#I got zero acting skills but I’ll nail on first try (no I won’t) like I always do because I’m just that good at everything (no im not)

[jalluzas-ferney]

RAAAAHHGGGGGHSHSBDIEBDKHWIDIEJE

Im actually terrified of uploading these but honestly who gaf anymore😭😭😭 Im so proud of this cosplay‼️‼️‼️💥💥 and I wanted more ppl to see it so here🔥🔥

ISNWKDBWISHEISJSII IM SO AWKWARD POSING yall have no idea how hard it is to get good lighting in this dumb ass house😭

Anyways hers my dump of my fave pics‼️‼️‼️

AND IB IN THIS LAST PIC OVER HERE ^^^its the only pic that shows the chainsaw i carried around the whole night because I didn’t have a fuckin sword and that was all I haaaddd😭😭😭 I should of mad one but the motivation was below 0 unfortunately 💔💔💔

[neerasrealm]

bRO jason or LJ would be great with the record scratch one imo HSHSH

WHEN I SAW JASON AS AN OPTION I LOST IT FHGSDHF. Anyway hi this story is basically Jason getting bullied by Kate the Chaser for 2000+ words. Enjoy.

*record scratch* 

*freeze frame* 

Yep, that’s me. No, not the vague figure you’re imagining now from the zero amount of information I’ve given you, and no, I’m not the heroic yet relatable main-character you’d expect either. I’m the one that’s currently, and quite poetically, hiding in the corner of a chicken coop. Yeah, that’s the one.

Hi, I'm Jason. I'm a toymaker. And also half- or maybe three quarters demon because I work for an immortal god of chaos and destruction. And for a little more context, I'm in a chicken coop because things went horribly, horribly wrong. 

I was given one simple task. Spy on a woman named Kate. Okay, no problem. She's human, average height and weight. Nothing to be concerned about. The only foreseeable threat was the fact that she works for my boss's biggest rival. A man named Slender. I would say creature, but from what I've heard he's rather good at acting civilised, though I've also heard that it's all just an act to lower guards. Regardless, I had no fear of her.

No fear that is, until she happened to catch me watching her via my pet surveillance mouse, Licorice. She smacked the poor thing with a rake! A rake! My poor innocent little surveillance drone...Licorice wouldn't harm a fly…

Eh-hem. Anyway- after she found and assaulted Licorice I tried to make my escape- but she caught me. So I hid in the only place I could. 

The chicken coop. 

And that's where I am now. Curled up amongst feathers, grain and very upset birds. If I wasn't trying to be quiet, I would've killed them by now. Especially the one that’s pecking my leg. Rude bitch. I have half a mind to strangle you, you know that, chicken?

Wait.

Oh no.

I hear footsteps.

The door to the chicken coop is yanked open and suddenly I’m being glared at by an angry asian lady wearing black and white flannel. 

‘’Get outta my coop, bitch boy.’’

Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, RUDE. third of all,

‘’No.’’

She glares at me.

‘’Alright, that’s it.’’

She climbs into the fucking chicken coop, grabs me by my EXPENSIVE knee high boots and YANKS me out of the coop with strength I didn’t expect from her. I scream and thrash about and kick at her until she lets me go. She stands over me, glaring. I glare right back. She puts her hands on her hips, channeling the energy of an angry texan grandma. If I wasn’t British I’d probably be terrified right now. 

‘’Who gave you permission to go snoopin’ around my property?’’

‘’I don’t need permission to snoop anywhere,’’ I growl back. ‘’I do as I please.’’

"So you admit you WERE snoopin'!" She points an accusing finger at me. 

"No, I was just saying I don't need permission to snoop." I cross my arms and give her a smug look. The word snoop sounds really weird now that we keep saying i- "AH!" 

She yanks me by the collar of my rather EXPENSIVE shirt. Blue eyes glare into mine between strands of dark hair. ‘’Jason,’’ she growls. ‘’Tell me what the fuck you’re doing here before I crack your skull open like an over-ripe cantaloupe.’’

I glare at her. ‘’...Fine.’’ I sigh. ‘’I was asked to look into you since you’ve changed location. It was suspected that you were doing something, or perhaps Slender had changed his base of operat-’’ I’m interrupted by her letting go of my collar and rudely placing her muddy boot on my nice clean clothes. ‘’HEY!’’

‘’I fucking moved out, Jason. Jesus. Can Zalgo just calm his tits? Do I have to live in fear of the bastard for the rest of my life just because of Slender?’’

‘’Yes, you do.’’ I glare at her. ‘’Maybe you should have considered that before becoming his proxy.’’ She rolls her eyes and lifts her foot off of me. I brush dirt off myself but- that mud isn’t going to come off easily...these were expensive clothes too…

‘’Get up.’’

‘’I’m not taking orders from you!’’

‘’Then maybe I should tell Slender I found a creepy redhead sitting up a tree watching me!’’

"Hey! I am not creepy!" 

Kate glares down at me, her hands on her hips again. After a few moments of stubborn silence, I stand up and brush dirt off myself. She folds her arms.

"I won't tell Slender about this if you do somethin' for me." She says. I squint.

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" I murmur. She nods.

"Yep. I have a fence that needs fixin', along with some stuff in the house and fields. If ya help me I won't tell Slenderman I found ya creepin' around my property."

What the hell does this woman take me for? I'm not going to let her blackmail me! I glare at her and cross my arms. "Absolutely not." I say before turning and walking away. Hah! That'll show her! I'm simply going to walk away from my problems!

"Aren't ya forgettin’ somethin'?" I turn and look at her and stare in horror. She's holding my beloved mouse from her tail, swinging her from side to side like she's a toy rather than a beloved pet!

"LICORICE!" I yelp and run towards her to grab back my poor pet. Kate moves out of the way with surprising speed. I suppose that's why her nickname is 'The Chaser'. 

"Ah ah ah." She wags a finger at me, teasing me. "Not until you help me."

"What?!" Licorice is being held ransom now?! I stare at Kate in horror. She smirks. "...fine! Fine, I'll do it! Just- don't hurt licorice...please…"

"That's the spirit, jacey-boy!" She chirps. Dear god I hope she never calls me that again. She stuffs licorice back into her pocket and smiles smugly. "Now c'mon."

Begrudgingly, I follow her to her home. It’s a large country house, with a spacious wooden deck. Inside is just as cozy as you’d expect. This is actually a nice place- I wouldn’t mind living here myself if it wasn’t on a farm. I don’t like farms. They smell bad.

‘’Alright, here we go.’’ She leads me into the kitchen. There’s a toolbag on the kitchen table. She picks it up and holds it out to me. ‘’There’s some broken bannisters on the stairs. Think you can fix them up?’’

‘’I guess if there’s replacement bannisters.’’ I grunt. 

‘’In the shed out back. And after you’re done that, you can fix some holes I found in the walls upstairs,’’ she shrugs at me. ‘’I think the past owner had a teenage son. Punched the shit outta the place.’’

‘’Of course he did…’’ I take the toolbag and sigh. ‘’Fine.’’ 

 I march out the backdoor and find her shed. Walking inside, the bannisters I need are laying on a table. It smells of fresh paint in here- I actually quite like that smell...I grab the bannisters and march back inside. The bitch is making coffee instead of- you know, working like I am. I glare at her as I walk back into the hallway. Her stairs are completely missing several bannisters- six to be exact. With a sigh, I put down the bannisters and rummage through the bag for a drill. Why does she think I’m qualified to fix stairs anyway? Because I’m a toymaker?? I mean- yeah I know how to fix things like this- but still! My skills are more in carving and painting and sewing...ugh…

I pull out the drill I need and get to work. It’s a simple process. Drill a nail into the stairs, drill a matching hole into the bannister, then screw it on. Nothing too difficult- the only bad part is the sawdust that gets everywhere. Not my problem though- at least I hope it isn’t. If she makes me clean it up I’ll be mad.

‘’I finished.’’ I growl to Kate as I walk back into the kitchen. ‘’What next?’’

She’s eating fucking banana bread. Taunting me with the fact that I’m doing all of her work for her. Fuck you, Kate. Fuck you. If I was in a room with Slenderman and you and I had one bullet, I’d shoot Slender and beat you to death myself. Fuck you AND YOUR BANANA BRE-

‘’There’s plaster and newspaper upstairs. You can stuff the holes up and plaster over ‘em.’’ she smiles at me. Ah. I didn’t need to come in here at all. I could have avoided seeing the accursed banana bread…

I go upstairs like a good slave laborer. The bucket of plaster and stack of newspapers is sitting right next to the top of the stairs. How did I miss it? Ugh. Whatever- ripping up the papers to stuff up the holes in the walls is actually kind of fun. I haven't made anything with paper mache in a while...it’s kind of time consuming to make but still fun! 

Thinking about paper mache makes the time go by much much faster. By the time I’ve patched up every single hole in the wall I’ve almost completely forgotten why I’m so angry! It’s nice- being productive always helps me calm down and forget why I’m so stressed…

‘’Hey, Jason!’’

Ah. I remember now. I look down the stairs at Kate. She smirks a bit. ‘’Ya done?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’Good! Ya can help me with the fence then!’’

Ugh. With a huff I walk downstairs and follow her outside. She leads me to a wooden fence that’s broken down and barely standing. Next to it is a shovel, some timber and more tools. She picks the shovel up and starts digging around the fencepost. Together, the two of us remove the rotten wood from the bottom of the post, fill up the hole, and replace the rest of the rotten and broken wood. By the time we’re done I’m covered in dirt, and sweaty. I huff and take off my jacket, holding it under my arm. Kate does something similar, tying her flannel shirt around her waist. She stretches, cracking her back and grunting. 

‘’Are we done yet?’’ I growl. Kate smirks. 

‘’Almost. Just need ta water some crops.’’ she strides past me. ‘’C’mon Jacey. It won’t take long.’’ 

‘’Don’t call me Jacey.’’ 

She laughs and leads me over to the field I was watching her in. There's a short pipe with a hose attached to it just by the gate leading into it. She picks up the hose and hands it to me. ‘’Just sprinkle some water over ‘em, got it?’’

‘’I know how to water plants. I’m not dense.’’

Her lips curl up into a smile. ‘’Good. I’m gonna go check on Marigold.’’ she says before wandering away. I frown.

‘’Who’s Marigold?’’ I call after her.

‘’My cow!’’ she yells back. ‘’Now get to work before I feed your mouse to her!’’

Cows don’t even eat mice...stupid bitch. Hmph. begrudgingly, I walk along the small paths in between each line of crops, sprinkling each one with water. She has all sorts of things growing according to the small wooden signs stuck into the dirt. Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes...being a farmer sounds like a hellish lifestyle, but having your own fresh ingredients for cooking does sound appealing...

‘’Jason!’’ 

Just as I’m watering the last of her plants she calls me. I glance over at her. She waves at me from the other end of the field. With a sigh, I walk all the way over to the gate where she’s standing.

‘’Yes?’’

‘’Ya wanna feed the chickens?’’

‘’No.’’ 

‘’Great!’’ she grins at me. Great, now I have to feed the bloody things. As if hiding amongst them earlier wasn’t degrading enough. I put the hose back where I found it and turn to her. She holds out a bucket filled with seeds, grain and berries. I take it and frown.

‘’What is this?’’

‘’Chicken feed. Duh.’’ she rolls her eyes. ‘’C’mon. This is the last thing, promise.’’ I follow her back to the accursed chicken coop. The chickens, there’s seven of them, are just wandering around, pecking aimlessly at the ground. Kate claps her hands and the demon birds all look up. Kate looks at me and gestures to the chickens. ‘’Well c’mon. They’re waitin’.’’

With a sigh I reach into the bucket, grab a handful of feed, and toss it to the ground. Immediately it’s swarmed by bloodthirsty- er- bloodhungry chickens who peck the ground aggressively. Out of fear for my safety I continue tossing feed at the birds. Admittedly it is fun seeing chickens rapidly look around in confusion when they’re hit on the head with their own food. This isn’t actually too bad. These chickens aren’t all that ba-

‘’Ow!’’

I TAKE IT BACK ONE OF THE FUCKERS JUST PECKED MY FOOT. I kick at the aggressive bird. It flutters back and I give it my best sneer. Kate clicks her tongue and I look up at her. 

‘’Bad idea, Jacey.’’

Huh? Wha- ‘’OW-’’ I stumble back and away from the flock of chickens pecking at my good nice boots. I drop the bucket of feed, stumble on a rock, and fall straight into the muddy ground. I stare at the sky, eyes wide. What- what the fuck...since when are chickens so- aggressive?? I sit up slowly and stare at the demon hens in fear, then at Kate who is aggressively laughing. I glare at her, regain my lost dignity out of spite, and stand up.

‘’Can I go now?’’

‘’Mmm…’’ she rocks on her heels, smirking and considering it for a moment. ‘’Sure. I think ya’ve done everything I need.’’ she pulls her hands out from behind her back and holds out a tupperware container as I walk over to her. What- why is she-

Oh.

Oh if she put licorice in there-

‘’Licorice!’’ yep she did. Bitch. I pick up my beloved mouse and cradle her in my hands, dropping the container in the process. ‘’Oh there you are sweetie...I’m sorry- did the mean lady trap you in there? You poor thing.’’ Licorice squeaks in distress as I pet her gently and kiss the top of her little head. ‘’I know, I know- don’t worry Jason’s here, she isn’t going to hurt you anymore my sweet.’’ 

Licorice rolls up onto my shoulder and snuggles up against my collar. I pat her again and glare at Kate. She smiles sweetly at me.

‘’Get off my property.’’

‘’Gladly.’’

[pomegranate-belle]

happy new year! for the prompt game thing: mattfoggy, soulmates!au, fake dating, prompt 19? 😂

Fake Dating + Soulmates AU = Fake Soulmates AU, right?? Right?? Anyway this took too long because it spiraled out of control and now it’s 2k+ words and there’s like four or five more snippets of future scenes in this AU hiding in my notes app now, lmao

(Also, apologies to anyone reading this who’s named Stephanie, lol)

—

It all starts because Matt is a flirty bastard who gravitates towards women that are capital-T Trouble like a child in galoshes gravitates towards puddles. That is — eagerly, enthusiastically, and with precisely zero regard for the people in the splash zone.

Foggy, who has become a permanent resident of the splash zone, is best friends with him anyway, for some unfathomable reason.

Which is a mean thing to think. It’s not unfathomable. Matt is funny and whip-smart and a big nerd and he just gets Foggy, and his smile...

Anyway, life in the splash zone is worth it. Just, you know, it’s hard to remember that after your bestie’s date steals your wallet or gets you sexiled or stuck in the middle of a bar fight that is definitely not your fault. Or, apparently, tries to swap out the non-accessible petition form your (blind, by the way) best friend means to sign with a marriage certificate.

Yeah. Really. That’s the level of what-the-fuckery they’ve reached now.

“I think I need your help with this one,” Matt says with a grimace.

“You didn’t actually end up signing it, did you?” asks Foggy, because, well, with their luck who knows.

But Matt shakes his head.

“No, it’s just. Uh... I, um, don’t think she’s going to stop.”

Maybe Foggy should just smother himself with his pillow. Or smother Matt with his pillow. The second one seems like it would solve a lot more problems, since this mess is entirely Matt’s fault.

“And what, exactly, do you expect me to do about that, Matthew!” he demands. “You’re the one who decided to sleep with Stephanie Jenkins even after I warned you about her crazy eyes!”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, ok? You told me so, is that what you want to hear?” Matt all but whines, burying his face in his arms just enough to leave his eyes peeking out.

He’s on his bed, head towards the footboard and rolled onto his stomach for maximum cuteness. His eyes aren’t quite pointed the right direction, but that hardly matters. Matt’s pleading expressions are more effective even when they’re aimed a little right of their target than anybody else’s could be from straight on.

“Ugh.”

“Foggy, come on.”

“Ughhhhh.”

“Foggy.”

Matt’s big, wide sad-puppy-dog eyes get impossibly bigger and wider.

“Ok, ok! Fine, I’ll help! Stop pouting, jeez,” Foggy concedes in the face of Matt’s pleading expression and general air of hopelessness. “But don’t expect me to come up with a plan or anything, she’s yourcreepy hookup.”

Matt’s posture changes immediately now that he’s gotten what he wants. He goes up on his elbows, grinning the grin that always means chaos is coming.

“Gotta pull out the big guns for this one,” he claims. “Even she’d have to back off over a soulmate match.”

Foggy, who has maybe spent the past year and a half idly checking his skin for a mark that could potentially tie him to Matt, feels his stomach flip uncomfortably.

“You’re not suggesting...” His throat goes dry. “You and I fake being...”

“Well, I need someone in on it with me who won’t get the wrong idea,” explains Matt, cheerful as can be while he crushes Foggy’s stupid heart into tiny little pieces.

Foggy swallows hard.

“Yeah, um. Makes sense,” he croaks out.

“Good,” says Matt, all business, sitting up fully and holding out a box. “I already borrowed some temporary tattoo pens off Marci, and she promised to keep our secret if we buy her drinks next weekend.”

“Why does Marci have temporary tattoo pens?” asks Foggy as he gets up off his own bed and accepts them, since it seems like the most innocuous of all the questions rattling around in his head.

“To take notes on her arms, apparently,” Matt replies.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

Marci’s the kind of person who could get away with slightly-eccentric behavior like that, mostly because she was dead terrifying. And also hot. She was the kind of person people wanted to step on them. Not that Foggy did. Or anything.

“Anyway,” Foggy said, maybe a little too loud, clearing his throat. “Where is it you want your soulmark, then?”

“Umm.” Matt tilts his head. “My... Arm, I guess? Isn’t that the best place to make it visible for Stephanie? I mean. Where did you think I wanted it, my butt?”

As Matt asks the question, his ears go a little pink, which offsets his sarcasm and is also hilariously adorable. Matt’s a cool guy, but he also spent like ten years surrounded by nuns, and every so often that becomes very, very clear. It’s definitely one of Foggy’s favorite things about Matt. Well, along with literally everything else about Matt. He grins.

“No offense, buddy, but you definitely are the kind of person who’d have one on your butt.”

“I am not!” laughs Matt. “What does that, what does that even mean?”

“Listen, Murdock, some people are just butt-soulmark people, that’s all. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Shut up,” Matt says, his voice still bright with humor. “It’s going on my arm.”

He shoves up the sleeve of his slightly-baggy sweater and holds out his right arm, palm up. So, Foggy digs around in the box of temporary tattoo pens until he finds one with black ink, and then settles next to Matt on the bed. Once he’s got himself in a good position, he accepts Matt’s arm, grabs it gently by the wrist to draw it down onto his lap.

And it’s like it finally sinks in, what he’s about to do. He’s going to literally mark Matt Murdock as his — never mind that it’s a farce to get rid of some creepy chick, or what Matt said about not getting the wrong idea. In a very real and physical sense, he’s about to draw something that will bind them together, at least in everyone else’s eyes. This goes way beyond bar napkin doodles, beyond wistful musings about Nelson and Murdock. People are going to see this mark and know—

They’re going to know what Foggy’s been trying not to know for a long time now. That he’s hopelessly, irrevocably, pathetically in love with Matt.

“What should it be?” Foggy asks, heart thundering in his chest as he holds the pen in one hand and the soft, pale expanse of Matt’s upturned arm in the other.

The smile on Matt’s face looks sweet and coy. A knock-out punch disguised as a cool, sweet drink. And as much as he pretends he’s a beer and cheap whiskey man, Foggy’s always been a sucker for the kind of fruity cocktails that knock him on his ass.

“Something fitting.”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that,” mutters Foggy. “Speak now or I’m giving you an avocado.”

Matt tries halfheartedly to tug his arm away, laughing.

“No way, not an avocado. Something serious! Like... Scales of justice.”

“I see your hard-on for Lady Justice hasn’t diminished at all,” Foggy jokes, but begins drawing the scales anyway.

It takes enough focus that he’s able to override any feelings of embarrassment. And then he’s scrawling the same design onto his own skin, his left arm and Matt’s right pressed side-by-side as they lie across Foggy’s knee. Finally, it’s done and he caps the pen.

“Perfect,” he says, pleased, as he compares the two marks. “They’re identical. Suck on that, Mr. Trenkamp, I can too draw straight lines.”

Is it the height of maturity to invoke your hated fourth grade art teacher like ten years after he first insulted your mediocre art skills? No. But being the height of maturity is lame anyway, Foggy decides.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” jokes Matt, and his expression is so soft that Foggy has to look away before he, like, spontaneously combusts or something.

“Well, trust me, pal, those are some primo fake soulmarks.”

“Thanks, Fog.”

Matt nudges Foggy’s shoulder with his own, then holds out a loose fist. Knocking their knuckles lightly together, Foggy can’t help the giddy smile on his face.

“Anytime, Matt.”

—

They don’t get a chance to show off their marks until two days later, when they’re strolling across campus towards the dining hall and Matt pauses apropos of nothing and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, juggling his white cane a little in the process. He then proceeds to fumble for Foggy’s wrists and roll his sleeves up too.

“Matt, what—”

“Shh, act natural!” Matt mutters, knocking his cane lightly against Foggy’s shoe, and then pressing a warm hand to his back to get him walking again.

And, honest to god, not a minute later up walks Stephanie Jenkins. Foggy takes a good moment to consider that maybe Matt’s lady-radar is actually real. In the next, Matt is stretching his arms (and his cane, the goof) above his head, right wrist crossed in front of the left so his fake soulmark will be in sight. Stephanie jerks to a stop, eyes trained on it. After the stretch, for which Foggy very carefully avoids looking at Matt to see if his shirt rides up, Matt folds up his cane and holds out his hand, fingers curled slightly, the way he usually does when he’s asking for Foggy’s arm for guiding purposes.

“Fogs?”

Well, it’s a cue if Foggy’s ever seen one, so he presses his arm into Matt’s grip, making sure the underside of his forearm is turned up for Stephanie’s sake. Her eyes go huge. Foggy gets the feeling that, no matter what he’s trying to save Matt from, he’s going to feel like an asshole if she cries. Thankfully, her face turns puce and angry instead. She’s probably thinking something unflattering about Foggy’s suitability for a guy like Matt but, well. Fuck her anyway.

Just to nail in his point, apparently, Matt traces his free hand up Foggy’s shoulder and into his hair, brushing a long lock of it behind his ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

In all honesty, Foggy pretty much forgets all about Stephanie Jenkins after that. Just continues on towards the dining hall, narrating on autopilot in between long bouts of staring at Matt with a racing heart and pathetic cow eyes.

—

The two of them get a frankly embarrassing number of ‘I knew it’s from their classmates, go nearly broke keeping Marci Stahl in vodka, and kiss four more times (three on the cheek, and one chaste, close-mouthed peck on the lips that nearly stops Foggy’s heart).

Also, Foggy gets Stephanie Jenkins’ crazy-eyes glare for three straight weeks. He loves every second of it. Suck it, Stephanie Jenkins, he thinks every time. Which is, yeah, probably a little mean, but hey, this is the lady who tried to take advantage of Matt’s blindness to trick him into (admittedly, a definitely not legally enforceable) marriage. Foggy doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy for her.

Though he risks jinxing himself, Foggy does eventually ask how long Matt thinks the ruse should go on. When Matt decides they should keep up the act until at least the end of the semester, Foggy tries not to agree too eagerly. After all, he’s not supposed to get the wrong idea. Eventually Matt’s heartbreaker ways will win out and he’ll want to find a hot girl to kiss. He’s trusting Foggy with an awful lot, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to... To, you know, fall in love with him or anything. But they’ll still always be best friends. That’s what really matters.

—

After three months, Foggy is used to seeing the fake soulmark on the inside of his left arm when he showers. It doesn’t make his heart squeeze anymore. He no longer has to remind himself that it’s still fake even when soap doesn’t wash it away — all it would take is a little makeup remover, after all. He knows that. It’s fake even though it’s there in a form of semi-permanence. Just another fact of life.

But this particular morning he stops cold, because there’s something on the inside of his right arm too. A perfect, identical mirror image of the scales of justice on his left.

Maybe he was so tired he drew another one on the wrong arm when refreshing the fake soulmark. Maybe. But probably not. Foggy takes slow, deep breaths until the end of his shower. Then he dries off, dresses — pulling on his shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way down — and hurries back to the dorm room for the box of makeup remover wipes they keep next to their sink now.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’ll wash off. It’s ok. His hands are trembling so hard that he has to squeeze the wipe to keep hold of it and some of the remover solution drips onto his left arm. The fake soulmark there begins to smudge.

The one on the right stays stark and perfect.

“That’s not funny,” Foggy tells it, voice shaking, but though he scrubs at it until the skin’s raw — with the wipe, with hand sanitizer, with isopropyl — it doesn’t come off.

Eventually he’s got to face the facts. His dumb heart has somehow conned his body into producing a genuine, grade-A soulmark for his fake soulmate.

He is so monumentally fucked.

[moonstruckbucky]

Rant Fest

So for the past couple of months, my “in-laws” (we’ll call them that even though my SO and I aren’t married *whispers* yet) have been driving me up a wall and then some.

His mom? Super sweet, loving... but a helicopter. And I don’t mean one of those dinky little news helicopters. I’m talking full-out military style, equipped with heat-seeking missiles kind of helicopter. She hovers a lot. Calls my SO multiple times a day, for no real good reason at all except to check up on him. Mind, he’s 30 - he’s a big boy.

Things have been a little stagnant for him since he had his seizure two months ago - he’s stranded without a car (totaled in the accident) and without a license (if you have a seizure MA state law dictates you automatically surrender your license for 6 months). So he’s been getting rides from her when he needs to, or his grandmother. 

(Gonna throw a read more on this puppy. We now resume our regular scheduled dash scrolling).

Anyway. Besides the hovering, which has undoubtedly gotten worse since his accident, she gets a little too touchy with him that bothers me. Pinching his behind (again - he’s 30), and just all over him in general. I get because he’s the first born, she’s probably super attached to him - plus, he fell 15 or so feet when he was 2, so we think that’s what spurred her hovering because at the time I don’t think she was watching him; he ended up spending two weeks in the hospital after bonking his head. She doesn’t really act like this with her youngest son, who’s a year older than me at 28, but because he’s had issues with drugs/drinking in the past, she hovers over him too and clearly doesn’t trust him all that much.

Which, not that it’s my business, I have a problem with, because she isn’t giving him the chance to earn her trust back at all.

Then came Baxter, our one year old lab pup, who we got for free because we studded out our 6 year old male to a guy who’d grown up breeding coonhounds - so a responsible breeder. We took him home over Labor Day weekend last year. From the get-go she was all over us about training him, and what we should or shouldn’t do. A little note: I have my Associate’s in animal care, had to take hours of classes on dog training and behavior, so I like to think I know my shit about dogs, okay? Okay. It bothered the fuck out of me.

Cut to less than a month later, Nick’s grandmother gets out of bed in the middle of the night, takes a wrong turn and ends up falling down the stairs. Breaks her fingers on one hand and doing some other damage to her other arm.

First thing out of his mom’s mouth? “Did she trip over that dog?” I was livid. As if she couldn’t trust that we’d keep Baxter with us in his room at night - he was fast asleep when this happened. Even Nick (SO) was annoyed that she’d asked that.

Jump to this past weekend, and here’s a long background to this event.

About two months ago, Nick’s brother and his ex - not even his girlfriend anymore - decided they were going to get a puppy. Now, I think it was Jake’s idea to get the dog, and then the ex just maybe saw an opportunity to stick around, and voila, their puppy.

Who is a backyard bred pit bull puppy bred by a guy either by accidental pregnancy or because he “just wanted to try and breed his dogs”. Either way, these are key signs of an irresponsible breeder. Next sign? The fact he told them both they could take him at 5 weeks of age. When the normal age to take home dogs is 7-8 weeks. We took Bax home at 7 weeks. So not only is he missing out on crucial socialization skills such as bite inhibition and when to cool his jets with corrections from mom, but he’s incredibly small, the runt probably. And then begin the seizures. 5 week old puppy is now on anti-seizure meds - the same ones Nick is on actually.

What’s worse? Jake and his ex didn’t even pay for the fucking dog - Nick did, because Jake didn’t have the money. Makes me wonder how the fuck they’re paying vet fees for a sick dog.

You angry yet?

Jump to a few weeks later. This puppy is a fucking menace. Has zero bite inhibition and those puppy teeth are like razors. He was actually fucking vicious about it as well. Would only let you pet him so he could turn and nail you. Even. Worse? His “parents” encouraged this fucking behavior! Every time he began biting people, even if he was in someone else’s arms, “mom” would take him from them and cuddle him - thus, if you know a little about dog training, is seen as a reward by the dog. Even when I put him down on the floor when he started biting, she picked him up and cuddled him while trying to tell him “no”.

It doesn’t fucking work like that.

So you’ll understand why I get nervous as he gets bigger around Baxter. Having the reputation pits do (I don’t hate them; I just think not everyone should be allowed to own them if they’re not going to take training seriously - and even then, you can’t guarantee they won’t display some genetic aggression later in life), and I brought it to Nick. He’s convinced they’ll “be fine”, and frankly, I don’t want to take that risk because Baxter? Is a softie. He’s a wimp (sorry bubba, but you are), and he won’t stand up for himself - and I don’t want him to be in that position with another dog’s teeth in his neck, where he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Because by the time he figures it out, he might be dead (I’m gonna cry just thinking of that possibility).

So I keep an eye on them when they play. Jump to this weekend. The whole point of this rant. Sundays are for family dinner, and the puppy usually accompanies his parents. Why the ex still comes to fucking family dinner, I have no idea - she was his plus one to his sister’s wedding, which multiple people thought was fucking weird, myself included. Anyway, our boys are blocked off from the kitchen while we eat so the puppy can roam and we can keep an eye on him.

Then after dinner we let everyone in the kitchen. Well, Hydro (the 6 year old and Baxter’s father/sire) is at the table looking for scraps (bad habit, I know) when the puppy wanders over.

Now, let me mention this: Hydro was trained and raised as a hunting dog, so while he is socialized, he isn’t a very social dog with other dogs or even strange people. When Baxter was a puppy learning about boundaries, he pushed Hydro too far, and Hydro nailed him - picked him up by the head and tossed him. Baxter was fine, but he kind of got the gist. I was concerned, but at the same time I know it’s how a dog communicates enough is enough. Baxter still pushes boundaries but he’s a jerk like that. It isn’t for lack of trying.

So, puppy wanders over to Hydro, who gives a low warning growl to tell him he’s too close, he needs to back off. Adult dogs don’t very much like puppies to begin with because they have absolutely no manners. It’s crucial in dog development for them to be able to be taught by older dogs in their own way what is right and what is wrong.

Well, puppy made a wrong move not backing off, and Hydro snarled and snapped his teeth at him. He ended up catching him on the snout. Puppy starts screaming because he probably hasn’t had a dog do this before, and it’s bedlam. Hydro ducks under the table thinking he’s going to be punished for communicating in a way the puppy will understand. “Mom” scoops up the puppy, in goddamn tears (fucking please), acting like Hydro just tried to maul him. I’m watching this whole thing happen trying not to roll my eyes at everyone losing their minds.

I feel terrible for Hydro, so I’m the only one (even Nick wasn’t assuring him he wasn’t a bad dog right away, and that dog is attached to his hip) worried about Hydro. So I give him love and attention and tell him he’s okay, he’s not a bad dog. You can’t punish a dog for communicating that he’s had enough, for setting his own boundaries - and “mom” coddling the puppy isn’t helping him either, but he did learn. He was a little nervous about Baxter approaching him, but I’m glad his instinct wasn’t to bite. Had Hydro wanted to hurt him, he would have.

The puppy has to learn - even Baxter was trying to get away from him and everyone was just letting the puppy leap at him. Now granted, I read this morning you shouldn’t do that - if your older dog is trying to get away, you need to separate them.

Anyway, the family, besides Nana and Nick, kept giving Hydro wary glances every time he entered the room in case he was going to just up and attack the puppy. Which pissed me off.

What made it worse? Nick’s mother claiming Hydro wasn’t “socialized”, and the fourth time she said it, I corrected her with, “He’s socialized just fine. The puppy has to learn that dogs have boundaries. Not all of them are going to be like Baxter.”

(Spoiler alert: he would’ve learned this had he been allowed to stay with mom those extra 3 weeks)

So I’ve come to the decision that when Nick and I move to Maine next year, the dogs are staying home, and I’ll be minimizing contact between them. I don’t trust at all that they’re going to take the puppy’s training seriously, especially for a breed that’s so stigmatized like pit bulls. 7% of the dog population and they’re  number 1 in fatalities? There’s something wrong there. 

Anyway, this is my giant rant that’s been building up.

OH, and when we move to Maine, I’m going to do a happy dance because it means Nick’s mom can’t drop in unexpectedly all the fucking time and disrupt my domestic life. I can’t wait.

Uh, yeah, so y’all asked for it and here it is. Go wild on feedback, thoughts, agreements, whatever.

[isokuma]

Meet Me At The Finish Line

Alec and Magnus are rivals in the sport of motorcycle racing, complete with flirtatious banter before and after each race- until Alec is injured in a car crash. Magnus' unexpected visit to the hospital takes their relationship to the next level.

(Rated T, no archive warnings apply, rivals to lovers)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639155

Alec fell into motorbike-racing without any actual intention of ending up there.

He hadn’t even harbored an interest in motorcycles until Isabelle bought one. He knew the first time he rode with her that he had to do it again. So he saved up, he learned to drive a bike, he researched the best ones, and he got his own. He’d loved riding it around the city, swerving in and out of traffic, but even then, he’d never thought of racing. 

It had been Jace who had dragged him to a race he was competing in. Watching the bikes fly around the track, the fierce competitive nature of it, had drawn Alec in. Three years later and he was one of the top racers amongst his group and more competitive than ever.  

And he definitely doesn’t have a crush on his biggest rival.  

Alec eyes the man straddling the motorcycle next to him. There’s five of them today racing today, using a certified track, engines not yet started, helmets not yet on. It gives Alec the chance to check out Magnus under the guise of sizing him up. 

Magnus doesn’t fit anyone's idea of a typical racer. He styles his hair up even though it’s always flattened by the helmet during the race and he never fails to wear a good amount of sparkly makeup. (The dark lines around his eyes definitely don't make them more enticing.) He hasn't put on his gloves yet so his black-painted nails are on full display.

He smirks back at Alec, somehow stunning despite the bulky, bright colored racing suit he's in. “Are you going to actually give me a challenge today Lightwood?” 

Alec glares back. Alec has won against him dozens of times, but Magnus has won the last three races- a fact that he refuses to let Alec forget. It’s always by the slimmest margins too.  

“You know I hate seeing you lose Bane. Why do you think I’ve been going easy on you?”

It’s an obvious lie, but it’s pre-race trash talk. It doesn’t have to be honest. It doesn’t even have to be effective so long as it gets you ready to pour your heart into the race.  

Magnus actually snorts. “If that were the case, I'd think there would be a little less helmet-throwing at the end of each race.” 

Alec responds with ease, “What would the fans think if I didn’t at least act disappointed?”  

“How much did the new helmet cost you?” Magnus quirks a perfectly manicured eyebrow at the helmet in Alec’s hands.  

“Nothing I won’t win back today.”  

Magnus picks up his own helmet and fastens it securely on his head as the announcer calls for racers to get in position. “I won’t make it easy on you.” 

Alec straddles his bike, tearing his eyes from Magnus to the track in front of them. “Wouldn’t be fun if you did.” 

The announcer calls for the racers to start their engines. The familiar synchronized roar is like music to Alec’s ears. He leans forward, adrenaline rushing through his system. He has to win today.

He has to win before his recent losses turn into an actual losing streak.  

“Ready. Set. Go!” 

Alec is moving the moment the pistol shoots. He stays low in his seat to maintain a more aerodynamic shape as well as keeping balanced. He can see Magnus’ bike out of the corner of his eye, reaching the first turn. Magnus is forced to decelerate while Alec speeds up, taking advantage of his slightly slower start, the acceleration providing him better traction to take the turns faster. It’s a risky maneuver, but he gains a the lead.  

Alec excels on the flat tracks. He stays inches ahead of Magnus around each turn. He sees another racer lean too far and go skidding, but he can't give it his attention. He keeps as far from it as possible.

The first time Alec had witnessed a crash, it had thrown him off his game and sent him almost crashing as well. He'd managed to correct, but had landed solidly in last place- only above the girl who’d crashed and withdrawn. 

Now Alec crosses the finish line seconds before Magnus. He grins as they make the slowdown lap before parking at the finish line. Alec tugs off his helmet to beam at the small, but fiercely enthusiastic audience.   

Then, without helping it, his eyes go to Magnus as he pulls his own helmet off. His hair has been pressed down flatter and sweat drips down the sides of his face, smearing his makeup. It’s unfair that he still manages to look attractive.

Even more infuriating is the easy smile playing at his lips. “Congratulations Lightwood.” 

Alec huffs. “You too.” 

“What, are you upset that I’m not a sore-loser?” Alec narrows his eyes. He knows Magnus is just as competitive as he is.  

“Of course not. You do have experience with losing after all.” 

Magnus gasps, gloved hand going to his heart in mock-hurt. “You wound me.” 

“Clearly.” Alec scans the trail for the racer that had skidded off the track and finds him by the announcer’s tent, looking upset, but uninjured. 

“It’s no matter, the next track is natural terrain and lots of jumps, I’ll be surprised if you finish in the top three.” 

Alec’s eyes dart back to Magnus, zeroing in on the faux innocent expression. “I’ll kick your ass there too, just wait.” 

“I will. Wait for you- at the finish line I mean. You know I can’t resist our banter.” 

Alec rolls his eyes, tugging off his gloves as the race director heads their way to distribute the winnings. It’s a small race with a small audience so it’s a slim amount, but it covers a portion of the cost of Alec’s new helmet. His regular nine-to-five job covers the rest.  

Isabelle has made it down to the track and is pulling him into a hug when the race director finally leaves. “Good job, Alec! You looked great out there today!” 

“Thanks, I felt good today.” He tries to be subtle as he scans for Magnus in the crowd that has grown around them.  

“Oh? Did you finally ask Magnus out?” 

“Isabelle!” He leans gently against his bike, focusing on her. “It’s not like that.” 

She puts a hand on her hip. “Someone could cut the sexual tension between the two of you with a knife. I swear, the way you eye-fuck each other before every race, I’m surprised one of you hasn’t just mauled the other by now.” 

Alec feels a heat spread through his cheeks that has nothing to do with the warmth of his racing attire. “Would you stop,” he hisses, making sure no one has overheard. “You can’t even hear what we talk about.” 

“I don’t have to hear it, I have eyes. Did you even spare a glance to any of the other racers?” 

“Magnus was my biggest competitor.” 

“And he has the best ass?” 

Alec throws his leg over his bike, leveling her with a glare. “I’m done with this conversation.” 

Isabelle laughs, but thankfully changes the topic until they leave for lunch, side by side on their bikes.  

 As much as Alec hates to admit it, Magnus is an expert at jumps while Alec still struggles with them. It leaves him more nervous than usual at the next race a week later, observing the dirt terrain. Rather than going in a circular loop, they’re racing along a trail decorated with obstacles to reach the end.  

There are more competitors as well. Ten racers in Alec’s group and he still ends up next to an impeccably-styled Magnus. He parks his bike, overhearing the end of Magnus’ conversation with another racer, Raphael Santiago. He know Raphael will give them both a run for their money. 

“It’s a waste of time,” Raphael is saying when he pulls up. 

Magnus waves Raphael off as he turns to Alec, sending him a sly smile. “Good morning Lightwood. You look like you’re ready to come in well behind me.” 

Alec rolls his eyes at the less than genius quip. “Is that the best you’ve got Bane? You seem tired. Did you skimp on your sleep so you’d have time to do your makeup?” 

Raphael snorts even as he give no other sign of listening. Magnus shoots him a glare before refocusing. “Thank you for noticing. Too bad you won’t have a chance to admire it when we get done as I’ll be busy collecting my winnings.” 

“So confident, but it wasn’t you that one the last natural track was it?” Alec winks even though technically neither of them had won, both beaten out by Raphael.

It’s enough to make Magnus gape at him, though he recovers quickly.“And today is the day to change that, isn't it? Try not to get too distracted by my makeup once we’re racing- I want to win fair and square.” 

Alec knows that when Magnus puts on the helmet it will obscure his face almost completely. Alec wouldn’t be able to admire his makeup even if he wanted to. “I think I’ll manage to control myself.” 

“Ay, dios mio,” Raphael grumbles, making Magnus flip him off despite the boxy, slightly difficult to maneuver gloves.  

Magnus snaps back in Spanish, too quickly for Alec to catch the words or even attempt to understand them. Raphael’s response is slightly slower but the only word Alec catches is ‘peacock’ which is either a sign of his rusty skills or they’re talking about something else completely.  

A whistle blows, drawing their attention and the ten racers pull their helmets on, straddling their bikes. Magnus gives Alec a two finger salute before the next whistle blows and the engines come to life. The third whistle and they’re off.  

Alec is getting better at the difficult trails, but there’s more people than use’s used to and he finds himself fighting to keep near the front. He hits the ramps at the best angles he can and he lands them smoothly. Still, Magnus and Raphael are faster, more experienced. 

Magnus crosses the finish line milliseconds before Raphael, followed quickly by Alec. He glowers as he slows to a stop and rips his helmet off, barely resisting the urge to toss it. He really can’t afford to go through helmets so quickly.  

Magnus is grinning despite his smeared makeup. “Third place isn’t last place you know, no reason to look so upset.” 

“Congratulations,” Alec forces through his teeth. 

“Thank you,” Magnus dips into an exaggerated bow.  

“You barely won,” Raphael says from Magnus’ other side, looking just as upset as Alec. 

Magnus simply shrugs as he pulls off his gloves. His fingers, nails painted black, brush through his hair, pushing it from his forehead. “Don’t be bitter, it’s not a good look on you.” 

Raphael mutters something under his breath, turning away from them to talk to the girl who’d come in fourth.  

Magnus’ smile turns more sincere. “You’re getting better, Lightwood. You might actually give me a challenge soon.” 

“Soon?” Alec echoes, rolling his eyes. His annoyance at not being first is fading. “Did you already forget last week’s race?” 

“How could I? You showed up with that shiny new helmet.” 

“Next week,” Alec growls, “I’m going to demolish you.” 

Magnus raises an eyebrow, his eyes flitting over Alec’s body in a way that makes him self-conscious of the bulky racing suit. “At least buy me a drink first.” 

“Very funny,” Alec says, voice dry. 

“Nothing but the best for you.” 

 The third week is the semi-finals. It determines who goes to the finals for a chance to advance levels. The top three in any category get to advance, but it’s a tough competition with more competitors. Alec can tell by the unusually quiet nature of the racers around him while he waits for his group to be called. Isabelle's group has already raced and she'd secured second place, finishing just behind Jace.  

Alec scans his group, looking for the tale-tale sign of Magnus’ spiked hair, but somehow Magnus finds him first, appearing almost out of nowhere, helmet and glove in his hands. His nails are painted bright red to match his lips. As if Alec doesn’t already have a hard time not looking at those lips.  

“Lightwood, you look serious as always,” Magnus greets, settling into place beside him. 

Alec feels his face soften slightly as he takes in the red streaks in Magnus’ hair. “I’m not going to win by not taking this seriously, am I?” 

“Maybe not,” Magnus concedes. “Although you don’t have to look so serious before each race. This is a hobby, not a job.” 

Alec snorts. “I don’t look that serious.” 

Magnus hums. “You know I won’t go easy on you just because you’re cute.” 

“You never have before,” Alec manages to say, proud of himself for not getting flustered under the sudden flirtation.  

“Not that you know of.” 

Alec levels him with an unimpressed look. “As if you would ever let anyone win.” 

“You’re right, I’m much too competitive.” Magnus glances at the track where fifteen bikes are currently racing around it. “Your sister did well."

“How do you know who my sister is?” 

Magnus rolls his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Lightwood. You have the same last name. And you talk to her after every race.” 

“She came in second. She’s going to move up which means if I don’t move up, I’ll be competing against her.” And Jace.

“And that’s a problem because?” 

“She’d never let me live it down.” He doesn’t mention that he’d miss competing with Magnus if he were left behind. Different levels would mean the end of their bantering, the end of their talking. 

The current group finishes and Alec’s group is called to get their bikes in position. Alec glances at Magnus, “Good luck Bane, I mean coming in second or third.” 

“Good luck to you. I’m sure you won’t be upset if I beat you again, will you?” Magnus blows him a kiss that makes Alec irritated and smitten at the same time, a confusing paradox that he doesn’t have time to focus on. He gets his bike and moves to the third starting place. Unlike their previous races, the amount of racers means they each have their own lane that they have to start at and stay in.

It means Alec is placed slightly behind Magnus, trying not to think about how good he looks straddling his bike. He forces the thoughts to the back of his mind. He has a race to win. 

Being behind Magnus while racing is frustrating.

Logically he knows that it doesn’t mean he’s actually behind    him in terms of placement, but that's how it feels. Alec pushes his bike to go faster, takes the turns with a recklessness that borders on stupid. He’s lucky he doesn’t tip over. Instead, he manages to close the distance between his bike and Magnus’ as they reach the end.

He’s grinning when he stops. He thinks he’s set a personal best. 

Alec is announced first place winner and he rips off his helmet, pumping his fist. Magnus finished directly behind him with Dorthea Rollins coming in third. He sees both of them smiling, despite not being first. They've qualified for the finals.  

“Sorry you couldn’t keep a streak,” Alec says, winded for no real reason other than excitement.  

Magnus snorts. “You may have deserved that win, don’t think I didn’t notice you catching up to me... But I will get my vengeance at the finals.” 

“I’m sure you’ll do your best to come in first,” Alec trails off, leaving the clear insinuation that he expects to be first.  

Their group moves their bikes from the track off to the side with the racers who have already competed, but chosen to stick around. Alec finds Isabelle and Jace right away, both of them pulling him into hugs to congratulate him. He notices Magnus off to the side, celebrating with his own friends. He catches Magnus’ eye for a moment and flushes when Magnus winks at him.

He turns away and tries to focus on his sister and Jace, but Magnus stays at the back of his mind. He’s already itching to see him again, to banter with him over first place.  

 On his drive home from work the following Friday, Alec is thinking about the race. He’s already psyched up over it and he’s a little worried he won't get any sleep if he continues thinking this way.  

Perhaps that’s part of why he doesn’t swerve fast enough when the car next to him suddenly switches lanes without signaling.  

Alec is thrown from his bike before he has time to process what’s happened. He feels his body hit the concrete, but the pain is a distant, foggy thing. He blinks up at a face as it appears over him. Her mouth is moving, but he can’t understand what she’s saying.  

It takes a few minutes for Alec’s head to clear, but when it does, he becomes aware of the acute pain coursing through his body. He tries to lift his arms, to take off his helmet, but a sharp pain in his left arm makes him lower it. He uses his right hand to tug the helmet off. 

The woman is still leaning over him. Her voice finally comes in to focus, “Are you alright? Please tell me you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I called the police and an ambulance, they’re headed here now.” 

Alec struggles to follow along, to understand what she’s saying. Finally the words sink in and he comes to the realization, “You hit me with your car.” 

She’s crying. She says something else, but Alec doesn't process it. He thinks his mother was right when she warned them against buying a motorcycle. ‘Death machines’ she had called them. She was right. 

Some time later, as Alec has completely lost the ability to notice time passing, sirens approach. EMTs surround him. A woman with a kind face asks him questions he struggles to answer. They remove his leather jacket- what's left of it anyways- to survey the wounds on his upper body.  

Alec is loaded onto a stretcher and rolled into the back of an ambulance where the EMTs put him on pain medication that completely numbs him.  

The ride to the hospital and the following events are a blur to Alec and he finally understands why when he’s lying on a hospital bed, after having underdone multiple X-rays. A male nurse named Simon details his injuries. 

“You’re lucky you were wearing a helmet! Without it... well, it would’ve been worse than a concussion,” Simon says, pushing up his glasses to study the file in front of him.  

Alec soon learns there’s also a break in his left arm and a fracture in his left shin. His right ankle had been dislocated and popped back into place. A deep cut lines the side of his abdomen where his shirt had ridden up, allowing the road to dig into his skin. Large amounts of bruising is obvious throughout his body. 

Alec groans as the nurse reaches the end of the list of injuries. “So I can’t race tomorrow?” 

“You can’t even go home tomorrow. We’re going to keep you over night the next couple days to make sure you didn’t sustain a worse head injury.” 

“Great.” Alec sighs. “Did my phone survive the crash?” 

Simon grabs a clear bag from the nightstand next to his bed. “This is all your personal items we recovered.” 

Alec is relieved to find his phone in one piece. He shoots off a text to Isabelle, telling her he’s fine, but in the hospital. “I don’t suppose my bike is salvageable?” 

He knows the answer based on the way Simon hisses slightly and recoils. “No, uh, it was busted.” 

“Great,” he says again.

“The woman who hit you gave her information though so you’ll be able to get everything covered by her insurance.” 

Alec knows that will probably take as long as it takes his body to heal. It will be a while before he's able to get back on a bike. “Thanks, Simon” 

 After that he’s allowed to sleep, though a nurse wakes him up every hour to make sure he won’t go into a coma or die from the concussion. Finally, he wakes up to find Isabelle at his bedside. She’s scrolling through her phone, but there’s a crease in her eyebrows that hints at her worry.  

“Hey.” 

Her head jerks up and Alec feels guilty when he sees the red in her eyes. She tucks her phone away, leaning forward, “Alec! I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

“I’m fine, just a little... sore.” It’s the understatement of the century and Isabelle’s expression suggests she knows this.  

“The timing is horrible too, Alec, I’m so sorry,” she reaches for his hand. “Do you want me to find the person that did this and make them regret ever being born? Because I can do that.” 

Alec doesn’t doubt her abilities given her job in the FBI, but he shakes his head- scowling when the simple motion makes his head ache. “No, it’s fine. Her insurance will cover the costs, I just have to deal with this,” Alec gestures weakly at the hospital bed. He sighs, slumping into the pillows. “I was going to advance tomorrow.” 

“I know how excited you were.” 

Alec huffs a forced laugh. “I told Magnus I wouldn’t let him win easily, but now I am.” 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Isabelle quirks an eyebrow, running a hand through her long locks. “Do you want me to stay with you tomorrow? I don’t have to race.” 

“What? No! Just because I can’t go doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to,” Alec responds instantly. “Go, and win. We’ll compete against each other when I recover.” 

Isabelle relaxes in her chair. “Good. I really want to go. But I would have stayed with you if you’d asked!” 

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says gently. 

“Even though I told Mom and Dad what happened?” 

Alec groans. “What did they say?” 

“They’re worried about you. I barely talked Mom out of buying a ticket and flying out here to see you.” 

“Thank you.” He loves his parents, but he doesn’t think he could stand them fussing and, ultimately, lecturing him while he’s held hostage in the hospital bed.  

She nods seriously, understanding his unspoken concerns. “They are going to want to talk to you though, as soon as possible.” 

“You mean I can’t even use the concussion as an excuse?” He tries and fails to push down a smile.  

“I don’t think so.”

Alec blinks rapidly as his eyelids grow steadily heavier. He sighs. “I'll call them later. Whatever medicine they put me on is making me sleepy.” 

“Or it’s just a side effect of being hit by a car.” He manages to keep his eyes open to glare at her. She laughs, but stands and presses a nurturing kiss to his forehead. “Go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” He struggles to stay coherent enough to have this conversation. “I’ll be sleeping most of the time. You should go home.” 

She smiles mischievously. “And miss up the opportunity to flirt with your nurse?” 

Of course she has an ulterior motive. He lets his eyes fall closed, “I didn’t think he was your type.” 

He hears her say something about ‘cute nerdy guys’, but sleep takes over before he can respond. 

 Alec quickly realizes that having a concussion is boring. He’s not allowed to read or watch TV or use his phone for very long. Mostly he naps. It gets to the point that he’s dozing more often than sleeping, still somewhat aware of his surroundings. 

It’s during one of these times that Alec is roused by the door to his hospital room opening. He peels his eyes open, expecting to see a nurse.

He has to blink a few times to make sure the man in front of him isn’t a mirage.  

Magnus Bane is standing halfway in the room, a bouquet of roses in his hand. His hair is flattened and there’s a slight shine to his skin that suggests he’s come straight from racing, without bothering to wash his face or hair. He’s changed out of his racer’s outfit into a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a shimmery silver tank top that leaves his strong, golden arms on display. If Alec thought Magnus was hot before, and he did, he can only think that this is so much more. 

Alec’s first thought- after taking in Magnus’ appearance, is that Magnus must have the wrong room.

Except, even in Alec’s drugged-up and concussed state, he realizes the almost impossible odds of Magnus knowing someone else in the same hospital and then going to the wrong room.  

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Magnus finally says, still hovering halfway between Alec’s bed and the door. Alec fumbles for the remote to tilt his bed up so he’s sitting more than laying.

“It’s fine.” His voice is deeper than he intends, husky with sleep and, if he’s honest, arousal. “All I’ve done for the past... twenty-four hours? Is sleep.” 

Magnus takes a step closer. “Are you sure? I can leave.” 

Alec snorts. “Sit down Magnus.” 

He raises an eyebrow as he follows Alec’s instructions. “Magnus?” 

Alec shrugs. He hadn’t actually meant to call Magnus by his first name, but he thinks it’s about time they were on a first name basis. He nods at the flowers. “Are those... Are they for me?” 

Magnus looks down at them, the slightest hint of color rising to his ears. “I wasn’t sure you would want them, but it is customary to bring someone flowers when they’re in the hospital.” 

“They’re beautiful,” Alec reassures him, reaching out his good arm, hooked to an IV but without any broken bones, to take the flowers. He sniffs them and smiles. “No one has ever given me flowers before.” 

“That is a travesty. However, I’m glad I could be the first.” 

There’s a softness to Magnus’ voice that makes something in Alec melt. He looks up at Magnus, takes in his smudged makeup. “How was the race?” 

Magnus brushes a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. “Clary Fray won.” 

“What- how did she beat you?” Alec knows Clary is a fast racer, but he doesn’t remember the last time Magnus lost to her. “You finished in the top three, right?” 

“About that...” 

Alec knows by his expression that Magnus hadn't placed in the top three. The idea seems impossible. His voice comes out more concerned than he expects, “What happened?”  

Magnus sighs and finally meets his gaze again. Alec doesn’t miss the way he’s nervously twisting his hands in his lap. “You weren’t there. I got distracted.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Alexander,” Magnus chastises. “Don’t you dare apologize for being hit by a car.” 

Alec huffs a laugh as he places the roses carefully on the bedside table. He’ll have to text Isabelle, tell her to pick up a vase on her way back. “You’ll have to wait another six months to advance.” 

“Oh no, looks like I’ll have to continue racing against you. How terrible.” Magnus’ tone is thick with sarcasm.  

Alec can’t hide his smile. He blames it on the pain medication, but he’s just excited that he’ll still be racing against Magnus- when he’s able to return to racing. Only then does it occur to him to ask, “How did you know I was here?” 

“Isabelle. I knew you wouldn’t have missed the race unless something bad had happened. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me, but I wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

“I always want to see you,” Alec says before realizing the connotations of his words. He feels his cheeks flame. Stupid pain medication.“ I mean, I’ve been really bored so I’m glad to have a visitor.” 

Magnus is grinning at him. “Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual.” When Alec blinks at him, uncomprehending, Magnus adds, “I always want to see you too.” 

“Oh.” He swallows hard. “We should then. See each other more. Outside of racing- since I guess I won’t be doing that for a little while anyways...” He shakes his head before he follows that train of thought. He focuses on Magnus. “We should go on a date.” 

“I didn’t expect you to be so forward, but I would love to.” Magnus is still smiling at him. 

“It’s the pain medication, it’s making me loopy.” He grimaces at the word. “But I do want to go on a date with you.”  

“Good.” Magnus reaches out, lays his hand gently over Alec’s. Alec studies the black nail polish. He admires the multitudes of rings on Magnus’ long, delicate fingers. He’s never seen Magnus wear jewelry before, but he thinks it would probably be uncomfortable under the racing gloves.  

Alec turns his hand up so their palms meet, sliding their fingers together. “Izzy told me to man up and ask you out.” 

“Raphael told me to stop flirting with you at every race because it was a waste of time. I knew he was wrong and now I have proof.” 

“That was you flirting?” Alec marvels. “I thought that was just... banter.” 

“It was, partly. It was also flirting. You look good on a bike. Or next to a bike. Or next to anything.” 

Alec feels a blush climb over his cheeks. “Even after being hit by a car?” 

Magnus rolls his eyes, lifting his hand to brush a strand of hair from Alec’s forehead. “Even now.”  

The heat from his touch lingers even after Magnus pulls his hand away. Alec sits forward slightly, unintentionally chasing it. “You do too.” 

“My makeup is smudged and my hair is flat,” Magnus says, deadpan.  

Alec shrugs. “You’re still beautiful.” 

Magnus sucks in a breath, moving closer like he’s being tugged in by a gravitational pull. “Can I kiss you?” 

“I didn’t break my jaw,” Alec can’t resist the urge to tease. Magnus ignores it to move in and gently press their lips together. He pulls back far too soon, leaving Alec frowning. “That’s it?” 

“You have a concussion,” Magnus reminds him. “We can kiss more when you’re healed.” 

Alec huffs, leaning back into his pillows. “Is that a promise?” 

“Absolutely.” 

[fuckyeaherzaxmirajane]

Prompt: Erza is turned into a pig. Mirajane searches and finds a cure but while still stuck in pig form Erza finds the engagement ring Mirajane was going to surprise her with.

Thank you for the request^^ Enjoy!

The breeze rustled the overhanging branches as Wendy traced runes in the sun-dappled grass. She shifted restlessly. “Are you sure it’s ok for me to practice on your equipment?”

“Magic is like this sword.” Erza gestured at the blunted edge. “And practice is a whetstone. In order to sharpen your skills, it’s necessary to go through the motions.”

“Still isn’t this expensive?”

“It’s just a practice sword. Nothing ventured nothing gained” 

“Alright.” Wendy took a steadying breath. Eyes slid shut as her hands hovered over the practice sword in Erza’s lap. A whispered chant lilted in the breeze. Magic thrummed illuminating her vision blinding her sight at its zenith.

When Erza’s visions returned her perspective had shifted. Wendy loomed a couple of feet above her mouth agape. 

Erza took stock of her surroundings. Hooves. Her hands they were hooves. Hooves. She opened her mouth to question: Oink! That was not her voice.

“I’m so sorry Erza! I’ll fix it!” Wendy gestured in a frenzy. Erratic energy dominating her body.

The prostrations were drowned out by Erza’s own thoughts. Wendy enchanted her into a pig and it wasn’t even the craziest thing to occur at the guild that week. It could always be worse.

                                                   —

Their first destination was her apartment in the hopes that Erza’s small library contained a book that may aid them in reversing the spell. With luck they wouldn’t have to wait long for it to unravel on its own; her glass eye had assisted her in more dire straits.

Hours passed with each diminishing her hope further. Then they came upon a box. Velvet and small enough to fit perfectly into the palm of her hand.

“Is this…”-Wendy’s breath caught as she peered at its contents-“an engagement ring? It’s beautiful.” 

Her face grew hot as her thoughts raced. An engagement ring? Erza had never doubted she would spend the rest of her life with Mirajane, in any capacity Fairy Tail’s resident demon would permit, it had been a fact of her life for years. Yet, marriage? It always seemed so far off. Even when she was prepared for its inevitability. 

“Be careful, it’s one of a kind.”

Every hair stood on end as Erza’s gaze was brought to her girlfriend’s face. Thoroughly caught in the act until she took a step and came back to herself. Shock momentarily distracting her from her circumstances. Her hoof tapping on the hardwood brought Mirajane’s attention to her.

Her eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on Erza. Her heart stuttered. Mirajane saw. “I hope for your sake you have a good reason for bringing a barnyard animal into my home.” 

No. After so long it was reflex to assume Mirajane could see through her. Fortunately, today was an exception. Whatever Mira planned the last thing Erza wanted was to spoil it.

“Y-yes I’m just watching her as part of a job.” Wendy fiddled with the hem of her dress as she met Mirajane’s stare head-on. 

“What an odd pet. She better not have chewed up any of the furniture. Why are you taking this kind of job anyway? It’s beneath your skill level.”

 “I, uh, needed a break. Erza’s training is more intense than Cana’s.”

A giggled slipped past Mirajane’s lips. “Erza can be a bit overzealous, but she’s only hard on you because she cares so go easy on her. Anyway, putting your best foot forward is what it takes to be a Fairy Tail mage.” Then the box was plucked from Wendy’s hold as she pocketed the ring. “Can this be our secret? I don’t want tonight’s surprise to be ruined.”

It’s a little late for that. 

“Of course! I have to go, good luck!” Wendy waved enthusiastically as she bolted for the door.

Erza followed suit. If Mirajane was proposing then she would have to fix this first.

Wendy parted ways with her shortly thereafter vowing to track down a solution in Fairy Tail’s expansive library. Filled with renewed vigor Erza decided to brave the wilderness to the surest solution. Although, it was by no means the path of least resistance if anyone could get her out of this mess it would be Irene Belserion.

                                                  —

Mother recognized her on sight.

“Oh, Erza, dear, that is not a good look for you.” Irene’s lips curved in a smirk as she brought her hand up to cover her faux gasp. Nails manicured to perfection glinted in the light; razor-sharp as her smile. “What a pitiful state you’ve found yourself in.”

Erza snorted. In the short time they had known each other, her mother never made anything easy. Their relationship softened, but the same could not be said for Irene’s wit. Usually, it would not have been a bother. Erza could more than hold her own; if only she could speak.

Anna, for her part, gave the former queen an admonishing look before turning her attention to Erza. “Erza? How did this happen?” Her concern was sweet. Warm chocolate eyes creased around the edges reminding her of Lucy. 

“An enchantment gone awry,” Irene pondered tapping a finger to her ruby lips, “this could only be that little dragonslayer’s work, the clever one, Gradeeny’s child.” The air sparked with magic as Irene’s stare hardened. It cut right through her as if she was glass. “It is intricate work. The child’s always shown great promise.” Her eyes glittering in the late noon sunlight. “I’ll undo it for a price or to be more specific, a pupil.”

“You have my assurance that no harm will come to her,” Anna promised and what could happen? Erza hardly trusted her mother, but she was different around the celestial mage. Perhaps, finding the pieces of the person she never knew. The parts of herself that prevented her from taking Erza’s life all those years ago. 

Besides her current predicament only served to strengthen her argument. Try as she might Erza was not a suitable teacher in this area. Who was she to deny Wendy an opportunity to learn? Teachers of lost magics were not found on every street corner. 

Erza did her best to nod an affirmative.

Irene’s wagged her finger. “Use your words, dear. While your family may forgo manners, I do not.”

“You couldn’t resist making me squirm, could you?”

“Only in the hopes that you won’t meddle with this in the future. Enchantments are dangerous. Did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, the practice was lost with good reason?”

“Dangerous magic is self-taught every day-”

“At great cost and consequence. Those who are unaware of what they are doing always manage to foul things up. You are fortunate this was all that happened.” 

Anna’s hand rested light as a feather on her mother’s shoulder quelling her lecture. “I’m certain Erza understands. Just as I’m sure that you understand striking a bargain in this situation does not foster any feelings of trust.”

The enchanter muttered what may have been a curse under her breath. As natural and forthcoming as the breeze Erza was restored. Nearly at a loss for words, she said, “thank you, mother, truly, I’ll pass your offer on to Wendy. Where she acquires instruction is up to her. I can’t make any promises on her behalf.”

Mother pursed her lips. “Fair enough.”

                                                       —

The sun was setting low on the horizon as Magnolia came into view. Drained and desperate Erza raced toward her apartment. What other way was there to travel when the fulfillment your wildest dreams was the destination?

Space magic allowed Erza to grasp at the worn box in her armory; a surprise of her own, to match the one she was expecting, one that she waited years to gift at her fingertips.

Calm washed over her as their home appeared. Light as air she stood in the entrance. Hands twitching nervously as she opened the door.

Mirajane was waiting on the worn couch. “Welcome back!” Her smile brightened the room.

“It’s good to be back.” She clutched the ring box behind her back. Obscuring it while she sat down.

“It’s a wonder we ever got over ourselves long enough.” A devilish smirk tugging at Mirajane’s lips. “I don’t think twelve-year-old me could have imagined this.” Gesturing across the room. 

“Well, I wasn’t any better at that age, but I’ve been told all the best things are worth waiting for and that hasn’t been disproved yet.”

“Life shouldn’t get in the way. Why wait if you don’t have to? Just because something is worth waiting for doesn’t mean that you should hold off.” A wistful sigh escaped her lips. “Sometimes, I wonder if we have spent too much time waiting. I almost lost you more than once this year.” Mirajane held her hands. “There’s something that has been on my mind. Since Tenrou. Erza you’re my everything. I can’t imagine my life without you so why are we waiting?”

Mirajane slipped the velvet box open as Erza opened her own. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

A gasp escaped Mirajane. Her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Erza captured her lips just as she had countless times before in a kiss sweeter than any that preceded it.

[thiscomickills]

CHAPTER 1 She squirms in the chair, trying to loosen the ropes, tears streaming down her terrified face. I just laugh. “I was a Boy Scout, babe. You’re in a Siberian Hitch-Transom Knot combo.” I turn on my best German accent. “Your resistance is futile.” She sobs harder. “You’re right. The German thing was hacky.” “Are you gonna rape me?” She gasps for a phlegmy breath. “What? Don’t flatter yourself, sweetie. Rape you? Sheesh. You see all this plastic all over the place? You think I cum that much? You’ve never watched Dexter? Rape you. Pfft. Hell no. I’m going to kill you.” I stretch, tear and fix some duct tape over her mouth before she can scream. Fuck. I’m low on duct tape again. “What’s your name again?” I fish her wallet out from her purse. “McKenzie. Of course it is. Fucking Millennial.” I grab the garden shears and squeeze the handles a couple of times for effect. You just can’t beat that metal-on-metal sound.  If you have just the right amount of torque on the springs, you can conjure the sound a sword makes when it’s slowly pulled from its sheath. That metallic ring. Now I can’t get the Game of Thrones theme out of my head. #ADD. She moans through her duct-taped mouth, her curly brown hair matted to her face with tears and sweat. “Now, you know I don’t want to do this. But, I have to. I told you to be good. But you weren’t, were you? I mean, look at this! See?“ I lift my sleeve and show her the claw marks she gave me when the back of her head smacked off the bathroom sink (I may have been holding her throat at the time). “I can’t have the cops find my DNA under your pretty nails, sweetie. And, I’m a comedian - not a surgeon. What that means is I don’t have the skill-set to remove just the nails, so I’m gonna have to take off your fingers.” She convulses, letting out a muted, duct-tape softened screech. I grab her index finger between the blades. “I mean, I could do this after you’re dead, but where’s the fun in that? Now then…Where is pointy, where is pointy?” SNIP! Her finger, once so adept at pointing, comes off cleanly in my gloved hand, spurting blood everywhere. “Here I am! Here I am!” I dance the finger about in front of her scarlet, glassy eyes. She is so fucking loud even with the duct tape. I never get that. It’s like scream-humming. I turn up the music on the motel’s cheap alarm clock.  MakeDamnSure by Taking Back Sunday. Nice. I was seriously thinking about some GOT pay-per-view when I got back to my hotel, but these tunes have my head back in the game. I hold her bloody finger in front of my pursed lips. “Shhh! Hahaha! Come on, McKenzie! I don’t usually do prop comedy, so consider yourself lucky. I mean, I can’t have you ‘finger’ me for this!” She hangs her head in defeat. I hate it when they don’t go down swinging. I almost feel bad for them. Takes the fun right the fuck out of it. McKenzie. This girl’s a joy vampire. Maybe a proper mind fuck will make it interesting again. “Do you want to know why you’re here?” She nods weakly, possibly thinking I’m some storybook villain, stalling with a sad tale that might elongate her life. I’m not. I’m a comedian. All about the short game here. “You sat in the front row of my show. You didn’t laugh once. You fucking Facebooked and Tindered the entire fucking time because the Comedy Caravan in backward-ass Louisville doesn’t take peoples’ damned phones, so some of this is on them, but do you know what that does to me? It makes me insecure. I’m giving myself to you. You’re a fucking stranger. I’m trying to relate. I’m trying to make you happy! To make you laugh! To connect, to reveal some human truths in a funny way, and you’re swiping left, with that little manicured index finger of yours, on pictures of douchebags like you’re some beauty queen who can judge people in a second. Fuck you! Oh,” – as if just noticing her index finger in my hand – “and fuck your little finger too! And on top of that, you sat so close to my stage, I was able to see you left less than a ten percent tip for your server, and that makes you a cunt, and cunts gotta go! Do you understand?” Her whole body trembles. I pretend to feel bad.  Have to keep the acting chops fresh. One can never really give up on that Hollywood career. “Hey, hey…c’mon. Don’t do that,” I say in my softest sympathetic tough guy voice – channeling some daytime soap I must have squirrelled away in my brain at some point. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I, I am. Look, do you feel like you maybe learned a valuable lesson today?” She raises her head, her eyes hopeful. Nods slowly. “If I let you go, do you promise you won’t say anything?” She nods like she’s got epilepsy. “Swear?” She’s a bobble head. “Okay. After all, you did agree to get a drink with me after the show. Fine. I’ll cut you loose. Let me get my scissors.” I look around; make a spectacle of myself (my specialty, if you must know). Lift up the alarm clock. Hmm. Not there. Check my pockets. Take off my left shoe, not in there either. Inside this bible? Zilch. She just hangs her head again, finally realizing that I was fucking with her. “Oh, but…look what I found.” A Louisville Slugger I stashed under the bed. “Not much to do in Ken-fucking-tucky. So, I toured the ol’ bat factory today. It was that or a bourbon tasting, and I had to keep my shit together for the show tonight. Just think. You’ll be one of my Greatest Hits.” I get into my stance. “Here’s the pitch!” I bring it around with everything I’ve got. The wood connects with her temple, and the fat part of that sturdy, all-American bat breaks off a good, satisfying, chunk of skull. “Foul ball!” In My Defense: I haven’t always been a killer. Obviously. I mean, at one point, I was shitting in my diaper, so wielding knives wasn’t exactly a thing I could do. That’s like saying “I don’t know how we lost, the game was so close at one point”. Of course it was, you idiot. Games start out at zero for both teams. Hang on, I need my notebook… Joke about how sports fans say they don’t get it when they lost cause it was so close at one point. Also, get more duct tape. Where was I? Oh yeah. Killing. Just saying it gets me all worked up. It’s like when you see a hot girl laying by the pool at your apartment complex and you have to go watch porn and wax the dolphin so you can focus. Anyway, I don’t think I’m a bad person. I don’t. I’m not. There’s just a monster inside me. And he’s the bad one. Mr. Hyde, my alter ego, my Id, Night Me, Murder Voltron, whatever he/it is, it’s there. I don’t know why, or how it got there, running the front office, but it’s alive and well, and I’ve just about given up trying to keep it down. Yeah, I’m part monster, but I’m also part human, so I have to rationalize all parts of me. I’ve thought about why I am this way. First off, I suffered a preponderance of head injuries at the hands of my older brother when I was a kid who unwisely demanded the top bunk. He’d start laughing at something, I’d hang my head down from the top to see what had him in stitches, he’d grab me by the scruff of my neck, yank me over the edge and I’d land on my head. I was such a sucker. I fell for it every time. Me crying in the kitchen in my PJ’s with an icepack on my forehead was a common sight. Knowing what we know with these suicidal NFL players, my self-diagnosis is that it must have knocked something (or possibly everything) loose. Second, I’m based out of L.A. Everyone there pretends everything’s going great. They always have some project, on the verge of “making it”, but if you ask me, they’re all self-made orphans chasing an impossible dream, leapfrogging from one lily pad of a project to the next, and just one SIG alert away from homicide themselves. But I think the biggest thing that shaped me was the decade I spent in the service industry before I finally started paying the bills with jokes. The service industry does a lot of damage to a person. Outwardly, it makes you subservient: opening doors, serving plates, clearing plates, taking orders, custom tailoring those orders, fulfilling needs, wants, letting people cut in front of you, being patient, smiling, cleaning puke, sending food back cause it wasn’t warm enough, enduring insults, pretending you don’t hear them talking about you and how short you are and you tell yourself that you’re not a duck in a shooting gallery, listening to them chew, and breathe and gulp and belch and pretending you like them; just basically getting psychically butt-fucked by these garbage human consumer strangers because they might give you a tip for eight plus hours a day, five nights a week. To this day, if a guy is washing his hands next to me I’ll hurry to dry my hands first so I can get some paper towels into his wet hands. That is real shit. I hate myself for it. I have conditioned myself to “be in service to”. To be second. To not Receive. That’s what happens to you on the outside. Fuck, I can taste the bile rising right now. I should really try that Kabbalah shit. But the red string. People would know… Inwardly, the industry makes you hate people. Restaurant workers; they’re not the only ones. Anyone dealing with the public in large enough quantities will eventually hate people if they have a brain in their heads. Why do you think cops rough people up, or flat out shoot them? Nurses and doctors abuse their patients? It’s no mystery. The general public sucks out loud. They come in and buy shit. They demand shit- unhappy with this/that; they make you dance like an organ grinder’s monkey. They’re not at work. They’re leisurely drinking. They have better clothes than you. You hear about their job, their vacation in Hawaii, how they’re closing on the second home, can they have some water, you hear the dumb shit guys say to hot girls, and even though it’s so mundane, you watch them leave together, and you’re stuck behind this literal and metaphorical bar, waiting till these people you’ve turned into retarded infants stumble home so you can clean up after all of them, count what little money they deemed you worthy of and go home yourself. All the while knowing some Neanderthal bro bore is balls-deep in some sugar walled beef sleeve. You find yourself secretly wishing you pass a drunk-driving accident on the way home that you hopefully contributed to, so there’s a few less of them. A culling of the cheap zombie-minded assholes who haunt your sleep. I never know if I’m making myself clear. Let me make sure. They are fucking awful gross rude meat skeletons stumbling around naked under their brand names trying to fuck and be fucked, but need to be drunk in order to connect and leave a swath of social destruction in their paths in the process. So, yeah, a decade builds up. I went from being a party-going extrovert to a self-isolating Hobbit (yes, that’s a short joke) forever cursed to quietly traffic in this jaded human taxonomy. I could only tolerate relating to people with the protection of some sort of barrier. First a bar. Now a stage. And I think the last thing you should know about me is that I try to only kill people who really should be killed. I really do. There’s a lot of two-legged colostomy bags out there, and I think the fact that society believes that we’re all supposed to tolerate them is a bigger crime than me taking out the proverbial trash. End of Disclaimer. I’m now buck-naked and rock hard as I wind butcher paper around her plastic-wrapped arms, and pack them into my empty suitcases. The layers of plastic and paper keep the Samsonites from leaking - and they look like cuts from the butcher shop in the X-Ray as long as you cut off at the joints, then in between the limbs. Sectioning each arm and leg into four wings and drumsticks suffices, and you have to split the hands and feet at least in half the long way. If you have the time, cleaving them into three is ideal. You never know if there’s a former hall monitor who’s still a virgin watching those screens. Oh, and I personally like to treat myself after a kill. After all that labor-intensive bone sawing, I save the breasts and ass for the end. It find it super enjoyable to carve ‘steaks’ out of those. I like to play around with them; try to really mimic the cuts I see at the grocery store. Obviously, I start with top rounds, move to sirloin, then to filets, rib eyes and I’m currently perfecting my New York Strip. It’s weird, because I’ve never considered myself artistic. Before I discovered an aptitude for carving human flesh into imitation beef steaks, I’d only really experimented with creating temporary art in a way only I could personally appreciate. I mean that literally. I started doing it when I was young, and I’m a little ashamed to admit I continue to do it to this day. Whenever a man urinates, it creates bubbles in the toilet water, and conversely, that stream in turn bursts those bubbles. I discovered if I whipped my bubble making pee shooter to and fro fast enough, I could use the shitter’s round shape as a globe and form my piss bubbles to create a bubbly map of North and South America. As I got better, I was able to use the rest of my pee stream to cut across the Atlantic and get going on the Iberian Peninsula. As my geographical knowledge and alcohol abuse escalated, I tackled Africa and the Sub Asian region. And, I’ll be even more honest. Once I learned men could do Kegels, I created a regimen and set upon my still-unrealized goal of mastering Southeast Asia. Between natural disasters, political power dynamics and the sheer urethral discipline it requires, I wonder if this endeavor is a folly of my yawning stupidity, or my personal Golden Fleece (intended) I will someday attain. I honestly don’t know. Once you break the seal and let the pee stream out, it’s so hard to squeeze it off to dot the toilet water’s ocean with a Sri Lanka. I do have self-awareness. I fully admit it’s a juvenile, yet fluid art form. Crickets, huh? Sometimes jokes are a numbers game. And there goes the shin. This girl got her calcium for sure. I always travel with empty luggage. Obviously, the Monster needs the space. No, I don’t keep the meaty bones as trophies. I’m not that sick. We’ll get there, just give me a minute. It comes down to the ‘evidence problem’. It’s an easy fix since I’m pretty basic with my fashion choices. The shitty towns we perform in usually have bargain basement stores and Wal-Marts, and it’s just safer to buy twenty dollar jeans and eight dollar shirts that I’m going to throw away anyway after the Monster has his way with me.  If fashion choices dictate fate, it really explains why I’m here. I give the room a quick sweep with a black light on luminol to see if I missed anything.  How do I have luminol? It’s amazing what you can get from drunken LA cops when you tell them you’re a writer working on a crime movie and offer them the promise of a consulting credit and fee when principal photography commences. Her head fucking spurted all over the ceiling. Thank God I lined that with sheeting. I fucking despise this part. The cleaning. Serial Killers get caught cause they’re sloppy, or if they don’t mix it up. You gotta keep it fresh. The MO, the victimology. It’s just like comedy. Look at Ron White. It’s the same set. Every time. “I got thrown out of a bar…” You gotta come up with new material to stay ahead of the game. We’ve all said it when it comes to dating: “So and so’s not my type.” It only proves that people do have a type, and because of that, serial killing and dating have a lot in common. Have you seen Reggie Bush’s girlfriends since Kim Kardashian? Three Words. Single Armenian Female. Scary, right?  The Yorkshire Ripper: always sex workers, always a hammer, knife and screwdriver. John Bunting: gays or pedophiles, always beating, toe crushing and strangulation. Herb Baumeister: gays and drowning. Ted Bundy: bludgeoning, strangling and necrophilia, and he went for cute girls. That one friend you have who only dates Asian chicks. Actually, once, I dated an Asian chick. We’d have sex but I’d be horny twenty minutes later. Hey Now! I could go on, but you get the point. They look for patterns. The key is to not have one. This is why I don’t worry. I’m pretty sure the FBI doesn’t have a profile for a murderer of the “People Who Fucking Suck” demographic. And, I’m not “the Husband” or the “Ex” or the “Co-Worker”.  I’m not “The Quiet Guy Next Door”. I’m a comic who performs on stage. In different cities. Good Christ, I open for Riley Rock, who, if it weren’t for a few movie and TV credits and his own short-lived TV show forever ago he’d be just as invisible as me. Riley Rock is the guy you see at the club and think, “Hey, isn’t that the guy from that show where he works with the dad sometimes?” Fuck him. Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. Cleaning. I wish I was the “Neat Monster” Dexter was, but that’s a work of fiction. I’m way too lazy. My apartment looks like a 10 year old with a job lives there. I have that crippling brand of OCD where everything’s a mess and I have trouble venturing outside. So, I prepare up front. Plastic, plastic, plastic! I can’t stress it enough. Saves so much time at the end. You just saw, wrap and go. This would be the greatest infomercial ever. Saw, Wrap and Go with the new…nah, that’s a shit premise. I work the saw rhythmically above the left knee. Fuck this bitch has some quads. Must be one of those cross-fit cunts. One more reason to have offed her.  My ass crack is sweaty. Keep on a-workin’. Eff you, I’m in the South. Lemme indulge.