to be a good idea is not a point anyone even slightly conversant with Jewish history can or should argue as though it were a self-evident truth. And so I find myself torn in different directions here, wishing the Jews of Kovno, say, had been armed when the Germans came to take their children, but—without feeling naïve or foolish—simply not believing that kind of danger to be plausibly something we could ever encounter in America.

In my heart, I really do think that America is different…and that the foundational ideas upon which our republic rests and for which it stands really do guarantee our safety more than a Ruger AR-556 in each of our broom closets ever could. And, that being the case, I simply don’t see how anyone can read the Second Amendment to imply that every citizen, even mentally ill individuals or people convicted of violent crimes, has the right to own weapons capable of murdering fifty-eight people in a matter of minutes, as Stephen Paddock did last month in Las Vegas when he started shooting from his hotel room window at concert goers gathered below. When the President said with respect to the massacre in Texas last week that this was a “mental health issue at the highest level,” he was entirely right—but not in the way he meant. Yes, I’m sure that Devin Patrick Kelly will be posthumously diagnosed as deranged. But truly crazy is a nation in which scores of millions of citizens do not believe that making an effort, even an only partially successful one, to keep guns out of the hands of violent criminals and mentally ill individuals would reduce gun violence in our land.

Clearly, this problem is not going to be solved with one grand gesture by Congress. But small steps forward are also worth taking. Writing in the Times last week, Nicholas Kristof offered a heartening parallel by pointing out that our nation had one-ninth the deaths in automobile accidents in 2016 than in 1946, and that those seventy years of progress can be explained by the slow, incremental introduction of more and more innovative practices that simply made fatalities in cars less likely: seatbelts, air bags, child safety seats, etc.  That is a dramatic change from my father’s generation (my Dad was 30 years old in 1946) to my kids’ generation (my younger son had his 30th birthday earlier this year). And it happened simply because there was a concerted, unambivalent national will to make it happen. And because scientists of various sorts were able to find ways to make cars safer without making them undrivable or unbearably slow or unwieldy. If that happened, and it did, then guns too can become safer. And the laws that govern their use can be made tighter in rational and reasonable ways…and without strangling or stunting the gun-owner’s legitimate right to bear arms. Take a look at Kristof’s article (click here), and you’ll see what I mean. Small steps are worth taking…even if they only yield truly dramatic results over decades.

If Sandy Hook wasn’t enough to bring us to our senses, it’s hard to imagine what would be. And yet…it simply doesn’t seem possible that there is no way at all to reduce gun violence in America. All that is required is some unequivocal national resolve to act…and creative, inspired leaders prepared to lead us up out of this morass into which we have sunk.