randomwriteronline

[randomwriteronline]

@legend-as-old-as-time i remembered an old conversation and i--

Back pain be damned, Mata Nui could arrange sticks. Large ones. Heavy ones. Entire logs and chunks of tree trunks, effectively - in highly variable colors, shapes and degrees of dryness. And mosses too. Without mentioning the wide variety of stuffings of any kind, similarly varied fabrics, dried hay, leaves, cushions...

Ackar watched him from the doorway, fascinated and puzzled in equal measure.

"Hello," he finally called out.

His friend briefly interrupted his work to look at him: "Hello," he replied amiably, and went back to shifting another piece of the vaguely concave mass he was steadily constructing in the room.

"What... Are you doing, exactly?" the Glatorian prodded gently when that initial attempt at a conversation went nowhere.

"I am building a nest for the two of us," the other explained.

Ackar nodded, very slowly.

He drummed his fingers against the rock as he tried to find the right words: "You know," he finally settled on, "We don't really make those. In general, I mean."

"Oh, I am aware," Mata Nui said without missing a beat: "This is wholly unrelated to Agori customs."

"Is it a Matoran thing, then?"

"I believe not, either - my Turaga seem renowned amongst their similes for having peculiar traditions, and this one seems to pertain to them specifically, not involving even their wards."

So this was related to his 'prophets' of sorts? After giving it a second of thought, that checked out - in spite of their wisdom, they did strike him as an odd enough bunch for something like this to be normal for them. Especially since, if he didn't misremember from their tales, they'd once been horrifyingly transformed into beasties for a hot minute during their youth.

Yeah, that's exactly the kind of people who would start building nests.

Unbothered by his friend's brief silence, Mata Nui blissfully continued on with both rambling and readjusting his organized mess: "They began bringing me nesting materials this morning one at a time, and have continued for the whole day - you may have even caught them, if you had come a little earlier. I initially did not know what might have compelled such a behavior, but my work gave me time to think it through, and though it flusters me I have conjured a viable theory. It would seem that my choice - the full awareness of which is dubious even for me, I regret to admit - had the fascinating effect of linking our minds in some manner or other; I believe I may have accidentally... Overwhelmed them, if briefly, with my first instance of passion in your regards."

Ackar choked, coughed, gasped, and seamlessly resumed choking.

Oh!

Oh, by the bonfire.

This was... Oh, that certainly - hm!

He wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that, apparently, the only partner he had taken in his over two hundred thousand years of life happened to have a gaggle of his own personal high priests surgically attached to his brain to whom he could at any time broadcast every thought and spike in libido on accident, but it certainly wasn't something that helped him breathe.

Or stay sane.

"Thus, they must have assumed we would have needed a nest," said partner went on as if the situation he had just described hadn't been bonkers enough, "And decided to lend me their help in this endeavor."

Once the rein of his own lungs was back in his single hand, the Glatorian inhaled a long, steadying breath: "Neither of us need a nest," he said, trying to be causal.

"We do not," Mata Nui convened.

"... Why did you make one?"

"I deeply appreciate my Turaga's efforts to provide us a safe environment in which to perform intercourse," (and it took every ounce of strength in his body for Ackar not to crumple into a broken jug right then and there) "But most of all it would deeply upset me to let all their selfless work be for naught. I have allowed it to pass me by unnoticed for too long in my previous life."

It was a sweet sentiment, to try avoiding old mistakes and be more involved in the lives and efforts of one's people.

If it could have not been about six senior citizens taking a sudden rapturous interest in their non-existent sex life, the statement would have probably affected him more positively.

As it was Ackar just kind of wished to be returned to the ashes.

He was kept from self-combustion by the sound of something distinctly much smaller than him almost bumping into his leg and muttering a somewhat embarrassed apology: Whenua replied to his gaze with a clumsy, sheepish wave of his hand, dark grey Ruru barely visible from behind a humongous pile of what looked like shed Koniri fur - not even the kind that was actually sold, which was thoroughly cleaned and spun into orderly bundles; no, this was literally just a whole heap of what looked like the unruly, dirty result of several people's most recent comb-throughs.

Finding himself unable to muster the strength to question when, where, why or most importantly how the Turaga had acquired this material, the Glatorian worldlessly shifted away from the doorframe and invited him in with a gesture.

"Oh - thank you," Whenua chirped, brightening at his politeness, and scampered in with a pep in his step to reach Mata Nui.

The taller being lifted a large piece of fabric and gladly relieved him of his cargo, spreading it across the rest of the heterogenous stuffing between two layers of cloth while the Turaga helpfully took over fabric-aloft-holding duty when the other started to crawl in for further reach.

He tilted his head as he watched, genuinely intrigued: "You have a fascinating technique when it comes to nest-making. Very different from Matau's weaving."

"Yes, he has mentioned it as well," Mata Nui replied: "He offered to teach me, but I am afraid my fingers lack dexterity today."

"Don't be like that, I don't think he could be matched by anybody! He's been practicing for a thousand years, you know, he's shaped the muscle for it... Nokama tried to follow his instructions once and all she got were sore hands and a wobbly basket. And she's no stranger to this work, she made the lily pad domes!"

"Perhaps she was out of her element," the other proposed thoughtfully. "Different materials lead to different building solutions. The domes were likely her own version of a nest."

That gave Whenua pause: "Do you really think so?"

"Certainly. I have observed a stunning variety in the way creatures of all sorts build their abodes."

"I've seen that too in Rahi, but we're the same species."

"Yet of different elemental connection. Much like the Agori Tribes favor certain environments and adapt their phenology to them due to their affinity with an element, so do you instinctively seek habitats that best suit your own; thus, from different biomes come different materials for different nests of a same species."

The Turaga blinked, and almost laughed: "Huh! It's so obvious in hindsight, isn't it? And we never even noticed."

"Mundanity is quite the sneaky thing," Mata Nui smiled.

Whenua nodded absentmindedly. Then, out of nowhere, a realization made him jolt: "So my tunnels were a nest as well?"

"I would say so, yes."

Ackar noted that the Turaga looked excessively overjoyed about it.

No wonder his friend had hand-picked those six.

They functioned exactly like him.

(He was almost jealous about that. About a bond chosen yet all the same already hetched into the very marrow of the beings it belonged to, binding them together more powerfully than a simple connection, deeper than the depths of space, all-encompassing as the dawn that slowly reaches the whole world. He had friends he wouldn't trade for anything, and he had been chosen exactly as the Turaga had; but to see a thing this simple and holy and ineffable reminded him he was an outsider to that sublime world, and he ached to have been blessed alongside them, and thought it all a great injustice that he could see it and long for it while knowing it was unattainable in every way.)

He shook himself out of his own musings before he was completely lost to them. No point crying over missed moles.

Mata Nui pulled himself upright with a bit of difficulty: "I believe it should be ready like this," he noted, satisfied with his work. "Thank you for your help - all six of you. Though I apologize for putting such a bothersome task on your shoulders."

"It was nothing!" the Turaga reassured him, just as happy to see the nest complete. "I'd better be off - the others will just keep bringing you stuff if I don't tell them..."

He turned quickly, scampering off to the door.

Then he stopped.

Thought deeply.

Considered his options.

Figured this was probably the best time for it.

And swiveled right back towards his former god, one finger held up as if to demand audience for just another minute.

"Could I... Ask you a question, first?" he began.

"Of course," Mata Nui replied with a gentle look that said 'I would tear the fabric of reality to shreds with my own two hands and reach within the depths of a black hole forcing myself to re-emerge unscathed with your favorite ice cream sundae if there was no other way to procure it after you mentioned wanting some'.

Whenua hurried right back next to him: "It's about the actual function of a nest, you see-"

Oh No, the Tapyri thought as his blood froze solid.

"Rahi of course make nests in order to have a domicile, I know that - we had a whole exhibit at the Archives with recreations of nests and dens and the such, I actually worked on it briefly too," the biomechanical being continued blissfully unaware of the injection of pure dread he'd just administered to the elderly Glatorian, "But we've never really gotten any in-depth study on nestmaking, do you understand? Aside from, well, Matau's experience, but he also has trouble argumenting what it even is, or what prompts it..."

"That is natural," Mata Nui nodded, "It is not something you would ever have to think of."

"You mean that it's something specific to organic beings?"

"Yes."

"Ah! That makes sense, yes... Though then I wonder what the Visorak venom...? Nevermind, one query at a time - the matter at hand is! What is the purpose of nestmaking?"

"To provide a place dedicated to reproduction."

Ackar attempted to drop dead.

While he failed, Whenua squinted in puzzlement and leaned towards the nest to gesture at it: "So it's... A sort of theater? Beings go on it to play out some kind of performance, or reenact a scene-?"

"Not usually, no," the other replied (too engrossed in giving an explanation to notice his beloved friend in the back grasping the doorframe for dear life and hiding his face against it). "By reproduction I mean copulation, intercourse, sexual activity; beings who cannot employ artificial means to create new specimens of their own kind employ this method instead."

"Oh... And how does that work?"

Whatever had been clogging Ackar's neck finally dislodged enough to let the words flow through it once more; unfortunately his brain was not prepared to have such freedom so soon, and all he managed to wheeze in the rush to stop the conversation before it careened out of control was a strangled, begging: "Please do not."

Both beings turned to him with a puzzled wide-eyed expression, genuinely confused by his reaction.

The endlessly churning system of intersecting conveyor belts which made up Mata Nui's behemoth of a nervous system eventually did bring the answer to their silent query to his attention, and for the briefest of moments a flash of mortified understanding passed through his otherwise unchanged droopy eyes.

He turned to his Turaga in a seamless motion, as if they'd never been interrupted: "It is a rather private matter," he explained.

Whenua blinked several times and looked between them; eventually some kind of connection to unknown and unusual practices of biomechanical intimacy must have formed in his crystal brain, because after sagging his head into his shoulders he gave a nervous sheepish laugh and murmured, mask warm enough to rattle on his face: "I'll ask another time, then?"

His god smiled sweetly: "That would be best."

Turaga and Glatorian did not look at each other as the former scuttled away to warn the other five in a hurry, the heavy condensation of embarrassment between the both of them plenty thick enough to not need the exchange of formal goodbyes.

Once the scampering steps were far enough, Ackar allowed himself to sag against the doorframe with the sound of a busted chariot sizzling in relief as it yet again fails to explode.

Kind hands reached to pull his own away from where it had been pinching the bridge of his darkening nose.

Despite himself, a smile wobbled on his face.

"Forgive me, my sweet friend," Mata Nui apologized (sly thing that he was, using the adjective he knew would only make him blush harder): "I was so taken by the chance of sharing knowledge that I forgot all necessary propriety."

"Ah - it's alright," Ackar mumbled, trying to wave it all away.

"I will be more careful in case it happens again."

"Alright, thank you."

"Your nose is very dark."

"Oh, and whose fault do you suppose that is?"

His partner huffed a laugh and leaned forward, pressing his mask right against the Tapyri's flat features for a few seconds: "I take responsability for my crimes."

"There you go," the other cackled as he nuzzled him back, "All''s forgiven, then. But seriously, please-"

"I will not unpromptly explain reproduction in any amount of detail at a loud volume while in public or in the house."

"Thank you."

The palpable amusement in Mata Nui's eyes did not reassure him, but he appreciated his promise nonetheless.

His friend turned back to his magnum opus, watching its large vague shape with satisfaction. It didn't look bad at all, the Glatorian had to admit as he also took a moment to look at it better: they would both fit comfortably in it despite their large builds, it had a pleasant appearance, even seemed kind of plush...

"We ought to test it."

And now he was back to choking on his own spit.

Ackar's house - much like every single house or place which he had inhabited on his own for any period of time - had never in one hundred thousand years seen between its walls any amount of sexual activity, on account of its owner never finding it in his interests to busy himself with thinking of sexual activity in the first place (except for when he mused on how he would have indeed very much liked for his dear friend and partner to shove his new ridiculously sized tongue directly in-between his vocal chords, but that was a very recent discovery and didn't involve any common copulating technique so the jury was still figuring out if it counted), and he would have deeply liked to avoid breaking that lifelong streak on an enormous pile of logs, shed fur and stolen tarps.

He also didn't want to break it on a bed or on the floor or against the wall or on a chair or couch, for the record. The nest wasn't the problem (aside from the fact that it took over half the living space), he just didn't want to break the streak.

Sometimes a man just isn't ready.

"I tried to cushion it as much as I could, but your back is so very sensitive to pain," Mata Nui continued in blissful ignorance. "Luckily it is still early in the day; if its current structure causes you any discomfort I will have plenty of time to rearrange it and make it better suited to your needs."

"Ah," Ackar croaked. "Test it for that. Of course. Sure can do."

His friend tilted his head at him: "Is there something else a nest could be tested for?"

The Tapyri looked him straight in the eyes.

He blinked.

"Oh, indeed," the former god noted: "The sex. I had forgotten."

"May I ask you how?"

"Concern for your spine was a priority."

Good grief.

"You are the weirdest being I have ever met," Ackar told him plainly.

Mata Nui smiled: "You sound deeply endeared."

"Oh, I am," the Glatorian confirmed with a grin as he carefully stepped into the nest: "Very much."

It was surprisingly solid, considering it was a patchwork of dozens of pieces that weren't made to fit together. The logs forming its perimeter didn't make for a tall barrier, but the actual laying space was rather shallow in comparison, allowing some degree of privacy - something which he appreciated greatly since the whole thing was in clear view of the door.

He grunted softly as he struggled to turn around for a moment before plopping down onto the mostly clean fabric: the impact was softer than he expected, sending only the faintest sting up his spine. He adjusted his seat as best as he could, leaning his weight on his only arm while clumsily trying to crawl back a little bit, and once he was certain he was in the correct position he slowly laid down until his head rested on a particularly large lump that was likely meant to work as a built-in pillow.

Then he waited.

Mata Nui watched him carefully as the Glatorian stared at the ceiling for a few seconds; a quiet hum alerted him.

"Are you in pain?" he asked softly.

"Not at all," Ackar replied. He arched his back slightly and relaxed again, fidgeting in a contented manner. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Is it comfortable, then?"

"Yes, actually, it is very nice. You did some great work on this."

His friend visibly lit up.

He then carefully - extremely carefully (the Tapyri could not stress enough how carefully) - pulled his own body into the nest as if he were performing life-saving heart surgery on the world's smallest ant; and slowly - extremely slowly (the Tapyri again could not stress enough how slowly) - proceeded to entrap his partner whithin the mostly invisible confines marked by his limbs as he placed himself hovering above him on hands and knees, in a way that was almost mildly threatening.

Finally, once certain everything was in place, he began to mechanically lower himself down onto his beloved with all the glorious stiffness of a descending bear.

The result was him laying flat as a board on top of Ackar.

Neither moved for quite some time. Mata Nui was soaking in the experience; his friend was slowly processing the absolutely mental scene that had played out before his eyes moments earlier and wrestling with himself on whether he should laugh or just pass out.

In the end he did neither. He just turned his head slightly, met his partner's eye, and said: "Hello."

"Hello." Mata Nui replied. He tilted his head: "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"At times you look at me and say 'hello' as if you had just seen me, when we have been aware of each other for quite some time. It is a very strange thing to do."

"I do that when I'm embarrassed, or when I'm speechless."

The descent replayed unprompted in his mind.

"You tend to do that to me often," he mused.

"I will assume it is a compliment."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, so you'd be right to think so."

The former god really had a beautiful smile.

His arms shifted to wrap around his sweet friend, coiling with a certain laziness around his head, slipping under his neck. A single limb mirrored the motion as it laid across his back.

"So?" Ackar asked, "Are you comfortable?"

The mask nuzzled his cheek: "It is far from unpleasant, yes - but I will confess I prefer our usual arrangement."

"Well, we can fix that..."

There was no rush to their movements as they performed a very slow roll to the side. It took them a second or two, and a lot of quiet groaning typical of old people with plenty of ailments, but they managed just fine: by the end of their endeavour they were back to their usual sleeping position, with Mata Nui squashed under the stouter body and Ackar's head laying contentedly on the chest that buzzed with hushed clockwork.

"Better like this?"

"Very much." and the hold around the Glatorian tightened sweetly: "There is no better comfort than your weight upon me."

The other gargled a laugh, nose darkening a little with blush.

Now properly comfortable, they allowed themselves to enjoy the stillness for a while.

The nest made little creaks in time with their breaths as the world outside moved on without a care, pleasantly muffled beyond their walls; a bit of late morning light peered in and fell onto their legs, letting them slowly soak up the heat.

Gentle mechanisms ticked along their looping tracks with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat: the Tapyri shut his eyes to follow them better, ear flush to the thin layer dividing him from them so that their melody could coil within it. How nice of Mata Nui's body to sing such a sweet tune just for him...

He could feel kind digits brush his back, tracing the patterns on his skin; they stilled for just a moment as he trembled with a pleased gurgle, only to resume with renewed fondness when he stopped.

He could almost doze off.

He might have dozed off without noticing, because when his partner's loud sigh prompted him to open his eyes he found himself blinking quite a lot as if he'd just awoken, mouth all pasty and limbs heavy with a groaning sort of tardiness. He forced himself to crane his neck with a rumbling grunt to face the sad-eyed mask: from how the tanned fingers scratched at his nape under the bright amused gaze, he must have looked awfully bleary.

"I take it then that this project was a success," Mata Nui whispered.

Ackar grumbled some kind of agreement, flat tail flapping twice with a hard, sturdy 'smack'.

His friend beamed, terribly proud of himself.

He still turned to take a general look at the nest, musing thoughtfully: "Though perhaps it is too big in size... A more compact shape would no doubt result in a softer center. And it would be quite easier to transport, if need be."

"Transport?" the Glatorian asked sleepily.

"To move it elsewhere so that it does not occupy too much space. To the bedroom, for example."

"We have a bed."

"We could add that to the nest."

"It's a good bed as it is."

"It is indeed." a short pause. "What shall we do with the nest, then?"

"Hm?"

"It would be inconvenient to leave it here," the other explained, "But you do not wish to move it to the bedroom. Do you have a suggestion on how else it could be employed?"

The cogs in the Glatorian's brain moved very slowly. After a minute, he mumbled: "You could give it to your guys?"

"Do you mean the Turaga or the Toa?"

"I dunno. Both. Maybe... T' sleep, I mean, I don't think they would... They don't, right?"

"They do not."

"Yeah... 's plenty big, could probably fit them all in it... If they wanna snuggle or somethin'..."

"That is a very good point," Mata Nui agreed, the images of the Toa Mata and Mahri all jumbled together in an amorphous napping mass and of the Turaga resting in a similar affectionate pile coming to mind. "I am certain they would appreciate it. I shall dismantle and rebuild it somewhere easier for them to access in the afternoon."

His sweet friend gargled in agreement and looped his arm a little tighter around him.

In the meantime, they could go back to their sleepy business...

Quiet settled.

Thirty seconds.

One minute.

Ninety seconds.

Two minutes.

One hundred and eighty seconds.

Three minutes.

Two hundred and forty-one seconds.

"Are you sure you do not want to keep the nest?"

"I really like the bed," Ackar begged.

Mata Nui smiled: "Fair enough."

[randomwriteronline]

MY TERRIBLE LITTLE MAN........ YOU DREW HER SO GOOD IM GOING TO EXPLODE INTO A BILLION PIECES

A fanart made for a very fun oc in a submas fic! Hopefully i did her justice lol. https://archiveofourown.org/works/37126504/chapters/92628544 Really well written honestly :D

credit to @randomwriteronline

[randomwriteronline]

(dance) lesson learned

Tenna's going with Spamton to a dance class. He has a great day, filled with gardening, music, dance, and conversation a'flow. And Spamton. Of course.

another gift for @aceofintuition . i swear they gave me a trojan in my brain or something blease read their fic Traceback! it is amazing <3 a direct follow up to Dance Advertisement (ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69455571)

Rated: G Warnings: some arguing, one (1) shove AO3 Link: (note: you must be signed in to read my fics on Ao3) Length: 5000

EDIT THIS HAD THE WRONG NAME EDIT AAA

Tenna did in fact feel it in the morning. As much as he was loath (and perchance a little afraid) to admit it, he was getting up in years, and hopping around like a teenager at a prom had done wonders to his back – as in, now he could feel every vertebrae! Ouch.

He groaned, rolling to his side to rub his aching spine. His brow knitted as he remembered the events of the evening prior, blank screen warming as he realized that he dreamt of a small hand in his, waltzing through the moonlit clouds with a symphony of stars around them.

Tenna quickly pushed aside the thoughts (though he reminded himself to save both the memory and dream to a VHS as a consolation, lovingly marked with the date) and tamped down his fluster by swinging out of bed. He did his routine of stretches and grabbed a casual, well-worn suit instead of his usual spruced up gear. Tenna had felt an urge to tend to Spamton's old garden, maybe get the pretty digita forget-me-nots growing once more….

Tenna found himself outside, a mug of coffee in his hand as he took a deep inhale of the fresh morning air. Birds were singing, Spamton's flowers seemed to still peek through the mess of weeds and uncultivated junk pixels… on days like these, it was perfect to get down and dirty in the soil, another shuffle-step to right some wrongs.

He tuned in to a music channel and snapped on a pair of gardening gloves, setting his coffee down on the garden table, fondly eyeing its surface – while it had been dirty, there were shining little scuffs marking a samba, a tango, a spin… Tenna did not have the heart to clean it just yet. He turned up the music in his head, thinking through his plan. In all honesty, it was a bit of an off day for him, literally, as he was currently sitting in an empty house. Something about visiting a cousin – he had been too busy thinking about Spamton to really have caught the phone conversation.

Tenna paused while de-weeding, then continued with a blush. The Latin synth he was listening to helped return his attention to the garden. He would see the short, funny man in a few hours, and until then he would garden, shower, and grab something light to eat before meeting him at the dance class. His mind drifted to outfit ideas, and he mentally flicked through his closet while the pile of invasive static grew and the flowers hiding behind became more evident. It was satisfying work, and by the time he finished, he had come up with the perfect outfit. It was something he had not worn in a while (maybe since he and Spamton were together) and it would be nice to take it to the streets again.

Tenna stood up, twisting side to side to take out the cricks that had manifested in his back. Smiling, he surveyed his handiwork, and while it was nowhere as good as Spamton's skill in the dirt, it was a solid effort. Proud of himself, he finished his coffee (not minding the lukewarm aspect, like a freak) and went inside to grab his next outfit. He took off the soiled garments and jumped into the chemical spray shower, giving a well worn sigh as the disinfectant misted around him. After a good fifteen minutes, Tenna shut it off, stepping out onto the cold tile and using a soft towel to wipe away any excess foam.

Then Tenna dressed up – a loose button up tee tucked into high waisted slacks. He looked like he was stepping out the day he was made, with the technicolor pop and classy flow of the garb. He smiled at himself in the mirror, seeing a handsome devil grinning back, and he threw out some finger guns, luckily not hitting the mirror with the move.

He still got it.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, head turned up and with a casual smile to match the casual outfit (read: not actually as casual as he pretended it was), Tenna strutted out the door. It was a lovely day. He found that his pace was unintentionally picking up only once he was already in a light jog, excitement bubbling and crackling out of his system. People stopped and waved, almost surprised to see Tenna in such a positive, bubbly mood. It had been a long time since he felt that spark.

Soon enough, he was at his favorite cafe, and picked up a technicolor blended ice coffee with two extra drops of pink and yellow. For no reason. Strawberry and lemon is a fantastic flavor combination, is all. The swatchling server raised a brow, hiding a smile as they slid over the drink.

"Thinking of someone?" they asked, smile sneaking out. Tenna nearly spat out his first sip, but managed to down it, swallowing a bit roughly. He replied, "What? No, of course not. Why? Why would I be thinking of anyone?"

"Mm… you seem to be in an excellent mood, is all," the swatchling hid their smile once more, but Tenna could see it flicker in their feathered eyes. They shrugged. "Must be a trick of the light."

"Makes sense," Tenna agreed, lying through his screen. "Well! I'll be seeing you!"

He had to force himself not to practically skip out of the cafe.

Tenna continued on his way to the dance studio, glancing up at the flashy neon sign. He almost choked on his own laughter as he read the name, something he had not registered until he read it on the building. Well, no matter what, they would certainly be entertained.

Lance Dance Revolution.

He grinned, leaning against the building with a quick glance to his watch. He was television style early – three minutes, enough time to grab a coffee or jump to the bathroom for an ad break. Lo and behold, the ad that was stuck in his head was coming right up from the opposite end of the road.

Spamton seemed to have spruced himself up for the occasion, sporting different sweater (still a v-neck) with a graphic design. Tenna recognized it as a 1997 edition of the MTV dancer awards. It made his smile glow brighter, and he pushed himself off the wall to greet the puppet.

"Good to see you, Spamton," he said, genuine. "I'm glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss it for [THE END IS NIGH]," Spamton replied, and Tenna could see him slightly relax, as though the hold on his strings had loosened a touch. Good. Tenna smiled as Spamton turned to inspect the building. "So, this [2-BD 1.5-BTH UNIT] is it?"

"Yes," Tenna answered, giving a smirk. A few people paused and glanced over them before entering the studio. Tenna reached out to hold the door open for his par… dance partner. "We're definitely in for a treat, dear Spamton."

Spamton walked in the door and then promptly tried to turn around and walk out, but Tenna gently urged him through the door. If he could constantly deal with Queen, then so could Spamton for two hours.

Spamton looked up at him, a flash of awkward discomfort evident in his eyes.

There was a question there, one that Tenna briefly felt reflected within himself, making him falter as well. It had nothing to do with Queen's presence.

Are we really doing this?

Tenna swallowed hard. Did he really want to do this? Did Spamton? Tenna had been fine without him. Great, even. Ratings consistently top of the line. Sure, he felt like his emotional life was replaced with the vacuum in his head, but that was the price to pay for success. Spamton did not have that in him. Too emotional.

Or, was it not his emotions and attitude that got him through everything? That got him to the top? Maybe it was bad luck and bad timing that led to Spamton's downwards spiral.

Maybe they needed to talk.

"We're doing this," Tenna said firmly, not only talking to Spamton, but also to the doubts in his head. "Come on… it's just two hours. Or… can't handle it?"

"I can [HANDLE WITH CARE] it!" Spamton scoffed, spinning on his heel and walking in to the studio. "I'm Spamton G. Spamton! I can take all the [BULK LEMONS] life throws, and I'll [TURN A PROFIT] on 'em, too!"

"That's the ticket, Spamton," Tenna beamed, feeling something inside him melt. Hopefully not literally. Then again, if there was something spazzing out, Spamton would know how to fix it. So no worries there, either. The pair went to a corner of the room, away from the massive speakers set up in the center, so that if the urge to talk struck them (and it definitely would, considering they were two chatterboxes) they would be able to hear each other. Another bonus was the very slight privacy that it afforded. Tenna pointedly ignored Queen as they got settled, but cheerfully waved at the little menace who apparently ran the place. "Hello, Lancer! What a fancy place you got here, young man!"

"Yeah, thanks!" the spade beamed, sticking out his tongue. "Swatch helped me with setting it up, but I designed it. It's cool, right?"

"Very," Tenna sagely agreed with a nod. "Love the lights."

"Yay!" Lancer threw a fist in the air, extremely pleased with the praise. "We can get this party started soon! We're just waiting on, uh…."

He looked up at his mom, who prompted him; "Two."

"Two more reservations!" Lancer nodded. "Yeah. Two more!"

"Looks like you had a [GREAT TURNOUT]," Spamton affirmed, smiling. "[YOUR AD HERE] was a success! I could swear that you have [MARKETING AND PROMOTIONS] in your blood, but that might be insulting to [HER ROYAL HINEY]."

"LOL. Thanks," Queen hardly looked up from the dance magazine she was flipping though. a pile of fifty or so sat on either side of her. Then, she peered over the edge, smiling. There was a certain sharpness to the grin that made a roiling shiver roll down Tenna's spine as she addressed him. "Nice To See You Brought A Hot Date. LMAO."

"Actually we're not dating, he's still my ex," Tenna was quick to correct her, flashing a bright, albeit terse smile. "We wanted to talk and this was a good occasion."

"LOL Good Luck Talking When the Music's On," Queen replied, back on her phone. Was she playing Candy Crush? Her mildly infuriating response at least allowed Tenna to ignore how sad Spamton had looked at Tenna's denial. "Lancer Only Plays The Best Hits At The Best Volume: The Max."

"Right," Tenna flashed another movie star grin, reaching into his deep pockets. He was glad he thought of bringing the little case, pulling it out and removing the headband from within, fixing it on his head. "Well, I'm prepared! Let's go, Spammy."

"They Are Totally Banging LOL," Queen posted on Monstagram. Tenna resisted the urge to show a certain finger that would have been blurred on national television, instead following Spamton's lead and ignoring her as they went back to their corner. The final two attendees had arrived at last, and Queen sounded an air horn to get everyone's attention. "OK Listen Up Chat: This Is Lancer's Dance Class. Everyone Better Like It Or Else I Will Drown Everyone Ever In Battery Acid… OK I Think Everyone Got The Message. You Got This Child."

"Yeah, um, this is my dance class," Lancer jumped up onto a little platform, striking a pose – earning thunderous applause from all attending. Someone (Spamton) even threw a flower. Lancer, quite pleased with the overwhelming positivity, gave a little bow and did a little jig. More applause followed. Another flower, too. "Thank you! Thank you! You're all beautiful! And that's the point of this dance thing, we're all gonna dance and have a good time and tell our friends that they're beautiful at the end. This is Lancer's special 'feel yourself' dance class, where we all have fun. Who's ready!?"

Tenna and Spamton's replies were slightly less enthused than the other attendees, side eying the other with some measure of trepidation. Were they really ready for that extent of forgiveness, to each other or themselves? Lancer, however, did not care for (more precisely, did not register) the two men's mirrored internal conflict, and hit the warm up beats.

Tenna could hardly hide his smile as he saw the incredibly tall platform boots that Spamton pulled out of his 'pocket'. Spamton easily put them on, subtly adding the small strings hidden in his socks to the boots – and Tenna then realized that they had knee ball joints; the strings allowing the puppet to use them like extenders of his own legs. Spamton stood, and the prostheses put him at around two thirds of Tenna's height, the shorter man executing a few wobbling moves, unused to being such a distance the ground.

Tenna pretended to do some stretches, instead watching the other with a sort of fascination and respect. Spamton's ingenuity and resilience always baffled him, and lent to Tenna's admiration of the man. Of the man's tenacity that is.

"Why the stilts, Spamton?" Tenna found himself asking, pulling a few lunges to keep up the pretense of preparation. He did acknowledge, though, that the preventative measure would probably help keep his back from aching as badly in the morning. Spamton did a little spin with a shrug, a small kick. Tenna thought he was adapting remarkably well. He continued, with a hint of reminding in his tone; "You know I could shrink down…."

"I'd rather [RISE TO THE OCCASION] at your [LVL UP]," Spamton replied, the almost arrogant confidence that Tenna lov- appreciated flaring warmly. He did a few more practice moves, accidentally scuffing one boot with the other's heel, pitching backwards. Tenna reached out instinctively and caught him, and they both stared as it became clear that Tenna had caught Spamton in a classic dip pose. An uncontrollable, sheepish smile burst onto Tenna's face past his surprise, and the light blush on Spamton's cheeks darkened considerably as he pushed himself up, righting onto his extended feet. "Usually that move is [SLOT RESERVED] for the [BIG FINALE], no?"

"I like to keep you on your toes, that's all," Tenna smiled, gently taking Spamton's hand. It was a gesture both to balance him and to start dancing with him (and, perhaps because he missed the solid sensation of Spamton's hand in his). Tenna, swept up with that simple, electrifying touch, pulled Spamton close to his side, flashing his classic movie star grin at him as his arm wrapped around his back. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "Seeing as you're already on them in those hot boy boots of yours, I've gotta work extra hard."

"Has anyone [PASSED DOWN THE GRAPEVINE] that you're a [WORLD CLASS JACKASS]?" Spamton complained, but Tenna saw the humorous light in his eyes that made Tenna's world seem just that bit brighter. He merely grinned at him and spun him out and around, then a quick two-step had them front to front once again. Spamton did not pull away. He could have. But he did not. In fact, he tugged on Tenna's hand, indicating that he wanted to take the lead. Tenna felt a small surge of hesitation, the need for control and order welling in him, but he tamped it down and allowed the smaller to swap their positioning. Spamton's smile softened, imperceptible to anyone but Tenna. It melted the CRT's heart as if it were a stick of butter someone put to his face. Spamton chewed on some words, then let them out. "You kept it."

For a moment, the urge to shove Spamton away surged, a defensive crawl sparking up his spine and making his antenna stand on end. He forced himself to calm with a few breaths, pulling up his smile once again.

"Sorry? I'm not following." Tenna let Spamton lead their sashay, eventually finding himself backed up towards the speakers and lights. Spamton reached up, Tenna tilting his head downwards to allow him to reach, expecting a gentle touch to the face, like Spamton used to do when watching something that sparked yearning on Tenna's screen – or when he simply wanted to touch his face. Instead, he was surprised (and slightly disappointed) when Spamton tapped the groovy headband that was resting over Tenna's forehead. "Oh! Yes, I did keep it.… It's, uh, very useful. It can be hard being CRT tech in an increasingly digitized world, what with all the microwaves, magnets, and wireless electricity all around."

"I'd have [CLIENT EXPECTATIONS] that you would have [VOIDED WARRANTY] and put the module into something else," Spamton said quietly, so quietly that Tenna almost did not hear him over the music. "Or [REVERSE ENGINEER] it and make [VARIETY PACK]."

"Call me old fashioned, but I like this one," Tenna beamed, this time unable to resist the urge to take the lead once again. He spun Spamton around, pulling him close and sliding him under his legs in a classic Charleston swing, with all its tugs and leans and flings. He pulled Spamton close again, to whisper once more. "I like this one."

He emphasized his words with a light full body squeeze.

"You're [HIT THE JACKPOT] that you're holding me so close," Spamton scoffed, but Tenna could see a hint of genuine smile hiding behind his stoic glare. "Otherwise I'd [THE MALE ANGLER FISH IS A LARGE ANNOYING AND USELESS PAIR OF GONADS] you."

Tenna could not help but laugh.

"Gosh, mailman, you'd win any comedy competition I'd try to host," he giggled. Though he loosened his hold at the threat, Spamton's back was solid and cool against his palm. He reveled in the feeling. "Of course I kept it. I couldn't get rid of it if I tried."

"You could have," Spamton said, sounding sad. It upset Tenna, naturally. "If you [PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT]."

"Oh, like you got rid of your ring?" Tenna snapped, gripping Spamton tighter with the welling of anger. Spamton gaped at him, half shocked by the sudden emotional shift; half grimly not surprised at all – having expected the switch all along. Maybe not like this, though, judging by the way he was unable to respond. Tenna's hand briefly clawed on Spamton's back, not pricking through the fabric of his shirt, though. "Oh, I saw. I saw how you made a fool of yourself for a quick buck, how you rode the coattails of the Lightners, how you listed your wedding ring along with cheap junk!"

"Oh, the guy who's [$0 DOWN] and had to sell his [PRIZED POSSESSIONS] is at fault here?" Spamton's eyes flashed with anger and hurt. He shook in Tenna's hold, pulling himself away, though Tenna refused to let go of his hand. Spamton went on, letting out what ached for years. "The [TOPSOIL] people picked what they wanted me to [GIVE UP GIVE UP GIVE UP GIVE UP]! They added my [AUTHENTIC AND GENUINE] fate to the mix! I would never have been [SLEEPING ROUGH] if you didn't [VOW ANNULMENT]. Where's my alimony, [SHACK RAT]?!"

Tenna's emotions were reeling off the spool – too many wracking through. He found himself shoving Spamton, the puppet falling without his support, like he had been loosely strung and barely able to have maintained an upright position. Tenna stared down at him at the hole he had fallen into, fighting a sick wave of déjà vu.

Tenna on top, out of the hole, standing and staring down at Spamton, who had fallen backwards into a pit that he could not get out of, but valiantly struggled to. Tenna knelt to reach for him, but Spamton swatted away his hand, undoing the boots and climbing up their black fabric instead of opting for Tenna's help.

"Where did these [GRAVE PLOTS] come from?" he asked in a grumble as he worked to pull the extenders from the hole. Lancer's head appeared from another one a few feet away, looking a bit apologetic. Spamton stopped tugging on the shoes (Tenna sneakily reaching over him to take them out for the puppet) and pointed at the boy. "Why are there [MIAMI DITCHES]?"

"Um…" Lancer looked down with thought, sticking out his tongue as he pondered. Then he looked up with a purely joyful expression. "Obstacles! Because dancing is more fun like that!"

Spamton slowly nodded. Then he turned back to the pit to extract his boots, pausing as he noted that they were out, spinning around with some measure of panic until he spotted them safely standing. He looked at Tenna. Tenna pretended to be very intrigued by the disco ball on the ceiling. Spamton silently jumped up the shoes and rewired them, then went over to Tenna.

This time he touched his face.

"Thank you," he said. Tenna smiled, his face warm under Spamton's hand. He gently took it, kissing the back with chivalry but a decidedly ungentlemanly smirk and wink. Without a word but with a soft blush, Spamton pulled Tenna back into dancing, the two much more careful about the 'obstacles' Lancer was enthusiastically digging about the room. Spamton looked away and then met Tenna's eyes. He leaned closer, now resting his hand on Tenna's shoulder rather than his forearm. Spamton went on his toes to whisper into Tenna's hearing receptacle. "I gave them a [HIGH QUALITY FORGERY]."

Tenna blinked, mouth clicking open as he processed.

"They [BEGGED AND PLEADED AND FORCED] for me to have it altered," Spamton went on, gripping Tenna's hand and shoulder in a mix of latent anger and hope. "They wanted me to [ERASE DATA] your name and replace it with [THE WORD OF THE DAY IS] 'you'."

"I…" was all Tenna could say, uncharacteristically speechless. It was clearly hard for Spamton to talk about, and Tenna realized this a moment too late, flushing with fluster. "Sorry. Go on… I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's [THREE STARS]," Spamton swallowed roughly, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Tenna gave a squeeze to his back again, this time to reassure him. "When I went and [GAVE PATRONAGE] to the jeweler for the [SCRATCH AND SWAP], I asked him to make a replica. Cost me a [HUMBLE BUNDLE] of stuff, but it was [TOTALLY WORTH IT]."

"So… you… you kept it? You still have it?" Tenna breathed, trembling lightly himself. He found himself tugging Spamton closer, unable to resist. Spamton nodded. Tenna pulled Spamton even closer, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Spammy! I'm so sorry I ever doubted you!"

"Okay, [TRASH HEAP], maybe this is [OVER THE TOP] PDA," Spamton awkwardly pointed out, but Tenna only held him tighter. After a moment of stiff resistance, Spamton gave in and hugged him back. Then, he paused, confused. "Are- are you crying?"

"No!" Tenna quickly snapped away, struggling to get his spasming sobs under control. "Got the hiccups all of a sudden. I totally wasn't overwhelmed by realizing that I misjudged you again because of my anger. Totally."

"Stand on your [BIG CUTE] [BLOCKHEAD]," Spamton helpfully suggested. The giggles that wracked through Tenna quickly got rid of said 'hiccups'. They then both sat down at the edge of one of the holes, tired out from the emotional ride, but only for a few minutes as the timer for the class suddenly rang out, signaling the end. Spamton rose, helping Tenna stand as well. "Well, looks like our [RECESS SCHOOL'S OUT] is over."

"Not if I can help it," Tenna muttered, giving Spamton's hand a squeeze. "Uh, Spamton, are you busy toni-"

"Okay everyone!" Lancer jumped out of the holes, standing once more on his platform. "I think we all had a great time-" more thunderous applause. Another flower. Two even. Lancer could not help but laugh aloud, clapping along. Then he managed to pull himself together, grinning as he continued. "So now we look at our buddy and tell them they're beautiful! Because we did a beautiful dance and now saw the beautifulness in each other." He smiled, looking at his mom. "I'll go first. Girl Dad, you're awesome and beautiful!"

"Aw Thanks Best Boy," Queen took a sip of her drink. Tenna could have sworn he saw a blip of a red recording light in the corner of her screen, but it probably was a screenshot of her son. "You Make The Word Beautiful Look Stupid. Because You Are Beyond It."

Everyone 'aw'ed at the adorable display, and then cooed again at the hug. Slightly embarrassed, Lancer gestured around to the rest of the room.

"Okay, everyone do that!" he happily announced, then raised a finger in 'warning'. "But your own version."

Spamton touched Tenna's face again, to make the other look at him. The screenhead could not resist if he wanted to.

"Tenna, you are a [CLASSIC]," Spamton remarked, looking into Tenna's face with sincerity. "You always were [SUPERMODEL] gorgeous and you [STILL GOT IT]."

The audacity and smooth ease that Spamton commanded took Tenna's breath away. He looked at him, and for once truly saw him. A lonely, wishful, longing man, who desperately missed the man he loved. Who he always loved, despite the hurt of their mutual, accidental betrayal.

He saw himself reflected in those retrofitted glasses, and the realization kneecapped him. Tenna stared silently at Spamton, gawking almost. Spamton's smile started to fade, as if thinking that Tenna was unable to return the compliment.

"You're beautiful, Spamton," Tenna breathed. Spamton blinked, a measure of suspicious disbelief coating him. Tenna gave his hand a pulse – they had not let go the entire time (minus when Spamton had fallen in the hole). "You really are. You've got… you've got something I can't put into words shining in you, and it's so bright and… mamma mia, it makes me dizzy to think about it too much. I missed it so much, and I'm… so, so… so grateful to see it again."

It was Spamton's turn to stare at him. The silence between them was rich and heavy, like foam- or rather, a thick, sweet whipped cream.

"Come to my place for dinner?" Tenna blurted, unable to phrase the question any more delicately with the emotional pressure in his head. He clutched Spamton's hand tightly. "Please? I promise it'll be more thrilling than a TV dinner."

"You had me [SOLD OUT] at 'my place', [STATIC FACE]," Spamton accepted, making another grin bloom over Tenna's face. The TV headed man led Spamton out the door immediately, having pre-paid for the class when he had made the reservation online. Spamton paused to thank Lancer. "Great [SMASH SESH], Prince. You sure know how to [RIP OUT THE RUG]!"

"Thanks, Mr. Spamton!" Lancer beamed. "Hope to see you again!"

He waved as they left, and Queen turned off the recording process, filing away the video under 'TV DWEEB BLACKMAIL LMAO'.

----

Tenna and Spamton walked hand in hand back to Tenna's place, Tenna admiring Spamton's poise and ability to walk in those high stilts. The barista that had served him earlier waved, and Tenna unthinkingly waved back. Neither said anything as they made their way to the TV personality's abode, though it was not an uncomfortable silence. There were miraculously less cars on the road than usual, so the amount of extra noise was reduced to a minimum, allowing them to talk if they wanted to. Neither had anything to say, for once. They were at the walkway only a few minutes later, regardless, and Spamton paused at the garden's table.

Tenna followed his gaze. Spamton was looking towards the garden.

It was in markedly better condition than the night before.

"I did a little work on it, earlier today," Tenna acknowledged softly. He could see Spamton's smile twitch into a softer one, his hand pulsing in Tenna's. That pulse emboldened the toweringly tall man. "Thinking of you the whole while."

"That's… [DENTIST ALARMING]ly sweet of you, Ten," Spamton said. Tenna beamed again, squeezed his hand again, and led him into the house. Though Spamton gave a little resistance, as though he were almost scared or nervous to enter the home he had not seen since his complete ruination. His eyes watered as he blinked, looking around with wonder. "It's… it's like a [TIME MACHINE] here…."

It was almost identical to how it used to be; as though Spamton could close his eyes and when he would open them, everything that had gone wrong would have been a nightmare. Everything stayed. A hand in his grounded him. Spamton fumbled in his 'pocket', pulling out a bouquet almost as big as he was, offering it forward to Tenna. He recognized the flowers as the ones that had been thrown to Lancer.

Tenna melted all over again.

"They're beautiful, Spammy," he murmured, carefully accepting them, taking a deep inhale. The arrangement of orange and yellow wallflowers tickled him pink, a soft smile on his face. "Let me put them in a vase, and then we can get to making dinner."

"'We'?" Spamton saw fit to point out and mockingly pout. Tenna could barely hold in his laughter at the sight. A snort escaped him. Spamton 'stomped' over to the counter and sat down, undoing the boots and kicking them off. "I'm only going to [MINIMAL EFFORT] help from here."

"That's alright," Tenna chuckled, setting the flowers on the dining room table putting on his 'Kiss the Cook' apron as he entered the kitchen. He was struck with the realization that he wanted to kiss Spamton all afternoon, and quickly pivoted. "I misspoke. I will make us dinner."

"Great, because you are [MICHELIN TIRE] compared to me," Spamton complimented, happily kicking his feet. "Missed your [FOOD NETWORK]."

Tenna said nothing, only smiled as he got cooking.

It was a shuffle-step, two steps forward, one step back, but they were getting somewhere.

Dancing along.

[randomwriteronline]

New Hire

Since I've been rolling a bunch of Human AU things in my brain lately, it was time to put Avak through hell again!

The Shadowed One's hiring process isn't exactly the standard, but you certainly can't deny the results.

[randomwriteronline]

three things in life (3/3)

Grant's been trying to deal with his boss' new... activity. He's doing his best to be happy for him, he really is. Unfortunately his feelings are getting in the way.

chapter 1: ink demonth - taxes chapter 2: ink demonth - death chapter 3: ink demonth - chaos

For @halfusek; inspired by his You Left Me in a Heartbeat :); Part 2 of Fallen Down

Rated: T Warnings: unhealthy relationships and implied abuse, not actually cute, heartbreak AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69655971/chapters/180943026 (note; you need an ao3 account to read my works on the platform) Length: 3750

Norman frowned as he knocked on the bathroom door again. He did not need to use it, especially because there were other restrooms to use instead, but the muffled crying from behind the door was concerning. He had come to ask Grant some questions in regards to when he would allocate some of the budget to upgrading the projectors. Unfortunately, he did not find him in his office – but slowed down on his exit back to the abyss, hearing the stifled sobs emanating from the floor's bathroom. Being the concerned coworker he was (definitely without any ulterior motives, as he was absolutely not a nosy man with a gossip streak), he stuck around in an attempt to figure out what was bothering the constantly frazzled, more recently absentminded accountant.

"Come on, Grant," Norman gently coaxed. "You'll feel better if you talk about it."

"Go away!" Grant's gravelly voice growled, even hoarser than usual thanks to the tears. "I don't want to talk about it, Polk!"

"Oh, please," Norman shook his head. "It's not good to keep it in. Let's go and sit in the library and we'll talk it out."

"No!" Grant barked. Norman tartly commented, "Do you have to be so stubborn?"

"Yes," Grant replied, but Norman was glad to hear the slightest calm breaking through his hysterics. "It's in my blood."

"Well, how about you and your blood come out now?" Norman prodded once more. Grant made an uncertain little noise, almost like a lost dog howling sadly. Norman fought an incredulous snort. "Are you coming out?"

"No," Grant sniffled, sounding thankfully much calmer. "I'm never coming out."

"Of the bathroom, Grant."

It took a moment for the other to understand the sly joke.

"You're an ass!"

"And I'll continue to be one until you get yours out of the bathroom," the projectionist smoothly replied. He frowned at a colorful curse that escaped from behind the wood. "Hey now. You were calmed down just a few seconds ago. Take a few deep breaths, okay? I do promise you that I'm not going anywhere."

Norman could hear the stuttering compliance, the shaky exhales. He nodded with a measure of satisfaction, even though Grant could not see him, relieved that he was listening to him. It took several minutes, but eventually, the crying ceased, and Grant's breathing was leveled out. They stood in silence for some time.

"Norman?" Grant eventually called out, voice tight and warbling – but calm. "Are you still there?"

"I said I would be," Norman gently replied. "So here I am."

"Okay," Grant granted, exhaling again. Then, extremely quietly, so quiet that Norman could hardly hear him, he murmured; "Thank you."

"Of course," Norman just as softly replied. Grant slowly opened the door, staring at the floor as he exited the restroom. Norman opened his arms to the money man, and he watched with a heavy heart as Grant slowly raised his head to meet his eyes, tearing up behind his small circular glasses. Then, he pressed himself into the hug, gripping back and trying to restrain himself from bursting into a fresh round of crying. "Hey… I've got you…. Do you think you can talk about it���?"

"I don't know," Grant gulped down sobs. "I said things I shouldn't've, I blew up when I should've stayed calm, I just- I made a mess of myself."

"Why? What happened?" Norman asked, shifting back to hold Grant by the shoulders, inspecting his distraught face. The accountant hesitated, and Norman strengthened his grip on him. "Nuh uh, don't think that I'll let you slip back into the bathroom."

"Not even for a tissue?" Grant joked, lips twitching into the slightest smile. With a roll of his eyes and an fondly amused shake of his head, Norman plucked the kerchief out of Grant's pocket and handed it to him. "Ah. I see. Very well, then."

"Yep, you're staying right out here with me," Norman nodded, shifting to steer him towards the rotunda. As they walked through the room with the central, illuminated Bendy statue, Grant felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as though they were silently being watched, but looking back into the room only proved that they were entirely alone. Shrugging to shake off the odd feeling, he let Norman slot him into one of the tall backed armchairs. With an extensive sigh, Norman plopped down, stretching out his legs. "Ah, That's the ticket…." he paused, thinking over his words. "I take it your meeting didn't go so well."

"Oh, really, how could you tell?" Grant sarcastically asked, but forced a smile. It came out sad. Norman hummed, and with a sad smile of his own, said; "I dunno. I've been told I'm a rather perceptive individual."

"You are," Grant conceded, falling into a quiet lull. Norman let him mull over his thoughts and words without pressure. After all, he looked like he was on the verge of shattering into many tiny pieces if he was so much as breathed on wrong. Eventually, Norman's quiet patience and calm presence bore fruit, Grant stirring and finally finding what to say. "Well… you're right about my meeting with Joey turning to shit. We were discussing the tax season, and how I would explain the uptick in travel and food spending."

"I see," Norman nodded, following along. "What happened then? Joey decided to tell you about some sort of secret thing he's planning on investing in that quadruples your workload?"

"Ha, no, I could handle that," Grant waved off, smiling with some tears brimming in his eyes. "Honestly, I wish it was that. I would've been annoyed, or even angry, but not…."

He shook his head, trying to clear it from the word that had immediately come to mind. He rubbed his chest with a light cough, throat constricting.

"It wasn't that," he choked out, blinking back tears. He hesitated for another moment, organizing his thoughts. "Norman, what was the studio like when Henry was here?"

Norman was taken aback by the question, but he supposed it was inevitable. The connections already were snapping into place in his mind. So Grant's higher stress was correlated with the sudden reappearance of the ex-founder into Joey's life. He pursed his lips, considering how to respond. After a little pondering, he sighed, giving a shake of his head.

"It was… less organized," he started slowly. "More relaxed. There really only was Henry working on the art and animations, and I'd be lying if I'd say that he wasn't overworked to hell. Joey started becoming consumed by running the business and pulling in investors, regardless that his passion lay in the process."

"Right…" Grant murmured, processing. So Joey did know Henry as a passionate, inspiring individual. Of course he did – Grant expected no less of Joey. However, now, Henry was not quite those aspects. A cold fear rose in him that maybe Henry could recapture those elements; and he pushed down why that thought had made him feel so upset. Clearing his throat, he said, "Please go on, Norman."

"Alright. The relaxed atmosphere I mentioned? Well, it started slipping and turning into a miasma where no one really was able to fix the problem," Norman went on, pulling a book off the shelves to thumb through it. "Henry's solution was to snap and vanish. Then Joey, once he got out of the hospital, realized that despite us having no money, we needed to hire more people to actually get off the ground. That's where you came in."

"Why, um, was Joey in the hospital…?" Grant asked with some dread, feeling as though he knew the answer, but unsure if he wanted it confirmed. Norman's face darkened, scowling silently. Grant winced. "Sorry I asked…."

"No, you're fine," Norman assured him, sounding a bit distant. "No one but Joey really knows what happened that day. Joey said he tripped and fell. But who faces backwards to go down stairs?"

A discomfiting chill speared down Grant's spine, a psychosomatic flare of sympathy for the studio head. He felt his visage shift into something pained, and he rubbed his face in an attempt to clear the expression.

"That… that's horrible," Grant murmured, circling his temples as he fought off a headache from sprouting. "And I'm assuming that's how…?"

"Yes," Norman answered, knowing exactly what Grant wanted to know. "I have my suspicions on the subject, as you can tell."

"As do I," Grant agreed, clasping his hands together to avoid their trembling. Melancholia trickled through his veins, smothering the righteous rage. A sad smile crept over his lips. "Those suspicions lent to my… emotional outburst in regards to the news Joey gave me."

"Oh?" Norman pressed lightly, brow furrowing. He felt an odd sense of trepidation creep over his shoulders like a noose. He pressed a hand to the side of his throat. Grant looked away, biting his lip hard enough to turn it white. Norman's vague discomfort skyrocketed. "Grant? What did Joey say?"

"Henry's coming tomorrow."

----

The silence was unusual and uncomfortable. Typically, chat and gossip was a common feature of the studio, but at the time, it was eerily quiet. The tension was palpable, each manifesting it in a different way. Sammy plucked at his banjo, glaring at Joey as though he could send the man to hell with simply his gaze. Norman fiddled with a projector, playing a few of the old cartoons on the break room wall. Joey had not requested that he bring them up, but Norman saw fit to anyways. Perhaps to make Henry, or Joey, or both, uncomfortable. It had been a different time. Wally was, with an obviously feigned smile, munching on the cake Sammy had brought for himself as a 'crappy day pick me up'. A pool of dread seemed to be settled by the janitor's feet, no matter how frequently he shifted about. Grant sat silently, shuffling though some papers without seeing what was written on them, his eyes puffy and red. He had rinsed them repeatedly, hoping that it would quell the obvious emotion, but only time would tell how successful he had been.

Joey was holding a cup of coffee between trembling fingers, not having the ability to sit still long enough to actually take a sip. The excitement was getting to him, cutting through the nerves and obvious negative energy of the room. They had all stayed late for Joey's sake as the Thursday train was an evening arrival, as the man asked them all to – and all of them had their own reasons to lend this favor to Joey Drew.

The little conversation that was going around ceased suddenly at the sound of the studio's ringer going off. All activity ceased, and everyone's gaze drifted towards the top of the stairs. No one moved a muscle for a long moment, until Wally stirred.

"I'll get it!" the normally cheerful man said, his tone suspiciously flatter than expected to be at seeing an old friend. Wally quickly dashed out of the stifling atmosphere and up to the door, evidently flinging it open by the bang noise that followed. They could hear him say; "Henry Stein! It's great to see you!"

Maybe the other caught the slight over-acting in the janitor's tone. It was very unlikely. He had not, after all, been around for a long time.

Grant felt himself go tense as the footsteps approached, though a hand came to his shoulder, making him glance up. He relaxed as he took in Norman's supportive gaze, a brisk nod before he returned to sitting backwards at the projector. The flickering light helped hide the hard edges of his dark expression. Sammy carefully, deliberately, restarted strumming; an old tune that Grant recognized as one of the first pieces of the studio. A melancholic aura wafted about the room, Grant wishing that there was a lighter side of hell.

Then he saw him, coming down the stairs with Wally.

Even as he conversed with some easy small talk with the janitor, Henry did not look like how the pictures used to portray him; an obvious basis, maybe, but heavily marred with time and drink. There was a wary acidity to his eyes, a smile that did not quite reach them on his lined face. Suspicion seemed to emanate from his body language, along with a certain untouchable sensation. Grant shirked back behind his papers, hoping not to be noticed, at least not at that moment.

"Henry!" Joey exclaimed, wheeling over swiftly. He took the others hand, giving it a squeeze, tightening Grant's heart with the same motion. Henry's pulse back did not go unnoticed by the observant accountant. He carefully set down the papers so as to not crush them as his hands molded into fists. "It's so good to see you… I'm glad you made it. Really glad."

"Yeah, me too," Henry gave a tired smile, setting down a bag and a briefcase. Grant and Norman eyed the second with apprehension. "Couldn't tell how much I missed the big city until I stepped off the platform. A blink and it hits you, kind of thing."

He turned to see who else was in the room, and Joey hurriedly stepped (verbally) in.

"Most of the other staff couldn't stay so late," Joey apologetically explained, but with a smile on his face. "But no big deal! You'll get to meet everyone tomorrow, and observe how things move along in the here and now!"

"I understand, Joey," he chuckled softly. Grant's hackles raised. Normally, Joey was assertive and got what he wanted, how and when he wanted it. He was behaving like a puppy around Henry, darting around his ankles for a scrap of attention. "I'm glad to see the old faces, though. Norman, Sammy, hope you're both doing well."

"Been better, Henry," Norman coldly said, bright teeth flashing in the flickering light of the projector, giving him a vicious appearance for a moment. As though he were questioning why Henry dared come back. "And yourself?"

"Been better, since Joey's come around," Henry answered, at first startled by Norman's cool greeting but then meeting it in kind. He gave a smile to the tall artist, squeezing his hand. "Joey is a guy who always pulls through."

Norman only gave a light nod, and Sammy muttered something with a scowl, changing the song he was playing to something even more wistful and sad (if that was even possible). Henry's gaze briefly stopped on the musician, then drifted over to the only face he did not recognize, and he let go of Joey's hand to come over, his hip leaning against the table. Grant stood to greet him, unsure if he should extend a hand. He caught Joey's hopeful eyes from over Henry's shoulder, and gave in. For him.

"Grant Cohen, Mr. Stein," he introduced himself with a smile that felt like door nails being driven into his face. Henry barely took his hand an almost disdain hiding in his eyes. Grant's skin crawled at Henry's warm touch, glad it was kept short. "Joey's said a lot of really good things about you. Always spoke highly of you."

Of course, it was partially a lie, as Joey had tended to avoid talking about Henry until the two had come back into each other's orbits once again. Henry studied him for a moment longer.

"So, you're Grant the accountant?" Henry looked him over, a thin, albeit cold, smile appearing after a moment as he leaned away. "You're the one that dragged Joey back to New York then?"

Grant felt himself go hot and cold, teeth gritting together for a moment as he felt bile rise up in his jammed throat. A sensation of despair flashed over him, thinking with a vague mortification, dragged back…?

"I, uh, did call a few months ago for Joey to come back to his studio," Grant managed to say, forcing up a smile of his own. While he was speaking to Henry, he addressed Joey in tandem, knowing he was listening. "We needed our head back. He's… an amazing leader. Without him, we're lost."

"He is an amazing guy," Henry quietly concurred, and Grant wanted to shake him. If he could acknowledge that Joey was amazing, why could he not treat him any better? As though reading Grant's mind, Henry gave a tight smile, next words almost teasing. "We all need him, don't we?"

"We needed you, too," Sammy's voice was an unfamiliar, sudden rasp. The room turned to look at the angered musician, breaths freezing as though the oxygen in the room ceased existing. Icy discomfort cascaded through the room. "You were one of us, Henry. You were the only thing keeping us from falling apart. Then Joey fell, and you…."

"Now, Sammy," Joey attempted to placate, unease and alarm written over his face. "No need to stir up any of that old-"

"It's not old, Joey. It's been hovering in the air too long, never leaving. Henry, you abandoned us," Sammy hissed. A fire burned in his eyes, hands tightening roughly around the head of the banjo as he stood. "You left us all, and didn't give a shit how things would go for us. Frankly, I don't know why you came back, because it definitely wasn't for Joey."

Sammy did not wait for an answer, storming off, marching up the stairs.

Wally glanced around, nervously shifting from foot to foot.

"I'll go talk to him," he offered, making his way to the stairs. "Good old Sammy! Always such a grump after the work day. Anyway, I'm outta here. See you all tomorrow!"

The four remaining talked for a few minutes longer before Joey confessed he wanted to go home; tired out from the day and wanting to spend quality time with Henry. As they left, Grant instinctively gravitated behind Joey's wheelchair – only for the spot to be taken.

Grant watched Henry help Joey into his car with an aching heart.

And went home alone.

Friday had gone by in a blur. There had been a massive fuss in the animation and writing departments over the return of the legendary Henry Stein. These large groups had not been invited to the soured reunion. The music department, following the lead of their head, appeared less enthused, though some curious members had come up to meet him. Though most were star struck, only a brief interlude had passed before Henry was flocked with admirers and eager apprentices.

It seemed that Henry's mood had flipped as the reception towards him was markedly improved.

Grant came up to Joey's office to drop off the checks for the week, glancing at his watch. Soon it would be time for him to go home, and he had not been looking forward to the weekend more in a good long while.

Grant raised his hand to knock on Joey's door, but hesitated. He could hear low voices beyond the wood, and against his better judgment, pressed his ear to it.

"I could get used to this, Joey," he heard, a quiet murmur. Soft sounds that made him blush, sinking against the door. "I could get used to this, a lot."

"Oh, Henry…." a pause, a giggle. Grant could only imagine what had caused such a sweet sound. "I'd like that. Partners…?"

"Partners."

Grant left the checks in Joey's door bin, retreating with tears in his eyes and sharp pain in his heart; the angry lump returning and settling heavily in his throat.

[randomwriteronline]

If you do not verify your Google Account (YouTube as well) your account will be disabled and deleted

Yup. You heard me right, right here is the source: https://support.google.com/accounts/answer/1350409

And here is a screenshot if you don't want to click the link:

So start planning a Google back-up right now.

[randomwriteronline]

three things in life (2/3)

Grant's been trying to deal with his boss' new... activity. He's doing his best to be happy for him, he really is. Unfortunately his feelings are getting in the way.

chapter 1: ink demonth - taxes chapter 2: ink demonth - death chapter 3: ink demonth - chaos (coming soon)

For @halfusek; inspired by his You Left Me in a Heartbeat :); Part 2 of Fallen Down

Rated: T Warnings: unhealthy relationships and implied abuse, not actually cute AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69655971/chapters/180867111 (you know the drill by now -- you need an ao3 account to read my works on the platform) Length: 2000

Grant's head lifted from his work at a rhythmic knock. He got up and opened it, smiling at a cheerfully grinning Joey. What could he say? Joey's smile was contagious. It was difficult not to return it. He gestured at the finished budget for the month, making Joey's smile widen even more.

"Aren't you a wonder, Grant?" Joey flattered, shaking his head with a smile. "Great work. Can I treat you to another coffee? There's something I wanted to talk to you about, and I liked the atmosphere over there."

"Oh, uh, yeah, I'd love that," Grant blurted, then blushed. Joey's bemused smile and raised eyebrow made that blush increase tenfold. "I- I mean, it is a really nice place. And contrary to popular belief, I do in fact like to get out of the studio now and then."

"As do I," Joey lowly agreed, still smiling. "I'll meet you upstairs, then."

"I'd be happy to come up with you now," Grant said, standing. "I did finish this budget, and I can get the checks out to the workers by the end of the week for Friday payday. I could absolutely go for a coffee."

"Great," Joey's smile seemed to relax, though Grant could see nerves in his eyes. "Let's go, then."

"Mind if I wheel you?" Grant asked as they began to go down the hall to the elevator. At Joey's hesitation, he hastily added, "Just offering."

"I would appreciate it," Joey quietly acquiesced after a moment, flashing another smile that made Grant's stomach twist as he returned it. He was extremely grateful that he could hide his flushed face by slipping behind Joey. It took a few moments for his heartbeat to return to a normal pace. Grant could hardly understand why his boss made him so nervous, when he was certain that he enjoyed spending time with him. Grant immediately logged that thought away. Wally waved cheerfully at them as they passed by, and kindly held the door of the studio open for them. Eventually, Joey and Grant settled themselves back in the coffee shop, this time Grant choosing a circular table near one of the cute crescent windows, as his head was bothering him far less than the day before. Joey smiled at him as Grant sat down, the sunlight illuminating his brilliant grin. Grant could not resist but smile back. "Thank you for pushing me, Grant."

"It's nothing, Joey," Grant shook his head, raising a hand. "I appreciate the break."

"Taking out my favorite accountant to a quaint little coffee shop? It's my pleasure," Joey proudly replied with that far too charming grin. Their server came up, the same one as the day before, thanking them for their continued patronage. Then, they took their orders, this time Grant opting for a spiced tea while Joey went for the classic Americano. Grant gave a content sigh, leaning back in his chair. Joey smiled at him again, though this time it was a bit terse. "Grant, I wanted to continue our discussion from yesterday."

"Oh?" Grant raised an eyebrow. Their server returned with their drinks, prompting them to thank them for their prompt service. Grant took a sip, cleared his throat, and, while adding a small spoonful of sugar, said; "Go on?"

"You see, Grant, I was being, uh, serious," Joey replied, fiddling with his fingers, smile plastered on his face to hide his nerves. "When I asked if my California expenses would be considered a write off if I was trying to get Henry back into the studio."

Grant almost swore as the horrible tightness returned. He frowned, slowly taking a sip of his drink as he tried to calm down his racing thoughts. Surely Joey meant it as in attempting to coax a man who would never come, but only was seeking to have a 'legitimate' reason to keep going to the other side of the States every few weeks. That had to be the case. That was all. Still, Grant's self soothing reassurances did nothing to ease the pain that sparked in his chest. Glumly he realized that had to get clarification in order to truly stop the thoughts cascading through his head.

"By that," he haltingly said, lowering his mug, "Do you mean 'attempting' to get him back to working in the studio, or do you mean genuinely nudging him to return?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Grant realized that he did not need to ask – the answer was obvious in Joey's eyes. A flare of hurt rose up in his throat; fiery tracks streaking along his jugular. It was suddenly difficult to swallow.

"Well…" Joey slowly started, shifting in his wheelchair with a measure of discomfort. He flashed a smile at Grant again; this time the money man unable to return it thanks to the constricting dread lodged in his neck and shoulders, flaring out to the rest of his body. "Henry's actually on his way. Right now."

"… what…?" Grant barely breathed, eyes wide. His hands, which had been trembling, began to shake something fierce. He gripped the mug tighter, hearing ringing in his ears and his vision going blurry. "He's coming? Now?"

"He should be arriving tomorrow," Joey replied, shoulders raising a bit. "Just to see the studio, check out the changes, all that."

Joey watched Grant's expressions flash across his tired face, typically hard to read; but now jarringly obvious. First, there was shock, followed by anger, then resignation, and finally, hurt. Joey could not think of a word to say, employer and employee staring at each other in a tense, emotional deadlock.

"Are you kidding me?" Grant asked, sounding quite hollow to his own ears. By the way Joey's cheeks colored a touch, it was obvious to him as well. "Joey, are you fucking kidding me?"

"Now, Grant," Joey hurriedly tried to placate him. "It's nothing set in stone-"

"That, that man left you- your studio, waltzing off into the sunset without so much as a notice!" Grant exploded, unable to contain his turbulent emotions any longer. "And while you were in the hospital no less! I might not have known him personally, but that action alone speaks volumes. Those who did know him hardly paint him in rosy colors, either, and you hardly spoke of him until you went to that damn artist's convention! If I knew what would come of it, I'd've strangled myself before encouraging you to go!"

It was Grant's turn to watch Joey's expression slowly disintegrate, shifting from that pasted on smile to an empty hollow one as he ranted. Grant breathed, hard, vision blurring once again. Damnit.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, sitting back down. "That was completely unprofessional and uncalled for of me. I just wish that you'd see what was right in-"

Grant suddenly stopped speaking, turning to stare at Joey. There was an odd discoloration to the side of his eye that had caught his attention. Grant had earlier assumed it to be the lighting, but now realized that it certainly was not the case. It was smeared, masked, and it took Grant a moment to figure out what he was looking at.

"Are… are you wearing make up?" he incredulously questioned. Joey blinked at him, his hand subconsciously going up towards his eye. Joey shook his head in denial, green eyes on Grant, his wide smile not reaching them giving away his deception. "You are, I know very well when you're lying to me. Joey, why are you wearing make up?"

"I uh, wasn't sleeping well, so I dabbed on a bit of concealer," Joey replied. Grant reached over, balancing on Joey's armrest as he prodded under Joey's eye. The man winced away, flailing his hands in front of his face to urge Grant away. "Ouch- hey, hands to yourself!"

Grant obeyed, sitting back down. His hands gripped his drink in an effort not to shake. Joey bit his lip, but then covered up his nerves by taking a draught of his drink. It was all too obvious, now, considering that Joey only had concealer on one eye, and his cheek was tender – it was because of a bruise.

"He hit you?" Grant said more than asked, quiet, shocked, and filled with an icy ache. In spite of his best efforts, his throat began to hurt once more. Joey fell quiet, hesitant, and Grant dropped his head into his hands, unable to restrain his shaking any longer. "Joey, he hit you, and now he's on his way over to- to 'check out' the studio!?"

"I was making up for the lost weekend!" Joey defended, raising his hands. Grant's jaw dropped as he tried to process his words. "You know how I only went to California once this month, so I invited him to come to New York."

"Making up for- Joey, he hit you in the face!" Grant found himself standing up, bewildered. Anger slowly built up in his chest, making it grow tighter, the lump returning to his throat like a boulder. "He should be making it up to you! Not the other way around!"

"Grant, I…" Joey stared at Grant dumbly, at a loss for words. His normally calm accountant having two highly emotional outbursts within one conversation was completely out of the ordinary. He was having difficulty wrapping his head around it. "Are… are you okay?"

"You keep asking me if I'm okay, and I could be 'okay' most of the time," Grant snapped, gripping his head. He looked up at him, clawing through his hair. "I can say I am even when I'm not, but not for this. I can hold it in when you go to California every other week, or if you spend a load of money on him, taking him out to a nice meal, or enabling his bad habits, but I am not okay with him hurting you. How are you okay with it?"

Joey only stared at him, a smile plastered on his face. There was a hint of discomfort in his eyes, which stung Grant even more. It was like he was barely, barely, getting through to the man. Trembling returned to his hands, forcing him to grip his cup once more in desperation, as though it were his only remaining lifeline.

"I don't understand," Grant whispered, throat tight and aching more than it had in the past months. Joey's smile slowly slid off his face. "I don't understand, Joey. Please help me understand."

"Um, understand what?" Joey asked, knowing full well what was baffling and distressing Grant. Joey was oddly flustered by the other's breakdown. He was not sure how to handle it. Grant's hand reached over, shaking as it pressed to Joey's wrist. "Grant…?"

"Why do you feel so drawn to him?" Grant asked, sadly, his anger all fizzled out. A tear escaped his eye, and his hand trembled against Joey's cool skin. "Why do you keep going back to him? Going out to California, catering to his needs and wants, spending your time and money on a washed out run away drunk when I'm-"

Grant immediately understood he had severely overstepped his mark. He cut himself off with a sharp gasp. Joey was looking at him with an intense blend of emotions, ranging from enraged to embarrassed to stupefied. Grant sat back down slowly, unsure when he even stood to begin with, retracting his hand from Joey's tremoring wrist.

"I- I'm sorry," Grant hollowly said. "I just… hate seeing that he hurt you. Hate knowing I can't do anything about it. I'm certain he's hurt you in the past, he's hurting you now, and I know he's going to hurt you more. I hate it."

"Grant…."

His eyes were brimming, painfully landing on Joey's beautiful green eyes – ones that Henry….

"He doesn't appreciate you," Grant spouted, standing on wobbly feet, futily wiping at his dripping tears. "I- I'm going back to work. I'm sorry."

"Grant-" Joey said, all he heard as he ran away.

[randomwriteronline]

three things in life (1/3)

Grant's been trying to deal with his boss' new... activity. He's doing his best to be happy for him, he really is. Unfortunately his feelings are getting in the way.

chapter 1: ink demonth - taxes chapter 2: ink demonth - death (coming soon) chapter 3: ink demonth - chaos (coming soon)

For @halfusek; inspired by his You Left Me in a Heartbeat :); Part 2 of Fallen Down Rated: T Warnings: unhealthy relationships and implied abuse, not actually cute AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69655971/chapters/180705051 (you know the drill by now -- you need an ao3 account to read my works on the platform) Length: 2750

Grant sat in his office chair, doing absolutely nothing besides staring at the door. Chest moving shallowly, he could hardly register his own breathing around the tightness in his lungs. The laughter from the animation department trickled into his office from the pipes, the quiet strumming of Sammy testing tunes and chords underlying the mirth.

Admittedly, while Joey was out, the studio developed a more relaxed and fun sort of atmosphere – after all, the boss was out. Repeatedly. Grant suspected that Heavenly Toys started keeping alcohol on the conveyor belts for when Joey would leave, leading to even worse quality control. Sometimes he saw Shawn or another worker take a swig unthinkingly from their paint containers, then spit it out all over the fabric they had been working over, ending up with it in the trash. The music department was kept on track, however, because Sammy was furious every time Joey left – calling it abandoning the studio. Grant did not want to think he was right, holding out hope that Joey would remain committed to the dream he had built all of this on. Aside from the music, the only things that were done on time were the paychecks going out and Joey heading off to the train station on every other Friday afternoon. What would Joey say, if he realized how his piss poor management was destroying his company?

Ay, gevalt.

He would have probably smiled crookedly at Grant and told him everything was going just fine, then quickly change the topic. Grant had barely managed to convince the man to see Henry only once this month instead of his usual bi-weekly trip, pleading with him with nearly everything in his arsenal: the studio; the employees; Joey's health; Grant's sanity – the only thing that really made a difference seemed to be when Grant would tell him that without a job, he would not be able to sustain his trips to the other side of the States nor keep up with the lavish spending he had been showering over Henry.

A bolt of discomfort shot through his throat, nestling like a rock. He rubbed it, trying to quell the yell that was certainly building up. Tuesday. Today was Tuesday. Again. Which meant that Joey should be back today. Grant had mixed feelings about Joey's return, always feeling stifled and afraid that this would be the week that Joey would decide not to come back. Grant did not want to seriously confront why it was that he felt so strained at the thought of walking out the door forever; or why the idea of getting news that Joey was quitting made his chest ache.

Instead, he looked up at the clock, watching it tick away. Listened to the laughter; the gentle music. Ignored the tightness in his throat. He carefully reached for his cup of coffee, though in spite of his caution, he nearly knocked it over as his hands trembled something fierce. Was he really so affected by Joey's tardiness? It was nearly two in the afternoon, and Joey usually came in around ten after his trips. Only one financial quarter had passed since the Artist's Convention, and Grant could have sworn that he had twice the amount of gray hair than prior to the show.

Maybe he needed a vacation. He sipped his drink, tremoring hands wrapped tight around the mug. The bitter blend made him relax his shoulders a bit, slowly turning away from the door with a moderate level of dejection. Grant looked at their wavering financial reports tacked up on the walls, ran a hand through his hair, pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Despite the coffee, Grant felt exhausted; drained and hollow. A vague sadness trickled along his limbs as he pushed himself to stand, marking a line on a different chart he had set up next to the financials. He studied it for a moment, then shook his head with dismay. He did not like the trend he saw, but canned that thought and emotion with as much force as he could muster.

His eyes burned as he went to the bathroom to spill out the dregs of his coffee. Grant cleaned his desk meticulously, eyes constantly drifting between the clock and door. So far, no luck. He took as much time as he could reasonably give himself, then sighed as he looked over his decluttered office. There was nothing else for him to do that day. That day, he and Joey were supposed to have a meeting, which would then lead into Grant's directive for the next two weeks, until the bills would come in and the checks would go out. But since Joey was a no-show, that meant the show would not be going on, so there was no need to figure out which budget template to use for the next studio project — considering that there was none to speak of.

At least tomorrow the tax forms were expected to come in, and that was certainly going to be a doozy, as Grant would have to figure out how he could claim each of Joey's extravagant meals with Henry as business expenses. Sure, had it been an investor, or Arch, or if Henry had been part of the studio, hell, if Joey had taken Grant out for a nice meal, then it would have been a far easier task. What was he supposed to put for the purpose? Possibility of re-recruiting old animation head? It felt like a cosmic joke dropped right onto Grant. What with how Joey had previously refused to speak of Henry, the accountant always had a nasty feeling surrounding the man, and watching Joey wrapped around his fingernail drove Grant up the wall. Certainly it would only be a matter of time before he would completely snap.

He had to get some air. Immediately. The aching compression in his chest and the scream building up within his throat were going to rip him into tiny pieces if he did not start breathing again within the next two minutes.

Grant closed his briefcase and briskly walked out of his office, making a stop in the break room to set down his coffee mug. It had been a gift from Joey, the man claiming boastfully that he had painted it himself, but Grant never felt too certain about the bold remark. His chest tightened once more, like a belt was wound around his lungs and had another yank drawn to the end. He hurried up the stairs, the echo of mirth still ricocheting down to him. Some of the animators waved at him as he passed the foyer to the exit, and all he could do was nod.

Grant, in his hurry, nearly tripped over Joey as he stumbled out of the door just as the studio head was entering. Joey's arm snapped out and caught him from falling by the back of his jacket, accidentally pulling Grant's collar into his throat.

"Whoa- hey, Grant!" Joey helped steady him, wheeling back out of the doorway to let the door shut. It remained partially opened, but Joey paid no mind, focused on the frazzled accountant. He smiled at him, that crooked smile that usually made Grant smile back without thinking. This time, Grant only stared as he took in shallow, quick breaths, hand tight around the handle of his briefcase. "I'm sorry I'm late," Joey slowly said, looking over him with some vague confusion, evident in the way his brows notched together. "There was a delay at the station coming in."

"Yeah, great, thanks," Grant forced a smile, waving a hand, then realized what he said made no sense. "I mean, it's fine. You're here now, so it's fine."

"Grant, um…" Joey broached cautiously, tilting his head as he finished quietly inspecting the accountant. "Are… are you fine…?"

The scream in Grant's throat ached to come out, his eyes burning hot as he stared at Joey with a strange blend of emotions. Anger? Sadness? Frustration? Longing? Moments later Grant realized that he was just staring at his boss and snapped himself out of it.

"Yeah, absolutely!" Grant's forced smile returned and he replied, gesticulating without any coordination. "Everything's fine. All good. I, uh, I was just stepping out for some air. That's all. I'll be right in for our meeting. Ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay…" Joey responded slowly, not quite believing. "See you then."

"Right. Yeah." Grant nodded, moving to hold the door open for Joey. "See you."

Grant walked mindlessly in front of the studio, feeling foolish for holding his briefcase as he paced right beside his workplace. He was happy to see Joey, no doubt, but the other chorus of emotions raged in his chest. The door swung open again, Grant crashing into it as his gaze was fixed to the cement. He stumbled back with a bit back curse, finding the agitated shakes that he had only just managed to quell had returned with a vengeance.

"Grant!" Joey wheeled swiftly over to his side. "Grant, are you okay?"

"Yeah, just got startled," Grant answered, refusing to look at Joey. His ears were starting to ring. "I'll come inside in a second, I didn't realize how much time passed."

"It's only been five minutes," Joey assured him, smiling again. "I just told everyone I'm back and came right back out."

"Oh," Grant quietly remarked, embarrassment now trickling in to tango with the remainder of his messy feelings. "I see."

Joey's smile faded as he took in Grant's harried and conflicted expression. The man seemed to be completely out of it, and Joey would have been lying if he said that he did not look like he was on the verge of tears. He had to fix this. He had never seen Grant so emotional and it honestly was scaring him a little.

"Mm… how about we go have our meeting at that coffee shop that opened up down the block?" Joey 'casually' suggested. He gestured towards Grant's briefcase with his usual smile, commenting, "You already have the paperwork on hand."

"Um, sure," Grant found himself agreeing. He kicked himself in his mind, as he definitely should not have agreed. Honestly, his best option for the day would have been to go home. Even the light around him made him feel disoriented and out of it. Joey was here, now, though, and that was what counted. Even if he did repeatedly skip (figuratively) out the door to traipse with his beach bumming boyfriend. Grant forced himself back to the present, making himself ignore the anger simmering under his nails. "That works."

Joey talked to him while they made their way to the coffee shop. Once inside, however, it was evidently a coffee house, with cozy little nooks and comfortable spaces to have a quiet easygoing meeting in. To his surprise, it was precisely what Grant needed right then.

They found a table in the back, where dim light soothed the headache Grant did not even realize was simmering. He let out a pent up sigh as he stretched back, Joey's serious expression finally easing. A server came up to them and took their orders - Joey and Grant smiling at each other when they both ordered black coffees. Joey encouraged Grant to get a snack, ordering for himself a muffin. Grant settled on some fresh berries.

"So," Joey broached once the server had left. "This month is simple, just a regular new episode."

"Got it," Grant nodded as he noted it down. He found it astounding how quickly his mood switched just because Joey was giving him his attention. "Yeah, that'll be easy. I'll use the template. What's next on the agenda?"

"Well, tax season is coming up, right?" Joey remarked. Their server returned, prompting them to pause to thank them. Grant acknowledged Joey's question with another nod. "So, let's talk, ugh, taxes."

The wink he shot at Grant made him chuckle, glad for the dimmed lighting concealing the pink dusting his cheeks. Joey was too handsome and charming for his own good. He deserved better than-

"So," Grant cleared his throat, swiftly pulling his head away from those thoughts. Then a light went off in his head as he realized that now was the prime time to address some of his concerns in a manner that would conceal his turbulent emotions. "I did actually want to discuss a tax matter with you, Joey."

"Oh?" Joey asked, frowning. "Is there something new on the schedule?"

"Well, not the government schedule," Grant dryly replied. "But there is something relatively new on yours."

It took Joey a moment to realize what Grant meant; his brow knitting together as he pondered the accountant's words. His finger rose as he understood in an all too cartoonish gesture that almost made Grant laugh, though it did earn a smile despite the sore point.

"Right! Henry!" Joey beamed at him, and Grant ignored how his heart ached at the mention of the former animator. Joey's understanding quickly morphed back into confusion, however. "Er, what does Henry have to do with taxes?"

"You're using the studio account to pay for all of it," Grant remarked, lifting a hand to start counting off the expenses. "Constantly traveling over to the West Coast, eating out at all those fancy restaurants, and not to mention the astronomical spending on liquor."

"Hm…" Joey rubbed his chin in thought. He sipped his drink, setting it down with a satisfying little 'clink' noise. Grant found himself liking the classy little coffee house more and more – especially as the server came over to refill his cup sans charge. "That is… definitely something to think about, isn't it. Can't you just write it off, like you usually do?"

"Joey, how am I supposed to write it all off?" Grant asked, waving a hand near his head as he gawked at his boss. "It's not like you're meeting with a business associate."

"He was a business associate," Joey corrected, smiling again. Grant gently hit his head against the papers in his grip. Joey raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I get it. But, what if…."

"Oh no."

"Hold on, hold on," Joey tried to placate him. "What if he would be a business associate again?"

Grant stared at him. Fire flared in his chest, the vicious tight feeling returning to his throat with a roar. Whispers from the studio came through his mind, each one telling him firmly that this was not at all a positive plan.

"Well?" Joey prompted.

"Well? Well, I think that is a terrible idea," Grant replied as soon as his brain restarted working. He shook his head, tapping the table. "We need you, Joey, not him. We've managed perfectly, if not better, without him, as far as I understand from those who were around. That guy does not deserve to have company money spent on him! Taking him out to lunch and dinner, cooking his breakfast, buying him fancy alcohol – that's not for the company, unless you're trying to pay him off for blackmail!"

"Okay, okay," Joey nodded, deflating a bit. "I got it."

"Do you?" Grant asked, folding his arms. Joey nodded. "What do you get?"

"Tone down the spending in California," Joey sighed, sounding quite wistful and tinged with melancholy. Grant wanted to shake the artist's shoulders and make him see what was right in front of him. Grant, however, just nodded, and agreed softly, "That's right."

The two fell into a comfortable silence as they drank their coffees. Despite the charged conversation, Grant now felt rather relaxed. Not perfect, but better.

Until Joey's smile shifted, a quiet realization.

"What now?" Grant groaned, rubbing his forehead.

"If I didn't know you better, Grant," Joey's teasing voice had a touch of smug air to it. The tall man leaned forward, eyes sparkling mischievously as he smirked at his accountant. He stirred his coffee, glancing into it with a pause for effect. Then, his eyes came back to Grant. "I'd say you were jealous!"

"I'm not jealous, Joey," Grant felt his temper slowly tick up more. "You hired me to manage your business' finances, and that is exactly what I'm doing."

"Are you, Grant…?" Joey's smile was getting under his skin, half lidded eyes driving Grant crazy. "You seem… emotionally invested."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Joey," Grant ignored him, rolling his eyes. "Get your head out of the gutter."

Joey's soft laughter followed him out the door.

[randomwriteronline]

Phone Calls Work Better Than Boycotts

~Youtube support (technically youtube tv support)- 877-763-9810

~Google support- (866) 246-6453

~Alphabet customer service-(650) 253-0000

Tie up their resources. Terrify their masters.

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i kept my

Warnings: Death, Violence

[randomwriteronline]

Bionicle has a strong emphasis around bodies, mostly their alteration and mutation through time, but not on gender. The identity intrinsic to the characters is marked predominantly through name and color scheme, respectively their individuality and the symbol of their community, which remain similar throughout their near constant evolution. Change comes inevitably; despite everything, it's still you.

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Told my doctor and therapist about how the AI "trying to determine my age" will expose all the HIPPA covered private information that has passed through gmail and all the medical advice youtube videos they had linked over the years and the response was instantly I will contact the other doctors here and lodge a formal complaint about it to HIPPA Try this, tell your local librarians, teachers, doctors. Most people have not heard about this yet, that's how it is passing

omg I forget the US has actual institutions that work for the good of the people

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solitude 1/2

They both had their own ideas for the meaning of the word; and neither excluded the other.

Rated: G Warnings: none AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69610556 (note: you must be signed in to read my fics on Ao3) Length: 250

Jack and Sammy had known each other for many years; even before they had joined Joey Drew Studios. They had met in less than perfect family circumstances and found a friend in one another; discovered their complementary musical talent, beginning to busk the streets together; and lived in a private but safe squalor – debris and filth may have been the underbelly of their dwelling, but due to the fact that they were with one another, the grotesque atmosphere would slip away with the sounds of sweet music and clever verses.

They each had their own idea of what solitude meant.

Neither excluded the other, though. Even when they had gotten the positions at Joey's studio, and moved to better apartments, they had become next door neighbors in a unit with an internal door, leaving it always unlocked. They openly considered one another to be part of a whole unit – even if they did have private romantic or platonic lives, each knew every detail, as neither saw a need to hide it.

The musician and lyricist were closer than brothers, and neither wanted those things to change. Ever.

Even though Jack found that he had to be in a space that he wanted to be far away from to get his lyrical genius flowing, they found a way to communicate through the walls of the studio. Sammy was one of the few who never teased or pointed out that Jack worked literally in the sewers – after all, he knew precisely why.

[randomwriteronline]

(mods). fuck up his all of his limbs forever.

[randomwriteronline]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/69536051/chapters/180348111

LOOK ON [our (me and @cantankerouscanuck 's)] WORKS YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR

Elated to report that suffering through philology was worth it if only because now i have the knowledge and power necessary to make some Truly Insane Fanfiction

[randomwriteronline]

ships pass in the night

Charley asks the ocean a question.

Rated: G Warnings: loss, grief, uncertainty. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69551266 (note: you must be signed in to read my fics on Ao3) Length: 250

The boatyard was prime hanging out space. There were shipping containers to run through and climb on, there were ropes to swing on and sacks of sand to land in.

Seeing as they were made of ink, code and dreams, the risk of injury was limited to the cartoonish type, nothing really lasting long, so they would play recklessly. Barley was particularly drawn to the ocean, trailed by Charley. The middle triplet would fashion quick sailboats and run out into the waves, surfing along the splashing currents out to the sea with joyous billowing laughter.

The laughter was not there now, only the splashing waves, and a young man standing by the shore.

Charley looked out to the sea in silence.

Wondering if he would ever come home.

He asked the wind, and the wind tousled through his hair in a soothing gesture but otherwise left him unanswered.

He asked the lowering sun, and it merely winked and slipped beneath the waves.

He asked the ocean, with the sea whispered and bubbled, hiding its answers in foam and mist.

Charley's shaking hands gripped the railing, searching the dimming horizon for a sign, for a response, for… anything to tell him his brother was okay.

Nothing.

He screamed his askance to anything that would answer.

The waves.

He dropped to his knees, praying to his Father's fear to return him.

A hand on his shoulder.

He looked up to face Joey.

They turned home together, leaving their hearts at the shore.

[randomwriteronline]

Brother...

let's take ibuprofen together.

(I got her for real cheap because she has her turaga mask and one broken pauldron! But I'm on the lookout for her proper mask now.)

its ok when vakama comes in hell just make her another mask/j