#no i can fix this situation if i micromanage the shit out of it what do you mean I CAN FIX IT—

[lizardinkart]

End of Ward spoilers thru 19.f below:

Hey. They need to stop being so loud over there. It’s hurting my ears.

[wormbloggign]

Glenn Chambers wore plaid pants with red and green, and a pink dress shirt, His belt bore a buckle with the PRT logo on it. His hair had changed too, parted neatly into what I assumed was ‘geek chic’, and the glasses had changed as well, with thick, round frames. An ID card hung around his neck. He didn’t fit any of those particular archetypes.

i love how shit his fits are. this man CANNOT dress. let him micromanage every aspect of your persona.

“Go, and hurry,” Glenn said.  “Tell them to fix it and cast another prototype before the run starts.  These are toys, they’ll be in the hands of children and collectors both.  The people who are buying these are fans.  What’s it going to say if their most immediate association with Esoteric is the broken toy sitting on a shelf?  It’s going to convey that he’s flimsy.”

ok thats just poor organisation, you'd have the base construction and elements of the doll figured out WELL before you start working on its visage. glenn has dropped in my opinion of him

“I asked to speak to you because I wanted you to know about the damage that’s being done.” “Ah, this is about the butterflies.” “It’s about a lot more than butterflies.  It’s the whole mindset.  The attitude of the heroes.  I’d talk to Chevalier, but he’s too busy.  I’d talk to Rime, but she’s recovering from being shot three times.  You’re the only other person I’ve met so far who really seems to be in a position to know what I’m talking about.  Besides, as far as I can figure, image and PR seem to be at the heart of the problem.”

she's back to her favourite pastime. (i genuinely love everytime she does this)

“The focus isn’t on lethal or nonlethal,” Glenn said. “It’s on whether we can trust you to keep on the path you’re walking. If you start taking shortcuts now, what happens a year down the line? If we decide you can go all-out in one specific situation, does that open the door for another?”

genuinely good point, good to see glenn is trying hard to properly vett new capes

taylor goes so hard as a monster i really do love it

“Until I turn eighteen,” I said, feeling a little hollow.

that's less than a year, you can handle that.

Chevalier approached.  “You murdered two people.  Three, going by your admission while in custody.  Two PRT directors, one major hero.  When Dragon and Defiant suggested we bring you on board, we were divided.  It was Glenn who offered the compromise that we ultimately agreed to.  This compromise.” I glanced at Glenn, who shrugged. Glenn?

glenn wanted an excuse to integrate hexagon tiling into NEW PRT advertising didnt he

“That’s why you’re waiting two years?  You think that it’ll take that long to vet me, before you can give me actual responsibility?”

two years? didnt she turn 17 around the time coil did his big bombing run? did she just forget?

LETS FUCKGIN GOOOOOO

that's genuinely horrifying, thanks

Mail from all around the United states.  From strangers, from fans. Words of support.  Criticism.  Death threats.

this is functionally the first time the general public has had the chance to communicate directly to her. yeah i expected as much

hes bumbling 🥺🥺🥺

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! what the fuck???

aishas doing great actually

lisa is lisa-ing

Atlas died.  I wanted to let you know.  Tattletale had him, but he wouldn’t eat or move.  We asked for him, and we found a place for him.  The guys say they think they know a good way to make a mold.  They’re covering him in brass. A way of saying you’re still with us.  Take care of yourself. -Char

MY BOY ;-;

silly goofy, rachels going through it.

overall, taylors polycule miss her and the others have their own thing

Withdrawing a notepad, I started sketching out the designs I was thinking of. Alterations to the costume, weapon ideas, tools and concepts.

!!!! !!!!

The costume Defiant and Dragon had given me was theirs, not mine.  The fighting style that had been dictated was Glenn’s and Chevalier’s. This, this would be me.

im gonna have to draw her new costume too when it get out arent i.

(we are pretending like im not incredibly excited about this development)

[other-peoples-coats]

coats hello :( weird question but i think i semi-majorly fucked up at work, do you have any general advice on dealing with that?

Hi anon! disclaimer up front: I am not a professional at anything related to like, mental health or employment law, I'm just a potato with some fucked brain chemistry and a willingness to read a lot of legal documentation.

that said: first up, I'm sorry, I fucking hate when that happens, you're 100% not alone and you're allowed to feel bad about it, but also, try and chill out. brains are shit. jobs are extra double shit. sometimes you fuck up and that's ok, you're human, you're allowed to fuck up and this isn't the end of the world.

second up: I don't know anything about what you fucked up, or how major it was, but like. there's probably been bigger fucks ups, likely even at your specific company/department. I can almost guarantee you that.

I also don't know what your particular job situation is re:how much going to your boss/leader/team and being like 'whoops there is a problem and I made it' will be detrimental to you - on the scale of 'your boss/person who keeps you employed' will be like DEATH TEN THOUSAND YEARS POVERTY (in which case: fuck them, most mistakes can be rectified and learnt from) to 'haha that's ok, lets work to fix it and make sure it can't happen again, no worries anon it happens', but you...will have a better idea of that.

either way, on the practical front: if what went wrong is something fixable, come up with a plan to fix it. doesn't have to be a huge apology tour /I will work day and night without food nor water nor rest until the kingdom is safe the fuck up is fixed / whatever, but y'know, if it's a 'I approved a print run and we printed 10,000 copies of this book which is missing chapter 6 entirely, has 3 chapter 9s, and misspells the author's name' (True story my wife has seen happen! on the milder end of the moderate fuck up scale!), maybe you're like 'I will re-read more thoroughly the approved document and run a shorter print run for quality/ work out how to organise our print schedule so everything is still done on time/what the fuck ever'. Leave room for your bosses to change stuff, because.... some people loooove to be able to Have Input, but be prepared to run with whatever you've got as a patch.

This will depend on your boss/organisation/field, obviously, so apologies for the generic sort of answer here. Some bosses fucking love it when an underling comes to them and is like 'hey problem (mea culpa) BUT it's not a you problem because I've already planned to fix it, just need you to ok the fix which you do not have to do any more work about', some bosses really want to be involved and micromanage it. or collaborate, or have eyes on something else that you don't know about that is also impacted.

Ideally, you also come up with a way you can try and avoid this sort of mistake in the future. not that you 100% will! but it looks good if you can be like 'I have learnt from my mistakes and in order to avoid them or similar in the future I will [whatever]'. Don't pitch this as a 'there's a problem with The Company's Processes'; that looks like shifting blame. (even if it's true.)

non-ethical corollary here: if your boss/job is the kind to be like 'you forgot to cross the t on page 15402, you're FIRED', and your fuck up doesn't actually endanger people (so like, you accidentally approved 40000 books to be printed wrong, not you accidentally put arsenic in the communal sugar pot) you might have to sort of. fudge it. a little bit. which I am not recommending, but also, like, sometimes you gotta 'haha whoops the technology demons anyway here's a fix to this totally unrelated to me problem'. This is not recommended. Do not do this if you are likely to be 1)dealing with the law about it 2)internally investigated about it 3)caught out about it or, frankly, 4)rewarded for the fix, but also, sometimes you just gotta throw some tech under the bus to make rent. It's shit. that's late stage capitalism for you.

Don't throw anyone else who's not related to it under the bus for your fuck up, though. That's dogshit behavior.

(please decide how comfortable with lying here you are. and how good at it you are. before you commit to this path. Which, again, I am not recommending, but also, I've definitely had jobs where 'haha the tech demons anyway here's a patch for this weird issue bye' was the thing standing between me and uh not making rent that month)

Emotionally, dealing with the 'oh fuck I fucked up I fucked up I fuckedup'...yeah. it's fucking rough. acknowledge (to yourself! fuck your boss, this is your emotional health not their business) that you did, that you didn't do it on purpose, and try and put into place strategies to stop it happening again, because even if your boss is like 'lmao no wukkas mate she'll be right we'll just patch it in post', you are probably in the 'I could walk into the sea' mindeset, and that's just how it sometimes be, because...brains bad ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

second: be kind to yourself! watch yr fave shows or play some games to not think about it for a bit. do your hobby. talk with friends. talk with friends about times they fucked up at work even! talk to your partner/s if you've got 'em about it; my wife was the one who started me on the keeping a book of communal fails to have an outside perspective on how mcuh everyone on my team fucks up.

I would probably recommend documenting everything related to this in a separate file NOT ON A WORK DEVICE cannot emphasize that enough, just so you have like, a clear timeline of events should you need it. ideally you end up with like:

-[thing you should have done]

-[thing you messed up AND WHEN YOU REALISED]

-next steps you took

-what your boss did in response

-any other stuff - your plan to not have it happen again, potential fall out, etc etc, any messages you have abou this or related yo this, who you've told what and when.

Hopefully you have this just as reference for yourself later - both as a 'last time I fucked up this is how it went!' and also, honestly, as a story for job interviews when they're like 'so tell us about a time you fucke dup at work'. (which is a cruel interview question, tbqh, but an increasingly common one, in my opinion.)

or to give to HR. like, I hope it doesn't get there, but like. y'know. cover thine own ass.

And finally -- again, keep that record of ways other people in your team are fucking up, to just kinda reassure yourself,. maybe even make it retrospective, if you can remember any other issues! remember last month when Jenny accidentally emailed the client briefing to George in accounting instead of George in accounts? in your note book of communal fails it goes. not to throw people under the bus, but to get a more objective sense of how bad this actually is on the scale and how unusual. (weight it though; you're more likely to remember your own fuck ups than anyone elses).

But also like. it's ok. you're allowed to fuck up sometimes. I'm sorry that you did, and I'm not saying that it's gonna be fun or easy to deal with, but like. You're human. You're allowed to fuck up sometimes.

(also, anyone who is actually a experienced in uh. an even related field feel free to chime in here; this is hugely biased by both being Australian and the labour laws/work culture on the whole here.)

[sincerely-krp]

past admin here.. no longer running rps bc of the community. but i've ran a couple pretty big rps in the past couple years and i'll be honest, although i think it's slightly immature to close roleplays because of things people say on a gossip blog, i believe admins are just tired and most times the venting on blogs like this are just the cherry on top of everything they're already dealing with in the roleplay they are managing.

lets be real. admins are usually normal people just as you are, with jobs, possibly school, friends, and things to do outside of their rp life. most admins are also not full time HR reps or therapist. we are no better than you when it comes to finding out how to fix issues or resolve conflicts... member activity and facehogging has been an issue that not only i have seen in my rps but roleplays everywhere have and are currently experiencing. admins can only do SO much. they can't force activity without being called micromanagers and they cant change the activity requirements to be more engaging without being critizied about not being realistic for people with lives outside of rp.

theres issues regarding cliques. most times, the admins are so busy with admin shit that they don't see or notice the clique. from my past experiences as an admin, people would call anyone and anything a clique.

an example i used all the time .. because this is crazy... but back when i used to run a big rp. we got anon's complaining about a "🐻 squad" (changed the emoji for privacy reasons). when us as admins went in to look what that so called squad was, it was literally a member just referring to the people who emojied his post about playing a game later. we're adults, and it's embarrassing to see people talk as if they were excluses children when most of the time its a personal activity issue. if your muse isnt interacting with things on the feed, commenting on post, leaving emojis, talking in gc/ plotting with others, joining games/activities, or even doing events... theres obvious reasons why your muse feels left out. additionally, when a muse has a group of friends they have developed and feel close to, i personally see it as character development. these muses have spent enough time getting to know eachother to the point there they know they like to hangout and get along. as an admin, i've sent my muses to talk to the so called cliques that were in my roleplay to try and see how they would treat my muse and most times, the so called cliques were rather nice and inviting to my muse. making it rather hard to kick them.

we as admins can encourage but not force people out of their circles, we can not force people to answer dms, and we can not force people to write. the best we can do is attempt to remove them or close the roleplay completely.

when it comes to resolving conflicts, believe it or not its extremely hard for us. most times remember we are an outsider looking into the situation. and most times we are not given complete content. we unfortunately are reading screenshots without tone indicators or context. the best we can do is listen to both sides and hope we are making the best possible decision for the community. however. we can not remove muses from the rp because of a bad breakup or because they are upset with your muse. we can't kick people out because you both simply do not get along. the best we can do is ask that you both don't interact. i think the community has a hard time understanding this part. additionally, your issue with another member is not always highest priority for some admin teams, sometimes admin teams are talking for hours about how they want to handle a situation so expecting an immediate resolution to the situation or specific action in general is unrealistic.

adding to the unrealistic thing is expecting admins to be online 24/7. we need to sleep, eat, and do other things aside from just admining. we want to enjoy our muses as much as you guys do as well. we apologize if your cc request was not answered within 3-4 hours. remember admin teams will be online at some point in the day and often times will be in different timezones than your own. so be realistic and give admin teams 24-48 hours to respond to your message. admins are not slacking just because they want a moment to focus on themselves.

lastly, i realized rather quickly that this community does not like to follow or read rules almost at all. regardless of how we spin it 80% of the community skims through the rule page we work hard on creating to get the password for the application. how do i know yall dont read rules? because some of the shit being complained about on these blogs are things that have been blatantly stated in the rules that you guys have agreed to! dont join a roleplay if you dont agree with it's rules. simple. "admins are asking me to handle it myself." most rps open right now say in the rules that they will ask you to do that before coming to them. "this age gap rule is rediculous." most roleplays have these rules clear on their rule page. "well i didn't know you couldn't do that." yes you did, you agreed to the rules of the roleplay when you joined. don't act shocked or upset when we enforce the rules. and if you claim rules are hard to understand or need clarification, it takes nothing but 2 seconds to ask admins for clarification on a rule.

so yes, after dealing with these issues and more, seeing vent posts about our roleplays sometimes is the perfect cherry on top to call it a day and close the community. think of it as "why would we continue to put all this effort in if people are obviously unhappy with our work?". we work hard to manage things the best we can but we are only human and our judgements sometimes fail us. and getting critiqued is 100% okay but some of you guys on here write things so maliciously... i wonder if the admins had personally victimized you with the way yall write on here. rp is a hobby and at the end if the day if the honby is causing you more stress than happiness.. close/ leave your roleplay.

— tired ex admin.

・❥・

[daemonhxckergrrl]

i think it should be illegal for landlords to have anything to do with home networking, nothing between tenants and their ISP. i had one landlord who, when we got fibre installed, added a network cable through the walls so we could plug our router in upstairs instead of in the downstairs entryway where the fibre connection came in. great! except he found some network cable that capped out at about 50Mbit/s over 15-20m or so. so about 5% of the gigabit plan we had.

i think it should be illegal for landlords. full stop. period.

all my utilities are included in rent (part of why i was able to afford this place back when i moved in), so it's my landlord's name on the internet bill. also i don't think we have any legal say in what type of smoke alarms are used (as long as the landlord ensures they meet regulations on the amount and placement), which means even if i did choose my ISP and set the router up myself i could still be forced to use all the smart home stuff if the landlord put nest smart alarms in the property. which they have. but they also sorted the networking. and the flat is rented as individual flats w/ communal areas (kitchen, bathrooms etc.) rather than a big flat w/ multiple bedrooms if that make sense and since the router is in the communal area (and would affect other tenants) i'm pretty sure touching it would be a breach of contract. so like there's multiple ways in which it's all fucked and you're so right. but it's not a situation that can be avoided or changed until i can move elsewhere :c

also that's fucked like obviously they picked the cheapest cable that had the right connectors on it and ignored the rated speed bc hey it's not their problem (though if you were paying for gigabit separate to your rent and an action on your landlord's part caused you to not get that full speed, there may have been recourse to challenge them about it ? depends on what was in your contract).

another thing our landlord did is whenever there's an issue that we report and they (eventually) fix, they then like to micromanage us as tenants for the next couple weeks. we got told one of the kitchen table was too messy (it had clean pots and pans on it bc of a lack of suitable storage space), given a week to move stuff off or it would all get chucked. they actually came in and took everything off that table. which i'm pretty sure is illegal. and then promised us new cupboards or something to help w/ the storage issue. and it's been months. no new cupboards. this shit only happens whenever they have to come fix a door hinge or the boiler etc. like some sort of punishment for telling them the flat we pay them to live in is falling apart. for having to do the one job they actually have. that they don't even have to do bc they call in contractors to do it.

anyway, yeah fuck landlord and fuck them controlling stuff in the property you're paying to live in. also i had no idea about all the smart home stuff until i moved in. it's not really pointed out during the viewing. and nest are especially bad bc those devices recently had some sort of voice command feature unlock, meaning they were built w/ microphones this whole time which was never disclosed until the voice command feature dropped.

rant over lmao i'm hoping to move in a year, maybe two years depending on what's available and for how much

[wallofmoth]

1. Undercity. Probably in Bhaal's temple, let's be real.

2. Chaotic Neutral / Lawful Evil (depending on Act)

3. Silver Dragonborn

4. He'd be found by the injured Mind-flayer, preparing to smash its skull in.

5. Durge all the way! Cannot live without a dose of lovestruck Gort *somewhere* in my playthrough.

6. Platonically close to Astarion, definitely. His & Lae'zels are the only ones my Tav's completed. Reminds him of himself, and so 1, he doesn't want someone with a similar background and motive set to gain the same power he has, and 2, he doesn't like being reminded of his worse times. Somewhere in there is genuine care too, but he'll never admit it.

7. Romantic with Lae'zel & in the past, Gortash. He'd absolutely try to establish a poly setup if he didn't know Lae'zel would just attempt to kill Gort the second she heard the proposition, and honestly vice versa. He cherishes Lae'zel- love at first sight kinda situation; she tried to slit his throat and he made fuckin heart eyes. He'd kill just about anyone or anything for her, no questions asked. In the past he downright worshipped Gortash; in his opinion, the man was second only to Bhaal. They did unholy shit on that altar.

8. Suspicious of Karlach and Gale. They're ticking time bombs, he's a ticking time bomb, and neither approve much of Lae'zel in the beginning, or of Gort at all. He dislikes how similar they can be to him whilst still being good. Also, he hates that Karlach *knew* some about his past and just Did Not tell him.

9. Yeah, Baldurian, kind of. He's going cause they need to fix their memories, at first. Then they go because Lae'zel needs him to. Finally, it's just Durge being Durge doing their Durge bs that leads them to BG in entirety.

10. Nope

11. Greatsword or Hammer, specifically ones that deal psychic or fire damage as bonuses.

12. Sexual orientation? Alignment? What? Well, he's anything-sexual, so there's that. Durge just doesn't give a fuck, from what I've seen.

13. They like it most of the time; sometimes it gets boring or they get lost in their own head when killing though, and he despises that. Like when you eat a food so many times over that your tongue feels almost numb when you taste it, if that makes any sense. He'll need a good meal, or a fuck if it's Gortash, or for Lae'zel to beat the shit out of him, to get back on track. He sees it as a weakness and refuses to acknowledge that a Bhaalspawn would ever be anything but pleased with murder.

14. He doesn't have many hobbies besides average Bhaalspawn activities, but he does enjoy the following: Selling things, shopping, spending; micromanaging everything whilst somehow managing to leave it all in chaos. Having Astarion feed from him very, *very* slowly whilst reading a book or something. Platonic food edging or whatever the fuck you wanna call it; it calms the Urges on those rare days he finds it obnoxious to indulge. In general dressing Astarion up in stupid idiotic gear that the spawn can't help but find useful-- he sees it as cute, kind of.

15. Liked NPCS- Gortash. (PCs count as the main party in my POV, so I won't add Lae'zel- she's fully playable.) Full stop. In terms of amusement, though- The head Tiefling from the Grove, and that girl who Orin forced to eat her own cat, along with Hope from House of Hope. He likes them for the fact that they are all desperate. pathetic, and fragile creatures who put their complete trust into him, and died for it. (In my playthrough, Hope died. He doesn't actually like the fact that Hope died. She was growing rather intensely on him.)

16. Cranium rats & gnolls.

17. Love of adventure fluctuates day to day- some days all they want is to be pampered in their temple, some days they desire only to be knee-deep in muddy cavewater, or viscera, or whatever new strange situation they end up in.

18. He'd be still in the Moon Towers Mindflayer colony, being experimented on. I like to imagine Gortash would have found him eventually. They would have fucking killed Orin after that.

19. I don't have a good idea on that one. ATM I'm going for either old age besides Lae'zel, nuked Netherbrain, or suicide on the altar next to Gortash's days-old dead body, post Netherbrain control, leaving Lae'zel to rule in his stead.

20. That fluctuates as well! If it was just Gort and my Tav, they would control together. All 3 of Gort and Tav and Lae'zel would end up in Tav controlling it & much later Lae'zel would nuke, after Tav/Gort's inevitable early deaths. Tav & Lae'zel alone would nuke it.

21. Spirit Guardians, the Light version, Guiding Bolt, and Cast Invisibility/ Cloak / whatever invisibility spell they can get their hands on. He's a War Domain cleric with a lot of offensive protection tactics; he fucking LOVES watching little enemies swarm him just to die before even getting within melee attack range. Lae'zel picks off the stragglers with her badass crossbow shit. (Then they make out over incinerated creature corpses, probably.)

22. Draconic, Common, a couple Hell dialects. (And a bit of most others, but not enough to be called fluent.)

23. 1, die in a horrible way, or 2, be some sort of fucked up ruler and live until old, old age (probably as the head of Bhaal's cult.) 3rd secret option for Lae'zel rolling straight nat 20's and convincing him to just Settle Down Peacefully. They still kill shit, but it's more of an executioner type gig. Would drive him bloody crazy, but he loves her enough to do it (with a hard shove in the right direction anyhow.)

24. Nope.

25. I Have No Bloody Idea. Maybe I'll update this if I do more research at some point.

26. Tardigrade.

27. Durge life, baby! Headcanon-altered to include Durgetash & Durge-raised-Orin-sort-of theories. Durge+.

28. He co-leads with Lae'zel, but Astarion is in charge of weaseling them outta shit when Intimidation fails.

29. He went full Illithid. I've got two split save-fudges in his main save where one has him as a full fucking mindflayer, but I do enjoy his draconic form a bit more. Very much pro-tadpole, gotta fill the holes in his brain somehow!

30. Favorite thing about him? He was trying to be so good at first, but kept slipping up-- eventually he regained a few memories and ended up free-falling into Bhaal BS. I interpret his and Lae'zel's relationship to be madly codependent and yet completely independent, if that makes sense; they own one another in all ways important. (Gortash owns the unimportant bits of him, though- he used to have him all.) Basically an accidental Durge who stopped trying to resist. Only thing stopping him from going nuts is his fierce green wife 💚

Baldur's Gate 3 Character Development Questions:

1: Where in the Faerûn is your Tav from?

2: What is your character's alignment?

3: Race and subclass?

4: If your Tav was a companion, where would they be found?

5: Dark Urge or no?

6: What companion are you platonically close with?

7: Romantically close with?

8: Who are they suspicious of?

9: Is your Tav from Baldur's Gate? Why are they travelling there?

10: Are they proficient in playing any instruments?

11: Weapon of choice?

12: What is their orientation?

13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?

14: What hobbies does your Tav have?

15: What NPC's do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Faerûn?

17: Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?

18: What would your Tav be doing if they weren't kidnapped on the Nautiloid?

19: How do you think they'll meet they're end?

20: Would they destroy the elder brain or control it?

21: What is your Tav's favorite spell?

22: What languages is your character fluent in?

23: What do they do after the absolute crisis?

24: Does your character believe in the afterlife?

25: What arcana major best represents your Tav?

26: What animal best represents your Tav?

27: What was their life like before the events of BG3?"

28: Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?

29: Does your Tav want to utilize the tadpole powers or not?

30: What's your favorite thing about your Tav?

[rametarin]

Engagement as a form of harassment.

Experiencing it again has reminded me of a certain technique women do when they want to ruin what enjoyment and peace you have.

So I’m sitting here trying to enjoy the bit before going outside and doing some lawn work. Up to leaving, that’s supposed to be, “not working.” Me doing whatever the fuck I want before doing the thing.

But that’s not good enough for this disgusting cunt. Oh no. I have to be working on the thing even before I’m out there. So she starts the engagement simply enough, getting my attention, pinging me to pay attention to her and listen. She starts telling me about girl scout cookies.

She knows I don’t give a bloody shit about girl scout cookies. But that’s just the meaningless “harmless” speartip for the actual engagement. The engagement and forced participation is the shaft being thrust.

At that point she segues into conversation about the yard I’m about to go out and do something on. And once again, since she’s too old, fat and worthless to shovel her driveway herself after winter and the plow guy destroys it, she acts like “we” are fixing the problem with her trying to act like the planner and strategiest for shit I already know how to do and acting like she’s some sort of big brain for saying the obvious.

Yes, congratulations, you had the idea of using the wheeled wagon to move dirt. Absolutely fantastic. Please demand to spend the next 8 minutes harping in my ear about this presentation like it’s an idea I’ve never heard about or used before. Waste more of my time, narrate yourself somehow being helpful to this situation, shit all over the minutes I have to enjoy myself before doing this meaningless busy work task for you, while you pretend you’re doing an equal amount of work here.

I try to hurry her along but nodding and vocally agreeing with her to give her the hint, “I know what you’re saying already, stop and leave me alone.”

But refusing to leave me alone is the point of her going off on these 10-20 minute verbal diarrhea tangents. It is done specifically to flap in my face and squawk and chew up peace and solitude. Because to her, every worthless busy work task she gives is shoehorning me to action and perspiration for her fun and profit.

So she refuses to take the hint and just sinks her claws in deeper, speaks louder and more obnoxious, until I start repeating “MmHMM. MMHMM MMHMM MMMHMM MMHMM MMHMM” in lieu of telling her to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Which would just escalate into threats to be made homeless.

She gets mad that I don’t want to listen to her instruct and micromanage my little worthless chore for the half hour before going outside. I try to explain, in the SHADOW that there’s ANY good faith to her little outbursts and premeditated harassment that she’ll listen to reason: there’s no good faith from her here as she starts spouting this pre-written crumple zone conversation about how rude I am and how “she’s just trying to help” and also tells me I stink and need to go take a shower/reminds me how poor I am/reminds me she can threaten me with cops to have me removed and make me homeless.

Then I realize my aunts also behave this way, and it’s specifically a woman’s way of pouring waste on your sacred time where you aren’t doing exactly what they want, when they want, in that socially acceptable way that they can. A way to make you exert effort and do something for them, before and in addition to whatever you’re meant to do (whether by force, coercion, or obligation of some other sort)

And it’s specifically female shit, because a man that behaves this way is typically waste binned and destroyed in some way for it- it’s a way of behaving that you can only get away with if it’s legally and socially taboo to beat the shit out of you for doing. A man that is learned to just be wasting your time to drag your enjoyment and freedom just to “incentivize” you doing what they want quicker, gets held down and pounded black and blue, if not outright crushed. A woman doing it is beyond reproach and not incentivized with violence to stop doing that, so she just keeps on doing it- unless you move away from them.

I have put up with this passive aggressive female privileged shit for so many decades now that I will not tolerate it, if and when I can ever escape. All grace for tolerance of this behavior is gone. No forgiveness will be had, no tolerance for it will be extended. You will be punished for deliberately wasting my time just to coerce prematurely getting to work doing whatever you want, or I simply will not interact with you unless required by law. That is how much I abhor this arrangement of, “I can poke you with a stick and there’s nothing you can do about it in retaliation. :^)”

[ms-demeanor]

@postsforposting - I wanted to respond but that thread has gotten completely unmanageable and I feel bad for continually showing up in OP's notes.

I feel like that isn’t what was meant, though. You absolutely can help someone feel better even if they’ve got a disorder, they shouldn’t be treated like they’re completely unhinged from reality as a rule. There is a huge difference between “I am trying to cure you with a sentence and the PoWEr oF LOvE” vs doing the same thing you would do for any other partner when you said something shitty or you’re trying to have a difficult conversation.

I think you're reading the WaPo article too literally here and saying that he means this is applicable to everyone who has ever been diagnosed with a major psychiatric disorder, which is one possible interpretation of that statement, but is the least charitable possible interpretation; on his site he talks about *untreated* addiction and major psychiatric illness in people who refuse to get treatment for those issues as deal-breakers, but not the illnesses themselves. You are obviously not obligated to go read every author's full website before you judge what they're saying in an interview, but the statement that he did make was this:

[this advice] does not apply to abusive situations or relationships in which there is a power imbalance, major psychiatric disorder, addiction or another issue that may require putting your own safety first and seeking professional help.

Which can very easily be restated as "this advice does not apply to [...] relationships in which [...] major psychiatric disorder [...] may require putting your own safety first and seeking professional help." The only thing he is saying that it full-stop does not apply to is abuse, otherwise he's saying that addiction/disorder/other issues *may* require professional help and in that case the advice does not apply.

I think that when you say he's acting as though people should be treated as if they were unhinged from reality you're reading something that just isn't there.

Everything else he’s talking about, everything in that NYT article (which is an entirely different tone from the wapo, weirdly) goes for someone who has a disorder just as it does for someone who does not. He talks about people who have trauma from childhood, and working past it: he himself says he fights and gets angry easily because of his childhood; how is that any different from someone with PTSD or depression who reacts negatively? Yet he doesn’t say that he’s an exception to his own advice. Those people need the same kind of approach and “relational” care that he talks about. You (general you) can’t just go “well you’re being delusional” and refuse to acknowledge you said anything nasty or flew off the handle yourself, or that you need to have a cool down yourself. There’s a difference between “some of my feelings are because of the disorder, and nothing will change that” and “some of this is because of things my partner controls or did, and they need to acknowledge and fix that”–exactly the kinds of things he’s talking about. If you feel like shit because your boss is an asshole micromanager, you can separate that from the stuff your partner does, and not take your boss out on your partner. The same is true for disorders: you may still feel like shit no matter what your partner does, but you can tell the difference, and your partner ought to know the difference between attempting to cure you vs taking responsibility for leaving their dirty laundry flung all over the house.

Again, I think this comes from a misreading of that line. He isn't saying that he's exempt from this condition; if he had refused to get treatment for his PTSD and had continued to suffer outbursts of fear and aggression that made it impossible for his partner to feel secure with him and insisted that he was fine and didn't need to do anything about his screaming or throwing things, then he would be included in the group for whom this advice does not apply.

Remember that the advice that he's saying doesn't apply in these situations is "put aside objective reality to consider your partner's subjective situation."

If Alice and Bob are in a relationship and Alice is upset that Bob is blowing her off to stay home and get some extra sleep or cancelling plans made in advance because he's just not up for it, Real is saying "put aside objective reality and consider what you can do to make your partner happy."

If Alice and Bob are in a relationship and Alice is upset that Bob is blowing her off to stay home and get some extra sleep or cancelling plans made in advance because he's just not up for it *and Bob has untreated major depressive disorder and is sleeping twelve hours a day and is never up for going out or eating or getting out of bed or showering* that is when Alice should not put aside objective reality. If Alice puts aside objective reality in that situation and tries to make Bob happy by giving him space and letting him stay in bed and never asking him to go anywhere then Alice is going to be sacrificing things that make her happy for a partner who isn't going to start feeling better and more respected and listened to because of her sacrifices.

Apply the same advice to an addiction framework. If Alice is upset that Bob is blowing her off to stay home and drink, or cancelling plans because he's not sober enough to drive, then it isn't a good idea for Alice to ask herself "what can I do to improve his situation and our relationship" because there is nothing that Alice *can* do, it is Bob who has to take action.

Same thing in the depression example: nothing that Alice can do to be nice to her partner or accommodate him and make sure he's feeling heard and loved is going to treat his depression. It might make him feel a bit better to know that he's loved, but it might also make him feel more guilty and spiral deeper into depression.

I think it would be incredibly weird and concerning to insert a caveat for other illnesses like “hey, you can’t cure this, don’t try, take care of yourself first”. Perhaps the caveat is only there because people widely do think disorders are fake and you really can cure them with twue wuv, but that’s fairytale nonsense and I don’t think that has a place here anymore than believing you can cure cancer and other chronic illness with twue wuv would.

I mean, Real is talking about people who don't have particularly good communication styles and who are having relationship issues. There are a *ton* of people out there who not only think that they CAN treat their partner's mental illness or addiction on their own, they think that they SHOULD and that it is their responsibility, specifically because a lot of people have been TOLD that taking care of their partner's emotional state is their responsibility; those people are likely to have poor communication styles and relationship issues.

That’s the starting point, so it makes sense that things need to be framed selfishly in order to get moving on fixing it, on changing it: there just isn’t the capacity for selflessness without getting something for self, yet. It’s a practical framing.

But as an end goal….selfishness is not a good mindset to have.

Selfishness isn't the end goal; as you noted, it's the entry point to people who don't understand that cooperation is in their self-interest. The end goal is recognition that the relationship is an ecosystem that you and your partner both occupy and if you want to be in a healthy relationship you have to take care of the ecosystem *instead of* having the knee-jerk reaction to take care of yourself.

I think part of the problem is that most of the population, at least in America, uses hate and thus interprets “normal marital hate” to mean things like the idolization of abuse, and that those things are normal. I kind of wonder if Real knows about that, or if he’s even addressing the same audience, because I would not have picked that phrase or anything like it if that’s who I was talking to.

Honestly I think it's pretty clear that Real *is* aware of this phenomenon and has chosen "normal marital hate" specifically because it sounds more outlandish than "sometimes you'll be peevish with your spouse." I think the point of using a provocative phrase like that is to get people to talk about stuff and open up about the unique dislike that pops up from time to time in long relationships.

One thing that people have kind of been talking around is that in long relationships you've been with each other long enough that minor annoyances compound into infuriating, needling little jabs (you haven't asked them a hundred times to pick up their socks, you've asked them a thousand times, and you gave up asking because they were never going to do it, they aren't wired that way and you love them and it's not a big deal but the thousandth time you have picked up their socks because they won't just do this one thing that you want them to do because the clutter makes you crazy and they love you too aren't they supposed to care about the things that make you crazy? Fuck! How have I been living like this for ten years I fucking hate living with socks on the ground and they just won't fucking listen about it! Fuck!) that are made worse because they are coming from someone who knows you better than anyone and who you love and you end up feeling betrayed and like they don't love you and aren't taking care of you.

That is, honestly, a scary feeling even if it's something that happens over something as silly as whether socks make it into the hamper.

And it's not something that most people in healthy relationships expect, so when they're suddenly crying over the laundry basket and going "do they even love me at all? Do I even belong here? What went wrong in my life that this is where I ended up, I could have been doing something amazing in a cool city with a partner who treats me like royalty and always picks up their socks" they're shocked and surprised and upset.

"Normal marital annoyance" doesn't quite cover the "should I leave my partner and find someone with a motorcycle and a proper understanding of laundry" feeling that pops up once in a while after you've lived together for ten or so years. If you think that it's normal to be annoyed by your partner but not normal to be struck with occasional existential dread and resentment (because brains are kind of bad and made of biases and logical fallacies and decide to say "if you didn't move in with this sock-ogre you could have had the perfect relationship" every once in a while) you're going to be very upset if you have those feelings and think that they're unique and uncommon and an indicator that your relationship is on the rocks.

Honestly I think "normal marital dread" might be a better/broader phrase than "normal marital hatred" that would be similarly attention-getting and less immediately dismissable. There are plenty of people who see "hatred" and go "couldn't be me, I love my partner" who will be very shaken if they stumble across unexpected dread in five years or so. There are also plenty of people who go "of course hating your partner is normal," and will not look at the phrase any further and will therefore stay in really shitty relationships that they should be looking to pull the plug on.

[killingitreservoirdogsstyle]

Hey! If you have time I was just curious how you think orange would propose to his SO? He’s so cute, I can’t even!

Hello anon! Thanks for your question, I super appreciate it! I would love to write this up, so sorry for how long it took me to reply. I’ve had an interesting summer like you wouldn’t believe, so I’ve not been able to get online much to write which is devastating for me! Nonetheless, I love this ask and I can totally come up with something for it! ( GIF is not mine, by the way! ) 

Personally, I feel that Orange would be quite the romantic about the entire situation--after all, you’re his significant other and he does not want to screw this up in any way for the both of you. As a result of this, he gets jittery, nervous, and hyper-vigilant about every little detail; micromanaging the entire affair so it all falls into place just right. 

He frames his proposal as a dinner date at your favourite restaurant, taking you out and acting gentlemanly and cuddly with you. Freddy even combs his hair back, a rarity for him considering he hates the way product feels. ( I know how that is, I have to use it at times and it’s exasperating to say the least ) He looks absolutely sweet, his arm in yours and wearing a huge boyish smile on his face. You two talk, laugh, cringe, and joke around over your favourite meals, wining and dining like a king and queen in their royal court. The whole world is practically the stage for the love you two share. When you’re finished, he will walk you to a nearby park as the cloudless night sky covers Los Angeles in darkness. The moon is a full silvery waxy orb hanging above you two like a spotlight for what is about to happen. Freddy leads you over to a familiar oak tree where your shared initials are carved in a heart in the bark; a memento of your very first date years beforehand. 

He drops onto one knee, popping you the question with a beautiful ring to match his enthusiasm. He stutters it out, tears forming in his eyes from how anxious he is, launching into a speech right from the heart he didn’t even know was there. 

“ Y/N L/N, love of my life. Beautiful/handsome/gorgeous light in my world, the one and only for me. I’m not good with words. I’m not a prince or a billionaire. I can’t cook for shit, I’m still a kid at heart, and I work to fight crime day and night. I know all these things might not be exactly picturesque or ideal, I get that. But baby, I know one thing; I love you more than anything in this world. You are my sanctuary, my home, my everything, the entire reason I keep going even when I don’t have it in me. Please, I’m not asking you to be hasty. I want you to think about it. But I ask you, will you give me the privilege of being more than a friend. More than a best friend, more than a boyfriend. Will you please be my wife/husband/partner for as long as we live? Grow old with me and be mine for my entire life?”

You don’t even need to think twice before throwing yourself onto him, breaking out into tears and sobbing you will marry him. Freddy smiles, crying alongside with you and sliding the ring onto your finger. In that moment, your hearts become one, forever bonded from then on in love beyond imagination. 

I hope that this was okay, anon! Please let me know if it isn’t and I’ll gladly fix them up however you’d like! Thank you again for the ask, anon, I super loved this idea! And thank you everyone for your continued support, reblogs, likes, and comments, even during my absence. I promise I’ll try to get better at posting stuff in an orderly time! Lastly, I wanna tag my absolute best friend and ride or die who has been a light in my life, @itscrimsonsixx for all her support, love, and just being a beautiful person! This blog would not be the same without her and all of you guys! Love you all a ton and hope you’re having the best time during the rest of your summer! Keep those reqs and asks coming, I love reading them and writing them up!

[obeymehasinfluncedmythoughts]

hey i hope you're doing well!! i was wondering if i could request a oneshot that kinda diverges from canon ? so basically mc is given the chance to go back to the human world (permanently) or stay in devildom w the brothers. so everyone literally expects for them to stay bcs they really "happy" with the brothers + the (un)dateables,, but surprise:: theyre fucking ecstatic to go back to the human world !!!! and they re all like "why mc dont u love us 🥺" and mc just goes full rant about every shitty thing that happened to them in devildom: belphie killing them, brothers treating her as lilith's replacement, dangerous shit 😌😌😌😌 tHIS IS SO LONG N SPECIFIC OMG IM SORRY

Oo. Yes. This is it. I remember always choosing the "Yeah fuck you guys I wanna go home," choices lmao. There's so much I personally would say to them if put in that situation. One would be what the fuck.

This takes place after Belphegor kills you, but before you go home. The undatebles aren't really included because none of them really fit in with the scene I'm painting.

Also! To my followers, I'm thinking of opening a patreon? Idk if anyone would use it or not. It's just that I am trying to make money, and since I can't work consistently, this might be my best shot for now. It's just a thought! I won't do it if you guys think it's stupid. Thanks babes 💞

It was an offer from Diavolo that started all this.

After Belphegor had lashed out you'd taken to staying away from any of the brothers. You'd never totally felt safe around the demons. They are demons after all, but you trusted that someone would always be there to protect you. That was what you were told at least. It worked in many circumstances, but not when you needed it most. Not when you actually died.

You were miserable. Everyone could tell just by the way you acted. A frown was on your face the majority of the time, you were always on guard around any demons, and you spent the majority of your nights at purgatory hall for some reason or another.

It hurt them to see you so terrified of their presence. Any little fight they had now flashed like a warning sign in your mind, alerting you to the danger of meddling in demon affairs. You'd leave, and they'd become discouraged, only realizing how empty everything felt with you gone. They try to make it up to you, try to keep away from their natural tendencies to get a bit rowdy, but nothing works. You're still petrified in their presence.

That's when Diavolo asks you if you want to go home. You're not comfortable here, it's written on your sleeve. It's affecting your mental health, and despite how much it hurts to send someone so perfect away, he does suggest you leave. To get some help, reconnect with yourself, and possibly forget they ever existed.

You agree.

It's heartbreaking when they find out. Belphegor blames himself, and so does everyone else. They see his mistake as the catalyst for all your changes in personality, when really it was just the final nail in the coffin. After being forced to participate in a stressful school schedule, to deal with men constantly busting into the room despite the lock, being expected to cook for the avatar of Gluttony at least once a week, and to have to find new hiding spots for your precious items to avoid loosing them to Mammon, it was a lot. You were always up, ready for some crazy new happening, never resting even when your body was on the verge of collapse. Your body couldn't handle it anymore, and after Belphegor, you knew you'd never sleep again

You don't say goodbye to them.

Lucifer acts like it doesn't bother him, and he'll act this way until the day he ceases to exist. It does though. He considered you a friend, possibly more, but seeing as you willingly left the realm, it's clear that he misjudged the situation. Satan doesn't receive the news any better. He's a lot more angry then Lucifer, but deep down they both know the eldest is just better at hiding his feelings. The house is a wreck without these two micromanaging every aspect, but neither ever pleaded with you to stay.

They blame Belphegor, but they also blame themselves for not showing you how much you meant to them. Satan knows he could have done more. He should have. In all the books in his library, why is there not one explaining how to fix such a situation? Lucifer almost thinks the same, but he knows he does not need books. He should have noticed your little set backs from the beginning, without the help of a book.

Mammon doesn't completely understand what happened. He's confused, not knowing what he did to make you despise him so. Levi tries to explain, sometimes through teary eyes and anxious hand movements, yet it still never really sinks in. Part of him believes he could have possibly shown his affections more. The other remaining side can't stop chastising himself for not knowing.

The third eldest feels abandoned, and he doesn't know why. You're just a normie. Just some human who shouldn't mean anything to him, but you do. He hates it. Leviathan wants nothing more to forget you, but how can he when your ghost still haunts these halls?

The only one who seems to be able to move on is Asmodeus, but that's far from the truth. He's good at faking emotions. Sure, he's never really had to fake being happy, but all the improv disappointment and whiney attitudes have prepared him for this. Asmo looks fine. No one really worries about him. They should.

Beelzebub and Belphegor have been at odds ever since you left. They both blame the youngest, and whilst Belphie doesn't usually care about his sibling's opinions, knowing Beelzebub is so angry with him hurts. He can't fix it either. You're not coming back, and Beelzebub will always be angry with him for doing something so selfish.

And Beelzebub is angry. He moves out of their shared bedroom and into your room. For weeks he refuses to even speak to Belphie, and after that he only acknowledges him in passing. It's heartbreaking to watch, but Beelzebub doesn't care. You're gone.

[regrettablewritings]

Hello there, can I request number 1, 4, 8 and 11 for Foggy? Tysm <33

No, hun, thank you so much! I love this teddy bear of a lawyer <3

1. Which one is the better cook?:

You are by technicality: You know the basics, you know how to whip up a meal for a small gettogether and all that jazz. But when it comes to skill and resourcefulness? A challenger approaches, and he is known as Foggy the Thrifter.

This man knows how to put together a small meal on a shoestring budget. This man knows how to scan your fridge, take the one remaining egg and ketchup bottle and some crackers from the pantry, and turn it into something vaguely edible.

Not every meal he makes is a winner, but you'll definitely not be without at least something to nibble on by the end of the night. He's almost like a soldier in that way, in that he can throw a bunch of crap into a pot and then chow down on it because no, it's not even three stars-worth of grub, but it's necessary grub.

4. What they do on date night:

Foggy's constantly tired and constantly trying to keep money in the wallet. So honestly? You've become a regular at Rosie's. Yeah, it was bound to happen regardless if only because Foggy himself is a regular, but the point still stands: This is your watering hole now, just as much as it's his.

You don't mind it, of course, as you've come to love the regulars that haunt the hole-in-the-wall. But that doesn't mean it doesn't thrill you with a bit of relief when the month has been good to Foggy, money-wise. If a case goes well, or a client has pulled some strings, then put on your best, baby, we're hittin' the town!

Foggy himself may not be the most interested in fanciness, but he'll be damned if he doesn't take the chance to take his girl out to a nice establishment where they needn't worry about a bar fly clogging the toilet, or a fight breaking out at the pool table.

Fancy restaurant doesn't float your boat, either, though? He's perfectly fine with just taking you to one of the literal millions of local gems hiding throughout Manhattan -- or even one of the other boroughs, if you're willing to have an adventure. Just . . . make sure you stick close to him, okay? And have that pepper spray at the ready.

On top of that, though, he'd also really like to save up and take you out to a show, on or off Broadway. It's cheesy, yes, but you live in New York for god's sake!

8. What they argue about:

Compared to his friends, Foggy is the most risk-averse. Granted, his friends include a guy who backflips around, micromanaging the shit out of twenty blocks, and a chick who leaps before thinking more than half the time (and mostly without even telling anyone she's about to take the leap anyway). So it's unfortunately fairly easy to take his sense of self-preservation and willingness to go for a safer opportunity and process it as cowardice.

This couldn't be further from the truth! It's just that, well, this is New York: Nothing is certain, there's always something going on, something risky. And that's before factoring in money problems! He just wants you safe and taken care of.

And you appreciate that, you really do. But sometimes, it's easy for you to forget that. Not that it's all on you -- sometimes, he falls into his habits just as hard, becoming argumentative if you suggest his priorities might be a bit skewed. Deep down, he knows you don't mean any harm by it but closer to the surface, he feels insulted and unappreciated. No, he's not out there flinging himself into trouble, but somebody here has to be the stable one! Sorry that he's not going after bad guys head-on like Matt, or getting swept up in conspiracies like Karen, but he's not about to jeopardize everything he's worked on for a temporary fix!

He has to go about these things smartly, even if it can be emotionally draining . . .

. . . Fuck, this argument is emotionally draining. For the both of you.

For the most part, you two make a pretty happy couple. But moments like this can really stress the both of you out. Obviously, you hate it.

To your surprise, despite him being a lawyer, Foggy won't try to approach the situation like one: He won't argue further or twist your words or try to sandbag you or anything; he just wants to . . . talk. Like you're both normal people (because in your circle, you're the normal ones). And for that, you're grateful because it gives you time to really think about your words, think about how Foggy might take them, explain to him how you took his words . . .

The night might honestly end with you two going to sleep at opposite ends of the bed, even if you both came to a mutual conclusion that worked in your favors. But it never really lasts: Foggy is a teddy bear, after all. Protective, yes, but not for the wrong reasons.

11. What their first impression was of each other:

To be brutally honest, you, like many others, were initially more drawn to Matt. Curse your superficial ass . . . It wasn't that you disliked Foggy, it was just that, by comparison, he wasn't as traditionally handsome. But he was definitely not bad; he came off rather sweet for somebody questioning you for an upcoming case. He never pressured you to speak any further on subjects that seemed to catch you off guard or make you uncomfortable.

Since then, you have come to the conclusion that of the Nelson & Murdock firm, Foggy is the actual catch: Columbia grad, kind, knows how to save money, handy around the apartment, isn't trying to go out there and get his guts prolapsed by gangsters . . . Oh, yes: You have acquired for yourself a King.

Meanwhile, Foggy actually didn't think too fairly much of you. Not an insult, he was just in work mode at the time. Though even in work mode, he could at least determine that you were attractive, if nervous. Though, given that this was an interview for a case and you were a character witness, yeah, he wasn't going to blame you. But as the interview went on, he appreciated that in spite of your anxiety, you were at least trying to be helpful, even trying to go out of you way to add on to any previous notes you had provided.

[y0itsbri]

the gallaghers are visiting tami's family's cabin by the lake for the weekend!

word count: 1.2k

- a weekend getaway was not something the gallaghers were used to and trying to plan it had been a goddamn nightmare. mickey had been the most hesitant about being in such close quarters with everyone in a new place, but after some tight bargaining (threatening), tami had managed to convince everyone to clear their schedules and get on board.

- mickey didn't want to wear a lifejacket, but ian goes "c'mon, you don't want to set a bad example for franny, do you?" and as if almost on cue, franny bats her eyelashes and whines, "yeah uncle mickeyyyy." mickey grumbles, "man, you two ganging up on me like this ain't fuckin' fair." which just makes ian smile as he zips the lifejacket up on mickey, making sure it fits him snug. "can't have my husband out there drowning or some shit," he adds quietly as he slaps mickey's ass before turning to put on franny's lifejacket. "fuckin' gallaghers," mickey muttered under his breath.

- mickey isn't too sure about the kayak. flimsy piece of shit looks like it's ready to go under at any moment, but ian assures him it's fine. "see we can take the two person kayak and you don't even have to paddle at first. i promise it'll be fine." mickey agrees and sits in the back seat, sitting still and rigid and clutching his beer so as not to tip. he closes his eyes... maybe this was kinda nice. maybe he could get used to this. he teases ian to pick up the pace a bit. ian rolls his eyes, "i know i said you didn't have to paddle at first, but shit, mick, i didn't mean don't paddle at all." mickey scoots closer to ian a little bit to lovingly dig his knees around ian's hips. there were no more complaints from either of them, but there were few times they almost tipped though and mickey acted like it was the end of the world.

- liam and carl took out the standing paddle boards, which proved to be a lot more challenging than the kayaks. liam fell off to the side a few times, his lifejacket being his saving grace. carl try to decided to front flip off of the board. they messed around a bit and tried jumping between each others' boards, which was a disastrous idea. eventually they settled and just laid back on the boards, floating and soaking up the sun and occasionally poking each other with their oars.

- tami and debbie were sitting on the dock with baby freddie and splashing their feet in while they talked, watching the rest of the boys. debbie borrowed tami's sun hat and they took photos of each other for instagram, seeing that lip was never a good photographer anyways. they looked hot and someone had to document this whole trip. franny waded in the water and picked out cool rocks and flowers to show them, and even some bugs, which she proudly showed off to the camera with a grin.

- lip spent the afternoon setting up grill and knocking back some diet cokes with brad, who had come up for the day. they made comments about the bike shop and the tamiettis and the rich fucks who actually owned lake houses and their motor boats. maybe lip would look into how to fix up boats. lip was definitely planning some scheme to take one of the speed boats out for a spin at some point in the weekend. he bet liam would love it, and maybe even help him with the scheming part seeing as how he was frank's little partner in crime for awhile there.

- when ian and mickey had made it back to shore after their kayaking adventure, franny had quickly taken to her uncle ian and wanted to go in the kayak with him since uncle mickey already had a turn-- it was only fair. ian hesitated a bit, but agreed only if she would stay on his lap and not lean too far to the sides. she squealed in excitement.

-brad had to take off early to head back home, so mickey joined lip by the grill, "hey pops, what's for dinner?" lip flipped him off over his shoulder but settled in to chat. "go fuck yourself, bud. but uhhh, let's see, i got some hot dogs and burgers. that's what kev always made at the block party cookouts and figured this ain't too much unlike those... well except for the lake... and the nice ass cabin. the gallaghers are moving up in the world, huh?" "maybe," mickey considered, "but not 'til we get our hands on one of those speedboats, man." lip grinned, "i thought you were scared of the water, mick?" now it was mickey's turn to flip off lip, but he just unbuckled his life jacket as he spoke. "c'mon, that tipsy kayak is one thing, especially with your giant idiot brother on it. but i wouldn't mind going fast in a boat like that," he watched as one sped by, "that's one thing those rich fucks got right." "didn't take you to be a lake house kinda guy." mickey sniffed and dragged his thumb under his nose, "not like we had a choice in our neighborhood, but... i bet i'm the kinda guy that can cook a burger better than you." "oh, game fucking on!" "bring it, bitch." dinner turned out to be a mickey versus lip cook off. lip could cook a mean classic burger, but something about the char and weird combination of toppings on mickey's worked really well. lip had to surrender in defeat before the debate nearly tore the family apart.

- after dinner, mickey heads back to the water and skips a few rocks he picked up on his way over. "woah, uncle mickey, that's so cool!" he turns to see a tiny redhead with curious eyes and pep in her step. "ya think so, squirt?" franny nods her head vigorously. "ya wanna try?" she nods again and mickey explains how you gotta find a rocks that's kinda flat and then to throw it kind of like a frisbee. franny tries a few that just plop into the water once. they eventually give up on skipping and just go for distance now. mickey lifts franny on his shoulders so her rocks can go even further. the kid's got a hell of an arm on her.

- even though they have a cabin, carl thinks it would be cool to stay the night in a tent. he recruits mickey to help him. ian tries to micromanage the whole situation claiming that he could do this in his sleep with all his rotc training. mickey's had quite enough, "i know how to pitch a fucking tent, gallagher." ian drops his gaze to mickey's crotch and then back up to his eyes, "oh, i know, milkovich." carl interrupts them with a groan, "gross, get a room."

- the night ends in the only way the gallaghers know how: with lots of booze, music, and dancing.

[holy-mountaineering]

This Tarot Spread is for @kristennotchristian​

Here’s the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do and here you are. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole. You know the routine.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map. Maybe as a person, the Qabalistic Adam Kadmon.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have the Prince of Swords or the Airy part of Air, total mindfuckery.

This is getting lost in that “pit of because” or talking yourself out of doing anything but staying in the formative stage of action, which is inaction. Remember, the mind helps us act properly, it shouldn’t be using us, we should be using it.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of  your hometown is the Princess of Swords, or the Earthy part of Air, or what happens in your everyday life because of what you’re thinking.

Like Her Brother, She isn’t really dealing with what is happening because She is stuck on the ���way it was” or “the way it should be” and that isn’t helping.

Look around, you’re fighting the wind, phantoms of your own making. You want your life to go the way you think it is “meant” to? Then make yourself aware of what’s going on and not what should be going on. 

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is XXI The Universe, the Biggest Picture we’ve got.

Back up. Further. Keep going. Keeeeeep going. And there, you see, you’re a small part of a large thing happening, and I assure you, YOU ARE a part of something that is happening and if you just back off of your situation and look at it, ALL OF IT, you’ll see the beautiful production, the dance that you’re participating in. That’ll make it all worth it. You are far larger and way more important in the Grand Scheme of things than you’re giving yourself credit for. If you can get out of your head, you’ll see.

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is the 5 of Wands. The pain in the ass that is being human, between things.

I understand why you’re struggling, being human fucking sucks, it’s real real limiting. And then other people? Forget about it, so much limitation. But you’re feeling the burn here because you have moved so far. The trick is now, you’ve gone so far, that going backward would take equal effort to move forward, the direction you MUST move in.

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is the 10 of Wands, Oppression. 

Back to things being a pain in the ass. Feeling overwhelmed when you’re trying to accomplish things is because of WHAT you’re trying to accomplish, which needs definition. You’re trying to make major adjustments to your life without having a defined purpose for them beyond what you roughly THINK it should be. There is so much possibility, but you're like a speedboat with no steering wheel. You’ll definitely get somewhere, likely a reef or soundwall flying around like that. Do, but in a focused way. 

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is VII The Chariot.

This is part of the Answer you’re looking for. You need to find a path, think about this Chariot more as a train with tracks than a car going off roading. This train isn’t driven by you, you’re on the train, going where that train goes. On that trip, you’ll have the time to work on your inner conflicts that’re causing so much strife. Unless you get a play steering wheel and pretend that you’re driving. Not only is it a waste of time and an illusion, it’ll eat up that useful time on your way that you could focus inwardly and fix much of what is causing you distress.

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is I The Magus, YOU, using your FULL Potential.

Since Venus is your views of Love, Beauty and Personal Growth, know that is all completely up to you. The Magus, or Magician has his 4 Elemental Weapons, his skill set, the physical representations of the Powers within You. Know those Powers, discover them through experimentation and USE them shits. They are yours and yours alone. No one else knows what they even are, let alone how you should use them. So, back to the last card, use the time on your journey to hone and refine those Tools once you discover them fully.

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is the 9 of Disks, Gain. The Triplicity of Three, building on building in your everyday life.

You know how you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

The threes, numerologically are the simplest shape, the triangle. Then, multiply that by itself. In other words, you don’t have to be over complicating your life, even if it is expanding. You build from the simplest formulas you’ve Worked out. Do what you know Works and build from that. Tell yourself and others that’s what you’re up to. Be clear with yourself and others on your goals and progress.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is a lot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is the Knight of Disks, the Fiery part of Earth, or acting on what needs to be done. 

Back to those skills of yours. You have experience and resources you don’t even see as resources. You’ve got planted and maintained fields, full of ripening fruits. You must harvest those and put them to use to nourish yourself. Those things are already there, you’ve already grown them and tended them. Just because you might have some misgivings about the experiences that gave you those fruits, they are good and healthy and already happened. Don’t let them go to waste out of spite. 

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is the Knight of Swords, the Fiery part of Air, or acting on what you’re thinking. 

When you clearly have in your mind what it is that you want, what must be done, take all available force you have and FLY to it! Again, this isn’t a time to be indecisive, that went on for too long already and now it is time to Fly and to Smite.

Okay, so, short version, get out of the caverns of your head and your “Pit of Because” so you can get a good, more complete picture of where you are and what you do in your Universe. I know it feels useless and like everything you’ve tried resisted your advancement, but that’s because you’re feeling the friction that comes from your moving, which is good believe it or not. Carry on and find the tracks you’ll ride forward on and be able to handle yourself and let go of the reins for a while.

And know that you’re the one who allows your growth into the full beautiful butterfly you’re molting into, with your experience and your skills, you shall achieve that! But remember that you have to be proactive, not controlling or micromanaging, but when the fruit is ripe, pick it, if you can’t eat it right now, can it for later.

And when you know, and trust me, you WILL figure it out, GO FOR IT. Seek that which you set your mind to.

Ta Da! Hit me up with any questions, comments, concerns, qabalistic inquiries, or praise for my skill, lol.

Goatspeed and good luck.

[theateared]

What’s Wrong With You? ❜

 Summary:  There's a reason that Murr’s career is almost entirely self-made. Warnings:  N/A.

    His eyes were drawn to the sticky mess covering the floor.  What was left of his pudding cup had been smacked out of his hands, plastic spoon snapping painfully under the weight of a hefty palm.  With disbelief, Murr shifted his gaze to look his  manager  in the face.

    “What the hell?  What’s  WRONG  with you?!  I was just tryna enjoy a snack befer gettin’ back t’work!”

    “What’s wrong with me?  What’s wrong with YOU?!  You know that stuff will only make you fat.  We’ve had this conversation a million times!”  

    The words stung more than he cared to admit--  not necessarily because of their implication, but because of his own struggle with an eating disorder.  It had taken him a hell of a long time to get into good habits, and though he wouldn’t fall back into bad ones for the sake of one comment, it did make the gears in his head turn in that all-too-malignant manner.

              Maybe he’s right.  Maybe one cup won’t matter, but one cup everyday?                                                       Maybe that will matter.

     After taking in a subtle breath, steadying the slight incline of his heartbeat, he replied in a calm but firm tone:   “Yer bang outta line, Zach.  However ya feel, ya can’t just go hittin’ shit I paid fer outta my hands.”   He cut his manager off with a tut as he spotted a dark stain forming on his shirt.   “Yeesh, y’owe me dry-cleanin’ money...”

    The sound of the dressing-room door slamming shut made Murr look up at him.  Only now was he beginning to feel slightly worried.  

    Zach hadn’t been his first choice for a professional opinion.  However, when they’d met while he was working in Vide, the man had wormed his way into Murr’s good graces with his patience and humour.  On the surface, he was mild-mannered and fun, somewhat quirky to boot, but Murr had soon realised that he wasn’t really the person that he thought he was.  His fuse was short, he was a control freak, always wanting to micromanage every tiny decision he made about his productions, and he was aggressive.  Though he’d never laid his hands on him, Murr suspected that that much would change  -  and he wouldn’t allow it.

    “You’re just so fuckin’ UNGRATEFUL!  You think you can do whatever you want just because some people know who you are!  You eat shite!  You don’t take care of yourself! You drink and smoke like an idiot!  You don’t think that shit’s going to ruin your look? Your VOICE?”

    “Listen, yer not my fuckin’ dad.  Back off ‘n’ mind yer own damn business, alright?  I ain’t yer  DOG,  Zach, y’can’t tell me how t’live.”   He turned his back on the man then, eager for the argument to fizzle out.  Hands searched his desk for his revised script, darting past a celebratory bottle of champagne for after the show.  Part of him knew that it likely wasn’t a good idea to show him that he’d made some last-minute changes to the play, but he was desperate to divert the focus elsewhere.  He couldn’t stand being talked down to like a child.  Not even his father spoke to him that way.   “Look, I have some--”

    “I don’t CARE, Murr!”     He lurched forwards to slap the papers out of his hands, scattering them across the floor.  The star stared at him at a loss for words, mouth half-open in a desperate attempt to neutralise the situation, when suddenly Zach’s hands entangled in his collar.  He pulled him closer with a vehemence that startled the huro, horns bumping against his forehead as he was met with a furious glare.  It smelled as if his manager had been drinking, a hint of whiskey hovering on his breath.   “What do I have to do to get you to fuckin’ listen?”

    “Let go’a me…!”

    “YOU’RE SABOTAGING YOURSELF!”

    “GET OFF OF ME!”     His voice was shrill as he shoved hard at Zach’s shoulders. The man staggered away from him  -  and the momentum sent Murr staggering back into the dresser, an arm stuck out haphazardly to support himself.  The adrenaline had kicked in by now;  he felt like a bird trapped in a cage, one that flapped and cawed and squealed, and his father’s words ran through his head like a strike of lightning.

    You know your worth, son.  Always be kind, always be generous, but don’t bend.

    Murr’s gaze darkened.  You don’t treat me like that.  Nobody treats me like that.  I’m not something for somebody else to control.  Slowly, he straightened his stance, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steel his nerves before he pointed at him firmly.   “Don’t ever lay yer hands on me again.”   His voice dripped with venom so potent that it gave the drunk man a moment’s pause.  He couldn’t tell whether he was affronted by being told what to do or if he was seriously considering the fact that he was wrong--  and he didn’t care.

    At least, he didn’t until Zach squared his shoulders and advanced on him.   “Or what, huh?  What’re you gonna do?  Don’t forget that YOU’RE in MY debt!  Who’s gettin’ your name out here in Vide, huh?”

    “I AM!”   Murr retorted angrily, a thumb jabbing into his own chest as he glowered at him without restraint.  If looks could kill, a glare from Murr would send a man straight to hell.   “Don’t take the credit fer MY hard work!  I’M the one singin’ ‘n’ dancin’ ‘n’ writin’ ‘n’ performin’ like a goddamn grease-monkey!  This shit is MINE!”

    “Like you’d ever get anywhere in Vide without a Vvder’s help!”   Zach bit back, getting closer to him with every step.  I’m going to punch this huro’s teeth in.  I’m going to bend his stupid fucking horns until they snap.   “You’re NOTHING here!  You huros are all the goddamn same--  you’re all so PROUD.”

    “Get away from me, Zach.”

    “You’re all so EAGER to KISS YOUR OWN ASSES!  You all pretend to work hard, but the only things you’re ‘fixing’ are the problems that you made yourselves, because your district is founded on false generosity and LAZINESS--”

    “That’s NOT true!”   Murr barked.  Really, this realm wasn’t a great one.  Though it was wondrous and beautiful, with surprises at every corner, things that could  never  be found on Earth, its people were so angry and hateful.  Though Valor’s quest had done a lot to quell a lot of bigotry, it also wasn’t magically erased in one day.  There was still a lot of work to be done-- which was precisely why Murr felt it appropriate to defend his district.  It wasn’t out of patriotism; it was a direct response to a racist ideology that viders perpetuated every day.  Even in spite of The Crossover, their districts very much conjoined at this point, some viders still fed each other the same dastardly lies like Nazis did with Jews.

    Unacceptable.  Disgusting.  And what makes it worse is that you yourself are doing it.  There’s no  Big  Bad  making you think these things, or say these things--  you’re just terrible, and unwilling to learn.

    Distracted, he fell when Zach’s hands met his chest in the form of a hard shove.  For all of the grace that he possessed on stage, he tumbled to the ground like a sack of bricks, confused and dazed, staring up at him with a stupefied sort of silence.  His manager wasn’t a very imposing man.  He was a little smaller than him, and his stature was nothing to write home about, skinny like a weed;  however, towering above him like that, with the intention of hurting him, Murr’s fight-or-flight response kicked in.  Just as Zach drew back his arm for a punch, Murr hurriedly reached up, fingers coiling around the thick glass of the bottle and dragging it into his lap.  Without even thinking about it, he hit it against the leg of his dresser, splintering the glass and spilling champagne all over himself and the floor.  The jagged end was brandished like a weapon, teeth grit in a furious sneer, malicious intent clear.

    In a fierce scream:   “I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME--”

    The dressing room fell silent then.  The lights surrounding his vanity mirror were the only source of illumination  ( he found it easier to proof-read and edit in dimmer places ), their space bathed in a baby pink glow.  In any other context, one might have deemed it romantic;  instead, Murr regarded it with the same quiet dread that he might a red room.

    Slowly, Zach raised his hands, backing off.   “... I’m drunk.”

    “You’re fired,”   Murr hissed in response, trying hard to hold back the urge to cry.  Far from a crybaby he was, but adrenaline had a funny way of reducing him to tears.  He was overwhelmed when it kicked in;  torn between lashing out in furious anger and crumpling in on himself with unrelenting sorrow.  He’d always been emotional like that.   “Just go.”

    “But--”

    “I said GO!”   He didn’t think about it as he hurled what remained of the glass into the nearby wall.  The noise startled the other into a hasty retreat, the door barely flung shut as he disappeared from Murr’s life for good.

    In the newfound quiet, Murr sat still.  Slowly, he brought his knees up to his chest, chin settling atop them as his arms coiled around them like a snake.  He didn’t cry.  He didn’t yell.  He didn’t work.  He just sat there, willing his heartbeat to slow down, willing his eyes not to fill up, willing himself not to run back home to his parents now that his dream was almost within his grasp. They had too much faith in his ability to abandon the position he’d found himself in.  Manager or not, he’d make his way in this district, and he’d do it despite all of the naysayers that expressed their doubt in him.

    You can’t make it in Vide without a vider’s help, huro.     Fuck that.  I can do it.

    After a few minutes to collect his bearings, hands no longer shaking, Murr slowly unfurled from his position on the floor, hands and knees climbed to as he searched for the pages his ex-manager had struck out of his grasp.  

    His heart sank when he was met something wet and soggy.

    With mounting grief, the star slowly turned one of the sodden pages over.  It fell to bits in his grasp, ink that had formed words now a blurred mess.  He didn’t need to look at the others to know that they had all met a similar fate.

    Tiredly, Murr sank back into his previous position, huddled in front of his dresser, the rosy light only touching the tips of his shoes;  a black mark in the blushing light.

    The show’s tomorrow morning.  I’m screwed.

[forkanna]

[AO3 LINK] [WATTPAD] [QUOTEV]

NOTE: Oh my God, thanks so much to all of you for reading along and all your reviews! I'm glad you're into this story! This chapter sets up the next "arc" so to speak.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Everything settled a bit more once production resumed on Into The Unknown. Elsa was so busy that she didn't find time to dwell often on Anna's home situation, and Anna clearly wasn't dying or in the hospital. The game helped, even though she didn't really think she was getting any better at it; at least it served as a regular distraction.

"So," Honey commented when she caught her Pokemonning in the dressing room, "this is new."

"I-it's nothing," she told her as she shut the clamshell lid and tried to slide the device under her purse - but Honey snatched it. "Hey, careful!"

"Well if it's nothing, how careful do I have to be with nothing?" She started turning it over in her hands. "This is one of those Nintendo things, right? My little sister has one."

Standing, she held a hand out in front of her. "Would you mind returning my property, please?"

But Honey was too busy fixing her with a knowing smirk. "So… for the sake of argument, how old is this snack you're talking to online?"

No answer. Just a blush that was actually visible through the heavy set makeup.

"That young?" she asked with raised eyebrows. "Alright. None of my business. But, um… aren't you taking this a little far? You're mimicking her interests and all. Most people would say that's serious."

"It's only a game," she grunted, snatching it out of her hands and shoving it in her thousand-dollar designer purse. "And she's only a friend… she has a boyfriend, and college classes."

Her co-star saw through the pointed insistence that Anna was of age, but didn't remark on it; just nodded in acknowledgement. "Okay. For the record, though, I wasn't trying to judge, I'm just… well, you said it yourself; you're worried about how the public would react if word got out. And it would be worse if she was a kid."

"Well, she's not." Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing… I like her, I really do. But she's not available and neither am I. But I should be able to just have a friend, right?"

"You should, yes. Is that what you want from this girl?"

Elsa's brow furrowed. "No. But it's what I can have."

"Norberg, come on." She shrugged and let that drop for now. "Okay, so I was just going to ask you to ask you, but now you need cheering up so it's even more important. I'm going on a spa trip this weekend with Kristoff. Tag along, get your mind off the daily stress. And you can still call your little side piece, so it's not an intervention or anything."

"Oh… I don't know, I was supposed to meet up with my parents for lunch on Sat… urd… you know what? Let's do it. They're just going to micromanage my entire life as usual."

Honey laughed and clapped excitedly. "That's the spirit! Come on, let's go find matching robes!"

"What? I mean, don't they provide those?!" But she was already being dragged off to costuming.

                                                   ~ o ~

However, it was only Tuesday. Elsa privately wished she didn't have multiple days to fret over doing something this impulsive, but it was what it was. She ended up confessing to Anna the following night that she was thinking of telling her friend she was feeling under the weather.

"Whaaaat, why?" she laughed on the other end of the line. "Sounds like she wants some girl time; like, she's taking her boyfriend and still doesn't mind you coming, right?"

"But we aren't very close." Still picking at the dregs of her Lean Cuisine, she said, "I know you have to cam soon, I'm sorry… ignore me."

"Nnnnope. And maybe she wants to get closer; actually be biffers instead of just some hoe you know."

"Maybe. She does keep taking me shopping and things… I don't know, I'm so bad at everything."

Anna laughed and made a grunting noise; Elsa was reasonably sure she had flopped onto her bed again. "So, uh, where's this fancy pants place you're going again?"

"Oh, something… Hermosa? I don't even know what it means." Her mind flashed back to the adorable mechanic, so she hurried to say, "It's way out in Santa Barbara, which Honey insists will mean we won't see paparazzi, but I have a feeling we will, anyway."

"Huh… okay, cool, cool." Then she cleared her throat. "W-well, I mean not cool if they show up, but I was saying 'cool' about the whole trip. And we both know you gotta loosen up, man; let your hair down and whatever. We've been talking about that."

"Right. And talking about you needing to do the opposite. How are your classes going?"

"Oh… they're going," she hedged. When Elsa only grunted, she relented, "I'm a little behind in the calc, but like I said, I don't think I'm gonna use it much when I'm slinging hoagies or whatever, right? So who cares?"

"We both will care when you have to take more classes for more credit hours, and you fall behind."

"Yes, motherrrrr," she drawled out. When Elsa sighed, she followed up, "Sorry. I know you're just having my back and all. But I got this, okay? Promise."

"Thank you. Because I know you're good at camming, but we both agree that's not your permanent career. You are destined for something greater; I can feel it."

"Yeah, maybe." There was a long pause as Elsa stood up to dump the rest of her food. "Hey… Mountie?"

"Yes?"

Anna swallowed hard. "Listen. We got this batshit thing where I'm friends with a celebrity but I don't know which one. And I'm not digging dirt, but I can't help thinking, like… if I did find out, by accident or on purpose… would you be mad? Upset? It's… I guess I wanna know if…"

Maybe Elsa wasn't great at interpersonal relations, but she could figure this one out. "You want to know if my anonymity is more important to me than… you."

"What?! N-nawww, that's dumb, we're just-"

"It isn't."

"Oh." There was a small pause. Elsa might have been wrong, but she was reasonably sure the girl was smiling when she said, "Sorry, I just was… curious and shit."

"No problem," she chuckled softly. "And… I probably will tell you someday. It's just a delicate situation."

"Oh, no big deal… just you've seen a lot more of me than I have of you, dude."

Snorting, she leaned against the kitchen counter. "Not my fault, Anna. Seriously, you were like a used car salesman trying to upsell me your butthole."

"SHEEZE, will you let it go?!"

                                                  To Be Continued…

[ohblackdiamond]

careening (bruce/paul, pg-13)

"There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.” Struggling with Gene's indifference towards the band, Paul takes Bruce out to dinner after a recording session.

Notes: For @lillianastras who I believe requested Bruce/Paul a long, long time ago. My only wish is that it was cuter.

“careening”

by Ruriruri

we measure our gains out in luck and coincidence lanterns to turn back the night and put our defeats down to chance or experience and try once again for the light –al stewart, “a man for all seasons”

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?”

Bruce looked at Eric, who shook his head dully, but didn’t say a word. As soon as Paul’s back was turned, he ran his finger in front of his neck. Bruce nodded.

“We can’t just cancel for today. We paid for the studio space already. We—I don’t fucking care, Gene. I don’t. No. You’re not—you’re not listening to me.” An exhale. Paul had the phone cord wrapped around his fist, was pacing back and forth. “The hell does that matter? You still think you’re gonna be some big star?”

Bruce had thought things were improving between them. That long break after the last tour should’ve done them some good. He’d mentioned it to Eric a few months back, after a shoot. Eric, weirdly cynical, had just shrugged.

“Gene wants to get a finger in a bunch of pies at once.” He’d looked off somewhere, past Bruce and past the room itself, not really wistful, and not really condemning, and took a swig of water. “Paul doesn’t like taking chances. Which is kinda funny, I mean, music’s such a… such a big risk in the first place. But I guess it’s the only chance he ever took.”

“What about you?” Bruce had asked, and Eric had laughed, a little.

“Well, my chance didn’t get me there half as fast, but maybe I’m better off for it.” He’d paused, pulling something out of his hair. A rhinestone that must’ve fallen off his outfit during the photoshoot earlier. He squinted at it, then he flicked it to the floor. “I don’t want anything bigger than I have. The fame bit, the glamor bit… it’s crap, Bruce, you know it, I know it—but they—they don’t know it. And they’re not gonna ever figure it out.”

It was a hell of a thing to say while drinking a bottle of Evian. It was also a hell of thing to tell a guy who’d known both of them, in the periphery, before KISS was even a band. But Bruce knew Eric was sincere. He couldn’t help himself. That it-factor, star power, whatever, that could spin pretense into reality for two hours at a time—it wasn’t in Eric any more than it was in Bruce. And that was fine, that was fine, except that it meant they never had any leverage. It forced them both into hours spent sitting through Paul and Gene’s arguments, paid to spectate, paid to shut up and do their jobs. Like right now. Paul was in particularly bitter form this afternoon, Queens accent getting stronger with every sentence. Bruce could picture Gene on the other line, unemotional at first, all-business, gradually devolving into defensive protests as Paul kept on.

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t start. I don’t wanna hear it. Personal? No, it’s not personal, it’s just my fucking livelihood and our fucking band—why the hell would I be upset? Yeah. Yeah, why the hell not. You didn’t even write the shit you mailed in—” and Paul cut himself off. Bruce could feel his gaze on him. It made him stop—despite Eric shaking his head earlier, he’d been trying to leave the room.

Something in Paul’s gaze seemed like it faltered. Maybe some residual piece of shame. He took the phone from his ear, cupping the receiver in his palm.

“I’m almost done, Bruce. Don’t leave yet.” And then, quieter still, without raising the receiver to listen in again, he hung up. Not with the slam Bruce had heard at least five times just during their time in this studio. Just set it down almost timidly, as if it were a piece of crystal instead of plastic. As if he were giving up. It was another few tense seconds before he spoke again. “Three-fourths of the band, that’s seventy-five percent. That’s still a passing grade, right?”

Eric nodded. Bruce repeated the gesture, added a quick “yeah” that didn’t seem to bolster Paul any. Paul still managed a faint twitch of a smile.

“C’mon.”

--

It wasn’t much of a recording session. Paul messed around on the guitar a bit, going back and forth on some lyrics. Eric was too enthusiastic on the drum fills, trying to make up for the tension in the studio, still heavy as L.A. smog in the air. It seemed like it just pissed off Paul further, but for once, he kept all snippy comments to himself.

Bruce just played when he was told, the chords as easy and rote as folding clothes. He knew Paul was looking for that sound—that one melody to bring it all back. That confidence behind a sure-fire hit. Bruce didn’t know what that feeling was like, but it must have been something else, or Paul wouldn’t still be chasing it ten years later. Gold record sales and MTV video rotations didn’t matter like Billboard bullets. Proof of success wasn’t in the tape deck—just in sold-out stadiums and constant radio play.

And Bruce couldn’t kid himself, really. There was no way this album would even get a top-40 single, no matter the press or the songs or the guitar work. No amount of effort could court a burnt-out audience. The old KISS Army had long since devolved into a bunch of twenty-somethings more interested in the stock market than heavy metal. Gene understood that. Paul didn’t.

Paul cut the session about half an hour short. Eric ducked out quickly, just a fluffy mess of curls rushing out the door, and after awhile, Bruce found himself nearly alone in the studio, with just Paul standing there, watching him pack up his guitar. Bruce raised his head, expecting a goodbye and getting a question, sudden and a little edgy, instead.

“How long’ve you been in KISS now?”

He didn’t have to think about it.

“Three years.”

“Three years? Three years and I haven’t ever taken you out to dinner. Jesus. Well. We’ll fix that.” Paul got up, putting his own guitar, one of them, back in its case. “I haven’t had a bite all day. What do you like, Bruce?”

“I’m not picky.”

“Then I’ll be picky. There’s a sushi place a couple miles from here. I’ll drive us over.”

And that was it. Ten minutes later, he was in the passenger’s seat of Paul’s car. Paul fidgeted, stuck in a CD (“the damn things skip as bad as a record, I should’ve got the tape player”). For all his interview claims of not listening to other bands, Bruce knew better. He had Slippery When Wet in there, was tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat. Always on the lookout for a hook to riff off of, or a turn of phrase to peel away. Something dirty and distinctive. Emulating the other bands wasn’t getting them any airplay, but God, were they all trying.

“They say Mick Jagger’s putting out another solo album this year.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Paul nodded, turning up the volume. He was always doing that. When Bruce had first joined KISS, Gene had pulled him to the side one day, told him, quietly, that Paul needed to stand or sit beside him during interviews and T.V. appearances. Bruce had thought that was the oddest bit of micromanaging he’d ever heard of, telling him where to stand, or where not to stand. It had taken him awhile—probably half that tour—to really figure out why. Paul’s hearing wasn’t great, and it made his nerves worse. Particularly when there was more than one interviewer, more than one voice he had to focus on. He depended on Gene’s oddly gentle conspiracy, Gene’s automatic willingness to stand next to him and repeat any question for him, to even get out there, as if Bruce or Eric couldn’t have done the same.

“If it does well enough, he might cut out.” Paul said it almost like a dare. Still on about Jagger. Bruce raised his head.

“Of the Stones? I don’t think he would.”

“No, out of the Commodores. Of course the Stones.”

Bruce flinched slightly. He felt Paul’s glance on him, brief and almost softer, heard him clear his throat.

“Sorry. You don’t think he’d leave? Why not?”

“Because he can’t. There’s the money, but… he couldn’t cut out of being one of the Stones, not even if he wanted to.”

“You’re real naïve, Bruce. It’s cute.” Paul skipped the next song on the CD, then, once he’d surveyed the deck, he pushed another button. The CD swapped out with a humming sound, and after a second, Bob Seger came rasping through the speakers. Paul went silent then, except for that slight rap of his fingers against the steering wheel.

Bruce didn’t push for more conversation. Something mild about the weather, maybe, but that was about it. Paul was an oddly adept driver; Bruce had known that beforehand, but being in the car with him cemented it. He threaded through the traffic as adroitly as the cabbie he hadn’t been in fifteen years. Pulled in to the restaurant, a restaurant that didn’t look as luxurious as Bruce had expected.

He knew, three years in, that the flush of fame was more than half a put-on, that pretense was the name of the game, but he was still surprised. Paul and Gene kept a tight fist on KISS’ image, made sure the Playboy playmates and the rented mansions were all the public got a glimpse at. Even tried to keep him and Eric from really seeing what was behind the scenes. The money situation, the tour situation, like the two of them couldn’t count the empty seats from their vantage points onstage. But the put-ons had continued anyway. When they’d had sit-down dinners as a band, depending on the area, Paul and Gene would do their best to go somewhere classy, somewhere the right people would be. Not someplace like this.

He was surprised when Paul stepped out ahead of him and opened the restaurant door for him. Less surprised at the flash of recognition from the hostess, and the hasty way she led them both to a table.

“You come here often, Paul?”

“I’m just a good tipper.”

They sat down. The waitress awkwardly tried to pull back their chairs for them. Bruce cocked his head at that, but let her. She passed out the menus, rattling off the evening’s specials as if she wasn’t used to giving them, taking furtive glances at Bruce that Paul didn’t seem to notice, handing back the menu after barely looking at it.

“I’ll have a Long Island iced tea,” he said, “and he’ll take—Bruce, what do you want?”

“Coke is fine.”

“Are you sure?” Paul paused. “I probably won’t have half of it, if you’re worried about my driving—"

“I’m sure.”

“All right. … Go ahead and start me off on the spicy yellowtail roll, I think.” Paul said it so conversationally that Bruce thought he was still talking to him and not the waitress, at first. It didn’t help that he wasn’t quite looking her in the face, just turned vaguely in her direction. Antsy. The busboy darted over, passed out their glasses of water and a small saucer of lemon slices—Paul must’ve come down here more than once or twice.

It felt odd. The whole thing felt a little off-kilter, as if the tenseness from the studio had lingered like a shot of novocaine in his system. As if there was something—something everyone else was expecting. Bruce gave the waitress a second to scribble the order down before adding his.

“I’ll have a California roll.”

“Damn, you’re really breaking the bank here,” Paul said dryly.

“Nah, just kosher.” It was the first joke he’d even tried to go for since getting in the car, but Paul seemed to appreciate it. Enough to smile.

“I won’t tell. In fact, I might have one myself.” Paul took one of the lemon slices, squeezing it into his glass of water before dropping it in, shoving it down to the bottom with his straw. “Can’t get any farther from yeshiva than Hollywood, can you?”

“There’s always San Francisco.”

“You’re pretty funny when you try, Bruce.” Paul sipped at his water. “Did you go?”

“Go where?”

“To yeshiva.”

Bruce peeled the paper off his straw, shaking his head.

“Nah. Bob did. I wasn’t that interested.”

“Me, either. Hell, I didn’t even have my bar mitzvah. How’s Bob doing these days?”

Bob wasn’t a topic Bruce expected Paul to broach on his own. He blinked, then nodded, answering after a swallow of water.

“He’s good. Still touring with Meat Loaf.”

“Good.” Paul toyed with his straw. “If… if he gets a break, tell me. I’d like to catch up.”

Bob probably didn’t want to catch up. With him, the resentment simmered deep under the surface, probing its way up at regular intervals that only Bruce ever had to deal with. Fifteen years of it. Awhile back, Bruce had gone on a tour of Mount Kilauea, over in Hawaii. The guides had let them walk nearer to the lava flows than Bruce ever thought they would, and one guy almost lost his shoe from taking a second to step on the stuff. That was how Bob was. Volatility that seemed harmless right up until it set you on fire.

“Well, he’s on that world tour now, he’s pretty busy.”

“Yeah.” The corner of Paul’s mouth quirked up faintly as the waitress returned with their drinks. He was looking at her now—he kept looking at her past when she left their table—a wry expression on his face that Bruce couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t interest. She wasn’t Paul’s type; not blonde and not beautiful. Just a regular girl with an irregular patron. “I know.”

“I think he’s got a month off in July,” Bruce finally offered.

“Cool. Let me know?”

“Sure.”

Not a whole lot they could talk about that Bruce could see. Bob hadn’t ghosted a track for KISS in five years or so, and with Bruce around, he wouldn’t need to. Maybe Paul was just feeling sentimental, wanting to visit somebody that had been his friend. He didn’t exactly have a surplus of those.

Bruce sipped at his Coke, but Paul was already downing his drink like it was water after a marathon. Strange to watch. Bruce had never seen Paul take more than a single glass of wine at a party. New Year’s saw him more sober than most nursing home residents. Another absence out of Gene shouldn’t have been enough to change that.

“You probably think I’m a prick,” Paul said out of nowhere, waving his hand before Bruce could respond. “It’s fine, everybody does.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus, Bruce, we’re having dinner, not discussing your contract. You can say I’m a prick if you want to. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I think you’re under a lot of pressure right now.”

“Is that what Eric told you to say?”

“No, I’m just—things seem like they’re getting to you.”

“Then it’s that obvious.” Paul laughed. “It’s so obvious you’re calling me out on it.”

“Paul, I’m not calling you out—”

“You are. That’s fine.” The Long Island iced tea was already halfway gone. Bruce hadn’t had more than three swallows of his soda. Paul shifted. “Hell, it’s kind of refreshing. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m not trying to—” Bruce started, but Paul continued before he could even finish the thought.

“I like it, all right, Bruce? Nobody but Gene’ll even try to tell me off anymore. And he doesn’t care enough to bother.” Paul only paused to take a long gulp of his drink. “Tell me what I should do. Tell me how to calm down.”

Bruce hesitated. His palm felt like wood against the side of his glass of Coke. He’d seen this before out of Paul. Not particularly often, and almost never toward him. That weird, calculated lashing out. It made him feel like a frog in the hands of a biology major. The amount of evisceration didn’t matter; he’d be dead no matter what.

“I don’t know. Look, man, your business is your business.”

Surprisingly, Paul went silent at that. His brow was furrowed, but he didn’t look angry or put-out. He didn’t look much of anything. The waitress came by with their sushi rolls, but Bruce only took the chopsticks in his hand and broke them apart, waiting for Paul to answer, or change the subject, watching him drain the last of his drink and order another without much of a pause.

“My business is your business, there’s the problem. Yours and Eric’s and Gene’s and—and Peter’s, isn’t that a laugh? His share of KISS hasn’t expired yet. God. I’ve been paying his rent for seven fucking years. Serve him right if the new album didn’t sell one copy.”

That was news to Bruce. He tried not to react visibly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You sure I don’t? A quarter of zero’s still zero.”

“You want the album to do well. So do I. So does everybody involved.”

“It’s not gonna do well. Y’know what me and Gene did? We fucked ourselves over. We threw out everybody that we thought was trying to—to steer the ship out from under us. We stacked the deck so full of yes-men that we couldn’t see past our own asses.” Paul exhaled. “You… you’re never gonna tell me my lyrics are shit. You’re never gonna tell me I’m making a goddamn fool of myself out there onstage. I wish you would. I wish for one minute somebody would tell me exactly—”

“Do you really want someone to hurt you that bad?” Bruce said it softly. His throat felt like wet cardboard. Paul’s gaze—vaguely on his face, nowhere near his eyes, ever— dropped straight down to his drink, his fingers twitching before grasping his empty glass again, as if to steady himself.

“I’d beg them for it. If it’d get KISS back on top again, I-I’d let anyone do whatever they wanted.” Paul finally seemed to notice his plate of sushi. He picked one of the rolls up, slipping it into his mouth. He didn’t speak again until he’d finished swallowing. “Course, that’s not how the music industry works. There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer that. The silence spread like the cigarette smoke from a few tables over. He took in the scent, thinking of barrooms and ballrooms, thinking of KKB’s sad little shows when he was a teenager. The way the three of him would go out there for a handful of people, certain it’d work out, because it was working out for his older brother’s buddies. Because they were on tour, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour was full of pubic lice and moldy boots, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour nearly ended only a couple months in. He’d only scratched the surface. He hadn’t understood.

Paul’s second drink was set on the table, the drained glass disappearing like a magician’s feeblest trick. The waitress shot both of them a questioning look, one Paul ignored, taking his first swallow. Three shots worth of alcohol in a single glass of that shit. Three shots on an almost empty stomach. Bruce didn’t want to look at Paul right now. Instead, he looked over at the girl, wanting, strangely, to speak to her, to ask her what her expression was for, what she knew that he didn’t. It seemed—it seemed, strangely, like he ought to know, like everyone else knew—but she was back to the other patrons once she’d refilled Bruce’s glass.

“It isn’t even just about being on top anymore. It isn’t about the—the ego trip the way it used to be. I don’t give a damn these days if anybody recognizes me on the street or not.”

Bruce doubted that. He doubted that intensely. He’d seen Paul peering out the tour bus windows after they were in the hotel parking lots too many times. He knew he was always hoping for the old throng of autograph seekers and groupies. Gene, too. Even Eric, in scattered, abashed moments, would talk about the Australian and European tours back in ’80, the utter insanity of it (“so many girls I could’ve made it with, but I didn’t know any better—I thought they couldn’t want me, man, they had to be wanting somebody else”). Paul could still pick any girl he wanted out of the crowd, have a roadie bring her backstage. He still did it most nights. But the adulation had disappeared before Bruce ever arrived at the scene.

“If I could get a hit… if KISS could fill a couple stadiums, just a couple… then it’d be all right. I’d feel okay. God, who knows, maybe Gene would even show up to record again, you think?”

“He’ll be back anyway, Paul.”

“He won’t. He thinks we’re finished.” He was working on that second glass, almost as enthusiastically as the first. “Ace was mailing in his guitar parts just before he quit. But at least they were his. Gene’s throwing me songs he bought off the nearest wannabe writer on the street. And I sucked it up like an idiot at first because I thought he was gonna come back anytime, say he was sorry, get back to how it was. Instead he lets me handle everything, album after album. He gets credit for the successes like he even showed up. And he blows off the failures ’cause he’s got plenty of other bands he’s managing. Never mind his own.” An exhale. “He doesn’t give a damn anymore.”

“I think he does.”

Paul’s expression changed at that. The cynical cast to his features, the tight way he was holding his jaw, all that shifted, flickered, and for a bare, odd second Bruce could almost see the twenty-year-old Bob had brought over to their parents’ apartment and introduced as Gene’s friend. Then Paul shook his head and the moment disappeared.

“You don’t need to prop me up like that. It’s okay. I can’t give him what he wants, I need to cut my losses and quit trying.”

“Paul, listen, you’re not looking at this right. Gene’s not—”

“You don’t know how Gene is. I could be as understanding as Mother Theresa and he’d still be blowing me off.” Paul paused, drink midway to his lips. “I’m sorry. Am I ever gonna let you talk, Bruce? I can’t afford two therapy bills.”

Bruce shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

“You’ve got a lot to say and I don’t ever let you say it. Not on MTV or the interviews… God, I act like we don’t all sleep in the same crappy hotels.”

“I don’t really like interviews, it’s fine.”

“Bruce, I’m trying to apologize.”

Bruce’s free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly, before resting back on the table.

“I know what you hired me to do. I’m not expecting anything else.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” Paul’s hand was on the table, fingers curled inches from Bruce’s own. “I like writing songs with you. I never… I didn’t write any with Ace, and Vinnie, well…” He shrugged. “It feels good. It feels real good.”

“I like it, too. It’s fun.”

“It makes me think it’s ’76. Like I’ll turn around and find Bob Ezrin snorting a mountain of coke in the office. And—and Ace and Peter, too, looking like they used to. I can fucking see Ace’s card deck. And Gene’d be right there, leaning up against the music stand—I can fool myself pretty good, when I want.”

“Look,” Bruce said, rubbing his chopsticks together with his finger and thumb, the sound soft, dry, “look, I honestly think things might be turning around.”

“They won’t turn eleven years around. I can’t fool myself that much.” Paul’s expression darkened back up, and he reached for his drink again. More than half of it was gone now. The side of his boot brushed against Bruce’s ankle for a brief moment before pulling back. “My accountant told me to stop sending my parents so much money. Like I was a kid spending all his allowance. I’ve cut so many expenses I’m down to a fucking one-bedroom apartment.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped to the untouched California roll on his plate, and the chopsticks in his hand. Paul laughed again.

“Go for it. It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t really that hungry.”

“Your check’s gonna clear with or without the sushi. Trust me.”

“Paul—”

“In fact…” Paul trailed, pulling his own plate forward, “that’s not how you eat sushi, anyway. When we went to Japan in ’77… we went out to this real authentic restaurant, supposedly. The sushi chef came out there and our guide, she’d translate everything he said… he said you don’t eat it with chopsticks, you eat it with your hands. ’Cause it was fast food, before Americans turned it into something it wasn’t.” Paul paused, picking up the second roll on his plate. “This used to be their version of a fucking hamburger, can you believe that?”

“That’s interesting,” Bruce said, and he meant it, but Paul’s expression got a little deflated.

“It’s not interesting, it’s awful. Like the hula girls in Hawaii. Every-everything turned into a commodity. You gonna eat that roll, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I’ll—”

“One bite.” Paul popped his own into his mouth to demonstrate. A few seconds of chewing, a swallow, and then he continued. “Course, you didn’t get the real stuff, so maybe it doesn’t matter, but…” He waved the waitress back over, absently. “Get him a rainbow roll, would you? Thanks.”

“Paul, c’mon—”

“If you don’t eat it, I will.” Paul said. His eyes looked a little sharper now, a little more intent. Bruce set down his chopsticks, picked up one of the small California rolls on his plate. The rice was sticky and cold against his fingers. He stuck it in his mouth, not bothering with the smear of soy sauce on the dish. The taste of surimi and cream cheese burst onto his tongue, neither excellent nor terrible, just there, competently mediocre. He reached for the next one, almost mechanically, but Paul’s hand was there already, closing over the roll before he could.

“Not real crab, I know,” he said, quietly, “but maybe it’ll taste better this way.” And then Paul had the roll in his palm, extended towards his face like an offering.

“Paul—”

“Go on, Bruce.”

Bruce reached for the roll. He meant to pick it up out of Paul’s hand, but something stopped him. Not Paul, not exactly. Paul didn’t curl up his hand or push it out further or say another word. Maybe it was pity, that bastard child of all emotions, that made Bruce just tip the sushi a little closer with his fingers as he ate it from Paul’s palm. One bite. His tongue didn’t get anywhere near Paul’s skin. But Paul seemed to relax at that. He was starting to smile again, mouth wavering like wind-tossed stalks of wheat in a field. The pads of his fingers brushed up against Bruce’s almost delicately, before he withdrew his hand.

“How was it?”

“Good. It was good.”

“Good.” Paul took another piece of his own sushi, dipping it lightly into the soy sauce. “Want to try some of mine?”

“I—no, that’s fine.”

“You don’t have to worry. Nobody here is gonna bother us.” Paul started in again, conversationally. “Are you shy, Bruce?”

“No. I’ll just finish what I’ve got.” Two pieces left. The waitress hadn’t returned with the rainbow roll yet. Bruce hesitated; for an insane moment he felt like he should add a thank you, but he cut himself off with another swallow of sushi. Across from him, Paul just shrugged and popped his own piece in his mouth, following it up by downing a little more of his drink.

“You are shy. That’s all right. I am, too.”

“Paul—”

“It’s cool.” Paul reached his hand across the table, resting it on top of Bruce’s, running his fingers up and down his wrist. His face was faintly flushed. “I mean, to be honest, it sucks, being shy in a rock band, but—it’s cool, I get it, if you’d rather in private—”

Bruce drew his hand back belatedly. Slowly, not wanting to startle Paul, whose expression barely faltered at all.

“I don’t think so.”

“Bruce—”

“You’ve had too much to make an offer like that.”

“I’d make it sober,” Paul said. Deprived of Bruce’s hand, he shifted forward. A second and Bruce felt the side of Paul’s boot against his ankle again. “You’re a good guy, I always liked you.”

“Paul, no.”

“I did. I always did. You…you’re reliable, you listen, you’re easy on the eyes—Bruce, it’s not—if you’re worried about your job, don’t be, this doesn’t need to—be anything, it’s just—”

“No.”

“Bruce, please.”

“No.” The wet cardboard feeling in his throat was back again. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him, not sharp anymore but suddenly desperate instead, his mouth tight as a steel trap. He should’ve stopped him. Shouldn’t have let him keep on and on. He’d never have gotten to this point then. He’d never peel back this much of himself, like the soft insides of a crab, weak and exposed. Bruce never should have let him do it.

He shifted his foot and stood up.

“Give me your keys. I’ll take you to the hotel.”

“I’m not—”

The waitress arrived with that second plate of sushi. This time she wasn’t looking at them at all. Something caught deep in Bruce’s throat then, something dark that he didn’t want to place or name for sure.

“Bruce, please.” Now Paul was standing, leaning one hand heavily against the table. A step, hand sliding to the edge of the table, and he was in front of Bruce, his other hand clamping around his shirt. Bruce could smell the cologne in his hair, the alcohol on his breath. “It—if you’d just stay with me—"

“Paul, let me have your keys.”

Paul pulled them out. Fumbled with his wallet. Bruce shook his head, taking the keys but nothing else, putting a couple bills from his pocket on the table before Paul could try to argue. He felt Paul press in against him, push his mouth sloppily against his neck, but that was all. No other come-ons or protests. Nothing. He shifted easily after, let Bruce walk him to the car, to the hotel, to his room, even. Bruce didn’t give the keys back until after that hotel door was unlocked and Paul was inside. He was tempted to hold onto them, even then—but Paul’s expression was faltering so badly that he didn’t want to strip any last piece of pride from him. He’d had sense enough to let Bruce drive. Surely he’d have sense enough to stay in his room.

Paul’s fingers closed around the keys for only a few seconds. Bruce watched as he dropped them on the dresser and stumbled to the bed, peeling off his boots, head bent and turned away from him.

“Go on. Would you go on, Bruce? I got it from here.”

Bruce hesitated at the door.

“Go on.”

Every reassurance he could make sounded hollow even in his brain. Even the ones from that afternoon. He couldn’t ease a burden he didn’t have the means to lift.

He turned the knob and left without a word.

--

He didn’t see Paul again until their next recording session. He’d left an apology on Bruce’s hotel answering machine, and a written one under his door, his cursive cramped and uneven, but he didn’t say a word. Bruce didn’t expect him to.

Gene was there at the studio, surprisingly, indifferent, with a copy of Variety open on his lap and a Pepsi in hand instead of his bass most of the session. Paul looked more sunken in than ever, vying for his attention, fooling around and playing riffs nearly twenty years old (“that’s how it goes, Gene, right, do you remember—‘My Uncle is a Raft,’ that’s the first song you ever—“) instead of laying down tracks.

It’s crap, Bruce. They don’t know it. They’re never gonna figure it out. That was what Eric had said, and maybe it was true, but maybe it wasn’t. And maybe he could do something, now that he’d seen past the last desperate bits of glamor Paul had left to offer.

Paul left before he did. Bruce watched him crank his car from where he stood outside the recording studio, the taillights glinting to life, and then the faint sound of the radio before he sped away. Mick Jagger blaring out “Just Another Night.”

Eric ducked out soon after, his ’79 Porsche like an artifact backing out of the parking lot. Gene’s chauffeur was already waiting, engine idling. Gene had the magazine under his arm. Bruce reached over on impulse, briefly grasping his forearm.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Bruce?” Gene looked up at him. “You need anything?”

“Could you do something for me?”

“You need a lift? You don’t have to ask—”

“I don’t need a lift.” His taxi had pulled up. He could picture the meter running, numbers spinning up like years, the inverse of the Billboard charts. “It’s not really for me, anyway. It’s for Paul.”

“What about him?”

“Be kinder to him. That’s all.”

Bruce expected Gene to protest. Give out the old lines he trotted out every interview, we’re like brothers and it’s like a marriage, tired and overplayed even five years ago. Instead, Gene hesitated.

“Bruce, you don’t understand.”

“No, but I’ve got a good idea.” The cab driver was looking at him, staring impatiently. Just a five-mile ride back to the hotel, a five-mile ride that’d take forty-five minutes, easy, this time of day. “You keep on hurting somebody and they’re never going to forget it. Whether this album’s a hit or not. Whether KISS ends up back in stadiums or back in ballrooms. That’s it. That’s all, Gene.”

He didn’t wait on an answer, just walked over to the cab. Gene clapped his shoulder on the way, and for a second, Bruce almost thought he’d say something, or follow him to the cab, something. But he just saw the brief shift of Gene’s expression the second before he shut the passenger door, the faint tightening of Gene’s mouth as he walked past the cab and to his own car, dropping the magazine to the pavement as he stepped inside. Bruce watched the car’s back wheels run it over, and then the cab’s, the pages fluttering on the pavement, nothing but vapid gloss against concrete.