#and go Bill for still wearing a mask. I hope it helped his anxiety

[fandomtransmandom]

Well, there's one award we know Bill will always win:

I guess you could say he's a 'shoe-in'🏆

[jisungsjheekies]

The Night We Met

Genre: Soulmate, fluff, a little angst

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Swearing, anxiety

Requested: Yes

Soulmate connection: born with a tattoo of the date you first meet your soulmate - Y/N’s is 22/09/19

A/N: I originally had this idea for the group TXT but decided it would fit well with Jisung. Inspired by Lord Huron’s The Night We Met. Enjoy!

Y/N’S POV

Beep Beep Beep Be—

You slammed your hand to the side of your bed, putting an end to the dreadful noise. Sunlight peeked through the window blinds, beaming straight into your eyes. You groaned, pulling a pillow over your eyes. You had almost fallen back asleep when your alarm started going off again. Grabbing the phone, you saw “Minhoe” flash across the screen. You answered, holding it up to your ear as you closed your eyes again.

“Hel-“

“Where the fuck are you?? You were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago!” your best friend whisper-yelled through the phone. Your eyes widened as you pulled the phone from your ear to see the time. 10:15 am.

“SHIT,” you yelled, bringing the phone back to your ear, “I’m on my way!!”

In full panic mode, you ended the call, jumping out of bed and running to your closet to grab your uniform. Looking somewhat presentable, you grabbed your bag and rushed out of your apartment. The coffee shop was only a few blocks away from your apartment, so it should only take you ten minutes to get there if you ran. Your feet moved faster than you could process as you bolted down the streets to work. You silently prayed to yourself that your boss wouldn’t be too mad. You were always on time for every shift. Maybe he would like this one slip-up go for the sake of you. Minho would no doubt be mad at you, considering he would have to pick up your slack and work twice as hard. You rounded the street corner, just down the road from the coffee shop. 

Consumed with your own thoughts, you collided with another person as you collapsed to the ground. Disoriented, you reached to collect the items that had spilled from your bag, a hand reaching out in front of your face to grab your attention. You looked up at the person--a guy who wore a grey hoodie and black mask, the only visible part of his face was his eyes. The most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. Dark like chocolate, you could stare into his eyes for hours. You swore you could see stars within them. 

“Miss?” The guy waved a hand in front of your face, bringing you back to reality.

“What?” You asked.

“I asked if you were okay,” he said, hand still extended out to you. He gestured for you to grab it so he could help you from the ground. Placing your smaller hand in his, he lifted you from the ground.

“I’m okay, thank you. I’m so sorry for running into you, I’m kinda in a hurry” You rambled, giving the guy an apologetic look. 

“It’s okay.” He just smiled down at you before looking down at your hands. You blushed, realizing you still hadn’t let go as you quickly withdrew your hand.

“I should get going. I’m already late” You announced, slowly backing away from him, “I’m sorry again for running into you!”

“I didn’t catch your--” He started to say but you were already halfway down the street, “name.”

You burst through the door of the coffee shop, startling a few of the customers. Most of them were regulars so once they recognized you, they smiled before continuing on with whatever they were doing. You made eye contact with Minho behind the counter as he stared at you impatiently. You gave him an apologetic look as you rushed to the back to put away your things, wrapping an apron around your waist. You joined Minho behind the counter.

“What took you so long?” Minho grumbled.

“I ran into someone on the street. Literally” You explained to your best friend. Part of him wanted to laugh at you but he was already annoyed so he rolled his eyes instead.

“I’m sorry, I owe you one” You apologized, not wanting him to be upset with you. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re on register,” Minho informed you as he resumed his position by the espresso machine. Getting straight to work, you made the extra effort to work even harder to make Minho’s job a little easier, especially after he covered for you. You were tidying up your workspace when a customer approached the counter. Looking up with a smile, you nearly choked.

“Hey, it’s you!” The same guy from earlier on the street pointed at you. You smiled awkwardly, nodding your head. He was accompanied by two of his friends, all of them wearing masks to cover their faces.

“What can I get for you?” you asked politely.

The tallest of the three stepped forward first, “Large iced americano please.”

“Make that two,” the next one said. You noticed he had a different accent compared to the other two.

“Correction: make that three,” the guy from the street said, making you let out a small laugh. Putting their orders in, you told them the total, watching as the dreamy-eyed guy handed you twenty dollar bill. You put the money in the register before handing him back his change. Extending your hand out, you noticed the one with the accent staring at the mark on your arm. You pulled your hand back quickly, hiding the mark from view.

“Your order will be out shortly,” you told them before turning to give the order to Minho, who was staring at you with wide eyes. Dismissing his gaze, you helped Minho prepare the guys’ drinks. You could hear hushed whispers from the other side of the counter as you poured each drink. Turning around, you passed the drinks to the guys with a smile as they bowed in thanks. For a moment they lingered, staring at you. You avoided their watchful gaze as you tended to another customer. Stealing a glance from the corner of your eye, you noticed the guys’ hesitation before they turned to leave the coffee shop.

Once all customers had been tended to, Minho hurriedly pulled you to the side.

“Oh my god Y/N did you see it?” Minho asked you excitedly. You stared at him, furrowing your brows in confusion. 

“What are you talking about?” Minho--literally--facepalmed at your obliviousness.

“Are you kidding me? You didn’t see that guy’s mark?” He deadpanned at you.

“No I’m not kidding! What guy? What mark?” You asked, still confused.

“The one in the grey hoodie! He had a mark on his wrist!” Minho shouted loudly, you shushed him when he gained some unwanted attention from the customers.

“The guy has a mark, so what?” You said uninterested.

Minho groaned, placing his hands on your shoulders as he leaned in close, “The same mark as you dumbass!” Your eyes went wide as panic filled your body.

“What? How do you know that?” You questioned your best friend.

“When he handed you the money, his sleeve slid up and I saw it.” 

“How are you so sure that it was the same as mine?” You didn’t want to get your hopes up if Minho was wrong about this.

“How stupid can you be? Our marks tell us the day we’ll meet our soulmate right?” Minho said, waiting for you to nod along. “Y/N are you aware of what today is?”

You shook your head no, pulling the phone from your pocket to glance at the date. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you glanced up at Minho in a panic, “I was in such a hurry from being late this morning that the date slipped from my mind.”

“We’ve done nothing but stare down every person possible for either of our marks since the day we became friends. I’m well aware of what to look for at this point and because I knew what today was, I made sure to be on the lookout for you. Y/N that guy had YOUR mark!”

It made sense if you thought about it--today was the day you would meet your soulmate and you’d had two different encounters with him. Was it a sign? Was that guy really your soulmate?

“Minho, what if I never see him again? I didn’t even get his name,” you cried to your best friend, but he just reassured you with a smile.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” You asked, slightly more hopeful than you were before.

“Because his friends were looking at your mark. I saw them whispering to each other before they left.” Minho patted you on the shoulder before pulling you back to your stations, “You’ll see him again.” A smile adorned your face at the thought. How were you supposed to stay sane in the meantime? Every time the bell sounded above the door, you head would dart up in hopes of seeing him walk through but your smile deflated more and more each time. You tried to busy yourself with simple tasks when you weren’t tending to customers--wiping the counters and tables, refilling customer’s drinks, sweeping the floors--but how were you supposed to do that until the end of your shift at 8pm? Eventually you’d run out of things to do and be left alone with your thoughts. 

JISUNG’S POV

Inside the studio, Jisung and Chan sat hunched over the desk, working on some tracks as Hyunjin sat behind them in a chair, phone in hand as he scrolled through social media. He’d only tagged along to get out of the dorms--the rest of the members staying back to sleep or play video games on their day off. He began to regret coming with the members as they’d been at it for hours, wanting to get as much done for this album, even though they should be resting instead. Hyunjin had fallen asleep for a bit before waking up and offering to go grab them all something to eat. 

“Speed up the bass just slightly,” Jisung told Chan. He did what Jisung said, leaning back in his chair as they listened along. Nodding his head in approval, Chan nudged Jisung with his elbow.

“Good thinking. I think it’s ready now,” Chan announced just as Hyunjin returned, bag of food in one hand and a tray of drinks in the other. They decided it was a good time for a break as Hyunjin passed out the food, Chan grabbing a drink for each of them. With a tray of food on his lap, Chan turned in his chair to face Jisung. “Are we going to talk about it now?” he asked, grabbing Hyunjin’s attention rather quickly.

“I’d rather we didn’t,” Jisung mumbled, scrolling through his phone to avoid his members’ stares.

“We have to at some point--might as well do it now” Hyunjin said. Jisung knew they’d have this conversation whether he wanted to or not. Sighing, he put his phone away and looked up, giving them his attention.

“Are you going to go see her?” Chan asked. Jisung shook his head no as Chan and Hyunjin shared a look of confusion.

“Why not?” Hyunjin questioned him.

“Why should I?” Jisung shrugged his shoulders.

“Why should you?” Chan asked, “Because that girl is your soulmate, that’s why!”

“You’re scared aren’t you?” Hyunjin narrowed his eyes at Jisung, seeing the way his member grew anxious the more they talked about you.

“What? Scared? Of course not!” Jisung rambled nervously. Hyunjin raised a brow at him. “Okay yes I’m scared!”

“Why?” Chan asked curiously.

“What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me?” Jisung admitted.

“Because you’re an idol? That’s what you’re worried about?” Jisung nodded, Hyunjin sighed in understanding.

“Jisung, you do remember I was once in your position right?” Hyunjin began, “When I met my soulmate, I was scared too. And, I had every reason to be, considering she hated me, but I did whatever I could to change that. Now look at us.”

He has a point, Jisung thought. You were destined to be together, so maybe you’d give him a chance if he tried. Worse case scenario, you’d hate him and never speak to him again. But he wouldn’t know that until he went to see you. Glancing at his members, Jisung stood from his chair.

“Where are you going?” Chan asked him.

“To see her,” Jisung said, peeking at the time on his phone, 7:39pm, before running out of the studio, praying to the gods that you were still at work.

Y/N’S POV

The last hour of your shift seemed to drag on forever, as only a few college students were scattered around the shop, each drowning down multiple cups of coffee as they studied. Minho had left about two hours ago, leaving you alone in the shop until the next employee came to take over for you. Peering up at the clock on the wall, you sighed in defeat, giving up all hope of seeing the guy ever again. You only had twenty more minutes until you could go home. You wanted nothing more than to be able to crawl under your covers, watch Netflix, and cry until the ache in your heart had subsided.

For the remaining twenty minutes, you wiped down the espresso machine for the third time that day, taking your time as your coworker arrived to relieve you for the day.

“Hey, Y/N! Busy day?” your coworker, Woojin asked, wrapping an apron around his waist. You smiled, removing your own.

“Hey, Woo. Eh not really, college students have been filtering in and out for most of the afternoon. It should be an easy shift for you,” you informed him. He nodded, bidding you goodbye as you collected your things, pulling on your jacket. You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave the coffee shop just yet. Something was holding you back, the potential chance of seeing him again, but you knew better. If he wanted to see you again, he probably would have come several hours ago. You felt foolish for thinking he’d come back for you. What if he was disappointed when he saw you? Maybe that’s why he never came. Sighing, you exited the coffee shop, giving the building one final look before tucking your head down and starting on your walk home.

Or maybe he wasn’t the one you hoped he was. Minho could’ve been wrong, too caught up in the excitement of finding your soulmate for you. You tried to think of all the people you’d encountered throughout the day that could’ve been possible soulmates, but only one stood out from the rest. Even if he didn’t want you, you at least wanted to know your soulmate’s name. You prayed that you’d encounter him at least one more time. You didn’t care how. 

It happened before you could even process the situation. Your back hit the ground as a figure knocked you down, landing on top of you.

“Miss I’m so sor-”

“It’s you!” you gasped, looking into the eyes of the one you’d waited all day for. At the sound of your voice, the guy’s head snapped to look you dead in the eyes.

“You,” the guy whispered. For a moment, the two of you stared at each other before the guy shook his head.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he laughed, causing you to laugh as well, before he lifted himself off you, realizing the two of you were still on the ground. He reached a hand out to help you up as you both brushed off your clothes.

“I was actually on my way to the coffee shop to find you,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You were?” you asked, surprise evident in your voice.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you,” he smiled before biting his lip. “Actually, I needed to ask you something, too.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, tucking his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. You could feel the nervousness radiating off of him, his eyes darting between yours and the ground.

“Okay.” You offered him a warm smile in hopes of easing his nerves.

“Can I see your mark?” He closed his eyes as soon as he asked the question. He waited for you to reject him and walk away, but it never came. Instead, you lifted your sleeve, revealing your mark to him. When he opened his eyes, they immediately fell upon the mark.

“So it’s true,” he whispered. After a moment, you broke his stare. 

“May I see yours?” you asked calmly, but on the inside you were freaking out. You felt as if your heart would burst out of your chest from the anticipation. You knew, deep down, that he was the one but you needed to see it to confirm your thoughts. He slowly pulled his sleeve up, revealing his own mark--an exact match to yours. It felt as if all air had escaped your lungs as you looked up at him, too many emotions swimming through your eyes.

“Can I see your face?” you asked. He still wore the same mask from earlier, hiding everything but his eyes. You’d been dying to know what he looked like all day. Again he hesitated, looking at you nervously before he sighed.

“No. Not here at least,” he told you. Your smile faltered for a second before an idea popped into your head.

“What if we went somewhere else?” you offered. You refused to give up now, not when you were so close.

“Like where?” he asked. You could suggest your apartment but you weren’t sure you were comfortable with that, considering you didn’t know anything about him yet. There weren’t many secluded places that stayed open late on a Sunday night.

“The coffee shop stays open 24/7, so how about there?” you suggested. The guy nodded his head as the two of you walked the short distance back to the coffee shop in a comfortable silence. When you entered the building, Woojin gave you a confused look but you just gave him a smile. You found an empty table secluded at the side of the building, the two of you sitting down across from one another. You patiently waited for him to remove the mask from his face, not wanting to overwhelm him with demands. Holding his breath, he reached up to pull the mask off as well as his hood, giving you a full view of him. He looked up at you nervously, holding his hands in a tight fist on top of the table.

“You look familiar,” you said, tilting your head to the side as you stare at him, “Have you ever been in the coffee shop before?” He shook his head no. “Then where have I seen you before?” you wondered out loud.

“Probably on TV,” the guy admitted. Your eyes went wide as you remembered something.

“Wait--you’re that guy from that group! Stray Kids, right? I’ve played your songs in here before,” you told him excitedly. A small smile crossed his face at your comment before he nodded in agreement.

“That would be me,” he said. “I’m Jisung.” 

Jisung--now you finally had a name to match the face.

“What’s your name?” Jisung asked you. 

“Y/N.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He smiled, his compliment causing your cheeks to flush. You mumbled ‘shut up’ under your breath, causing him to laugh. You swore that it was the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard. Everything about him was perfect: his eyes, his voice, his smile, his laugh. You thanked the gods above for giving you this beautiful human being.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again” You told him sadly. Jisung could feel his heart drop at the sadness in your voice. The two of you had barely met and he’d already caused you pain. Guilty was an understatement.

“I was scared you would reject me,” Jisung admitted, lowering his head to avoid your gaze.

“Because you’re famous?” you asked, watching as he nodded. “Why should that matter?”

“Dating an idol isn’t easy. I’m sure you’re aware of the way people tend to react--they can be really cruel.”

“I’m well aware of that, but again, why should that matter?” Jisung was at a loss for words, unable to answer your question. “Tell me Jisung, would you treat me well? Would you be there to hold me when I feel like everything’s falling apart? Would you do everything you could to keep me safe and happy?”

“Yes, of course I would,” Jisung answered wholeheartedly.

“I will be there for you when being an idol becomes too stressful. I will be there for you to make sure you eat and rest properly. I will be there for you to make sure you are always happy and safe. That, Jisung, is the only thing that matters,” you finished your speech with a smile. Jisung returned your smile, releasing a breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

“I feel so stupid,” he laughed. You looked at him in confusion.

“Why?”

“Because I was worried about nothing. You’re practically perfect,” he said, giggling when you became all flustered. “Let me take you out.”

“When?” You asked, excited to spend more time with him.

“Now,” Jisung answered immediately. 

Well, he’s persistent, you thought.

“Okay,” You agreed, causing a bright smile to flash across his face. Whatever he had in mind for the night, you knew it would be one that you’d never forget. Jisung reached for your hand across the table, lacing your fingers with his.

“It’s a date.”

[angelharness]

serious forewarning that this did not come out wholesome at all and is. pretty much entirely angst. heed the warnings!!

BLOOD AND ASPHALT

WARNINGS: plenty of blood, violence, medical inaccuracies 

LAURIE STRODE

Lampkin Lane.

You fall to the ground, a square of damp, flattened grass shielded by a picket fence; your fingers are shaking horribly but move with intent as you force open the plastic clasp of a medkit. You dig blindly through its contents which clink coldly — medical scissors, rolls of gauze, wound dressings, septics. You’re not familiar with these instruments and feel a new, fierce wave of anxiety setting in your system.

Your blood is hot, blooming fast across the fabric stuck to your side with a sick red. Adrenaline has muddled the pain mostly, but you can feel it wearing, subsiding to a gradual burn. 

There’s the damp squelching of muddy turf, footsteps, and you sit up straighter. 

You nearly scream when a figure rounds the corner, but your eyes settle quickly and your heart stills from its momentary fright. A strong face mellowed by tired blue eyes, gently tousled blonde hair. Laurie.

She exhales your name in a breath of relief, though that same breath is sucked back in when she sees your wound, raw and burning, glinting in the weak moonlight.

“Oh, oh no,” she starts, and falls to your side, already gently peeling your shirt up. The cold air stings at first, though its icy breath is soothing on the searing flesh. Your fingers curl around her wrist, “Laurie.”

She looks up at you questioningly, eyes gentle, caring, but sparking also with a will. 

You’ve only been here a short while (however that translates into this realms dubious system of time), but you know you can’t rely on others.

Bill pressed you on it, then David, mockingly, which still stung, and even Yui with a cold, “there’s not always gonna be someone around to help you.”

That’s true, of course, and such an unforgiving environment as this seems to favor selfishness for the sake of survival. That’s not to say altruism can’t bloom in these drab conditions, for you’ve seen it, sparse in occurrence but certainly present. But it certainly doesn’t thrive, and the climate of this realm is unfavorable. 

You don’t want to become reliant on your teammates, though — you don’t want to be a burden. Don’t want to weigh down your peers. 

“I’m fine,” you say after a pause for thought. “I can do it myself.”

Laurie looks uncertain, and rightfully; she’s been around much longer than you have, you’ve gathered, and you’ve seen how expertly she utilizes a toolbox. You, however, are clumsy and uncoordinated with your tools. Your fingers are inelegant, graceless, work sloppily over the exposed wires of a generator. Her hands move purposefully, familiarized. 

You don’t want Laurie to think you’re weak. You’d hope at that she’d scamper off so she wouldn’t have to watch you struggle to tear off a strip of gauze with your teeth, but she lingers, concerned.

“Just let me,” she insists. This time her voice is firmer. 

You suck in a shaky, pained breath. You’d rather not burn time quarreling while you bleed out at a concerning rhythm, but you don’t want to be rude, either. You turn away from her, lip caught painfully under your teeth to force down agonized whimpers. 

Laurie hisses your name, her hand on your shoulder. “Stop being so stubborn! Please, let me help you.”

It’s not anger when you swat her hand away and recoil. Not anger or malice the way you glare at her, but it must hurt. She retreats, then recomposes herself, brows lowering.

“Don’t worry about me,” you plead, softer. She’s moving her mouth, saying something, but it’s drowned out in a sudden, ripping scream. A mass of dark crows flit upward, disturbed, squawking chattily as they dart into the sky. Jane. 

You wince in sympathy, knowing well you never truly get used to the intrusion of the hook. It hurts to hell the first time and hurts still the hundredth time around. You collect yourself though, and take this chance.

“Go help her, I’ll heal up.”

It’s a fair plan. Laurie hesitates initially, then nods shortly and starts off in the direction of the dying wail. 

You watch after her for a moment then return to tending to your wound. The dregs of guilt set in your mind.

Laurie’s a veteran. Over the endlessly burning campfire she tells you about the ghoulish life she led even before the horror of the fog. She always eases it with jokes, “you know how brothers can be,” but you can tell it weighs heavily on her. She’s a tired soul. 

You don’t want her to look down on you, you don’t want her to see you as a teammate. You want something more, tangible and clear, stable, a taste of normalcy.

You pause. You know better than to think like that and try not to dwell on it, busying yourself with the medkit. Tearing open a set of cotton rounds, you unscrew the lid to what you make out to be a disinfectant. You’d prefer to clean the wound properly with warm water first, but you’ll have to make do.

It doesn’t hurt as much as anticipated, though it stings like high hell, but you can bear it through gritted teeth. You dab gently, don’t rub, then wait briefly for it to set in. You carefully apply an ointment over that, then dress it with gauze. Unsure and afraid of cutting off circulation, you wrap it loosely with some room to breathe. A bite of uncertainty tells you you’ve done something wrong, and while you know the pain won’t subside immediately, it’s worrying that it still aches. Throbs, almost. Burns. Your breaths are still unsteady.

It’s quiet. A crow perches on a picnic table beside you, observing you blandly. 

You stand and nearly cry, hand shooting to tentatively cradle the clothed wound. You’ve definitely done something wrong, but you can’t afford to waste more time redressing the skin. Blindly, you grope for the fence, using it to keep yourself upright as you trudge out to the sidewalk.

Jane’s on the hook, still, her hands clawing at the protruding hook, the steady current of blood blackening the pavement below her. Her makeup runs in muddy streaks down her wet cheeks. Where’s Laurie?

You don’t think to look around. The Entity’s system of hooked tendrils web above her, twitching in wicked anticipation, descending. Time is plentiful and endless but somehow there’s never enough.

You start across the street — through slight cries she says something. Your name, then, no, no, no. You don’t connect the dots in time.

A knife in your back, weaseling past the bone of your spine, splitting muscle. Hot, vivid pain, slices of white in your vision.

You can’t scream. Jane does for you, though it’s interrupted. The monstrous purr of The Entity. She grunts with effort, prying away a claw to gasp for air, its dark fingers stabbing at her sides. Your name again, strained.

The Shape looms above you, admiring his work wordlessly. Or perhaps he’s taunting you; it doesn’t translate well onto the mask, if so. You see the wet glint of a blue eye behind the pale rubber, and though it’s a familiar shade (Laurie, you realize) it’s not compassionate like her. It’s dead, dim. You choke.

Above, the dark sky splits, torn open by the spidering talons of this realms unsightly god. Stars wrinkle, the blue expanse folding over itself. Jane’s body is hoisted upward and swallowed into the canvas above, which pours back into place after her.

Michael doesn’t pick you up, to your surprise. You lie there, blinking through tears and grime, sweat on the hot skin of your cheeks. Realizing, frustratingly, he doesn’t want Laurie getting the hatch. He moves, almost entirely silent, along the rows of lawns. His form against the strobing lights of the police car casts a shadow onto the porches of houses as he passes by. He disappears into the brush.

He’s waiting for her. That’s why he left you in the street, your blood spilling slowly out onto the cracked asphalt. A trap, and you’re the unwilling bait.

The night is cold but the ground is hot on your injuries. You try not to move, squeezing your eyes shut. Bleeding out like this may be worse than the hook, you think hatefully, and you suppress little sobs, teeth carving into your bottom lip with how tightly you bite it. 

Laurie’s not dumb. In your head you beg, don’t come for me, just hide, hide, wait it out. You’ll bear the steady agony of a drawn out death if it means she can escape. Laurie’s not dumb. She’s familiar with his tricks, more than anyone else would be. 

You cry when you see her appear on the porch of a house, starting down the stairs, stumbling slightly, tearing across the turf to reach you. 

“Laurie, no,” you sob out. You don’t know if she can hear you; your heartbeat is squelching in your ears. You shake your head but it burns. 

She’s softened by empathy. An empathy unique only to you. It’s sweet. But stupid.

The Shape moves. His knife flickers, a slice of white, the reflection of his mask, a pale crescent, the moon. It slices down.

You cry out again hoarsely. Laurie dives, plunging into the dark concrete, skinning her palms and knees horribly but missing the wide strike of the blade.

She doesn’t make it in time for the second, corrective swing, which catches first in her wrist. Flesh tears. He yanks it out and it descends again, over his head, now colored with blood.

You shut your eyes fiercely, almost painfully, but her scream is horrible. It paints the scene all on its own, the knife, the open muscle.

Mercifully, it’s brief, then he’s lugging her limp figure over his shoulder and starting off in the direction of a hook. 

“Laurie,” you sob. She doesn’t move, mouth agape, sputtering, but her eyes flick in recognition. “Laurie.”

You say her name again and again till it’s painful. Your vision is darkening considerably, but it’s almost comforting. Relief, albeit temporary, is soon. The familiar crackle of the fire. You try to crawl, manage a few inches before you collapse on yourself and breathe shallowly into the floor.

Another scream. It’s worse than the first and you’re taken again by sobs. You force your breathing to even out but can’t help hiccuping and whimpering.

When you struggle your eyes open again, he’s standing in front of you. You can’t make yourself look up, don’t bother trying. You know what comes next and don’t fight when he picks you up and slings you over his shoulder.

Perhaps unintentional, or just to spit in your wounds, he grabs you by the side, fingers sinking into the torn flesh, still tender. It hurts but you’re drunk off of blood loss and can barely register that new flash of anguish. 

“Laurie.”

He stops for a moment. Or maybe he doesn’t (the worlds doing somersaults around you and your vision is reduced to vague shapes), but there’s hesitation. Then he continues. 

You hear the hum of the hatch, a continued note nearly heavenly. Another sob drips out of your throat.

He drops you a few feet from it, makes sure it hurts, leaving you winded and sputtering. He steps back, then, and watches blankly.

You’re not stupid. He’s pulled this stunt before. 

Your hands tighten into claws, raking handfuls of grass, streaking dirt under your nails. You glare at him between coughs, still shaking.

Does he find amusement in it? In gifting you that taunting sliver of false confidence? He’s never expressed it, if that’s the case, though it seems rather that he finds satisfaction in observing his work, the pain it wells.

You crawl toward it, ribs aching so vividly, blades of pain driving up your flesh as you weasel your way forward. Behind you you’ve left a wide streak of blood, almost glittering under the glare of the moon. 

It’s right there, the welcoming roll of black mist exhaling from its depths, the ascending chorus inviting. You don’t react when he slams the hatch shut. The siren gates sound. The collapse begins. 

You chuckle loopily. It spirals into sobs. Bloody and wet and choking. 

Oh, Laurie, you think fondly. She was trying to help. 

You watch Michael step around you, appear again at your side. It’s her blood on that knife. 

Weary, numbed by apathy, you squeeze your eyes shut once more and wait for the fog to roll in. 

[2manyfandoms2count]

AU Yeah August Day 13

Here’s another AU for @auyeahaugust! Will it evolve into a fully-fledged story? Probably. Hope you’ll enjoy! xxx

---

Day 13: Flower Shop AU

Marinette stared at the blank page in front of her, pensively tapping her pencil on her desk. She could have sworn that she’d found the perfect outfit to close her next fashion show as she was about to fall asleep the previous night. Something so spectacular, she knew she’d remember it in the morning.

Except morning had come, and still the design eluded her. She had raked her brain throughout breakfast, causing a couple of spills, during her commute to work, which had almost made her miss her stop, and ever since she’d sat down at her desk, three hours ago. The page just stared right back at her.

She sighed and dropped her pencil. Leaning her head on top of her hand, she took a look at her surroundings. She loved her office. She had furnished it in a way that let her creativity flow, and it did the trick - most of the time. The wide windows let the Spring sunshine in, the rays ricocheting against the smooth white surfaces of the cabinets, and the strategically placed mirrors. It made the room look larger, brighter. 

She had restrained what she considered to be her clutter to the right hand side of the room. A large cork board took up most of the wall space there, covered in overlapping swatches and sketches. On a low table below it were piles of fashion magazines, more or less old, that she kept for reviews or inspiration. A couple of picture frames also stood there, containing pictures of her parents and friends, and some good shots of herself at fashion shows.

Her eyes swept the room and landed on an intricate vase that sat opposite her. The cleaner, Mister Fu, always made a point to buy flowers for her office, and refused to put them on the company’s bill. It was his way of thanking her for keeping him on despite his old age. She’d never been able to tell exactly how old he was, but one thing was for sure: he was beyond French retiring age. He’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere when she’d established her brand, and worked around as the two-room office expanded into a three-room, a full floor, and now a whole building with Marinette Designs gaining more and more recognition in the fashion world. He cleaned, DIYed, decorated, and had a good eye for things that needed fixing, even if no one knew it yet. She’d come to consider his services as invaluable, especially the odd wisdom bits he provided every once in a while. She really could have done with his help today, maybe he could have helped her with the eluding dress. He’d taken the day off, though, and, if she judged by the wilting flowers that stood in front of her, had forgotten his self-appointed florist duties. Maybe that was what was blocking her flow.

She stood up and walked towards the vase, grabbed it, and made her way towards her office bin. It had been a wonderful bouquet, colourful and fragrant. The sweet smell of lilies remained as she picked them up and shook them gently above the vase, so as to get rid of as much water as she could before throwing them away. As she dropped them, a small card disentangled from the stems and landed next to the paper basket. Marinette crouched down and picked it up.

“The Cat’s fleowers.”She read, cringing at the bad pun. A little black cat holding a four-leafed clover sat under the flower shop's name, and above its address. 

She recognised the street as one she took every day, and the number as being between her metro station and the office, yet she couldn’t picture the shop. She shrugged, slid the card on her desk and walked back to her chair, plumping down in front of the taunting white page. 

Quarter of an hour of fidgeting, head scratching and deep sighing later, Marinette looked up again, having achieved nothing but weak sketches. The vase caught her eyes once again, its emptiness now bothering her. 

She glanced at her watch. Quarter to twelve. She’d be off for her lunch break soon, anyway. She grabbed her vest and handbag and left her office, giving a small wave at her secretary as she did so. 

She breathed in deeply and smiled contently as she exited the building, reveling in the warm sunshine that landed on her face. She dug out her butterfly sunglasses and walked down the street.

---

Adrien was bored. He usually never tired of working in Mr Fu’s flower shop, but today seemed like the exception. He’d met Mr Fu by chance one day as he came back from one of his modelling jobs, and had helped the old man carry large potted plants inside the premises. Adrien had fallen in love with the cool atmosphere and the plethora of flowers, which made him feel like he’d just stepped into a different corner of the world. He hadn’t hesitated when Mr Fu had asked him if he’d be interested in working there on the days he couldn’t come in. The fact he could wear a relaxed attire, rather than his usual smart dress, was a bonus. So far, no one had recognised him.

Although the shop was generally quite busy, it seemed like everyone had decided to shun flowers today. Not one customer had pushed the door to his little botanical heaven. Even Plagg, the resident black cat, had decided to loaf around, hidden somewhere between the azaleas and the hibiscuses. 

Adrien was about to give up and head out early for lunch when he heard the characteristic jingle of the door. His breath caught as an elegant lady walked in. She wore a simple, yet tasteful, red polka-dotted dress which had him instantly nickname her ‘Ladybug’. Her eyes were masked by large sunglasses. Standing in the midst of the flowers, she looked like a model in a jungle-themed photo shoot. He would know, having participated in more than one.

From where he stood, at the till, he had a good view of what was going on in the shop, without actually being seen, hidden behind the hanging plants section. He watched as she walked around hesitantly, examining the different bouquets on display. She turned around and her apparent perplexity made him shake out of his admiration. He strode out of his hiding place, smoothing his black and green apron as he did so.

“Hi, welcome to the Cat’s fleower’s, may I help you?” He wished there was something more original to say, but he could hardly go ahead and just offer her flowers. 

Marinette frowned slightly, although her expression was hidden by her bangs and glasses. There was something familiar about the man standing before her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She quickly scanned his appearance, her designer eye turning into critique mode, and tried to identify where she’d seen him before. He was, she would say, conventionally handsome, in an ‘I don’t try’ way. His blond hair was tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed (it wasn’t a bad look, but it could be improved on), and his glasses bore a layer of dirt which occulted his eyes, that she assumed were green. He definitely would have stood out from all the manicured men she mixed with in the fashion world. A stray Chat Noir amidst a bunch of aristocats. 

Maybe she’d just seen him in the street.

“Hello, I wanted to buy a bouquet, but I can’t really pick. You have a beautiful selection.” She smiled, and Adrien could swear his heart skipped a beat. 

“Thank you.” He replied, deciding to take the compliment as if he’d ordered the flowers himself. “If I may ask, what’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.” She shrugged. “I just like having blooms around when I work.” 

“That makes two of us.” He winked. “Is there anything you feel drawn to? Or any emotions you’re feeling?”

Marinette thought it was quite a personal question to ask someone he’d just met, but didn’t dislike it.

“I’m short on inspiration these days.” She admitted.

“Creativity boost, coming right up!” He grinned. Now was his time to shine; ever since starting this part-time job, he’d started reading up on the flower language, and it seemed like his study would finally be paying off. “As it happens, I have angelicas, which represent inspiration, in stock. I’ll also add hollyhock for ambition, gerberas for stress relief, sweet basil for good wishes, and-”

He was interrupted by her ringtone. Ladybug fished her phone out of her handbag, and saw a familiar face on the screen.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” She apologised, swiping to answer. He nodded understandingly and gestured that he’d be wrapping the bouquet.

“Hello?” 

“Hi boss!” Alya, her PR manager, and incidentally, her best friend greeted. “You are going to LOVE me.”

Marinette shook her head, amused. “You know I already do, what did you do this time?”

“I only went and got you THE Adrien Agreste’s number!” Her friend squealed, making her move her phone away from her ear. 

“You didn’t!” She gasped. “How?”

“Girl, I’ve seen how you drool over his pictures, I needed to do something about it! Nino knows him, it wasn’t very hard to convince him to give me his number.”

Marinette had nursed a crush on the model ever since he’d given her his umbrella at the end of a fashion show, back when she was still an intern working for a big brand. It didn’t hurt that he was one of the most handsome models out there. They’d seen each other again from afar during fashion weeks, their interactions often summarised to a little chit-chat over a glass of Champagne, surrounded by a crowd.

“But what will I even do with it?” She asked, panic seeping through her words. How could she justify getting his number? And what would she say? Would he even know who she was?

“Marinette, I can feel your anxiety from here, breathe.” Alya chuckled. “We’ll work on it.”

“Okay.” Marinette steadied her breathing. “Meet you in ten for lunch?”

Adrien’s heart sank as he heard the words. He’d been about to ask her if she felt like grabbing a bite with him. He grabbed his pen and scribbled a quick ladybug sketch on the back of the business card, along with the words ‘see you again soon!’ and stapled it to the bouquet.

Marinette stole a last look at the flower shop as she exited it after paying, and smiled. She had to admit, Chat Noir’s enumeration had left her dubious. She definitely wouldn't have thought of arranging those flowers together, yet the bouquet was beautiful. She held it out at arms length to examine it, and saw the card. Her mind raced, and she suddenly knew how to end her show. She accelerated her pace to get back to the office before the idea flew away.

Adrien Agreste’s number, wonderful flowers, and a strike of inspiration. The Cat’s fleowers had worked like a lucky charm. 

She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of it.

[yentotajaan]

Repercussions: Prey

Much to Yen’to’s chagrin, Khan was already present in tea house library, reeking of alcohol as usual, and talking with Alyona. He had hoped to have a few moments of quiet before the mission started. But... I am never that lucky, am I? He struggled to keep up between Khan’s boisterous blubbering and Aly’s rambling stream of thought. Temporary relief came with the arrival of Strega, followed shortly by Ramius. Hm... almost everyone from the first mission. I guess we are all gluttons for punishment. Without further ado, Khan slurred on with the briefing. I swear, he would die if he went longer than a bell without liqour.

A string of disappearances had begun over a sennight ago, across multiple places around Eorzea. It began with the odd farmer, begger, and street rat. However, more recently adventurers also started going missing; some while looking into the mystery yet others were simply random. The Alliance of Free Companies was stretched thin and could not spare enough effort for the investigation, and so had put out a request for adventurers discover the cause so they can then send in soldiers as needed. A bit grander than I expected, but beats trying to pretend to be a prisoner. This should be rather straightforward. The only clue was that some recent disappearances had all occurred at a remote village in the middle of nowhere - specifically a chapel where adventurers had stopped for rest. With missing person poster bills in hand, the small band headed off.

Upon arriving at the village, Yen’to noted that it was even more destitute than expected. Some building were still in ruin from the Calamity, and recovery efforts looked haphazard at best. As they wandered through the streets, most of the residents averted their gaze. The party did, however, manage to get the attention of a rambunctiously playing child. Her mother came up shortly after, a bit of bluffing from Ramius managed to squeeze out enough information that confirmed the church should be their next destination. Gods, by her demeanor one would think talking to us was almost a death sentence. Do they not expect us to stay long?

One of the nuns outside stopped the group as they approached, cautiously asking what they needed. Apparently for Strega, she needed to use the little ladies room. Seriously? That is what is important right now?! Ramius quickly course corrected, finally getting the nun to direct them inside to talk with the bishop (alongside other relief). After casually making their way inside the small church, the group let Yen’to take the lead this time while Ramius and Strega watched the door. What makes them think I am good at bluffing? My lying performance at the Castrum job was horrible! Well... can’t back out now without looking suspicious. Strega reiterated the point about needing the little ladies room.

The bishop was much less hesitant than the other townsfolk. But his words were tinged with sadness, regret, and... something else. The tone was setting Yen’to’s nerves on edge. His anxiety quickly spiked when the bishop talked of visitors in black and red uniforms delivered supplies. Wait... black and red? Aren’t those Garl—? Yen’to’s thoughts were cut short when the bishop slipped on gas filtering mask and pulled a nearby lever. He  barely managed to take a few steps before collapsing to the floor in a deep stupor. Going... to.... kill... Khan...

With a start, Yen’to found himself awakened in a place that looked somewhat like the Shroud, but felt... off. The others were all there too, no worse for wear - even Strega’s bladder. Strangely for being captured, they all had their armor and equipment, and were not shackled. Grunting as he clambered noisily to his feet, Yen’to was eventually able to get a better look around. The ground was covered in spotty grass, and the trees were sparse. Wait... this is not really the Shroud. Where in the hells are we? As Yen’to looked up to the sky, instead he saw a cermet ceiling. As if in answer to his question, a voice blared over a loudspeaker. A chillingly familiar voice.

By the Twelve - is that Tribunus Lucian? From the Castrum we blew up nearly with him in it?! Aly, Strega, Yen’to, and Ramius all exchanged looks with each other, recognition occurring nearly simultaneously. Lucian claimed that the current batch of participants was poor sport, and they needed to do better or he would attend to the combat himself. Combat? What combat? The group barely had time to collect their thoughts before the answer became clear, and were under assault by a hail of arrows.

After running for the nearest cover, a voice in the distance rang out, “You lot need to hurry up and die, or we won’t get to go home!” Ramius called out to them to stand down. The men claimed to be from Ala Mhigo, and that they were all trapped here unless they killed enough others.  Mad with desperation, the archer would have none of it, and ordered everyone to attack.

Ramius was the quickest to respond, shooting the archer clean through the head with his machinist rifle. Yen’to readily subdued the swordsman, knocking the man’s shield aside with his giant axe before following up with a nonfatal blow to the head that knocked him unconscious. Aly had it worst, taking a spear to her shoulder as she desperately tried talking her opponent into surrendering. Strega somehow simply convinced her opponent into giving up, and the lancer followed suit and stepped back away from Aly after seeing his allies defeated. How does she do that every time? At least only one of them was killed... none of us wanted to be fighting Ala Mhigans in a Garlean facility.

A back and forth exchange followed the cease fire, with the Ala Mhigans claiming that escape without following the rules was impossible. They had even tried teaming up with others before, but it all ended with backstabbing and betrayal as everyone eventually splintered off to fend for themselves. They almost seemed ready to join Yen’to’s not-so-merry band before a burst of magitek armor gunfire came from behind and blasted the remaining Ala Mhigans to shreds.

Upon turning around, the sight of Lucian in a flying suit magitek armor sent a chill down Yen’to’s spine. He cackled maniacally upon seeing the group, instantly recognizing them from the Castrum disaster. Rather than angry, he appeared murderously gleeful at the prospect of hunting foes who had bested him before. Ramius was not one for monologuing, and unleashed a barrage of bullets, which prompted Lucian to respond with bursts from his magitek cannon that sent Yen’to flying. Gods damn it-- every time!

Lucian did not want to end the hunt so soon, so he moved out of range and demanded they give him a good show. Almost in sync, the sound a lift engaging caught Yen’to’s ears - as well as the baying of war hounds. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the Ala Mhigans still clinging to life and murmuring something to Strega before finally passing from his wounds. Strega had an eerily neutral expression on her face as she calmly repeated the words - ‘find the waterfall and the red marks upon it’.

With a direction now in mind, the party scrambled upriver as the sounds of hounds closed in behind them. Yen’to could also make out the sounds of cannon fire and explosions. Is he.... is he hunting his own hunting dogs? The Garlean is insane! With Lucian temporarily distracted, the group managed to make their way to a small waterfall. Behind it, Ramius spotted a boulder with red markings -- blood. Working together, they managed to pull it aside and scramble into a small cave before rolling the boulder back in place just as Lucian came flying, screaming insanely about how he would eventually find them.

Yen’to and Aly collapsed onto the cold, stony floor. Strega unfurled blanket and began preparing some healing solutions while Ramius kept an eye out through a crack in the entrance. Yen’to was not paying too much attention to what Strega was going, his eyes instead wandering to take stock of their safe haven. There were strange carvings on the wall, similar to carvings around Ala Mhigo. With a yelp of pain, Yen’to was brought back into focus as Strega’s magitek contraption stabbed something into him. A little warning would have been nice! But... the pain is starting to subside. Strega treated Aly in a similar manner, closing up the wound caused earlier by the spear.

While recovering from their injuries, they heard a voice approaching their location. As it got closer, they could make out a technician making notes and observations of the artificial battlefield’s carnage. A brief and hushed discussion ensured, and they agreed on a plan to move the rock and take the technician by surprise. The boulder was moved ever so carefully out of the way, and one by one they slipped through to position themselves to ambush the Garlean.

Ramius was quickest on the draw, literally, and had the man at gunpoint before he knew what was happening. Judging from the face and sounds he just made, it is a good thing he is wearing dark pants. The man begged to be let go, that he was just doing his job and that documenting the deaths of savages was nothing personal. His choice words did not help his case, but they all managed to hold their tempers long enough to get some concessions out of him.

As was plain by now, the Garleans were to blame for the kidnappings. Tribunus Lucian was taking random subjects for testing, but also apparently to satisfy his personal desire for hunting. They delivered food and supplies to the ruined village as a front for their activities. Lucian had been both impressed and perturbed that their infiltration mission had ruined his Castrum. Aly’s enthusiastic comment about finally having a recurring villain to fight did nothing to help Yen’to’s nerves. This is not some story book! I swear to the Twelve, if I die here I am killing Khan!

They debated amongst themselves on the best course of action. Strega wanted to sabotage the place. Aly wanted to rescue everyone and Ramius wanted to blow it out of existence. Yen’to simply wanted to get out alive. In the end, they were running out of time and had little choice but to force the technician to fly them back to the village so that they could then inform the Alliance to rescue the trapped and unwilling combatants.

The scene upon arriving back at the village was.... surprising, to say the least. Khan was kicking a poor tied up Garlean soldier, demanding to know where his charges had disappeared off to. Various soldiers from the Maelstrom, Twin Adders, and Immortal Flames were interrogating other groups of tied up prisoners. Yen’to was almost impressed at Khan actually doing something responsible. So he can actually get things done. I guess that is why he is able to come across all these mission postings. Well, that, and he keeps hiring us to actually complete them for him.

The haggard, exhausted team dutifully informed Khan and the Alliance of all that occurred. They were assured that the installation would be destroyed that and all prisoners would be rescued from the cruel experiment. Relieved, but exhausted, Yen’to began the long trip back home. Strega began the search for the little ladies room.

Somehow, no matter how wrong these missions go... they are still better than my shifts on Tea Time night

https://yentotajaan.tumblr.com/post/634247844314906624/yento-arrived-at-the-long-forgotten-village-in

@tough-bit-of-fluff

@ramius-xiv

[langdxn]

devotion | fire and reign!michael x fem!reader

SUMMARY: It’s the first Cooperative meeting and Michael gets familiar with one delegate.

WARNINGS: Domesticated fluff, anxiety, a bit of comedy, severely shameless smut, vaginal sex, vaginal stimulation, Barry Manilow.

WORD COUNT: 2.9k (sorry I got really carried away with this one. I haven’t proofread it yet so apologies in advance!)

Striding into the Cooperative meeting hall with all the arrogance he could muster, Michael wrung his red leather-clad hands together, his gaze lingering on the streams of expressionless masks lining the conference table. Every face was obscured, a last-ditch attempt at anonymity for the first time in their charmed, infamous lives.

Their grasp at obscurity was futile. He’d seen the seating plan ahead of schedule. He knew he was to speak two feet away from Bill Clinton, that some kid called PewDiePie was perched halfway down the table, that Jeff Bezos sent his apologies for his absence mere minutes ago, that Julie Andrews requested a seat at the last minute and paid in cash.

The Antichrist shouldn’t suffer stage fright, but Michael hadn’t often addressed a number of people at once, least of all the most financially powerful mortal figureheads in the world. He meticulously prepared his speech the night before, scrawling the highlights on a scrap of paper he stuffed down his left glove, small enough to look inconspicuous when he retrieved it yet large enough to not lose it on the journey to the conference hall.

As his expensive leather boots clacked to the head of the table, Michael swallowed hard and forced his focus on Ms Mead’s advice - find a spot at the far end of the room to concentrate on and talk to it. He chose the far right corner of the seemingly endless table, an anonymous pair of black gloved hands that rested studiously on the glass table.

“Esteemed members of the Cooperative,” he announced, swinging his hands behind his back to clasp them together. The less they saw how they were shaking in their crimson incarcerations, the better.

“World leaders, tech giants, media moguls, cultural influencers,” he proclaimed, catching his breath, “and Mrs Langdon.”

His gaze hardened on the gloved hands in the far corner. The black-clothed figure leaned forward in its seat, revealing a golden face creating a stark contrast with the sea of masks. Cascading y/h/c curls framed the feminine face, mysteriously sparkling black lipstick and deep eyeliner outlining fierce y/e/c eyes. A revealing black dress draped over her figure, her chest pouring out of its low neckline.

A knowing smirk caught the corner of Michael’s lips as he nodded in recognition. He balled his leathered hands into fists and landed them authoritatively on the table’s edge.

“The rumours you’ve heard are true: my name is Michael Langdon and I am the Antichrist.”

———

“You know you don’t have to wear a mask, honey,” Michael comforted you as he leaned his elbows on the kitchen island, planting his chin on one balled fist. You glanced over your shoulder at him as you carefully flipped an omelette in the pan.

“I know baby, but it’s the first one and I want to make a good impression,” you giggled. “After all, they’re the ones who sold their souls already. Mine’s still up for sale.”

Michael snickered under his breath, standing straight and gliding his way over to you, snaking his arms around your waist and squeezing gently, relishing the embrace.

“Is that so?” He breathed into the nape of your neck, dropping a loving kiss where his words ghosted so sensitively that goosebumps haunted your skin. You jerked the pan over to a nearby plate, tipping the omelette out and returning the pan to a cool hob ring.

“But should I wear makeup underneath? What’s the dress code for this sort of thing?” You tugged at the collar of the baggy black shirt draped over your frame — Michael’s from last night, how he adored seeing you shuffling around the kitchen the next morning wearing his discarded shirt after your night between the sheets.

“Darling, you could wear a garbage bag and I’d still be the happiest man alive to introduce you as my new wife,” butterflies flitted between both your stomachs as he called you that word you’d waited so impatiently to hear  drip from his tongue.

“I also take it I’m not sitting next to you?” You enquired half-heartedly, knowing any distance between you pained you both no matter how formal the situation. Recalling the times you sat beside each other for dinner at Madelyn’s house, how Michael’s hands charted their course towards your inner thighs before starters even hit the plate.

“So who am I going to be rubbing shoulders with tonight, Boy Wonder?” You ducked into his embrace as his breaths laced your neck with shivers.

“Let me see,” he pondered, as if conjuring the seating plan in his mind. He settled for retrieving a document from the pocket of his velour jacket and pulling it in front of you. Scanning the plan from over your shoulder with a hum under his breath, he nodded towards the red marker pointing to your seat in the farthest corner.

“That’ll be Zach Braff on your left, so no getting any ideas,” he squeezed your hips in jest, “and David Hasselhoff at the head of the table in front of you.”

“Really? You’re trusting me to sit facing The Hoff? Oh honey, your trust is severely misplaced,” you cracked, gripping onto his remaining hand that rested on your hip.

“Oh I’m sorry my darling, would you prefer Barry Manilow on the left?” He tickled you gently, tossing the sheet of paper into the air and watching it cascade to the tiled floor beneath you. “How on earth do you know all these people anyway? They’re all just names to me.”

“That may be because I didn’t age a decade overnight, Mr Langdon,” you joked, “I grew up on pop culture, that’s all. You were born after all these people became popular.”

“I also didn’t run a globally successful Tumblr which single-handedly forced the entire internet to stop talking in peaches and cucumbers—“

“Eggplants, Michael, they’re eggplants,” you giggled heartily into your hand to stifle a full-scale laughing fit. “Did the Antichrist just admit he married me for my influence?”

Michael scoffed, landing a sweet peck of agreement into your neck.

“Speaking of influencers, exactly how much power do you have in choosing new Cooperative delegates?”

“Providing they’ve sold their souls to my father already, it’s an open court. Who do you have in mind, baby?” He cooed into your ear.

“I think it would serve us well to save Benedict Cumberbatch. Hell hath no fury like Cumberbitches when they find out Sherlock was exterminated by the Apocalypse.” You turned to face Michael with eyebrows raised, proffering the omelette plate before him.

“I’ll take your word for it, Mrs Langdon. Anybody else?”

———

Michael had barely got to the crux of his introduction to the Cooperative before disembodied voices grew concerned. Each member wore a voice manipulator built into their identity masks, a second, painfully virtual line of defence that reminded you of Robocop having a domestic. It wasn’t until you could hear their discordant mechanical voices over your husband’s that you focused back into the room.

“What about my wife?”

                     “What happens if the Outposts are overrun?”

“Will I get to see my kids again?”

                 “What if the missiles don’t kill everybody?”

“When will it be safe to walk around on the surface again?”

        “Will we die down there?”

                   “What’s your backup plan?”

Michael was nervous, almost obsessively wringing his palms in an effort to disguise the shaking that had consumed him. He was drowning in a blur of desperate, panicked queries firing from all angles — for the first time in your relationship, he looked lost. Powerless. Terrified. Aimless syllables tumbled off his tongue as he tried to regain composure.

He couldn’t lose them. Not yet.

The sudden, ominous clink of your stilettos across the polished floor immediately silenced the cacophony. You strode elegantly and purposefully toward the head of the table, relishing every second of precious silence from the present number as you made your way to your husband’s side.

“What my beloved husband is attempting to articulate is that our repopulation plan is foolproof,” you ran your hand across the top of Michael’s leather coat, resting on his left side and gently leaning on him as if the angel arriving on his shoulder to save the day.

“We’ve eliminated all possibilities of unsatisfactory reproduction for the new world. We’ve limited the number of British survivors in order to reduce the risk of poor dental health — no offence Mr Cumberbatch, wherever you may be seated,” you searched in vain across the faceless entities lining the table in the hope any glimpse of body language could give your chosen one away.

“Your families will be as safe as we can possibly keep them, with the help of your investments and the security you use on a daily basis above the surface.”

Your vision darted pointedly to the far left corner of the table.

"Mr Smith, you and your wife will be situated in Outpost 4 while Jayden and Willow will reside in Outposts 1 and 2 respectively. That way, if any Outposts are compromised, we won’t have an overpopulation of Fresh Princes of Bel Air.”

A collective yet nonetheless strained chuckle filled the air.

“As for your safety against the rabid cannibals that the rest of the human race will no doubt be reduced to, that all depends on how much you’re willing to contribute to the cause. I’ll hand you back into the capable hands of Mr Langdon.”

Michael turned to you with a smile of relief and appreciation, you let loose a casual wink of reassurance before stepping back to return the floor to him.

Michael breathed in sharply and assumed his power stance, crimson leather palms pressed flat on the gleaming table, focus now fixed on the masked figure at the opposite end of the room.

“Turn to page six, section one - Outpost Construction."

———

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you back there,” Michael sighed through both his hands, wearily wiping down his face in an attempt to erase the last few hours from his memory.

You pushed aside Michael’s hastily discarded red gloves and draping leather jacket, some desk lamps and leftover instruction manuals on the table to perch on the edge, drawing Michael between your legs by the waistband of his coat.

“You did just fine without me, my love,” you cupped his face in your hands, his angelic curls tumbling around his countenance as you planted a loving kiss on his full, if slightly bitten lips. He drew you in even closer, his kiss deeper than the azure blue of his eyes he had now clenched firmly shut.

If there was one thing you knew Michael loved more than anything, it was kissing you. When you handed each other washed dishes after dinner, when you waited impatiently in the queue at the grocery store, when you finally found something decent to watch on TV. He adored locking his lips against yours at any possible opportunity, crashing teeth and dancing tongues. He worshipped the power he had over you when you were compelled to close your eyes to kiss him, the freedom he could use to surprise you while you so innocently shut out the rest of the universe.

“How can I ever repay you, Mrs Langdon?” He breathed into your mouth as he towered over you, one hand roaming your hair and the other ghosting on top of your knee.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Mr Langdon,” you charmed, kissing him again as deeply as possible. This time Michael refused to separate from you, maintaining the searing connection between your lips.

Hitching your black silk dress up your thighs agonisingly slowly, Michael opened one eye to savour every centimetre of your legs revealing before him with subtle gasps catching on the tip of his tongue against yours. As the hem reached your hips and exposed your core, Michael moaned greedily in your mouth.

“No panties?” he hummed as your teeth clashed, “no wonder you were so fucking sassy earlier.”

Meeting no obstruction, his soft fingertips wasted no time in trailing between your thighs and finding their home pressed gently onto your clit. As soon as his skin made contact, your hips bucked and you felt a stream of your arousal escape your folds.

Michael could smell it before he felt it. His fingers coursed down to collect the precious droplets, raising his digits to your conjoined mouths so you could both taste you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me baby,” he cooed down your throat, his lust-blown voice reduced to a husky croon. You opened your eyes to meet his for a brief moment but your gaze was met not by his cerulean tones, instead his irises were pitch black, seductively demonic and terrifyingly sinister at the same time. Avoiding their scorching stare, you closed your eyes to kiss him again.

Michael’s hand returned between your thighs and deftly slipped a soft finger through your folds, eliciting a gentle moan from the back of your throat. Returning his fingertip to your entrance, another digit joined it and coursed inside you, curling against your walls to make your hips follow their lead.

Michael grunted into your mouth as he retrieved his fingers, jealous of the warm arousal his fingers witnessed. Tracing his tongue across your teeth, you whimpered at the loss of his touch but replaced by the rustle of Michael setting himself free from his dress pants. You trailed a hand down his chest, making light work of his shirt buttons. Before you could reach his waistband, you felt the head of his cock tracing the outline of your folds, begging for permission to enter.

“Is this okay?” He asked politely as your teeth crashed together. His reconnection with the new Ms Mead skilfully reminded him of the basic courtesies he lost sight of on his sojourn, a time he never seemed comfortable to talk about with you. A time he would rather forget.

You hummed in agreement against his lips and hooked your legs around his waist, gently nudging him closer as his cock stretched your entrance. Slowly, carefully, respectfully.

Your moans drew out longer as he took his time pouring every inch of him inside you. He craved your response when he entered you, he thrived on the ecstasy your husband gave you.

Bottoming out in one smooth thrust, his hands shot up to the back of your neck to prize you from his lips. As you opened your eyes, you met his black pupils as they shot you a determined, ecstatic glare.

“Sell your soul to my father, please. We can live forever, together,” his syllables dragged as he thrust slowly into you.

You needed no persuasion, your mind was made up on the day you married the Antichrist, the only delay was the plans for the apocalypse had taken over. However, you weren’t prepared to let him think he won you over that easily, especially while his cock was urging at the entrance of your cervix.

“What is it with you and deep conversations while you’re balls deep inside me?” You quirked an eyebrow and he forced an aggressive thrust in response. Your back arched suddenly and your eyes retreated into the back of your head, the fast motion driving you closer to your orgasm than you expected so soon.

Protectively wrapping your arms around him and lightly digging your nails into his back, you pretended to need more time to think on his proposition but another sharp snap of his hips broke your facade.

“You realise I won’t let you cum until you agree, don’t you, my darling?” He raised his hand to your throat with a gentle yet purposeful squeeze on your airways while slowly pulling his cock back out of you until just the tip rested in your entrance. He knew from extensive experience that you couldn’t say no when he teased you like this.

“Fuck—ugh fuck, okay I will, now please Michael,” you pleaded weakly, trying to pull him back inside you but he placed a forceful palm on your chest in resistance.

“Say the words honey, say the words.” His black hole stare burned through your eyes into your soul as you rolled your eyes.

“Fine. Michael Langdon, I will sell my soul to Satan,” you breathed emphatically, digging your nails into his back harder.

Your eyes trailed down between your legs to make sure he kept his end of the deal. Sure enough, he poured every inch back inside your folds, meeting your wetness inside with a greedy moan escaping his lips. Gone was his sensual tempo, overtaken by a furious thrust that made his cock twitch as it explored inside you.

“Good girl,” he cooed into your open mouth while you caved into the burning inside you as he pounded you, the familiar dynamite that only Michael knew how to ignite.

“Cum for me, baby.”

Your back gave way and dropped you flat on your spine against the polished table, writhing and squirming as your release took hold of you. All your involuntary friction led Michael to pursue his own orgasm as his frenetic thrusts plowed into you, his tip crashing against your cervix with every motion.

Between both of your frantic moans and laboured breaths, a throat cleared uncomfortably behind you. 

Michael froze to the spot while you jerked back and strained to see through the stars dancing across your vision.

“Mr Manilow? You’re still in here?”

[ahnsael]

Just had another great chat with my brother-in-law (the same one I’ve had issues with in the past) -- the difference was that this one was in person.

It ranged from politics (he’s conservative, but I’m not, but we found agreement on a middle-ground -- let Trump have his challenges, but if he doesn’t have the evidence, he loses), to the Coronavirus (I think the curfews in California are silly, as does he -- just make sure people are wearing masks and practicing social distancing and we’re good, but we also agree that a lot of people are going WAY too far to get out of those mandates -- including California’s Governor who ordered the curfew because, just like the Governor, other people haven’t been following the mandates). to talking about anxiety, and him telling me to text him any time -- and if he’s asleep, he’ll respond when he can, but if he’s awake, he’ll try to help me center myself in that moment.

But with Washington’s travel ban (which was announced the day they arrived from Washington), I was told their visit (which I originally thought was about two weeks, through Thanksgiving, and then found out it was at least through New Year’s Day) may last a bit longer depending on how long this plays out (which, in my opinion, could be a while -- I may find out Tuesday night that my casino is closing again).

I’m hoping I’d have at least a couple days of babysitting the casino before they can secure it again (that took a lot of work on a building with no locks on the doors because we’re open 24/7). And then...I would welcome the time off. I still have unemployment benefits left for the year. I claimed $2,808 of my allotment when we were closed, but (even though the extra $600 meant I was making more without working), I went back to work the day the casino reopened in June, and didn’t claim for the week before that since I knew I had a check coming in the near future.

I just checked, and I still have $5,304 in claims available for the year (a7 more weeks, if needed, at $312/week). And I held onto my BofA card for the account to which it is paid (Nevada, as far as I was able to find out, doesn’t do direct deposit, but deposits into a different account through BofA).

The checks wouldn’t be as big without the extra $600 (which was paid by the federal government and has expired), and I would now make LESS than I make my working, but...I would still have SOME income.

So...whether we get shut down again or not, I’ll be okay. I know the first shutdown was bad for my mental health. But now we know more, and I would know that I don’t have to be the “mask police” for a while, for people who try everything they can to subvert the mandates and risk transmitting the virus. I’m SHOCKED we haven’t had an outbreak in our casino, to be honest (a bar kitty-corner from us, many of whom also visit us, has had one). I won’t have to deal with the selfish jerks.

But I’ll also probably watch too much news and have more anxiety attacks than I have now (even if *I* don’t go out, I’ll be thinking of all the people catching it because they DID go out, even if they did the right things, because a LOT of people in this area just refuse to comply).

I’m just going to see what Tuesday brings and play it by ear from there.

The downside to me if we get shut down: I had a vacation week due a couple weeks after we were shut down originally. Under the shutdown, all paid time off was cancelled. So I still get next week off, but I didn’t get paid for the PTO (paid time off) that I had requested if we’re shut down before that). In fact, I worked that first vacation week, babysitting the empty casino. I was basically just there to call the cops if someone tried to break in thinking we had cash on hand when we were closed and not doing any business.

If we get shut down this week, I lose a week of PTO AGAIN, since it’s scheduled for the week after, and I expect the company to cancel it again. But again, hopefully I can plop my rear end down on a recliner in the Sports Book and tune something fun in on the giant-screen TV, take a walk around every half hour or so to ensure nobody has tried to break in, and call the cops if they did (that didn’t happen in the initial shutdown, so I may want to make it 10-15 minute intervals this time since I know frustration levels are higher). That would at least get me an extra day or two of pay (last time we were shut down, when we didn’t know what the future held when we reopened, I was recognized as someone they REALLY wanted to keep on board if we went to a skeleton crew -- and I still remember the relief in my boss’ voice when he called to say we were reopening and I said I would be there). But I assume the PTO would be cancelled again, even if I don’t have to babysit the casino for that long.

On the plus side, we have a couple of new managers (one was a casino attendant for a few weeks before being promoted, because they have experience, the other is a new hire as a manager whose work history I am unfamiliar with -- but this company took a chance on me, so I’m rooting for them if we took a chance on them as well)

 And our owner was in our manager’s meeting last Thursday. And he (this was a GOOD move on his part) acknowledged that they’re going to feel a little clueless for a while -- there’s a LOT of info thrown at them in a short time, and NONE of us expect them to become experts in their weeks of training. I often tell new managers that it took me six months before I felt like I had a clue what I was doing.

But he encouraged them to ask questions (which is pretty boilerplate). But then he directed them as far as whom to ask. I don’t know if it was in order, but he said “Kenny knows this stuff. Duane (my boss) knows this stuff. Geoff (another boss of mine) knows this stuff Kurt (the guy who actually doesn’t know most of this stuff)” knows this stuff.

All of us that were named have multiple years under our belt. Kut still tells me “this kiosk is down because it’s low on $100 bills” and it turns out to not be that, but a simple fix, and he just made up a reason because he didn’t actually check (but this is also the guy who brought me groceries during the shutdown, and while he may not be the best manager, I will defend him as a human being). The rest named DO know what they’re talking about.

But I was blown away that I was the FIRST one named. This owner will come down on me if I miss something (or maybe I just take it that way because I dislike missing even the smallest details, yet sometimes I do), but...the fact that he named me FIRST, even over my bosses, was a nice moment for me. It may have been just because I was the one who he caught eyes with first. I’m NOT taking this as “I’m better than my boss” (I do NOT want my boss’ job -- too stressful).

But it still felt good.

[ladyautie]

get to know me more!

@funyasm​ tagged me and I’m bored after writing my chapter, so here it is!

✨ what do you prefer to be called name wise?

My name’s Sophie. My friends call me Spencou or Spence. We met on a Role-Playing game forum where I played a character named Spencer. We’re used to call each other by our characters’ names and nicknames, most of the time. My brother calls me Sis’.

✨ when is your birthday?

15th november 1993.

✨ where do you live?

Paris, France.

✨ three things you are doing right now?

I’m watching an episode of AT4W on youtube, scrolling on Tumblr and I’m drinking a coffee.

✨ four fandoms that have piqued your interest right now?

Definitely It and especially Eddie Kaspbrak and the ship Reddie. I’m kinda obsessed right now, writing fanfic, reading fanfic, daydreaming about it and all.

I just played the Last of Us 2 and I’m currently watching a let’s play from my favorite youtubers, Mari and Stacy from Geek Remix. I’ll probably read a few fics as well.

The tv show Barry (HBO) is a definite special interest for me. I’m probably going to watch it all once again real soon and I’m planning on writing a fanfic or two in the future. I’m dying for the third season to come.

Finally, I’m probably going to be super into The Umbrella Academy once again, when the second season will be released. I’m just really into Vanya, Klaus and Allison and I can’t wait to see more of them.

✨ how is the pandemic treating you?

None of the people I know have been contaminated, so I’m lucky about that. I’m not quarantined anymore, back to work, and the transition is not easy. 

I feel like I’m more openly autistic than I used to be and that I can’t stand the rest of the world for a long period of time. I’ve experienced multiple meltdowns and shutdowns and I have real difficulties to socialize with most people or to focus on my work.

I feel incredibly naked and vulnerable whenever I’m leaving my flat without my mask on, so I think that’s definitely something I’m gonna have to work on in the future.

Leaving Paris and meeting my folks for my mother’s wedding, I found myself surrounded by people who mostly didn’t care about the virus, kissing each other on the cheek in true french fashion to say hello, hugging, not wearing a mask, not respecting any kind of social distance. 

I was quickly overwhelmed by all of that, plus the noise, and I had to isolate myself in my parents’ car, sobbing hysterically and willing to suffer in a overheated car if it meant having a bit of peace.

There are definitely going to be long-term consequences. I can only hope that my physical health will remain okay, though.

✨ song you can’t stop listening right now?

Keep On by Sasha Sloan. I just really love the lyrics and the message.

✨ recommend a movie.

Whenever I have to think of a movie to recommend, Frank by Lenny Abrahamson is the first one that comes to my mind. This movie is an obsession for me since the first time I watched it and I often find myself watching it again and again. Despite its heavy subjects, it’s definitely a comfort movie for me.

Too often, movies featuring mentally ill characters will aim for the characters to “get better”, which doesn’t mean for them to find healthy ways to cope with their issues, but usually for them to look more “neurotypical-like”, if you know what I mean. Frank  doesn’t go that way at all. On the contrary, it pushes the viewer to empathize with the main characters and to understand their point of view, their way of being.

It’s so incredibly comforting to watch a movie featuring mental illness realistic and not romanticized and to have the movie say “you’re different and you have issues, but you’ll find your tribe someday and be able to find your own happiness, even if it’s unconventional by society’s standards”.

I don’t know, I just have so much feelings about this movie. Plus the music slaps, the humor is hilarious (kudos to the random French guy who can perfectly understand English but refuses to utter a single word if it’s not in French) and the actors are truly on point (I can only salute Domnhall Gleeson, among everyone else who is also worthy of praise, because he definitely managed to make me hate his character in a way I almost never hated a character before).

Watch it!

✨ how old are you?

I’m 26 years old.

✨ school, university, occupation, other?

I used to be a librarian, but I couldn’t find a stable job in this field, so I passed an entrance examination and I’m now working in the tax administration. Yeah, not really glamorous, but it pays the bills and I’m accommodated for my disability, so it helps. 

✨ do you prefer hot or cold?

Definitely cold. When I was a kid, I used to swim in mountain lakes, at temperatures close to 13° celsius, and I still take my showers mostly cold. I can’t stand heat, I get headaches very easily when it’s sunny and I’m getting confused easily whenever it’s too hot. I recently had a nosebleed at work so intense that I found myself spitting blood (it went better once I got a fan, making the temperature bearable).

✨ name one fact others may not know about you.

I used to be allergic to my own sweat when I was around 18, until my early twenties. Whenever I was doing a mild physical effort or getting stressed out, I would get hives and itchy skin rash all over my whole freaking body, which was so exhausting that I would fall asleep immediately as soon as the rash was gone. 

It disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, without me ever doing something about it. I still don’t know why I experienced that and if I’m going to experience that ever again. I hope not.

✨ are you shy?

My autism makes social interactions complicated, but I’d say I’m mostly impaired by my social anxiety and the various traumas I’m dealing with daily.

Traumas I got after having been bullied pretty badly by kids and teachers during my school years, my stepfather being borderline abusive and different traumatic experiences, including my childhood crush dying from a ski accident when I was 15 or so (and me never being able to tell him that I loved him) and people betraying me so many times that I can’t even recall every little thing.

As a result, I find myself doubting constantly that I’m worthy of love, affection and respect and I often wonder when I’ll do or say the “wrong” thing that will cause me to lose everyone I care about. I also have a hard time knowing who I am and, as a result, allowing everyone to know who I am as well. 

I often don’t know what to say and will find myself keeping my mouth shut, even on topics I’m knowledgeable about, because I’m scared of people shutting me down, among other things. My friends make it easier for me to talk about things I like and all, but I’m still heavily doubting myself.

I try to challenge myself regularly. I’ll force myself to take part in events that are taxing or that are forcing me to perform in front of people. That’s how I found myself taking part in the casting part of the french equivalent of “American Idol” (I merely met the pre-judges, but I did manage to sing my whole song in front of them). I needed to prove to myself that I could do it.

✨ do you have any preferred pronouns?

I’m using she/her, but I don’t mind people using they/them to talk about me if they don’t want to be gender-specific.

✨ any pet peeves?

I hate how people can freely and openly be homophobic, racist, ableist, transphobic, sexist and so on, but as soon as I open my mouth to let them know that what they said/did wasn’t appropriate, I’m labelled as one of those “hysterical feminists” or a “party pooper”. s/ Sorry if your antisemitic joke isn’t making me laugh, my “dear” colleague... /s I hate whenever people infantilize me, especially my mom. She’s still keeping an eye on my bank account, despite me telling her that I didn’t want her to do so again and again. I don’t dare to block her out, because I’m scared of her emotional reaction.  I hate the ugliest parts of fandom, notably the obsession with “who’s topping / who’s bottoming” whenever there’s a gay pairing or the racism / ableism / transphobia / homophobia I’ve witnessed again and again.

I don’t dare to engage in the Last of Us 2 fandom because of that and the way some people describe the character of Abby (a very muscular woman), focusing on her physical appearance and calling her awful names (being downright transphobic when they thought that she was the transgender character that Naughty Dog announced there would be in their game). 

✨ what’s your favorite “dere” type?

I had to google it, because aside from Yandere and Tsundere, I didn’t know a thing about it. I guess you could say I’m a Dandere (someone who is quiet and asocial. They are afraid to talk, fearing that what they say will get them in trouble.). 

My favorite type is Kuudere though, when it comes to anime in particular (someone who is calm and collected on the outside, and never panics. They show little emotion, and in extreme cases are completely emotionless, but may be hiding their true emotions. They tend to be leaders who are always in charge of a situation.). 

My favorite anime character, Kiyotaka Ayanokōji from the anime Classroom of the elite, is the most extreme case I can think about. He’s completely expressionless for most of the anime, talks with a very dull voice and it’s impossible to know what he’s thinking about at all times or what’s his overall plan. His hidden depth makes him all the more fascinating. He managed to keep me interested in a mostly meh anime.

✨ rate your life 1-10. 1 being really crappy and 10 being the best you could ever be.

It’s a bit hard, but somewhere around 5 or 6? I went through tons of crap in my life but I’m still here and able to live on my own, even if my quality of life isn’t all that good. I live with nearly daily suicidal thoughts since I was a teenager and have to compose with my meltdowns and anxiety attacks as well. I feel “other” most of the time and I can’t relate to most people I’m meeting and interacting with, which can sometimes feel very lonely.

On the other hand, I have wonderful friends who are willing to put up with my trauma crap and are overall amazing to talk to and be around. I have a cat I love dearly. They’re the reason why I’m still alive to this day, giving me a reason to say fuck off to my suicidal thoughts. 

✨ what’s your main blog?

My main blog is Ladyautie and is about autism. I have another blog, reddie-4-more, focusing on the It movies and Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier.

✨ is there anything you think people need to know about you before becoming friends with you?

So, uh, don’t be weirded out by the kind of things I can tell you about my past. Even if it seems a lot, all of it is definitely true. 

For example, I was almost kidnapped when I was around 8 or 9 by a random guy, while I was camping with my father. 

My father and my paternal grandmother actually kidnapped me and my brother when I was around two and I stayed with him until the social workers determined that my mother had to raise us again because our well-being and overall life were threatened. 

Lots of events of my life seem far-fetched or out of a movie / a book or something and I had people telling me that I must be lying or that I’m over-exaggerating, something that always hurts deeply.

I’m terribly awkward and more or less openly autistic, so you’re definitely going to notice something different about me. I can’t change for you and I’m not willing to hide my traits only to make you feel more comfortable about frequenting me, so if you can’t handle my socially anxious and disabled ass, then just leave.

I need people to actually tell me what they think or feel. I’m very “first degree” and I’m pretty bad at guessing what people are thinking about. Don’t be afraid to be frank.

Finally, never, and I mean never, infantilize me. I’m a 26 years old woman. I’m not a kid.I’m fine with my friends offering to help or making sure that I’m okay or so, but never assume that I don’t understand something and don’t force your help on me if I say that I’m okay.

That’s it, those who want to take part in this exercise, don’t hesitate!

[literalbuzzkill]

Below I'm gonna vent so y'all can ignore that XD

I'm basically making this post as a timestamp/reminder for myself about Covid2020 and what I had to deal with during it (even though it's still a relentlessly ongoing problem, as of Jan2021, yikes)

Below is my personal experience in switching from working everyday as an essential retail worker to now a stay at home unemployed/leave of absense person. Don't feel bad about not reading it, it's long, boring, and I can't really expect anyone to actually be interested because the struggle is real and who wants to be reminded of the grim reality we can't currently escape? XD

[The Start:]

I was still working retail up until a few months ago because most people left. And being short staffed already before covid at my store, things became an even worse unmanageable nightmare because they started to work the remaining staff to death because no one really knew what to do which sucked and everyone was rightfully afraid of what was happening all around them, plus everyone internally was hoping that this would all blow over in a decent amount of time and we could all return to normal and never speak of it again. Considering Covid started around late January/early February in 2019 and today's date (for my future reference) is Jan 4th 2021, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it certainly has not blown over in a decent amount of time like originally hoped for. Oof.

I was a closer but because of covid my job turned into 'every position at the store and everything/anything that you can possibly get done'. All the stuff from morning team, mid shift, and nightshift rolled into one. Cashiering, phone calls, cleaning, ship from store, backroom, covering multiple breaks, and every department on hardlines salesfloor,

(I did everything except for guest services, food service, clothing, and hr)

you name it XD because most people abandoned ship and Yeeted (which I dont blame them for, t'was a big mood) our store did not hire replacements until literally a few months ago. After I left. Nice.

We were not getting paid any extra, having to stay late, running around with an unending unfinishable list, having to deal with rude customers and cranky bosses, full 8+hour shifts having to wear a mask (even in the break room, and sometimes missing breaks all together because of the large work load) Another problem, my job did not supply masks, proper cleaning supplies, gloves etc to us until an unacceptable amount of time had passed since the start of the virus. Now I didn't expect them to be stocked and fully prepared immediately, obviously.

It was also pretty frustrating getting reprimanded by customers when supplies were low everywhere and some things necessary for existing safely could not be bought anywhere due to high demand, which was only natural, but some people actually acted like it was our personal fault for the store for being sold out of things like hand sanitizer, masks, gloves, toilet paper, and even accused us for holding it in the back for ourselves (which wasnt the case, customers are top priority at our store so the workers usually got nothing to take home or buy, even if we had pulled it from the truck or stocked it ourselves.)

Aside from the excessive draining from normal retail where we already suffer from Karen's and the often unpleasant general public, the Rona made the daily grind even more intense, as if we already thought it couldn't get any worse.

Straying away from that for a second, personal lives were now also affected greatly. Added on top of this new fear/caution/lifestyle was not being able to see my fiance or his family for months because they are all at very high risk. (Unfortunately I am too, but I really needed the paycheck so I thought I had to keep working until the inevitable, which was not looked forward to, but as long as I was potentially exposed with my job we all had to be apart unless I decided to quit and risk not having enough money to pay my bills or survive.)

(Side note for context: My fiance and I have been very lucky enough to see eachother almost every day for 4 years. Surprisingly we have not gotten sick of eachother yet and kept up with that regularity. And though we are engaged, we dont live together, but we do only live 15 minutes away so we just drive over to eachother everyday. Anyway, point being that going months without seeing him at all killed me internally hardcore. This was before zoom was popular and we were not about to resort to Skype. His parents are older and closer to me than my own family and were not comfortable with any form of in-person visits so we usually just did phone calls.)

And eventually I gave up,

I made it halfway through this pandemic working everyday, not seeing the only people I considered family, and I couldn't do it anymore. It literally didn't feel human.

Not to mention this did not help whatsoever with my pre-existing problems, bad depression, anxiety, ptsd, Self h, etc... it was all just getting way too out of hand with more stress piling up daily and taking too big a toll on me to the point where I couldn't deal with my regular lifestyle anymore. I needed a break and a change to severely turn myself around.

So a few months ago I finally went on leave of absence and it was the hardest thing for me to do but honestly the best thing I did. Because everything was so uncertain and I worried about how helpful unemployment would be towards my bills, if I'd lose my job for being gone too long due to an open ended leave of absense for the sake of my health/safety, and honestly I loved my job and my coworkers, but many of them had already left so at that point it became easier for me to leave.

I'm currently making more on unemployment than my job was paying my bi-weekly and doing leagues better mentally, emotionally, and physically, than before when I thought I could last the whole time working through covid hoping I wouldn't catch it and probably die because my health is not 100% gucci in the first place. I was too stubborn to quit until I got to a breaking point and then realised that putting my health/life on the line when I'm at risk during a pandemic for literally no reason other than feeling bad for my one really kind boss (who ended up leaving for a better job anyway right after I left)

in my brain the whole time I figured "eh if I die then I die" but there was a major upside to saying "you know what, fuck this" and leaving.

I've gotten to take up hobbies and do things that I've wanted to do for like 10 years, I improved my financial situation, bought my dream car(A 2004Crossfire), got engaged to the love of my life, had more time to read, write, learn, create, help my fiance record his first official music video, support smaller businesses, get back in better physical health, regain stability, and a new respect for life, health, friends, family, acts of kindness, and how easy things used to be before covid and how it was unintentionally taken for granted.

Not gonna lie, at first I was pretty mad that people on unemployment made more than essential workers, but I also knew that it wasn't their fault for their personal situations or reasonings for needing it. The problem was mainly that many Companies/jobs could have done more, treated essential workers better, given more help, compensated financially, offered forms of protectionagaint the virus, or done literally anything extra at all to help employees who were struggling or who stay to continue working there during a terrible pandemic, and some companies/jobs have done good things for their workers in response of the outbreak which is awesome.

Workers should absolutely be compensated for their extra efforts, time, and pleasant attitude in this difficult time, and treated better than they are. Some things should 1000% be different but some things in this world are still a work in progress.

And also, for people with health issues that are at risk but working anyway for whatever reason, there shouldn't be any shame felt for taking care of yourself or by the people who have to go on unemployment, those who can't work, lost their jobs, need help or a break, or just can't do it anymore, because it hits hard when you realise that even though your effort is important and you're doing your best, playing an important role in society, you could also be risking your health/life or even possibly someone you live withs, for a company that will replace you pretty easily if you're suddenly gone.

I worked at my store for 4 years, was extremely hard working and did everything and anything I could to stay as long as I could during this, but I realised that I'd rather not risk myself and be treated how I was.

Ultimately, the sad reality is that covid has some people forgetting that humans (whether working or not) are humans too that can die or fail at any time given the current circumstances. Some situations are unavoidable like a pandemic, but we can do our best with whatever reality we meet, whether it's being essential the whole way through like some are able, and knowing your health well enough to be able to judge what's best for you individually for now.

but regardless making sure you're not taking yourself for granted in the process.

I'm lucky enough to not have gotten covid yet, and I hope it stays that way.

If your job isnt doing what it can for you in this time, dont be too stubborn about staying

Its not worth risking yourself for your job honestly, and I really hope peoples jobs do as much as they can for those they employ.

If you aren't working, do something with your time that you'll remember (safe things obviously) and if you are still working keep up the awesome progress, stay safe, and be blessed. ❤

[dragon-zena]

all your troubles in my hair

Fandom: Mob Psycho 100

Relationship: Serizawa Katsuya/Reigen Arataka

Characters: Serizawa Katsuya, Reigen Arataka, Kageyama “Mob” Shigeo, Kageyama Ritsu, Kageyama Siblings’ Parents, Dimple

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, reigen has horrible coping mechanisms: the fic, Spoilers for Chapter 100, OVA spoilers, Anxiety, Depression, Therapy

Summary: Neither of them are naïve enough to believe that love is meant to solve all of their internalized issues.

Read it on AO3!

Neither of them are naïve enough to believe that love is meant to solve all of their internalized issues.

They both have bad days; it's not something that really comes to a surprise to Katsuya, especially after months of being together.

Katsuya has days where he feels like he's been in a loop, a dream that he'll wake up from, still stuck in his childhood bedroom. Sometimes, he smells the trash, the dirty laundry. He sits up in bed, and there's nothing but white noise under his skin, roaring in his ears. Days where he wants to lock himself in the bathroom, hands shaking.

As time goes on, he has less and less of these days, but even still, sometimes he'll be riding the train with Arataka, towards an apartment that they share more often than not, and he'll look out of the window, admiring just how bright the moon is. And then he'll look at Arataka, leaning into his side with an old newspaper, and he'll watch those long eyelashes flutter as he skims each page, right to left, and there is a small flicker of fear within him—the thought that he might lose experiences like these, again, someday.

And while he's honest about his feelings, sometimes—ironically enough—he just wants to lock them up in a room and throw away the key. When the nights are harder to sleep through, nightmares chasing him into wakefulness, Katsuya almost feels frustrated, angry.

Arataka notices (he always notices), and Katsuya can't ever decide if he wants his boyfriend to ask about whether he wants to talk, or if he would rather be left alone. Whatever he chooses always feels like the wrong answer. He doesn't know if there is a right answer, not after days where he lies in bed feeling awful about a comment made with more snark than usual, or days where he can't make himself speak, at all, days where only the wrong things come out of his mouth. Arataka never takes it personally, but it fills Katsuya with inexplicable vitriol.

He's been working on all of it, having found a therapist that actually understands him after years of having to interact with therapists that he felt never gave a shit about him. He's started to categorize his days, coping by journaling his moods and triggers, what makes him feel this way. What makes him feel better, what feels safe for him. It helps.

Arataka doesn’t have a therapist, doesn’t think that he needs one. It’s something that used to bother Katsuya, the thought that maybe Arataka thought that only certain people needed a therapist—that maybe he thought he was too good for one. But the longer that he experiences loving him, the more he realizes that the man is doing his damnedest to just internalize his issues and move on as though they don't exist. Katsuya thinks that maybe Arataka feels as though if he ignores his problems, he’ll be more credible to the people that need his help. If he ignores his problems, he won’t take up space and resources from people that “deserve it” more than he does.

If he ignores his problems, he’ll still be useful to someone, his accomplishments won’t be stripped away by whatever makes him wake up in cold sweats, whatever makes his face twitch minutely out of its normal placid expression, gone so fast that a stranger might think that they imagined it.

Katsuya is no stranger.

He can see it whenever Arataka gets too caught up in his newspaper on the train home, the way that he tenses up when Katsuya stands to get off, expecting him to follow. The way that Arataka suddenly jumps at the movement, quickly snatching one of Katsuya’s sleeves with wide, faraway eyes. The way that he can’t seem to settle when he’s without something to read, nothing to keep his mind off of the rattling of the train, the screech of the vehicle coming to a stop, the train cabin being thrown into darkness as they pass through a tunnel or under a bridge. The way that he’s always the last person to board the train and the first person off. The way he refuses to fall asleep, even when Katsuya offers him his shoulder.

He sees it in the aftermath of Shigeo’s last explosion. The two of them had waited with Shigeo and Dimple until his parents came to get him. Ritsu had reached them first, of course, and was promptly pulled into a hug by his older brother. The two of them let themselves feel for a few minutes, and Dimple hadn’t been too keen on leaving the two of them alone for a while, settling himself on top of Shigeo’s head like a languid cat. He was looking a little worse for wear, himself, small and a paler green than what he was before he disappeared.

Once the Kageyama parents arrived, Arataka had pushed himself up from his haphazard crouch, using Katsuya as a crutch and biting the inside of his cheek to stifle any pained sounds he made. He smiled genuinely, eyes glassy, and conversed quietly and respectfully with Shigeo’s parents, holding their children so closely. Returned their gratitude for the opportunity to know Shigeo when they had thanked him for looking after their son. Dimple had given Katsuya a significant look over Shigeo’s head when Arataka’s voice cracked, and he had nodded, eyebrows knitting together. When Shigeo had pulled Arataka into a hug before leaving, the man looked prepared to cry, again, and when Katsuya had lifted his young friend into a bear hug, telling him that he was so glad that he was safe, that he had come to a conclusion that made him feel at peace with himself, Shigeo had nodded, clutching him tighter, but he, too, had subtly asked Katsuya to look over his shishou. And Katsuya had nodded again, ruffling his hair and watching as he walked away with his parents.

It left Katsuya and Arataka alone. Not that it mattered, because the moment that the Kageyama car disappeared, Arataka had collapsed to his knees, wheezing in pain. Eyes bleary, he managed a raspy “I can’t afford any hospital bills, right now” before passing out, eyes rolling back into his head. Katsuya only panicked a little, hurriedly bundling him up in his arms and beginning to make his way back from whence the two of them came. With Arataka unconscious, buried in Katsuya’s arms, he had been able to start digesting what happened once he had let the other man walk into Shigeo’s tornado. He thought about how dangerous (and brave, but mainly dangerous) the choice Arataka made was, how quickly he had lost sight of him in the cycle of dusty wind and debris. He thought about what Arataka had planned to leave behind.

The suit jacket. The dress shoes.

They never discuss it fully, not for lack of trying. It’s just, well.

Arataka throws himself into his work, deflecting “personal problems” when they’re working, invested strictly into his mask of professionalism, even when there are no clients. The first time Katsuya tried to push him into talking about his emotions, the man began to talk circles around him, so quickly and with so much anxious fervor that Katsuya ended up at a loss of words, mind swimming. It only occurred to him later that Arataka had told him practically nothing, and he tried not to get frustrated about it. Katsuya subtly asks him about getting help and acknowledging his feelings multiple times, but the only other time that he pressed Arataka led to an argument that lasted for at least a week before they apologized to each other, and by then, it seemed as though the man had developed at least five more different coping mechanisms, none of them even remotely helpful. His sleep schedule has become absolutely ridiculous, and sometimes Katsuya sees his hands twitch for the emergency cigarettes that he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk. He never goes for it, but he lately seems stressed enough to cave more sooner than later.

Sometimes, Arataka just parks himself next to Katsuya, back straight. He’s not close enough to comfortably reach for, but he’s there.

Tonight is one of those nights. It's Friday, and Katsuya can count on his hands the number of hours of sleep that Arataka has gotten throughout the entire week. Not only that, but something must have been happening to make almost every client that entered Spirits & Such unnecessarily hostile. At some point earlier, his boyfriend had attempted to call Shigeo, ask him if he wanted to come with them for "ramen or something, it’s up to you, really, Mob," but Shigeo had already made other plans. Arataka said that he hadn’t minded, and he probably didn’t, committed to the concept of “not distorting” anyone else with his presence. Even still, his smile seemed a little tighter after hanging up, informing Katsuya that it would just be them, tonight.

Arataka sits stiffly on the other side of the couch, and Katsuya acts like he’s not watching him through his peripheral while working on his math homework. He doesn’t know when he’s going to use this. Remembering Arataka’s frequent complaints about math, he opens his mouth to tell this to him, hoping to make the silence a little less unbearable. But the sight before him makes him pause, words caught in his throat.

His boyfriend is crying silent tears, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, nose crinkled. He makes no move to wipe his face, and Katsuya doesn’t think that he notices that he’s been caught until he moves a little closer, making him jump, head swiveling to stare at Katsuya. They both grimace at each other, an understanding passing between them, despite Arataka’s clear embarrassment at being caught crying.

“Arataka,” Katsuya breathes out, scooting a little closer to his boyfriend and cupping his face into his hands, thumbs doing their best to wipe away tears that don’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. “What do you need?”

Arataka curls in on himself, averting his eyes away from Katsuya’s worried face. He sniffs as though trying to suck the tears and snot back up, and Katsuya tries not to wince, heart clenching.

Arms wrapped around himself, Arataka admits, voice quavering, “I think I need help.”

It’s quiet, small and brittle, but it’s there. Katsuya pulls his lover into his arms, presses his head gently into the junction of his shoulder and neck, kisses his temple sweetly. “I’ll help you,” he says. “We can help each other.”

Arataka says nothing, but he presses a little harder into Katsuya. It's not long before the man falls asleep, exhausted. Katsuya kisses the crown of his head, buries his nose into coarse brown strands.

Neither of them are naïve enough to believe that love will solve all of their internalized issues, but Katsuya watches Arataka sleep, and he thinks, warmth blooming in his chest, "Thank god we have each other." It doesn’t take long for him to follow Arataka’s lead.

[valiantthewriter]

All Things For You

The following program contains: Financial Dom Peter, Sugar Daddy stuff, Daddy kink, D/s dynamics. Part 1 of my fic on AO3. Viewer discretion is advised.

They met in a museum in a nanotechnology exhibit where Tony was speaking on upcoming developments with nanotech to a group of college freshman. That's when he saw him, all puppy eyes and the sweetest grin that made his nose wrinkle. The boy was clad in a baggy Columbia sweater and a pair of sinfully tiny denim short, his hand raised high in the air.

“Yes, Mister…?” Tony began, desperate to know this lovely creature's name. He couldn't help the way his eyes raked over the boy’s lithe form, from his slender shoulders to his creamy thighs to his knobbly ankle bones. He wanted nothing more that to kiss those little bones, to worship the ground this boy walked on.

“Peter Parker, Mr. Stark. I have a question about what you think the ultimate goal nanotech should be used for? What are the top three ways you would want to see it used?” the sweet boy, no, Peter asked.

Yeah, Tony was smitten.

-

Tony might have done some digging of the illegal kind to find out as much as he could about Peter Parker. He learned that Peter was a freshman at Columbia. He learned Peter was eighteen and impressively clever if his grades said anything about it. Tony wanted nothing more than to learn more about Peter, to get to know him on every level.

-

He got his wish, even if he manipulated the situation. Tony arranged a lecture to be held specifically for freshman at Columbia. The goal of this lecture was to get the students interacting and speaking about their favorite STEM topics. Ah, the joys of being a genius with the funds to build another lab.

Tony held his breath as he watched dozens of students flood into the lecture hall, finally breathing once more when he spotted that adorable head of curls walk through the door. Today's attire was just as sweet as the museum. Peter wore a pair of tight, black shorts and and a light purple sweater that kept falling off his shoulder. His cheeks were dusted with some type of powder that shined gold in the lecture hall lights.

“Hello freshman of Columbia!” Tony spoke into the mic with a clap of his hands. He grinned at the room but his eyes were trained on Peter's face. “Rumor has it that you are the brightest students here, a select group of students chosen for this lecture. That has to feel pretty good.”

The room cheered. Tony grinned, staring at Peter. Peter looked away with a blush.

“You all know who I am and I'm here to get to know all 30 of you today. Let's get to know each other some? Let's start with Mr. Parker, the bright young man I met in the museum,” Tony said, walking the stage and turning on his wireless mic, “Go ahead and stand up, Mr. Parker. Tell us a little about you and any ongoing projects you have going on,” the older man continued, gesturing with his hands for Peter to stand.

A small frown, barely lasting a moment, crossed Peter's face before he stood. Without a hint of shyness he began to introduce himself.

“I'm Peter. I like biochemistry and bioengineering. I'm currently working on a project to make a tensile rope made out of materials similar to spider silk,” the young man said, biting his lip at the end, looking at Tony for approval.

Lord, smite him now or let the boy be his. There was no sign of lightning nor fire and brimstone. Tony took that as a sign from the universe to proceed.

“Fascinating, Mr. Parker. Perhaps you can speak with me more about that later,” Tony suggested, shooting his shot. Why was he worried? He was who he was.

Peter merely smirked. Tony felt like he was stripped bare, like Peter was seeing right through him.

-

“Tell me, Mr. Stark, what am I getting out of this arrangement?” Peter asked, taking a sip of his champagne.

They were alone in a private dining room in a restaurant he thought would impress the boy. Instead, Peter took in the sights with indifference and ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu. Tony couldn't find it in himself to be anything but in awe of the beautiful boy in front of him. Peter was swirling the bubbly liquid in his glass, looking at Tony through his lashes. He was mesmerized.

“What was that, sweetheart?” the older man asked, rubbing his eyes to make them focus again. Peter simply grinned.

“I really hate repeating myself, Mr Stark,” Peter admonished, his grin becoming devilish, “but you're a very handsome man so I'll make an exception. I asked what I'm getting out of this arrangement.” Peter took another sip of champagne. Tony watched the way his throat moved, imagining so many things.

“I don't understand,” he responded, and truly, he didn't. Peter was too distracting with his collar bones accented by his off the shoulder blouse and his lips and-

“My allowance, what you expect of me, getting me a credit card. You know how this works, right? I'm too pretty to not get anything out of this,” Peter said in an exasperated tone, leaning back in his seat. Under the table his dainty foot rubbed Tony's calf.

Fuck. This shouldn't be so hot. He didn't let people do this to him or talk to him like this. Peter just made it so fucking hot.

“How much do you want?” Tony asked, truly at a loss. Peter was obviously priceless, so how could he have a say in that.

“I'm so glad you said that, Daddy. What a good answer,” Peter cooed in an approving tone. It made Tony glow, like he was doing something right and good. “My bills are more important than yours. My wants are more important than yours. So, if you want this, if you want me, then you better get me a nice present.”

Fuck, why was that hot? Tony almost groaned being called ‘Daddy’. It had a nice ring to it. This was clearly a challenge that Tony felt he could beat. After all, he was made of money.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. I already have an idea on what to get you,” Tony said, glowing from Peter's praise.

Peter scoffed, downing the rest of his champagne. “I'm not your sweetheart yet. You want a starstruck co-ed? Go get one. You want me? Earn it.”

-

Tony's stomach was full of butterflies and his nerves turned the wings of those butterflies into razors, cutting up his insides. He was meeting Peter tonight for dinner at the finest sushi restaurant in New York, at Peter's request. Well, Tony felt like it was more of a demand and that sent a shiver down his spine.

The beautiful, young boy asked for a gift and Tony felt like he really delivered on this. He spent all week fretting over what to get, finally stumbling across something in Tiffany's. He purchased an intricate Tiffany key made of white gold and covered in diamonds that hung on a white gold chain. If Peter wasn't pleased with that he had a backup gift of a diamond and sapphire cuff bracelet that looked like vines that would wrap around the boy's wrist.

Tony was waiting in the lobby for Peter to arrive. He had sent a limo to Peter's apartment. Tony was wearing one of his Armani suits with a red tie that he kept adjusting due to his anxiety.

Peter stepped into the restaurant clad in black skinny pants that looked painted on and a sheer white top with a red crop top underneath. He looked like sin.

“Hi, Tony. I'm starving, let's eat. I hope you got another private room,” Peter said, walking up to Tony and kissing his cheek before looping their arms together. He was clearly waiting for Tony to escort him.

The hostess, clad in a beautiful blue kimono, looked them up and down before grinning. She clearly knew what was up. “Right this way, gentlemen. We have the finest room ready for you, Mr. Stark,” she said in a professional tone, leading the way to the room and sliding open the wooden door.

The room was beautiful, small, and intimate. The lighting was a light gold that made Peter's skin glow. The room itself was decorated in a traditional Japanese teahouse, full of fine vases and paintings that looked priceless. There was already a bottle of the most expensive sake in the restaurant.

“Your server will be Mike and he will take excellent care of you tonight. I’ll bring him over immediately to bring you an appetizer tray on the house,” the hostess said, giving a small bow before exiting the room and shutting the door.

Peter looked from the table to Tony expectantly, clearing his throat and raising a brow, a look that clearly said ‘Well?’

Tony rushed to pull out a chair for Peter, his breath taken away as the younger man smiled at him, all perfect teeth and bright eyes. “Thank you, Tony. Let's enjoy our meal and then we can talk business. Sound good?” Peter asked, his tone sounding more like an order than a question.

“Yes...um...that sounds great, Peter. So...how is school?” Tony stammered, feeling even more nervous now that he was sitting across from this beautiful creature. He felt out of sorts, never having this problem before. Tony was a confident man, a powerful man, and yet he felt weak in the presence of a college freshman.

Peter looked down at his nails, examining the french manicure he had. “It's going well. I'm passing all my classes and my web project is perfect, as expected. I'm working on an engineering project with my friend  Ned on a way to utilize the web substance. We are thinking wrist braces would be efficient and rather cool,” Peter said, loosening up some as he spoke about his project, an innocence coming through before he put his indifferent mask back on. It made Tony's heart still in his chest.

Tony was about to reply when their server walked in the door carrying a tray full of dumplings, rangoons, pickled vegetables, and shrimp tempura. It all smelled and looked amazing. The server set down each dish on the table.

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Mike and I shall be taking care of you this evening. Would you gentlemen like for me to pour you some sake?” Mike asked, reaching for the bottle. Tony looked to Peter and Peter nodded to the server.

“This sake is of the highest quality and is imported directly from Japan. It is best served warm as we have it set up here. Please enjoy. I'll bring the sushi selection shortly,” Mike said, pouring the sake and water from the pitcher on the table for Tony and Peter. He left with a small bow.

Peter lifted the sake cup to his lips, taking a sip and smiling. “I don't normally like sake, but this is great. Excellent choice,” Peter complimented, rewarding Tony with a smile and a brush of his foot against Tony's leg beneath the table.

“Only the best,” Tony said, sitting up straight and preening from Peter's approval, “The projects you're working on sound fascinating. If you want, you can always bring your brace design to my lab. I can look it over for you.” After all, he was a genius.

“Perhaps. You have to earn my company though, remember?” the younger man teased, pulling his foot away and picking up a piece of shrimp tempura with his chopsticks, biting into it with a moan. The sound went straight to Tony's cock.

Tony watched Peter as he ate, mesmerized by everything the boy did, from chewing to how his hands moved so gracefully with the chopsticks. Peter noticed the attention and offered Tony a small smile and a dumpling.

“You need to eat, Mr. Stark. Have a bite,” Peter said, letting out a noise of approval as Tony took the offered dumpling, “Is it good? It looks good,” Peter continued, offering a shrimp tempura to Tony.

Being fed was a wonderful feeling. He felt a little embarrassed, but also nurtured and cared for. It was an odd combination that he ruminated on as he chewed.

Suddenly, his forehead was poked with a pair of chopsticks and he was brought back to reality. “Bad Daddy, no overthinking. Eat your dumplings,” Peter ordered, happily going back to eating and chattering away about some chemical engineering project team he was hoping to get on.

The boy was smart, so incredibly smart. He was funny and bratty and beautiful. Peter deserved to be spoiled and cared for, deserved whatever he wanted.

His thoughts were interrupted once more by the server rolling in a cart full of sushi. There was a wide variety for them to choose from and Tony deferred to Peter's preferences. The bill was adding up and Tony couldn't be happier. Why was that?

“This all looks so good. Let's eat so we can get to the good part,” Peter said, gracefully picking up a piece of salmon sashimi and popping it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and gave another approving moan. “Tell me about your work week.”

And Tony did. He discussed his troubles with the Research & Development department and their poor designs for the latest Stark Tablet. He complained about how the customer service stats dropped a little and people were taking to Twitter. He spoke of the energy efficiency project he was working on personally and this lasted over the course of the meal.

“It sounds like you have your hands full,” the younger man commented, leaning back in his seat, curls falling over his honey brown eyes. He looked delectable.

“At times, yes,” Tony responded, feeling his palms get sweaty. It seemed like now was the moment of truth, the moment deciding whether or not he got to keep Peter and his attention. Tony pressed the service button on bottom of the table and Mike returned with a Tiffany blue gift bag containing Peter's present. There was a second gift bag kept behind Mike's back. “I hope you like it.”

Peter took the bag with a grin, that grin getting wider as he saw the necklace sized Tiffany box. “You have good taste so far. Let's see what you got,” Peter said, slowly opening the box. Tony took in Peter's reaction, watching the thoughtful expression on his face. “It's lovely. Thank you, Tony. What is it that he has behind his back?” the younger man asked, holding his hand out.

Tony rubbed the back of his neck, stomach flipping. “It’s...um...a second gift. Open it?” God, when did he become such a nervous wreck? He never stuttered and was never at a loss for words, his mouth getting him into trouble more often than not. But right now, he wanted to be sweet. He wanted to be good.

Peter took the gift out of the shiny gold bag and opened the box. He gasped, and gave a genuine smile to Tony. “This is gorgeous! You did such a good job!” Peter praised, putting the cuff of with a sigh, “Mike, dear, could we have some time alone?” At Peter's request, the server left.

“Did I do well, Peter?” Tony asked, licking his dry lips and seeking approval. He hoped he did well - no, he needed to do well. He needed to impress Peter though he didn't quite understand why.

“You did so well, Daddy. I'm so proud,” Peter cooed, reaching across the table for Tony's hand, clasping the older man's with both of his hands. They looked so small…

“Thank you. I'm so glad you're happy,” Tony said, voice raspy with nerves and desire. Peter gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Good. Let's get down to business and discuss terms. I request an allowance of $5000 a month for me to play with. You will pay my rent for my apartment in Manhattan, it's $1500 a month, along with my cell phone and utilities. You can see me two times a week and more if I want to see you. Sound good so far?” Peter stated, looking at Tony with a serious expression. It was so cute and caused Peter to have such a sweet little frown.

“Sounds good so far. What else do you want?” He would give this boy so, so much, even more than what he was asking for.

“We can have sex because I think you are attractive. I like to bottom but I am still the little prince in charge. We can discuss sexual limits at another time once you've earned it,” Peter continued, reaching across the table with his free hand to brush through Tony's perfectly styled hair, messing it up. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No.” Was that okay?

“I like newbies. Don't worry, I'm a fair prince and I'll take care of you if you take care of me. I know what men like you want.”

“And what's that?”

“For a pretty thing like me to put you in your place.”

Part 2

[jedimasteramell]

A/N: So Im an absolute mess thanks to the snippits of the post-auction convo. hey @queerspeculativefiction you totally ruined me and Im going to live in the hopeful delusion that everything will work out without hurting everybody. 

Fallen Hero //  Puppet/Mortum // Post-Auction // SFW

With a M!Mortum, and an M!Puppet, using my canon’s names. Spoilers obviously. 

------

This was never going to be easy. But you had to make it harder.

And you're going to pay that higher price.

You invited Dr. Mortum out, not to Joes, but another private (and admittedly quieter) hole-in-the-wall. Besides, there were too many memories at Joes. Too many fond and painful memories.

Maybe it was as security, taking him out to a semi-public space. Maybe it was respect, giving you both the chance to step away without the added bitterness of watching the other leave a trusted place. Maybe… maybe it was to make the distinction, the separation, the truth, unmuddled and new.

You should have never fallen in love with him.

Abel had always been your refuge, but right now you wished more than anything he were also a telepath. Stuck in the quiet claustrophobic space of your own brain, the only voice is your guilt screaming and screaming at you.

Fiddling with the napkin, you brush off the waitress that asks for the 3rd time if you wanted a refill on your drink. You just shake your head, watching the ice slowly melt and wish you could do the same. She hesitates, stuck somewhere between the ingrained training of her job and the human instinct to ask of you’re alright. With no response, she steps away. You're glad, well, thankful at least. You couldn’t take that kind of empathy right now, even head-blind.

The good doctor arrives precisely on time. His sharp eyes narrowing affectionately as he catches sight of you in a shadowed booth. You can’t help the way your heart flutters and the ghost of a smile that breaks your facade at the sight of him. He chose to dress up slightly today, a bright turtleneck instead of a tee shirt, though he’d be wont to leave off his lab coat. You both have joked about that, never shedding the skin of scientist, and the memory forms a lump you can't swallow. The knot in your throat only tightens when he sits, taking your hand in his to kiss your knuckles.

“Ma cherie.” His eyes twinkle in greeting, slowly sobering at the deadened expression you wear. “Not your usual tastes.” He spares a second to study the restaurants pallid interior then shifts back to you, unmasked concern growing in his dark eyes.

You suddenly can't look at them.

“What’s wrong Abel?” His words are a murmur, full of an emotion you never dared give name; your name, your lie, a cold cruel knife to the gut. “Is it your employer?”

How right he is, as always. Your fingers feel heavy as lead, heavy as your heart, still wrapped in his, wrapped up in him.

You were never supposed to fall in love, and especially not with someone at the end of the day you barely know. Not about the important things anyway, not his real name, or his past, or where he studied. Just the soft stuff, like the specific temperature he takes his coffee at, the way his brow knits when he encounters a particularly frustrating problem, where to touch him to elicit a laugh, and how his expression, at once both masked and heart-baringly open, shifts when emotion and clinical logic fight for focus on his face.

Just like he’s looking at you now.

You manage a nod, swallowing down the stone in your throat. “It is.” The weight settles back uncomfortably in your stomach.

He waits for you to continue, always the concerned partner, and you will your voice a semblance of steadiness. “I… I want… no I need, to tell you the truth. About them, about me.”

Concern and curiosity in equal measure knit his brow. “I’m listening ma cherie.”

“Remember, months ago, back at the gala? In the hospital I told you I’d been in a coma? I was in it for a long long time.” You’ve been dropping hints a long while, maybe a part of you wanted him to figure it out before it came to this.

He nods shortly, dark eyes never leaving your face.

“And even before, when I told you I called the Special Directive on Psychopathor and that I wanted the best?”

Another sharp nod.

“Its connected see. My boss. Napoleon. I….. We, we’re the same person.” There, you said it. If truth was supposed to set you free, then why did you feel like you’d be sick? You tried for a smile; it failed miserably. Instead your heart pounds in your ears and you imagine every ounce of despair shows etched on the face that's become more real than your own.

He’s silent for a long time. Then finally, quietly, “You're not a telepath ma cherie.” His fingers twitch around yours.

You swallow. Hard. “No, I'm not.”

You can see all the pieces finally coming together for him, and it's almost worse that you lacked the courage to say it out loud. To admit this body had always been a shell, a pretty puppet, no matter how real you’ve felt in it..

Mortum sets your hand down on the table.

The lack of contact never hurt so much.

He laces his own fingers together resting them against his nose, obscuring half his expression. What is left on display is a conflict behind his eyes that scares you. There is an icy edge to the anger there, the betrayal, and you're instantly reminded the man before you had once been a true villain.

It hurts and it's both raw and new and distant and familiar. That level of disapproval, of distrust and disrespect, it reminds you of the Farm, and it breaks what's left of your heart.

“I’m glad that’s finally out in the open, Napoleon.” The name is laced with venom coming from him, the same viciousness you saw the night of the gala as he carried Abel’s empty form to safety. “Who knows how long I’d have let you continue to use me.”

“Mortum, I-”

“No.” He doesn't have to hold up a finger to shut you down. The withering glare did that by itself. “We’re done, I'm not hearing any more lies.”

“Just let me explain.” You cry, reaching for him before he’s the chance to move beyond the table as he stands. You catch his sleeve in trembling fingers, the speed of reflexes from years in aikido. “Please.”

Maybe it was the sound of your -Abel’s- voice, maybe it was an acknowledgement of all the months you’d shared together, but he stopped. No words came with the frigid look. Out of respect for what you’d had, he was sparing a final moment.

Better make it good.

“I’ve always been honest with you.” Not that that has much credibility now. “And Abel- I-” You shiver, there's another secret that you've never shared, not even to Ortega, but you know he’ll understand. “I’ve always been more me in this body,” Your whisper shakes along with your shoulders, the only thing holding back inevitable tears the impossible sound of your admittance. You became Cain, you christened yourself as you should have been, but there was always more than just your tattoos that made you feel wrong. “How I’m supposed to be. How I'm not in Napoleon’s. This body is right.” You stress the last word, hoping, praying.

You can’t breathe.

Something imperceptible shifts in his face. The anger is still there, the hurt, but there’s also an understanding, one deep and visceral, and impossibly close to home for him as well. A fragment of tension leaves his shoulders as he extracts the cuff of his coat from your grasp. You feel the cloying still weight of the confrontation drop into unease and anxiety. The good doctor draws several steadying breaths. But when he opens his eyes, it's not acceptance you see, instead the anger has tempered into dark mistrust, edged with something reminiscent of sympathy.

“Just because I understand does not negate the truth.” His voice is far more even than yours, low and brittle. “I can’t see you now.” He doesn't specify if its in this moment or for the rest of your shared time in Los Diablos. “Good night…” There a lingering, a goodbye unfinished in the wake of not knowing how to address you. He doesn’t wait for you to reply. Not that you deserve him to.

You’re alone at the table. Just as you always have been. Just as you deserve for daring, for breaking his heart.

The ice in your glass is long turned to water when the waitress returns. She says nothing, you share nothing. You're just left with a devastating emptiness,

and the bill.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 6

Author’s note: The gang’s first robbery! Enjoy :)

From Eddie’s POV

SAINT DENIS, RYAN RESIDENCE

THAT NIGHT

“Don’t think too much about it,” Arthur’s gentle voice replayed in my mind. “Just aim, breathe in, and...”

A smile crept onto my face at the sweet memory whilst I sat at the piano, examining the gun he bought for me earlier.

Arthur was kind enough to gift me a beautiful Schofield revolver that had been decorated with a sleek rosewood varnish, brass frame, and blue-steel barrel. I also decided to purchase a carving of a buck on the grip, just to give it a personal touch, and hadn’t been able to stop staring at it since.

It truly was a gorgeous weapon, and it would always bring me pleasant thoughts of the day I got it...but even then, I hoped I’d never have to use it. Things were crazy enough for me in Saint Denis, what with all the chaos in my life. The last thing I wanted was to be forced to shoot someone.

But I supposed Arthur was right in the end: it never hurt to be armed.

“Oh God, Eddie...” I muttered to myself in embarrassment, thinking back to when Arthur taught me how to shoot a gun. “...You absolute moron.”

The man actually had to hold my arms in place because I was just that clueless.

He was so kind during the process, and showed no signs of impatience, but I didn’t even want to think about how much of an idiot Arthur must’ve thought I was.

I mean, it didn’t take much to see that he was insanely experienced with firearms. He handled guns better than an author handled a pen...and to see someone like me attempt to shoot one -- Arthur probably wanted to use me as the target.

Well, no. He probably didn’t.

Arthur was genuinely kind, unlike most of the other people I’d met. I could see it in his eyes, even though he spoke so lowly of himself.

He claimed he was a bad man, and yet he offered me help every time we ran into each other. I’d never seen him commit an immoral act, and he seemed to actually care about people, despite how much they might’ve annoyed him sometimes.

Deep down, he had a heart of gold. And I didn’t know what Arthur’s idea of “bad” was, but it certainly didn’t match mine.

Putting the revolver away, I returned to the piano and flipped through my notes, hoping to get in some last-minute practice. It wasn’t my first time performing in front of a large crowd, and I had been through this before, but I still found myself rather nervous about the show to come. After all, the entirety of the audience’s focus would be on me, and I just prayed I wouldn’t screw it up under the stress. I couldn’t afford to.

Relaxing my hands, I began to play the same melody I performed for Arthur the other day as my fingers danced across the keys, causing me to think back to the portrait the man had made of me.

Even though I had my suspicions Arthur was somewhat of an artist, I didn’t expect him to be that skilled. The portrait had a surprising amount of detail in it along with a rough but beautiful technique of shading, and it almost felt like I was staring at a mirror.

He even scribbled down a few words underneath the drawing with a type of handwriting I never thought I’d see from a man of his background, and wrote out the words I said to him when he came to my house.

Arthur truly was a marvel. The kind of man that only appeared once in a lifetime.

I just never thought it’d be during mine.

“...Ah, there you are.”

Jumping at the sudden voice, I instantly retreated my hands from the piano as if I were touching a hot stove, whipping around to see who had paid me a visit at this late hour.

A sense of anxiety began to inflate inside me upon seeing my guest’s face as I slowly dragged down the piano’s lid, clearing my throat in an awkward manner before greeting them.

“...Thatcher,” I said, averting my gaze from the man. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Evidently not,” Middleton replied, prowling into the room. “I wanted to discuss the matter we were talking about earlier, when your...friend interrupted us.”

I glanced out the window, peering into the night’s blackness.

“...Now? Isn’t it a bit late?”

Thatcher helped himself to a glass of wine before having a seat in the same chair Arthur used, his lifeless, smoke-colored eyes never leaving me.

“Well, I would’ve come earlier, but seeing as how you were out gallivanting all day, I didn’t exactly have the chance. Did you have fun with Mister Morgan? He certainly seems like...quite the riveting character.”

I hesitated to answer.

“...What do you want, Thatcher?”

Middleton took a sip, studying me for a moment with an astute glare before responding.

“...I want my money, Edward. The money that you said you’d repay ages ago. The money that I can easily get from Rose if you aren’t around anymore. Only...he won’t give it to me if he finds out you’re still alive.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “For someone who claims to be his own man, you certainly are loyal to that rat.”

I rested my elbows on my knees. “Look, I’m trying my best here, Thatcher. I said I’d pay you back and I will. But you keep asking for money when I have none to give. I just need some time. And patience. Fortunately for the both of us, the profit from tomorrow’s show should pay off the debt. And then our business will finally be concluded.”

Middleton lightly drummed his fingers against his wine glass, emitting a series of soft but sharp clinks.

“Good,” he said, his calm yet guttural voice rumbling in his throat. “Because I’m done waiting, Mister Ryan. If I don’t get my money soon, I might just have to finish the job, and bring Atticus Rose the blood he paid for.”

“I understand,” I reiterated. “Just...please. Give me some more time. I don’t have the money yet, but I will soon. All I need is a while longer. I beg you.”

I actually felt ashamed saying those words, and frowned upon myself for behaving in such a manner.

Good god, I hated begging like this. It made me feel so weak. So helpless. It was humiliating. And all for what? The empty promise of survival? For all I knew, Middleton could’ve been planning to kill me after collecting my debt anyways. He’d never have to tell anyone about our little deal, and he’d get double the reward from Atticus just for bringing my head.

I had lured myself into a trap like the fool I was, and as far as I could tell, there was no way out of it.

What the hell was I supposed to do next?

Considering my offer, Thatcher furrowed his brows in thought as he downed the rest of his wine, afterwards setting the glass down and silently heading for the door.

The man didn’t say anything, and the only thing that could be heard at the moment was the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor, but I could still tell there were about a thousand different thoughts tangling inside his head.

I didn’t know why Thatcher was bothering to show me any mercy. He could’ve just put a bullet in my head here and now, and put an end to this...game. But for whatever reason, the assassin had decided to spare me in exchange for money, and pretend like I never even existed so long as he got the reward he was promised. It made me wonder if there were any ulterior motives behind his actions, and frankly, I was terrified to find out.

Middleton took one last look at me before showing himself out, pointing up a single finger.

“...One day,” he settled. “That’s it. One more day to live, or to pay. The outcome depends on you entirely, Eddie.”

I reluctantly agreed with the extension, silently cursing Thatcher for his endless cruelty. I wanted more than nothing to break out of the leash he had around my neck, but I knew I was powerless to do so. After all, I was no match for a man such as Middleton.

He had killed dozens of people in the past, and if I even attempted to fight back, I knew damn well that Thatcher would easily send me to an early grave.

Good lord...part of me kind of wished I had allowed Middleton to kill me back in England.

A defeated breath escaped me. “...Very well,” I replied. “One more day.”

Thatcher seemed pleased.

For now.

“Good. Otherwise, you know what happens. Until then, farewell, Mister Ryan. I’m glad we could come to an understanding. I just hope you can come through with it. ...For your sake.”

From Arthur’s POV

THE NEXT EVENING

SHADY BELLE

“Well, well, well!” Dutch exclaimed in an impressed tone, eyeing me up and down as he waved a cigar around. “Look at you, big man! You know, you don’t look half bad when you’re not covered in blood. Half of you is all I can see most of the time. Hah!”

I adjusted the ascot tie clinging around my neck, attempting to give myself some room to breathe as I squirmed in my suit.

A noose would’ve honestly been preferable at this point.

“Is this really necessary, Dutch?” I questioned, feeling like a pompous idiot.

“We want to grab as little attention as possible on this heist,” he reminded. “That means we have to fit in. Especially you and Mary-Beth. So yes, it is necessary.”

I shrugged. “...Fine. So, is the plan still the same?”

Dutch nodded. “Most of it, yes. The only thing I’ve decided to change is your role in this. Instead of pretending to be a couple out to see a show, you and Mary-Beth are gonna wear some masks that Charles and I snatched. The same masks that the actors will be wearing.”

I felt my heart stop. “The actors? Oh lord, Dutch. Please don’t tell me...”

He let out a guffaw. “Have no fear, son. You won’t be going on stage. I just need you and Mary-Beth to pretend like you’re a pair of actors who were...late to the show or something. Just keep the clerk distracted. Meanwhile, Bill will sneak into the ticket office from behind and...‘convince’ them to hand over every single dollar sittin’ in that register. When that’s done, the three of you will meet Charles outside. He’ll have a stagecoach ready to go once you’ve got the money, and then all of you will get the hell outta there.”

“And if somethin’ goes wrong?” I asked.

“Then we do whatever we must to escape. But the ideal outcome here is: no one dies, and we’re out of the theater before anyone even figures out what happened. If the law does somehow get alerted though, do not head straight back to camp, and split up. Understand?”

“Got it.”

Dutch patted me on the shoulder. “Then I wish you good luck. Oh, and put this on.”

Handing over one of the most flamboyant accessories I’ve ever seen, Dutch presented a porcelain mask decorated with bold jewels, paint, and feathers...as if to rub salt into my wounds.

I took the hideous thing into my hands, observing it with a face of fear as it stared back at me.

“If I had any good luck I wouldn’t be wearin’ this as a robbery mask.”

“Oh, just wait ‘till you see what Mary-Beth has to wear. You’ll be forgiving me later.”

I slipped the mask inside my overcoat. “The money will be forgiveness enough.”

He chuckled. “That it will. Well, be careful today, Arthur. And keep your wits about you. This job should be easy enough to pull off, but you know what they say. Expect the unexpected.”

I waved goodbye to Dutch, heading out to find Mary-Beth.

“That’s all I expect.”

ONE HOUR LATER

Squeezing myself into the stagecoach while Charles climbed up top, I found myself sharing a bit too much room with Bill as the both of us were forced to practically touch knees, barely able to fit in this box with wheels.

“And people say I'm grumpy.” I remarked, noticing the less than happy expression on Bill’s face.

“Shut up, Morgan.” He snapped back.

“Hey,” I replied with a chuckle, “at least you got the honors of wavin’ a gun around. Dutch wants me to keep mine holstered. All I get to do is stand there...and let the clerk gawk at me.”

Williamson rested a hand on his knee. “I’m surprised Dutch even let me take the money on this one. Usually, he always puts you in charge of emptying the register. Or the vault. Or pockets. Or whatever it is we’re stealin’ from.”

I leaned back in my seat, doing my best to get comfortable for the ride ahead.

“Well, Dutch did say the best way to pull off this mission is to fit in. And no offense, Bill, but...you kinda scare the shit outta people.”

Bill scoffed. “And you don’t?”

I let out a sigh. “Oh, I will once I put this mask on. Looks like someone skinned the devil.”

Williamson crossed his arms and stared out the tiny window. “At least you’ll have no issues fittin’ in, then.”

“Heh. That I won’t.”

Opening the stagecoach’s door, Mary-Beth joined the conversation as she plopped herself next to me, showing the most amount of excitement out of all of us. There was a certain spark in her eyes that made it look like she hadn’t stepped outside for ages, and she certainly seemed much more relaxed. Well, at least one of us was happy.

“Hello, fellas.” She greeted, tidying her gown.

“Hey there, Mary-Beth,” I responded. “You seem eager to get to work.”

“Oh, I am. This is the first big heist I’ve done in months. I’m just so glad Dutch chose me to come along with you boys. If I had stayed in camp for another minute, I might’ve lost my mind.”

Bill adjusted his suit. “You’ll lose it much faster out there.”

I smiled at Mary-Beth. “Well, I look forward to hearin’ your retelling of this one at the campfire.”

The young woman smirked. “It was just the three of us, sneakin’ our way under the moonlight’s dreamy gaze as we prepared to rob the grandest theater in all o’ Saint Denis...”

Bill grumbled. “...and we looked like fuckin’ idiots.”

We all chortled at that as the stagecoach began to move, prompting us to put our gear on.

“Alright,” I said with a soft laugh. “Enough of that. Get your masks on, people. The theater ain’t far from here.”

Mary-Beth followed my instructions and slipped hers on, causing my eyes to widen out of surprise.

“Jesus -- Dutch weren’t kiddin’ about your mask.”

She sighed dramatically. “I know, I know. First heist I get to go on in forever...and this is what I have to wear.”

I pulled my mask out of my coat, strapping the thing around my head.

“Perhaps I’ll forgive Dutch, after all. Anyway, good luck to both of you. Stay calm, and stay alert. No one has to die...and ideally, no one has to figure out what we’re doin’ before we’re gone. ‘Cause otherwise, I don’t feel like puttin’ on a second show for these folks.”

Mary-Beth gave me a firm nod. “We’re ready, Arthur.”

“...Then let’s do this.”

SAINT DENIS, THE RÂLEUR

Walking up to the theater once all the guests had already purchased their tickets, Mary-Beth and I approached the front doors together just as the show was starting to begin, giving us the perfect opportunity to slither in.

There were plenty of empty stagecoaches and horses waiting outside, and the closer we got, the more we could hear the muffled cheers of the audience enjoying the performance. Judging by the volume, there was going to be a hell lot of money just waitin’ for us to snatch. I only hoped that everything went according to plan.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Looks clear. Bill, find a way into the ticket booth. Quietly. Mary-Beth and I will distract the clerk in the meantime. Once you’re inside, we’ll grab the money from the register and meet Charles back here afterwards. Then, we get the hell outta this city before anyone even knows what happened. Got it?”

Bill pulled up his bandana. “Got it.”

I turned to Mary-Beth. “And you?”

She grinned. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Then let’s get to work.”

Breaking off from the group, Bill went on his own path while Mary-Beth and I hurriedly strolled towards the front doors, both our hearts pumping rapidly in our chests despite our calm exteriors.

It had been a long while since anything went right for the gang, and if I was being perfectly honest, I weren’t too confident about the this robbery either.

There were next to no cops around, even less witnesses...and the amount of money being promised to us almost sounded too good to be true. Part of me wanted to believe this was just a good score and that we were lucky enough to seize it, but my better judgement knew this wasn’t going to come without consequences.

Well, whatever storm was headin’ our way, I had faith that Dutch and the gang would be prepared for it. We survived Blackwater, we survived the mountains, and we sure as hell weren’t dying now. We had gone too far to go back.

Pushing the glass doors open, Mary-Beth and I casually sauntered in as the ticket clerk’s head perked upwards, greeting us with curious eyes.

“Ah, are you more of Abbington’s actors?” He asked, recognizing the masks. “Well, the show’s already started, but you should have enough time to slip in before anyone notices. Don’t wanna be late to a performance this big. Especially not with how many people are in the audience. Y’all have really planned something special tonight, haven’t you?”

I spotted Bill sneaking in from a side door as he stuck close to the walls, gradually inching his way to the booth.

I approached the clerk, keeping his attention away from everything but me.

“You have no idea,” I replied. “But actually, we’re lookin’ for a friend of ours. He’s another actor. Mighta seen him stumblin’ around here? He’s about this tall, always has a sour look on his face. A clumsy feller, but he knows what he’s doing. Just has a...a habit of being late, sometimes.”

The clerk shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone like that, friend. Have you checked with Abbington? Or perhaps Miss Marjorie?”

I decided to drop the subject. “Nah, we already asked them, but no harm done. We’ll keep looking for him. I’m sure he’s around here somewhere--” I paused in the middle of my words and pointed in the distance, letting out a chuckle. “Ah, never mind...there he is.”

Following my gaze, the clerk froze when he suddenly heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him, not daring to move a single muscle as Bill nearly nailed the barrel into his head.

“Don’t scream,” I immediately warned, keeping my voice low. “Don’t cry. Don’t even breathe. Just give us the money in that there register. Otherwise, Benjamin Lazarus ain’t gonna be the only one catchin’ a bullet tonight.”

Bill applied more pressure with his rifle. “Do what he says.” He demanded.

The clerk held up his hands in surrender, whimpering out of fear.

“O-Okay, okay! I’ll give you the money. J-Just, please...don’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh believe me,” I threatened as the man desperately opened the register, “we don’t wanna hurt nobody. But we sure as shit will. If you give us enough of a reason to.”

Fumbling through the register with trembling hands, the clerk hastily gathered all the money clips and handed them to Bill while the show carried on inside, entrancing the crowd as they clapped and cheered, completely oblivious to the fact that their money was being taken away.

“That’s it...” Bill urged him. “Keep the cash coming.”

Mary-Beth whistled out of amazement, staring at all the green now sitting in Williamson’s bag.

“Whoo, would you look at all that money? I guess you boys was right about this job.”

“Just don’t let your guard down,” I reminded. “We ain’t outta here yet.”

Tossing every coin he could find into Williamson’s bag, the clerk threw his hands up in the air once again when he was finished and stared at us with a horrified, bewildered expression.

“Is that all the money?” I questioned.

“...Y-Yes!” He answered. I didn’t believe him.

I decided to bluff. “Alright, well if that’s the case...I guess we’ll just finish you off and search the rest of the place ourselves.”

“What?!” The clerk yelped.

“It’s nothin’ personal...” I reassured. “Just don’t wanna leave behind any loose ends. I’m sure you understand.”

“W-Wait!” He exclaimed. “There’s no more money, but there are some very valuable props backstage. Made out of gold and silver, they are. Jewels, too. You could sell them for a fine price, I imagine.”

“That so?” I asked. “I’ll go check. See if he’s tellin’ the truth. Mister W, you stay and make sure our friend here behaves. Miss G, why don’t you go on and bring the money to where it belongs? I’ll meet up with you two later.”

“Sounds good.” Mary-Beth agreed as I began making my way backstage.

“Be careful back there,” Bill warned. “Never know what you could run into with these freaks.”

I chuckled mischievously, throwing a glance back at him.

“Which freaks we talkin’ about here?”

BACKSTAGE

Roaming quietly through the clutters of props, mannequins, and furniture stored in the back of the theater, I cautiously searched for the valuables the clerk spoke of as I did my best to avoid any of the staff who could’ve been wandering around.

Right now, it seemed like most of the people involved in the show were on the other side of the curtain, and so far, I hadn’t seen any other actors backstage. Still though, I wanted to leave as soon as possible. I could sneak around well enough, but I didn’t want to push our luck more than we already had.

Sifting through the multiple boxes and crates scattered around, I picked up a few things here and there that I thought we could sell to a fence, constantly checking behind me to ensure no one crept up while I wasn’t looking.

Even if I didn’t manage to take everything though, we had stolen more than enough money for one night. I knew Dutch said there’d be loads of cash for us to lift at the theater, but I had no idea just how many people were actually gonna be pourin’ through the doors today.

We must’ve collected a few hundred dollars. At least. And that was without all the stuff I found back here.

Maybe Dutch wasn’t quite as lost as I expected. Maybe the old man had been right all along, and I was the one changing. Not him.

I just wanted what was best for the gang. Sure, there was a lot of rotten people within our big, dysfunctional family...but we also had good people. Those who deserved a better life. A life that we were capable of giving to them. All we needed to make that happen...was one last score. And then, we were free.

“Don’t...move.”

Halting in my tracks, I came to a stop when I heard the unmistakable sound of someone pulling down the hammer of a gun, and a series of gentle, yet unwavering footsteps coming from behind me.

Shit.

“Throw your weapon away.” They ordered.

Careful not to provoke them, I steadily turned around to face the confronter as I left the props on the floor and complied, never taking my eyes off them.

“Listen, boy...” I said, slowly rotating my body. “I didn’t come here to shoot no one, but that don’t mean--”

Cutting off mid-sentence, I felt my skin turn to stone when I finally laid eyes upon the stranger’s face, suddenly regretting ever coming here in the first place.

Pointing a Schofield revolver directly at my head, Eddie stared me down with a frightened but unbreakable strength in his forest-colored eyes as he tried to calm his own breath, clearly terrified by the whole situation even if he didn’t show it.

Well...if there was a god above, he certainly had a unique sense of humor. I couldn’t believe it.

I was being held at gunpoint.

By my own student.

In a theater that I was trying to rob.

“Look,” Eddie said, his tone shaking slightly, “I don’t know who you are, but just...go. Leave everything you took behind, and don’t come back. Please. No one needs to get hurt.”

I took a few, subtle steps forward, trying to remain calm.

“Easy there, partner...” I murmured.

Eddie gulped out of anxiety and mindlessly clenched his jaw, unable to move due to the terror holding him down.

“I-I mean it,” he reiterated. “Leave.”

I continued to approach him despite his commands, whispering softly in an attempt to ease the boy’s nerves.

“...Now, I ain’t gonna hurt you...” I reassured. “I just came here for money. Not blood.”

The pianist fell silent at that, his arms quivering as he kept the gun aimed at me. I could tell he was scared, but not scared enough to pull the trigger. Eddie didn’t strike me as the type to shoot someone out of panic, and I certainly prayed that I was right.

“...That’s it...” I encouraged. “Nice and easy...”

Eddie stayed in place, his breath still somewhat quick, but not quite as fear-driven as before. It was working.

My lord, I could only imagine what I was doing to this poor kid. He weren’t gonna be able to sleep for the rest of the week, and I’d probably be in every single one of his nightmares from here on out.

Though, I couldn’t deny that Eddie certainly had a pair of stones on him. He had a bravery I’d not seen in very many other people, and I didn’t even want to think about how much hell he’d raise if he had the same gunslinging skills as Dutch.

Just as I was about to defuse the tension however, Bill himself suddenly snuck up behind Eddie and bashed him in the back of the head with his rifle, knocking the boy out cold before he even hit the floor.

I glared at the attacker, instantly rushing over to Eddie’s unconscious body as Bill grabbed the props.

“The hell, Williamson?!” I practically growled through gritted teeth.

“What?” He exclaimed, hauling the sack over his shoulder. “Dutch said no killing. He never mentioned anything about hittin’ people!”

I sighed in irritation. “That’s not the point-- oh for Christ’s sake, forget it. Let’s just get outta here. C’mon, Charles and Mary-Beth will be waitin’ outside.”

“Who’s ridin’ shotgun?” Bill asked, following me to the front of the theater.

“I will,” I answered. “You just worry about keeping that money safe. We got a lot sittin’ in those bags, and we ain’t losing ‘em now!”

Escaping with Williamson, the two of us ran like hell as I unholstered my own guns and kept an eye out for any lawmen that could’ve been lurking about, still feeling incredibly guilty over what happened with Eddie.

The boy was only trying to protect the money that he earned, and not only did I sweep it out from right under him,  I also put him through what would probably be one of the most terrifying moments of his life.

Unlike everyone else I knew, Eddie had never killed a man before or lived the life of an outlaw. He had grown comfortable with the safety of a city’s walls, and to end up being stuck between two robbers like he did tonight...I was gonna have to make this up to him somehow.

But I’d worry about that later. Right now, my only concern was getting out of Saint Denis as fast as humanly possible. For the first time in a while, things actually went mostly according to plan, and we just stole a more-than-decent chunk of cash. Dutch was going to be pleased.

“There’s Charles,” I announced as we came through the entrance. “Quick! Get in, and let’s go!”

Climbing onto the stagecoach, Bill took the sacks of money and stuffed himself inside with Mary-Beth, the four of us taking off as soon as the door was closed.

Even though there were no lawmen chasing us at the moment, neither Charles nor I wanted to take any chances and urged the horses to gallop faster as we bolted through the city’s streets, almost floating above the cobblestone with our speed.

I had to admit: despite the encounter with Eddie, I was feelin’ good for once. It was about time a robbery went right...but I still couldn’t help wondering how this was going to affect the pianist’s life.

I mean, now that I thought about it, every time I talked with the man, he was always mentioning how much he needed more money. He mentioned it at the saloon. He mentioned it after we ran into Miss Powell...

I didn’t know if he was in some sort of trouble, or what was going on in his life, but...Eddie did sound a bit desperate.

Jesus, what had I gotten myself into? Even when something finally worked out for the gang, I still had my doubts about our victory.

Sure, we were a huge step closer to buying our freedom, but at what cost? The freedom of another?

To be honest...I didn’t know if it was worth it.

I mentally slapped myself across the face, snapping back to reality.

No, I couldn’t afford to think like that. Empathy got you killed out in these lands, and compassion betrayed you. My place was at Dutch and Hosea’s side, and that was where it’d always be. No matter what. And I’d just have to accept that.

I liked Eddie. I really did. Hell, maybe I even had the potential to love him...but not in this life. I had already pursued love enough times to know how it ended, and I couldn’t bear to put the boy through the same fate.

He was a kind soul, built to lift those around him.

As for me -- I was nothing but a ghost walkin’ among men.

And regardless of what I felt for Eddie...

...None of it was gonna change a damn thing.

[newstfionline]

Thursday, May 27, 2021

2020 vote controversy continues (The Hill, American Association for Public Opinion Research) A new Reuters-Ipsos poll released Tuesday reveals that 53% of Republicans think that Trump remains the “true president” of the United States, despite losing to President Biden last year by roughly seven million votes nationally. Even more—61%—believe either strongly or somewhat strongly that the 2020 election was “stolen” from the former president. 56% of Republican respondents said that the election had been marred by illegal voting or “election rigging,” a claim that Trump has made repeatedly for almost seven months since Election Day.

The American parole system is an endless trap (Washington Post) When William Palmer was 17, he put on a ski mask and tried to rob a man—a crime that landed him in prison for three decades. Now 49, he’s out and on parole. He had barely been out of prison a year, and already he’d been back to jail three times for a total of 20 days. That’s because, though Palmer was out of prison, he was now on parole. As such, he had to comply with a state-mandated list of supervisory conditions, along with 31 “special conditions” that had been imposed on him specifically—or risk getting sent to prison again. The conditions affected where he could go, the activities he could join, with whom he could socialize and the amount of privacy he had. In 2018, 1 out of every 58 American adults—roughly 4.4 million people—was under community supervision, the catchall term for probation and parole. The average supervisee must follow 17 standard conditions. If they break any of these, they could be reincarcerated. As Jake Horowitz, director of the Public Safety Performance Project at the Pew Charitable Trusts, explains, “The system is feeding on itself.” Or look to Hamlet, who famously quipped, “There’s the rub”: A supervision system meant to encourage rehabilitation outside of prison often stands in the way of its own goal. And so, people like Palmer end up living in limbo, no longer incarcerated but trapped by a government that doesn’t trust them to be free. “I’m not breaking laws,” Palmer told me. “I’m not hurting people. I’m doing life the best way I can. ... You begin to wonder, ‘Is this what I got out for?’ I thought parole was supposed to help me, and all it’s doing is preventing me from doing the things I was prepared to do.”

George Floyd’s killing sparked a global reckoning (Washington Post) The murder of George Floyd sparked moments of reckoning that reverberated far beyond the United States. The graphic video that captured the Black man’s final moments under the knee of a White police officer on a street in Minneapolis found broad resonance, sparking demonstrations that forced countries to grapple with their own histories of police brutality, racism, inequality and colonial transgressions. The global movement raised expectations for change. Protests in Australia, Brazil, Britain, France, Germany, Italy and elsewhere turned Floyd’s name and some of his final words, “I can’t breathe,” into a rallying cry heard around the world. In the rubble of a ruined building in Syria, artist Aziz Asmar painted Floyd’s face, telling Time that the scene of police brutality thousands of miles away struck a chord with civilians who faced gas attacks. Other murals in tribute to Floyd sprang up in England, Italy, Kenya, Pakistan and the West Bank.

The Central California Town That Keeps Sinking (NYT) In California’s San Joaquin Valley, the farming town of Corcoran has a multimillion-dollar problem. Over the past 14 years, the town has sunk as much as 11.5 feet in some places—enough to swallow the entire first floor of a two-story house and to at times make Corcoran one of the fastest-sinking areas in the country, according to experts with the United States Geological Survey. Subsidence is the technical term for the phenomenon—the slow-motion deflation of land that occurs when large amounts of water are withdrawn from deep underground, causing underlying sediments to fall in on themselves. Each year, Corcoran’s entire 7.47 square miles and its 21,960 residents sink just a little bit, as the soil dips anywhere from a few inches to nearly two feet. The casings of drinking-water wells have been crushed. Flood zones have shifted. The town levee had to be rebuilt at a cost of $10 million—residents’ property tax bills increased roughly $200 a year for three years, a steep price in a place where the median income is $40,000. In Corcoran and other parts of the San Joaquin Valley, the land has gradually but steadily dropped primarily because agricultural companies have for decades pumped underground water to irrigate their crops, according to the U.S.G.S. California Water Science Center.

Countries eager to reopen to travel as pandemic recedes (AP) Countries reliant on tourism are racing to reopen borders and revive economies decimated by the pandemic. The World Travel & Tourism Council estimates that the sector lost nearly $4.5 trillion and 62 million jobs last year. Airlines alone lost $126 billion last year and are on track to lose another $48 billion this year, according to their largest trade group. The rollout of vaccines against COVID-19 is giving government officials in many countries new confidence to welcome visitors. But time is critical. “Summer is a strong season for most markets, particularly Europe and the U.K. We really hope to see restrictions ease,” said Virginia Messina, interim leader of the World Travel & Tourism Council.

Pentagon Accelerates Withdrawal From Afghanistan (NYT) United States troops and their NATO allies intend to be out of Afghanistan by early to mid-July, well ahead of President Biden’s Sept. 11 withdrawal deadline, military officials said, in what has turned into an accelerated ending to America’s longest war. But the race to the exits, which has picked up steam as planeloads of equipment and troops are flown out of the country, leaves the United States grappling with huge unresolved issues that officials had thought they would have more time to figure out. The Pentagon still has not determined how it will combat terrorist threats like Al Qaeda from afar after American troops leave. Nor have top Defense Department officials secured agreement from allies about repositioning American troops in other nearby countries. And administration officials are still grappling with the thorny question of whether American warplanes—most likely armed Reaper drones—will provide air support to Afghan forces to help prevent the country’s cities from falling to the Taliban.

AP Investigation: Myanmar’s junta using bodies to terrorize (AP) Two black pickups speed down an empty city street in Myanmar before coming to a sudden stop. Security forces standing in the back of the trucks begin firing at an oncoming motorbike carrying three young men. The bike swerves, crashing into a gate. More shots are fired as two of the passengers run away, while the third, Kyaw Min Latt, remains on the ground. Moans are heard as officers grab the wounded 17-year-old from the pavement, throwing his limp body into a truck bed before driving off. The incident lasted just over a minute and was captured on a CCTV camera. It is part of a growing trove of photos and videos shared on social media that’s helping expose a brutal crackdown carried out by the junta since the military’s Feb. 1 takeover. An analysis by The Associated Press and the Human Rights Center Investigations Lab at the University of California, Berkeley, identified more than 130 instances where security forces appeared to be using corpses and the bodies of the wounded to create anxiety, uncertainty, and strike fear in the civilian population. Some people have been disappeared or arrested one day and returned dead the next, their corpses mutilated with signs of torture, witnesses confirmed to AP. Though the incidents may seem random and unprovoked—including kids being shot while playing outside their homes—they are actually deliberate and systematic with the goal of demobilizing people and wearing them down, said Nick Cheesman, a researcher at Australian National University, who specializes in the politics of law and policing in Myanmar. “That,” he said, “is exactly the characteristic of state terror.”

In France, Lebanese army chief pleads for help as economic crisis worsens—sources (Reuters) Lebanon’s army chief Joseph Aoun warned France on Wednesday that an economic crisis had put the military on the verge of collapse and Paris offered emergency food and medical aid for troops in hopes of preserving law and order, sources said. France, which has led aid efforts to its former colony, has sought to pressure Lebanon’s squabbling politicians who have failed to agree on a new government and launch reforms to unlock foreign cash. Discontent is brewing among Lebanon’s security forces over a currency crash wiping out most of the value of their salaries. According to three people with knowledge of his visit to Paris, Aoun told senior French officials that the situation was untenable. Two sources said France would provide food and medical supplies for military personnel, whose salaries had fallen five or six fold in value recently, forcing many to take extra jobs. Lebanon’s pound has crashed 90% since late 2019 in a financial meltdown that poses the biggest threat to stability since the 1975-1990 civil war.

A thick blanket of ‘sea snot’ is wreaking havoc on Turkey’s coast (Washington Post) For months, Turkish fishermen in the Sea of Marmara have been running into a problem: They can’t catch fish. That’s because a thick, viscous substance known colloquially as “sea snot” is floating on the water’s surface, clogging up their nets and raising doubts about whether fish found in the inland sea would actually be safe to eat. Scientists say that the unpleasant-looking mucus is not a new phenomenon, but rising water temperatures caused by global warming may be making it worse. Pollution—including agricultural and raw sewage runoff—is also to blame. As the Guardian and numerous Turkish news outlets have reported, high levels of nitrogen and phosphorus in the Sea of Marmara, situated between the Black and Aegean Seas, are leading to an explosion of the phytoplankton populations that discharge “sea snot.” Though the mucus itself is not necessarily harmful, it can become a host to toxic microorganisms and dangerous bacteria such as E. coli. And when it forms a layer that covers the water’s surface, it can set off a harmful chain of events, preventing fish from being able to breathe, causing mass die-offs, which in turn leads to plummeting oxygen levels that choke other forms of marine life.

Assad Heads for Fourth Term (Foreign Policy) Syria’s presidential election takes place today across government-controlled areas of the country as President Bashar Al-Assad is all but assured of a fourth term. Western countries have already denounced the election. Regardless of its credibility, the vote underscores Assad’s resilience, ten years after the Syrian conflict began with the Arab Spring protests of 2011, and 21 years after he took over from his father Hafez. Today, he presides over a broken country, with much of the land east of the Euphrates controlled by Kurdish fighters, with smaller pockets elsewhere in both Turkish and rebel hands. Assad, along with the two nominal challengers in today’s vote, Abdullah Salloum Abdullah and Mahmoud Ahmad Marie, has vowed to turn around Syria’s economy. The country’s currency has collapsed in recent years. Syria’s pound traded at 47 to one U.S. dollar before the conflict, the ratio is now 4,000 to one. The toll taken on Syria’s population has been severe; 13.4 million Syrians are in need of humanitarian aid, a 20 percent increase on the previous year. Ninety percent of Syrian children are in need of humanitarian assistance, according to UNICEF.

As Gaza fighting ebbs, Israel’s communities eye each other warily (Reuters) Two days after Hamas and Israel began launching rockets and air strikes, Israel’s president called a TV station to plead with his fellow Jews and the country’s Arab minority not to turn on each other over the conflict. “Please stop this madness,” he said on May 12. The communal violence continued. At the end of it two people were killed—an Arab who died after being shot by Jews and a Jewish man who died after Arabs threw rocks at him. The manifestation of tensions that have existed in Israeli society since the country’s birth in 1948 left some questioning whether, even after Gaza-Israel hostilities subsided, inter-communal suspicion could poison relations for years to come. In mixed Jewish-Arab cities like Haifa, Acre, Lod and Jaffa, memories of far-right Israelis shouting “Death to Arabs!” and Arab youths dragging people from cars may take time to fade. For members of Israel’s Arab minority—who account for 21% of the population and are Israeli by citizenship but Palestinian by heritage and culture—it did not come out of the blue. Muslim, Druze or Christian, most are bilingual in Arabic and Hebrew, and many feel a sense of kinship with Palestinians in the Israeli-occupied West Bank and Gaza.

[eddiespaghettio]

here’s your quote! “i get scared and start to think of you. is it true, do you think of me too?”

Eddie has nightmares and thinking of Richie always helps.

TW: homophobic slurs. 

The anniversaries are the hardest.

None of them talk about it, how the nightmares comes back tenfold and with a bloodthirsty vengeance every July. They don’t have to. It’s evident in the dark circles under everyone’s eyes, how they are all exhausted but secretly too afraid to sleep. So they stay out as late as they can, until the streetlights come on, spending more time at the quarry and Mike’s Grandad’s farm than anywhere near the Barrens. Because even though they defeated It, the trauma doesn’t go away, and the nightmares have the facility to twist and warp themselves into terrors that are somehow worse than that of what they saw down in that sewer two years ago. There’s a semblance of reality to these new night terrors that seems to put them all in a chokehold, gasping for breath long into the morning hours; that seems to haunt them regardless of how many times they remind themselves that It’s gone.

They had only spoken about it once, last summer, in the questionable hours between night and dawn, bundled up in sleeping bags in Denbrough’s living room, just days before what would have been Georgie’s eighth birthday.

“I-I still have n-n-nightmares,” Bill said, staring down into his lap at his torn cuticles, where the skin around his fingernails had been picked until it was red and painful. A stillness settled around the room, a collective held breath that asked are we actually talking about this? Even beneath the yellow lights of the table lamps, Bill looked ashen and pale.

“Me too,” Beverly whispered, and a few congruous, sympathetic sounds followed.

“Henry Bowers is always in mine,” Mike said, with a sad, encouraging smile in Bill’s direction, and no one had to ask to remember what had happened between the boy and their infamous bully to know what haunted Mike’s nightmares. “And my parents, of course.”

Bill lifted up his head, “T-these new ones,” he said, staring unseeingly at the group of them, sitting in a halfhearted circle in the middle of the room, “My p-p-parents are t-there.” There’s a forlorn, faraway look in his eyes and Eddie knows that that Bill’s reliving the nightmares over again in his head. “They…they b-blame me. They t-tell me that they w-w-wish that I had…that I’d d-d-died instead,” Bill forced out, voice cracking, eyes shining with unshed tears in the lamp light.

The temporary paralysis that had seemed to befallen them all shattered then, as they all moved at once to swarm around Bill, pulling him into a suffocating group hug, murmuring reassurances in the gaps between them all. They eventually fell asleep, dried remnants of tears on their cheeks, in a grouping best describes as a dogpile, and promptly never spoke of it again. Eddie hadn’t shared that night, too afraid to bring his terrors into the light, secretly ashamed of what not-entirely-out-of-the-realm-of-possibility tinged fears he harboured.

Eddie has nightmares all year round, but they are never quite as frequent or so vivid as they seem to be around the anniversaries. He can handle the typical bad dreams; the ones where he forgets to wear pants to school or the ones where his mom catches him doing or saying “inappropriate” things and bans him from his friends again. Those are easy, a cake walk really, by comparison. They’re nothing like the anniversary dreams.  

Eddie’s imagination has never been all that spectacular, his dreams always hazy and blurry, the details undefined like he’s purposefully unfocused his eyes, everything running together like a drippy watercolor painting. But Eddie’s anniversary dreams are almost lucid. He knows he’s dreaming, that they’re not real, but they feel real, sharp and vibrant like they’re happening in real time, and that’s what makes them terrifying. Not terrifying like child eating shapeshifter clown that feeds off your fear scary, but scary in the sense that it’s all the things he worries about in the back of his mind come true. And that’s where we finds himself again tonight, terrorized by his subconscious on a stickily warm July night.

Eddie’s sitting in their usual semi-circle in the dirt surrounding the quarry, perched on a weather worn boulder. They’re all together; even Beverly is there, having returned the summer before after convincing her aunt to move to Derry from Portland, her red hair bright like lit flames under the afternoon sun. Eddie can smell the earth, the sweet scent of the wildflowers that grow in resilient little tufts out of the rocks, and the tang of the pixi stix powder on Richie’s hands beside him. He can feel the heat of the sun bearing down on them, the almost cool breeze blowing across the water on his skin. He’s been here before — in real life, undoubtedly, but also in both his dreams and nightmares. And this is a nightmare, identical in every way as it was two nights ago and a icy ball of dread forms in the pit of his stomach.

Eddie feels the words bubbling up inside him like the fizz in an over-shook soda bottle and he tries to force it down, to swallow the words once he feels them on the tip of his tongue, but he blurts it out anyways: “I’m gay.” Everyone stills around him, Mike stopping mid-sentence from recounting some interesting tale he learned from one of his books, and they stare at him with large, judging eyes. Eddie desperately tries to jerk himself awake — if he could just move a one finger — because he knows this is going to get ugly really fast.

“I’m not surprised,” says Stan, his face screwed up in a sour expression, like he sucked on a lemon, “I always knew you were a faggot.” The reactions are always the same as the time before, like these nightmare shadows of his friends are reading off a script. But it hurts every time.

“That’s disgusting,” spits Beverly, and she pushes herself up from her seat in the dirt and stalks away, only glancing back to glower at Eddie in utter revulsion. Ben follows her out without a word.

“They still execute gays, y’know,” Mike says as he turns to leave, the expression on his face a mix of hatred and something akin to pity. “Maybe the should.”  

Bill towers over him. “I’m s-s-sorry, Eddie.” Bill always apologizes, but somehow it just makes it all the more painful. “B-but we can’t be f-f-friends with a f-fag. It’s j-j-just wrong.” One by one, his friends stand up and walk away, leaving Eddie to sit alone awash in his own self-hatred.

The last one to leave is always Richie, and he stares at Eddie with a barely constrained fury in his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, his mouth twisted in an hideous scowl.

“How could you?” Richie demands, and Eddie flinches at the acid in his voice. “Look at me, Eddie!” Eddie didn’t even realize that he had turned to stare at his shoes. “How could you let me hug you? How could you let me sleep in your bed? When you knew all this time? How could you take advantage of me like that, your best friend? That’s so dirty, Eddie.”

Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.

The words begin to run on a loop, Richie’s voice fading in and out as the sound warps, growing more feminine, veiled with a thin veneer of forced cordiality, the sickly saccharine tone his mother always uses when something’s “for his own good.” Queers are dirty, Eddie-Bear; the words reverberate through his skull. So impure. They all go to Hell, Eddie. But we don’t have to worry about that. You’re my good boy, Eddie, you’re clean.

Eddie jolts awake, flying upright in his bed, the blankets pooling in his lap. He dry heaves over the side of his bed, the phantom of his mother’s words still ringing in his head. His face is red, cheeks wet with tears he didn’t realize he was crying. Eddie wheezes, struggling to breathe, and he scrambles to grab his inhaler off the nightstand. He knows it’s all fake, that he’s not actually asthmatic, but it always helps loosen the fist of anxiety and panic clutching his lungs. He stuffs the inhaler in his mouth, breathing in the acidic taste of the salbutamol like it’s his last lifeline.

Eddie cradles his inhaler in his hands in the fetal position, the angry and disgusted faces of his friends flashing in his mind. It’s not real, Eddie reminds himself. It’s not real. His friends wouldn’t treat him like that. They’ve been friends for so long, been through so much. Eddie racks his mind for any memories of his friends responding with that must hostility. They were probably that mean to Bower’s gang, maybe that fucking clown, but they deserved it ten fold. Eddie doesn’t deserve that sort of treatment, right?

He recalls a moment back in the spring when he and Ben came across crude signs pasted on the side of the Pharmacy, HOMO SEX IS IMMORAL, and GOD HATES FAGS, handwritten on white paper in red marker. Ben had stopped in front of the signs and frowned deeply, the corners of his mouth turning down so far it was almost comical.

“I don’t understand,” Ben had said, turning to look at Eddie who had froze beside him. Eddie tried to school his face into an expressionless mask. He probably just looked constipated.

“What do mean?” Eddie asked, and closed his eyes, almost afraid to hear what Ben said next. The words burned on the inside of his eyelids like they were a brand.

“Why does it matter? Why do people care so much?” Ben said, genuine confusion in his voice. “Why do people care if others are gay?”

Eddie exhaled in a puff, “I-I don’t know, Ben.”

Ben, the ever hopeless romantic, smiled a small smile and said, “One can’t help who they love.”

Thinking about that moment gave Eddie a small semblance of hope, flickering in his chest like a firefly, but it’s short lived;  the nagging voice in the back of his head interjected. Ben’s always been more of a follower. If everyone else walked, especially Beverly, then Ben would, too. Eddie curls in on himself a bit tighter, as if he could protect himself from his own mind if he makes himself as small as possible.

Unbidden, a voice is back, louder this time, but it’s not the voice of his friends. It’s crazed and angry, all over the place in pitch. The voice of that goddamn clown that Eddie can never seem to fully forget even though they defeated It and it’s been two years since. It bounces around in his head like an echo in a cavern. I’m every nightmare you ever had! I am your worst dream come true! I’m everything you were ever afraid of! Eddie laughs, a painful, broken sound, in the darkness of his bedroom. They may have beat Pennywise but Eddie’s still afraid. They beat It but he’s still scared. Eddie wishes he could fearless now.

Another memory pushes itself to the forefront, wielding a baseball bat. It’s Richie, from that day. In his imagination, Eddie envisions Richie beating the other thoughts away, the other memories. Eddie would never admit it, but thinking of Richie always helps — with his bad jokes and even worse impressions. Richie with his fierce loyalty, who is always there when it really matters, and even there when it really doesn’t. Eddie wants to believe that Richie wouldn’t hate him for being…that. Wants to believe that none of them would, but Richie most of all. And Eddie knows why, but he can’t even bear to voice the thought even in his own head.

“But soft what light through yonder window breaks wind.” It takes Eddie a solid ten seconds to realize that Richie’s voice wasn’t coming from inside his head. When he opens his eyes, he finds Richie crouched precariously outside his bedroom window, one outstretched arm hanging onto the roof shingles above. Richie shoves the window open from the outside and tumbles into Eddie’s bedroom.

“Richie?” Eddie asks dumbly, as though he isn’t staring at him from across the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Your window was open, Juliet,” Richie replies, pulling off his dirty sneaks and dumping them on the floor beneath the window sill. “Were you expecting me?”

“No, I was expecting the other weird teenage boy that crawls through my window,” Eddie says, and he can hear the rasp in his voice from crying. He hopes that Richie doesn’t notice.

“Hey.” Eddie can tell by the softness in Richie’s voice that he definitely did notice. Richie crosses from the window to Eddie’s bed in three long strides and then plops himself down at the foot of the bed, narrowly missing sitting on Eddie’s feet. The room is bathed in the yellow light of Eddie’s table lamp as Richie tugs on the chain. Eddie feels exposed under Richie’s searching gaze. “You’ve been crying.”

Eddie futilely scrubs his hands against his cheeks and eyes to try and rid his face of any evidence.

“Nightmare?” Richie asks, his eyes huge and warm, and impossibly soft behind his glasses.

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. He scoots over and Richie moves to fill the space beside him in Eddie’s tiny twin sized bed. Richie’s grown long and gangly in his few teen years, folding up beside Eddie like his limbs are too long and he doesn’t really know what to do with them.

“I have them, too,” Richie states in a surprisingly soothing tone and reaches over to straighten the collar of Eddie’s pajama top.

Eddie wonders briefly what terrorizes Richie in his nightmares. If he still is scared of werewolves like he was when they were kids, or if he’s still afraid of clowns like he was then. Somehow, maybe intuitively, Eddie feels that Richie’s probably scared of something worse, something more visceral, more nuanced. Like Bill’s nightmares of his parents wishing he had died instead. Like Eddie losing all the people he loves the most just by being true to himself.

Richie gives Eddie a small, reassuring smile that looks entirely out of place of his face.

“You do?” Eddie asks, and looks down at his inhaler still tightly gripped in his hands.

“Definitely,” Richie says, “Your mom and I break up and I can never see my Eddie Spaghetti again.”

A laugh bursts out of Eddie’s mouth before he can stop it. It’s not even funny, really, but it breaks the stiffness in the room. “I’d miss you, but I’d miss your mom’s swee-”

“Gross!” Richie just flashes Eddie a wide, crooked smile.

The lay in silence for an immeasurable amount of time ― five minutes, thirty, and hour? Eddie can’t tell ― pressed side-by-side, Richie’s bony elbow digging into Eddie’s spleen. Until Eddie can’t ignore the pressing need to just say something, the nightmare still dancing at the edges of his mind, snippets of dialogue flitting around.

“They just keep getting worse, you know?” Eddie says and it feels way too loud for the silence of the room. “The dreams, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “Sometimes your mom doesn’t even give me a kiss to remember her by.” Eddie knows that Richie’s just using bad humor to evade, but he doesn’t say anything. Richie surprises him then, as though he has some sort of sixth sense and somehow knows. “We’d never leave you, y’know.”

Eddie turns and stares at Richie with wide eyes. How does he know?

“We love you, no matter what, Eds,” Richie keeps looking up at the ceiling. “I mean, unless you go all Zodiac Killer on us or somethin’.”

Richie turns and meets Eddie’s eye then, sees the questioning, half-scared look on his face.

“You talk in your sleep,” Richie explains.

“What…what do I say?”

“Uh…once you said, ‘guys, please don’t go,’ and ‘I thought we were a family.’” They’re both back to looking at the ceiling at this point. “You cried out for Bill once, during a sleepover.” Eddie remembers that night. Same nightmare, but he put up a fight then, trying to keep them all from abandoning him. Bill had awoken that night and sat up through the night with Eddie until just before daybreak. They hadn’t spoken of the dream, just sat in Bill’s living room and watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle reruns with the closed captioning on so as to not wake anyone else.

Eddie shakily exhales. Richie didn’t know. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Would you still talk to me like that if you knew?

“I…I get scared and start to think of you.” Eddie blurts out, and wants to take it back as soon as he says it, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. He wishes the lamp wasn’t on so he could hide in the dark, but if he turned it off now it would be too obvious. Richie doesn’t respond for just long enough of a time for it to feel uncomfortable and Eddie debates taking it back, make a half-assed joke out of it, ‘cause your face is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

He opens his mouth to speak but Richie beats him to it.

“Is it true,” Richie says slowly, in this gentle, almost imploring tone that Eddie’s never heard him use before. “Do you think of me, too?”

Eddie feels like his throat is closing up, his face burning. His fingers twitch on his inhaler but he doesn’t dare lift it to his mouth. His head swims. “Yeah,” Eddie whispers. I think of you all the time, Eddie’s heart yells at him. I think of your stupid jokes and they make me feel better. Eddie refuses to say that aloud. Richie would never let it go. I always feel better with you here. What he actually says, however, is: “You…think of me?”

“Yeah.” Richie says breathily, like he’s in awe of this new information — Eddie knows the feeling — but then quickly recovers. They fall back into familiar territory like it’s a refuge. They won’t speak of any of this in the morning. “I think of this cute Spaghetti face and, poof, all better!” Eddie smacks Richie’s hands away as he tries to pinch at his pinkened cheeks. “Cute, cute, cute!”   

“Spaghetti face? Are you serious?” Richie just laughs and moves to ruffle Eddie’s hair. Eddie shoves him back as far as he can go until Richie’s back hits the wall beside the bed.

“Hey, Eds?”

“What? I hate when you call me that,” Eddie says instinctively.

“C’mere?” Richie’s turned on his side facing Eddie still, his arms spread open wide in invitation, looking hopeful. Eddie hesitates.

How could you let me hug you?

How could you let me sleep in your bed?

That little reassuring smile is back.

“I won’t bite,” Richie says, and makes grabby hands at Eddie, followed by a wink that’s a few beats too long. “Not unless you want me to.”

We’d never leave you, y’know.

We love you, no matter what, Eds.

Do you think of me, too?

Eddie takes a deep breath and decides to be selfish. He scoots across the small space between them and lets Richie wrap his gangly noodle arms around him, ignoring the fact that Richie’s still wearing the same outfit he wore the entire day before, and the way that he smells like old sweat and cigarette smoke.

If — when he tells them, he decides,  he’ll let it happen. He’ll face the music. Eddie’s faced worse things, right? But for now he’s going to pretend that none of it’s possible; that Richie’s right and they’ll all still love him regardless. For now, he’s going to let Richie hold him.

When Eddie falls back to sleep, it’s dreamless.

[zenkatki]

Pandemic Ironman 2020

I have been asked by a few people to write something regarding Ironman Florida, the first full 140.6 Ironman held in the United Stated since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. I have never done a race write up before and I am not sure where to begin. I will take it from training which started in March to the end of the race and the reader can skip around to the parts they find interesting.

Training

Ironman Florida was to be my tenth Ironman, a step on the road to Legacy. I started a training plan that I had used before in February and tweaked it a little with my Ironman Coach certification. I already had a good endurance base from the 2020 Dopey Challenge at Walt Disney World in January, so February was primarily weight training and short distance swim, bike and runs. I still had a pool this month at New York Sports Club in Smithtown.

March is where things got interesting and COVID-19 lock-down started. The gym closed. I quickly purchased a Thermal Reaction wetsuit from Blueseventy and found my gloves and booties. I am fortunate to live 2.5 miles from the Long Island Sound so open water swims started early March. It was freezing but a bit fun to channel my inner Wim Hof. The swim training for this Ironman was entirely open water, with one pool swim in July when my sister invited me to her Town Pool once it opened. It was a concern because I feel pool intervals are important but I learned to incorporate intervals in the open water which helped break up those sessions and gave me focus.

I was able to get weight training done at work, we have a pretty decent set up in our garage. Biking and running proceeded as usual with a mix of outside rides and runs and some Zwift workouts. With a ten month training period I worked a lot of Zone 2 heart rate training, I’ve become a big believer.

It was weird not knowing at this point if the race was even on, and training helped me deal with a lot of the unknown, the anxiety. It pushed me through the spring and summer feeling hopeful despite seeing all the races on the circuit being cancelled. I had a 70.3 planned for late August in Maine that was not to be this year.

Time passed and soon it was race time. Ironman sent multiple e-mails stating they were still looking to hold the race and how it would function. I kept a folder in my e-mail with all the correspondence from Ironman, the airline, the hotel and TriBike Transport.

Travel

For whatever reason this was a tough flight to find. I had to go American Airlines and the flight to Florida was out of LaGuardia to Charlotte to Fort Walton Beach, an airport that was about an hour away from Panama Beach City. Going home was Panama City to Charlotte to JFK. Out of all three airports, JFK in New York was the only one with the Department Of Health forms to fill out upon arrival.

Now the story I’m about to write is to show how important it is to remain alert and pay attention to detail when you travel. Hopefully you will learn from my mistake here.

I wearily got off the plane at Fort Walton and found a cab outside, a nice, elderly man named Bill who was willing to drive me over an hour to my hotel in Panama City. He was driving, we were chatting and he asked me if it was okay for him to stop for gas. Sure, no problem. At the gas station he asked if I wanted to get anything and I said yes, I’ll run in for a drink. As I exited the gas station I saw the taillights of my cab leaving the pump and proceeding down the road. Without me. I did my best to stay calm but my cab had just left me stranded and my bags were in the car, along with my wallet, shield, and ID. I wondered if I was on a television show. After a few minutes it became clear that I was not on TV, and I needed to do something to track down this car. I was angry at myself for not knowing the cab company name, or getting the vehicle’s plate. After getting nowhere on the phone trying to contact the airline I asked the woman at the gas station to call the police. It was at this moment my cab returned, and my friend Bill said he thought it was weird I wasn’t answering his questions anymore and when he turned around and didn’t see me, he remembered I ran into the gas station. I refrained from physically strangling this man and climbed back into the minivan, clearly shook regarding how this race weekend just started.

Hotel

I had booked the Boardwalk Beach Hotel & Convention Center when I registered for this race. It was originally the host hotel and the race was to take place right on the grounds which is super convenient. Due to COVID and the safe return to racing, the race venue was moved six miles away to Aaron Bessant Park so they could spread us out more. I kept the reservation at BBH to be fair and help with the hotel’s business. I did enjoy being there but it was far from everything. In retrospect I should have rented one of those kewl golf carts and used that to get around for the weekend. I spent approximately $100 in Uber fees going back and forth to Aaron Bessant and Pier Park. All my cab fees, airport runs included, came to about $250. A shuttle would have been super nice but I think the majority of the people racing switched their accommodations upon the announcement of the venue change.

The hotel itself was okay, I was on the ground floor so it was out and a short walk to the water and road. The cafeteria had coffee in the morning and some pastries but I only saw them cooking food my last day as I checked out. The people that worked there were nice, I’ll forever remember me cleaning my bike in my room with the door open and housekeeping cleaning the adjoining rooms. I had put some music on the Bluetooth and we had a great time.

Race Check In

About a week before traveling Ironman sent out an Active.com e-mail with a link to reserve race check in times. This again was to space us out and not have us standing in line, clogging up the area. I picked Wednesday night between 5-6PM. Bibs were given out first come, first serve so the lower your bib number was the earlier you checked in. I was #1038. I arrived at about 4:45 with my mask and was told I could go in. It was athletes only so if you were with someone they had to wait outside the Ironman Village for you. I had to answer a short survey verbally, get my temperature taken, and then was directed table to table, just like a regular race. For places where a line of people might happen there were tape marks and lanes were roped off with string and little ribbons indicating every six feet. I was able to pick my bike check-in time for Friday, they gave me a little card with 2-3PM on it. I actually really liked this system and I think it would be great even when racing goes back to its regular routine. I found it interesting that the swag such as the swim cap and back pack didn’t have the race name on it. The finisher shirt and medal had no date on it. I guess up until the very start of the race it was always uncertain if it would be a go.

I learned that Ironman Gulf Coast 70.3 would also be on Saturday, November 7th, with an 11:00AM start time. So both races would be going at almost the same time using the same course and staging area. I received an e-mail from Triathlon Wire with the numbers of about 1250 athletes for the full and 300 for the half.

After checking in I walked over to the TriBike Transport tent, picked up my bike, put air in the tires and rode it back to my hotel. It was dark when I got back so I walked over to Subway for a veggie sub.

Thursday was a day for me to ride a little, swim a little and look around a little. My calves let me know when I did too much walking. That happens to me often at Disney for marathon weekend. You’re in a great place and want to see it all but remember, there’s a race in a couple of days! I did what I could to find vegan food options in a very big seafood area. I remembered to bring food to eat later back to my room, I had a refrigerator and a microwave there.

I walked on the pier and saw a few of the swim course buoys set up. It always looks so far, doesn’t it?

Before bed I watched the athlete briefing on-line and reviewed the race packet I printed out before I left New York. I got my gear bags ready to be handed in along with my bike the next day.

Bike Check In

Friday I rode my bike and gear bags to check in at 2PM. For some reason we also needed to wear our timing chip which made me thankful I watched that briefing the night before, because they really weren’t letting people go in without them. Athletes only again, no one without a timing chip and an event race band could enter transition. In I went with my mask on again.

Bikes were placed every other space on the rack giving us a little more room. Gear bags stayed with the bike. I tucked mine under the rear wheel that was in the air. All items in the bags must stay in the bags even during the race. So the guy two spots down from me who set his area up like he was doing a neighborhood sprint complete with a towel mat had to put all his gear back in the bags. After taking a picture of my set up and saying good night to my bike (for real, I speak to it) I got out of there. I made sure I knew where I was regarding swim in, bike out/bike in and run out before I left. I picked up a veggie pizza before heading back to the hotel. I spent the remainder of that day eating, relaxing, reading, prepping my Special Needs bags. I usually apply race numbers (TriTats) the night before but there was no body marking for this race so I wasn’t going to use up the numbers.

I was slightly concerned about getting to the race start so early the next morning. The front desk had recommended a cab service, but I met an awesome man named El by the hotel pool. He needed a charger for his Garmin. I let him use mine and we started talking about the next morning. He had driven to Florida from Tennessee, had his car and offered me a ride to the start which I gratefully accepted.

Race Morning

Up at 3:45AM race morning. Made instant coffee, ate half a bagel, lubed, dressed, double checked all my bags and headed out. El and I drove to transition and he was able to park close to the transition entrance. Special Needs bags were handed off on the way in to Transition. Masks were on. I went to my bike, double checked the tires and filled the water and Gatorade bottles. They didn’t want us wondering around too much. I did see Chris Nikic walk into Transition. This race was his attempt at becoming the first person with Down Syndrome to complete an Ironman. I thought it was great to see him, a good sign. Now that I think about it at this point I just focused on that good thought and the cab ride from the airport wasn’t even in my head. Mike Reilly was there! I got ready to swim and tucked my Morning Clothes bag behind my gear bags, Morning Clothes stayed with us as well.

Swim

The forecast projected it being overcast most of the day and the morning was a bit cloudy. I picked goggles with a super light tint and it was a good choice. We were to stand with our bikes until our projected swim time was called out. I stayed put until I heard, “1:20-1:30 head to the swim start now!” Everyone thinking they were finishing the swim in that time started out and towards the beach, it was about a seven minute walk on the road and on sand. Some people had throw-away shoes on, I did not. The road had tape marks every six feet, they wanted you to try to stay on them when walk-traffic stopped. On the sand they had roped off lanes with pink ribbons tied on every six feet. We were to stay on a ribbon. There were spectators the whole walk. Eventually my lane made it to the water and they were letting four people enter every five seconds or so. Despite this great system guess what. Once we were in the water in was a traditional Ironman. It took some time to get passed the breaks but once I was in I was going. Two loops, clockwise in the Gulf. I saw fish and a sea turtle. There was a current pushing us sideways so it took some effort and a lot of sighting to stay to the left of the buoys. It wouldn’t be an Ironman if I didn’t get hit in the eye and I got it on my second loop. If you’re familiar with the Lake Placid swim it was like that only no cable though, sorry. Despite it being wetsuit legal I was getting hot towards the end. I really enjoyed the water though and had a swim time of 1:27:01.

T1

My transition neighbors were gone by the time I got into T1 so I had plenty of room. I was expecting to have to wear a mask in Transition but we did not. I had my bike gear in the bag set up so I could just pull it out and put it on and it worked well. I hung my wetsuit on the bike rack to dry hoping that was allowed. It was still there when I got back so I guess it was. Once I was bike ready I made my way out to start my ride. My T1 time was 10:39.

Bike

Because the swim had been warm I started my bike ride a little thirsty which was unfortunately a sign of things to come. To keep contact points down Ironman had reduced the amount of Aid Stations, so after drinking my water and most of my Gatorade quickly it was some time before I could refill. I ate every 45 minutes to an hour on the bike. Solid food was no problem, I had a lot with me and grabbed extra going through the Aid Stations. It was fluid I needed more often than it was available. If the sun had been out full force I think I would have had an even worse problem. It was about 80 degrees, humid, still overcast and windy which meant I was sweating and not really going anywhere when pedaling against the wind. I used the tail wind as best I could to make up time. I really think I need to be re-fit for my bike because at mile 30 I was already having terrible lower back pain. It wasn’t an easy ride and despite everyone telling me how flat the course is, it was over 3,000 feet of elevation. I had to get off to use the porta-potty and stretch early on. I guess at this point I should mention my race kit. I wore a one-piece tri suit from Zoot, the Autism Ohana kit. Google it if you have a chance, I think it’s great. Very colorful and for a good cause. I wore it to remember my friend Lizzie that I run with sometimes in Central Park as a volunteer for Achilles. But there are goods and bads of wearing a one-piece and the bads is definitely when you try to use the bathroom in it. It has little sleeves that are tough to find and get your arms through when they are wet. So there was a struggle in that porta-potty, no doubt. Finally I opened the door. The porta-potty was on an incline and I kind of stumbled out of it and cracked my left knee on the doorway. Then I bent over to grab my knee and hit my big, bike helmet head on the side. I felt like the Three Stooges was trying to do an Ironman, I really did. Shaking my head I got back on the bike and started to go. I felt my knee throbbing for about twenty miles. As I write this I have a wicked bruise. But back to the bike…This was a one loop course on the highways of Florida. There were wide shoulders and a bike lane that we rode in but in the back of my mind I kept thinking this was an active road way and any passing needed to be super carefully done. Cars were courteous enough not to use the right lane but if a driver wanted to be a jerk and use it they could. Any residential/business areas had spectators. As I said before it was windy. I did the best I could and had some good splits when the wind was with me but I needed to get off a few more times to stretch. I finished the bike with a usual time of 7:14:01.

T2

Again I had the area to myself so I sat to change shoes and get ready for the run. I was a little put off by my bike split and my stomach was not 100% but I thought I could have a strong run if I stayed focused. Removing sand from my feet was a challenge but it was important so avoid any irritation so I took the time to do that before I put my socks on. I stretched my back and drank more Gatorade before I left. I had a T2 time of 10:53.

Run

As I started my run I was greeted by just as many spectators as any other Ironman. Some had masks on, some didn’t. Some were dressed up, some played music. Everyone was encouraging and motivating. I started out so happy to be running. This course was an out and back two times along the highway parallel to the beach, passed all the hotels, bars and restaurants. The halfway turning point and the finish line were at Pier Park. For six miles I ran strong and thanked everyone for being out. A lot of people liked and commented on my race kit. It was great. But soon I knew I was going to have to do the run/walk, even as the sun went down and it started to cool off. I was unable to eat anything solid for the majority of the run. The thought of trying made me dry heave. I saw a few people really heaving in the bushes and was afraid I was going to join them. I took in as much fluid as I could, mainly water and Coke. I was sweating out a lot of salt, my neck and face were all gritty. I thought at first maybe it was sand but why would there be sand on my face, right? Out and back, out and back, using whatever I could in my brain to keep moving. I followed the cones they used to mark off the run area. Walk one cone, run five cones. My quads were shredded. I thought of my Mom and my Family. I thought of work and how I wanted to make everyone proud. I thought of the finish line and finally, FINALLY it was my turn to cross. My run took 6:25:20. Mike Reilly called me an Ironman with an official time of 15:27:52.

After crossing the spectator-less finish line I was given a mask and a masked volunteer guided me along, not touching me, to a table with plastic bags containing my finisher shirt and race medal. Someone with gloves and a mask removed my timing chip. I made my way over to Athlete Food and choked down half a veggie sub. I got my picture taken with my medal. (There were photographers out on the course too.) I had completed my 10th Ironman.

As I gathered my gear and dropped my bike back at the TriBike tent, Chris Nikic became an Ironman. I cheered from the parking lot. I started to walk back with the plan of getting passed the road closures to an area where I could call an Uber to get back to my hotel. But I started walking with a man named Dan who had volunteered in a kayak for the swim and at the finish line as well. He had just as long of a day as I had but when he heard of my plan to get back he ran into his hotel, got his keys and drove me to my hotel. And that really, really describes the Ironman atmosphere and Family to me. We all help each other, we all do what we can to get each other through the challenge. I am so grateful I found this sport, these events and have met some of the most amazing people.

I hope this write up helps someone with their goal, be it an Ironman or a first sprint triathlon, or a marathon or whatever. Please feel free to contact me with any questions if I missed something you wanted to know about.

Thank you to everyone for the well wishes, encouragement and congratulations. Thank you to Ironman and the Volunteers for having this race during one of the most hectic times in our lives.

Thank you for reading.

Kristen

SuperKat1029@aol.com

Instagram - @zenkatki