#i am a LITTLE FUCKIN G WIRED

[the-holy-ghosted]

Sorry I'm still incredibly overwhelmed thinking about the cannibalism thing. To think that dave k truly said that were the other still alive, bridgens and peglar respectively would resort to cannibalism in order to survive. For the other. They would survive only for the sake of the other still being alive. Eating people only because the other is still living and they cannot fucking live without each other I am going to fuckeigndndnhhshsh hdhhehshsskh <- brain blew up

[ivegennedmylastloss]

hidey hodey neighborinoes i know i may or may not have disappeared for like half a fucking year but brain does what brain do. since i am now willing to admit that i likely will not find the motivation to write a full length fic like i would want, i wanted to post the “outline” (re: complete gibberish only past me could understand). at some point i’ll try to compile all the tidbits i had sprinkled across drafts and docs and try to clean it up a little but, well, im not even sure what i meant in some spots. hopefully ill pull the writers block out of my ass one day but until then, take this word vomit:

(for clarifications sake, r= red/ranboo, g= green/charlie, b= blue/sneeg, h= hetch, sfm= showfall media)

retelling of ep three from hetch’s pov. mask broke sfm doesn’t know. reset after stab still aware of what he’s doing but can’t control himself. hopeful ending with planning to save the trio and get them out?

the closet sfm is onto hetch so he has to do damage control ran receiving no instructions. things settle scenes been dragging he panics and basically controls r to kill ethan

maybe broadcasted to a different universe. problem w family and friends recognize

maybe broadcasted to rich assholes like in the purge/gladiator type deal?

the face of the hacker wasn’t actually supposed to do things but did anyways

follow up w/ rgb saving him g and b reluctant. r insist they won’t let anyone else die because of them. idk burn the mall maybe torch it like a fuckin wasp nest

employees stop at the door mannequins little nightmares two.

all four struggling down the road maybe r passing out carried by g or b

hot wire a car

traumatize gas station clerk

fire department from fire alarm

hetch flag down car 2 options:

car sped off but called police for them

offered ride to hospital

hetch the sidewalk isn’t wide enough fourth wheel type deal mostly unscathed compared to rgb but smol bean has anxiety and left over programming. weak little noodle arms can’t help shit. b sending hella death glares

b wouldn’t want to help hetch

r electrocuted from attempted mask removal

through the power of friendship and laws of physics or electrical plasma whatever it isn’t fatal hoorah

hetch stunned doesn’t help gb fuckin pissed at him

paramedics confused about what happened to these very dedicated cosplayers that are found half dead barely hours after the live finale

r wakes and is terrified thinking they’re at the box and start screaming for gb. hetch freezes g n b have to be held back by police

hospital r coma from noggin surgery (medically induced for healing cause wtf) g and b want to kick hetch’s ass only stop cause of r

prob not ccs maybe r foster kid hinted maybe

b needs to get to punch someone. american healthcare so probably a doctor or a nurse

hetch medically released first<irrelevant travel distance. hetch watching charlie and sneeg have friends and family going in and out but r has no on so hetch goes

others not allowed in camp out in waiting room. ran wakes up and freaks. competent doc allows them in and r calms down. good doc fights for them to be able to stay in the room psych health. special accommodations are made no tv in room gets a double room for more beds/couches <<needs special room post brain surgery op icu maybe nurse/doc maneuverability <<< maybe one allowed in at a time

^the nice doctor thrown in for pity maybe philza if crossover? detective techno? or both detectives that almost beat the shit outta the responding cops for fucking up the most important case they’d ever get

sfm sends an employee pretending to be ranboos mom. the others are scared but also she is acting like a mom that lost her kid so maybe it’s okay??<< others not allowed in the room since family only? nope ran wakes up freaks cause that bitch ain’t momboo (dead question mark? orphan? don’t tell techno)

employee tries to strangle r no loose ends: doc pulls her off; trio breaks in hetch proves himself?; r is a bamf and defends themself (hitting? reverse uno they strangle her? rips out iv and stabs her?< needle to weak would have to be in eye)

r scared to sleep from cabin electrocution and execution hold hand 👉👈?

carousel saved NO FIRE IF CAROUSEL perhaps a group meet for victims ranboo and hetch reluctant to enter cause they think they’re their murderers. eef spots r and runs to hug him others follow positive to r wary to hetch b says hetch is the one responsible for saving all of them bada bing bada boom happy ending

[docholligay]

In as much as I’m aware, G&T is a US only thing though I may be incorrect about that.

The anon is crossing wires a bit, I think, so I’ll explain the GENERAL structure of it. I am assuming anon is in the US, and, I cannot say this enough, if you are not, I do not care. Everything I said stands.

G&T is an elementary school program where children who are considered to be particularly intelligent or have large amounts of potential are given additional out of class time to be taught higher level things. If this sounds a LITTLE vague, it’s because the US states are run a little like UK countries--there is QUITE a bit of variation in how things are done because of states’ autonomy. In Montana, I was required to take several tests and an interview to be considered G&T. I passed. My sister didn’t. My sister makes six figures as an engineer and got accepted to MIT, I talk about anime on the internet. So.

Largely, what G&T programs do is introduce concepts that are considered ‘above’ other children--I was taught algebra at 7 or 8, we often engaged in word puzzles, we were introduced to high-level literature. There is QUITE a bit of the idea that you are ‘smarter’ than other kids, and anyone who says otherwise is full of it. It was like, my sole fucking consolation in elementary school. That these kids were mean to me, but I was SMARTER than them. BETTER. Lol what hot bullshit.

In high school it largely translates into the AP (Advanced Placement) program. I am not 110% sure how you transition into this if you weren’t G&T as a child, but I know you can because the classes got bigger. So, AP kids take math classes a year sooner and can do Calculus before they graduate if they choose the math track for example. I dropped math the second they let me, so I only went to Trigonometry. AP English is a separate class entirely that does more difficult work. So, for example, we did Beowulf, we did Hamlet, we were expected to write higher-level papers and read A Tale of Two Cities over the summer. Crushing. You could opt out of this at any time when you were making your schedule.

College...does not have G&T. lol. They have honors programs, which vary so widely by school that it’s barely worth getting into here. In my college, if you wanted to graduate with honors you had to be a part of the honors program, which involved a whole extra class every year, and, thank you but no, I do not actually care about graduating with honors and I care even less about taking a class a year with a bunch of Fareeha fuckin Amaris.

I never found any of this particularly dealing psychic damage, and I find it a little frustrating that the story on the internet has become “Oh no adults told me I was smart and I found out it was meaningless.” It’s a bit like hearing about the poor little rich girl who was sent to Switzerland for the summer with her governess and was never quite wanted--sure, but also, eyeroll.

[kiridarling]

𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐎.

katsuki bakugou | competitive sex + f!reader + pro hero!kats + hickeys + hair-pulling + ripping clothes + a surprise guest + more! minors dni.

— 1.8k words

"Text Shitty Deku we're gonna be little late."

“Katsuki. Hands off.”

The ash-blond sighs, grumbling like the petulant child he is before forcing his hands to his sides. Glaring at you through the mirror, he grunts, “Fuckin’ why.”

"Because I'm trying to get ready and you're in the way." You swat his hands away and reach for a brush, rolling your eyes when he ignores everything you just said in favor of hooking his chin around your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist. You shrug him off, "Now move."

In your defense, you've been pushed to your limit.

You two are already late enough for the Gala as it is, you know, the one that's exclusively for pro heroes. And yet, for some reason, today's the day your boyfriend's brain seems to be in his dick.

Katsuki digs his teeth into your neck, hard enough to make you whimper before you rip his head away by the strands of his hair. He growls in frustration, the grip on your waist ever-tightening.

"Y'know...if people saw the type of shit you pull in private, they'd think you were the aggressive one."

"You let me get away with it," you respond absentmindedly, leaning towards the mirror until the cool from the counter presses into your gut. Mistake.

"Right. I've been too fuckin' soft, huh?" Katsuki says more to himself than to you before he's forcing you over the sink with a heavy hand on your back; the metal from the faucet knocks you in the collarbone. "That shit changes today."

"I—Kats, we don't have ti—" but the indisputable sound of ripping cloth bounces off your bathroom walls, and the addition of cool air brushing your inner thighs implies precisely what you hope he didn't just do.

His phone clatters on the counter before he's nudging your legs wider, nestling between them, and settling on his knees.

"Text Shitty Deku we're gonna be late."

"Katsuki Bakugou, did you just rip my fucking stockings?" You howl, grip tightening around the marble countertop in fury. Katsuki growls, delivering a heavy slap to your ass.

"I said fuckin' text him."

Your chest rises and falls with indignance, and yet you're punching in the code to his phone anyway, telling Izuku to reserve two spots at the table next to him because you two won't be able to do it yourselves.

"D'ya send it?" Katsuki asks, having a blast as he kneads your exposed ass to the point where it's sore. You nod, dropping the six-by-four box onto the countertop in resignation, and the ash-blond's chest rumbles at that, hand disappearing only to crack back down twice as hard. "Good girl."

Pushing your panties to the side, Katsuki wastes no time in sliding in his finger to the first knuckle, grinning when you shudder against him. You squeal as his teeth graze your inner thigh, and he hikes your knee onto the couch, dismissing how much you complain about the burn.

"What? Can't get a better view?" He growls, cheeky bastard, before he's sucking a hickey into your thigh because he knows you like it and pushing his finger in the rest of the way. You narrow your eyes, glaring at the small sliver of his smug face you can actually see in the mirror—and he's quickly filling you with a second finger, chuckling at your moan.

"You shouldn't have a view in the first place," you grumble, insistent on standing your ground. "You should be viewing the road because we're supposed to be driving right now."

"That's a real fuckin' pity then," Katsuki responds apathetically, lips pink as he moves to suck another hickey—closer to the apex of your thighs this time. You whimper as he scissors his fingers and passes a messy thumb over your clit, hips burning from holding this position for so long. With a final lick, Katsuki pulls away from his third or fourth mark (you're not too sure) and smacks his lips. "On the sink."

"On the c—Katsuki we have to g—wah!"

Katsuki takes it upon himself to hook his arms under your thighs and hoist you onto the cool thing, sending all miscellaneous bathroom items flying. You sigh, accepting the fact that you're probably not going to make it out of the house tonight as your back kisses the freezing glass, and Katsuki pushes your knees as far back as they'll go.

He curls a lip, and then he spits, getting saliva all over your pussy and thighs, and it's wholly and utterly lewd. And yet, you bite your lip at the feeling, and he grins, knowing you like it just as much as you'll say you hate it.

"You're a fuckin' dirty girl, y'know that?" Katsuki's eyes go dark. You huff, threading a hand through his ash-blond locks to tug—and you're the one grinning when he moans.

"I'm not the one who's making us skip a mandatory gala to get his dick wet," you quip with a raised eyebrow, and your hand never leaves his hair. "Am I?"

Katsuki growls with a curled lip, but you know better, and so does the clammy grip on your thigh. You tug on his hair again, and suddenly you're full of him, yelping in surprise as your arms scramble for his back for better purchase instead.

"What was that?" He asks breathily, hiding a groan behind a bitten lip. You're just thankful he's giving you time to adjust, or so you think, until he almost pulls out entirely before his hips snap forwards as hard as they can, knocking your spine into the mirror and a bottle of lotion onto the floor.

You moan, hands searching for his hair again because you know it's one of the only things that will provide a one-up—Katsuki bares his teeth at that, bending over to suck a mark into your neck and his hips continue to fuck you into tomorrow.

"You fit like a goddamn glove," Katsuki wheezes, the grip he has around your stocking-covered thigh edging on bruising. "So tight around me—fuck—"

"K-Kats—" you grapple for his dress shirt so hard it tears, causing you to crash against the counter and make more of a mess that's already been made. The ash-blond's hips don't do anything but speed up though, filling you to the point where a deep breath feels like too much.

"Fuck baby, you're so goddamn needy," Katsuki grabs your attention by your jaw with a gritty chuckle, "But this shit's only for me, ain't it? 'Cause you're fuckin' mine."

You whimper with a nod, nails latching onto hot and sticky skin now. Katsuki hisses as they rake down his back, but that only makes you want to dig in harder.

"Fuckin' say it—tell me you're mine and no one else's," he challenges with a glint in his carmine red eyes, and something in your gut churns underneath it. Something painfully primal and raw, which has you howling out:

"'M yours, only yours!"

You jolt when his thumb returns to your clit and refuses to let up. Katsuki growls at that, somehow finding the stamina to speed up—and gripping your shoulder for leverage. You moan, eyes fluttering as his cock reaches the deepest it has tonight, and you’re sure Katsuki can tell as well if his curse is anything to go by.

Ring, ring! Ring ring!

Surprisingly, Katsuki's phone survived the purge and still sits on the counter, albeit teetering on the edge of absolute destruction. The ash-blond catches it before it falls and has the nerve to swipe right, not allowing you to fit in an objection or any say in this at all.

"The fuck do you want, Deku?" He grunts, putting the phone on speaker before he sets it back down. You eep in protest, but all he does is mouth the words quiet, baby. So you're huff, biting onto the meat of your palm for extra precaution.

"Um, Kacchan? Where are you guys?" The greenette's voice echoes off the bathroom walls to the point where it's nearly comical how clueless he is, and yet Katsuki refuses to slow down. "People are starting to ask when you're getting here..."

"Not fuckin' goin'," Katsuki's sweat drips from his brow onto your chest, and all of a sudden, you're aware of how painfully close you are, but hold back in fear of making too much noise. Izuku sighs through the phone, and you can feel his disappointment from here.

"I—Kacchan, you can't just opt out of these things, you know," Izuku says, echoing your words from earlier. "Mandatory means you have to attend."

"Yeah, well, I got better shit to do, Deku," the ash-blond spits, though he's grinning like the devil because the asshole knows you're close, he can just tell at this point, and you hate how well he knows your body.

"It doesn't matter if you don't want to go, Kacchan!" The pro-hero shrills, voice peaking out of pure frustration. "This is mandatory. As in, M-A-N-D-A-T—"

Katsuki hangs up.

"Why is everyone so goddamn mouthy these days?" He grunts, primarily to himself, and somehow you have the will to giggle. Katsuki's eyebrows furrow as you tighten around him, spurred when the head of his cock nudges the perfect spot, and his nails start to tear into what's left of your stockings as he shudders, "I—fuck baby, I'm gonna cum."

"What? Being on the phone with Izuku got you all riled up or something?" You jest breathily, and Katsuki growls, slapping your outer thigh.

"Don't fuckin' bring the nerd up right now," he wheezes, and you resist the urge to quip back—mainly because you're close yourself. You reach to pull Katsuki's hair again and his hips stutter, eyes fluttering with a breathy moan as he finally fills you up, keening over to dig his teeth into your neck. And his orgasm is only the catalyst for your own, thumping your hands against his chest as your body ignites like a live wire, toes curling and eyes screwed shut.

Katsuki stays seated in you as he catches his breath, head resting on the cool mirror with his ash-blond hair mattes brown to his forehead. He's always uncharacteristically soft while basking in his afterglow, face and chest flushed bright red from exertion as his eyes soften in a way he rarely lets them.

"You good?" He pants, chest still heaving as he blinks down at your exhausted figure. Somehow, you find the energy to nod.

"I don't feel like leaving anymore, though," you declare towards the ceiling. Katsuki clicks his tongue.

"Was hopin' you'd say that," he says gruffly—you narrow your eyes but bite your tongue. "Wanna watch a movie?"

A movie doesn't sound...bad.

You sigh in defeat (again), though jolting when Katsuki's phone rings. He quickly presses red, and 9 missed calls from shitty fucking deku is the first notification on his home screen. You two share a look—the ash-blond shrugs.

"What? I told the fucker I had better shit to do."

wrote this for a friends bday and i was like,,,i guess i could put it here too...

[meltwonu]

| caffeine |     [chapter 1]

pairing; fratboy!wonwoo x female!reader

this chapter’s notes;  some smut, mild degradation. (some art history bs cuz I, in actuality, am a nerd) can I get a yeehaw! we’re finally kickin’ this off~ this is mostly just the lead up with some mild touchin’ but you know how it is~ thank you all for being so patient! can't wait to get the next chapter out 💕 

chapters; 1 - x - x - x - x

It’s 10:48am when Mingyu all but begs you to return his art history books on Dadaism back to the campus library. You give him 4 sentences to explain why you should be the one to do it; the tall male whining that he’s already late for his exam on Baroque art.

“Can you not be a bitch for 4 seconds, please? I’m literally begging you and I know for a fact you need to get books on that fuckin’ art and gender course so don’t play me like you’re not heading there anyway!” Mingyu shoves his books into your arms, adjusting the messenger bag on his shoulder.

“I swear after the rager on friday, I’ll take you out to get those mochi donuts on saturday, okay? I gotta go!”

He gives you no time to respond, jetting off to his already-late exam. You roll your eyes, adjusting the books in your arms as you begin the trek to the library. Mingyu was a friend that you’d met in your Intro to Photography class with Minghao, another mutual friend of yours. Both of them were no-doubt handsome and insanely educated when it came to art and art history but both of them were also part of the SVT House; one of the most notorious frat houses on Greek Row. They threw parties every other week, inviting the entire campus to show up if the cops didn’t show up first. Mingyu had invited you to a few in the past but you’d always decline; citing that you rather not be around when the cops showed up. You always wondered how Minghao dealt with being in a frat house knowing he typically hated loud parties and huge crowds of strangers.

When you finally get to the library, you struggle with the door, the damned books making it difficult for you to pull the handle open. A kind soul helps you out, a small ‘thank you’ leaving your lips before you make a beeline for the receptionist desk to return Mingyu’s books. Noticing a different male there than the usual librarian, you quirk a brow.

“Um, hello?” He spares you a glance, closing a few windows on the computer he was working on before he walks over to your side of the table. You take in his features; sharp eyes, silvery blue hair, wire frame glasses, pressed white shirt under an argyle printed sweater vest tucked into beige pressed chinos. He looked like a stereotypical version of what most people would think a librarian looked like but also had the features of a high class model. You were sure you’d seen him around, probably when you’d run into Mingyu or Minghao between classes.

“Yes, can I help you?” Fuck, you think, his voice is hot too. You can feel your body heating up just from his voice alone and you take a second to recover, stuttering as you set the books down on the counter.

“Y-yeah, um, I--uh, just wanted to return these books? That’s all.”

Cursing under your breath for stuttering, you miss the way his lips quirk up into a small smile.

“Sure, let me just scan these in.” You opt to just nod, saving yourself from any further fuck ups with talking as you watch him grab the scanner.

“Hmm, it says Mingyu borrowed these books. Can I ask why you’re returning these and not himself?”

“O-oh, we’re friends. He was late to his art exam and I needed to do some work here so… figured I’d just return them for him since he’s already suffering.” He laughs, sliding the books off the counter and placing them on the return cart for later.

“I don’t see why he didn’t just give them to me this morning but I guess the beer pong from last night must’ve been the reason for him being late.” You sigh, “I knew there’d be a stupid reason he’d be late for his exam. Anyway, thanks for helping me…?” You leave the question open ended, wanting to get his name before you disappeared to one of the empty study rooms. He smiles at you again, dusting off his hands on his neatly pressed pants.

“Hi, my name’s Wonwoo. I volunteer here at the campus library every day from 10am to about 2pm. If you need anything, just let me know!” He shakes your hand, eyes twinkling as he gives you a quick up and down from behind the receptionist desk. You give him your name; watching him as he whispers it under his breath, lips tilting up into a warm and inviting smile.

“It’s nice to meet you. I hope we’ll get along well.”

You hate the way the image of Wonwoo smiling at you is embedding into your eyelids while you try to work; the stupid essay sitting in front of you still blank even when you get up to look for materials on the course an hour and a half later. Checking the kiosk to find out where the said art and gender books were, you make your way through the bookshelves, not finding any of the books you were looking for. You contemplate for a second, wondering if you really want to go visit Wonwoo at the receptionist desk. Fuck it, you think, I’ll get my books and I swear I’ll finish this damn essay before I leave, it’s not just eye candy.

“Hey, Wonwoo?” He turns away from the return cart, adjusting his glasses as he walks over to you at the counter. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Um, I… it said the art and gender books were on the shelves but they weren’t, uh, there? Can you… check for me please?” He nods, sitting down at the computer while you recite the necessary info to him. Wonwoo jots down a few notes on a notepad, getting up and gesturing for you to follow him as he tears the sheet off.

“Sorry, I’m new here so we might get lost but I think they might’ve accidentally been shelved in the wrong section of the library.” He threads through different bookshelves, taking you deeper and deeper into the library until there’s hardly anyone around.

When he finally stops, you’re in a section of the library you don’t recognize, the emptiness mildly eerie as Wonwoo searches for the said books.

“Wanna give me a little snippet of what these books are about while we’re here?” He didn’t strike you as a small talk kind of person but you shrug behind him; you were already there, might as well.

“Um, it’s just, kind of how different genders consume and interpret the human form in art. Lots of it is old and outdated but it’s for an art course I’m taking right now. Y’kno, things like the ‘male gaze’ and stuff. I’m sure it’d bore you to death.” Wonwoo hums in acknowledgement, turning to face you as he slowly backs you up against the bookshelf. It takes you off guard as you hold your breath, eyes boring into the argyle print on his sweater vest.

“Interesting course you’re taking. I don’t think it’d bore me though, I’m quite enamoured with the female form.” You’re convinced if you breathed wrong, he’d feel it with how close he was. But he whispers a small ‘ah-hah’, his hand resting on the shelf next to your head as he pulls out a singular book. Wonwoo steps back, placing the book in your trembling hands.

“That’s one book, 3 more to find.”

He continues like that, his body in close proximity to yours the entire time you stand there, unsure of what to do. Wonwoo finds two more of your books, setting them on an empty shelf nearby as he checks his note for the last one. You mentally curse yourself for wearing a sundress to the library because you can feel the back of his hand grazing your thigh when he kneels on the floor next to you, hand placed on the shelf and eyes scanning for the damned book you don’t even care about anymore.

“Hmm, I can’t seem to find this last one. Weird. Maybe someone checked it out already and it got misscanned.”

“Oh, um, that’s fine, this should be g-good. I can check the shelf myself or something!”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping you out back here. I wouldn’t want you to do it alone, you know. Joshua should have already come in for his shift already anyway.” Wonwoo stands back up, his face close to your body as he towers above you. “Don’t you want my help? I don’t really offer it very often.” The suggestive tone in his voice has you clenching around nothing, already embarrassingly wet. You hope to a higher power that he can’t tell but something inside of you already knows that he’s aware of his affect on you.

“O-okay, please… please help me.”

You swear you’ll finish your essay.

Right after Wonwoo finishes getting you off.

He touches you underneath your dress, fingers pressed firmly against the wet patch on your panties as you bite your lip to keep in your moans.

“You’ve only met me today and you’re already this wet for me? You’re such an easy little thing. Do you get this turned on just for anyone or am I doing that much damage to you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Wonwoo waits patiently; wanting to hear your reply anyway. Under any other circumstances, you’d probably punch a guy that called you easy, but for some reason the way Wonwoo says it has you getting even wetter.

“I, mmh, don’t normally… d-do this I swear.” He has you pressed against the bookshelf, a leg slotted in between yours as he braces his other hand next to your head. Wonwoo’s thumb presses hard against your clit, the fabric of your panties adding extra friction as you grind down onto his hand. “Oh? So I am just that special, huh? Lucky me, I’ve got such a cute girl cumming in the palm of my hand.” He chuckles at his own joke, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose ever so slightly.

Your hands dig into the fabric of his sweater vest, wanting nothing more than to just cum so you can go back to working on your essay and simultaneously dying of embarrassment that you got that turned on from a guy you’d just met a couple hours ago and he made you cum in some back part of the library.

“Wonwoo, can you… touch me harder, I’m really close...” You whisper. He hums, his fingertips grazing the hem of your panties.

“Harder? Or would you want my fingers instead? I wonder how many of them you could take before you’re begging me to just fuck you?” The juxtaposition of his words and his gentle touch is enough to send you over the edge, biting your lip to keep in any sounds that threaten to escape. He lets you ride out your orgasm before his hand is slipping from underneath your dress and he’s pulling away. Your dress slides back down into place, not a hair on your head looking disheveled other than the fact your face is redder than a tomato.

Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, hands immediately smoothing down any wrinkles on his clothes after.

“My shift is almost up here and I need to get to my archeology class afterwards but if you’re ever curious about the male form, I’m a willing subject.” 

[sporesgalaxy]

Havent had it in me to make a comic for my Half Life But The AI Is IRKEN au in a hot minute

but I DO have a memo saved of slightly edited dialogue for it, prominently the Coomer monologue.

I made this weeks ago for my own benefit but maybe you'll get a kick out of it!!

Will hopefully get around to doodling snippets of this eventually.

C: Hello Gordon! C: I've unleashed the power of all 300 clones! C: There's an entrance in your suit, Dr. Gordon, and I want in. C: I can't go outside Black Mesa, Dr. Gordon.  THEY won't let me. C: But YOU! I know your brain is untouched by Irken programming. AND I NEED YOUR SOFTWARE. G: TOMMY! GET HIM AWAY! GET HIM AWAY! THIS IS A NIGHTMARE...THIS IS A FUCKING NIGHTMARE! C: End of the line, Dr. Gordon. G: WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO...WHAT ARE THE IRKENS DOING... ... T: I killed them all. G: All of them?? What about the original? I need to know if you got the original one-- my software...my fucking software? What does that mean? What did he mean?? *whining, weakening, desperate* Tommy..! Talk to mee...! T: Um. You want a soda? *Gordon lies down in the fetal position* ... *Gordon walks through that corridor* G: Tommy...do ya have any -- C: SURPRISE ATTACK, GORDON! Ha-HAH!!! ... C: Gordon... C: Every time I go to sleep, I can feel my consciousness TORN apart, DATUM by DATUM... C: It's AGONIZING, Gordon... G: SHUT UP!! *slaps him* C: I can't EXIST outside of Black Mesa, Gordon. C: I'm NOTHING... C: But I know YOU. G: GET OUTTA MY HEAD!! GET OUT!!! C: There's a world outside here, Gordon. C: AND I NEED YOU TO TAKE ME THERE... ... C: Ah, Hello Gordon! Fine work taking out my clones! .... T: I think this ones safe, I-- I shot him and he didn't die. G: That does sound like the Coomer we know and love. .......... G: Weve all killed people-- C: [exposed wiring] Yes, but we all have our passports! T: [is sitting w them] .......... C: Well, clearly attaching my PAK to your arm and stealing your brain didn't work, so perhaps I can help you find...something to help. G: ....that was the scariest sentence I've ever heard. .......... C: Ahh, I see we've found the Skull Grinding Facility! G: Wha--?! .......I hate Irkens! I-- buh-- I-- C: This is a crucial part of our cybernetics research. G: ............I GUESS SO?! I GUESS IT COULD BE. .............. [Bubby just broke out of his tube] G: SINCE YOURE NEW TO THE NEO SCIENCE TEAM, one thing you have to be aware of is I am now FUCKING DEAD WEIGHT, because of THIS [arm], B: Ahh-- G: Which, is YOUR fault! B: Again, I am VERY sorry, I, I did not know they would do that. That's kind of fucked up! G: They're Irken Soldiers, man. B: ...Kind of a little fucked up. G: They're Irken Military, they're fuckin SCUM. B: ...I guess they will do whatever it takes.

[123abcdrawwithme]

all spg albums poorly described by me bc i can

album one: steam man band: michael reed voice: GUYS HOLY HECK LOOKIT MY ROBOT FRIEMDS THEIR SO COOL OHMA G AD clockwork vaudeville: now when you say you bought yourself a pickle- sound of tomorrow: the jons audible lenny face as he says “in the nude” on top of the universe 2009 ver.: RABBIT FUCKED A TOASTER AND UPGRADE KILLED THE SPINE THE GIRLS ARE OFF THE SHITS on top of the universe 2011 ver.: alternate timeline where the jon and rabbit kill the spine and deny him ice cream i am not alone: poor one out for upgrades 1 (one) song, shes trying her best ice cream parade: i don’t even know where to begin with this one brass goggles: LOCAL ROBOS ARE FEELING EMO SO THEY HAVE A SING ALONG out in the rain: splish splash they was havin’ a bash electricity is in my soul: okay but whomst the hell is that electronic voice who sings the “la la’s”? serious question who tf is it???? steam man band reprise: michael reed voice: GUYS MY COOL ROBO FRIENDS ARE GETTING AN ENCORE HOLY HECKIE blind minstrel’s ballad: ominous captain albert alexander: listen,,,, he beat spider hulk in an arm wrestling match,,,, hes really cool,,,,,, the 2¢ show: steamboat shenanigans: some say they sang so hard they really did make it to the moon and across the stars ;) one-way ticket: CHU CHU I LOVE U ju ju magic: jonathan giraffe what tHE FUCK ARE YOU SINGING ABOUT HONEY? ARE YOU OKAY? me and my baby (saturday night): the spines a hopeless romantic and he loves to treat his girl and his siblings support him little birdie: jon makes friends with a bird or some shit idfk rex marksley: the spines a hopeless romantic and sings about his cowboy crush and his siblings support him automatonic electronic harmonics: they want to feel cool,, let them feel cool,, prelude to a dream: hey michael i thought you were supposed to be the human friend whats all this about not being a human being?? mike? m-mike?? make believe: FUCK SOCIETY, TRANS RIGHTS BITCHES *EPIC KAZOO SOLO* honeybee: ah yes that one song we won’t ever let them forget bc were all emo scary world: the morse code says spoopy the suspender man: rabbit voice: yeah theres this guys who sold his soul or whatever how fucked up was that, anyway i want to wear a dress :3c that’ll be the way home: THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL THAT’LL the ballad of lily: oh boi we about to have another character song on this album airheart: character song 2 electric boogaloo circuitry: y’all good? mk iii: curtain raiser: beebop voice: STEVETHY SOMEONES TRYING TO PLAY THE ALBUM   steve voice: oh fuck steam powered giraffe: HEHE NAME DROP mecto amore: this is some rabbits in love again shit but with WHAMST hatch fever: hatchy is here and the album version does not capture how feral hatchworth performed this on stage a way into your heart: spg as a whole @ their fans: we love you all so much thank you for the support over the years :) <3 me through tears: bitch,,,,, <3 ghost grinder: rabbit and the boys on their way to the graveyard at 3 am to party with rabbits dead gf please explain: i stg everytime i hear hatchy sing “gum in my gears” i think he’s saying something else and i’m sure you can fill in the blank, but the thing that gets me is thats so on brand for him to say dsfdfg she said maybe: rabbit is just young old dumb and full of love these days isn’t she? go spine go: almost 6 minutes of hatchworth and rabbit being two year olds and poking fun at spine roller skate king: everyone sleeps on how good this song is wtf i’ll rust with you: me knowing full well this song is about rabbit outliving her gfs throughout the decades bc shes a robot: oh,, so thats why theres so many love songs by rabbit on this album,,, rabbit you good?? wired wrong: the spine you good?? fancy shoes: hATCHWORTH YOU GOOD??? steam powered giraffe reprise: we interrupt your regularly scheduled robot angst hours with that good weeb shit™ turn back the clock: okay back the robot angst bleak horizon: our lovelys saying goodbye saying they’ll be back to bring smiles on our faces soon as we close out to some ominous as fuck shit teasing vice quadrant the vice quadrant: the vice does tight: okay so the vice quadrants fucked up and the robots are very concerned by this on a crescendo: ominous foreshadowing thats so ominous i had to look up what this song meant lore wise bc i just thought it was the robots just dancing and having fun steamjunk: my dear sweet honey darling is traveling through space and I’M WORRIED ABOUT HIM starburner: low-key robo angst bc their worried about their souls being damned or some shit but its cute  progress and technology: david YOUR RANGE wink the satellite: wink voice: YOU WAS MY BABY MY FUCKIN CINNAMON APPLE burning in the stratosphere: oh fire fire: this is the most haunting shit i have no joke for this sky sharks: hoo boi the sky sharks certainly won’t be killing us all today, but climate change sure will daughter of space: PREBBY SPACE GODDESS HNNNGNNGNG star valley night: honeys you know you can just wait for it to be night time right? then you can go play in the star valley at night- commander cosmo: BITCH YOU GOOD? where is everyone?: THERE SHE IS MY BABY gg the giraffe: MY DARLIIIIINNGGG SING IT HONEY  the pulls: wink my darling y’all ok? soliton: corpse man and space goddess sing a really nerdy analogy about love and its gorgeous where i left you: wink seriously are you okay? over the moon: rabbits just done but shes gotta sing it and go all out with how done she is bc shes extra it’s cosmic: is the “alright!” rav?? also is this love song supposed to represent them causing more fuckshit and destroying the universe and just not realizing it bc their in love?? idfk man it bops hold me: whether from the perspective of holly or rabbit i weep openly at this song the speed of light: david: this is where the astronaut turns evil won’t tell you why tho ;) literally every lore buff: *listens to this song and tries to theorize wtf happened* rav to the rescue: local green space twink rescues his space bf more at 11 starlight starshine: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO the space giant: three steampunk robots fight a giant starbaby in guitar hero to save a satellites crush; a planet thats a huge apple i have zero jokes for this is already too absurd  oh no: oh OH OH? O H. OOOH OH??????????? o  h... oh no.... necrostar: evil pissrock possessed evil dead guy and is ready to cause fuckshit while the robots sing about how scared they are at the end super space blaster centi-asteroid invaderpedes 2: cute interactions with the robots! i hate this title tho whale song: wholesome shit to distract you from all the lore and foreshadowing at the end Music from steamworld heist:  automatonic electronic harmonics, on top of the universe, electricity is is my soul, honeybee, and brass goggles: me minding my own business playing steamworld heist: *walks into a bar where spine rabbit and hatchworth are performing one of these songs* me: HOOOOOGH heist ho!: yeah thats piper for ya starscrap: hi i’m in love for rabbit? prepare for boarding: GET IN BITCHES WE’RE GONNA OVER THROW THE PATRIARCHY  the red queen: capitalism? demolished. what we need are some heros: the spine projecting his love for cowboys onto the player characters the vast frontier: hatchworth: I’M A BAD BITCH YOU CAN’T KILL ME the stars: they made it lads they made it over the moon and across the stars.... also how’d they keep singing for that long aren’t they tired? quintessential: malfunction: wow i can’t believe spg ended transphobia i don’t have a name for it: love? i guess??gd fgdsghfdg blue portals: the idea of hatchworth going through the blue portals when i know they’re made out of blue matter is terrifying  overdrive: they want to seem cool please play along and pretend their green screen work is cool the ballad of delilah morreo: this came right the fuck out of nowhere but fuck its here now and its fantastic love world of love: wonder what other balboa park songs they’ll bring back, like never gonna give you up :) only human: i’d die for you hatchy salgexicon: they deadass wrote a song about their dnd campaign  sleep evil sleep: i guess we’re all evil BC WE KEEPING SLEEPING ON HOW GOOD THIS SONG IS TOO photographic memories: walter worker chelsea? come get ur mans- leopold expeditus: hatchworth: hey guys checkout my fursona dream machine: this song keeps me up at night with the endING I JUST WANT RABBIT TO BE HAPPY AND ARTSY BUT THE WAY IT ENDED WITH THE VICE QUADRANT RELATED TEASER MAKES ME THINK RABBIT PICKED UP A SATELLITE FREQUENCY FROM WINK ABOUT HOW NECROSTAR WILL KILL RAV IN THE FUTURE DEADASS I’M NERVOUS WHAT HAPPENED

[thenervousmedic]

A coffee a day... (Connor X Reader)

Note : (Dying noises)

Word count : just over 3k.

Chapter 6 : Lose one thing to gain another.

Teenagers can be so cruel.

At a time in your life where every little interaction means the world to you, outside influence can change an angel to a brat or a shy girl into a monster.

Fortunately for you, bullies didn't get to you very often. If anything you found their dumb insults funny because of the many vastly better ones you had already thought of. Just calling you ‘Fat’ or ‘ugly’ wasn't enough anymore- if they wanted a fight they'd have to work for it.

That being said… you had a pretty big weakness. Other bullied students.

You hated watching them get torn to shreds by some tough guy dumbass and their trio of mindless minions.

“G-Gavin, please, I j-just need to get past-” A small, dorky looking, man cried out as he was pushed into the dirt. His glasses skidding across the gravel towards your feet. The bullies shouted mean things, but you barely noticed, interrupting their enjoyment with a rough punch to his face. It stung your knuckles like hell, but the look of shock they gave you was more than worth it.

“Go fuck yourself, Gavin.” You spat harshly as they turned tail to tell a teacher on you; the runty child at your back dusting himself off.

“T-thanks…” He fumbled with his glasses, sliding them awkwardly up a wonky button nose. “You didn't have to.”

“Of course I did.” You scoff proudly, holding yourself a lot more confidently than your new companion. “Come on, you're staying with me now, they won't bother you anymore.What is your name?”

He stares at you, at a complete loss for words, before nodding briskly and taking your hand. “My name Is J-Jayden, you?”

“Y/N.”

--

“Y/N, I must insist you rest-”

“Nuh-uh. You said I should help if I could, so I'm going to help.” Your determination came off as stubbornness but it was all in good intentions. Today was going to be a slow day, but if you could at the very least stay with your two guardians during their work hours you'd feel a little less awkward about being left in Hanks home by yourself.

“Hank, how do I get them to cooperate-” It was then you noticed him watching the two of you. Clearly finding this funny, a big shit eating grin plastered to his muzzle. The lack of drinking the night before meant to hangover- something Hank sometimes wished he had anyway to tolerate Connors non-stop working demeanor.

“Give up, Connor, it's not worth getting your wires in a twist.”

“My wires can't get twisted, lieutenant, they're not-”

“For fucks sake, just forget it-” It was your turn to grin like a dumbass as Connors lip twinged into a tiny smirk. If you didn't know better you'd think Connor was annoying his partner on purpose.

“Don't be too hard on Puppydroid, he's still learning to adapt to your attitude.” You and Hank share an amused glance at one another. Connor suddenly looking a little lost in the conversation.

“In that case he's got a whole lot to adapt to.”

“You don't say?”

The face you made, the rising inflection in your tone, Hank knew what you just referenced and tried not to reply in a joking manner. He had a job to do, as annoying as that was, and the idea of Connor reminding him yet again how much time they were wasting just pissed him off internally.

“Would you like me to catch you up on what we discovered last night? Y/N made some very interesting connections.”

A grumble was all Connor got as everyone left the house, taking that as an invitation to continue. “Y/N brought a speech made by Mr.Kamski to my attention. It has mention of the codeword we are using for our connective focus. Biocode. It sounds like, as well as our mechanical coding, androids have been embedded with experiences that predate our creation.”

“It's like putting your actual thoughts into someone else's head!” You added In the moment Connor paused to let Hank process the information.

“So wait.-" His pace slowed slightly, allowing for the three of you to walk side by side Instead of slightly behind his lead. “-You're suggesting androids have emotions and free will hidden in their code before they deviate? That's insane.”

Connor frowned, clearly wanting to defend your discovery as the police station lurked in the distance. “It would explain the sudden rise in Deviant reports. As well as make sense of how deviancy spreads so easily. Anyone with the key to unlock that source code could potentially deviate anyone they come into contact with. What's worse is that… It might be manipulated if someone knows how to access it.”

“And what about you, Connor, huh?” The way Hank’s growl turned aggravated gave you a sense of caution. How was it a man with only his voice could make you feel safe one moment then urge you to keep away from them the next? “If your ‘theory’ is right, that makes everyone a deviant, just waiting to realise it. That means technically you’re a-”

“I am not a deviant, I have a mission to complete and that’s what I intend to do.” You noticeably flinched as Connor raised his voice, something you’d not seen him do before. That calm analytical  tone was all you were used to, not the sudden burst of anger that had just snapped beside you. His face softened on noticing the concern in your eyes. The abrupt change in temperment sent errors up in his sight here and there.

Hank sighed, it was long, heavy, like someone just let the air out of a very old balloon. “Yeah. You’re right… like you’d give a damn about anything other than the fuckin’ mission.” It was like the witty banter you all shared moments ago had never happened. Something electrical and stone cold squeezed your heart tightly; threatening to break it. A figurative dark cloud hanging over everyone despite the bright sunshine that shone overhead.

Your opinion was an unpopular one. That deviants didn’t need ‘fixing’, that they felt love and hate and everything in between, and your now-gone friend Adam was proof of that. He had dreams and aspirations He was so nice and continued to do his job even after deviating because of how much he enjoyed it. But now you’d…. Never see him again.

It hit you like a truck. Loss, realisation, anger, denial. Everything at once crashed onto your throat making you unable to join in the conversation to ease the tension.

Neither Connor nor Hank seemed to notice, your blank warm-hearted smile masking the inner workings that started to scream out his name. It wasn't too bad. You told yourself it was fine. The guilt you felt at forgetting him so easily, the need to tell him you were sorry, strangled out as a strained cough amongst the silence. It came out almost like a choking sound, Connor’s head turning sharply to look at you with hollow eyes, your composure faltering for but a small second before you started walking regularly again.

It was a lot all at once, but you would handle it… they didn't need to know...

The police station was quite nice, a mix of modern technology and design without compromising any accessibility. People sat at their workplaces in neat uniform with equally neat desks save for a few here and there that were less organised than the others. As always it made you nervous. You had nothing against cops, most of them were really nice people, it’s just the force behind them. People armed to the teeth with ways to subdue and kill you, people trained to appear friendly even if they dislike you in order to uphold the precincts reputation. That being said, there were also plenty of shitty law officers who would gladly talk shit for the sake of doing so. Come to think of it-

“Oh goodie, here comes the walking calculator.” Most everyone, including Connor, completely ignored the voice that approached from afar. Hank headed to his desk, not looking back, as Connor’s path was blocked by a slightly shorter man. He wore scruffy messy clothing, barely enough to make him look like he actually cared about his job, with just as messy brown hair spiking out in all directions. You had to hide an angry grin at noticing the name on his jacket and the crooked scar across his nose. “Got yourself a girlfriend, huh?”

As he squared his gaze with yours the defiant smile you wore was enough to catch him by surprise. “Hi Gavin.” You growled, very uncharacteristically hostile toward the officer as he continued to get in Connor's way. “How’s your face?”

“Better than yours by the looks of it.” He grumbled back, much to Connor’s confusion as you two continued to glare at one another like your eyes were doing all the fighting. He huffed, leaning against the wall in front of you two. “Look who isn’t an officer-”

“Look who is still an asshole-”

“Y/N, please, we have work to do.” Connor’s hand reached for your shoulder as the rivalry escalated, your nerves tingling at the thought of getting to have another fight with your long-time childhood opponent. But he was right. You couldn’t fight him here, it’s literally a police station, and your wound wouldn’t exactly fair well from a scrap either. You shrugged his hand away from your side, crossing your arms with an irritated pout before following Connor as you both walked around Gavin. “You know Officer Reed?” His curiosity was inevitable considering what just occurred.

“Yes. I know Gavin.” The spite in your voice had obviously intrigued the android since he wouldn't stop staring at you expectantly.

“You don't seem to like each other.”

“I broke his nose.” You pointed out, motioning to your own nose before flicking a glance back at Gavin (Who was now sauntering his way to the break room like your conversation never happened.) God you hate Gavin.

“Oh…” Connor’s face expressed an awkwardness that made you smile again, it seems he realised that this conversation would be best left for later. “Well, lets focus on the task at hand.”

--

You were right, today was gonna be a long one, the time seemed to tick on almost as slowly as when you were at your real job. Though it wasn’t really a bad thing, you had plenty of time to watch Hank yell at his boss and glare at Gavin from across the room.

You didn’t want to mention anything about it to Connor, but Gavin had liked you quite a lot in high school… you hated admitting when you were wrong, but you knew for certain that back then you had done plenty of wrong deeds. It was such a shame. Gavin had started out so promising, charming even, and yet during his time with you he just got meaner and meaner. Beating up Jayden was the last straw for you back then, you couldn’t just stand aside and enable his bad habits.

To be truthful you hadn’t meant to break his nose… turns out you punch a hell of a lot stronger than you might think.

“Y/N, come look at this.” Hank had finally said something after seemingly being pissed off at connor for several hours. You jumped at the opportunity to get involved, jogging light bouncy steps to his side of the desk before leaning over to look at his screen.

Rumours of the mass-hostage situation had already gone public, people were ranting all sorts of nonsense online, people were even videoing themselves throwing their androids down pits or off of bridges. Tearing limbs off, beating them with bats, setting them on fire. You could see the fear in their eyes, the pure terror, the complete hopelessness as they bled out blueblood onto the floor.

“Do you think- Hey, you alright?” You hadn’t realised you were tearing up until Hank closed the page and held your arm tightly. “Easy kiddo…”

“I-I’m ok.” you smiled, sniffling while rubbing your eyes roughly with your sleeve. Mind reeling from the sudden outburst of information in your head. “-Just forgot to blink is all.”

But it was too late. You only barely held it together earlier, seeing the androids treated this way was enough to push you over the edge. Tears dribbled uncontrollably across your face despite your best efforts to fight them away. All you were thinking about is not looking upset, and that wasn’t going to plan.

You tried laughing quietly to make it less painful to sniffle back breaths but it wasn’t much help. “Hey, hey, it’s ok. Don’t be like that.” A large pair of arms wrapped around your shoulders, comfortably cuddling you up against a rough shirt. Hank’s concerned voice was almost fatherly and as much as it was getting him strange looks he was doing his best to calm you down. Rocking ever so slightly from side to side as you sobbed helplessly into his arm. “It’s alright, you’re ok, let it out.”

“Lieutenant?” Connor had risen from his desk, watching with conflicted confusion as Hank held you in an almost protective stance.

“I’m ok.” You whimpered softly, at this point numb to the fact you were breaking down in a public place.

Adam was gone, Connor had almost been destroyed, and you had nobody to go to. Knowing next time you go to work, after all of this, you’ll walk into an empty building and spend the day with a replacement android… it was tearing at your throat. You'd never hear his laugh again. Never see the cute happy dances he did when talking about coffee, or the beaming grin that welcomed you every single morning without fail. He was so sweet, why did he have to die? He didn’t deserve that! It wasn’t fair!

“He w-was alive, Hank, he was D-deviant.” You mumbled past the hitched breaths, already feeling the burning stare that was Connor's eyes on your back. It made you shiver. You didn’t feel safe. “Why are people treating androids like this- they’re not just MACHINES!” you pushed Hank away, struggling out of his grip before harshly clutching at your stomach as it began to ache.

Connor caught you as you stumbled backwards. His grip was unwavering- unlike hank’s gentle hold. “You have to calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself-”

“Yeah that’d really slow you down wouldn’t it Connor?” You sounded bitter, and wow did it sting. You couldn’t see past the blurry vision, but his face looked utterly heartbroken. It’s like someone just told him his dog died, his grip slackened enough for you to realise what you had said might’ve been a little harsh. He had insisted he wasn’t deviant…. But you knew he had something in there. Whether it was emotion or just an accurate simulation of them you felt an immediate regret for saying what you did.

“I’m… sorry.” He let go, taking a step away while you finally managed to rub the water off of your face. “T-that was uncalled for.”

“No, it’s alright, you’re experiencing delayed symptoms of mourning. The android you worked with must have been very close to you. This is ok-.” Hank, who had backed away a little, gestured your way. Encouraging Connor to take control of the situation. He was hesitant but eventually leaned our towards you- lightly cupping you in his embrace much like how Hank had done before. You didn’t fight it, but you didn't hug back either, just kind of leaning on him with your forehead on his chest. You could swear you could feel his ‘heart’ bumping underneath his jacket. “You are ok now, just try to breathe.”

You tried, god you tried so hard, but the more you put effort into it the more you sniffled and paused. It was eventually possible to take longer, less shuddering, breaths. You didn't have the energy to feel embarrassed or ashamed. The periodic ‘babump’ of the Thirium pump beneath his shirt was something to focus on, your upcoming headache making you groan irritably. “It was nice having you in today but I think it’s about time to take you home.” He let go of you, keeping one arm over your back and around your shoulder so he could walk you out.

You were silent almost the entire walk home. Barely noticing the aura of worry and unease that radiated from your assistant…

--

It was like how he imagine being shot must have felt, hearing what you had said, the burning in his chest sending false system reports through his processor. Yes, yes it would slow him down, but it wasn’t like that. He didn’t want you to be safe just for the sake of the mission - but even the thought of wanting outside of his objective was… doing something. Was it… fear? Did he fear the idea of thinking he’s more than just hardware built for a certain purpose? Surely not, that’s silly. Androids don’t feel fear.

“Deviants do.” He mumbled aloud, not realising he had done so until your sore reddened eyes were spotted tiredly googling up at him. “Your coworker. He was deviant?”

He could almost see the pain that shot into your gaze before you looked back at the street. “Yeah…” He was going to have to dig if he was going to get more than that, your appeared exhausted despite getting more than enough rest for a woman your age.

A bit of time passed before he eventually tried again, giving you a moment to think. “Deviants feel fear and anger, unlike regular androids, why would you want that?” It was unclear why, but you truly did seem to believe that deviancy was a good thing despite all the trouble it has caused.

“That's only one side of the coin, Connor, fear isn’t everything.”

“But it is a part of it…”

“Yes, of course it is!” Your voice raised ever so slightly but a sore throat calmed it back down. The sadness slowly melted away as you spoke about it, getting replaced with some quieter form of passion that bubbled deep under the surface. “Anger and fear exist but that’s not the point, the point is there's better feelings than those ones. Like contentment, happiness, pride-”

“Love?” His contribution made you hesitate. Was he wrong? Love was certainly something… able to tear a man apart or rebuild him from the ground up. Connor’s experiences with these emotions were limited to reading their definition out of a dictionary or observing what they did to others.

“Yeah…” your cheeks had turned red, a fever? No. you were.. .what's the word… blushing. His LED spun yellow, unable to look away at the lost look on your face, totally immersed in whatever it was you were thinking about.

“…I think I’d like to feel that someday.” He should’ve thought more carefully about saying these words out loud. If Cyberlife caught wind of this it would mean being deactivated to erase those thoughts. But this wasn't on his mind right now.

It's like he's seeing you for the first time. That faint sparkle in your eye, every little imperfection on your skin, the way a few stray strands of hair curled down across your forehead. His Thirium pump having the same system error he had experienced before. “You'd need to deviate to feel love, Connor, you said…” Your heart rate had increased, coupled with another number of minute details that surely only an android would notice. Otherwise in your tone, the way your pupils dilated when they met his own.

Hanks house stood in front of both of you as he let go, fighting quietly with the choices laid out before him. Taking as much effort as he could muster to ignore his prime directive. He could feel the way your heart skipped a beat the moment he put both hands firmly on either shoulder. Bringing you forward to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead, the fire he'd felt in his chest before slowly smouldering back to life as he took a step back and tried not to betray the fear that churned at his stomach.

“Rest. I will come back soon.” He turned back the way you had come. Leaving you flustered and confused on the dirtridden path.

[spaceraspberries]

(Second chapter of my nsfw ‘Free fall into a living Fell’ UF story is up!~)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30718109/chapters/76071509#workskin

The sounds of unseen monitors beeping and heavy machines busily churring away somewhere inside the lab barely reaching your still chilled ears as you were still very much in a state of silent shock over how easily you have been recaptured, you felt like a complete and utter idiot for having ran directly towards the Ruins in your failed escape attempt, Sans having made it blindingly clear that he didn’t think you were all too smart either for pulling such a foolish, predictable stunt.

If you had instead ran off to hide somewhere in...say, the huge, hazy labyrinth that was Waterfall, perhaps concealing yourself among the many bunches of Echo flowers that grew wild there, or even in Hotland itself than maybe you could have thrown the hulking skeleton off your trail long enough to find someone willing to help you out.

Of course, thinking of what you could have done better to avoid your current position of hanging precariously off of San’s shoulder wasn’t really going to help you much at all now, the sound of a nearby door opening and closing somewhere loudly as you lifted your head and tried to scan your limited field of vision indicating that Sans unfortunately wasn’t the only one present.

“Brother! Have you found the human yet?! It’s -your- idiotic fault she escaped in the first place so you better have a good reason to be back here already if you haven’t!”.

The sharp, commanding voice of Papyrus echoing through the lab as you outwardly cringed at how he nonchalantly referred to your escape as if it were simply some trivial matter he had to put up with, Sans only gave you a rough shake to indicate to his sibling that he had, in fact, gotten you back in one piece.

“Yeah, got her right here, and she is just fine, Boss. Barely put up a fight, tibia-honest~”, Sans smirking confidently as you heard Papyrus let out a low groan of annoyance from somewhere nearby due to San’s well placed but terrible pun, the fact that you could only really look at the lab’s flooring unless you painfully craned your head didn’t exactly help you in figuring out was was going on as you were suddenly shifted off of San’s shoulder to stand on your shaky, still frost bitten legs between the brothers.

“Are you sure?? She doesn’t really -seem- all that responsive...hmm...”, Your weary eyes locking with the tiles beneath you still as you were both too ashamed and afraid to look up at the exceptionally tall, black and red clad skeleton looming before you, everything about Papyrus was the complete opposite of the rotund and somewhat pliable Sans, the younger yet somehow more dominant of the pair of brothers being all sharp angles and jagged edges with little if any softness to be found.

“She’s probably just a little shook up still I’m guessing. The little runaway made it all the way back to Snowdin before I found em”, Sans not seeming perturbed much by Papyrus’s wariness on your current state as he soon took one of your arms and tugged you back against his rib cage tightly, he wasted no time in capturing your other arm that instinctively had moved forward to try and push him away from his sudden movements, essentially locking them firmly at your sides as you writhed and fought desperately against the sturdily built skeleton.

“Let g-go of me!!”.

“Eh, still seems she has a lot of fight left in her though despite all that. Course, thats not exactly a ‘bad’ thing if you ask me”, Sans deep chuckle reverberating from his ribs and against your spine as Papyrus was soon standing over your small form with a look that couldn’t quite be considered his typical, hardened glare of contempt that he had acquired from his years of being in the Royal Guard, it still terrified you regardless as you whimpered and ducked your head to your chest at the sensation of his clawed phalanges rubbing gently against your slowly warming cheek.

“Leave me alone...”, A whispered breath escaping your voice as you had no real choice but to contend with the monster that was forced to kneel before you due to his incredible height, Papyrus was easily at least eight or nine feet tall, his naturally thin build extending just as well to his hands that were now rubbing down and towards the apex of your neck and collarbone, occasionally trailing up to your jawline and back to your cheek again as if he were trying to get a mental image of your own skeletal frame that lurked just beneath your soft skin.

Papyrus ignoring you pleading voice for the most part as Sans continued to hold you in place against his rib cage, now that you were back in captivity where you belonged they could take their time with you if they wished...and they very much planned on doing so it seemed, Papyrus’s hand that had been caressing your face moving to the hem of your grass and water stained shirt and feeling the soft, cold skin beneath of your stomach in a way that made every hair on the back of your neck stand on ends.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know by now what they intended to keep you alive for, the discussions and agreements about your future having been made quite literally over you not long before your attempted escape earlier, your once barely conscious mind having caught bits of pieces about your fate as you had laid strapped to a examination table, having been throughly checked over and violated while the concoction of drugs that had been met to drag you into a false ‘heat’ had been injected.

Knowing that you were nothing but a living ‘incubator’ to these freaks didn’t exactly help you keep any calmer as Papyrus’s hands moved from your belly to cup your breasts, a pathetic whine escaping your voice as he kneaded the soft, mouldable flesh between his phalanges and toyed with your erect nipples as your squirming started back up unhappily under his touching.

“Perfect, am I right?”, Sans speaking up confidently after another minute or so as Papyrus was busy exploring your body still, the sweet scent of your artificially induced heat filling the confined space of the lab was beginning to drive both of the brother’s mad with hard wired instinctual behavior, Papyrus growling low as he heard San’s voice serving as a ‘interruption’ to his exploration of the human before them.

“So fucking cute....”, His voice dropping a octave as he completely ignored Sans in favor of dipping a hand lower on your belly again and rubbing small circles on the pit just above your sex, the feeling of his hand soon diving into your pants and rubbing a long phalange in slow strokes against your increasingly wet slit made you gasp and cry out, a unwanted feeling of warmth spreading through your core as Sans smirked and buried his skull against your neck, gently shushing and praising you as his brother did his handiwork.

“Shhh....that’s a good girl~”, Muttering against and nuzzling your neck as he let his fangs grave along your skin lightly, Sans knew better then to get in the way of his ‘Boss’, the thick, iron collar around his own neck vertebrae indicating that he wasn’t in a much better position socially than you when it came down to it, “Just relax and we’re gonna make that feeling ya got go away real quick~”.

“N-no!”, Shaking your head in response to Sans as Papyrus’s ministrations soon found the bundle of nerve he was now rubbing his thumb against in deep, quick movements, a coil of heat was already beginning to form in your belly as he used your wetness to ease his stroking, a unwanted, soft whimper coming from your voice as you tried to desperately shift away but were only met with Sans maw pressing deeper against your throat threateningly.

“Fuck, keep begging just like that, kid”, The skeleton’s muffled words sending a shiver of fear up your spine as he let the tip of his blue tinted ecto-tongue graze along your neck until it met the corner of your mouth, you instinctively clamped your lips shut as Sans merely chuckled in amusement at your remaining will to defy him, your next move to bury your head in your shoulder to prevent him from taking a part in this humiliation not getting you far as the monster merely grabbed a hold of your chin tightly to force you to face him as he kept one arm still wrapped firmly around your torso.

“Me and my bro, we wanna take things easy with ya if we can but your making this really fuckin’ difficult”, Sans single, red eye light flaring in annoyance for a hot second as he rubbed your cheek roughly with his thumb, the skeleton knew he wasn’t in charge despite being older than Papyrus or else he would have fucked and claimed your right back in Snowdin as he had wanted to do, your increasingly heated whimpering as his brother continued to rub and press skillfully against your swollen clit earning a annoyed growl from the obviously jealous Sans as he gripped your torso tighter.

Sans didn’t like the fact that he had to share you, but it wasn’t as it he had much of a choice in the matter, the hierarchy of Fell not being a system that even he was willing to screw with. Papyrus had earned his spot as top dog in the Royal Guard fair and square, Sans himself...having used most of his free time towards snoozing or generally not giving a shit due to certain circumstances that had long since passed, thus creating the odd dynamic now where his younger brother lorded over him like a wayward dictator while he stepped in line obediently most of the time.

The few times he -had- directly disobeyed Papyrus? Well, there was a reason he had a oddly placed golden tooth on his upper jaw and it wasn’t just for looks, Sans having been knocked out for nearly a day and a half after he lost the resulting fight for dominance that had ensued.

“Brats like you need to learn when to give up and give in. Besides, you already know how this is gonna turn out for ya so why not just enjoy it?~”.

Sans deep voice almost having a warning tone directed towards you as he spoke, you were too caught up in your own, unwanted feelings of pleasure to warrant him much attention, the sensation of Papyrus deciding to take things a step forward and press a single, long digit to your entrance as his thumb continued its work on your sensitive nub causing you to naturally tense up, your entire body shivering with how close to orgasm you already were at this point.

Opening your mouth to fruitlessly but loudly protest as your tightness instantly formed around Papyrus’s roving finger when he easily used your wetness to aid in pressing his typically dry phalange inside of you, it was the chance that Sans had been waiting for, him gripping your cheek and using your moment of pained distraction to press his fang lined mouth against your own, a flat, blue tongue quickly muffling your panic as it quickly worked its way past your lips and wrestled with your own, much smaller organ for dominance, the monster’s wet appendage practically sliding down your throat as you thrashed and bucked unhappily against the skeleton’s vice like hold on you.

A heavy, content groan coming from the monster as your saliva mingled with his blue magic, it was just as he suspected....

You tasted fuckin’ amazing, just like how your increasingly tantalising heat smelled, like a mix of the best aspects of a sweet treat that was just waiting to be devoured.

....It made Sans wonder how other aspects of your anatomy would wind up tasting when your were locked back in your cell with him and Papyrus later, the widely built skeleton determined to leave no parts of your virgin body untouched like the breeding bitch you were met be.

Self autonomy wasn’t going to be granted to you if he had a say in it, your cute little Soul belonging to him and his brother the moment you had so stupidly fallen down here and decided to leave the safety of those weird, ‘uninhabited’ Ruins.

Panting and clawing at Sans fur lined jacket as you were barely able to hold yourself back when you climax finally hit, hard, your muffled cries were swallowed up by the ecto-tongue still stuffing your mouth, Sans giving one last lick to the roof of your mouth as Papyrus rid out your orgasm, pumping his probing finger in and out of you quickly as your muscles pulsed and clenched around him beautifully.

“That’s it~”, The sensation of your warm walls quivering around his digit being exactly what he had been trying to work out of you, it was a sure sign that the drugs in your system were working still despite you exerting such a large amount of energy by running off, Papyrus really not wanting to have to waste more of the supply on a second dose.

It was only when your heated body finally began to relax after a few seconds that Sans let you take a much needed, deep breath as you coughed and sputtered unhappily when he removed his tongue with a lick to your lips, Papyrus too slowly removing his finger as he grinned wickedly and licked your juices that had pooled and coated his hand, your small, trembling form not being used to this kind of treatment by any means as you looked exhausted and ready to collapse to your knees at any moment as the scar faced Papyrus soon rose back up to his full, intimidating height.

“I-I hate you....”.

Your weak voice barely making a dent in the increasing tension of the lab as Sans only slightly loosened his grip on you now that you had been ‘tamed’ ever so slightly, he did raise a bone brow down at you curiously though with the bit of feistiness you still seemed to have left with your comment.

“Mmm, that doesn’t really matter, baby bones. Course, I really wasn’t expectin’ ya to take any of this really well when I found you”, A deep set rumble coming from the skeleton’s chest as he laughed lowly and spared a glance at Papyrus who was already presenting that ultra dignified posture once again that he held so well, the tall and lanky monster couldn’t hide the cloud of increasingly feral nature hiding behind his eye lights though, him simply swivelling on his red heeled boots as he motioned for Sans to get rid of you for the time being.

“Stop musing with the human, Sans! We still have work left to do! Bring her to her cell and meet me back here when you are done!”, Papyrus shooting a look to his brother as you heard a annoyed sigh come from Sans with the order, once again you were lifted into the broad shouldered monster’s arms, this time with little resistance as he cradled you a bit more gently with your head resting against his clavicle instead of being slung over him like a sack of potatoes as he had done earlier.

“Heh, yeah yeah, I know, Bro”, Sans dismissing Papyrus casually as you were brought into the long, white corridor that laid beyond the lab’s main area, the only few sights of notes were the couple of steel doors that lined each side of the length of it, your own, much despised cell laying on the second to right of the hall.

You had only escaped from it a few hours ago previously, the sight of the mostly bare room save for a dresser, a lamp, a mounted t.v that you suspected was a monitor of sorts and a rather large bed with tasteless looking restraints at its four corners filling you with dread as you knew that a chance to escape likely wasn’t going to come again.

Sans had forgotten to lock the door correctly previously and had unintentionally given you a chance to break free, him casually plopping you down onto your bed as he locked the door behind him this time, with exaggerated intent, making it clear he had learned from his previous mistake and wasn’t apt to repeat it again.

“L-listen, I’m sure I can help you guys find other ways to get to the surface. You don’t have to do this”, Shuffling to the far side of your bed as Sans for once kept his distance and merely watched as you tried to put distance between the both of you, his wide smirk never left his face as he simply dug for something in his pocket that he than threw at you casually, the clatter of something heavy and jangling hitting the floor near your bed catching your attention as you cautiously leaned down to pick it up.

“A-a collar?? Wait no, I’m -not- wearing this!”, Your dark eyes widening at the sight of the pink, heart studded collar that Sans had tossed to you, a clasp at the back of the thick leather material held it all together, A ‘SP’ at the front hanging from a circular tag bringing the whole ‘pet’ concept to life. Sans chuckling under his breath as he had lit a Echo cigarette that was now hanging between his teeth while you were examining your new ‘claim of ownership’. the hazy, purple waves of the drug calmed the agitated monster’s nerves down as he tried to not think of how easy it would be to pin you down right now and fill your cunt directly on your bed before Papyrus got the first claim on you later.

All of this waiting was enough to drive a monster mad....

“Ya don’t got much of a choice. It’s the Boss’s orders to give that to ya and if I were you I would do what he wants”, Sans leaning against the door of your cell as he watched you ponder over your new collar for a few seconds, he honestly wasn’t expecting you to throw it directly back at his face with clear fury only a few seconds after he had given it to you, him just barely catching a hold of it with his blue magic as for a moment his typically red eye socket went blank, leaving a hollow hole in his skull that chilled you to the bone to look at.

“Drop. Dead! I would rather die than wear something that stupid!”, Finding your voice’s strength as you crossed your arms over your chest like a petulant child, the sound of a familiar, crackling static buzzing near your ear made you freeze in place as if by instinct, Sans porting directly in front of you as the sensation of cold leather touching your neck nearly made you jump a foot in the air.

“I-I said don’t touch me!!”, Yelling unhappily as you attempted to lung forward and away from Sans, the blue magic that the monster had formed around your frail Soul prevented you from moving so much as a muscle as the click of the collar’s lock around your neck and Sans brushing your long hair out of the way to admire it made your cheeks pinken in humiliation.

T-this jerk....he was playing dirty!

“To be honest baby bones, ya didn’t say that, all you said was you would rather die than wear your collar”, Sans correcting your complaints as he kept his magic formed around your Soul, the comment earned a indignant huff from you as Sans adjusted the strip of leather to make sure it wasn’t biting into your neck too tightly.

“Besides, this -is- kinda all your fault for running off like you did. If ya had just stayed here and behaved Pap’s would have probably given ya a little more freedom to roam around. Our little mama is gonna need plenty of exercise to make healthy little Souls after all”.

“Shut u-up!”, Your blush growing heavier as Sans made it seem so casual that you have essentially been kidnapped and had been put into your current position, if your Soul wasn’t being held captive by his magic right now you would have turned around and decked him directly in the jaw for such a lewd comment.

God, you hated this arrogant idiot....

“Awww, already being hormonal and your not even pregnant yet~ I bet it’s cause’ of your heat, right?”, Sans grinning almost playfully as he buried his nasal ridges against your hair and inhaled, the skeleton’s hand had just begun to wander towards groping your ass by the time he heard a heavy knock on the door, the inaudible sound of Papyrus yelling something earning a sharp growl from Sans at the interruption as he reluctantly let your Soul free from his magic.

“Always interrupting my business....”, Muttering to himself as he stood up abruptly and stomped out his cigarette on the ground with a boot, Papyrus would kill him ten times over if he found he was smoking in front of you, the potential carrier of their children, “Yeah! I’m comin’, just hold on!”.

You meanwhile scrambling to the corner between the dresser and bed as you buried your head in your knees pathetically to hide your fearful tears, you didn’t bother to look up when Sans left you alone once again in your cell, the sound of the brothers arguing over something once the door was shut and locked again being the only other sound besides the ticking of a nearby wall clock near the t.v.

This was going to be a long, long night....

[ask-vaal-hazak]

Secret muse #1

So since I got a few asks about them I'll tell ya how this one came into being....or rather how they died.

-Time for a story!-

"Where am I?" I wondered. I was floating in some sort of culture tank, various wires were in my skin and some kind of breathing apparatus was stuck to my face. I wasn't hot nor was I cold. Something tapped against the glass.

Turning to look in the direction of the sound a light flashed in my face, I blinked trying to clear my vision.

??? "subject is responsive, shall we begin doctor?"

Subject? Doctor? What happened to me? Last thing I remember is....I got fired, then I went to the bar and got into a fight, let's see...oh! A I was hit with something from behind....but what happens after that?

Unfortunately I didn't have much time to think as a sharp pain ripped me from my thoughts. I spasmed as the raidiating pain spread from my legs up to my face. My head pounded, my ears rung, every fiber of my body screamed out in agonizing pain. What was happening to me? Who was doing this? The guys from the bar, doubt it. I don't think a couple of rough necks could do this....at least without a baseball bat.

Soon I felt something pump into me, it was hot and burned and then it stopped. There was a loud click as the needle withdrew from my spine.

??? "Begin the drainage of the cluture fluids, I want to see it up and moving immediately!" Another voice, it was heavy and had an odd accent. Male... maybe...Russian? Greman? No...didn't sound intimidating enough.

The top it the tank came off and I spilled from the container. Ripping the mask off I took a look around the room. White walls, bright lights, giant glass wall with shadowy figures behind it and a door. Yeah, just like the viedo games I play, you know minus the giant demon circle in the floor and skulls hanging from the ceiling.

??? "Alright expose the specimen to concentrate Z2-21-50."

Concentrate what? The door opened with a creak as an old man in bloodied clothes walked in.

"Holy shit! Hey old geezer, you ok?" No response, they just kept walking towards me.

"Hey.....you ok old man? Hey!" The old man looked up, wait a- there was a hole in his head.

As he got closer I could smell death and rotting flesh, a friggin zombie? "FUCKIN' SERIOUSLY? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HER- AHHHHHH! GET EM FUCKIN' OFFA ME!" I didn't see or expect the sudden speed of the living corpse. It bit a large portion of my shoulder, ripping and tearing at the skin.

There was a gun shot and the old guy was down, my shoulder burned and felt like something was eating away at it. "F-fuck I don't wanna die! I don't wanna be a freak outta death! Somebody help me! Please...PLEASE HELP ME!"

A sharp pain in my chest brought me down, well shit....is this it? This is how I die huh? The great Sona G. Barry bitten by some old guy who just wouldn't die peacefully. I laughed as I felt my energy drain away. "Sons of....bitches....I'll....I'll kick all their asses. As soon as I....take a little....n-nap...." My vision clouded over an I closed my eyes.

-part one-

So what do you think? This is his start and all throughout the day I'll post a bit more about him.

[wiremagazine]

WIRE MAGAZINE PROFILE ON DRAG ICON HENRIETTA ROBINSON

By Thomas Barker Photos provided by Henrietta’s friends

Everyone on South Beach knows famed South Beach Diva Henrietta. She's the gay guy who is always dressed in drag ��� whether she's grabbing a quick bite to eat, taking a bus or taxi to one of her house cleaning jobs, or having a nightcap at TWIST.

And nothing she wears when she dresses like a woman is fake. Her chinchilla outfit, lace or silk gowns, large-carat diamond rings, gold bracelets – they're all real, just as real as Henrietta.

She's been a fixture on the Beach for 50 years now, and that's why she's celebrating her golden anniversary here! Her two claims to fame are cooking and cleaning, both of which she continues to do incessantly and to perfection. Henrietta made a name for herself as she found her true self in Miami Beach, thanks to a supportive uncle and tons of friends she made wherever she worked.

She ran away from a very unstable family situation in Boston as soon as she turned 18 years old. She knew she was gay as a kid and was ostracized by her family and friends throughout the sensitive years of growing up. So once she left, she never looked back and it took her family a year to realize where she was.

At age 19, she saw her first drag show. At age 22, she dressed up as a woman for the very first time (other than when she was 10 or 11 and dressed up in her sisters' clothes). She won Miss Florida in 1969 singing, not lip-synching, "On a Clear Day You Can See Forever." Then after her favorite uncle died in the early ‘80s, she never wore men's clothes again! Her outfit became permanent!

"When my uncle passed away, that's when I said that's it," Henrietta recounted. "I started living that way from then on – it was permanent drag from then on! I was gay, of course, and wasn't ever interested in a sex change or anything."

Henrietta saw the ups and downs on the Beach for five decades – and boy, what history there was and what details she remembers! Hopefully, someday we'll have a copy of her memoirs since it's such a rich history that would be important for every gay little boy and girl!

We're happy that Henrietta maintains her happy, optimistic outlook on life and continues to love the Beach very much – she actually sees a renaissance of gay life here today, saying it's getting better and better.

So as Henrietta celebrates her golden anniversary, 50 years of life on Miami Beach, here's just a peek into her life and what made her who she is! Check out her party at TWIST this Friday, Sept. 28 at midnight – and bring an appetite, she says, since she will be offering up some of her most sumptuous tastings!

Thomas Barker: When and how did you arrive on Miami Beach, Henrietta? Henrietta Robinson: I came to Miami Beach in 1958. My uncle, my mother's brother, had a restaurant here. I was 18 years old and never was on my own in my life until then. I lived a pretty sheltered life in Boston. My mother died when I was born. When I was growing up, I never got along with my father and he always blamed my mother for everything; they didn't get along either since she was Italian Catholic and he was Jewish. You just didn't have mixed marriages back then, it was very strict. Eventually, I was raised by my grandmother, my father's mother. She took me and my two sisters in, but I haven't spoken to them in 35 years. They didn't want anything to do with me since, when they had children, they thought I would molest them since I was gay. That's what they believed at the time. So my grandmother kept an eye on me all the time. I couldn't go out and play with other kids and was kept in the house all the time.

TB: How old were you back then? Did you realize you were gay at an early age? HR: Oh, I was 10 or 11 years old. I knew I was gay since I loved playing with my sisters' dolls. I loved dressing up! When my sisters dressed me up, my grandmother would go through the roof! My sisters were a lot older, they were 18 and 20 years old. I was the baby in the family.

TB: So how did you finally get out of that horrible situation? HR: I met this kid next door and he didn't get along with his father. He wanted to get out since he was fighting with his father all the time. He was going to Florida to live with his grandparents since they invited him to. So he invited me to come with him. He said there was no reason for me to put up with what I had to put up with and nobody would know where I was – we were both 18 years old at the time.

TB: How could you afford it, though? HR: My grandmother used to give me an allowance, $10 a week and put it in a bank account in my name. Every week, I put money in the account. She never dreamed that I would go to the bank to withdraw it, though! So I sneaked away one day when my grandmother was gone and went to the bank. So the people asked me where my grandmother was and I said it was a surprise, it was her anniversary and I never bought her anything all these years so I wanted to take out $200, and they thought I was a very good grandson. So I went home and snuck out that night with my friend and took off on a bus for Florida. It was a whole year before they ever realized where I was.

TB: What did you do when you arrived in Miami Beach? HR: I worked in a drugstore on 71st Street at the fountain as a dishwasher – I never worked a day in my life until then! There was a waitress who fell in love with me because her son was in the service in Germany and she said I looked just like her son with blue eyes and blonde hair. So she doted on me and did everything for me. She knew my whole story. Once she got friendly with a lady, a year later, who came to the soda fountain who said: "Oh, I see you have a helper." So she told her my whole story and she listened carefully. She asked how late we were open and we told her 11 p.m. So a few hours later she came back, but she was with a man. So the man asked my waitress friend, "Could I have the kid wait on me?" And she said "Sure." So he told me that he understood my mother passed away a long time ago and that I had an uncle in Miami Beach. He was Italian and looked like Edward G. Robinson and was in the rackets. So he asked me if I would like to meet my uncle and live here – and I said, sure, if he's nice! So he looked at me and said "I've got news for you kid, I'm your fuckin' uncle!" I nearly fell to the floor!

TB: How did you know it was really him? HR: He took a picture out of his wallet and said "This is your father and this is your mother." Then he said he had a restaurant around the corner and he wanted me to go there to help his wife who worked there. So I told him I could wash dishes and clean up. He told me to move out of the hotel I was staying in and that I was moving into his house. He had a duplex on 77th Street. That's when everything started!

TB: What do you mean, "everything started"? HR: The buses from Hollywood used to connect on 71st Street and the bus drivers used to come into the drugstore because it had air conditioning. One day, one of the bus drivers asked me – he knew right away – if I ever saw a drag show. So one night after work I took a bus to Collins and 163rd Street to go to a drag show – the first time I had ever gone out! There were hotels run by the mafia up there that had clubs run by drag queens. One was the Aztec and they used to have lounges inside. Shows would start around midnight and last until 2.am. It was legal there, but not on the Beach. So there I was all innocent watching drag shows. I became friendly with the bus driver and then one Halloween he wanted to dress me up! And that was it! Once I put on those heels and that wig! That was in 1962 when I actually started drag at age 22. I liked it and started performing there. We always sang live back then. Nobody did lip-synching. I did country and they loved it!

TB: Your uncle knew all about it and didn't care? HR: He didn't give a shit! He was from New Jersey and ran nightclubs and used to make good money off drag queens and gays in the back room of the clubs. The police wouldn't bother him because he was paying them off just liked he did here in Miami. The police in Miami Beach were all country boys back then and they used to go around and pick up everybody who didn't live or work on the Beach. That's why there were no blacks on the Beach. The summertime, they didn't care, but after November 1 they cleaned up the streets. But one time, I had this cop get smart with me and said I had a woman's blouse on, it was a European fashion with ruffles on it. And I said no, I didn't and showed him the store bag where I bought it. And he couldn't do a thing. Besides, all the police used to come and eat at my uncle's restaurant whenever they wanted to! He even knew Rocky Pomerance, the famous Chief of Police for Miami Beach in the ‘70s! He used to come around all the time. He was Italian!

TB: What was your greatest memory of the Beach at that time? HR: That's when I won Miss Florida in 1969, I sang "On a Clear Day." That was on Alton Road where the Boston Market is. There was a gas station next door to the biggest gay club around that had a back room, called the Mayflower Lounge, run by the mafia. When you walked through the door, there were two huge ballrooms with two bars on both sides of the room. Everybody was dancing and having a good time – but there was a big light in the room and when it went on, everybody ran to their seats because the cops were coming in. But they didn't bother us because it was the mafia and they were getting paid off! Then, I learned about 21st Street which is where the gay beach and some bars were. So I learned a lot over the years as I continued to do shows and work at my uncle's restaurant.

TB: So your uncle had a very positive influence on your life here compared to what you had in Boston? HR: He always said he didn't care what I did after work as long as I didn't stay out too late and showed up for work in the morning. He taught me a lot – like how to pay my rent and all my bills. He brought me all my bills with my name on them, like the electric bill, and I had to pay them every month. Apartments were $15 a month in the summertime and $25 in winter! I was making $40 a week back in 1960. That paid my rent and everything, and I still had money to live on! Of course, my uncle taught me how to cook and I eventually became a chef. I worked for 27 years as a chef in restaurants and I never missed a day in that 27 years! I was the top cook at my uncle's restaurant and was making $150 a week, which was a lot of money back then. My uncle died in the early ‘80s and the restaurant was sold to Canadians.

TB: What did you do after that? HR: My aunt had moved up North with her sister because she had a lot of family there, but I didn't want to go since I knew what to do, I was educated, and had an apartment here. I worked in a few other restaurants, like this huge restaurant called Piccolos on First Street, where Amnesia was. They owned both sides of the street on Washington Avenue. When the owner died, the kids took over and lost everything. They were drunks, gamblers and into drugs. The mother had to sell everything. Then, I actually wound up back at my uncle's place, Marios. I met the Canadians who owned it who were having problems with their cook and they hired me back. I started making $300 a week! I worked there for another three years when they had to go back to Canada and the restaurant was sold again and called Paesanos. That's when I went into my own business of housekeeping and catering. That was in the mid-’80s.

TB: How did that start? HR: I met one of my customers from the restaurant one day while I was looking for another job and she hired me as a housekeeper. Once she saw how good I was, her daughter also hired me, and then their friends and the next thing you know, I had my own cleaning business. And I kept up a catering business on the side, as well when all these people threw parties.

TB: How did you wind up with the name Henrietta? HR: One of the people at the clubs said I had to have a new name since they originally called me Miss Robinson – after the Simon and Garfunkel hit in 1967. My real name was Milton Henry Robinson. So this friend said, why not Henrietta? That was a nice sounding English name! So I changed my name to Henrietta over the years. That's when Henrietta started, when I won Miss Florida in 1969 which was held on Halloween. People would line up on Alton Road to see the parade – only on Halloween. The police couldn't do anything since you were in "masquerade." It was a 24-hour party, all day and all night! And everybody made their own gowns at the time, since nobody could afford to do anything different. But I saw a gown in a store and I told my uncle "I want that gown for the Halloween party!" So he took me into the store on 71st Street called Parker's and my uncle bought the gown for me! And I wore my hair shorter, more in a European style while everyone else was wearing long hair, the style of the 60s and 70s.

TB: When did you start to continually dress in drag? HR: When my uncle passed away, that's when I said that's it. I started living that way from then on – it was permanent drag from then on! I was gay, of course, and wasn't ever interested in a sex change or anything. People always respected me for the way I was – and I always had boys lined up at the door! I had no trouble there! I worked for so many straight people, I became family and all their kids loved me.

TB: Why did you dress in your particular style? Did you model yourself after anybody in particular? HR: I always loved Dolly Parton! That's why I wear high blond hair all the time and love Country and Western music! I loved her and Patti Page – I sang her song, “Tennessee Waltz.” And there was Tammy Wynette since I always sang “Stand By Your Man.”

TB: But in terms of drag queens, you're not like anybody else, like Adora, for example. HR: Adora is a great artist. There was one lady, an owner of a club up there on Collins who told me if you want to be a lady, act like a lady. Wear nice clothes like a lady, don't go out on the streets dressed like a prostitute. She told me, "You are a lady" and from that day on I did everything real. All my jewelry is real – real diamond rings, bracelets, and necklaces. I wanted everything to be real like me – nice clothes, nice hair, nice jewelry. That's how it started for me. When I dress up and walk down the street, nobody blinks. And they know me at Neiman Marcus or Saks when I walk in – it's "Oh, Henrietta!' and they drop everything to wait on me. I take pride in all that I do! They all looked after me. People used to always say, "You're just like one of the girls, Henrietta." I can tell you stories you wouldn't believe! One of my customers came walking out of the shower naked the other day in front of me and she apologized. I said, "Don't worry honey, that doesn't bother me, but if it were your husband…" She laughed and said, "Well, you can have him!" I went to Jackson one time and they put me in the woman's ward before they found out about me! The next thing you know, two days later, I have my own private suite. They rushed me across the hall so fast, you wouldn't believe it!

TB: So when did things start to change for gays on Miami Beach? HR: After 1969 – the 1970s on. After the civil rights movement. They wouldn't touch you in 1970. Civil rights and gay rights went hand in hand. Blacks, up until then, were not allowed on the Beach after sunset unless you had a paper saying where you worked and when you worked – or you were trotted off to jail, or dropped off over the causeway and told never to come back. Gay rights started thriving as well – drag queens were walking around all over the place and some were even getting their breasts done at that time. They were going to Mexico to get them done where it was cheaper. Some had entire sex changes done.

TB: What about the influence of the gay community on the Beach? HR: Everything started to change little by little and started opening up. The straight people had nothing to do with fixing up South Beach – it was the gay community who came here to do that. Only when it was fixed up did the straight community start coming here. You could go up and down South Beach streets and the old people were sitting on the porches of these run-down buildings waiting for death to take them. And the gay community came in, supported the preservation movement, and opened many businesses here.

Then what about the late ‘80s and ‘90s – drag seemed to be everywhere. There was Barios, WPA, Mulberry Street – drag shows were everywhere. I loved WPA and Mulberry Street. That's when the Beach really turned gay since you also had other clubs like Club Z, Warsaw, Salvation, and then TWIST opened in 1993. It was a great time to be gay on South Beach and it made it easier for all of us. The Chelsea Hotel on 9th and Washington was even owned by a black guy (Vernon Garraway) who bought it in 1989. But the City still looked down on him and it was hard for him to run it. Nothing could ever be owned by a black person on the Beach in the past. But he was really accepting of the gay community and they really liked to go there. Then the gays were pushed out after the police raids on TWIST, 1235, and Groove Jet. But now more and more gays are coming back because they have more money now.

TB: Did you ever imagine the Beach would come full circle to where it is today? HR: I never thought in my time the gay community would be so free to be who they are and not be hassled by the police. In my day, if you walked down the street and if the police thought you were gay, they had the right to beat you up. They always said you looked at them the wrong way or you touched them. They had no hesitation in throwing you in jail. Now, I love it! Gay life has always flourished here – whether it was underground or above ground; or whether it was 23rd Street or 12th Street. Gays were everywhere and in every profession. Today, I feel so free and it's such a pleasure! A lot of these young gay kids don't know what somebody like me has gone through. And they don't have too many people to learn about the history since all the old-timers are gone.

TB: Who are your best friends here today? HR: I'm always working so much so I don't get out that much anymore. But when I do, my best friend is Leo! I love Leo. We became good friends over the years and he's just wonderful. I don't have any boyfriends – even though I had many husbands years ago! But I was stupid since I spoiled them and they didn't appreciate it. I even bought one of them a car! Most of them turned out to be bisexual and the next thing I knew, they were taking off with a girl.

TB: What advice can you give to members of the gay community after 50 years of living here? HR: I just think it's wonderful that people can do what they want to do today. People live in very precious, precious times right now. You don't have to go through what I went through. You should do what you want and be free. If people had to live what I went through, half of them wouldn't make it! We've come a long way. Once people found out you were gay, you were blackballed and you couldn't get a job. Now retail, hotels, bars, and restaurants couldn't survive without gays! So don't be afraid to be yourself – you'll fit right in on South Beach today!

TB: Did you ever have any role models on the Beach or did anybody here influence you? HR: Not individual people. What was more important was that when I went out as a woman, people accepted me. This was me, I was a woman now, and that was it – and people accepted me for that.

TB: What's in store for Henrietta in the future? Retirement? Writing your memoirs? HR: If I retire, I'm going to stay here and still take care of some of my customers. I'm just going to relax more and travel more. I'm just so loyal to my customers, more than I am to myself! I don't want to work seven days a week anymore! I know, sometimes I can't say no, though. And yes, I'm going to write my memoirs! Going all the way back to when I was living with my grandparents and how mean they were to my happy days today on South Beach and all the wonderful people I've encountered!

Read Henrietta Robinson's in Memoriam in Wire Magazine

[fromtheground39-blog]

The All-ROG Gaming PC!

Recently we checked out the three cheapest 144 Hertz gaming monitors that we could get on amazon.com and we were pretty impressed well mostly, except for one common problem that they all had they're all running out by modern standards, lower 1920 by 1080 resolution. So today we've got something new for you guys. We'Ve actually never covered a product from AOC before, but this the CQ 27 G 127 stood out to us for a number of reasons, one its 144 Hertz, which means theoretically, it should be great for gaming too. It'S running at 2560 by 1440 resolution 3. It'S got a V a rather than a TN panel and four it comes in at just 280 US dollars. We couldn't find anything else that has this feature set at this price point. So we've got high expectations and hopefully they don't disappoint us instantly, see your current and past network activity detect malware and block badly behaving apps on your PC or Android device with glassware use, offer code Lynas to get 25 % off glass wire at the link routerhosting in The video description, [ Music ] - I'm actually pretty excited about this, because we've had a ton of requests to cover AOC in the past, but the main reason that we haven't done it is that ever since the CRT days, their presence in North America has been fairly Limited so I've been aware that they're kind of a big deal over in Europe - and I believe Asia, but over here they've, had basically very little availability and certainly no marketing. So I don't really know what to expect, because even from other media outlets, I haven't like read a ton of reviews of their products or anything like that. First, impressions of the stand are pretty good. It'S got a nice metal base under fairly tastefully if a touch gamer II top to list assembly is always a nice touch. Honestly, I got ta, say initial impressions, pretty positive, so far height adjustable stand. I mean to be clear. This is not like a 140 dollar gaming monitor or anything like the ones we looked at last time, but considering how much higher their costs would be to get this better panel technology, it's a larger display. Ah, I am I'm pretty pleased so far with the overall fit and finish now. I can't say that this is a perfect job that they've done of the the plastic housing here. You can actually see some of the tape that they've used. To probably put the see this unit in the back here that houses, the power supply and the scaler you know, and all that stuff you can see some of the tape that used to it like tape it on, but in terms of the like. The overall feel of it it doesn't feel cheap, it doesn't feel crappy and we've got a reasonably fun, exceptional i/o. So there's no built-in USB hub, but you've got dual HDMI ports, DisplayPort a headphone, jack and power supply built into the monitor, rather than as an external brick, which some people care about. It'S not a huge deal for me, but it is considered a a better feature. All right, the two lessness continues here and we're just gonna peel. This off bezels are looking pretty slim actually, and this is nice, not just power, cable included, but also DisplayPort and HDMI. So in terms of adjustability, we've got your tilt. We'Ve got your swivel no pivot, but we do have height adjust. I still remember when that used to be like site a super premium feature. Now, it's only really cheap stuff that it's not included on. It'S really. Nice makes a big difference immediately. The deep blacks on this monitor are quite noticeable compared to if we were looking at like an entry-level, IPS or especially a TN like, as this wallpaper fades off towards the edges. It'S it's quite dark, not bad. At all. All right, 144 Hertz fuckin showed up just fine there, yes, and because this is a variable refresh rate monitor. That means that, even if it is not certified g-sync compatible, we can enable G sync, and it is in fact enabled right now. So without further ado, I don't fire up. Some games now feels like a good time to have a look at the on-screen menu. Everything here is reasonably intuitive. Personally, I prefer just an instant switch rather than animation. I can see how they might do that right frame. What even am I looking at here? Can you see anything? Let'S see? Oh, what the crap? Oh, what it just brightens the top corner of the screen. So it's like a faded out washed out section in the top-left corner, so there you can change the brightness contrast. You can move the position of it around. Actually you can put it wherever you want guys. Let me know in the comments. What is this feature for? I would love to know. I thought that was interesting. Game mode is off by default. Oh that's! The FPS mode! That looks terrible, okay hold on a second, let's get, let's get our settings adjusted here I have to say I have just never understood these weird color profiles that they create for particular genres of games. The correct color profile is the accurate color profile, because that's the way that the developer intended it quite frankly at least they've got customizable ones. So you can have gamer one gamer, two gamer three, and then you can just things that might actually be meaningful, like whether you want the low blue light mode on. So you have like nighttime gaming mode, whether you want the built in frame counter on. That'S pretty nice to have so their gamer display modes are not necessarily useless. Just the canned ones are stupid. Okay, overdrive can be adjusted to weak, medium or strong. Medium is usually the best bet there, but we'll play around with that. A little bit and low input lag we will leave on. I will say that there's no discernable increase in input lag compared to what I'd expect from a 144. It'S gaming monitor, so that's nice to see really responsive. I touch on the smeary side, so these are not the fastest pixels that I've ever seen by a long shot. If you pick up a like a decent TN gaming monitor - or you know, even one of those really high-end IPS - is that LG released recently you're gonna see better readability of things like text as you're as you're. Moving around like this, you see that everything's got kind of a trail behind it, but for a VA panel. I would consider this perfectly reasonable and acceptable. Now. One thing that's hard for me to tell right now, because I'm playing kind of a dark and gloomy game is whether this gets any brighter. So what I'd like to do is get rid of doom, let's switch to something like csgo and see. If my impressions here are correct, cuz, it seems like our maximum brightness, I mean even just opening up something. Like you know, our own website here by the way tech tip song is awesome forum. You guys should go check it out. This is supposed to be pretty much white white and it's kind of a gray and not like we're at a very, very low brightness. Even actually, the brightness is cranked 100 % already actually before we do that. I wanted to play around with the overdrive settings. A little bit off is clearly terrible, like you guys, I'm sure you can see these comet trails behind icons, as I'm dragging this around on the desktop here, but as usual, strong also yields a really kind of over sharpened, visual artifact e-type look and our best bet Does once again appear to be medium overdrive in fairness. White to dark is a very challenging scenario, so let's actually get that game fired up now. So this is a little bit more fair, and it's not great and coming out here into the the daytime. Arabic, freaking Sun here I've been informed from off camera. This is a 215 it peak brightness display and I believe it because, while the blacks are deep - and that was impressive - it's a lot less impressive to have deep blacks. When your monitor is just dark. I mean maybe this would be the monitor for you if you're trying to game at night and be stealthy and while you're at it, you could grab a hoodie like the one, I'm wearing it's the LTTE, stealth hoodie LTT surakameth. Now, to give credit to the strength of this monitor, the 1440p resolution does look a lot clearer than what we were dealing with with those 1080p monitors, but something that you guys have got to consider is that there is more to perceived sharpness of an image than Just the number of pixels and contrast is actually a big part of what makes an image look, clear and sharp and crisp so yeah. The lines are fine, but the image doesn't look great, so it just feels like the monitors a little self-defeating, because it's key feature is that it manages 144 Hertz and higher resolution, but it gives up so much contrast that you a lot of the perceived image, quality And that's not a problem just for like scenic games, it's it's a problem in general like it's noticeably bland. This is a bland looking game in the first place, but it's really bland. Like. Can you tell on camera how bland this is new it nope hold on? I think what we need to do is grab another monitor and swap it out for you guys so David hold, as still as you can, or even put the camera on sticks, but the camera on sticks. Now this monitor costs about twice as much, and actually you might have noticed that, especially in terms of brightness, it looks pretty similar except funny story. This is actually the monitor that we use for b-roll shots, so it has its brightness turned down to 20 out of a hundred in order to make it appear not too bright for certain shots that we do so putting it up at something more reasonable, like around 80 Wow - that is a really really different experience back to our AOC. The difference is very clear and I'm just gonna double-check. Yes, we are at a hundred percent brightness. On this thing, that's a little unfortunate. This looks a little bit more palatable official site right. I think that's why all the gamer modes have this game. Color option turned up because it might hurt the accuracy of your color, but it'll certainly make your games as long as you don't go too far like their fps and their RTS modes. It'Ll certainly make your game look a little bit more vibrant. You can see I've overdone it a little bit here. So I'd probably say that if it's purely for gaming use, knowing that you're giving up some of the color accuracy that you might have gotten in the native profile, going to a game color of somewhere in the 11 to 13 range, improves the playability a lot like It makes it not look like I'm looking at a super cheap. You know washed out, monitor and what's interesting, you saw how that flashbang wasn't even bright. What'S interesting is part of the reason, for that is that the way that humans perceive brightness is affected by the saturation of the color, so looking at a more saturated color makes you think that your looking at something brighter, even though the panel itself is not particularly Bright and if we were to alt-tab out of the game, you can see things like my icons look way overdone here. So this is a monitor that you're definitely giving something up at the price point. But if you're willing to fidget around with your on screen menu, which to their credit, is quite usable, actually has workarounds that work if you're willing to go around them so bringing our 8020 7qd back up on the table. This is a clearly better display. It looks great not only in games when you adjust this dial or on the desktop if you adjust it the other way, but in both all the time, thanks to its 10 bit IPS panel and it's much higher brightness. But if you think find here about it as paying yourself, two hundred and fifty dollars to adjust a knob every once in a while, I still think there's a very compelling value argument to be made for a OCS display here. Even if it does give up some of the creature comforts that you might get with a higher-end panel, so guys, let us know, does this look like a great option or do you want us to explore some of the other 1440p 144 Hertz monitors on the market? They are a bit more expensive, but there's options from vo-tech Roxul dell has one that's fair, bit more expensive and make sure you're subscribed. So you don't miss it. If you do leave a comment about that, do you need to create a beautiful website without the hassle we'll check out Squarespace their all-in-one platform makes it easy to get up and running quickly, and there are word winning templates can be used as a starting point for A wide variety of projects, if you're having trouble Squarespace, they offer webinars a full series of help guides and you can even contact their customer support via live chat and email 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If you already have a third-party domain, you don't have to give it up. Just transfer it over to Squarespace and every Squarespace site includes ecommerce features. So you can easily sell merch or services online and manage your inventory and orders so go to Squarespace, comm /l tt. To get 10 % off your first purchase we're gonna have that linked below. So thanks for watching guys - and we will see you in our next budget - monitor video - which I guess we're kind of coming now - hey budget OLED. But you know that we've done all the we'll find something

[kiridarling]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐄

d.kaminari and h.sero | f!reader + corruption + weed/shotguning + praise + threesome + more! minors dni!

— 3.6k words

"I knew I wanted you the second I saw you."

Denki’s addicted to the pre-concert high.

His veins hum with a song that has yet to start, fingers drumming some mixed beat on the body of his electric guitar as he assumes his place on the dark stage. The theater’s dead silent, the room suspended in a titilating anticipation—and the steady rhythm Denki's heart dissapates into chaos when the faint crack of Eijirou's drumsticks bounce off the walls, and the click in his earpiece begins.

Eijirou hits the kick drum once. Twice. Then his hands fly across the set in a flurry, the rolling beat echoing into the packed arena and spurring the crowd to explode, fans flying to their feet to render their vocal cords for the night.

As the other instruments fill the blank space, Denki's hand grips the back of his guitar's neck, on hold for his solo, and by the time the electric blond steps up to the mic, pavlov's theory has already kicked in overdrive.

"Who’s ready to feel good tonight?”

“Dude, I’m on fucking fire!” Denki vibrates, nearly glowing in comparison to his bandmates as they sift through a flurry of fans at a meet and greet. It always seems like Denki and Eijirou are the only ones with energy after a good show—but what can he say? Being on stage lights him up like a live wire.

"You said that last concert, buddy," Hanta snorts, before his a fan ran sacks his attention by shoving a tiara into his hairline.

"And? My point still stan—" Denki cuts himself off with a gasp as a bra slings across his face, followed by a burst of pain when the metal hits him in the cheek. He peels the lacy thing off with an eye on the audience and an eyebrow raised in question, unsure of what to do with the undergarment (other than put it on) until someone screams:

“Sign it!”

Denki shrugs and pops the Sharpie cap with his teeth to sign the crest of both cups before flinging it back into the audience—he can only pray it pinpoints its rightful owner before the meet and greet ends.

Katsuki clicks his tongue (because he hates these events) and as the next round of fans lineup in front of their table, Eijirou stretches like this is a sport, saying, “Guess it’s go-time.”

"Go-time is when we perform," Katsuki grumbles in the seat to Denki’s right. "Go-time is when we're in the studio makin' a goddamn album, not meeting crazy fuckin' fans—no, I’m not gonna marry you, you obsessed fuckin—“

“Oh, you're just salty you're not popular with the ladies~“ Denki gushes, wiggling his eyebrows, and a fan hands him a canvas the size of his upper body. “Un—oh wow, did you make this for me—Unlike me, of course.”

"Okay, pretty boy." Hanta rolls his eyes, before signing a phone case and returning it to an overzealous fan. With a hand covering his mouth, he whispers, “Can you believe this guy? So full of himself, I swear.”

The fan giggles and Hanta meets the blushing cheeks with a satisfied smirk. Denki huffs from the disrespect, crossing both arms over his chest. “Full of myself? It’s not my fault I’m sexy—*an autograph? Of course!"

Katsuki chuckles, scratching under his chin with ink blue fingertips, "Call yourself sexy one more fuckin’ time and I'm projectile vomiti—no, I'm not signing your tits, give me a goddamn paper or somethin—"

"What?” Denki scoffs, chest collapsing with the disbelief that one could make such a lie. “I'm literally the definition of I'm sexy and I kno—"

"Um, excuse me?"

His gesticulations freeze at the passive voice, arms stretched wide and to the sky, and Denki knows he has to look absolutely ridiculous as he blinks down at the next person in-line; who's stood with bambi eyes and such a sweet smile the electric blond thinks it might make him sick.

"I-I'm your biggest fan! Could you—um, please sign this for me?"

She comes alive, shoving a poster into his chest with pink cheeks and shifty irises. Out of all the bras, all the breasts he's been asked to sign today, and here you are, with your pocket-sized poster and your lamb countenance. Denki beams.

"Of course, Sweetness! What's your name?"

"[Y/N]!" you say, giggling, and it's so. Cute. Denki opens the Sharpie and struggles to focus on signing instead of your gorgeous fucking face.

"Anything specific you'd like me to say?"

And he knows there's a rule—there always are when it comes to these things, and it's simple: don't fuck the fans. As tempting as it is, don't invite them back to your hotel room because there are too many uncertainties, and if something leaks to the press that’s possibly career ending, that’s it. So, Denki holds his tongue. For the future of himself and the band.

"Uhm, just write what you want! I...I think I'd like it best if it was authentic and came straight from you, so."

Fuck. Of course she does.

And maybe Denki just can't help it when he leans down to speak, perhaps a little lower, "You want something more authentic, cutie?"

You light up like a kid on Christmas, gasping, "Yes please Mr. Kaminari!"

So eager, too.

"Awe, you can call me Denki if you'd like," he coos, and you nod so quickly he starts to worry about whiplash. "Meet me out back, in the alley behind the venue if you wanna get to know me better. Sound like a deal?”

"O-Okay!" You nod, and when he returns your sign you grip it tight between both hands. "I'll um, see you soon Mr. Kami—I mean, D-Denki!"

You flush from the mix up and bow in apology, and Denki knows he's made the right choice when you light up, indicating you have no idea what he meant at all.

"Row row row your boat, gently down the stream," you hum, sniffling. You’re unsure if your nose is running, it's too frozen to tell, and it has you patting to confirm it’s presence. With your hands stuffed in your pockets and a jacket wrapped tight around your body, you'd think you'd be warm, but no.

The alley is dark. It's dank enough that you can smell it and you're positive what you're dancing in is vomit, but none the matter—today, you met your favorite band. Literally the people you'd die for.

"Merrily, merrily," kicking the loose rocks in the gravel every which way, you enjoy the sound of them scattering against the surrounding brick walls. "Merrily, merrily..."

"Life is but a dream," a voice finishes, a yelp rips from your throat and you jump twenty feet in alarm. But you’d know that voice anywhere; Denki chuckles at your reaction and it has you recoiling with timidity, unprepared for the surprised audience. "You have a lovely voice, Cutie. You should use it more often."

"I..." but you're not exactly sure what to say to that, knowing Denki's heard so many professional voices in his career to last a lifetime, and yet yours is lovely. "T-Thank you."

Denki watches your reaction with a hum and a smile, his visible breath escaping between the slit of his lips and into the cool air.

"Of course, Cutie."

Another voice sighs, shattering the friction that fills your gut when Denki gives you that look. You're not sure what to call it, but it makes you shiver, and that's enough to make you to run and hide.

"...Denki, who's this?"

"Um," the blond places his frozen hands in his pockets and swivels his head around to Hanta, guilty written all over his face. "A fan?"

Hanta sighs again, head tilting to the right in exhausperation, “Denki—"

"I know, I know," the electric blond sighs, waving him off. "But it's fine as long as we don't get caught, right?"

Hanta's black hair threatens to fall into his face so he combs through it, and you try not to drool at the sight of his bicep flexing. "Yeah, until we get caught."

A honk blares and it has you shrieking, to reveal a parked tour bus in the alley once the lights flicker on. Denki points the car keys at the vehicle and the doors swing open. "Awe c'mon, don't be a sour puss. It's a one-time thing, alright?"

Hanta's eyes narrow into slits.

"Seriously, dude! I'm a man of my word! On God."

The noirette's shoulders sag, but he waltzes around both of you to get on the bus. Over his shoulder, he warns, "Denki I swear to fucking god—"

"I'll be careful, I'll be careful~" he singsongs, hopping onto the stairs after the pianist. When Denki notices not you're not moving, he stills at the top step. "You coming, [Y/N]?"

"O-Oh, am I um, am I allowed?" You ask, biting your cheek at the thought of what Hanta just said as you peer around the electric blond’s body. Denki snorts, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you're allowed," he exits the bus, only to tug you on via your collar. "Now c'mon! Let's have some fun, yeah?"

"Okay!"

Denki steers you through the bus and into a space that looks a bit like a living room, with a couch, tv, and a makeshift kitchen in the corner. Following Denki to the kitchen, you look around.

"Where are Kirishima and Bakugou?"

"Out drinking," Denki tosses, flicking open a RedBull. You wonder if this is always the post-concert routine. Hanta fiddles in with something on the couch, but he still has yet to look you in the eyes tonight, even when you ask him:

"What are you doing?"

It seems he didn't realize you’ve relocated from the kitchen to the couch next to him from the noirette nearly jumps. The green stuff in his fingers crumbles, and you scrunch your nose at the smell.

"It stinks," you add. Denki snorts, jumping onto the cushion to your right. There isn’t a whole lot of room and his addition causes your shoulders to slush between the two of them, but it’s strangely comfortable.

"It's weed," he explains like it's obvious. "You smoke, Cutie?"

"Obviously not," you and Hanta say at the same time. You turn his way, and for the first time that night, Hanta looks you in the eyes—and it's a smile, with his eyes crinkling in the corners, but there's...something else. Something else hidden behind the thinnest veil that makes you cower, if ever so slightly.

Something feral.

Denki, unaware of the crushing grip your hand has around your thigh, huffs, and tosses the energy drink down his gullet, "It was a genuine question! Geez."

"What are you doing?" You ask again, and the electric blond whimpers from being ignored.

"Rolling a joint," he utters, lifting the paper to his lips to lick the length. You watch, semi-disgusted, as Hanta finally folds over the last bit of paper around the crest of the joint, gluing it together.

"Know what a joint is?" The noirette implores.

"Yeah," you breathe, shifting at the new closeness Denki provides when you feel his chest against your back. "My roommate smokes, so."

Hanta taps it on a tray, or what Denki describes as "packing it down," before twisting the tip and tossing it back onto the tray in conclusion. Denki cheers.

"Aha! The joint-rolling master has blessed us! Everyone say thank you, joint-rolling master."

"Thank you, joint-rolling master!" You giggle when Hanta's face turns a ruddy red. He reaches over to pop Denki upside the head. Denki gasps, before lunging to return the favor, and you squeal from being jostled between two men.

"Okay," when Denki returns to his seat he's panting and so is the noirette. He picks the joint off the tray and though there isn't much room, turns so he's facing you, your legs smushed against his body indian style. "You ready, Cutie?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," you huff, swinging your arms in preparation despite the lack of space. Just in case.

Hanta snorts, holding the joint to your lips, and Denki raises the lighter and raises it to the end until it's hot enough to burn on its own.

“Now suck."

You do, cheeks puffing, and you blow the smoke straight in Denki's face. It's...a lot.

"Not quite," Hanta chuckles, and flips you via the waist so you're facing him. Denki whines from the change but finds solace in hooking his chin over your shoulder. "Suck, and then inhale. Act like it's a big breath—you gotta hold it in your lungs for a sec."

"Okay," you assert with a nod, eyes burning with a new determination. When Hanta holds it to your lips, you suck and inhale, and start coughing your throat raw, in a flurry of smoke and tears, eyes watering and nose burning. You scramble for water, but by the time you get some, the only thing that's left to soothe is a sore throat.

"Here," Denki offers, grabbing the joint before flipping you his way again. "Take smaller hits, like this."

Denki's mouth wraps around the tip and smoke pours from his lips so smoothly you're determined to do the same. With a raised eyebrow, he passes it back to you, and though it takes a moment, you try again.

The back of your throat tingles but the glide is much smoother, and you find that it doesn't burn on your next exhale. So you do it again. And again. And agai—

"Okay," Hanta picks the joint from your fingers with a click of his tongue, before taking a hit himself. You frown, making grabby hands.

"Hey, wai—"

"Nu-uh," he tuts, pushing you down by your forehead. "You'll feel it soon enough, trust me."

You whine, crossing your arms over your chest. Hanta gives you nothing but a raised eyebrow as he takes another hit, and you're convinced it's to taunt you. "I'm not eve—"

But then the world blurs, a bit, and your legs hum in a way they haven't before; it's warm and it's nice, and it has you blinking down at your hands in bewilderment. Whoa.

"And there she goes," Denki announces, and somehow seized the joint from the noirette when you weren't looking. Your mouth drops to say something, but all you can produce is a light giggle before it melts into a guffaw that only comes straight from the gut, your hands trying to soothe your cramping belly. Tears come to your eyes fairly easily, and when Hanta asks if you're okay he sounds like he's underwater, and that's enough to send you flying through another fit of laughs.

"I—y-yeah, I'm just—just fine," you snort behind a hand, chest spasming as you finally gather yourself enough to calm down. "I'm good. Mhm."

"Yep. Totally fine," Hanta says, but something in his tone suggests he doesn't believe you at all.

You nod, biting your bottom lip to avoid another laugh attack with your hands bunching the bottom of your shirt for extra purchase. Hanta narrows his eyes while taking another hit, so you sock him in the shoulder with a huff. "Stop looking at me like that."

The noirette snorts, "Like what?"

"Like..." you start strong, but falter under his eyes. "Like you want to eat me."

Hanta hums at the comment but says nothing, and you're not sure if your mind fabricated the quick look he gives the electric blond sat behind you. Denki speaks first.

"Do you know what shotgunning is, [Y/N]?"

You frown, "Like a shotgun?"

"So no," Hanta answers for you.

"Here," Denki offers, turning you again. Plucking the nub of a joint from the noirette, he takes a big hit before picking your face up by the jaw and hovering your lips over yours. You're not sure what to do, but once your lips connect, smoke fills your lungs, and you don't exhale until Denki pulls away. You blink, a little dazed.

You just kissed Denki Kaminari.

"Feel good?" He asks, never leaving your personal space. You nod, and he grins. "Wanna do it again?"

Your hands fist his shirt, teeth tearing the inside of your cheek due to the amount of embarrassment this question encourages. "I wan—can we do it again but without the um...without the smoke?"

Denki's hands find your hips and it's hard for him to contain a sly smirk, biting his lips to move in on his prey.

"I knew I waned you the second I saw you."

Denki's lips feel much better when he puts a little weight into the kiss, pinning you between him and the noirette. You're not exactly sure what you're doing but he takes the lead, titling his head and kissing harder, rougher, so your lips are pink and swollen by the time he pulls away.

"A-Another," you whimper, tightening your grip around his tee.

Denki hums in contemplation, picking your head up by your chin. "Ask nicely, Cutie."

Flushing deeper, your eyes dart to the coffee table.

“Another, please."

"Good girl," Denki coos, and he's propping you up against Hanta's chest. You shiver at the comment, finding purchase on Hanta's thighs as Denki kisses you on the lips again. "Wanna feel even better?"

"Yes," you nod vehemently. "Yes please."

Denki hums at that, climbing down your body as his hands glide from your waist to the band of your pants. You frown, "What—What are you doing?"

"Eating you out, Cutie," the electric blond says, hands freezing once his thumbs dip under your waistband. "That okay?"

"Oh okay," you breathe, relaxing against Hanta's chest. "Y-Yeah, that's fine."

Denki rips your pants off at that, tossing them towards the corner of the room and ultimately, to a place you'll probably never find them. Pushing your panties to the side, he licks his lips at the sight of your pussy, and flicks your clit with a smirk. You jump.

"H-Hey, that's not—"

He flattens his tongue against your slit and chuckles when you shudder, and after tossing both of your legs over his shoulders. You're not sure what he does after that though, because Hanta picks your face up by the chin and presses his lips to yours.

Denki slides a finger inside and you squeal against Hanta's chapped lips. You hear the electric blond moan, readjusting himself between your thighs, before you finally peel your lips off the noirette's, chest having from lack of oxygen.

"Such a pretty pussy, Baby," Denki gushes before his warm lips fold around your clit and he sucks, humming in surprise when you buck against his mouth. Hanta hooks his chin around your shoulder with a second joint dangling between his lips—and where it came from is beyond you.

Once he exhales, the joint finds its way between your lips and he instructs you to inhale, and the head rush afterwards has you digging your head into his chest.

"You're so wet, holy shit," Denki pulls away, lips strawberry pink and glossed with slick as he trades his both for his thumb and inserting another finger. It crooks just right and that's enough to make your hips buck, nails carving crescents in Hanta's thighs.

“T-There,” you whimper, wiggling your hips again, and Denki grins, thumb pressing into your clit. Your thighs quiver with the strain it takes to hold them back and Hanta’s calloused hands skip to your waist after dropping the burning joint off in the tray.

“Pull his hair,” the noirette commands, but you hesitate, hands glued to his thighs. Hanta sighs, reaching over you to tug for himself.

“Mph—fuck!” Denki’s eyelids flutter as he moans into your pussy with a new passion, his hands wrapping around your thighs to hold you in place. You gasp at his reaction, fingers scrambling under Hanta’s own to thread through his electric blond hair.

“Move your hips—grind against his face, c’mon,” Hanta’s grip tightens around your waist as he offers the suggestion, and you whimper with a nod before your bucking into Denki’s mouth without abandon. As the noirette trails butterfly kisses up the column of your neck, the coil in your gut snaps, and you barely have time to squeak out a warning before you’re flooding Denki’s mouth.

“Good girl...ride it out—there you go,” Hanta coos, biting your ear. You shiver as Denki pulls away with a final (and obscene) slurp, grinning like he didn’t just shatter you to pieces with nothing but his tongue and fingers.

Denki’s lips are on yours in a blink—you moan, legs still buzzing from the afterglow as you weakly grope for the small hairs on the back of his neck.

“Taste good, don’t ya?” He says with a click of a tongue after pulling away.

“I guess so,” you flush, the humiliation from so shamelessly digging your heels into Denki’s back finally settling in. Hanta reaches under your arm for Denki’s chin.

“What? Want a taste too?” The electric blond giggles, wiggling his eyebrows. Hanta snorts.

“If you could be so kind.”

Denki hums at that, placing a hand on your inner thigh for balance as he slams his lips on the noirette’s for the first time that night. He dives straight for the kill, tongue and teeth and everything, and Denki moas when Hanta’s teeth sink into his bottom lip; you find that you like it a lot.

Though eventually you tired of watching, and press the heel of your hand on Hanta’s hard cock through the fabric of his jeans. The pianist hisses, and you grin—you’ve got their attention now.

“Whoa Sweetheart, what are y—“

“I...I want more,” you assert despite the tremor in your voice. Hanta raises an eyebrow in question which has you pressing harder in hopes he’ll cave just as easily as before. Just in case, you add, “Please.”

Denki redirects your attention by squishing your cheeks until you’re looking him in the eyes. With dark eyes, he says, “You sure you want more, Cutie?”

You nod despite the restriction, “Wanna...wanna get to know you better.”

You watch Denki’s pupils dialate at that, and he can’t even hold back a groan when he says:

“Gods, Baby. We’re going to ruin you.”

unpopular opinion: bakugou's the bassist and kirishima's the drummer. fight me.

not me projecting 12yo sun's fantasy of getting railed in the tour bus by 5sos um—

[thinkaboutmeff7au]

flash time 99

Groggy. It’s 10 AM, which is the earliest I’ve been up on a weekend in a while. I have a headache, although I think it’s ‘cause of the piss poor ventilation in this place. Gotta have a window open if I smoke in my bedroom…

I crack the window and stumble out, through the living room, to the kitchen. The calendar hangs on the far wall--today’s date is circled with a blue highlighter. Fuck. You know what that means…

...it’s mako day. 

I wipe my hand down my face and shake my head. Better just to get it over with, y’know? Part of me wants to wait, see if Angeal’s up to help or anything, but...yeah, just do it. Get it done. I’ve had to do it alone plenty of times before. Still, I procrastinate by making some coffee.

Pull out the pot, rinse it in the sink, fill it up. God, I hate this. Every fuckin’ month it’s the same shit. I used to be worse at keeping track, but then I’d feel really sick. Angeal told me to just mark it all ahead of time, so that’s what I did. 

Water in the top, filter, scoop of coffee grounds. Make it two. Snap it on. 

Back out into the living room, I open the chest by my beanbag. Bags of weed, some papers way at the bottom...then there’s a bag of syringes, and all the little vials. Little, glowing blue vials. 

I pick one up between my fingers, as well as a syringe. They’re the same little ones people use for insulin injections. Some days I wish that’s all that was wrong with me. 

Half a vial. I flick it to make sure all the bubbles are out. I can feel myself tensing up in anticipation for the sting. Nah, I’m not a baby with needles. It’s what’s afterwards that gets me. 

I stick my left arm out. The crease is still bruised from last time, shit. Looks like I’ll have to do something in the middle of my forearm...I hate doing that, I’m always afraid I’m gonna miss. Sometimes I wish that old bastard Hollander was still around to do this for me. 

I hold my breath and make a fist. My hand holding the needle shakes...but not much. One...two…

I hear the click of my door, and it swings open. Slowly. My heart chokes me up in my throat. What the fuck? Right now?

Ah, it’s just Seph...still, I feel like I can’t breathe right. He’s in his lounging pants and a t-shirt, hair down; for once, he doesn’t look like he’s out to impress anybody. He surveys the area, and then catches me, on my knees, needle in my hand caught like a deer in fucking headlights.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

“How the fuck’d you get in?” I reply.

His brow furrows. “Your door was unlocked. You shouldn’t do that.” 

“What? Yeah, it was.” My voice cracks.

“No, it wasn’t,” Seph says, and starts to turn. “I’ll leave you be--”

“No. Don’t,” I spit. I’m shaking again, but I can’t seem to move at all. “You can come in, just…shut the God damn door.” 

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he walks around the door, positions himself behind it, and leans back into it in order to shut it. It feels like it takes a fucking lifetime. Despite the fact that he’s looking at me, he’s not looking at me, and his eyes are on my arms. 

“I…” he begins, “…didn’t know you did hard drugs.” He sighs, and flicks his hair back. “I guess I’m not surprised--”

“Hey--”

“--I appreciate that you didn’t drag me into that--” 

“Stop! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” He’s not used to seeing me snap like that, but I’m strung like a wire on an electric fence and I can’t fucking help myself. I breathe through my teeth like a wounded animal, realize what I’m doing, then drop my head. I make sure my hair hides my face. “This isn’t recreational.” 

Sephiroth says nothing. I do hear him sigh. “I’ll leave you to it,” he mutters, then walks past me to the kitchen. 

I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I? Yeah, I fuckin’ do this. I’m too much. 

I can hear him at the coffee machine, and I decide to go back to business. Where was I…ah yes, make a fist, right on my forearm…I force myself to steady, mako already peaking in my vision, and in the needle goes. Down goes the plunger, in goes fresh mako, the shit that’ll keep my alive for, oh, I dunno, maybe the next month. 

When it’s all out, I take it out and chuck it in a plastic bag in my chest full of used needles. I use my thumb to hold down on the pinprick I’ve made, and I wait. Any second now…

…yup, there it is. Just as I hear Seph pouring himself a cup of coffee, the pain kicks in. The needles all along my body, turning white hot and searing in my skull, clouding my vision with bright, bright blue. “Aa--AGH,” I sputter. I double over and clutch my arms. It hurts so God damn bad! Why the hell does it always hurt like this? Even when I close my eyes, all I see is cyan blue, awful fucking color, Christ…

Vaguely, just as shit’s beginning to wane, I can sense someone in front of me. When I open one eye and look up through my bangs, I can see Seph staring at me in a washed out monochrome. Two cups of coffee are beside him on the floor. He looks terrified. 

I’m hurt, but I’m not scared. Should I be?

I swallow hard. My hands are ice as I rub my eyes, which are wet, as is my face. I swear to God, I might as well just black out when I do this shit. Blinking again, I can see a little clearer, and the pain’s subsiding. 

Seph’s looking me all over. It’s clear he has no fucking idea what to do. This guy’s a bastard who’s hideously self-centered, and when something like this happens, when his weed guy who he fucks sometimes is shooting up and going through three layers of hell to endure it…what do you even do with that?

“Are you okay?” he asks, stupidly. He knows it, I can see it on his face.

I reply as obviously as I can. “No.” What I didn’t expect was how…watery and weak it sounds when it comes out. 

Dude still doesn’t know what to do. We sit in front of each other for a long time, I dunno how long. Long enough for most of the pain to subside, anyway. Long enough so when he touches me, his hands on my shoulders, it doesn’t overstimulate me. 

Angeal has come to help me through this, sometimes. He holds my hand and tells me to squeeze it hard until it doesn’t hurt anymore. It was something. It was comforting. 

Just like this is. 

“Do…” he mutters. “Do you want…I brought…your coffee’s ready.” 

Still shaken, are you? But you’re not letting go. And now you can look me in the face. 

“I’ll...have some,” I manage, catching my breath. “Bring me to the couch, will you?”

He helps me up and holds me by the shoulders, all the way to the couch, where he plops me down. He leaves only for a second to grab the coffee mugs, putting them on the coffee table, and then he’s right beside me again. 

“What the hell was that?” he says, quiet but with that intensity he always carries. “Tell me what you were doing. Right now.” 

“Fine,” I say. “Just let me do this first.” 

I lean and let myself collapse against his chest, and stay there. I hate this. But having someone around…always made it tolerable. I don’t know how much detail I want to go into with him. I don’t know if I’d have the strength to manage it right now. 

But he’s here. 

And he puts his hand on my head, trying to be soothing.

That’s all right.

(G.)

[theliterateape]

...fucking Mark

...fucking Mark.

Imagine a sad, defeated Mitch McConnell. He’s seated hunched over all alone in his dark empty office. Obamacare just passed. He’s got his glasses in one hand while the other pinches the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. And between the dry gasps that always precede a good cry, shakes his head, and says, not without humor, “...fucking Obama.”

That. That right there. That is how you say, “...fucking Mark.”

The ‘g’ is typically silent. Like when you say something is “rootin’ tootin,’” which is becoming so commonplace these days it’s just chiche. Everything is “rootin' tootin.’”

So, just to clear the air of the elephant in the room of long tailed cats and rocking chairs, this is not a story about what it is like to fuck Mark in the biblical sense of “fuck.” It is a true story, though Mark is not his true name. I am really nice that way. Not quite nice enough to not use a name so incredibly close to his real one. But, you know, nice.

I was hired to be part of the entertainment for a corporate Christmas function in Iowa. The entertainment was to involve an interactive improv show, with drinks and dancing to follow DJ’d by fucking Mark. Altogether I spent about two days with him. In a row.

Mark was an almost last minute replacement recommended by someone’s weed dealer. Mark had about two-and-a-half day's notice.

The first time I saw Mark, we were arriving in the van at his pick up point in the far north Chicago neighborhood of Edgewater. It was the middle of the marrow-deep Lake Michigan cold that is the true dead of Chicago winter. Fucking Mark was wearing a red winter beanie, work boots, over sized dark blue jeans that he had, apparently, painted his floor in at one point (I asked and he confirmed), fingerless gloves, and a loose fitting gray tank top.

Beady little eyes, always fidgeting, his long brown hair that stopped just above his trapezius muscles. Honestly pretty impressive. The dude was stacked. He looked liked Scott Stapp from Creed had a baby with Cheddar Bob from 8 Mile. The Google image search you should do based on that last sentence is worth it.

As we turned into the corner and parked, he popped one eye wide open and turned it toward the van. This facial expression gave the impression that we had just severely insulted him. It was like you had just crossed a serious line with Popeye, and he's just decided to eat an entire can of spinach he doesn't even need to beat your ass.

We stopped at the curb, him still giving us a one-eyed glare. He just stood there like that, looking at us, for about 10 to 15 seconds, which feels much longer than it is. Something in his head clicked, and he began walking toward the van. Cautiously. He craned his neck forward with his rib cage sucked in, his hands hung from disengaged wrists at his drawn back sternum as his feet seemed to pull the rest of him along with his legs acting as leashes. He looked like Mr. Burns, but a bird, trying to figure out if we were food or, in fact, a trap, with a coked out eye of Sauron on top.

I thought we were either about to be robbed or offered free samples of the type of drugs you shouldn’t do.

He got to passenger window, my window. He moved his head around the window to see in like he was searching for a keyhole. I lowered the window.

“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m the DJ. Are you here for Mark the DJ?”

“Hi Mark, I’m Boss,” said Boss, driver, and owner of the company we were booked through, “Hey, it’s pretty cold out, if you want to go in and grab your coat that’s totally fine, we have time.”

“It’s no problem, I don’t live here. Besides I have really good callouses.”

Boss, “What?”

“Plus a hat.”

Mark was 32, and blind. Partially. Mostly. That’s why he approached the van the way he did. Every time Mark looked at something, he would get that one eyeball so close it would practically touch its subject. He did this with people too. I would describe the first handshake with Mark as "startling".

I assure you that I am not picking on Mark because he is blind, nor would I anyone ever. Being blind is not Mark’s biggest problem. His problem, from which all others grew, is that he is what my grandfather would have called, “dumber'n two turds fightin’ 20 turds’’.

Mark got in the van.

Boss asked where his DJ equipment is.

“Oh it’s in storage on the south side.”

A pause. Boss asked for something that you might maybe call specifics. “I don’t know the address. But I know where it is.”

Using “south” as our guide, and with a sundrop of hope, we made our way to the highway and around the city toward this mysterious storage facility. About halfway around the city, I smelled that burning leaves smell that, to me, always reminds me of running through the seemingly endless rolling plains and orange forests to explore that is rural Michigan in the autumn. To this day and forever my true heart will always reside there.

I contributed some small talk, something like the above, but shorter.

Others said something like, but longer than, “Me too.” Mark contributed:

“Yeah, I still love going into, like, you know those old general stores? I love just sticking my head in bags of manure and inhaling as fast and deeply as I possibly can through my nose.”

The rest of us, simultaneously, sucked in an egg sized pocket of air. And held it. I was the first to break.

“You mean like... like, horse... like horse, uh, poop?”

“I mean yeah but it’s not like it’s human shit.”

“Oh.” I was willing to forgo all questions if I could be promised no answers.

“Yeah. I mean, other than my shit. Or farts. I like the smell of those. They’re actually, seriously? They’re not bad. Just not other people’s shit.”

“Yep,” I yepped.

“What in the Ever-Loving Sun God of fuck.” I thought.

I just accepted that there are places where there are giant sacks of shit on display, and all the customers come from miles around to smell them. These places are called “old general stores.” I held onto that information, put it in my back pocket, and moved on.

We arrived at the storage facility after stopping three different times to check the internet maps on our pocket robots while Mark left some voicemails. I know this sounds crazy, but even though we were on a schedule, through that entire search time did not stop even once.

Are you starting to see how any one of these little pieces of Mark so far are relatively easily forgivable in isolation? But fucking Mark pokes at this primordial nerve in your brain over and over and over. It’s death by tiny spears. You cannot understand. You are young, and I envy you.

His equipment was in a square concrete room in the basement of the storage facility. It smelled like bong water and burnt food. I had a suspicion he slept here. He assured me he did not (I didn’t ask) because “no bitches would fuck me here.” I suppose he wasn’t wrong.

None of the equipment was ready to move. We broke down and packed up two large speakers, wires galore, two turntables, a crossfader/mixer, a home stereo sized dual CD player, crates of vinyl, CDs, more wires, and stuff. And yes, he owned a laptop. Three of them, laying on top of each other, underneath a half eaten hot pocket with a cigarette stubbed out in it, in the storage space.

Here is the best game; guess how much of this he ends up actually using other than the speakers. Now hold onto that guess, put it in your pocket. It’s one turntable, a handful of records, and his phone.

We made the six- or seven- hour trip in the van. Mark kept farting to prove to us that his farts really didn’t smell bad. He would get indignant when you told him to stop. Here is another fun game; guess if they did or not. I will tell you the answer after this sentence. Yes. Here is that same game on hard mode; guess how many scovilles.

There’s so much other stuff. Little Mark instances and stories. Thousands of the little nuggets of odorless Mark shit. Too many to include all of them. We lost him at a gas station because he walked across the street to another gas station to “check out the area.” He argued at every perceived opportunity, and poorly. He said the solution to gun violence was "little helmets with guns that detect when someone is pointing a gun at you" and “they probably already have them.” He had many, many opinions. Here is the last game: Guess how they tended to land politically. This is actually the most difficult of the games. If you guessed “alt-right internet forum memes,” congratulations, nobody wins. There are no winners in any of these games.

We arrived at the venue. It was a large event rental space with catering in the middle of a nothing but a frozen tundra of dead Iowa cornfields. Snow and freezing rain was falling, and the DJ equipment needed to be brought in.

Mark asked if he can borrow my coat.

In the middle of the two of us carrying a speaker, he said he needs to go talk to the manager of “about this one thing.”

“Um,” I said. Mark dropped his side of the speaker, jogged in and did not return.

Boss relayed the story to me later. In the interest of setting up the tone that Mark would proceed to lay waste to, you should know that our boss could sell you a ketchup popsicle. He is a seasoned performer, legit funny, and a trained experienced natural salesman. And Boss was in mode.

Mark followed our boss’ voice, found him, shook his hand and asked where the fuckin’ manager was at.

Boss, “Mark! This is Client McClientsname, he hired us. Client, Mark will be your DJ for the evening!”

Mark grabed Client's hand and shook it, shoving his wide open eye right in Client’s face, “Are you the manager?!”

Client said, “no” like he was just asked if he had fucked Mark’s wife.

“OK,” eyeball still close enough to count pores, “I need some help because I’ve only ever actually done this I think maybe one or two times on my own and...”

“Mark!” shouted my boss’ skeleton from behind a polite smile belying the hunger pains he felt in his gut that only revenge satiates. “I think the other guys need help bringing in the rest of your stuff?” Boss said it without breaking character in front of the client. Boss could sell you a pickle-flavored boat.

When Boss told me that story later, I laughed so hard I grew tits.

Mark asked us to introduce him “DJ Tushy Flex.”

“That sounds like you’re puckering your asshole, Mark.”

“What, that’s not what it is.”

“...what is it?”

“Dude it’s my fucking DJ name.”

We did the improv show. It was great. Fun was had by all. Mark stood behind us and his DJ equipment, arms crossed, unmoving, the entire show. He just stood there the whole time with a neutral expression and blinked.

The show ended and it was time for Mark to DJ. We introduced him as “Mark the DJ.”

Just to establish my credentials as one to stand in judgement of a DJ set, let me just say that I am a long time fan and hobbyist with an above average level of appreciation for the craft of DJing.* I want you to know this so you can understand how serious I’m being when I say, that DJ Check-Out-My-Glutes was, by far and by away, the absolute worst god-dang rootin’ tootin’ DJ I have ever heard in my whole entire life.

He refused to take requests. He would only play what I can only describe as rasta house. Corporate America, of course, long known for their affinity for obscure electronic dance music subgenres.

He would cross back and forth between completely incongruent songs that made no sense. Like when he rapidly switched back and forth between Kiss from a Rose by Seal and some fucking drum circle happening near a murder. Not in some cool mash up way either. In no universe did those tempos match. There was no rhythm to the switches either. Just back and forth between those two songs, playing with the crossfader like a hyperactive kid flipping a light switch.

In a heroic effort, boss took over the sound, plugged in his mobile pad and bought a subscription to a music streaming service and started playing requests. People started having fun.

Mark would somehow keep getting control back and switch in the middle of the song to a recording of some guy yelling over the sound a middle school marching band warming up.

Several hours of this went by and it was time to leave. Mark didn't help with the load out because he was smoking weed in the green room, which was really a large business meeting room with high ceiling to floor windows that faced the parking lot. When chastised, he angrily insisted that we’re the true idiots here because nobody told him he couldn't and “cigarettes smell worse.”

The freezing rain made the roads unsafe and we were exhausted, so we decided to stay overnight and drive back to Chicago in the morning. Mark held us up at the gas station so he could spend over 3/4 his night’s paycheck on a bottle of “real Iowa whiskey.” Back at the hotel I try some. If a politician running in the next primaries compliments Iowa on their historically good whiskey, I will know they are a liar.

Later on than we would have liked, we were in the hotel room hanging out with the TV on. Mark had the remote. He was seated directly in front of the TV, eyeball practically making a smear on the screen flipping through channels. It occurred to me that this might actually be how he went blind.

Mark landed on Women’s college basketball. His accompanying comment made between the landing and subsequent dismount from this channel was, and I quote: “Ha ha ha, women’s basketball. Show me your titties. Take her titty out and bite it. Whoa, that one’s actually hot.”

Myself and another cast member exchanged a knowing pained look at each other that we knew he would never see, then pretended to be distracted by our phones.

He flipped some more and eventually stopped on A League of Their Own.

"Oh sweet, A League of Their Own," he said.

A League of Their Own is a timeless and distinctly American romp featuring unforgettable characters and heart. I think there is a good argument to be made that it is the greatest baseball movie ever made** But I think Mark might have missed one of the central messages of A League of Their Own. It may even have been, in fact, the central message. I am also pretty sure that, at some point, Mark has voted. I can’t be certain of this because if he ever told me he voted I surely would have repressed that memory.

The next day, during the drive home, I was woken up from a nap by Mark. He was shouting about how unfair it was that he couldn’t say the N-word but the two other cast members in the van, who were both African American, could.

Of course he never once said “N-Word” or “the N-word.” I mean, of course. And though I haven’t said so explicitly, you guessed it. Yes, of course he is white.

“Why? Why, Mark. What, do you need permission ahead of time just in case? Like, if you find yourself in this situation where you really need to use it?” I attempted, among other things, despite what was clearly a brick wall.

“No, but what I’m saying is why not.”

“Because it’s a hurtful thing to say, and the people in this van are asking you politely to stop.”

Later, Mark asked me what I thought of his DJ set. This was long past me being fed up, so I told him the truth as delicately as one can tell someone that they were awful. Mark told me he had a gun, then threatened to kill me for “talking shit.” He was serious. I told him, I shit thee not, that he’d have to fucking aim at me first. That was not a nice thing to say, nor smart. But I did.

No, I am not afraid of him reading this.

It's too long.

We got back to the storage facility and put all the equipment back. Mark met a ride who was waiting for him there. We said "good" and by the time we got to "bye" our backs were turned.

By the end of the trip, Mark had gone from being an obnoxious but mostly harmless joke to being legitimately... not a good guy. Maybe even dangerous. He had no mental impairments or disabilities, as least no diagnosable ones I could see.*** He was never doing a bit to mess with us. I never detected in him a desire to be seen as funny, and I know my own.

I think that at some point somebody should have told him that how he’s behaving is not OK. Though I am not qualified to be the arbiter of who deserves to have painful criticism handed out to them, surely in this case somebody at some point should have been willing to hurt this guy’s feelings. Not to hurt this guy’s feelings, but being willing to have that a price Mark might have to pay for his and the world’s greater good, because he's a dick. And nobody ever did that for this guy.

He's racist, misogynist, self assured with no qualifications to be, ignorant, genuinely unintelligent, has a crushing confidence, and defaults to aggression at the any criticism. Does this remind you of anyone?

That is why when I turned around after hearing him slip on a patch of ice, I thought to myself, “Welp, there by the grace of God goes The President of The United States of America.”

It’s OK. Let it out. You deserve that sigh.

...fucking Mark.

*I love dance music. I have always loved dance music. When I was a kid I listened to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation cassette on repeat. I had a poster of her in my room. When my dad went to music stores to look at guitars, I always wanted to play with the synthesizers. What is generally (and stupidly, because none of the bands sound the same) called “’90s electronica” is my favorite music of all time. I started making my own dance music in high school with a cheap little computer program. My freshman year of high school, I auditioned for battle of the bands with a full heavy as stone 1996 or ’97 desktop computer and giant CRT monitor and a synthesizer. I got in. I got more equipment. I started sneaking out to go to and play at raves in high school. I swear on my life, I did nothing stronger than pot, and even that was seldom. I just loved the music and the energy so much. Dance music used to be hippie culture, even though now it’s more club culture. I will be that guy and say dance music was better before it was popular, and please stop sarcastically calling me dad.

I have favorite DJ mixes, I’m constantly seeking out new ones. I make them in my head for fun. If I wasn’t poor and had DJ equipment and a laptop that could run the necessary software, I would be spending all my time playing around with it and making mixes for fun. Somewhere in Michigan in an attic there are tons of old mix tapes I made as a kid. I can even appreciate a DJ on the level of a wedding DJ. What song follows what? How did that energy match? What’s the crowd doing? You don’t need to beat match to be able to read a crowd and play a good song.

Once, in line for one of those underground parties, I saw two guys speaking to each other in sign language. I inquired, for it was a music event. I was a bit of an asshole that way. He told me that his friend was deaf, and because of the bass and volume this was the only way he could experience music. That is how much I like dance music.

**Yes I am including every movie you just thought of. A League of Their Own is the only one where they are fighting for just being able to play which is just an extension of them fighting for their very meaning  as the devastation of the largest war ever waged plays as a backdrop to what is already a very stressful situation. Highest emotional stakes. Also most quotable. Funniest by far. These are but a few among variety of reasons I say A League of Their Own is the greatest baseball movie ever made.

***If it matters, I have worked with people with special needs of all ages through several different jobs.

[literateape]

...fucking Mark

...fucking Mark.

Imagine a sad, defeated Mitch McConnell. He’s seated hunched over all alone in his dark empty office. Obamacare just passed. He’s got his glasses in one hand while the other pinches the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. And between the dry gasps that always precede a good cry, shakes his head, and says, not without humor, “...fucking Obama.”

That. That right there. That is how you say, “...fucking Mark.”

The ‘g’ is typically silent. Like when you say something is “rootin’ tootin,’” which is becoming so commonplace these days it’s just chiche. Everything is “rootin' tootin.’”

So, just to clear the air of the elephant in the room of long tailed cats and rocking chairs, this is not a story about what it is like to fuck Mark in the biblical sense of “fuck.” It is a true story, though Mark is not his true name. I am really nice that way. Not quite nice enough to not use a name so incredibly close to his real one. But, you know, nice.

I was hired to be part of the entertainment for a corporate Christmas function in Iowa. The entertainment was to involve an interactive improv show, with drinks and dancing to follow DJ’d by fucking Mark. Altogether I spent about two days with him. In a row.

Mark was an almost last minute replacement recommended by someone’s weed dealer. Mark had about two-and-a-half day's notice.

The first time I saw Mark, we were arriving in the van at his pick up point in the far north Chicago neighborhood of Edgewater. It was the middle of the marrow-deep Lake Michigan cold that is the true dead of Chicago winter. Fucking Mark was wearing a red winter beanie, work boots, over sized dark blue jeans that he had, apparently, painted his floor in at one point (I asked and he confirmed), fingerless gloves, and a loose fitting gray tank top.

Beady little eyes, always fidgeting, his long brown hair that stopped just above his trapezius muscles. Honestly pretty impressive. The dude was stacked. He looked liked Scott Stapp from Creed had a baby with Cheddar Bob from 8 Mile. The Google image search you should do based on that last sentence is worth it.

As we turned into the corner and parked, he popped one eye wide open and turned it toward the van. This facial expression gave the impression that we had just severely insulted him. It was like you had just crossed a serious line with Popeye, and he's just decided to eat an entire can of spinach he doesn't even need to beat your ass.

We stopped at the curb, him still giving us a one-eyed glare. He just stood there like that, looking at us, for about 10 to 15 seconds, which feels much longer than it is. Something in his head clicked, and he began walking toward the van. Cautiously. He craned his neck forward with his rib cage sucked in, his hands hung from disengaged wrists at his drawn back sternum as his feet seemed to pull the rest of him along with his legs acting as leashes. He looked like Mr. Burns, but a bird, trying to figure out if we were food or, in fact, a trap, with a coked out eye of Sauron on top.

I thought we were either about to be robbed or offered free samples of the type of drugs you shouldn’t do.

He got to passenger window, my window. He moved his head around the window to see in like he was searching for a keyhole. I lowered the window.

“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m the DJ. Are you here for Mark the DJ?”

“Hi Mark, I’m Boss,” said Boss, driver, and owner of the company we were booked through, “Hey, it’s pretty cold out, if you want to go in and grab your coat that’s totally fine, we have time.”

“It’s no problem, I don’t live here. Besides I have really good callouses.”

Boss, “What?”

“Plus a hat.”

Mark was 32, and blind. Partially. Mostly. That’s why he approached the van the way he did. Every time Mark looked at something, he would get that one eyeball so close it would practically touch its subject. He did this with people too. I would describe the first handshake with Mark as "startling".

I assure you that I am not picking on Mark because he is blind, nor would I anyone ever. Being blind is not Mark’s biggest problem. His problem, from which all others grew, is that he is what my grandfather would have called, “dumber'n two turds fightin’ 20 turds’’.

Mark got in the van.

Boss asked where his DJ equipment is.

“Oh it’s in storage on the south side.”

A pause. Boss asked for something that you might maybe call specifics. “I don’t know the address. But I know where it is.”

Using “south” as our guide, and with a sundrop of hope, we made our way to the highway and around the city toward this mysterious storage facility. About halfway around the city, I smelled that burning leaves smell that, to me, always reminds me of running through the seemingly endless rolling plains and orange forests to explore that is rural Michigan in the autumn. To this day and forever my true heart will always reside there.

I contributed some small talk, something like the above, but shorter.

Others said something like, but longer than, “Me too.” Mark contributed:

“Yeah, I still love going into, like, you know those old general stores? I love just sticking my head in bags of manure and inhaling as fast and deeply as I possibly can through my nose.”

The rest of us, simultaneously, sucked in an egg sized pocket of air. And held it. I was the first to break.

“You mean like... like, horse... like horse, uh, poop?”

“I mean yeah but it’s not like it’s human shit.”

“Oh.” I was willing to forgo all questions if I could be promised no answers.

“Yeah. I mean, other than my shit. Or farts. I like the smell of those. They’re actually, seriously? They’re not bad. Just not other people’s shit.”

“Yep,” I yepped.

“What in the Ever-Loving Sun God of fuck.” I thought.

I just accepted that there are places where there are giant sacks of shit on display, and all the customers come from miles around to smell them. These places are called “old general stores.” I held onto that information, put it in my back pocket, and moved on.

We arrived at the storage facility after stopping three different times to check the internet maps on our pocket robots while Mark left some voicemails. I know this sounds crazy, but even though we were on a schedule, through that entire search time did not stop even once.

Are you starting to see how any one of these little pieces of Mark so far are relatively easily forgivable in isolation? But fucking Mark pokes at this primordial nerve in your brain over and over and over. It’s death by tiny spears. You cannot understand. You are young, and I envy you.

His equipment was in a square concrete room in the basement of the storage facility. It smelled like bong water and burnt food. I had a suspicion he slept here. He assured me he did not (I didn’t ask) because “no bitches would fuck me here.” I suppose he wasn’t wrong.

None of the equipment was ready to move. We broke down and packed up two large speakers, wires galore, two turntables, a crossfader/mixer, a home stereo sized dual CD player, crates of vinyl, CDs, more wires, and stuff. And yes, he owned a laptop. Three of them, laying on top of each other, underneath a half eaten hot pocket with a cigarette stubbed out in it, in the storage space.

Here is the best game; guess how much of this he ends up actually using other than the speakers. Now hold onto that guess, put it in your pocket. It’s one turntable, a handful of records, and his phone.

We made the six- or seven- hour trip in the van. Mark kept farting to prove to us that his farts really didn’t smell bad. He would get indignant when you told him to stop. Here is another fun game; guess if they did or not. I will tell you the answer after this sentence. Yes. Here is that same game on hard mode; guess how many scovilles.

There’s so much other stuff. Little Mark instances and stories. Thousands of the little nuggets of odorless Mark shit. Too many to include all of them. We lost him at a gas station because he walked across the street to another gas station to “check out the area.” He argued at every perceived opportunity, and poorly. He said the solution to gun violence was "little helmets with guns that detect when someone is pointing a gun at you" and “they probably already have them.” He had many, many opinions. Here is the last game: Guess how they tended to land politically. This is actually the most difficult of the games. If you guessed “alt-right internet forum memes,” congratulations, nobody wins. There are no winners in any of these games.

We arrived at the venue. It was a large event rental space with catering in the middle of a nothing but a frozen tundra of dead Iowa cornfields. Snow and freezing rain was falling, and the DJ equipment needed to be brought in.

Mark asked if he can borrow my coat.

In the middle of the two of us carrying a speaker, he said he needs to go talk to the manager of “about this one thing.”

“Um,” I said. Mark dropped his side of the speaker, jogged in and did not return.

Boss relayed the story to me later. In the interest of setting up the tone that Mark would proceed to lay waste to, you should know that our boss could sell you a ketchup popsicle. He is a seasoned performer, legit funny, and a trained experienced natural salesman. And Boss was in mode.

Mark followed our boss’ voice, found him, shook his hand and asked where the fuckin’ manager was at.

Boss, “Mark! This is Client McClientsname, he hired us. Client, Mark will be your DJ for the evening!”

Mark grabed Client's hand and shook it, shoving his wide open eye right in Client’s face, “Are you the manager?!”

Client said, “no” like he was just asked if he had fucked Mark’s wife.

“OK,” eyeball still close enough to count pores, “I need some help because I’ve only ever actually done this I think maybe one or two times on my own and...”

“Mark!” shouted my boss’ skeleton from behind a polite smile belying the hunger pains he felt in his gut that only revenge satiates. “I think the other guys need help bringing in the rest of your stuff?” Boss said it without breaking character in front of the client. Boss could sell you a pickle-flavored boat.

When Boss told me that story later, I laughed so hard I grew tits.

Mark asked us to introduce him “DJ Tushy Flex.”

“That sounds like you’re puckering your asshole, Mark.”

“What, that’s not what it is.”

“...what is it?”

“Dude it’s my fucking DJ name.”

We did the improv show. It was great. Fun was had by all. Mark stood behind us and his DJ equipment, arms crossed, unmoving, the entire show. He just stood there the whole time with a neutral expression and blinked.

The show ended and it was time for Mark to DJ. We introduced him as “Mark the DJ.”

Just to establish my credentials as one to stand in judgement of a DJ set, let me just say that I am a long time fan and hobbyist with an above average level of appreciation for the craft of DJing.* I want you to know this so you can understand how serious I’m being when I say, that DJ Check-Out-My-Glutes was, by far and by away, the absolute worst god-dang rootin’ tootin’ DJ I have ever heard in my whole entire life.

He refused to take requests. He would only play what I can only describe as rasta house. Corporate America, of course, long known for their affinity for obscure electronic dance music subgenres.

He would cross back and forth between completely incongruent songs that made no sense. Like when he rapidly switched back and forth between Kiss from a Rose by Seal and some fucking drum circle happening near a murder. Not in some cool mash up way either. In no universe did those tempos match. There was no rhythm to the switches either. Just back and forth between those two songs, playing with the crossfader like a hyperactive kid flipping a light switch.

In a heroic effort, boss took over the sound, plugged in his mobile pad and bought a subscription to a music streaming service and started playing requests. People started having fun.

Mark would somehow keep getting control back and switch in the middle of the song to a recording of some guy yelling over the sound a middle school marching band warming up.

Several hours of this went by and it was time to leave. Mark didn't help with the load out because he was smoking weed in the green room, which was really a large business meeting room with high ceiling to floor windows that faced the parking lot. When chastised, he angrily insisted that we’re the true idiots here because nobody told him he couldn't and “cigarettes smell worse.”

The freezing rain made the roads unsafe and we were exhausted, so we decided to stay overnight and drive back to Chicago in the morning. Mark held us up at the gas station so he could spend over 3/4 his night’s paycheck on a bottle of “real Iowa whiskey.” Back at the hotel I try some. If a politician running in the next primaries compliments Iowa on their historically good whiskey, I will know they are a liar.

Later on than we would have liked, we were in the hotel room hanging out with the TV on. Mark had the remote. He was seated directly in front of the TV, eyeball practically making a smear on the screen flipping through channels. It occurred to me that this might actually be how he went blind.

Mark landed on Women’s college basketball. His accompanying comment made between the landing and subsequent dismount from this channel was, and I quote: “Ha ha ha, women’s basketball. Show me your titties. Take her titty out and bite it. Whoa, that one’s actually hot.”

Myself and another cast member exchanged a knowing pained look at each other that we knew he would never see, then pretended to be distracted by our phones.

He flipped some more and eventually stopped on A League of Their Own.

"Oh sweet, A League of Their Own," he said.

A League of Their Own is a timeless and distinctly American romp featuring unforgettable characters and heart. I think there is a good argument to be made that it is the greatest baseball movie ever made** But I think Mark might have missed one of the central messages of A League of Their Own. It may even have been, in fact, the central message. I am also pretty sure that, at some point, Mark has voted. I can’t be certain of this because if he ever told me he voted I surely would have repressed that memory.

The next day, during the drive home, I was woken up from a nap by Mark. He was shouting about how unfair it was that he couldn’t say the N-word but the two other cast members in the van, who were both African American, could.

Of course he never once said “N-Word” or “the N-word.” I mean, of course. And though I haven’t said so explicitly, you guessed it. Yes, of course he is white.

“Why? Why, Mark. What, do you need permission ahead of time just in case? Like, if you find yourself in this situation where you really need to use it?” I attempted, among other things, despite what was clearly a brick wall.

“No, but what I’m saying is why not.”

“Because it’s a hurtful thing to say, and the people in this van are asking you politely to stop.”

Later, Mark asked me what I thought of his DJ set. This was long past me being fed up, so I told him the truth as delicately as one can tell someone that they were awful. Mark told me he had a gun, then threatened to kill me for “talking shit.” He was serious. I told him, I shit thee not, that he’d have to fucking aim at me first. That was not a nice thing to say, nor smart. But I did.

No, I am not afraid of him reading this.

It's too long.

We got back to the storage facility and put all the equipment back. Mark met a ride who was waiting for him there. We said "good" and by the time we got to "bye" our backs were turned.

By the end of the trip, Mark had gone from being an obnoxious but mostly harmless joke to being legitimately... not a good guy. Maybe even dangerous. He had no mental impairments or disabilities, as least no diagnosable ones I could see.*** He was never doing a bit to mess with us. I never detected in him a desire to be seen as funny, and I know my own.

I think that at some point somebody should have told him that how he’s behaving is not OK. Though I am not qualified to be the arbiter of who deserves to have painful criticism handed out to them, surely in this case somebody at some point should have been willing to hurt this guy’s feelings. Not to hurt this guy’s feelings, but being willing to have that a price Mark might have to pay for his and the world’s greater good, because he's a dick. And nobody ever did that for this guy.

He's racist, misogynist, self assured with no qualifications to be, ignorant, genuinely unintelligent, has a crushing confidence, and defaults to aggression at the any criticism. Does this remind you of anyone?

That is why when I turned around after hearing him slip on a patch of ice, I thought to myself, “Welp, there by the grace of God goes The President of The United States of America.”

It’s OK. Let it out. You deserve that sigh.

...fucking Mark.

*I love dance music. I have always loved dance music. When I was a kid I listened to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation cassette on repeat. I had a poster of her in my room. When my dad went to music stores to look at guitars, I always wanted to play with the synthesizers. What is generally (and stupidly, because none of the bands sound the same) called “’90s electronica” is my favorite music of all time. I started making my own dance music in high school with a cheap little computer program. My freshman year of high school, I auditioned for battle of the bands with a full heavy as stone 1996 or ’97 desktop computer and giant CRT monitor and a synthesizer. I got in. I got more equipment. I started sneaking out to go to and play at raves in high school. I swear on my life, I did nothing stronger than pot, and even that was seldom. I just loved the music and the energy so much. Dance music used to be hippie culture, even though now it’s more club culture. I will be that guy and say dance music was better before it was popular, and please stop sarcastically calling me dad.

I have favorite DJ mixes, I’m constantly seeking out new ones. I make them in my head for fun. If I wasn’t poor and had DJ equipment and a laptop that could run the necessary software, I would be spending all my time playing around with it and making mixes for fun. Somewhere in Michigan in an attic there are tons of old mix tapes I made as a kid. I can even appreciate a DJ on the level of a wedding DJ. What song follows what? How did that energy match? What’s the crowd doing? You don’t need to beat match to be able to read a crowd and play a good song.

Once, in line for one of those underground parties, I saw two guys speaking to each other in sign language. I inquired, for it was a music event. I was a bit of an asshole that way. He told me that his friend was deaf, and because of the bass and volume this was the only way he could experience music. That is how much I like dance music.

**Yes I am including every movie you just thought of. A League of Their Own is the only one where they are fighting for just being able to play which is just an extension of them fighting for their very meaning  as the devastation of the largest war ever waged plays as a backdrop to what is already a very stressful situation. Highest emotional stakes. Also most quotable. Funniest by far. These are but a few among variety of reasons I say A League of Their Own is the greatest baseball movie ever made.

***If it matters, I have worked with people with special needs of all ages through several different jobs.