#watched his dog for him while he was homeless that he ended up taking to the pound!!!

[wonderjanga]

Biblical Marvel

This is connected to the Revival post. If you don’t want to go find that, let me give a quick summary of it. In that post, Mary and Freddy die a lot in their Marvel forms. As a result of this, Billy has to revive them a lot. It honestly stresses the poor boy out too because at the end of the Revival post, Billy finds some grey hairs. So, yeah.

Anyways, so people think Marvel is god sent in human form to protect them. (Let me also connect this to the Billy is Really Old post too. In that post, Billy has been a hero since 1940.) It explains why he hasn’t aged over the almost 80 years of him being a hero. Not only that but once, a homeless person asked him to turn water to wine, and he did, though that’s more a of Jesus thing.

Speaking of Jesus, some people think Mary and Junior are Jesus split in two. I mean, Mary has blue eyes (from C.C.) and brown hair (From Marilyn) for Christ’s sake. Not only that but her name is Mary. Maybe Jesus/Mary is honoring his/her mother. And as for Junior, maybe Mary took the looks and he took the gender?

Marvel: *sorting through letters and replying to a bunch of fan mail while sitting at a table in the kitchen.*

Wonder Woman: *Sitting next to him, eating ice cream*

Flash: *zips over and is now leaning on Marvel’s shoulder looking at the fan mail* “Dude, is that fan mail?”

Marvel: “Yup.” *finishes replying to a letter and putting it in the ‘done’ pile*

Flash: “How do even get fan mail? Do they know your address or something?”

Marvel: “Whiz Kid.” *picks up a super fancy looking letter*

WW: “Pardon?”

Marvel: “Whiz Kid. He gets them, and then he gives them to me.” *opens fancy letter*

Flash: “Wait, that little dude who does the radio show?”

Marvel: *Doesn’t like being called little but thinks it would be weird for him to defend himself while in Marvel form* “…Yeah… That ‘little’ dude.” *Takes out letter and reads it before sighing*

WW: “What’s wrong?”

Marvel: “The pope asked me to dinner again.” *sighs again and puts letter down on table to slouch and spin in his chair like a depressed little kid* “Now I gotta think of another excuse.”

WW: “The pope? As in the Catholic pope?” *eats bite of ice cream*

Flash: *looks to WW* “You know who the pope is?”

WW: *looks to Flash* “Yes? Flash, I may be from Themyscira, but I’m not completely ignorant of man’s world.” *looks to Billy* “If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you want to go?”

Marvel: *shrugs as he slows his spinning to a stop, having came up with an excuse. Picks up letter and starts replying* “I don’t know. Do you want to have dinner with a guy you’ve never met?”

WW: “I see. I suppose not.” *goes back to eating ice cream*

or

Mary: *Watching a show on a TV in Mount Justice*

Robin!Tim: “Mary? Could you help me with something?”

Mary: *pauses show* “Huh? Yeah sure.” *flies over to Tim* “What’s the problem?”

Robin!Tim: *sitting at the kitchen at the counter with a laptop* “Can you tell me everything you know about angels? I’m writing a paper about it for school.”

Mary: “Oh. Uh, sure?” *Proceeds to talk Tim’s ear off for the next 15 minutes about angels and their different types and personalities and such*

Robin!Tim: *finishes paper* “Thanks a lot.” *closes computer and hops off chair*

Mary: “No problem, but why’d you ask me specifically? Why not use the internet?”

Robin!Tim: “Aren’t you like the primary source?” *heads back to his room*

Mary: *confused*

or

*Captain Marvel flies down and asks to pet a woman’s dog when all of a sudden, a mother holding a child runs up to him*

Mother: “Please cure my child!” *holds child out to him* “You can perform one of your miracles, right? Please!”

Marvel: “What?” *looks between Mother and child.*

Child: *looks really sick*

Marvel: *gets concerned at the sick child* “You haven’t taken him to a hospital?”

Mother: “It’s too expensive! Please! Just this once.”

Marvel: “Uuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh…” ‘Solomon! Help me!’

Solomon: ‘Repeat after me, Billy’ *proceeds to rattle off healing spell*

Marvel: *repeats spell and heals child*

Mother: “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” *hugs child tight* “I’ve never been much of a religious nut, but now I’ll have to start believing more. Thank you so much!”

Marvel: *Little confused by sudden mention of religion* “Your welcome? Have a good day, miss.” *floats off the ground, giving her a little wave before flying off*

or

*Freddy is hanging outside one of a meeting rooms in the Watchtower because he wasn’t allowed in due to the face he looked like a kid. He’s now talking to someone on the phone.

Junior: *talking on a phone he magicked from God knows where while floating a foot or two off the ground*

Kid Flash: *bored out of his mind, leaning against a wall, standing next to him cause he also wasn’t allowed in for the same reason*

Junior: *ends call*

Kid Flash: “Who were ya talking too?”

Junior: “My friend, Cain.”

Kid Flash: “What, like bible Cain?” *was joking*

Junior: “Yup.” *didn’t realize he was joking*

Kid Flash: “What seriously? The Cain from the Bible? The Cain that stabbed his brother? The Cain that’s immortal because he stabbed his brother?”

Junior: “Yup.” *starts typing on phone, a little too nonchalant about the conversation*

Kid Flash: “And Cap just lets you be friends with him?”

Junior: “Uh yeah? Why wouldn’t he? You know he’s friends with him too, right?”

Kid Flash: “Wait really? Shouldn’t they hate each other or something?”

Junior: “No? Cain’s pretty chill.”

Kid Flash: *blinks a couple times at that* “Huh.” *he seems a little surprised*

*The meeting ends and the heroes file out of the meeting room before Kid Flash can ask another question*

[cakelitter]

Snuggle Up

Leon x Puppy- Hybrid Fem! Reader

warnings: p in v, dirty talking, slight somnophilia, pussy slapping, slight degradation

summary:  Sighing, you stare at the ceiling, thinking of a possible solution to finally be able to rest. Well… there is one way to solve it.

Sleeping next to Leon.

Getting wrapped up in his muscly embrace and being surrounded with his scent will surely scare away all of the thunder. One problem however, you’re not welcomed in his bed anymore.

words: 2.7k

a/n: sleepy and irritated Leon is so ughhh. Hope you enjoy him as much as I do!!

Thunder rumbles, over and over again, making sure your eyes don’t get a moment of rest. It’s been storming the past few days, but today has to be the worst day yet. Gloomy skies making it hard to tell what time of the day it is.

And there you are, bundled up in bed at four am with your tail tucked in between your legs whenever lightning strikes.  What if the house gets struck? Then you’ll be homeless again, living on the streets and getting kicked by random drunk men on the road. God no, no, no, anything but that again.

You twist and turn in bed, but it all comes useless at easing your worries. You’ve tried everything, counting sheep, counting to a hundred, and placing the pillow over your head, trying to block the sound from your floppy ears.

Should’ve known the last one wouldn’t work, your hearing is good, amazing actually. You’re grateful for that, getting to eavesdrop on Leon’s phone calls when he’s inside the office that you’re not allowed in, or listening to the couple upstairs fight about chores for the third time this week.

However, in this current circumstance, you wish you could just rip them off and sleep in peace. You have the comfiest mattress, with the comfiest pillows, and a hoard of stuffed animals to keep all the scary monsters that will try to grab your legs at bay.

 Sighing, you stare at the ceiling, thinking of a possible solution to finally be able to rest. Well… there is one way to solve it.

Sleeping next to Leon.

Getting wrapped up in his muscly embrace and being surrounded with his scent will surely scare away all of the thunder. One problem however, you’re not welcomed in his bed anymore.

Apparently, you kick in your sleep, hoard the blanket, and drool a lot, and he’s not getting enough sleep because of that.

How rude.

You are doing him the courtesy of warming his bed and dog piling on him like you did as young pup with your litter mates to keep him warm, and he doesn’t even appreciate that.

And so, you have to sleep in your own bed now. Is he not scared for your safety? What if a murderer sneaked through your window and tried to hurt you? So what if you live seven stories high, it’s still not safe!

Clearly Leon doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and is not taking your safety seriously like an owner should.

Maybe you can just sneak into his bed without waking him up. Pinky promising that you will be on your best behavior. No kicking, no hoarding, no dog piling, and no drooling. Easy Peasy.

Grabbing your pillow, you head over to his room across the hall. Your hand reaches over to the door knob, and slowly twists it, making sure it doesn’t creek too loud.

The bathroom light seeps into the dark bedroom, illuminating the sight of Leon’s bare back to you. His hair is splayed out across the white pillow case as his chest rising and falling with mellow breaths.

Closing the door behind you, you make your way to his bed, placed against the wall in the corner of the room. Tiptoeing just like how you see in the colorful cartoons you watch. You spot an empty space on the bed, but you have to climb over Leon to get there.

He’s a light sleeper, not sure if he’s always been like this; however, life events definitely have a play in that. Luckily though, today he came back from work exhausted.

Promised you to watch a movie together, well you ended up watching the movie while he snored next to you. And as soon as it ended, he got up, placed a kiss on your forehead and dragged himself to bed. Maybe you were having extra trouble falling asleep because you didn’t get enough pets and love today.

You have needs, and they need to be met.

Never were the high maintenance type, used to be grateful whenever someone felt bad for your sorry ass and threw you a half-eaten chicken nugget. Staring at them and their food so intensely, praying that they drop dead so you could eat whatever’s left.

But things are different now, you sleep with a full stomach and a worry-free brain.

Placing one knee on the mattress, feeling it shift with your weight, you place your palm on the soft surface and begin to crawl over.

Is there a smarter way to be doing this? Absolutely.

But you like a little fun challenge.

As your torso is above Leon’s sleeping body, you feel him shift a bit, making you hold your breath and cross your fingers that he doesn’t think you’re an intruder. His instincts would activate so fast, you’d be slammed onto the wall on the other side of the room within a heartbeat.

Thankfully, he doesn’t wake up, and you successfully manage to make it onto the bed. Taking in a deep breath and smiling, proud of yourself, you place your head on your pillow and take one final look at your sleeping owner.

His brows are relaxed, the knots that are usually there disappearing. Shallow breaths are the only sound echoing through the silent room along with light snores here and there. He sleeps shirtless, always had. Although when he used to let you sleep with him, he’d put on a shirt because “it’s not appropriate” or whatever.

It’s honestly bullshit, because you sleep in nothing other than an oversized shirt and panties and he never asked you to change.

Either way, he’s now top naked in front of you, blessing you with tits and all.

Listen, you’re no male anatomy enthusiast or anything like that, but you’re a Leon enthusiast because he is your favorite person in the whole world. Hence, you will in fact admire the view whenever you have the chance.

One of his massive arms is placed beneath his head to provide support while the other is draped over the bed; close to you. Chiseled abs peeking above the duvet cover, and few pieces of hair covering his face.

You want to bite him, a sweet little love bite to show your appreciation. But you have a feeling that he wouldn’t be a huge fan of that. So, shaking that idea out of your head, you pull the covers over you and close your eyes.

Tense muscles begin to relax and breaths become slower. See, all is well, you’re comfortable, Leon is comfortable, everything is great.

That’s until thunder rumbles again, causing your eyes to snap back open.

This has to be sort of sick joke the universe is playing on you. Flicking your tail and hearing it thud against the mattress in irritation, you feel the ounce of sleep that you once had, slipping away from you.

Looking back over at Leon, you purse your lips. You didn’t want to cuddle up next to him, well you did but it’s a dangerous move. Whatever, desperate times call for desperate measures. And he chose to adopt you, so a pain in the ass or not he has to deal with you.

You scooch closer to him, grabbing his arm and lifting it up to make room for you to get closer. It’s heavy, why the fuck is it so heavy. You’re struggling over here.

God forbid you get put in a situation where you have to carry him to get medical attention or to a nearby clinic. Your body would immediately give up on you.

You’re not bred for this, not one of those hybrids that can save lives or sniff drugs. You’re meant to sit at home all day and complain like you’re the one paying the bills. Might’ve been off to a rocky start when you found yourself to be homeless, but you’re past that. You have a loving home, with a loving owner, and you’re spoiled rotten.

Managing to slip into the space between Leon’s arm and the mattress, you snuggle up against is chest; taking in the musky scent of his shower gel.

“What’re you doing.” His voice sounds so groggy, barely pronouncing his words right. You hear him gulp causing his prominent adams apple to bob. He’s not even asking you; just reminding you of a topic the two of you discussed countless of times.

“I can’t sleep, thunder’s too loud.”

“Yeah, well thunder doesn’t bite sweetheart. Back to bed.” He’s ordering you around without his eyes opening once. “Aren’t you scared for my safety?”

“Not really.”

Your brows furrow, as he sleepily opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of your irritated expression. A smile creeping up on his face. “I’m just messing with you baby, I do care. It’s just that one of us has work in the morning while the other takes seven naps a day.”

His eyes close again, you’re not entirely sure if he’s going to remember this conversation in the morning.

“I promise I’ll behave.”

“Sure you will sweetheart, sure you will.” His large arm wraps around you, as he places his head on top of yours.

You take that as him agreeing to let you stay, causing a mischievous smile to flash across your face. This went smoother than you expected.

His chest is flush against you, while it is nice, you can barely breathe. You turn around, your back now facing him, and close your eyes again.

One second passes, then two, then three, and you’re sleeping position is still not comfortable. Deciding to fix it, you squirm a bit, attempting to reach a position you feel comfortable in. But you just can’t seem to get it right, either squishing your arm too hard, or your face, or your back just fucking hurts.

“Stop squirming.” His voice sounds stern, as his grip on you tightens. You raise an eyebrow in confusion, you always had the habit of shuffling till you’re comfortable, why is it such a big deal- oh.

You can feel it, the feeling of the stiff outline of his cock against the side of your ass. Freezing in place, you feel lost on what to do now. Obvious answer would be to do as you’re told and pretend like this never happen the next morning.

Or…

You squirm a little more, making sure to rub up against your owner’s boner. Letting your primal instincts take over you and savoring the choked groans that leave his mouth, his grip tightening around you even further.

Is that supposed to be a way of telling you to stop or to continue? You continue to do the latter, focusing on the sounds and heavy breaths coming from Leon, and ignoring how uncomfortably wet you’ve become.

He feels so big against you, enough to rip you in half. You wonder how he’ll feel inside of you, how nice and full you’d be. Silencing the aching desire between your thighs, claiming you as his.

A large hand grabs your hips, squeezing your side so hard to almost wince. Your movements cease as you sense him lean in closer to your ear.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop?” his breath is hot against your ear lobe; whispering through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t look like you’re behaving to me.”

All the bravery and confidence you had dissipates as he confronts you. “It felt good…”

Your voice is shaky, and barely audible. You feel trapped, unable to run and hide under the covers like you usually do. He has you here, taking accountability of your actions, no escape no way of fleeing.

“It did? Was it fun?” his tone reeks mockery, heat rushes up to your cheeks in embarrassment.

His hips thrust against you, coaxing a groan out of him. “Were you having fun toying with me? Sneaking into my bed and rubbing up against me like I wouldn’t notice?”

Shit, your panties are fucking soaked, you really shouldn’t be this turned on by this. “I’m sorry.”

A low chuckle escapes his mouth, like you just said a joke.

“No you’re fucking not.”

The mattress shifts beneath you as he gets up and yanks you flat on your back. Face now, inches away from you, fierce eyes piercing into yours. You can’t tell what’s running through his head, eyes dropping down to his jaw as it clenches then relaxes.

“I do mean it.” You don’t, no a single cell in you does. This is just a desperate attempt in trying to convince him. He won’t buy it though, no matter how bad you want him to; reading you like an open book since he day he took you in.

“You’re such a horrible liar.” His eyes squint as he shakes his head in disapproval. “You can’t be a horrible liar and a fucking brat sweetheart.”

“It’s about time that I teach you some manners, think I might’ve been too soft with you recently.” His eyes drop down to your panty clad cunt. Your shirt now bunched up at your hips, exposing the wet spot on your laced panties.

“Fuck, you really want me to fuck some manners into you huh.” Your breath hitches, mind going stupid at the way he’s talking to you. Fighting the urge to nod intensely in agreement.

His hand moves over to your cunt, cupping your mound and running his fingers up to your clit as it pulses with desire. “Such a dirty puppy I have. Here I was thinking your innocent while your cunt is soaking my fucking sheets.”

Grabbing your underwear, he pulls it up, exerting pressure onto your needy clit, causing you to moan and buck your hips. Reaching over, you grab his forearm that is supporting him above you, digging your nails into it, as your legs spread open even more for him.

“Want you inside of me, please.” He grunts at the sight of your spread legs, pussy fully on display for him. Gripping the gusset of your panties, he takes them off, tossing them into the abyss of the dark space. Hands reaching over to fiddle with the band of his sweatpants, pulling them down revealing his thick cock to you.

You don’t bark, but you would at this instant. Gawking at his length, and wondering how the head would feel against your spongy walls.

You feel the familiar sensation of his hand cupping your mound again, fingers dipping down to your leaky core, distributing the warm fluid back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

A stinging sensation makes you yelp as a hand spanks your pussy making your ears twitch at the pain. However, the unpleasant sensation is short lived, transitioning into pleasure. The line between the two fading away with every passing moment.

He chuckles once again, pleased with your reaction. “Take your punishment like a good girl baby.”

Your legs kick out as he spanks you two more times, leaving your cunt feeling hot; tears beading on your waterline. Moving up onto his knees, he grabs his dick, slapping it against your puffy clit before centering it between your folds. His eyes shoot back up into yours, as he teases your entrance.

Slowly, he thrusts into you, causing your mouth to open at the stretch, and it doesn’t take long before he bottoms out inside of you. Your hypothesis of feeling full is validated; you feel more than full, borderline too much. Causing you to squirm and claw at Leon’s chest.

Seconds later, he begins to move, backing up before thrusting back into your heat, each thrust becoming more powerful that the one before it. The two of you getting completely lost in the feeling of each other. “That’s it, take my cock baby. Fucking take it.”

The sounds coming from the apex of your thighs are nothing short than nasty. Rain falls in the background as your mind shuts off completely. Sweat beads at the top of your foreheads, Leon’s hips slamming into yours causing the bed beneath you to creek, creating a harmony along with your moans and whimpers.

The knot in your stomach eventually snaps, your body shudders as you squeeze down on Leon causing him to follow pursuit. The warm sensation of his cum feels oddly comforting as you get pulled back into reality.

“Told you that you drool a lot.” He chuckles, his thumb wiping off the saliva on the side of your mouth. Collapsing next to you, he pulls you into his arms as a sudden wave of sleepiness crashes over you. Eyelids feeling heavy, and mind feeling light; you finally begin to drift off into the sleep you craved for.

Perhaps, climbing into your owner’s bed was the right decision after all.

a/n: a little ooc i knowwww, but i had to write it.

divider by: @/plutism

[corpsekiller]

hi! could i request gintoki x reader where he is being protective of his s/o? it could be any kind of scenario!

𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐤𝐢

PAIRING. gintoki sakata x genderneutral!reader

WARNINGS. fluff, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes

SYNOPSIS. while you're out drinking at a bar with gintoki, a stranger hits on you and gintoki shows a side of him you've rarely seen before.

AUTHOR'S NOTE. my dear anon, i'm so sorry that it took me so long to write this. your request was wonderful and i hope you find this fic in the near future, even if you had to wait so long <3

LENGTH. 2.069 words

MASTERLIST

If anyone asked how you ended up here, you couldn't even explain.

The bar is dimly lit, warm light reflects off bottles of sake lined up behind the wooden counter stained with dust and dirt. The steady murmur of hushed conversations fills the air, the familiar scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke curls around your head as you slump back in your seat and let your eyes wander over the customers lounging at the tables, chatting quietly or laughing hysterically, downing one drink after the other.

Admittedly, it's not the nicest pub you've ever seen, not exactly a place you'd choose on your own considering the number of sleazy men you've already spotted lurking in the shadows of the room, drunkenly flirting with every woman that walks past them and throwing insults after them upon rejection before they throw themselves on a new prey, attempting to get in their pants.

Though sitting next to your best friend makes this rundown bar feel almost cozy if you ignore the shady barkeeper who has been sending you dirty looks ever since you stepped through the front door.

"Y'know, it's weird," Gintoki mutters, nursing his cup filled to the brim with sake and offering you a lazy grin when he finally catches your attention again and you turn around to look at him with a questioning arch to your brow.

His yukata is slightly askew, the white fabric of his sleeve slipping off his shoulder and his hair is disheveled, more than usual, though he doesn't seem to care — judging by the flush of his cheeks and the soft curve of his lips pulled into a drowsy smile, he has already had enough to make him stumble over his own feet on the way back home. "You hang out with me all the time, but you still haven't learned to handle your liquor. Just admit that you're an amateur!"

How ironic.

"Someone has to stay sober enough to drag your sorry ass home, Gin." You roll your eyes at his comment and take a tentative sip of your drink before you shift closer, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you look at him with a mischievous grin. "I don't wanna explain to the kids why you spent the night sleeping on a lonely park bench like a homeless loser. Don't forget you have to be a good role model for them."

"Ah, those damn brats," he groans and shakes his head, lazily twirling his drink as if deep in thought, though you doubt there's much going on in his mind, at least tonight. "They're the reason why I have another set of bills piling up on my desk," he complains, though there's no bite to his words. "Maybe I should sell the damn dog if we keep running shorter on food—"

"Maybe you could get a decent job, ever thought about that?"

"Oi, don't speak to the infamous Yorozuya Gintoki like that, young lady!" He scoffs and leans forward, pointing an accusatory finger at you as if you just spat into his beloved chocolate parfait right before his very eyes. "Did you forget that we repaired your roof the other day, huh? Without us, you'd soon have some creep peek through the hole in your ceiling and watch you sleep!"

"Are you sure you're not talking about yourself peeking into my room?" You smirk, barely able to stifle a laugh when he gasps loudly and clutches his chest in offense.

The banter between you two has always been lighthearted, a steady rhythm of playful teasing and sarcasm that makes the days, no matter how dark, a little better, a little easier to survive. Beneath it all though, the jokes and the insults you both throw around as if you couldn't bear the sound of each other breathing, lies a deep understanding and a certain kind of affection neither of you really dares to name.

Just as you're about to counter another one of Gintoki's jabs, a shadow falls over your table.

"Hey there, pretty thing," a voice drawls, pulling your attention to the source of those words dripping with false friendliness — a man, seemingly already in his late 40s towering over you with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes linger on you, wandering over the length of your figure with an almost predatory glint that makes your stomach twist and turn in all the wrong ways. "Why don't ya leave this loser and have a drink with a real man, hm? I promise I'll make it worth your while."

Instinctively you lean back, trying to get as much distance as possible between you and the stranger, though it's no use. Before you can utter a response, he moves closer and places a hand on your wrist and grazes over your arm to grab your shoulder. Unease settles in the back of your throat, a heavy feeling that ties your tongue and renders you unable to bite back with a snarky reply that might scare him off.

Just as you're about to pull back, his fingers still hovering above your shoulder, the table shifts and the glasses still filled with sake clatter auspiciously.

Then, Gintoki is suddenly in front of you, his hand wrapped tightly around the man's wrist. His knuckles are turning white from the sheer strength of his tight grip, but you notice a subtle tremor running through his body, his muscles straining and tensing under the thin fabric of his shirt as he slowly twists the stranger's arm into an unnatural position that makes him inhale sharply. Gintoki isn't looking at you, though — his eyes are fixed on the drunken jerk, and for once, there is no trace of his usual lazy grin that you've grown so accustomed to.

No, there was nothing but pure anger etched into the sharp features of his face.

"Oi, didn't your mother ever teach you not to touch things that don't belong to you?" His voice is calm, almost eerily so, but there is an edge to it that makes the air thrum with a certain kind of tension. The room around you grows quiet, so deadly silent that you're certain you could hear a pin drop and yet, you can't seem to turn your head to check if the other people are watching, can't force yourself to let your gaze wander away for even a second.

"What are you doing? Let go of me, you idiot!" The unknown man blinks in surprise, the smirk he wore only a moment ago slowly fading as his drunken bravado wavers before he attempts to jerk his hand free, pulling one, two, three times, but it's no use. Gintoki only huffs out a humorless laugh and slowly leans in closer, the crimson of his eyes glinting dangerously in the dim lighting of the bar.

"You think I'm a joke, huh?" He murmurs, low and alarmingly calm. "Look, dude, I'm the kind of guy who smiles even when I'm ticked off. So if I'm not smiling right now... you've really crossed a line."

There's a moment of silence as Gintoki merely stares at the stranger until he begins to squirm nervously, seemingly contemplating what he should do with him, then he pulls the man forward by his wrists and tilts his head to whisper something into his ear, though you can't make out what he's saying.

Whatever it is, it must be utterly terrifying because only a split second later, the man's eyes widen in pure horror. The color drains from his face and his mouth falls open in wordless shock as he gapes at your best friend, frozen in place, unable to move an inch like a rabbit caught in the jaw of a wolf.

Then, at last, with a rough yank that sends the creep stumbling back into another occupied table, Gintoki lets go of him and turns towards you. In an instant, his expression softens, a comforting reassurance replacing the storm that has been raging in his gaze ever since the stranger had tried to put his hands on you. Slowly, but surely, the tension around you slowly eased despite the steady pounding of your heart and you let out a breath you didn't you'd been holding, forcing your body to relax.

"Hey," Gintoki murmurs as he nudges your shoulder, his tone lighter now, almost gentle if you listen closer. "You okay?"

You swallow, nodding, though your voice still sounds treacherously shaky when you dare to speak up. "Yeah, I’m fine. I just… Thank you."

Somehow, those words feel too small, too meaningless to express what you're truly feeling — because in this very moment, with his hand still lingering protectively on the table between you and the space where the stranger stood, you realize something about your best friend that you never thought about before.

Sure, Gintoki and you have known each other for so long you barely remember your first encounter, and sometimes you'd almost dare to say you know him better than anyone else, always having each other's back, no matter what life threw your way, but tonight, it feels different.

He isn't just standing up for you — he's shielding you as if the idea of someone hurting you is something he can't bear.

"You don’t have to thank me for something like that," he mutters, his gaze dropping to the floor. A faint blush creeps up his neck and flushes his pale cheeks, barely noticeable in the dim lighting of the bar, and his hand shoots up to scratch at the back of his neck, fingers twirling strands of silver hair in an attempt to hide what seems to be embarrassment. "I mean, I was just… doing what I always do. I can’t just sit there when some jerk thinks he can lay a hand on you."

God, you don't think you've ever seen him look so bashful.

"Gintoki," you reply softly, hesitantly reaching out to brush your fingertips over his scared knuckles before you give yourself a push and grab his entire hand, circling his skin with the pad of your thumb in reassuring motions. "Tell me, why do you always look out for me like this?"

He glances at your hand, then back up at you. Something flickers in his eyes and for a moment, a split second, you catch a glimpse of what lies behind his facade of carelessness and boredom, behind the mean jokes and snarky comments, behind the slaps on the back of your head when you've gotten yourself into trouble for nth time that week — adoration, perhaps even love, though you think that word might be too strong.

"Because," he replies softly, his gaze never leaving yours, "even an idiot like me knows a good thing when he’s got it."

Fuck. Your heart stumbles in your chest and warmth begins to pool in the pit of your stomach, crawling up your spine until you feel your face flush, tinting your cheeks in a soft shade of pink as you try to process his sudden display of unexpected affection. Just as you open your mouth to respond, he flashes you that infuriatingly lazy grin and reaches across the table to snatch his drink, lifting his glass with a careless tilt to eye its content.

"So," he announces as if nothing has changed at all, a delicate pinky finger outstretched to cram around his left nostril in search of a booger, "let’s forget about that creep and enjoy the rest of our night, yeah? You’re stuck with me for now, whether you like it or not."

Completely bamboozled by the sudden shift in his demeanor, you can only gape at him. One second he's fierce and protective, showing a side of him you only ever catch in rare, fleeting glimpses, and the next, he's back to being his usual insufferable self, cool and detached as if none of it matters.

But despite the confusion — despite everything — you can’t help the soft smile that tugs at your lips.

"Yeah," you whisper, feeling your chest swell with something almost painfully sweet. "I think I’m okay with that."

And as the night stretches on, with the bar growing quieter around you, it doesn't matter how rough or chaotic the world outside might be, because right here, in this tiny corner of Edo, you know one thing for certain - as long as Gintoki is beside you, you’ll always be safe.

[icarusredwings]

would you recommend takin' over the asylum

Yes! And not only because of David but also the other charater's arcs are very intresting too!

It's on youtube for free and is only about 7 episodes.

TOTA discusses topics that were seen as very taboo at the time it was produced/written.

While we as mature veiwers can watch this and say "Okay yes there is misinformation" we have to remember that this was made before even going to a therapist was something people did regularly and openly admited it. If you went to a phycologist back then or even a therapist you were looked down opon.

This show shows and talks about things so subtly that you won't pick them up unless you've been there, OR you pay attention well. For example, one of the things with Campbell is that he is very "ego" driven, and Eddie has to learn how to balance him to keep him from toppling over and becoming manic. For example you'll see a lot of episodes Eddie will praise Bain and then scold him afterwards because in the begining episodes he gives Campbell too much praise/trust and it makes him have a break down because as I explain it to some "Once you get to the top of that cliff, you fall off"

At the very begining the viewer and Eddie are mislead to assume Campbell is a staffmember or a volunteer because of how open of arms he has, hes so eager to help and be useful, hes kind, and as eddie says "He dosn't *seem* looney?" And this is because he's very managable but his parents couldn't so sent him away.

Another reason I recommend it is the diversity of the acting and patiants. People often pin him as the silly side kick charater but Davids acting brings his story to a whole new level.

Campbell is also very energetic compared to most patients, and I think he's one of the youngest ones they have so he gets excited about things VERY quickly. He's jumping all over the place. Lil manic puppy. He always gets so happy to Eddie too, its very clear hes attached to him which (if you know) its very common for bipolar/ manic deapressivss to have that *one* person. This is what I mean by subtleness.

This show also includes topics such as (count this as a trigger warning too)

Giving up your boring job to follow your dreams (which was just ridiculous back then)

Immigration

Unfair justice system

Adhd

Ocd (id say her charater is most likely the worst portrayed but when you realize why it breaks your heart)

Abusive relationships

The taboo idea of dating a 'looney'

Quiting smoking for the better

Bipolar /Manic depressive disorder

Child loss

Self harm

Self ending

Grief

Mutism

Autism

Medical abuse of patiants/manipulation

Substance abuse

Different coping mechanisms

Homelessness

Another thing about this show I like is Eddie is very open to them, he treats them like people, he gets nervous and worried they wont enjoy his company even which means he cares enough about them to think their opinions matter whilst another worker states that they're loonies, no one cares what they want.

He takes care of Campbell a lot as well because- well.. He's a bit of trouble. A little scamp he is. But hes so cute tho. And YES David Tennant's accent IS in this one. It's SO much more thicker then say Crowley or the Doctor.

SPOILERS

Hell there's a woman who they claim is speaking in tounges but she's just speaking a foreign language in which Eddie only takes like 2 days to figure out because he had the nerve to LITSEN to her and try to see what she was saying instead of telling her to speak english and to take pills. The sad bit about this, though, is she becomes homeless because of getting kicked out of the mental hospital.

Yet another theme I like about this show is that A. The colors are just bright enough to keep attention but not get a head ache, B. Bain behaves exactly the way you would expect a teen experiancing issues would, happy, snappy, sad, overly confident all at once, in a blink. C. Eddie meets this woman with a mean dog and yet Eddie forgives this dog many times despite it tried to bite him.

The woman was older and was testing eddie to see if he's a good person or not, no matter how annoying she was to him, he treats her with upmost respect and kindness. She ends up paying him a lot to fix the windows, which gives him extra cash to spend on one of the girls he was intresting seeing as hes very respectful to her despite her depression and I want to almost guess Post Partum but I actually don't know,

ANYWAY He even takes her to see his grandparents and adopts kittens just for her because she loves kittens and some delinquents killed her other kittens.

In most stories, the doctor or patiant is odd and tries to manipulate the other into going out with them, but whenever she declines, he only nods and goes away. It doesn't feel forced either. It's very sweet.

Anyway YES. Please watch it like holy shit I don't have anyone to talk to about it!! The lady who wrote it was actually bummed it flopped because of how progressive it was but is happy its becoming popular now! Love you Donna Franceschild!

[maleyanderecafe]

My Puppy Fiance (Mobile)

Created by: SEEC Inc.

Genre: Otome

My Puppy Fiance is very cute and SEEC makes pretty good short games that just so happen to have yandere endings to them. The yandere in this one is the butler who has one yandere ending (though it is also fairly dark, which caught me off guard.) but the story itself is actually pretty cute all things considered. You can watch most of the scenes here or here, though it is missing some extra endings.

The story starts with Mikoto recounting that as a child, she was obsessed with a book about princess and wanted to be a princess thanks to it. She would show the book to everyone, specifically a boy around her age. Fast foward to right before Mikoto's 18th birthday, her dad wants her to get married as he's worried that she's alone and that when he was their age he and Mikoto's mother got married. He sets up a meeting with this suitor, but Mikoto butts in, lying about a boyfriend that she has. Her dad, amused, plays along, stating that he is happy to meet them in a month. Mikoto talks about her situation with Maki, her butler before seeing a homeless kid hanging outside of her house. The boy begs Mikoto to take him in, promising to be her dog, whatever so as long as he has a place to stay. Mikoto accepts this and decides to train him to being her perfect boyfriend. Pochi agrees to this so as long as he gets food.

Throughout the story Pochi is trained by Mikoto to do various things, from exercising, to going clothing shopping, cooking, ballroom dancing and karate/judo. Pochi is very much like a dog, whining about doing hard work but happy to be with Mikoto in general. Over the course of the story, we learn that Pochi seems to dislike rich people, thinking that they don't really know how to do anything since they have servants to do everything. He becomes in awe of Mikoto because while she does come from a rich family, she's taken it upon herself to learn all she needs to so she can be an independent. Pochi while useless in some endeavors (like cooking or running) but is far better at ballroom dancing and judo. The entire time, Maki is jealous over the attention that Pochi is getting from Mikoto. Mikoto's dad reveals that they were suppose to have a meet up with Mikoto, to which both Mikoto and Maki try to figure out who it could be. In the best ending, Mikoto does actually find out the person that she was suppose to be arranged married was Pochi, or better known as Kei- the guy that she shared the story of the princess when she was younger. Overall, despite all these complications, the two start to date.

In the yandere ending, Maki tries to convince Mikoto to drug Pochi with a love potion. Rejecting this will lead to Maki getting jealous that he cares so much about Pochi despite the fact that he and her know each other longer. We get a flashback afterwards about how Maki came to become Mikoto's butler when she was younger, since she was so shocked that Maki lost his cool. Maki later informs Mikoto that the arrangement has been called off at the last second and that Pochi has been sent back to his family as a result. While Maki serves Mikoto tea, he talks about how hard it was for him before he was adopted into her family. He always worked hard so that he could have Mikoto praise him, which is why he always serves the best tea. Mikoto ends up getting drugged by Maki with the love potion. A few weeks later, we see a conversation with Maki and Mikoto's dad about how they are madly in love with each other. Mikoto's dad mentions that he always seemed to treat Mikoto differently, being more harsh with her as compared with others. Maki mentions that despite his harsh attitude towards her, he loves it when he praises him. Her dad leaves, and Maki returns to see Mikoto again, who he believes after she wakes up, will remember him only as her boyfriend. Maki happily holds Mikoto's hair, knowing that as long as the potion keeps her in love with him, that he will be happy.

SEEC makes some pretty good short games that happen to have a yandere in there time and time again. My puppy fiance is actually very cute and while most of it is built upon misunderstanding, I surprisingly didn't find it particularly annoying. I actually quite like Mikoto as a protagonist since despite the fact that she could just live a life as a rich person, she learns to be self sufficient due to drive to become a princess, which in this case is defined as someone who leads and takes care of others. While she does lie to her dad about having a boyfriend, she does put in the effort to teach Pochi a lot of skills including cooking, exercising and various other things. Personally I think she also comes off as very independent as well, despite having Maki as a butler, she doesn't rely on him to the point of not knowing anything and for the most part her reactions seem pretty understandable (especially when Maki ends up drugging her).

Pochi himself is pretty cute too, despite pretty much just wandering in the front door and living with Mikoto. You kind of get it pretty quickly that he is a rich kid considering he doesn't know how to do a lot of basic skills, but knows how to do things like ballroom dancing and considering how much he complains about how rich people don't know how to do anything, he himself is likely pretty rich. Still, his personality comes off as sort of a cute himbo, with him being very dog like, enjoying being praised and just generally following Mikoto around. While he doesn't always understand what's going on and complains, he still does end up going through with it thanks to his love for Mikoto. In the end, we do find out that Pochi is the one that Mikoto was suppose to end up with in the arranged date, so all's well that ends well, I suppose.

Maki is actually the one that threw me off despite me knowing that he was a yandere. For the most part he comes off as pretty blunt and rude towards Mikoto, but also is generally pretty jealous, like when he exchanges spots with Mikoto when she's trying to teach him karate just so he won't touch her. In the good ending, it seems he lets him go, but in any ending that involves the love potion, Maki will attempt to insert himself in, which includes the threesome ending with Maki and Pochi. In his ending though, he is angry that despite all the time that he and Mikoto have been together, she still prefers Pochi, which does make sense for a butler. I have no idea who or where he got the love potion from, but he does basically seem to continually drug Mikoto with it until she believes that the two are in love forever, and with Mikoto's dad just wanting her to fall in love with someone, it does make sense that he can keep in under wraps since he is basically the closest person to Mikoto. He moves really fast too, so it makes me wonder if he was biding his time and started to panic when he saw that Mikoto and Pochi were getting so close to each other in such a short amount of time, thus why he ended up trying to get Mikoto to drug Pochi with the love potion. Still, his ending is pretty chilling having successfully drugged the person he loves so that she will always love him back.

Overall, this was a fun game to watch. The premise is generally pretty cute with a fairly darkish yandere ending that somehow I was still not expecting. I think I'm just not used to tsundere-yandere hybrids as much since I don't normally see them. If you are interested, please give it a try, or at least give it a watch.

[megamindsupremacy]

Misc PJO Fic Recs (Part 4)

The Stolen God by TsarinaTorment

Python is defeated. The prophecies are restored, and Nero has fallen. Apollo has not been seen since. His trials are over; why isn’t he back on Olympus?

-

Baby Blofis College Fund by zipadeea

Valerie calls her an hour later.

“Sally, what the hell?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Bad? Sally, it’s gold. I went from squirming in my seat to crying genuine tears. And that twist, making him a Greek god, it’s exactly what we’re looking for right now. How soon can you get me the next chapter?”

***

In which Sally Jackson realizes by the time the new baby is eighteen, a semester of college will cost an arm and a leg. And those Fifty Shades of Grey books sure did make a lot of money.

-

to bet on losing dogs by furnaceglow

The thing is,” Apollo said, the coolest prisoner of war in all of time. Prometheus wasn't prone to jealousy, but even he felt a drop of envy at how relaxed Apollo was in maximum security. "How to define a man…are we talking ontology here? That’s broad scope, bigger picture. We can include ourselves in that definition. Philosophy otherwise! Our good man Diogenes. You remember Diogenes! Or are we specifically talking about man for the sake of man? Is this about anthropology, is what I’m saying.” “I’m open to all interpretation,” Prometheus said. “Been a while since I’ve had good conversationalists here. Krios is all grunting, and Hyperion is solely interested in making his quarters nicer.” “Well, he has an eye for interior design, I’ll give him that,” Apollo said.

In which Percy Jackson ascends to a reluctant godhood, his mother loses the war but wins a battle, and for once, Prometheus picks the winning horse.

-

and if your eyes don't speak by Pixelfun20

Estelle Jackson is seven years old when she meets her nephew for the first time, over a grainy Facetime call.

OR

Estelle grew up with stories of Percy Jackson, but it takes meeting his son to realize who he really was.

-

the carriage held but just ourselves by Writeous

The official story is this: Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase, just two months shy of their seventh wedding anniversary, hurtle off a cliff on a lonely mountain road. A tragic accident, a sharp turn taken too quickly. Their 2023 Prius was found buried under debris, three hundred feet below where witnesses claim they fell. Paramedics declared them dead upon arrival, suffering blunt force trauma as their car collapsed with them inside.

The real story is this: Percy and Annabeth watch as Hecate’s children create perfect duplicates of them that are promptly hurled off a cliff. Percy loved that Prius.

(Or: at the end of the Titan War, Zeus offered Percy immortality. Percy was mistaken in thinking it was an actual choice.)

-

Dawn Rises From The East by TsarinaTorment

During the Battle of Manhattan, Michael Yew fell into the East River; his body was never found. Two years later, a homeless kid known only as Ferret has a chance encounter that changes everything he knows.

-

Annabeth and the Nine Step Career Plan by feeling_the_aster_9145

Annabeth Chase does not accept limitations. Everyone knows that. If she wants something, no matter how impossible, she will find a way to make it happen. Though, perhaps she will allow Bruce Wayne and his ridiculous paranoia-induced company restrictions a small portion of the credit.

Actually… now that she thinks about it, the man may have had a point in his worries.

Wayne Technologies does not accept college interns. Annabeth always has a plan B.

-

is it really a crime if you don't exist? by MidnightBunny

"So, what you're saying is," Percy said, staring at the man in front of him. "you're me from the future."

The man took a drink out of the coffee cup in his hand. "Yup."

"And you're here," Percy said slowly. "Because Annabeth's brother's boyfriend is trying to prove the existence of the multiverse."

The man nodded.

"And you got sucked in when he turned it on."

Nod.

"And now you don't know how to get home."

Nod.

"And how did you get sucked in, again?"

The man mumbled something.

"What?"

"I was coming back from the bathroom and opened the wrong door."

-

(I'm so excited this one is back y'all, the author privated all her works but just unprivated them a few weeks back so now I'm recommending you read all of her stuff, especially this fic)

Son of Sea Foam by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

“She’ll never claim me,” he whispered. Silena shook her head, eyes wild as she looked around for anyone who could be watching.

“My mother doesn’t remember half of her children as it is,” she said with a note of bitterness. “If you do something to impress her, it won’t matter. Return the bolt in her name. She’ll claim you if you act the part. If you stay unclaimed then they'll figure out what you really are," she said, squeezing his hands tightly. Percy's heart sped up.

"I - I don't know the first thing about Aphrodite-"

"My mother was born of sea foam," Silena cut him off. "And if you're really who I think you are... you are the sea. You can pull this off," she said and touched his cheek. "Get the bolt. Survive," she said. Percy swallowed.

"What if I can't act the part?" He asked. Silena's expression went blank for a moment. Slowly, she slipped off her bracelet and placed it in his hands.

"If you're going to be one of us... you better learn."

Or

AU where Percy has to hide the fact he's a Big Three kid otherwise he'll be killed on the spot. Unfortunately for him, unclaimed kids tend to raise the most suspicion... but he might have found a loophole in the form of Aphrodite.

-

This fic on tumblr that’s one of the best PJO fics I’ve ever read

[lazlolullaby]

Terry McGinnis gets yeeted to the past and becomes besties with Jason

he also has Ace and the shelter doesn't allow "scary dogs" inside.

So. He's a homeless teenager and his big dog. Who both have Batman level training. Possibly his suit, but it's funnier if he doesn't.

because I've seen Damien VS Terry a few times but I haven't seen our juvie children Jason and Terry interact much in fandom.

Mostly follows the DCAU timeline but you know. General fluid canon playground bashing action figures together because I love Terry and by dint of him being in the future he's a little estranged from the Bat Fam and that makes me sad.

first thing: Terry knows he can't wipe himself out of existence because of the way he traveled. His future is fine, he just has to repair his time machine.

But you know. Homeless, no resources. Bruce taught him to be suspicious of the government, and this is before the League, so. Not many people he can turn to.

It was almost an accident, but he was walking Ace and caught the Joker mid-rant against Batman and Robin. Terry heckles them as a distraction. He insults the Clown good. He even throws in a barb against Batman just to be funny.

Tim tries to guide him away, but the Big Brother instinct kicks in and he ends up fighting the Joker anyway.

When Batman tried to catch up to him, Terry flinched and ran. Sure, Bruce would help, but he wanted to do this by himself.

Red Hood hears about this and decides to investigate. "Hey, buddy. word is you ain't scared of clowns. I hear you could use some protection."

Terry weighs his options. He's read about Jason Todd. Red Hood. The whole mess. "It's not like I'm not scared, it's just - that Robin kid. I had a little brother his size and I'd be pissed if a low rate clown ever hurt him." And "you know death doesn't stop some people. Why don't we mock him? Make sure no one takes him seriously ever again?"

"I'm listening."

Terry becomes an Enforcer in Crime Alley. He gets close to Jason, mostly because of shared backgrounds and complaining about "their old bosses", not that Jason knows he's also talking about Bruce.

Terry had a big yelling match with his father Warren the last time he saw him before he died. He starts to soften Jason up to the idea of talking with his father since they both have dangerous night jobs.

There are raids for getting Terry's time machine up and running again. There are also surgical attacks on the Joker's usual haunts and goons. Terry and Ace get caught and taken back to Wayne Manor.

Terry specifically asks to watch how Alfred makes his cookies and food. Bruce thinks he's being paranoid but he just wants to know how to make food the way Older Bruce likes it.

Bruce thinks he's Jason and does a DNA test. It shows that he's not Jason, but he is Bruce Wayne's son. Terry didn't know this, and while he was keeping it together so far, he freaks out.

Ace was trained as a medical dog and can tell when someone has heart problems. He makes Terry lay on the floor. "Yeah this is your heart problem, here's a sneak peek of your future."

Idk how to end this but it's like, Jason comes in the front wanting to see his friend. And also talk with Bruce.

[sandcobangevent]

Please Don’t Say You Love Me

Written by @ratinavan, Illustrated by @silliestofg33sevik

Read Here on AO3

If this was how the podcast was going to end, so be it. Don’t let John be the one to stop it, obviously The Great Sherlock Holmes is just too good at what he does to want to associate with the likes of poor old John Watson. It doesn’t matter that he worked damn hard to get them where they were, it doesn’t matter that he hung onto every word that fell from the detective’s mouth, it doesn’t matter that he would throw his life away for that bastard man. None of it matters because the detective decided that the cases were the only thing that needed his consideration, the only thing that warranted even a scrap of his attention.

John had done everything, everything for this man. He followed that tall silhouette wherever it may go for weeks, months, God! He had watched that back for nigh on a year and what did he get in return? Abandoned, kicked to the curb like he was a bloody dog - homeless, broke, and heartbroken. Sherlock is- no, was , his everything. His reason to keep going after being shipped back from Ukraine, his reason to get up in the morning, his reason to not grab as many of those stupid chemical experiments and shove them down his throat when his own mind got too harsh. All of this - all of this - and it got him the sum total of nothing. His dedication, his life, his everything, had been turned away in disgust by the detective.

“Sherlock I-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Watson. I wish to end our acquaintance here, you may have a week to find alternative lodgings.”

The blood rushing past John’s ears at this moment was definitely unhealthy, but he was too busy trying to both stay upright and prevent himself from vomiting all over the living room floor. What had he done to deserve this, you may wonder? Well, the answer was simple. He had believed that Sher- Holmes would reciprocate, or at least not hate him for, his feelings toward the younger man.

Oh how wrong he was.

That conversation had been dreadful . There was no screaming or shouting. There had been no objects thrown. Just a curled lip and quiet scorn, both of which hurt more than if there had been physical retaliation. So now here he was, shoving his meagre belongings into his duffle bag and attempting to plan his next steps now that his life was over. He had already convinced Mariana to continue to care for Archie - if he was going to be out of a steady home for a while, he was in no position to give the poor boy the life he deserved. She had tried to say no, tried to convince him that this was just one of Holmes’ black moods and he would never truly wish him to leave. It was no use. She hadn’t seen the look on his face after the confession, the deep-rooted hatred that surfaced from seemingly nowhere. 

Maybe the detective had never liked John as much as he had assumed, maybe he was just tolerating him to fill the hole of a companion -  someone to worship the ground he walked on. Well. Not anymore. John was leaving, he refused to live with someone who had such an issue with his sexuality.

Did he feel like shite? Yes. Was he going to miss everything that they had developed in the past years? Absolutely. But he could already tell that his mental health was taking a nosedive back to pre-221B levels and he refused to sit around and let Holmes witness his downfall. If that meant leaving everything and running away? Fine, he’d rather be a coward than a cripple.

Sherlock was busy running through another one of the menial experiments that he was using in an attempt to push all thoughts of Wat- John from his mind. It had been just shy of a week since the Doctor had disappeared from the flat and the detective had devoted himself to his work. Eating, resting, anything that wasn’t one of his experiments had been thrown to the wayside and were only partaken under the scornful gaze of Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock knew why she disapproved, he knew that he had messed up by rejecting John, by doing anything other than falling at his feet and assuring him the feeling was reciprocated. He should have screamed it from the rooftops, posted it in the papers, told anyone and everyone that would have listened. But he didn’t. Instead, he had emotionally broken the best man the world had ever given him. He had done it without a second thought and with the ease that came only from someone as self-assured and arrogant as himself.

As he continued to experiment, his phone began to ring from its place on the coffee table. As usual, he ignored it as the ringtone indicated that it wasn’t the Yard calling. If Lestrade didn’t have a new case for him, he was in no mood to talk. Leaving the call to ring out, he turned his attention back to the samples, however, much to his dismay the phone began ringing again. An irritated sigh escaped his lips, but he made no move to answer it. After three more rings, Mariana barged through the door to 221B with a face like thunder.

“Dios mio, Sherlock! If you aren’t going to answer it, at least leave it somewhere so that it doesn’t echo down to my flat!” The woman stomped over to the phone and picked it up, “Hello, how can I help?” A pause, “He’s here, can I ask who is speaking, please? My name is Mariana, I’m… his flatmate.”

Presumably, the person on the other end replied. Sherlock spotted Mrs Hudson turning to look at him from the corner of his eye - she had gone pale, so pale the detective thought she might faint. 

“Sit down, Mrs Hudson, and hand me the phone.” Sherlock guided her down onto the sofa and pried his mobile from her trembling hands.

“Hello? Sherlock Holmes speaking.” He was now invested in what could have caused such a reaction from the usually strong-willed woman, almost like a pseudo-case.

“Oh, hello, Mister Holmes. My name is Miss Haye and I’m calling from Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.” Well, this was unusual, how did Saint Bart’s end up with his number? Why would they need to be calling him?

“I see, and what do you need from me? Scotland Yard usually contacts me directly if there is a body that needs examining.” 

“Unfortunately, Sir, this is not a business call. I’m calling regarding Mr John Watson? You’re listed as his emergency contact and he was admitted late last night after being fished out of the Thames in what we presume was a suicide attempt.” Sherlock understood now why Mrs Hudson reacted the way she did. He was sure that he was in much the same state. He reached out behind him to steady his way to sitting, not trusting his legs to support him for the rest of the phone call.

“O-Okay.” He coughed, rueing the tremble in his voice, “Is he still there? What is his condition? Is he allowed visitors?” The questions continued to fall from his mouth in quite possibly the worst case of word-vomit he had ever experienced.

The guilt Sherlock was feeling was insurmountable, this was his fault. If he had just been honest with John rather than prioritising his image of stone this all could have been avoided. Why could he not just admit that John’s affection scared him - Sherlock was so worried about disappointing his podcaster that he immediately shut down any chance of a relationship. He had let John leave, blocked his number, and denied him any chance of contact with him in a fit of unexplainable terror.

“Yes, Mister Holmes, he is available for visitors but he is currently unconscious so may not be responsive by the time you arrive if you plan on coming over immediately.” Sherlock jumped, he had almost forgotten about the woman over the phone. He was quick to finish up the conversation, assuring her that they would be there promptly before hanging up the call.

“What have I done?” Sherlock murmured into his fist, staring at his phone. He navigated over to his contacts and, after a steadying breath, unblocked John’s contact and put his phone face-down on the table.

Immediately, the tone of John’s messages began to come through one after another after another. Each ping of the phone, each vibration against the table only worked to further embed the spear of guilt further into Sherlock’s chest. Nothing had ever gotten to the detective as acutely as this had. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the texts.

John: Why did you have to hate me, was my love really that horrible?

John: I miss you, y’know? And I miss Archie and Mariana…

John: I don’t know what to do with myself now, and my phone is going to die soon

John: Not easy to charge your phone on the streets haha

John: I’m sorry, I wish I had never said anything. If I could take it all back, I would.

John: I won’t bother you anymore, I love you, I’m sorry.

Sherlock barely made it through the first messages before his eyes clouded over and tears were carving paths down his cheeks. The consequences of his inconsiderate actions were finally starting to unravel, and he would have to do some serious legwork to even begin fixing what he had done.

The next hour felt more like a daze. Both Sherlock and Mariana managed to flag down a cab and direct it to Saint Barts, all without really registering doing any of it. Climbing out of the cab and approaching the front desk, the woman from the phone directed them to the correct ward with a small smile, informing them that John had woken up just five minutes prior so may still be groggy.

This news spurred the pair of them to hurry in the correct direction, only getting lost once on their way there. When they finally made it to the door of John’s room, Sherlock stopped short, hesitating just before the door could open. “I- I don’t think I can do this Mrs- no, Mariana. I don’t deserve to see him like this, you should go in without me.”

Mariana grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye. “You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You will go into that room, you will face your best friend, and you will tell him how unimaginably sorry you are, AND you will tell him about your feelings. Those are the reasons we’re in this position in the first place.” The no-nonsense tone was enough to force him through the door, stopping a couple of paces inside and locking gazes with the groggy Doctor.

His hair was a mess, his usually well-kept facial hair was now much less flattering than usual, the bags under his eyes were several times the size they should be, and the amount of weight he had lost in just over a week was more than concerning. John’s softer belly was one of Sherlock’s favourite things to admire - it was both effective at disguising his underlying strength and at being the best replacement for Sherlock’s hugging machine.

  When John met Sherlock’s eyes, the only thing that escaped his mouth was, “I’m sorry…” The doctor looked so small on that hospital bed and now he was apologising?

“ Stop . Just… stop, John.” Sherlock could feel the tears building again. He looked at John, and slowly made his way towards the hospital bed. “Words can never describe the disaster that your loss would have caused me. I may-” He choked on his words, “I may be a genius, but I am also a colossal imbecile, an idiot, the worst man on Baker Street. Believe me when I say that I would never have wished this on you. I would never have wanted you to take your own life, especially not over me .” He was sobbing at this point, fallen to his knees at John’s bedside and trying to put the sheer pain of his agony into words.

“I-” Sherlock hesitated, debating on whether he should continue. A swift kick to the back from Mariana set him to rights and he carried on, “I love you, John Watson.” The pair locked eyes, suspended in time for what felt like an eternity, shame in the gaze of one and disbelief in the gaze of the other.

“Why would you say that to me, Sherlock? After everything that’s happened, why would you taunt me like this?” The doctor was crying now as well, salty tears following well-worn paths down his cheeks and neck. He raised his hands, in practice to wipe away his emotions, but truthfully it was more out of a child-like need to hide. The detective held his heart in his hands - the ability to crush or care hanging in the balance.

The detective rose, “No, no, John. You must believe me, I am not lying to you now. I see how utterly foolish I was to push you away to try and save face - I should never have thought myself above feelings, especially not your own. I will do whatever it takes to reassure you that my words are the truth, I would throw myself at your feet for another chance at us. Please, hear my words and try to find it within yourself to give me another chance. I love you, John Hamish Watson, and I will continue to do so for the rest of my days.”

Sherlock’s world narrowed to nothing but John, the look in his eyes, the words that may leave his mouth.

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are the biggest bastard to walk this Earth.”

His stomach plummeted.

“Get up here and kiss me you git.”

[bonny-kookoo]

hi bonny first off i wanna say i love your fics. as a black reader i dont feel unsafe at the moment and would really love to stick around cuz your writing is compelling.

while i do believe fic is a free for all, i do think a police fic would attract a certain demographic into your audience making it unwelcoming to your poc readers.

you already have someone reblogging under the other anons post spouting dog whistles.

personally i’d have no problem with a “police” fic IF it wasnt taking inspiration from the CURRENT JUSTICE SYSTEM AND POLICING OF TODAY.

you could write about how you’d see crime handled in a way thats makes sure that perpetrators get to court alive to have a fair trial or even preventative measures within the community jungkook could take to ensure that someone never feels the need to turn to crime.

it could be cool to visualize jungkook as like a community policer. they usually live in the neighborhood and work with their neighbors to watch out for each other. you could create your own system of how they handle punishment.

you could have a tasks force but they dont use guns. and they dont use excessive force.

they could try deescalation tactics like talking.

you could have jungkook on a crime scene making sure that ALL evidence is collected, briberies arent happening, and he’s checking his peers when they might have messed up.

you could include advanced futuristic technology that makes sure that a suspect is being rightfully accused to avoid false accusations.

because the system is under such careful surveillance unlike OUR CURRENT SYSTEM, you could write about how heinous crimes are punishable by death or maybe even exile to some other planet

jungkook could be seen doing charity drives like handing food to the homeless and back to school/supply handouts.

he could even be featured playing with youth in the community. like basketball on the court or sitting down and talking to them to see if things are good at school and home.

there’s ways to showcase him as an actual protector of citizens.

you could show him outside work too being a pillar, like maybe he goes to city hall meeting and advocates for social changes. like transportation, shelters, and livable wages.

imagining a better tomorrow where you have the creative freedom to imagine how you’d go about changing the system could be more FUN creatively cuz the possibilities are endless rather than having him abuse his power and hurt people.

hope that helps💜

I mean, yeah, that would've been my actual goal, I didn't think people would feel like I would write it in a way that would make people feel upset :/ That's why I wanted to maybe make it a 'fantasy'-esque hybrid or Alien fic to kind of.. take away the 'reality' connection from it? I don't know.

I write fics to give people a way to escape the troubles they have daily, so they can daydream about a world where things are better, true love is a thing, and happy endings are the norm. I know I'm not always hitting the nail with that attempt, clearly, if people instantly thought that I would not do well in creating an Alternate Universe where things would be better. I don't know. I'm currently feeling a little weird about everything I wrote now, like, I'm questioning what exactly caused it. Was it the way I wrote my hybrid fics? Or how I buit my Alien universes? Did I unintentionally make people feel unwelcome/uncomfortable? I don't know anymore.

I try to not make specifics about skin color/hair length/eye color or whatnot in my fics to try and keep it open as possible, and I know I don't do that well sometimes, since there's a limit to what I can properly write- which is why I don't write tall characters, male readers, or specifically poc's- because I cannot and will never be able to properly portray that. I'm not a professional writer, this is just a hobby, and maybe I need to, I don't know, educate myself more to make sure that in the future, my works don't make anyone feel excluded or upset in general. I'm sorry if that was the case in any of my works.

[lieutenantbiscute]

Ok back on my bullshit if creating needless crossover au ideas:

God of War Ragnarok and Detroit: Become Human, but it’s just Týr finding himself being swept into the android revolution on his travels through America.

I like the idea that Týr is a traveler- he often disguises himself as a homeless man on said travels. Helps keep his status of godhood secret, though one winter while bunking out in an abandoned church who should come knocking on his door but the remnants of Jericho and her peoples leaders?

Obviously I’d think he’d be following their story on a radio he stole and patched up, keeping an ear to the wind about deviants and those who pass through in the alleyways. Small blessing from him to struggling androids trying to reach Jericho even though Týr himself doesn’t know where she sits specifically. The Jericho Four obviously don’t take kindly to finding a human in the church but, HC again, I like the idea of the deviant androids working with some of the homeless to get spare parts and thirium in exchange for stuff like clothing and food.

So Markus and Simon break the argument ‘Our people are cold, injured and waterlogged. We need this space for the night.’ Týr, still disguised as a homeless dude, stays hidden in one of the churches back rooms. Watching Jericho’s people silently; in pride of them taking matters into their own hands. Seeking justice in their own ways of stealing and protests and riots when words don’t work.

‘Humans are fickle beings. Seeking to wield power in swaths and failing to heed any consequences when they come knocking at their door. Creating life and failing dog to recognize its own intelligence; the failure of a parent to their child.’

Obviously this is just a small bump to Týr and his travels. He knows the people will make it through this winter, he’d thought Fimbulwinter would be the end and yet here he stood. In the shadow of new budding leaders and their cause for recognition he’ll leave once they do.

A mangy dog tailing their protest and watching from afar at the barricade they will build and the last stand they make as song breaks out over the tense silence. He knows they will be ok.

[hukiolukio]

Modern AU where both Cyno and Tighnari are single dads. Cyno is a tattoo artist and the father of Nahida, while Tighnari is a daycare worker and the father of Collei.

Cyno adopted Nahida during a previous marriage that ended in divorce, where he got full custody. Tighnari took Collei in after finding her shoplifting one day when she was just a child. He found out she was homeless and just trying to survive, so Tighnari took care of her and eventually adopted her as a single parent.

Ship: Cyno x Tighnari

Fluff

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Both Cyno and Tighnari are in their early to mid 30’s when they first meet. Collei was now in high school, while Nahida just began kindergarten. Collei helps her dad with his work at the daycare from time to time.

As a single dad, Cyno is often busy with work and can’t look after Nahida all the time. This leads him to looking for a daycare for her. Cyno is very protective of his daughter, however, so he goes out to meet workers from different daycares to decide which was the best one.

This is how he first meets Tighnari, who was very understanding of Cyno’s precautions. They talked for a while over coffee and by the end of their meeting Cyno knew he was the best one to take care of his little girl. Tighnari could be harsh with his words but his soul was pure and kind.

Nahida started going to Tighnari’s daycare everyday after school, where she becomes close with both him and Collei. The two dads start to become closer as well.

Every time the tattoo artist comes to pick up his daughter, he ends up falling into long conversations with Tighnari before leaving. During these chats, Nahida and Collei would watch them from afar and giggle.

Noticing the relationship between their parents deepening, the two girls decide to play match-making. Collei comes up with what she calls the “perfect plan” to make them fall in love: Nahida calling Tighnari her father!

So, the next time Cyno came to pick up his daughter and ended up chatting with the daycare worker, Nahida walked up to them with an innocent look on her face. Cyno crouched down to her level, asking her what’s up. Instead of speaking to him, however, she looked up at Tighnari and said, “Papa.”

Both of the men laughed at this. Tighnari crouched down as well and gestured at Cyno. “No, Nahida. This is your Papa.”

She shook her head. “I want you as my Papa too.”

Tighnari looked at the other men, unsure of how to respond. Cyno coughed, a bit flabbergasted, before speaking to his daughter. “Nahida, why don’t you go play with Collei?”

The little girl pouted before running off. The men stood up straight from their crouching positions, both of their faces a bit flushed,

“Kids always say the silliest things, right?” Cyno said, his nervousness showing through his voice.

“Haha…. yeah, they do,” Tighnari nodded.

“Although, it would be great to have you join the family,” Cyno blurted out before he could think. Realizing what he did, his eyes widened. “I don’t mean that as in you becoming Nahida’s father right away or anything. It’s just… Nahida gets along well with you and Collei, and it’s not like I don’t mind your presence. So if we were all able to spend more time together-”

“Cyno,” Tighnari cut the other man off. “Are you trying to ask me to be your boyfriend?”

If Cyno’s face could get any redder at this point, it did. He buried his face in his hands, whispering out, “Yes.”

Tighnari laughed seeing this reaction. He reached up to pry Cyno’s hands off his face, and leaned in to plant a kiss on the man’s cheek. “I would be happy to.”

Watching their fathers from afar, Collei and Nahida cheer silently in celebration.

Bonus: Tighnari has a dog named Karkata (story like Hachiko- dog’s original owner died and the dog still continued to wait for owner until Tighnari found it and took the dog in) while Cyno has a cat named Scaramouche (Nahida found the cat as a stray and begged her father to let her keep him)

[fictionaladoptionpolls]

Kevin E. Levin

Age: 11 (nominally)

Home: NYC (Ben 10)

Likes: The X-Files, dogs, magical girlfriends

Dislikes: The law, the Omnitrix, car damage

Abilities: Several nouns followed with “absorption,” which the wiki thinks should count as distinct superpowers.

The Levin family household was poor, precarious, and probed by aliens. (Kevin’s mom and some Plumbers had fake memories of a Devin Levin implanted in their minds as part of a plan to manipulate the Plumbers; disruption of the Levin family was a byproduct.) Apparently unrelated to this, Kevin developed energy absorption abilities, which some people thought was freaky, which is possibly why his…stepfather(?) abused him. Anyways, eventually Kevin ran away from home and started stealing stuff.

(I don’t remember any of Kevin’s backstory from when I watched this series as a kid, TV Tropes is vague, the wiki scatters details across a dozen pages, and a bunch of Kevin-related stuff was retconned at least once.)

Anyways, Kevin ends up a delinquent urchin. He runs into Ben Tennyson, who becomes his friend, collaborator, and enemy in short order. (Shouldn’t have jumped straight from victimless warehouse theft to mass murder theft.) Accidentally absorbing a bunch of Ben’s alien watch’s energy, Kevin turned into a shapeshifting alien thing, and…you know, I’ll just show you what the submitter said about his backstory.

(NOT THE REBOOT) They put Kevin through so much. It’s like everytime the writers got bored, the just decided to put him through more traumatic events.they sent the mentally ill homeless 11 year old who didn’t understand his powers to adult space jail, where he suffered but found a mentor/father figure in one of his fellow inmates, who taught him how to control his powers. Later his mentor sacrifices himself,being killed by a guard, so Kevin can live and escape. He literally feels like it was his fault. I watch the show and I often find myself saying ‘oh, Kevin..’ like you would about a dog who keeps eating bees but doesn’t understand why it hurts. I think Ben 10 is anime enough to count, based the clear inspiration in storytelling and art style.

For the record, if I had to divide all animated series into Anime or Not Anime, Ben 10 would be borderline. That said, I explicitly specified an inclusive definition of “anime” in the bracket description…and Kevin is arguably the most anime character in the series. Once he gets out of space jail, Kevin becomes teen Ben’s Vegeta. Sure, he has a checkered past and used to be willing to murder people, and he still has a dark streak that puts him in contrast with Ben and Gwen, he’s trying to do good, and focuses most of his negative emotions on people who deserve to be hurt.

One neurosis that Kevin never seems to shake off his his self-loathing about the weirder expressions of his power. He sometimes gets physically mutated (especially when he absorbs Omnitrix energy), and that always fills him with a volatile mixture of aggression and depression. Also, he’s not great at thinking ahead. But once he learns not to hate people who aren’t himself, he means well.

Aside from Mx. NOT THE REBOOT, what does Tumblr think of Kevin?

I always felt kinda bad for Kevin, he had a rough life, and it seemed like even after he turned good he was always getting the short end of the stick. Like when he turned evil the second time, it was because he was saving the world.

So like, Osmosians are aliens in the first few series of Ben 10, and the Omnitrix takes DNA from the alien at the time it is first exposed. And they missed a huge joke that could have come from Ben trying to go for an alien only to turn into ELVEN YEAR OLD KEVIN while he is with both Kevin and Gwen.

I just think Kevin should get a pet rat and name it Argit, then train it to pick pocket.

(I know this profile is longer and more detailed than most. I had two reasons for this. First, I wanted to make sure anime purists gave him a fair shake. Second, and more importantly, I wanted to include that whole block of text without it being a significant percentage of the profile. It's currently 20%, which is…acceptable.)

[maroonghoul]

Ranking of all the Christmas Horror Movies I’ve seen (as of 2022)

From worst to best (subjectively):

26: Alien Raiders (2008): There are Christmas decorations you see early on in the grocery store setting, so it counts. Just kind of a hostage thriller, that turned out to be sorta The Thing. Liked the twist ending a bit ,though.

25: Anna & the Apocalypse: I wish I can remember this more, especially the songs.

24: Better Watch Out: Way too effective in making you HATE the villain. Though in hindsight, they got off too easy.

23: Good Tidings: I went in thinking this would be more like a yuletide rip off of the Purge movies. But, we once again get those escaped lunatic tropes I’m not too fond of. It didn’t help that there were way too many points where they blew a chance to off one of these psycho killer Santas. I know that’s one of the themes they were going for. But you couldn’t done more to incapacitate one of them.

22: The Wolf of Snow Hollow: The werewolf reveal is a bit of a letdown, but between those scenes, I was morbidly enjoying our disaster of a human being we had in our protagonist. He really couldn’t do anything right.

21: Jack Frost (1997): Mostly enjoyable goofy slasher movie. But it loses on two points; It’s most famous scene has aged horribly, and the climax takes forever to finish him off. 

20: Slay Belles: This might’ve been the cheapest one of the whole bunch; it looked it. You can tell most of the money went to the Krampus suit, though that’s probably the right call. Plot doesn’t even make whole lot of sense, but after a while, you just don’t care.

19: All the Creatures were Stirring: Pretty out there anthology. I’m pretty sure each segment is meant to be a Horror-Comedy. I got a special kick out of one having a certain famous Christmas character being a killer (I won’t spoil)

18: Sint: More like a killer St. Nicholas movie. Probably the most threatening of these considering he has an army he can besieged a whole city with. Not crazy about anyone dressing up as Black Pete, but at least they get offed.

17: The Lodge: “F around and find out”

16: Black Christmas (2019): This one feels like it has even less to do with Christmas then the original (Yes, that’s part of my criteria). What was subtext before is text here, for better or for worse. Not a bad idea, though maybe we could’ve had more fun in making these villains more pathetic. 

15: Body (2015): If this isn’t a example of when to drop a toxic friend, I don’t know what is. It’s low because Christmas is only used to explain why the house is deserted.

14: Dead End: The most surreal family breakdown of all time

13: Silent Night (2012): Never saw the 1984 original. I know, how dare I?. Effective enough yule-themed slasher, I suppose.

12: Wind Chill: Kind of a Hitchcockian set up ambushed by a good old fashioned ghost story. Considering the holiday’s history, it’s sad there’s not more supernatural Christmas horror films like this these days. Bonus points for using carols as a plot point. I didn’t think they would keep tying it in once the characters were stuck. Also, another ACAB movie. Always good.

11: Christmas Bloody Christmas: first half is a realistic hang out between two friends. second half is the Terminator: Yuletide edition. Good kills, but it could’ve been even more messed up.

10: Santa’s Slay: Remember when they tried to make wrestlers into Slasher villains for a while? Kinda dull plot, but Bill Goldberg is at least fun and the kills are fun.

9: The Children: Little kids really can be the worst.

8: Rare Exports: Not my favorite killer Santa movie, but easily the most well-thought out.

7: A Christmas Horror Story: The stories are hit and miss, especially the endings. But yeah, the North Pole one is the best.

6: Deadly Games: While the premise is bonkers as presented, it also makes me a bit sad. This psychotic homeless man just wanted someone to play with if you think about it, but he’s clearly disturbed so people just keep passing him off until this happens. And that poor kid! Not only did he lose his dog, but he thinks he ruined Christmas at the end because he had to kill Santa! Though I think it proves my point where killer Santas are at their best either terrorizing kids or being helped by them.

5: Christmas Evil: The American Psycho of killer Santa movies. An early take that to the over-commercialization of Christmas and actually keeps the killer somewhat sympathetic even after he snaps and becomes homicidal. Side note, my theory on the ending is that he actually died.

4: Krampus: Christmas Vacation invaded by Gremlins! The amount of effort put in by this movie has spoiled me for all Christmas horror that has come after it. Michael Dougherty’s films need time to sink in for me. It didn’t help with the confusing ending. But even if it’s not the best Christmas Horror film, based on it’s look, themes, variety of killers, and Dickensian story beats, it might be the most Christmassy.

3: Scrooged: This counts just for A Christmas Carol in general, but I mention this one just on being the most effectively scary, even if I don’t buy Bill Murray as a changed man at the end quite. While it’s an old enough story to make fun of and pick apart, an effective enough modern update can remind us that it’s, at it’s heart, not just a ghost story, but a character breakdown and a psychological horror. Did I truly befriend or look up to people who would steer me wrong? Just because I do believed in the cynicism I am championing and subjecting to other people, is that not enough to make me righteous?  Who am I really to the people in my life when I’m not in the room? And ultimately, If I don’t care, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s the essential Christmas story, because it’s about a simple thing; As long as you can act, it’s never too late. So before it looks like things are about to get worst: muster up a little courage, be willing to unlearn toxic habits, reach out to those you depend on, and of course, put a little love in your heart.

2: Black Christmas (1974); One of the original true Slasher movies. And still one of the creepiest. Also, definitely the kind of movie that were it released today would be called “woke”. (pro-abortion, male entitlement being a theme, etc.)

1: Gremlins: A stereotypical picturesque Christmas Movie setting invaded by the monstrous embodiment of the OG Winter Solstice holiday, Saturnalia (look it up). Works as a metaphor of the toll uncontrolled tourism can have on certain places, especially during the holidays. Plus, who doesn’t think Gizmo is cute? 

That’s all the ones I can remember so hopefully that’s all of them. If I forgot one or I see a new one, I’ll do a follow-up saying where it would land on here. I might make a more in-depth post about my feelings for Christmas next week.

[yibennianyaji]

The Beginner’s Guide to Rick & Morty

A borderline sociopathic old man drags his grandson from dimension to dimension, supposedly as an assistant but more often just for the company, and simultaneously exposes the kid to an endless parade of mind-scarring horrors. Or more simply, “wow, the whole mad-scientist-and-kid-protégé gimmick is pretty screwed up, isn’t it?” That’s more or less the premise of Rick & Morty (which originally grew out of a pretty X-Rated flash animation parodying Doc Brown and Marty McFly), an Adult Swim title that already has a cult following to rival The Venture Bros. and the critical praise to match. While it’s definitely not a show for everyone (I could give a list of content warnings the length of my arm), it is undeniably well made with a deceptively affectionate touch in regards to its characters.

The show, co-created by Community’s Dan Harmon and animator Justin Roiland (whom you may also know as Lemongrab and Blendin Blandin), aired its first season (ten episodes and the pilot) back in 2013.What’s more, I’m going to be recapping the second season right here. I have admittedly not seen other seasons than s1 yet. But don’t worry if you missed out on the original airing. You can currently see the whole first season on Adult Swim (which is region-free) and Hulu. And if you’re on the fence still? Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. Also, there will be first season spoilers. That’s kind of the point.

A Rough Sketch

The plot goes like this: mad scientist Rick Sanchez is constantly snatching his grandson Morty out of his day to day life to play assistant on adventures that range from cross-galaxy and universe travel via Rick’s portal gun to an experimental amusement park built inside a homeless man. Rather than being enchanting and wondrous, each episode leaves Morty just a little more scarred – and the struggle of whether to refuse to accompany Rick at the risk of losing one of his only meaningful relationships is a constant strain on Morty.

Most of the season one episodes are episodic in nature with world-building aspects sprinkled throughout – in other words, you get a self-contained adventure along with a character or concept that may inform/appear in future episodes. Watching them in order isn’t critically important, but does help create a clearer picture of where things might be going. Here are the basic summaries of the first season:

Pilot: Rick takes Morty to collect a certain seed for an experiment, only to get stopped trying to take said seeds through interdimensional customs.

Lawnmower Dog: Rick uses an inception-device to try and convince Morty’s math teacher to give him an A (so that Rick can keep taking the kid out of school); Morty’s dog Snuffles becomes super smart after Rick builds it a helmet to keep it from peeing in the house

Anatomy Park: Rick shrinks Morty down to check on his amusement park pet project (housed in a homeless man); Jerry’s parents come over with their new lover for an awkward Christmas dinner.

Night Shaym-Aliens: Aliens trap Rick (and Jerry, collaterally) in a super-realistic simulation in an attempt to trick Rick into giving away the formula for a certain scientific compound.

Meeseeks and Destroy: Morty insists he get the chance to plan an adventure for a change; Rick gives the family a box that creates a creature designed solely to solve a simple problem and then cease existing. Trigger warning for sexual assault.

Rick Potion #9: Morty begs Rick to make him a love potion to use on his crush Jessica, which winds up getting spread to the whole school. Things get worse.

Raising Gazorpazorp: Summer goes with Rick to a planet where females have become the ruling, segregated gender; Morty buys an alien sex robot and ends up having to raise his fast-growing half alien son (or, the kind of teeth-gritting gender roles episode saved by the B plot).

Rixty Minutes: Rick installs interdimensional cable; Beth and Jerry obsess over peeking into the lives of their alternate universe selves.

Something Ricked This Way Comes: Summer gets a job working for the devil at an ironic-cursed-items shop, and Rick immediately decides to screw with the guy by setting up a curse-lifting rival store; Jerry gets flown to Pluto as an advocate for its status as a planet

Close Rick-Counters of the Rick Kind: The Big Lore Episode. Rick is put on trial by the Council of Ricks for a spree of Rick-icides across the multiverse.

Ricksy Business: Rick and Summer throw a weekend rager while Morty debates giving up on Rick for good; Jerry and Beth take a vacation to a Titanic reenactment cruise. Trigger warning for sexual assault.

Aside from the individual adventures, here are a some basic concepts that carry through the first season (and probably into the second):

The Rick and Morty who serve as the show’s main characters are from the universe labeled C-137. The love potion fiasco turned their whole dimension into Cronenberg monsters, so the C-137 versions moved over to a normal dimension where THAT Rick and Morty died not long after fixing the mutation outbreak. The graves of their doubles are pretty obvious in the backyard.

C-137 Summer, Beth, and Jerry are still alive in the post-apocalyptic Cronenberg world. We may or may not revisit them someday.

The Council of Ricks is a community of Ricks from various timelines who banded together to protect themselves from various powerful threats. They meet on the Citadel of Ricks – and yes, it looks like the one from Mass Effect on purpose. C-137 Rick wants nothing to do with them.

Almost every Rick has a Morty as part of their effort to escape detection. Ricks have very distinct brainwaves, which are masked by having a Morty nearby.

There are an infinite number of universes – a universal double is determined by one’s genetic makeup at the moment of conception, and the infinite variation of events that can happen to you after that.

There is a cult of Mortys who believe that “the One True Morty” will someday save them from being tormented by Ricks. They even have a very official looking Jack Chick-esque pamphlet.

The genocide of Ricks was perpetuated by a rogue Morty who had rewired and remotely controlled “his” Rick as a smokescreen. His motives and whereabouts are currently unknown.

The Characters

Part of what sets R&M apart, particularly from other concept-heavy sci-fi shows, is in how much weight and importance is placed in the cast. Even when Rick takes Morty hopping across dimensions or the devil opens a Twilight Zone-esque shop down the street, the important thing will always be how it affects the characters and their relationships. With that in mind, here’s a quick rundown of the major players:

Rick Sanchez

A brilliant scientist with a passing-at-best relationship to empathy, Rick has been all over the multiverse and buried himself more than once. Many things about Rick are unclear, including his age (60s? Maybe?), how much he gives a damn about his grandson (word from the creators terms him “someone who cares trying to pretend like he doesn’t”), and what his goals are beyond the nebulous concept of “doing science” and avoiding the Council of Ricks. Well, “stay wasted enough to not think about that looming existential crisis” is probably in there too.

The series starts nearly one year after Rick reappears in his daughter’s life (after walking out on her mother some decades before), and while he’s nicer to Beth than just about anyone else in the universe, at least part of his reason for coming back involved getting to hang out with Morty. It’s not as sappy as you’re thinking (or if it is, Rick would never admit it) – Rick has a lot of enemies out in the universe, y’see, and Morty’s….”Morty” brainwaves almost perfectly cancel out Rick’s genius ones, thus keeping the scientist off of some very powerful radars.

By the end of season one Rick seems to have warmed up to his family in spite of himself: Summer is almost as involved in Rick’s adventures as Morty despite not having the latter’s pragmatic advantages, and Rick’s even shown something of a protective streak – although granted, mainly in the vein of “you hurt someone under my jurisdiction, so you should hurt more than them.” At least it’s a start.

Oh, and if you’re wondering about the last name…good luck. So far the show runners have dodged pretty much every inquiry about Rick’s ethnicity, and headcanons are the best we’ve got right now (I’m pulling for latinx Rick, for the record).

Morty Smith

Rick’s grandson, age 14. Morty is a nervous, eager to please kid who usually gets steamrolled into helping Rick out, and who’s spent barely a dozen hours actually attending school since his grandpa came into his life. Morty’s interests are pretty tied to puberty (and particularly his classmate Jessica), which has gotten him into trouble more than once – it’s also the reason he has an already-adult half-alien son (who wrote a very scathing book about Morty’s parenting skills).

Having seen more than any 14 year old should ever have to, and buried his own corpse, Morty’s character arc through the first season is one long downslide into trauma – something Rick would be in no shape to talk him through even if he was inclined to. Though pushed almost to the point of giving up on Rick entirely, Morty ultimately found himself unable to abandon his grandpa after finding out that Rick’s catchphrase, “Wubba Lubba Dub Dub,” is in fact an alien phrase meaning “I am in great pain, please help me.”

While he seems to have embraced the pointlessness of dwelling on lost opportunities and remains haunted by what he’s seen, Morty thusfar remains protective of his family and noticeably affected by the horror and death going on around him. Whether that will stay true remains to be seen.

Summer Smith

Morty’s older sister, age 17. Originally written as “the disinterested teenager on her phone,” Summer came into her own near the end of the first season. Far more willing to call Rick out for his callous behavior than her brother, she’s also proven an increasingly competent hand at adapting to and talking her way out of dangerous situations.

By using Rick’s alternate-reality goggles, Summer discovered that she only exists in a few universes – mostly the ones that involved her parents giving up on their dreams and settling into their accidental life together. While Morty was able to comfort her, this knowledge might end up setting her closer to Rick’s bleak outlook than Morty will ever be.

Beth Smith (née Sanchez)

Rick’s daughter, a veterinary surgeon specializing in large animals (or, a horse heart surgeon). Beth got pregnant with Summer in high school and ended up being talked out of getting an abortion by her then-boyfriend Jerry. Bitter and resigned over what might’ve been (particularly the fact that people don’t see her as the “real” surgeon she might’ve been if she’d gone to school longer and gone on to work with human patients), Beth usually has a glass of wine on hand and one foot out the door in regards to her mediocre marriage.

Rather than resenting Rick for abandoning her, Beth instead came to idolize him and exceptionalism generally, and resented her mother for driving Rick away. She’s overjoyed to have her dad back in her life, and desperate enough to keep him there that she turns a blind eye to the danger Rick puts her children in – better that than letting them be normal.

Jerry Smith

Beth’s husband, with a job in advertising and a perpetual losing streak. While something of a petty jerk, Jerry is also painfully aware that he married a woman way, way smarter than him with whom he maintains a tenuous at best relationship. Though he resents Rick for the hell he puts the family through, Jerry doesn’t push the matter out of fear of losing his wife.

During the Council of Ricks fiasco, Jerry bonded with “Doofus Rick” (aka Rick J19ζ7), the dumbest Rick on the Citadel (which still makes him smart enough to make instant brownies from chemical compounds). When Rick’s name was cleared, Jerry was more than willing to try offing “their” Rick for a chance at getting Doofus Rick (really his only friend) to stick around (for the record, the plan was a complete nonstarter).

Interesting Factoids

Some things that are neither here nor there (being announced mostly in interviews, conventions, or bonus material) that I happen to find endlessly fascinating.

All the Ricks and Mortys you hear throughout the series are voiced by Justin Roiland, as well as some of the side characters (this one is pretty common knowledge, but that doesn’t make it less impressive)

When asked about Evil/Eyepatch Morty at Comic-Con, Harmon and Roiland diverted to talking about “loose threads” that they’re saving for seasons down the line – so I wouldn’t expect to see him much (if at all) in the second season

Doofus Rick doesn’t actually eat shit, and the brownies really are brownies (in other news, the audio commentaries on the Bluray release are very much worth your time).

The baby Morty shown in C-137 Rick’s recorded memories may or may not be “our” Morty

Morty has a learning disability (not one that’s been defined well in canon, but gets brought up often enough in commentaries/interviews to feel worth mentioning)

Rick is pansexual (why no, I don’t think it was a joke)

The comics published by Oni Press concern a different universe’s Rick and Morty (C-132, to be exact) and are well worth your time

Almost all of the commercial segments in “Rixty Minutes” are improvised (there’s quite a lot of improv from Roiland generally on the show)

Every scene in the opening credits will, in theory, happen at some point on the show

Gravity Falls and Rick & Morty have connected universes – this is because Roiland is good friends with Alex Hirsch. Additionally, the two of them occasionally draw art of Rick and Stan hanging out together and it is the cutest

Got all that? Ready to plunge in and give it a shot? Then I’ll see you on the other side.

[galacticspaceguy]

Season 1:

-abandoned by his mother who left him at such a young age he barely remembered her

-child of an evil overlord/king of darkness something like that

-was raised in a school meant for evil children, so he was raised thinking he HAD to be evil, like his dad

-gets kicked of his evil school and becomes homeless

-kept getting groomed by snake guy who kinda totally wanted to eat him

-got kidnapped and almost thrown in lava

-became a legendary hero and now has to kill defeat his dad

-watched his uncle get eaten by a very angry snake

Season 2:

-forced to not hang out or play with other kids his age because he had to train to fight his dad

-him and his brothers were almost eaten by a dinosaur because of said dad

-turns out his mom left him at an evil school because she knew the whole time he was this legendary hero that has to kill his dad

-forced (LITERALLY) to give up his childhood and became a older teen/adult

-his dad got possessed by their grandpas old ex

-had to fight his dad

Season 3:

-got kidnapped by grandpas ex and the purple snake groomer

-was drained of power/life

-watched dad (who’s good now) get thrown into water from a very high height

-watched one of his robot brother explode while fighting grandpas ex

Season 4:

-has to take up leader responsibilities even though he’s like 11

-finds out his dead brother is actually not dead and now has to go fight dad’s old father figure and ex in a fight club

-was betrayed by his other brother

-drained of his power again

-finds out his uncle has the hots of his mom (it’s not one sided either)

-watched his dad get turned into a snake

-had to banish his dad to the cursed realm

Season 5:

-gets possessed by his angry emo ghost cousin who hates his uncle

-almost drowns multiple times

-is forced (under possession) to fight his friends/brothers

-has to kill his dad

Season 6:

-turns so old he almost dies

-forgets everything about this season

Season 7:

-he is now a leader cause his uncle is on his death bed and no one is taking him seriously

-has to fight evil twins who hate his uncle

Season 8:

-he went through puberty (the horror)

-he liked a girl who ended up trying to drown him and resurrected his dad

-his uncle got turned into a baby

-him and his mom get kidnapped by a cult

-gets disowned by his undead father on LIVE TELEVISION

-almost died

-watches his brothers die (they r not dead don’t worry this happens a lot)

Season 9:

-has to fight undead father

-goes through depression

-girl he likes (who also got adopted by his undead dad??) dies

Season 10:

-forced to work with undead father (does not go well)

-gay brother dies and he wasn’t there

-almost dies (again)

-forced to talk to undead family members??

-his dad fucking dips

Season 11:

-literally just wants a break but his uncle went “fuck no”

-has to fight evil snake lady who’s hates his uncle

-watches his robot brother die (again)

Season 12:

-goes to unknown realm to find his robot brother

-gets a therapy dog that hates him

-robot brother turned evil for a good two episodes and tried to kill him

Season 13:

-goes through princess trauma

Season 14:

-his mom goes missing (again)

Season 15:

-watches his adopted older sister turn into the fucking ocean

Season 16:

-got so depressed he gave up being a ninja

-he’s a damn window washing wtf

-the girl he liked isn’t dead lol

-grandpas ex is back and plans to destroy everything (again)

-purple snake groomer is also back

-forced to work with undead dad (again) and undead dads new boyfriend

-thought his friends died (again)

-his home blew up (again)

-gets turned into his worst fear

Season 17:

-all the realms merge together and he loses all his friends

-doesn’t talk to anyone for years

-became a father?

PROPAGANDA UNDER THE CUT: [SPOILERS AND POSSIBLE TRIGGERS AHEAD]

ANTIGONE:

LLOYD GARMADON:

[roryfrommybabysittersavampire]

here is the first unedited chapter and some of the draft of the second chapter of a book im kind of sort of writing but probably won't finish ! it almost works as a standalone story so it's not that much of a cliffhanger if you end up enjoying it. this is mostly just backstory about a trans guy growing up and being real sad and stuff because I'm sad and trans but there's ahappy ending yay!

words : a little more than 14 thousand

tags: ocs, trans, gays, coming of age briefly, two boys kissing /straight, rich people, homelessness, pet play kink, (dog motif), side character named seth, sub/dom, prostitution, some characters are strange about trans ppl and the character isn't educated at all about his identity, I edited out the actual smut because it was bad, I'm just riffing here guys I'm just typing ( I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm trying so hard. it's 3:52 in the morning)

tw lots of drugs and mentions of sa. probably more too. just like lots of trauma but none of it is very graphic because he brushes over all of it because he is Not Healthy.

CHAPTER ONE:

It must've been one hundred degrees out. Hotter, even. Every single pore leaking sweat, clothes clung like seran wrap, useless to pull his shirt from his back because it had nothing to do but stick again. Rue had never really used a thermometer, couldn't figure out where to stand to read one, but his dad's truck had a little number in the corner of the dash that he watched crawl up on the drive to school. Sixty when he got in the car, seventy before the sun was up. He felt the heat trying to crawl in through the bulletproof windows all morning, distracting him from long lessons about prefixes and suffixes that he really did mean to pay attention to. Watched the clock crawling toward a dreaded lunch release. But he knew that no amount of wishing could delay it, and now here he was. Did it even get hotter than one hundred degrees, or did it work like a percentage? Was one hundred the hottest? If it was, it was probably one hundred degrees out.

Rue was crouching behind the dumpster, hiding from the oven-light sun. His class did an experiment when he was younger where they cooked pizza outside with nothing but boxes and tinfoil. It didn't take long, either. He couldn't remember if they ate it for lunch or snack. For all he knew, he could be that pizza–stuffed in the foot of shade between the searing, smelly metal, and the anthill-ridden, cracked asphault, nothing when he looked up except for plastic dumpster lid. From where he sat he could see the old, rusty race car sitting by the fence, a low angle of the windows looking into Ms. Warburg’s office. He was playing a dangerous game, but he was also playing a smart one. That was usually his strategy. He couldn't run as fast as the other boys, couldn't scream as loud or hit as hard, and with the end of fourth grade approaching they were all starting to surpass him in heigh, but he could think better than they could. The rest of them broke off, ran around in noisy circles in the gravel while Mitch counted off his one-one-thousands. Rue tiptoed away in the chaos, sprinted around the corner of the building, watched until Warburg left her office, and took his chance. She could've been grabbing something outside of the door, but it didn't matter. That just meant he had to be quick enough for her to spin right back around. He ran, crouched, slid into the perfect hiding spot so fast that his knees bled. He was sure to win, then. No kid would dare cross the principal to find him. He just had to sit back, relax, and wait.

That was so long ago, though. Could it have been a whole half an hour? Was lunch over already? He looked down at his skinny arms, his shoulders wrapped in bright blue striped sleeves, circular sweat stains under his armpits. No, the little things looked perfectly raw to him. No bubbling, burning skin, blood didn't leak from under it like pizza sauce. He'd half-expected it to.

Yes, time was definitely passing, just as it had passed all day. It took a while to notice, but he couldn't deny it any longer. No one was coming. His legs were getting restless, the shadow had moved just an inch toward him. He took a risk, peeked his head out– Ms. Warburgs’s office was empty– and around the corner of the building–

“Rue Nadine!” the shrill voice came from behind him, froze him solid while he stuck his neck out uncomfortably, looking out at an empty field. Goosebumps shot down his neck, a chill tried to follow that didn't quite work because his skin was cooking. He'd done so good for so long, this could hardly be happening. Finally he sighed, turned around. “Would you like to tell me what you're doing out here?” the woman shrieked.

“Playing hide and seek,” he said, a casual answer.

Ms. Warburg’s face scrunched up, into the center the way it always did, like she smelled something bad, though she probably actually did that time. The dumpster wasn't pleasant. A hint of sour banana, some piss, a general trash smell that really couldn't have been anything but trash. “Don't get smart with me. Get out of there, my office. We're going to call your father.” She turned sharply on her heel, confident that Rue would follow. He smiled to himself as he clumsily stood on cramped legs. Oh no, my dad! How terrifying! Why were your parents supposed to be a threat? It was a sad thought, when he really considered it.

No one looked at him while he followed through the muggy, swamp-cooled office. Didn't care. Just another one of Warburg’s catches. They had to humor her at that point. At least she could still go out to hunt and get herself back inside. He sat down too hard on the soft chair by her desk, tapped his fingers together while he waited for her to ease herself down the way old people did. The office wasn't as bad as a lot of the kids made it seem. And Warburg wasn't either. She was old, yes. Smelled weird. Had a man’s voice that somehow still managed to be screechy, gave harsh punishments for harmless crimes. But she let Rue sit in the corner when he was having a bad day, run in and talk for a few minutes without warning when he couldn't sit still in class. She liked hearing about his books. The ones he was reading, and the ones he was planning to write. And she didn't look at him when he was upset, didn't say a single word from the time that he burst in crying with his head hung to the time he left breathing steadily, nodded to her politely, left and went back to class. She knew that he was a good kid. For some reason, though, she had a very strict idea of how to maintain that.

“Would you care to explain to me what you were doing, or do you plan to wait until your father is on the phone?”

Rue looked up. Her face was bored, her lips puckered and pouting like a trout, her wrinkly eyes thin and calculating. “My dad please.”

She narrowed her eyelids even further somehow, turned slowly without breaking eye contact until she had her spidery fingers wrapped around the black plastic receiver. She typed in a number without looking it up, laid the clunky thing back down and let it ring on speaker. Rue tapped his fingers on the desk, bit his lip. It rung. Rung. Rung.

She looked at him like it was his fault when his father's voicemail crunched through the damp air. Leave a message! She lifted the receiver, put it back down with a crash while she glared at Rue. “Okay, your mother then.”

Rue’s eyes shot wide, new sweat mixing with the cold stain sitting on his back. He tried to look calm, cool, put together. Sat still. Didn't tap his fingers as she flipped through a noisy binder, stopped on the page with his name on it. “Please just call my dad again.”

“Your mother’s number is right here, and I have to speak to someone.”

“No!” he snapped.

She glared again, wrinkles between her eyebrows, scrunched pig nose. “And why is that?”

“She's dead.”

Ms. Warburg looked shocked for just a moment, almost apologetic, before she rolled her eyes. “No she is not.” Started typing in the number.

“What do you mean she's not?” he shouted, pleading. “Do your records seriously not reflect that? She got cancer! She's not gonna pick up!”

When she only looked at him and waited for the phone to ring, to her ear this time, Rue shot up in his chair and tried to grab it from her hand, over the desk. A loud clatter, a cup full of pencils spilled across the clean wood desktop and onto the floor, Ms. Warburg’s rubbery hand swatting him away, putting on a fake smile as he heard the whisper of his mother answering the phone.

“Ms. Nadine, hello? This is Ms. Warburg, the Icecap Elementary principal. Yes, it's lovely to speak to you too. I’m calling, actually, because your child is in my office– no, this is disciplinary–”

Rue sat back in his chair, seething. Crossed his arms. Glared the meanest, nastiest glare that his little eyes could manage as he swayed slowly back and forth on the spinning chair. He resolved never to come into the office again, no matter the reason. She was a liar. She didn't care about him.

“Well,” she drawled, smirking at the boy as she spoke into the deteriorating microphone. “I found Rue– I’m sorry?” her face fell. “No. No, I will not be doing that, I apologize, ma’am. We have a contract that prevents it. Yes, I’m serious, I’m not sure what motivation I would have to lie about that. With all due respect, Ms. Nadine, that is not the issue at hand right now. I will continue to respect your son’s wishes– please don't use that language with me, ma’am! Alright– Ms. Nadine? That's fine. Have a nice day.” She turned away while Ms. Nadine’s voice continued to crackle into the air, hung up the phone. She looked at Rue. “Would you like the records to reflect that your mother is dead, on your word?”

He swallowed. Blinked at her, wasn't exactly sure what was happening.

“Or, I suppose I should just put a note not to contact her.”

“That sounds better,” Rue mumbled. The room was too silent. Something had shifted. He had a good enough idea what was said from Ms. Warburg’s side, but he wished she'd just put it on speaker. Let him hear it for himself. He couldn't let himself move.

The phone rang. Rue jumped. Ms. Warburg picked it up.

“Hello, Ms. Warburg speaking. Mr. Nadine, thank you so much for calling back! We had a touch of an issue, but it's been resolved. It’s really nothing to worry about, but are you in a place where you can pick your son up early? Now would be ideal, actually. It’s no big deal, he's just a bit rattled, but I think Rue would prefer to tell you himself—“ she glanced up at him. He nodded. “Okay, thank you so much. Have a nice day, sir.”

She hung up, turned to the wide-eyed kid. “Your father will be here in fifteen minutes.” Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were not narrowed, and her nose was not scrunched.

Rue sort of wanted to hug her, sort of wanted to run. He had nothing left to say, everything she could possibly need had been aired out. She took a red pen from her desk as he watched, one that had been nicely sitting in a cup when he walked in, pulled off the cap with a characteristically shaky hand and drew a line through his mother’s phone number. Scrawled something in cursive next to it, closed the binder and put it back in the filing cabinet behind her. “I had Mr. Jenks get your things from your classroom, they should be sitting in the hall when you leave. But you are welcome to wait in here, if you'd like,” she said as she turned back and looked at her old, wide Dell computer.

“Thank you,” he said, got out of his chair and went to sit in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest. She didn't look at him, he didn't look at her. When someone knocked on the door to say this his father was there he turned, nodded to her politely, and left.

***

“Do you know how many times I was forgotten in hide and seek, bud?” Rue’s dad asked while he served dinner that night. Rue was sitting at the table, pinching at the tweed tablecloth, still hanging his head. “It was like, five. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder if you wanna catch up with this hot shot.” He pointed at himself with his newly free hands.

Rue laughed half-heartedly. He hadn't shared the actual problem yet. He didn't lie, exactly, but he embellished a few facts to make the tone of the phone call make sense. He was sad because the kids didn't like him, played the game to get rid of him, got him in trouble. It made sense. Yes, Rue was bullied. Sort of. A passive kind of bullying. He didn't know at the time, but it would continue through fifth grade, worsen a bit in middle school. It was a bittersweet fact that no one would ever touch him. There was never a single bruise on him that he didn't put there himself. No one would call him anything explicitly terrible, nothing bad enough to quote. He would sit alone at lunch, be forgotten in hide and seek, and that was really the worst of it. And that was fine. Better to have nothing interesting to tell on that front. And not the issue at hand, not at all.

His dad sat across from him, picked up his plastic fork and stabbed his ‘Pad-say-ewwie’. He was trying to look casual, trying to get Rue to laugh. He was a good dad. He wanted his kid to be happy. It wasn't his fault that he thought that meant a constant smile, a complete lack of complaints. It made enough sense. Rue was not spoiled, but unchanged Bandaids were pasted all over his wounds, in the form of a nice room and laid-back rules and whatever dinner he wanted while they watched whatever movie he wanted to watch, if he wanted to watch a movie. He didn't complain. He didn't know what he would change about their situation, if he could change anything. Maybe his mother would be there, but she would be an entirely different woman, and that would be an unfair wish. Maybe his dad would be a bit more responsible, better at cleaning, smarter with his creative solutions. But that would change his dad, and that was a slippery slope. He loved his dad. His life was good.

Rue looked up, smiled. “Thank you for getting dinner.” He forgot that he was only ten sometimes. Felt a lot older. Fifteen, maybe. Thirteen on a good day. He did his own laundry, made sure his dad felt appreciated. And he thought all kids should be a bit more like him, but not like him. Adults loved him, but he had no friends, and he was too young to start going out and talking to the older kids. He assumed that he played them up in his head, anyways.

“What's up, buddy?” His dad asked, adjusting his position in his seat and making his eyes look sad.

Rue looked up like he was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not calling you a liar, I swear, but are you sure you told me the whole story? War lady seemed pretty worried about you.”

Rue considered his options, then gave up thinking, let his tongue blurt it out. “She called mom.”

“Fuck,” his dad sighed simply. Put his fork down. “Was it bad?”

Rue shrugged. “I dunno, but I’m pretty sure mom got upset when she said my name, so…” Rue trailed off, ate a piece of broccoli while his dad looked at him like a wounded animal.

“I’m so sorry, bud. You know it's just her issue, it has nothing to do with you.”

This is Rue’s sob story. The one smudge on Rue’s perfect, comfortable, not-quite-spoiled life. It was the reason that Rue’s mother chose to give full custody to his father in the divorce, the reason that Rue was tragically outcast from his peers. It was why he was ten, and felt fifteen or thirteen on a good day, but when he was being honest, in his journals and his head mostly, he was perfectly terrified to grow up. So much that he could barely read anymore for fear of escaping for too long, wasting time. Stuck in a perpetual state of not quite here or there, a non-child praying every night to a god he didn't believe in for time to slow down for him. And, finally, it was the reason why he was so close with his father. And that would make it good, even if it was a bad thing, but it was not a bad thing, and thus was Rue’s sob story.

Ah, the dreaded word. That terrible, taboo phrase. Should I say it? Do you deserve to know his secret, his curse that he withheld from everybody save for Ms. Warburg and his beloved father? But he knew he couldn't keep it a secret for much longer. It was already coming apart at the seams– tiny feet, little, skinny arms that did not cook like pizza. I suppose I’ll just tell you. It's not like he was truly ashamed. He really won't mind. So, here it is: Rue’s terrible, evil, secret curse was that he was a transgender child. Yes, one of those little things who forced grave choices on their parents, who drew news attention and made teachers complicit. He made the choice himself to keep it under wraps, after he made the choice to tell his father. So grown up, he was, even at seven, when he dressed up in a tiny play suit jacket and went to deliver his father a paper that said, simply, “I’m a boy,” with a small smiley face at the bottom. He would've been fun to put in dresses for a bit longer, but it made too much sense to disagree with. No one knew where he got “Rue” from, not even Rue himself, but it suited him, so he kept it.

And, of course, the crux of his suffering. His mother, bless her heart, loved him too dearly to watch Rue’s father feed his delusions. Couldn't bear it, packed up all of her things and left the night before the name change. Tried to sue him for child endangerment or something, lost, divorced him and requested not to have any scheduled visits. The judge laughed at her for refusing to use her child's legal name, and that was it. She didn't see them for years. Rue did not tell Ms.Warburg, but the little buzzes from the receiver were some of the first that he'd heard from his mother in years. And that was fine. He was happy with that.

That night he told his father what few details he caught, confessed that he was scared for the first time in a long time. Cried on the couch while his dad made popcorn. There was no option to grow out of this. It would follow him. They watched the first Ghostbusters movie and Rue looked out the window at the moon and thought of his mom. She must be thinking of him, too. He hoped that she was, after so long. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

***

Middle school got worse, just as he suspected it would. He remained friendless, put in no effort to change it as voices around him slowly grew deeper. In seventh grade his father took him on a camping trip and couldn't make it up the mountain. Rue sat next to him on the side of the trail, stickers in his legs, while his dad told him that he had heart cancer. Rue didn’t even know that was possible. They cried together. Apparently he'd been trying to fight it silently for a year, but his time was running out. He thought it might be his last camping trip. They finished the hike slowly. Rue looked at his dad while he slept and wondered if he would wake up in the morning.

Summer approached. His father dragged his fragile, timebomb body to the rows of appointments to get Rue on hormone blockers, got all of his important documents together, signed his last will and testament. He wouldn't tell Rue what was in it. Not yet. There's no need for that yet. We're prepared, but we're hopeful. Hopeful but prepared. It became his mantra over the last few months, repeated every time that an arrangement was made, an appointment was scheduled. Rue stayed inside with him all summer, his grandmother came to help when a fourteen year old’s care could no longer suffice. His father died peacefully in late June. Rue stayed in the house with his grandmother until the custody was settled.

But she turned out to be a nasty woman as well, of course. One afternoon Rue’s uncle came to the house to give his condolences, and he said something strange. Something about being sorry, which Rue nodded at, and then something about a girl's body. A man’s going mind, in the end. Rue shook off the man’s handshake, wiped his palm on his leg and went to his room. When he came out things were missing. Important things. His father's laptop. His father's guitar. His father's journals and sketchbooks and his tobacco pipe. He cried. The old woman comforted him, told him that he would get them back when his uncle passed.

She arranged a Christian burial in August, complete with a speech about her son accepting Jesus into his heart in his last moments on Earth. Rue could not confirm or deny it– she had taken those moments from him. Invited him in to feel the body go cold. He didn't believe it, though. His father was closer to pagan than anything else, though agnostic may have been a good word for it. Rue sat in the back row seething. His mother took him home, loaded his bags from the church sidewalk into the back of her SUV and drove him to a strange house in silence.

His mother did not abuse him. Thus was his sob story. She did not hate him, didn't even dislike him. Most of her issue was with his father, after all. In her eyes Rue was a victim of brainwashing, a child who refused to be saved. And when she finally gave up on his salvation she only treated him like a thing that she was tasked not to kill– a houseplant, a fish, maybe a hamster on a good day. She didn't hate him, didn't neglect him, she just couldn't agree with his life choices, didn't think that his grandmother had done anything wrong. It was fine, Rue was simply defeated. He spent his energy surviving. Getting along with her. Bathing himself. No time for grief, at least. Might as well figure out how to sue an uncle.

***

Rue finally made a friend in the first month of high school. The kid approached him while he was laying on the ground during dodgeball, asked him what his problem was. He was tall, looked even taller from the floor. Rue said he was just tired. The kid said me too. His name was Donald, or Donnie, or Don. Rue didn't like him much at first, but at least they were talking, and then he still didn't like him much for the months after that either. Don was not gentle. He said whatever he thought, whenever he thought it, and he did what he wanted to. It was unfamiliar, but the general idea was attractive. By winter break Rue learned to laugh along, brush off cruelty, sometimes even chime in. He got attached, stopped being careful and followed Don wherever he asked. It felt how being fifteen should. Rue learned to see Don’s teasing as proof that someone was thinking of him, his arguing as proof that they were still equals, his cigarettes passed Rue’s way as proof that someone was taking care of him. Besides, not many people would so willingly treat Rue as ‘one of the boys’ the way Don did, enforce his treatment as one of the boys, no matter how many strange comments his curse inevitably came with. And Don was smart. Smarter than the rest of the kids, so that he didn't quite fit in for it, just like Rue. Logical. He didn't hate nonsensically. He had well-spoken reasons for why he thought how he did, so Rue listened. And, since they were smart, in their moments of intentional stupidity they were very careful about their company. They almost made it a game- assembling a gang of sorts, going through mental applications together. Don was the leader, Rue the thing that he kept by his side. And the kids listened. All of them, like Don was infallible. They worshiped him up until he graduated, then chomped at the bit for his phone number so that a diploma could not keep him away.

Don’s parents were rich. And not good job rich, inheritance rich. They had a huge house, too many nice cars, and endless spending money that Don could snag without anyone blinking. Starting in August of Rue’s senior year they went out of town for four months, to The Bahamas, and Don had the house to himself, and suddenly Rue’s life was perfect. His mother had lost interest. She didn't ask where he was going when he packed a few of his things. He got to pretend like he was an adult, that he'd gone off and moved in with a rich, dangerous man who bought him drugs and a pretty jacket and a bottle of his own cologne. Rue and Don slept in the master bedroom when no one else was there, Rue made a bed on the floor of Don’s room when there was company. There was company often. Endless rotations of friends and acquaintances who brought anything Rue wanted. Sometimes Don took him out on drives in the Ferrari, showed him off while he sold sandwich bags of weed, then let Rue smoke his stash in the passenger seat and smile out the open window at the passing streetlights.

That September Don got him testosterone. The gang treated it like a drug deal, found someone who could sell it to them cheap, had a party and laughed like Rue was shooting up when Don gave him his first shot. Then they considered the idea for a moment, said ‘now that Don can use needles right’– ever so cautious, even when they were speaking about killing themselves– but that wouldn't be for a long time, they agreed. Then they changed the subject. The beginning of that year stayed good. Rue’s voice dropped. He kept going to school while Don stayed in their big, empty house, training himself to be a kingpin. The brand new adult had his mind set on it. He was gonna climb to the top, work his way up from petty eighths to bags of cash and coke across state lines. He liked the rush. He liked when people listened to him. Rue had grown fond of listening to him, too. He didn't object when Don laid out his plan, liked the idea of hanging on a gold-watch-clad arm forever.

But, of course, eventually Don's parents came home. It was December. They found out about his amateur operation almost immediately, kicked them out that same night. Rue’s mom shooed them off when they came to her door. Rue excused Don so he could plead. She had a slough of reasons, even if Rue were to break down one she'd come back with ten more. It was hopeless. He gave it one last shot.

“He stays or I go forever.”

She laughed. The decision was too easy. She told him that he was welcome to get the rest of his things, or she'd make him breakfast if he was there when she woke up in the morning. He left crying to find Don on the sidewalk, they walked to the closest Denny's. Rue had one backpack with him. Don still didn't have a car.

Everything shattered around them, the illusion gone as they looked at each other in the sticky, faux-leather booth. They weren't grown-ups, drug lords, gang leaders. They were kids. And they were alone, and scared. They held each other, equals under the flickering orange light hanging too low over the table, traced the endless cracks in the wood scratched up and refinished a hundred times over, until they were asked to leave.

“It's 24 hours,” Don had objected quietly, looking up at the young waitress with tired eyes.

“Don't matter, I didn't say we're closing.”

Don blinked at her, annoyed, exhausted.

“Would you please just leave sir, it’s been a long night.” She glanced back at the angry woman watching her from the kitchen.

Don nodded and pulled Rue's arm behind him, out of the booth, out of the door, to the curb. They sat down. He took the bag off of his back, larger than rues by a few pockets, reached in and counted his money. Three thousand dollars, he said. It was much more than Rue expected. He didn't know why they didn't order anything while they sat. Maybe they could've stayed longer.

“What are we gonna do?” Rue asked.

They looked at each other for a long time.

That night they walked an hour to their friend Camden’s house. Don told him that he could drop the act after he opened the door like they were royalty, looked around nervously like he had no other choice. They weren't gang leaders, they weren't drug lords. They needed a place to sleep. Another friend. Camden’s parents lent them the guest room and Don let Rue crawl into his arms while he fell asleep. In the morning the Camden's pulled them out for a talk. Are you guys dating? No. Are you into drugs? Yes, Don said. There was no point in hiding it. The Camden’s would find out eventually, they might as well wait for a place that accommodated their situation. Rue cringed. What kind? Weed, we drink. That’s usually it. Ms.Camden raised her eyebrows. We had a stint with coke, Don said very casually, but it's over, he brushed it off. She nodded. Is that why you’re on the street? Rue looked to Don. No, no, he assured her. Uh, Rue’s mom is a bigot, my parents are bigots. He made a face like explaining more might shatter something in the boy standing next to him. Ms. Camden looked to her husband. Fine by me, she said, shrugging. Her husband shrugged too. Yeah, sure. He's still in school, right? Mr. Camden asked. Rue nodded. You? Don shook his head. You work? No, but I’m looking. Does he talk?

“Sorry, yeah”, Rue laughed. “Thank you, by the way.”

And then it was okay again, for a while. Just a speedbump, it's okay. They realized quickly that the interrogation was a charade, that there weren't really any rules as long as everything was well-hidden. First it was the beer bottles. They piled them up in a bag. Threw them out. No one cared much. Then the smoke. They opened a window. The house smells, a Camden might say in passing, and ask if there’s been a skunk nearby with a wink. They nodded, yeah, smiled back. Then it was the late nights. The days home from school as Rue and Camden slept them off. The empty dimebags. Around February things started to slip. Rue’s grades got low enough that the school was concerned. He had to look his mother in the eye as she examined him in the stuffy office– hair cut short and messy, scruff above his lip, charcoal around his eyes, a safety pin in his ear. And worse, the eyebags. The strong, sunken cheeks. She didn't know him. She left crying. He was let off with a warning.

***

The first night that they tried heroin was the same night that Camden went to his first punk show. Don made a big deal of it, dressed him up. Our scene, he kept saying, though he and Rue had only been to two or three shows themselves. While they were there Camden told them he got the impression it was really just an excuse to get high and hit people. He didn't mind it, it was fun. They met a guy named Jack afterwards who drove them in his breaking down Toyota to steal two bottles of ‘Henny’, as he called it, his favorite, then drank with them in the truck bed until they were all delirious. They could've died a million ways that night. None of them understood Jack's motives, bent over to whisper little jokes about the weapons he was grabbing whenever he stepped away. The three weren't that interesting. He was a few years older than them, in his third year of college to be a vet. Later into the night, or morning by then, probably, they picked up Jack’s friend Cooper. He was the one with the fix. Don was too smart to put something into his arm on a whim. He would've said no if the thought hadn't been brewing in his head already, ever since some guy he talked to in a bathroom described the feeling to him. Like a blanket made of water made of silk, safe in a hurricane, or something like that. Don would never seek it out. Never. So, it must have been fate that it came to him instead.

He didn't trust their needles, though, of course. So careful. He offered to host, said that if someone wanted to drive they had a clean shed out back, as long as they were out by sunrise. Camden cringed at the thought, but gave in when they all agreed, let Cooper drive because he had the least cognac coursing through his veins.

That night was also the first time that Don kissed Rue. It was nothing big, nothing too real. It happened right after his second hit, after he knew what to expect. He did Rue’s first so that his hand would be steady as possible, then his own, and fell back into the blankets that they'd stuffed against the corner. He turned his head and studied the boy. His hair was mussed, his muscles all limp. And his eyes were somewhere else entirely. Floating, vacant. Don knew that he was happy. He smiled. ‘Watch this,’ Don had mumbled to the room, gave a half-hearted laugh, before he leaned forward and caught Rue's lips. Just for a moment. When he pulled back Rue was there, looking at him. Dude, Jack laughed from the opposite corner, gross.

The next morning they talked while they ignored theit strange, feverish hangovers. Rue swore that he was done.

“We can do it like this. It was fun. But an addiction has to be broken at some point. It’s the only inevitability. You break it, you withdraw, you crave– or, I guess, you die,” Rue shrugged.

Don shrugged too. “It is always an option.”

They were only joking. Rue didn't know that Don was already chasing his first high again. It had been everything he wanted, just like the man in the bathroom described it. After Rue fell asleep on the floor he’d sent the strange men off, told Camden he was good to go inside, and laid next to him, watched Rue’s eyelashes fluttering on his flushed cheek, the stray hairs falling over his face, as he took the last two hits that he'd managed to convince the strangers that they'd already done.

He sought it out after that. Waited until Rue was asleep. Always when he was asleep. Knowing that he wasn't home was never enough. Don had to see him there in front of him, confirm with his eyes that Rue was gone, kicking his feet like a cat dreaming while Don wasted his high tucking everything safely under the bed. Rue stopped seeing Don before school, made sure he didn't wake him when he slowly rolled out of bed at seven every morning.

What field do you intend to major in?

Rue stared at the text on the grainy, decade-old laptop screen. There was no asterisks next to it. It was not a required question, he could leave it blank if he wanted. That almost made it more of a challenge.

None of your fucking business

He submitted the form.

Summer rolled around. Graduation again. Rue walked. He got no awards, one of few in the thousand person class. His mother didn't attend, but Camden’s parents hugged him after the ceremony, gave him a 20 and a red rose, took them all out to dinner at a fancy restaurant that served strangely shitty fried food. Don came clean that night, after they got back to their room. He had no reason to, mindless self-preservation. The guilt was eating him alive. It ate him at home while he sat in bed waiting for Rue’s bus. It ate him while they talked, when they laid next to each other, so that Don started facing the other side of the bed when he slept. It even ate him as he watched his Rue walk across the stage, wearing the big white robe that fell awkwardly over his bony shoulders, smiling wide because he really did accomplish something big, and Don could hardly pay attention.

Rue only nodded along, looked at him when he finished speaking. Don wanted some kind of anger. Tears. Anything. But Rue would only understand, tell him that they'd get him help together, that everything would be okay. Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to hide. All of it for nothing. All of the time lost, the sleep, the months trying to speak over his own pulse thrumming in his throat.

He couldn't stand the thought. Don let himself get angry. He wanted something. Anything. And it was Rue’s fault, really, that he wouldn't give it to him. He wouldn't feel that way if Rue could just try to be normal. If Rue was a dick like him, if Rue wasn't fucking riteous and perfect. He didn't say it like that out loud. No, it came out more like: “you should've known. What did you think was happening? How little attention do you pay me if you can let a heroin addiction go unnoticed, Rue?”

That part was too loud. Don held his breath. No Camdens stormed through the door. I’m sorry, Rue said, genuinely. Don slapped him. And when Rue only looked back up with stupid, shocked doe eyes, Don punched him, across the jaw, so that he fell to the ground. And then Rue looked apprehensive, and so Don climbed on top of him, and punched him in the eye, again, and then again, grabbed his shoulders, threw him down. His skull made a dull sound. No crack. No echo. And then Rue looked scared. Don was satisfied. He felt sick to his stomach. In a second Rue was reaching up, clinging to his shoulders, kissing him. Clawing the back of Don's head with chewed, ragged fingernails, biting Don’s lip. He might have melted for a second, but it wasn't that easy. He pulled back suddenly, knocked the wind out of Rue’s chest when he slammed him to the floor and held him there firmly so that Rue could only stare up blankly as he tried to catch his breath. Don stared back. There were no looks exchanged, no silent agreements or unspoken acknowledgements. He only helped himself up with his weight on Rue’s chest, and walked out of the door.

***

Don died in early July, two days after Rue’s 19th birthday. At least, they think so. They found his body in the early stages of decomposition, his gasses flooding a locked bathroom at the public park, a location popular thanks to certain individuals who enjoyed stench and swarming flies as hookup ambiance. Rue assumed they weren't too happy about the news either. He was grateful that Don waited, at least. He had a decent birthday with the Camdens. And he'd almost suspected it by that point. He made attempts to contact Don at first, but they got further apart as he grew tired of waiting for an answer. That didn't mean his thoughts were any further from the subject, though, no matter how hard he tried to sway them. He was lonely. That August he didn't move much. He laid in bed, watched his own memories. Camden played video games with him sometimes. They talked, about real, genuine things. Feelings. Grief. It was foreign. Camden laughed at that, until he thought about the statement, and he stopped laughing.

Rue decided to kill himself around September. He knew that he wouldn't be welcome in his room for much longer. Camden was staying home for college, and he was basically a brother, but Rue ate food. It might not have been much, but it was a cost. And he bathed. He needed the occasional ride. Toothpaste. Accutane. Every once in a while the Camdens even insisted on taking him to buy new clothes, taking the boys out for a nice dinner. Rue always insisted that they just give him a twenty so he could go to the thrift store, it would go much farther, but sometimes he lost and came home with new, stiff jeans. He was nineteen, and he did not pay rent, and they were not his parents. That, and he was tired. And lonely. And bored. Sure, he could lay there and play video games for the rest of his life if the Camden's let him, but that was no way to go. Better to die young, pretty and tragic, than ugly and burnt out and wasted. He knew that. If he couldn't live the life that he wanted to– and he couldn’t, he lost that chance some day in early July– there was no point in waiting around for the next forty, fifty, sixty years.

But he could never be that proactive, really. Suicide sounded like such a commitment. He went to sleep with the resolution that he would simply let himself die. The first morning after he and Don tried heroin, they'd spoken at length about addiction. That was always the conversation that Don was good at. Logical. Philosophical. Removed– not an I, but a we, an us, a you. They'd laid it out simply. There were two options. Three, if you counted complete abstinence, and four if you counted the rare, casual user. But, with addiction, there were two: you quit, or you die. One day, you either choose to stop, or you choose to let it kill you. And they both knew that it would be a conscious choice. Don knew, up to the moment that he took his last hit. Rue could picture him, stumbling down the sidewalk at night, into the stray branches, scraping his arms. Hanging heavy on the metal latch, hearing it clack shut. The bars drop. Crawling onto the floor, into the filth, propping himself up in the corner. Making a decision. He dragged himself into that bathroom like a sick cat drags itself under the neighbors porch, lays down and waits. The flies buzzed around his head like the rats that lived there, waiting patiently, watching his last breaths from a distance, laying there with it. Until it was gone. The cat is dead, Don is dead. Then there is no more contract. Then they can crawl into the eyes, the ears, chew open the stomach and leave bits of fur matted to the ribs. It's only meat, then.

Yes, it was the perfect plan. He would just die. Simple as that. Pick up whatever he damn pleased. Take whatever was offered. Whatever was thrust into his hands. He’d say yes to it all, over and over. He would drink through the hangovers, hair of the dog that swallowed Don’s tongue, because it didn't matter! Everyone wanted to do it, and now he could. When the Camdens finally kicked him out he thanked them for all that they'd done for him, cried. He might've fallen to his knees. He didn't remember. He woke on a bench with a headache, and didn't care. Something was sitting under him. Don’s bag. He opened it. Don's cash.

Some nights he slept outside, some at strange men’s houses. He didn't know what he was– gay, straight, or if those even applied to him– but learned quickly that the men wanted to take care of him. They wanted to look across the booth at his flutteringeyelashes, to grab his waist while they walked him out of the bar, to undress him with their unwashed hands. He didn't even have to do anything. Just stand there. Try not to hold his breath. He liked to pick who he'd be each night. Sometimes he was the club singer, the seductress, hidden beneath unshaved scruff and faux eyelashes. Those nights you could look thoroughly, but ask to touch. Others he was just a scared little boy, lost, looking for someone to take him home, give him a bed to sleep in. And who knew, maybe something else would happen. It was out of his hands. And the men, to his surprise, seemed to like waking up next to him. Liked reaching up to touch his small breasts with a quick comment, a little slight. Sometimes he moaned at the pang that it sent through his chest. Other times, when he thought it might be safe, he tore his head away, turned his shoulder and made them take it back.

He could feel himself succeeding, after some time. He was certainly dying. He didn't know the date, hadn’t checked in a long time. Sometime in March, maybe? He thought he saw a ‘March Madness’ sign somewhere. Easter was getting close. Was he really gonna make it to Easter? His limbs were weaker by the day, his headache, the fog between his thoughts becoming such a constant that some nights he could hardly make it through the greetings. Then he had to stumble to the very back corner of an alley, sleep with Don's backpack on the wrong way, covering his chest, pressed into his aching stomach, hugging it as he drifted off easily. One night, a very foggy one, after a week without a bed, when he couldn't quite remember his way through a conversation– hello, yeah, uh– Rue. – no, it's my name– yeah, hi there, do you wanna– no thanks, kid, the man said– a rare occurrence– he dragged himself out of the bar’s creaky side door, collapsed against the corner of the dumpster and pulled out a cigarette. He tapped his pockets, searched the backpack. No lighter. Fuck. He let his head fall back so that it hit the wall harder than he intended, and bounced off. Painful, throbbing. He looked up, swayed gently and smiled as he watched the stars above the polluted city.

“Are you okay?”

The voice rung out like the clear note of a harp through a construction site. Rue guessed that the man was an angel, finally coming to take him. He had the palest skin Rue had ever seen, white hair, a soft white button- up shirt. The alley light shone behind his head like a halo.

“Am I dead?,” Rue slurred.

The man helped him up, took his bag. Rue only saw the gesture, didn't think twice about its contents. It didn't matter much anyways, not anymore. Rue hung onto the man’s arm as he took long strides out to the road, opened the sleek, low car door for him, and held his hand as he ducked into the back seat. He made a gesture to scoot. Rue did. The man climbed in after him, closed the door.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Rue.”

“Hm. Did your parents name you that?”

“Does it matter?

“No, I just like it. It suits you.”

“Doe your name suit you?” Rue asked, smiling stupid. Maybe someone slipped something into his drink, but that made no sense. He wouldn't have been left waiting, left to stumble into the alley alone. He must've simply taken something that he'd forgotten about, replaced a few too many meals with hard liquor.

“Hm. I don't know. I’m Michael.”

Rue laughed. Very fitting. “Are you an angel?”

“I don't think so. I’m taking you back to my place, a party should be starting in a few minutes.”

“Cool,” Rue said, and let his eyes fall shut in the nice, conditioned air, the soft leather seats.

“Stay with me,” Michael’s voice cut through the pull of sleep like an electric shock. Rue’s eyes opened on their own accord, the light stung. “I promise it’ll be worth it. My bed is ten times more comfortable than these seats.” Rue smiled and nodded, smooth, though he was unsure if that was possible. He chose to watch neon signs fly by outside of the window instead, feel the hum of the engine below him as Michael kissed warm marks up his neck.

A second after the car rolled to a stop the door that Rue was leaning on was opened from the outside, and he fell, let the valet boy catch him. Michael held his arm again, firm, safe, as they walked up the rows of white steps– were they marble? And Rue remembered where they were. Are you a prince or something? he asked. No, Michael said. Then why do you live in a castle?

“It's barely a mansion.”

“There's a valet.”

“That’s Seth. He helps around here.”

Michael stopped him at the door, looked at his eyes. Rue noticed for the first time that Michael's were nearly see-through, so blue-gray that they might have gone red if he was a rodent. His hair was nearly as light as an albino rat’s, too, thin but full, long and straight so that it framed his face and suggested some kind of nobility. Not quite enough there to call a mane. You're pretty, Rue wanted to say. But he bit his tongue instead, didn't need to let anything else fall out.

“The house is very full. There will be people dancing, drinking, fucking, swimming out back. You might even catch some Russian roulette. To put it simply, there are no rules. Except for that you do not tell people about this. You do not give out this address. What happens in this house stays in the house. Do you understand?”

Rue smiled again. Couldn't help it. “To be completely honest, I’m not even sure where we are. But if I did– yeah. I'm good for it.”

Michael searched him, then nodded, satisfied. He opened the door. It made a dramatic sound, like it looked like it should. Every head turned, a sea of smudged eyeliner, pincurls, bare chests, Mardi gras beads and red solo cups. The music shook the floor as they walked through the foyer, through the smell of sweat and sex, pheromones and body spray, undulating bodies, puddles of beer on the floor. Some vomit. A few girls stopped Michael, desperate for his attention, but he gave them nothing, shouldered past the crowd on the stairs that parted just slightly as he dragged Rue through it, until they were safe in a big, open room. The master's. It was even bigger than Don’s parents’, somehow. Warmly lit with lamps built into the walls, a white bear skin on the floor, a TV on top of a gas fireplace. A desk, another desk. Hand carvings in the cabinets. He could see the bathroom connected to the room, the door standing open. A twin-sized bathtub and vanity mirrors.

Michael silently sat on the edge of the bed, leaned back on one hand and tapped the space next to him. Rue joined him, sank into the plush duvet.

“What are you on?” Michael asked, tugging on Rue’s shoulder until his head was resting in the blonde man's lap, on his thin legs.

“I don't know. I’m definitely drunk,” Rue said as Michael began to play with his short, ratted hair.

“Are you addicted to anything hard?”

“Coke, but who isn't.” Rue rolled over so that he was looking out at the room. The bear, calling for help.

“Anything else? Needles?”

“No. I’m clean, if that's what you're worried about. I get tested.” It was a lie. He didn't know how, where to go. He could’ve always always asked, really anyone, but that would involve admitting that he didn't know. And he knew that it was selfish, but at that moment he couldn't think about much other than the bed under him, the fingers petting his sensitive scalp.

“No, not that. But that's good. I’m just learning about you.”

“Oh?” Rue opened his eyes, craned his neck to meet Michael's. “Do you know anything yet?”

“Not much, no. You’re homeless. I believe you like to be told what to do.” A pause. “And you're trying to kill yourself.”

Rue sat up, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, there's two thousand dollars in your bag, and you haven't eaten in– what, three days? A week?”

“Have you been fucking following me?”

“No. It was just a guess. There's a hollowness that people get, you can see it in the face and neck, mostly. Maybe it's the low blood sugar.”

“I drink plenty.”

“Alcohol? That's not how it works. That's worse than negative calories–a poison. Like a disease for your body to fight.”

“So you want me to stop drinking?”

“I want you to stop fighting me. Let me in.”

Rue looked him over slowly. He didn't trust many people. Didn't trust any of of the men that he let touch him, fuck him, none of the strangers that he smoked with on street corners, not the cops or his mother or God. He never said it if he didn't have to, but he did have boundaries. They were fairly standard for most, but he got questioned often, bewilderment and anger. Yes, you can grab my hair. Yes, you can finger me, treat me like an object. But you sodomize me, and you don't leave marks. No bruises. No hickeys. No hitting. Michael had already broken one rule, and Rue didn't seem to care much yet. It was always the same question, when they really wanted it anyways. Why? You clearly like it! You clearly want to be hurt, kicked, bitten. So why won't you let me? And he would tell them they were right, never really a clear answer. Just his rule. Just his one hard line. Some crossed it anyway. Those were some of the few interactions that he might've considered bad ideas, too far. Real self-destruction, leaving him to stumble through the streets for days, unsure exactly who, where he was. But he always bounced back, begrudgingly. Fine-tuned survival instincts on autopilot, a suicidal cockroack living through nuclear winter. He considered it, looking at Michael, who was looking back at him, patiently. Was that what he meant? Let me in, trust me. Or maybe it was simply a euphemism. A sleazy line to try to get his pants off faster, like he couldn't just ask.

“What do you want?” Michael asked him gently.

Rue didn't know why he was being so forgiving, lending him enough time to sort a few thoughts. Or maybe Rue was waiting to answer on purpose, drawing it out. If he didn't choose, eventually Michael would do it for him. That's how it usually went. And Michael was right, he liked it better that way. It was easier. He was done with trying, making decisions. Quit a long time ago. He even trusted Michael, he decided then. He didn't have to force his lungs to breathe, didn't have to pull out the rehearsed, batting eyes when he looked at him.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” Rue said, as steady and sober-sounding as he could. It was the truth.

Michael nodded, stood up and disappeared into the closet. When he came back he told Rue to close his eyes, I think you'll like this, so he did, until long, thin fingers were fastening a soft leather collar around his neck, buckling it in place.

Michael held him afterwards for a moment, twirled little curls into his hair and hooked two fingers under the leather, played in the mess between his legs as he kissed Rue’s shoulders, his jaw. So many marks. Rue welcomed them. Almost asked for something more extreme– did he have a pocket knife? Maybe he could carve his name, draw a nice picture in the blood. Michael had a striking likeness to a painting in that moment, afterglow and lamplight. Olives and purples in his shadows, pinks in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and the point of his strong but small nose. His eyes were glowing almost turquoise, his long blonde eyelashes each defined an individual.

But he couldn't stay long. In minutes Michael was standing him up, dressing Rue in clothes so soft and light that they barely felt like they were covering him. The leash came off first, the collar last. Michael stood him in the mirror, looked over him in the silk and lace. Men’s clothes, somehow, clearly. They were cut just right. No one would know. He'd starved his boobs away, anyways. Michael's pecs looked more like tits than whatever his thin, concave, bony chest did. Rue didn't like how the center part stood out in the mirror, bumpy and emaciated. He thought about gaining weight to fix it. That was the first plan that Michael inspired. The first inkling of self-preservation instilled. There was no big commitment, but it was a goal with a motivation. To look good. To look good for Michael. The realization strung. He would have to eat, force his digestive system back into a functioning state when he'd nearly convinced himself that he would let it be the first to go, and it would be an accident when he could no longer swallow or digest fast enough to stay ahead of his own decomposition. Out of his hands. And why now, after he’d done so well? There was an easy answer.

Of course you wouldn't, Michael was mumbling somewhere. No reason to tell me you were a fucking virgin, of course. Not a virgin, Rue corrected. I’ve fucked at least 30 guys, I think. I’m not a virgin. You know what I mean, Michael said. You liked it, Rue countered. Michael turned at that, slowly walked up in front of him, calm. He adjusted the lace collar of Rue’s shirt, tilted the boy’s chin up to meet his own unreadable eyes. Rue swallowed.

“Don’t tell me what I like, mutt,” he said, gentle for the words, bent down and kissed him. Rue stared up, in awe. “It was fine, but I prefer to know when I'm about to hurt you. It makes it much better for both of us.” When Rue only sat there, slack jawed and hard again, Michael said ‘speak.’ Not a command, just a gentle suggestion. Rue said ‘yes– okay.’ He couldn't think of a good enough title. Sir was too formal, Master too clunky. Owner was fine for the time, but only in his head. It was no name fit for an angel.

“Good puppy,” Michael whispered simply, against his earlobe. Rue shuddered, Michael smiled. Who knew?

The people in the hallway greeted Rue like he was coming down a red carpet. Bitter, unspoken congratulations with some vague sense of knowing, though they couldn't have possibly guessed the details. Rue wished that Michael left the collar on, gave him a tag: ‘Rue’, of course, so he wouldn't have to introduce himself to the endless strangers, then the address, instructions to return him to Michael's room if he was lost. He doesn't bite. Never even learned how. No need to be afraid.

Michael was right. Downstairs, anything and everything was happening. There was the usual– floors packed with swaying hips, wandering hands, couches brimming with voyeuristic teenagers who could care less about the setting. The booming bass still shook the floor. The whole dining room table was covered in various liquor bottles– some cheap and generic, some so expensive that Rue had never even heard the names before. No one seemed to want those, too focused on getting wasted to bother when they’d be content with enough Fireball. Rue grabbed a green bottle as they passed it, figured that he was allowed because Michael didn't stop him. He’d always wanted to try absinthe. 150 proof, the bottle said. He lifted it to his lips as they moved. It stung. Way too sweet. He drank more.

The night cut out after the third tip of the big green bottle to his chapped, burning lips. Rue woke up happy and sore, rolled over expecting to see a pretty blonde angel next to him, and instead found a dirty tree trunk. He was on the ground. Somewhere. He sat up. He was in a park that he didn't recognize, not even the yard like he'd hoped for a moment. Across from him there was a coffee shop that he'd never heard of, a hardware store, a crumbling apartment complex. He remembered nothing of how he got there, very little of what he did the last night. When he stopped and checked himself he found he was still in Michael's silk shirt with the lace collar, but his own jeans, and a strange black hoodie. He checked the tag, but it wasn't elementary school. No one had written their name on it. It was 3XL and polyester. The pockets were big and empty. He put it back on to hide marks that his memory of Michael didn't leave, glanced at the ground around him, panicked for a moment, until he saw a sliver of black fabric peeking from a trash can’s wooden covering. He pulled on it. Don’s backpack, dirty and scuffed and covered in ants. But he couldn't care. He brushed it off, looked inside. Nothing but the cash. Michael couldn't have just left a fucking note? ‘Hey, sorry I left you unconscious in a city park, call me!’

Whatever. He zipped it up, swung it over his shoulder, and started walking. Might as well think while he walked instead of sitting there. Two birds with one stone. It worked better when he knew where he was going. He was used to waking up in strange places, but he was also used to recognizing them. He'd been around the city. It looked like he was still in the city, but he had no proof of it. There was only a similar aesthetic, a sour smell to the air. So, he would look for confirmation of that. Sure, good enough.

It didn't take long to find out that Michael had dropped him in Harlem. He laughed. Whatever. It was close enough to a joke. He didn't have a place, really, just the usual haunts. No real attachment to the ten-block radius around the big tall building. Still, it would be two hours back to where Michael picked him up on foot. He might as well pay for a bus pass at that point, a meal here and there. He'd have to if he was serious about it. But here was where the thinking came in. Was he serious?

Was one good fuck enough to change the last – what was it– three, five months of certainty? Was he seriously going to stop dying? Oh, what an incredible commitment. It was a choice, by that point. And he would have to make it. He had made absolutely sure of that in the past however long it was. It was true: he was dying unless he chose not to. And that was an incredible success for the man that he was a day before. Here came the thinking. But did he really have to think? He didn't want to, he could do whatever he wanted. And wasn't it settled already?

He headed for the coffee shop, didn't look before he crossed the street– a force of habit– and stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the pastries through the decorated window. There was another issue, of course. Food cost money. Choosing to stay alive cost money. He had money. Some of it. Maybe enough to get him healthy, back to Michael without a weird bumpy chest. But he was yet to spend a cent of it. He knew that was ridiculous, misplaced sentiment in a basic resource, but in Rue’s mind the money was the last gift that Don ever gave him. He couldn't shoo the thought. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he walked up to a cashier, reached into his bag, said, I’m sorry, I change my mind. Went hungry. And it didn't matter, really, but there was one more little thing. Rue did not know exactly how he got Don’s backpack. He didn't know the morning that he found it under the bench, he didn't know after months of thinking on it. In fact, he was entirely certain up until the moment that it was in his hands that Don had taken it with him when he left. He could picture it clearly, his standing up with Rue’s chest as a handrail, bending down and swinging the thing over his shoulder before he stormed off. But his recollection was beyond worthless at that point. He couldn't be certain of anything. Sometimes he entertained himself by watching memories over and letting things change, ruining them forever. He’d figured he wouldn't need them.

All of that aside, he was hungry. He reached into the bag, pulled one of the hundreds from the dry-rotting rubber band holding the flimsy stack of bills together. Only twenty of them. Nineteen now. It didn't seem like much suddenly. He wanted to put it back. Twenty is good. Nineteen is small. But it was okay. He stuffed away the thin brick and forced himself through the door. A stylized doorbell chimed.

The woman behind the counter looked up, furrowed her eyebrows for a moment then smiled. “Hello… sir? How can I help you?” She had a short brunette pixie with blonde highlights. Other than that, she was perfectly normal. Green shirt. Blue jeans. Perfect makeup. Little diamond earrings. It matched the decor. White and minimalist. Wood fixtures. She blinked at him, waiting for an answer.

“I just want a scone, but I only have hundred dollar bills. Does that, like, work?”

“Thats it? No coffee or anything? This is a coffee place, you know.” She was trying a joke.

He looked at her like he was lost. “That’s it. Thank you.”

He clenched his jaw as he handed her the bill, rocked back and forth on the balls of feet while she counted off the change into his hand. Ninety five sixty-eight. It felt small. He stuffed it into his pocket, took the scone and turned without a goodbye. She called a nicety at his back.

He stormed into the alley, threw himself to the ground. Took a bite of the thing in his hand. It tasted like flour and butter, fine. The sugar on top made him sort of nauseous, he brushed some off, watched it glisten on the asphalt, gagged like he was swallowing a pill. The ball of gluten crawled down his esophagus how he imagined it felt to be one of those animals that had to swallow its prey whole. He should've ordered a coffee. He refused to go back inside. But it was okay, because the change wasn't Don’s money anymore. She took that, and gave him back dirty, finger-grease cotton. Whatever. He took another bite. The roof of his mouth stung like someone took a razor to it as he chewed, skinless gums, spitless tongue. He swallowed anyway, squeezed his eyes shut as it went down, swished his cheeks and forced his saliva glands to work. Then he wrapped the scone back up, threw it rudely in the bag. Whatever. Fuck you, he told it. Stood up. His stomach felt full.

Back to walking.

***

Things got worse the moment that Rue tuned back in. The decision was made as soon as he looked in Michael’s mirror that night. He knew it, there was no point in thinking much harder if he didn't want to. And he despised it. He despised watching for danger, despised planning the day ahead of him. He was forced to stop floating through like his lungs were hydrogen blimps fated to flood, and he could spend whole days reminiscing on the feeling of happily dying, but it was always a memory. He was eating again. He was finding safe places to sleep. He was listening, paying attention. He had a reputation, apparently. ‘Hey, I know you,’ one man had said ‘yeah, you're a free whore! They say you're a godsend if you like ‘em like that.’

‘Well, when you put it that way,’ Rue had laughed. But the phrase had struck him. The man was right. Rue started charging after that. And it was much more difficult, it turned out, to sell himself when he wasn't dying.

None of it mattered. It was all just a means to an end, all secondary. Most nights Rue dressed up nice and went to high-end bars and clubs, the ones he'd never touched before because they probably wouldn't let him in, and he talked to people until he had to leave. Asked everyone that would look at him the exact same question: “Do you know a Michael?” Usually it was a no. When it was a yes it was a different guy. He had no idea who was telling him the truth, they had a good enough reason to lie to him. He remembered that much. ‘What happens in this house stays in this house’ and all. He figured meeting Michael didn't happen in that house.

He resolved to stop drinking for a while when his head threatened to lose the bits that he did remember. That made things worse, too. When he went out sober he could feel eyes like weights on his shoulders. He always knew they were there, but suddenly they were real, really looking, and none of them looked at him anything like Michael did. Most eyes weren't nice. The ones that were were too nice, trying to look through him. He started rotating bars more frequently, made his way in circles around the city. Let people forget who he was, it was better that way. He was fine with being a stranger.

A month passed, Rue was no closer to finding his angel. Sometimes he told himself that Michael must be hiding, that he didn't want to see him, and that's why he told everyone in the entire city to pretend that they'd never heard his name if Rue asked. Other times he thought about just how many people there were in a city, and the prospect of finding a single one of them in a single house was crushing. He didn't remember what the house looked like, either. Marble steps. Expensive. He wouldn't know if he was walking right past it. And he was down a thousand dollars already, with all of the admissions and honest-to-god meals that he’d been paying for. He gave up on the rich clubs for good the night that he finally counted his money, decided he'd go back to what worked. Walked into whatever door he stumbled past, kept asking everyone. Lowered his prices. When money felt scarce he didn't spend it. Went hungry. Let strangers buy him drinks, couldn't remember why he stopped. And then suddenly he was dying again.

He noticed it in an alley. It seemed fitting. It was another week that he spent mostly alone. He'd considered making a real friend for a bit, but they never stuck around for more than a day. He'd take one if he found one, he figured. He'd been left by a DJ named McCallan in front of a bank about a week ago, after he said that Rue was “just too weird.” Rue nodded and shooed him off. ‘Go on, then.’ He’d grown pretty fond of McCallan over the hours that they'd spent together, though, and Rue felt the absence when he left. He went and bought himself a bottle of whiskey, sat where he and the boy had been sitting, up at the top of the slanted cement under the bridge, where no one could see them. They’d kissed for fun, confirmed their lack of real feelings out loud. Just wanted warm bodies to be close to. Rue had spent the day quietly picturing a future with him– at least a few weeks of companionship. Someone to laugh at the absurdity of it all with while he made his plans for the day. It was fine, he was better off alone.

He was thinking about McCallan again when his heart started to stutter, and then his chest was numb, like there was something heavy sitting on it for a bit too long, and he sat there and looked up at the stars, visible that night, and thought ‘this makes no sense, I’ve done so well,’ but then he thought a bit harder and he really hadn't. Only holding onto those few weeks after Michael left, pretending that time would stop for him. And maybe the difference was just hope. He was hopeful back then. Every day he wanted harder and expected less, and it was starting to seep into his veins, he thought. Into his lungs, refusing to take in as much air. Starting to crowd his head, get in between his thoughts again. Funny, because he never did get sober when he thought even harder. Just less drunk. Dying less. And here he was again. So soon?

Michael, he thought, like somehow he could think it straight between their brains. Michael, and then, please, please, please, please, please. And then God. And when no one came still he opened his eyes and stared up at the moon and wondered if his mother was thinking of him, wondered who would deliver the news to her, or if maybe she thought of him something like Don. Maybe she suspected already.

Michael. I don't want to die.

He laughed at himself. No one could hear him. It was just like him to find a way to waste his last moments alive. He kept laughing. So hard his chest hurt, and then he was coughing, but still laughing, quietly, because it was quite funny how much worse that hurt his chest. Maybe this was it. A last hoorah before Rue was done, gone, another empty, stained corpse in another New York alley. A little joke between Rue and God. He'd never been religious, but it always seemed to crop up when he thought of the end. And then, like it always did, the gentle thought of heaven came to a question of hell, and Rue opened his eyes again. Stop doing that, he told them. I’m not fucking dying.

And so he made his neck right itself, forced his lungs to breathe a rhythm. He stood up, locked his knees and went limp at the hips to let the blood rush to his head, righted himself again. Stumbled to the curb. Looked both ways. A heaviness, a spinning. His legs shook, his stomach tried to crawl up into his ribs, but he felt quite removed from it all, he realized, so it was no bother. A car approaching. Oh, you again, Rue thought. Laughed. What’s that? The buildings were too tall around him, and he felt like an ant. A tiny ant, and then he looked up at the stars and he was just an atom, shrinking, shutting down just like he was meant to, and the car whooshed past. Breeze on his face. Crisp, freezing. He didn't want to feel it, torn back down to Earth, forced to move his sore neck, and then the spinning, his skull hitting the ground, a thump and a crack like thunder and lightning, and then it was storming, and the raindrops were running down his face, metallic on his tongue. He hadn't felt himself fall. And then he guessed that was it.

***

You fucking idiot…

There was a voice mumbling somewhere. A scratching sound. A bright light.

What did you think was gonna fucking happen if you picked out a fucking skeleton…

The voice was angry. Sad, maybe. Rue’s first thought was ridiculous. He considered it for a moment, brushed it away quickly. No, it couldn't be God. God wouldn't have picked him for anything. Or maybe He was talking about someone else? He tried to open his eyes, to see if he still had any, maybe. Did you get to keep your eyes when you died? No point in thinking about it. He blinked. There was no bright light.

Rue.

He took a count of his limbs, moved his fingers, his toes. His head hurt. Badly. There was a thrum in the back of it.

Rue!

Finally, he turned his neck. Michael.

He laughed. Micheal. He was dead, yes. That was for sure, but it didn't matter. He made it to heaven, and in heaven he was on a soft bed, Michael’s bed, Michael’s room recreated to a T, and there was Michael. In front of him, looking at him like the most important thing that existed.

But if this was his own personal heaven– Something was missing. His face fell. He sat up.

“Don?” his voice was crackly, pathetic. His arms hurt, sore for some reason. No, that didn't make sense. Why would heaven hurt?

“Don?” he asked again, panicked, two and two crawling together behind his eyes as his tear ducts threatened to spill over. Michael was still alive, he had to be. Or maybe he died, too, at some point, but that seemed unlikely. So, this Michael was fake, made of heaven dust. But Don was dead. And Don was not here. And here was heaven. Rue let his head drop to his knees, started crying when the realization settled. There was no point in fighting it. No one was watching, technically. Something was blaring behind him.

He turned his head. Michael.

“Jesus Christ, finally!” he heaved, looking at Rue like something was utterly wrong with him.

When Rue looked closer, he realized that Michael did not have wings. His hair was unkempt, his eyes red around the edges. And that made no sense, because that's not how he would look in Rue’s heaven. He blinked.

“I’m not dead?”

“No! You're fucking welcome!” Michael snapped, not really angry, just worn down, eyes wide and staring.

They were on Michael’s bed. In Michael’s room. Rue collected his facts. Stared blankly at the eyes ahead of him, until he narrowed his own. “You saved my life?”

“Yes.”

“You fucking asshole,” Rue said slowly, venomously, though he was sort of smiling. His head hurt. He needed to lie back down.

Michael’s eyes got wider still, his mouth hanging open in shock. He was sort of smiling, too. “What on Earth does that mean?”

Rue crawled back to the pillow that he'd woken up on, stained so red it was nearly black. That made sense. Once he was as comfortable as he could get, he spoke. “There's a lot of reasons. But I should clarify first, this is the happiest that I’ve ever been.” He closed his eyes, smiled.

“Alright. I'm very glad,” Michael said like he was confused, and like he was not used to being confused. It was much different than Rue’s practiced, graceful confusion.

“Anyways, you piece of shit,” Rue mumbled with his eyes closed, reveling in the fabrics that Michael had collected. “I’ve been looking for you for a month.”

“Oh, I’m not easy to find–”

“And!” Rue cut him off. Opened his eyes, smirked for a second. “And yet, somehow you magically found me, a moment from my tragic death.”

“I assumed you'd ask about that. Seth was driving me home and he stopped because someone was bleeding on the sidewalk. At first he didn't know that it was you–”

“Bullshit. You were totally following me.”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, clenched his jaw like he was preparing to defend himself, so Rue just continued.

“Or having someone follow me, whatever. And that means that you just, like, watched me suffer? Up here in your big fancy silk bed? What the fuck, man?”

Michael looked at him, took a breath. Calmed himself. “Yes.”

Rue’s eyes shot wide, shocked.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “What's that? I’m only confirming what you already believed.”

“I was just saying shit, I didn't think you were actually that fucking phsychotic! What, was there a black limo ten steps behind me at all times or something?”

“It was a dark blue Subaru. A limousine would draw too much attention.”

“So? Explain!”

“Oh, suddenly you give the orders?”

Rue rolled his eyes. “Dude? The last thing I remember is dying on some dirty sidewalk, and a few minutes ago I thought this was heaven. I’m gonna need to get some shit straight.”

“You thought this was heaven?” Michael smiled.

“Fuck you.”

“You're much nicer when you're drunk.”

Rue glared.

“I understand that this is a confusing situation to wake up in. I don't mean to downplay that, I’m only trying to slow you down. You’re badly hurt, if you haven't noticed.”

“Yeah,” Rue said, no shit.

“I’ll help you understand when you can sit up straight, how about that? For now, sleep.”

Rue examined him. There were no signs of cruel intent, not that he could spot. His thoughts were fuzzy, limited to the immediate, the pain, the bed. It was worthless to try to consider his options, and he didn't particularly want to anyways, so he gave up. “Fine,” he sighed, rolled his eyes a little and crawled under the heavy blanket like he was upset about it.

Michael smiled, leant down to brush his hair away and kiss his forehead. His lips were softer than Rue remembered. He melted, smiled back. Kept himself from reaching out and holding Michael to his chest when he turned to walk away. Closed his eyes and listened to the door open, close. Laughed to himself. There was no point in trying to understand, no realization to come to. Michael knew, Michael would tell him when he woke up. He didn't have to think much to know that he trusted that. Michael saved his life, after all. There was something else he did that Rue couldn't quite place suddenly, but he shouldered off the thought and forced himself into an easy sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER TWO: first draft of the opening :3 there is more but it's worse

The people that lived in the strange mansion on top of the hill didn't have a single worry in the entire world. Behind the tall, beautifully detailed walls, the statues in the driveway, the manicured gardens, and the miles of dense, private forest surrounding them, they were happy. Endless wealth assured that each resident lived to their own standard of comfort, just like they'd been promised. Anything that they wanted, they simply had to ask for it. Anything. A scone for breakfast, or a jet to Japan. All of this, and not one of them lifted a finger to maintain it. Their only job was to use their leisure to its fullest. This wasn't an easy fact for most onlookers to accept. Those graced with the sight insisted that the occupants must be slaves, or secret devil worshipers. Speculation that the house was occupied by a very small, very silent cult traveled in whispers around the city– there were even certain individuals who swore up and down that the luxury on top of the hill could be credited to ritualistic blood sacrifice. And you really couldn't blame them. In reality, only one thing was required from the happy people living in the big, secluded mansion. And even that thing was flexible, because if they could not fulfill it, something had to be terribly wrong.

You will think that it's hyperbolic if I tell you that they had no problems, but there was truly no problem that they couldn't afford to fix. They lounged around with crystal wine glasses hanging from their hands, went wherever they pleased, and spent their time however they could possibly wish to spend it. The deal was simple. The only thing that they owed in return, for all of it, was their love. Michael told them over and over again, any time a doubt developed. He’d explained it very well one day, with everyone gathered around him: I couldn't possibly use all of this on my own, so I’ve chosen to share it with you. This is all ours. It’s a love language, I suppose. I would give you less if I had less to give. And if you continue to love me, all I ask from you is that you share that love, however love comes to you. It's silly to assume that you should work for something that belongs to you already. And they had all nodded and blushed. It was undeniably difficult to accept that there was no catch, but they had no grounds on which to complain. Their lives were perfect. The five people who lived in Michael’s house were happy.

And it was a miracle that they were! Only a year ago Rue had been walking the streets, unaware of exactly what he was on, but strung out nonetheless. Now, he slept on a chinchilla-fur bed in the corner of one of the most expensive living rooms on the east coast. Natalie had spent every day crying in her bedroom about the prospect of the corporate world ahead of her. Cry no more, Michael put her on the stage, her dreams of being a star brought to life in technicolor. Colton had run out of money for train tickets, left stranded in the city, so he’d spent his days on a stolen bike. Now he could lay by the pool, practicing his flips, touching Natalie. And Annika had been happy a year ago, but she’d known that it was all about to fall away under her. Now with Michael’s help she made herself a room so beautiful and safe that she never quite wanted to leave it.

Michael was, for all means and purposes, their savior. A philanthropist, perhaps, though he found the term clunky. The money that they shared belonged to him, but he hadn't earned it. In fact, he'd vowed not to touch it until that very year, letting it rot in scattered bank accounts across the United States and its adjacent islands. And look where it got him when he finally gave in! He'd been foolish to hide from what he was for so long. When they asked, he told his lovers that the funds came from his father's estate, and then he trailed off. It was true. They understood when he asked them not to push any further. When he died, his father had left Michael everything that he’d amassed in the material world, and more as it collected interest. It's funny how fast big numbers crawl, you almost forget where the point is. He could let his lovers go out and spend a million dollars in one place if he wanted. But he didn't tell them that.

There was a sense of reserve carried in the luxury on top of the hill. The cars were parked in a large garage, hidden away. The face of the building almost looked quaint. Cozy. Until you stepped back and realized that it was towering over you, three stories of gently worn wooden panels that were called a mansion for a reason. And was that a stained glass window? Inside, it was no different. A sense of serenity, homeliness, but then you kept walking, and you got lost, and then even more lost as you tried to find your way back through the halls scattered in endless frames that you never seemed to stumble across twice. The people who lived in the mansion on top of the hill did not need excess to be happy. And perhaps they wanted it, and perhaps onlookers would say that they already lived in excess. But they all shared one fund. And each of them knew that the others would say nothing if they began to take more than their share, but they would all know, and things would be wrong because of it. For everyone but Michael, or course. And though he was free to have as much as he wanted, he rarely took advantage of that freedom. The people that lived in the mansion on top of the hill were equals, to an extent. On paper. Out loud.

But the fact could never be shouldered that Michael was in charge. And he could deny it all he wanted, but he took advantage of it when he needed to. In this vein, he chose a nice mansion to move them into, though they already lived in quite a nice mansion. He said very little about it before the purchase was made, and that was fine. And he said very little after he announced it, and he was allowed to. And though they’d hosted highly glorified parties more nights than they hadn't in their old place, Michael chose to close the doors for a while, keep their new address private, stop refilling their liquor cabinet every night, and give the maids a break from the constant chaos. And no one argued, because he had that power. And then they became the strangers on top of the hill.....

that's it folks. thank you a lot of you actually read this far. more to come if I don't burn out and die. let me know if you have any thoughts idk <3