#good morning people. today i offer you bill/ash

[satansapostle6]

Kids | Rodrick Heffley

Spotify Playlist Link

Rodrick Heffley becomes obsessed when he finally meets his thirty-five year old band mate, Bill Walter’s, younger sister.

Warnings: Mature themes/language. Drug use. Sexual content. Violence.

“The Baby Sister”

“The Family Legacy”

Rodrick couldn’t stop thinking about Sara in the past week since they first started to become friends. It was a sickness.

Today alone, he thought about her first thing in the morning, as he opened his eyes and woke up, as he was brushing his teeth(he hoped his breath didn’t smell bad), as he put on his deodorant(he hoped he didn’t smell bad), as he got dressed, while he drove to school, and all throughout his classes.

He knew he had to do something about his feelings for Sara, because they were really starting to become apparent to most of the other people in his life. This, of course, included his band mates, although Chris and Ben also had eyes for Sara Walter, just like any of the other boys who saw her. Rodrick figured the only reason Sara wasn’t as popular as Heather Hills was because she just didn’t want to be.

Sara spent most of her time in and out of school alone, so naturally Rodrick felt pretty important when she decided to spend her time in his company. She typically came with Bill to band practices in Rodrick Heffley’s garage, where she served as quite the distraction to her brother’s younger band mates.

But that day, the members of the charmingly spelled Löded Diper were busy trying to put together a decent set list, for a small backyard party. Rodrick had been standing around with his arms crossed, rolling his eyes as he and Bill watched Ben and Chris argue over songs. Sara, who sat on the couch, decided she’d tune out all the arguing and work on her flash of potential tattoo designs.

“Will you two just shut the fuck up so we can figure this out?!” Rodrick groaned.

“Just give ‘em a few minutes, little bro,” Bill offered his wisdom as he patted him on the shoulder. “Oh. Dude. I almost forgot.”

“What?” Rodrick asked him in fear, thinking it was some sort of band emergency.

“You should totally ask Sara Bear to come to the party with you!” Bill whispered urgently, eyeing his sister to make sure she wasn’t listening in.

“But… can’t Sara drive herself?” Rodrick questioned.

“No, dude, like on a date!” Bill urged him.

“…What?” Rodrick asked skeptically.

He didn’t know anything about having a sister, but he was certain there was no way any guy would willingly encourage his friend to ask his younger sister out.

“Yeah, man, she’s crazy about you!” Bill insisted. “It’s so obvious!” he scoffed.

“She ashed her cigarette on me the other day,” Rodrick frowned, not trusting him at all.

“That’s how she flirts!” Bill exclaimed. “If she did that to you, you’re in! I mean…Not in. That’s still my baby sister. But, anyway, dude, she likes you.”

“…Really?” Rodrick asked, deciding if anyone knew Sara, it had to be her brother.

“Yeah! You should ask her out. Right now,” he encouraged.

“Okay!” Rodrick exclaimed, walking over to the couch. “Thanks!”

“Yeah, anything for you, brother!”

He then realized that, just like the first time he ever had a real conversation with Sara, he had gone over there with no plan. But, it was already too late, so he decided to just go with it.

“Hey, Sara Bear!” he blurted out, visibly cringing and once he realized what he’d said.

“Hey… Roddy,” she frowned humorously, “What’s up?”

“Uh… I was thinking,” he began.

“I’m impressed,” Sara nodded approvingly.

“No…” Rodrick massaged his temples in frustration as he tried to come up with something good, naturally failing. “I was wondering if you were gonna go to our gig this weekend? At the house party?”

“Yeah,” she replied supportively, “I’ll be there.”

“Alright! Totally! Cool…” he trailed off, trying to regain his composure. “Uh… I was thinking, that, maybe… I don’t know…” he struggled to the point of completely abandoning his train of thought.

“Huh?” she asked in confusion.

“Uh, I don’t know, I just wanted to see if maybe you’d, uh, wanna…”

“Go out with you?” Sara offered, coming to the conclusion before he did.

“Yes! …Yeah,” he nodded, trying to still seem somewhat cool, even if that wasn’t really an option.

Rodrick stood there awkwardly, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his grey jeans.

“Yeah,” Sara nodded with a smile. “For sure.”

“Really?” he laughed, catching himself just as she did. “I mean. Really?” he flirted.

“I know Bill put you up to this,” she smirked, eyes glancing at her older brother for a split second, “He’s been talking you up to me for the past week. He’s a real wing man, by the way.”

“Oh. Cool,” Rodrick remarked, slowly turning to look back at Bill, whose widened eyes suggested he was desperate for an update.

Completely clueless, Bill gave Rodrick a questioning thumbs up as Sara watched. Rodrick slowly made an awkward thumbs up, to which Bill nearly reacted by jumping up and down and shouting. After that, Rodrick returned to the band, feeling rejuvenated.

Just before 6 o’clock, Mrs. Heffley poked her head into the garage, watching as Chris and Ben both took off. Bill and Sara still remained, as Rodrick discussed various details of a song with the thirty-five year old.

“Rodrick? Dinner’s ready,” Susan said.

“I’ll be in in a minute, Mom,” he called, “I’m still talking to Bill and Sara,” he said patiently, pointing out his friends standing in front of him.

“Well, I told you that dinner was ready ten minutes ago, and we’re not eating until everyone’s seated at the table,” she stated calmly. “If you still have things to discuss with your friends, you can do that at the table. We have plenty of food,” she offered.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Rodrick assured her, “Bill and Sara were just—”

“Oh, Mrs. H, we’re starving!” Bill spoke for his sister before she could protest, “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled warmly, “Come on in. I made spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti!” Bill exclaimed childishly as Rodrick and Sara exchanged looks.

The pair of siblings followed Rodrick into the Heffley house. Bill was much more excited, while Sara seemed a lot more tentative.

“Guys, Rodrick’s friends will be joining us for dinner tonight,” Susan Heffley smiled.

Rodrick took his usual seat beside Greg, who seemed to see Sara’s presence as an opportunity. Rodrick glared at him angrily, as Sara sat down directly across from him, next to Bill.

“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed to her silently, only to receive a tiny ‘it’s okay’ back.

“So, we know Bill,” Susan began, turning to Sara, “I’m sorry, sweetie, what was your name?”

“Sara,” she smiled timidly. “I’m in the same grade as Rodrick.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Frank said pleasantly as he filled his plate. “You go to Crossland?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, hesitantly putting food on her plate as Bill piled a mess of salad and spaghetti onto his.

“Oh, wow. And Bill’s your older brother?” Susan asked.

“Yeah,” Sara nodded, as Frank Heffley completely froze.

Rodrick’s father’s face froze as Rodrick tried to stop him from making a scene, only to be completely ignored.

“I’m sorry, your Bill’s sister?” the man asked shakily.

“Dad…” Rodrick said nervously.

“Yeah,” Sara responded, not seeming as awkward.

“Rodrick’s taking my baby sister out this Saturday,” Bill announced proudly with a mouthful of meatballs. “He’s been crushing on her all week,” he teased.

Greg turned to Rodrick, eyes widened in fear as both of their parents slowly took in the girl’s appearance, from her balayage, to her thin eyebrows, to her loose-fitting grey sweater that she wore off the shoulder. Luckily, she seemed somewhat more conservative without makeup.

“…Oh,” Frank gasped, still in shock. “So that was your cigarette out there last week?” he concluded, seeming horrified.”

Rodrick was horrified.

“What?” Susan questioned, having no idea what he was talking about.

“You’re the girl Greg told us about that was smoking?” Frank continued.

“Dad!” Rodrick exclaimed, mortified.

“Uh, no, Mr. Heffley,” Sara said quickly, “I don’t smoke… That must’ve been my cousin Cindy that was with me, we hang out a lot, so she’s always with me.”

“Yeah,” Bill agreed, realizing this was his fault,“Cousin Cindy’s a huge smoker. Coughs up a lung every morning.”

“Yeah, Dad, I wasn’t talking about Sara,” Greg promised, feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh,” Frank murmured, allowing himself a moment to adjust, “Sorry. That was rude,” he smiled, trying to be disarming.

“Yes, it was,” Susan agreed with her husband. “So, Rodrick, you’re finally introducing us to your girlfriend?”

Greg nearly choked on his food from laughter as Rodrick’s mouth stood agape in horror.

“Mom!” he gasped, mortified.

Sara just looked across the table at Greg, seeming to just be appreciating the humor in the situation, if anything. Rodrick said nothing to her, and just have her an apologetic grimace.

“We’re not dating!” he cried.

Sara tried her best to hide her involuntary grin at the absurd situation.

“But, aren’t you going out on a date?” Susan asked.

“Honey, just let them be,” Frank said calmly, “They’re just kids…”

“Well, I just wanted to know!” the woman argued.

Rodrick watched powerlessly as Sara uncomfortably looked down at her plate, feeling horrible. He didn’t know what to do to help the situation, but he felt even if he could think of something, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. There wasn’t much he could do for either of them at this point.

Sara sat in her seat quietly throughout the meal, only speaking when spoken to, and constantly looking to her brother to signal that they should leave. But, unfortunately for her, her brother was Bill. Bill didn’t seem to be getting the hint. It was probably another 45 minutes or so before he announced that they’d be leaving.

“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. H, it’s been real, but me and Sara Bear gotta go,” Bill said as he stood, “We’ll catch you guys later!”

“Alright, take care,” Susan Heffley smiled, a strange discomfort behind her eyes.

“See you,” Frank smiled.

“I’ll, uh, walk you guys out,” Rodrick volunteered, standing with them.

He awkwardly walked behind Sara, hand anxiously hovering over the small of her back as he ushered her out of the house.

“I am so sorry,” he sighed, looking at Sara to see if there was a chance he’d ever see her again.

“Aw, don’t be!” Bill said cluelessly, “I had a great time!”

Sara just shook her head as they all walked out the front door.

“Bill, can you start the car?” she asked politely, intending on having a talk with him later.

“Oh, I get it,” he smirked, looking up at Rodrick, “You two want some alone time.”

“Yes, we do,” she agreed impatiently, waiting for him to walk away before directing her attention back to Rodrick. “So…” she grimaced.

“So…” he genuinely had no idea what to say at this point.

“Sorry, I tried to get Bill to leave, but… you know how he is,” Sara sighed.

“No, it’s fine. My parents don’t hate you guys or anything. They just think I’m gonna turn out like Bill,” Rodrick frowned, not hearing himself.

“Yeah. So do mine,” she assured him. “That’s kind of the problem with them.”

“Well… I actually think you’re really cool the way you are,” Rodrick thought aloud, not sure if he sounded stupid.

“Thank you, Rodrick,” Sara nodded, looking up at him in a way that made his knees buckle.

“You’re welcome,” he stared back, still terrified of her.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she left, worried that if she showed how excited she was everything would immediately start to go wrong.

“See you tomorrow,” he echoed, watching her as she left.

The car ride home wasn’t too bad for Sara. It was easy explaining to him where he went wrong with Mr. and Mrs. Heffley, but it was more difficult for Sara to get him to see the problems with their own family.

“Bill, we saved up enough money,” Sara sighed as they arrived at home. “We could get an apartment, easily. You can be my guardian until I’m 18. We both make enough money—”

“Sar, I told you, we can’t,” Bill sounded heartbroken listening to his sister. “We can’t just leave Connor!”

“Bill, forget about Connor!” she argued, “We need to think about us, just this once!”

“That’s Mom’s job,” he reminded her, “That’s all she’s ever done, is think about us. We can’t just leave her.”

“Bill, she’s an adult, and so are we,” Sara scoffed, looking at the house that wasn’t their childhood home from the sidewalk. “I can’t stay in that house anymore, Bill. Not after that night.”

The incident of three weeks ago was still a very sensitive topic in their household.

“Look, I get it, I really do,” her older brother promised, “But it’s just a couple more years. Less than a year. And then you can do whatever!”

“And what about you, huh?” she demanded. “You’re just gonna stay here, forever, in the basement? Just because of Connor?”

“He needs us!”

“He’ll be okay!” Sara insisted. “It’s not like we’re leaving the country, we just need a little space! We both did our time in that house, and now we need to get out for our own good!”

“I can’t do that,” Bill said with finality.

“Can’t, or won’t?” she questioned, looking him in the eyes.

“I can’t. I can’t leave Connor.”

“You can’t leave Connor, or you can’t leave Mom?”

“I’m not leaving, Sara,” he said softly. “You can. But I have to stay. Okay?”

From the pained look on his face to the glassy reflection in his eyes, Sara knew she couldn’t press it any further. She was angry, and she needed to leave, but she knew her brother had been hurt enough.

“Okay,” she nodded, dropping the subject entirely.

“Okay,” Bill nodded vigorously, sniffling as he tried to regain his youthful energy.

The more Sara looked into the darkness of his eyes that night, the more she realized that it was his childhood that had aged him so.

“Please, for the love of God, Sar,” he sighed, before they walked up to their house. “Just don’t start with him.”

“I won’t start with him if he doesn’t start with me first,” she muttered as Bill opened the door for her.

The two quietly entered their home, hoping they wouldn’t be noticed and could just slip by. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case.

“You guys sure are home late,” said a voice that made them both shake.

Randy Sharpe, their stepfather, was seated in the living room, reading a book written by a man who could supposedly make anyone a millionaire.

“We had dinner at the Heffleys’,” Bill said through gritted teeth as Sara stopped behind him.

“It’s not even 7 yet,” she said quietly.

“What’d they feed you?” the man asked, being the only one that found humor in his musings. “Caviar on toast?”

“Spaghetti,” Sara interjected. “They’re nice people.”

“And I’m not?” he looked up from his book.

“Yeah, you’re a real peach, Randy,” Bill muttered, creeping off toward the basement as their mother entered the room.

“Hey, Bill. Hey, Sar Bear. How was practice?” Destiny Sharpe asked, intentionally moving the conversation along.

“Good, thanks, Ma,” Bill walked off.

“You know,” Randy chuckled, watching him as he took off his reading glasses, “It makes sense, letting that one come and go as he pleases, I mean… he’s half gone already, but Sara’s still a kid,” he pointed out, pointing his glasses at her.

“Randy, Sara’s sixteen, she’s old enough to not have to come home before 7,” Destiny chuckled, still finding the situation humorous, “Besides. When she works, sometimes she’s not home ‘til 11.”

“What does she need a job for?” he questioned. “She’s a kid!”

“So are you, Randy,” Sara used his name like an insult.

“Hey,” her mother frowned.

“What, he gets to sit there and criticize us all day, but the second someone responds, he’s only human?” she gestured to him in disbelief.

“Hey. Show your mother some respect,” Randy said sternly.

“You first,” Sara cocked her head at him. “Has Mom even seen her paycheck this month? Huh? Could she even tell me how much it’s for, or do I have to go through your ‘accountant’?”

“That is enough,” Destiny interrupted, “Sara, have you been smoking? Weed, that is, because I can smell the box 100’s from over here.”

“I wish,” she responded honestly, glancing over at her stepfather. “I don’t know how else anyone deals with him.”

“What was that, a shot?” Randy butted in. “Taking shots at your mother now?”

“Don’t get any ideas, I’ve seen that shitty Glock you own.”

“Sara!” her mother exclaimed. “You shut your mouth right now—”

“Mom?!”

Everyone looked up at the top of the stairs in a panic as a small twelve year-old looked down the stairs.

“Have you seen my PE shirt?” Connor asked.

Destiny squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm herself for a moment. “Uh… Yeah, baby! It’s in your drawer!”

They all watched him run back up into his room, silently looking around at each other.

“You two need to learn to get along if you’re going to live under this roof,” Sara’s mother pointed at the two of them warningly.

“Or, you could just throw him out on his ass like you should’ve years ago,” Sara crossed her arms.

“Sara,” Destiny glared, finger pointed accusingly, “You best believe that the first of the two of you to be thrown out of this house wouldn’t be Randy.”

Sara tried to contain the hatred growing within her as Randy mockingly pumped his fist in silence as his wife walked away.

“You know, Sara Bear,” Randy said with a smile, “I don’t know why you’re so determined to hate me. I’ve never laid a finger on you, or your mother. You kids wouldn’t have survived a day with my father.”

“You might not have ever hit my mom,” Sara admitted, “But I wish you would. Just so she’d realize what kind of person you are.”

Before she could lose control, Sara ran off into her room, luckily without doing anything she would regret. Not having any other options left, she angrily sank her fist through her door, putting another hole in it just like the one her middle brother had left in it after Bill shoved his head through it.

Ever since he left, Sara had times where she’d almost forget their brother Paul. They never spoke about Paul, and Paul never spoke about them. Sara envied Paul.

-

“The Date”

[poison--ivory]

Uninviting Cataclysm(Alastor x Reader) Chapter 1

Daily routine isn't always good

(You call the old couple mom and dad) *Also sorry I didn't mention until now that you have really curly hair and your biracial(so you can decide what your skin color is)* •You were also raised up north and still kind of speak with that dialect• 

June 6, 1915 Age: 20

  The morning sun pushing through the curtains along with the sound of dogs barking slowly woke you up. Forcing yourself up and managing to bear from the comfort of your bed and it's still warm sheets. First, tidying your bed spread neat before mom could scold you.

  Making your way to the wardrobe to gather clothes for today's venture, you grabbed a (f/c) V-neck, short flutter sleeve dress that hits mid thigh. With matching flats to best match your dress. Oncing over the choice for today you thought it was best enough. Setting them on the bed and quickly making your way out of your room and into the hallway.

 Swiftly moving down corridor to the bathroom to freshen up before breakfast. Seeing that your old mom already set a nice bath for you. Letting your gown carelessly fall off your frame and removing your undergarments. Mindlessly going into deep thought about your day.

  You usually go to the library to read or grab a book. Maybe chat with the sweet old lady and her seven year old grandson who run the place. Then, possibly taking a stroll around the fair that just open for the summer. By that time your already bringing your twin something for lunch.

  Later, you either stop by the market to pick up groceries or you help your mom take care of wealthy white kids. Their parents pay mom a great deal to care for their children. She does literally everything for them from making meals to sewing dresses or little suits. But, some clients left after my brother and I showed up I guess they didn't want their children to be near a person of color for too long. The ones that stayed seem nice enough. My personal favorite being a middle aged man, Henry Bourgeois, who always said, 'hello' and gave me small tips for caring for his daughter Sally.

  Your skin started to prune sitting in the water for too long. Stepping out of the tub and snatching a towel from the rack you started to dry off. Starting with hair and slowly making your way down to your toes.

  Wrapping the towel around your womanly frame you crept back to your bedroom and got dressed.

__________________________

Once downstairs the smell of bacon and spices hit your nose and triggering your mouth to salivate. Walking into the kitchen you found your mom just about done with her last plate to place at the table with the two others. You greeted her with a warm hug and a 'Good Morning, Mom'. She smiled back and gave your cheek a quick peck. Then went to sit in your chair and wait for your plate.

"Good Mornin', sweetheart. How'd sleep?" She asked, turning back around to slide the eggs on the plate.

"Better than yesterday I can tell you that for sure. The dream I had was so realistic with the flames of hell melting my flesh. I could of sworn that my eyes busted through my soc-" You were cut off by a plate slamming down in front of. Looking up mom had a stern look to her aged face.

"Now ya need ta stop talking 'bout ya dreams like that. Really unladylike especially in public," She spoke with a slight authoritative tone. Lightly limping to her chair she spoke again, "it's just a dame should stay in her own lane. Not that I don't wancha to get a little fire on me now. Men just don't like that talk ya know."

Nodding to her response she took the answer and went on her to turn up the radio for the daily news.

Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen and welcome back to the radio show.

   Staring your favorite radio host, I Alastor, to brighten up your morning with a few songs, but let me darken your day for just a minute with such sad news. Another body was found by an egg last night floating down the bayou.

  Coppers have yet to capture this Button man. This tallies up to over twenty people in a span of two years.  Now what most of you fine folk want to listen to here we have, Mr. Artie Matthew's play the 'Weary Blues'

The piano playing filled in the silence that would have been forks hitting plates trying to pick up flimsy fried egg.

 The killings haven't been new and have been the norm for awhile. You can hear people talking about it at every street, alleyway and bar.

 The coppers haven't caught the guy yet and it puts lots of people on edge. Especially people with families.

 Nearly shoving food in my face causing mom to tell you to slow down. But, hardly listening you shove the rest of the bacon into your mouth and make your way to the sink to scrub your plate and placed it on the drying rack.

"Bye, mama. I'll be back before you know it!" You yelled from the front door way and before you could venture outside she yelled back.

"Pick up some milk and bread before ya get home, would ya?"

"I will, mama."

"Have a safe trip and the cabbage on the table for ya." She slightly limped over and gave both of your cheeks kisses.

Checking the table you hurriedly snatched the money and skipped out the door. Slamming it shut behind you.

Walking down the curvy road that leads into the city. The walk leads you through a small, little wood patch and into a small clearing that slowly shows small businesses and shops. The library is located near the school which is pretty far off from other buildings.

Reaching your destination, the library stairs are long wide, and white cemented staircase with two pillars on each side with the big doors that lead into the actually building. Pushing pass them you nearly run into a little boy, Joseph Bonnefoy.

"Oh, where are in such a rush to?" Smoothing out your dress asked in a slight taunting tone.

"Granny said I could go out for a short break. I'm getting myself a few chocolates as a snack." The words rushed out of his tiny mouth. Hardly catching his breath when he was finished.

"Well aren't you grown now, Joseph. Next thing you'll tell me your getting old enough to get your own house." Jokingly ruffling his hair, he smiled and waved off vanishing from sight once down the incline.

Sauntering into the building you noticed that Claire Bonnefoy wasn't at the front desk where she usually was. Probably in the back.

Making your way down the aisles of books you traveled around for a good five minutes passing books you didn't find interesting or they didn't have good covers. Coming across a couple of good ones you touched 'The Good Solider' reading the summary you decide to give it a try. °°It's set just before World War I and chronicles the tragedy of Edward Ashburnham, the soldier to whom the title refers, and his seemingly perfect marriage plus that of his two American friends.°°

Strolling around the aisle for a bit more you grace yourself with some dark writing. Traipsing on to some dark fiction you grabbed a fairytale book of the 'Grimm work original fairy tales'. Walking back to the front, Mrs. Claire was already their and ready for me. Smiling I greeted her and handed the books over. Smiling she rung them up and complimented the choice for this week.

" How have you been, Mrs. Claire. Not to intrude on your personal life, but is it true that the last person who died lived close to you." You questioned.

"Sadly, yes 'n I've been thinkin' of sendin' little Joseph up state with his aunt 'n uncle in Arkansas for awhile 'til this calms down." Her shaky hand clenched around the book harshly, "Or if they finally catch the bastard whose doin' all of this maybe mah little boy can stay. 'Til then mah old joints can't move like they use tah."

" Lititle Jo 's gonna feel so sad, he really likes New Orleans."

"Yes, I know dear. But, I'd sleep betta at night if he was somewhere safa." She slide the books in a paper bag and handed them over. A melancholy smile on her sweet face. "Been saving up on a train ticket for some time now. Most folk don't come by tah rent out books anymore. So, it took some time 'n hard work tah earn the money."

The killings have did put everyone at alert. Well, most people still hang out past sun fall just to watch the city come to life. Which I won't lie it is gorgeous to witness the night come to life. But, for old bims like Mrs. Claire she's dang plum tire and could use the time to calm her nerves. Maybe I should visit more once Joseph''s left.

"Thank ya, Miss. (Y/n). I'll see ya next week or so."

"The pleasure's all mine and I'll give these books back in no time."

Waving to the old bim you make your way back out the library and on tour way to your next destination.

    Making your way back to the house to fetch Issacs's lunch you had to maneuver your way through the crowd of busy people scrambling around to get out of the sweltering heat and catching up with friends.

 Your brother works at a boiler repair shop. Fixing cars and getting scraps of cabbage to make up for the bills that weren't paid. He's always been a hard working guy, he's selfless and protective. I still remember when we were kids and father used to hit him, so hard, but came to my defense whenever I was in trouble.

 Traveling down the dusty road you made it to the repair shop where two boobs stood out front. One was always silent and the other was a continuous flirt whenever you came around.

As soon as they could hear your shoes hitting pavement the flirt Clay shot up to welcome you.

"How are doing this afternoon, (y/n)." His hand went out to grab your, which you quickly pulled back, "you know that offer still stands that if you wanna get tonight."

"I would, but I'm pretty sure your wife would raise all hell." Walking past him to look further into the garage. "Where is my brother, is he not here?"

Floyd spoke up, which startled you. His voice is pretty deep and gravely for a man only four years older than yourself. Blowing the smoke from his mouth he tapped the ash upon the ground to stare at you.

"He left early to go out with his dame. Told us to tell ya not to worry too much and that he'll be back home later tonight." He stole another drag from the cigarette.

"He could at least gave me heads up before I came all the way out here. What I'm supposed to do with this now." Dangling the bag of food from side to side.

"I'll take it off ya hands for ya." Clay swooning in to steal the bag and retreat back to standing next to Floyd. "Wish my wife could cook like your ma."

  Huffing you said your good byes to them both with a very excited 'see ya' from Clay and a small wave from Floyd.

  Once far away enough you groaned louder to reduce some irritation of making this heart felt trip. Pulling on your face to stop tears from forming you sighed and kept walking to your next venture.

 The scratch mom gave you was enough for bread and milk. But, she also gave you enough to get something special from you little trip. You decided on a cup of coffee at the nearest restaurant with a beignet. It sounds so good right now and with more pep in your step you made it to the store in no time.

  The corner store was full of people that day bustling around to grab what they need and storm out. You being the small self you are you tried to cram your way in and failed miserably. You tried this process several times and came out with the same results. Someone bumped into your small frame and sent you falling backwards. Gloved hands snatched you up before you could hit the ground.

You were in a state of shock before being knocked out of your stooper by a young man who you realized pulled you off to the side. With eyes wide you tried to make conversation, but no words would come out the only thing you could look at was his face.

"T-Thanks for helping me." You tried to mustard a smile, but it came out weird.

"You look like you were in quite the pickle their, my dear." Hands still on your waist he motioned with his head down the street. "You know there's a nice restaurant around here that serves the best venison. I think you would just adore it. Could possibly calm your nerves my treat."

Mouth still dry you tried to speak, "I don't want to impose on your lunch regimen." Shaking your head and slowly moving backwards.

"Oh, but I insist my dear I did invite you didn't I." Pulling you closer by the hip, your face heated up more than normal. Now following the man who you didn't even pick up the name you two made your way around the corner and down the street.

  Stepping inside the small business you noticed only about six or eight people in here. Nicely decorated with bar stools and five booths along the wall and a bathroom across from the front entrance. But, it did smell really delicious in here maybe it won't be,  so bad to have just a bite to eat. He did say he was paying. He lead us to a small booth in the back and waited for me sit down first before taking his seat across from me.

 "Why did you bring me here I barely know you, sir?" Playing with your fingers to ease your nerves by making your fingers stretch and squeeze together.

 His eyes looked off to the side in deep thought before he shrugged. "You looked interesting, my dear." Reaching over he scratched under your chin and his smiled covered more of his face. "Smile my dear you know your never fully dressed without one."

 Making a smile fall upon your lips you smiled back. His eyes slightly narowed and his smirk stretched a bit. Suddenly, a very curvy and thick lady stood in front of our booth.

"Oh, Al are here to hear me sing again tonight. If you are your way too early, hun." She giggled.

"Oh no my dear, Mimzy. I'm here with a new friend of mine. She's going to have seasoned venison." His arm motion towards me and I froze on the spot.

Sticking your hand out for handshake, "HI, my name's (y/n). Nice to meet you."

She stared you up and down before slowly taking your hand and managing a small smile on her face. "You must be a fan, Al here, right. A lot of dumb dora fall head over heels for this man."

 I guess she read the confused look on your face and answered for you. "Alastor, the radio man of New Orleans."

"Oh, sorry I guess I didn't notice." Turning your attention to Alastor, "sorry I didn't recognize a popular figure like yourself."

"It's fine dear a lot of people don't recognize the voice with the look." I'm guessing he's talking the creole look. To be honest a lot of people don't sound like the ethnicity on the phone until you see their face. But, I can't really judge I get turned down in person more than on the phone looking for a job.

"Well I'll go tell the servers the usual for you, Al." She looked you over, again. "What will you have?"

"She'll be having the same as me, mim." Alastor strong smile had her face painted in a light pink. She straighten her posture and cleared her throat and told us it it'll come out in no time. Once she gone I asked how long they've known each other.

"Mimzy and I go way back when she was a small singer. Know she travels from time to time to spread that lovely voice of hers." You just took noticed he speaks with hands a lot more than most people. But, you seem to like that.

 Smiling back you told him that really amazing. It was you mothers goal before she stated using. He asked you about your occupation.

"Well, I really wanted to be a baker, but no plots are open, too expansive or I'm not the right skin tone for this establishment." Looking up for just a second you could have sworn the smile on his face fell and quickly went back into place.

"Isn't that just dreadful." He focused up at the ceiling for awhile and shot his head down to smirk at me, "How would like to work for me for a fair price a hour?"

"What?"

[citrinekay]

Hiiii I dunno if you're still doing prompts but i've been thinking about a drabble where Bill and Holden are at home and they're both a little tipsy and Holden talks Bill into slow dancing with him, I just need some cute domestic fluff tbh, thanksss

HI Ash! Sorry for the delay in answering this 😫 life has been so busy and stressful these past couple weeks, but I finally got a chance to sit down and write this little thing that’s been bouncing around in my head ever since you sent this message. Hopefully you are still yearning for the domestic fluff, because this is fluffy to the max! Enjoy 💕

When Holden wakes on Saturday morning, the mellow, morning sunlight creeping across the unoccupied side of his bed illuminates the vacancy in a way that makes his chest tighten. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the dust motes sailing, hitting bare skin, the radiating warmth of body heat, hands winding around his waist to pull him closer. But he’s never liked feeling needy or dependent on anyone - not until recently. 

He tries to set aside the lonely patter of his thoughts, but when he goes into the kitchen to put some breakfast together, his gaze settles nervously on the telephone. 

Last weekend, it was Bill’s turn having Brian. The week before that, Holden was over at Bill’s house, and they were making out on the couch. It seems like a small eternity ago, almost unbearable. He wants to call and invite himself over, but Bill has never been the doting type. He doesn’t appreciate clingy behavior or other people invading his personal space. This thing between them is still too new for that kind of closeness. 

Holden dispels the thought of calling, and turns his attention to making breakfast. Afterward, he busies himself by checking the contents of the refrigerator and deciding he needs to stop at the grocery store. 

On the weekend, the store is fairly busy, and he takes his time shuffling down the crowded aisles and ticking items off his list once they hit the cart. He trolls the familiar shelves by rote, allowing his mind to wander and predict the rest of the day. Maybe he’ll go for a run later or settle in with a book. More than likely, he’ll end up pouring over the case files he brought home with him. Relaxing has never come easy to him, just like the vulnerability of missing someone. 

When Holden gets back to his apartment, juggling two paper sacks of groceries and his keys, the shrill ring of his telephone reaches past the front door. Muttering a curse, he sets down one sack in order to unlock the door, and quickly drags the groceries inside. The telephone continues ringing as he knocks the door shut, stumbles past the grocery sacks into the kitchen, and swipes for the receiver. 

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Bill’s voice reaches from the other end of the line, at ease and fond, shattering Holden’s dour mood in seconds. 

“Bill, hi.” Holden says, a smile pushing unbidden at his cheeks. 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I was just coming back from the store. It’s okay. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking about you.”

Holden turns to lean his hips against the kitchen counter, and bites back a growing grin. “Really? That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Because, I was thinking about you.” Holden says, clutching the phone tighter as nervous butterflies rouse in his belly. 

“Were you, now?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, it seems like we’re on the same page then.” Bill says, his tone modest yet holding a note of anticipation.

“About what?”

“You coming over tonight.”

The butterflies explode, not painfully but joyously. Holden purses his lips, but he can’t help the excited grin that stretches across his mouth. 

“That sounds great.” He says, attempting not to betray his over-eagerness. 

“Yeah?” Bill asks, the relief in his voice matching the warmth in Holden’s chest. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel. I know last week in New Hampshire was hard on you. I figured you’d want to rest-”

“No.” Holden says, quickly. “Not at all. I want to come over.”

“Great. We don’t have to do anything crazy.” Bill says, “Order some take-out, watch a movie …”

“Yeah, that all sounds good. When do you want me to come over?”

“I’ve got some chores around the house to finish up. How does five o’clock sound?”

“Good. Perfect.”

“Okay. See you then.”

After they hang up, Holden stands in the middle of the kitchen with a bewildered smile lingering on his face. His fears about coming off as too needy sink below the surface, leaving behind the warm hum of anticipation in his belly. The realization that Bill wants this - them - just as much as he does rises up slowly right next to the bubbling excitement, but Holden doesn’t try to dwell on the particulars; he has to seize this moment while it lasts. 

~

Holden pulls his car into the driveway of Bill’s house at 4:45. He prefers to be early, but today’s punctuality exists more out of uncurbed enthusiasm rather than timely diligence. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from getting himself ready early and leaving his apartment ahead of schedule. He’s sure Bill won’t mind. 

Getting out of the car, he jogs up the front steps, and raps his knuckles on the front door. He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears Bill’s footfalls approach and the latch click open. 

Holden glances up from his shoes to see Bill holding the door open. He has a kitchen towel over his shoulder, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. Immediately, the mouth-watering scents of cooking dinner wafts from behind his shoulders. 

“Hi.” Bill says, his mouth fending off a smug smile. 

“Hi…” Holden says, slowly, a frown tugging at his brow. 

“Come on in.” 

Bill stands aside as Holden creeps across the threshold, pinning him with a curious gaze. 

“What smells so good?” Holden asks as Bill pulls the door shut behind him. 

Bill’s hand clasps his hip as he leans in to plant a warm kiss on Holden’s cheek. “Dinner.”

“Dinner?” Holden echoes, his brows rising. “You said we were going casual.”

“I know. I wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m practically in pajamas.” Holden protests, haplessly. “I would have dressed up if you told me you were making me dinner and-”

“Hey,” Bill interrupts, his eyes twinkling. “Hush, will you? I’m not worried about what you’re wearing.”

Holden purses his lips, and gently leans into Bill’s chest. Peeking up past his eyelashes and the flush climbing his cheeks, he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. I should be thanking you.”

“You can thank me later.” Bill whispers, planting a fleeting kiss on Holden’s mouth before he turns to go back into the kitchen. 

Holden trails behind him, his disbelief growing as he enters the kitchen to see the table set with the nice china dishware and a glass vase at the center that holds a large bouquet of purple and white flowers. 

“Wow.” Holden says, pausing in the doorway to gather himself. “Bill, this is …”

“A surprise?” Bill asks as he leans down to open the oven. 

“Yes. Very much so.”

Bill pulls the pot out of the oven, and sets it down on the top of the stove. When the lid comes off, the aromatic scent of seasoned pork roast makes Holden’s mouth water. 

“Then I succeeded.” Bill says, casting him a smile. 

Holden shuffles closer to the table, trying to curb his excitement as he bends over to smell the flowers. 

“Are these for me?”

“Yep.” Bill says, sounding casual as he carves into the roast. 

“Well, well. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

“I’m not. But I figured you would appreciate it.”

“Why’s that? I don’t consider myself a romantic either.”

Bill casts him a dubious glance over his shoulder. 

“What? I’m not.” Holden protests. 

Bill smirks, and turns his attention back to plating the food. 

Holden sighs, and rubs one of the flower petals between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, I have to admit, they are nice. I hope you didn’t spend too much on them.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to ask how much a gift costs?”

“Yes. She also taught me not to kiss boys so …. We’re in new territory, aren’t we?”

Setting aside his fork and knife, Bill turns to catch Holden by the wrist and reel him in. Both arms wind around his waist, pulling him into a firm embrace. A shiver runs through him, leaving his knees weak and his hands clutching at the front of Bill’s shirt. The thrill of warmth ends in his belly when Bill’s eyes swallow him, then his mouth comes down to turn Holden’s world inside out and upside down. Dizzy, giddy satisfaction crushes through his veins at the first sweet dash of Bill’s mouth against his own, increasing to a dazed hum when the strokes deepen and Bill’s tongue slips against his palate. 

Holden clings to Bill’s chest until the kiss ends with a slick disconnect of lips and panting breath. He opens his eyes slowly, shuddering. 

Bill gazes down at him, a faint smirk resting on the damp corner of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.” He murmurs. 

Holden flushes hotly, and chokes on a reply. 

Bill chuckles. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you how great kissing boys would be, huh?”

“Not in the slightest.” Holden whispers, offering a strangled laugh. 

“Come on.” Bill says, nudging him toward the table. “Sit down. Dinner’s ready.”

Holden sinks to his chair, grateful for the support now that his legs have been turned to jelly. Part of him had meant to come here tonight feeling in control of emotions and sexually powerful. He’d meant to accept Bill’s invitation, but not act too eager. Ten minutes into the evening and he’s ready to faint like a virgin, longing for another kiss, longing for more - Bill’s hands all over his body, making him forget everything his mother ever taught him. 

After Bill sets the dinner plates in front of them and pours them each a glass of wine, he sits down across from Holden with a pleased sigh. 

“Go ahead.” He urges as Holden toys with his fork. 

“This looks really good.” Holden says, leaning forward to apply his fork and knife to the pork. 

Bill watches eagerly as he takes a bite and the tender, juicy flavor fills his mouth. 

“Mm, wow. It tastes really good, too.” Holden says around the bite. 

“Good.” Bill says, taking up his own fork. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

They both fall quiet for a few moments as they eat, the quiet clink of silverware on china filtering above the rush in Holden’s ears. He peeks past the bouquet of flowers, feeling his chest swelling and opening the same as the soft petals. It’s difficult to hold onto his stubborn sense of self-sustainability when Bill is treating him this way, making him dinner, giving him flowers, kissing him intimately in a way he knows he’ll never be kissed by anyone else again; but a part of him still clings to his jaded cynicism, the scar tissue on his heart that warns him nothing good lasts forever. 

“Bill …” Holden whispers. 

“Yeah?” Bill mutters, glancing up from his plate with a warm, expectant gaze. 

“Thank you. This is amazing. It feels too good to be true, actually.”

Bill’s mouth tilts with a soft smile. “I know. But it is.”

“In ten years …” Holden says, drawing in a shaky breath. “Are you going to cook me dinner like this?”

Bill’s eyes soften, and his chest rises with a staggered breath. Setting his fork and knife down, he rubs a hand over his mouth. 

“You, um … You think we’re going to be together like this in ten years?” 

“Well, I … I think so.” Holden says, hurriedly. “I mean, I hope so.”

“Yeah.” Bill says, his voice quietly choked. “Me, too.”

Holden lowers his head, pressing his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. Bill’s hand creeps across the table to clutch over his knuckles, grounding him into this moment that feels too perfectly constructed for his reality. 

“You okay?” Bill asks, gently. 

Holden nods, swiping briskly at his eyes. “Yes, fine. Good, actually.”

“Okay, good. That’s a relief. I didn’t think I was that rusty in the kitchen.”

Holden chokes on a laugh, and shakes his head. “No, it’s not the food. The food is amazing. You’re amazing, I just-”

He stops as their eyes meet across the table, and he realizes he’s shown too much - more than he ever has with anyone else. In just a few minutes, his walls have crumbled to the ground. 

He clears his throat of the forming knot, and manages a calm expression. 

“It’s just that good things normally don’t last long for me.” He says, “Everything has always felt temporary.”

Bill’s knits with concern and determination. He gives Holden’s hand another squeeze. 

“Well,” He says, “It isn’t this time.”

~

After the dishes are cleared away and the bottle of wine is diminished to a few lingering sips, Bill and Holden relax on the couch with the television playing at low volume and a Sinatra record spinning on the turntable. 

Holden isn’t paying much attention to the sports cast debating the upcoming football draft as he cuddles underneath Bill’s arm, his cheek pressed to Bill’s chest. Bill’s fingertips wander up and down the back of his arm, rousing warm tingles down his spine while the other hand guides a cigarette to and from his lips. 

Tilting his head back, Holden studies Bill’s face in the low light, the familiar edges of his jawline, his bladed cheekbones, his eyes as moody as incoming rain. He knows these planes and slopes well, has memorized each facet through sleepless, lovelorn midnights. He thought he knew everything there was to know about Bill, but tonight surprised him - and his morning concerns that Bill might find him too needy or even annoying suddenly seem ridiculous. 

The record hums static for a moment before the next song starts, the sweet, languid opening notes of “The Way You Look Tonight.”

Hesitation cast aside, Holden sits bolt upright from Bill’s chest, and clutches his arm. 

“I love this song.”

Bill’s attention breaks from the television to pin Holden with a bemused smile. “Yeah. It’s a good one.”

“It’s one of my mom’s favorite songs.” Holden says, climbing to his feet. “We used to slow dance to it in the kitchen.”

“There you go with your mom again.”

“She has good music taste. Obviously.” Holden says, tugging on Bill’s hand. “Come on.”

“Come where?” 

“Come on. Dance with me.” Holden says, offering his most imploringly coy gaze. 

“Oh, no.” Bill says, shaking his head. “I think I’ve fulfilled enough romantic duties for tonight.”

“Duties? You seemed pretty pleased with yourself.”

“Yeah, well. You said you weren���t a romantic either.” 

“Maybe I lied a little.” Holden says, giving Bill’s hand another firm tug. “Please?”

Bill gives a labored sigh, but quickly sets aside his cigarette and climbs to his feet. 

“Here.” Holden says, guiding Bill’s left hand to his hip and catching the right hand in his own grasp. “I’ll lead.”

“Holden, I know how to dance.” Bill says, flipping their hands over so that his is on top.

“Do you?” 

“Yeah, it’s just been awhile.” 

Holden purses his mouth shut as Bill’s palm flattens against his lower back, drawing him so close that their mouths nearly collide. A chuckle rises up in his belly, the last of his misgivings melting away beneath the duress of Bill’s embrace and half a bottle of a wine simmering in his veins. It feels too good to resist now that he’s wrapped up in Bill’s arms, their bodies swaying against one another while Sinatra croons a saccharine, lovesick melody. 

They’re quiet through the first verse as they rock back and forth, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the living room carpet. Holden wraps his arm tighter around Bill’s shoulders, and lowers his head to the warm cradle of Bill’s neck. 

“I have a confession.” He whispers as the song swells into the chorus. 

“Hmm?”  

“I thought about calling you this morning before you called me.” Holden whispers, lifting his head from Bill’s neck to cast him a sheepish smile. “But I didn’t want to seem clingy.”

“Clingy?” Bill echoes. “Why would you seem clingy?”

“Well, we see each other every day at work, and we were just together all weekend the other week. I just thought-”

“That I didn’t miss you?” 

Holden pauses, his throat knotting again. “Well, um … yes.”

“I missed you a lot when you were in New Hampshire.” Bill says, leaning in to kiss Holden’s lower lip softly. “I do every time we have to go out of town for work.”

Holden leans into the kiss, but Bill’s mouth only strokes softly for a few moments before he pulls back, his forehead nudging against Holden’s. 

“Can I be completely honest with you right now?”

“Yes, of course.” 

“Good.” Bill says, his hand squeezing against Holden’s lower back. “Because I don’t want to waste anymore time. I’ve wasted years, you know. Years I can’t get back.”

Holden frowns, feeling his chest begin to quiver. “Years?”

“Yes. Years without this - without you.” Bill says, glancing away with a coarse scoff as the words choke in his throat. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Holden murmurs, leaning closer. 

They’ve stopped dancing, but their hands are still clasped in mid-air. Holden doesn’t feel like letting go of Bill’s hand. 

“I don’t know.” Bill says, “I guess I thought this would be easier if I persuaded you with dinner and flowers and wine.”

“Persuaded me?” Holden echoes. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, shifting a misty gaze back to Holden. He draws in a slow breath. “But you’re going to make me say out loud, aren’t you?”

Holden swallows hard. There’s a buzzing in his ears that doesn’t quite feel like panic. His belly is surging, flipping. They’re rushing towards a precipice that they can’t turn back from. He’s carving out pieces of himself and handing them over.  Willingly. They both are. 

“Look,” Bill says, lowering his head again, “I know it’s hard for both of us to say how we feel, but I can’t keep pretending that this is some kind of phase or fling or- … It means more than that to me, and you were talking about ten years from now so I know you do too.”

Holden adjusts his grasp on Bill’s hand. Both of them are sweaty with nerves, but he doesn’t want to let go. 

Bill lifts his head. His eyes are clear, resolute. There’s a pause, not the quiet before a destructive storm but the anticipation before a deliverance of rain. 

“I love you.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden draws in a hitched breath, and tears instantly sting his eyes. Overwhelmed, he buries his face in Bill’s neck, and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Sinatra’s serenade swells below the surge of his heartbeat, the broken, lonely pieces of himself coming back together again. 

Bill holds him close until he can breathe again, until he can look up and look into Bill’s eyes without crumbling entirely. 

“I love you, too.” Holden chokes out, a tear streaking down his cheek in the same moment that he begins to laugh for joy. 

“You do?” Bill asks, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yes.” Holden nods, pressing a series of affirming kisses to Bill’s mouth, mumbling the response again and again into the narrow space between their mouths. 

Bill’s hand strokes away the last of his tears before it takes up Holden’s hand into the dancing position again. As they begin to sway once more, Holden nestles his cheek against Bill’s shoulder. His mind goes quiet, not for the first time, but for the first time in a very long time, in so long that he’d almost forgotten what this kind of contentment feels like. Relief rushes through him, a nebulous epiphany of bliss. In this moment, he can see every second of the future, the two of them together just like this.  Nothing lasts forever, but some things are infinite.

[orbemnews]

Henry Goldrich, Gear Guru to Rock Stars, Is Dead at 88 When asked about his musical ability, Henry Goldrich would often demur, “I play cash register.” His stage was Manny’s Music in Manhattan, where Mr. Goldrich, the longtime owner, supplied equipment to a generation of rock stars. But even though he sold instead of strummed, Mr. Goldrich secured an important role in rock by connecting famous musicians with cutting-edge equipment. “To these guys, Henry was the superstar,” his son Judd said. “He was the first guy to get gear they had never seen before.” Mr. Goldrich died on Feb. 16 at his home in Boca Raton, Fla. He was 88. His death was confirmed by his other son, Ian, who said he had been in frail but stable health. Manny’s, which closed in 2009 after 74 years in business, was long the largest and best-known of the cluster of music shops on the West 48th Street block known as Music Row. It was opened in 1935 by Mr. Goldrich’s father, Manny, and it was a second home for Henry since his infancy, when the shop’s clientele of swing stars doted on him. Ella Fitzgerald would babysit for him in the shop when his parents went out for lunch, Ian Goldrich said. By 1968, when his father died at 62, Henry Goldrich had largely taken over operations and had turned the shop into an equipment mecca and hangout for world-renowned artists. He did this by expanding its inventory of the latest gear and by solidifying connections with suppliers that helped him consistently stock high-level instruments and new products. At a time before rock stars were lavished with the latest equipment straight from the manufacturers, Manny’s was favored by top musicians searching for new gear and testing out new equipment. These included two guitar gods of the 1960s, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton — to whom, Ian Goldrich said, his father recommended the wah-wah pedal, an electronic device that immediately became a staple of both musicians’ approaches. He added that Hendrix would buy scores of guitars on credit and have Mr. Goldrich fine-tune them to the guitarist’s demanding preferences. Many rock and pop classics were either played or written on instruments sold by Mr. Goldrich. John Sebastian, founder of the Lovin’ Spoonful, recalled in an interview how Mr. Goldrich in the mid-1960s helped him select the Gibson J-45 he used on early Spoonful recordings like “Do You Believe in Magic?” Mr. Goldrich similarly matched James Taylor with a quality Martin acoustic guitar early in his career, his son Ian said. And Sting used the Fender Stratocaster Mr. Goldrich sold him to compose “Message in a Bottle” and many other hits for the Police before donating it to the Smithsonian Institution. In 1970, he sold the Pink Floyd guitarist David Gilmour the 1969 black Stratocaster he played on many of the band’s seminal recordings. It sold at auction in 2019 for a record $3,975,000. Pete Townshend of the Who would order expensive electric guitars by the dozens from Mr. Goldrich, who was not happy when he heard about the guitarist’s penchant for destroying his instrument onstage for theatrical effect. “It was good business,” Ian Goldrich said, “but my father was annoyed that Pete was breaking all the guitars he was selling him.” Unlike many of his flamboyant rock-star customers, Mr. Goodrich always dressed conventionally in a sport coat and kept a blunt demeanor that put his customers at ease. “He had a gruff personality; he treated them all the same,” Ian Goldrich said. “He’d tell Bob Dylan, ‘Sit in the back and I’ll be with you in a minute.’” There was the day in 1985 — it was Black Friday, and the store was packed — that Mick Jagger and David Bowie stopped by together, creating a commotion that halted sales. An annoyed Mr. Goldrich quickly sold them their items and rushed them out. “My father was like, ‘What are you guys doing here today?’” Ian recalled. “He didn’t throw them out, but he was not happy.” When the band Guns N’ Roses asked to shoot part of the video for their 1989 hit “Paradise City” in the store, Ian Goldrich recalled, his father agreed only reluctantly, saying, “OK, but we’re not shutting down for them.��� Ever opinionated, Mr. Goldrich told Harry Chapin in 1972 that his new song “Taxi,” at nearly seven minutes, was too lengthy to be a hit. (It reached the Top 40 and is now considered a classic.) And he told Paul Simon, who as a boy had bought his first guitar at Manny’s, that he thought Simon and Garfunkel was a “lousy name” for a group. But he also advised new stars in a fatherly way not to squander their newfound wealth. “He’d take them aside and say, ‘You’re making money now — how are you going to take care of it?’” Ian Goldrich said. Henry Jerome Goldrich was born on May 15, 1932, to Manny and Julia Goldrich, and grew up in Brooklyn and in Hewlett on Long Island. After graduating from Adelphi College, he served in the Army in Korea in the mid-1950s and then went to work full time at Manny’s. His father opened the store on West 48th Street, a location he chose because it was close to the Broadway theaters and the 52nd Street jazz clubs, as well as numerous recording studios and the Brill Building, a hub for music publishers. In 1999, Mr. Goldrich sold Manny’s to Sam Ash Music, a rival store, which largely retained the staff until Manny’s closed in 2009. In addition to his sons, Mr. Goldrich is survived by his wife, Judi; his daughter, Holly Goldrich; seven grandchildren; and a great-granddaughter. Mr. Goldrich often used his celebrity clientele to market the store. “He recognized value of these people being in the store and it made the business, certainly,” his son Judd said. When a young Eric Clapton, then with the group Cream, was stuck in New York without the money to fly home to England, he offered his amplifiers to Mr. Goldrich to raise funds. “He said, ‘I’ll buy them from you as long as you stencil them with the Cream logo,” Ian said. Then there was the store’s Wall of Fame, thousands of autographed publicity photos of famous customers that constituted a Who’s Who of popular music. Mr. Goldrich helped cultivate the photos, many of which were inscribed to him, and often kept his staff from stacking merchandise in front of them. Mr. Taylor, in a video interview, described being mesmerized by the photos as a teenager and being proud when his own was added. “It was sort of an inside thing, not as celebrated as a Grammy or a gold record or a position on the charts,” he said. “But definitely you had arrived if you were included on that wall.” Mr. Goldrich became close friends with many musicians, including the Who’s bassist, John Entwistle, who attended Judd’s bar mitzvah in New Jersey and hosted the Goldrich family at his Gothic mansion in England. Ian remembered the band’s drummer, Keith Moon, sitting on his father’s lap while drinking cognac at a screening of the film “Tommy.” In a video interview, Mr. Goldrich described selling the violinist Itzhak Perlman an electric violin. When Mr. Perlman tried bargaining, Mr. Goldrich parried by asking if he ever reduced his performance fee. “He said, ‘It’s different, I’m a talent,’” Mr. Goldrich recalled. “I said, ‘I’m a talent in my own way, too.’” That talent was palpable to Mr. Sebastian when he asked Mr. Goldrich to allow him to test out his stock of Gibson acoustic guitars in a merchandise room. “Henry’s famously prickly demeanor receded slightly,” Mr. Sebastian recalled, and he agreed to open early the next morning to allow him in. “He knew exactly what I wanted,” he said. “And I’ll be damned if I didn’t catch Henry smiling as he made out the bill.” Source link Orbem News #Dead #gear #Goldrich #Guru #Henry #rock #stars

[sourbkg]

constant

yandere!erasermic x reader

part 2

It was a calm night at the diner. Though, it was expected because it was just after 3 in the morning. The only people who were up now were the odd few.

A sketchy looking man here, a heart broken student there. Even a hero or two would pop in for a cup of coffee.

Two indeed come in, clad in their hero costumes as they tiredly chatted between each other. Happy to see their favorite diner was still open. Well, they knew it was 24/7, but it was nice to have something constant in their lives. Something to come back to.

What surprised them, though, was the new server who took their order. They were cute, no doubt, all smiles and cheerful attitude as they welcomed the duo in, letting them know to sit wherever they wanted. There was only a couple people in the diner already, scattered away from each other.

The hero’s chose a booth near the corner.

When the server came over to take their drinks, they noted their name. (Y/N). A nice name to go with a nice face.

“Hi, my names (Y/N) and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you two started with drinks?” You asked, moving to wipe the table down as the pair settled comfortably.

“Coffee. Black.” A gruff voice spoke first, not looking up from the menu. You nodded and looked to he counter part.

“And you?”

“Hot chocolate.” He grinned, and you smiled back.

“I’ll be back in a bit to take your orders.”

And with that, you walked away, leaving the blind to watch as you left before nudging his companion with his foot.

“They’re kinda cute, yeah?” He whispered, though it wasn’t much of a whisper.

“I suppose. And keep your voice down, that’s weird.” Black eyes found green ones.

The blond only pouted, causing the other to roll his eyes.

“And here are your drinks.” You said, notifying the two of your arrival. “Black coffee and a hot chocolate.” You set the two drinks down in front of them, taking out your pen and pad, “ready to order or do you need a few?”

“I’ll have an omelette with a side of hash browns.” The darker haired of the two started and you nodded, writing it down.

“For you?”

“I’ll take a stack of pancakes and perhaps the time our cute server gets off?” He said with a hum, resting his hand on his cheek. His companion rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

You started writing down what he wanted, pausing after realizing the ladder part of the question. You flushed, eyes widening slightly, “I uh...” You short-circuited. A cute man? Asking you when you got off? With his equally cute friend? In hero garb? What dimension were you in?

“You don’t have to answer him.” His friend piped up, looking at you with disinterest. “He’s sometimes unaware of social queues.”

You only smiled politely at him, ignoring the question completely, “I’m gonna go put your orders in, let me know if you need anything!”

You walked away. The blonde hugged, looking to his friend. His boyfriend.

“That was mean.”

“They weren’t interested, anyone could’ve seen that.”

He continued to pout, “We could’ve changed that.”

This earned him a grunt in response.

You came back later with two plates full of food.

“An omelette with hash browns and a stack of pancakes. There’s ketchup and syrup on the table already– can I get you two anything else?” You clasped you hands together after setting the plates down, looking between the two.

“Nope, we’re good.” The blond winked and you smiled, before walking away.

The two ate in silence after that, shaking their heads when you offered boxes or drinks to-go, and leaving a hefty tip after paying the bill. They didn’t even give you time to thank them before they were gone, and you could only stand appalled as you watched them leave you with a fifty dollar bill.

———

They came back every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, always at the same time just after 3 in the morning and always ordered the same thing despite looking at the menu for 10 minutes.

You always managed to be their server, dodging the blond’s when do you get off’s and mind if we take you out after?

You learned their names were Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi, or better yet, Eraserhead and Present Mic. Pro hero’s.

They’d come in looking particularly tired one night, all but collapsing into the booth. The two watched as you took their order and put it in, pausing at the register when someone came in. He had a medical mask covering the lower part of his face, though you weren’t in alarm because who are you to judge someone’s way of dress?

What did throw you in alarm, however, was him grabbing your wrist and yanking you over the counter, pulling you close to him. That was when you felt it. The burning.

The two were up in seconds, ready to help, but he only shook his head, a nasty smile under the mask.

“Uh-uh. One step and she gets turned to ash. Empty your pockets or else. ” As if to emphasize his point, fire erupted from under his feet and surrounded the two of you, the hand with an iron grip on you seeming to burn you further. You screamed.

And then it was over. The fire stopped, the pain stopped, if only for a second. His grip only making the irritated skin hurt further. When you looked up, you saw Eraserhead, eyes glowing red and hair whipping around him. The scarf around his neck came to life, wrapping around your waist and yanking you out of the villains grasp while his counterpart jumped into action, tripping the man and pinning his hands to his back as he laid face down and stunned.

You shook, unable to process anything other than your burnt arms. Aizawa’s capture weapon unwrapped from your waist and he moved to tie it around the criminals wrists and legs to keep him down. Yamada came over to you, catching you just as your knees buckled before you could hit the floor.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He was petting your hair, whispering assurances to you before pressing a button on something, and you heard him saying they caught someone and needed a medic.

You felt him wipe away tears from your face and you could only stare because you didn’t even know you were crying.

And you could only whisper thank you’s, not knowing how heartbroken seeing you in this state made either of them. And you didn’t know how you sealed your own fate that horrible night.

——hi i have no idea how to write action scenes???? anyways, this will be 1 of maybe 3 parts? we’ll see ——

[anistarrose]

Ford in Amphibia

Summary: Anne and the Plantar family take in an eccentric new guest.

Word Count: ~2100

Warnings: none

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375102/chapters/46100365

Part 1 of… 2? 3? Probably somewhere in that ballpark, but it really depends on if the still-progressing canon of Amphibia throws me anything new. 

This chapter doesn’t require much Amphibia prior knowledge to read, though — as long as you’ve seen the first pair of episodes, you’ll be fine!

***

“Anne! Anne? Anne, you gotta wake up! It’s an emergency!”

“Ugh, what?” Anne sat up in her bed, rubbing her eyes as she checked the time on her phone. “Five A.M.? What the heck is going on, Sprig?”

“The whole town’s outside our door! And they’re asking for you, and saying it’s urgent!”

Sure enough, a muffled slamming noise sounded from aboveground, followed by of a chorus of distressed ribbits.

“But… I didn’t even do anything bad yesterday! What do they want with me?”

“Doesn’t matter! We can’t afford them bringing out the battering ram to bust down our door again, so c’mon!” Sprig grabbed Anne by the hand, and dragged her upstairs.

There was thankfully no battering ram in sight when Anne threw open the door to face the citizens of Wartwood, but it looked like Sprig hadn’t lied about the whole town being outside. He had, however, neglected to mention that nearly all of them were wielding torches, pitchforks, and other staple weapons of angry mobs.

“Here she is, the girl of the hour!” Sprig offered weakly. “… Please don’t kill her?”

One-Eyed Wally sprung forward, and Anne flinched — but rather than attacking, he cast his pitchfork to the ground, and took her by the hands. He gave a quick bow, and Anne realized his one golden eye was wet with tears as his head bounced back up to meet her gaze.

“Thank goodness you’re here! You’re the only one who can save us now! Please, my lady, I beseech you!”

“Uh… not sure I’m following what’s going on here…”

“Another foul beast has been spotted roaming these parts,” Mayor Toadstool explained, pushing his way to the front of the ground. “Go on and tell them what you saw, Wally. Be brave.”

Wally’s hands trembled as he spoke. “It had a haggard gray mane, and its eyes reflected red light brighter than the moon itself! It loomed over me like a mountain, and it — it —”

He rummaged around in his pockets, and pulled out a few charred pieces of what must have once been a tree branch. “It fired bolts of lightning out of its arm! It just barely missed me, but it reduced a mighty old oak to ash in a single strike!”

“But since we’ve tamed a loyal beast of our own, she can drive it away for us!” Toadstool finished. “Then the town will be saved, and none of us will have to risk our precious lives fighting it!”

“What?!” Anne gasped. “You really think I could chase off something like that? And — and even if I could, I’m not your attack dog!”

A murmur went through the crowd, and Toadstool looked seriously ready to debate the attack dog comment, but Sprig spoke up before he could say anything.

“Anne, wait! You should hear them out — you know how everything gets overblown whenever Wally’s the one telling the story. Maybe it’s another lost human, and this whole situation is just a misunderstanding!”

“Look, I accepted a while back that I’m the only human in this world,” Anne shot back. “If there were more, we would’ve crossed paths by now for sure! But… I guess Wally is kind of prone to overblowing things…”

She sighed. “Okay, tell you what. I’m not fighting that beast, but tell me where you last saw it, and I’ll do some recon on it for you guys.”

Wally immediately burst into tears. “You’re a hero!” he blubbered. “This town will owe you a debt for the rest of your days!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that —” Toadstool cut in.

It was only then that Hop Pop walked into the living room, stifling a yawn. “Kids? What’s all this commotion about? Anne?”

Anne darted past him, back into the basement, and emerged a minute later wielding her tennis racquet.

“No time to explain! Gotta go risk my life for strangers by hunting a lightning monster!”

“See you soon!” Sprig added as the two of them sprinted off into the early morning light. “Maybe we’ll bring back another monster from the woods, and let them live in our house too!”

***

Ford’s patience for the frog dimension was wearing thin.

It had felt (quite literally) like a breath of fresh air at first, after spending close to a week consorting with unsavory characters in the alleyways of a sprawling, smog-filled metropolis — but limited signs of civilization meant traipsing through long swaths of muddy terrain, and mud meant that new boots would be ruined and silent movement would be nearly impossible, and… well, he could go on and on about why he hated swamp environments. The list of inconveniences just never seemed to end.

Ford didn’t actually mind amphibians — in fact, they accounted for some of his favorite anomalies back in Gravity Falls. He didn’t even mind the anthropomorphic frogs that watched him from afar and then fled before he could approach them — directions would have been convenient, sure, but he still had faith in his navigation abilities.

No, what he hated were the frogs that crept up behind him at the earliest hours of the morning, and nearly gave him a heart attack because they just happened to have BRIGHT YELLOW EYES. Or worse, in the case of today’s encounter, just ONE bright yellow eye. Why couldn’t those frogs be the ones who minded their own business?!

A branch snapped behind him, and he whirled around, gun in hand.

“Come out where I can see you!” he barked. “I’m willing to resolve this peacefully if you are, but try anything funny and I won’t hesitate to shoot!”

A bush a few feet away let out a small whimper, followed by a series of hushed whispers like it was having a conversation with itself. Finally, the culprits peered out, hands above their heads…

Human hands, in one case.

“There are humans in this dimension?” Ford asked, just as the girl blurted out: “Wait, are you a human too? How did you get here?”

There was an awkward pause, before Ford replied: “Even if we are of the same species, there’s no guarantee we come from the same dimension.”

“Are you some kind of space pirate? Am I on another planet?” the girl asked at the same time, speaking over him. “Or a time traveler? Have I been in prehistoric times all along?”

“Uh… not exactly either of those, but closer to the first one,” Ford told her.

This didn’t feel like a trap. The human girl seemed genuinely inquisitive, and her frog companion looked scared out of his wits, not scheming. “I apologize for being so hostile before. I’ve just been on guard lately.”

“It’s fine. I did pretty much the same thing when I got here too,” the girl assured him. “I’m Anne Boonchuy, and this is my buddy Sprig. Nice to meet you!”

“Likewise. I’m Ford.”

“Just Ford? What, no last names on your planet?”

Ford sighed. “No, I just don’t like sharing personal information. You never know what identity thieves might lurk in unfamiliar worlds.”

It was his go-to lie when dealing with kids, since it sounded a lot less intimidating than there are a lot of extremely ruthless people after me and the less I tell you about myself, the less likely they are to be a threat to you. He didn’t think Bill’s minions would have much influence here, but it didn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.

He and Anne shook hands, and he couldn’t help but cringe slightly as she looked at his fingers and frowned in confusion.

“I can’t help but notice you’ve got, uh, more than the normal number of fingers… or is six fingers normal where you come from?”

“No, I carry a rare genetic mutation that causes polydactyly. I’ve always been something of an anomalous case, even in the world I hail from.”

“Wow, you sound like a pretty smart guy.”

“Well, I would hope so! My eleven PhD’s didn’t earn themselves.”

“Dang, you are smart!” Anne’s eyes lit up. “Hey, want to come back home with us? I’ve got some, uh… weird odds and ends from my world that I want an expert opinion on.”

“I dunno,” Sprig piped up, speaking for the first time since his exchange with Anne in the bush. “It worked out well when I brought you home, but… are you sure he’s not gonna eat us? He feels like the type of person who would eat us — he’s too fluffy for it to be anything but a trick, to make him look less threatening!”

“Oh, it’s just my beard that’s scaring you?” Ford asked, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and squinting as he held it just beneath his chin and flicked the wheel. “Because I can get rid of this real quick if I just — ah, here we go!”

He let the blaze travel up his face for a few seconds before patting it out, ignoring Anne and Sprig’s slack-jawed expressions.

“Dude,” Anne gasped. “Did you just set your face on fire?”

“Well, how else am I going to get rid of a whole beard in under thirty seconds? Not by shaving, that’s for sure.”

***

Anne motioned for Ford to sit down, and he did so as she unfolded the cloth concealing the object resting in her lap. The Plantar family had been surprisingly charitable towards Ford, feeding him breakfast and insisting that the couch was always available if he needed somewhere to sleep — just as charitable as they’d apparently been to Anne, when she’d abruptly been tossed into their lives not two weeks before.

She’d given the summary of her story over breakfast, and in return, he’d explained the very basics of his story to them: that he seeked to eventually overthrow a tyrant who threatened many parts of the multiverse, and that he traveled from dimension to dimension with very little control over where he would end up. Anne had seemed disappointed to hear that second part — presumably because she’d been hoping Ford would have a way to get her home.

But maybe, not all hope was lost in that regard just yet.

“This is the music box that brought me to this world,” Anne explained, tossing aside the cloth. “When I opened it for the first time, it flashed all colorful and I woke up here, but it hasn’t worked since.”

“Peculiar,” Ford muttered. “Where exactly did you find this music box?”

“Just a weird knickknack shop,” Anne answered, a little two quickly.

“May I hold it for a moment?”

“Sure.”

She handed it to him. It was metallic and oddly cold, far colder than anything should have been on this sweltering day — almost as if it was magically draining the heat from Ford’s hands. He held his wrist in front of it and pressed a button on his watch, and a grid of laser dots were projected onto it, signifying a scan in progress.

“Those gems were more colorful when I first found it,” Anne explained. “But they’ve been gray ever since I got here.”

“Hmm. Well, here’s your problem: this box was once a vessel for a large amount of magical energy, but that energy has since been depleted — presumably when it brought you to this world. That’s probably why the gems lost their color, and why it can’t transport you back anymore… but if you were able to recharge that supply of magical energy somehow, I think there’s good odds it would take you home. Either that, or it would take you an even more foreign dimension of even weirder creatures. No way to know for sure unless you try?”

“Well, that’s the best lead I’ve got by a long shot,” Anne told him. “How do I recharge it?”

Ford shrugged. “Good question. I’ve got no clue.”

“What? C’mon, aren’t any of your PhD’s in cursed music boxes?”

Ford shook his head. “Magic is a fickle thing, and it works differently in almost every dimension. In one world, you might learn how to cast a spell that rains bolts of lightning down on your enemies, but in another, you might barely be able to summon a spark using the same ritual. Even if I’d encountered a relic like this before, there’s no guarantee that yours would obey the same rules.”

“Oh.” Anne’s face fell. “Well, thanks for your help anyway.”

“Keep you chin up,” Ford told her. “Your search for answers has only just begun — there’s still plenty more research to do, and plenty more chances to have a eureka moment! And if you have any questions of the scientific sort… well, I’m not sticking around forever, but while I’m here, don’t hesitate to ask me anything.”

“Thanks. Will do.”

[go4blood]

you’re the one that i want - a.i.

I’m finally continuing the broadway series after 2653578 years! I’ve been having writers block, sorry about the lack of posts! This is based around Grease, y/n is Sandy, Ashton is Danny. Basically y/n is new to showbiz and Ashton shows her the ropes, friends to lovers trope, you know how we do.

2.5k words

You paced around your small apartment anxiously: it was callback day. Callback day was the most stressful time for anyone in the theatre world. Today was the day you find out if you made the cut to be apart of Grease or if you didn’t do good enough to make the director even bat an eye. You did a lot of theatre back when you lived in Chicago, but New York was different. More competitive. Thousands watching rather than a few hundred. Tourists traveling and spending hundreds on a good seat rather than some regular Chicagoans buying a ticket for twenty dollars. New York was showbiz central.

You took pride in your acting. Back in Chicago, you had countless roles you loved playing: Sally Bowles in Cabaret, Elphaba in Wicked, Zoe in Dear Evan Hansen, and more. But Chicago is way less competitive than the big apple. You knew the theatre world back home, but you didn’t know it here at all.

Your phone rang and you scrambled to pick it up and answer. You contain yourself and say a simple hello. A man's voice is on the other line. You’ve been offered another audition to further your audition process for the part of Sandy. You gladly say yes and end the conversation. You were relieved that you had another audition, but it was still terrifying. You could screw it up and lose your chance. Grease is a classic, and it has to be perfect. Callbacks were the next morning, so you went to bed early and waited for what was to come.

—

You arrived with an open mind. Around ten other girls were there. 10 girls who want to be Sandy. 10 girls who want this role just as much as you. Maybe more than you. If you were lucky you’d get a chorus member at this rate.

A tall man with light brown hair and hazel eyes walks around, greeting the girls. He has a kind smile paired with a silk red shirt and tight black pants, iced coffee in hand. You see him start to walk towards you and you’re slightly confused.

“Hey, how are you? I’m apart of the cast and could possibly end up being your Danny, and we’ll be performing some scenes together for your 2nd audition. I wanted to introduce myself, I’m Ashton.” He holds his hand out and you take it, shaking it and smiling.

“I’m y/n, it’s nice to meet you. Is this your first broadway show?”

He ponders for a moment, “This is my 5th, actually. I did stuff back in Sydney though before I came to New York. You?”

You begin to feel embarrassed. You have absolutely no broadway experience whatsoever. “This is my first broadway show… in Chicago I did stuff though. But nothing here in New York yet.”

“Well you got a callback for the lead so I think you’re in good shape, y/n.” He smiled warmly.

He was different from other actors you’ve met. Many were arrogant and were only there to do their part and leave. He cheered you on despite never meeting you. It was a pleasant surprise.

“Perhaps I am, Ashton.” He smiled and walked to a seat, and you did the same. The director handed out excerpts and began calling names. You watched some of the girls perform scenes and they were all quite impressive. You were very unsure of yourself. You kept growing more and more nervous and you didn’t know if you’d compare to everyone else.

“Y/n! Scene 11, the drive in scene.”

You stand up from your seat and take a deep breath, walking up to the stage.

Ashton cleared his throat, looking at the script then into your eyes, “Hey, you’re not with another guy, are you?”

“No, why?” Your eyes glance down at the script and back into his eyes.

Ashton acts nervous and nonchalant, “No reason… I uh wanted to ask you to take my ring.” He holds out his hand as if there’s a ring there and pretends to put it on your finger. The scene continues, and before you even have a chance to read the stage direction he kisses you. Your cheeks burn and you continue the scene, finishing it out. Ashton smiles at you and goes back to his seat as you do your singing portion of the audition to the song Hopelessly Devoted To You. You go back to your seat, wondering if what you did would be enough.

The last few girls perform and everyone is dismissed. As you put your jacket on, Ashton walks towards you with a soft smile.

“You did really good, I told you it’d be fine. You wanna maybe get lunch? There’s this place down the street you need to try if you’re gonna be a true New Yorker!”

“Sure, why not?” You walk with him to the small restaurant, talking as if you have known him your whole life.

—

“Your favorite movie is Kill Bill? I never would’ve guessed that…” Ashton was sat across from you at the sandwich shop, asking you a series of ‘get to know me’ questions.

“Uma Thurman is my girl crush,” You smirk, “what’s your favorite show?”

“Definitely Brooklyn 9-9. It isn’t deep or anything and it’s just a comedy, but it’s my happy place, what about you?”

“I love Gossip Girl… I know it’s such a girly show but I really like it.” You blush out of embarrassment, but he breaks out into a grin.

“I love Gossip Girl! I watched it with my sister all the time back home. It’s a great show.”

Surprised is an understatement. You never knew a guy could be such a softie. You smile out of relief and drink your tea as He rapid fires questions to you for the next hour.

—

You got the call the next morning. You were officially Sandy. In celebration, he’s hanging out at your apartment and he brought cheap boxed wine.

“What if I’m not cut out for broadway, Ash? What if everyone walks all over me? I don’t know anything about showbiz here in New York.” All you had in your mind was doubt.

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. People will be jealous. People will talk about you behind your back. Critics will rip you to shreds. But all that matters is your performance. That dumb, bald critic isn’t the one getting that paycheck and that standing ovation. It’s you. You have to give your all every night. But it’s always worth it. I’ll be with you every step of the way for this show. I’ll guide you. I’ll be like the guy in Pretty Woman! Guiding you through life…”

“Oh Ashton, I’m so lucky you’re my friend. I never thought I’d meet anyone here honestly. You really are the Edward Lewis to my Vivian Ward.” He laughs and clinks his glass with yours.

“First rehearsal is gonna be splendid, darling.”

—

The first rehearsal began at 7:30 am sharp. The first priority was choreography of “Summer Nights”. You met the girls playing Frenchy and Rizzo, and they were very welcoming. Now whoever was playing Jan, however, was a bit snarky. She didn’t even give you a simple hello. You decided to think nothing of it and just go on with rehearsal.

The tech crew brought out some makeshift temporary bleachers for the choreography and everyone got to work. The T Birds and Ashton went to the other side of the stage where the women were all to the other side. You held your music in hand and began your first note while also mirroring the choreographers directions. All was going well until you accidentally stepped on Jan’s foot, causing her to glare at you and yell, “Watch it!”.

You were taken aback. Everyone stopped suddenly and the pianist came to an abrupt halt.

“I’m so sorry-“ you started to say, but was interrupted immediately.

“Maybe you should know what you’re doing if you’re going to be the lead, or were you not aware that you should actually have some experience?”

You mumble barely loud enough for anyone to hear, “I won’t do it again…”

Rehearsal continued, and the room was tense for the remainder of the choreography portion.

“Alright everyone take 5!” The director's voice loudly remarked. Before you knew it, Ashton was walking towards you. His hair was a bit of a mess and his sleeves were rolled up.

“So how was your first choreography session, Sandy?” He grinned, taking a long drink from his water bottle.

You weren’t sure if you should tell him you actually were on the brink of tears. It was way too early to already have complaints, but you were sure that that one girl already hated you and you didn’t even know why.

“It was great, amazing.” You forced a smile and he broke out into a grin. You just couldn’t tell him you were already upset.

“I knew you’d be amazing! I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. We’re doing a run through of the song with everyone next. I’ll get to see you rock it.” He smiled and walked back towards the guys. You sighed, walking back to the group of girls. This would be a long 3 months of rehearsal.

—

You opened the door to your studio apartment and collapsed on the bed, burying your face in your pillow. Then the tears came. You couldn’t believe how upset you were. You didn’t think it would bother you as much as it did, but you felt like you already blew the role of your dreams. You decided to call Ashton, hoping he could lift your spirits.

“Hey y/n, what’s up?” He had his usual cheery tone of voice and you already felt better.

“I know I said rehearsal was great, but the girl playing Jan was really terrible and hurt my feelings really bad and maybe she’s right maybe I don’t have what it takes, Ash. What if she’s right?” At that point you were crying even more. You didn’t expect to cry even more, but it was happening.

“Woah woah woah. The real Sandy Olsson would never take anyone else’s shit. Y/n, you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. You’ve forced me to come over now. I’m gonna make you feel better. Leave the door unlocked and just be expecting me.” He hung up before you could even argue. But you were glad you didn’t have a chance to argue.

—

About an hour passed and your door opened. Ashton walked in, closing the door behind him. He had 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s and two 4 packs of Smirnoff in his arms. He kicked the door closed gently and sat at the foot of your bed.

“There’s my favorite broadway sensation.” You mumble from under your covers, grinning when you lock eyes.

“Here I am!” He smiled, handing you a pint of ice cream and a plastic spoon, “I also have alcohol.”

You smile, opening the ice cream and wrapping your arms around him, “Thank you for coming here… I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Well I was planning world domination but I’ll get back to that.”

You laugh mad shake your head, “Well… let’s watch Gossip Girl and get drunk then, shall we?”

“We shall.”

—

“She’s just jealous that you’re the lead! Did you see her callback performance for Sandy? It was so half assed! You definitely were the best.” Ashton was on his third drink and there was no hiding it. He was slurring all of his words and laughing at every little thing. You found it adorable.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” A blush crept across your cheeks and you looked down at your cup.

With his hand, he pushed your head up from your chin, “I’m not blind, i know a good actress when I see one, silly. Also, it’s cute when you blush,” He smirked when you blushed even more, “I mean if you want we can practice scenes together outside of rehearsal. We could now! I have my script in my bag…”

Before you could even begin to say no, he was already reading out one of his lines.

“I really like you, Sandy.”

You sigh and grab your script, opening to the right page and sitting across from him on your bed, “Danny, take it easy! What are you trying to do?” You glance down at the book, seeing what his next line is and look back up.

“Can I try something out?”

“Um, that’s not your line Ash-“

His hand comes up to your cheek and before you know it, his lips are on yours. Taken aback, your eyes widen, but then slowly close. You wrap your arms around his neck and twirl the hair at the nape of his neck around your finger and his hands grip your waist. He pulls away and you catch your breath. He smiles at you, “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes I take it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, but you were sure that you were falling. Hard.

—

“You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey…”

Everyone had gotten down the choreography to this scene, so everyone was just doing a run through without instruction. Before rehearsal even started, you talked to Ashton as usual. He didn’t even mention the night before. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was for the best. Some friendships need to stay friendships. And that was fine, but a part of you didn’t want that to be true. But what could you do? You never mentioned it again. You decided it was for the best.

-

Countless deli lunches together passed, dozens of coffee runs continued, about 100 more rehearsals occurred, months passed and the day came. Opening night. It was a full house.

You were in your dressing room, finishing up your makeup. A knock took you out of your trance, and you told them to come in.

Ashton came through the door, “Opening night! Are you ready?” He sat on the couch in the dressing room, wearing a tight white shirt and leather jacket, hair slicked back. He looked so good that it physically hurt.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” You weakly smile, “ya know I heard Rizzo has a thing for you.”

“Too bad she’s not my type… I’m into girls named Sandy.”

“Haha very funny, Ash, I mean like in real life.”

“Yeah so do I. A wise man once said, ‘you’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey.” You laugh, and look into his eyes.

He’s not drunk right now. He’s sober. He is in your dressing room, telling you he is into you.

“Break a leg, Sandy.” And then he kisses you. And this time you know it isn’t the alcohol talking.

Summer loving. Happened so fast.

[caiminnent]

asscreedevents, day #1: these wicked times [gen shaundes, rated T]

Prompt: Favourite In-Game Detail(s) or Canonverse

Summary: In which they have a smoke and a heart-to-heart. [Set in AC III timeline.]

1.8k || Also on AO3.

He wouldn’t have expected it in a million years, but he wishes he were back at the warehouse.

It’s not even that he misses the damn place. Sure, it was nice to have a real bed and a proper bathroom—things he’s been bitterly missing these past months—but it reminded him way too much of his floor in Abstergo: the practical, impersonal design, the line of cameras covering every inch, the locked rooms only he couldn’t access. Hell, when Vidic turned up and they had to haul ass, he’d been glad to leave the hellhole behind.

At least he had some free roam back there, though. He couldn’t walk around without getting caught in tape, but he could walk around when his brain was filled with static and his muscles with nervous energy. He didn’t have privacy, but he had space.

Here, he has neither.

He turns on his side, careful not to make the cot creak too much. If he stares at the cracks on the ceiling any longer, he’s going to scream.

Not that there’s anything else to stare at. Wherever the hell they are, there isn’t even a decent streetlamp or the occasional passing car out there, just the moon as a light source. He can barely make out Shaun’s one leg and shoe on the other side of the balcony door—and that’s mostly because he knows they’re there. He doubts Shaun can see anything out there, either, for all that he’s “keeping watch”.

Then again, it should still beat staying cooped up in here.

He pushes himself up and shoves his feet back into his shoes, not bothering with the laces. Wraps the blanket around himself as well before stepping out; his hoodie isn’t nearly thick enough for the winter weather.

Just as expected, Shaun is sitting with his back to the wall, huddled in that long coat of his, trying—and failing—to hide a cigarette behind his raised knee. The illustrious Shaun Hastings, everyone: historian, analyst, master strategist, rebellious teenager.

Shaun takes a deep drag, his eyes fixed on the dark sky and darker ground. On the exhale, he turns—and jumps when he notices him in the doorway. “You have got to stop creeping up on me, Desmond,” he grumbles, patting away the scatter of ash on his pants.

“Sorry,” he offers half-heartedly. “Habit. Mind if I join you?”

Shaun scoots over without a word. Desmond carefully lowers himself next to him and leans on the wall, suppressing a shiver when chill seeps through his clothes. He would’ve expected December in Rome to be more forgiving than in New York; the air stings his nose and freezes his lungs just the same when he inhales deeply.

“I thought Rebecca hid your pack,” he says, just to break the silence.

“She did,” Shaun confirms, smug as you please. He cuts a glance at him. “Not planning to snitch on me, are you?”

“Not if I get to bum one.”

He’s just joking—kind of—but the sideways glare Shaun sends him is pure disapproval. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of this in a while. Hadn’t missed it, either. “No. I’m not corrupting you.”

Yeah. All the shit he’s done—in and out of the Animus, now—and smoking is what’s going to corrupt him.

He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and tilts his head up, leaning heavier on the wall. They can see the stars from here. He was starting to forget what those looked like.

Shaun blows the smoke over his other shoulder, through the railings. “Since when do you smoke anyway?”

He shrugs. “I don’t. I mean—not regularly. Lighting up one helps sometimes.”

He shouldn’t have said that.

Shaun half-turns, watching him—appraising him—with that careful concern lining his face. It’s—he hates that look. That hesitant affection. The muted worry. As if Shaun can see right through him and is afraid for whatever he finds in there.

“I suppose it might,” is all Shaun ends up muttering. His clenched stomach relaxes, just a little.

They sit in silence; Shaun watching the perimeter with the occasional concerned look thrown his way, him just staring around for the most part. The buzzing in his head didn’t go away, not really, but it’s better, somewhat. Bearable. Fresh air helped a little.

Shaun finishes his cigarette, putting it out on the marble and sweeping it off the balcony. Desmond has the distinct feeling that his time is up. Should’ve feigned being sleepy and left when he had the chance.

Even the idea of going back in and staring at the ceiling some more makes his stomach turn, though.

Shaun folds his arms over his chest, hiding his hands and glances over again. Here it comes. “How are you holding up?”

How is he holding up? The way he always does, probably; he tries not to think too much about it. It’s not like he has a choice; they don’t exactly have time for a mental breakdown with the end of the world on their schedule.

He shrugs again, for lack of a better response.

“I just thought—after today, you might… want to talk.”

To talk.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says honestly. “We got Dad back. We have the Apple. All’s well that ends well, right?”

“Not necessarily.”

Shaun shifts closer, just a warm pressure on his side, the light sting of smoke in his nose when he closes his eyes and breathes in.

“It’s okay to not be all right with what happened today,” Shaun says. What you did, he carefully doesn’t say. So this is going to be one of those things they will talk around forever. “Taking lives… It’s never easy, no matter the reason.”

He looks down at himself. Looks at the swell of his fists in his pockets, the specks of red and grey all over the white of his hoodie that he can’t stop seeing.

“I think I got used to that part,” he confesses. God, it sounds even worse out loud. “That’s not what haunts me.”

In his periphery, Shaun is watching him—expectantly, as far as he can tell; not with judgment. He doesn’t have it in himself to look back and make sure.

“What haunts me,” he continues, swallowing through the sudden dryness of his throat. “Those people had loved ones, too, Shaun. Families, maybe even children. I mean, I got my father back, but what about the kids whose fathers won’t be coming home—all because of me?”

“Not all because of you—”

“No, I know,” he doesn’t snap, not exactly, but it’s something in that range. He rubs at his face and takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart, wetting his lips. “They had Dad, they forced my hand, we didn’t have time for clean and careful, I know all that—but that doesn’t change anything. Does it? It’s still lives I took. It’s still blood on my hands. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

Shaun is silent. Desmond has no idea what that means—is Shaun trying to think of something to say? Does he regret having asked in the first place, now that he actually got an answer? Should Desmond have kept his big mouth shut for a change?

Yeah, he really should have. Fuck.

He’s trying to think of a way to change the subject when something falls on his lap. A pack of cigarettes.

Shaun is digging into his pockets. “Take it before I change my mind,” he grumbles in answer to his look. “If Bill catches us, it was your idea.”

He chuckles despite himself, flicking the top open. It's almost full, with two missing. Three now. “You'd throw me under the bus like that?”

“If it meant dodging your father’s ire? In a heartbeat.” Shaun finally comes up with the lighter, along with another pack and a handful of crumpled paper. He shoves the rest back and reaches to help start Desmond’s cigarette. “He already doesn't approve of me for you; I'd rather not be the bad influence on top of that.”

“I’ve dated worse; he’ll come around.”

He takes another drag, the first deep one—and chokes.

“Th’ fuck is this?” he manages to get out between coughing, his mouth full of grit by how it tastes. He had never put something so terrible in his mouth, what the hell.

Shaun grins, pocketing the pack and the lighter. “The cheapest I could find in this part of the city. Saving the world doesn’t pay well, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“The food was a dead giveaway,” he croaks, then tries to clear his throat. He’s not touching Shaun’s cigarettes ever again, hell. “I ate better as a broke bartender in New York, you know.”

“Don’t hesitate to pitch in yourself.”

The cigarette stops tasting that bad after a couple more drags. Still shit, though.

It takes the entire smoke for the buzzing in his mind to finally start quieting down. He’s kind of numbed down, cold in a distant way wherever the blanket isn’t covering. It’s probably a good idea to try to sleep again while it feels like he might actually be able to.

It will take a second wind to get on his feet, though. It’s been rough, these past days and he’s really feeling it now, in the way all his muscles are throbbing vaguely. He’s half ready to doze off where he’s sitting if it means he won’t have to move again.

Beside him, Shaun sighs deeply. “It gets easier.”

He realizes that the weight in the pit of his stomach had disappeared, now that it’s back again. He had thought—hoped—that that conversation was over.

“It doesn’t get easy,” Shaun explains to the open air. “But it does get easier, to live with yourself. Just so you know.

He doesn’t want to speak up—doesn’t even know what he could say anyway—so he nods. Shaun’s hand finds his leg and squeezes.

“My watch duty should be about over,” Shaun says without checking his watch. “It’s Rebecca’s turn, if you wanted to stay up and chat.”

He could probably use the distraction. “Maybe tomorrow," he says anyway. "Been a long day.”

“That it has.”

Shaun pushes himself up with too much trouble, shaking and stretching out his locked joints with a grunt. Once satisfied, he turns and extends a hand to him. “Come on up. We need to leave early in the morning.”

He’s still not exactly dying to move, but he takes Shaun’s hand and pulls himself up on shaky legs. They’re both covered in dust that clings deeper to the fabric the more they try to slap it away.

“This is bloody stupid,” Shaun practically announces at last, frowning at the state of his coat. At least Shaun won’t have to sleep in it. “I’m heading in; I can’t deal with this right now.”

“I’ll be a minute,” he replies. Shaun folds the coat over his arm and steps in.

He shakes out the blanket one last time, kicks away the proof of their delinquency and follows.

[welcometophu]

Not Your Love Song: Chapter 11

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 11

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“Why am I here again?” Rory asks as Thorne holds the door to Teas Please open wide. “I’m not going to argue a meal as long as you’re buying, but isn’t this supposed to be your project?”

“It’s my maybe project, and really, it’s Kit’s project.” Thorne waves and from across the room Serina wiggles her fingers in return, then holds up one finger to tell them to wait. Thorne leans one elbow on the hostess station at the front of the restaurant. “Kit didn’t seem all that thrilled with me on Tuesday at Coven, but you talked to him after and you got along. I was kind of surprised when he emailed me, so I thought if you’re here, maybe it’ll be—oh hey, Kit.”

The door hisses softly as it closes. Rory turns and nods at Kit just as Serina comes up.

“Hi, guys,” she says cheerily. “Just you three, or are you waiting for someone else?”

“Just us, but can we get a table in the back? One of the big ones?” Thorne leans in and Serina blushes as Thorne smiles easily.

She grabs three menus, gestures for them to follow. “It’s not horribly busy right now, so we can probably work something out,” she agrees. “You just want to flirt with Nate.”

“I am never going to say no to flirting,” Thorne agrees, “but actually, I wanted to be able to spread out in case we need room if we start talking ritual.”

Serina’s eyes go a little wide, flicking from Thorne to Rory to Kit. “Oh, is this about—”

“My independent study, yeah.” Kit glances at Rory, brow furrowing. “I was going to talk to Thorne about some ideas I had.”

“Don’t mind me, I’m just along as a buffer and Thorne promised he’d feed me.” Rory can do quiet if he needs to. Besides, Kit’s already barged in on Rory’s private conversation with Pawel. Maybe this is just payback. Or balance, or something equally weirdly ritualistic.

When they get to the back, one of the two large corner sections is taken, but the other is wide open. Serina sets the three menus down. “Go ahead. If a large group comes in, I might ask you to move, though, just because… well, I know you and can push you around.”

Kit touches her shoulder, leans down as he smiles. “Thanks, Serina.”

She flushes warmly. “Any time. Nate’ll be over to get your orders. I need to… to go back to the front section. I have tables. I’ll come back and check on you.”

Thorne looks amused. “We’re not your table, though. You don’t need to check on us. Not that I mind.”

Serina’s mouth opens, closes, her cheeks still pink. Rory steps on Thorne’s foot before nudging him toward the table. “Sit down,” Rory orders, and Thorne does, sliding in on one side. Kit hesitates, and Rory sighs. “I know I said I’d be a buffer, but you two are working together, and I have long legs. Why don’t you take the middle, Kit?”

“I won’t bite.” Thorne opens the menu, spreads it out. “They’ve got that gorgonzola and apple thing on special today, Rory.”

“It’s got walnuts, but it’s Alaric that hates nuts, not you, right, Rory?” Nate arrives and slides Serina to one side, nudges her away from the table. “Go take care of your people, make sure everyone’s settled, then you can take your fifteen and come sit with your boyfriend.”

The color on Serina’s cheeks deepens. “He’s not my—”

“Did you, or did you not, go out Friday?” Nate counters, patting her shoulder and nudging her again. “Go. Do. Then come back and be social.”

Kit folds his arms on the table, his head falling forward with a thump.

“Don’t worry, she only had good things to say on Saturday morning, all of which started with I was out way too late to be here for breakfast hours.” Nate grins, holds up his pad of paper. “Anyone ready for tea?”

“Water,” Kit mutters. “And the buffalo chicken sandwich.”

“No high tea today?” Nate doesn’t start writing until Kit shakes his head without picking it up. “Okay then, Thorne?”

“I don’t think Alaric dislikes nuts as much as he likes to say he does,” Thorne murmurs to himself. Because of course he does. Rory kicks him under the table, and Thorne doesn’t even wince. “I’m doing high tea with the garden sandwich, whatever the vegetarian soup of the day is, and a scone. Just give me a green tea.” Thorne folds up the menu and hands it to Nate along with Kit’s unopened menu.

“The gorgonzola crêpe,” Rory says. “And water.” As much as he loves the dessert options, he might want to leave before then. He can always get something to go, if he’s still hungry. He points across the table, adding, “Don’t worry about splitting the check. Thorne’s paying.”

Kit looks up. “Not for me.”

Thorne pats Kit’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’m good for it. I’m not an infinitely rich pop star but I’m not broke, either. Which reminds me, Rory, did you want to do anything else for Lora’s fund?”

“I’ll put your order in and be back with your drinks.”

Rory holds off until Nate’s gone. At this point, Kit’s already heard enough that it can’t get any worse. “I think Darrik’s more interested in closure than money at this point. I mean, the money’s important; Lora’s been in a coma for months, and there’s no sign that anything’s changing. But I think if we can find a way to actually help her out, that’d be better than just paying her bills. Hopefully the benefit made a good dent in those as it is.”

“What are you thinking of doing to help?” Kit asks.

It’d be easy to go down this path now, to brainstorm with the two of them. But this isn’t about Rory’s plans for rituals or his ideas. “I don’t want to hijack your planning session,” he says. “I’m still working through some ideas, and I’m going to sit here and do just that, but you two should see if you’ve got anything you can connect on. If you’re planning on picking Thorne’s brain for your project, that is.”

“You can pick anything of mine that you want,” Thorne offers.

“I went out with Serina on Friday night.” Kit sits stiffly upright, plenty of space between himself and Thorne on the bench.

Thorne snorts at Kit’s comeback; Rory kicks him under the table again.

“Just ignore everything Thorne says that isn’t actually related to what you need,” Rory mutters. “He flirts like breathing. I’m pretty sure that if he stopped, he’d shrivel up.”

“Parts of me would,” Thorne replies.

“Too much information,” Rory says firmly. “New topic. Move on.”

“Seriously, though, Serina’s nice. Bubbly,” Thorne says, leaning back in the seat. “Did you guys have fun?”

“It was a first date.” Kit licks his lips, shoulders stiff while he leans on the table. “I think we had a good time. It sounds like Nate heard all about it. That’s a good sign, right?” His gaze drifts toward the other side of the restaurant where Serina’s cheerfully talking to a group at a table. “I like her. I’d like to go out again.”

“Then go out again,” Thorne says.

“It’s complicated.” Kit drags his attention away from her, busies himself pulling out a blue notebook, laying it on the table with a purple pen. As he flips past the first pages, Rory spots sketches of Tarot cards with carefully written notes.

“It can’t be that complicated if you both had fun,” Thorne says, and Rory kicks him again. Thorne scowls. “Stop kicking me.”

“Stop being pushy and giving advice,” Rory counters. “If Kit says it’s complicated and doesn’t want to talk about it, let it go and move on.” Because Rory gets how simple things can be complicated. Not to mention that Thorne’s a force of nature, and it’s easy for anyone to lose track of everything once he gets going. It’s not fair to Kit. “You brought me along to buffer, and this is me, buffering. Back on topic, Thorne. Bad brother, no biscuit.”

Kit laughs, swallowing it as soon as Thorne looks at him. “So.” Kit’s expression is deadpan. “Ritual.”

“That would be why we’re here.” Thorne pulls out a small stack of loose leaf, spreads it out. Rory gets his own notebook out and tries to tune them out, but his attention keeps shifting back.

He blames the fact that he’s grown up with Thorne inside his radar; he’s attuned to his brother, and always has been. He may have gotten used to feeling like he was missing a limb while Thorne was gone, but now that they are back together, Rory finds himself circling around him again. And Thorne does the same.

“What’s your goal, here?” Thorne asks quietly, voice low and intense. There’s a slide on the bench; Rory moves before Kit knocks into him as he retreats from Thorne.

Kit coughs. “I’m from a predictive lineage, but the men of my line tend not to be predictive. Which makes me feel pretty useless. I experimented with ritual in high school, but I don’t have a background in it, and I don’t have a line that tends to have a great breadth of magical Talent. But predictive ritual falls flat for me. So I’m trying to figure out how to leverage what predictive Talent I do have while learning to work with more traditional ritual.”

Thorne taps his pen against the table. Rory instinctively taps a counter-rhythm with his fingers.

“And Pawel recommended that you work with me?” Thorne huffs. “I don’t know if I’d be your first choice. I don’t see fire and prediction going smoothly together.”

“Fallen ash. Burn patterns,” Rory mutters under his breath.

The fall of ash in circles

Reminds me of the way

We burned so bright

So high, so hot

The way we burned

Just before we fell apart

The remnants of a pyre

For our love

The words drip from the tip of his pen, falling onto the page with barely a thought. When he’s done, Rory stares at them, reads them back silently to feel them in his mouth. The first two lines could be cleaned up, tightened, but overall he likes the way it tastes.

Thorne knocks his foot under the table, and Rory looks up. “What?”

“Basic ritual,” Thorne says.

Rory blinks, not following. “What?”

Thorne reaches for the paper, reads with his head tilted. “Huh.” He pushes the paper back to Rory. “Never mind, go back to the writing fugue. I’m trying to figure out what kinds of basic ritual Kit and I should start with.”

“It’s his homework assignment.” Rory smudges pencil on the paper, like a circle of ash around his words. It’s not Thorne’s problem to figure out. “Kit, don’t let him run the show. Because if you do, you’ll find yourself in Kansas before you even realize you’ve headed out for a road trip.”

“That’s a strange analogy.”

“He wrote it in a song,” Thorne says cheerfully. “My little brother was pissed off at me for railroading him into something, so he came up with every possible odd way to say it and wrote it into a song. It’s on our first album.”

Rory shrugs, because he may have done it, but Thorne let him do it and sang the lyrics when they laid down the track. He’s pretty sure Thorne’s proud of it, in his own weird way.

“I need to come up with three possible rituals,” Kit says slowly. His notebook is still blank, the pen held loosely in his hand, while Thorne has sketches on two different pieces of paper. “The concept is rituals for two people that allow me to leverage predictive Talent. Or attempt to leverage it. But my family never did anything that was traditional.”

“There are a lot of rituals that sound like they’re for specific innate Talents, and aren’t,” Thorne says, tapping one of the pieces of paper. “Rituals to call rain, rituals to bless land, rituals to bring fertility to animals.”

“Querying rituals,” Rory says, thinking of Darrik Malone.

“Predictive Talent is questioning, right?” Thorne says. “It’s asking a question and looking for answers.”

“Looking for possibilities,” Kit corrects him. He writes something down, lays the pen on the notebook. “The thing is, anything that has an answer, should have a question, right?”

Thorne tilts his head. “Go on.”

“When you’re bringing fertility to animals, you’re looking to breed them.” Kit picks up the pen again, draws circles on his paper, adding long floppy ears and fluffy tails. “If you’re breeding angora rabbits, you want them to produce more rabbits.”

“Rabbits generally are good at that on their own,” Thorne deadpans. “There’s a reason we have the phrase f—” He cuts off when Rory kicks him, ends on a smile.

“But you could have rituals to increase litter size, to encourage fecundity,” Kit says. “Or you could have a ritual which asks how you should mate them.”

“I’m pretty sure they know how to do it on their own.”

“Thorne.” Rory’s voice is sharp. It’s obvious Kit’s not interested, and Rory wouldn’t blame him if he stabbed Thorne with that pen right now.

“They don’t know who to do it with.” Kit draws lines between bunnies on the page, adds notes along the way. “If you encourage A and B to breed, maybe you get a large litter, but the fur isn’t great. Or they don’t live a long time. But if you switch to B and C, the litter is average sized and the bunnies live forever. So a ritual to divine the best way to breed them, rather than to encourage fertility, might be an improvement.”

Thorne is silent for a long moment.

“If you could adapt that to both angora rabbits and sheep, I know of one group of Mages who would love to work with it,” Rory says. “And a Clan who would hate every second of it, but love the outcome.”

“So, that makes sense,” Kit says, and Rory nods.

“Yeah, it makes sense.”

There’s a call of Rory’s name across the restaurant. Nate carries food on a tray, and he’s followed by a small crowd. Mac slides in next to Thorne, Chris and Alaric following after her. Rory just manages to get out before Dax and Cass sit down on his side of the bench, so he can reclaim the edge. Kit looks lost, crowded into the center.

Nate sets a slip of paper on the table. “I know Serina mentioned that if we got a crowd in, we might have to move you. I’ve comped a part of your bill and stuck your friends with you instead. Sorry for interrupting your project work, Kit.”

Kit carefully folds his notebook, his jaw tight. “It’s okay, we got somewhere, and it’s not due until Wednesday. I can email with Thorne for the rest.”

“So, we’re working together?” Thorne asks. Kit shrugs, and Thorne grins, offers his hand for a shake to seal the deal.

“Just hit him on the nose if he misbehaves,” Mac suggests, miming a rolled up newspaper. “That’s what I do. It’s remarkably effective.”

“I’m not going to misbehave.” Thorne spreads his hands, drops one arm behind Mac’s shoulder as he leans closer to her. “Kit’s made it clear he’s not interested in any extra curricular activity outside of the project. I can focus.”

Chris reaches past Mac to jab Thorne in the side. “Mac’s made it clear, too, and you snuggle her all the time.”

“She lets me,” Thorne points out.

Cass shifts in her seat, her arm bumping Rory’s. “Sorry.”

She’s sitting closer than necessary, although maybe that’s because Dax is giving Kit room, rather than shoving him into Thorne. But it means that Rory’s right on the edge of the bench, and his elbow too close to Cass, brushing against her.

He rotates his wrist, checks.

Nothing. Which is good. Cass is definitely on Rory’s not a chance in hell list.

“What brings you all in here?” Thorne asks.

“We were in the weight room—”

“They were in the weight room,” Cass corrects Chris’s story with a thin smile.

“We decided we weren’t in the mood to eat on campus, so after we all got cleaned up, we grabbed Cass and walked over,” Mac says easily. “Today I learned that Alaric can probably bench press me, but I can do a higher box jump than any of the guys.”

“Did you cheat?” Thorne raises his eyebrows, and Alaric makes a small noise like he didn’t even think of that.

It’s light, and it’s easy, and at the same time, it’s uncomfortable. Cass keeps sliding closer to Rory, and Kit looks like he’s sitting in the middle of the parted sea, no one getting close to him at all. Kit’s gaze drifts to where Serina’s laughing with a table on the other side of the room.

Nate returns with pots of tea that Rory doesn’t remember anyone ordering. Rory reaches out to grab his wrist before he can get away. “Can you bring me a box?” Rory asks. “I’ve got a song in my head and I need to get out of here, get it down before it escapes.”

“Me too,” Kit says, making a face. “Getting out of here. No song, I just… I want to go brainstorm ritual ideas while they’re still on my mind. Sorry, I’m being an ass leaving when you just got here.”

Mac makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Like we’re easily offended. If you’re looking for Caro, though, she was making noises about going to bed early.”

Kit pushes his plate toward Rory, then pauses before sliding off the bench. “Is she sick? She didn’t text me.”

“Slept like crap last night, according to Heather. She’s been moody today, so she was talking about getting something to eat in her room and getting sleep. So if that’s your independent study and you need her, she might already be asleep,” Mac explains.

Rory gives Kit plenty of room to get out of the bench, taking his own food to one of the nearby tables while waiting for a box. He packs up as soon as Nate brings it. “I’ll send you samples,” he promises Thorne. “I’ve got a couple song snippets I’ve been thinking about. We should meet up this week.”

“Later,” Thorne agrees. “I don’t have much other than classwork.”

When Rory gathers his box up to take with him, Kit’s near the door, talking quietly to Serina. Rory lifts a hand to wave goodbye, pausing when Serina waves enthusiastically and bounces over to him. “Have a good night,” she offers. “I think it’s so cool that you and Kit are going to work together. I wouldn’t mind if he’s hanging out on our floor while you do.”

That’s not obvious at all. Both Serina and Kit are flushed, and Rory doesn’t bother to point out the misconception about the project. “I think it’ll work out well,” Rory says, because it’s the right thing to say before he turns to go.

He’s not entirely surprised when Kit walks with him out the door.

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I commerce, tin amazon, destroys millions of items a year, e commerce, sin amazon, destroys millions of items a year at just one of his fulfillment centers in the united kingdom. According to an i tv report, published on monday footage take it inside the company's warehouse in dumb for line. Scotland shows boxes mark destroyed, filled with everything from smart tv laptops, strongs, hair dryers top of the range headphones computer, jazz books, glore thousands of seal face mass account lest other products i tivy reported. The items consists of those that have damaged packaging were never so har where we turned by a buyers and virtually any of it could have been donated to a chaville organization or another useful purpose. I tv track trucks camera in the good schedule for the struction and found that, while some of them headed towards recycling facilities, other products were traced, the land fills which amazon denies and the ultimate destination for the goods destruction to be tail. 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Follows you wherever you go working to prove your credit is a worthwhile go because the better you credit, the better, the rates you receiving all the lone like mortgages, allalone's and credit cards, but how long have to wait to ye change? That's not an exact answer to that. As each person, finance situation is unique and complex in general, depending where you're, starting from how you manai finance, as it could take anywhere for a month to as much as ten years. Here's what they consider when it comes to. How long am i take a scene improvement in your score? Starting out, it may be easier to improve your credit score by doing things like opening a credit card and paying it off responsibly. Mark gets insider reports. Big coin is worth the zero and there is no evidence that block chain is useful technology. Black swan author, not seen tale, says isabel lee june twenty third, two thousand and twenty one black swan author, nosin talem double down on his criticism against a big coin. This time saying the cryptic currency is worth exactly zero and that there is no evidence that block chain is a useful technology. In a recent six page, drap paper, titled bit coin curvin season, bubbled talula, that for key arguments against the cryptic currency which he promoted to is seven hundred forty two thousand twitter followers. First, the author said that, in spite of the hype, big coin failed to satisfy the notion of currency without government. In fact he said big coin prove to not even be a currency at all. The total failure of big coin i becoming a currency has been masked by the inflation of the currency value, generating paper profits for large enough. A number of people to enter the discourse well ahead of its utility, he said, and to am second criticism, said big coin can neither be your short nor long term store of value. He used the famous chucks the position of gold versus bid coin, which he said was poor comparison to illustrate his point. Gold and other precious metals are largely maintenance, free, do not the great over historical horizon and do not require maintenance to refresh their physical properties. Over time he said, cryptic currencies require a sustained the amount of interest in them. His final two points argue that big coin is not a reliable inflation. Hedge contribute some analyst views and it's not a safe haven for investments where they meant to protect against government, tiran or other catastrophes, not even remotely. He said siding the march two thousand and twenty market panic when big coin sank lower than the stock market, as well as the recent ransom payments follow in the colonial pipeline suber attack, which authorities were able to track government structures and computational power will remain stronger than those of distributed operators who, while this trusting one another, can fall prey to simple hopes. He added taleb has been a vocal critic of big coin, but the paper also slam the underlying tecknadel big coin for lines. On the author pointed to what it sees as a lack of utility of block chain technology, there is no evidence that we are getting a great technology unless great technology doesn't mean useful. He continued and we have done at the time of writing. In spite of all the fan, fair, still close to nothing with the blonde chain. In april talamo c, n b c, that big coin is an open pansy scheme in a failed currency reported by markets insider june, twenty third, two thousand and twenty one. Six. Fifty nine p m depictions of the roman emperor, nero as notorious are based on a partisan source narrative. A curator, the british museum said anything you think you know what, but nero is based on manipulation in lives and a two thousand years old. How nasty was nero really a show at the british mersem portrays him as the victim of a roman smear campaign, heart dat, new york com press, one to continue further press to to go to next sweet continue further, the new yorker reports, how nasty was nero, really c n reports patrol she roti scotto stepping down according to a sit familiar with the decision mark in the ladies, changing the border agencies, leadership structure, mataba by an announce as erotylus policy that would give no lewis to gun dealers who fail to comply with federal law. Their license to cell would be revoked in a first offense of fence offence, but an anti crime effort takes on law breaking gun dealers. President joe budden is announcing you effen syston zing president joe bines, announcing new epic system, a rising national tide president joe bin. As an noting new efforts, summarizing national tide of iling crimes, administration officials, ap usom, leela miller staff, rider los angeles times, com june. Twenty third, two thousand and twenty one chaos you rotten tuesday, night and b news reports and at least one person was arrested after school board, share brede shevardino ed. The public comment portion of the meeting following numerous disruptions, pronoun polishes debate, at least the chaos said virginia school board meeting. One person was arrested at the tuesday's meeting, the loudon county sheriff so i've said another was issue to trespassing summons and be com. The associated press reports, a bipartisan group of us senators meeting privately as reach a tentative framework on an infrastructure deal. According to a person familiar with the negotiations, president jo biden has invited the senator to the white house on thursday, the biggest factor in parent child estrangement reports. The economist is the rise of individualism in america. How many american children have cut contact with their parents? A young feel of riser suggested a surprisingly common economist c b s news, puerto rico's governor calls lack of state o geographic discrimination. The hill cows run loose through los angeles suburbo, their escaping slaughter house good for them. The new york talyor, the white house had wednesday that the us would send three million doses of johnson and johnson's vaccine thursday to brazil. The shipman is part er, president biden, a pledge to deliver eight, a million doses overseas by the end of june forge reports. This bill gates back, starts new partnership to ames to prevent prenames for s reports this bill gates back start us new partnership and to prevent pandemic in food crops tribe. The al forward, slash capital y l e one, six f, three, the documents are shameless and her rising and you reek of desperation. At page eighty eight rights, the insanity of trumps campaign to overturn the election recently released emails really help the skeltthe pressure campaign on the justice department, the atlantic in time. It's a dangerous world out there for your devices. Apis is your. I phone is facing an excentral threat from congress. The company makes its case against sidelong, as congress considers forcing the issue incom. This was twitter voice, signing off eleven thirteen pmta

[condensed-theorem-shop]

i know ozy thinks i deserve to be raped for not linking abstract art but i don't understand hy you are agreeing with them i never did anything to you an i used to like abstract art until oxy bt now if i ike it i admit they are right and i deserve to be raped

Oh dear.

I want to offer you hugs, but under the circumstances I would understand if you did not want them from me.

I do not think this even a little bit. I am at a loss for words to express how much I do not think this. (I do not think ozy thinks this either.)

I am sorry I said something that made you feel like I thought this. I did not intend that at all, and if I could I would go back in time and not say it, because none of the things I’ve said here have been more important to me than you not feeling like I thought this.

Here are some reasons I do not think this:

No one deserves to be raped.

No one deserves to be raped.

I don’t even think that not liking a particular kind of art is something you can be wrong about. Whitman is (in my opinion) objectively an excellent poet, and I cannot stand his work, I can consistently identify poems by Whitman because I can tell they’re well-written but I loathe them.

No one deserves to be raped.

I have never in my life thought someone deserved to be raped.

People’s opinions on art are not a morally relevant thing. If someone thinks that all abstract art is completely terrible and worthless and not artistic and has zero merit, I think they’re mistaken, but I do not think they are committing the slightest wrongdoing.

Even if someone did something very terrible (something completely unlike not liking abstract art), they would not deserve to be raped.

Because NO ONE DESERVES TO BE RAPED.

I like art but people are so much more important. Even if you had personally and gleefully hunted down and burned every piece of abstract art in the world and danced on the ashes, I would not want you to be hurt as a result. I definitely would not think you deserved to be raped.

Being raped is not a thing someone can deserve.

Your blog is cute and makes me smile every time I see it on my dash and I wish you nothing but good and happiness and definitely not being raped I really want to be super clear on that.

This is not just me having an Abstract Principle that people don’t deserve that, while suppressing some kind of primal belief or something! There are people who have hurt me really badly (in ways that are not even in the same reference class as not liking abstract art) and when I think about them I have an instinctive sort of feeling that they deserve to be punched in the face, which I suppress in favor of my actual belief which is that they do not deserve to be hurt. But this is not like that I have never had it cross my mind for a moment that anyone might deserve even the smallest harm for not liking abstract art, let alone being raped! Please please please believe me on this.

Here are some things, by way of contrast, that I do think you deserve:

marshmallows in your hot chocolate

an extension on your homework

a surprise letter from someone you love who lives far away and you haven’t talked to in a while

ice cream for breakfast

a bird picture on your dash that is so cute that it makes you curl up into a ball and stare at it grinning until your face almost hurts, but not quite, because you should not hurt

a $10 bill in the pocket of your winter coat that you’d forgotten was there when you put it away for the year and find when you take it out again and spend on something you’ve been wanting but couldn’t quite justify getting for yourself

your hair doing the cute thing you like when you brush it this morning without you even having to try

a hug from someone you like giving you hugs, if you like hugs

I hope you get to have at least one of those things today. Please consider arranging one of them for yourself, if none of them happen just by chance. I recommend ice cream for breakfast if it’s warm where you live, or marshmallows in your hot chocolate if it’s cold.

(I am going to tag this post “depression cw”, not because I know if you’re depressed or not, but because I think people who want to avoid seeing posts about depression might want to avoid seeing this one. On the other hand, if you think you might be depressed, you might want to consider that possibility a little further. I know that when I am depressed, I often start feeling like people want awful things to happen to me because of things I have done that are not bad at all. Feeling like that is really unpleasant, and knowing that it’s because of depression is useful for me, because it helps me know what sort of things I can do to stop feeling that way.)

[i-aim-to-overanalyze]

Waking up to Ash and Dust

Some say they dictate the story, while others say the story dictates them, and this is SO the case when it comes to this monster. This story took me to different places I wasn’t expecting, to different POVs I hadn’t planned for, and dragged me on a wild goose chase when it came to plot. This story will be 4-6 chapters depending on how I split the chapters. Thank you both for @yjficexchange for hosting the ‘Mini Big Bang’ event and @puddingmcmuffin for her patience and her beautiful artwork that accompanies this piece 

-

Part 1: Society

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and suicide, nothing too explicit

Pairings: Gen, mentions of Spitfire

Characters: Bart Allen, Wally West, OCs (for sake of plot) 

Chapter Word Count: 4703

Description: Set during and after the events of Young Justice Invasion. There’s something amiss with Bart Allen. There’s something amiss with Bart Allen. He doesn’t fit your typical 13 yr old mold. To society, he’s an odd kid with a strange lack of pop culture knowledge. To fellow supers, his tales about being a tourist from a bright future doesn’t add up. To himself, he struggles with time travel and the ramifications that follow suit.

There is something amiss with Bart Allen, the boy with the mousy hair and lilac eyes. He appears to be the typical mischievous teenager. He can always be seen munching on a candy bar or pushing on people’s buttons. But it’s the little things about him. It’s the little things that send alarming bells in the minds of society around him.

Society, a group of people that lives with a set of customs, traditions and laws. A group of people fashioned out of the people before and who raises the people to come. A group of people whose thinking is influenced by the literature and television that they consume. A group of people who are united in traditions, who share in the comfort of people who operate the same. A group of people who can tear apart anyone that doesn’t conform to their rules. That Society.

-

There’s a lady who owns a small souvenir shop in downtown Central City. It’s mainly filled with Flash memorabilia and a few staple tokens like “I <3 Central City” shirts. It’s right next to a historical marker, a prime target for tourists and the like. If it wasn’t for the ridiculously high rent, she’d be making big. The fact of the matter is this: she is struggling to keep the business afloat. A boy enters her shop during a slow time in her business.

Nothing is particularly strange about that except it is school hours and he appears to be middle-school aged.

“Boy, what are you doing here?” She asks him as he inspects a display of snow globes.

He jumps, nearly dropping the one in his hand. It’s a depiction of Central City with the Flash standing in a heroic pose.

“I just, ah, wanted to have a look around y’know?” He flashes a toothy grin.

“During school hours?” She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m on—ah what do you call it?” He snaps his fingers a couple times, “a—a field trip, yes that’s it!”

“Where’s the rest of your class?”

“….I got separated from them.” He mutters, ducking his head down to avoid her gaze. He bounces on the balls of his feet, looking like a wild animal about to bolt.

“Well then, you’re welcome to call your—“

“Wow, would you look at that,  I just saw them passing by! Gotta go, nicetalkingtoyoubye!”

She blinks, and then blinks again. One moment, he stood there, and the next he was gone. In a flash. Upon further inspection, a snow globe from the display is missing along with a couple candy bars. It infuriates her, but it’s not big enough that she feels obligated to go to the Police for. In a city where supervillains ravaged, petty thievery wasn’t on the top of the cops’ priority list.

The next day when she opens, the missing snow globe mysteriously turns up on her counter. It’s accompanied with a twenty dollar bill and a note scribbled in chicken scratch.

“I am sorry for taking from your shop without buying anything. I already ate the candy bars so here is money instead.”

The next month, an apartment building nearly crushes her on her way home. Something picks her up and she is sent flying a thousand miles a hour.

“Better watch where you’re going, mad’m,” Something—a boy with lilac eyes hidden behind a golden visor—quips at her.

He is scrawny and almost collapses as he releases her from his grasp.

“Do I know you?” She says, once the shock’s worn off and she found her voice.

He stares at her for a moment, like a deer caught in a headlight. Then a smirk slowly worms its way onto his face.

“I don’t think so. Perhaps you’ve seen me on the news, helping out the Flash.” He opens his mouth to say more—when an explosion occurs the next block.

“Well that’s my cue gottagobye!” He zooms ahead, leaving the lady to ponder in silence.

-

There is a new student at Central City Middle School. This is not exactly the talk of the century. There is always new students flowing into the school, be it at the start of the year or mid-year transfers. There are children whose families have moved into the area. Then there are children who moved from the future into the current present. The latter is exceedingly rare and there is only transfer with that credit to his name and that is Bart Allen.

Bartholomew “Bart” Allen is the textbook new kid. He nervously rubs his fingers on the edge of his backpack straps, humming under his breath. His posture remains tense as he glances around the classroom. His eyes flies over the heads of the students as they peer around for possible escape routes. He wants to be anywhere but here, present in the classroom and collectively the class sympathizes with him.

“Good morning, everyone!” The teacher says, “As you can see, we have a new student with us today.”

She places a hand on Bart’s shoulder who flinches at the unexpected physical touch. If the teacher noticed anything off by it, she doesn’t say anything.

“Go on; introduce yourself.” She whispers encouragingly to him.

Slowly, he exhales deeply and turns to face the class. A switch turns on and the nervous new kid façade fades away to another one.

“Um, hello fellow students! My name is Bart Allen and I recently moved to Central City.” He gives a friendly wave to the class. Some of them wave back, amused.

“Where did you move from, Bart?” The teacher prods.

“Keystone City, home of the original Flash.” He puffs his chest out proudly.

Keystone City was the first sighting of the first Flash, back in the forties. The current Flash started up in Central City, but he can still frequently be spotted in Keystone as well. Many in Central City consider Keystone City a sister city and the sentiment is the same likewise in Keystone City. There is a lighthearted rivalry between the two, however, on which Flash is the best.

So it is not odd that Bart emphasizes the fact that he originates from the city of the original Flash. His quirks lay in his behavior towards school in general. In his first few weeks, he plays twenty questions with the teachers on how the school operates. It’s an uproar with the students, who howl with laughter at the teachers’ reactions. They label him a class clown, a troublemaker. No one thinks his questions are legitimate. Except for Bobby Jones.

Bobby Jones is just as about as average as Bart is on the outside. He’s the nerd who gets straight As in all his classes and loves to play the clarinet in the marching band. His favorite subject is history, which happens to be the subject Bart succeeds in getting Fs in.

He strolls up to Bart one day after class with a proposition.

“Hello Bart.”

“Oh hey Bobby!” Bart grins, “What’s up?”

“I noticed History isn’t your best subject.”

Bart’s smile grows forced; it’s definitely a sore spot for his peer.

“Yeah, let’s just say I’ve never been the greatest history student.” He mumbles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

“I’d be willing to offer up my…services to you.” Bobby says in a conspiratorially tone. He could be more direct but A, he’s a thirteen year old and B, he’s obsessed with spy movies.

At once Bart brightens up. He straightens his posture as he examines Bobby in the eye. It sends shivers down Bobby’s back. There is something that gleams in Bart’s eyes that is too cold and calculating to belong to a normal 13 years old. Suddenly he’s not all too sure about approaching Bart was the right idea.

“I’m listening, amigo,” He leans in.

“I—I could do your homework for you, and give you the answers for the tests,” Bobby stammers, “Not for free, of course, there would a charge.”

When he first began his practices, he started out charging money. He then switched to favors or things like books or candy as money is a hard currency to come by in the middle school population.

He’d always assumed Bart was an open book. He was loud, he was excitable, easy to show his joy or disdain over things. He seemed naïve to a degree, something that Bobby presumed would make him an easy target. However Bart’s face was blank in the silence that momentarily followed.

“It sounds great but…it isn’t that not allowed?” His voice cracked with uncertainty.

Bobby wanted to say yes. He wanted to ensnare another sucker—another client into his ‘business.’ It wasn’t like he was hurting Bart, the exact opposite actually. He knew how to slowly raise Bart’s grade that wouldn’t raise any red flags. But there’s something so earnest in his tone that makes Bobby pause.

“Not exactly,” He admits eventually, “But you want to raise your GPA, don’t you?”

Bart hesitates. For a moment, Bobby thinks he may have snagged him. But then the brunet slowly shakes his head.

“I can’t accept it, sorry.”

Bobby doesn’t give up easily though. He can’t. Not when Bart could threaten to expose his operations.

“I could tutor you instead!” He says in an act of desperation.

“Tutor?”

“Yeah, I could help you understand it—but it’d still be you doing the homework and everything.”

“Yeah,” Bart nods his head, “Yeah that sounds crash!”

They come up with an agreed time and place and take it from there. Tutoring Bart, turns out to be a more difficult than he’d imagined.

“This unit, we’re focusing on the events leading up to the American Revolution.”

“Ah, yes!” Bart leaned back, propping his legs on the table, “That’s what Fourth of July is about, right? It’s the celebration of us Americans freeing ourselves from their oppressors!”

“Kinda. It marks the date that the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t—“  Bobby takes a double take, “How do you not know?”

Every American grown child has heard the mantra during their growing up years. Every Fourth of July that rolls around comes a great big patriotic speech about the Founding Fathers. It turns out that Bart knows little to nothing about history whatsoever. It doesn’t make a single bit of sense to him. Even people who hate history at least know about stuff that came before them. Bobby, clearly, has his work cut out for him. There is one thing going for him. Bart is a willing student who is eager to please.

He finds out that stories are the best method to teach Bart. Dates and facts mean nothing to him; he wants to hear the reasoning behind them, the people and events that make up them. He lends a lot of his historical fiction novels to Bart, with the hefty warning that figures like Johnny Tremain aren’t real.

Slowly, out of this odd tutorship a friendship blossoms between them. Neither of them openly address it. Bobby thinks that Bart, despite his cheery demeanor, isn’t all that interested in friends. He doesn’t participate in any afternoon extracurriculars and keeps a distance with their peers. Bobby doesn’t mind, because he’s not all that interested in friends either. He classifies Bart as someone whom he can tolerate. His tolerable buddy.

He tries convincing himself when Bart suddenly stops replying to his texts that he isn’t upset. He is definitely not worried when Bart doesn’t show up at school for an entire week. No, he is angry when Bart finally shows his face sometime during the first week of April.

“Where. Were. You?” He grabs hold of him sometime after class.

“Easy, big guy,” Bart winces as he drags Bobby’s hands off his shoulders, “I was sick, that’s all.”

“Sick, hmm?” Bobby crossed his arms.

“Yup! I was totally feeling the mode. I was in and out of consciousness a lot.” There is a hint of truth underlying Bart’s words. Bobby can see the weariness clinging to his eyes. He’s been around Bart enough now to know something is off, and he doesn’t like the smell of it.

Naivety and lies aside, there was the fact that Bart didn’t live with his parents. He lives with an elderly couple named the Garricks.

“So, what, are they like your grandparents?” He asked Bart one day after Mrs. Garrick disappeared into the kitchen to grab them a snack.

“Erm, sorta?” He scrunched up his nose, “My family tree’s…confusing.”

Bart refuses to elaborate on that, causing Bobby to do some snooping on his own. The Garricks are close to the Allens; a family that shares no relation to either of them. Apparently Jay Garrick took a young Barry Allen under his tutelage and practically views him as a son. There’s a few articles from the local newspaper about the two, not to mention their social media presences. The strange thing is that Bart popped in on the scene a few months ago. There is no mention of him predating February and he has no social media of his own to speak of.

When Bobby nonchalantly asked about it, Bart gave him a blank look.

“Oh! You must be talking about the ‘Snapchat’ thing everyone is obsessed about!” He frowned, “I’ve been too busy with school to set one up.”

He stared at Bart. He was never sure when Bart was being completely serious or just messing with him.

It’s the scars that just about does Bobby in.  Bart was always skittish about dressing publicly in the locker gyms before and after P.E. It was something the other boys always teased him about. Bart always laughed it off. Somehow, he’d always managed on dressing before any one of them arrived.

Bobby catches him slipping in the act of slipping on his shirt. It’s purely coincidental, it isn’t like Bobby had skipped class to stake out the locker room or anything. He nearly gags at the sight. Bart’s torso is decorated with scores of scars, both big and little. Many of them are old, but a few of them are newer looking. The two lock eyes and Bart knows that he knows.

“Hey Bobster, what’s up—“

“Who’s hurting you?” Bobby inhales a sharp breath.

“Wh—“

“Who’s hurting you?” Bobby presses harder, “It’s not Jay, is it?”

“No!” Bart exclaims, looking deeply horrified, “It’s not him, I swear.”

“Then who is it?”

“I—“ Bart looks ahead, “I can’t tell you. But I’m okay now—I’m okay.”

He takes a shuddering, deep breath as he hugs his knees.

“You know, my dad used to beat my mom every night,” Bobby says causally.

Bart looks up at him, startled by the revelation.

“She used to cover it up, pretended everything was alright. She wanted me to have a “normal” family. She didn’t want me to miss out on having a dad. She put her foot down when she found out he started beating me for getting bad grades.”

“Dude…” Bart whispers, and Bobby looks over at him. There is an understanding in his eyes. For the first time there is someone who understands him. Who doesn’t apologize or pity him or look at him uncomfortably.

“Are you safe with the Garricks?” Bobby asks.

“Yes. It’s—over.” Bart sighs, and Bobby thinks is the first time he’s seen him serious, “You don’t have to worry about me, dude.”

The whole school thinks Bart’s naivety is a façade. He is the typical class clown, who bombards the teachers with ridiculous questions with a straight face. He will be remembered as that upbeat kid with a strange sense of humor.

Bobby knows better. Bobby knows that there is truth lurking underneath it all, and with that truth there is pain. Bart doesn’t address it, and neither does Bobby. They’ll sit at lunch and talk about history that doesn’t belong to them. They’ll discuss fallen rulers and devastated armies before they’ll discuss broken pasts. They aren’t friends. They’re simply two people who made a pact to stick it out together until high school graduation.

-

There’s something strange about Wally’s little cousin. But then again, West and his family have always been strange to Toby.

When you have a spend a year living in the same quarters, you get to see a different side of people. The side that’s only visible when no one else is around. Their living habits essentially. As Wally’s roommate for a year, he knows a lot about the guy. Like how he holds onto every birthday card and participation award from his childhood. Or how he hides snacks all over the dorm and sometimes forgets where he hid them. Not to mention the fact the long, unexpected stretches of time he vanishes from the face of the earth.

Toby nearly called the cops the first time it happened. He’s not sure what West does in his off-time, he doesn’t ask. It’s probably something illegal and he doesn’t want any part of it. He was pretty certain the guy would drop out after the first semester. It didn’t seem like he was all that dedicated to the classes. But miraculously he stuck with it.

He leaves Toby on good terms. He’s been chomping on the bit to move in with his girlfriend and once his one-year sentence is up, he doesn’t waste any time. It’s something the three of them joke about. He and Artemis often compare notes on Wally’s roommate etiquette much to Wally’s humiliation.

There’s something special between Wally and Artemis. The fact that they already bicker like an old married couple might something to do with it. He’s seen a ring tucked away in one of Wally’s desk drawers. The wedding is inevitable.

Except that it isn’t. One moment Artemis and Wally are happily living together. Next moment, there is Wally West unhappily living in an apartment alone. Car crash, Toby’s told. She was visiting relatives over the weekend in Gotham City when it happened.

Toby can’t even to begin to imagine how it must feel to have the love of your life unexpectedly ripped out of your life. He’s not sure that Wally knows how to feel about it either. He insists that he is fine, but his actions suggest otherwise. He hasn’t slept in days, if the dark circles are any indication. He snaps easily. He’s scatterbrained. He barely touches food. Toby takes to daily visits just to make sure he’s still breathing.

It’s the cousin that makes the difference, however.

He walks into the two squabbling over a match of Halo.

“Look, you can’t just mash buttons as fast as you can, the game can’t process your commands at your level of speed. You gotta slow it down.”

“Opps, sorry! I forgot how sluggish retro games can be.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

He clears his throat and the two whip their heads towards him.

“Um. The door was unlocked.” He says, “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m his cousin, Bart!” The teenager gives Toby’s hand a good shake.

Wally rubs a hand through his hair. “Aw, I’m sorry man I forgot about our study session!” He exclaims, “Bart kinda popped up unexpectedly.”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I stop by,” Bart gives a wink, as if hinting to an inside joke.

It turns out that their neighborhood and Bart’s are stretched across a thousand miles. Bart slips out once that he attends Wally’s old middle school.  Wally provides a weak cover-up for it, something about cheap plane fares. Bart is around too much for that to be true.

Bart plays the part of the annoying younger brother. He likes to mess with Wally’s stuff, touching things he shouldn’t. Anything Wally does, Bart does. If Wally likes Chicken Whizees, then Bart also likes Chicken Whizees. He challenges Wally to things like eating contests (always a draw) and who can make the loudest burp. He presses Wally’s buttons, He pesters him with questions. There’s a friendly animosity between them, the kind that only develop amongst siblings.

Although Wally protests that he is the caretaker for Bart, it’s the latter that takes care for Wally. He distracts Wally, helps keep his mind off things. He makes Wally laugh, and reminds him to eat food.

Toby doesn’t get many one-on-one interactions with Bart. There is only two that are memorable. The first one happens in the middle of April. It’s a Thursday and he’s at home, in the dorm. His roommate Fred is working, and Toby is listening to music while studying when he hears a knock at the door.

“Hey there!” Bart grins. “Wally’s still at class so I’d thought I would hang with you for a bit.”

He nods slowly at him. Bart has accompanied Wally to his dorm before, so he’s not surprised to find him standing in his doorway. He is surprised to see he didn’t just hang in Wally’s apartment. But then again, nothing ever makes sense when it comes to Bart.

“Hey,” Toby nods, “No prob, you’re welcome to hang here if you want. Hope you like listening to Elton John.”

“Who’s that?” Bart asks as he enters the threshold.

“You know, Lion King.” When the kid doesn’t respond to that, he gives a double-take, “Have you never seen the Lion King?”

“Um nope, can’t say that I have.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“We’ll have to remedy that.” Toby says determinedly, as he picks up his laptop.

“What are you doing?” Bart leans curiously over his shoulder.

“I’m pulling up Lion King. You’re not leaving until you see it.” He studies while Bart watches from the laptop nearby. He doesn’t get much homework done as Bart keeps asking questions almost every minute. Through the questions, Toby learns that he has a very limited knowledge on pop culture. By the end of it, he gives Bart a flash drive with his favorite songs on it.

He makes a comment about to Wally a week later. West gave a sigh.

“Let’s just say he lived a very isolated childhood.” He remarks, and leaves it at that.

Toby doesn’t press it. There’s a silent understanding built up between the two. There are certain things about Wally that they don’t address, and Bart’s origin is one of them. Bart may be the typical annoying brother figure to Wally, but there’s something weird about the kid. Like how he can hold his ground in an argument with Wally over quantum physics that’s is way over Toby’s head. How he hadn’t seen the Lion King or played Minecraft before. How he uses weird lingo and calls things like the new iPhone “retro”.  Or where exactly does he fit into Wally’s family tree.

He’s not the typical thirteen-year-old that’s for sure. Toby tries not to care why—he never has, so why start now? It’s not like he doesn’t care—he does, he totally does—but he has more riveting things to focus on. Important things that every poor college student with crippling debt worries about. Like keeping his GPA up and surviving on ramen noodles alone. Seriously, he’d rather face an alien apocalypse than suffer through Finals week.

Just when things start to look up, it all comes crashing down. It’s not the type of “good” crash that Bart likes to blab about either. A few months later, he receives a message alerting him that Wally is dead. He died in a car crash on his way home one night. It’s too akin to Artemis’s death that he can’t help but wonder things. Things that tie knots in his stomach and make him feel sick.

He’s sitting at his desk, alone, when someone knocks at the door. He gets up to answer it. It’s not like he was doing any real studying anyhow.

“Hey.” Bart says, fidgeting. It reminds Toby of Wally—he always had a hard time keeping still. He was especially worse when he was anxious.

“Hey,” He echoes.

He doesn’t even question why Bart’s here. He knows exactly why. He leads him into the living room and they both sit down. A silence endures between the two. Artemis and Wally were both his friends, but to Bart? He lost not a cousin but a brother. He’s only thirteen, Toby thinks. He’s too young to lose a loved one this early. So is Toby.

Bart is the first one to break the silence.

“Listen, I have something to tell you,” Bart speaks up, “Art—the others didn’t think it was a good idea. But I think you deserve to know the truth.”

“The truth?” Toby asks, as he stares down at Bart.

The way he speaks it makes it sound like Wally was involved in some type of gang. He doesn’t doubt that, but at the same time he hopes better of his dead friend.

“Yes.” Bart takes a deep, shuddering breath, “Wally didn’t die from some car crash.”

“What’d he die of?”

“He died saving the world from the Reach.”

Toby smiles bitterly, “He’s Kid Flash, isn’t he?”

“How’d you know?” Bart asks, surprise edging his voice.

“He was always gone weird stretches of time when we were roommates. He healed inhumanely fast. Both he and Kid Flash have red hair. He has a ton of Flash memorabilia. Not to mention Kid Flash fell off the radar once he and Artemis stopped disappearing on a regular basis.” Toby shook his head, “It was just an absurd theory I had.”

An absurd theory that happened to be true. A weight lifts off him. It doesn’t change what happened. But it makes it easier to breathe knowing for sure that his friend didn’t commit suicide or died a meaningless death. He can breathe and know the reason they survived annihilation from the Reach was his friend Wally. It’s surreal and almost mind breaking to think he’s been friends with a superhero all along.

He sighs before glancing over at Bart once more.

“Are you the new Kid Flash the media’s been buzzing about?” He asked.

It makes sense now why a new Kid Flash popped up suddenly. He hasn’t approached the cameras at all and all the media has is a few blurry pics of him. Some speculate he must be the new Flash kid that was spotted helping the Flash and Kid Flash with Neutron a while back. All he knows is that the media is gushing about how an honor it is to witness a passing of a title. He doesn’t get it himself. There must have been at least three Robins by now but you don’t see anyone going on about it.

“Yeah.” Bart murmurs, “That’s me.”

“Wally would be proud to see you zooming around as Kid Flash.” He says.

Bart gives a look that lets him know that he’s heard it a hundred times already. The phrase still doesn’t reassure him even after Toby says it, apparently. It’s alright though. He’s just a poor college student who happened to room with Kid Flash for a year. He knows nothing of the battles of good vs. evil.

“I mean it. I don’t know if you noticed, but Wally saw you as a little brother. Loved you like one, too. Sure you annoyed him at times, but that’s what little brothers are for.” He ruffles Bart’s hair, “I have no doubt you’ll do him justice.”

“Thanks.” Bart says.

Toby’s unsure if his words held any meaning to Bart, but he’s smiling and so he hopes that’s a good sign. He spends the rest of the evening telling Bart all the embarrassing blackmail he has on Wally and then some.

There’s still something strange about Bart, even after the reveal. Then again, maybe there’s something genetically weird with anyone who thinks wearing spandex and fighting crime is a great career choice. He decides nothing can surprise him anymore after knowing the truth. Santa Claus is real and so is the Easter Bunny and maybe even the Queen of England. That is, until he takes a walk past Wally’s old apartment and runs into a familiar blond. After that, nothing fazes him the slightest when it comes to Wally and Bart and their lineage.

[un-enfant-immature]

MacKenzie Bezos pledges to give away more than half her $37B fortune to charity and philanthropy

MacKenzie Bezos, the world’s third-richest woman following her divorce from Amazon founder and CEO Jeff Bezos, has signed the Giving Pledge — a commitment that will see her giving away more than half her wealth to philanthropy or charitable causes, either during her lifetime or in her will.

Bezos recently made headlines when she gave ex-husband Jeff 75 percent of their joint Amazon stock and voting control in their divorce, along with their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin. However, that still left her with an at least $35.6 billion stake in Amazon. Bloomberg’s Billionaires Index now estimates her net worth at $36.6 billion.

“We each come by the gifts we have to offer by an infinite series of influences and lucky breaks we can never fully understand,” wrote MacKenzie Bezos, in a letter published by the Giving Pledge today, announcing her intention to give away her wealth.

“In addition to whatever assets life has nurtured in me, I have a disproportionate amount of money to share. My approach to philanthropy will continue to be thoughtful. It will take time and effort and care. But I won’t wait. And I will keep at it until the safe is empty,” she said.

Ex-husband Jeff Bezos tweeted praise for MacKenzie’s pledge this morning:

MacKenzie is going to be amazing and thoughtful and effective at philanthropy, and I’m proud of her. Her letter is so beautiful. Go get ‘em MacKenzie. https://t.co/S2gLLBQyRQ

— Jeff Bezos (@JeffBezos) May 28, 2019

Jeff Bezos has not signed the Giving Pledge himself.

Founded in 2010 by Bill and Melinda Gates and Warren Buffett, the Giving Pledge encourages the world’s richest people to give away over half their wealth. Other notable names who have previously signed the pledge include Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan, Elon Musk, Richard Branson, Larry Ellison, Michael R. Bloomberg, Pierre Omidyar and many more.

Today, the program announced 19 more philanthropists have signed their names to the pledge, bringing the total number of signatories to 204.

In addition to Bezos, other tech industry additions announced today include: Tegan and Brian Acton — the latter who co-founded WhatsApp, the messaging app bought by Facebook in 2014 for $19 billion; Coinbase co-founder and CEO Brian Armstrong; co-founder of bitcoin trading platform BitMEX Ben Delo; Twilio CEO Jeff Lawson and Erica Lawson; Lowercase Capital partners Chris and Crystal Sacca; and Pinterest co-founder Paul Sciarra and Jennifer Sciarra.

Globally, there are now signatories from 23 countries: Australia, Brazil, Canada, China, Cyprus, Germany, India, Indonesia, Israel, Malaysia, Monaco, Norway, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Slovenia, South Africa, Switzerland, Tanzania, Turkey, Ukraine, United Arab Emirates, the United Kingdom and the United States. In the U.S., the largest contingents are from New York and California.

Bezos’ full letter detailing her plans is below:

May 25, 2019

Thinking about the Giving Pledge, my mind kept searching its folds for a passage I once read about writing, something about not saving our best ideas for later chapters, about using them now.

I found it this morning on a shelf of my books from college, toward the end of Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life. It was underlined and starred like all of the words that have inspired me most over the years, words that felt true in context, and also true in life:

“Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book… The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better… Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.”

I have no doubt that tremendous value comes when people act quickly on the impulse to give. No drive has more positive ripple effects than the desire to be of service. There are lots of resources each of us can pull from our safes to share with others — time, attention, knowledge, patience, creativity, talent, effort, humor, compassion. And sure enough, something greater rises up every time we give: the easy breathing of a friend we sit with when we had other plans, the relief on our child’s face when we share the story of our own mistake, laughter at the well-timed joke we tell to someone who is crying, the excitement of the kids in the school we send books to, the safety of the families who sleep in the shelters we fund. These immediate results are only the beginning. Their value keeps multiplying and spreading in ways we may never know.

We each come by the gifts we have to offer by an infinite series of influences and lucky breaks we can never fully understand. In addition to whatever assets life has nurtured in me, I have a disproportionate amount of money to share. My approach to philanthropy will continue to be thoughtful. It will take time and effort and care. But I won’t wait. And I will keep at it until the safe is empty.

MacKenzie Bezos

[taillow-suift]

Crashing Wavelengths - Chapter 1 (Candidate Draft)

Here we jump to the present shortly after Ash returns from Kalos. No more boring flashbacks. This is essentially a release candidate draft for what I’ll eventually hope to post on ff.net. The feedback I got from the last chapter was really valuable. Thank you everyone who had time to engage. I’d really appreciate if you could do the same here.

Previous Chapters:

Prologue

Summary: Ash attempts to reconnect with Misty shortly after his return to Kanto. But the ramifications of the Lumiose terror attack complicate their reunion as remnants of Team Flare remain at large. The wounded organization’s activities for some odd reason begin taking special interest in Misty’s familial past involving her mother’s research and her father’s navy background. Naval intelligence officers soon become involved, setting the two sides in a crash course with Ash and Misty at the center.

Chapter 1

Ten Years Later

Tracey Sketchit eased the last buckets of Pokemon feed on the dew covered grass. He wiped a slick of sweat off his brow. The wooden fence supporting his lean was still moist from the cool morning humidity. Tracey took a moment to catch his breath as he sighted the empty trough lined against the fence within the Tauros pen. The Tauros herd was already queued along the rusted trough, ready for their breakfast. Tracey noted their restlessness hadn't gone abated since the early morning.

He didn't think it was a coincidence that the herd's demeanor was timed with Ash's return to Pallet Town the night before. The lab assistant felt he needed to double the portion of feed today. And that unfortunately meant dragging along double the buckets. He endured a work out but he was thankful that the high temperatures of summer had been displaced by the cooler climate of fall. The labor was still hard but at least it was easier to cool off.

"Bet you guys can't wait to see Ash, can you fellas?"

He started to dump a bucket of feed over the fence. The herd brayed, grateful to start their meal. Tracey made sure to walk along the trough to ensure equal distribution of feed. He repeated the process for the remaining loads. Tracey was about to start stacking depleted buckets for return to the ranch until he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey Tracey!"

The voice prompted a another burst of braying from the Tauros, this time frenzied. Tracey looked up and saw Ash, Pikachu perched on his shoulder, jogging towards the Tauros pen. Tracey then panicked. He didn't anticipate Ash coming so soon.

"No, Ash, wait!"

Tracey took a quick glance behind him to see that the herd had now collectively locked their horns against the fence. Their hooves blasted the dirt floor. Their frenzied braying grew louder. Bovine force and torque tested the fence's structural integrity to the limits. The groans of twisting and bending wood wasn't sustained for long when it was cut short with a cringe inducing crack. Tracey ran out of the way of the liberated stampede. He looked ahead at Ash, hoping his friend would start fleeing in the opposite direction.

Ash would do no such thing. Instead he cockily smiled and, to Tracey's dismay, accelerated to a sprint.

"Ash, get out of the way!" urgently warned Tracey, unsure if Ash was aware of the obvious hazard in front of him.

Ash sustained his dash towards what was now a mobile mass of brown dust. Once Tracey realized Ash wasn't listening, his hands obscured his eyes so he could spare his psyche from witnessing a fatality. Several seconds of willful blindness would pass until Tracey allowed his left eye to see through the smallest aperture his fingers would allow. He saw the herd was still furiously galloping. But he could see Ash was now riding the herd leader. The herd was in formation with Ash at the front.

"Huh. I never seen him do that before," Tracey remarked to himself.

His hands abandoned his face. Tracey was relieved he didn't have to see a live body get trampled or gored. He deduced that Ash had somehow hopped on top of the herd leader mid-motion and mounted it.

"Guess he learned some new tricks in Kalos," he observed out loud.

"Yee haw!" he faintly heard Ash yell.

"Pika!" squeaked Pikachu.

Tracey flattened his hands on his hips. He watched Ash orbit the periphery of the ranch. Ash made his rounds greeting the rest of his Pokemon. All while the Tauros were loyally trailing him with clouds of dust scattering in their wake. Tracey couldn't believe how well Ash had the herd under control. The last time Tracey saw Ash was when he finished his Sinnoh journey. He vividly recalled the Tauros breaking out of their pen that time as well and mercilessly pursuing Ash across the ranch. It certainly was a sharp contrast from the present.

Tracey then reflected on what had happened in Kalos. The chills from seeing the live television broadcasts and the confused panic from the destruction and rubble. Tracey was surprised Ash was in good spirits even after a calamity like that.

Ash started his approach back to the Tauros pen. He lead the Tauros into the newly formed wooden maw from where they escaped. The herd filed in, obediently confining themselves to where they were. As soon as the last one was accounted for, Ash dismounted. He dusted off his limbs and snapped his head at his shoulder towards Pikachu.

"That sure was fun, wasn't it Pikachu?" he smirked.

"Pi pikachu!" Pikachu joyfully confirmed.

Tracey walked into the Tauros pen, assessing the damage from the inside. He shook the fence posts near the point of failure to check what was left of their integrity. They were indeed rickety and needed to be replaced. He concluded that the fence would have inevitably broke with or without the Tauros' help. Ash's arrival only accelerated the time to failure.

Ash trailed up to Tracey's position. "Heh, sorry about that, Tracey," he apologized, "It looks like the old fence needed some fixing."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Ash. I'd say we're pretty much used to this every time you come home. Guess we don't remember to fix up the fence every now and then." Tracey shrugged in dismissal.

"Ha, no kidding!" Ash laughed, "Might as well do something about it while I'm here. Is the wood still at the same place in the shed?"

"It sure is. I'll walk with ya," offered Tracey, "Welcome home by the way, Ash."

"Thanks, Tracey. It's good to be back."

Tracey started his step towards the Oak ranch residence. Ash matched his speed with Tracey at his side.

"I'm surprised you're in such a good mood after going through what happened in Lumiose City," Tracey observed.

"Oh? Did my mom and the Professor tell you what happened?"

Tracey grazed a look at Ash to his side. "Are you kidding? It was all over the news!"

Ash met Tracey's gaze with widened eyes. "Whoa. I didn't think it would be that big of a deal to be on the local news."

"Why wouldn't it be?" Tracey asked confusingly, "Everyone saw the city get torn up by Zygarde. Not to mention those Team Flare guys causing all that mess."

"Wow. I mean, I guess things may have looked bad but it all worked out in the end," Ash dismissed, "Nobody got hurt, everybody was safe, and Team Flare is history."

Tracey had to stifle a chuckle. "Ash, we all saw you get captured live on TV. Everybody at home couldn't get over the videos people posted online of you unconscious on the Prism Tower."

Really? There's videos of that online?" Ash whined with a pinch of shame, "Well that's kind of embarrassing."

Tracey gimbaled his eyes to see a flustered Ash grabbing the back of his head. "Embarrassing is not the word I'd use when everyone thought you were going to bite the dust, Ash" Tracey ribbed, not understanding how his friend could value pride over safety.

Ash seemingly ignored the logic of Tracey's statement. "But if everyone was so worried about me, how come mom and the Professor didn't looked freaked out about what happened whenever I talked to them?"

"Because your mom and the Professor are grown ups," Tracey curtly explained, "Grown ups do a pretty good job of worrying and not showing."

"Was anyone else worried about me then? Were you worried about me, Trace?" joked Ash.

"Oh I was," admitted Tracey, half playing along with Ash's joke, "I mean, don't get me wrong. From hanging out with you in the Orange Islands and the stories you tell me, I know you're always bound to get yourself into something crazy."

"But, that's weird," Tracey continued, "I guess she didn't say anything to you?"

"Who say what to me?" Ash asked.

"So you didn't even talk to her," Tracey alarmingly concluded.

"Talk to who?"

Tracey sighed. "I'm talking about Misty. I thought you called her before you got back." He assumed the two regularly spoke based on what he knew.

"Oh. Well, we usually do," Ash confirmed disconcertingly. He followed with an admission. "I guess I didn't get a chance to call anyone other than mom after the Kalos League. Why? What's up with Misty?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd know," responded Tracey, sounding sorry that he didn't have more information.

"Uh oh. Is there something wrong?"

"Daisy says she's been acting weird lately," Tracey further explained.

"Really? Since when?"

"Since the Kalos League Championships. I guess ever since she saw what happened in Lumiose City, she hasn't been talking much."

"Oh jeez."

Tracey peeked to his side for Ash's reaction. He skipped a step upon seeing Ash was no longer in lock with him. He swiveled his head further back to see Ash standing still behind him and staring at the ground. Tracey could see Ash's swagger from before was diminished. His friend was seemingly unsure what to do with this new subject.

"Ash?"

"Misty," rasped Ash, "I didn't think she'd get worried over that."

Tracey oriented himself to fully face Ash. "Well why wouldn't she? As I said, a lot of us were freaked out over what happened in Lumiose. Especially her."

"I don't know. I just, never thought about it."

The bill of Ash's cap obscured his eyes from Tracey's. Tracey wondered if Ash was reacting to guilt or worry. A part of him was glad that Ash at least understood the implications of the present emotional fallout. Tracey was in fact surprised at Ash's reaction. Ash would usually brush off the worries people had over him just like he did today. But for some odd reason, this new data was a pressure point. Tracey remembered the dozens of times Misty had feared for Ash's safety. And the dozens of times Ash had given a reassuring nod and wink to diminish the danger. But now Misty wasn't talking and Ash was now sensitive to the consequences. A moment like this felt like uncharted territory.

"Do you want to give her a call right now? The fence can wait," Tracey offered, attempting to give Ash some space.

No immediate response came from Ash. Tracey suspected Ash was at least entertaining the thought. Pikachu attempted to garner a reaction from his trainer. "Pikapi?"

The brief refrain ceased when the red cap no longer eclipsed Ash's eyes. A sudden jarring smile emerged. Tracey sadly almost expected it. "Naw it's okay, we definitely need to fix that fence first."

Pikachu puckered his rodent lips in confusion as he stared at his trainer. Tracey too stared quizzically, thinning one of his eyes towards Ash. He lightly scraped a fingernail on his cheek.

Tracey knew he couldn't dwell on it too long. He throttled to a fast walk so he could catch up with Ash.

The daylight shed its golden sheen signalling the break of noon. Songs of Pidgey and Spearow played from the forest that cusped the ranch field's edge. The beat of Ash and Tracey's hammers echoed along the sweet erratic tunes. The Tauros herd were lazing about, resting from their meal and unplanned exercise.

Tracey was working on the opposite side of the fence's breach from Ash's side. He stopped driving his nail midway to rest his increasingly sore arm, already taxed by carrying the extra buckets of feed earlier. He stretched his arm muscles. The rhythm of Ash's hammer subsequently became a solo.

Ash looked to his side. Before he could question the pause, Tracey projected across the gap. "Hey Ash!"

Ash paused his own hammer. "What's up!"

"So where did you learn how to do that?"

Ash swept the sweat above his eyes with the back of his hand. "Hammering a nail?"

"No, I mean before we started on the fence," Tracey specified, "You managed to get on top of the Tauros while it was running at you."

"Oh that!" Ash realized, "Yeah, that's something I picked up in Kalos."

"Huh, I thought you did. So who taught you that?" Tracey asked, "I've never seen you do that before."

"Uh, my friend Serena taught me. It's honestly no big deal. It was something that took awhile to get used to."

Ash mentally thumbed through his memories of Kalos. Ash recalled the drills, the postures, and the techniques Serena had him do whenever they had a chance to rent out Rhyhorn. "She taught me how to ride Rhyhorn. But it was pretty easy to use what I learned with the Tauros," he added.

Ash was going to continue on about how he was able to translate Rhyhorn riding into Tauros riding. But his memories of Serena's lessons segued into other kernels of thought. His mind waltzed to what had happened at the Lumiose International Airport. The moment before he, Serena, Bonnie, and Clemont went their separate ways. 

Ash remembered how Serena lunged for his face from the escalator.

The memory had barely aged beyond a day. The vividness still young and fresh. The brief collision of their lips. The sudden warmth and moisture on his mouth. The sweet residue left behind by her lip gloss. Serena's humid breath collecting and evaporating on his face before and after the surprise contact.

Ash's sight had already zoned out on the green and blue mountainscapes beyond the rural plains of his home town. Ash didn't know what to think about that moment with Serena. There was something enjoyable about it but Ash couldn't understand why. Before he could think of it even further, another memory triggered, this time farther back beyond Kalos. It was in the Orange Islands.

"I wonder how they evolved, from the battle or the kiss!" blurted Tracey.

Tony and Emily's Nidorans had evolved into Nidorino and Nidorina after kissing each other. Tracey furiously scratched his pencil across his paper canvas. Misty literally hurled him aside in response to his bold hypothesis.

"Do you think people change when they're kissed?" Ash asked Misty with befuddlement, confused by her overreaction.

He expected her to face him in giving a straight answer. Her answer was cryptic instead. "Guess we're gonna have to find out ourselves," Misty murmured, denying Ash the eye contact he wanted.

A pang of guilt tore through him. Ash remembered Misty was worried about him. She wasn't talking to anyone and he had yet to talk to her since the Lumiose incident. Ash was aware of the stinging possibility that Misty may not be feeling well because of him. But his sudden sensitivity to what Misty thought confused him, something he’d never think about before. So why now?

But then Ash dwelled on the word change. Supplemental guilt invaded Ash's subconscious when thinking about the kiss. If people change when receiving one, did Serena's alter him somehow? He couldn't rationalize the shame he felt for almost enjoying it. Even more so for letting it happen.

Ash couldn't bear to give it more thought. His mind propelled back to the present. He realized he was touching his mouth in front of Tracey. His hand scrambled back to his side. He fought the embarrassment percolating within.

"Ash? Is everything okay?" Tracey cocked his head to get a better angle on Ash's face.

"Yeah, I'm good." Ash resumed slamming his unfinished nail.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Ash deflected, "I was thinking how you probably want to learn how to ride the Tauros like that too." He nicked another unused nail from his nail box.

"Yeah. I what I wanted to ask," Tracey hesitantly resolved, "That definitely would be helpful."

Tracey slowly resumed hammering on his end of the fence. His eyes darted between Ash and his hammer's target but he would eventually fully focus on the nail. From then on, Ash and Tracey's voices would no longer disturb the cadence of steel clacking wood.

"Do you think people change when they're kissed?" Ash rehashed quietly to himself while still swinging his hammer.

Ash didn't have the answer. But his urge to get in touch with Misty grew even greater.

The sleeping data center ran on a solar power source independent from the main Kalos power grid to prevent detection from the authorities. The racks of servers and hard drives were powered off since the day the seemingly unused data center was constructed by a shell company owned by Lysandre Labs. No human had stepped into the nondescript building off the beaten path of Route 12 ever since the technicians and engineers responsible for its creation had finished the initial setup. Largely forgotten, the data center was off the books from the company's ledgers and records in case Lysandre Labs would be seized by the Kalosian government. Which had happened almost two weeks ago.

But today, the silent farm of computers awoke. Fluorescent lights one by one illuminated the rows of mainframes. A hum and rattle came from the vents, an indication that the air conditioning turned on without complications. At the corner of the server room was a lone terminal. The display activated for the second time of its operating life:

Waiting for deadman switch packet...

TIMEOUT (Waited for 864000 seconds)

No deadman switch packet received…

[[Initializing Backup Sequence]]

Executing Backup Shell Scripts...

Establishing secure encrypted 256-bit session to any available Team Flare data servers…

Found server at fue7::8je6::923h::a73g Found server at 98y8::t8yu::iasd::fy89 No response from 2f31::dd8d::9d4g::712f Found server at 8df9::3f4e::5g7f::9fas Found server at j87r::56wr::f98y::u23t No response from g73f::752a::c73b::878e

Downloading file(s)

…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...COMPLETE

Decrypting file(s)

…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...…...COMPLETE

234,325,342 file(s) recovered across 432 volumes. (39.93 TB)

SIGNAL SELF-DESTRUCT fue7::8je6::923h::a73g SIGNAL SELF-DESTRUCT 98y8::t8yu::iasd::fy89 SIGNAL SELF-DESTRUCT 8df9::3f4e::5g7f::9fas SIGNAL SELF-DESTRUCT j87r::56wr::f98y::u23t

CONFIRMATION PACKET RECEIVED FROM j87r::56wr::f98y::u23t CONFIRMATION PACKET RECEIVED FROM 8df9::3f4e::5g7f::9fas CONFIRMATION PACKET RECEIVED FROM 98y8::t8yu::iasd::fy89 CONFIRMATION PACKET RECEIVED FROM fue7::8je6::923h::a73g

[[Activating Continuity of Operations Protocol]]

Sending confirmation signal request packets to all Team Flare cells...

Awaiting confirmation from Aliana Cell… Awaiting confirmation from Byrony Cell… Awaiting confirmation from Celosia Cell… Awaiting confirmation from Mable Cell… Awaiting confirmation from Xerosic Cell… Awaiting confirmation from Euclid Cell…

Status Aliana Cell (NO RESPONSE) Status Byrony Cell (NO RESPONSE) Status Celosia Cell (NO RESPONSE) Status Mable Cell (NO RESPONSE) Status Xerosic Cell (NO RESPONSE) Status Euclide Cell (ACTIVE)

Updating chain of command graph… COMPLETED

[[Broadcasting secure encrypted message to any available Team Flare assets]]

(BEGIN TRANSMISSION)

CONTINUITY OF OPERATIONS PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED PRE-WRITTEN MESSAGE.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

IN EVENT THAT THIS MESSAGE IS TRANSMITTED, ASSUME HQ AT LYSANDRE LABS IS COMPROMISED.

ASSUME HQ EITHER DESTROYED OR SEIZED BY AUTHORITIES.

AVAILABLE ASSETS TO MAKE CONTACT WITH REMAINING EXECUTIVES LEFT IN CHAIN OF COMMAND AS DETERMINED BY OPERATIONAL CONTINUITY PROTOCOL.

USE SECURE ENCRYPTION USING SALT 9j47fghjk38dbj23psza894 ACROSS ALL CHANNELS IN SUBSEQUENT COMMS.

PROTOCOL HAS DETERMINED EXECUTIVE _EUCLID_ IS NOW CHIEF EXECUTIVE OF TEAM FLARE.

NEW DIRECTIVES TO ARRIVE SHORTLY AFTER STRATEGIC ASSESSMENT OF SITUATION AT DISCRETION OF CHIEF EXECUTIVE.

(END TRANSMISSION)

[rizzizzsins-blog]

From the Ashes, Ch. 2

Wanna read this on Archive? Click here.

 The rustling of hospital sheets and a splitting headache woke Asher up. He’d never even gotten a drink and it still felt like he had a hangover.

 “Morning, princess.” Was that the red eyed skeleton from the night before? Had he wasted his evening watching over him?

 Oh. Right. They’d probably taken him out of his binder.

 “Er, prince. But, yeah, morning.”

 “Oh… alright, princey.”

 Close enough.

 “What are you doing here? I mean, I appreciate you taking me to the hospital, but he didn’t hit me      that     hard, did he?”

 “Yeah, ‘bout that. Might wanna feel your noggin. It’s not a pretty picture.”

 The living sap that made up his face had solidified and cracked. It was a way that his body protected itself from hard hits.

 Bastard had really done a number on him. Was he going to be able to go into work like this?

 “Did the doctors say it was a concussion?”

 “No, but---”

 “Cool. I have a shift tonight,” Asher grunted, starting to get up. Gravity magic yanked him back into bed.

 “Woah, easy there, your Highness. They didn’t say you were fit to work either, so just stay your ass put before you break something else.”

 “Fiiiiine. Well, I’m awake. You can go now. I’m not dead and you aren’t liable,” Asher sighed.

 “Why the fuck would I leave ya like this? It’s kinda my fault that you got hit.”

 “How is it your fault?” Asher snickered. “I shouldn’t have run my mouth towards a ball of fire twice my size. Not that I have any regrets.”

 “I, uh, shoulda stopped you. Or him. I coulda done something,” The skeleton scratches his head.

 “You didn’t have to. You’ve done more than enough for me, getting me to the hospital.”

 Cinn was about to answer when Asher heard shouting from down the hall.

 “Yeah, I’m his significant other! I have pictures of us! Who the hell did you let in that room with him?! You people are fucking incompetent!”

 Theo threw the door open, giving Asher a heart murmur.

 “What are you doing here.” Theo asked coldly.

 “I’m… busy? Recovering from a head injury?” Asher replied, already tired of hearing his partner’s voice.

 “Yeah. I can see that. What I don’t see is…. I don’t know, let me think. How you got yourself hurt. Where the hell you were last night. Who that motherfucker right there is,” Theo pointed at the skeleton.

 “Look, just stop raising your voice. You’re making a scene.”

 “Oh, I’m making a scene? Just like you did at that filthy bar last night?”

 “So you do know what happened,” Asher responded.

 “You were on the fucking news. ‘Dryad Injured By Fire Elemental Punch In Possible Interspecies Hate Crime.’ Guess who’s the only fucking dryad in this city?”

 Asher’s head felt like it was going to burst.

 “Please, Theo, just stop. I talked shit. I got hit. If this is a private hospital, you don’t have to foot the bill. So just go. I’ll be home tonight if I can.”

 “Pfft, no you won’t. You’ll be at work. Or maybe at the bad part of town getting into barfights, because that’s apparently who you are now.”

 “Hey,” the skeleton tried to interject.

 “I don’t know why you’re trying to act out. Are you looking for attention or something? You ever considered that I could use a glance over once in a while?”

 “Hey! That’s fuckin’ enough!” The skeleton stood up. He seemed offended, as if Theo had been talking to him.

 “You stay out of this! You fucking impersonated me and took      my    partner to some random hospital. Who knows what you two did on the way.”

 Asher couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “  I was unconscious!  Stop shouting and just go to class! I’ll be back later!”

 “I expect you home by 10 pm for dinner. Now that I have to put a curfew on you just to prevent you from getting killed,” Theo threw that in, before slamming the door as he left.

 “... You’re dating that fuckboy?”

 Asher knew what kind of talk was coming, and he didn’t want to hear it.

 “Just go. Whatever you’re gonna say, I’ve already heard it, so go. Before the hospital staff kick you out for lying.”

 “Look…. Name’s Cinn. I’m leavin’ my number on this napkin. Text me by 10, please… not to sound like that bastard. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

 Asher turned away in his bed, curling up. “..... Thanks.”

 There’s three gentle knocks on the door.

 “This is your doctor. May I come in?”

 “Sure,” Asher manages, trying not to cry.

 A goat monster with a gentle, but slightly detached voice came in with a cup of chamomile tea.

 “Good morning. My name is Dr. Gabriel Dreemurr, pronounced Gah-Bree-El. How do you do today, Mr. John Doe?” She chuckled a little at her joke, then set a cup of tea down for Asher to have. No doctor had ever brought him tea. It was nice.

 He took a careful sip of the chamomile. It was delicious, and he typically hated chamomile.

 “Ms. Samara Frax,” Asher winced. “Please call me Asher, though.”

 “Your legal name is already on the paperwork. I will call you what makes you most comfortable, and I will ensure that others do so in my presence. Does that help?” She asked, sounding genuinely concerned for him. It helped him relax a little.

 “Yeah… thank you, Dr. Dreemurr.”

 “Now then, it seems that you were hit rather hard on the head at a barfight. May I have a look at the injury?

 Asher pushed his long, mossy hair aside to reveal the injury. He still hadn’t looked at it, only felt it.

 “Oh, my. Will you be pressing charges? I’m sorry, but under Monarchic Monster Law, I’m required to ask, and this is a monster hospital.”

 Asher shook his head. “No point. It already happened, and I kind of deserved it.”

 “Now, now, violence is almost never called for, especially if you were speaking the truth. I have been briefly acquainted with Mr. Sparkby Embers, and let me say, the dislike is mutual.”

 Asher chuckled at that. Gabriel did the standard tests- ask him math problems, take his blood pressure, listen to his soul, before letting him know that everything checked out.

 "I would strongly suggest that you at least spend the day here before returning to work tonight. I overheard you and the flame arguing over it."

 Fantastic. How many people had heard that, the whole hospital?

 "Will do."

 "Well then, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Frax. Please don't get caught up in another 'interspecies hate crime'. The human news have enough fuel for idiocy out there."

 "Got it," Asher replied, before reclining a bit. Gabriel hadn't taken back her mug. He presumed she would come and get it later. In the meantime, he reached for his computer and opened his email. Great. An email from the professor already.

     Dear Asher,  

     I noticed that on the get to know you assignment, you were a bit reticent to offer any information on yourself.  

     I hope that my lines of questioning have not made you uncomfortable, and would be happy to discuss anything you'd like to get off your chest in private.  

     I look forward to seeing you a bit more comfortable in the class. I read your contributions in the Creative Writing magazine, and I think you're capable of great things!  

     Cordially,  

     Dr. Clementine Gaster (Dr. Clemm)  

 Well… that was less bad than Asher had expected it to be. Still, something didn’t seem quite right. Asher had learned from experience that STEM professors, in general, tended to be less understanding of his situation. So if Clemm wasn’t an interdimensional physicist, what professor was he thinking of? He’d remember eventually.

     “Dr. Clemm,  

     I’ll do my best to be more responsive from now on.  

     Asher”  

 He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he sent it as it was.

 He rang for more pain meds. After the nurse administered them, he used a vine to open the blinds. The lazy afternoon sun replenished his spirits a bit, and he felt comfortable enough to take another nap. He really had fallen behind on his sleep schedule.

 Around dinnertime, there’s yet another knock on the door. Asher didn’t even have time to say “Come in” before the door was opened.

 “.... What are you doing here?! Don’t get closer!” Asher hissed. It was his attacker. To hit him for insulting him was one thing, but to show up at his hospital room?

 “Hey, hey, hands off the panic button. I’ve heard enough sirens for today,” the bartender sighed. “Look, if I had come here to kill you, would I have brought flowers and food?”

 Oh. He had brought flowers. And food.

 “.... I guess not…” Asher paused, before pulling his finger away from the call button.

 “So, how’d Sparkby react to you punching a client half your size? Do you still have a job?” Asher asked. Asher didn’t know why he cared, but he did.

 “I’m Sparkby,” the elemental answered.

 “You’re shitting me.”

 “Nope. I’m the owner. So yeah, I got to keep my job, just barely. Almost lost my goddamn license.”

 “I’m glad you didn’t. I kind of deserved it for what I said. I shouldn’t have judged you like that,” Asher chuckled, rubbing his head.

 “Cinn and his bro chewed me out for quite a while after you were checked in. So…”

 Sparkby took a deep breath, steadying himself.

 “Look, I’m not good at apologies, but I’m a damn good cook, and hospital food blows, so I made you supper. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned or some shit. I’m not that kind of a bastard.”

 Sparkby set the flowers by Asher’s windowsill, then stopped.

 “Ah, shit, I brought you dead plants. That’s not considered offensive or anything, is it?”

 Asher shook his head. “I appreciate them.”

 “Right. If you ever wanna come back to my bar, I won’t bash your skull in, and your first drink’s on the house.”

 He was about to head out when Asher noticed he still had a styrofoam container in one hand. Was Sparkby going to eat alone?

 “Wait! Umm ... if you’re not busy, you can sit down for a bit. We could both eat.”

 “Huh?” The flame looked down, confused. “Well… if you need someone around, I guess.”

 He closed the door and sat in a chair nearby. Asher opened his food. Chicken parmigiana. It smelled heavenly.

 “Jesus, this is beautiful. You really didn’t have to.”

 Sparkby shakes his head, a hint of blue on his cheeks. “‘S nothing. And I did have to. Or Cinn and Edge would’ve had my head.”

 Asher took his first bite. It was perfection. Better than anything he’d made. And certainly better than cold takeout from Theo. He hadn't meant to moan, but it was so goooood.

 Thankfully, both he and Sparkby silently agreed to pretend that it hadn't happened at all. Sparkby cleared his throat.

 "So, Cinn has an older brother?"

 "Younger. Nickname's Edge. Real uptight bastard, but he's gotten a lot better. oNow he’s just a fuckin’ busybody when he’s not working Captain’s Shift.”

 “Wait. Cinn’s little brother is the Captain of the Interroyal Guard? Some brother.”

 “Yeah. Rides my ass every time I don’t card in his presence, but otherwise a good guy. He almost blasted me when he found out I punched a mouthy little sapling.”

 Asher chuckled. “Interspecies hate crime, huh?”

 “The shit humans come up with to slander monsters. You’d think we wouldn’t be newsworthy by now,” Sparkby scoffed.

 “Especially since we’ve lived along them the entire time,” Asher grinned.

 “Oh, you’re a glen kid? How was it?”

 Asher wanted to answer, but there was a pit in his stomach whenever someone asked him that.

 “... Don’t worry. I don’t like dwelling on the past either. Well, how was the food? Orgasmic?”

 Asher almost spit out his iced coffee. “You piece of shit! I thought you were gonna let that slide!”

 “Oh, you’d love for me to let it slide, wouldn’t ya?~”

 The door swung open, almost hitting Sparkby. Thankfully the guy could DODGE.

 “What the fuck is this?” Theo growled, glaring daggers at the larger fire elemental.

 “A friend.” Well, Asher wasn’t sure if he considered Sparkby a friend yet, but it would hopefully shut Theo up.

 “You don’t have friends. Is this the guy who hit you? Why the fuck did you let him in? You just opening the door for anyone except your significant other now?”

 “Theo, you didn’t even knock.”

 “Why should I have to knock? I have the right to be here.      He    should be in prison.”

 “Well, I’m not pressing charges, so let it go, Theo.”

 “Let it go?” He guffawed. “Let it go?! This bastard is getting more forgiveness out of you in five minutes than I have in 5 years.”

 The potent scent of frankincense hit Asher’s nose.

 Sparkby was smoking with rage, but the wicked smile on his face was what was worrying Asher the most.

 “Ohhhh…. I remember you. I see why you’re trying to get rid of me. How could I forget you, you little piss stain of a monster?”

 “I’ve never met you in my life. And I don’t want you in      our     life, so get out before I tell the Guard you attacked him again.” Theo’s voice wavered on the last word.

 “You’re playing a dangerous game, little matchstick. Truth’s gonna come out one way or another; I won’t even have to be the one to do it.”

 “Get out. Before I call. The cops,” Theo demanded. Sparkby just shrugged.

 “No worries. I was on my way out anyways, and so are you.”

 He saunters out, cocksure as when Asher had first seen him behind the counter.

 What had he just witnessed?

 “Do you know---”

 “No. I brought takeout, but clearly that’s not good enough for you anymore. I’m going home.”

 “Theo---”

 “Be back at 10.”

 … There was no point in thinking about it. Whatever had just happened, Theo would keep him in the dark forever if he could. Asher hugged his pillows tightly, trying not to sob.

 Maybe it was better like that.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Dave

Written by Loren D. Davis

--I-- His A Street condo lay in disarray. The vast space that once remained pleasantly empty was now strewn with empty whiskey bottles, cigarette butts, and ashes. Strong odors pervaded the air, most likely originating from the cocktail of human secretions expelled during the night of revelry. Dozens of naked men and women slept atop one another in scattered piles upon the floor. Dave stepped out to the balcony, pulling out the last cigarette in the carton. He lit it as he felt the weight of his self-loathing sink in once more. Or maybe that was just the hangover. A gentle gust of wind rustled the thick brown hair on his head. The February air was unforgiving, and the sky was overcast to match his mood. His mind had been troubled for some time. Lunging headfirst into sensory overload was his first reflex amid his sorrow, but the booze, drugs, and women only numbed the pain for a few hours a day at most. These comforts always left him feeling worse the next day than the last. The firm would have to do without him today. In spite of his young age, Dave had managed to rack up a fair amount of wealth working in the Financial District. From the large windows that spanned most of the side of the floor he owned, he could see the building where he worked. His visitors had often told him that he had the best view in the whole city, complete with the bay. He lived a comfortable life, yet his career seemed to have carried more significance back when the fruit of his labor went to much more vital objects than Scotch and hookers. He understood that the lifestyle so many of his peers relished--a lavish life of licentiousness that he too had sought immaturely when his income was more modest--was not as great as it had been made out to be. In his view, no man is truly essential. After all, how is man any different than tiny ants? Man is but a pest and a nuisance. In fact, man is worse than an ant. Ants are unwavering in their loyalty to the greater fabric of their existence. Man is arrogant yet parasitic in nature. Maybe it was the deep loneliness he felt. He was surrounded by hundreds of acquaintances that took no issue with partying with him for days in a row. They partook in the many commodities he had to offer, but none of them were true friends. The connection he had with them would always be superficial at best. How could they truly understand? Half the people that partied with him were the spoiled offspring of the world’s elite who had thus far been tightly guarded and now made use of their newly-found freedom with eagerness. Others were higher class junkies, escorts, and cold-blooded businessmen who were only there to get their fix.

--II-- He had not spoken to her for over five months. That last call was about his son’s birthday party invitation. His ex-wife, Victoria, had married an executive and moved to a posh suburb of San Jose, California. From the few encounters he had with Victoria’s new husband, Bill, he had gathered that his two kids felt comfortable with him. Bill had an adolescent daughter, and Victoria spoke endlessly about how great he was as a father. Dave did not talk to his kids much. He knew he should do more as their father, but he still felt guilty for having been so distant when they all lived under one roof. There was a time when he felt that they stood in his way. That man-child just wanted to have fun. He held little regard for whether Victoria would continue to tolerate his behavior.

--III-- To whoever the fuck reads this: More than likely, you don’t give a shit. I know you won’t agree with this decision, but that’s a good thing. Most people aren’t supposed to agree with the poor fuck that shoots his brains out, hangs himself, or leaps off a building to his death. What a fucked up world we’d live in if most people agreed with that. Just because I’m fucked up doesn’t mean I think other people can’t enjoy life. I guess I just don’t think it makes a difference that I do. The way I see it, life is an acquired taste like good caviar, or a rare Bordeaux. They’re expensive, and incredibly sought after by some, but that doesn’t mean everyone will indulge in them. I’m simply not impressed. So, to my son Jonathan, any my daughter, Abigail: You could not have a better mother. Always love and respect her. I’m sorry our story did not play out differently. I wish you the best. To Victoria: I hope you live a plentiful life filled with happiness.

Dave left the letter on his marble kitchen countertop, held underneath the knife block. He locked the bottom doorknob before he walked out his front door into the hallway. He walked slowly to the elevator and stared at it for about three minutes, contemplating what he intended to do.

--IV-- “Can you talk?” Dave had texted Victoria four days before. No answer.

--V-- The stairs seemed to be a more fitting vehicle to reach his destination. Elegant even. So he went up eleven stories to the top of the building. His journey up the never-ending flights of stairs was laborious, but it afforded him the luxury of reflecting on the various choices he had made throughout his life, serving only to strengthen his resolve. He gained deeper conviction of the futility and utter insignificance of his contributions. It became increasingly difficult to breathe, and Dave felt that his eyes were suddenly enveloped in a dense veil. He could no longer see clearly. Dave stopped mid-step, carefully patting the ground in front and around him to set himself down to rest. A cold hand gently cupped Dave’s shoulder in a gesture of pity. Dave knew. “I guess I should keep going.” Slowly, Dave was guided up the remaining steps, until he came up to the door that exited to the rooftop. Dave clutched the doorknob firmly, twisting it while pushing the door with the weight of his body to force it against the assailing winds. With heavy footsteps, Dave made his way to the edge where solid ground came to its end. He paused to inhale deeply.

--VI-- The sun is rising on the West Coast. Victoria awakens for her morning jog. Today, she runs along the beaches of the Northern Californian coast, a peaceful retreat away from the usual noise of the city. Her husband had decided to take the family on a weekend camping trip at a park upstate for a short break. The morning air was cool and crisp, but not unbearable. Victoria searched through her iPhone for a suitable playlist for her routine. A barrage of notifications went off as she entered an area with reception. Deep in the park, there was no service, a blessing for those looking to disconnect from the incessant noise of the modern world. Among the four or five text messages she received was one from Dave. She called him, but there was no answer. She called again. Still no answer. Again. No answer. Relenting, she carried on with her jog.

--VII- The picture of the building’s height could not dissuade Dave from his mission. He was blissfully unaware of the distance he would ultimately travel. He smiled with mild trepidation as he stretched his arms. The winds wrapped his arms and legs like thick frigid ribbons, pulling him downward with force. He floated with a sensation he imagined resembled a feather as it glides gracefully to the ground. He heard a distinct ring in the distance. Was this the sound of death approaching rapidly? The singing celestial hosts beckoning him to respite? As the sound grew nearer, his peace was swiftly seized and replaced with profound doubt and remorse. It was his phone ringing on the twenty-ninth floor. He was sure of it. But he was helpless. If he could have grown wings in that very instant, he would have, but it could not be. The serenity with which he had embarked on his trajectory had quickly been replaced with terror. He was afraid of his impending doom, and he wanted nothing else than to be rescued from this torment and dread. What had once appeared to only take a few breaths to accomplish seemed now to take an eternity to complete. With every passing moment he lived, with every breath he drew, he further regretted the step he had taken. He was afflicted not only by the gargantuan weight of the shortcomings that had propelled him to this state, but by the end he could not manage to see. He yearned for the finale to his pain, but it would not arrive. It may have only taken a few seconds, or even minutes, for Dave to exit his anguish, but he would have experienced it over the course of years in that reality which existed in his mind. Time was very much stretched out for Dave on account of the path he chose.

--VIII-- Rays of warm sunshine beamed through the thin white window curtains. A rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted in as the distant buzz of lawn mowers and the gleeful giggles of children filled the morning air.

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