#the fag in question is Moonlight

[jroot04]

YOU AND COREY KISSING

i mean if you count the fact that we're kissing the same fag then yeah sure

[bradleymarshall]

I’m sitting in the car with you. We were driving 2 hours to get to the other side of the state, somewhere between Victoria and South Australia, along the beauty of the great ocean road.

I say nothing for the longest time, just listening to you as you talked about the girls you dated and the catholic girl you loved who condemned gays. Your father is gay so you had to leave her in the end, you said, as you couldn’t stand her homophobia.

I felt reassured and I wanted to ask you about your father, What was it like to grow up with a father who was gay? Did it make you question your own sexuality? Did it make you view him as any less of a man?

But then I’d be asking too many questions and maybe then it would be too obvious. I who hadn’t dated a girl in years, 25, and still single.

Cause I see myself as a man, but I fear that coming out… would mean people no longer view me as the strong male figure I want to be seen as.

Instead, they’d view me as a fag, just a poofter, a wimp.

And God I got so close to admitting it to him.

“How you can wear your heart like that so openly on your sleeve?”

“You’re like an open book”

“Life is just easier that way” he explained.

“We’ll maybe if you have nothing to hide.

What if you did had something to hide?”

You know life would suck if you’re a pedo. Imagine that, you can never publicly admit what you’re into and you can never act on your impulses.

Yeah that would suck.

How ironic, it’s exactly how I felt, although my attractions were much more innocuous.

His dad was gay, he was accepting, it was the perfect time to come out.

I dated many girls before Imran, took them out dates, bought them chocolates, fingered them in the passenger seat of my car, made them long for me.

A kiss under the moonlight.

“You’re such the sweet talker Mason”

I’ve got so many memories embroidered into my soul, so many experiences where I’ve exhausted myself trying to pleasure her, fuck her with a barely erect penis, only to be left feeling absolutely miserable and exhausted deep within my soul, as though my spirit had been sucked out of my being.

I’d come home pale like a corpse, extracted of all life.

I recited my lines perfectly, and now, I’m exhausted.

I can’t do it anymore.

Maybe if she was lesbian or frigid, I’d be willing to try again,

But I can’t stand anything else.

I’m gay Imran, there is said it.

Although I never said it.

I never said anything, I kept myself poisoned in my own silence. How long will I go on like this?

[nekojitachan]

The Waiting Game

*******

Okay, so, still working on GiY ch16 (over half done) and then I’m trying to figure out if I’ll do the A/B/O fic or try more Not in the Stars (or maybe even post bits of the Cat!Neil on here), but for some reason I wanted to get this started just so I can throw it in the WIP pile and have a feel for how it’ll go.

Warnings - suicidal thoughts and suicide attempt in the first part (not very descriptive), and vague mention of Andrew’s past.

*******

Andrew counted down the minutes until Johnny would come to unstrap him from his bed, alone in his room at Easthaven Hospital and high on the latest drug cocktail Proust had forced on him. Hmm, something a little different than last time, something that made his thoughts skitter about and concentration fracture and rage burst into tiny bubbles of laughter which floating through his veins until he wanted to claw them out but his hands were strapped down.

Bah.

At least, for the next two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Then he’d put the piece of metal he’d oh-so carefully hoarded and sharpened the last few weeks to good use and slice open those veins and let those annoying bubbles float free and no more laughter, no more drugs, no more anything.

He was done with it, was done with it all. Done putting up with Tilda, with her abuse and neglect (he didn’t know which was worse), with being foisted off to foster homes and the men who would hurt him whenever she fucked up her life more than usual, only to be dumped back on her when she lied well enough to convince Child Services that she had her act together (what a load of bullshit). Done dealing with his homophobic, ‘Christian’ uncle who didn’t believe him about Drake and the others, about Aaron, who locked him up for being a ‘fag’ and a liar’. Done dealing with Proust, who was more messed up than most of the patients in Easthaven. Done with everyone telling him that Aaron didn’t exist.

He was done with everything.

Just a little longer.

He’d taken to humming ‘itsy bitsy spider’ for some reason when there was a strange tension in the air, a feeling similar to right before a powerful thunderstorm was unleashed, and then his ears popped in a painful manner as two figures appeared out of nowhere – literally, one moment they weren’t there and then the next they were. Still strapped to the bed, Andrew tensed at their presence, even when they stepped out of the shadows to reveal themselves to be two young men about the same age as himself dressed in dark jeans and sweaters, one tall and one short, one with black hair and one a redhead, both with pale eyes and handsome features.

The tall one frowned as he turned to his shorter companion and let out a spat of what sounded to be French but not quite; there was something odd about the language, something not quite right. The shorter companion kept his gaze on Andrew, a slight smile on his sharp-featured face, and replied calmly in the same language.

When tall, dark and bitchy started up again, Andrew clicked his tongue. “You’re rather boring for a hallucination,” he called out. “And rude. At least speak English.”

That made tall, dark and bitchy shut up in a hurry and glare at Andrew, while short, redhead and gorgeous merely smiled and nodded once. “Our apologies,” he said in English, his voice a pleasant tenor with a British accent. “My partner’s confused at the moment, as this is a bit of a detour for us.”

“Detour from what?” Andrew asked, curious despite himself (were those eyes blue? A pale blue?), then scoffed when the redhead merely continued to smile while his ‘partner’ glared. “Hmm, these drugs are even more potent than I thought.” What the hell had Proust given him this time?

Oh well, not that it mattered much anymore.

The redhead spoke in the odd language again, clearly to his partner even though he continued to regard Andrew, and after a brief argument where Andrew picked up the name ‘Kevin’ be mentioned, tall, dark and bitchy vanished into thin air.

“Hmm, nice trick. Can you pull a rabbit from a hat, next? How about a pack of cigarettes?” Andrew wouldn’t mind one last smoke before he kicked off the mortal coil, so to speak.

The redhead continued to regard him silently for several seconds (his eyes were pale blue, like the one vase in Cass’s house, or the knitted sweater Miss Nelson had given Andrew when he was eight years old). “You’re going to try to kill yourself tonight, in less than two hours,” the stranger said in that quiet, accented voice.

An indecipherable emotion jolted through Andrew and wiped the manic grin from his face. “How the fuck do you know that?” Was he going to take the makeshift knife away? Rat him out to Proust? “I’ll gut you if you-“

“Don’t do it tonight, it’s not the right time,” the redhead continued, cutting through Andrew’s threats. “Wait two more nights,” he insisted as he stood there in the weak beam of moonlight that flowed through the small, mesh-reinforced window of Andrew’s room. “Two more nights will be better.”

The small bit of rage that Andrew had managed to work up was swallowed by the meds and curiosity. “Why?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Why then?” Why wasn’t the young man telling him not to commit suicide?

Perhaps this was some sort of drug-induced hallucination after all.

The redhead flashed him a grin as he began to poke around Andrew’s room, not that there was much to see considering the strict rules at Easthaven. “Because this isn’t your proper time. Wait two more nights, and that time will begin.” He opened a drawer, stared into it then closed it. “You’ll get the answers you need then, too.” He turned around and leaned against the small dresser as he stared at Andrew. “You’ll get nothing if you end things tonight.”

“That’s it?” Andrew clicked his tongue while he tugged on his wrist restraints once more. “You’re a pretty pathetic hallucination if that’s all you can come up with to make me postpone things two more days when I’m all set.”

“Hmm, true.” The stranger bowed his rather pretty head (at least Andrew’s subconscious was giving him something nice to look at before his end) in acknowledgement before he held up his right hand with two fingers extended. “Something for each day, is that acceptable?” When Andrew nodded, he smiled, which made Andrew tell his hormones to go fuck off, it was just his imagination throwing him a visual bone before he died. “I’ll do something to make your last days here a bit less difficult, and I’ll owe you a favor, a small one.” Judging from the flat look to his eyes, Andrew had better accept those terms.

“Oh, I suppose that’ll do,” Andrew sang out. “Though you’re not much fun for a figment of my imagination. The magic tricks would liven things up a bit.”

The redhead smiled, his expression lopsided, as he stepped away from the dresser. “I’m not known for my sense of humor. Remember, two more days, and when the time comes, you can ask a favor from Abram. A small one.”

“Who the hell calls their kid ‘Abram’?” Andrew mused aloud, but before he asked the entire question, ‘Abram’ was gone.

That was Andrew’s life �� a gorgeous, mysterious redhead appears in it, only to turn out to be a figment of his imagination and right before he offed himself. Still, hallucination or not, he’d made a promise so he intended to keep it, and didn’t go for his improvised blade when Johnny finally showed up to undo the restraints.

When he found out in the morning that Proust was out sick with the flu? He didn’t stop laughing for over a half an hour, which the staff put down to his new medication. There was some talk about altering the dosage, but in the end, they strapped him back down for a few hours and left him alone.

He was fine with that.

(Well, not with being restrained, but with the ‘left alone’ part.)

The two days went by quickly, and part of him hoped that Abram would show up again, especially when he retrieved the blade from where he’d stashed it behind the dresser. After several minutes with no odd tension in the air, Andrew shrugged then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his scarred forearms, and only hesitated a moment before he put the makeshift knife to use.

It hurt, but not any more than what he’d already endured in the past. He welcomed the darkness when it finally dragged him under.

Andrew had planned things so he shouldn’t be found for several hours, so he was understandably confused when he woke up on a comfortable bed in a room unlike any he’d seen so far at Easthaven, dressed in what appeared to be orange scrubs yet were soft and more form-fitting, without any pain in his arms. When he tried to move, he found his body paralyzed.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

It seemed that he wasn’t entirely paralyzed, as he could turn his head to see a woman who appeared to be in her thirties with light blonde hair pulled into a bun approach his bed, a friendly smile on her face; she was dressed in orange ‘scrubs’ as well and a white lab coat.

“Where am I, and why can’t I move?” Andrew asked as he tried to sit up again.

“I’m sorry but it’s standard protocol,” the woman explained as she touched some sort of computer panel near Andrew’s bed. “All new patients are, uhm, similarly restrained until they’re informed about what’s going on. The others will be here in a moment.” She gave Andrew a nervous smile. “I’m Abby, Abby Winfield, and you’re all right. You’re safe here.”

She did something to raise the upper part of the bed he lay on, so he could see that he was in a room full of monitors and touch screen panels, was in something that looked right out of a science fiction movie. Just as he opened his mouth to tell her to let him go or else, three people entered the room through a sliding door – an older man with dark skin and grey-shot black hair, a younger man with similar features but a lighter skin tone, and a middle-aged woman with grey-shot brown, curly hair. The two older adults wore a mix of orange, white and black, while the younger man wore all black and had something on his left cheek.

“He’s up at last?” the old man called out as he approached Andrew; his orange shirt was sleeveless, which left the tribal flame tattoos on his forearms exposed. “It’s about time.”

“Let me go before I break everything in here, including the four of you,” Andrew gritted out; he realized as the anger at being helpless in front of strangers (let alone still alive) built inside of him that the damn drugs were no longer in his system.

He began to suspect that he might not be in Easthaven anymore, and that Abram wasn’t a hallucination.

The young guy (was that a ‘2’ on his cheek?) shook his head. “There’s protocols we have to follow and-“

“Andrew – may I call you Andrew?” the woman with the brown hair asked as she held up her hands in a placating manner; she gazed steadily at Andrew in a way that made him focus on her and eventually nod. “Thank you. It is practice to keep all new recruits restrained at first, but I can tell that you don’t like it. If you promise to behave while we explain things to you, I’ll undo them.”

“Betsy, I don’t think that’s-“

The woman – Betsy, apparently - waved aside the others’ concern and continued to gaze at Andrew until he nodded in agreement. Once he did, she looked at Abby until the woman (a doctor?) did something with one of the panels, and suddenly Andrew could move again. He slowly tested out his arms and legs then sat up some more while he pulled back the left sleeve of his shirt.

The wounds he’d inflicted on his inner forearm were gone.

Abby noticed what he’d done as she slowly approached the bed with a glass of what appeared to be water. “The nanites healed your injuries as well as removed the drugs from your system. Here, you’re probably thirsty.” When he merely stared at her, she set it on the small table near the bed. “It’s just water, I promise.”

“You’ve met Abby, and I’m Betsy Dobson,” Betsy explained as she went to stand at the foot of Andrew’s bed. “This is David Wymack and Kevin Day.” She motioned to the old man first and then the young hothead; Andrew’s eyes narrowed at the mention of ‘Kevin’. “Kevin was the one who went back to your time and brought you here after you attempted suicide.”

“My time,” Andrew murmured while he thought about how Abram and his partner had appeared out of thin air, how Abram had mentioned it not being Andrew’s ‘proper time’.

“Look, kid, time travel is real,” Wymack said with what was probably meant to be a kind expression. “You’re not in the twenty-first century anymore, but the thirty-seventh. Long story short, shit started to go down by the end of the twenty-first centry and the world got fucked up. While some things are better now, some things aren’t and the population is one of them. After some geniuses figured out a stable way to travel through time,” Andrew noticed how Kevin twitched right then, “others came up with the idea of going back for things that wouldn’t be missed. Sometimes that’s items, and sometimes that’s people.” He looked Andrew up and down. “You’re one of those people.”

Andrew realized that he didn’t crave a cigarette any longer and wondered if those ‘nanites’ had fixed that for him, too.

“Aah, did we break him?” Wymack asked Betsy after a minute’s silence.

“No, from the research I’ve done on him, Andrew’s the taciturn type, especially in a situation like this. I’d say that he’s taking everything in so he can make an informed decision,” Betsy said as she continued to regard Andrew.

He gave her a two-fingered salute in return and picked up the glass of ‘water’, from which he took a careful sip; when nothing adverse happened, he cleared his throat then spoke. “So who are you?” he asked Wymack, since the old man seemed to be in charge.

The question made the old man stand up straighter and fold his tattooed arms over his chest. “David Wymack, leader of the Foxes, which means nothing to you, I know. What I do with Abby’s and Betsy’s help is find kids like you who deserve a second chance and bring ‘em here, then put them to work on that whole ‘going back in time for items that won’t be missed’ thing.”

“And if I don’t want to join your gang?” Andrew asked as he held on to the glass; it didn’t feel normal, so probably some sort of polymer, but it was still a potential weapon if thrown.

“Then once Abby gives the all clear, we help set you up on your own,” Wymack told him without any obvious tells that he was lying. “But you came as a recommendation, so….”

Before Andrew could speak, Kevin jumped in, a tablet in his hand which he appeared to read from. “Andrew Joseph Minyard, born 1984 in Oakland, California to Tilda Mary Minyard, nee Hemmick, no name listed under ‘father’. Indication of above intelligence IQ but never formally tested, five stints in foster homes while your mother faced charges of drug possession or child abandonment. When you were thirteen years old, the two of you moved to Columbia, South Carolina to live with your maternal uncle, where you sent to multiple counselors for ‘anger management issues’ until being admitted to Easthaven for destructive and delusional behavior shortly before your eighteenth birthday.” He looked at Andrew as he set the device on a table. “I came for you when you attempted suicide; you were close to death so it was easy to leave a body double we’d prepped for the event, especially since we know they won’t be thorough in an investigation into your death considering the circumstances and the institution in question.”

There had been looks of pity sent Andrew’s way from Abby and Wymack at the brief summary of his lousy life, which he ignored. “Why me?” That was what he wanted to know; he could ignore the improbability of the whole ‘time travel’ thing for the moment, he wanted to know why him.

Why bother to waste so much time (ha) and energy on a broken piece of flesh like him?

Why had Abram showed up the other night for him?

“Because someone like you won’t be missed,” Wymack said as he rested his knuckles on a table and leaned forward. “Your family will be eager to put your death behind them and move on, and Easthaven too – just another statistic they’ll want to bury.”

Harsh, but true; only Nicky would miss him, Andrew knew. And no one would listen to Nicky.

“It’s been worked down to a science, you could say,” Kevin explained as he rubbed the back of his left hand, which Andrew just realized was covered with a fine mesh of gold wire melded into his light brown skin. “The best types of people to retrieve from the past – those whose families won’t look into their deaths or disappearances, or those who die in accidents resulting in unrecoverable bodies or bodies easy to replace with copies.”

“And if we’re to be perfectly honest, bringing forth people with some sort of mental or physical trauma is thought to be ideal, as we’re taking them from an undesirable place and giving them a new beginning,” Betsy added. “I’m not fully onboard with that, but it’s also in part why you were selected.”

Andrew gave her another salute for that then thought about his options; no one said he could go back to his own time, which really, not a good idea (Proust, Luther, Easthaven). The only ‘good’ thing back there was Nicky, who was just as fucked up as him thanks to Luther.

Here? Where the mysterious Abram said was ‘his time’? He was free of the drugs, of Easthaven (of Proust), had people who appeared willing to be honest with him and to offer him a job (of stealing things from the sound of it, not that he cared). A new beginning.

He also was owed one favor (a small one) from the mysterious Abram, who so far had kept his word.

Andrew clicked his tongue as he folded his legs. “There better be decent benefits with this gig, and I refuse to wear orange.”

Abby and Betsy smiled while Kevin appeared offended and Wymack sighed. “Somehow I knew you’re going to be a difficult one.” He nodded once to Abby then straightened up. “Let me know when the midget’s cleared so I can have Kevin show him around.” He sighed again when Andrew gave him the middle finger.

Andrew fell back against the pillows while Abby chided Wymack about being rude and Betsy offered to provide him with information about his new ‘world’, and thought about how no one had mentioned why he’d been brought to the Foxes’ attention. No one had mentioned Abram and his bitchy partner.

*******

I guess I get to it when I get to it.

One thing - years ago I read this short story in some sci fi collection where there was a character who’d been brought from the past to the future and whose job was to go into the past to steal things before they were destroyed. So that’s the inspiration for this story. I wish I still had that book (it’s the only story in it that really stayed with me), but sadly, with moving about it was handed off to a better home.

There’s reasons for Neil as Abram and Jean with him (just partners!), and obviously end goal as Andreil. I’m having fun with the small twists here.

[ammunitionist]

hi gay people! more andyeddie fic from me. i wasn’t inspired enough to illustrate a scene again, so i offer just a lazy graphic this time. enjoy!

“I never liked church.”

Hillbilly cracks an eye to see Ack Ack looking up at the moon, arms crossed over his chest. Something like a smile has the corners of his lips twisted upwards. He seems almost amused by the confession, unbothered at the least. “My parents would pale to hear me say it, but I can’t honestly remember a single time I woke up on Sunday with anything but obligation to get me out of bed.”

 [whole fic under the cut | ao3 link here]

“Do y’ever think about God?”

The sentence is offered up late, asininity excusable as a symptom of their shared exhaustion. Hillbilly has that habit, unfortunate though it may be. While unaffected by most things that would lay an average man flat, Edward Jones is still mournfully human, and therein left to flounder in the hands of fatigue.

The words come out in a quasi-slur, his lips obeying him to their barest capacity, like they truly do not care whether or not he’s comprehensible. His head is an iron weight against the palm tree behind him, dragging him down into what he could only imagine to be blissful respite. He can’t bend, though-- that would be equal parts unbecoming and dangerous. 

“Not any more than I have to, Lieutenant.” 

Ack Ack’s response is, as most things about him are, measured to the tenth. He can’t possibly feel any more awake than Hillbilly does- though the two of them can’t collectively muster up ten hours of sleep since landing on Peleliu, Hillbilly easily has the larger slice. 

“Why do you ask?” the blond follows up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It reminds Eddie remarkably of his childhood, of being sat bashfully on the couch, of being expected to submit his childish transgressions for their according switch-to-the-back.

He grunts, noncommittal, letting his eyes fall shut and carry him away for a mere moment. This close to sleep, anything more than blinking drags his whole consciousness down the curve of his spine. Something akin to vertigo hits when he forces them open again, his head lurching forward like he’d somehow been knocked upside the skull.

“Nothin’,” he manages, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Jus’ been thinkin’.” 

“There hasn’t been much time for that recently,” Ack Ack comments, his head momentarily dipping between his wrists. His blond hair flashes silver in the moonlight, and Hillbilly has an odd momentary glimpse of what he would look like as an old man. Still handsome, probably, with those blue eyes and that genial smile. Age couldn’t take much from those who have in excess. “What with the- you know.”

Eddie nods wearily. He knows exactly what Ack Ack is referring to. Neither of them want to go through the complete inanity of repeating it. War in shorthand, Peleliu in more detail, crossing that airfield under duress with no water if they really want to waste their breath. Still, Hillbilly doesn’t bother with the reiteration. They were both there for it anyway. 

“I been thinkin,” Hillbilly starts again, because he’s just too tired to keep his goddamn mouth shut. “Thinkin’ ‘bout the place I went as a kid.”

“The church?”

Eddie nods again. His mouth’s just slightly dry, but they finally have water again, so it’s no transgression to reach for his canteen and bring it to his lips. The liquid sounds strange, a loose hollow noise inside the metal container, but it’s the taste that he notices more. The same metallic taste of military water, consistent for nearly a decade of service. Wars change, enemies change, but the water and the bullets-

They just don’t bother to make them any different.

“It was- it was near the edge’a town.” he manages, images from when he was young barely impressioned on the inside of his eyelids like faded photographs. “Big white thing. Ugly as sin, ‘s funny as that is.” 

Ack Ack sits back against his pack, arms crossed over his broad chest. He hasn’t said anything, and he hasn’t looked away, so Hillbilly takes it as an audience. He doesn’t really expect Andy to give a shit about what he’s saying- he really doubts it makes any sense anyway- but those blue eyes are still on him, so he keeps going. 

“My old man grew up w’ our preacher. Made everything worse, in a way.” 

The second sentence slips out unchecked. Made everything worse, implying that it was bad in the first place. Eddie’s almost too exhausted to catch it, but once he does, the little shock of adrenaline is the only tick he needs to send his brain into overdrive. There’s no virtue in worrying- Ack Ack has long since passed knowing and moved into participating in Hillbilly’s sin- but for a moment, exhaustion makes him forget his audience, and the repercussions are there before he can reign himself in. His heart rails against his ribcage hard in the second before he can contain it, traitor as it is. He expects to look up and find his display utterly foreign to Ack Ack, spread out open and messy like a dissected, rotted corpse.

Instead, Andy shifts backwards and nods, understanding, like his daddy was an Appalachian fire-and-brimstone drinker just like Eddie’s. Hillbilly squints and tries, hard, to imagine Andy growing up where he did, with a father just like his. A shock of blond hair bobbing up and down in the churchyard, too thin and straight to cover the bruising on his browbone. His curls may be a bother sometimes, but at least they were dark enough back then to blend in with bloomed flesh. As long as he kept his head down in school (which was fine, he didn't pretend to be smart back then either) and in church (s’ respectful, anyway, keep yer goddamn head down in the Lord’s house) nobody asked little Eddie Jones what on earth happened to his eye. 

“I never liked church.”

Hillbilly cracks an eye to see Ack Ack looking up at the moon, arms crossed over his chest. Something like a smile has the corners of his lips twisted upwards. He seems almost amused by the confession, unbothered at the least. “My parents would pale to hear me say it, but I can’t honestly remember a single time I woke up on Sunday with anything but obligation to get me out of bed.”

Eddie blinks. He had never processed the ability to dislike church outright. Sure, nobody liked it, but you went and you shut the hell up about it. You let Father Fucking-Whoever get up in your face, spittle flying, and tell you and yours that being a queer meant going to hell. You took it.

“Huh,” Hillbilly says. He can’t muster anything else. 

“You asked about God, though.” Ack Ack readjusts his head to be looking at Eddie, the tiredness in them manifesting in a gaze that seems to almost look through him. “Why do you want to know if I think about God, Hillbilly?”

He feels pinned. There’s nowhere to run, and the adrenaline from earlier had more or less banished the true exhaustion from his system. The question was stupid when he could blame it on fatigue, but now he had to answer more or less lucid. Cruel fates, or something.

“B’cause I do.” he confesses. The words pour forth in sick gospel. “I do, n’ I know he hates me.” 

Andy frowns, like he can’t fathom someone hating Hillbilly for any reason. It stings, in some strange way. 

“Why?” he asks, in a hushed tone that makes Eddie’s blood run molten for just a split second.

“Oh, I think you fuckin’ know.” he shoots back bitterly. Ack Ack isn’t stupid. He’s been an active participant in the reason Eddie will inevitably end up down below for months now, though he can’t quite fathom a man like Andy joining him there. That doesn’t matter, though- they’re both fuckin queers, down to the bones of it. Faggots are sinners and sinners go to hell. It’s primary school logic. 

The silence that follows almost makes him want to apologize. He slides his eyes shut and waits for the inevitable reprimand.

Instead, the quiet sound of movement warns him just before Andy is settling at his side. His head tucks tidily away in the joint between Eddie’s jaw and shoulder, and Eddie’s not fag enough to say it fits like a puzzle piece, but he definitely, definitely has to stifle the thought.

“I don’t think it matters what God thinks of us.” he says plainly, voice oddly quieter with Hillbilly to his back. “He isn’t going to get us for a good long while.” 

Eddie can’t even grunt at that.

“And even when he does,” Andy carries on, tone slurring in the precursor of sleep. Eddie’s hand compulsively finds its way onto Andy’s scalp, wanting very little more than to compel his captain to rest.

“I don’t think you and I will be the worst he’s ever seen.”

[starkwillendurestone]

Thanks 4 the tag, @satanvincent

Rules: Answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you want to know better.

1. Name/Nicknames: Will

2. Gender: M

3. Star Sign: I’m a Cancer, bby

4. Height: 5′8″

5. Time: 11:37pm

6. Birthday: July 12

7. Favourite Band:  I really only listen to female pop stars. 

8. Favourite Solo Artist: Probably Carly Rae Jepsen

9. Song Stuck in My Head: I literally cannot get Miley Cyrus’ cover of “Doll Parts” out of my head. 

10. Last Movie: I FR don’t know the last time I watched a movie. Probably “God’s Own Country” or “Moonlight”

11. Last Show: I am exclusively watching Critical Role these days. 

12. When I Created This Blog: November 2010. 

13. What I Post: Memes, D&D, personal shit 

14. Last Thing I Googled: "Countries bombed by the United States since WWII”

15. Other Blogs: I have a few personal blog URLs saved. 

16. Do I get asks?: Haven’t been called a fag in a bit, y’all slipping. 

17. Why I Chose My URL: Sansa Stark is my favorite fictional character and she will endure being Alayne Stone. 

18. Following: Hm

19. Followers: Not enough

20. Average Hours of Sleep: Around 7. 

21. Lucky Number: 8

22. Instruments: Unfortunately, I have no talent. 

23. What I Am Wearing: PJs and a tourist shirt

24. Dream Job: I dream of the day I can survive in the un*ted states as a waiter. It was so fun and stressfree. 

25. Dream Trip: I just find Iceland to be beautiful and I’d love to see it.

26. Favourite Food: God I love Mexican

27. Nationality: United states. 

28. Favourite Song: It really rotates between CRJ & Lorde. 

29. Last Book I Read: LOL The Song of Achilles. 

30. Top 3 fictional universes I would love to live in: All fictional universes are terrible? that’s kinda the point. they’re in conflict? 

[thedanceronthestreets]

If I could see in your eyes the truth

Thomas doesn't know, why he finds Richard's eyes so captivating. He doesn't see them nearly as much as he'd like to - distance be damned. But he's witnessed their reaction in different situations by now, causing them to be tinted by different emotions. And the palette of Richard's irises is probably his favourite study he's ever conducted.

1. Mischief

Thomas sees the mischievous sparkle Richard's eyes can produce for the first time after the phone call. After Richard hangs up the receiver, his glance meets Thomas', the mirth in his eyes causing them to shine. It's got something childish and adventurous and makes Thomas want to run away, keep running, until he's out of breath and feels alive with the cold air rushing through his lungs. That's exactly what it feels like - the view briefly knocks the air out of his lungs. It makes him forget the boundaries in his life, the rules of a game he never signed up to play. Richard's shine is invigorating. And all of that with a simple blink in Thomas' direction.

2. Joy

Richard's loud laugh slowly ebbs away after Thomas tells a joke that really wasn't that funny at all. But the butler isn't going to complain, adoring the melodious waves of the other man's voice. As Richard composes himself, with laughing creases adorning his eyes, leaning forward on his elbows once more, he looks at Thomas from across the table, just a few yards away. Yet, to Thomas it seems like miles on end, when his eyes meet the deep blue of Richard's. The dark current with strikes of light blue in them reminds Thomas of a summer day in his childhood years: it had been the first time he'd seen the sea. It had been drizzling, the temperature rather low for a June day, but it hadn't mattered. The billows of the ocean, sea spray dancing in frothy chunks on top, had raised a sense of longing in him. A yearning to go, where the waves came from; out into the world, wherever the wind would take his little sailboat.

Tuning back in to the present, Thomas feels the same tugging at his heart now. But not for the great wide openness of the ocean. This time, he longs for nothing more than to draw closer to the little bit of wild sea Richard Ellis carries in his eyes. A piece of the swirling, dark blue freedom of the Atlantic, just not on the other side of the country, but right here with the man he so dearly loves.

3. Rage

Thomas admits that he hates having seen this colour of emotion in Richard's eyes. He also hates that he holds no power, as to make it go away instantly. They are walking through York - Richard is officially visiting his parents, not so officially spending most of his stay with the butler. It's past dusk, the fading moon, the weak street lamps and the windows with partly drawn curtains illuminating the cobble stone streets. Few people cross their path along the way, but enough to remind them that they are under constant surveillance. No funny business allowed. Circumspection.

The two of them are walking up to the car, it's time to head back to the Abbey. They stop in front of the bonnet though, not being able to stop talking and staring at each other. Richard leans against the front of the car, crossing his ankles smoothly. A warm grin spreads across his face in response to their light-hearted bickering. Richard's pupils are hugely dilated in the darkness of the night, as if someone dripped poisonous drops of belladonna in them. Only the moonlight is reflected in the almost-blackness of them. Thomas finds it frighteningly beautiful.

Thomas loses all control of his limbs. It isn't him, who raises his hand to Richard's cheek, it must be some other divine force, one his human self is subservient to. The flesh of his face is warm against the cold fabric of his leather glove. The tips of his fingers react to the feeling like to the jolt of an electric shock. A tingling sensation spreads through them, crawling up along his arm, right to his torso.

A shout makes Thomas drop the hand with the speed of lightning.

"Fuck off, you fags!"

Both their heads snap to the source of the slurred call. A single drunk staggers along the pavement, hatefully spitting on the concrete slabs in their direction. The short man is too hammered to impose a real threat, Thomas and Richard's trained physique would easily allow them to take him down. Thomas feels feeble and sick anyhow.

The abuse doesn't trigger the same reaction in Richard though. When Thomas turns his head back to his face, he can see the muscles in his jaw clenching, the fists in his coat pockets balling. The gentleness of the dark in his eyes has fully disappeared, giving way to a flaming, savage black. The hot anger seeps through his irises like hot coals, ready to annihilate anything they settle upon.

For a short moment, Thomas thinks he is going to act on animalistic instinct, commit a stupidity he'll regret as soon as it happens. Therefore, before anything can happen, Thomas swiftly moves to the door of the vehicle, climbing in to the driver's seat. The abrupt action is enough to startle Richard, and after some internal wringing, he follows suit. Thomas ignites the engine, wishing for nothing else but to drive away as quickly and quietly as possible. The drive home is silent.

4. Wistfulness

Thomas knows this one too well. He sees the subtle hue of pain whenever they say their good-byes. At train stations, in his office, at the threshold of Richard's parents' front door - he would recognise it in a swarm of eyes. Richard always lowers his eye lids a bit, like he's trying to tune out everything else and solely focus on Thomas' features. His eyes flicker across them, attempting to map the butler's face in detail in the last remaining seconds of company. It's also the look Thomas remembers at night, having been the last thing he sees of Richard before he leaves, once again. Thomas analyses it in his head, over and over, when he feels awefully cold in his bed without strong arms wrapped around him. The memory of his sweetheart's eyelashes fluttering closed as Thomas places a peck on his cheek is enough to get him through those sleepless hours.

5. Insencerity

This one is actually quite tricky to spot, it took Thomas some time to decipher when Richard is lying. He's fairly good at it; like an instantaneous polite mask that shields him whenever he pushes the right button. A grey veil clouds the blue of his irises then, dimming the brightness that is normally so enticing to anybody who crosses Richard's path. He uses it whenever other people are around and asking personal questions, in London more than at Downton, perhaps out of fear of being exposed. But one time, he plays the trick in the beginning of their relationship on Thomas himself. It's just a simple question the butler asks, nothing he thinks would result in tension. Only wanting to know, how he was doing down at the palace. Nothing more, nothing less. Richard shifts in his seat, his index finger tapping the surface of the desk in Thomas' office. He looks him in the eye, and before he even says anything, Thomas knows he's lying.

"Fine."

Four letters, carrying the exact opposite meaning of what the word they form actually mean. Thomas recoils at the insencerity, it stinging like the bite of a bumblebee.

"Sure?"

Richard raises the cup of tea in front of him to his lips.

"Yes."

The 's' is a little too sharp in his intonation, his jaw line too visible. Thomas doesn't want to be responsible for further discomfort during the limited time they have together, so he pretends to buy it. But in his mind, he files away the dull light a lie projects on to Richard's countenance.

6. Lust

It's a similar wide-blown, penetrative stare like when Richard is angry, the belladonna effect kicking in. When they stand this close, almost touching but not quite, Thomas can see the positive hunger in Richard's eyes. Like they're already devouring him, even before their lips can taste each other. Thomas cannot bloody resist it. It makes him go weak in the knees and hot in the face - restraint being a word in a foreign language. It takes both of their brains to come up with a coherent excuse to retract themselves from the servants' hall and drive each other crazy in the darkness of the broom cupboard up the three flights of stairs. Hot breaths and rough touches, tugging of hair and broiling feelings in the pit of their stomachs. Somehow the air seems warmer and thicker here, causing Thomas having to inhale deeper to satisfy his body's need for oxygen. Eventually, he needs to pull back completely though, his lungs giving in. Richard notices and leans back too, but his eyes still stick to Thomas' like the hungry stare of a lion waiting on its prey. The possessiveness of it makes Thomas shiver; he'd never have thought to like belonging to someone, but with Richard he doesn't mind one bit.

7. Something Thomas isn't sure he can place

The first time it happens is when Thomas jogs up towards Richard, who is standing on the path next to the lawn. During the motion, Thomas' open jacket flops at his sides, Master George and Lady Sybbie's high-pitched laughter in the background. Thomas outwitted the children in a short game of football, his nimble feet always kicking the ball just out of their reach. In the end, George just latched on to Thomas from behind, the butler thereby dragging the boy along the grass. Thomas gave in at the effort of it - he isn't 25 anymore after all. The youngsters having stolen the ball, Thomas returns back to his company beside the mown field. Richard stands on the gravel, watching Thomas with a bemused smile. Yet, when Thomas finally arrives and halts right in front of him, he senses another new layer of fondness in Richard's eyes. It's something that causes the familiar dark blue to seem even deeper, a sky you could fall in to, an ocean you could drown in. And they sparkle, oh so lovely, in the rays of the setting sun. Thomas is unable to name the emotion that tints Richard's eyes in that moment. But he knows that he'd move mountains and valleys to keep it there.

[you-get-to-exhale-now-cyrus]

Prompt- tj comes out to his parents and they kick him out so he stays with Cyrus and they end up confessing feelings for each other

((*cries* I know that this is supposed to be a sad hc, but I’m so excited to write this! Lots of angst, obviously, but I’ll spare y’all the worst of it all. Maybe. Probably. Probably not.

WARNING: use of some slurs (probably once or twice) and cursing))

Did TJ call Cyrus before showing up at his door with bags full of clothes and other items? No. Because how do you go about telling your best friend slash crush that your parents kicked you out for being gay? A quick FaceTime with “oh by the way, I need a place to stay at for, like, ever-ish?”. Not really the ideal.

After the massive fight at home, which consisted of screaming, crying, name-calling, and blaming, TJ found himself wandering to Cyrus’ house. Not on his own, obviously. If he could’ve, he would’ve just stayed at home and ignored the homophobic comments his parents made.

Mustering up all the courage he could, he rang the doorbell and waited for the dainty footsteps to grow louder and louder. Peering into the driveway, he didn’t see a car; Cyrus was home alone. Great. Now the poor boy would have to explain to his parents why a strange boy was in their house.

“TJ! To what do I owe the pleasure on this Friday night?” Cyrus greeted warmly, taking into account TJ’s luggage, “wait, are we having a sleepover? Did I forget again? I’m so sorry, I-”

“No, it’s not that, Underdog,” TJ sighed, his voice breaking like the strings on a violin, “can I come in?”

“Of course,” the smaller boy’s voice was laced with concern, his mind whirring with all sorts of scenarios as to why TJ Kippen, basketball player extraordinaire and also total heartthrob, was standing on his porch at night.

“Are you okay?” he asked lamely. Of course TJ wasn’t okay; he was moping around on a Friday night with Cyrus, rather than playing video games or going out with friends.

The taller boy shook his head, his gelled hair standing stiff while, conversely, his hands trembled with anxiety. “I-I didn’t know where else to go, after what they said, and I was really hoping that you might let me stay here for a little while because they won’t let me-”

“Take a breath,” Cyrus cut in coolly, nodding up the stairs as TJ followed, “take a deep breath, compose your thoughts. You don’t have to spit out all that happened, which I’m going to go ahead and assume isn’t good,” he hesitated, leading the boy into his room.

“Sorry I’m just springing this on you,” he laughed dryly, his eyes glazed over with fresh tears, as he bit his lip to keep from crying. The boys took a seat in Cyrus’ beanbag and remained in silence for a moment. As if to coax TJ into talking, Cyrus put his hand on the older boy’s shoulder.

“I told my parents I’m gay,”

There was a millisecond of a pause after TJ spoke, but Cyrus immediately wrapped his arms around his friend (more than a friend, if you asked him, but you didn’t).

“If they were anything other than completely supportive, I’m so sorry,” he offered. This was something that unfortunately, Cyrus couldn’t fix. He couldn’t grab his toolbox equipped with such tools as “a long talk” or “buy them a milkshake” to help TJ.

“They,” he blubbered, the tears falling with each blink, “they called me a-a fag,” he grimaced, the very word making him whimper, “th-that I’m nothing but a disappointment. They said that, once I’m out of this ‘phase’,” he airquoted, swiping at his tears, “then maybe they would consider taking me back,” he whimpered, taking in oxygen through shaky breaths.

Cyrus though he himself was going to cry, his eyes already burning with tears and animosity. “They…they kicked you out?” he squeaked, his eyes traveling across TJ’s face, studying him intently.

The boy nodded, putting his head between his knees and crying, his body shaking. It was all too much to handle all at once. Disappointment, he could deal with. A bit of a strained relationship, he could deal with. Getting kicked out and having pretty much no contact with his family? He couldn’t deal with.

“TJ, I’m so sorry,” was all Cyrus managed to say, his voice a blend of sympathy with a hint of anger towards the boy’s parents. How dare they say that, to their son of all people? What kind of close-minded bigots did this poor kid live with?

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you think it’s okay if I stayed here for a while?” TJ pleaded, his empty blue eyes staring meeting Cyrus’ warm brown ones, “n-not for that long, just until I can connect with family and make arrangements,”

“Of course you can stay here, that’s not even a question,” Cyrus promised, alleviating some of his stress, “I’ll go get your bags for you. Just…stay here for a moment. I’ll be right back,” he lingered a moment longer for TJ’s approval, and dashed down the stairs.

Twenty minutes and one water break later, Cyrus had piled all of TJ’s stuff into his room. The boys had changed into pajamas, and were sitting in Cyrus’ bed. TJ was clutching a pillow to his chest, his knuckles turning whiter and whiter.

“How did the topic come up?” Cyrus broke the silence with a direct question, “if you don’t mind me asking,”

The question almost brought a smile to TJ’s face. Almost. “They were asking me if I was going to ask someone to the Spring Formal, specifically a girl,” he snorted, “heteronormativity, am I right?” to which Cyrus chuckled, his cheeks heating up. TJ was so adorable, always making jokes even in times of distress

“Anyways, I said that I didn’t like any of the girls, and they were like ‘what, are you gay or something?’. And I was like ‘yeah, actually. Not how I planned to come out, but yeah, I’m gay’,” he stated simply, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He tried to push it down; he didn’t want to cry again, not in from of Cyrus.

The smaller boy’s heart broke for his friend, absentmindedly taking TJ’s hand in his. “And then they spewed hateful, bigoted comments and kicked you out,” he seethed, steam practically coming out of his ears.

If TJ’s face wasn’t red from crying, his mad blushing would have shown; partially, he was grateful for that. He tried to convince himself that it meant nothing, but his emotions were on high right now and that wasn’t possible.

“It’s not your problem,” TJ shrugged, his fingers delicately grazing over the back of Cyrus’ hand, “I mean, I’m really grateful that you care, like so insanely happy, but you don’t need to get all worked up about this,”

Cyrus shot him a look of pure shock. “Not my problem?” he repeated incredulously, “I care about you so much, TJ, that it hurts. It hurts when you’re in pain or when you’re upset. Physically I feel like I’m breaking inside,” he admitted, a few loose tears trickling down his face, “don’t you get it? Don’t you get why I care so much?”

His words hung in the air, the atmosphere filled with tensions so thick that you  could cut it with a knife.

“After my parents found out, they asked a million questions, but the only one that I can remember is ‘Have you ever liked a boy?’,” he explained, his free hand toying with the strap of one of his bags, “and I said ‘yeah, I like this boy,’“

“And then?” Cyrus piped up.

“This boy that I like, he’s so supportive. Like, literally will do anything for me,” he smiled, the tips of his ears a deep red.

Cyrus gently squeezed TJ’s hand, feeling his pulse with the soft touch. “I-I like a boy too,” he admitted, shifting so that their knees were touching, “he’s pretty tall, and works really hard at things. He doesn’t think very highly of himself, but he’s actually really smart,” he whispered, “and cute,”

TJ smirked, his seagreen eyes meeting Cyrus’ gold-flecked ones. “Seems like we have a bit of a dilemma,” he whispered softly, his nose a few inches from Cyrus. Although the light was dim, he could still make out Cyrus’ features in the milky moonlight.

“I’m not an expert problem solver, but I think I have an idea,” Cyrus squeaked, pushing the covers to the side and facing this heartthrob of a boy. Somehow, he looked even more handsome in the moonlight, and it was almost unfair.

Neither boy was sure who made the first move, but it didn’t matter. Once their lips connected, it felt like the events of the day melted away for a split second, before they pulled back barely an inch for a breath. Cyrus was grinning like a dork, and TJ was blushing like mad. Thank goodness for low light, right?

“You’re sure your parents won’t mind me staying here?” TJ asked after a few moments, settling down under the covers.

“Not at all. They’re actually pretty fond of you,” he chuckled, taking off his socks and pulling the covers up to his chin, “They think you’re a good influence on me, what with me attempting to do things that I haven’t been able to,” he replied, yawning.

“Thanks,” TJ smiled, “I’m pretty fond of you too,” he joked, pressing a quick kiss to the boy’s cheek. “Good night, Cyrus,”

“Night, TJ,”

Neither one of the boys fell asleep for a while. Each one stayed awake for a while, dopey grins on both of their faces. Life was getting better.

tag list: @shortstackofpeaches @seanna313 @geekingbeautytx @heavenlybyers @ghostswasp @wlwandimack @giocondasstuff @lemonboytyrus @adorejrizzle

[needcaffeine15]

Reading Response #3

              The film Moonlight is about a black boy named Chiron, who grows up in a rough neighborhood in Miami, attempting to suppress the fact that he is gay. Chiron’s story is so compelling, because it is not unique, because it could very easily be a true story. In the United States 93% of young people hear homophobic comments occasionally, and over half (51%) hear them daily, (Pascoe, 144).

As a child Chiron is taunted for being so much smaller and quieter than his peers. They also engage in “fag discourse,” where his peers make “homophobic jokes, taunts, and imitations,” that make clear that Chiron is unmasculine and homosexual (Pascoe, 145). This marginalizes Chiron, separates him as “other,” while reaffirming their own masculine heterosexuality. They call Chiron “Little” and chase him, calling him a “faggot.” His mother is addicted to crack, and frequently screams at her son because he is different than the other boys. Deep down its clear that she loves him, but the drugs affect her ability to show affection and be a stable and supportive mother. His father is out of the picture.

           From the start, Chiron is dealt a bad hand. However, he latches onto Juan and his girlfriend, Teresa, who are able to show him love and compassion for a portion of his life. Juan is a conflicted drug-lord, who is responsible for the drugs that Chiron’s mother buys. Despite this, Juan and Chiron form a loving friendship, Juan acting as a makeshift father figure. Juan and Teresa are the first to explain to Chiron that the word “faggot” is a word “used to make gay people feel bad,” (Moonlight, 2016). They explain that being gay is not a bad thing, that it happens naturally, and they become a positive force in Chiron’s life for a few years. That is, until Juan is killed.

          It’s not clear how Juan is killed, but the change in Chiron is apparent. In the years since Chiron had met Juan and Teresa he had started to talk more and stand up straighter. After Juan’s death Chiron reverts back to his old self and quiet ways. The bullies take on new vengeance at school, and instead of just brushing it off as he had in the past, Chiron responds with anger. After a particularly bloody beating Chiron races into school the next day and beats his bully over the head with a chair. This is not an uncommon reaction to relentless harassment. 90% of school shooting have involved boys who were taunted with homophobic remarks. (Pascoe, 145). While Chiron’s response is not nearly as violent as a school shooting, it is still aggressive physical assault, and he is carted off to juvenile detention. At this point the story flashes forward nearly a decade.

          In the background of Chiron’s turbulent childhood and adolescence, is a growing friendship and intimacy with his friend Kevin. Kevin fits in more than Chiron, he has a lot of friends, and even gets the attention of a few women. Kevin engages in many forms of defense against the “fag discourse,” but most notably in the film, through “mythic storytelling,” (Pascoe, 149) where he tells the clearly exaggerated story of having sex with his girlfriend in the school bathroom. He tells Chiron how he “banged her from behind” and how she made so much noise that the school Principal caught them and gave him detention (Moonlight, 2016). The point of this story is not so much to brag, though that is part of it, but to prove what he could make the girl’s body do (moaning loudly) and to show his dominance over her. He is displaying his masculine prowess, which involves “power, competence, a lack of emotions, heterosexuality and dominance,” (Pascoe, 145). By displaying these traits, Kevin removes himself from the “fag discourse,” and ensures that he is perceived as heterosexual and tough.

          Despite this, it’s clear Kevin has a soft spot for Chiron, who he calls “Black”, that grows into attraction and romance. Shortly after his inflated story, Kevin and Chiron have a tender moment on the beach. Chiron talks about how frustrated and upset he is with his life, and Kevin shows genuine compassion and caring. They kiss and engage in sexual touching. This is one of Chiron’s first sexual experiences, and its clear that it changes how he views his relationship with Kevin, and his own sexuality.

          When the story picks up again, Chiron is nearly unrecognizable, now a large, buff man who wears gold chains and grills on his teeth. He has followed in Juan’s footsteps, now a small-time drug-lord of his own in Georgia, where he was sent for juvenile detention. However, it becomes clear that though this man looks different, he is still the same Chiron the viewer last saw. He has nightmares about his childhood but responds kindly to calls from his mother. He is stunned into almost-silence when he receives a call from Kevin. They have not spoken since Chiron was arrested, but Chiron’s response is the same as when he was in his teens: an inability to form many words, but a deep yearning and emotional reaction. He takes a drive to visit Kevin, who is now a respectable cook at a restaurant, and who is helping to raise a child with an ex-girlfriend.

          He is surprised when he sees Chiron, and though he understands, he questions the life that Chiron is leading, asking him who he is trying to be. Chiron later explains that after he got out of juvenile detention he wanted to let go of his old “soft,” or effeminate, persona, and says that he remade himself “hard,” or tough and masculine. Chiron says he has not been touched by another man since Kevin, but also that he hasn’t really touched anyone else either. The longer he is around Kevin, the more his walls come down, and the real Chiron shines through: not hard or soft, but a deeply-feeling and caring man who has not had an easy life. The film ends with a close-up of Chiron looking on the verge of tears as he rests his head against Kevin’s shoulder.

          Chiron’s story is compelling because it is an in-depth look at an everyday occurrence. Everyday in the United States young men are bullied and taunted about being gay, regardless of whether or not they actually identify as such. The effects of this harassment are long-term, leading these men to struggle with their sexualities their whole lives. Chiron deals with the humiliation of torment with anger and suppressing his emotions, struggling to express them even when faced with genuine compassion and kindness. Chiron’s story sheds light on the commonality of harassment that young men in America face, and how much it truly affects them.

Pascoe, C. J. “Adolescent homophobia and heterosexuality.” (Seidman, S., Fischer, N., & Meeks, C. (2016). Introducing the new sexuality studies. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge).

Jenkins, Barry, director. Moonlight. A24, 2016.

[cagedbycravings]

Iron Necessity

Title: Agreements

Warnings: Language, Violence, Dubious Consent

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC’s and the plot. 

"Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler." — Friedrich Nietzsche

"I'm not asking you Price, I'm telling you-"

The screen went dark forcing General Shepherd to watch his face redden with rage. Smashing his fist on his desk, he huffed. It'd been nearly a month since Price, Mactavish, Anderson, and Lévesque were last seen. If he wasn't in such dire straits with the war at home, he'd have reported them to the brass for deserting. Regaining control of his anger, he lifted his head to hear a knock on his door.

"You called, sir?" Archer stood with his arms folded behind his back, eyes unreadable as always.

Shepherd sighed. "As the most senior member of the 141, I need you to explain to me how this happened."

Archer tensed slightly, his eyes looking past the General. "I have no idea, sir."

"No idea?!" He slammed his fist on his desk. "Four of your team members vanish and you play fucking possum?!"

Archer didn't respond, eyes unwavering from the spot he'd found on the wall.

"What Price and his squadron have done is irreprehensible." Shepherd inhaled a shaky breath. "If you…" His breathing became labored as he clutched under his arm.

"Sir, are you-"

"I'm fine, damnit!" Shepherd held his breath as Archer resumed his sight on the wall. Forcing the air from his nostrils, he rattled his knuckles on his desk. "You're experienced enough to make Captain, but you've not quite been in long enough to receive your pension, is that right?"

Archer reluctantly nodded.

"Listen, Ian…You find out where they went, and I'll see to it that you're put on the Captain's docket for the upcoming year."

He'd kept the emotion out of his eyes as Archer nodded. "Thank you, sir."

"You're dismissed. And shut the door on your way out."

Archer sighed as he propped himself against the closed door, lifting his head, eyes closed. What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?

Making his way past the rec room, he ignored the throbbing headache forming in his temples. Apart from Toad, the others had grown actively more skeptical of their CO's disappearance.

"Three years in the gulag and he pulls this shit?" Meat's voice reached his ears as a glass broke.

"I knew Ghost was unstable from the moment I saw him. But Mactavish and Price didn't seem like the type to desert."

"We don't know that they deserted." Toad protested.

"Oh? And what would you call this? Taking a leave of absence? During a goddamn war?!" Scarecrow heightened the tension, kicking the table.

A grumble of arguments spread from the open window as Archer shoved his hands in his pockets. He could feel someone's gaze on his shoulders as he turned.

"Got a spare fag?" Evans' eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he shrugged.

"Know anything about Price?"

Evans lit the cigarette he'd given her, a spark present in her face before giving way to a comforting glow. She shook her head. "Taylor said she returned to their shared room to find Levèsque's bunk emptied out, leaving no trace of ever being there."

Archer sighed, lifting his head to the moonlit sky.

"How far up your ass is Shepherd?"

The question irked him more than he'd let on as he huffed. "Nothing new."

Evans tapped her cigarette, eyeing him up. "You seem tense."

"Yeah? You got a remedy for it or something?"

Evans smirked exhaling a puff of smoke. "And if I do?"

The two eyed each other, a sneaking salaciousness filling the space between them. "I'm not one to dip in the company ink." Archer affirmed watching Evan's smirk.

"I've been told otherwise." Stepping on the cigarette, she winked at him before turning away.

Archer narrowed his eyes at her as she turned towards the women's barracks. The hell she going on about? Her hips seem to curve a bit more, her tone more inviting. Overlooking his shoulder, he debated on how much he wanted to deal with his fellow squad's nonsense.

She'd just vanished from his sight whenever he felt his legs move without thinking. This decision wasn't the greatest but at that moment, it was better than anything else he had going for him…

Margaux rubbed her bleeding knuckles as she turned towards the window; ignoring her brother's ragged breathing. Three days they'd been in Paraty, and in that time, he'd given little to no intel. He slumped forward, blood dripping from his nose. She could hear Mactavish enter the room, eyes fixed on Sabien. India's rainy season had started as the humid heat clung to the walls of the small house they'd taken refuge in. There had been a leak in the ceiling, as water rippled a filling pail.

"Sabien, this isn't that difficult. Just tell me where Esmèrie is."

"I told you," He hacked up more blood between wheezing breaths, his chest rising and falling as he attempted to sit up. "I don't know. I never kept in contact with your attack dog."

Margaux's fist connected with his face as he groaned. "Where is my daughter?"

A dark chuckle escaped his bleeding lips. "I'm surprised she never tried to contact you. Especially after the agreement."

"What agreement, you bâtard?!" She shook him by the collar. "Fucking tell me!"

Soap propped himself against the wall, eyes shooting from Sabien to Marguax. She panted, hair strung about her face, chunks of bloodied flesh ripping from her hand with every strike. Her eyes had been ablaze for days now. The effects of stress showing in her face. In comparison, Sabien while beaten was far from confessing anything substantial. The glint of deceit in his lackluster brown eyes were too vibrant for a prisoner. They'd searched through his file, looking for any hint as to where Esmèrie could have gone. They were on borrowed time with nothing to show for it. He repressed a sigh. They were spending far too much energy on this. He understood that Esmèrie held a tie to Makarov but was it worth the amount of time spent? He doubted it.

"Why?" Margaux's voice hit a guttural low.

"It was to cement a place in Makarov's Inner Circle. He took a liking to her during our Prague arrangem-" Margaux's hand cracked against his face.

"She was barely legal, you sick fuck!"

"Oui." He gasped before swallowing the increasing amount of blood in his throat. "Barely but still legal. We offered other options. You were brought up for example." He chuckled. "But he didn't want a cunt that'd been used by that Brit you like to fuck." His hoarse laugh filled the room. "Non. He wanted Esmèrie because she is- was untouched." His cackle was cut short whenever he coughed.

Rage filled Margaux's eyes as she withdrew her Desert Eagle. Jamming it into her brother's mouth, silencing him. Her finger wrapped around the trigger, mouth parted as short almost frantic breaths escaped her.

The door swung open as Price led Elyse and Anderson inside. "The police found the bodies of two foreigners this morning. One of them could be Hawke."

Margaux jerked her head in Price's direction. She slowly removed the gun from Sabien's mouth before tugging his body into the backroom. A fleeting glare ended their latest confrontation, the slammed door bringing him just the amount of privacy he needed. The stout man wiggled in his binds. They'd loosened enough for him to reach for his shoe. Ripping open the sole, he retrieved a flip phone. Flicking it open, he brought the device to his ear. "We are here." He choked, wheezing while holding his side. "Noire is here with Price. Yes, that's right. And you know what must be done?" He paused listening to the person on the other end of the call. A cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "Good."

Margaux slammed the door before entering the room she and Price shared. His footsteps quietly entered as the door closed.

"John…" Emotion welled in her throat. The words were too painful to utter as she brought a hand to her mouth.

"We're gonna find her. And she's going to be fine." Price wrapped his arms around her waist. "She is your daughter after all."

"Our." The word weighed heavy on her tongue as she felt him tense behind her.

"Margaux…" His tone shifted—deepened, his eyes narrowing. He reached for her shoulders, halting when she jerked away from him.

"Don't."

"Then explain, please…" He sighed. When she didn't respond, he made for the edge of the bed. His age catching up to him in that moment as he rested on the bed.

Her eyes fluttered close. The darkness of her lids transporting her to the past nearly twenty years before.

Her time in Makeni was nearly over as the day came when she would have to tell John good-bye. He'd invited her to his place in London, to the family home he owned. She declined, reminding him that she wasn't made to be tied to any person or construct that enforced monogamy. He kissed her eagerly that day, as always. Greeting her in French, as always. She'd asked to meet at the pub instead of the hotel. He knew something was wrong by her expression as not even she could shake the emotion that had established its home in her heart since meeting him.

"John, I have to return home. My father isn't well." The severity of her father's condition was still unclear as she'd received information from her brothers less than apt wives.

His face softened, a gleam of concern in his eyes. "My pearl, is there anything I can do?"

A sad smile crept onto her face. Her heart tucked into itself as she nodded. "You can make our last night memorable. We're both going to need it."

That night in the hotel, he'd fulfilled her desires in more ways than she could ever describe. Her back had long since pressed against the window, her legs hoisted and wrapped around his waist. Her breasts bounced in rhythm with his thrusts as they locked eyes before she pressed a passionate kiss to his lips. His nails dug into her back as he increased his speed. Unable to contain her sounds, she gripped his shoulders as they relinquished themselves into ecstasy.

John remembered that night. The way her walls clenched around him made him lose control in a way he'd not felt before.

His legs shook as he groaned in the curve of her neck. "Margaux…" Her name was a prayer on his lips. His release was his offering. And her affection, her yearning, her love for him. That was his blessing.

"When I called you that night…You were in London, readying yourself for Pripyat." Her words were slow, her gaze too heavy to meet his eyes. "I needed you…to be there. Not just for me but for our girls."

Her voice didn't feel real to him in that moment. He felt suspended from his reality as the memories of the past flooded his mind in reverse. Watching Elyse graduate from boot-camp, his eyes beaming with pride. Waving to Esmèrie from the helicopter, his heart sinking with anguish knowing he wouldn't be able to kiss away her tears at night. Catching teenage Elyse sneaking in after a night of partying. Coaxing adolescent Esmèrie to sleep after she spent days obsessing over her latest theory. Pretend sparring with toddler Elyse. Reading with Esmèrie. Rocking them to sleep in each arm. Infant Elyse's first nuzzle of approval. Esmèrie's first gummy grin of gratitude.

Her sniffling brought him out of his trance. Margaux seemed so small crumbled on her knees, tear stains lining her face. Her hands pressed into the floor, her head tucked into her chest as she sobbed. Where he expected to feel resentment, he felt understanding. He blinked at the woman who'd given him his most cherished gift, a lifetime spent with a family he didn't believe he deserved. "Margaux," He placed one hand at the small of her back, lifting her chin with the other. "Thank you." Kissing her tearstained lips, he felt her melt into him. Hands pressed against his chest, head tilted, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks.

"We're going to find her. I promise I won't stop until our daughter is safe in your arms."

He closed the door to the bedroom of the abandoned villa. The dimly lit room held thinning wood floors, peeling walls and a noisy, dripping pipe that throbbed in rhythm to his headache. Esmèrie rested beside the wall and the dresser. Her knees were slightly bent, hands tied in front of her, her wide set eyes closed. Her light snoring indicated that she hadn't woken in his absence giving him a moment to study her. She held a quiet defiance in her, a strong spirit well hidden behind that innocuous face. A spirit he'd have to break in accordance to his orders to extract without mercy.

A small yawn parted her lips as she sat up against the wall. Lifting her aching legs, she blinked curiously at her bare knees. Her stockings were gone, replaced by a rope tying her ankles together. Fear spread through her veins, her heart racing, her thoughts in a frenzy. What happened? Where is… Her frantic hazels locked with his sharpened amber. Her mind reeled. The alleyway she had been in. The arms around her torso, the grip around her mouth, the suffocation…the inexplicable ecstasy. A sudden fire ignited between her legs as she clenched her bare thighs together. Her attention shot towards Ghost as she began to tremble. "W-where am I?" Her voice shook, eyes growing wide.

"A villa."

"W-why am I unclothed?" She yanked her arms, realizing that they were tied to a hook in the ceiling. Humiliation burned her cheeks as she averted her gaze.

"Don't you remember," His stare hardened. "You were told not to run. And despite this, you did so anyway."

She flinched at his words, the visage of Lochlan's dead body flashed in her memory. Esmèrie could feel tears prick at her eyes, her voice trembled. "I c-couldn't b-be there…" Her hazels shot to his mocking amber eyes.

"Why?" His tone lowered. "Because of the shooting?"

She felt herself begin to tremble, fearing that he'd snap her in half with just a look. "P-please tell me who you are… o-or at the very least why you're doing this."

A glint of bemusement filled his eyes, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Those details will depend on how forthcomin' you are with me."

She knitted her brows in confusion, her wide set eyes made her look even younger than what she was. "I don't understand."

"You will, dove." He sighed, rising from the ground to remove his skull balaclava. Placing it on the dresser, he opened the drawer to retrieve something she couldn't quite recognize. "Now start from the beginnin'. Who are you? And what's your tie to Makarov?"

"I don't…" She shook her head in confusion. "I don't know who that is…"

He frowned at her, slamming the drawer shut as she winced.

"Startin' off with a lie isn't going to help you any. The longer you take with this, the less patient I'm gonna to be." His icy tone caused her to shudder as he towered over her.

A dangerous thought occurred to her. Esmèrie's stomach shifted anxiously, the words she uttered slipped off her tongue. "Will it change anything?" Amber eyes narrowed while he waited for her to elaborate, his steps slow and daunting. 

"Will the outcome of why you're here change depending upon how long I take?"

"This isn't a game you want to play." His voice hit a guttural low causing a violent shiver to overwhelm her spine.

"But the results could change, correct?" The words carelessly slipped into the air. "Otherwise you'd have used more formidable measures to get me to speak." The naivety in her voice made him question if she realized how much of her fate resided in the hands of one of the most feared men on the planet. To say he was no stranger to torture would be an understatement. Ghost had earned more than a fearsome reputation in his time. Torture beyond fathomable comprehension. Worse yet, he'd become specialized, catering to nearly every kind of practice known to man. His knuckles cracked, irritation evident on his features when she didn't flinch from him. Her petite build hadn't yielded to stress. In these kinds of situations, he could expect to see wrinkles, under-eye circles or other signs of stress. And yet, here she was a little too well preserved for his tastes. His thoughts must have shown in his eyes, her gaze flittering until he reached to her level. Revealing a ball gag in one hand and a leather belt in the other, he watched her eyebrows knit together, her perplexed hazels meeting his. She doesn't have a clue what she's in for. He suddenly gripped the back of her head, fingers knotted within toffee curls, yanking her head upward. He muffled her yelp with the ball gag, tying it quickly behind her head as she pried at the piece. Something dormant inside him awakened. Her wide-set eyes were even larger with her mouth covered as he felt himself stiffen. Gripping the rope binding her wrists and ankles together, he tossed her over his knee.

"You called for more formidable measures…" He felt her tense, a sharp inhale slipping past the gag as she writhed. The jingling of the belt caused her to grip at something-anything near her. Settling for the rope holding her hands and feet together, she screwed her eyes shut. The slap to her barely covered ass caused her to reel upwards. Her neck craned as her hazels pleaded for him to stop. Her muffled sounds combined with her struggling kick-started a reaction he wasn't expecting.

She could feel his arousal poking at her stomach. The painful lashes fueled by more intensity with every strike. Her writhing began to slow as only her energy escaped his vice grip. Once he finally stopped, she could do nothing more than fold over his knees. Ghost was nowhere near gentle in his decision to plop her onto the ground almost pleased with the muffled scream that cracked her voice. He removed the gag, keen amber eyes watched the saliva drip down her neck to the valley between her breasts as she heard a sound akin to a groan escape his lips. Her eyes were still closed as she writhed to her bended knees. Her skin was ablaze as she clawed at her legs, whimpers spilling from her mouth.

She'd been struck by her uncles in the past, but this was different somehow. The atmosphere contained a distinctive level of punishment she'd not experienced. Her shoulders hunched, her neck raised to meet his eyes. He hardened against his zipper, seeing her on the ground, weight pressed forward on her palms. Lookin' more like a dog at her owner's feet. He placed the ball gag into the drawer but propped the belt over his balaclava. When he turned towards her, she flinched under the harshness of his gaze.

"The sooner you explain how you know Makarov, the less I'll have to punish you. She winced at his words, eyes lowering to the floor.

"W-will you please untie me?" Her voice was soft but clear as Ghost glanced down at her.

"Only when you've earned it. Understood?"

She didn't respond as a growl lifted from his throat. He stepped forward, kneeling quickly to grip her chin. "When I speak you better bloody respond. Are we clear?"

She searched his eyes for any sort of compassion. Seeing none, she gave a reluctant nod as he released her. His footsteps vanished, leaving Esmèrie to her swarming thoughts and aching nether regions. Apart from the burning from her lashes, a fervent tingling caused her sex to throb. She didn't feel violated as she had in the past. Frightened by her body's conflicting reactions, she flattened herself onto the cool floor. Her heaviest tears pooling beneath her; her sobs filling the silence of the room.

"Understood." Santiago nodded on his phone, snapping his fingers towards Mateo. The younger scientist sighed, leaning forward to hand him his laptop with an aggravated sigh. Mateo didn't bother to hide his frustration since Esmèrie officially joined Apotheosis. Having someone of a similar mindset helped ease the overbearing attitude Santiago exhibited. She was of the belief that science, education, and technology were meant for everyone regardless of their socioeconomic status. Santiago on the other hand, was intent on profiting off their inventions. In Esmèrie's absence, he'd contacted a Frenchman who had connected him with some of his business colleagues. They'd attempted to profit off the netting she'd created but were halted by the stringent French laws regarding patents and ownership rights. Whether Esmèrie knew of Santiago’s intentions were unclear to Mateo. He lifted his phone to check his message, dismay filling his expression. The iron door creaked open as Santiago hurriedly ended the phone call to greet him.

"What a surprise, Professor! What brings you here?" A feigned smile tore open his lips as the Professor grimaced.

"Has Esmèrie returned yet? I have questions about her theory on using tears to generate electricity."

Santiago gave an exaggerated shrug. "Sadly, she has yet to answer any messages from either Mateo or I. Hope everything is alright."

The Professor dusted off his shoulder, shooting the briefest knowing glance towards the younger scientist. The boy's as good a liar as a child with his hand in a cookie jar.

Mateo narrowed his dark eyes, locked in an intense stare with Santiago while the Professor glanced from one to the other.

"When she arrives, have her come see me as soon as possible." He muttered, tightening his fist.

Neither Santiago or Mateo knew Russian but from his tone, it sounded like insulting mutterings caught in the creaking of the metal door. The shadows swallowed him just as his chest began to pound excruciatingly. His breathing turned ragged, his hand gripping the wall. The dimly lit walk to his lab left him panting, the struggle to reach his work desk all too agonizing to contain. His wheezing filled the air, met only with the creaking of his chair once his legs buckled beneath him. Pressing the button on his tape recorder, he huffed, pounding his fist on the desk. Utensils and papers crashing to the floor.

"It is…" His eyes scanned the wall beside him, desperate to find the date on the small calendar. "Day 104. The treatment has ceased working…" His gasping continued. "I am beyond the window in which TP508 will prove any effectiveness…However," He swallowed, his eyes fluttering closed. "I am not yet beyond the window to continue my trials with CH777." Tired grey eyes opened to see the cylindrical ice chest on his desk. Withdrawing a needle with a shaky hand, he pointed it at his bruised vein. "12th of December…treatment 6 using CH777. Inclusive therapeutic migration has shown signs of regeneration in the cells damaged by nuclear radiation." The yellow liquid emptied from the needle as the Professor's breathing slowed. His eyes grew heavy, beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. Dizziness consumed his vision. He staggered from the table, struggling to travel the small distance from the desk to the bed in the opposite corner. He'd been grateful for Esmèrie's assistance. In his first trial using the CH777, he suffered intense hallucinations that would cause him to shout in slurred Russian. She had been patient in tending to him. Mateo was a fourth-generation doctor who switched to regenerative science early on in his career. His distanced guidance along with Esmèrie's kindness saved the Professor from injuring himself during his delirium. A twinge of worry struck his heart. The lab had grown more solemn since her disappearance. It seemed quite odd that she's promised to only be gone for a day and now, a week later, she had entirely vanished. This isn't like her. He retrieved her phone from his pocket, steadily dialing her number. Her voicemail answered as he sighed, ending the call. Reclining against his pillows, he closed his eyes. If he still prayed, he would have requested that she be brought back unharmed. Decades worth of hiding underground, burying himself from the sun let alone God's eye, made him forgo any belief in a promising afterlife. Just get back here, kid. Alive. Happy. Hopeful.

Anderson could hear the shower from the room he, Mactavish, and Levèsque shared. Their assorted sleeping bags were on separate walls, each made impeccably in accordance to Mactavish's expectations. Their assorted packs were marked with in insignia to differentiate them from each other as Anderson knelt to see Levèsque's kit. A circular symbol with Y shaped line cutting across the divided center gleamed in the moonlight. The sleek metal cooled his palm, his fingers tracing over the emblem. His curiosity got the best of him, unfocused on his surroundings. The rushing water had stopped, the door allowing a cloud of steam to reveal Elyse in her towel. She stopped mid-step, eyes fixed on the blond leaning over her bag. She cleared her throat, annoyed hazels watching him stiffen. "Can I help you, Roach?"

He stammered, rising awkwardly. "I wasn't sure what that was…" He pointed towards the insignia on her pack.

"Ah. It's the empathy symbol. Keeps Esmè close."

He nodded, apologizing, a nervous hand on the back of his head. Elyse shrugged. "No worries. You aren't harming anything." There was a surprising gentleness in her voice, her eyes trailing the emblem with fondness. "Have you…" She swallowed the emotion in her throat "Heard anything? Any updates?"

Roach shook his head, twisting his mouth. "Sorry."

She gave an impassive shrug. "Not your fault." She felt his stare linger, trailing to her breasts before darting back up to her face. A glint of mischief filled her hazels. "Been awhile, eh?"

He flushed, shaking his head in confusion. "S-sorry?"

She chuckled, licking her lower lip, eyes narrowing at the blush on her fellow soldier's face. "Where's the Captain?"

"On watch." He gulped at how easy his responses had been around her since leaving base. He knew he should have left. That he shouldn't have been so apt to allowing his stare to fall to her dripping figure. Spearmint and Eucalyptus greeted his senses as he swallowed. He could still feel her toned arms around his neck. Her heated body pressed his, the beads of sweat dripping down her face. Her gaze glancing towards the door as he shifted himself. "I should go…" He cleared his throat. "…Let you get dressed."

"We share the same room, Roach. I can dress in the bathroom."

He wanted to ask why she hadn't done so at first. Why provide the temptation in a place where they had to be close to each other? His body heated watching the steam radiate from her shoulders, her towel slipping down her cleavage as she tied her hair back. A smirk tugged at her lips. "Since you're already there, would you hand me my shirt?" Roach gulped, following her stare to the sleeping bag. A black tank top and cargo pants lie folded on her pillow. He nervously lifted the clothing, extending his arm towards her. Her scent was intoxicating, heightening his senses. Her fingers brushed against his. The thin towel doing little to hide her figure. "Thanks…" Her breathy tone sent a violent shiver up his spine as goose bumps pimples his flesh. "Roach…"

"Yeah…" His half-lidded cognac eyes focused on her plump lips spreading into a grin.

"I need my shirt."

Without realizing it, he'd clung to the fabric, just inches from her chest. His fingers tensed at her areola, unwilling to graze it without explicit consent. As if reading his mind, Elyse propped herself forward, tilting her head, her lips parting. "Scared, boy?"

His brows furrowed, lip tensing. She had him trapped. He could walk away, pride demolished, or he could lean in just…a…bit…more.

Their lips connected in a battle of wills. Inhaling each other, hoping to absorb each other's very essence. Roach felt her grip on his shirt, pulling him forward. He grunted, hands yanking her hips against his. He muffled her moan with a deep kiss. Not to be bested, her fingers rushed beneath his shirt, nails sinking into his shoulders. They pulled apart to breathe, ragged inhales meeting shaky exhales. "Their lust filled gazes interrupted by brisk knocking.

"Roach, get ready to take the next watch." Price's voice reached them as Anderson stiffened.

"Guess we'll have to resume this another time, bug."

His eyebrow twitched at the pet name, his eyes seeing the bemusement in her eyes. She rose to her toes to peck his lips. Resisting the shudder in his spine, he almost painfully stepped away from her intense stare, grabbing his pack and briskly making for the door.

Ghost exhaled the last puff of smoke from his cigarette, his foot stomping the remaining cinders into oblivion. He'd no sooner calmed his arousal whenever the muffled sound of Esmèrie's cries reached his ears. It was sickening, his reaction. He could remember a time when he didn't enjoy causing pain. The visage of his mother appeared in his mind, one of their final conversations together involved the horrible orders he had to carry out. It had been one of the last instances he could recall before his empathy became tainted.

Shuffling against the floorboards drew his attention from his thoughts as he looked towards the room where he kept Esmèrie. Replaying the way her eyes widened at the ball gag made him harden painfully against his zipper. He supposed he ought to bring her food. Grabbing the fruit basket from the counter, he shuffled towards the bedroom. The door creaked open as Ghost narrowed his eyes. While bound in the dark room, she'd managed to find her backpack. She'd just flicked open a pivot penknife whenever he charged her. Her screams filled the air as she dropped the blade immediately, kicking herself against a wall.

"Grabbing weapons now, eh?"

"I-it's not w-what you t-think…" She shook her head empathically. "I just need to cut the rope. Se vos plai…my wrists are bleeding." (L'occitane French: please) Her breathing hitched as her eyes flickered from one eye to the other, waiting for his response.

He flung the knife into the front of the dresser, the strike causing a crack in the chipped wood. She crawled into the space between the dresser and the bed, tucking her hands over her breasts and clenching her legs shut, anticipating his next move. "Take it off." His tone was even more terrifying in the dark making Esmèrie clench in a way that brought just as much tearful confusion as it did inexplicable carnality.

She shook her head, gripping her breasts harder. Her night vision had struggled due to the radiation poisoning, forcing her to rely on her other senses. Turning her head, she heard him steadying his breathing, his body heat radiated up her leg towards her knee before drifting down her thigh. The near touch of his hand in such a delicate area sent a fire into her sensitive bundle of nerves. Her breathing hitched at his scent. Sea salt trapped within musk caused her to throb, goose bumps pimpled her flesh.

"Enjoying yourself?" He chuckled darkly. When she didn't respond, he cracked his knuckles while fisting her hair, tugging her face towards his. Her weakened eyesight focused on his lips. They spread into a menacing grin that distracted her just long enough for him to grip the panties from her hip with his free hand. Carelessly ripping them off despite her kicks and cries. An all new wave of humiliation seeped into her skin when they landed with a slap against the floor.

"Are you wet, dove?"

Kicking herself into a corner, she shot one hand between her legs, the other guarding her breasts. Her blubbers filled the stillness of the room whenever Ghost's warmth evaporated from her body. He vanished into the shadows in search of the light switch. The sudden change from darkness to light was overwhelming as Esmèrie screwed her eyes shut. In a moment, his hands were on her knees, pulling them apart.

She pleaded with him to stop, apologizing in both French and English, and whimpering when she realized that her hand wouldn't be enough to stop his gaze. She'd made the decision to lessen the protection at her bra, crossing her arms down her chest, firmly pressing her palms between her legs. His fingers resumed their grip on her toffee curls, his gaze traveled to her protruding cleavage. He glimpsed the tattoo on her right ribcage, something akin to a geometric shape he surmised. His gaze shot to hers when he noticed her sniffling had all but ceased. Her eyes were wide with alarm as she overlooked his shoulder. His sight matched hers, as he turned his head. Spotting a collection of books spilling out of the bag, his eyes rested on the forest green leather ledger with gold lettering.

Esmèrie panicked, digging her nails into his face as she shoved him against the ground. Her weight wouldn't keep the soldier down long as she desperately tore herself from his grip. She managed two footsteps whenever the rope tying her hands and feet together snapped her onto her bare, aching ass. Feeling Ghost's grip on her shoulders, she thrashed and clawed at his arms. A string of colorful curses spilled from his mouth as he flipped her onto her back, restraining her in a knee-mount. In a last-ditch effort, she bit into his forearm earning a well-placed hold on her neck. The air escaped in painful gasps as she writhed beneath him. Feeling her vision darken, she lifted her head just enough to see the pile of books sprawled across the floor just inches away. Bitter tears stung her hazels as she prepared herself for unconsciousness. When the light resumed in her eyes, she frowned. His weight lifted off her chest, as she lowered her head in his direction. Feeling her arms lift above her head, she flinched feeling him rip the bra from her body. Her plump breasts bounced as she felt fresh tears of humiliation fall. Seeing the ledger between Ghost's lips brought about a new fury inside of her. But before she could object, her binds tightened around her wrists, a painful cry escaping her mouth. He lifted her to her toes, dangling her uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Tying the rope to a hook in the ceiling, he dropped down from the bed. He turned his back to the brunette, tossing the book on the creaky bed. Aside from her books, journals, phone, and utensils; he noticed some of her undeveloped inventions. Lightbulbs, a thin tube with folded gauze, he noticed her hair and face products covering a puzzle box.

Ghost passed a fleeting stare her direction, practically hearing the fear overtake her heart as she stood on her toes.

Shaking the box, he returned to the bed. "What's in here?"

"N-nothing." She shook her head.

"You lyin' to me isn't going to make this any easier."

"It has nothing to do with Makarov! I swear!" She blurted, regret instantly seeping into her features.

Ghost tilted his head. "Is that so? So then does this," He lifted the ledger, flipping through the pages. "Have anything to do with Makarov?"

"Indirectly." Her voice was just above a whisper. She sniffled, tilting her body away from him. She couldn't control his gaze, but she could control how much of her he saw. It was a thinly veiled thought; her lies wouldn't convince herself otherwise.

"Look pet," He emphasized pointedly. "I'm not a patient person. You're gonna want to start talkin' a lot faster." He rose ominously, his thumb lifting her chin. She averted her gaze, mouth curved in, mind working quickly.

"If I tell you…about that ledger." She tilted her body towards the window. "Will you prevent Cillian from hurting someone?"

"Someone other than you?"

Esmèrie nodded. "There's this kid-"

"I don't do rescue missions." His eyes glazed in apathy. She'd passed the threshold of calm. Esmèrie felt a gnawing in her stomach, warning her against pushing the matter. She hadn't managed to steer clear of the storm raging in his eyes thus far. What was the point in trying to do so now?

"It wouldn't be a rescue mission, just a preventative one. If word got out that a member of the SAS was guarding-" His vice grip around her neck caused her to choke and spasm.

"Who told you I was SAS…"

"You…" She choked. "…just confirmed it…" Her face reddened, her eyes watering. She buckled, her weight pulling the rope taught against her flesh.

Ghost removed his restraint at the last second, loosening the rope just enough to bring her from the brink of unconsciousness. She collapsed to the floor, returning the color to her cheeks through painful wheezing. "Who dares wins…" He narrowed his eyes at her, towering above her fatigued body. "That's what my Parrain taught me the day he left."

"And he went to find Makarov." His tone deepened, his body tensed, hand clenched around the ledger.

She nodded shifting from her back to her bum, pressing her weight onto her bended knees. "Yes." Her gazed lifted to the ledger in his hand. "I can't tell you about everything because I don't know about everything to do with Makarov."

He paused in a way that made her wonder if he would punish her again. Instead he knelt to her level. His hand folded around her chin, forcing her eyes to lock with his. "Then you'll tell me what you do know. And pet," He leaned in closer to her, his hot breath tingling against her lips. Flicking his knife, he held it to her throat, sliding the blade down her neck to her clavicle, furthering it until it reached the tattoo on her rib-cage. "The more you hold back, the less I will."

Author's Note: What are your thoughts on character development? Plot? Anywhere I can improve on?

[chinxino5-blog]

It’s A Package Deal - Nine

“Will you stop fucking humming?” Ohm was about to put a bullet into Bryce’s head and then his own if the blonde didn’t shut the fuck up. He was unknowingly humming to whatever shitty music was playing in his head and Ohm had been awfully unsuccessful in blocking out the sound.

It wasn’t loud or anything, but he couldn’t stop focussing on the little melody emitting from Bryce’s throat. No matter how many different thoughts he threw around his mind, the little song wormed its way in. He couldn’t escape it.

Blue eyes dropped to his scowl and blinked in shock. An earbud was removed. Ohm tore his glare from the road ahead, meeting Bryce’s gaze with a fierceness the blonde didn’t expect. He didn’t care for the rising concern in his eyes, or the way he leaned back slightly in his chair. He wished he could cut out Bryce’s tongue, or just shove the gun down his throat. He just wanted to do something; anything, that would silence him and scare him and fill him with fear.

“Sorry, w-what did you say?” There was only worry in his voice and Ohm felt fire erupt behind his eyes. Without paying much mind to the empty road, he snatched up his gun and jammed the end of the barrel harshly into Bryce’s throat. The man jerked back in pain, gagging. Ohm hadn’t cared how hard he shoved the metal into the soft skin and didn’t care for the water that collected in Bryce’s eyes from the pain. His hand flew to the base of his neck, gaping at Ohm in alarm. Yes, he was full of threats, but he’d never actually hurt him. It was a strange feeling that settled in his lungs; worry, fear, dread.

The gun stayed inches from the man’s neck and Ohm glanced back at the road to make sure they weren’t off centre. His entire focus fell back to the confused and increasingly-more-scared Bryce after just a moment.

“If you don’t stop fucking humming, I will shove the barrel of this gun down your fucking throat and then you can try and sing, got it?” he snarled, pressing the cold metal to the back of the blonde’s hand. Shakily, Bryce jerked his head in a nod and coiled as far back away from the hitman as possible as soon as the gun was lowered.

He pulled the other earphone out and turned off his iPod, losing his desire for music.

The sun was nearing its home below the horizon and Bryce didn’t let his hand drop from the offended skin for a long time. It was as though he was scared that removing his hand would allow scream after scream, and sob after sob to pour from his chest. His hand held him together, pursed lips and rigid back. His voice had curled up and tangled just beneath the tender flesh and he didn’t doubt it would be bruising within the next day or so. He knew he’d have a big green and purple flower blooming when the gun had jabbed. He knew that flower would not be pretty.

His head fell back against the headrest and he let his eyes fall shut for just a moment. The racing fear bouncing around in his gut painted images behind his closed eyes. A bullet embedding itself in the officer’s head. The officer jerking to the side, mouth agape. The officer crumpling, dead. He watched the moment loop around in his mind again and again before he saw himself on the ground, looking up at Ohm’s bored expression. He saw the gun aimed between his eyes and heard the sigh of disinterest as the safety clicked off.

Bryce opened his eyes and stared at his knees, one bouncing with the fear and adrenaline that refused to leave his system. He didn’t close his eyes again, fearing the feeling of looking down the barrel of a gun

 -

 The cigarette hung from Ohm’s lips. He breathed out puffs of lethargy, the hood of the black car cold beneath him. The trees around the road concealed the fading colours of the sunset. It was dim out, and Ohm rested the fag between his two fingers, dragging it out from between his teeth, and exhaling the wisps of grey cloouds. He watched the chilling breeze whisk them away and emptied his rotting lungs.

He wasn’t much for smoking, never really got addicted or had a problem. Unlike his father.

It was one of the only things he remembered of the man. A gruff guy without time for love and nurture. All he’d ever had for Ohm was the smell of cigarette smoke and a few careless looks. He was in the child’s life for only a few years, and never even stayed long enough to hear him say “dad”. Ohm didn’t think he wanted to, or cared to.

His mother never cared much to tell him anything about her husband either. She didn’t even cry when he left for work and didn’t return. He’d left them both long before he packed his bags.

The sound of the car door opening dragged Ohm out of his memories and he tilted his head back to look up at the sky as he replaced the cigarette in between his teeth. He waited. And sure enough, “Can you unlock me?” Bryce asked, voice carried on the wind. Ohm smirked at the shy tone, still satisfied with the fear he’d shoved into the blonde’s system earlier that evening. He’d silenced himself for the following hours and ended up dozing into the unconscious land, much to Ohm’s delight.

Ohm had locked him up when he left the car, just to make sure he didn’t get any ideas while Ohm couldn’t hear or see him.

“No,” he called back, trusting the winter air to deliver his message to the younger’s ears. An irritated sigh was heard and he breathed out the smoke with his smirk still settled. “What do you want?”

“To piss, unless you want me to wet myself on your leather seats.” The blonde bit out his words and Ohm sighed out the remainder of smoke before jumping off the hood of the car and dragging his feet around to the open door.

The blonde waited patiently as the keys were found and used, before he jumped up and hurried past the first line of trees. Ohm shut the door before returning to his place on the front of the car, shuffling back to sit just in front of the windscreen wipers. Relaxing back against the glass, he pointed his toes and stretched out the cramped muscles in his legs as he exhaled.

Smoking definitely wasn’t a bad habit he’d adopted. He knew better than to waste his cash away on an addiction that would kill him. He knew better than the man who’d called himself his father. But he kept a pack and a lighter in his car for whenever he needed to taste the thick poison on his tongue. Despite the memories that hung from his lips with the smoke, he definitely loved the smell.

It was, oddly enough, calming, and every now and then he liked to fill chest with it. He was a friend of Death. That, or an enemy. He wasn’t quite sure how she thought of him, but they knew one another well enough. He bought Death with him in little silver capsules and had delivered her to so many people he no longer knew how to kept count. And as much as he grew attached to giving her away to others, every now and then he loved to have her filling his lungs.

The car shifted beneath him and he watched out of the corners of his eyes as Bryce shuffled up onto the car beside him. He made a show of keeping a few feet of space between them as he folded his legs and leant tenderly back against the glass.

“Do you want something?” Ohm spoke around his cigarette and Bryce spared him a worried glance. He couldn’t deny the fear that coursed through him while near Ohm after his burst of aggression. He was scared he’d trip him off again. The blonde resorted to just shaking his head, looking up into the navy sky once again.

Ohm watched him for a moment, before easily sliding the pack from his pocket and offering Bryce one with his lighter. He waited, a surprising amount of patience settled in his mind from the smoke as Bryce blinked down and stared at the packet. He looked up. “I… I’ve never smoked before,” he said, curiously taking a cigarette between his thumb and finger. “No one in my family does and Ra- my boyfriend hates smokers.” His voice was quiet. It was very obvious how lightly he was treading around the hitman.

Ohm held out his own cigarette, putting the unlit one back in the pack. “Try mine so you don’t waste one. Breathe through it.”

Bryce spared him a look of uncertainty before taking the fag and exhaling. Putting the end between his lips, he breathed in deeply and Ohm pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing as the blonde ripped the thing from his mouth and coughed violently. He curled forwards, smoke wafted from his lips as his body forcefully removed the substance. His blue eyes watered from the pain in his chest and Ohm couldn’t help laughing lightly as he took back the cig and fit it between his lips.

“What… d-did I do…. wrong?” Bryce gasped, hands flat over his chest as he gaped at Ohm, eyes full of tears and despair.

He watched as the bearded man drew in an even breath of smoke before he blew it out into Bryce’s face. The blonde scrunched up his nose, waving the smoke away with a hand. “A lot of things,” Ohm said easily, night draping them in a coat of dim moonlight. He jumped off the car hood, dropping the half dead cigarette to the road and grinding it under his boot to put it out.

He and Bryce got in either side and he instantly turned on the heater. The winter was still chilling and as much as they both adored the shiver it brought with it, enough was enough. “I breathed it in, I don’t know why it didn’t work,” he muttered to the dashboard, genuinely confused. “I thought smoking is something that is difficult to do wrong.”

Ohm snickered to himself, easing his chair back. “Oh, it is.”

He earned himself a half-hearted glare as the blonde fiddled with his own chair. Ohm tugged his bandana up over his face, sighing softly to himself.

“Can I ask you questions?” Plural this time, interesting.

Ohm blindly tucked his gun down the side of his chair. “No.”

He knew the blonde would ask either way, and sure enough his soft, curious words were wandering to his side of the car. “How old were you when you started killing people?” he asked and Ohm tucked his hands up behind his head.

He didn’t even know if he could remember. “Something like twenty, maybe nineteen,” he answered and Bryce made a low sound of discomfort. He couldn’t blame the blonde. It was younger than he was and Ohm was sure that Bryce was in university and doing some degree for something he dreamed of, living a simple life.

He wasn’t running down alleyways and slitting throats, buying guns behind the counter with blood stained money as Ohm once was.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Less personal, more random and pointless. He scoffed. “Grey.”

Bryce let out a strange noise, sounding like some sort of surprised, mocking laugh. “Grey. You’re favourite colour, of a whole spectrum of different colours, is grey. The most plain, blank colour that has absolutely no power or colour or feeling in it. Grey.”

It seemed as though he’d lost all of the fear previously flushed through his body at the ridiculous idea that grey could be someone’s favourite colour. He voiced his opinion with heavy amounts of judgement and Ohm smirked beneath the cloth. As much of a pain in the ass the guy was, he was stupidly amusing at times.

Mostly times where Ohm was a tad bit too tired to think straight.

“Sounds pretty perfect. Plain, blank and without feeling.”

“Of course, of all people.”

“What about you then, McQuaid,” he sneered the name, making fun of the dumb conversation. He almost got angry at himself for being so amused before realising he really didn’t have the effort to try and be cold. It was late, he was tired and there wasn’t much he could do wrong by having a conversation. “What’s your favourite colour?”

He hadn’t had a conversation with someone in a long time that wasn’t about business or just before a deal.

Bryce hummed slightly, licking his lips as he thought over the question thoroughly. There were a lot of different colours on the spectrum. Without thinking, he rolled his head to the side to look out over the forest. The night shrouded every corner in darkness, but the colouring was still there, albeit dark. “I like a lot of greens,” he answered, ignoring Ohm’s huffed laugh at the amount of thought he put into his answer. “But I do also like some dark purples. It depends on my mood.”

He swung his head back the other way, grinning at the blind-folded man through his last statement. It was dumb, and dorky, and he knew it would seem utterly pointless to his companion. But it shook him a little too hard when he looked at the brunette.

He was yanked back to Earth. Back to the car. Back beside the murderer who was failing at containing little breaths of slight laughter to what Bryce was saying. He was yanked back to a reality where he was joking around and talking to a man who wanted nothing to do with him but to leave him out on someone’s doorstep to be starved, be tortured and likely die curled up in a cold, dark room.

He remembered the reality and his grin faded. His amusement got stuck in his bruising throat. Bruising from the gun of Ohm. The hands of Ohm. Hands that murdered, and killed, and collected stacks of notes stained in innocent blood.

He looked back out the window.

He expected Ohm to doze off into his thoughts. Into a small shell of whatever the man thought of. Whatever tugged at his attention and abused him in his sleep. He didn’t let himself wonder of what could be so attention grabbing that it was capable of drawing the man back to spend more time in his head than on his feet.

He just stared blankly at his window and tried not to think too much.

“Do you have any siblings?”

Bryce blinked at the car window, slightly steaming up with the warmth of the heater and the two men breathing. He didn’t expect Ohm to speak to him. Ohm didn’t say anything to him that wasn’t threating, nasty or a disgruntled answer to something dumb Bryce had said. He didn’t ask questions.

Still, the blonde struggled to find a response. “A younger brother.”

Even saying it aloud, he felt a heavy weight settle in his gut. He let his head rock back against the seat, his brother dancing into his thoughts. The big cheesy grin in his mind had Bryce’s nose stinging, acknowledging the tears that began to collect.

Ohm listened to the quiet. He felt Bryce grow cold beside him. He felt Bryce relive memories of what was likely a good brother. A loved one. A loved one who probably mourned the danger his older brother was in. A loved one who would probably kill Ohm had he ever gotten the chance to even see his masked face.

“What’s his name?” His voice was even quieter. He didn’t sound scared, or worried, or much like he cared at all. If anything, he was stuck half in the reality, sitting there with Bryce in their cloaked car, and half in his mind swirling with curiosities and lethargy.

Bryce made sure he didn’t sniffle or choke on the tear that slipped down his cheek. He didn’t make a sound or let any sobs form at the back of his throat as he saw pictures of his brother, his mom. He remembered nights of stomach-hurting laughter. Big, dumb conversations over delicious meals. Pretend brawls that always ended in twisted ankles and bruises.

“Caleb.” He didn’t believe he’d be able to manage any other words and thankfully, Ohm resumed to his own silence and thoughts. He heard the strain in Bryce’s voice. The strain of painful memories. Memories that made him want to sob and scream and punch Ohm in the face. Memories of only happiness that now made him feel more lost, and desperate than he ever had before.

It was the second time in one week that he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep in the same car, in the same seat, with the same tears dribbling down his face as Ohm faded into his thoughts and listened to the younger man’s choked back sobs.

He didn’t feel anything but cold.

First: Prologue

Last: Eight

Next: Ten

I have no idea about Bryce’s family so I’m gonna make things up because my fic = my rules. Anyways, this is was fun to write, I don’t know how smooth this story is either because I’ll need to read it all in one shot to figure that out so I’m legit going to have to wait until I’m done before I realise any hiccups in the flow or whatever.

I’m sure you guys have dealt with worse.

Either way, there’s emotion in this. I’m attempting character development and it’s fun. In all seriousness, hope you guys are enjoying! Let me know what you’re thinking, and I’ll try have something else up by the weekend.

Thanks!

gi

[eveningdresses666]

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[yelenawithaj]

Day 5: Sneaking in Weston

Alexis went somewhere in the middle of the night. Frances noticed this and followed, catching up to him at the gates of Weston College. “What are you doing?” she hissed from behind her husband, startling him. Alexis turned to look at her with a nervous expression. “Ummm…hey darling”, he said, “I didn’t notice you coming.” Frances huffed: “Answer my question.” Alexis looked away from her piercing eyes, an apologetic smile appearing on his face. “Vincent called me. It’s ‘the prank night’s 20th anniversary.” Frances raised an eyebrow: “You celebrate that? It was probably the worst night this school has ever seen, and he almost got kicked out.” Alexis just opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly Frances pulled him behind a wall nearby. She gestured him to be quiet, and he heard footsteps approaching them. “I still don’t understand why you’re dragging me here in the middle of a night”, it was Diedrich’s annoyed voice, “Why would I celebrate anniversary of you pulling pranks on the green house all night? You remember that I was their prefect at the time, don’t you?” They could see them now, two lean tall men walking in the moonlight. Vincent answered the question: “Come on, Dee, it’s a sign of good will. I never meant anything bad of green house, I was just really bored. And to prove that, I’ve called (‘dragged’, Diedrich corrected) you and your once-fag tonight.” “And what are we going to do?” his companion asked. “We’ll pull a prank on blue house this time!” Vincent exclaimed excitedly. Frances smiled, pulling her husband to follow her brother and his fag quietly. Seeing his confused look she whispered: “I’d prefer it if Edward doesn’t find out about his uncle’s shenanigans. So we will protect the students”, she winked, which was uncharacteristic for her,“by pranking him instead. We’ll save Dee on the way.” “It worked perfectly”, Alexis thought as they were returning home at the break of dawn, with a not-so-annoyed-anymore German and his wife’s brother trying to prove Frances that he definitely did not scream like a girl.

[justwords]

The Fable of Cain and Able

His name was Adam.

You know THE Adam.

You know of  THE Adam of Adam and Steve - of “In the beginning there was Adam and Steve.” Many don’t know that before Eve there was Steve. Because You know on the Sixth day God made man. All Man...  And Some of those mans liked other mans. And Adam didn’t know any better because he was dumb as rocks. (Because he was made of dirt and all...) But when God saw that Adam was lonely and unhappy with Steve. He made Eve. You know because Women weren’t made until like weeks after everything else in the universe... That’s why they are sooo much smarter than men, so much prettier than men, and so much more resilient... After God made man, and man was soooo dumb, he thought “NEVER Again!!”  So He laid Adam down in the Garden of Eden which is right off of the 101 just a little South of Silver-lake, and put him to sleep. Removed his rib. And made Eve. And for some reason she loved him… and he loved her. And so now we say “Adam and Eve”. But first there was “Adam and Steve”.

And don’t worry about Steve. Steve met Dave: A sexy butch bear from the Westside two years later. And they are very happy.

But his name was Adam. And he was not gay. And he had been tricked by Steve who wore impeccable makeup and floor length weaves... and who sometimes went by Jenny.

And this was the first rift between the straights and the gays.

And the first time that God was displeased... Well, until Eve ate that apple.

Adam had two boys and their names were Cain and Able. And he made sure that they were “Real Men”. Because even though all men were made in the image of God - all on the 6th day - the same day - all by a divine creator who can make no imperfect thing…  for some reason, some men think that some men are made better than other kinds of men.

And Adam was one of these men..  

So to make his boys rough and tumble, he registered them in a tough high school in South Central (near 97th and Wall).  And when Able begged to transfer to Fairfax High school of the  performing arts... Adam said “no”. Because Adam is as dumb as Rocks.

Now Cain was Cute You know, and strong: All sexy and brooding with his dark hair and dark eyes, but Able was something else.... Smart and talented, with a voice that never sung off key... Cain was like Adam’s third wife Eve. But Able... Able reminded of him of Steve...

And this was the second rift between the straights and the gays.

One day Cain and Able were playing in a field. You know, the way that rough and tumble boys do. And Cain smote his brother: Struck him down.

Able was just sitting in the field minding his own business: Skirt at the knee, surrounded by daisies and dandelions; his blond hair and light eyes - bleached and bought to look like mid-80’s Madonna (which as we all know is the best era of Madonna). And the sun is canary yellow, and the sky is cobalt blue, and the field is as green as a delicious Shamrock Shake. And Able is separating his wigs in the summer breeze: Organizing them by color, brand, length and material. You know, being fabulous! As young gay boys are want to do. And Cain seeing his brother all sparkly, and self-aware, and as brave as any warrior; grew jealous, and lonely, and scared. And because for some reason some men think that some men are made better than other kinds of men… it made him question himself and how he would be seen; and how he might be diminished in comparison... You know, just the light carefree thoughts one has when considering their  brother.  And Cain raised a stone and called his brother a Fag. And Able broke.  Fragmented. Shattered. Where once he was perfect and proud and whole, suddenly Able was missing something. And there was a hole where the stone had hit. Twenty years later he is still crawling on his knees searching for little bits of crystal stones scattered across the floor of his million dollar home in West Hollywood.

So that’s when God appeared.

You know, THE GOD.

You know, THE ONE.  

You know, THE BIG Cahuna, El Chavo himself. God, who just gave up his bus pass to start riding in Ubers from his job is Santa Monica to his motel downtown, found Cain alone in the field and said.

“Que Insiste con to hermano? Y porque el no esta contigo?”

Cain who was still more handsome than any man should be, so beautiful and black he turned blue in moonlight, but like his father as dumb as rocks said,

“I don’t know; he is weird, and I don’t get him, and he embarrasses me! And besides, am I my brother’s keeper?”

And God said: “Si. Si Estupido! Si Eres!”

Because God Only speaks Spanish.

The End

[buttboyfilms-blog]

20th Century Women! the BEST!

SO GOOD! 1000 stars! ----- more serious tone 2 follow -----

On January 20th, 2017, the day of Donald Trump’s Presidential Inauguration (first time typing that wow!), and the eve of the emphatically responsive Women’s March on Washington, production house A24 quietly made a politically charged announcement. The distributor behind recent indie films including Spring Breakers, Moonlight, The Lobster, and most of the other great films of the last five years, declared that all of the opening weekend earnings of its newest film, 20th Century Women, would be donated directly to Planned Parenthood. At a time when bigotry and misogyny have found new footing in popular discourse, this gesture of compassion to women across America came as a striking reminder of the pragmatic potential of artists for aiding social justice. It is also emblematic of writer-director Mike Mills’ uncompromisingly feminist, remarkably empathetic mission in 20th Century Women.

Mills’ most recent venture, 2012’s Beginners, starred Christopher Plummer as a fictionalized version of his father. It was well-received largely due to the powerful tenderness and warmth Mills imbued on his characters, but suffered occasionally from some overly sentimental indie-romance quirks (see: “Why are you at a party if you’re sad?”). This year’s first classic film, 20th Century Women, takes a similar quasi-autobiographical tact, however it forgoes conspicuous quirk in favour of genuine feeling and laughter. Annette Bening stars as Dorothea, representing Mills’ single mother, who, along with Abbie (Greta Gerwig) and Julie (Elle Fanning), attempts to raise her fifteen year old son, Jamie (Lucas Jade Zumman, for whose performance a Wikipedia page has definitely been earned) in 1979 Santa Barbara.

The real life inspiration for 20th Century Women is evident in every component of Mills’ film. From the colourful, lush set designs, to the early post-punk soundtrack, to the candid, poignant dialogue, Mills’ deep, personal connection to his subject is readily apparent. He writes his female characters with a deep seated admiration and understanding, which never reads as presumptuous. As women they are flawed, but never condescended to; not fully understood, but admired all the more in their inscrutability.

Of course, none of this is possible without the magnetic performances from across his ensemble cast. This is a film that will you searching everyone involved’s IMDB profile for anything you haven’t already seen (also check out Mike Mills’ 90s punk band, Butter ‘08 on the Beastie Boys’ old Grand Royal label!). Annette Bening exudes a remarkably assured liveliness each time she enters the frame. With a cigarette perpetually perched between two fingers, her superbly expressive face breathes volumes into the pause of her frequent, “Yeah . . . no,” response. Clad in silk floral pajamas, or the bluest bell bottoms you could imagine, her emotionally honest, collective approach to parenting conveys emotional depths far exceeding her role as a mother. Her work is complemented by the inimitable mumble-core alum Greta Gerwig, supporting here as the art school graduated, cervical cancer survivor Abbie, boarding in Dorothea’s home, and Elle Fanning as Julie, the infinitely perplexing and unattainable girl next door, who frequently sleeps in Jamie’s bed.

While these three characters could be read at first glance as essentially the same California woman at different times in her life, as the film progresses, we are privileged deeper insight into their particular anxieties. Particularly revealing is a dinner party scene following a viewing of Jimmy Carter’s “a crisis of confidence” speech. Varying perspectives of radical feminism butt heads over supper, culminating with Abbie confronting each male guest with their reluctance to utter the word “menstruation”, and Julie unflinchingly detailing the painful loss of her virginity.

The sexual focus of second wave feminism in the 1970s is integral to 20th Century Women. We watch as Dorothea, Abbie and Julie grapple with their unique concepts of femininity, each shaped by circumstance, literature, and society. Only a few years removed from puberty, Jamie is given Susan Lydon’s Politics of the Orgasm by Abbie. As he embraces the tenets of radical feminism, he struggles to understand the women in his own life, outside of their relation to him. While both Lucas Jade Zumman and Billy Crudup (as William, an aging California hippie brought in by Dorothea to help raise Jamie) give stirring performances, the spotlight is cast definitively on the three female leads, constructed with careful attention to detail and a surplus of affection.

Mills succeeds in creating a world that feels at once foreign to the viewer and lived-in by his characters. The vividness of his pre-Reagan California is bolstered by his characters’ forays into California’s burgeoning underground music scene. Indeed, as much as 20th Century Women showcases Mills’ reverence for the women of his teenage years, it forefronts the music that made him. After questioning the legitimacy of a fellow skateboarder’s professed sexual exploits, Jaime is told, prior to being punched in the face, that “the Talking Heads are a bunch of fags,” (he later returns home to his mom’s Volkswagen spray painted with the words “ART FAG” and “BLACK FLAG”). In Dorothea’s never ending quest to better understand to her son, she and William try to dance to a few records from his shelf. While they struggle with the appeal of Black Flag’s “Nervous Breakdown”, the Talking Heads’ (or as Dorothea calls them, the “art fags”) “The Big Country” strikes a chord with both of them.

In 20th Century Women’s less than two hour runtime, very little happens. It would be difficult to discern any kind of teleological storyline carrying all the way through, or any easily summarized take-home message. This is strange, because watching 20th Century Women, one feels as if Mills is moving mountains. While this effect could be termed a lack of focus on the part of the filmmaker, I see it rather as an effective subversion of our narrative expectations. Although we’re tempted to look forward to Jamie’s losing his virginity to Julie as a sort of culmination of themes, the script is too insistently thoughtful and empowering of its female characters to allow for this familiar, male-centered coming-of-age tale ending to occur. Mills doesn’t want to sell us a neat, fictional resolution, because his story comes from lived experience.

Mills’ ever-mobile camera rarely strays far from close up shots of his leads. His tight focus allows for their facial expressions to do much of the dramatic heavy lifting. However, when the rare widescreen, outdoor shot fills the screen, one gets a scene of how vast the world is which continues to exist outside of these characters’ deeply personal struggles. Mills’ vision may be ambitious in terms of character depth, but he recognizes the limitations of his film’s scope, and thus his reach never exceeds his grasp.

Where he succeeds most resoundingly is in forging real emotional bonds between the characters onscreen and audience members. Mills never hits you over the head with emotional highs and lows, but rather presents a mixed bag throughout. One such bittersweet moment comes in a plainspoken heart to heart between Dorothea and Abbie. Dorothea informs Abbie, concerning Jamie, “You get to see him out in the world, as a person… I never will.” Abbie responds by presenting her an overexposed polaroid of Jamie at a punk show, with a goofy, probably inebriated expression on his face. The scene is heartrending and relatable, due to the multilayered connection we have to Mills’ characters. At once we feel for Dorothea, Abbie, and Jamie, all for different reasons.

Unlike Beginners, the believable emotional heft of 20th Century Women is never undone by questionable directorial choices. Although the kaleidoscope trail of cars cruising down coastal highways (a nod to the classic Czech New Wave film, Daisies) does feel a little heavy-handed the fourth time around, for the most part, Mills’ quirks feel entirely fitting and deserved by the unconventional script. The only time I questioned the world presented before me was when Jamie hopped into an acquaintance's car to head to L.A. for a DIY punk show, and I wondered if high school could actually have been this cool in 1979.

20th Century Women ends with a shot of Dorothea riding in the cockpit of a biplane, seemingly carefree, laughing exuberantly. The view is sumptuous and refreshing. We have already been given the details of her eventual death, as she states omnisciently, “I will prepare for Y2K before I die.” “As Time Goes By” starts playing, I cry, and we understand that as vivid and complete as the preceding two hours have felt, Mills’ film will not presume to be anything more than it is: a portrait of three women, a man, and a teenager living in Santa Barbara in 1979.

[olly-olly-olly-olly]

Stars, Smokes, and Kisses

[harringrove drabble]

{death discussion, swearing, weed, homophobic language, discussion of abuse}

“Have you ever wanted to die?”

Steve looks at Billy, his mouth pulling into a frown. The two sit in silence, Steve’s mind rolling over the question.

“Yeah. I have.” He replies. Billy nods as if this confirms something he won’t share, takes a hit off the joint and then passes it over. Steve watched as the blond exhales the smoke, and he wonders why one boy has to be so fuckin’ gorgeous.

“Why?” Billy asks, his eyes looking at the starry sky. They’ve been sitting on the hood of his Camaro for nearly two hours, smoking and asking each other questions with a classic rock station playing quietly behind them. The quarry water glints in front of them, and Steve can feel the chill of the autumn air settling into his bones, but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to feel cold as he sits out here with Billy and learns about the way the woods feel when he’s not being chased by monsters—he wants to know how they feel when he’s not scared. And he’s not. Not when he’s with Billy.

“No, it’s my turn to ask you a question,” Steve says, and Billy rolls his eyes. He leans back against the car, placing his hands behind his head. He turns his face to Steve and smiles lazily.

“Ask away, pretty boy,” he winks and Steve ignores the way his chest heats up. He places the joint in his mouth and thinks for a moment.

“Have you ever wanted to die?”

Billy goes quiet and holds his hand out for the joint. Steve rolls his eyes and gives it back to the blond.

“‘Course I have, Harrington. Who hasn’t?”

“Alright, then,” Steve says. He brushes some hair from his face, and Billy’s ocean blue eyes (Steve sometimes wonders if they match that fabled ocean in California) track the movement. “What’s your question?”

“Why do you want to die?”

The question hangs between the boys, something tense and unresolved suddenly finding its way into their conversation.

“That seems a bit too personal, don’t you think, Hargrove?” Steve jokes. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t need to. He’s fine. Just fine.

“What if I tell you why I want to die first?” Billy says. Steve adjusts himself so that instead of facing the quarry’s beach, he’s facing Billy.

Billy looks like an angel in the moonlight, his curls pulled in a ponytail to stay off his neck and a small bracelet Max and El made for him after a hospital stay gleaming on his wrist. His blue eyes are hiding something, flicking over Steve’s face and into the star-studded sky behind him. His fingers are tapping the rhythm of Another One Bites The Dust along with the radio.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Okay.”

Billy nods, the joint dangling between his lips. The thing is almost gone; Steve reaches over and takes it, dropping it onto the ashtray placed on the ground strategically. Billy makes a face until Steve pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers one.

When Steve goes to get his own cigarette, Billy’s hands reach out and grab his wrist gently. When he looks up at the blond with a questioning look, Billy shrugs and says, “We can share.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; he just slides the pack into his pocket and watches Billy light the one in his mouth.

“So.” Billy undoes the ponytail and starts fidgeting with the bracelet. “Why I want to die.”

“Apparently that’s what you wanna talk about, Hargrove,” Steve mutters. His skin is already crawling at what he’ll admit if Billy asks. He can already feel himself losing his defenses—it’s because of stupid pretty Billy and the stupid weed.

“Shut up, Harrington.” Billy rolls his eyes and takes a drag. “I wanna die ‘cause of my dad.”

“What d’ya mean?” Steve asks, taking the cigarette from Billy. He nearly shudders when he placed t between his lips; this paper has touched Billy in ways he could only dream of. Is he jealous of a cigarette?

“He beats me.” Billy says bluntly. “He doesn’t like that I’m a fag, that I like it up the ass. He doesn’t like that my hair is long or that I don’t always button my shirts and that I’m not a perfect older brother to Max. He just doesn’t like me. Hats why we moved out to this fuckwad of a town, y’know—my dad thought if he couldn’t beat the gay out of me, he could take us far away from any place where there might be any other homos.”

Steve blinks. Neil beat Billy? Sure, it wasn’t a huge surprise, but…what?

Then, another thing Billy said echoes in Steve’s head: “He doesn’t like that I’m a fag."

Oh my God. Billy’s gay.

“So?” Billy stares up at Steve through his lashes and plucks the cigarettes from his fingers. “Why does mister King Steve wish for death?”

For whatever reason, Steve still can’t formulate a coherent sentence. Billy is gay? Billy likes boys? His dad beats him? Does he tell Hopper about the abuse? Does he kiss Billy? God, he wishes he could pause the conversation and ask Robin. Then Robin again, for good measure.

“Hello? Earth to Harrington?” Billy is snaps his fingers and waves his hand in front of Steve’s face. “Are you still using that peanut-sized brain?”

“Oh, screw off,” Steve mumbles. Billy smirks, but it’s half-hearted and it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. Who wouldn’t be, after revealing all that to a guy he’s been friends with for two weeks?

“Spill the beans, Harrington,” Billy says. “Why do you want to die?”

“I’m lonely,” Steve blurts. “And it sounds pathetic but it’s true. Ninety-percent of my friends are, like, fifteen, and then the others don’t really like me and I don’t blame them. Then my fuckin’ parents, man—they don’t even want me working for them. They weren’t around when I was in elementary school, or in junior high, or fuckin’ high school. And then, when I couldn’t make it into their fucking college, they cut me off.” Steve flushes red and glanced at Billy. “Then those fuckin’ monster. Demodogs or whatever the hell they are. They gave me on fuckover in the head, Hargrove. I can’t sleep at night. I can’t go anywhere at night without my stupid bat. I can’t swim anymore. I can’t do anything anymore.”

Billy is quiet, and Steve’s heart starts beating faster. “But yeah,” he mumbles, pulling his thin jacket tighter. “That’s—that’s it.”

“Shit,” Billy mutters. Steve laughs dryly.

“Shit,” he repeats.

Billy hands him the cigarette. The song changes to something Steve has never heard before, but Billy clearly has; he’s tapping his foot against the air, watching Steve as he smokes.

“So,” Billy says, licking his lips. “Guess we’re both pretty fucked.”

Steve laughs. “Guess we are.”

For a little while, they sit. Steve, having allowed himself to think about the Demogorgon, is finally starting to freak out. His arm itches. His skin is crawling. He wants his bat. Or to have Nancy there, with her gun. God.

“You good, Steve?” Billy questions.

Steve swallows; his mouth is dry. He’s so distracted by the tree branches moving in the wind that he doesn’t realize that Billy has said his name.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” Steve takes a drag, focusing on the cigarette. Focusing on Billy next to him, on the metal of the Camaro under his ass, freezing his butt through his jeans.

Billy sits up, his eyes staring straight ahead. “I’ve always liked the quarry better at night,” Billy says. “How about you?”

“I’ve only been here once at night,” Steve replies, “And that’s right now.”

“Really? Not even for a party?”

“All my parties where at houses. Everyone got a lot cooler when you showed up, Hargrove.”

Billy snorts. “Sure they did.”

Steve glances at the other boy, his eyes trailing down him. His curls fell to his shoulders, and he was playing with the necklace he wore. In the dark, Steve couldn’t tell what was on it.

“Steve, I’ve got a question for you,” Billy says. Steve catches his name this time around, and he arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“Shoot.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out over the fact that I’m a homo?”

“Well, why would I?” Steve asks. “I mean, I’m one too.”

Billy freezes. Steve can hear his heart in his ears. The Russians probably can.

“What?” Is all Billy can manage.

“I’m a homo. Sort of. Like, I’m into girls too. But, well…have you seen Tom Cruise?”

Billy stares at him for a moment and then laughs. He laughs. He laughs until he’s doubled over, clutching at his stomach.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asks, smiling confusededly.

“You…have a thing for Tom Cruise?” Billy says through his laughter, looking at Steve as he waits for an answer.

“Yes…?” Steve frowns. “Why?”

“Because you would totally be into Tom Cruise!” Billy giggles. Steve rolls his eyes and makes a face at him.

That only makes Billy laugh harder, and Steve smokes while he waits for the blond to stop. Eventually, Billy takes a deep breath and wipes tears—literal, actual tears—from his eyes.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Steve whirls his head to look at Billy. He just knows it’s a joke—they confessed that they’re gay, not that they’re gay for each other—but Billy isn’t joking. He’s serious.

“I’ve never kissed a guy before,” Steve mumbles. Billy shrugs and takes the cigarette from Steve, dropping it onto the ashtray.

“It’s really about the same as kissing a girl,” Billy tells him, leaning closer. “I just like it better.”

Steve leans closer. Their noses brush, and Steve can smell the weed on Billy’s breath.

Carefully, they kiss.

And keep kissing.

When the sun comes up, both of them are curled up in the backseat of the Camaro, mouths kiss-swollen and both of them happier than they’ve been in a long time.

~~~

Sorry if it sucked, but idk what I’m doing and I got bored lol so I hope it was an okay harringrove one-shot even tho it sucked

[jackonope]

Those Walls Spoke

This is a work of fiction, a story within a story. This is, in no way, a personal recount from my past. With that said, let's press on.

My name is Bradley Dent, USMC SGT Retired. This is a recounting of my buddy's experience during USMC 2013 operations in Iraq. I remember the look on his and his corporal's faces when they made it back to base. After a few hours and a few rounds down range, he told me to what happened. His corporal ended up verifying with his own experiences, back in the chow hall. These are his words. Somehow we got turned around in the Iraqi desert. Our patrol took us a few too many klicks south from base camp than I was comfortable with. Before we knew it, the six of us were wandering in a desert with no name and no point of reference. Even the stars didn't shine this night, thank you cloud cover. Our lead was Cpl. Matts and the five of us were all giving him shit for getting us lost, and he was starting to get pissed. He wasn't snapping back or nothing, but that's how he always was when his temper was bubbling, it was kinda scary at times. After about an hour of walking and shit-talking, we caught a lucky break: the clouds were breaking up and the distant scenery came into view. Desert. Nothing but desert sand and a pathetic looking hut about fifty yards east from our position. LCpls Domonic and Hernandez scouted ahead to secure the structure, while Cpl. Matts and Pvts. Marcus, Brown and I covered them from the closest dune. A few minutes after entering, we got the all clear. Coming into the building, we could see it wasn't much left of one. There was one solid wall facing southeast, the rest of them were only half of a wall each and a single corner of the northern-most wall. The remaining walls were pock-marked and there were dark brown stains on the rubble and walls. The roof was mostly intact, except for the six-foot-wide hole. Matts and Marcus were looking them over while Domonic was scoping out the distance, making sure we aren't in someone's backyard or something like that. "It's blood. Old as fuck, but its blood." Matts clicked off his light as he wiped his hands on his sleeve. Marcus was poking his fingers into the holes in the walls. "Shrapnel, man. Probably some goat fuckers got blasted. Impact like this, probably mortar fire." Marcus stops fingering the wall and walks up to Matts's side, "Hey, Corp. Are-" Matts cuts him off. "What did you call me, Private?" Matts eyeballs Marcus, everyone directed their attention to the two. That's how it starts to show; Matts gets real quiet then he's suddenly super by the book. Military bearing out the ass and no flex. Marcus scoffed at the standoff and sighed. "Corporal," he was already tired of this, he has never had enough patience for Matts, "Are you sure you want to hunker down here? We don't even know how whoever got k-" Matts cuts Marcus off again, shoulder checking as he walks past him. "We're going to take turns standing fire watch. I'll go first, then Hernandez, Dent, Marcus, Dom, then Brown. We'll head out once it's bright enough to see. Get some shuteye, fags. Hernandez, you're up in a few hours." Once the law was passed, we started settling down. It felt like only a few minutes, but I woke up to a bright light in my face and Hernandez nudging my shoulder. "Wake up, boot. You're up." In a few minutes, I was leaning against a wall, staring out an empty desert. The night air was so dark, I could just barely make out the difference between sand and sky. The clouds reformed, blocking any moonlight from passing through. I would've been creeped out back home, but this was common here. The only sounds to be heard were from the rest of us asleep a few feet away, huddled together to keep warm. Thinking back on it now, all those sounds were kinda dull, too. Like the sound didn't have any echo- no meat -behind it. It was about an hour into my watch when I almost jumped out of my skin, the sounds of footsteps. They were coming from around that southern corner, but still far enough off to not be an immediate threat. Readying my rifle, I took cover behind the corner and peeked over. Nothing. Maybe it was just wind and sand? Maybe I'm too tired? Just as I was starting to calm down, there was a pat on my left shoulder. I would've shouted but once I saw him, I was more relieved than anything else. It was another Marine. Just one, in battle rattle. His face about a foot from mine as he put his finger to his lips and shushed me. "Stay quiet, boot." He said, "Get everyone up and get your shit. We have rescue on the way." "Rescue?" For a moment, I forgot we were lost while on patrol. The Marine got up and walked around the southeastern wall, seemingly to be making a call on his radio. I started waking everyone up, telling them all what just happened. Matts walked completely around the southeastern wall and back again. He looked annoyed. "What the fuck, shit-boot? You woke us up for what?" Matts got close to me. Realy close. "Whoa, calm down. I told you: he just walked behind that wall." I pointed to the southeastern wall. Matts glanced back and forth between me and that hole-riddled southeastern wall. He changed from annoyed to confused, his tone changed and directed Brown with his finger to follow him. Everyone got their rifles and kneeled in a circle as Matts and Brown flanked the wall. They walked around it and found nothing but each other and their footprints. They came back, swearing under their breaths at me. Marcus nudged my shoulder once we all stood down. "You sure you saw that?" Marcus eyed me up, I guess checking my face for fatigue. He must've thought I looked tired. "Yeah, man. As sure as you see me." "I don't know. I'm not entirely sure you're really here." Marcus chuckled at his own joke as he playfully jabbed my arm and finished with, "Bro, you're tired as fuck. Your watch is done, I got this." I nodded and said he was right. As I settle down for the night, I wondered if what I experienced was real. The others bitched and moaned as we all huddled up. I was out in seconds, comfortable with Marcus watching over us. Soon enough, I was woken up by everyone scrambling to their feet and grabbing their gear. Marcus shuffled up to me as I sat up. "Dent. That Marine you saw, what did he look like? Was he in a vest? Did you get his name? See his face?" Marcus machine-gunned the questions at me. He was shaken up. "Y-Yeah. He had a five o'clock shadow. White guy, older looking, like mid-thirties." "Name? Did you get his name?" "No." I answered as I stuffed my sleeper into my ruck. "Coo. Coo. I saw him too, man." Marcus's head was swiveling around nervous as shit. I was freaked out, now. Matts was getting a head count when Domonic said loud enough for all of us to hear, but not shout, "Let's go! Let's go! We're moving out." As we started walking, I saw Dom reach down and pick up something in the sand, near the southeastern wall. I knew that clink. He shone his light on his find. Dog tags. I could tell that from the glint, too. We double-timed to the dunes and tried to see where we needed to go, the sky was a little brighter now, with pending daybreak. Matts managed to get a radio signal and called in our statuses. About a half hour later we saw our first helo overhead, then an hour after that, the Humvees reached us. Once back at base, we were debriefed and had to make reports on how we got lost and anything we may have experienced. Mine must've been a couple pages, front and back, but I doubt it all made it up the CoC. Marcus and Domonic came up to me in a smoke pit, later that day. What they shared with me made the hair on my arms and neck stand on end. Marcus told me about the sound of footsteps, the pat on his shoulder, then the Marine so close he could smell the day-old-stink on his breath. He told me he was told the same exact thing I was told and saw the exact thing I saw, down to the southeastern wall. Then Domonic nudged Marcus's side. "Tell him the rest, Marcus." Domonic urged, lightly. Marcus swallowed hard. "I asked around. There was a four-man patrol, about three weeks ago, that was recovered in that very house." He said it so quietly, I had to repeat one word. "Recovered? As in?" "As in their remains." Domonic answered with his hands in his pockets, a Marine Corps no-no. I cracked a smirk. "You guys are fucking with me, right?" I had to ask, but they didn't budge. I could almost hear the deafening doom sound that comes right after Earth-shaking revelations, in movies and tv shows. They both shook their heads. After almost a minute of awkward silence, Marcus pulled a piece of paper out of his left leg pouch. It was folded in four but still fresh. He handed it to me and asked if this was the Marine I saw. "Yeah. Yeah. That's him. You saw him too, didn't you?" Asking Marcus was pointless because I already knew it was. He answered with a single nod. Domonic pulled his right hand out of his pocket and turned the palm up, showing the dog tags. "His name was Jeremy P. Roberts. Sergeant. He and his men were taken out in that house, blown apart by mortar fire." "Goat fuckers." Marcus chimed in, in disgust. "The enemy was never neutralized, so they could still be out there." Domonic finished. Marcus was done. I was sick to my stomach. The guys walked away, again after an awkward silence. I had chills in 110-degree heat. The next day, we got word that hours after we all bugged out of there, the house was hit with mortars again. This time it was leveled. Taliban must've mistaken a group of young men for Israeli soldiers. When I heard that news, I got weak.