#what business does someone have burning one at a fucking electronics store

[its-daisukenojobito]

I wish every incense burner a very kys

[sachigram]

Syzygy

“Shizuo didn't ask for any of this, but maybe there is such a thing as being in the right place at the right time.”

((click here to read on ao3!))

Shizuo hates places like this.

Sure, he used to bar tend. It was actually one of his most favorite gigs before that bastard flea got him arrested and fired, but that was a swanky place, rarely any incidences to invoke the wrath of the muscled bouncer usually lurking in the corner. This place is another story entirely, and Shizuo is considering asking if Shinra has any ibuprofen on him to combat the reverberance of the bass in his ears.

It's not anyone's fault but his own. Shizuo could have said no to coming out. He wanted to, but Celty asked him, said it wouldn't be fun without all her friends there, and Shizuo reluctantly agreed on the grounds that Shinra treat him to drinks and bar food, preferably wings. Shinra has delivered on his end of the bargain, but no one else deemed to show up but the three of them, Kadota and the gang citing they had something else to do, which is likely staking out in front of the comic store to await the release of some closet manga. Shizuo is tipsy, has a headache, and is a third-wheel.

He grinds his teeth, looks around to distract himself while the two lovebirds across from him snuggle it up in the dingy-ass booth like it's the finest linen in the country. There's no one worth paying attention to. Pretty women are all over, lining up the walls and dressed in—what could be considered clothing, if one was feeling generous. Shizuo can recognize their appeal, but he doesn't want to strike up a conversation with any of them because...what would he even say? Besides, he doesn't think he'll meet the love of his life in a place like this. People always say it happens when you aren't looking.

There isn't a band playing tonight. Sometimes local bands get gigs here, and Shizuo wishes there was one on stage to distract himself with, but instead electronic music is blaring, the lights are dim, and the bar is so packed that Shizuo doubts he could get another drink without standing there like an asshole for a few minutes. He sighs heavily, tongues his teeth, considers throwing the table into the dancing crowd, decides against it. He looks up when he hears his name being called.

“What?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“I said you don't look like you're having fun!” Shinra says, leaning over the table to holler into Shizuo's face. Shizuo throws a balled up bar napkin at him.

“I wonder why the fuck that is,” Shizuo huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back into the booth.

“I'm sorry. You can go if you want to. I know this evening didn't turn out how I described.” Despite just being text on a screen, Shizuo can feel the emotion in Celty's words, and he knows her tone would be apologetic if he could hear it.

“It's fine, I just— It's loud.”

“It's a bar!” Shinra shouts. If Shizuo is tipsy, Shinra must be wasted, and he's certainly getting more handsy with Celty than Shizuo would like to be witness to.

“No shit.”

“Really, Shizuo, you can go! We probably will soon too. Shinra is an awful drunk, he's likely to cause a scene soon.” Celty's screen is almost too bright in this low light. Shizuo considers his options. What the fuck else is he going to do, sit here for another hour? Watch the scantily dressed women turn down advances from desperate men? He could even go into the graffiti-laden bathroom, if he was feeling adventurous.

Going home really is the most appealing option. It's not his fault no one else came. Shizuo should have been smart and ditched as well, seeing as Shinra only ever wants alone time with Celty anyway. Besides, the wings were too greasy, and Shizuo is pretty sure he has leftover yakitori in his fridge from overestimating his appetite two days earlier. Worst case, he'll just eat some ice cream and call it a night. It sounds above and beyond what he's currently doing.

He's getting ready to say he's on his way out when a scent catches his attention. A familiar scent. His fingers grip the table, cracking the wood underneath as his eyes scan the crowd. Surely Shinra didn't invite Izaya, right? This was supposed to be a friendly gathering, and there's nothing friendly about that parasitic fucker. But—no. Shinra wouldn't have done that. Shinra knows better. But as Shizuo watches Shinra drunkenly slosh whatever the fuck is in that glass down the front of his shirt, he wonders is Shinra actually knows anything at all.

It takes longer than it normally would for Shizuo to locate Izaya. There's a lot of people in here for one, and for another, Izaya isn't dressed in his usual attire. He ditched the coat, has opted for a short sleeved black T-shirt that appears to be artfully tucked in to some light gray plaid slacks that are rolled up around the ankles. Shizuo has never understood that “rolling up” bullshit. Why buy pants if you have to do that to make them fit? Just wear shorts if you want them shorter! And of course Izaya would be one of the idiots indulging in the trend. Of fucking course. Shizuo grinds his teeth, prepares for a fight, but Izaya...isn't alone?

A tall, well-dressed man is guiding Izaya through the crowd, a hand settled between Izaya's bony shoulder-blades. They settle at an empty table by the bar, and Shizuo watches with the impossible realization that Izaya didn't come here for him.

For some reason, Shizuo feels sick to his stomach. He blames the shitty wings.

Izaya already has a drink in his hand, and so does the well-dressed asshole. They're talking, and Shizuo can see Izaya smiling, laughing at whatever the hell is being said. Well-Dressed reaches across the table, touches his fingers to Izaya's, and Izaya pulls his hand back, makes a playful admonishing gesture before resting his chin in his hand and giving a sultry gaze back to the man.

“What are you looking at?” Shinra asks suddenly, and Shizuo tears his eyes away from Izaya's pouty lips. So Shinra has no idea Izaya is here? That means Izaya really is here with someone for...a date?

It doesn't sit well with Shizuo. At all.

“I need a drink,” Shizuo says, downing the rest of his and standing so quickly it rattles the table. He hurries to the bar, settles at the corner, not really caring how long it takes for the bartender to get to him because that's not why he came over here. It's very loud with everyone talking over the thrumming music, but Shizuo focuses on as much as he can on what Izaya is talking about.

He has to make sure Izaya isn't scheming something, right? The guy he's with could be bad news. They could be planning trouble.

“—glad you could come out with me, Izaya-san.” Well-Dressed's voice is deep, and apparently he's on a first name basis with Izaya. Shizuo turns his head a bit to see the guy's fingers have once again settled over Izaya's.

“Your choice of venue is...surprising,” Izaya says, taking a sip from his drink. “It's not usually where I conduct my business, but I'm always up for a change of scenery.”

“Come now, surely you know this isn't just a meeting,” Well-Dressed says. “You came here looking absolutely gorgeous, after all. Did you dress up for me?”

Shizuo grinds his teeth, forces himself to stop so he can keep listening.

“Ahaha! Well, I never reveal my secrets, you know? You said to wear whatever I wanted.” Izaya takes another sip. “I'm glad to know you find it appealing.”

“I do. I do. You always look amazing, Izaya-san, but you look especially so when you're here just for me.”

“Now, now, Touma-san. You're being very touchy. If you start too forward too fast, you'll burn out soon.”

“Oh? Do we have plans later?” Well-Dressed, Touma-san, asks.

“Who's to say? The night is young, after all. I'm only suggesting you pace yourself. If you pass out, I'm certainly not going to feel pity for you,” Izaya says.

“How cruel!” Touma laughs, downing his drink in one go. “I like that about you, Izaya-san. I promise I'll be coherent for whatever you want me for later.”

“A bold promise,” Izaya says, following Touma's lead and drinking the remainder of his glass. “Who knows what I could want? It's a risk you're taking.”

“I'm a gambling man,” Touma all but purrs. Shizuo tastes bile in the back of his throat.

“Can I help you?”

Shizuo looks up to see the bartender is in front of him at last.

“Uh, yeah, I'll just...have a beer,” Shizuo says absently, still trying to focus on Izaya.

“What kind?” The bartender asks, sounding impatient. Shizuo hears Izaya laugh again, feels insane with the need to know why.

“I don't care! Anything!” Shizuo snaps, and then quieter he adds, “I'm sorry, no, just— Your choice, your favorite. It's my last of the night, so surprise me.”

The bartender goes off to do just that, leaving Shizuo back to his eavesdropping. A new voice has joined the two, and Shizuo turns a bit to see a woman hovering around the table, chatting it up with Izaya.

“Thank you for your patience!” she's saying, a tray in her hand. “It's so crazy tonight! But we expected it, right? What can I get for you?”

“I'll take another Macallan, rocks. And you, Izaya-san? I'm treating you, of course.”

“Here you go,” the bartender says as he returns, setting a glass of beer in front of Shizuo. “Do you want to try it first?”

“No thanks, that's great,” Shizuo says, fishing some money out of his pocket. He can always force Shinra to pay him back later. Speaking of Shinra, Shizuo should probably go check back in with Celty. But then how will he know what's going on with Izaya?

Shizuo sighs, tastes the beer. It's good.

What's he even doing here? He didn't want to come out at all, and now he's spying on Izaya, who is obviously not plotting anything, and just wants to fuck this douchey Touma guy later. Shizuo doesn't know why that bothers him so much, but it does, it does, and the fact that it does pisses Shizuo off to no end because he can't figure out why it would.

He should just go home. Finish this beer, say his goodbyes, go home, sleep off these weird, drunken feelings. He decides to do that, but first, he looks over at the couple one more time when he hears the waitress return.

She's very pretty, and she seems to think Izaya is either also pretty or nice or maybe both, because she strikes a conversation with him, a small flush on her face, and Izaya is nothing but pleasant in his responses. Shizuo growls at the thought, because she doesn't even know Izaya, and maybe this Touma guy doesn't either, maybe Izaya is the problem, so Shizuo looks at Touma just in time to see the glimpse of Touma's hand over Izaya's glass before quickly retreating and—

And.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, realizing what it is he just saw. He considers his options, puts a hand in his hair and yanks. What the hell is he supposed to do in this situation?! Since when should he be the one to save Orihara Izaya?! “That fucker can handle himself. And if not, he'd deserve it. This whole thing is fucking—stupid, ugh, I'm pissed off,” Shizuo mutters to himself, drawing a few looks from those around him. Angrily, he chews the inside of his cheek. “It's not my problem. It's not like I wanted to be here or see that. Nope. It's his own damn fault for going out with shady trash.”

“Are you...okay?” A man to his right asks.

“Fuck off,” Shizuo snaps, and the guy runs away. Shizuo turns again to Izaya, sees Izaya take a drink from the glass, and Shizuo doesn't think, can't think as he marches towards Izaya's table, clearing a path through the crowd by shoving and not caring who gets mad about it.

“Shizu-chan!” Izaya almost shouts, and Shizuo takes one second to wonder how drunk Izaya is already before he yanks Touma out of his chair by his collar. “What a surprise.”

“You know this clown?!” Touma sputters, and Shizuo snarls at him, lifts his feet right off the ground.

“He's an old friend,” Izaya says with a grin, and Shizuo is too late to stop Izaya from taking another long sip of the drink, but Shizuo does manage to reach back and slap it out of his hand before anymore damage is done. “Well,” Izaya huffs. “That was just unnecessary.”

“This fucker put something in your drink!” Shizuo snarls first to Izaya, and then he shakes Touma back and forth, makes the bastard's head bobble like a toy. “You think no one here would notice something like that, huh?! You think everyone is stupid? That I'm stupid?! Are you CALLING me STUPID?!”

Izaya observes the shattered glass on the floor, frowns, and looks up at Shizuo with an entirely bizarre expression. Izaya should be concerned, he should be pissed, he should be asking Shizuo to kill this worthless guy, but as it is, Izaya is only watching Shizuo with a dopey grin on his face, and then he stifles giggles behind his hands.

“Oh no!” Izaya says, seemingly unconcerned. “I'm in real danger now! I've really done it this time.”

“What the fuck—“ Shizuo starts, but he's distracted by Touma's fist connecting with his face.

“Actually,” Izaya lilts, “Touma-san has really done it this time.”

To Shizuo's credit, he only punches Touma once or twice before flinging him across the entire room. Touma collides with a wall, lands in a crumpled heap of limbs, and doesn't stand back up. Shizuo stands with his fists clenched, ignoring the shock of the crowd in favor of turning back to Izaya, who is—trying to flag down a waitress for more drinks.

“Izaya!” Shizuo snaps, slapping the table and making Izaya almost jump out of his own skin. Izaya grins and looks up at him, makes a real show of giving Shizuo his undivided attention.

“Yes?”

“Did you fucking hear me?! That guy drugged you! He put something in your glass and you drank it!” Shizuo shakes the table a bit more, but Izaya only laughs again.

“Yes, I heard, and that's very unfortunate. Nothing I can do about it now. Boo, Shizu-chan, I think you scared everyone away,” Izaya says with a pout.

Shizuo sees red.

“How are you not getting this?! Who the fuck knows what he gave you? Shouldn't you be—I don't know, scared? You need to go to the hospital before it kicks in!”

“Relax, would you? It was probably just a roofie. It wouldn't be the first time.” Izaya stands, stumbles a bit, and turns to face Shizuo with such a dramatic flair that Shizuo honestly wonders if Izaya will hit the ground. “Besides, why would you care? Shouldn't you be trying to kill me now?”

“I—“ Shizuo begins. He thinks of a lie, but that's bullshit anyway, and what does he care what Izaya thinks? “I won't fight you when you're like this. It wouldn't be fair, and I'm not sleazy and underhanded like you.”

“How noble of you,” Izaya says. “I'm very impressed. Remind me to send you a fruit basket later. Or...a tub of Milk Bones.” Izaya suddenly bursts into laughter, and Shizuo is so baffled he forgets to be angry. “Get it?! Because—it's a dog treat—and you love milk...!”

“How much have you had?” Shizuo asks. He never thought he'd see Izaya like this. Getting drunk together is something friends do, or strangers who have no reason to dislike each other yet. Seeing an enemy in this state is...otherworldly.

“Oh, I don't know. Touma-san was boring. Did you hear him? Hey, were you watching us?” Izaya's gaze sharpens, and Shizuo feels himself jolt to attention, but then Izaya is giggling again. “He was so uninteresting that I wanted to drink myself stupid!”

Shizuo hates to admit it, but he knows Izaya well enough to know this isn't like Izaya at all. Izaya is careful, quick, untouchable. Izaya allowing any of this to happen seems like an impossibility, and Shizuo is waiting for Izaya to pull a knife out and say, “just kidding!”

“That's really fucking stupid,” Shizuo says, and Izaya stops laughing as abruptly as he started.

“Well, you are an expert in stupidity.” Izaya sighs and then he turns on his heel, sways, rights himself before he tumbles over. “See ya, Shizu-chan. Remind me to thank you later!”

Shizuo reacts before he can think better of it. He reaches out and grabs Izaya's collar, yanks him backwards until he's falling, and then Shizuo picks him up under the armpits like Izaya is a diseased stray that might bite him.

“Shizu—! Put me down!” Izaya snaps, kicking his feet out in what very much resembles a tantrum.

“Shinra is here. You should go home with him so you don't die.”

“I don't want to go home with Shinra! I want to get another drink!”

“And you don't fucking NEED another drink, I-za-ya!”

“Like you care what I need! Why are you—ugh, put me down! If you aren't going to snap my neck, I don't want you anywhere near me!”

“As if I want to be— Wait. Why would you want me to snap your neck?!”

Shizuo's violence didn't do much in thinning the crowd. The place is still packed, and it takes a while to carry Izaya back to where Shizuo was sitting earlier with his friends, especially because Izaya is fighting against being carried. Of course, Shinra and Celty aren't there anymore. Why would anything be easy?

Izaya seems to have worn himself out. His limbs are hanging by his sides, and from what Shizuo can see, Izaya is pouting very openly.

“Fuck. They left already,” Shizuo hisses. He doesn't know how long he's been gone from the table, but he can't be mad at them for assuming Shizuo was already gone.

“Can you let me go now?” Izaya asks. Shizuo shakes him around violently, and the next thing Izaya says sounds like “Guh.”

Grumbling to himself, Shizuo carries Izaya out of the bar and into the chilly night air where it's quieter. Seeing Izaya silhouetted in the neon lights of the city is a much more familiar sight to Shizuo, but he can't pretend any of this is normal behavior for them. Izaya has resumed trying to kick him, and based on Izaya's increasing giggles, Shizuo can tell Izaya is still drunk as shit.

“You know, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says in a whimsical voice, “if you hadn't thrown Touma-san across the bar and let him crawl away to safety, we could have asked what he gave me.”

“I didn't think about asking him anything. He deserved to bleed.”

“You rarely think, so I suppose I can't blame you. Just let me call a cab home! I'd much rather pass out in my own bed.”

“Shut the fuck up a minute, flea,” Shizuo growls, pulling his phone out of his pocket and selecting Shinra from his contacts. He holds Izaya by his collar now. “If he says you can go home and die, you can go home and die.” As much as Shizuo would love for Izaya to suffer, Izaya being drugged and left to die isn't something Shizuo can let himself live with.

If anyone is going to kill Izaya, it's going to be Shizuo. Shizuo is the only one who's earned it, and if Izaya doesn't stop kicking him, Izaya is going to die tonight for another reason than drugs.

“Shizuo-kun!” Shinra's voice fills his ear suddenly. “We couldn't find you! You went home, right?”

“No. Listen, Izaya is here—“

“Izaya-kun? Oh... Um, Shizuo-kun, I'm really not someone who hides bodies...”

“Shut up, it's not that! I saw Izaya get drugged, and I need to know if he can go home!”

“Drugged?” Shinra sounds...very unconcerned. Why the hell is Shizuo the only one taking something like this seriously? “Well. Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Vomiting? Is he cognizant? Does his heart seem fine?”

“He's—the same as always. He's drunk, but he's not acting anything other than drunk. Hang on...” Shizuo shakes Izaya a bit. “Is your heart fine?”

“How would I know that?” Izaya asks as he dangles.

“You should be the first to know if it wasn't!” Shizuo hisses. Izaya's collar twists in his hand, and Izaya turns enough to face him, a deadpan expression on his face.

“Clearly it's beating,” Izaya says slowly, like he's talking to an infant. “I can't say whether that's good or bad, since it means I'm alive to suffer in your company.”

“He's as fine as he ever is,” Shizuo says into the phone, trying very hard to restrain the urge to throw Izaya as far as he can and see if Izaya skips like a stone.

“It was probably something to make him lose consciousness. The biggest concern will be making sure he doesn't choke to death on his own vomit, but he should be fine,” Shinra says.

“Okay, then I'll bring him to your place so you can monitor him,” Shizuo says, and he balks as Shinra laughs outright into his ear.

“Oh, no, I don't want him here. Celty and I have plans.” Shinra's tone suggests all kinds of things Shizuo doesn't want to think about.

“Plans can be put on hold!” Shizuo snaps, and he hears Izaya sigh heavily.

“My Celty can never be put on hold! Besides, I'm incredibly drunk myself. I can't monitor anyone properly. You could take him to the hospital, but otherwise, there's nothing else I can do or suggest.”

“You—what?!” Shizuo is left speechless as Shinra hangs up on him, leaving him alone in dealing with Izaya, who Shizuo doesn't even like.

“Well,” Izaya says, “that was certainly a helpful conversation. You have the best ideas, Shizu-chan.”

“What the fuck, he just— Has everyone gone crazy but me?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya laughs.

“Aw, is this the first time Shinra has chosen Celty over you? It's okay, you get used to it,” Izaya says. “Now then, you heard him. I'll be fine! I'm sure you can sleep much easier at night knowing I'm alive and well and plotting your demise.”

“Fuck you, he said you needed monitoring. I'm dropping you off at the hospital.”

“They won't accept me as a patient if I don't want to go,” Izaya says. “Besides, I'm beginning to doubt you saw anything at all. Maybe you just wanted to ruin my date! Pettiness is unflattering.”

Shizuo sees red, shoves Izaya against a wall and sees a flash. He finds himself wrenching a knife out of Izaya's hand before he tosses it to the side and glares into Izaya's stupid smug face.

“Yeah? And look where your date got you! Here, with me, because no one gives a shit about you or whether you die! How's that feel, I-za-ya? How's it feel to know if you didn't wake up tomorrow that no one but me would even notice?”

Izaya's eyes are wide, and if Shizuo didn't know what to look for, he'd honestly think Izaya didn't care. But Izaya looks baffled, and it takes just a few seconds too long for him to reply.

“It doesn't matter,” Izaya says, and Shizuo flattens him further into the wall.

“It matters. You think you can hide behind your stupid words and try to convince yourself you're above being scared, but I'm not buying it. I've never bought anything you've said, and I'm not starting to now. You wanna go home and die alone? Well guess what, even that's more than you deserve.” Shizuo lifts Izaya up again, starts walking towards his own apartment.

“Stop it— Shizu-chan, just put me down, I hate this! I hate you! If you take me inside your monster hovel, I'll destroy everything you own!”

“I don't own much,” Shizuo says. “And I know you hate me. I hate you, too. The best payback I can think of would be making you die in my company.”

Izaya pauses in his thrashing, chokes in a way that makes Shizuo worry he's about to be barfed on, but then Izaya is laughing loudly in a way Shizuo has never heard before. It's not forced or sarcastic or...asshole-ish like Izaya is. It's genuine.

“How cruel!” Izaya cackles. “I didn't think Shizu-chan could be so vindictive! You're right; that's about the worst fate there is!”

Shizuo could argue an even worse fate would be Izaya left in the hands of that Touma creep, unconscious and...

“Hey,” Shizuo says suddenly, unable to contain his curiosity. “That guy, do you think he was gonna kidnap you and kill you?”

Izaya scoffs. “No. He wasn't thinking with anything but his dick. He's been trying to fuck me for a while now, and ordinarily I wouldn't have even entertained him, but his boss is a good client of mine, and I thought Touma-san might be full of useful information. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't. He was boring and touchy.”

Shizuo grits his teeth at the idea. For once, Izaya's using of people isn't what Shizuo is angry about.

“That fucker,” Shizuo hisses. “Taking advantage of anyone like—that. It's lower than low, lower than dirt. I should've killed him.”

“Even if it was me?” Izaya asks. “He'd deserve death even if it was just me he was taking advantage of?”

“Shut up. No one deserves that, not even you.”

Izaya laughs again, but it's so bitter it makes Shizuo wince. “You really are cruel, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo doesn't ask for an elaboration. He doesn't think Izaya would be honest with him anyway, but then again, aren't people always saying drunken words are sober thoughts? What about roofied words? How the hell is Izaya still conscious anyway?

When he opens his door, he's happy to be out of the cold, and even happier to be home. Like this, it's easy to forget about Izaya, who is now draped across his back and...possibly unconscious? Izaya has been silent for an eerie length of time, and somehow Shizuo hasn't been stabbed yet.

He dumps Izaya onto the couch, and Izaya lands in a heap of limbs before immediately sitting upright and looking around, his face absolutely gleeful.

“Shizu-chan! Your place is a lot cleaner than I thought it would be! But then again, I assumed you slept hanging from the ceiling. Maybe you do? Your bedroom is this way, right?” Izaya asks as he rolls to his feet and starts towards Shizuo's room.

“Oi! Sit back down!” Shizuo hisses, yanking Izaya backwards and tossing him onto the couch. “This couch and my bathroom are all you have access to! If I see you anywhere near my room, I'm beating the fuck out of you.”

“Scary!” Izaya crosses his legs and grins up at Shizuo. “So then. Are we having a slumber party?”

“I'm waiting for you to pass out. Oh, also...” Shizuo goes to his fridge, pulls out his leftover food, and doesn't bother heating it up before devouring it. Izaya watches him with obvious fascination, and Shizuo hates the pinpricks he feels at knowing Izaya's keen gaze is on him.

“Do you want some water?” Shizuo asks, feeling like an alien in his own home.

“Well, it would probably help,” Izaya says. “Have you got any alcohol?”

“You don't need alcohol, you shitty fucking louse. You're fucked up enough.”

“I feel sober!” Izaya says, but his flushed face and swaying demeanor beg to differ. “Just the water then. The sooner I sober up, the sooner I can get away from you.”

Shizuo grits his teeth as he pours Izaya a glass of water, and when he stomps over to the couch, he shoves it at Izaya so forcefully that the water sloshes out of the glass and onto Izaya's chest.

“How are you gonna act high and mighty even when I'm doing you a favor? You should be fucking thankful that you aren't in a ditch somewhere!” Shizuo growls as Izaya frowns down at the water on his shirt.

“I never asked for your help,” Izaya says before he looks up and meets Shizuo's gaze. Ordinarily, Shizuo would be creeped out by Izaya's unnaturally red gaze, but as it is, Izaya just looks exhausted and maybe even scared. He's just too proud to let it show.

“Yeah? Well, you better be glad I gave it to you anyway. You could be out there getting—“ Shizuo pauses, huffs, and turns to go back to his food.

“Raped,” Izaya says, because he can never leave well enough alone. “I could be getting raped, is that what you wanted to say?”

“For fuck's sake, Izaya, shut the hell up and pass out already.”

Unsurprisingly, Izaya doesn't. He sips at his water and looks around before he tries to stand. Before Shizuo can even yell at him, Izaya stumbles backwards, misses the couch, and lands sprawled in the floor with the water glass completely emptied on him.

Sighing, Shizuo tosses the empty food box into the trash before he makes his way over to Izaya, who bristles visibly and narrow his eyes up at Shizuo as if daring him to say anything.

“You're a goddamn mess,” Shizuo says because Izaya needs to hear it, or maybe just because Shizuo likes needling him. Either way, Shizuo leans down and picks Izaya up again.

“I thought I wasn't allowed in your room...” Izaya says, his voice slurred and heavy with impending sleep. He's clearly fighting it with all he has, and Shizuo wonders just how many times Izaya has been drugged before.

“I'm chaperoning.” Shizuo shrugs and tosses Izaya on his bed before he tries to find dry clothes for Izaya's small, flea-like body. He has sweatpants with a string, so that'll work. As for shirts, he has plenty of T-shirts he wears on his off days, nothing fancy like Izaya is accustomed to, but if Izaya complains, Shizuo might just punch him.

When he turns to Izaya, he's surprised to see Izaya sitting up, though he looks far from cognizant. He's swaying, catching himself, and trying and failing to focus on Shizuo.

“Can you get undressed?” Shizuo asks him.

“Oooh... Shizu, how naughty...” Izaya says with a giggle, and then he's trying to tug his wet shirt over his head. It gets caught at his elbows, and Izaya rolls off the bed and into the floor with a resounding 'thunk'.

“Fucking flea... Stupid fucking drugged annoying ass flea,” Shizuo mutters to himself as he goes to Izaya and helps him up again. “Alright, lift your arms, you can do that much.” Izaya does, and Shizuo does his best to avert his eyes as he removes Izaya's shirt and helps him into the dry T-shirt.

“Smells good,” Izaya murmurs, and when Shizuo looks at him, Izaya is holding the collar of Shizuo's shirt to his nose and inhaling happily.

“What the fuck?” Shizuo asks, wondering what planet they're on.

“I said...you smell good,” Izaya says a little louder, glaring at Shizuo as if Shizuo has yanked this confession from him without permission.

“Okay? Take your pants off.”

Izaya pouts at him and shakes his head.

“Izaya! Take your—!” Shizuo yanks Izaya's hands away from the shirt collar and tries to make Izaya undo his pants, but Izaya merely stands there looking like he might cry. “What's wrong with you? I'm trying to undress you so you can sleep comfortably!”

“I hate you,” Izaya says with his usual ire, and then, inexplicably, his voice is breaking and he's hiding his face in Shizuo's giant T-shirt. “I hate Shizu-chan so much!”

“Yeah? Well I hate you right back!” Shizuo hisses, and he undoes Izaya's pants before yanking them down. His renewed anger makes it easier to ignore the fact he's undressing Izaya Orihara in his bedroom. “But even if you're fucking horrible and I don't want you here, I'd rather you be here than with some creepy douchebag, so help me out!”

“You should've left me! I'd be fine, I'm always fine!” Izaya is practically sobbing by this point, and Shizuo is helpless to do anything but watch Izaya cry with his pants halfway down his thighs. “You were right to say no one would care, so why should you? I don't want your pity!”

“Too bad,” Shizuo finds himself saying. “If you wanted it, I wouldn't give it to you. I hate people who want pity for the sake of being pitied. But right now...”

“You never do what I want,” Izaya says with a sniffle. This time, when Shizuo pushes Izaya gently towards the bed, Izaya allows it, and Shizuo is able to get the wet pants off and replace them with the sweatpants. Izaya is skinny, so Shizuo has to tie the strings as tightly as they'll go.

“There. Isn't that better?” Shizuo asks. He's always been pretty good with kids, which is exactly what a wasted Izaya is reminding him of. “You'll feel better when you sleep.”

“I'm not tired,” Izaya says, emerging from the shirt at last to show Shizuo his red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks.

“Right,” Shizuo says. “Well, when you are, it'll be better.” He almost laughs when Izaya nods very seriously, as of Shizuo is saying anything other than common sense. Shizuo tries to back away, but he finds one of his hands being held hostage by both of Izaya's. “Flea,” he says warningly, not trusting Izaya to not have a hidden knife on him somewhere.

“Your hand is one big—callus,” Izaya announces. He turns Shizuo's hand over and examines it. “You should moisturize.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Shizuo mumbles, trying again to pull away, but Izaya seems like he might cry again if Shizuo does.

“Isn't it weird...” Izaya says, and then he's just holding Shizuo's hand, looking up at Shizuo with his watery gaze. “You're like a regular person like this. A human.”

“I am a human,” Shizuo snaps, not ready to hear Izaya's usual spiel about Shizuo being an unlovable monster.

Izaya just nods and looks down again at their joined hands. “I love humans,” he says, and then he sniffles again. “But humans don't love me.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo sighs. “You need to sleep. You'll hate that you said all this in the morning.”

“I'll be unhappy either way!” Izaya snaps, and Shizuo wonders where the hell this is going, or if he's ever actually...had a conversation with Izaya before? He doesn't think so, at least not one where they weren't actively trying to antagonize or kill each other. It's weird to be in Izaya's space, to smell his scent, to be able to see his eyelashes. Shizuo wishes he was drunker than he is, and then he remembers to mourn the full beer he left at the bar.

“You can't pretend like you don't know why people hate you. You've given them every reason to.” Shizuo's gaze is hard as Izaya meets his eyes. “You know that.”

“Why is it so wrong to want to see the worst parts of people? Isn't that what love is—to see those parts, the parts they want to keep hidden, and love them anyway? Can you say you love someone if you aren't willing to accept the worst of them?” Izaya asks, his grip tightening on Shizuo. “I love all those things! I love them, and everyone looks at me like I'm a monster! And then, you! You have so much love and you don't even deserve it!” Izaya finally lets Shizuo go, throws his hand away like it's poisoned.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Shizuo asks, genuinely feeling more confused than angry. “Tricking people into revealing what they hate about themselves just to use it against them won't ever get you anywhere. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius? How could you think that would work?”

“Nothing works anyway,” Izaya says. “You hated me before I even did anything to you, after all. Wasn't it nice of me to give you actual reasons?”

Shizuo frowns, thinking back to the day Shinra introduced them. Izaya was beside Shinra, clapping at the violence Shizuo exhibited, and Shizuo thought to himself that Izaya was making fun of him, or worse, that he liked violence when Shizuo himself hated it and couldn't escape it. Shizuo admits to himself, and has for a long time, that his hatred of Izaya wasn't justified at first. But in the end, he thinks it was instinctual, and he just knew Izaya was up to no good.

“As if you care what I think,” Shizuo says. He's ready to get out of this room. Izaya can have the bed, he doesn't even care. He's just ready to get Izaya sober and out of here.

“I do care,” Izaya says softly, and Shizuo feels his brow furrowing in disbelief.

“God, how drunk are you?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya grins.

“Very. I'm being honest with you, after all.” He reaches again for Shizuo's hand, and Shizuo debates only for a few moments before letting him have it. What's the harm? Izaya likely won't remember any of this, and keeping him complacent is in Shizuo's best interest if either of them are going to get sleep tonight.

“So you care what I think? And that means you get to try to ruin my life and get me killed all the time?” Shizuo asks as he watches Izaya drunkenly play with his fingers.

“Not all the time,” Izaya says with a pout. “I just like your attention.”

“My attention?”

Izaya laughs, traces one of Shizuo's calluses with smooth fingers. “Wasn't it effective?”

“...Go the fuck to sleep, Izaya.” Shizuo still has a headache, but now he thinks it has less to do with loud noises and the alcohol he consumed earlier and more to do with Izaya being a weirdo. He remembers now why talking to Izaya is impossible. It's all riddles and lies and bullshit. It's much easier to just try to kill him.

“Do you think I'm lying to you?” Izaya asks.

“I know you are.” Shizuo glares as Izaya kicks his legs out, narrowly missing Shizuo.

“I'm not! I just—“ He pauses before a wicked grin spreads across his face, and Shizuo's hackles rise. He keeps his eyes peeled for the glint of a knife. “I never thanked you for saving me, did I?”

“As if you'd be sincere,” Shizuo says.

“I'll give Shizu-chan something! Something he's never had.”

“I don't want—“ Shizuo is suddenly yanked forward by Izaya, who is exhibiting more strength than he should have, but Shizuo has no time to think or say anything before he feels the softness of Izaya's mouth against his own.

It's impossibly gentle. Shizuo has never kissed anyone before, but before his mind can catch up with who he's kissing, he feels Izaya's hands thread through his hair, feels Izaya shift and move closer, and when Shizuo curls his fingers in Izaya's collar to throw him against the wall, he feels himself instead pulling Izaya closer, chasing after the softness of Izaya's lips when Izaya begins to pull back.

“Mm,” Izaya hums, licking his own lips. “How's that for sincerity?”

“Izaya—you...” Shizuo's mind catches up rapidly with what happened, and he feels anger he's never felt before overtake him. “What the fuck!”

“I can't be blamed for it being subpar, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says absently. “Kiss me when I'm sober, I'll make it up to you.” He crawls under the covers, clearly not the least bit worried about Shizuo or his wrath. “I'm sleepy now.”

Shizuo roars with rage, worries about the neighbors, and then gets even angrier. He storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he flops face-first into the couch, screaming into the cushions.

Fucking Izaya. In the morning, Shizuo is going to be as loud as possible, is going to torture a severely hungover flea, and then he's going to make Izaya wish he'd never been born. After that, he's going to beat the fuck out of Shinra for leaving this situation up to him. As it is, he realizes he has to make sure Izaya isn't sleeping on his back, because he needs Izaya to be alive in the morning to torture.

Shizuo slips back inside the room to find Izaya is curled on his side, his face buried in Shizuo's pillow. Shizuo grimaces as he considers sleeping on the floor. After the night he's had, he convinces himself he deserves to sleep in his own bed, and if Izaya has a problem with that, Izaya can fuck right off to Hell where he belongs.

Shizuo maintains as much distance between them as he can as he settles into the bed, but Izaya doesn't move at all and is clearly dead to the world. Shizuo relaxes and comforts himself with thoughts of vengeance in the morning, and is finally able to fall asleep.

The first thing Shizuo notices when he jerks awake is that he doesn't think he's slept much at all. The room is still pitch black aside from the light flooding under the door from the bathroom. The second thing he notices is that Izaya is gone, and there's an awful retching noise coming from the next room. Sighing, Shizuo gets up, and he finds Izaya throwing up violently into the toilet, but thankfully, there isn't vomit anywhere else, so at least Izaya made it this far.

“I hoped...” Izaya rasps, “that it was a dream...and I wasn't really here...”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. He winces as the vomiting continues. He heads to the kitchen, grabs Izaya another glass of water, and then he picks up his cigarettes and goes back to the bathroom, setting the glass beside Izaya before sitting down on the floor near him and leaning against the wall of the bathroom doorway.

“What are you doing?” Izaya asks weakly. “This is gross enough without you seeing it.”

“Barf doesn't bother me,” Shizuo says as he lights his cigarette. “Kasuka used to get sick a lot. He didn't like being by himself.”

“So you...sat with him while he vomited?” Izaya asks with a weak laugh.

“No, dipshit. I sat with him afterwards, but it's not like you'll be done anytime soon.”

Izaya looks like he wants to argue, but then he's retching once more, and Shizuo shakes his head as he takes a deep drag on his cigarette.

“I guess this is revenge enough for you ruining my night,” Shizuo says. “I might still punch you later, though.”

“That would be fair,” Izaya says softly. He folds his arms over the seat of the toilet, rests his head in them, and adds, “I'm so glad your bathroom is clean.”

“As if you could complain if it wasn't.”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm good at complaining.”

Shizuo snorts and reaches over to pet Izaya's back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. Kasuka used to appreciate it. If Izaya minds, he doesn't say so.

“I don't suppose you have a spare toothbrush?” Izaya asks after a few silent minutes. Shizuo frowns.

“No. I don't usually have people over.”

“Mouthwash?” Izaya prompts, and Shizuo shifts to look through his cabinet under the sink, putting his cigarette in his mouth to free his hands.

“I have this kind,” Shizuo says before handing Izaya the bottle.

“This is the alcohol free version,” Izaya notes with a clear look of distaste.

“I don't like the burning.”

“The burning is how you know it's working.”

“Use it and shut the hell up!” Shizuo snaps, and Izaya sighs before doing just that. He spits into the tub and then settles back with a groan, using his foot to flush the toilet.

“I should probably get going soon,” Izaya mutters.

“Are you okay now?”

“Well, I'm as sober as I'm going to get tonight. I'm more concerned about the massive hangover I have coming my way. I doubt either of us wants me trapped here all day—“

“Hey,” Shizuo says, almost interrupting Izaya, who glares at him for it. “How often does this happen to you?”

“The drugging? Only once before.” Izaya sips at the water Shizuo got for him.

“Did...anything happen?” Shizuo asks warily.

“I don't know. It was a long time ago.”

Shizuo's expression must speak volumes, because Izaya sighs before continuing.

“I met with a client about locating someone. The story sounded far-fetched to begin with, but he was offering a lot of money, and he seemed so ordinary that I didn't think about anything happening. When he offered me tea, I drank it. And then I woke up in an alleyway outside my apartment building the next day.”

“Flea...”

“I went to the hospital and they said it didn't look like...that had happened. But other things could have.” Izaya sips again at the water. “It doesn't matter. He's dead now, and I'm still alive.”

“So that means you won or something?” Shizuo asks warily.

Izaya shrugs. “Sure. But I wasn't the one who killed him. I didn't even have a hand in it, if you believe that. Turns out he killed someone's daughter, and her father was pretty high up in the Russian mafia. He got what he deserved, in the end. If anything it was my own fault for underestimating him and not looking into him further.”

“Something like that isn't your fault!” Shizuo snaps, and when Izaya grins at him, he feels his anger rising. “It's not, okay, that's victim blaming bullshit, and if he did something to you, it's because he was fucked up and it's not to do with you!”

“But Shizu-chan,” Izaya says playfully, “I thought everything wrong was to do with me.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says. “This is different.”

“Unfortunately, things like that happen and will always happen. I'm usually more careful about meeting people, but foolishly I believed Touma-san wouldn't try anything in public. I suppose it could have ended up a lot worse.”

“No shit,” Shizuo says.

“And this time, I didn't wake up all alone, after all.”

Shizuo looks to Izaya, expecting him to have a playful grin or a teasing leer, but as it is, Izaya is gazing down into his water glass thoughtfully.

“I suppose I said...things. I hope you can pretend I never said them,” Izaya says.

“How much do you remember?” Shizuo asks.

“Enough to be embarrassed. I'm sure that's pleasing for you.”

“You kissed me.”

Izaya makes a choking noise that would be comical if he didn't look so mortified. Shizuo knows he isn't imagining the blush spreading across Izaya's cheeks.

“Ah, okay, we can ignore that, if you want. I was drunk.”

“Fuck that,” Shizuo says. “That was my first kiss, asshole. Take responsibility. It wasn't even good.”

Izaya chokes again, with laughter this time, and Shizuo grins back at him stupidly. What a night it's been.

“I'm afraid I can't remedy that right now unless you want to kiss me when I just threw up,” Izaya says, and his smile is so genuine that Shizuo can't look away from it.

“Wouldn't taste much worse than the first time,” Shizuo says, and Izaya laughs again.

“How cruel! Okay, I deserve that. You really are getting in all your jokes now. I thought for sure you'd draw them out a while to torture me more.”

“I will. Pretty sure that was all I had.” Shizuo flicks his cigarette into the sink and runs water over it before standing and offering a hand to Izaya. “C'mon. You can sleep here and leave tomorrow.”

“You want me to be gross here all day?” Izaya asks, looking at Shizuo's hand much like he did the night before, with wonder.

“I'll take my chances.”

Izaya takes Shizuo's hand, and Shizuo leads him back to the bed. Neither of them comments on Shizuo flopping back beside him. Someone has to make sure Izaya doesn't choke to death on vomit still, even now. Shizuo doesn't trust that it's over, and clearly Izaya isn't taking it seriously.

He falls asleep much easier than he did the first time, and he wakes once to find he's tossed an arm over Izaya and nestled behind him. Blearily, he thinks to himself that Izaya's scent isn't bad, especially when it's mixed together with his own. He doesn't move, and he falls back into unconsciousness with the bite of Izaya's scent sharp on his tongue.

When he wakes again, Izaya is gone.

***

“Really, I was impressed, Shizuo-kun! I thought for sure when you called and said you were with Izaya-kun that you would kill him!”

Shizuo is at Shinra's and Celty's place, politely drinking tea while Celty goes off on Shinra for not telling her about what was happening that night. Shizuo knows she'll forgive Shinra. She always does.

“Have you checked on him? Izaya?” Shizuo asks, interrupting them. They both turn to him.

“Not since it happened. Izaya-kun will be fine. He's always fine.”

Something about that statement infuriates him, and when he stands, his teacup hits the floor, shattering as he advances on Shinra.

“What the fuck kind of friend are you?! He was drugged, could have been raped and killed, and you were so focused on having Celty that you didn't give a shit?! That's wrong. It's so fucking wrong! No one is fine after that!”

“Shizuo, please calm down!” Celty's PDA pleads with him, but he barely glances at it.

“I'd punch your face in, but you wouldn't understand why I was doing it,” Shizuo spits at Shinra, shoving him once, but even that's enough to make Shinra topple backwards. “I'm sorry,” he says to Celty. “But he shouldn't think what he did was okay.”

He leaves before they can say anything else to him, also before he can do more damage, and he doesn't even know why he cares so much. Izaya is awful, has ruined so many lives, including Shizuo's. But when he thinks back to all the shitty things, he sees Izaya's crying face as clear as day, feels the depth of that loneliness, because he's felt that way before too, like an outsider looking in no matter what he tries. And sure, it doesn't excuse or forgive anything, but after seeing an actual human side of Izaya, it's impossible to pretend he doesn't care at all.

His feet carry him home, and he's surprised to look up and see Izaya standing outside his door, a paper bag in hand.

“Ah, I hoped you'd still be out,” Izaya says, and he holds the bag up. “Your clothes. I washed them. I thought it was the least I could do.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo says, feeling dumb as he takes the bag. He can't stop staring at Izaya, who looks as he always does, infuriatingly smug and not a hair out of place.

“Right. Well, we can put this behind us now! Next time I see you, I'll fully expect you to be trying to bash my head in.” Izaya smirks at him before trying to walk around him, and Shizuo finds himself grabbing Izaya's coat sleeve.

“Wait. You still haven't accepted responsibility,” Shizuo blurts, and Izaya gazes up at him confusedly.

“About— oh. What would you like me to do? Let you punch me?”

“No, I already almost punched Shinra just now. I think punching is starting to lose its luster.” Shizuo keeps hold of Izaya, tries and fails to think of how to articulate what he wants. He isn't good with words, never has been, but for once in his life, Izaya being so damn perceptive comes in handy.

“I see. So then, would you accept dinner? On me, of course, to make up for my many transgressions.” Izaya's wearing that smile again, the real one, and Shizuo finds himself laughing.

“There isn't enough money in the world to buy enough food that you'd need for that,” Shizuo says, and his grip on Izaya morphs into something less harsh until it's more of a gentle touch on Izaya's arm than anything else.

“It might take a few dinners,” Izaya says, nodding in agreement.

“More than a few.”

“Well then,” Izaya says, turning and reaching behind himself to tug on Shizuo. “Shall we?”

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Book 4 : Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 31)

Description: Before he can make his next move, Caleb must face the leader of his new gang. Meanwhile, Alodia and Tahira make Thanksgiving plans.

Tagging: @xo-endlessmayhem-xo ; @princesstopgun ; @mysteli ; @endlesshero1122 ; @whatmcsaid

Chapter 31 : Lines of Loyalty

Caleb

The next phase of my plan requires finesse. Precision. It requires subterfuge, which I am not a fan of. I recognize the necessity of it sometimes, but it always feels dishonest. I mean, subterfuge is always dishonest, that's the whole point. But what I mean is that it feels like a compromise. Playing by the rules of the corrupt system, even if I'm privately defying them. Letting them believe they have my support, even if it's only temporary. I would much rather come storming in and make a bold statement. I want them to know why their shit is falling apart in front of them, and I want them to know right away. I want them to know it was me.

Gigi would argue that you can still get all that same satisfaction from subterfuge if you do it right, but I'm still skeptical. Speaking of the psychobitch, if I'm gonna do this subterfuge thing right, I have to keep her from getting suspicious. I've been making sure to check in with one of her spies on the edge of Bayside every couple of days, but I know that I can't stay in Northbridge indefinitely. The longer I delay going back to the squatter nest and giving her something concrete, the more suspicious she'll get, and the more likely I am to end up neck-deep in particularly rancid shit. The closer I get to the probable deadline, the faster I go through my Camels. I make what I estimate to be my third stop at that convenience store to stock up for the road with a six-pack each of beer and generic cola, a fresh pack of Camels, and a couple of those burritos—which I think actually has to be laced with crack or something because convenience stores should not have burritos this good.

Just like the last two times, the dark-haired kid is behind the counter, and his grizzled old biker manager rings out the beer and smokes before slumping back to the storeroom. I cast a critical eye over the kid while he finishes ringing up the cola and burritos. I find my gaze drawn to the racks of candy under the counter and impulsively grab a bag of gummy bears to toss on my pile.

“Those too.”

“Sure thing.” The kid scoops up the gummy bears, scanning them and dropping them in the plastic bag with the rest of my shit. He gives me my total and I pull out a slim wad of bills from my pocket, peeling off a twenty. I hold it out to him, reaching into the bag to pull out the Camels.

“So...do you live here or something?” Tapping the pack against my palm, I read the nametag pinned to the front of the kid's polo. “...Dylan?”

Dylan plucks the twenty from between my fingers, looking reproachfully at me. “Of course not.”

“So, I look back in that storeroom, I'm not gonna find your four kids and a dog?” I pull the tab on the cellophane cover. It crackles angrily as I tug off the top half. The heat in the store is on full blast to combat the cold November air constantly streaming through the doors, and the dry air makes the cellophane stick to my hand more than usual. Dylan eyes the pack in my left hand as I shake my right furiously, trying to dislodge the clear wrapper.

“Those things'll kill you, you know,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, golly gee, will they? I didn't know that because I've lived my whole life in a goddamn cave, and I can't actually read this warning label right here on the pack! Fuck off. Unlike you, I'm an adult.”

Dylan grumbles a reply that sounds like a warning not to light up inside, and jabs a button on the cash register. I grunt and stuff the pack in my pocket with the inner foil still sealed, giving my cellophane-draped hand another shake. I hold my left hand out for my change, and Dylan grudgingly counts it out into my palm, dropping the coins on top.

“Hey, you know what else'll fucking kill you? Skipping lunch near daily. Probably at about the same rate as smoking. I dunno, I'm no doctor.” I finally paw the cellophane off on the rim of the plastic bag and grab it by the handles, dropping the handful of coins and singles back on the counter. “Keep the change. Buy yourself one of these crack burritos. Seriously, convenience store food has no business being this good.”

Before he can reply, I stalk out the door and into the biting cold, the door's tiny brass clapper bell trilling behind me.

* * *

Traffic is bad getting out of the city, so the whole drive to Squatterville takes over an hour. Enough time for me to puff through half the pack. I'm driving a junker of a minivan that's at least as old as I am, so old that it doesn't even have a CD player. Just a cassette slot. But I did manage to find an old-fashioned cassette adapter and portable CD player last time I went looking for the kind of obsolete electronics that a guy in my position can actually afford. I put on a burned CD of a bunch of songs from a bunch of those rock metal bands out of northern Europe, the ones with the female lead singers and their reality-defying powerhouse voices ringing out over electric guitars, drums, and epic orchestras. I turn the volume up as much as I can stand, put the heater on full blast, and lower the driver's side window. I spend the journey smoking, tapping ashes off the end of my cigarette through the open window, and tossing the butts out onto the road. In between cigarettes, I scarf down two burritos and guzzle three colas. I toss the wrappers and empty cans into the dark space behind the front seats, where I rarely look. The nicotine coursing through my blood keeps me calm enough on the drive, but as I get closer to Squatterville, closer to Gigi, I start wishing I'd bought another pack.

Gotta keep sight of the goal. The goal right now is to buy myself some more time. I need something to tell Gigi so she'll let me go back to Northbridge for awhile. Something close enough to the truth to be convincing, but far enough that she won't get wind of what I'm really doing. Something to grab her interest enough that she'll let me go on with it, but not enough that she'll want to come along for the ride. Squatterville is fast approaching. I may have to wing it a little.

I turn off the main road onto a quiet side road. The side road turns to crumbling pavement, then gravel, dirt, and finally nothing more than a grassy path cut into the trees with two long barren ruts permanently worn into it by countless tires passing over. I park on the side of a hill and tuck the half-empty pack of Camels in the inner pocket of my jacket, zipping up against the chill. I shove the gummy bears into one hip pocket, and all the cash and change I have on me into the other. Unable to put it off any longer, I climb out of the car and make my way up the hill into the trees.

The sun is already starting to sink in the sky, and the trees make long, stark shadows that obscure the uneven path. I step carefully, not quite willing to use the emergency flashlight that dangles from my keyring. One of the other squatters will spot me and let Gigi know I'm coming, if she's at home. No need to alarm anyone. If someone particularly twitchy is on guard, startling them could mean I end up with a knife stuck somewhere in me or worse.

I can make out a few signs that she's home as I trudge toward the abandoned houses. She's got her own little code of symbols and signs that she'll trace in the dirt or spell out with sticks or pebbles to let us know where she is. I also hear movement in the trees that I'm pretty sure isn't being caused by animals. It's almost dark by the time I reach the cluster of abandoned houses. A small campfire burns in the small no man's land between the treeline and the edge of the nearest house. Gigi stands beside it, watching me approach with a smirk on her pretty face.

I gotta be real, Gigi is...unfathomably good-looking. She's got this creamy, pale skin, these full, pouting lips that she emphasizes with deep red lipstick, clear blue eyes, and long waves of silky auburn hair. How she stays so flawless is a mystery, living the way we do, but I'm guessing she spends at least half the time she disappears working on her appearance. ...Or maybe she just has good genes. However she does it, she at least knows how to use what nature has given her. She wears form-fitting black clothes that hug the curves of her hourglass figure, and heeled boots to emphasize her shapely calves and ass, as well as add a couple inches to her height. She looks like the kind of woman you know you shouldn't tangle with, but you kinda want to anyway. You wanna know what makes her tick, even if you don't think you'll like the answer, or the experience of finding out.

She licks her lips in a way that reminds me of a hungry wolf. She's got the large split ring on the end of a teddy bear keychain around her index finger, and she twirls it around her finger as she watches me approach.

“Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in. Welcome back, Pyro.”

I exhale slowly. “Hey, G...how's tricks?”

She pulls a face, pushing her lower lip into an exaggerated pout. “Aww, Pyro. You know by now that I don't turn tricks. I don't need to.” She grins, catching the teddy bear in her palm. “Step into my office.”

She leads me into one of the old ranch houses, into the master bedroom, which she has claimed as her space. Besides a queen-sized mattress on the floor, she also has a beat up old office desk and swivel chair. The desk is metal and tends to give electric shocks in the winter. She flips a switch on a portable generator. Light from the work lamps mounted on the walls floods the room. She turns to face me.

“Arms out, Pyro.”

I sigh, grudgingly holding my arms out to the side. I've gotten used to this routine by now. She approaches and pushes her hands into my hip pockets. She pulls the money out of my left pocket and throws it on the desk without looking too hard. She's found the bag of gummy bears in the other pocket, and her face has lit up with glee. She pulls out the bag and rips it open, digging out a small handful. For a moment, she just gazes down at the colorful pile of candy in her palm, a wolfish grin on her face. She selects a green bear and sniffs it before putting it to her lips and sucking it into her mouth. I watch for a minute or so while she savors each chewy little bear.

“Uh...can I put my arms down?” Gigi holds up one finger, slowly chewing. I sigh, rolling my eyes. “G, come on. My shoulders are getting sore.”

Gigi finishes the handful and sticks her hands into my jacket pockets. Finding nothing in the outer pockets, she searches the inner ones and comes up with my cigarettes. I close my eyes, trying not to audibly groan.

“Camels?” At the sound of her voice, I open my eyes to find her arching an eyebrow at me. “You know I prefer Winston's.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, G, well you know what? I prefer Camels, and I didn't get them for you.”

She chuckles, pulling one out and sticking the filtered end between her teeth. For a moment, she looks at me, and I know she's debating whether or not she should make me light it for her. Apparently deciding against it, she produces a lighter printed with images of the Powerpuff Girls from her jacket pocket and lights up. I should have bought a few more packs, stashed them in the dark in the back of my van. But I know the one time I do will be the one time she decides to send one of her broken goons to search it. So now I'm watching her puff through my nicotine stash, and I don't even know if she's gonna let me go to get more any time soon. She exhales a pungent cloud and leans back against her desk.

“So, where have you been, Pyro? It's been awhile.”

I take this as a cue that I can finally put my arms down. “Northbridge. Didn't Roach tell you as much?”

“Of course. But you were extremely vague about what you were doing. Enlighten me.”

Okay, Caleb. Here goes nothing. “I was looking into the Prism Crystal. You've probably heard that Dragonness and Silas Prescott have both returned alive.”

“I had heard that, yes. What's it to do with you?”

“G, I can conjure flames because I came in contact with the Prism Crystal. I've heard speculation that injecting himself with liquid prism has given Silas Prescott a brain tumor. I just want to know if that's gonna happen to me.”

She regards me critically for a moment, taking another drag on the cigarette between her teeth and exhaling the smoke. She moves around the desk to sit on the other side, propping her feet up on top of it.

“What did you find out?”

“Not a whole lot.” I shove my hands in my pockets, choosing my next words carefully. “...Except that I think the Prism Crystal might be linked to the Island's Heart.”

Gigi glances up sharply, icy blue eyes narrowing. “...Of course they're linked. I know they're linked. I've always known. ...Are you saying you have proof?”

“Not on me. But yeah. I saw an old security video inside one of Prescott's facilities. From like, twenty-five years ago. He let it drop that the prism crystal came from La Huerta.”

“...But you didn't take the tape?”

“Well, no. I was in a hurry to get outta there. But the important thing is that we know, right?”

Predictably, she scowls at me. “No. Of course that's not the important thing. For all I know you're lying to me. And if you're not, Prescott or one of his loyal dogs could have erased that footage or destroyed it.”

I sigh, trying to arrange my features into something contrite. “...You're right. I fucked up there. But I think I know how to set it right.”

“And how is that?”

“Dragonness. I worked with her once, and I met with her again while I was in Northbridge. I think she's got more information on both the Prism Crystal and the Island's Heart. Thing is...she's not really feeling all that trusting toward me right now since I didn't stick with her little gang of corporate tools once the dust had settled.”

“And...what do you suggest?”

“Let me go back to Northbridge and work her a little while. I save a few kittens from trees, help a few old ladies cross the street, get back on her good side...”

Gigi snorts. “And you assume she's just gonna spill on everything then?” she sneers. “No. No way it's gonna be that easy.”

“Okay, probably not. Might take awhile. But I think she knows something about Alodia Chandler.”

Once again, Gigi rises to the bait, narrowing her eyes at me. “...Like what?”

“Like why Rourke was so crazy obsessed with her. What she's got to do with the infamous Island's Heart.”

Gigi is silent for a long time. I watch the Camel get shorter between her lips. This is a particularly dangerous bluff. I don't know if Tahira actually knows shit about Alodia. I have a suspicion she does, but that's all it is.

“...Alodia Chandler is the one who killed me.”

“I know. You told me.”

“...But why should that matter to you?”

This question I can answer honestly. “It doesn't. What matters to me is figuring out the Prism Crystal. I am hoping that the chance to find some shit out about Alodia is appealing enough to you that you'll let me off the hook for awhile so I can play the hero in Northbridge and gain Dragonness' confidence.”

“Let you off the hook,” she drawls, tapping an ash off the end of the cigarette. “But I assume you want me to keep you on the payroll.”

“I get how that could be a damned inconvenience. But it would be appreciated if you were able.”

“If I were able to keep paying you for jobs you aren't actually contributing to? If I were able to go out of my way to arrange for payments to be dropped while you play errand boy to a bunch of superpowered busy-bodies?”

I ignore the jab, spreading my hands in a pose like surrender. “Like I said. I get how it could be a damned inconvenience. I can make my own way if necessary.”

Gigi is quiet for awhile, considering. Then she shakes her head. “No. You work off my payroll, there's no guarantee you're not aiming to break with me.”

I can't help smirking ruefully. “Break with you, G? Never.”

She ignores me, pinning me with an ice-blue glare. Her gaze doesn't leave my face as she snuffs out the Camel on the surface of her desk with over an inch left before the filter. Watching it is almost physical agony. She must realize it, because she smirks.

“We'll arrange a drop. But you get half your usual cut, so you better make it stretch.” She drags the bag of gummy bears toward her and pierces one with the nail of her index finger, bringing it to her mouth. “I'll let you do your thing, Pyro. But you better deliver. Fire magic or not, I can make you sorry if you cross me.”

I nod. As completely batshit cracked as it may sound, I believe her. I totally fucking believe her.

Alodia

Not long past noon on Tuesday morning, I'm enjoying a leisurely lunch at the kitchen table, flipping through a dance magazine, when my phone rings. Michelle's name flashes on my screen. I tap the phone a couple times to put her on speaker.

“Hey, Michelle. What's up?”

“Hey, Alodia. I just got home from work, and I wanted to check up on you before I get some sleep.”

I feel a frown crease my brow, and I'm glad we're not video chatting. “Okay, I know I said I was okay with you being a little alarmist about my health, but I also happen to know you work twelve-hour shifts. I promise you, I can wait until you've gotten some sleep.”

“And I happen to know that you trust me more than your own OB-GYN, in spite of the fact that my speciality is neurology. We'll both feel better if you just tell me what she said at your appointment yesterday.”

“Well, she agrees with you that it's probably nothing to worry about, just the uterus pressing on the nerves, all very normal. She ran all the tests she thought were necessary and nothing unusual is going on.”

“And the baby's healthy?”

“Well, she didn't take an ultrasound or anything. Mostly because I feel confident saying that River's alive and enthusiastically kickboxing in there. I've got the big ultrasound scheduled for after Thanksgiving, and that's when we'll learn the sex.”

“Well, that's exciting. Are you going to tell us when you find out? Or are you gonna let Raj and Craig grow the pool a little more first?”

I laugh. “Of course we'll tell you all. At some point, they're gonna have to start betting on when I deliver, aren't they?”

“Almost certainly.” She pauses for a moment. “Are you cleared to travel for Thanksgiving then?”

“Yeah. But that doesn't exactly stop Jake from being nervous about me traveling on a public airplane while pregnant. Says they're flying cesspools, especially when they're packed with holiday travelers.”

“He's not wrong, you know. Why not just get a charter flight from Aleister and Estela? You know they'd be happy to arrange it. They do have other pilots besides Jake and Mike on their payroll.”

“Because his parents are going to be picking us up from the airport, and I want everything to feel as normal as possible when I first meet them. I mean, our whole situation is going to be hard enough for them to swallow without adding in that we have powerful friends who can arrange charter flights right off the bat.”

“The strangeness of your situation won't matter so much once they meet you,” Michelle declares confidently. “They're going to love you. Especially when they realize how much you love their son.”

“Aww, thanks. How is everything on your end?”

She is quiet long enough that concern stirs in my gut. Finally, she sighs. “Oh...you know...”

“That...doesn't make it sound like things are going well.”

“It's nothing serious. I'm just a little burned out right now. ...Burned out and bummed out...”

“What's going on?”

“It's really nothing. I've been switching shifts and covering shifts like crazy to get the time off to come to California for the New Year, and then to actually get married in March, so I haven't had a lot of time outside of work.”

“Well, that explains the burnout. But why the bum-out?”

“Well, both Sean and I have to work on Thanksgiving. The Condors have the Thanksgiving game again, and Tricia's going to be going to watch, and I'm working from noon to midnight, so there's not much chance the three of us will get to share Thanksgiving as a family this year. Plus, you're in California with Jake and Diego, Estela and Quinn are in San Trobida, Craig and Zahra are having Thanksgiving with his family, Raj is in Rome, Aleister and Grace have gone back to London...”

“So, you and Sean are the only Catalysts in Northbridge for Thanksgiving?”

“Exactly. I guess I'm just feeling lonely. I miss you all. ...I guess that's the one thing I'll always miss about La Huerta, is having everyone right there.”

“I know what you mean. I'm really looking forward to New Year's Eve and having all the Catalysts back together, even if it's only for a night.”

“But that's more than a month off yet...” The weight of melancholy in her voice makes my heart squeeze. She sounds exhausted. Dispirited.

“Aww, Michelle...”

“Don't you start worrying about me, Alodia,” she chides gently. “You look after that baby of yours.”

“I'm gonna take some time off in January or February to come to Northbridge before the wedding,” I promise. “If only to get properly fitted for my dress. And I'm already making plans for your bachelorette party in March.”

“As long as those plans don't involve you drinking, I look forward to them.”

After a couple more minutes, we say our goodbyes and hang up so that Michelle can get some rest. I sit at the table for awhile, staring at my phone. The conversation has left me...unsettled. I'm not worried about Michelle per se. At least...I'm not worried that she's falling into an emotional pit, or that she's suffering anything more insidious than a combination of burnout and disappointment at having to spend the holiday apart from her family. Still, I don't like hearing her sound so tired and unhappy.

I have no idea what Sean's training schedule is going to be like right now, but I take a chance and call him. He picks up.

“Hey, Alodia. What's up?”

“Hey, Sean. Hope I'm not interrupting a practice or anything?”

He chuckles. “Trust me, if you had called during a practice, I wouldn't have answered because I value my life. I'm actually just at the grocery store. ...Is everything okay?”

“It's all okay on my end. But I just spoke to Michelle.”

There's a pause. “Yeah...?”

“I don't know. She just seems...really down right now. She was talking about how you both have to work on Thanksgiving, and how she's covering a lot of extra hours to be able to come for New Year's...I guess I'm just kinda concerned.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I don't really blame you. You know how she is when she's got a goal. She doesn't give herself nearly as much slack as she should.”

“Not unlike you in that way,” I quip.

I can practically hear the wry smirk in his voice, “Hey, there's a reason we connected at Hartfeld. Two aces at the top of our respective games, biting off way more than we could chew...many a romantic evening we spent pulling all-nighters together.”

“But you've learned to give yourself some breathing room at least...to give yourself credit and not carry the burden all on your own...”

“So has she,” he says gently. “You know her, Alodia. You know what she needed most back then, what her biggest weakness was.”

“She didn't trust people. She wasn't willing to need anyone.”

“Just the fact that she told you she was feeling upset shows how far she's come, doesn't it?”

I am quiet for a moment, thinking this over. I suppose it is encouraging that even though she called to check up on me, Michelle did not require a lot of probing to admit that she was feeling under pressure herself.

“You're right. It does.”

“But you're also right. Michelle has been working way too hard lately, and I know not getting to spend Thanksgiving together is a major disappointment. Don't worry, though. I have a brilliant plan to make it up to her.”

“Good.” I exhale slowly, feeling myself relax. “You've gotten...really insightful in the last five years.”

“Yeah, well...I ended up going through some therapy after graduation. It helped clarify a lot of what was going through my head after the island. ...Helped me deal with the trauma and the grief, not just from what we went through, but everything before the island, too. Everything with my dad and Michelle. Even though she and I were friends again, it took awhile for me to feel like I could be worthy of her again. Therapy helped with that, too.”

“I'm glad. And I'm really glad you two have each other. Your weaknesses are kinda similar, but you're both strong enough that it's more of an advantage because you can keep each other in check with empathy.”

He laughs. “And you're calling me insightful. ...I gotta admit, I'm weirdly happy that you called me about this.”

“Really? Why?”

“I guess...you could say it's a relief to have you call because you're worried Michelle might be stressed and disappointed over having to work on Thanksgiving. It feels very...everyday?”

“I think I know what you mean. ...It's a taste of normal that's can be little hard to come by for our family.”

“Exactly. Hey, I should hang up and finish shopping. ...Are you guys gonna watch the Condors' game on Thanksgiving?”

“From what Jake's told me, there will definitely be a game on at his folks' place. I'll see if I can convince them to make it yours. I'll tell Diego and Varyyn to tune in here, too.”

“Good. I'm gonna need all the good vibes you can send me.”

“I'll rub my belly during the game for good luck.”

He laughs. “What, are you Buddha now?”

“What, lucky belly rubs are only for Buddha?”

“Pretty sure. But what the hell, it couldn't hurt. Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving if I don't talk to you before then. And I'll see you guys on New Year's Eve.”

“I'll see you then, Sean.”

Tahira

The biting November breeze trails chilly fingers over my face, tugging at the dark tendrils of hair that have escaped the headband I've put on to keep my ears warm as I wander through the park with Grayson, my fingers laced with his. It's mid-afternoon, but the recent end of daylight savings time means that dusk is rapidly approaching. Not that it's all that easy to tell with the sky so heavily clouded as it is today. By now, the trees are completely bare, and their skeletal branches stand out starkly against the dappled sky. The fallen leaves have all been cleared away, which somehow makes the world seem quieter and more dead in this moment than it will in a few weeks when the snows start falling. It's like looking at a body freshly dead as opposed to after it's been embalmed and dressed for a final viewing. The thought is morbid enough to make me shiver.

“You cold?” Grayson takes his hand from mine to slip his arm over my shoulder and draw me closer to his side. I smile, letting my head rest lightly on his shoulder.

“I'm okay now. Why, are you cold?”

“A little,” he admits.

“Wanna head back towards your place? We could go inside and get warm.”

He nods, kissing the top of my head. “Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that.”

I wind my arm around his waist. “So...how was your dad today?”

“I...didn't say?”

“You haven't said much of anything all afternoon. ...If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I do, kind of. Dad is...well...the doctors think that physically, he's okay. But his moods are...all over the map. He's angry, he's depressed...and then there are moments when he's almost manic and he seems hyperfocused on...something. ...No matter what, he still barely speaks to me. I know he's hearing me, but...it's like he can't say anything of any substance to me. Like he's hiding something. I've tried confronting him on what he did. I try asking gently. I even tried asking if he did it to bring Mom back. ...Nothing has gotten him to talk about it. And then out of the blue today, he says we should have Thanksgiving dinner together.”

“...How do you feel about that?”

“...He's my dad, Tahira. I don't want to leave him alone for a holiday...”

I sigh. “...I want to offer to go with you for moral support...but...”

He shakes his head fiercely, turning toward me and drawing me into his arms. “No. Absolutely not. After what he did to you, I don't want the two of you anywhere near each other.” He sighs. “...I feel like I should refuse him. I feel...like I'm being disloyal to you, still worrying about him.”

I feel my heart twist at his words. Pulling back, I take his face in my hands and meet his eyes. I hold his gaze for a moment before leaning forward to gently press my mouth to his. I feel him respond and I kiss him again and again, slow and tender. Finally breaking, I let my forehead rest on his.

“You're not being disloyal to me, Grayson. Any more than you're being disloyal to your dad by kissing me. You love us both, and it isn't your fault that any of this happened between us.”

He closes his eyes, his breath shaking. “I...just want you to know that I'm on your side. Really know it. ...If it comes to it, I'll support you over him. I promise.”

I wind my arms around him and rest my chin on his shoulder. “I am grateful to have your support.” I murmur in his ear. There aren't many people in the park with the weather being what it is, but I still keep my voice low. “...But if it comes to battle between me and your father again, I need to know that you'll be safe more than anything else.”

“...But...”

“Promise me, Grayson. Promise me you'll protect yourself. I'll have allies to rely on in the fighting, allies like me.”

I feel Grayson hesitate for a moment before finally nodding against my shoulder, wrapping me in his arms.

“You're right. I have to get used to the idea that my girlfriend has superpowers and doesn't need me to be the macho man.”

I laugh. “I wouldn't need that from you anyway. That's not who I fell in love with. Just stay my smart, compassionate, courageous, loyal Grayson.”

“All right, enough flattery,” he quips. “You're already getting a raise with the new year, what more do you want?”

I draw back to look him in the eye, grinning. “I could tell you, but it might be a little indelicate for a public park.”

“Ohh, so it's like that, is it? We'd better hurry back to my place, then. I want to see what you're thinking.”

We start walking again. We're moving faster now, though I'm not sure how much of it is eagerness to fall into bed together and how much is because it's quickly getting colder.

“Hey...Grayson?”

“Hmm?”

“Even if I can't go with you to your dad's...there's no reason you can't join me and Mom for dinner afterwards, right?”

“Two Thanksgiving dinners? I probably wouldn't eat much at the second one...”

“That's all right. Mom and I always spend Black Friday dishing out our leftovers at the soup kitchen in Bayside anyway. And you know we'd love to have you.”

He exhales, and there is relief in the sound. “...I would love to be there. So...so much...”

“It's settled then. Our first official holiday as a couple.” As an idea occurs to me, I turn to him with a grin. “...And to celebrate this approaching momentous occasion...” I take his hand, dragging him towards a rock shed on the edge of the park.

“Woah! Tahira, where are we going?”

I stop just long enough to whisper in his ear, “Somewhere I can get changed. Dragonness is going to fly you home.”

[wanderer-of-sol]

Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 4

Chapter 1 here,  Chapter 2 here,  Chapter 3 here

Chapter 4

After an appetizer of freshly baked bread, the nature spirit had regained a fair amount of her strength, at least enough to walk and find a more comfortable sitting spot in her servant's home, where he offered her, and the rest of his guests a meal.

“It's not much, not much at all, but my mother was a kitchen witch as well as a gardener. I've put what I can into it for you.” Jackal said, placing a bowl in front of each of his guests and began serving them. Jackal's lentil soup was famous. Almost as famous as his late mother's.

“The taste of this... I never knew having a tongue would be such a boon.” She was amazed that humans could turn something so simple as the beans she created from seeds and soil into something full of flavor and soul.

“Honestly Ma'am, I couldn't do it without you.” Jack was humbled by her compliment.

“Please, call me Sacra, Jackson. We're both children of nature. There's no need for formalities.” She smiled at him, then mimicked Robin, as she dipped her bread in the soup. Sacra's eyes lit up.

“Right. Sacra? What can we do to help the crops? And to keep you healthy?” Jackal hadn't even started his meal yet. He was too preoccupied by the current events and wanted to get the work done as soon as it could be done. He was a farmer after all.

“I'm not... I'm not sure how you can help.” She said with a sigh. The joy of her meal was gone, as she too knew there were pressing matters. “It's just so much work. You have thousands of acres of Mars' skin to plant your crops, which I could handle. But to feed your people, you have to farm in your buildings. Twenty floors of farm going into the sky. It's brilliant, and  the lives of those plants are so well kept... But I can't keep up, poor Jackson.” She paused. Her eyes were sad, almost shameful, as she looked at Jackal “I'm a young spirit. Mars has only given her fruits to man for three hundred years, and my skin... You're only the third generation to grow here, aren't you Jackson?”

“Y-Yes, Sacra...” Jackal took her hand, showing his undying support for her. “My grandparents came from Venus, bringing their craft to help garden here on Mars. This isn't your fault. Not your fault at all. We're asking so much of you, Sacra. I'm a green witch. I should be able to do what my ancestors could, and help you.” Both parties felt the guilt of being unable to carry an unreasonable burden. The table was quiet for a moment.

“Did you know... Did you know your grandparents were there for my birth? They planted trees and herbs and fields here until Mother found it necessary to breath me into life, just like my elder sisters elsewhere on Mars. I was made out of the unyielding passion they showed for the plants, and my mother. I've watched them from that moment. I saw your mother come into the world. Watched her play in the greenhouses. Loved her while she watered my leaves. I held her while she looked at the stars from my tree branches. I supported her when she met your father, as he sold her seeds and tools. I-” Sacra laughed a little. “I remember your conception in a field just east of here, sweet Jackson.”

“Ha, that's probably more information than Jacky wants to know.” Munin chuckled, but Jackal corrected her.

“No, not at all. I think that's beautiful. Did you watch me the way you watched her?” He inquired.

“I did.” She smiled, rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb, affectionately. “I watched you plant your first crop. A potted sunflower. I was watching when you earned the name Jackal. You dropped a shovel on your toes, and yipped and howled. Your grandfather called you a 'little jackal'. I remember the blood and sweat you shed the first year you worked the fields with your family. That was a trying year for you, but you grew so strong. You're still so strong.” She reassured him. “I cried when you left my fields to spread and gather knowledge with the rest of Mars, but I cried joyfully knowing my sisters would meet you. You planted seven vast fields for them, in the impossible deserts. You would have gone on to plant so many more... I was there for your mother when she passed. Or she was there for me. I cried and cried, and she wiped away my tears before she moved on. I still cradle her bones. I miss her very much.” Sacra had many things she had to say. Smiles and stories that needed to be shared. Tears that needed to be shed. Both of them had tears to shed. By the end, there was no more guilt or burden. They could begin addressing the problem honestly.

First, Wanderer suggested they get a better understanding of the problem. A tour of the grounds and hydroponics towers.

“For the past few decades we've had to focus on volume. Even after terraforming when Mars was settled, there's not a lot of farmable land. And with the population boom at the end of the war, we've had to grow more and more. Lab synthesized foods help supplement, but humanity is still dependent on agriculture.” Jackal explained to the group as he demonstrated the hydroponics system.

Robin looked around and noticed that there were several people passing by as the tour continued. Often times people would stop and say hello to Jackal, or wave in passing. She found it peculiar, given that he was dressed in a way that most witches only do in private, or when meeting other like minded individuals.

“Quick question. How do the other farmers respond to you being a witch? I can't be open in an electronics store or hacker space without someone ridiculing me or threatening to burn me at the stake.” Robin's experience was echoed by Wanderer. Even in the 25th century, people still feared what they didn't understand.

“Oh, they're mostly alright with it. Mostly fine, really. Around here, farmers are superstitious, but we've been green witches here for, well like we discussed at lunch, three generations. Many of the farmers here were raised along my grandparents casting spells on their parent's crops. It's just part of life, and they're willing to accept it, wholeheartedly. We've always been a staple of the community.” He explained in a casual tone. For him, this was daily life. Through the rest of Mars, and even further out in the system, he had made a name for himself as an eccentric but brilliant botanist, agriculturist, and terraformer. In this town, there were no secrets.

The tour concluded in an office, reviewing orders and looking at numbers. Munin was abjectly bored. She'd had nothing useful to say since they left the green house. She did suggest causing civil war on Mars, thus lowering the population, and in doing so, lower the need for food. Wanderer told her it was a horrible idea, so she sighed and went back to picking her nails with her boot knife.

“Let's break it down and figure out where we can help Sacra do what she does.” Wanderer suggested. “Sacra, would better hydroponics make it a little easier for you to manage the growth of the plants?” He asked, and she nodded.

“But there's only so much I can do. While, if the plants got more nutrition and light, it would make the load lighter for me, I'm still not strong enough to handle all the layers of farms stacked on top of each other. It's like having to do twenty times the work on the same field's footprint.” She explained. Wanderer could tell she still felt upset that she couldn't manage this on her own.

“Robin, you've been taking notes this whole time, right?” Wanderer was starting to formulate a plan in his mind.

“Do you really need to ask?” She replied with a smirk, whipping out her touch screen.

“Obviously not. Do you think you could optimize the automated system a little?” Again, he already knew the answer, but he needed the conversation to gain speed, and get everyone's heads together.

“Oh yeah. Just from what I've seen, I could probably tweak the system and get another ten percent efficiency, without using magic. With Jackal's help, and if I commune with the AI that runs this operation, I might be able to double that.”

“That would be wonderful!” Sacra chimed in “I don't know if that would be enough, but it would certainly help. If only I were stronger.”

“How about a cult?” Munin suggested. “A spirit or god gets more power when more people believe in and praise them... Or fear them.” She said, not looking up from their nails, but admiring how clean she managed to get them.

“I-I don't know. The farmers are superstitious, but they don't have a cult mentality. Most of them already have a religion, and I don't want to impose beliefs on anyone.” Jackal voiced his concerns, but the gears in Wanderer's head were beginning to turn.

“I think I agree with Munin.” Wanderer stated sternly. Munin fumbled and dropped her knife, letting out a quiet “What the fuck, really?” as she turned to look at him. Jackal looked concerned, but he trusted his friend, and didn't object.

“Munin, how long can a spirit keep a human form?” He asked her, being the resident expert on the subject.

“Indefinitely, so long as they don't die. And they'd die just like a human, but they could, probably, get a new body if the rite was preformed again, after some time and with enough belief in them. Why? Are you suggesting Sacra becomes a living deity or something, because that's a little crazy, even for me.” Munin wasn't sure if she was on board for this one or not, but she was curious to see what Wanderer was thinking.

“Not exactly a living deity. Jackal, you said your family is renowned for what you've done. You, yourself, are a folk hero in the countrysides of Mars.” Wanderer reasoned, and Jackal seemed to follow.

“So... Sacra stays human and tend the gardens with me?” Jackal was unsure at first, but the more he thought about it the more it made sense.

“Exactly. She works here, posing as a witch, a friend of yours, maybe one you met on your journey, who's come to lend a hand in helping the food shortage. Before long the people here will love her. Would that kind of praise help her, Munin?” Wanderer needed to check his plan for holes before everyone got too excited for a solution.

“I mean, that's boring as fuck compared to starting a cult, but yeah, that should work fine. Praise is praise, when you're a spirit or a god. You just need people to believe in you, in one way or another. If you got that, you'd be stronger. And if they really like you, you could always expose yourself and start a cult later, I guess.” She saw the value in this kind of a plan, even if she thought it was the least entertaining variant of her plan.

“Sacra, what do you think of this idea?” Wanderer questioned. She looked like she was still absorbing it all.

“I'm... I'm still very new at this whole having a body ordeal, but I could get used to it. And I've watched the people of the area for decades. It certainly wouldn't be hard to pretend to be a witch. I would be willing to try.” She seemed optimistic, a little excited, and a bit nervous.

“Don't worry, Sacra. I'll fill you in on what you need to know about being human. It's easier than it looks.” Munin chimed in, winking at the nature spirit. Robin's jealousy was still easy to read on her face as she took initiative.

“Cool, I'll take Jack and we'll get to work on the hydroponics.” She declared, linking her arm in his and dragging him back to the room that housed the farm's servers, glaring a little at Munin as she left.

“Are you two actually dating now, or something?” Wanderer asked, half joking, but also half very much not joking.

“Nah, I just like pushing her buttons. I mean, I started pushing her buttons right before we landed, but like you said. 'deadlines and shit'. I'll help her blow off some steam later. You can help too, if you want.” Munin might have been trying to push his buttons too, but Wanderer was used to this kind of teasing. And he knew she definitely wasn't joking about a word she said.

“Alright then, I've got some antiques in the ship that might help give Sacra a boost. Altar cloths, offering bowls, incense, a couple books and the like. I bet Jack could make use of it, and it's well within his budget. I want to be in Asimov City by midnight, so let's get to it.” Wanderer said with a clap of his hands. He was happy be able to help, happy to be able to move some inventory, and happy to get out of that office before Munin started flirting with Sacra.

A few hours later, Robin was wrapping up her final enchantment on the servers, and ending her communication with the farm's AI. Her job was the most tedious and time consuming of the group's, but everyone else did what they could with the time. Munin brought Sacra a bag full of extra clothes that Wanderer had been using as packing material to keep items in his cargo safely padded and hidden. Wanderer helped himself into Jackal's kitchen and prepared dinner for the group. It wasn't as good as Jackal's cooking, but it was enchanted and consisted of lots of off world goods that would be hard to find on Mars. Wanderer didn't mind dipping into the ships pantry to celebrate a job well done. Besides, he knew he would be leaving with top grade produce and home made preserves by the bag load, as was tradition when visiting Jack.

With the last loose ends tied up, full stomachs, and a modest amount of credits in hand, they said their goodbyes. Each got another round of thanks from Jackal, and a hug from Sacra as they promised to visit again soon. It was time to move on. They had a long flight to make, and clients to meet in the morning.

[artificialqueens]

London Is Burning (3/?) - Trixya - petrichor

AN: Welcome to part 3 of London is Burning! I’m so excited to finally get cracked into the drama of this story now! It’s going to get exciting!  Thank you so much for all of the responses on the last part! Gosh, the response to this is really encouraging so thank you guys so so much!! And I hope you enjoy this! It’s a little more fast-paced than I intended it to be, I just reckoned that I’d quicken it up a lot more because I want to get to the interesting stuff!

Part One | Part Two

Summary: A Lesbian AU in which a determined FBI agent goes undercover in an drug ring in a unfamiliar country, coming face to face with the one woman she needs to burn to the ground: a quirky but dangerous Russian hooker turned drug cartel connoisseur.

                “So, we’re fucked.”

 She paused, running her fingers through her hair as she stood at the head of the table. On either side of the booth, there were grimaces on faces and distaste clear in the air. She let out a long breath, before shaking her head insistently.

                “No, we’re not.” Trixie denied Alaska’s statement; admittedly, she’d had to persuade herself of the same thing. But, it seemed as though the drug dealer was harder to convince.

Alaska was sat in a chair opposite Coady, her face impassive as she stared into Trixie’s soul. They’d taken her straight back into a undisclosed location as soon as she’d spent a few hours at Glamazon and left, citing a need to go and relax a bit. The moment Alaska had gotten into a private area, she’d taken off the wire and trashed it, telling Sutan that she would refuse to wear it ever again. Coady had wanted to argue, but Trixie understood: it was like walking with a gun constantly at your temple, it was uncomfortable, having the thought that any moment someone could rip open your shirt and expose the fact you’d let all of your friends drown just so you could stay afloat.

                “This will work.” The blonde FBI agent insisted, beginning a pace up and down the floor. Coady was silent but had a clear look of disapproval on his face; ever since Trixie had told him to fall in line, he’d opted not to speak, which they all come to the collaborative decision that it was a good idea. “How can it not?”

                “Do you have experience in this?” Alaska drawled, picking at her manicure idly. There was a brief pause in the room as Trixie faltered, the blonde seemed to pick up on that quickly. Her eyes rolled up from her new set of nails—Willam had slid her one of their stolen packs from the blasted store and had winked so casually that Alaska had almost sighed through her nose—and watched as a brief look of exasperation and annoyance flashed across Coady’s chiselled features. Alaska kissed her teeth, taking her time before speaking. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

 She sounded so devoid of emotion that Trixie almost had to wonder whether Alaska had already accepted some form of death. Either way, they’d guaranteed that that was all that Alaska would get—she’d read the files of Katya, she’d read that bodies of people who disputed her would out of the blue resurfaced bloodied and dormant. She felt guilty and that, alongside her determination was what was driving her head-first into this operation.

                “I have experience in undercover work,” She began, sucking in a long breath; the two other people in the room just seemed to nod along, as if they were completely disinterested in everything she had to say for herself. “I took part in a four month drug bust in a High School in Milwaukee and that went really well—“

                Alaska chuckled, her long eyes sweeping across her cheekbones as her long, bowed lips parted into a slightly bitter smile. “Glamazon isn’t quite a varsity football team.”

As much as Trixie would have loved to disagree, she could actually see the reason behind Alaska’s retort. Some little High School students from the middle of the United States was nothing compared to a highly secretive and elaborate connection of criminals spanning throughout the UK. The Glamazon nightclub was the centre of conflicting activity, they’d done enough investigating to see that name pop up numerous times. They dealt in guns, an assortment of illegal substances and often dangerous activities. Milwaukee teenagers just did the odd joint and stuck acid tabs outside the school bleachers.

                “She has a point.” Everyone’s favourite detective jerked his head in Alaska’s direction, causing the named criminal to raise an elegantly plucked eyebrow in response. Although she was still rather dishevelled and exhausted, Alaska still managed to give him a long, enamouring smile in response to her name, before turning her blazing gaze to a distressed Trixie. “I don’t know whether this is the best idea. I vouch for pushing this investigation back until Chi can take up the case files and get in there.”

Trixie gazed over at him, biting down on her lip and processing his words with her slightly incoherent train of thought. While she did so, Coady just leant back on his chair with an air of arrogance, aware of the weight of two sets of female eyes on him. As Trixie stood there, almost frozen amongst the indecision and chaos, Alaska fixed him with her dark, bottomless eyes and wondered how such a petty man could envoke so much irritation with every word that fell through his thin lips.

 And this was when they were agreeing with each other.

                Until, Alaska sighed. “Katya will find out.” There was such violence in the way that Trixie looked over at her, that Alaska almost was jostled by the movement. There was a look of clear distress on Trixie’s face, characterised by the way she seemed to latch on Alaska as soon as Katya’s name had passed her lips. “I know Katya—we’re- uh- we’re close- were or whatever. She is stupid smart, fucking insane, but not your average bottle blonde. She always finds out somehow. Ginger always jokes that she has some third eye or something or does some sort of voodoo shit and gets all ritualistic and spiritual.”

                “See?” Trixie waved a hand aggressively in Alaska’s direction, “We don’t have any other choice.”

Aaron Coady didn’t reply, rather glared holes into the skull of Alaska Thunderfuck, possibly imagining how pretty her head would look if they were back in the old fashioned law-land of London, and back when they were allowed to behead criminals and put their heads on sticks, displaying them from the gates of London Bridge. Alaska just met his gaze with a petulant smile, goading him into saying anything. Trixie just sighed to herself, too consumed by the trials and tribulations that lay ahead of her.

                “I’ll come with you to Glamazon tomorrow evening.” She addressed Alaska, causing the criminal to hum lightly, still not shifting her eyes from the detective. “I know everything there is to know about this case, we’re going to be fine—I’m good at what I do and I know that I’ll be fine. I’ll be great. I’ll just look over the files tonight and I’ll meet with you, Alaska, early tomorrow so you can help me look the part—“

Alaska’s head turned and for the second time in the last week or so, she drank in every inch of Trixie Mattel. She detested the way the FBI agent dressed, how she appeared so well put together and cordial at all moments. The way that Trixie seemed to carry herself rubbed Alaska wrong. It would be a challenge, but god, Alaska knew it would be fun and worth it.

                “Party.” Was all Alaska said in reply. 

***

When Trixie had envisioned nightlife, this wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

 The dormant street they’d staked out yesterday was filled with a stream of bodies, all moving rapidly down the London streets in the direction of the social hotspots. Shoulders ricocheted into each other, laughs echoed across the city and incoherent glances boasted a good night out filled with partying and alcohol. Light and music spilled out of the front of small pubs and bars that were scattered along the road, filled with merry faced people of the nightlife rush, waiters waltzed around restaurant seating and served cocktails to hen parties that dished deserved deserts over cigarettes and males discussed trivial things over pints. Even so, with all of the busy crowds and bars, the most popular place to be was Glamazon.

 The nightclub was stationed in the dead centre of the road, attracting the hungry eyes of party-goers with its neon signs and the muffled beat of heavy, bass electronic music. The doors that had earlier been wedged shut were now open, enticing the wandering eyes of eager individuals, there were two sets, each with a broad-shouldered man with impassive, hard features and a velvet rope that lined the curb. There must have been a hundred people waiting in classic British fashion, queuing into the depths of the night as the bouncers fixed them with a watchful gaze.

 Approaching the nightclub with Alaska nursing a cigarette and the prying eyes of the crowds following their step, Trixie realised that this environment was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She hadn’t been the partying type; she’d gone to college in Milwaukee but she’d spent that time strictly focusing on her educational career. She hadn’t let that adventurous of a social life, she hadn’t even ever been in a nightclub before. Hell, she hadn’t even dressed like this before.

 One oversight Trixie had experienced had been the wardrobe. Just spending three hours with Alaska in an array of shops, Trixie had rapidly discovered that her sense of fashion maybe wasn’t as great as she’d first thought it was.  Usually, she liked to meet the FBI code perfectly, always having a sense of professionalism about her: a blouse, a pencil skirt and the odd dress pants. She loved heels, she loved to look as though she had her life together.

 Alaska, on the other hand, was less eager about that.

 The dress Alaska had picked out for her for this night out had caused Trixie to choke on the water bottle she’d been drinking out of. It was either the way Alaska picked it out so casually and turned to her, a look of discovery and calculation in her eyes, or the fact that there was more air than fabric on that hanger, but Trixie had instantly refused to even touch it.

                “You told me to choose anything.” Alaska had drawled with that low and luxurious voice she always purred in; her lips had quirked and she raised an eyebrow, looking over at Trixie and watching the way a dent appeared between her eyebrows. “And besides,” Alaska waved the dress around with an air of debonair. “You’ll look hot.”

 Hot. Trixie had never been hot, or at least in her eyes– and definitely did not feel like it today.

 As she scrambled against the curb in large heels, she repeatedly reached downwards to flatten or readjust the hem. Feeling rather exposed and vulernable in the neon lights, Trixie picked up her pace, helplessly trailing behind Alaska as she strode confidently along the pavement and up towards the bouncer. Eyes seemed to fix themselves onto them as soon as they appeared out of the shadows and people watched hungrily as Alaska seemed to completely bypass the line and walk straight to the security guard.

 Decked out in a bandeau, leather pants and stilettos, Alaska dropped her cigarette to the floor, extinguishing it with her heel. With a brief glance over her shoulder towards the agent she had in tow, Alaska ignored the blatant stares and gave the bouncer a pristine smile.

 He said nothing, just stepped back and allowed her to walk forwards.

 She gave him a brief, thanking tap on the peck, before turning back towards Trixie Mattel, her eye twitching as she noticed how uncomfortable she appeared. Trixie looked like a small, injured animal under the harsh light of the street lamps. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her face was composed in a faux impassive mask that looked as though she was more constipated than anything. Alaska gritted her teeth for a brief moment, but then lunged forwards and grabbed her by the forearm.

                “She’s with me Jeremy– C’mon Tracey,” The fake name fell off of Alaska’s tongue so seemingly effortless that Trixie almost awarded her some sort of Oscar. “Let’s go and party.”

 Once Trixie had stumbled over the threshold of Glamazon, she could feel her chest constrict with a harsh sense of severity. With Alaska’s iron grip on her forearm, the nails digging harshly into her skin and almost causing pain to shoot through Trixie’s body, Trixie could feel the bass of the music pulsate through her bones. It was a dizzying sensation, a vibration that she could feel throughout her whole body, jostling her blood and her brain as Alaska dragged her deeper into the monster’s lair.

 When Alaska came to a stop, they were in some sort of foyer, lined with mirror and bright, red fluorescent lights. In a feverish desperation, Trixie met her own reflection in the glass, almost not recognising herself as she spied the short blonde beside the towering figure of Alaska. The woman in the mirror was dressed in a thigh-length dress that was more of a sheet of sequins more than anything. Her hair was done up in a tight ponytail, tied back with a big bow and she was wobbling in thigh high, white boots like a newborn baby giraffe.

 She was in hot pink, almost from head to toe, the red-tinted light fracturing off of her like she was some sort of Barbie disco ball. Her pink lips fell open and she sucked in a long breath, having not seen her own reflection since earlier when Alaska had sat her down and insisted on given her a full makeover.

                “See?” Alaska interjected, a grin lingering on her lips as she paused and met Trixie’s eyes in the mirror. “I said that you’d look hot.”

 Trixie opened her mouth to speak, but before she could fathom a sentence, Alaska had opened a door and they were thrust into a room full of dizzying lights and bodies.

***

The woman who stepped into that nightclub was Tracey Martel, a innocent but daring blonde from Los Angeles, of whom Alaska had met in her early days in the LA nightclub scene. She stood behind Alaska, her head revolving as she allowed herself a moment to drink in the sight of everything; once again, her lips puckered and she found her breath being robbed from her chest.

 In all honesty, Glamazon seemed like something of movies.

 The walls were dark black, reflective and bounced back the electric lights of the main attraction, a DJ booth in the centre of a crowd. Booths and tables littered the main floor, filled to the brim with red-eyed individuals with low inhibitions and alcoholic beverages clutched in their hands. The rest of the crowd thrived on an area dedicated to a dance floor, grinding and moving with one another to the sound of heavy beats played by a DJ at the head of the club. Waiters and waitresses busied back and forth between a bar that was sat to one side, extremely popular and busy, lit by a large string of white, fluorescent lights that hung above the bowed heads of active bartenders. Trixie watched as tall, uniformed workers moved back and forth, as if by clockwork, weaving in and out of the populated floors with expert balance and precision.

                “Welcome to Glamazon.” Alaska held up her arms, briefly, as if she was enjoying a rather dramatic moment. Initially, Trixie didn’t hear her, the heavy music drowned out any syllable that fell past Alaska’s red-painted lips. But, she had adopted the habit of reading lips early on in her career, so managed to make out the words. In between the chaotic purr of the bass and the look of familiarity and confidence in Alaska’s eye, Trixie realised that here, in the nightclub, Alaska was in her element.

 The girl who had cowered under the pressure of deportation and ruin was long gone; instead, a tall, beautiful woman had taken her place. Even with the bedlam around them, Trixie noticed that people took second glances at the pair; although, she figured that it was more directed towards Alaska.

 They recognised her. Trixie realised. This was truly her kingdom.

 Or at least, partly hers.

 Alaska looked away from Trixie, recognising the look of awe and overwhelmed void in her eyes. She chuckled lightly, attempting to rid herself of her own underlying stress and let her gaze wander. But her eyes met someone elses in the crowd and she paused, the sound catching half way through. Trixie must have sensed the change in Alaska’s attitude, as her big, round blue eyes swung up to stare at her, her eyebrows dragging downwards.

                “C’mon.” Alaska said, leaning close to Trixie so she could make out her words. Alaska smelt of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. “There’s some people I want you to meet.”

 This time, Alaska practically left her in the dust; with her long, thin and powerful legs, she had no trouble making it across the nightclub. Trixie, on the other hand, felt like a fish out of water. She swerved amongst the stray elbows, the flying glasses that were waved about by drunk woman in expensive clothes. Trixie stumbled a few times, not used to the harsh pain and height of her heels; of course, she could appreciate a good heel, but these were higher than she’d ever experienced.

 When she finally caught up with Alaska, just shy of a bruise and only just missing sprawling on the floor numerous times, she was stood at a booth, faced with two faces that Trixie didn’t recognise. They were in a more secluded section, sharing a cigarette over a tray in the centre of the booth. Trixie’s eyes zeroed on it instantly; she was sure that wasn’t legal.

                “Alaska Thunderfuck.” One of the women sized Alaska up blatantly as she took a long drag from the cigarette, the light of the fire illuminating her dark eyes. Trixie paused for a second, inhaling the cloud of smoke that filtered back through her nose; that wasn’t a cigarette. “Detox said you’d died.”

                “Detox also said that Hilary would win and Trump would fall into a black hole.” Alaska replied sharply, placing her hands on her hips and giving the two girls a sharp look each. The girl with the blunt chuckled, elegantly twirling it in her fingers, her gaze momentarily shifting between Alaska and Trixie. Trixie shivered under the foreign gaze. “So don’t believe anything the bitch says.”

                The second woman took the blunt from her companion, her large but thin lips parting as she snickered. “Wasn’t that on that acid trip in Aspen?” She breathed out the smoke, coughing slightly as she continued. “Didn’t she also say that Obama would make prostitution legal and that she’d force Joe Biden to keep her as his sex slave?”

 Alaska finally let out a long laugh, the sound causing Trixie to jump slightly as she stared wide eyed at each of them, not quite sure how she should feel about this current conversation. When Alaska gestured back to Trixie with her long, almost feline nails, Trixie barely had time to compose herself.

                “Violet, Ginger, this is Tracey.” Instantly, the two sets of eyes zeroed in on her and Trixie managed to give them some sort of strewed smile. She flashed her perfect teeth and Alaska watched her out of the corner of her eye, closely monitoring her movements. “She’s one of the promising girls that I’m taking to Katya.”

 The first woman, a tall, slender, dark haired and almost doll like girl raked her eyes up and down Trixie’s figure. She seemed to drink in every single inch of the outfit Alaska had thrown together, her tall, arched brow bouncing as she noticed the bow tied in Trixie’s hair. From the way carried herself, Trixie could tell that this was Violet Chachki, a face that she didn’t know but a name she could definitely recognise.

 Coady had described her as a over-paid whore. Alaska had referred to her as an artist.

                “She looks like Ken’s wet dream.” The dominatrix said finally, looking back at her friend with a curt sharpness in her dark eyes. Silently, Trixie looked at Alaska, wondering whether it was a good or bad thing; but Alaska was impassive, her attention turning to the other woman, Ginger. Violet, meanwhile, set her eyes back on Trixie, her gaze searing and hot. “Katya’ll eat her up with a spoon.”

 Ginger, who was rounded and seemed to have a smile fighting at her upturned lips, chortled loudly. Her bright, ginger (like her namesake) hair was pinned back into a bun and her little, watery eyes followed the blunt as Violet took it, offering it to Alaska. Almost instantly, Alaska shook her head, her straight sheet of hair rippling. Violet waved it towards Trixie, an offering, but Trixie managed to delay her horror long enough for her to squeak out two words.

                “No thanks.”

                “She’s awfully innocent looking,” Violet commented idly, taking the blunt back in between her ruby lips. Like Alaska, she was dressed rather provocatively, her pale skin encased in a latex outfit with small indents and metallic details. She wore a tight corset, accentuating her small, slight waist and making Trixie wonder how her organs could survive in such little space. “Where did you find her?”

                “We’re old friends.” Alaska answered with ease, as if they really were. Trixie listened to her comfortable, fluid tone, wondering whether Alaska had every lied so easily before. Wait, that was a stupid thought—she probably had. She lied and cheated people for a living. “She’s in need of a job, she’s a useful asset.”

                “What does she do?” The voice of Ginger interjected curiously.

                “She’s a pretty face.” Was Alaska’s response.

Violet smirked.

“She’ll have to ease up if you want Katya to handle her.” Once again, Trixie felt goosebumps under Violet’s gaze; all of these women, other than Ginger, seemed so intense, so scathing that her irises seemed to fry her skin and cause a burn to run rampant across her cheeks. “Go on, sweetheart. Have a few drinks—tell Shea ‘Vi’ sent you and you’ll get a newbie discount.”

 Trixie almost seriously considered it, anything to distract her from the pounding music that swelled around her and the stressed scream that it submerged at the back of her head. In her dormant, silent little headspace she was caught in between arresting everyone in a five block perimeter and bursting into tears. Maybe Coady had been right- maybe she wasn’t cut out for this.

 Alaska noticed her silence. Of course she did. Trixie had a character to play and she wasn’t doing anything but stare, looking mildly caught between horror and confusion like a child on a rollercoaster.

                “Actually, we better head up to the boss’ office.” Alaska answered for Trixie, grabbing Trixie by the forearm. Usually, Trixie would have told someone off for manhandling her so roughly, but really, Trixie needed it in this scenario. Violet’s eyes climbed downwards, catching the contact in between the two of them and her lips twitched.

She addressed Trixie again.

“You’ll be in good hands with Alaska, she knows Katya very, very well.” Alaska stiffened beside Trixie and the FBI agent had difficulty dividing her attention between the two of them. Her eyes bounced back and forwards, watching as Violet gave Alaska yet another smirk, before dropping the finished blunt onto the table. “I’m sure you’ll do great—but if you don’t, don’t worry, you’ve seen the line outside… there’s about a hundred girls waiting to take your place.”

 Trixie stared back at the illusive beauty, her eyebrows bowing as she took in Violet’s words. With Alaska stock-still and Ginger sharing a secretive smile with her friend, Trixie felt awfully lost. There was a lot going on and despite the fact that Trixie was one of the best agents the FBI had on paper, she was awfully out of her depth.

                “Catch you later Vi, Ging.”

 As if suddenly reanimating, Alaska turned on her heel and launched the two of them back into the crescendo of the nightclub, dragging Trixie along haphazardly. Trixie baredly had time to fathom where they were going; she ducked away from a few dancers, nearly got knocked unconscious by a flailing arm and spent the whole time holding onto Alaska’s arm for dear life, eyes partially closed in the glare of violent lights.

When she could finally process what was happening, they were in some sort of utility room and Alaska was glaring at her, fury in her eyes. Instantly, Trixie wanted to fall through the floor.

                “What the fuck was that?”

 The blonde agent felt her chest heave and she stared, wide-eyed as a fire burned and tumbled through Alaska’s expression. The petty thief had dropped Trixie’s arm and had her fists clenched, distress and frustration laced into every inch of her body language; Trixie swallowed thickly.

                “I-I don’t know-“

                “You don’t know?” Alaska echoed incredulously. “You don’t fucking know?”

In this moment, Trixie felt foolish. She felt small. She felt as though Alaska was the cop, not her.

                “I’m just trying to-“

                “Whatever it is that you’re trying to do, you need to hurry the hell up.”

                “I will I just-“

                “You just what?” Her temper was short, Trixie made that note grimly, for future reference. She stood, stock still as Alaska’s voice dropped to a deathly whisper, almost covered by the sound of the booming base beyond the closed door over her shoulder. “You’re a fucking professional. This is your fucking job and you just stood out there and didn’t say shit- we have a plan and you’re not fucking following in-“

                “I’m sorry- I-“ Trixie dragged in a long breath. She didn’t know what to say. Alaska was right. She was the leader here. She’d been the one who had insisted on being here. She breathed in and out, her skin burning under Alaska’s serrated glare. “I’m okay. It was just a lot and I wasn’t expecting-“

                “Well, welcome to Glamazon.” Alaska interjected harshly. “Just perk up, okay.” The heat fell away from her tone rather rapidly and she let a long breath fall past her lips, her shoulders falling. “Don’t fuck this up.” The volume of her words dropped even further. “Around here, if it looks like a narc, swims like a narc and quacks like a narc, it gets beaten up like on too.”

                “Right.” Trixie breathed out, closing her eyes for a moment. She rolled her shoulders. Her thoughts jumped towards Sutan, to Coady and to all of the assholes she’d left back at Quantico. “I’m fine—I’ll get into it I’ll-“

                “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Milwaukee anymore.”

                “Right.” Trixie repeated, more breathlessly than last time.

                “C’mon.”

 Alaska didn’t wait for another beat, but rather opened the door, allowing Trixie to exit before her. The door opened to reveal a set of stairs that Trixie figured was private, staff and members only—her ponytail bounced as she looked back at Alaska, wondering whether she should ascend the stairs like Alaska had in her audio clip. The blonde just bleakly gestured to the top of the flight.

                “Ladies first.”

***

Glamazon looked far more terrific from above; from a large sheet of glass, she could pinpoint the large moving mass that was the teeming nightlife. Her eyes traced the blocks of booths and the figures of the uniformed waiters and workers as they served bleary-eyed celebrations and parties. Even up above, everything looked so chaotic, like pure bedlam, but so perfectly choreographed all the same.

Everything worked like it was some sort of pre-planned routine. No one fell over, no one toppled and no waiters lost their trays as they weaved back and forth. No one broke from their trance-like dance and no one peeled away from the eternal stream of high-quality booze. In a weird way, it was almost beautiful.

 That was, until Alaska came up behind her.

                “They’re all high.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and casual but still almost had Trixie doing a double-take. She glanced over at her, watching as Alaska folded her arms over her chest, staring down at the disarray. “Every single one of them, completely out of it and enjoying this night like it’s the last one of their lives.” Her gaze briefly flickered to meet Trixie’s. “That’s what they come here to do.”

Trixie listened to her every word, but she was partially distracted by a sentence that kept floating in and out of her mind. Her hot pink lips parted and she found herself seeking out the elegant figure of Violet Chachki in the scene below. However, the domantrix and her companion were long gone, their booth already occupied by the next eager party. She didn’t think much of it, but turned her attention back to Alaska, who for a moment, looked deep in thought, her nails brushing against the window.

                “What did Violet mean when she said that you know Katya well?”

 From Alaska’s reaction, or rather, lack of, Trixie knew that she’d made a mistake.

One thing that Trixie had learnt about Alaska, was that Alaska was extremely expressive and loud-mouthed. She liked to talk, she liked to swear and she definitely liked to make her opinion very clear. Yet, she didn’t show any emotion as she continued to stare out in front of her.

 Silently regretting saying anything, Trixie returned to her observations, secretly monitoring Alaska from out of the corner of her eye. The blonde Adonis was stoic, all from a single muscle that twitched in her jaw.

 There was more than met the eye, Trixie could tell, but she’d have to investigate that later. Now, it was just the first hurdle that she had to get over. A rather dangerous, make-or-break, Russian, blonde and trigger-happy first hurdle.

  As if she was summoned by that single thought, the sound of a next notification filled the air; Trixie didn’t flinch at the sound, like she’d expected, but Alaska did. The blonde seemed to stap out of a trance and produced a battered iPhone from an undisclosed location in her trousers. Trixie couldn’t bear to look as Alaska read the notification.

                “She’s ready for you.”

 Her voice was low and almost inaudible, like the sound of thunder, far in the distance and forecasting the downpour of a violent storm. Trixie nodded, not quite sure what to make of the jumble of thoughts that ran rampant through her head. But Alaska cleared her throat, demanding her attention. She met her gaze slowly, seeing the way that Alaska seemed to have lost her fire and instead was smouldering at the edges, biting her lip as she gave Trixie a weak smile.

                “The door down the hallway… she’s waiting in there.”

Trixie nodded again, her gaze slipping and pausing on the phone in Alaska’s hand. From this angle, she could make out the picture of two blondes; one of them, she recognised as Alaska, with their arms wrapped around a second woman, happy smiles adorning both of their faces. Trixie let in a long, gaping breath.

                “Just, just relax. Okay?” Alaska adopted a lighter tone which Trixie appreacited. “I know that this means a lot to you and holy shit, holy shit.” She paused, closing her eyes fleetingly. “This means a lot to me too. Please, just don’t do anything stupid—me just saying this shit is stupid because you should be the one doing this stupid talk but—“ Alaska swore to herself quietly. “Just go- she fucking hates it when people are late. But don’t know—she doesn’t like loud noises.”

 For the third time, Trixie Mattel, or rather, Tracey Martel, nodded again.

 The walk to Katya’s office was long and almost painful. It felt like a long journey, a journey that was filled with the thud of her boots against thin carpet. She could feel Alaska’s eyes on her back as she trudged forwards. She could feel the music from the club pulsing through her veins. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

 Even so, the door appeared too soon. When she saw it, she instantly wanted it to zoom away, like something out of a Tim Burton movie. When she saw it, she wanted to phone up Kim and beg her with everything she had inside of her to get on the next plane to Heathrow and help her out.

 What would Katya be like? Would she be mean? Would she instantly hold a gun to her head? Would she guess Trixie’s game the moment she stepped through the door? Trixie was suddenly slick with nerves.

 Trixie didn’t often get nervous, as mentioned before, but it felt like she was walking to her death and she was, for a lack of a better term, shitting herself.

 It struck her, as she placed a hand on the doorhandle, that she’d never actually seen an image of Katya. The Russian was elusive, secretive and incredibly deadly. Trixie imagined some sort of old, crazed crack addict sat in the middle of the office just steps away from her. She imagined some old kingpin that was chain-smoking and drinking the blood of her victims from a martini glass.

 Her palms were clammy as she subconsciously eased down onto the handle and pushed the door open.

 There was so many expectations for such a dangerous and crazed woman, that Trixie was almost drowning within them. She thought back to earlier, where Alaska had been so adamnant on letting all of these people drown, just for the last life boat to safety. It had never struck Trixie that she’d be drowning too.

 The office was clean, expensive and well furnished like the rest of the nightclub. Like its exterior, it was hauntingly dark and eerie, with dark, reflective walls and black furnishings that reminded Trixie of gothic novels like Dracula and The Monk. She took a moment to drag her eyes around it, as if she was setting off the enevitable.

 But then, suddenly, there it was.

 A pair of brilliant eyes were fixed onto hers and a alluringly delicate and charming woman was smiling at her from over a cigarette and a ornate desk.

Trixie wasn’t sure whether it was Katya Zamolodchikova or the weight of her task ahead that took her breath away.

                “Privet.” The most dangerous woman in the city purred with a dazzling smile, her blood red lips parting and drawing Trixie further into the room. She blew out a cloud of pale, almost ghost-like smoke in front of her, the ring floating above her head like a halo. “You must be Tracey.”

 Trixie didn’t miss the way her eyes sparkled when Katya Zamolodchikova seemed to see the way Trixie’s own gaze wavered.

                She leant forwards in her chair. “Alaska’s told me so much about you.”

 And that’s how it began.

[justwritingscibbles]

Just a Little Evil

Here’s an Anti fic!  So this is a sort of sequel to Just a little Anger and also I’m throwing in another request because it also has something to do with this topic!  Also, I sorta forgot that I was planning to do a part 2. Sorry! Hope you guys enjoy!

Fic Requests: 

- “Hey! Can we like maybe get a part 2 to just a little anger where the reader goes fully dark. Thank you for all that you do! You are wonderful”

-“It was like an Anti were him and the reader had been in a relationship for a long time but this entity like Anti tries to overcome the reader and one day is successful. At first it's just trying to be the reader but it quickly becomes fascinated with Anti as as soon as he realise it isn't her it kinda toys with him and her body.”

P.S: (I sorta go off the requests again, sorry. I tried to keep it close.)

The Entity’s PO: The little meat-sack was easy to possess. It only took a few weeks, easing into her mind, worming my essence into her bloodstream.  So foolish. Oblivious.  She was so plain too. Her lifestyle was simple to replicate and her friends were just as moronic as the girl.  An easy home with a simple host. You might as well serve them on a silver platter.  But, I had to wait. Be patient and cover my tracks. Because the girl, even how mundane she was, had acquired the affections of one such as me. He was different than the other’s I had encountered. He was unaware of my presence and he treated the meat-sack with as much respect and adoration as he did himself.  Anti, was what the girl called him. And he was marvelous.  An odd creature, I’d purr to myself as the girl slept beside him. How does such a tedious creature keep a God under its thumb? The power that raged inside the other entity was almost blinding to witness. He used it for the human’s entertainment, leisure and even use it during their intimate moments.  It made me jealous, angry. Such magnificent power should not go to waste on something that evolved from an ape.  As my power grew, it became harder to keep control of her emotions. Too much anger and she’d lose it. My power, mixing with the chemicals in her brain, fired her up like a pistol.  And on one unfortunate day, I had allowed her rage to slip my grasp, and she pummeled another human’s face.  The girl was fired and she returned home with a storm in her wake. But not all had ended badly.  The one called Anti had enjoyed our little outburst. I slipped into the glove of the girl’s mind as he started on her.  The girl no longer knew the difference between me and her own mind. And the creature between our legs was too occupied to see our eyes glow purple.  When he was done, I was exhausted. The strain to keep my own pleasures under control was enough to render me powerless.  But I managed to swap a few words with this, Anti, before allowing the girl to gain control again.  “I should hurt people more often,” The girl and I joked as the God kissed us.  “You might just break my heart if you turn dark,” Anti purred. “You’ll get more if you do.”  Oh, I wanted more.

Your and Anti’s PO: The grocery store wasn’t very busy today, you noticed absently. Which was nice because you didn’t really feel like being around people. Even ones you’d never see again.  Anti trailed along behind you as you shopped. He whined about the time it was taking to get the ingredients for dinner. Saying it would be quicker to get pizza.  “We had pizza last night,” You said with a chuckle.  “Yeah, and it was good!” Anti replied like a child. “Come on. I’m booorred, I wanna go home.”  “You didn’t have to come,” You pointed out. You turned down into an empty aisle, stalling by the food that was on your list.  Anti didn’t reply. His eyes followed you as you went from aisle to aisle.  Something had been nagging him ever since the day you were fired.  You were grumpier, more likely to blow up at a little prank than laugh it off and playfully whack him with your hand.  Something was off. And until he knew what, he wasn’t letting you leave his sight.

Above, the lights of the grocery store flickered wildly and the ambiance music that was playing, jumped tracks, slowed down and then died with a pop.  You turned to Anti, “Playing around with the electronics won’t get me to hustle any faster.”  “That wasn’t me,” Anti said, confused. He looked up at the ceiling. “For once someone else might be fucking around with the power.” Anti’s attention snapped back to you as you swayed. You groaned, holding your head.  “Anti...” You reached out to him and he caught you as you fell.  “Hey, babe, (Y/N)!” He cradled you against him. His eyes searching your face as you grimaced in pain. “What’s wrong? Can you hear me?”  Your head felt like it was going to explode. White hot nails scraped the insides of your skull and you whimpered as a pressure began to build behind your eyes.  “My...My head...” You managed to say. “It hurts really bad.”  Anti slid his other arm under your legs, lifting you up bridal style and hurrying towards the toilet sign.  He rushed into the restrooms, locking the door behind him and lying you on the bench by the sinks.  “Talk to me,” He demanded, leaning over you. “How does it hurt? Are you hearing voices? (Y/N), answer me!”  Your tongue felt heavy and Anti’s voice sounded distant. You were slipping into darkness, falling into a sense of warmth and comfort.  Like a pillow or a cloud.  “No, no, no!” Anti cupped your face in his hands. “(Y/N), (Y/N) don’t let it take you. I know it feels nice, but you have to fight it. Stay with me. Listen to my voice. Stay with me, goddammit!” 

A high-pitched chuckled rippled out of you. Your eyes opened, the world danced in multiple shades of violet.  You groaned, but no sound came from your lips. What was happening?  Anti’s eyes flared with green fire and his lips curled in a vicious snarl.  “Who are you?” He asked. “Give her back!”  Anti, it’s me! You tried to say. But again, no voice sounded your words. Only another siren like laugh.  “Oh, honey, you have no idea how good it feels to have control of this body again.” Your voice sang. Your arms stretched above you and you heard a few joints crack as your body twisted lazily.  “I’ll give you five seconds to get out of her,” Anti growled. His expression was frightening.  Anti...what was going on? 

Entity’s PO:  I swung my legs over the side of the bench, sitting upright as Anti stepped back. The feral gaze was a real turn on.  “What? Don’t feel like playing?” I pouted. I lifted my leg, gently stroking the man’s groin with the toes of my shoe. “You were so frisky last time I was out.” Anti slapped my foot away, marching forward and gripping my throat with his hand. “Let. Her. Go.” He demanded through clenched teeth. “Aww, boo-hoo.” I said testily. “Your little pet is gone. Get over it. I can be just as good, no better, than this little rodent.” Anti squeezed my throat, forcing my head back against the mirror with a painful crack!   “I won’t ask again, cockroach.” Anti hissed. “Oh? And what will you do?” I cooed teasingly. “If you hurt me, you hurt your little meat-sack. I know she likes a little pain in bed, but, how will she cope with her heart being torn from her chest?” Anti squeezed tighter and I laughed. Gasping slightly. “Go on, break my neck.” I dared him. “Then neither of us can have her.” My lungs began to burn, and just before the black dots consumed my vision, the man released me with a infuriated grunt. I laughed, rubbing my neck as I breathed in lovely air. “See, you can be nice. I’ve seen the way you treat this little porcelain doll. Why can’t we share?”  “Because she isn’t yours!” Anti snapped, green eyes flashing. “She isn’t someone that-” “That what?” I barked, “That should have an entity inside her? You’re selfish, Antisepticeye. We need hosts to survive and I’ve found one that can finally hold me, and here you are trying to get rid of me.”  Anti turned away, his fists clenched and the veins in his neck pulsing under his skin. I stood from the bench, crossing the room to glide my hands over his back.  “I can be her for you,” I said with her voice. “I can offer you more than she ever could. I can survive harsh treatment, last longer between the sheets. Come on Anti, you know you’d prefer a entity to a pathetic human.”  The lights overhead fizzled, flickering as Anti turned to me. The whites of his eyes had darkened and the green was now bright enough to outshine hell-fire.  “Do not use her voice,” Anti snarled. “Don’t you dare use those words with her tone.”  I laughed and stepped back, “You actually care for this bag of blood?” I asked, appalled. Insulted.  I slammed my fist into the mirror, shattering the glass and picking up a large shard.  Anti’s eyes glowed even more as I rested the jagged edges against the my stomach.  “Your little lamb couldn’t survive this,” I said, teasingly sliding the glass across the material of my shirt. “I could. I can see that blood-lust in you. You can take it out on me, I can heal. I can pleasure you and still survive.”  “Don’t...” Anti said, his voice softer than before.  The shard paused just above my folds, the point digging into the pants I was wearing. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to get a reaction from the man in front of me. 

“What was that?” I asked, grinning.  “Don’t....” He breathed in, calming himself. “Don’t hurt her.”  “Aww, isn’t that sweet,” I chuckled. “Are you begging for the girl’s life?”  Anti jerked forward when I dug the shard a little into my skin. Crimson dotted the material, but I held it there, not going any deeper.  “Beg for me, Anti,” I said. “Come on, beg for this rodent’s life.”  Anti was breathing heavily. His eyes darting between the glass and my gaze.  “Please...” He said. “Don’t hurt her. Please.”  A laugh bubbled from my chest, “Oh, wow. I actually didn’t think you’d do that.”  “Just drop the glass and we’ll talk,” Anti suggested. “I won’t do anything and you won’t harm her.”  I hummed as I thought about it. Swaying my hips slightly as I moved the tip across my stomach again.  “No, I think I’ll kill you.” I lunged at the other entity. His arm came up just in time to block the attack. The shard sliced his arm, spilling red blood over the floor. He cried out and danced back, batting another swipe away from his chest.  Again and again, I struck. The glass whistling with my movements. He countered and dodged, but his blows never landed hard enough to hurt me. Nudge me back perhaps, but they were like a flick to the arm.  “Stop holding back!” I hissed. “Fight me!”  Anti’s left arm rose up to meet my weapon. The shard sliced through his shirt, cutting deep into his shoulder.  But his other arm snaked around my throat, spinning me around trapping me against him.  “(Y/N), I know you can hear me,” He said into my ear. “Please, fight it. You can do it. Please, come back to me.”  “Get off me!” I screamed. “She’s gone! I consumed her, we’re one person now.”  “No,” Anti shook his head. “That’s not how we work. We might take over a body, but the host is still there. Hidden in a dark corner. (Y/N) just fight it. She isn’t you. You’re better than she is.”  “Stop it!” I yelled, flaying against him. “I won’t go back!” Anti gripped me tighter, his head nuzzling into my neck.  “Come back to me,” He pleaded.  I went to scream again, but my voice only came out as a whimper.  No! No! My body relaxed, falling into Anti’s embrace as we both slid to the ground. 

You opened your eyes, your head pounding painfully.  “(Y/N)?” Anti asked, his voice just above a whisper.  “A-Anti, what...what happened?” Your body felt heavy and something warm was spreading against your arms. “Anti, you’re hurt!”  Anti chuckled. Relief washing through him as he hugged you against him.  “It’s ok now.” He said into your shoulder. “You’re ok.”  “Anti, what-” “I’ll tell you later,” Anti assured you. He turned you in his arms, his hand cupping your face as he gazed into your eyes. “Just...Just stay here for a moment, please.”  You nodded, pushing back your confusion. He sighed and rested his forehead against yours. His eyes closed and he pecked your lips.  “I won’t let her take you again,” He promised.  You weren’t sure what he was talking about. But you nodded, taking his weary form into your arms. 

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Public Relations

“Wow, that is a lot of blood.”

“Thanks.  It’s not mine.  I hit a pig on the way over.”

“Cop pig, or pig pig?”

“Cop riding a pig actually.  It’s a whole thing, I don’t really have time to get into.  Could I get a waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip?”

“No problem.”

I handed the woman her ice cream cone.  She took a lick that inspired a deep lusty bite.  The look of elation on her face – comforting cold wrapping around a burning soul – I envied that degree of satisfaction, wanted to be her.  Then a bullet whipped through the front door.  Her head exploded.  Though her body fell she did not drop the cone.  I distinctly remember a bit of brain erupting from her skull, flying over the counter, and landing in the slot full of cherries.  It sank into the maraschino pool, and I doubt anyone but me saw it vanish.  There to lurk until one day spooned onto a sundae.  

On the news that evening, a perky anchor addressed the city, “Good evening, Chicago.  This is the news.  25 people shot yesterday, all of them dead.  Cubs won their home opener, and the weather may get up into the 80s this weekend.  Isn’t that great?”

Co-anchor cocked an eyebrow, “Cubs win, and 80 degrees on the way?  Can’t get much better.”

All smiles then, leaving the grim behind.  No details.  The less known the less thought about, except I couldn’t stop wondering if office work might now be a safer profession.  In a skyscraper high above the streets full of swarms of stray bullets unintentionally murdering randomly – I decided to jump ship, but not until sight of land.  In other words, I’d stick it out at the ice cream parlor until another job came along.  I would not have to wait long.

The next day I arrived to find my manager listening to an androgynous figure in a three piece suit.  Introductions quickly ensued.

“Indigo Jackson,” turned out to be a representative of a family, whom for legal purposes will have to remain anonymous, though suffice it to say they felt yesterday’s event warranted some kind of response on their part.  To that end, without suggesting any culpability, they saw fit to replace the entire front of the store with bulletproof glass, in order to allay any concerns from patrons or employees as to the safety of our establishment; and offered to compensate me to the tune of ten thousand dollars for having witnessed the “unpleasantness;” though of course all such matters required, first, the signing of several documents Indigo summarized adroitly, escorting us through a murky swamp of legalese without ever really explaining what signing those papers meant, despite implications abounding:  here big sack ‘o’ cash, sign for it, and shut up forever.  

When at last Indigo inquired, “Do you understand?”

I said, “It must be interesting to have a job where you need to be so definitely opaque, yet somehow understood enough people do what you ask.”

Indigo nodded, “It is.”  

“I kind of want to give that a try.”

“Are you saying you want a job instead of the money?”

“Can’t I have both?  It was a very disturbing sight.”

Indigo said, “Something can be arranged.”

Clapping my hands together, “Great.  Then before I quit, how about I make you a cherry sundae?”

“Sounds good.”

#

The next day I ascended to the top of the Monadnock Building.  Once upon a time the largest skyscraper in America – circa 1893 – it still towered in its own way, evolving over the century into a marvelous amalgamation of early aesthetics and modern technological convenience.  Brick full of invisible wifi threads connecting the past, present, and future; tap a foot on red tile mosaic patterns, while listening to the lasted streaming playlist, killing time till the rush hour clog gives way.  Then up steps adorned first in ornate aluminum cast decorations then on upper floors, bronze-plated cast iron staircases, shunning the elevator for a chance to walk through history… and maybe feeling no hurry to be at work on time.  

Into the office to start a brand new –

“You the new guy?  Follow me.”  A balding man in a sweat stained shirt grabbed me by the elbow.  He pulled me into the office muttering as he poured over emails.  His phone rang.  He threw it on the floor.  I felt it crunch under foot, and before I could apologize an intern materialized from behind a file cabinet, handed him a fresh phone, and the muttering commenced once again.  Though this time I deciphered a bit, “Goddamn turkey fuckering pirates.”

The office buzzed with activity.  Hordes of hollow eyed business people in various states of decay, internal and external, paced the space examining documents, paper and electronic.  A middle aged man in a thread bare double breasted suit sniffed ketamine off a tablespoon, while his colleague, a young woman in a pencil skirt, slugged vodka the way the thirsty chug water.  I only caught a snippet of their exchange:

“We can’t apologize for lactose intolerance.”

“But we can apologize for a cheeseburger having cheese.” In another space a grey skinned wax figure waited for a nurse to change an IV bag dripping morphine.  Surrounded by an assortment of young professionals, the room seemed like a cult of silence devoted to holding a secret.  A woman in tortoise shell glasses spun the cylinder of a revolver, put it to her temple, and when she heard the click, sighed, took a shot of whiskey, and started reading a letter.  I heard the distinct clatter of keyboards being hammered, and riding crops striking bare flesh.

“Thank you Miss!  May I have another?”

Yet in all the seeming chaos the workers managed to flow between one another efficiently, an almost elegant ballet of the damned.

The person towing me through the scene remarked, “I’m Bernie.  For now.  Tomorrow, I don’t know.  It depends.  Don’t ask on what.  Point being, your job is to write back to the beggars.  Got it?”

“Okay.”

“Good.  Here’s your space.”  And with that Bernie detached his hand, leaving me adrift by a state of the art computer atop a turn of the century desk.  Stepping over a chalk outline, I took a seat at my desk.

“Don’t worry about that.”

I looked up to find a young lady in red.  

She nodded at the chalk outline, “Horace Fletcher.  Good guy.  Killed himself.”

“Does everybody here talk in staccato sentences.”

She smiled, “Force of habit, I’m afraid.  There’s a lot to do, and no time to do it in,” extending a hand, “I’m Patty.”

Thanks to Patty, I discovered the true parameters of my job.  Public relations is almost a tautology.  It’s name defines what it is:  relating to the public.  However, that covers a broad spectrum of ways to relate.  The top floor of the Monadnock Building devoted itself to public relations for the {redacted} family.  This involved everything from composing explanations, summaries, and denials regarding the family’s various scandals, philanthropies, business, and political concerns.  Each concern being the focus of different groups, or perhaps divisions is more appropriate:  mercenary artisans trying to paint realities.

As Patty put it, “We wrap the shit in gold, and draw all eyes to a drop in the bucket.”

When I said, “Bernie put me in charge of the 'beggars?’”

Patty got a bit misty, “Entry level stuff.  Enjoy your innocence.”

I wanted to inform Patty about my time as a sounding assistant, sterilizing metal rods used by a dominatrix to widen the hole in a penis so that objects such as fingers could be inserted into said dick-hole; however, I could tell she enjoyed the idea of my innocence so much that it would be wrong to rob her of it.  So I kept my penis stories to myself.  

The “beggars” turned out to be anyone writing to the {redacted} family asking for money.  This also constituted a broad spectrum.  On any given day I went through about fifty missives soliciting money in myriad ways.  Long lost cousins sought financial reconnection with relatives; for the low, low price of 20 grand, black sheep offered to keep silent about buried bodies; and any number of other unrecognized spawn demanding financial acknowledgement.  Meanwhile, inventors who swore to be on the verge of paradigm shifting breakthroughs – teleportation, antigravity, freeze rays, and orgasm pills – just needed another few thousand to revolutionize the world.  Folks from places like Telluride, Colorado, Marfa, Texas, and Stockbridge, Massachusetts sought coin to start hospitals for broken hearts, agencies devoted to finding lost pets, and the Fuck You Ashley Tillerman Institute.  Cash to stop the Martian invasion.  Funds to get the invasion going.  

Every day I dipped into a cornucopia full of the well intentioned, insane, and grifters.  After about two weeks, it got hard to tell the difference between them.  This mainly having to do with the fact my response to each, as instructed, remained forever always NO.  

Patty said, “You have to read the letters.  That way you can put in a personal touch.  Then they feel like someone actually considered giving them money, and we get less hate mail.  Believe me, you don’t want to piss off that department.  They have the best drugs.”

So I did my best to be accommodating:

“Dear madam,

We appreciate your desire to build a National Hardware Store Historical Society.  Hardware stores provide Americans with the means to build the future, and maintain the present.  However, we don’t feel that our company is the best one to get behind this endeavor.  Perhaps a major home improvement retailer might be a better fit.  

Best of luck in your pursuit.

Sincerely, {redacted}”

An intern near the coffee room enjoyed the task of rubber stamping signatures onto all correspondence.  The kid sat in a weed slack fog of delight, stamp, stamp, stamping the day away.  On more than one occasion I found myself along with others enviously eying that intern.   According to office folklore, the top floor of the Monadnock Building was purchased because a bygone patriarch of the {redacted} family said, “The city is in charge of cleaning the sidewalk.  So if they’re going to kill themselves, let them jump to their death.  Then we won’t have to pay for the mess.”  So it’s no surprise how many of us came to envy that intern’s pacific demeanor while happily assisting in the distribution of our gilded shit.  It didn’t seem to wear on the soul quite the way it did on ours.  

Having to tell a racist no we won’t be funding a School of Higher Aryan Education (and whatever hideously malignant stupidity that would lead to) does make one feel good.  However, having to deny someone asking for help with medical bills, cancer killing their bank account before it goes after them, obliterates any of that joy.  Overhearing the press release about {redacted} Junior’s latest monstrosity – “Maybe that hooker wanted to die, she didn’t say, 'Stop choking me.’” – knowing the expense of his legal defense, and ad campaign to polish the family image – we could ease a few burdens with those millions.  But no.  Cancer fighters, refugees, the infirmed, those honestly sick, dying, and in need:  fuck 'em.  

Granted, it seems like an equal fuck you, aimed at anyone asking for a penny, yet, the disparity is taxing.  

The postmark puts the letter in some part of Texas.  It’s from an elderly woman writing on behalf of her grandson.  He can’t write himself because 45% of his body is covered in burns after an oilrig catastrophe, and seeing as how [redacted} owns those oilfields, well sir, it seems right proper maybe we could help with the medical bills is all; and sure, there’s a real possibility she’s a grifter pulling some bullshit con – start thinking of everyone as full of shit – old bitch probably writes to a dozen companies a day asking for any kind of cash.  Yeah!  Suck down a fifth of bourbon writing the politest fuck you the world’s ever heard.  Don’t even wonder if it’s at all true.  Or if so, consider it sarcastically:  sorry about your extra crispy grandson, but we can’t help because there’s nothing that says we have to.

On a Wednesday, Bernie stopped into my office.  He said, “You’re doing great.  Promotion assured.  Pretty soon you’ll have my job.”

I opened my mouth to reply.  His phone rang.  He held up a finger.  In the momentary silence he answered, listened, nodded then walked to a window, and jumped out.

Few people are ever so blessed to witness their future made plain.  

Patty stuck her head in, “Did Bernie just go out a window?”

I said, “Yep, and I quit.”

[the-graves-family]

JASPER

OLYMPIANS AESTHETIC MEME

 APHRODITE: laughter-loving. sweet smiles. dressed in silk and satin. flower in their hair. sees the world as a runway. unapologetically sexual. the sea washing their ankles. in love with love.   stirrer of passion. cunning concealed by painted lips. secret daggers. doves. revolution in their kiss. delighting in the waves. flirtatious winks. strolling along the beach. staring wistfully from a balcony. this is how to be a heartbreaker. wants to be adored. gets turned on by danger.

 APOLLO: glitz and glamour. art galleries. turning the volume up. being made of gold. neatly-organized music sheets. notebooks filled with poetry. bathing in the sunlight. the powerful urge to create. collecting vinyl records. beautiful cover of wonder wall. playing multiple instruments. tasting like sunshine. healing touch. speaking in prophecies. smile mingled with wrath. shunning lies. sporting shades. hanging out at music festivals with their friends.     sleeps naked. arrow to the heart. paint brushes. probably has a tinder account.

 ARES: armed for battle. wants to raise a dog with their significant other. soft spot for children.     gives piggyback rides. scarred body. blood on their hands and face. willing to fight the world for the ones they love. fights against injustice. warm hugs. well-worn combat boots. boxing gloves. bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles. fist raised in protest. ignites revolutions.   fear is a prison. more sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think. exhausted. damaged goods. force to be reckoned with. red roses. curses under their breath.

 ARTEMIS: keen sense of a hunter. freckles like constellations on their skin. piercing eyes. disheveled braid. moonlight peeking through the shadows. the calm of the forest at night. lying on the grass and staring at the stars. mother doe and her fawn. protecting their kin. the moon shimmering on a still lake. quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree. running with wolves. bonding while circled around a campfire. not being much of a people person. arrow hitting a target. popping egos. patience on 3%. touches heaven and returns howling.

 ATHENA: discerning gaze. unreadable face. quiet museums. owl perched on their finger. armor that intimidates. eye for architecture. plays the sims for the sole purpose of building   houses. studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid. huge fan of logic. loves brain teasers, ancient buildings. sweaters in neutrals and cool colors. hair done up.   can kill you with their brain. heads to the library often to research. sharpened pencils. abs that can cut steel. stoic statues. pottery classes.

 DEMETER: soil-covered hands. smile that can bloom flowers. skin loved by the sun. being the mom-friend. can lift you and your friends. flowers kept in the pockets of overalls. takes pride in their beautiful garden. speaks to their plants. leaves rustling in the wind. stalks of wheat. picking fruit. greenhouses. heart as strong as a mountain. values simplicity. daisies dotted across a collarbone. curls crowned with flowers. folded pile of sweaters in warm hues. pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

 DIONYSUS: drunk shitposter. on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second. seductive smirks. untamed curls. rich fabrics on dark skin. sleek-furred panthers. theater masks. stage productions. receiving a standing ovation. rose caught between their teeth. being the baby of the bunch. wild parties that last from sundown to sunup. creeping vines. inspiring loyalty. grand opera houses. masquerade balls. rolls of film. shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor. pouring champagne into flutes. lives for the applause.

 HEPHAESTUS: the calloused hands of someone who knows labor. sweaty brow. flame burning in their eyes. inventive mind. broad shoulders. steampunk goggles. nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes. ashes. striking a match. blueprints for future projects. fixing up a busted-up car and giving it cool upgrades. wrestles with bitterness. work boots have seen better years. wrinkled plaid shirts. iron melted in blazing fire. huge jackets. crafting masterpieces. greased-stained overalls. fascination with robotics. pain is fuel. stack of weaponry. even their muscles have muscles.

 HERA: resting bitch face. dressed to the nines. cows grazing on a pasture. cool rain. loving and hating fiercely. hand clutching a string of pearls. large chandelier with glittering crystals. plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims. romance to realism. pictures of the sky while flying on a plane. files that under fuck it. downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix. like their selfie or you’re grounded. knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man. dark eyes that penetrate your soul. marble and gold.

 HERMES: devil-may-care smile. always up-to-date on the latest technology. will steal your french fries. does it for the vine. shitposter. puts googly eyes on everything. meme hoarder. long drives on the highway. ma and pop diners. spontaneous road trips. folded maps. fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop. shooting hoops on the basketball court. chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations. goes jogging in the morning. mixes red bull with coffee. menace on april fool’s. hoodies and sneakers.

 POSEIDON: storm with skin. colorful coral reefs. waves crashing against the shore. stroking the soft fur of a cat. their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop. tousled locks. clothes smeared with paint. owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more. leather jackets. fondness for diy projects. handwriting that flows across the page. nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin. velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams. mood as ever-changing as the sea. the roar of a motorcycle. compass with a spinning arrow.

 ZEUS: thunder in their heart. running on coffee. flash of lightning. natural charisma. eloquence. badass in a nice suit. aficionado of history. force of nature. lenny face. nightmare-filled nights. proud arm around their lover’s waist. high-rise buildings. planes soaring through a cloudless sky. technician on the piano. maintains order. strong handshake. juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease. expensive watch.

 Muse/OC Aesthetic  

Rules: bold any which apply to your OC/Muse; remember to repost; feel free to add to the list.

 [COLORS]

 red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige.

 [ELEMENTS]

 fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. magic.

 [BODY]

 claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

 [WEAPONS]

 fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

 [MATERIALS]

 gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. jade.

 [NATURE]

 grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. crystals. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

 [ANIMALS]

 lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. rabbits. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. halla.

 [FOODS/DRINKS]

 sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey.

 [HOBBIES]

 music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. libraries. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electric guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. camping. running. freerunning. exploring. partying. yoga.

 [STYLE]

 lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

 [MISC]

 balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

 BOLD ANY FEARS WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE.

 ITALICIZE WHAT MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

 the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched.

 Unnecessary Detailed Dislikes

 Muse name: Jasper Graves

Least favorite nickname: Jazzie

Least favorite color: Pink

Least favorite season: Fall

Least favorite weather: Storming

Least favorite — hot or cold: hot

Least favorite food: Green things

Least favorite flavor: artificial orange

Least favorite scent: jasmine

Least favorite sound: grinding wheel

Least favorite book: anything by dr. seuss

Least favorite movie: Charlie and the chocolate factory

Least favorite fictional character: Willy Wonka

Least favorite trait in others: forcefulness

Least favorite place: outside

Least favorite thing about themselves: how shy he is

Least favorite daily chore: school

Least favorite activity: running

 absent-minded |  abusive  | addict  | adrenaline junkie |   aggressive |  aimless  | alcoholic  |  anxious  | arrogant  |  audacious |  bad liar  |  bigmouth |  bigot  | blindly loyal  |  blunt   |  callous  |  childish  | chronic heroism  |  cheater | clingy  | clumsy  |  cocky |  codependent  | competitive |  corrupt  | cowardly  |  cruel |  cynical  | delinquent  |  delusional |  dependent  | depressed |  deranged  |  disloyal  | ditzy  |  egotistical |  envious  | erratic  |  fickle |  finicky  | fixated  |  flaky |  frail  | fraudulent  |  foul mouthed |  guilt complex  | gloomy  |  gluttonous |  gossiper  | gruff  | grudge holding |  gullible |  hedonistic  | humorless  |  hypochondriac | hypocritical | idealist  |  idiotic |  ignorant  |  immature  | impatient |  incompetent  |  indecisive  | insecure |  insensitive  |  lazy  | lewd  |  liar |  lustful  | manipulative |  masochistic |  meddlesome  | melodramatic  |  money-loving |  moody  | naïve  |  nervous |  nosy  | ornery  |  overprotective  | overly sensitive   |  paranoid |  passive-aggressive  | perfectionist  |  pessimist |  petty  | power-hungry  |  proud |  possessive  | pushover |  reckless  | reclusive  |  remorseless |  rigorous  | sadistic  | sarcastic |  senile |  selfish  |  self-destructive  | shallow  |  sociopathic |  sore loser  | spineless  |  spiteful |  spoiled  | stubborn | suspicious  |tactless |  temperamental |  timid  |  thief |  tone-deaf | traitorous |  unathletic |  ungracious  | unlucky   |  unsophisticated  | untrustworthy  |  vain  |  withdrawn |  workaholic

[the-graves-family]

COLIN

OLYMPIANS AESTHETIC MEME

 APHRODITE: laughter-loving. sweet smiles. dressed in silk and satin. flower in their hair. sees the world as a runway. unapologetically sexual. the sea washing their ankles. in love with love.   stirrer of passion. cunning concealed by painted lips. secret daggers. doves. revolution in their kiss. delighting in the waves. flirtatious winks. strolling along the beach. staring wistfully from a balcony. this is how to be a heartbreaker. wants to be adored. gets turned on by danger.

 APOLLO: glitz and glamour. art galleries. turning the volume up. being made of gold. neatly-organized music sheets. notebooks filled with poetry. bathing in the sunlight. the powerful urge to create. collecting vinyl records. beautiful cover of wonder wall. playing multiple instruments. tasting like sunshine. healing touch. speaking in prophecies. smile mingled with wrath. shunning lies. sporting shades. hanging out at music festivals with their friends.     sleeps naked. arrow to the heart. paint brushes. probably has a tinder account.

 ARES: armed for battle. wants to raise a dog with their significant other. soft spot for children.     gives piggyback rides. scarred body. blood on their hands and face. willing to fight the world for the ones they love. fights against injustice. warm hugs. well-worn combat boots. boxing gloves. bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles. fist raised in protest. ignites revolutions.    fear is a prison. more sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think. exhausted. damaged goods. force to be reckoned with. red roses. curses under their breath.

 ARTEMIS: keen sense of a hunter. freckles like constellations on their skin. piercing eyes. disheveled braid. moonlight peeking through the shadows. the calm of the forest at night. lying on the grass and staring at the stars. mother doe and her fawn. protecting their kin. the moon shimmering on a still lake. quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree. running with wolves.  bonding while circled around a campfire. not being much of a people person. arrow hitting a target. popping egos. patience on 3%. touches heaven and returns howling.

 ATHENA: discerning gaze. unreadable face. quiet museums. owl perched on their finger. armor that intimidates. eye for architecture. plays the sims for the sole purpose of building   houses.     studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid. huge fan of logic. loves brain teasers, ancient buildings. sweaters in neutrals and cool colors. hair done up.   can kill you with their brain. heads to the library often to research. sharpened pencils. abs that can cut steel. stoic statues. pottery classes.

 DEMETER: soil-covered hands. smile that can bloom flowers. skin loved by the sun. being the mom-friend. can lift you and your friends. flowers kept in the pockets of overalls. takes pride in their beautiful garden. speaks to their plants. leaves rustling in the wind. stalks of wheat. picking fruit. greenhouses. heart as strong as a mountain. values simplicity. daisies dotted across a collarbone. curls crowned with flowers. folded pile of sweaters in warm hues. pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

 DIONYSUS: drunk shitposter. on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second. seductive smirks. untamed curls. rich fabrics on dark skin. sleek-furred panthers. theater masks. stage productions. receiving a standing ovation. rose caught between their teeth. being the baby of the bunch. wild parties that last from sundown to sunup. creeping vines. inspiring loyalty. grand opera houses. masquerade balls. rolls of film. shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor. pouring champagne into flutes. lives for the applause.

 HEPHAESTUS: the calloused hands of someone who knows labor. sweaty brow. flame burning in their eyes. inventive mind. broad shoulders. steampunk goggles. nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes. ashes. striking a match. blueprints for future projects. fixing up a busted-up car and giving it cool upgrades. wrestles with bitterness. work boots have seen better years. wrinkled plaid shirts. iron melted in blazing fire. huge jackets. crafting masterpieces. greased-stained overalls. fascination with robotics. pain is fuel. stack of weaponry. even their muscles have muscles.

 HERA: resting bitch face. dressed to the nines. cows grazing on a pasture. cool rain. loving and hating fiercely. hand clutching a string of pearls. large chandelier with glittering crystals. plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims. romance to realism. pictures of the sky while flying on a plane. files that under fuck it. downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix. like their selfie or you’re grounded. knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man. dark eyes that penetrate your soul. marble and gold.

 HERMES: devil-may-care smile. always up-to-date on the latest technology. will steal your french fries. does it for the vine. shitposter. puts googly eyes on everything. meme hoarder. long drives on the highway. ma and pop diners. spontaneous road trips. folded maps. fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop. shooting hoops on the basketball court. chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations. goes jogging in the morning. mixes red bull with coffee. menace on april fool’s. hoodies and sneakers.

 POSEIDON: storm with skin. colorful coral reefs. waves crashing against the shore. stroking the soft fur of a cat. their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop. tousled locks. clothes smeared with paint. owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more. leather jackets. fondness for diy projects. handwriting that flows across the page. nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin. velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams. mood as ever-changing as the sea. the roar of a motorcycle. compass with a spinning arrow.

 ZEUS: thunder in their heart. running on coffee. flash of lightning. natural charisma. eloquence. badass in a nice suit. aficionado of history. force of nature. lenny face. nightmare-filled nights. proud arm around their lover’s waist. high-rise buildings. planes soaring through a cloudless sky. technician on the piano. maintains order. strong handshake. juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease. expensive watch.

 Muse/OC Aesthetic  

Rules: bold any which apply to your OC/Muse; remember to repost; feel free to add to the list.

 [COLORS]

 red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige.

 [ELEMENTS]

 fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. magic.

 [BODY]

 claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

 [WEAPONS]

 fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

 [MATERIALS]

 gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. jade.

 [NATURE]

 grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. crystals. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

 [ANIMALS]

 lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. rabbits. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. halla.

 [FOODS/DRINKS]

 sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey.

 [HOBBIES]

 music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. libraries. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electric guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. camping. running. freerunning. exploring. partying. yoga.

 [STYLE]

 lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

 [MISC]

 balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

 BOLD ANY FEARS WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE.

 ITALICIZE WHAT MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

 the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched.

 Unnecessary Detailed Dislikes

 Muse name: Colin Graves

Least favorite nickname: Coco

Least favorite color: Blue

Least favorite season: Spring

Least favorite weather: Cold and Wet

Least favorite — hot or cold: cold

Least favorite holiday: 4th of july

Least favorite food: undercooked meat

Least favorite flavor: artificial grape

Least favorite drink: whiskey

Least favorite scent: burning

Least favorite sound: babies crying

Least favorite movie: Bad moms

Least favorite school subject or area of study: PE

Least favorite person: anyone who says a bad thing about his kids

Least favorite trait in others: judginess

Least favorite place: the pharmacy

Least favorite thing to talk about: luke

Least favorite thing about themselves: knees

Least favorite style of clothing:  nautical

Least favorite thing about humanity in general: treatment of children

Least favorite thing about death: it doesn’t discriminate

 absent-minded | abusive  |  addict | adrenaline junkie |   aggressive  | aimless  |  alcoholic |  anxious  | arrogant  |  audacious |  bad liar  | bigmouth  |  bigot |  blindly loyal  | blunt   |  callous |  childish  | chronic heroism  |  cheater | clingy  | clumsy  |  cocky |  codependent  | competitive  | corrupt  |  cowardly |  cruel  | cynical  |  delinquent |  delusional  | dependent  | depressed  | deranged  |  disloyal |  ditzy  | egotistical  |  envious |  erratic  | fickle  |  finicky |  fixated  | flaky  |  frail |  fraudulent  |  foul mouthed  |  guilt complex  | gloomy  |  gluttonous  | gossiper  |  gruff | grudge holding |  gullible  | hedonistic  |  humorless |  hypochondriac  | hypocritical | idealist  |  idiotic |  ignorant  | immature  | impatient  | incompetent  |  indecisive | insecure  | insensitive  |  lazy |  lewd  | liar  |  lustful | manipulative |  masochistic  | meddlesome  |  melodramatic  | money-loving  |  moody  | naïve  |  nervous |  nosy  | ornery  |  overprotective  | overly sensitive   |  paranoid |  passive-aggressive  |  perfectionist |  pessimist  | petty  |  power-hungry |  proud  | possessive  |  pushover | reckless  |  reclusive  | remorseless  |  rigorous |  sadistic  | sarcastic | senile  |  selfish |  self-destructive  | shallow  |  sociopathic |  sore loser  | spineless  |  spiteful |  spoiled  | stubborn | suspicious  |tactless |  temperamental |  timid  | thief  |  tone-deaf | traitorous |  unathletic | ungracious  |  unlucky   |  unsophisticated  | untrustworthy  |  vain  |  withdrawn |  workaholic

[the-graves-family]

VICTOR

 OLYMPIANS AESTHETIC MEME

 APHRODITE: laughter-loving. sweet smiles. dressed in silk and satin. flower in their hair. sees the world as a runway. unapologetically sexual. the sea washing their ankles. in love with love.   stirrer of passion. cunning concealed by painted lips. secret daggers. doves. revolution in their kiss. delighting in the waves. flirtatious winks. strolling along the beach. staring wistfully from a balcony. this is how to be a heartbreaker. wants to be adored. gets turned on by danger.

 APOLLO: glitz and glamour. art galleries. turning the volume up. being made of gold. neatly-organized music sheets. notebooks filled with poetry. bathing in the sunlight. the powerful urge to create. collecting vinyl records. beautiful cover of wonder wall. playing multiple instruments. tasting like sunshine. healing touch. speaking in prophecies. smile mingled with wrath. shunning lies. sporting shades. hanging out at music festivals with their friends.     sleeps naked. arrow to the heart. paint brushes. probably has a tinder account.

 ARES: armed for battle. wants to raise a dog with their significant other. soft spot for children.     gives piggyback rides. scarred body. blood on their hands and face. willing to fight the world for the ones they love. fights against injustice. warm hugs. well-worn combat boots. boxing gloves. bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles. fist raised in protest. ignites revolutions.    fear is a prison. more sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think. exhausted. damaged goods. force to be reckoned with. red roses. curses under their breath.

 ARTEMIS: keen sense of a hunter. freckles like constellations on their skin. piercing eyes. disheveled braid. moonlight peeking through the shadows. the calm of the forest at night. lying on the grass and staring at the stars. mother doe and her fawn. protecting their kin. the moon shimmering on a still lake. quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree. running with wolves.  bonding while circled around a campfire. not being much of a people person. arrow hitting a target. popping egos. patience on 3%. touches heaven and returns howling.

 ATHENA: discerning gaze. unreadable face. quiet museums. owl perched on their finger. armor that intimidates. eye for architecture. plays the sims for the sole purpose of building   houses. studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid. huge fan of logic. loves brain teasers, ancient buildings. sweaters in neutrals and cool colors. hair done up. can kill you with their brain. heads to the library often to research. sharpened pencils. abs that can cut steel. stoic statues. pottery classes.

 DEMETER: soil-covered hands. smile that can bloom flowers. skin loved by the sun. being the mom-friend. can lift you and your friends. flowers kept in the pockets of overalls. takes pride in their beautiful garden. speaks to their plants. leaves rustling in the wind. stalks of wheat. picking fruit. greenhouses. heart as strong as a mountain. values simplicity. daisies dotted across a collarbone. curls crowned with flowers. folded pile of sweaters in warm hues. pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

 DIONYSUS: drunk shitposter. on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second. seductive smirks. untamed curls. rich fabrics on dark skin. sleek-furred panthers. theater masks. stage productions. receiving a standing ovation. rose caught between their teeth. being the baby of the bunch. wild parties that last from sundown to sunup. creeping vines. inspiring loyalty. grand opera houses. masquerade balls. rolls of film. shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor. pouring champagne into flutes. lives for the applause.

 HEPHAESTUS: the calloused hands of someone who knows labor. sweaty brow. flame burning in their eyes. inventive mind. broad shoulders. steampunk goggles. nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes. ashes. striking a match. blueprints for future projects. fixing up a busted-up car and giving it cool upgrades. wrestles with bitterness. work boots have seen better years. wrinkled plaid shirts. iron melted in blazing fire. huge jackets. crafting masterpieces. greased-stained overalls. fascination with robotics. pain is fuel. stack of weaponry. even their muscles have muscles.

 HERA: resting bitch face. dressed to the nines. cows grazing on a pasture. cool rain. loving and hating fiercely. hand clutching a string of pearls. large chandelier with glittering crystals. plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims. romance to realism. pictures of the sky while flying on a plane. files that under fuck it. downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix. like their selfie or you’re grounded. knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man. dark eyes that penetrate your soul. marble and gold.

 HERMES: devil-may-care smile. always up-to-date on the latest technology. will steal your french fries. does it for the vine. shitposter. puts googly eyes on everything. meme hoarder. long drives on the highway. ma and pop diners. spontaneous road trips. folded maps. fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop. shooting hoops on the basketball court. chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations. goes jogging in the morning. mixes red bull with coffee. menace on april fool’s. hoodies and sneakers.

 POSEIDON: storm with skin. colorful coral reefs. waves crashing against the shore. stroking the soft fur of a cat. their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop. tousled locks. clothes smeared with paint. owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more. leather jackets. fondness for diy projects. handwriting that flows across the page. nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin. velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams. mood as ever-changing as the sea. the roar of a motorcycle. compass with a spinning arrow.

 ZEUS: thunder in their heart. running on coffee. flash of lightning. natural charisma. eloquence. badass in a nice suit. aficionado of history. force of nature. lenny face. nightmare-filled nights. proud arm around their lover’s waist. high-rise buildings. planes soaring through a cloudless sky. technician on the piano. maintains order. strong handshake. juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease. expensive watch.

 Muse/OC Aesthetic  

Rules: bold any which apply to your OC/Muse; remember to repost; feel free to add to the list.

 [COLORS]

 red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige.

 [ELEMENTS]

 fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. magic.

 [BODY]

 claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

 [WEAPONS]

 fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

 [MATERIALS]

 gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. jade.

 [NATURE]

 grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. crystals. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

 [ANIMALS]

 lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. rabbits. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. halla.

 [FOODS/DRINKS]

 sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey.

 [HOBBIES]

 music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. libraries. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electric guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. camping. running. freerunning. exploring. partying. yoga.

 [STYLE]

 lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

 [MISC]

 balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

 BOLD ANY FEARS WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE.

 ITALICIZE WHAT MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

 the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched.

 Unnecessary Detailed Dislikes

 Muse name: Victor Graves

Least favorite nickname: Vicky

Least favorite color: Orange

Least favorite season: Summer

Least favorite weather: Hot and wet, typhoon

Least favorite — hot or cold: Hot

Least favorite holiday: Easter

Least favorite food: Pineapple

Least favorite flavor: pineapple

Least favorite drink: Gin

Least favorite scent: Petroleum

Least favorite sound: Children arguing with each other

Least favorite movie: King Kong

Least favorite school subject or area of study: Math

Least favorite aspect of their job: Dealing with grieving families

Least favorite person: One of his old lawyer rivals.

Least favorite trait in others: Naivete

Least favorite place: Police stations

Least favorite thing to talk about: the family to strangers

Least favorite thing about themselves: he can be a little reckless sometimes and he hates that

Least favorite sexual position: on the side

Least favorite daily chore: cleaning the dishes

Least favorite style of clothing:  70s disco

Least favorite activity: gardening

 absent-minded | abusive  |  addict | adrenaline junkie |   aggressive  | aimless  |  alcoholic |  anxious  | arrogant  |  audacious |  bad liar  | bigmouth  |  bigot |  blindly loyal  | blunt   |  callous  | childish  |  chronic heroism  | cheater  | clingy  | clumsy  |  cocky |  codependent  | competitive |  corrupt  |  cowardly |  cruel  |  cynical  | delinquent  |  delusional |  dependent  | depressed |  deranged  | disloyal  |  ditzy |  egotistical  | envious  |  erratic |  fickle  | finicky  |  fixated |  flaky  | frail  |  fraudulent |  foul mouthed  | guilt complex  |  gloomy |  gluttonous  | gossiper  |  gruff  | grudge holding |  gullible  | hedonistic  |  humorless |  hypochondriac  | hypocritical | idealist  | idiotic  |  ignorant |  immature  | impatient |  incompetent  | indecisive  | insecure  | insensitive  |  lazy |  lewd  | liar  |  lustful | manipulative |  masochistic |  meddlesome  | melodramatic  |  money-loving |  moody  | naïve  |  nervous |  nosy  | ornery  |  overprotective  | overly sensitive   |  paranoid |  passive-aggressive  | perfectionist  |  pessimist |  petty  |  power-hungry  | proud  |  possessive |  pushover |  reckless |  reclusive  |  remorseless  | rigorous  |  sadistic  | sarcastic | senile  |  selfish |  self-destructive  | shallow  |  sociopathic  |  sore loser  | spineless  |  spiteful |  spoiled  | stubborn | suspicious  |tactless | temperamental  | timid  |  thief |  tone-deaf | traitorous |  unathletic |  ungracious  | unlucky   |  unsophisticated  | untrustworthy  |  vain  |  withdrawn |  workaholic