#the way nobody asked me to fuckin render this for days on end……….

[saintbleeding]

[ID: A seven panel comic featuring Jon, Martin, and Melanie from TMA. In the first two panels, Jon stands in Georgie’s living room in the dark, grumbling as he stares at his red-string-conspiracy wall. Across various sizes and types of paper he has written in all-caps: “Martin (from work) / good to look at / kind to me / his laugh / hates me less than anyone else / arms?? / dreadful sense of humour (laughs at my jokes) (makes awful jokes)”. In the next three panels, earlier that day, Melanie stands by Martin’s desk and stares dubiously at something unseen. She asks “did you put salt in Jon’s tea today or something?” Martin, turning to see what she’s looking at, replies “oh, um- no? no, that’s, uh- that’s just his face.” He then proceeds to smile warmly and wave one hand, saying “hi Jon!” with a love heart next to this text. In the next panel we see what they’re looking at: Jon, standing in the doorway to his office, staring stormily back at Martin with no indication he has registered the greeting. The final panel, back in Georgie’s living room, shows a blushing Jon staring down into the middle distance with a mortified expression of realisation on his face. End ID.]

well. you know that post everyone was tagging as jon like a week ago. couldn’t stop thinkin abt it tbh

[vennilavee]

heat, mind, soul (5)

tsoaf masterlist pairing: levi x reader of color summary: in which there is a party, and you spend the night at the survey corps HQ. and your bar is destroyed. warnings: alcohol, cursing, fluff, smut!!! 18+ word count:  5.3k a/n: i guess 2 months between each chapter is the norm for this story huh

Notification of the pre-expedition party comes in the form of one of the younger survey corps scouts walking into your bar late one evening. You recognize him as the boy you saw on the wall a few days ago. Eren.

When you had your midnight kiss with Levi on top of Wall Rose. His kiss was something that played on repeat in your head, the soft feeling of his lips against yours, his hands over your hips, the way he pressed himself against you when you both fell asleep…

Despite the grimness of this world, his warmth and the map of his hands is a feeling that has fondly crawled into your heart and bloomed. And over the last few days, he’s stopped by when he can, opting to spend the night with you whenever possible. 

It’s moving fast, but with him, it just feels right. And for two souls from the Underground, taking things slow seems like a waste of time. Considering that you both know how fleeting life is. And that small joys should be cherished and held on to for as long as they can.

So you hold on to him. You cherish him. You ask questions about what it’s like beyond the wall, and he only looks at you as if he can see right through you-

“It’s...it would be better without the fuckin’ titans.”

“Oh, you don’t say?”

“It’s endless. There’s so much sky...trees...you would like it. You like that kinda shit.”

Levi pauses, kissing his teeth.

“I’ll take you someday. When this is over.”

You scoff. Tomorrow is not a promise for today, and you both know that.

“You shouldn’t make promises you won’t keep.”

You’re lost in your thoughts for a moment, thoughts of Levi and his steel eyes, when the boy in front of you clears his throat with wide, green eyes. 

Despite him being just a boy, you can see the undercurrent of tragedy and blood in his bright eyes.

“Think you’re a few years shy of legally being able to buy a drink from me, Eren,” You say dryly, wiping a beer glass with a cloth.

“I’m not here for a drink,” Eren says, sounding affronted, “I’m here because the commander wanted to relay a message to you.”

“Your commander and his captain couldn’t come tell me themselves, huh,” You mutter under your breath.

“Oh, you’re telling me that Captain Levi isn’t going to be stopping by soon?” Eren says smugly, without batting an eyelash and you gasp at his attitude.

“That’s-that’s not-” You sputter, cheeks warming up at his grin, “What is the message, Eren?”

“The commander is requesting your services for a party in about a week. He wants you to provide alcohol and drinks for the Survey Corps.”

“O-oh,” You nod, “Yes, I can do that. Just give me the details and I’ll do my best.”

Eren tells you that he and some other members of the Survey Corps will arrive during the day to help bring the barrels and bottles of alcohol over to headquarters. You don’t bother to tell Eren that you are well aware of where the Survey Corps headquarters is located. 

Because Levi somehow trusted you enough with that information.

The thought of seeing the castle where Levi lives sends a rush of nerves through you. He hasn’t invited you himself, not yet at least. After all, he usually stops by your bar more often than not and you’ve never asked to see the castle.

You think that Captain Levi of the Survey Corps probably has more pressing things to worry about than the blossomed feelings of the bartender pining after him.

Perhaps his leg is still slightly hurting him, you think. Levi had mentioned here and there that sometimes his leg would ache at random moments. You wonder how much of him aches and how much of it he internalizes. He hasn’t been by to see you in a few days, and if you’re a little disappointed, you’ll keep it to yourself. 

Because there are more pressing things, and you’ll see him soon enough.

Levi wonders if he should ask you to stay the night. After all, you’ll be essentially hosting this gathering for the rowdy soldiers of the Survey Corps. And you’d probably be tired by the end of the whole ordeal.

He’s already tired from it, and it hasn’t even happened yet. But if you’re there, that makes it a little more bearable.

Levi tries not to stare when you walk into the mess hall with Jean and Connie on either side of you, each carrying a barrel of what he presumes is wine while talking your ear off. And you smile with them, laugh with them.

You’ve been here for two seconds and Levi can already tell that you fit in with them. And he struggles to keep his eyes off of you- the fit of your long black skirt hugging your hips and the green blouse tucked into your skirt, gold hoops on either ear…

Pretty. You look pretty and Levi’s throat goes dry.

He catches your eye and you offer him a crooked smile. Levi makes his way over to you and tells (really, demands) Jean and Connie to go get the other crates of alcohol, and you smile a little wider at him.

“Missed me so much that you wanted to throw a party here, huh?” Levi says, letting his fingers brush over your clothed elbow. His touch is fleeting, barely there, but you can’t help but try to lean closer to him for more.

“You caught me,” You reply dryly, “I wanted to see you so bad that I offered more than half of my stash of liquor for you to consume in a single night. You know, I should report you to the MP’s for encouraging underage drinking. Pretty sure your kids were frothing at the mouth just from the smell of beer.”

“Underage drinking? Yeah, right,” Levi scoffs with a roll of his eyes, “Those kids wouldn’t be able to tell water from wine.”

Levi brushes his pinky finger over yours and the small touch sends your heart accelerating. 

You let out a laugh, your head tipping back in mirth and you miss the flash of fondness in Levi’s grey eyes.

“You gonna give me the official tour or what,” You ask. You’re curious about the space that Levi lives in, about where his friends and colleagues live. The Survey Corps has always felt like an enigma to you- a flurry of forest green capes and silver blades. 

“Maybe later. Don’t you have work to do?” Levi says, voice flat but you catch the undercurrent of teasing.

“You gonna help me? You didn’t even help me bring the barrels inside.”

“You had it covered.”

“Oh, did I? If your kids are drunk off of the fumes, don’t blame me.”

Levi exhales sharply, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. The sound echoes in your heart, a sound you never want to let go of.

“You’re stupid,” Levi mutters and pokes your forehead. You only beam at him.

Organized chaos fills the mess hall quickly once the Survey Corps begins to fill in to the hall. You can’t help but wonder when the last time any of them had laughed like this- were they laughing for themselves or fallen soldiers and comrades? Both? It’s the least you could give them, you think.

The raucous sounds of laughter and shouts emerge from the corner of the mess hall, where you spot Eren and a few other boys his age. Namely, one of them with brown hair. They’re yelling at each other, about to start throwing fists, while a crowd forms around them.

Nobody moves to stop them, but clearly, everyone’s either too intoxicated or too lazy to try. But really, maybe this is a reprieve that they all need. 

The shouts get louder and punches start being thrown. You pay it no mind, expecting someone in the Survey Corps to stop them. Before you can give it another moment of your attention, your vision is blocked.

You look up, somehow maintaining a perfect poker face when you come in contact with Erwin Smith’s deep, blue eyes.

“Was wondering when the Commander himself was going to grace me with his holy presence,” You remark dryly.

He only looks at you in that disarming way. The same way he looked at you the first time you saw him in your bar. And it’s a look you’ve seen on him from years ago.

You’re very familiar with him, it seems. And the thing you both have in common is Levi.

“I assume you found your way here alright?” Erwin asks. He’s intimidating and his mere gaze makes you swallow nervously.

“Yes, Eren and the rest were really helpful. And thank you for asking me to supply you. I’m really-”

“I trust anyone who Levi trusts,” Erwin says simply and your jaw nearly drops.

“Do you?” You can’t help the question and Erwin looks amused.

“Do you have something you want to say?” Erwin asks, his eyebrow raised.

Your palms sweat- should you tell him? Should you tell him that you recall seeing him all those years ago in the Underground? Should you tell him that you and Liya had been paranoid that he and he team were coming for you and your little not-so-legal operation?

“No, not at all,” You shake your head, “And a word of advice- maybe it’s not a good idea to blindly trust anyone who your Captain trusts.”

“Who said anything about blindly trusting anyone?”

And he walks away from you, effectively rendering you speechless. You think he has that effect on people quite often.

By the time the night ends, it’s well past midnight. In fact, it’s closer to three in the morning, and your eyes are burning with sharp fatigue. Most of the Survey Corps soldiers had drank their fill and the descent into drunkenness had been a merry one.

You always love to see how people enjoy the things you create. It’s part of why you genuinely enjoy being a bartender. But making drinks for the entirety of the Survey Corps was pretty taxing, even if you had enjoyed every minute of it.

And if Erwin Smith himself had paid you well and complimented your bartending skills, it was a win for you.

You had managed to have a few drinks of earthwater to ease your nerves, but now you were eager to go home and go to bed. Sleep is calling your name, and yet your eyes always land on Levi.

He hadn’t approached you much during the night. Not that it bothers you. You know he wants to let you be in your element without him as a distraction. But really, he’s not a distraction for you.

Levi sees you yawn a few times and something hesitant gets stuck in his throat. What is he so hesitant for? It’s so late already. It would be stupid for you to walk home right now, let alone walk home alone.

He could walk you home, he supposes. But he doesn’t want to do that either. It’s been a few days since he’s seen you last. Since he’s stayed the night with you.

Maybe you could stay the night with him. For the first time.

Levi scoffs at his own internal monologue.

“It’s late,” Levi says off-handedly. Everyone else has cleared away from the mess hall, taking their drunken antics with them to bed.

“Great observation,” You mutter.

“Stay with me tonight,” Levi says. He says it so easily, as if it’s not the first time he’s asking you to stay with him. He forces himself to look you in the eyes, amused to see a knowing grin on your face.

“I was waiting for you to ask. Can’t believe it took you until three in the morning to ask me to stay the night-”

“Don’t make me rescind my offer.”

“What a gentleman,” You tease.

“Shut up.”

Once the door of his bedroom closes, you immediately tug his wrist and he turns around, about to ask you what’s wrong. But instead, you impatiently press your lips to his, tasting liquor on his tongue immediately. Levi tastes sweet and minty, refreshing like a cool sunrise.

Your hands are instantly in his hair, chest pressed against his. His hands hover over your hips before sinking his fingers over your ass.

“Missed you,” You say into his mouth, your voice soft and sweet. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, somehow already knowing that he was aching to be near you. To hold you, to touch you.

Levi lets himself indulge with you a little longer- the press of your hips against his is too much for him to want to resist. His hand cradles your neck as he steals your breath with soft lips. You don’t think you ever want to live in a world where you can’t feel his quiet desire.

“Wait,” He rasps and you look at him with wide eyes, “Go change.”

“And what would you have me change into?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, “I don’t have clothes here.”

“I have clothes,” Levi murmurs, his thumb caressing your cheek.

“They’ll be small on me-”

“Just try them on,” Levi hushes you and pulls you towards his mahogany armoire. You can’t resist touching the different iterations of his uniform, his dress shirts, his trenchcoat. And then his linen night clothes.

“You’re not shopping,” Levi says dryly, “Stop touching everything.”

You smack his chest lazily. “I’m assessing my options. I guess this’ll do-”

You pull a shirt from his closet, it’s soft under your fingertips and you wonder how it might look on you. Maybe Levi would enjoy the sight of his clothes on you the same way you had enjoyed your own clothes on him. Levi gives you a shirt, similar to the style of the grey linen shirt you enjoy seeing him in.

“Turn around,” You shoo him away.

“I’ve literally seen you naked,” Levi says flatly, but turns around regardless. He hears you rustling your clothes off and hopes that you don’t let your clothes drop to the floor. What a mess.

You neatly fold your clothes and place them inside his armoire, tucked into the corner. Levi can’t resist turning around and catching a peek of your bare legs, a hint of cotton black panties, and the way his shirt cinches around your waist.

Levi swallows. 

“Told you it wouldn’t fit,” You say pointedly, “Look at this-”

Levi’s looking alright. His shirt rides up on you, your bare belly and your hips calling for his touch. The shirt is tight over your chest, your breasts defined and detailed by the fit of the shirt. You’re afraid to raise your arms too high, for fear of ripping the shirt.

“Looks great to me,” Levi murmurs, stepping closer to you. His hands instantly grip your hips, your warm skin under his fingertips and pliant to his touch. 

“You’re only saying that because you have to,” You roll your dark eyes playfully and smack his chest. He takes your wrist, thumb absently soothing your pulse and he raises your wrist to his lips. He presses a light kiss to your inner wrist, leaving your heart fluttering and your lips upturned.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Levi points out.

“Yeah,” You breathe, “But you should kiss me-”

Levi easily picks you up, his hands tight on your thighs and carries you to his bed, dropping you carefully on his crisp, cotton sheets. Everything smells like him, his beige sheets, his pillow, his covers. You could drown, and you’d gladly sink in love with him.

You’re both a synchronized mess of limbs and lips, of murmurs and moans- neither of you can get enough of touching the other. It’s only been a few days, maybe a week or so, but you’re overcome with a familiar feeling. A familiar feeling of longing, of not wanting to let him go. You cross your ankles hastily around his narrow waist, pulling him closer to you.

The dimming light of the candle at Levi’s bedside illuminates the soft planes of your face, giving your brown skin a fiery glow. You look like you belong here, your dark hair a sharp contrast against his sheets. You look like you belong here, with him, in between his sheets and fitting in the rough crevices of your hands.

But your hands are rough, too, in the way that they scale his back. Your touch is rough but gentle against his scarred skin. The scars on your skin match some of his and he squeezes your hands as he dips his head to meet your rouged lips. 

Levi wonders if he should pull away from you. Not just from this moment, but from you in all of your fire. If embracing his feelings for you is dangerous, then he’ll be a risk to himself.

If his feelings are something to avoid for some grand, noble cause that he doesn’t quite understand, he won’t. Not when he’ll regret it if he does. Not when the noises he pulls from you, the soft sighs and breathy calls of his name sound so sweet to his ears. Not when the cacophony of your sweet noises shoot straight down to his cock.

He won’t deny himself of this divine rapture- nothing would ever compare to the way your moans crescendo in his ear, only for your wet, warm walls to squeeze down all around him. Levi kisses the junction in between your shoulder and your neck, panting into your glistening skin as he rolls his hips into yours. His hands are bruising over your hips, hands squeezing every inch of your skin that he can.

Levi’s eyes are blazing, bits of grey steel sputtering out in ash when he looks at you. The intensity of his gaze makes your cheeks heat up, and instead you tip your head up for a needy kiss.

He curls a hand around your warm cheek, stilling inside of you momentarily. “Are you with me?” Levi murmurs. He’s so close to your face that soft puffs of his breath tickles your nose.

“Yes,” You mumble hoarsely, “I’m with you.”

Waking up next to Levi in his bed felt as natural as anything else in the world. As the sun rose, illuminating his bedroom with soft rays of gold, you did, too. Specifically, you woke up to Levi’s hands on you and his lips attached to the back of your neck.

You could get used to this. You could really get used to this.

“You don’t have anything to do today?” You ask, sleep still curled in your voice.

“Couple things later,” Levi murmurs, “For now, just us.”

“Okay,” You hum, closing your eyes and almost drifting back into sleep.

Mornings with Levi are slow and steady. Just the way you like it. No interruptions outside of the concrete walls of his bedroom, only your breaths and his. He slots himself between your legs and you make a home out of him as the sunlight pours onto your skin.

Levi doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as the golden sunshine on your brown skin. 

Once you and Levi are both dressed, Levi wordlessly hands you something heavy in your hands. It’s in a sleek, black box and you raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

“What’s this? Parting gift?” You ask. Levi rolls his eyes and opens the box for you. It’s a silver dagger, one that looks a little used.

You look up at him with wide, confused eyes. 

“In case you need it,” Levi says simply.

In case you need something to remember me by.

A bullet almost as wide as your palm slings past you and into the shelf of alcohol behind you. Before you can shout at whoever it was for destroying your precious liquor, a piercing pain erupts from your upper arm.

Blood drips down your arm, staining the edges of your nice blouse. The bullet grazed your bare arms apparently and Levi meets your eyes from his position behind the bar counter. Silently, you tell him you’re fine and to handle his mess. He gives you a curt nod and eyes the bottle of alcohol in front of him and takes your shotgun.

He always would ask you why you had a shotgun if you never learned how to properly use it. And you’d tell him you’ve always been a knife kind of girl, as he should know.

You briefly wonder how Levi reacts so quickly. Are you in shock? Why are you thinking about Levi’s quick reflexes when your arm is bleeding out? You feel lightheaded but you force yourself to stay awake and stand firm. It’s your bar, and you’ll be damned if anyone gets in the way of that.

Words and the shouts around you sound muffled to your ears. You briefly hear Levi and the stranger with a fedora exchange a few remarks, before Levi lifts your shotgun over his head and shoots. Your ears are ringing fiercely and you barely hear Levi mutter to you that he’ll try to come back to you before tossing one of your bar stools out of the door and into the stranger.

“That’s my fuckin chair,” You mutter, “Ass.”

Levi doesn’t look back at you before swinging away on his cables. You hear the sharp twist of blades and the booming sound of bullets fill the air once more before black dots coat your vision and you pass out.

Cradling your left arm close to your chest, you survey the damage at your bar. The bar top itself is split in half with stray pieces of wood littering the floor. The stench of fear and adrenaline lingers in the air, even though it’s just you in the bar.

You decide to tell Levi that you’re putting the damages on the Survey Corps’ tab.

You had woken up several hours ago in the infirmary, with a nurse and a doctor looking at you warily-

The throbbing in your arm had subsided for the most part but you just felt so… woozy. 

“We cleaned out your wound while you were passed out. Unfortunately, it does require stitches. Eight to be exact.”

“You couldn’t do that when I was passed out, too?” You groan hoarsely. Stiffness begins to settle into your left arm and you wince.

And about thirty minutes after that, you had left the infirmary alone with only the new moon as your company. You vaguely remember Misaki being in the infirmary with you, but you had told her to go home. She had a younger sister to take care of, after all. That much you remember, in your exhausted delirium.

Sweat breaks out over your forehead when you attempt to pick up the pieces of broken wood from the floor. You manage to clean all of two feet of space before giving up from exertion. You sit in front of what remains of your bar counter and lean your head back with your eyes closed.

What a day. You hope Levi’s okay, and that whatever reason he had for dramatically slamming into your bar completely unannounced was worth it.

He’d roll his eyes at you if he heard you.

“You gonna sit there all day or what?” A voice, quite possibly one of your favorite voices, calls from the entrance of your bar.

“We’re closed. For construction,” You reply, still with your eyes closed.

You hear his footfalls before they stop right in front of your crossed legs and he crouches down to be eye-level with you. You feel his fingers brush over your bandages and you finally open your eyes to come face to face with Levi himself.

“Hey,” You murmur, the last bits of your strength evaporating into the air with your words.

“You should be resting,” Levi says, eyes intensely trained on you. 

“I suppose,” You reply, “You should be resting, too.”

You eye the cut over his eyebrow and splotches of dried blood caked over his cheeks. You wonder if it’s his blood.

“Couldn’t even make it upstairs?” Levi asks, ignoring your comment.

“Obviously not,” You roll your eyes.

“I should leave you here. For that mouth of yours.”

“Shut up. I quite literally took a bullet for you, so help me up, Captain Levi.”

His eyes soften marginally at that. He pulls away from you to quickly clear away the broken pieces of wood strewn across the floor. He hoists you up with his hands gently over your ribcage. You’ll never deny his touch on any part of you, and you both know it.

Levi carries you to your small but cozy apartment above the bar when he sees you fighting off fatigue. He wonders if you do that for his benefit. Pretend like you’re not the most tired you’ve been in a long time just so he doesn’t feel bad about it.

He knows of your tough exterior and he knows your smart mouth. But he knows that you’re soft, too.

Levi seats you on the edge of your bed and you watch him flit around your apartment with tired eyes. He’s been here enough times to know where things are- ointment, bandages, medicine, water.

“Stitches?” 

“Eight of them,” You nod.

Levi wordlessly peels your bandages off of your skin. You expect a sharp sting, but there is none. Only Levi’s rough fingers gently prodding at your skin.

“I could’ve done a better job,” Levi scoffs, “Look at this. It’s going to leave a scar.”

“Should I have waited for you while you brought your fancy medical supplies?” You snark, “Besides, it’s okay. Nobody will fuck with me now.”

Levi ducks his head to examine your stitches further, but you’re certain he’s rolling his eyes at you again. His fingers are gentle and warm along the outer areas of your fresh stitches. He washes his hands before dabbing ointment over the gash and wrapping it with new bandages. 

“You should watch what I’m doing, rather than stare at me. I won’t be around to change your bandages every night,” Levi says without looking at you.

“What an honor that would be,” You mutter, “Having you stay longer than a night. What a dream.”

He hears the bite in your teasing, but lets it go. Hands brush over his cheek, fingers flitting over his eyebrow curiously. You pad across the skin there, satisfied when you feel a mostly healed cut.

“And you? You were bleeding when you flew in here. Who was that guy anyway? Can’t believe he fuckin’ shot me. In my own fuckin’ bar. What an ass.”

“That was Kenny.”

“That was Kenny?”

“Yes, close your mouth. You look like a fish out of water.”

“How else do you want me to react? The guy who raised you is trying to kill you? What the hell, Levi?”

“He’s part of the shitty MP now. With the interior police.”

He can’t hide the disdain in his voice.

“Wasn’t he the one who killed over a hundred MP’s? Kenny the Ripper?”

“The one and only.”

You’re quiet for a few moments, fingers reaching behind him to lightly scratch his undercut. Levi dares to let out a quiet sigh, closing his eyes and allowing himself a few moments of silence. And you. You press your forehead to his, a light breath tickling his nose.

Dark circles under his closed eyes are prominent and his shoulders seem to slump in your embrace. He’s tired, even if he’ll never say it.

“Stay with me tonight?” You whisper, breaking the silence. Levi opens his slate grey eyes and peers into your own, reluctance already swirling in them.

You press a kiss to his jaw. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. Finally, his lips. As if you’re trying to coax him into staying with you.

Like he needed any persuasion to begin with.

“I have to leave early tomorrow,” Levi finally says. You nod and he buries his head in your neck, breaths soft and steady against your skin. His chapped lips are rough but welcome over your throat as he kisses you. Levi is gentle with you, mindful of your arm, as he melts into you wordlessly.

You wonder if this man knows the extent of how deeply he’s burrowed himself within you. You wonder if he knows that your blood and your heart belong to him.

The words, the confession. It never comes, no matter how often you think of spilling the words from your lips. It remains silent in your throat, caged away like a bird that will never sing.

You tug at Levi’s shirt, trying to lift it off of him with one hand. Mostly, you want to see if he has any fresh bruises that need attention. But you always get distracted by him and his curious hands.

But tonight, you can tell his mind is wandering. And you can tell he needs to sleep. You wish he’d sleep with you for half a day, or even sleep in with you once in a while. But you can only dream.

“Levi,” You say softly, “Will you help me get out of these clothes? I’m so tired. Kinda want to just… lay down.”

You rub your eyes and press your forehead to his shoulder. You sigh contentedly as his hand rubs your back and you lazily rub his chest.

“Sit up then,” He murmurs. He knows where your sleep clothes are, and pulls out one of two shirts he had given to you weeks ago. To remember him by.

Levi undresses you, deliberately sending you little shocks with his touch across your warmed skin. His lips are upturned slightly. He’s being playful. He tosses your clothes in your laundry bin as you crawl into bed, waiting for him.

“Wait,” You say sheepishly, “Can I have some water? I mean, I’d do it myself. But I’m just so cozy right now.”

Levi kisses his teeth in pretend annoyance but brings two glasses of water to bed with him. One for you and one for him. You drink generously, watching him change into sleep clothes before he blows out the candle on your nightstand. Levi climbs into your bed and immediately pulls you to him, fingers under your shirt instantly. His arm is around your waist, wrapped around you, quiet and steady. He’s careful not to touch your injured arm. 

There are a million things you want to say to him. You want to speak to him until the sun comes up, not wanting to waste a second more with him. You want to hear about every second of his day and you want to tell him about every second of yours. His time with you is rare and limited and you’re always left yearning for more when he inevitably leaves you for the world.

His world. The one without you in it.

You swallow those slippery thoughts down, and instead snake your fingers through his hair and enjoy the way he hums into your neck. Levi rubs the bandaged area around your arm gingerly. His touch is gentle and featherlight, yet still somehow carrying all the words he doesn’t say in it.

“I need to get you another chair, I think.”

“You need to get me another bar, I think. I’m putting it on the Survey Corps’ tab. It’s a Levi tax. A levy if you will.”

“Hilarious,” Levi mutters, but you hear the airy chuckle against your skin. You laugh with him, before turning towards him and cupping his cheek. He meets your dark eyes, peering at you as if he can see your heart beating through your gaze.

“Sleep, Levi. Wake me before you go,” You say softly, pressing a fierce kiss to his lips.

Levi allows himself to get lost in you, in your familiar jasmine scent. He allows himself the luxury of a lover stealing his breath away at least once more.

Sleep comes easily for him that night. As it usually does, when he’s with you.

tags: @simpingmaize @captainchrisstan @alrightberries @kentobean​ @melancholicmonologue​

[voiceless-terror]

Perhaps the "stop moving!" Prompt for Jon, where he's been kidnapped by yet another avatar group and they're trying to subdue him but he's fighting too much so they break something like his leg or wrist to make him stop 👀

Hello! I’ve been thinking about this prompt for a while, and I decided to set this during the Circus kidnapping (hope you don’t mind!) and tackled it with another prompt, this one by @give-me-a-minute-to-think who asked for “ a post-circus-kidnapped fic. like, how martin and timdiscover jon was kidnaped and their reaction (espically tims.) we see in canon martin addressing that fact, but not literally anyone else. i just want some complicated relatinship and tim to be nice to jon even a little.” Hope you two enjoy!

Jon’s pretty sure bones weren’t meant to bend that way.

It was his fault, really. He shouldn’t have put up a struggle. He should’ve realized the futility of his situation and yielded to the rough, unfamiliar hands forcing him into the van. But Jon’s nothing if not stubborn, so a few flailing arms and weak kicks were to be expected. And the retaliation, of course, should’ve also been expected.

“Stop movin’,” came the gruff voice of the delivery man, with a face so nondescript Jon could forget it if he looked away for only a second. He gives one last weak slap to the hands on his body. Wrong move.

A sickening crack could be heard along with a sharp cry- Jon’s cry, because the pain currently emanating from his one good wrist is white-hot and agonizing. His eyes are blurring and the inside of the van is stifling in its darkness, but even he could see that hands and wrists weren’t supposed to look like this. He bites back the nausea and sags back into the rough hands, rendered frozen by the pain. There’s a chuckle, low and sinister, and one of the men begins to whistle the tune from the calliope.

And then his arms are yanked behind his back and the pain reaches a dizzying crescendo as his body decides it’s had enough, and sinks into oblivion.

_______

He spends his days being touched.

Cold hands and a face with a permanent smile. Sometimes there’s more of them, as if he’s a spectacle to be watched and studied. The Strangers like to learn about bodies, foreign as they are to them. Nikola enjoys narrating the process, poking and prodding at the bruises and burns and the strange, twisted hands. He doesn’t bite back his gasps and whimpers, he’s gagged, but Nikola likes to hear them. Likes to hear the wordless grumble of his voice, rendered mute and unintelligible. 

The weeks go by, he loses hope. He’s not there much anymore, he’s somewhere else, a place where the pain can’t reach him. He’s back in Georgie’s apartment, the Admiral purring in his lap. He’s back in Research with a smiling Tim and a woman he imagines to be Sasha. He even thinks back to Martin’s lunches a few months ago with a sort of fondness. People talked to him, people cared. People worried when he was gone. 

Every once in a while, his daydreams are interrupted by the sting of bones knitting together wrong or the itching flare of infected tissue. He starts to think of his eventual skinning as a sort of blessing in disguise; Lord knows he’s wanted to scratch himself out of it more than once. He just wishes they would hurry it up, not draw it out so much. Shouldn’t he be ready by now?

And then Michael comes. He feels a strange, manic strength return to him at the promise of a story, even if it ends in his own demise. I want to know. Tell me, tell me. The Eye’s gaze doesn’t reach him, but the power it’s planted within him grows. By the end, he feels strong enough to reach for the door handle himself, ignoring the pain that raising his arm causes. 

It’s locked. His one salvation is gone. But then Michael is too, and Helen gives him a different sort of hope. One that lands him directly in Elias’s office. 

His injuries are ignored in favor of a more pressing threat- Melanie. The only thing that keeps him standing and lucid is the remaining strength he siphoned from Michael’s statement. But it’s an empty, sickening vigor, one that’s sure to leave him feeling more drained than ever once it fades. Elias says nothing as he stumbles after Melanie with a limping pace, arriving some five minutes after her. She’s sitting at her desk, silently steaming when Jon makes his way in the office, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

“Jon!” Martin’s bright voice pipes up. “You’re back! We were wondering…” His voice trails off as he takes in Jon’s appearance, dirty and gaunt and yet shining with a strange sheen. A thousand showers won’t erase the feeling of those cold, slimy hands on him, Jon knows. Tim’s head pops up from his desk and even he looks a bit concerned; it’s the most positive feeling he’s shown Jon in ages. 

“He was kidnapped, apparently,” Melanie drawls, and Jon doesn’t take her ambivalence to heart. She feels trapped like the rest of them. And Jon’s safe now, so what does it matter? What does any of this matter?

“K-Kidnapped?” Martin sputters, making his way over to his side. Jon flinches back unconsciously, gripping tightly at the wall and Martin stops in his tracks, his face softening. “We didn’t- nobody told us-”

“It’s fine,” Jon croaks, though they all know it isn’t. “It was- it was the Circus. A-And I’ll tell you about it-” he nods in Tim’s direction, seeing his wide-eyed stare out of the corner of his eye.”-as soon as I have a rest, if that’s alright.”

Martin casts a critical eye over him, his gaze coming to rest at the stiff way in which he holds his arms. “Seriously? I think you should go to the hospital, Jon. You look-”

“I’m fine now,” Jon assures him- he’d wave away the concern if he could lift his arm at all. “Just- just a moment, please.”

He limps to his office and they let him, their eyes reminding him of those curious mannequins and the way they stared and dissected him as if he were a cadaver on display. You’re not there anymore, he tries to reason as he collapses into his office chair. There’s a statement on his desk and he wonders if it was Elias or one of his assistants who placed it there, just waiting for him to come back. He’s so hungry.

But opening the file is agony. His burned hand cries out at any touch, and his crooked one doesn’t cooperate. Still, he forces the movement and the tape recorder clicks on for him, a move that usually chills him but now feels like a small mercy.

The words spill from his lips, natural and all-consuming. It doesn’t energize him as much as Michael’s direct account, but it certainly goes down easier, untainted by the jagged edges of the Spiral. He only realizes at the end that the statement was written in French, a language he doesn’t speak. Another development. Elias would be proud. Probably is, sitting up there in his office. And in perfect and non-coincidental timing, his email pings with a message from the man himself, informing him of his new flat, the keys to which are in his bottom drawer.

A new flat. How considerate. He tries not to think of the lonely, unprotected darkness that awaits him there. No Georgie. No Admiral. That’s probably for the best, he thinks. You wouldn’t want to endanger them.

Martin knocks, startling him out of his maudlin thoughts. He’s got tea and biscuits and Jon is struck by not only how much he missed the normalcy of the act, but how horribly hungry he is. For real food. He almost feels giddy with the realization. 

“Thank you, Martin.” He’s rewarded with a tired smile and more questions. More apologies. He’s been reading statements. Jon worries about this, but Martin brushes it off. Jon keeps his arms resting on his lap, out of Martin’s sight. He gives non-answers to his inquiries and he can tell Martin’s frustrated- he only wants to help, but Jon won’t let him. They end the conversation at a strange but polite stalemate, a promise that there will be time for them to talk. He’s surprised Martin lets him go like this, but perhaps he’s realized what Jon already did all those weeks ago.

He’s beyond saving.

And then he’s gone again, back to that big room with those terrible waxworks and that strange, lilting tune and the faces that were wrong, the voices that were stolen. Everything echoed, even the tiniest of whimpers. And the laughter. He wants to curl up and make himself small, hide under the desk but his limbs are stiff and immovable, glued to his seat. His breaths start to come in small, tremulous gasps when another voice speaks up from the doorway.

“The Circus?”

Tim. Jon meets his eyes, attempting to get his emotions under control. You’re not there anymore. You’re back, you’re safe.

“A month you were gone,” Tim’s stomping over to his desk and Jon pushes his chair back, trying to create space but all Tim does is collapse into the chair across from him, heaving a sigh. He hasn’t sat there in ages. “Fuckin’ Elias. Where did they have you?”

Jon slumps in his seat, the tension in his frame somewhat easing. “It was a Wax Museum. I-I think that’s where they’ll be attempting the Unknowing.”

“That’s a lead, then.”

“Yeah,” Jon let out a weak chuckle. “At least something good came out of this.”

Tim’s eyes go dark. “Don’t joke about that.”

Jon nods, slightly taken aback by the fervor of the words. “S-Sorry.”

“What did you see? What happened?” He’s leaning forward now, his interest getting the best of him. Jon opens his mouth; he plans to answer- he could describe the waxworks, the van that took him away, the layout of his prison- but that’s not what comes out.

“They wouldn’t- they wouldn’t stop touching me,” he says, his voice fading to a whisper with each word. “Everyday. She came in and she smiled and she kept talking about my skin and touching me and I-I-” And once again he’s back there, cold hands on his face and mocking voices in his ear and it’s wrong, so wrong-

A hand rests on his shoulder and he rears back, an automatic response of revulsion as his heart stutters in his chest. But it’s not a smiling mannequin, it’s Tim. Tim, who’s kneeling by his chair so he doesn’t loom, whose hands are warm and real, flesh and blood. He’s staring down at Jon’s lap, where his arms lay crooked and burned and broken. Useless.

“They needed me to stop moving,” he whispers, as if it’s a valid explanation. Tim’s jaw is clenched. It’s a barely concealed rage and Jon feels guilty that it scares him so much. And yet, in spite of that anger, or perhaps because of it, he takes the hand from his shoulder, gentle and slow so Jon can see the path of his movements. He puts two fingers to the crooked arm, an impossibly soft movement as he leans in to inspect the damage. 

And there’s no ulterior motive behind it. It’s just a touch, careful and concerned, probing lightly at his arm like he’s something fragile that Tim doesn’t want to break. He feels a tightness in his chest that for once doesn’t have fear as its source.

“I would’ve looked for you. If I’d have known.”

Tim says the words more to his lap than to him. And yes, he suspected that if Tim knew the Circus had him, he would’ve looked. But it wouldn’t have been for him. His presence would only be incidental. Tim’s staring at his arm as if the power of his gaze could knit it back together right and whole. His hand remains in place, and Jon wonders if it’s for Tim more than him. It’s as if he has to be reminded that Jon’s real, that he’s here.

“I need to tell you something.” The words are loaded with import. “But not now. Are you still staying with your friend?” Jon blinks at the change in subject.

“N-No. I have a new flat, but-”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Tim’s suddenly all business, rising to his feet and looking down at Jon with a face that allowed for no argument. “Not with this Circus business. You can stay at mine, after you go to A&E. You’re not okay.”

Jon stares down at his lap, all fight leaving him. “I know.”

He lets Tim take control, lets him do that aggressive sort of care-taking he was known for in the earlier days of their friendship. It’s not the same; there’s no gentle words, no teasing but stern instruction. Just a silent tending that feels familiar all the same. Tim’s the one who speaks to the doctors, who listens to their instructions and later explains to Jon what’s going to have to be done in the coming days, as if he were a child. He knows it’s going to be bad, painful. But Tim keeps his voice level and Jon is somehow reassured. When they get to his flat and Jon’s warm and medicated and settled on the couch, he asks the question and Tim answers, his voice fluid and his words made eloquent in their grief. And Jon understands.

Tim doesn’t let him sleep on the couch. He’s curled up in the bed under a mountain of blankets and he pretends not to notice Tim standing in the doorway like some sort of sentinel. 

“I would’ve looked.” He repeats the words as if trying to convince himself of their veracity. “If I’d have known.”

Jon closes his eyes and tries to believe him.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135263

[error-404-fuck-not-found]

welp. tales games you’ve done it again

you gave me a story i liked, characters i adored, mysteries to solve, gameplay that was charming and engaging... and then you completely fuckin flubbed the landing.

if you want a review of the Tales of Arise ending that doesn’t bitch about romance being somehow bad and evil, it’ll be below the cut. Obvi beware of endgame spoilers. Note that I haven’t gotten to whatever postgame quests there may or may not be, so I’ll try to keep my complaints to whatever story elements are already set in stone.

It’s probably the single most predictable Tales ending of all of them. Not a single unexpected thing happens, but even so, the way in which all those anticipated events happen is underwhelming and clunky.

let’s take the “vox populi, vox dei” moment where Alphen calls upon the will of Dahna to function as an intermediary to seal the great spirit. essentially... the citizens who are supposedly so intrinsic to this process are barely aware of what’s going on, if that. nobody’s will is united. nobody’s thoughts are bent their way. they all see a lil glob of light leave their body and go, “huh. that was weird. back to cleaning out my earwax, i guess” and that’s that. it has the vibe of alphen swiping his debit card at a walmart checkout and having to ask the listless cashier for his cashback. it feels transactional at best - no heart or soul in it, for all that it’s intended to be an emotional scene tying in all the NPCs we’ve met through our journeys.

for that matter, that scene would have been rendered completely unnecessary had Alphen not tapped into his inner theater kid and monologued in front of the villain before grabbing the Renas Alma. there’s literally no reason he would have made that choice. it’s obvious that was only included to shoehorn in the desired Vox Populi scene. it just doesn’t fit. clunky, like i said.

what would have worked would be if, after his defeat, Vholran scrabbles on his hands and knees madly to snatch the Renas Alma before Alphen can get close. he clutches at it, eyes wide with madness and frustration because he knows if Alphen tries to take it from him now, he’s too weak to stop it happening. and there’s Alphen’s voice, soothing, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. trying to offer understanding and compassion. Vholran’s too far gone to see it for what it is. he is, at the core of his character, a child having a tantrum. this is no different. he screams his rage and in a last burst of strength, he beats the Renas Alma on the ground over and over until it shatters, laughing and crying and screaming in equal measure. a man who thought himself god, reduced to the level of a toddler throwing a pissfit. given not the slightest shred of dignity in his final moments, because he was offered a way out, and refused to take it. the narrative had no business treating him like an adult with valid choices when he had only ever acted like a child. for that matter, they had him vanish in a flash of light. it’s completely unclear what the fuck happened or why.

hell, they don’t even explain where that field of flowers is, when Alphen and Shionne are released. is it Rena, reborn? wtf do you mean it can be returned to its former state? are we now saying that Hollowing is reversible? is Migal revivable? how about all the others? can anyone on god’s green fuckin earth explain to me how gravity and oxygen worked for everybody on Rena? THEY WERE IN SPACE, CHIEF. most of Rena’s volume was hollowed the fuck out. was the mass just obliterated? if so, where’d the gravitational field come from? is hollowing liquid really dense and that’s why? but judging by the amount of fluid in the puddle that used to be Migal, that’s not the case. it’s fairly dense, sure, but not enough to account for an entire planet’s worth of matter.

i really don’t think astral energy, once drained of a thing badly enough to annihilate it, can be returned like it’s within the thirty day policy. i don’t think it issues receipts. this seems like a load of horseshit, particularly after Mister AlienMan-35 told them the planet of Rena would implode the instant the great spirit was removed.

but if they were somehow teleported to Dahna instead, HOW?????? WHERE’D THEY END UP??????? oh, and another fucking thing: how in the shit did Vholran end up getting to Rena in a ship identical to Alphen’s (which was a 300 year old relic, btw - they don’t make those anymore)? Where’d he get the ship? Last we knew, he was burning to death on Lenegis. But now we’re expected to believe he went out and found the only other 300+ year old ship in the joint and took it for a joyride. and somehow lit this thing on fire too. oh, and don’t forget that he drove that piece of shit directly into the final boss stage which was quite literally in an alternate dimension; Alphen et co had to jump into a portal to get there, and even that was after walking the full length of the final dungeon because they were told the shielding precluded just flying directly into its face. yknow. the way Vholran flew directly into its face. SOMEBODY WAS FULL OF SHIT, HUH

so much about the ending was dumb or fell flat or couldn’t be explained or was outright a plot hole based on earlier dialogue. literally the only part that worked was the romance, so if anybody is complaining about that, you know they didn’t actually use a single critical thinking skill.

btw it’s not a hetcetera if alphen’s bi which he obviously is going by how hard he’s flirted with dohalim

[sugar-petals]

Fuckin’ Wembley (m)

➝ you take care of a pliant, blindfolded yoongi before bts’ concert in london. 

⌈pairing › yoongi x reader ⌈words › 1,555 — one shot ⌈a/n › for yoongi’s birthday ♡

⚠️ warnings › smut/fluff, handjobs, guided masturbation, finger sucking, mommy kink, clothed female naked male, sensory deprivation, sub!yoongi, dom!reader, aftercare

Yoongi feels still under your touch. He savors it. 

Trembling. 

Peeling off his black shirt proves to be a bit difficult because you don’t want his earrings to entangle with it. Tugging and stretching the hemline a little, you manage to leave his hair fairly untouched. It’s kind of spritzed and sprayed and textured already. A hurried member of staff came to the table and messed with it before breakfast. He’s performing later. 

The stylists sent you jaded, almost rabid glances when he arrived all disheveled and marked head to toe last time you had been fucking two hours before a concert in Macau. Looking at his collar bones now, not a trace is left. Smooth, supple skin. Staff’s lucky today. Maybe.

You shift closer.

“What are we in the mood for? Sleepyhead.” 

“Hey... I slept less than on the flight.”

That’s true. Two hours, in fact. 

He’s well-rested either way. No bags under his eyes.

You nibble at Yoongi’s neck, shirt plopping down on the carpet. Delightful. Perky little nipples. Goosebumps. 

You like what you see. 

“Am taking care of you today if you wanna.”

He’s leaning against the headboard of the bed, jaw loose and eyes closed, in his boxers and crumpled Kumamon socks. It’s the last bit of relaxation he can get. 

A little nod follows. He caresses at your hip. 

“How much time?” you ask.

“Got rehearsal at 1:30.”

Something to keep in mind.

“Certainly watching that one.”

“You said you’d choke me out after the gig.”

His tone is frivolous. You’ve been texting him about it since Los Angeles.

“Hm, I did. Probably here again.”

“Love that.”

You pull off his neck with a twinkle in your eye, perhaps intended, perhaps not. The blue towel folded at the end of the bed is already waiting to be used.

“So this is just warm-up.”

Before you ruin him completely. Your sweet cherished little one. But that he already knows.

Mounting his lap with your jeans still on, it’s easy to feel Yoongi not having had a clear mind during breakfast while you teased him— under the table. Rock harder he couldn’t be. You squeeze his dick on purpose by means of letting your weight sink down on him slightly.

“Ouch…”

“My favorite thing for you to say.”

More squeezing. Yoongi grits his buck teeth. He’s kinda adorable this way. 

You decide to pick up your phone from the nightstand.

“Need a pic, Min Yoongi. Hold pose.”

“Mh.”

Click.

Perfect capture. The phone goes back. You muster him, now that he’s all cornered. Pinch his nipples. Tickle his belly.

“You like how I tease.”

It soothes his trembles. And yet, you can still see how nervous Yoongi looks at the watch on the wall. There are still over a dozen hours left before the fans even enter the stadium. You pull off your charmeuse scarf and pray that the ever-irate hair stylist forgives you. But anything to distract your boyfriend does the job.

“Blindfold?”

“Yes.”

Yoongi reclines even further against the wall. Finally, smoother. At least a bit more, his breath normalizing. 

A small surprise twitch jolts through his body once you pick up a lubricant bottle from underneath the bed and squirt a frugal amount into his half-open palm. He can tell by the scent what it is, however. 

After reaching down to store the bottle where it came from, you guide his hand down into his boxers gently, holding him by the wrist. More nipple pinches with your free fingers. 

Soon enough, he firmly jerks at his erection without missing a stroke, like a beat. Yoongi moves so much more fluidly with the blindfold on. Pulling down the elastic of the trunks reveals to you the red little peak of his cock, with a small pearl on top. Cute as hell. 

It’s fun to pick up the bead of pre-cum with your thumb and sliding it between his lips. Either respond almost instantly with sucking, lush and wet. Yoongi loves to lick your thumb. So you leave it hooked in his mouth. 

Ogling his neck makes you look forward to the late night romp that’s all planned out in your mind already after BTS went Wembley on the second day. Perfect for some more marks to upset just about nobody tomorrow because Yoongi is allowed to rest at last. With you. In this very hotel.

“Grab a little harder.”

Your order translates directly to his right, pumping and stroking away with a more severe grip. Only the pace is missing. So you guide his wrist up and down to increase friction, making Yoongi’s tongue all incoherent on your thumb. More jerking, more precum. His little muffles are desperate. You don’t let go of his wrist just yet. You keep him on track. His mouth is hot and sloppy like the spread-out lube on his shaft. 

The mattress of the hotel bed is not so much squeaking now, but very well bounces underneath the two of you. It’s hard not to shove your jeans off right away and ravage him. Waiting is rough. However, his pumping hand is rougher under your lead. So much, his docile moans become frenzied, his neck veins so much more prominent at either side.

“Be my sweet boy, cum for mommy,” you coo. “I’m only letting you on that stage when you’re all empty.”

Pinkish and under heavy grates, Yoongi’s cock won’t take too long to respond to yet another teasing motion of yours pinching at his little ears. You love how sensitive they are. Rubbing a little at the lobes and the other parts not covered by the blindfold: Good fun. Without the thumb in his mouth, his drool is very much left to its own devices. Yoongi still tries to keep up with his palm chafing furiously, down until the base, and up again so relentless that it makes it hard for him to speak.

“Hurts, hurts—”

“My boy. Add the other hand, quick.”

He obeys. You let go of his ears and lean right in to lick his lips clean. Slipping into his mouth with your tongue isn’t as easy given how much the mattress vibrates and his body shakes, so you grab Yoongi by the jaw to hold him still. You pin him hard against the headboard. Merging your tongues completely, Yoongi arches with jittery hands around his dick.

The messy spill on his stomach comes dripping down as fast as it shot out in little strands. Almost clear fluid, just a little whitened. Quitting the drug that is his mouth leaves you high and dry more than ever, but wet spots of saliva on your jeans. Gladly— not lube. He’s not been that wild with his little yanks and jerks today. Maybe you will make him, soon. 

You untie the blindfold with care and swing the scarf back around your own neck. It’s nice, light, and a tad warm. Cozy like Yoongi. You will wear it during the rehearsals. And backstage. And during the concert. He’ll always see it.

Yoongi collapses at your chest with slicked up hands hanging down at either side of his torso. Seemingly, with each last bit of tension pulling like threads on his every limb completely dissipating. The strings are cut. 

“Did I do well... mommy?”

“You did.”

“The sheets—”

He gazes around.

“Nothing really stained. You have better aim without seeing. Only, um.”

You point to his spit on your jeans.

Yoongi smiles his little gummy smile in reply. Embarrassed. He does remember Macau.

“Gosh, sorry for shaking…”

“Energy comes back in a minute. Jus’ lay back.” 

You help Yoongi accommodate on the bed, unscrew the water bottle next to your phone. He takes huge sips. Within a few swipes, you remove the pooling semen from his belly with the blue towel, among the drool around his chin. Yoongi’s a sloppy baby. That’s what you love him for.

Double-checking the back of his head for hair out of place is rendered useless now that the sheets pretty much swallow him again as if for another nap, with you pulling off his boxers completely. You glide off the edge of the bed content, take another look at the risqué picture you had taken, and head toward the wardrobe in the same room to browse through the available items. You find two rather scruffy grey bathrobes, another towel. And some more casual street wear— a sweater of yours to lend, just as black as his discarded shirt. Tight ripped jeans, light white sneakers.

“Enjoy this here, little one? For your rehearsals.”

Yoongi hums in reply with one eye open, peeling his beloved socks off by using his toes. He already knows that he can’t lie down for too long. The wake of the concert, the clock, his own bleeping phone with the group chat getting active. All reminders. But he doesn’t seem as antsy as before. That’s a good sign.

From your suitcase, you grab a petite shampoo bottle and comb, some conditioner, both hibiscus-scented. Tamper with your own clothes, pick a matching color. Compare. Alright.

“We’ll be taking a nice Wembley shower. Come. I’ll take your earrings off.”

Yoongi, dainty knowing smile, wriggles himself out of the pillows. The stylists will have to put up with freshly blow-dried hair and a bit less of a ‘texture’.

© 2017-2019 submissive-bangtan. All rights reserved. Do not repost, translate, or modify.

Thank you for reading!

@seesaws-wife @re-sugance @mint-tea-only @mintyy-yoons @never-mind-singularity @yoongismykink @sugarcookiesandsins @suga-swaeg @honeysyubb @honey-boyyoongi @eshika0102 @submissivekpop @bendovabangtan @siedhr @softyoongiionly @galaxy-min-yoongi @cupsofsuga @anpansuga @syubcandy @pinkypie-sadness @softie-yoongi

[dngrdyke]

Home Renovation With the Homosexuals

TW: gore

Monday.

Dyke and Faggot rode for hours until they found what they were looking for. Dyke had seen it a few times before the two teamed up, but she didn't have the strength or the motivation to fix it up. Now that she had Faggot to help her, she figured it would be a good time to put down roots.

The building itself used to be a house, she thought. It looked like it anyway. Four walls, two storeys and an attic? Didn't matter. Out there, it's free real estate.

The outside used to be white but over time it ended up looking kinda dusty and run-down, just like the rest of the buildings left after the Analog Wars.

"This is it?" Faggot asked when they pulled up. "I was expecting something with a little more..."

"Little more what?"

"Just a little... more."

"Oh, alright Mr Picky. You think you could do better?"

"No, no! That's not what I'm saying!"

Dyke laughed and kicked down the bike stand. "I know it ain't. I'm just yankin' your chain, kid. Now c'mon and haul ass. I want this place ready for the afterparty. Bring the radio."

Faggot grabbed it and followed Dyke inside. Some other Desert folks had obviously taken refuge inside. Here and there were empty soda and beer cans, as well as empty food packets.

"You keep checking down here. I'm gonna make sure the upstairs is still okay," Dyke said. Even though she said it calmly, she took out one of her guns, just in case. You never can be too careful in the desert.

The stairs were sound, and two of the upstairs rooms even had mattresses. The attic was clear as well.

"Faggot, we struck gold!" she yelled down.

"Fuck yeah! Can I put the radio on now?"

Tuesday.

Dyke stole- well, borrowed- some tools from D's station and was currently nailing down some loose floorboards upstairs. Faggot was blasting the radio while cleaning the kitchen room. Turns out Blind hadn't killed the water supply, so they even had running water. And the bathroom had a shower! Just imagine. No more shitty face splashes for her. Sure, the water would be cold, but damn it if that mattered.

She heard the song end from downstairs and D's voice started with the announcements.

"Crank it up!"

The voice got louder. "-and we remind you folks again to be on the lookout. Scarlet Ripper and the Mongoose don't wear masks, 'cause if you see 'em, you're dead. Our next announcement is just a little reminder from the DB and F- and from the Killjoys themselves- that there's still a drag race goin' down at the Hub Thursday night. For all you rock’n’rollers with motorbabies, don’t sweat it tryna find a babysitter for the night. Bring ‘em along. Fun for all the family. So, far our challengers are,” he cleared his throat dramatically. “Ahem. Party Poison and the Kobra Kid, Dyke on a Bike and Jet Star, Roadkill and Rock Machine-”

“Hey, Dee! Who’re Roadkill and Rock Machine?” Faggot called up.

“No idea, kid!”

Wednesday.

Most of the shit in the house was done. As housewarming gifts, Kobra and Ghoul had given them all their leftover cans of spray paint. Poison wasn’t too happy, but he settled for a trade: he got to paint a mural in the “living room”, as Dyke was calling the front room with some stolen beanbags. He spent the whole day locked in there with Cherri, the windows thrown open, and nobody else was allowed in. Except Ghoul, but Ghoul went where he wanted anyway. Dee, Jet and Kobra took the stairs and the upstairs rooms, while Faggot took the attic. He insisted on it. Said he was gonna make it look like “the coolest motherfuckin’ loft you ever saw.” They all camped out that night so nobody would die from inhaling the paint fumes, even though they were all pretty spaced out from them anyway. They all went to bed pretty early (by their standards), but as Dee was drifting off she muttered to Poison beside her. “I’m gonna kick your ass tomorrow night.”

He didn’t respond.

Thursday morning.

The crew were up bright and early with the rising of the sun. They had a party to prep for.

Poison took over the bathroom for a solid three hours to redo his roots. “Being this awesome doesn’t come from shitty dye jobs,” he said, grinning at Dee leaning against the doorway. She flipped him off as she walked away, shaking her head.

“I’m gettin’ the booze at the Rendezvous!” she called out as she left the house, popping the collar on her jacket and snapping on her mask. Sunburn was a killer in more ways than one.

The Rendezvous was a spot pretty near the new Killjoy House. You got in contact with Cherri Cola, who got in contact with his contact, who got you anything you wanted from Bat City. Then you met him at the Rendezvous. Dee went all out for this party. The strongest, rawest vodka, straight from the slums of the Lobby.

In the heat-haze of midday, Dyke saw two figures kneeling on the ground beside a third body. As she got closer, she could see that the body was a Drac, and the two figures were men without masks. She drew her guns when she saw the glint of knives in the sun. They were taking the kidneys out of the corpse.

She cast a shadow over them as she stood with her guns pointing directly at each of their heads.

“Now I just know you motherfuckers ain’t doin’ shit to that Drac.”

The one on her right looked up. He wore a mesh shirt and stony grey skinny jeans. She glanced at his left hand. Brass knuckles, spikes. So he was one of those rebels. His partner, arms deep in blood and gore, continued to work. His jacket was laid neatly beside him, and his shirt was a deep red and tattered. From what Dyke could see, his pants were tight and tartan, though they were so dark it was hard to tell. 

“What’s it to you, Red?” the one looking at her asked.

She shook her hair out of her face and tightened her grip on the guns. “I happen to know a thing or two about the desert, boys. And one thing I know is that if you mess up someone’s body, the Phoenix Witch can’t take ‘em. Now, I know it’s said she can’t save the Dracs, but if it was me? Hell, I’d hope their souls never got free. Otherwise they’d be comin’ after me worse than a Scarecrow for Doctor D.”

The second man looked up at Dee. His eyes stared into her soul, willing her deepest fears into the open. But she would not give in.

“These people would have you killed, would shoot you where you stand, and yet you would give them over to the afterlife? You would give them their peace?”

Her hands never wavered, even as she shrugged. “They’re people too.”

The man smiled at her, but the smile held no emotion but morbid curiosity.

“They may have been people once, but after the masks? No longer are they anything but meat.”

She stretched her neck out. “Alright Mr Bigshot, I’m gonna give you and your buddy here five seconds to grab your jackets and get the hell outta my sight. One.”

The two men stood calmly, one with a kidney in each hand. The man with the brass knuckles picked up their jackets. Dyke’s guns followed them with every movement until they were safely speeding away on another motorbike. She shook herself off and put her guns away.

“Damn,” she muttered. “What a fuckin’ morning.”

Thursday afternoon.

“Honeys I’m home!” Dyke called, opening the front door with her butt. She had crates of vodka in her arms which rendered them almost completely useless. She put them under the stairs and dusted off her hands.

“She’ll either love you or hate you, man.” Faggot’s muffled voice came from the living room.

“I’m taking bets,” Ghoul said. “Who’s betting what?”

Dyke heard more voices talking over each other as she walked quietly back to the door of the room. That was another thing about the house: almost every room had a door. Front door, back door, kitchen door, bedroom door. Only door that wasn’t there was the bathroom door. Everyone had agreed to leave it like that. It was just funnier.

The floorboard creaked under her foot and she heard Poison shushing them all.

“Dee? That you?”

Those assholes hadn’t even heard her come in. Fuck.

“Yeah, I’m back. Can I come in?”

Poison opened the door and stepped out quickly. Dee only saw a flash of colour before he closed the door with a snap.

“The mural is done.”

“So… can I see it, then?”

“You have to promise you won’t get mad.”

She thought for a second. What the hell. “Okay. I promise. I won’t get mad at you about the mural.”

“Close your eyes.”

Dyke shut her eyes tight and Poison guided her into the room.

“Now, on the count of three, open ‘em.”

She held her breath.

“One.”

It was killing her. The suspense. What if it was really terrible?

“Two.”

Nah, Poison wouldn’t do that to her. Unless he thought it was funny.

“Three.”

She opened them.

In front of her in every colour under the sun was a larger-than-life depiction of her darling. Carla, with flowers in her hair being blown about by the non-existent wind. Carla, her love. Carla, the Destroyer.

She said nothing.

“Uh, Dee? You gonna say anything?” Kobra asked nervously.

Dyke turned to Poison, who was slowly inching closer towards freedom.

“Party Poison,” she said seriously.

“Oh, fuck.” He debated running, but ended up deciding against it. He probably deserved it.

“You are…”

Jet tensed, ready to tackle her to the ground if it looked like she was going to go for him.

“Amazing,” she finished. “You are amazing. This is… This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The sigh of relief that escaped everyone’s lips was heard all across the desert.

“Never scare me like that again, Dyke.”

“Not a chance, Pee-head.”

a lil different than usual... filler during MTBBW that you can read here. very much a collab with another friend who thought of scarlet + mongoose........ if u know who they are let us know by liking ;)

[artificialqueens]

Not Nineteen Forever (9) (Branjie/Scyvie) - Ortega

a/n: it’s BA-ACK! hope u guys enjoy this chapter, and as always pls send me love to my blog/to this blog because i love attention xo

please note: this fic contains young adults often behaving in irresponsible/unadvisable ways with regards to alcohol, drugs and sex. if you are someone who feels as if they could be heavily influenced by fic and incorporate what happens in the plot into ur own life, pls steer clear!

summary: Brooke, Yvie and Nina are three flatmates who forged a friendship in their first year of university and picked up some other waifs and strays along the way. Now in their final year, there are feelings that need to be unravelled and confessions to be made whilst navigating drunk nights, hungover mornings, takeaways, group chats, library meetups, cafe gossiping, and the small matter of getting a degree.

last chapter: supermarket chaos, and Brooke found out about the Branjie sweepstake. she didn’t take it well.

this chapter: Brooke and Vanessa talk things out, and there’s apologies to be said.

***

It had started to rain. Brooke was beginning to regret her choice of jacket- a leather one without a hood- but she had been going to wash her hair that evening anyway, and she supposed that was the least of her worries at the moment. As the rain began to batter down, Brooke realised that half the reason why her face was wet was because she was crying. It didn’t make any sense for that to be the case- Brooke was angry, fucking fuming to be specific, but she wasn’t necessarily sad. Perhaps embarrassed was the correct word, she thought, as she swiped at her face with her sleeve. The thought of her entire friendship group having a good laugh at her and Vanessa’s expense made her cheeks burn and the blood in her veins do the same.

Brooke didn’t really know where she was walking to, but she knew where she was walking from, and she was damned if she was going back to the flat anytime soon. Sniffing harshly, she removed her phone from her pocket and called Vanessa, the other girl picking up in about one and a half rings.

“Hey.”

“Hey, baby,” Vanessa’s voice was defeated. Brooke decided it was the worst thing she’d ever heard in her entire life.

“Sorry for phoning. I just had to talk to you after all that shit on the group chat, I mean…how could they fucking do that, Ness, our own fucking friends? I just-”

“I’m fuckin’ raging at them, Brooke, honestly. I went out for shopping then I got those messages through and I’ve not been able to concentrate since. I’ve just been pacin’ and pacin’ around Sainsbury’s like a fuckin’ bear in a zoo. Look, where are you just now?”

“Um,” Brooke began, scanning her surroundings. She’d been walking so fast that she’d barely been taking them in. “In the middle of the park. I’m about five minutes from Sainsbury’s, actually.”

“I’ll meet you halfway, okay? See you soon.“

With that, Vanessa abruptly hung up. Brooke took it more as a comment on her friends and not herself. As she began walking with some purpose at last, Brooke found herself wondering what she was actually going to say to Vanessa when they saw each other. Rant, probably. But there was something that instantly calmed Brooke down knowing she would be seeing Vanessa soon and get to hold her, having her reassure her and placate her.

It ended up being about three-quarters due to Vanessa’s shorter legs rendering her slower and Brooke’s long ones ensuring she took big strides. Brooke saw her coming towards her from a distance just at the park’s edge and as they both reached out for a hug, they crashed into each other with a force that accurately conveyed both their anger and just how much they seemed to have missed each other in the 24 hour period they’d been apart.

“Fuck them,” Vanessa muttered into Brooke’s jacket. She was wearing her massive parka, the one with the fluffy pink hood. To Brooke, it made her all the more cuddly. She gave her a squeeze around her middle and tilted her chin up to press a quick kiss to her lips, coming back again for a second, then a third.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Brooke decided, slipping her arm through Vanessa’s and instantly feeling about 80% calmer. “There’s that new bar that opened up round the corner. Could try there?”

They walked towards it wordlessly, a journey that only took about three minutes but in that time hundreds of unsavoury thoughts had begun to swirl around in Brooke’s head like floating bits of food waste down a plughole. She waited until they had found a booth through the back in relative quiet and until Vanessa had shrugged her damp jacket off before she let rip.

“I just can’t fucking believe it, Ness. Like, I know we kept stuff from everyone but a fucking sweepstake. Jesus Christ. The thought of everyone sitting and putting bets and watching our every move…like how long has it been going on for?! How long have we just been like performing monkeys to them?! I mean Christ, we only just found out we liked each other less than a month ago!” Brooke hissed, Vanessa sitting and nodding rapidly in affirmation as she spoke.

“I’m just hurt,” she sighed heavily, breaking Brooke’s heart in the process. “I mean I don’t know why I didn’t tell Silk and Kiki, but I just…didn’t. Everything was so new and weird between us. Hell, I guess it still is."

Brooke smiled back at Vanessa across the table, who was shooting a shy one her way. "I guess that was why I never told Yvie and Nina either. I didn’t want them making fun of us. Guess that turned out well."

Vanessa gave a quick laugh that lit up Brooke’s insides. She fumbled around in her jacket pocket for her purse. "What do you want to drink? I’ll get them in."

Too exhausted to argue over who was paying, Brooke conceded. "Gin and lemonade.”

Vanessa gave a wordless nod as she strutted up to the bar. Self-conscious of being left on her own, Brooke took out her phone and flipped it over in her hands. There weren’t any new messages to the chat- it was likely that the girls were using whatever one they had for the sweepstake to talk about what had happened in private- but Brooke had a string of missed calls from Yvie and Nina, and a few from Scarlet. There was a sole voicemail from Nina, which Brooke listened to.

“Brooke, hey, it’s me. Call me when you get this, or Yvie, or any of us really. We’re all really sorry and we’re worried about you.”

At that moment, Brooke could hear Yvie’s voice in the background, panicked and harsh, yelling at Nina about how nobody left voicemails in this day and fucking age and how Brooke was unlikely to even listen to it.

“Uh, yeah, so to sum up- we’re sorry, we love you, call us. Bye.”

Brooke couldn’t help but quirk a smile at that. She loved Nina so much, the girl was so kind-hearted and loving and caring. Which was why it made her betrayal all the more hurtful and so damn fucking confusing. Why would Nina do something like that to Brooke? Unless of course, Nina didn’t see it that way at all. Unless she really genuinely thought Brooke and Vanessa would have found it funny.

Brooke was deep in thought as Vanessa returned with one gin and lemonade, one pink gin and lemonade, and a packet of salt and vinegar kettle chips.

“Fifteen forty-five for all of that. You better buy me some diamonds or some shit and then we’re even,” she quipped, raising her eyebrows as she sat down opposite Brooke. She smiled indulgently at her.

“Can I ask you something?” Brooke began hesitantly, her mind still working overtime. “If I had wanted to set up a sweepstake about like…Scarlet and Yvie. Or Nina and Monet. Would you have gone along with it?”

Vanessa shrugged and sipped her drink. “Yeah, because that shit’s funny. And cute, because it’s them. It’s different with us. We ain’t…you know. We ain’t like them.”

Brooke frowned a little and tried not to dwell on Vanessa’s justification, focusing more on her current train of thought. “But maybe that’s what the others thought when they made that sweepstake for us. Maybe they genuinely thought it was funny."

Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Nina thinks that Michael MacIntyre is a funny comedian, it don’t make her correct.”

Brooke pulled a face and sipped her own drink. She’d been so angry and quick to judge, but now that she was with Vanessa and she’d had time to calm down, maybe the others were right. Maybe they’d both gone about this whole thing in the wrong way. Brooke hadn’t realised she’d been staring into space until she heard Vanessa drum on the table with her nails.

“So, uh,” she bit her lip and smiled up at Brooke. “You like me, huh?”

Brooke’s blood suddenly turned to ice. “What?”

Vanessa had gone a little bit red. It was out of character for her, and it made Brooke blush as well. “Earlier. You basically said you liked me.”

Brooke felt her speech catch in her throat. “Well I meant…we had that conversation in Liezen-”

“About how we liked kissing each other, yeah. And then we had a conversation about how we liked fuckin’ each other. But we’ve never had a conversation about actually liking each other. You were the one that said that,” Vanessa finished Brooke’s sentence mischievously. Brooke suddenly found herself wishing she was directly above a trapdoor that would plummet her into the Earth’s core and burn her to a crisp. She simply stared at Vanessa with her mouth open slightly, wondering what the correct thing to say was. Vanessa only laughed in response, growing more red as she spoke again. “So you like me?"

Brooke forced herself to look at the table top. If she looked at Vanessa she’d die. This was the moment she’d been waiting basically her entire university career for, the speech she’d been rehearsing for about three years, so why couldn’t she physically speak? She took a sip of her drink and grew a set of balls and locked eyes with Vanessa. "Yeah, I do.”

Vanessa’s face broke out into an uncontrollable smile as she tipped her head back to the ceiling, and Brooke found her heart going into cardiac arrest. “Do you, uh. Do you…feel…the same about me?"

Vanessa burst out laughing, Brooke wondering how what felt like her life hanging in the balance could be so funny to her. "Take a fuckin’ guess.”

Brooke spluttered an awkward, nervous laugh. It seemed like a yes? She felt like Vanessa wouldn’t have taken things as far as they’d gone if it wasn’t. “Yes?”

Vanessa tucked her hair behind her ears, tried to suppress her smile, and failed. In a quiet voice, she confirmed. “Fuck, Brooke…I’m crazy about you”

Brooke felt her heart explode and her eyes transform into love hearts and all of her insides get churned around like a cement mixer. She laughed and reached for Vanessa’s hand across the table. “Jesus. Well. Good. Okay. I really want to kiss you.”

Vanessa rapidly bounced into the seat beside Brooke like an excitable bunny and met her lips with her own. They kissed hard and passionately, and Vanessa had her hands tangled in Brooke’s damp hair and fuck, Brooke would need to pull away before things escalated and they were barred from the pub for doing something indecent. So Brooke pulled back, Vanessa tilting her head up needily, pouting and letting out a small whine.

“Whining,” Brooke simply said, a warning tone to her voice which made Vanessa’s pout get bigger and her eyes flash a little with lust. It shot Brooke back to when Vanessa was writhing underneath her with her face buried in the pillow and her hips squirming and bucking, as Brooke made her beg for what she wanted and the other girl kept up a litany of moans and whines and sighs. Fuck, no wonder Yvie and Nina had called bullshit when Brooke had denied everything. “Bratty behaviour.”

“Yeah well, I like getting my way,” Vanessa shrugged, smiling deliciously and flicking her eyes down to Brooke’s lips. Lowering her voice, she whispered. “And I’m touching myself under the table.”

Brooke almost choked. Rapidly, she craned her neck to find Vanessa’s hands sat against the leather covers of the seat, absolutely nowhere near her crotch. As Brooke sighed in relief and only about 60% disappointment, Vanessa howled a laugh. “Oh my God! Bitch! You are so fucking easy to wind up! It’s too fucking easy!”

“You’re too fucking easy, you big slut,” Brooke deadpanned, pushing Vanessa’s shoulder and letting out a laugh in spite of herself. Sighing, she picked at the crisps. “Speaking of big sluts. Our friends.”

“Yes.”

Brooke exhaled. “You know, now that I actually know you like me, the sweepstake does seem kind of funny.”

Vanessa smiled guiltily. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

Brooke frowned. “I mean they’re still absolute dicks for doing it in the first place, but our friends are dicks. What’s new.”

“True. I’m still mad at them though.”

“Ness. We didn’t tell them a single thing about what’s happening between us. The least they’re going to do is speculate. We did kind of make our beds a little bit here,” Brooke sighed, taking another handful of crisps. Vanessa exhaled and rolled her eyes.

“Can we at least make them feel real shit about it?”

“Yes. Although I don’t know if you’ll succeed with Silky.”

“That bitch could bomb half the Southern hemisphere and she’d still maintain it was the funniest joke she’d ever played,” Vanessa raised her eyebrows, Brooke snorting a laugh beside her. As they both grew quiet, Brooke found herself laying a protective arm over Vanessa’s shoulders.

“Hey. You okay?”

Vanessa looked up at her, her dark eyes and blown pupils making them seem so huge and deep, and Brooke knew they weren’t girlfriends yet but she felt so lucky to even be with her, beside her, knowing that she liked her and Vanessa liked her back. That was enough for now.

“I’m good. I just don’t want to go back to the flat. It’s gonna be awkward,” Vanessa pouted, Brooke pulling a face as she agreed.

“It will. But you’ll be fine. You’ll all talk it out and we’ll all go back to normal. That’s all I want to do at the moment.“

"You want to…oh,” Vanessa’s face looked downcast, and Brooke instantly registered that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.

“No, no, no, not with us! I’m happy for us to still be doing…all this,” Brooke gave Vanessa’s shoulder a squeeze and the other girl relaxed. “This is good. I like it. It’s like an upgraded version of friendship.”

“Right,” Vanessa smiled cheekily, Brooke now able to fully relax.

They finished up their drinks and the rest of the crisps and made their way outside, where it had stopped raining and was now just replaced with cold dampness, puddles on the pavement shining despite the clouds. Brooke’s arm had moved to rest around Vanessa’s waist at her hip, and she didn’t really want to let go. Knowing they were about to leave each other, Vanessa turned and kissed Brooke gently, something almost fragile to it as if she was afraid she’d fracture or break.

Unable to believe it, Brooke asked Vanessa to confirm. “So, uh. You actually like me?”

Vanessa burst out laughing, Brooke feeling as if she was blushing all the way up to her scalp. “Of course I do, you fuckin’ idiot.”

Brooke couldn’t help the dumb smile that spread across her face. The novelty of knowing that would never wear off.

They squeezed each other a goodbye, and Brooke started back to her flat. She suddenly felt the trepidation overtake her, wondering what would happen when she arrived back. Would Yvie be furious at her? She seemed pretty apologetic when Brooke had been shouting at her. Fuck, why did she shout at her? Yvie was her best friend, for fuck’s sake, and things had already been so fragile between them. She’d wanted to make amends, Brooke had known that, and then she’d overreacted and ruined it all. Brooke felt the tears sting at her eyes as she quickened her pace. What if Nina hated her now too? Kind, sweet Nina who had never done anything malicious to anyone in her life. Scarlet had been at the flat too. She probably thought Brooke was a complete and utter dick for the way she’d acted. Jesus Christ, everyone probably hated her. What was the point of going home? Everyone was talking about her on that separate group chat, probably wondering how they could avoid her for the rest of the year. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

By the time Brooke got home and climbed the numerous stairs up to her flat she was hyperventilating so badly that her chest felt tight and constricted, as if a snake had wrapped itself around her ribcage. She immediately stumbled through to the kitchen, filled up the nearest glass (she didn’t care if it was clean or dirty), reached up to her shelf on the cupboard and ripped into the little packet of beta blockers she kept there. She took one every morning but sometimes life called for two per day, even though the packet urged her not to and her anxiety often spiked after the second one anyway as she panicked and worried about heart failure.

Brooke took deep breaths and steadied herself against the kitchen counter. The small living room was empty and Brooke knew exactly where Yvie and Nina would be. She wondered if Scarlet was still here, embarrassment overtaking her and threatening to ruin the tiny, fragile, tissue-paper level of calm she’d managed to return herself to. She took two more deep breaths, pressing her feet deeply into the soles of her shoes and trying to ground herself as much as she could. She had to face the girls at some stage. They were her flatmates, for fuck’s sake.

So Brooke tentatively slipped off her trainers, still absolutely soaked from the rain and the various puddles she’d stepped in on the way home. She knocked on Yvie’s door and waited for the shouts of “come in”- two, not three, she noted. Opening the door, she saw Yvie and Nina tucked up in Yvie’s bed together, both on their phones. They put them down as Brooke came in and smiled- Nina’s was warm and Yvie’s more nervous.

“Hey,” Yvie was the first to speak, Nina opening her arms and Brooke feeling herself flopping down on top of the duvet in the small space between her two flatmates.

“ ’M sorry,” she muttered, the proud side of her hoping that the duvet would conceal most of her apology. Brooke heard Nina tut and felt a body lean over to hug her.

“No, baby, we’re sorry. We’ve been shit friends and shouldn’t have put that pressure on you and Vanessa to do anything. We thought it was just a joke, but it’s your damn potential relationship. We should have thought,” Nina sighed, Brooke immediately consumed with guilt at having ever been angry with her friends.

“I mean, you did still behave like an asshole,” Brooke heard Yvie’s voice, causing her to let out a laugh. Funny cuz it’s true. “But so did we. And we’re sorry.”

Brooke sat up on her elbows and finally faced her friends, her best fucking friends in the world. She realised she was crying again and got annoyed at herself. “Stupid fucking tears.”

“Tears are valid! Crying is valid! Don’t you dare bottle shit up!” Nina chastised her, coming across as more of a mum than ever. Brooke let out a half-sob, half-laugh.

“I should’ve let you guys in, I should’ve talked to you about it. About everything. Maybe you would’ve helped me make sense of the fucking mincemeat that Vanessa’s turned my brain into. I’m so sorry,” Brooke sighed, Yvie opening her arms for a cuddle which she accepted gratefully.

“We’re sorry. You’re sorry. We’re all sorry. Let’s be friends again, bitch, I hate falling out with you,” Yvie pleaded, Brooke squeezing her tight and feeling a soft weight against her as Nina joined in the hug.

“I love you guys so much,” Brooke whispered, Nina and Yvie returning the sentiment and Brooke finally feeling as if something in her life was settled. They stayed cuddled up as Brooke frowned.

“Where’s Scarlet?”

“Went home. She thought we’d need some flat time when you got back.”

“Fuck, Yvie-”

“If you apologise again I’m going to smack you. We’re fine. I also have a fuckton of bolognaise that can’t all fit into the freezer so if you’re really sorry you’ll eat it all,” Yvie deadpanned, then noticed the look of acceptance on Brooke’s face. “Brooke it’s a fucking joke, right, it’s a fucking joke, please don’t gorge yourself on bolognaise trying to prove something.”

Brooke felt a small bubble of laughter escape her mouth, and Nina began chuckling beside her until all three of the friends were laughing in a heap on Yvie’s bed.

“I feel like I’ve missed so much. How is Scarlet? How are you two going?” Brooke asked, staring up at Yvie’s ceiling.

“We’re good. She’s…amazing. She’s funny and dorky and cute and a complete dumbass whilst simultaneously being the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. She’s a fucking kinky bitch though, complete definition of a dark horse,” Yvie let out a small laugh, Nina gasping theatrically.

“Oh my Christ! A match made in heaven if ever there was one.”

“Excuse me, Miss, don’t think you get off easy,” Brooke sat up on her elbow and turned to her. “You and Monet? What’s that all about, you actually got your shit together and told her that you like her?”

“Not exactly,” Nina began to explain, her face already strawberry-red as she spoke about her crush (or maybe girlfriend. Fuck, Brooke had missed a lot). “She took the lead on everything. Told me she’d liked me since we started taking the same modules together this year. Told me I was the most beautiful girl she’d ever met. Basically filling my head with lies.”

“Shut up, you insecure son of a bitch, and accept the love,” Yvie thumped her, Nina giving an exaggerated cry.

“We went for a date the other day. It was so nice, Brooke, she’s a total sweetheart. I can’t believe she actually likes me, of all people,” Nina’s voice grew small, and Brooke felt guilt stab at her stomach. Nina hadn’t had any relationships for as long as Brooke had known her, so of course as she was about to enter into a potential one she’d be doubting herself and wondering and worrying too much. Brooke needed to be there for her.

“Of course she likes you. You’re legitimately the best person I know,” Brooke pouted. “Yvie’s right. Don’t you dare overthink this, bitch. Monet likes you, it’s that simple.”

Nina raised her eyebrows and fixed Brooke with a look of disbelief. “Brooke Lynn Hytes is telling me not to overthink things? Jesus, someone call Trevor McDonald. I want to put this on the News at 10.”

As the girls laughed and Brooke rolled her eyes, Yvie’s phone began to ring. Brooke and Nina listened with interest as she answered, the smile that appeared when she saw who was calling dictating it could only be Scarlet.

“Hey, boo…no, she’s back now…about ten minutes ago. Okay,” a laugh and then Yvie’s face grew red. “Okay…okay, I’ll see you. Okay. Lov- Okay. Bye!”

Brooke and Nina exchanged a look. Brooke knew what she’d heard. Or, almost heard. Nina spoke before her.

“Was that an, um…an L-word that almost got dropped there, Yvelynn Oddly?” she said schemingly, Yvie’s face suddenly appearing as pink as if she’d been smacked.

“What? No? You guys,” Yvie muttered, rolling her eyes and throwing her phone down on the bed. Brooke raised an eyebrow at her.

“Excuse me, I just learned my lesson here. Share shit with your friends. Come on, spill the fucking beans or we’ll start a sweepstake about you.”

“It’s honestly nothing.”

“We want to hear anything! However mediocre,” Nina cried, sitting bolt upright excitedly. Yvie rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll spill the mediocrity and beans,” she sighed, shrugging and pausing before she spoke. “You guys know I love you, because I tell you all the time. I tell all my friends all the time. And I used to tell Scarlet all the time too but now, of course…it means a hell of a lot more.”

“Oh, babe,” Brooke sighed sympathetically. It had never occurred to her before, but she used to do the same with Vanessa, and Vanessa used to tell her all the time too. It was one of the things that used to stab at her heart, a small twist of a knife in her stomach. Since Yvie’s birthday, neither of them had said it to the other. Brooke missed it.

“I keep going to say it when I usually would…at the end of phonecalls…when we say goodbye to each other…when she does something nice for me. And I know all of our other areas of the whole relationship are going fast, like we were already girlfriends and I barely even took her on a date. I’m just cautious, but even though I’m trying hard not to say it, it still threatens to come out at times.”

“There’s a difference between being in love with someone and just loving them,” Nina chimed in thoughtfully.

“No, I know,” Yvie reassured her. “But at the same time, I don’t know what the fuck it feels like to be in love with someone either! It’s never happened to me before. So how the fuck am I supposed to know? Shit, I could be in love with Scarlet and I might not even know.”

Brooke bit her lip, completely understanding where Yvie was coming from. She cast a glance to Nina and felt her stomach tighten. Out of the three of them, none were particularly well-versed in relationships. Yvie had seen a couple of girls over the years and was the queen of one night stands, but nothing had ever come of them. Brooke had dated a couple of guys back in her first year back when she still thought she was bi and then had realised she was 100% lesbian when she’d taken her first girl back from the gay club in town, then after that she’d spent most of her time pining over Vanjie. And Nina was Nina. The girl would have to be waterboarded before she actively made a move on someone. She let out a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Nina asked, already smiling. Brooke’s laugh got louder and she let out a faux-scream.

“Bitch! Look at us. We’ve all finally got the girls we like to like us back and none of us knows what the fuck to do about it!”

Yvie and Nina joined in with her laughter, soon growing hysterical as the girls screeched beside her. They were soon interrupted by all three of their phones going off at the same time.

“Vanjie’s been reinstated. Shit, I need to change her nickname,” Yvie smiled, pouncing on her phone. Smiling, Brooke checked her phone.

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline added Vanessa Vanjie Mateo.

Vanessa Vanjie Mateo: Alright hoes

Vanessa Vanjie Mateo: Two things

Yvie Oddly set the nickname for Vanessa Vanjie Mateo to Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie.

Okay Then: (shrek voice) OH HELLO THERE

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Who’s down for film night at ours tonight

Kim Kardashian-West: ALL OF US!!!

Yvie’s bitch: MEEEEE xxxxxxxxxxxx

Okay Then: Okay then

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Second thing

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Who had Yvie’s birthday in the sweepstake

“Bitch!! Knew it!!” Yvie laughed, thumping Brooke on the arm, the other girl laughing good-humouredly. She shot a message off to Vanessa.

Brooke: Things went well with Silk and Akeria then? xxx

Vanessa: Silk actually apologised wtf

Vanessa: but yeah they were cute and it went well xxx

Brooke: Good. I’ll come over with the girls later xxx

Vanessa: Staying over?

Brooke’s heart gave a jump.

Brooke: Yes! If you want me to

Vanessa: Always want you to boo xxx

Brooke turned her phone over and listened to Yvie, now stressed and talking about their upcoming exams. In contrast, Brooke hadn’t felt this calm in a long while.

[ayearofpike]

Remember Me 2: The Return

Pocket Books, 1994 210 pages, 16 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-87265-6 LOC: unknown (catalog down as I wrote this) OCLC: 30986560 Released September 1, 1994 (per B&N)

Shari Cooper, having passed into the light after her untimely death, is learning to be one with the universe and accept it with love and grace. It makes her a perfect candidate to return to the realm of the living — only she’s not going to have such an easy, pampered life. Rather, she’ll have to take on the life and struggles of a downtrodden minority who has given up, and work to improve the lot of everyone in her circle.

So here’s the one that Pike said he should have refused, that the publisher talked him into a sequel but in retrospect it damaged the story. But ... I don’t hate it? I know, that last entry was super vitriolic and angry about sequels and Pike’s slide into essentially irrelevance. Still, I was surprised that this book is not totally horrible — save one major racial problem that we’ll get to.

One thing that definitely annoys me about this book: the new die-cut covers. When I picked this one up at the store, I thought it was the awesomest thing: extra-spooky typeface that shows the art THROUGH it rather than just a generic script along the margins? But then I got the next one and stuck it on the bookshelf by this one, and the back cover caught the fingers of the E and PFFFTT. It took them a couple years to catch on and just print it, which, while a kludge, is preferable to the six or however many torn ones I have.

But narrative-construction-wise (as opposed to physical-construction-wise) the book actually holds up. Pike alternates between the first-person consciousness of Shari and the third-person observation of Jean Rodrigues, a poor and unmotivated but hot Latina living in the projects in Los Angeles. It’s not really a spoiler to say that Shari ends up taking over Jean’s body, and the realization marks a nice in-time shift in descriptive perspective as she suddenly understands that “she” is “I.”

So how the hell am I going to summarize this, considering the construction and flipping between astral plane and physical realm is what makes this book work? I guess you’re just going to have to trust me, and read it if you want. I’m going to punch through the world beyond the light first and then come back to Jean, even though it’s her who opens the novel.

We know Shari’s dead, and we know she planned to go into the light at the close of events of the last novel. Our first encounter with her here has her talking with a more-enlightened being, who acts as a teacher and a guide to help Shari understand that the love she gave and the services she rendered are the more important elements of her life, beyond the expensive house and the indulgent parents and the fucking Ferrari. As she starts to get it, he suggests that she should become a Wanderer — a soul that takes over a living body rather than being reborn from the beginning and works to make things better. She’s interested, but she also wants to talk to Peter before she goes back.

Yeah, remember Peter? Well, I never said his name in the first summary —  the spirit guide who loved her in life. He was able to get through too. He overcame his fear that he wasn’t good enough, and now he’s on the eternal plane with Shari. They construct the prom that they never went to, but just before they can get it on in the hotel room afterwards Peter lets his body get ripped open by the alien xenomorph that he decides to turn into as a joke. I have to admit it’s funny, but it highlights what Peter might still be afraid of: love, intimacy, getting too close, not being good enough still. So instead of boning, they explore the stars, and there’s some metaphysical shit about a black hole and how everything is interconnected that makes Shari realize she’s ready to be alive again and start making a difference.

Of course Peter wants to go too, but the fact that he killed himself is going to be an obstacle. These fears that he can’t quite release, and the circumstances of his death, mean that he’ll be resurrected into a body that is less than whole. Peter’s willing to take the hit, and the teacher accepts because he senses Peter’s love is pure. Also, the teacher lets them know that they’ll need some kind of a shock to the system in order to remember what they know about the cosmos, but even if they don’t they’ll still know they have some kind of higher purpose.

So now I’ve gotta jump all the way back to the beginning and talk about Jean. We get more male-gazey description of this hot brown mamacita, but I wasn’t quite as grossed out this time because her looks are the only thing Jean likes about herself. She’s down on her prospects, down on school, down on her family and what her life might turn into — because she’s pregnant with her boyfriend’s kid at 18. And tonight is his birthday party, and she’s going to tell him.

The birthday boy is Lenny Mandez, a gang dropout who finished high school at 20 and is trying to get clean but still has too many connections. He lives in a ramshackle house on a hill surrounded by oil wells, dirty but good enough to get wasted at. And I don’t really like the fact that the first time we have a whole cast of Latinxs they’re gang-bangers and dopeheads and dropouts — but the picture is real. I had plenty of friends and coworkers as a young food service employee in the Southwest who felt like this was their ceiling, this was all they could get, this was all they should aspire to. Which is part of why this story starts to piss me off later, but we’ll get to that.

So Jean tells Lenny about the baby, he’s less than thrilled, but then there’s a meeting. Kind of parallel to what happened in the first book, only with fewer people. It seems that a friend just got gunned down in a drive-by, and his girl wants revenge. She and Lenny are planning everything out, Jean’s best friend (who is a lesbian but again, don’t be squicked out, kids in 1994, because she totally doesn’t hit on Jean or anything!) doesn’t want to get involved, and Jean really doesn’t want them to pursue this. Why do they drive themselves down, Jean asks? Why can’t they aspire to anything better? Nobody’s hearing it, so she goes out on the balcony (because, sure, there’s a balcony in a two-bedroom house in the projects) to pray for help and understanding.

And the thing collapses out from under her.

She wakes up in the hospital three days later, with a concussion and several broken bones. Her mom is there and just breaks down out of happiness, because there was no sign that she would ever wake up until just a little bit before she did. She had a miscarriage too, which ... is sort of glossed over and forgotten quickly. But Lenny was on the balcony too, and he broke his back, severed the spinal cord and will probably never walk again, and now he just wants to die.

See, maybe I gave away too much too soon by breaking the story down the way I did.

But anyway, Jean suddenly feels less selfish and more giving, and she wants to help. She starts volunteering in the hospital as soon as she’s well enough, and has crazy ideas for stories about aliens and monsters and things. (Because evidently the best way to give your family and community a leg up is to become a horror and sci-fi writer. Getting less and less sly as we go along, Pike.) One of her patients (who is dying of leukemia, because everything old is new again) actually inspires her first short story, a tale of a successful writer whose muse wants in on the action and starts blackmailing her, which includes this frustrating little nugget.

But Jean isn’t satisfied just being her new self. Something is drawing her away from the hood and out to the rich developments. She takes a bus to Huntington Beach and walks with no goal in mind until she finds a bloodstain on the concrete by a condo. The property manager assumes she’s a friend of the poor girl who fell to her death the previous year and helps her find the family house, which of course she goes straight to and finds Shari’s brother moving out. She gets him to let her help in exchange for a ride home, and after reading the short story at the grave of her patient she feels compelled to go see him right away.

He lets her in and they immediately start talking about the dead sister. They’re both unnerved, but they keep going because something compels them. In fact, the brother reveals that he has a file on his computer that he’s never shared with anyone — a story written while he was sleepwalking that tells about his sister’s death and the events around it. Jean starts reading it, but she doesn’t have to finish because of course she wrote it. She is Shari. Shari is her. Shari has taken over Jean’s body in light of her prayer for help.

And this right here is where I get pissed. Like, Pike has constructed the realistically untenable situation of undereducated Latinxs in America. He’s written it with ... well, if not tenderness and understanding, then at least care and consideration. And he’s got a protagonist who wants to help her family and her community rise up and get out of the problematic cycle. BUT THEN. As soon as Jean Rodrigues realizes she’s Shari Cooper, the whole fuckin’ community goes out the window and Shari takes over and wants to try to reconstruct her old life. I mean, yeah, she gives some lip service to where she came from, but right away she’s like, yeah, let’s see my birth mom, let’s get my old best friend in here, let’s find the detective who cracked the case. 

More than that: we’re getting a white savior story. Yes, this was many years before we understood the problems endemic to this trope, but still, that’s what it is. It requires the soul of a white girl going into the body of a Latina for her to want to start improving herself and her situation. It didn’t bother me then, because hey actual brown people in YA lit, take what I can get. But now? It bugs the fuckin’ shit out of me.

But Shari/Jean does actually still care about Lenny. Knowing she’s Shari, she’s surprised by the depth of feeling she has for him. (I mean, we’re not, because I gave away the reveal already.) What’s more, she still wants him to live a meaningful life beyond vengeance. Word is he’s gotten out of the hospital and out of rehab, and is mobile in a wheelchair, and is tracking down a gun. Shari/Jean knows what that means, and she goes to collect him and get him out of the projects to meet her new/old brother. 

Lenny is surprisingly amenable to going with her — but only because it’s Jean that he’s going after the whole time, and now he’ll have ample opportunity to kill her away from where people know her and will suspect. See, he knows that he used protection every time they had sex, so he knows he can’t be the father of the (now-non) baby, and so she must have cheated on him. In fact, he figured it was his best friend, based on their prior relationship, and so he got the dude into the rival turf so that he’d be a target. And now he’s going to end Jean, who doesn’t love him and never did, and save a bullet for himself.

Lenny doesn’t see the parallels to the end of Peter’s life, because he never reads. (He says so himself.) But Shari/Jean does. She does her best to try to talk him out of his actions, but still ends up hanging from another goddamn balcony as he shoots at her fingers. It’s only as she’s slipping away, millimeters from death, that Peter wakes up and realizes who he is.

It’s too late to grab her hand, and Shari/Jean falls. Lucky for her, there’s a pool under this balcony, and she lands in the deep end. (Her best friend makes a joke out of it, actually, which did get a chuckle from me.) And then, just as everybody knows who they are and where they’re from and what they’re supposed to do: we get another goddamn “to be continued.”

I really don’t like ongoing sagas. Not sure what it is, but I have increasingly lost patience with them as I get older. (I think this is part of why I had such an angry reaction to The Last Vampire.) So the idea that I have to wait for another book to get the rest of the story bugs me, even though a) I have it on the shelf and don’t technically have to wait and b) this resurrection story hangs together OK. As I recall, the “white savior” and “forgetting where you come from” elements are even worse in the third book — as in, I’ll stop calling her Jean or even Shari/Jean, because she’s just Shari. Still, this one wasn’t as painful as I expected it to be, especially reading it for the first time in, I don’t know, 20 years after so many Pike Facebook posts regretting it.

[heckstetter]

The Bowers Gang reacts to their S/O getting their nipples pierced!

What up, I’m Alex, I’m 19, and I never fuckin’ learned how to read and this is my first set of headcanons/drabbles for the IT (2017) fandom! I haven’t written fanfic in a very,,, long time,,,, but requests are always open!

The Bowers Gang react to their S/O after they got their nipples pierced for their birthday. Boys and Reader are 18+, I don’t mention a gender for the reader anywhere but they have breasts and wear bras because I said so, nobody requested this, it’s just self-indulgent to celebrate the two years since I’ve gotten my own done anyway ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This gets pretty NSFW in some parts, but nobody explicitly has sex.

 Everything is under the cut. 

Henry:

          “And just where the fuck have you been all day, Y/N?”

          Of course, that’s the first thing out of your boyfriend’s mouth the moment he lays eyes on you. The school cafeteria was bustling with students eating, joking around with friends, or rushing to finish homework at the last minute. You weren’t surprised at Henry’s harsh words or the way his face was flushed with anger, you had skipped your first four class periods in a city a little over an hour away without telling him beforehand.

          “I was doing something for me.” You say with a shrug as you sauntered over to where he was sitting alone, his gang of friends off either torturing kids smaller than them or spending their lunch period eating. Your lackadaisical response to his anger only seemed to piss him off even more, his fists clenched tightly by his side like he was considering decking you in the face. “My older sibling is in town for my birthday and they took me to go get my present.”

          “And what, that couldn’t fuckin’ wait until after school?” He hissed, grabbing your arm roughly and dragging you closer to him, “You were in such a fuckin’ hurry that you had to be a thoughtless cunt and disappear without tellin’ me?”

          “Henry, stop!” You whine as he pulls you closer, his chest now touching yours. The sensitive piercings slid harshly against the fabric of your bra and you cursed, shoving Henry away from you and gently crossing your arms over your chest to prevent anymore unwanted attention to that area. “Motherfucker, ow! If you’d have been nice, I would’ve shown you just what my present was cause it was ‘sposed to be for both of us.”

          Henry paused at that, seeming to calm considerably at the idea that you would do something for your birthday that would ultimately benefit him. He carefully gave you a onceover, trying to figure out what your surprise could be.

          “’M not sorry for grabbing you roughly.” He said, truthfully, “You usually don’t complain when I grab you like that.”

          “It wasn’t the grabbing so much as the- the uh…” You trailed off, not sure how to continue. Your unease only furthered to piss him off, you didn’t usually act like a shy, stuttering mess and when you did, it was for something you knew would upset him further.

          “Spit it the fuck out already, dumbass.” Henry said, with a roll of his eyes, stepping closer to you.

          “The rubbing. Your chest against mine because… becauseIjustgotmynipplespierced.” You spat out faster than any nasty joke Trashmouth Tozier could come up with.

          “You— I’m… You did… I want to see!” Henry blurted out, his hands immediately flying towards them hem of your shirt to tug it up.

          You slap his hands away but before he can protest the rejection, the school bell rang signaling that your lunch period had ended and that you needed to start making your way towards your next class. When you expressed that to Henry, he snorted.

          “What, so now being in class is so fuckin’ important to you?” But nonetheless, he let you scurry past him down the hall and towards your next class.

          You couldn’t help but feel that he only let you do so with the hopes of you being more eager to show him the surprise under your shirt. A smile creeped its way onto your face as you imagined your boyfriend spending the rest of his day agonized over actually getting to see the now-ruined surprise. Henry would bitch and moan at you until you finally showed him, but you planned to make him wait. After all, the payoff would be oh-so worth it.

 Patrick:

          “Come with me, please?” You asked, your eyes wide and doe-like as you tugged lightly on your boyfriend’s arm, “I wanna show you something, babe.”

          “Mmhm, is that what we’re calling our little trysts in the Janitor’s closet now?” Patrick teased, his hands grabbing at anything he could reach while he let you lead him towards the closet; your hips, your ass, the hem of the shirt you were wearing. “Show n’ Tell?”

          “Oh, it’s a Show n’ Tell, alright.” You said with a snicker as you ushered your freakishly tall boyfriend into the cramped space before you entered it yourself, closing and locking the door behind you.

          Patrick reached around you to flick the light on, his hand brushing against your chest as he pulled it back towards him. You hissed in pain and immediately whirled around to slap at him and his creepy, wandering hands.

          “No touching until I say you can!” You said with a snarl, before reeling back and realizing your mistake.

          Patrick didn’t like his dominance over you being tested like that, and you knew you’d really be in for a brutal punishment if the widening of his grin and his tongue darting out to wet his lips was anything to go by.

          “Wait! Before- before you punish me for… well, anything you’re about to punish me for, really, can I show you my surprise first?” You ask, looking up at him from under fluttering eyelashes, your lips in a perfect pout, and altogether a look of innocence and assured submission if he could grant you this one little request.

          Patrick’s eyes roamed over your form from head to toe as he mentally weighed the pros and cons of acquiescing your request. He tilted his head to the side, his grin turning into a scowl and a deep suffering sigh fell from his lips.

          “Just make it fucking quick, Y/N. You’re already pushing your luck with me today, what with not showing up for school for over four hours without telling me why. That alone has you on thin fucking ice.” He said, and while normally that dark, promising tone of voice would have you panting for a punishment and sobbing for his forgiveness (and an orgasm), today it felt like a wave of relief and a god damned miracle.

          You made quick work of your t-shirt but stopped when you got to your bra. Your initial plan had been to thoroughly tease Patrick before the big reveal of what you had done to your body, but you knew his patience had already been worn thin by your absence from school earlier in the day and anymore teasing would land you get you in more trouble than you were ready for. You decided that the quicker your surprise was revealed, the better it’d be for the both of you and you hastily removed your bra.

          “Ta-dah…” You say without much confidence, but are instantly reassured as soon as Patrick’s eyes are fixed on the silver barbells protruding from each nipple. He opens and closes his mouth, rendered speechless for a good few moments.

          “Did… did it hurt?” He settles on, and then makes a sour face at his own question. Of course it had fucking hurt, and he could still see flakes of dried blood around your nipples.

          “Yea, not a good kind of hurt either, but I couldn’t get the thought out of my head after you mentioned seeing it in a porn mag, and I wanted to do it because I think it’s pretty but also because I knew you’d like it.” You say softly, looking down at your own nipples, “They’re super sore now too, I didn’t really think about how long it’d take ‘em to heal or how long they’d be hurting but, uh… It’s gonna be a while before you can touch ‘em or play with ‘em. Sorry.”

          “No!” He blurts out, somewhat uncharacteristically. In this moment, it would have been usual for Patrick to take advantage of your self-proclaimed mistake, to turn your apology into a favor you’d owe him but all he could think of was you did this with him in mind. You had paid someone to mutilate your body for him to play with, for him to tug at and suck on and every other little nasty thing he was planning in the back of his head and if that was just about the hottest god damned thing to him. His hands cupped your breasts softly, careful to avoid the fresh piercings. “Don’t be sorry, babygirl, I love them now and I’ll love on them when they’re all healed up.”

          “You really like them, Patrick?” You ask, your voice shy and soft but your body language screaming otherwise. You leaned into his touch, arching your back to show off your modified chest even more and then slowly rolling your hips into his. Patrick’s evident arousal tenting in his jeans was all the proof you needed that he truly loved your little surprise but you wanted to hear him say it again, and again, and again.

          “I do.” Patrick said honestly, “But you better get on your knees and take care of the problem they’re causing before I change my mind about waiting ‘til they’re healed.”

 Vic:

           “Okay, explain this to me again. Somehow, it’s your birthday but I’m the one who’s getting a surprise?” Your boyfriend asked, his face scrunched up adorably in his confusion as the two of you make your way up to your bedroom.

           You had been absent from school for the first half of the day, but had the forethought to warn Vic that you’d be gone beforehand and to ask him if you could monopolize his time as soon as school got out. Being the ever-dutiful boyfriend that he was, Vic agreed to follow you home without hesitation, regardless of the whipping noises and other lewd jokes his friends had been making from behind him.

           “It’s not just for you, Vic.” You say as you open your bedroom door, allowing him to step inside, “It’s for me too, but I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to do it had you not expressed your interest beforehand.”

           “My interest in whaaaat?” Vic whined as he flopped down on your bed, toeing off his boots before you could scold him for getting your bed dirty. “Stop being so fuckin’ vague, just show me already!”

           “Is that anyway to treat your S/O on their birthday?” You asked mockingly, closing the door behind you. He looked up at you with a lecherous smirk, his hand snaking down to his crotch, grabbing it roughly.

           “I’ll give you a birthday treat if you ask nicely.” He said, continuing to palm himself through the front of his jeans. “Let’s skip the surprise and get straight to the birthday sex!”

           You couldn’t help but giggle as you crawled onto his lap, threading one of your hands through his bleach-blonde hair to tug him forward. He let out a choked out moan as his hair was pulled, his hand stopping the rubbing movements to grip at his growing erection.

           “Mmm…” You moan softly, your lips brushing against his in a chaste mockery of a kiss, “As much as I’d love to skip straight to the birthday sex, my surprise is going to lead there anyway.” You loosened your grip on his hair so he could slump back with a sigh.

           Vic removed his hands from himself, placing them on your waist instead. Irritation flared in his chest; he was a teenage boy, he was horny, and he wanted you now. But ultimately, Vic loved you too much to protest your rejection and instead just gazed into your eyes lovingly. His thumbs rubbed small, soothing circles into your hips as he spoke,

           “If that’s where this was gonna lead this whole time, you should’ve just said so.” He said, letting you take control of the situation in the only way a Bowers’ Boy could. “We’re alone now, what’s the surprise?”

           “Good boy.” You purred at his submission, your hands moving to the hem of your shirt. You ever-so-slowly pulled it above your head, flinging it to the other side of your bedroom once it was completely off. You silently wished you could have been wearing something sexier than an old, loose-fitting sports bra but you had needed something comfortable to wear at your piercing appointment. Making quick work of the bra as well, you sat straddling your boyfriend’s lap completely topless, breasts and brand-new nipple piercings bared to the world.

           Vic felt his jaw go slack at the sight of the silver barbells in each nipple, completely speechless at the sight of his lover with such a provocative body modification. He felt his erection twitch in his pants, the excitement from such a sexual surprise stirring him back to attention.

           “I… You…” He tried to think of a complete sentence, but words were the absolute last thing on his mind. He ended up squeaking out, “For me?”

           “Yeah, baby!” You say with a smug grin, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of rendering your boy speechless. “Do you like them?” You ask, shaking your torso slightly, letting your tits sway in his face.

           “Yessssss,” He hissed out and rolled his hips desperate for some form of relief, completely transfixed on how fucking sexy you looked sitting on top of him like that, your new jewelry catching the light and a downright dirty grin on your face. “Can I touch ‘em?”

           “Not yet, baby boy.” You say, somewhat mournfully, moving your hands over his to prevent him from trying to play with your new piercings. “They need some time to heal before you can touch them, otherwise they’ll get infected and I’ll have to take them out.”

           Vic nodded solemnly, lacing his fingers with yours to distract him from the temptation of playing with your new toys. “Can we do… other things?” He asked, looking up in your eyes in complete awe and adoration.

           “Of course, Victor.” You say with a soft smile, “Didn’t you say something about birthday sex?”

 Belch:

           You sat silently in the front passenger seat of your boyfriend’s Trans Am, gazing out the front window but not focused enough to actually see anything. Belch sat next to you, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The two of you were just sitting in the high school parking lot when you should have been in class, but neither of you particularly cared about making it to your respective classrooms at this point.

           He was upset with you, a rare occasion in and of itself because you weren’t one to get yourself in trouble or start fights and even if you were that kind of person, Belch was usually right by your side. Therein lied your whole problem, though. By the time Belch rolled up to your house this morning to pick you up for school, you were long gone over an hour away with your older sibling. You hadn’t told him you were skipping most of school today, you hadn’t told him that you were going to the next town over, and you hadn’t told him why.

           “I just…” He began but trailed off, unable to verbally express his feelings. Instead of words, he moved one of his hands from the steering wheel to your lap, squeezing your thigh softly and squeezing his eyes shut as he inhaled deeply before saying, “You had me worried.”

           “Reggie…” You sighed his other nickname softly as you moved your own hand to cover his, lacing your fingers together. “I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a surprise for both of us, I just… I hadn’t expected it to take so long. I should’ve told you beforehand that I was gonna be absent this morning but I didn’t think about it.”

           After your apology the two of you fell into another uncomfortable silence, but he continued holding your hand which you took as a good sign. After a few more moments, you shifted your whole body, leaning closer to Belch so you could rest your head on his shoulder and he let out a deep sigh and turned slightly so he could kiss the top of your head.

           “I can’t say it’s okay cause it… it’s not.” He said solemnly, “But I’ll forgive you, ‘s long as you promise not t’ disappear on me again, you hear me?”

           “I promise, Reggie.” You say sincerely, looking up at him teary-eyed but smiling, “Can I show you why? I promise it’s gonna be a fun surprise.”

           “Sure, baby.” Belch said, smiling back at you as the mood in the car lifted to something much more playful and happy. You shifted away from him, de-tangling your hand from his so you could tug your shirt up and over your head.

           “Hold up, as much as I love havin’ you naked in my car, you sure you wanna do this here?” He asked, gesturing to the other cars surrounding you in the parking lot. Everyone else was in class, but it wasn’t uncommon for students to venture out to their vehicles either to skip or to grab something they forgot.

            “I’m sure.” You say, working on the clasp of your bra, “No one at this school is dumb enough to get close to your car, babe. And anyone who is, won’t dare say a damn thing lest they want to worry about havin’ you and the rest of your boys on their ass.”

           Belch doesn’t respond verbally, just nodding his head at the truth of your statements. Henry and the rest of the gang would be more than happy to beat the shit out of anyone who dared to disrespect Belch’s girl, regardless of if they actually cared for her (in Vic and Belch’s case) or if they just found joy in ganging up on people (in Henry and Patrick’s case).

           You finally got your bra unclasped, holding the cups in front of your breasts with your hands as you smiled mischievously at Belch.

           “You ready for this, hon?” You asked, slowly letting the cups of your bra slide down the curve of your breasts enjoying the way his eyes were fixed firmly where you wanted them to be. He shifted— almost nervously— in his seat as your bra finally fell into your lap and your surprise was revealed.

           Belch let out a low wolf whistle as he took in the sight of the silver barbells fastened through your brand-new nipple piercings, a surprise he certainly hadn’t expected to receive for your 18th birthday.

           He faintly remembers seeing a model with the same piercings in a porn mag that Patrick had passed around a while back. He hadn’t thought anything of it since then-- beyond a night of imagining you with your nipples done like that--but that had been a night spent alone with his left-hand. Not once did he think that you had also longed to see yourself with that body modification, and he never had the guts to bring it up to you outside of his fantasies.

           Seeing you now, sitting topless in the passenger seat of his beloved car looking so fucking fine with your silver jewelry glinting in the sunlight, he couldn’t help but immediately move towards you. One of his hands went to the back of your hair, tangling his fingers through your H/C locks to pull you into a rough kiss. Your teeth clacked against his slightly, but you both ignored the pain in favor of letting your tongues explore each other’s mouths hungrily. His other hand cupped one of your breasts, careful to avoid the fresh piercing but firm enough to convey his pleasure at your body modification.

           You pulled back from the kiss, a shit-eating grin on your face as you grabbed the wrist of the hand that was tangled in your hair to pull it down towards your other breast so that Belch could cup them both.

           “Do you like them, Reggie?” You asked, voice deep and breathy, “That girl in the porn mag looked so fucking hot with her nipples pierced, baby, I’ve been thinking about getting ‘em done every day since I saw her.”

           “Baby girl, Y/N, light of my fuckin’ life, I love them.”

[inaweofdiana]

@treavellergirl wanted Ace + stuck and swearing and i took it and fuckin’ ran with it and it got a little bit out of hand whoops BUT if you squint you can start to see some plot in there and maybe some actual seeds of romance

ALSO GANG AU catch my other gang au fics here on my blog if you want or here on my ao3 if that’s more your jam (you can even read this fic there if you want, or jumpcut to the full thing below!! (its almost 3k so a jumpcut was needed!!)

-

So this was how it ended for Ace. Sacrificing himself for his dumb ass brother. And he hadn’t even had a good breakfast. “I hate you.” Ace revolved slowly, suspended by his right ankle, a good three feet between his hanging fingertips and the ground. Judging by his nausea and a lack of response from his fire, a seastone rope. “So much.” Luffy was gawking, sitting in a heap where he’d landed after Ace had shoved him out of the way of the trap. He’d managed to flick on the flashlight on his phone, at least. Ace’s handheld torch had gone out like a lightbulb blowing once he’d made contact with the seastone. “Well this certainly puts a hamper on our plan.” Luffy shoved one finger up his nose, his default thinking face. “Damper.” Ace corrected as blood started to rush to his head. He felt like he was incredibly congested. “This puts a damper on our plan. You absolute walnut.”

Luffy looked hopeful at the idea of walnuts, then put out when he realized Ace was insulting him, not talking about food. “Can’t you just wshhhhh?” he asked, waving his hands about in a juggling motion. “No, you cheesecake, it’s seastone!” Ace flailed at him, trying to thump him a good one, but Luffy just stretched his head out of the way, sticking it up and around to peer at the rope around Ace’s ankle. “Looks like it.” Luffy let his head spring back to his body, letting it wobble wildly like a bobble-head. “I guess you’re gonna die here!” He laughed. “You’re the worst brother.” Ace groaned. “Go get Franky or Nami or someone. Anyone. Zoro or Sanji. Hell, Zoro and Sanji, I’d even deal with the two of them together to get out of this!” “Okay!” Luffy bounced up cheerily, like it wasn’t his fault Ace was caught in a humiliating rope trap sneaking into a Navy base. He hadn’t even wanted to go. “And hurry up!” Ace hissed at his retreating back. Luffy kicked it up into a jog. The light from his flashlight disappeared slowly, off into the distance, vanishing abruptly as Luffy took a turn. He swore a bit. And then a bit more. And then broke into a full on rant composed completely of swearwords. He was having the worst fucking day and this just put the goddamn icing on the shit cake, didn’t it? Ace fumed, still revolving slowly. He hated going to visit their Grandfather, and this was why. It involved bizarre booby traps and dusty old tunnels that nobody ever used anymore. But if nobody ever used these, whose light was that coming from the opposite end of the tunnel? Ace flailed, trying to stay facing the light, but he continued the slow spin, and only succeeded in exhausting himself and almost throwing up. His head throbbed with all the blood pooled there. Ace was fucked. He managed to lift one noodle-weak arm to grab at the knife on his belt, and let gravity yank his arm back down to the ground, pulling the knife from its sheath. He was as ready as he could be. To his surprise, he recognized the man (fishman, more accurately) approaching him. “Jinbe?” He squinted. He couldn’t trust his eyes with this much blood in his head. “Ace, my friend.” Jinbe paused in the middle of the tunnel. Probably not sure how to handle seeing the Boss of the Spades gang dangling upside down by a rope under the Navy headquarters. “You… Seem well.” Jinbe offered, diplomatically. Ace let his head dangle, laughing. “Sure am, Jin.” He grinned. “Cut me down?” “Seastone?” Jinbe accepted his knife, reaching up and lifting Ace to sit on his shoulder. Ace fisted his hands in Jinbe’s sweatshirt, not wanting to fall. “Yep.” Now that leg was just being pulled up at a slight angle, Jinbe sawed at it for a moment before dropping the hank of rope that had previously been wrapped around Ace’s ankle. Ace sighed in relief as power surged through his body once more. He could feel the fatigue draining slowly from his body, but still felt shaky. Ace took his knife back and sheathed it with wobbly fingers. “Thanks man.” He grinned at Jinbe who smiled back. “Anytime for a friend.” Jinbe continued his slow plod. Though his pace was slow, his legs were long, and he ate up the distance quite swiftly. “What brings you to be caught here?” Jinbe asked eventually. Ace couldn’t decide whether to roll his eyes or laugh. “My dumb kid brother. He’s like an unstoppable force, but he can be as dumb as a box of muffins sometimes.” “I have yet to meet Luffy. Your stories of him are always quite entertaining.” They reached a staircase and Jinbe plodded upwards. “Entertaining is a good word for Luffy.” Ace grinned. “He’s like a bouncy ball in an antique store. He actually did that once.” Ace laughed. “I didn’t know you could get a lifetime 86 from an antique store until then.” Jinbe chuckled and they emerged into a hallway in the Navy HQ. Their problem as gang members was getting in. Once they were in, everyone there assumed the guards at the gates had done their jobs and that they were civilians who were cleared to be there. Jinbe was particularly notorious, leading the Sun Tiger Gang. It wasn’t publicized that Jinbe was secretly a warlord, making him a gang leader supported by the government. It gave him unique connections and power that gave him a deadly edge. Ace wasn’t terribly well known; he kept his head down around cameras and always wore a hat. He preferred anonymity on the streets, keeping his strength a secret. The most that the press had managed to get was a shot of the small straw hat tattoo on his shoulderblade, so he was generally assumed (wrongly) to be a member of the Straw Hat Gang. It amused him, so he never bothered to correct the rumor. Jinbe made his way through the Navy base like he knew where he was going. Which he probably did. He eventually made his way to an office with a rather harried looking secretary outside, who was arguing with someone on the other end of the phone. His pink hair was frazzled and he waved to Jinbe apologetically, smiling at Ace briefly. Jinbe nodded and stood to the side, examining a painting of a bowl of fruit. Ace waved back. “I’m sorry Captain Smoker, please just send him down to Garp’s office. Yes, I know he’s a terrible nuisance. No, I really can’t come and get him at the moment, I’m very sorry. Yes. Yes. Lots of meetings. I’m sorry sir. Yes. No. Thank you.” Coby hung up and smiled at Jinbe. “Good Afternoon Warlord Jinbe. Admiral Garp should just be finishing up his current meeting.” “Thank you Coby.” Jinbe nodded, examining the bowl of fruit quite seriously. “I’ll have your regular tea order sent in, unless you’d prefer something else.” Coby was already dialing numbers. “The regular will be fine, thank you.” Jinbe nodded serenely. Ace propped an arm up on Jinbe’s head. “You come here enough to have a regular?” He asked curiously. “Depending on the amount of activity, the navy likes me to report in more regularly. With the recent rash of street drugs, I’ve been here quite often lately.” Ace wrinkled his nose at the thought. “Yeah, they’ve been bad. I think I’m almost to a break to it. I’ll keep you updated, man.” He heard the door open behind him, and his Grandfather’s booming laughter. “I would very much appreciate that.” Jinbe patted his knee companionably. “What are you doing here, you shithead?” Garp glared. Ace glared right back over his shoulder. “You invited us, you dumb fuck.” “What did you call me you little shit?” Garp bellowed. Coby managed to divert Garp’s attention rather skillfully with a new cup of coffee from the pot behind his desk. “Jinbe is here for your two o’clock sir.” “Right, right.” Garp nodded before pointing at Ace. “You and my brat of a grandson aren’t supposed to be here ‘til Friday, lackwit.” Ace flailed. “How was I supposed to know?? You always send all the information to Luffy! I just listened to him!” Garp bellowed out a laugh. “Is that why I can hear ol’ Smokey blowing his stack upstairs?” Ace laughed along with him. “Probably. I’m surprised this whole place isn’t smoking!” “So I’ll see you Friday then?” Garp asked. “Probably, yeah. You’re doing lunch, right?” Garp nodded. “Then of course I am!” Ace grinned at him. Garp nodded again. “Smart man. Now, Jinbe, get in here! And you, you damn pest, get out of here!” He waved Jinbe in as he shoved someone out of his office. They stumbled slightly before straightening, facing Coby. Ace slipped nimbly down from Jinbe’s shoulder. “Later gramps! Later man!” He waved goodbye to each of them before realizing who exactly stood in front of Coby’s desk. “So, Sabo, it looks like he’d like monthly meetings with you. Did you speak about that?” Coby asked. Sabo hadn’t noticed him yet. “Monthly is fine, though we may schedule more frequently as needed.” The blond man who’d left Ace sitting in the dust after a formidable show of haki. Ace had forgotten then that powerful wielders of haki could render fruit powers inert since he’d never actually faced someone able to do it. Ace had a score to settle with this little asshole. He was dressed much differently than he had been the other day. He was wearing a tidy pair of skinny jeans, as opposed to a pair that was ripped and splattered to all hell with paint and who knew what, dark navy instead of bright blue. He was also wearing a crisp blazer and a collared button down with tiny cats on it. His snapback of the encounter before was nowhere to be seen, but there was no mistaking that curly hair and those long, slender legs. And his obnoxious drawl as he scheduled his next meeting with Garp. “Do you need any help getting out? I know the building can be confusing.” Coby smiled sweetly at Sabo. Jesus. No wonder Luffy’d had the worst crush on him for a while. Ace took the opportunity to sling an arm around Sabo’s neck, shooting Coby a guileless grin. “I got this, Cobe! Me and Sabo are old friends! I’ll show him out!” His arm was tight around Sabo’s shoulders, on the verge of a headlock. Ace smirked smugly when he saw that he was a whole half inch taller than the blond. “Okay!” Coby smiled. “See you later Ace!” He answered another phone call before Sabo could protest, and Ace dragged him out of the room. Sabo flailed, but this time, Ace had the upper hand, and continued striding forward, not giving Sabo a chance to catch his balance. “So, Sabo, huh? What’s up with you and Garp? And the whole rudeness with picking a fight with me and then leaving? That was a real nice piece of work.” Ace’s smile was sickly sweet. Sabo tried to dig his heels into the ground, but in a contest of strength, Ace was stronger. “Come on now, I thought you and I were getting to be friends!” Ace’s smile widened. “Leggo!” Sabo tried to bite at him, but the leather of Ace’s motorcycle jacket protected him. “Alright.” Ace shoved Sabo into one of the closets that led to one of the many secret passages into the Navy headquarters. “You realize this isn’t some adolescent game of seven minutes in heaven, right?” Sabo looked incredibly unimpressed with being shoved into a broom closet. Ace laughed. “So you’re saying being with me in a closet is your idea of seven minutes in heaven?” He grabbed one of the cans of paint on the shelf and gave it a twist. Sabo spluttered, flushing bright red. The poor dear with his pale complexion. “Fuck you!” Ace’s laughter increased in volume as a shelf shifted to reveal a hidden staircase. “Sure! About six minutes and forty-five seconds left though!” Sabo punched him. He deserved it. It hurt. He continued to snicker as he traipsed down the staircase. “Coming, dear?” He called back. Behind him, Sabo tried the door, only to find it locked. He growled after Ace. “What the fuck did you do, asshole?” Ace smirked. “The door won’t unlock until the passage is clear. It’s about a twenty minute walk, but I dunno, I could probably stretch that into a couple of hours if I’m not supervised.” Ace conjured a ball of flame into his palm, illuminating the tunnel. Sabo stomped after him, making it very clear he wanted nothing to do with him or this situation. Ace slung his arm around his neck again. “So, Sabo! What were you doing with my gramps?” Because damned if he wasn’t going to leave with every scrap of information he could get. “None of your business.” Sabo tried to shove him off, but there was the whole issue with Ace being stronger than him again. “I’d say it is my business, seeing as he’s my grandfather and all, and I could ruin your negotiations with him if I wanted to.” Ace bluffed. There was no way Garp would drop sensitive government business just because Ace wanted him to. Hell, he led one of the gangs that Garp was committed to capturing and bringing to justice. But Sabo didn’t know that. Sabo looked like he’d been forced to eat a lemon. “I am not going to disclose sensitive information to a ruffian.” He sniped. “Would a ruffian have a direct line to a navy admiral?” Ace asked, doing his best to look innocent. Ace could practically hear Sabo grinding his teeth. It was sweet fuckin’ music to his ears. “I represent parties interested in collaborating with the world government to ensure world peace.” Sabo finally spat out. “Huh.” Ace let his arm relax around Sabo’s shoulders where it had been not-quite-threateningly tight around his neck. “Sounds a lot like…” he trailed off into thought without really meaning to. He had more than an inkling of what Sabo was talking about. More like an inkwell. If he was talking about the Revolutionaries, that was wild. If he was in a high enough position to speak to the government on their behalf, that was even wilder. Sabo tried to shove his arm off again, this time, Ace let him. Sabo peeled his blazer off and set about rolling his sleeves up by Ace’s firelight. He finally produced his snapback from where it had been… tucked down the back of his pants? Ace snorted his amusement, which Sabo loftily ignored. Sabo popped it on his head, bill facing forward, smoothing his hands over the ends of his hair. Ace felt a little sloppy next to him. His jeans were baggy, ripped out at the knees. His white tank top for Shakky’s Rip-Off Bar was at least one size too big, and his elbow brace probably still had ketchup on it from breakfast where it had landed in Luffy’s hash browns during a tussle. His unkempt hair was half-up in a small ponytail that was probably ready to fall out of his hair altogether. Next to Sabo, he felt like a hot mess. Next to Ace, Sabo tripped over a stray brick sticking out of the path and swore profusely when he almost fell on his face. That made Ace feel a little bit better. He grinned and offered a hand up. Sabo ignored his hand and picked himself up, dusting off his pants and palms. That kind of negated any good feelings Ace had and he scowled. They continued to walk in silence, both tacitly agreeing that since neither could learn anything about the other, they would ignore each other. They reached the end of the tunnel after about fifteen minutes of brisk walking: Sabo annoyed and Ace sulking. Ace knelt by the keypad and punched in a long series of numbers. He pulled the door open and gave Sabo a cheeky wave before yanking it shut behind him. “Fucker!” He heard Sabo yell from behind the door. He could hear him pounding against the door. “Let me out!” Ace childishly sat against the door, listening to Sabo pound on the door for a while, yelling obscenities. It felt kind of good, to be a dick to someone who was a dick. He could feel someone scolding him in the back of his head for being so mean, probably Makino, but pushed it aside, basking in the feeling of karmic retribution. It didn’t last for long. Sabo’s pounding got quieter after about a minute. A moment of silence. Then a soft “Shit.” from behind the door and a soft thump that he felt more than heard. Suddenly, Ace felt like an asshole. Just because he’d had kind of a bad day didn’t mean he had to be a dick to someone else, even if they deserved it after knocking him on his ass the last time they met. His stomach twisted uncomfortably and he jumped up. He typed in another long code into the matching keypad on the outside of the door and yanked the door open. Sabo went sprawling, flat on his back. He’d obviously been sitting against the door, much like Ace had been. He stared up at Ace, slightly stunned. Ace smiled down at him, extending a hand to help him up. This time, Sabo took it, letting Ace haul him to his feet. “My names Ace.” He offered. “Sorry I was a jerk. Want to get burritos?” He realized awkwardly that he hadn’t let go of Sabo’s hand yet. Sabo smiled and didn’t let go either.

[krakenator]

CHAPTER 8 aka “Here comes the sun”

SPOILERS are sprinkled around extremely liberally for The Property of Hate

Masterpost here

“Day 4 everybody! The sun is shining, the tree’s a sun, and it’s time to start a new- 

*gasp* the tree’s a sun

THE TREE’S A SUN

*wicked witch voice* ITS MEEEEELTING

oh very funny tellyman

and i SWEAR TO GOD if this is some kind of sick  FORESHADOWING where Hero and RGB get separated and don’t appear on the same pages as each other-

oh hey i didn’t notice the Deer on this panel; RGB’s hanging onto its ear

So if the tree was sick and it’s also the heart of the sun... could we say the tree had heart disease?

ok and it also turns out that the whole deer thing is because ‘hart’ is another term for them so could we ALSO say that the tree is a heart of harts?

Izzit me or does Assok’s speech here have greeny-yellow mixed in there? …TOby???

The entire look of the tree and RGB doing a slip’n’slide on it implies a very... meaty texture to me so uh congrats mod thanks i hate it

OH FUC I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THIS REMINDS OF

MOTHERFUCKING MEAT CIRCUS AAAAAAAAA-

This entire page is huge fucking mood. That’s me @the world in my head every time I’m about to do something Stupid n’ Sketchy™

its also the first time we see the frankly DELIGHTFUL dynamic of RGB being like “oh god oh fuck why” and Hero going “YEEEEEEEAAA”. Hero loves rollercoasters and RGB won’t be dragged on one for anything less than certain death otherwise. 

LOOKIT that big grin. she seems to smile WAY more in the latter half of the current comic and honestly. Yes. we need more of that

Oh deer. What a staggering outcome. Guess we’re getting right to the hart of the matter huh.

So RGB asks how Hero knew it was sick, and the answer was it had no leaves- the tree’s by the Pool of Tears in chapter 2 during the daytime didn’t have leaves either, but began to grow more near the end of it- are those tree’s sickened as well? OH- this could explain why the Fears were able to wander around in such a forested area

Have to wonder… tree’s are powerful. What could stop one from dreaming like that?

OH. OF COURSE. RGB’s already given us the answer- Nothing. The gooey stuff that was coating the tree, the [-----], is just another form of Nothing! Even more damningly, biting through the strand so the sun could balloon away renders Hero’s tongue temporarily numb. 

“You didn’t swallow any did you”- oh motherfucker that’s foreshadowing to when Hero really does accidentally swallow Nothing in the Elastic Valley storm, which erodes her voice from black text to white

So the next question is why did the [-----] melt so SUDDENLY? Black was left behind from Hero’s Fun Impalement Adventure, which smacks far more of Fear stuff than dream/nightmare residue, both of which are colorful, yet Dreams have the healing properties and Hero dreaming in the tree may have even helped the thawing

going on the assumption black = Fear shenanigans, have we found something stronger than Nothing? is this- oh come on. is this a rock-paper-scissors scenario?

Nothing beats Trees, Trees beat Fears, Fears beat Nothing?

on that note I should point out that Hero’s night of rest and dreaming has indeed closed back up her schism

absolutely everybody: how the FUCK did that DUMBASS-

and like they all know it’s THAT dumbass. they all look at the BULLSHIT happening in the sky and say “i don’t know how but i KNOW RGB is in the thick of that nonsense”

RGB rekted counter = 4

and promptly rekted yet again (5)

Ok, we confirm that [-----] is an insulator- a weaker form of Nothing, then. Not enough to destroy the sun-tree, but definitely enough to encase, sicken, and weaken it.

K but [------] as censorship, anyone?

!! Assok’s voice is numb too. How did I miss this bit of the story, did I just skim over it last time? Assok’s voice is the way it is because it’s numb, it could only have gotten numb by chomping on [-----], Assok came out of a crack in the [-----] to investigate Hero’s crying... my god

im such a dummy i finally get it. Assok’s been chipping away at the [-----] trying to keep the sun alive

kids are honestly such little shits; mod really nails this aspect of Hero directly on the head

truly they are made for each other- one shit kid and one bastard man.

OH OKAY I thought Assok threw themselves at RGB’s face in retaliation for yelling at Hero for essentially tazing him but that’s not it- its STATIC CLING

And tally that 6 for the RGB ‘slapstick-comedy Bad Man gets thrown around’ counter

ITS JULIENNE! Aint NOBODY got ANYTHING on her KNIFE FEET

fuckin. the sound effects. step+stab = stap. amazing

bruh i love her speech. i look at it and i taste cherry chocolate. even the shards around the boxes and that haphazardly make speech tails looks like chocolate shavings

Julienne and Melody’s designs are both INCREDIBLE tbh. julienne and click are probably my favorites out of the entire cast. you look at them and you INSTANTLY what they are about

and yet there are surprises

...... shitpost idea

and the candyfloss poke at my head, no fun! i said Julienne- mmgh!- stop it now

RGB looks like he has wings this entire page and I think that’s beautiful. the entire ‘fight scene’ between him and Julienne is utterly fantastic

Hero just calmly going fishing. Serenely stares down the knife Julienne tries to stab through her upon Jules realizes RGB’s gone and kidnapped ANOTHER WHOLE KID but relenting the INSTANT Hero says hello, pats, and flatters her

this chapter is really delivering on the “RGB gets slammed around” aspect of my TPoH enjoyment. I didn’t think we’d hit double digits this quick but that makes 10

Melody, bass-boosted: MY WIFE

as a musician i adore Melody with my entire being and i would die for her. every time i read her FORTE i’m assaulted with the auditory memory of myself and the rest of the trumpet section seeing a “triple forte” note written in our music sheets and as one blasting it in exactly the way the composer surely intended: discordant chaos

aaaaa her foghorn blast includes sheet music in the background!! i wonder from what piece

her speechbubbles be yellow, with short, stout tails and a circular box

is there anything better than seeing just the barest hint of Hero at the top of one panel before she slams into RGB in the next?

Assok’s QUADRUPLE FORTE on the other hand sounds like 50 CHILDREN SCREAMING THEIR OWN COMMENTS AT ONCE FOR A SOLID THIRTY SECONDS

it’s all stuff we’ve heard before looks like: “snice”, “koh ping”, “eediotic”, “damninably frah ghile”, “j ustryin toolwek affrew”, “justav to trusttmi”

dsvjkfkfhh- special fuckin shoutout to “AI DOOHAIT TOOHAFF TORAIMSMA VOYCE” for being the ONE thing in all caps aka the time RGB, uh, raised his voice

join me next time for some QUALITY DUNKING ON RGB. just absolutely roasting him

[capstageriverside]

Bits of Guirgis

The following are some selections from articles that help create a picture of Stephen Adly Guirgis as an artist and a person.

To start with, SAG is often noted for being very aware of and concerned about social issues and social responsibility, especially racism. I like this story he tells when asked about the language in another of his plays, Motherfucker with a Hat, and whether he’s concerned that people will object to how “un-PC” it is (emphasis mine):

I know what you’re talking about, and yeah, it is something I care about. I think most artists ACT like we don’t care about that kind of stuff, but the reality is we mostly are in fact very sensitive -- and even over-sensitive-- about what people think. In Motherfucker, yeah, there’s lots of crazy language, some of it is not “PC,” but the way that language is used is, I think, not mean spirited. It’s just how the characters express themselves. And it’s clear the characters in the play are very human & flawed but hopefully they are seen and heard as being relatable to the audience and therefore worthy of our empathy and understanding. Plus, hopefully, these character are also pretty funny. Humor is the great equalizer. It brings us together. So the language - even at its most crass -- it seeks to unify rather than divide. But the “PC thing,” it can be tough. For example, last night I tweeted a NY Times article about Trump wanting to eliminate The National Endowment of the Arts, and I tweeted something with it where I said, basically: “Don’t take the bait, focus on Russia and Tax Returns, this bitch is going to go down in flames.” I called Trump a bitch. A few minutes later, a woman tweeted back and asked me to remove the “sexist language” and that I should know better since I was “an Artist.” And you know what? She was right. I mean personally, I like calling Trump a bitch. I wouldn’t call Kelly Conway a bitch (and maybe my aversion to calling a woman a bitch is actually sexist too). But Trump? Hell yeah. In fact, I often call him “Cheese Doodle Bitch.” But -- I get it. “Bitch” IS sexist. So I deleted the fuckin’ tweet. But that’s in my real life. A play is a different story. In a play, I can say what I want. - the fix, A Conversation with Stephen Adly Guirgis

If you’re curious about how SAG finds the blunt, rambling, often-laced-with-profanity tone that appears in many of his plays, look no further than the man himself! Also interesting in this clip that he thinks of himself as a writer only by force and not so much inclination:

The process of accepting that I was a writer continues to be ongoing, daunting -- and I’m embarrassed to say -- sometimes painful.. Acting is a tremendously difficult thing to do really well, but I find the pursuit and the practice to be thrilling. When I’m acting, I know who I am and I’m okay with it. Writing is more difficult, less thrilling, and way lonelier. And in order for me to write, I find I have to engage in behavior that matches up pretty exactly with the symptoms of major depression. And when that’s happening, I don’t think my brain can tell the difference. And that sucks a lot sometimes. The upside of writing is that it is a tremendous outlet for a barrage of feelings, emotions, struggles, and inner debate, and, when it is rendered well, it can be a worthy form of service and occasionally even a source of fleeting moments of satisfaction and joy... I think my take on the whole writing thing is probably intrinsically tied to my early childhood as a first born son and to my religious upbringing as a Catholic. Jesus Christ and John the Baptist are pretty much the coolest guys in the New Testament: a pair of relentlessly selfless idealists -- one of whom got beheaded, the other merely nailed to a cross to save all of mankind. Tough acts to follow. Not much room for improvement. But spacious accommodation for shame and guilt. Somewhere in my journey, I became aware that I was given some aptitude for writing, so I felt and feel an obligation to use it as well as I can until it goes away. And I always fail. Or think I fail. -  Adam Szymkowicz interview

When did you decide you wanted to be a playwright? I’m not sure that I’m there yet even. I started as an actor, and I’m still an actor. It’s still what makes me most happy. But when I came into Labyrinth, we were encouraged to be multidisciplinary, and someone asked me to write a little one-act. I wrote it, and we put it up and everybody laughed when it was funny and got quiet when it was serious and applauded a lot at the end. Then all my friends were like, you’ve got to keep writing. So initially, playwriting was just a method of creating work for me and my friends, and ever since, I’ve been growing into the actual relationship with what it means to be a writer. It may be what I’m meant to do, but I’ve found my way there more than thinking, I want to write. - American Theatre, The Community of Stephen Adly Guirgis

More on SAG’s interest in how theater builds and affects community:

He also remains dedicated to theatricalizing underrepresented communities onstage.

“At the end of the day, my hope and expectation when I go to the theatre or I’m creating theatre is that I’m going to see myself in the characters, that they’re going to be relatable,” Guirgis said in a recent interview. “I think to some degree, anything that’s relatable becomes more human.”

Your plays are done all over the country and even internationally. What do you want theatres that do your plays to know?

The only thing that I really want or care about is this idea of, I somehow write a play at my kitchen table, and then later people I’ve never met get together in places I’ve never been and have hopefully a good experience together communally, based off the fact that I wrote something at my kitchen table. That gets me going. I’m just happy they’re doing the plays. I remember when I did Our Lady of 121stStreet in Chicago, one guy was like, “In Chicago, there’s a lot of theatre, and so there’s a lot of opportunities. But largely there’s white theatre and there’s a black theatre and a Latin theatre, and they’re all thriving. But you wrote a play that forces those three things to come together so we get an experience that we don’t normally get.” What else is there? A play is not a cure for cancer. The best play in the world is not going to make peace. But it’s going to create a community to perform it, and it’s going to be performed for a community, and when those communities are spicy, when there’s different ingredients in the pot, that to me is the most beautiful thing. - American Theatre, The Community of Stephen Adly Guirgis

And his reflection on the inherently autobiographical nature of good art:

Where do you get your inspiration for your plays? Are they based on personal experience?

Anything that’s any good—whether it’s a play or a movie or a performance or a dance—it’s going to be contained by a lot of autobiography, and it’s just that some pieces employ more metaphor and some pieces can be seen more literally. I wrote a play a few years ago called The Little Flower of East Orange, and it dealt with family. And people saw that play as being overtly autobiographical. And it was interesting because it was, but it wasn’t. I don’t think it was any more autobiographical than anything else I’ve written—just like the employment of metaphor. So if I write a play that takes place in a prison with a serial killer and a bike messenger, which I did years ago [Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train], nobody is going to write or say, “Oh, it’s about his blah blah blah.” But it’s coming from here. - American Theatre, The Community of Stephen Adly Guirgis

[antinonymous]

Love never changes.  Nor does it eat, nor age, nor laugh, nor blink, It’s war. I’ve lived a life with many men who only ever use anger and joy to justify feeding and breeding constant war. Hate adapts and evolves. The difference between the two can seem blurry, but when the line between love and hate is stark, you’ll know. But you can’t always. That fantastical shit can’t exist. No, there’s a bunch of times where one must scream incoherently and without language to convey indescribable human emotions. Sometimes, that’s the only way to rid oneself of such feelings.

This right here is my personal masterpost and autobiography.

Even in the grim excesses and radically-different expressions of the human form, it is always just that- human. But though every human is human, not all humans are humane. What good is a human who only wants for themselves? What good is any thief or hoarder? That’s an unnatural human; a walking corpse designed by generations upon generations of class division and specific manufactured complacency in postmodernity.

In my story I encountered several fiends involved with thievery and acrimony. Why would anyone try to say there is a good thief? Where is the justification for mass destruction for brief momentary pleasure and profit? What justifications can someone possibly have for exploitation, mechanisation, and, again, general thievery imposed against the majority of humankind? Where’s the love in that? The rich will take and hoard all they can and make sure the needy and impoverished will die off, and that gives them their sickening feeling of love, which complacency then turns into the norm. Workers below are commanded “die off and shut up”. And I’m aware this is a tumblr post, so I trust you know that a plurality of folk receive such a message. I have, and perhaps you have too.

As I type this, I’m beginning to question how I should even say what I need to. Power is a strange thing. Having the ability to affect others’ actions is the definition I was given for it (as well as a confusion with it and Newtonian physics in my youth). The origins of where those in power come from often involves going through hundreds of years of violence. For example, stuff X is his. Why is it his? His great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather stole X from everyone else who had a say on it and had fewer qualms about using whatever means to get X. Now everyone agrees X is rightfully his when it almost always is obviously not. There’s a lot of powerful power analogies I could use, but I’ll keep this post spiritual.

Many will criticise, say, the Christian religion, due to the abhorrent, bastardly and genocidal ways with which they’ve gained and kept their power, particularly in Europe and the Americas. However, the history of early Christianity shows an absurd cabaret of many characters, some of whom I’d coöperate with, in another life. My favourite is Valentine. Why? Because he is a joke relic of history; a legend so cool that nobody ever decided to soberly (or accurately) figure out his or their life or lives. There were many Christians at the time with his name, and the stories people have of him/them are all over the place. Reading about ‘him’ is like looking into the files of a bunch of stoners who can never properly sort their shit, saying “yeah man this Valentine guy cured this old hag…or maybe... no she was like 18... anyway… and he, like, made them hear because they were deaf!” And then another guy says that the girl was blind and could then see, and that that particular guy wasn’t actually Valentine but possibly someone else (or maybe even 20 people; apparently it was a very popular name at the time).

An early memetic guy was he, who was such a courageous badass (or dumbass) that the stories don’t really have to make sense or be consistent- his character of a martyr helping Christians get Christian weddings during the time of illegal Christianity just sounds like the type of radical non-conformist that modern Christianity needs. He did what he felt was right and told Roman authority to fuck off. When Rome became Christian, the Christian became Roman. Rome was, of course, decadent. Thus became the Christian. The Roman elite had stolen Christianity from the poor and subverted it to justify later European atrocities for profit.

But the original idea is still there- where the weak can feel as safe and strong as the already powerful. Modern Christianity is such a watered-down, bigoted bore. What happened to those willing to behead or get beheaded for to fight against oppressive systems of power? Or of the teachings to men to gouge out their eyes so as to not sin against women? As someone who loves salty food, I must admit that modern Christians are not the Salt of the Earth, but rather the Grease of the Earth. Peanut Butter and such.

You could easily describe me as angry. Anger is a bit of a drug that can appear to try to assist in any and every given situation. Despite the many times I may have let my anger go too far, I don’t get bogged down in my regrets because of the outlandish and downright advantageous times where said anger has helped me deal with nasty people who hate general humanity and only crave destruction if and when it means they can profit. Many of these people use the Christian god to justify their own expansion. Nowadays the Christians and romantic, godless Pagans are both plebeians with the actual patricians now wealthier than ever; we fight and snatch what little we have from the claws of a pesky, greedy, and stubborn crab while said crab says it is handing out all it has. As if.

Valentine did likewise in the Roman Empire. He wanted to let others feel validated as they loved one another, to the death, and if he’d seen the church’s vast history of refusing to let others be themselves and love who they love, that he’d have been agitated at that. It makes you wonder if heaven is now filled with anti-Christian converts who collectively decided “fuck, we all fell for a scam!”

As you can tell, this is gonna be a long one. My story is profane but it’s the life I’ve lived. If you can’t already tell, I’m a bit unsure as to where to start. I don’t want people identifying me but I’ve never stood out. I’m neither tall nor short- 5′7″. I have green eyes, and I have i have dirty blond hair that’s thick yet soft. I indulged in henna in my youth; by age 6 I was a regular to having sleeves. I’ve personally never been one to dress fancy-like. For most of my childhood and adolescence I exclusively wore black, white, green, yellow, and red. One for each day of the work-week. These weren’t always worn in that order, but it was a tradition for me to wear them because I didn’t bother to look any different. Lazy, sure. But it’s not like you’re gonna come in from the screen and get me and tell me ‘I should’ve been more outgoing in my youth’. I was raised to not care about superficial stuff like that by my mom, Eunice

She died in 2007 from stomach cancer. My dad was already a mildly incessant depressant from a poor, sad family, so he never really got over her loss.

The Housing Market Crisis© the following year left my uncle, a financial business executive, completely broken and destitute. He lost a considerable fortune and could no longer to afford his home, rendering him unemployed and homeless. This meant he had to move in with my widowed father and my motherless self. I remember seeing a distinct change in his behaviour from him as he no longer treated corporate and government higher-ups with the same respect he once had; now heavily invested in organised economic ideas he’d dismissed in his youth. I was concerned but my dad was still far too sad to care. In the end it ended up being benign and incredibly beneficial.

I remember specifically having to point out to people which of them was which in my youth, due to their similar, slender, pale appearances with dense strawberry-blond hair and the same bright shade of blue eyes. My father, Yves, got many (ink) tattoos for my mom, but also for myself, his family, his love of art, mythology and more. He showed them to anyone who’d ask. My uncle, Wymer, wore heavier clothing to try to stand out but people would still mistake him for my dad being all covered up or what have you. He had to work at Walmart©, and when I told him to wear his fucking uniform out in public to differentiate him from my dad, he responded by growing a beard and never once shaving it. He also decided to never get tattooed whatsoever, and to bring books with him wherever he went because everyone in town knew Dad didn’t read a lot. The two together were altogether sad, angry, but nevertheless goofed. 

I won’t lie, saying that line to him was rude, classist, and bitchy on my part, but in the end he had a righteous fuckin’ red bush on his face which covered his mouth and neck. He was stubborn like that- to make subtle reminders of others’ statements to him was always amongst his goals, and he really enjoyed that follicle expansion.

Their differences didn’t end there.

A big one was how extroverted Wymer was compared to his brother. Even around my mom, Dad was always shy, and he frequently put himself through a lot of feeling of self-disgust, self-hate, self-pity, remorse, regret, and seemingly infinite sorrow. He often made long visits to mom’s grave which only gave passerbys the look of a vacuumous void. He was the eldest child in his family, already in his late 50s. He plead hindsight to her early warning signs; saying he “should’ve known better.” I encouraged him to find someone new, but he never dated anyone ever again. In fact, only with the exception of when he got blitzed out of his mind on cocaine in 2010 Christchurch and demanded an aged sex worker, he never even wanted to fuck again. I actually spoke to her before she left our room; I forget her name, that youngblood, for she told me only once, but she told me some stories of the industry down there. She surprised me at the end of the night by saying he spent almost the entire time with her just asking questions about the problems related to said industry; having her nevertheless conclude him a “sadist”. The following morning, he found her again and invited her to brunch, eventually allowing her to stay with us the rest of the trip. She never took her word back on dad or gave us her name. She slept alone, and she got annoyed with dad paying for all her stuff. He wrote to her off and on for the next three years using the pseudonyms she’d give him.

My uncle was more generally angry and restless; wanting to fill people in on what he felt they were missing. He would regularly attend the local bars and it wouldn’t be uncommon for him to leave and come back sober. He just wanted to witness to them folk about stuff such as the labour theory of value, the frequency of market crises, the importance of understanding global industrial pollution or something along those lines. He often complained of his mental health, namely his short attention span’s relationship to his reading. Because of this, despite him having had few years of a head start on me in political economy, I quickly read far more than him. He began paying out of pocket to attend college classes and debate professors to get a 2nd or 3rd or 8th opinion. The 2008 crash shattered his life of finance, such as an earthquake shatters a busy bridge, and he quickly realised that he’d landed far left after the debris settled. He directed his anger at profit-driven actions and abandoned belief in the free market, instead looking for community-made creation/distribution systems. ‘Finally’, he thought, 'I can lash my anger out at those who deserve so much worse than the average, common fiend.’ His willingness to learn and desire to understand were enough for me to ignore his beard’s smell and his pronounced and maddened approaches, countenances, gesticulations, and obsessions. 

None of what I’m saying is a complaint, though. I loved those two. Wymer spent a lot of his time online reading books, essays, and articles on the environment, philosophy, world history, sociology, the residue of western colonialism, and systemic societal buffoonery. He also wrote about communist witch-hunts and handed pamphlets of his thoughts to the townspeople, which the local cops weren’t ever pleased with. He was never much of a good economist but he had grand social scope. In 2019, y’all’d call him ‘woke.’ Meanwhile, Yves would spend his time painting or playing croquet with the neighbours in the backyard. He had a bit of a substance abuse problem which he always seemed to be weaker than. The cigarette lighter industry loved him. If he read at all, it’d be some cheesy novel or children’s literature. He wanted to spread happiness to others as he felt he had none himself. In 2019, y’all’d call him ‘a beta’.

Both of these men were always ones to keep me safe. Mom and dad told me they were my guardians, and my uncle swore the same thing to me after her death. They fought a lot as children but learnt to appreciate one another into adulthood with their mutual love of, among other things, listening to metal. Their quirks were what they were, and few quirks can distract from basic kindness, humility and human decency. This meant they were hostile towards all that I deemed a threat. This was such a honour I had to have those good, safe people with me. And seeing as it were that I was the only openly gay girl living in a conservative Christian town, I couldn’t have had a safer upbringing. I was a ‘witch’ surrounded by a bunch of Puritans, Papists, Quakers and Messianics who all seemed to behave similar to, and want to live in, a golden moral past which never actually existed. My father and uncle were truly the best men I ever knew, and everyone else knew that (maybe they even knowingly acted upon it). I lived in an apathetic town. ‘Other people are not my concern.’ Those people shit on the idea of being ethical, except for my home.

Every time that I’d have friends over, they’d say that our family dynamic was the best they’d ever been to before the end of their first visit. Every single time. And they knew it was because we all had a respect of each other and a desire to understand ourselves in there. I really wanted to help both of them out and they felt the same for me. My dad was specifically very gung-ho on wanting the boys at school to leave me alone. In fact, that was among the first things he said when he found out- he actively called out death to all those who sought to wish me harm, and he kept going on about contacting the school. Mom and Wymer did the same. It was a bit much, and as much as I loved and appreciated him loving and accepting me for who I am, again, it was a bit much. I’m not short and I have never lost a fight. A small part of me thinks that Yves was just scared that in whatever harassment scandal he’d imagined that I’d come out as victor and be convicted of manslaughter.

He put a lot of effort into protecting me to distract himself from the fact that I, spiritually, was now protecting him. Appearances deceive. He never fully learnt that from me.

He also forgot my friends Shane, Mack, and Albin. These boys were quick to learn and prudent in judgment. They were among the first I came out to since they were generally nice, soft-spoken nihilists who didn’t flirt with any girl or woman under any circumstances. They all generally looked alike, so it’d always be easy to look for them in the streets. These three hated each other but were the type of outcasts too lazy to care about making other friends. We all loved playing soccer and othergames Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokémon and Magic the Gathering as kids. Since we grew up in the same neighbourhood, we played with each other enough to turn our friendship unbreakable. We all had a sacred blood-bond in our own type of weeaboo mysticism.

At some point in 8th grade I made them all swear a type of Knight’s oath in service to none other than me if and when other boys wouldn’t take 'no’ for an answer. I was going through an edgy phase so my exact wording was probably something more like an order to “defend their queen against normie, goblin scum” or something to that effect. They and I all read the same fantasy and sci-fi bullshit so I really wanted my message to stick like jizz glue. I was their queen because I always beat them at their games. I always found the rarest Pokémon wasting the least amount of Pokéballs. I always found the most Minecraft diamonds. I always ended up killing the most enemies on COD. That shit was glorious; if only Twitch© were a thing back then. When you’re a girl and you’re consistently better at games than a cis male gamer, boy oh boy does it upset them. Normally it angers them, but these three specifically were far too nihilist to be that rude- my skillz instead humbled them, and a bunch of kids in my position would milk friendships like that for all it’s worth. Those three agreed and kept their word in flame.

This plan sorta backfired. The boys stopped flirting with me and knew I sought no romance with them, good, but now all the girls avoided me and started giving me harsh glares (One even gave a free pink King James Bible, with the irony sadly being entirely lost on my giver). I didn’t quite realise my plan immediately led to them telling others. In hindsight, that should’ve been more obvious. I felt a formidable and frosty chill from said others, as well as glares that made me feel like I was a carefully-watched animal. I’m thankful that dad and Wymer didn’t allow me to have a smartphone at that time, because cyberbullying has always been such a steaming pile of aardvark mucus, and I, in middle school, needed to see none of what they wrote.

Most of the staff pretended not to notice and gave slaps on the wrist for punishment. But I had a secret weapon- friends and family who always loved me despite not always trying to understand me. They meant well in defiance of their occasional insensitivity, their budding awareness of ignorances and their lack of any idea of what it was they were trying to do.

It was all I had; better than nothing- better than many. They’d listen. Listening is classically underrated; people have spent way too long not shutting the fuck up. This allowed them to try to understand. When you get someone primed for some understanding, then can you extol to them whatever bullcrap it is you must say. And, if in-fact Yves and Wymer understood, then they’d go apeshit for the next week and a half on the staff. They never realised how often my friends got suspended for the same reason.

There’s several good tales I could tell, but my favourite started by Albin simply talking to a school administrator about certain new policies which seemed to be very excessively Christian-in-nature and vaguely queerphobic. He was irate that he wasn’t able to go to a school dance with Shane, since Mack was my date and we didn’t care to go with other people. This staff member was higher up than a mere teacher so he was in a position to cast judgment on my friend. But Albin always fucking hated this guy so he didn’t cower in fear. This administrator was a real prick and everyone there knew it, so when Shane and Mack heard them two screaming in an abandoned hallway, they went to the source of the sound, with Shane recording on his camera. He recorded a short, rambunctious, vague, and incoherent dialogue with the two which included the administrator saying, among other things, that he’d “wipe the school clean of all you disrespectful millennial f*ggots”. Albin went full steam ahead through that horsecrap, instantly declaring him a kind of religious oligarchical czar; saying to him that he was forcing the school board to bow down before a type of ugly deity.

“It may as well be called Holy Law! Whoever does not fall down and worship shall be instantly cast into a white-hot furnace? Is that what you’re saying? That’s basically what you’re saying! Obey or perish! Is that what you want? Will you condemn those who you refuse to let exist?” The administrator made them leave their space when he realised a sizable crowd had watched him make an ass of himself.

Before he could leave, however, Mack joined in- “Hey administrator-”

The administrator genuinely looked at Mack as if he were expecting cold-hard cash- as if Mack was going to be a perfectly obedient, whipped coward. That stupid man had no true emotions. Mack said,

“If our god, whom we now serve, can save us from the white-hot furnace and from your hands, oh mister, may he save us! But even if he will not, know, oh you, we will not serve your interpretation of god or worship your fools-gold societal standards which you set up!” Shane was laughing the whole time.

They all got 8 days suspension for that, 8 times longer than normal. The administrator thankfully got fired, though, for the content of what was recorded. I have no idea where the worship ceremony thing came in but I loved it, and ‘the white-hot furnace’ was our class’ inside joke for the rest of the year. In town we’d hear “Look! I see four of y’all walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like one of the gods.”

This was typical in my hometown of Yeastville for what seemed like a very long time. It was claustrophobic and filled with a lot of frustrating people, but I knew I had it better than many others in my position. Wymer in particular was always a strange source of comfort with all his bitterness toward the rich and his genuine tenderness towards almost everything and everyone else (except those amongst us poor who wish to maintain the status quo of the current flow of capital; he had no sympathy for those who defend parasites). On my 16th birthday he gave me lectures, essays, rants, and even comedy bits in a type of crash-course on women, communism, class-conflict, and the nightmare of ecology, with tons of books. I literally have never met or heard of anyone learning Marxist theory from their uncle. Dad was never much into politics which let him and I go buck wild with reading. They both also allowed me to get the internet in my pocket, allowing me to access all of recorded human knowledge. Learning the hardships of life throughout history all relating to the ways European colonisation and christianisation made their effects on the world made perfect sense when I considered how Shane, Mack and Albin always had a type of assurance that they’d be alright in the end after getting in trouble at school and that I’d always end up getting shat on by most of the rich, Christian staff. We’re living in a society. Uncle Wymer was a very staunch commie who never tried to make enemies, but rather had among the softest of intent all the while nevertheless gathering more and more enemies. Having a man like that in my proximity, in the country, is luck. Dad gave me life and general feelings of warmth and love but Wymer gave feelings of inter-personal and inter-sectional solidarity with red-tinted love. 

They were both very optimistic yet sad.

However, if I had been raised in any other home at any other time by any other parent or guardian then I’d never have realised my potential that I and y'all have to be the type of total badass who writes shit like this. Those two always told me to strive for what I want and need, no matter what society’s expectations are. You’re always you, yourself, and the stains of other people, so get some fucking confidence. When I was put through the fear of 2013, that confidence gave me wings with which I’ve soared ever since.

Back in early 2011, a new girl came to the first day of school. She was in my grade and all we were told about her was that she was colourblind, tall, and from a rich family. I clearly remember thinking thinking was going to hate her, as I assumed she was going to the type of bitch spoiled by an extravagant and decadent bourgeois family- the type Wymer would always warn about.

When she walked into homeroom, she was looking at her feet. She was visibly nervous and uncomfortable. She was indeed less than a foot shorter than our 6'7″ teacher, Mr. Young (no relation). She was lanky with medium-length black hair. She looked tired and thoroughly spooked, with a thoroughly frightened glare in her big, green eyes. She wore a medium-length beige dress with dark boots. She’s giggling next to me as I type this. Whatever, lovely. I don’t want people identifying you either.

She eventually started walking toward me, looking at our first names on the desks placed alphabetical order. I believe in the power of first impressions and she did not meet my expectations.

For context, Yeastville is a poor rural town with few resources which still had 90s technology and desks from the 70s. One of those desks broke with some kid in it as she was passing me, and this pushed her, making her fall on me. She promptly got up, looked at my name on my own desk, said “I’m sorry, Yasmine,” and immediately went to the person who broke their desk, having no discernible concern for her new bruises.

We just so happened to have some extra desks so there was no actual problem, it just became the story of the day. After staff made sure everybody was okay, she sat down behind me. I knew I’d never known anyone named ‘Ymir’. She formally introduced herself by apologising profusely and showering me in compliments. This was not the behaviour I’d expect from someone from her family. She was different than any rich folk I’d heard about from the news, books, or from Wymer. Then again, he wouldn’t necessarily have been researching the children of millionaires.

And yes, she was very rich. Her father was a lying lobbyist-loving liberal- a bureaucratic Bonapartist shitlord by the name of Yair Yellowhammer. I’d like to once again clarify that I’m not short, but he wasn’t much taller than me, so he actually was short. Very short. Fucking shrimp. He had meticulous, balding grey/blond hair with a big nose, filthy ears, and a carnivorous smile. His eyes always had anger within them and they were a shade of brown akin to an overcrowded prison’s cesspool. Wymer had told me about him from his twitter©, of all places. Yes, a logging company with which the congressman worked had been looking to send lots of working class folk into our vast forest, making way for chicken farms among other things.  He had moved to town because it’s still within his district but remote enough to make his poor and willingly-ignorant supporters think he fought for them in any way. Yellowhammer advanced ahead policy which would benefit his bank account and kill his enemies the fastest every single time, and Wymer’s comrades were always there to complain about the hideousness of it all. In 2019, y’all’d follow him on Twitter© a lot more.

I soon clearly saw, though, that all I knew of her father had to be cast aside because ‘for now’, I thought, ‘she’s not being hostile. Is she an enemy? Time will tell.’ I had to suck in repulsion to her family and bite my lip as we all waited for the bell to ring. This got harder to do as the day went on. She and I shared many of the same classes, and they all put the students in alphabetical order, so I was forced to spend even more time with her.

But I noticed her act like myself. Mannerisms of my persona with individual agony. At some point she said that she enjoyed my smile the most ‘out of all that she’d seen.’ All? I was nervous, genuinely starting to wonder that she was not who I thought she was. I asked about Yellowhammer and her expression turned glum. She was his daughter and she wasn’t proud of him. I stopped my questioning when I realised she clearly wasn’t straight and that her dad’s sexist, homophobic rhetoric may have given her a big can of worms that I was not quite yet in a position to open. Every answer I got from my interrogations only made her more visibly uncomfortable. She hated him, and I was now acutely aware of that.

I asked those brothers at home what they thought and they both told me to ‘just go for it.’ This frustrated me because with all I said I never mentioned if I liked her, but that was the extent of their advice. Even Wymer had little to say:

“She sounds like a nice person…she sounds like the reason why Yellowhammer keeps his life private.”

Eventually, I confirmed this. She’s a fine and strong ‘degenerate’ who, in any other form, would easily strike terror into the heart of Yair. But in her true form she was subject to cruelty unlike that seen in most parts of the country. She told me story after story of him forcing her into all sorts of awful shit- from weeks of forced scripture readings, to a specific 2-week stay at conversion camp, and even the threat of circumcision. Her step-mother, Yannick, added to this torment. She had married Yair only to birth a new son who’d receive the Yellowhammer inheritance instead of Ymir, who, like me, was an only child. She said to me it was her speaking out against the loggers and industrial farmers which led him to admit to such a thing. She had no uncles or aunts to turn to, and her grandparents had long since passed.

“You’re meek,” he said, “You already have the earth.”

Shane, Mack and Albin tried to help me help her and were their typical selves after I got a girlfriend, having now the chance to compete amongst themselves in their games without fear of me beating them. We four discovered her love of astronomy and the English language. She also helped those three with their Spanish to the point of the four of them having entire conversations, where I’d mock them all in French.

Those were, and these still are, times of love; romantic and platonic.

This was then how it was for many months, with both of our home lives getting progressively worse. The Yellowhammers became poorer in spirit and my family became poorer in general.

In late 2012, my other uncle and aunt Eugene and Ulysse Yarborough died in a mudslide, leaving my only cousin, Ywain, out in the world on his own. Neither Yves nor Wymer had the proper income to adopt him, so he was forced by the state to enter foster homes. We weren’t ever real close, but I thought about him a lot when I’d consider whatever unimaginable shit he’d have been going through. These thoughts asked similar questions about Ymir.

By senior year, she and I had a bit of a routine where I was, according to the Yellowhammers, her tutor. This was a big, big lie, hiding raged, adolescent fever, which I’d never get into for y'all. I have no need nor desire to indulge you sick fucks with your disgusting, overactive imaginations. I’m no historian, but I would rather refrain from espousing details on this website because I believe it also gave us the word ‘turbovirgins.’

Anyway, the actual most dastardly and illegal thing we’d do was when we’d go on walks and we’d stumble across logging sites in the woods where trees were being cleared. Stories began circulating throughout the people of the town. Everyone started blaming a secret cabal of conspiratorial green-freaks putting sugar into the fuel tanks of the many construction machines. Every single time, however, it was just me, with Ymir keeping watch over my shoulder (except a few times when I went with Wymer; he would always obsessively check every single machine to make sure it was thoroughly fucked for weeks. He never thought he’d ever become too old for that shit). Nobody ever figured us out, and the developers became years behind schedule.

The last time she and I did that was in early February 2013. After looking from our vantage point on a wooded hilltop onto the main street, I saw an unfamiliar face in the Yeastville crowd. No…it was familiar…familial. It was Ywain. He looked dirty and tired. His jeans were green from travelling through grass and his trench-coat was covered in a thick layer of pollen, dust and snow. His scarf was tattered and his short, dense hair was a mess from lack of rest. I knew not of his plans, and I knew Yves and Wymer were also unaware of them, as none of us had been contacted. I thought little of it. Valentine’s day was in less than a week, and I didn’t want to get distracted from the celebration. When I told those two brothers at home, they assured me there was nothing to worry about, letting me sleep.

The day before the holiday, Ymir tells me that her dad would be taking her to a private school within the next two weeks to finish her education. This was his response to her telling him about me, and prom, I guess. ‘Great’, I thought. I never had or wanted any money- just peace of mind. Society’s expectations of a person can truly break them if they aren’t cut out for them, and I was never looking forward to tending the land of the Young Farm- even with the thought of having it with Ymir. This was my only option, since college was basically never an option for my incredibly indebted family.

No, I always wanted to lead a life with the only expectations ahead of me be ones that I placed. Suicide is the easy way out, but I’ve always wanted to deny death, and have personally always been afraid of reincarnation. This means I’ll always either concoct a plan or wait it out. But I was not looking to wait until my heart stopped beating. No, I needed an alternative and I needed understanding. I got the former and have since realised I may never get the latter.

It started at 2200 hours on Valentine’s day. I’d been running late home from a painful get-together with Ymir when I notice my home having broken windows. I looked inwards after having crept forward, and saw Ywain snoring on our couch. He was even more of a mess than before. I scanned in the dark with my vision and saw my father and uncle laying in bloody pools on the floor. I realised now that Ywain had invaded the home to kill all three of us and take all of grandpa’s inheritance for himself.

There were a lot of recent arguments about the inheritance from our grandpa, an old black man named Kanye Young (that really was his name, true story- there’s a hundred rants I memorised of Grandpa Ye having to tell people he generally hated music and wasn’t related to mister West). It all amounted to a little more than $30,000, thanks to government interference. I had asked both grandpa and dad if Ywain could be included in on the inheritance after the accident but all the adults involved refused, citing my aunt Ulysse’s direct orders to not include him. This type of fucking behavior I now saw may have been why. The stories I heard about him were always that he was a self-centred brat who always wanted more than everyone else and felt that he deserved it, and it showed. He would’ve rather killed his family to go through a legal loophole rather than face the fact his past actions made his mother feel the way she felt and try to change for the better.

It seems that after he killed his uncles, he realised his cousin wasn’t home and decided to nap on the couch waiting for me. I wanted to cry, but then I took a second to contemplate my situation, and I saw potential. I now felt I had been offered the strength of the cosmos, but I rejected it, as I was, and still am, so much stronger. I was not about to let myself be a ward of the state. This is not the tone I wanted my story to have. I was not about to abandon their lessons those two gave to me of fighting for what I need and to be an annoying, squatting prick when it’s needed. I was told of a promising future, so who’s to say I can’t build one for myself? In general, what is there to say? I now had motivation to act- to let myself legally die. The potentiality of a plan ran through my body like oxygen-rich blood, so I ran to Ymir’s house with said plan.

She’s next to me as I type this and she and just got into a bit of an argument for that last, misleading sentence. It wasn’t really a plan. Plans have lots of precision, detail and a need to be made with a careful attitude. I, on the other hand, made a glorified to-do list and went into the Yellowhammer residence guns-blazing. Literally.

I had brought out Wymer’s guns and knives for my trip. Wearing his goddamn Mitt Romney mask and dad’s goatskin leather jacket, I looked like both death and a total meme. The Yellowhammer residence was situated on the outskirts of town in a remote location with no neighbours, so I was able to get to their house with no problem. I’d never been able to explore much of it beforehand, but Ymir had described it to me to the point where I could easily go about my way. When I found Yair and Yannick in bed, I even knew the right places to walk to ensure they couldn’t hear me (Ymir said she’d do this to mess with Yair’s stuff as he slept). There was no conflict or fight; it was anticlimactic and faster than it seemed. For her last words, Yannick thanked me.

Ymir, when she eventually ran into me, was understandably nervous, but after I explained everything, she relaxed and asked how she could help. We stole a bunch of gold and clothes before setting the house ablaze.

We ran back to my house, where Ywain was till asleep on my couch. We sneaked up behind him, drugged him, and bludgeoned him until he was completely out of it. We had a bag on his head so he couldn’t see us, and made sure to speak to each other in fake voices in case he could hear. Afterwards, we took off his clothes and replaced them with Yair’s. My plan was that Ywain would then be blamed for the murder of both our families, ourselves, and the Yellowhammer arson.

After we were done with that, we exited my house for the last time. It was around 3 (AM), so the town was still relatively quiet. She was nervous and asked if we could have one last walk through the streets. I made sure to show her all the most beautiful views across many streets. After this, we started walking in the woods toward the city. After changing our names, vocal patterns, styles and certain aspects of our attitude, we were ready to take on the world. It’s 2019 and we still are!

When we got to the city we knew we had to keep a low profile and not try to attract attention. I decided to do this by taking up the mantle from Wymer and I got a job in retail. He’s giving me a grin from heaven. You know the grin; the overtly smug grin that’s only ever 100% condescension, and even when they say they’re not trying to be condescending that just makes you feel it more. Ymir, on the other hand, works at a popular bookstore; keeping stock whilst also writing both book reviews and poetry. We make just enough money to get food, weed, and keep our landlord at bay. I hope you people on this site saw the post about some person who bought a dog whistle to make their landlord’s dogs incessantly bark to the point where the poster could then complain to their landlord that their ‘dogs are barking too much.’ Ymir and I did the same thing, and I recommend it. They’ve probably got the first two Rage Against The Machine albums memorised by this point since that’s all she and I ever listen to. In short, we gave him constant hell.

Things were going surprisingly well for us. It was weird to talk to others about ‘where we came from,’ but we never lied enough to have inconsistencies with our stories. But one day, I had to deal with a co-worker- a Wiseguy. This Wiseguy’s often talkative, but on that day they seemed quiet, tense, anxious, and struck with overwhelming terror- especially when working with me. I asked them if all were well, and they said no. I asked why, and they gave me a look of someone falling to their death.

They swallowed their spit,

“I was watching a YouTube video yesterday about freaky, unexplained crimes, and there was one in particular that caught my attention. A man had apparently killed a congressman and his family, then proceeded to burn down the entire house to ashes before then killing his own two uncles and cousin on the other side of town.”

I looked on, screaming internally, saying calmly,

“…Okay?”

“But,” they continued, “The bodies of the congressman’s daughter and the murderer’s cousin, who was living with his uncles, were never found. There’s also some inconsistencies in the times of death, along with the fact the perpetrator specifically only ever plead guilty of his uncles’ deaths, not that of his cousin or of the congressman’s family.”

I stared in silence. They weren’t done.

“I looked a little into it, and it seems that the congressman’s daughter had a diary that survived the flames. One section that caught my attention was how she was going to have deal with a new baby brother because she was not seen to be a proper heir to the congressman’s wealth.”

This wouldn’t have bothered me at all if Ymir hadn’t told them less than a week prior of her new tragedy involving a tyrant wasting his life in the prospect of a male heir since he hates the princess, our narrator. I felt trapped and exposed. Goddammit, I always told her to check TvTropes© and she never did.

“Are you ready to go?”

It was Ymir. She was standing by my side since her shift had apparently ended early and mine was due to end at any given moment. I turned worryingly to Wiseguy, who had a huge smile on their face. They said,

“I really, really fucking hated Yellowhammer. His death did wonders for the planet, and, uh, I am your friend…so just please tell me what you can when you can!” They then sent me home and walked away.

I eventually told Wiseguy everything. There was no reason to hide; they figured out that I was Yasmine Young. They didn’t have any kind of scared or nervous reaction. Quite the contrary, they were utterly fascinated. And they wanted to help, giving us stuff from make-up tutorials to online spots where we could maintain pseudo-anonymity. They were a comrade much like Wymer, becoming something of my and Ymir’s best friend, being the only one who ever figured us out.

And then, everything went quiet. Nobody said anything after that. ‘Finally,’ I thought, ‘it’s all in the past.’

Last week, after a while of having muscle cramps in our abdominal regions, we learn we both have terminal stomach cancer, the disease that killed both our moms. We can’t afford treatment, and even if we could, we don’t have enough time left to go through thosr miles of legal red-tape. She and I took a while to decide on what we need to do, and we decided to post this. My wife and I have story and we won’t die silently. We have voices that can be heard and words that can be read.

But I’ve said enough about us, back to you, reader- you can do so much better. Practice and improvement is always an option. We, collectively as a people, are stronger than we admit to ourselves. We are the true rulers of the earth; letting a small bunch of ornamental fucks hold our shit for us. The ruling class is a parasite, and like every parasite, it can be killed by, and is smaller than, its host.

Come and get me, INTERPOL, because we have loaded guns and more than enough ammunition to kill ourselves and well over 100 landlords. You can’t get cigarettes with a fake ID but you can get a gun license with it. However, I have no faith in the ability of the cops to use 2019 technology in general, let alone tumblr. Eat santorum, cops.

I’m posting this to Wiseguy’s blog without their permission, and I hope someone on this site can hear me and preserve my words. I hope you read this entire thing because I now that I’ve looked through your blog I have to tell you that you’re a bit inarticulate and shitty at economic theory. I’ll have to send this post to Shane, Mack, and Albin’s blogs, since they appear to still be active.

To end this, I must speak again of Valentine. He may as well have been an anonymous tumblr blog for all history cares because the affects an action matters far more than the individual who performs it. His history is inconsistent and chaotic, but is love not chaos? Not a Petersonian “"“chaos”“”, but an unrivaled, unparalled and uncanny type of lustful wrath that can take out all of hate’s laziness. You can reject both pure nihilist sloth and desire-driven consumerism. Total freedom should not be seen as an extreme!

There’s a lot to take in; you can’t get it all. Do what you know helps. Do what we know helps.

To decontextualise Richard Dawkins-

“…be satisfied with not understanding the world.”

Sin with pride

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Green and Orange, Black and Blue

“This ain’t right. I mean… I’m a little scared, Church. There ain’t no way this is natural. I think I’m starin’ at some kinda Cthulu-esque wrongness and I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.” Looking down at the styrofoam cup of orange Jell-O in their hands, Mike flipped it upside down. Gave it a light shake. Nothing. The jiggly dessert stayed put, in defiance of the laws of gravity, and the New York brawler gave their partner a pointed, brow-raised look. John’s attention however was focused on the view through their third floor window. They had been both taken to Saint Boniface Hospital, just moments away from the arena, and the last two nights had been tenuous to say the least. “Used to be my dessert every dinner.” Mike frowned, their head dipping slightly in a wordless sort of apology, put the Jell-O cup down, and fidgeted. They’d been fidgeting a lot since they woke up, which at least was preferable to their initial reaction- as soon as they realized where they were, they began to hyperventilate, and it was only through the gentle intervention of their girlfriend that they hadn’t fallen apart completely. The presence of their partner kept them steady even when Natalie had to leave, but the last two days had still been a constant stream of twiddling fingers, gnawed lips, and bitten nails. They would blame it on their deep unease in their surroundings. It wouldn’t be a lie, either, however, it wouldn’t be the entire cause. “Anyway. I dunno about you, but I am so fucking ready to get out of here.” They tugged at the slightly loose hem of their very old and very comfortable Mr. Met t-shirt. John turned around. He had on a nondescript grey t-shirt, blue jeans, and his tennis shoes. Both members of NSFW were dressed and ready to process out, and not a moment too soon in Mike’s opinion. He smiled slightly at Mike. “Certainly.” John had been diagnosed with a mild concussion. And bruised ribs when he had broken Mike’s fall. He had reviewed the footage last evening. One moment, they were fighting back. Next, nothing. He woke up slightly to the tapping of someone’s fingers on a keyboard before succumbing back to sleep. The gravity of the situation wasn’t understood until the next morning. Mike, for their part, had come away with minor back trauma and head injuries of their own. Their memory of the aftermath of what happened was equally as hazy. One moment they were sailing through the air, desperately trying to redirect their fall so they didn’t land on their partner, and the last thing that’d gone through their head after that was that they’d failed to do so. It seemed, Mike thought, that they were failing at a lot of things lately. “...hey. I’m sorry. I really am.” They left their apology open ended. It could be for any number of things, and it applied to all. John looked at Mike curiously. “About what?” “...everything.” They looked down at their hands, the nails nibbled near down to the quick. “This is all my fault. I know I can’t fuckin’ prove a thing, but… if I just woulda listened to you none of this woulda happened, and now I went and got you hurt just because I had to play a stupid prank on that asshole. I’d say something about how guys named Steve cause me nothing but fucking grief b-but I kicked the hornet’s nest and you’re paying for it and you didn’t even do nothin’ wrong.” They lifted one hand to their face, biting at their knuckles in lieu of the nails they’d already chewed down. John waved a hand dismissively at that notion. He stepped forward. He put a hand on theirs to stop the bad habit. “Don’t know if any of that is true. And if it were?” He brought Mike’s hand down from their face. He clasped the outside of their hand, away from the fingers intentionally. He shook his head. “Not worried about it. We’re a team. I warned you, sure. But that doesn’t matter. You heard those two. They want us both out.” “Yes. Yes it does. It fucking DOES matter. It matters because you were right and I didn’t listen, I had to be a goofy little motherfucker and get some cheap laughs. John. If I woulda got my ass kicked for that? Big deal. I don’t care. I’ve gotten my ass kicked a million times and I’ll probably get it kicked a million more. I don’t give a shit about getting fucked up because there ain’t no fucking me up worse than what’s already been done to me by a douchecanoe way worse and more vile an excuse for humanity than any of these tryhards could ever hope to be.” Their free hand wound up, almost of its own accord, on top of his. Their expression was a near desperate one. “But when something happens to you? Especially because of dumb shit I did? That’s not fucking right. I’m… I’m SICK of you having to pay for other people’s stupid fuckery. Including my own.” “I… accept your apology.” It was true, John thought, they had asked for competition. NSFW however didn’t ask to be rendered unconscious. And he had admonished Mike. But he also wanted to relate that he didn’t hold this against them. He wished Natalie was here. She would know what to say. That made him remember. “Natalie invited us to her home while she trains for her bout. You were getting your MRI when she brought it up. Could be a good idea.” “Be a better place to mend up than here.” They looked relieved. It was probably an odd reaction, but frankly they hadn’t felt right being instantly absolved of any wrongdoing as if it didn’t matter. Having an apology accepted was far better than her partner acting as if one wasn’t necessary in the first place. “I’m going to tear them apart, just so you know. I don’t care how much fucking bigger than me they are, or anyone is. If I have to break every fucking bone in those doofus’ bodies, I will. Nobody hurts you. Not outside of those bells.” There was something in their tone. Viciousness, yes, but born of something deeper. Something perhaps not as vicious at all, something that one of them didn’t quite understand and the other felt deeply guilty about. “You don’t deserve that. Not from them or anybody.” And perhaps it was from that deeper thing that Mike’s next action, unthinking, came from- a looking up, rising up on their toes a bit. Closer, an unspoken question dancing in deep green. John’s vision focused to directly gaze into her eyes. His normal aversions were wiped away. He remembered back to this one time briefly and how it seemed so similar. But without understanding what it was, he knew it to be the genuine article. And it wasn’t something else. Something that started to sputter laughter at the mere thought of this. He lowered his head closer to theirs. “Mike...” Their eyes slipped shut, a slight blush coloring their cheeks, and they leaned a bit further upward and RING RING. RING RING. “The phone.” “The fucking phone.” Mike laughed tightly, not knowing whether to be annoyed at the sudden caller or grateful that the interruption kept them from being an even worse person than they felt they were. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair to Natalie and it wasn’t fair to John. Fucking stupid feelings being stupid. They picked up the receiver. “Hello? … Yeah, we’re coming. Be right down. … Thanks.” They grab their bag, giving their partner a nod. “Let’s vamoose, huh?” John’s normal distant expression resumed. He slung the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. “Yeah.”